#eventually they come to life and live in the abandoned temple they were built in

[puppppppppy]

I made a lmk oc

[fool3]

Tonight I am feeling pretty productive because I wrote 312 words in a book I'm writing. Now that is not a lot of words, like three paragraphs at most, but it's been forever since I've written as I've been so busy with everything in my life it's nice to just get even a little in.

I absolutely love writing. It's on the same level as drawing or painting but I think much deeper. I would say it's more difficult to actually sit down and do, but easier to sit down and learn how to do it.

I first starting writing like three years ago the summer after I read the Lord of the Rings, because my girlfriend had also started writing and those books inspired me to do the same. I don't know what got into me but immediately I started creating an entire fantasy world with dragon languages and gods and elves and new races I made myself. I reinvented things so many times, and I never actually got to the story part which is the whole point. But I excused myself by saying I needed the world to make the story in.

Eventually I baked, because I had been watching Brandon Sanderson's college lectures on writing and many other videos and quickly realized I was very much out of my limit, I should start with something simpler to practice. So of course I started creating another world, a much simpler one. A planet of sand, where alien kings and queens lived and built giant temples, and then for some reason I decided to create another world in that same story, where the two would battle in a giant space army. The other planet was green and full of giant slug people, with great technological advances.

Realizing I was stepping over a line, I deleted the second planet and changed the desert to snow, as to differentiate myself from Dune. There I actually brood up a story, where primitive yeti men were visited by AI robots and have to deal with the problems and such that they bring.

I abandoned this, I don't remember why. My next story was one on the familiar planet of Earth and was going to be horror. It opened to a drunk couple running from a party, where a young man takes his girlfriend to an abandoned house outside of the town, knocks her out, and starts to eat her flesh while she is tied down. He is then taken and killed by a long hand made of wood from the mouth of a face nailed to the floor.

Now this wasn't what I wanted, there wasn't a point it seemed and I didn't know where it was going. First I needed a theme or multiple, and at least an idea of a story. So now I have the one I'm working on now.

It's on Earth, in Maine, in Winter near Christmas. It's about a girl whose parents are hunters and they live in the woods, and the young daughter wanders into a hole in an old tree where her doll was taken (There's more but this is just the bare minimum). There her wildest dreams and nightmares come true. I'm possibly going to make it about poaching and hanging up animals for decoration, as well as- I actually don't know. Don't be surprised if I abandon this one too but I really don't want to, I have lots of things written down about it and I want it to work.

Ok post over.

[spell-cleaver]

Day 5: Hearts of Cinder

(Also Day 14: Ashes to Life)

@angstober​

Vader burned, but that wasn’t the end of it. His ashes remained, a few errant specks drifting through the woods of Endor and delivering him visions of Ewoks scampering over the trees, Rebel troops coordinating their retreat, and a richness of wildlife that the desert child inside him would always treasure. The rest—majority, even—remained in an urn, carried under Luke’s arm from Endor to Rebel ship to planetside, where he could hear his son’s heartbeat in a way he had never been allowed to in life.

Yavin IV, the moon over which Vader had nearly killed Luke, was where he buried his ashes properly and planted a young sapling over the top. He did not need to ask why, even if he didn’t know for sure. Death, and the Force, was a peculiar state of being, where he both knew everything and nothing at all. Too much was in motion to make assumptions or jump to conclusions—Yoda had chided him on that plenty of times since their bitter and sweet reunion—no matter how skilled he had been at that in life.

It was enough to think about where they had first nearly killed each other, and first seen the tide of war turn to shape their lives, and speculate.

Later, Luke’s reasons became clearer. Droids cleared away the detritus of long-gone Rebel occupation and the stone-cracking growths that threatened the foundations and structural integrity of the great, abandoned temple. A Jedi Temple emerged from the dusty, overgrown remnants of the past. But no Jedi emerged with it.

Luke trained alone for a long time. He ran through the jungle, the wet, humid heat no longer bothering him as much as it had when he was fresh out of a bone-dry desert, instead a nostalgic oddity that tugged at him. After a blink of an eye, Vader—for he still struggled to call himself Anakin, but Vader meant father and that title was the most important to him—could reach out through narrow white branches, a slender trunk bending almost double in Yavin IV’s tropical storms but never breaking. A frail tree, by all accounts, far too weak for children to climb on.

More time passed before there were any to climb on him, anyway. But they came eventually: a green-haired boy with a Twi’lek mother who smiled at Luke in a way that did not hide her grief; an insolent babe of Yoda’s species with a fussing tin can of a father; others, children and adults alike, of more species than Vader was familiar with; and, finally, a small boy with his great-grandmother’s dark hair.

He did not come to train. It was the yearly holidays for the school—insofar as the school was formal enough to have holidays��and no other students congregated in the temple’s square or its great, green halls. Life still glowed throughout, but it was plant and animal life, buzzing in every cubic inch of air. When the boy came, Luke was the only sentient being other than Vader’s tree in the temple, and when the boy flung himself into his arms, Luke caught him with a laugh, spinning him into the air.

“I missed you!” he said, over and over, booping his nose. The Wookiee came behind them, and the boy let himself be engulfed in a furry hug as his uncle and father greeted each other with their own embrace. Then, after two nights of merriment, he and his father and his godfather the Wookiee all boarded the ship that should have been put in a trash compactor, and they left.

It was his mother who stayed.

Padmé’s daughter, Luke’s sister—no. Leia stayed. She was more tentative than she had ever been in anything else in life, angry and reluctant to follow Luke’s soothing instructions. They faced each other, faced their shared heritage, and compromised.

She built her own lightsaber.

Vader watched her final test from his silent tree. She and Luke warred like the warriors of light they were, their blades slicing through trees, foliage, but never each other. Luke knighted her there and then, with far less pomp and ceremony than the Jedi of old had used—he had no tolerance for that, and nor did she.

That was her final test, but not her final trial.

Luke knew nothing of this. Luke was powerful, but he was not one with the Force; he could not feel the tension brewing in her heart. He had taught her to shield too well for that. When she meditated in the gardens the next day, Vader watched her breath hitch—watched momentary terror cloud her serenity—watched her eyes slide open.

They fixed on him.

“You,” she said. There were, again, too many potential meanings to decipher there; Vader took all of them, in their messy, interconnected chaos, to his quiet, wooden heart.

A tree cannot speak, so he said nothing.

“You’re here,” she said. “Still. You’re meant to be gone.” She snarled, suddenly, “Why can I still feel you?”

The twigs at the end of his branches were thin and brittle. She snapped five off, one by one, like slender, shattered fingerbones. “Every time I clench my shoulders, you’re still holding me back, making me—”

She cut herself off, turning away. She’d been shredding the stolen fingers in her own; she cast them aside, now.

“I can still feel them, too,” she said. “Death doesn’t leave you. The dead don’t leave, either. Look at you, still hanging around Luke, even though you should have left him alone long ago.”

Trees didn’t feel pain, but there was a smarting at his end, meristem cringing back, then surging forwards. He needed to fix the breakage. But plants did not know how to seek revenge the way animals did, so he felt no anger at Leia.

No fear, either, when she twisted around and lit her lightsaber, holding the blade against his rough trunk. He simply waited for her to swing.

What would happen once his tree was felled? He could likely not keep Luke company so often anymore, even if he could do little more now than simply murmur to him in rustled branches and ripples of comfort. Obi-Wan and Yoda advised him, but manifesting took effort, and they could not stay long; Vader would be no exception, once he left. That was his only regret. She had the right to demand his banishment from her universe.

But it was her only regret, as well, perhaps. Because no matter how long she stood there, saber paused to swing, he did not fall. She did not make him.

Finally, after shaking, sobbing, and staring, she deactivated her blade. “So long as you are still here,” she vowed, “my son will never train here.”

She stalked off.

Several days after Leia left, Vader’s tree began to grow fruit.

Strange fruits, bright and fresh and sweet. Luke harvested them with care and permission, and they did not rot in the bowl. His students gathered them excitedly during what Yavin IV called autumn, along with the other fruits the trees—Luke had gathered an orchard—bore. But Vader’s tree gave fruit all year around, uncaring of the subtle fluctuations in the moon’s orbit of its planet and sun. And finally, it grew strong enough for children to climb on. He would spend hours with the Force pressed around his charge, cradling them in his branches, to calm them and ensure they would not fall.

Eventually, Leia’s son did train on Yavin IV while Vader was there.

Already trained by his mother in rudimentary skills, and bolstered by Luke during brief, loving visits, he did not know nothing when he came, but he did not know enough. Older than the other padawans, he faced embarrassment and the red flush of envy, though Luke never allowed teasing or bullying. And the darkness Vader could sense growing in him suggested that was not the only feature he had shared with Anakin Skywalker.

There was another in his life. An influence. Someone who coveted his power for his own. Vader knew well what that felt like.

But Ben Solo climbed into the now thick, stoic boughs of Vader’s tree to pick fruit and laughed when he did not fall. And the more Vader’s tree grew, the more he shaded and encircled a whole side of the temple, casting his comforting presence wider across the grounds. Luke’s bedroom faced him: every morning, he smiled to see his father’s love shining back at him in blossoms and fruit.

Vader, long-lived and far-reaching in his power, cradled the family that allowed him to, and no darkness dared touch them while he did.

[nationalharryleague]

The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF

Word count: 2.5K

A/N: Hi everyone! This is 2.5k of absolute tooth rotting fluff that was inspired by the Golden music video and the ultra talented @theharriediaries​!! Thank you to Soph and Lu (@meetmymouth​) for beta reading and giving me some direction when I needed it!! You can find more of my writing in my masterlist and I would LOVE if you could give me some feedback!! My requests are also open in my ask!! 

***

“The Italians drink a lot over dinner,” Harry told you in an informative tone, an attempt to order yet another very expensive bottle of red. “Wine is very important in Italian culture,” he tipsily explained across the table, dimples prominent from his cheeky smile. “I learned that in my Italian classes.”

“Oh, did you?” you teased back at him, feeling a bit floaty as you finished your third glass, only for Harry to fill it right back up, emptying the bottle on the table. You laughed and shook your head as you watched him make eye contact with the waiter, motioning for him to bring another bottle over.

“Vino, vino, vino,” he hummed under his breath, playing with the empty glass in front of him that was soon filled up again with the deep red liquid that had stained his pouty lips a deep red and his tongue purple. The two of you sat in the front patio of a small restaurant down the block from your hotel, under a giant and bright moon that made his eyes sparkle even more than usual.

He had a boyish flush to his cheeks, which could have been from the wine or the remnants of a scaldingly hot day in Italy; maybe both. You could still feel the summer heat radiating back up from the pavement below you after it had baked in the sun all day. The oppressive heat still hung in the air, just enough for a light sheen of sweat to be covering you both that seemed to make Harry glow on the dimly lit patio.

You two had found yourself in Italy while Harry had some time off because he insisted he needed to go and practice his Italian. “Devo andare per la mia istruzione,” he told you one day after he got home from his class. “I have to go for my education,” he translated a moment later after being met with a blank look from you. He practiced all day every day.  He struck up conversations with locals, spoke with every fan who came to say hi, and attempted to translate menus and order every meal. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but he was trying nonetheless.

Harry in Italy was a special version of himself. He was smiley and carefree and always trying to fatten you up or get you drunk. When he was here, he seemed to wholeheartedly become the H you always knew, abandoning the rockstar and becoming the mushy and emotional man that told you he loved you in every sentence and needed to be touching you at all times. His hair had lightened a tiny bit from your days outdoors,  his skin had grown tan and taken on a golden tone, a side effect of him constantly ignoring when you told him to put on sunscreen.

You drank and ate and talked until the restaurant was closing down around you, a common occurrence when you two had the opportunity to slow down and just be together for a while, trying to forget that there was anything else going on in the world outside this tiny town. If he hadn’t captivated the wait staff with his broken Italian and charming smile earlier in the night, you were sure you would have been met with eyerolls from those cleaning up around you. Eventually, you two walked hand in hand out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk along the windy road, both of you full and drunk, and beginning the short walk back to your hotel.

He was smiling so wide his dimpled cheeks must have been hurting, a bright smile encouraged by the alcohol running through his system. His hair flopped over his forehead, curlier than usual because of the sea air and his lips were an even deeper purple than before. His beautiful mouth babbled, every thought in his head flowing past his lips in a slightly slurred mix of italian and english; a verbal expression of excitement and clumsiness.

You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight beside you, your fingers lazily interlocked with his, tugging him back when he moved too close to the street, hoping his wobbly legs wouldn’t trip on the uneven cobblestone sidewalk. You primarily didn’t want him to tear or stain his favorite light blue blazer if he took a tumble. He once told you it was his favorite because he thought the color looked like the sky on the day you had met. You remember blushing and pushing him away from you, telling him he was cheesy with a playful eye roll. “It’s my job to be cheesy!” he had defended himself. “Also, I’m not being cheesy, I’m a man in love.”

You were brought back into reality when he stopped in his tracks and pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your torso. “We should dance,” he beamed, eyes wide like it was the greatest idea he had ever thought of.

“There’s no music, H,” you regrettably informed him while pushing his curls away from his forehead. You couldn’t help but lean in and press a light kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm and slightly sweaty on your lips, a salty taste invading your mouth.

“We don’t need music. All the music is up here,” he winked while tapping his temple. “We're listening to classical.”

“Oh I see, music man,” you joked, unable to contain your giggles.

“Shh,” he attempted to quell your laughter, bringing his pointer finger to your lips. “Can’t hear the music.” A sarcastic seriousness played across his face, prompting another grin to sneak onto your lips. You pressed a kiss to his finger, before giving into his demand and falling quiet.

You could never fight the spell he put you under. You lived in a cloud of Harry, an intoxicating daze that made you unable to focus on the bad of the world when he was around. He had seemed to melt down the walls you had built before you had met, a fact that made him endearingly call you his ‘Ice Queen’ every once in a while. The charm and wit he carried with him wiped away your practicality, always knowing how to convince you to play along with his antics and throw your precious caution to the wind. He was your rose colored glasses. He made your heart jump all day long and unexpected bursts of joy were felt in your chest whenever he smiled, laughed, or said your name. You were enamored by him, an all consuming love you couldn’t escape from.

“What are you thinking about, pet?” he asked softly, breaking through your loving haze. “You have your thinking face on.” A light smile continued to play on his lips but it was softer now, taking on a gentle questioning quality.

“Just thinking about how much I love you,” you confessed.

His eyebrows perked up and so did the corners of his mouth into a delightful smirk. “I mean, who doesn’t?” His smart ass comment earned himself a playful slap to his chest, but your attempt to wiggle out of his arms was thwarted when he pulled you even tighter to him. “That’s no way to treat your dance partner, my love.”

“I want a different dance partner,” you taunted, sticking the tip of your tongue out at him.

One of his hands fell from your shoulders to the small of your waist, the other found one of yours and he began to sway with care side to side. “Too bad, we’re already dancing,” he spoke softly into your ear. You two moved in an easy rhythm to a song only Harry could hear, a more caring and tender tone taking over for your previously playful one.

His cheek pressed to your temple and your bodies pressed loosely to each other. If you tried hard enough, you could hear the man’s soft hum of a melody you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Your feet fell carefully, wary of the uneven pavement in your heels, but you reminded yourself even if you were to fall, the arm looped around your waist would be sure to catch you. Small kisses peppered your forehead and you were released from his grasp for only a second for him to twirl you around, the skirt of your dress splaying out around you before being enveloped in him once again.

“I love you, angel,” he murmured softly when you found yourself resting back against his chest. He had abandoned his joking tone, shifting to a gentler and more serious cadence, pouring his soul into every word that left his lips as they brushed against your forehead. “I am so happy that I get to spend my life with you.”

“I love you so much. This is a happier life than I could have ever imagined for myself,” you spoke after a thoughtful pause. You were still swaying calmly, seeming to move in time with the cool breeze settling over the two of you, but Harry’s humming had been abandoned for a reflective silence.

“What kind of house do you want us to live in one day?” he asked abruptly, choosing to move in a seemingly unrelated direction.

“It has to be big; with enough rooms to fill with lots of cats and dogs, and when the time comes, maybe a baby. And I want a big porch to sit on together and watch the world go by on.” You felt him nod thoughtfully and with a hum of agreement.

“Do you want it to be the only house we ever live in? Or do you want to try out different places to find your favorite?”

“I think I want it to be our one house. I want us to be the crazy old people who have lived in the old rickety house at the end of the block forever; the ones who always have stories to tell and grandchildren constantly coming and going.”

“Can we be the ones who brag about never having a fight?”

“Do you mean the ones who lie?” you asked with a chuckle, looking up to face him. He broke out into a high pitched giggle, your favorite laugh of his. It warmed you to your core knowing that you were the only one who could make him laugh like that.

“Exactly,” he nodded in confirmation, still chuckling to himself.

“We can lie and say we’ve never had a fight as long as we never stop getting wine drunk and slow dancing to no music on random streets while on vacation,” you quipped.

“Sounds like a plan, my love.”

“I know we’ve talked about doing it, but when do you want to get married? I don’t want to inconvenience either of our careers with wedding planning or anything like that. I don’t really care as long as we get to spend our lives together.” The words fell freely from your mouth, the wine still running through your veins blocking the inhibition that probably should have kept the words inside your head.

“Getting married to you wouldn’t be an inconvenience, darling.”

“I know. Wrong words,” you chuckled. “Well, I guess I should have asked when you want to get engaged,” you corrected yourself. “I suppose we have to do that first.”

“Why not now?” he asked, with a mischievous twang in his voice. You felt one of his arms slip from around you and start rummaging in his jacket pocket.

“What?”

“I said,” he began again, “why not now?” His hand emerged from his pocket, presenting you with a tiny red velvet ring box.  

Your mind went blank. Your usually rapid and incessant thoughts seemed to stop altogether in a mix of shock and awe. You knew this day, or night, would come eventually. You two had discussed a future together extensively and had agreed you didn’t want to spend your lives with anyone else, but you had never imagined the moment he asked you to be his forever. You had never imagined this moment.

His eyebrows slicked up, lips curled in a devilish smile, and he sank down onto one knee before you. Your hands flew up to your face and the wetness on your fingertips alerted you to the tears that had begun to fall down your cheeks, your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears.

“My dear,” Harry began as he settled onto the sidewalk, balancing carefully on the cobblestone ground. “I have been in love with you since the very first day I met you and that adorable little snort slipped out when you laughed at one of my bad jokes. You have been the first thought I have in the morning and the last thought I have before I fall asleep for longer than you know. You are kind and smart and funny and you light up every room you walk into. I do not want to spend another second of my life without knowing you’ll be by my side for the rest of it. Will you marry me?”

He looked up at you with hopeful eyes and you looked down at him through tearful ones. You began a furious nod, before choking out the only word he wanted to hear. “Yes,” you sobbed, holding out a shaky hand for him to slide the ring onto.

The ring was beautiful; dazzling under the light of the full moon and the dim street lights above you. It slid onto your ring finger with ease, sitting snugly like the ring was made just  for you. It was simple, which Harry knew was your style and it held one (large) diamond in a simple silver setting, no bells or whistles needed.

Harry grabbed you by the waist as soon as the ring was secure and picked you up in his arms and spun, twirling you around like the two of you had just slipped out of a rom-com. Delighted giggles fell from both of your lips before he finally stopped, your laughter pausing when your lips found his.

It was a salty kiss, due to the sheen of sweat still sitting on Harry’s skin and the tears that were still streaming down your own, but it just felt so right. He was warm and smiling, lips still tasting of the pinot noir you had shared. Your lips moved together in a perfect harmony like they were meant for each other.

“Thank god you said yes,” Harry breathed when you finally separated. “I’ve been carrying that ring with me everywhere we go for two months now.”

With a playful eye roll, you pulled the curly man to you and connected your lips once again, unable to get enough of him. His intoxicating cologne filled your nostrils and you had never felt more safe or happy. The love you shared felt like when the sun warms your skin under a golden hour sunset; bright yet soft, spectacular yet easy. And you were ready for it to never end.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! FEEDBACK AND REBLOGS ARE SUPER APPRECIATED!! 

[rubykgrant]

About to re-watch RVB season 16, and I’m still thinking about the time-travel/AI gods... because, like, OK; we had Project Freelancer creating various AI fragments from the Alpha AI, evidently with the intention of helping their partner Freelancers run various equipment and generally assist them on missions, right? Except, Dr Sadboy McDeadwife over there REALLY had his own agenda going on. After he created Alpha from his own brain, the Alpha somehow brought about another separate AI that they called Beta, which was just accidentally too similar to Allison, so the Director decided THIS was going to be his real project (or at least part of it). He removed Beta’s memories as an individual, and started trying to turn “Agent Tex” into a copy of Allison... but he never got it just “right”. She kept being herself, and his obsession with how Allison died before coming back to him trapped Tex in a failure-loop of death.

At some point, the Director started sending the Freelancers out on missions that didn’t really have anything to do with fighting space aliens or saving humanity; it was to steal technology he personally had an interest in... and one thing in particular was that “sarcophagus”. This wasn’t just tech, it had SOMETHING inside it, presumably some kind of alien creature that was ALIVE. This creature was used in the process of fragmenting the Alpha into additional AI, perhaps by “fixing” Alpha after the scientists broke it each time, perhaps by literally forming the AI Fragments, perhaps both (or even more possibilities). Whatever it did, the result was these AI are considerably different than most other virtual life-forms. They are more “human” for one thing (there is a whole other discussion worth having about how other robots and AI seem to develop personalities almost accidentally or due to “malfunctions” that make them “alive”), but they are capable of very interesting and specific tasks.

In particular, the Gamma AI allowed Agent Wyoming to travel back in time in short spans, so he could repeat a moment until it turned out the way he wanted (giving him an edge and many successful missions). When we first meet Gamma, we don’t know that he’s an AI Fragment; he’s just a computer named Gary who tells knock-knock jokes and has a bad habit of calling humans “Shisno” (evidently, the worst insult imaginable). Because he is in fact the “Deceit AI”, almost everything he does/says can’t be entirely trusted... but what we were shown was; he claimed to be part of a program to guard a Great Weapon that was built by an alien race that involved a Great Prophecy about a Great Destroyer (it was all very great, you see). Church (who had forgotten he was the Alpha AI), thought he was trapped in the past, and Gary offered to build him a time machine that would hopefully allow Church to go back and fix certain. Most of this was a trick, but certain things became known to other characters later, implying that SOME of it was real. The fact that Gary was Gamma, and could help Wyoming time-travel, makes this possible.

Much later, after Church’s reveal as the Alpha, his “death” from the EMP, his memory literally lives-on as the Epsilon AI, who at one point, resided inside an orb-like piece of technology found inside an old temple. As he figures out how to use all of his new features (including a laser-face), the space aliens at the temple seem to decide that Epsilon is some sort of god, and he basically starts a cult for himself. Although he doesn’t keep this up for very long, eventually abandoning the orb body and becoming more at home projecting a hologram/avatar of himself as an AI, the fact that the aliens were willing to worship something that was obviously technology is very interesting. As the series continues, the character eventually go to Chorus, which is FULL of many different kinds of strange alien tech, including more temples. These temples all have specific abilities/powers that can be activated by one of the “Keys” (energy swords, like the one Tucker has). There is also an alien AI that has been left behind to explain how it all works... who has been re-named Santa. It seems clear that the current generation of space aliens don’t remember what their own technology does, instead viewing it all as something religious instead of mechanical.

Finally, we have seasons 16-17, which contains the REAL time-travel. There are “gods”, who turn out to be false projections of AI orbs (similar to Epsilon), that act as guards against a dangerous being named Chorvos. Many of them don’t seem to fully understand/remember what they truly ARE, including Chorvos. The word Shisno returns with the time-travel, and while it is expanded on for the plot of these particular seasons, it makes me think of previous ones; the fact that the alien technology was viewed as god-like, and it was an alien entity that formed the AI Fragments from Alpha. The fact that one of them had a minimal control of time flow, and even threw the word Shisno around (what it really means is another matter). Partially, it all makes me wonder if perhaps the Director was attempting to literally travel back in time himself, to somehow prevent Allison from ever dying (but was unable to do so because Gamma just didn’t have that kind of power)... and it also makes me wonder if the AI Fragments are even MORE unique than they seemed. If they hadn’t been confined to specific traits with their memories ripped away, who knows what they could have turned into. The process used by the alien in the sarcophagus was different than anything humans used to make AI... it was basically creating synthetic deities. If ALL of that is true, then there is maybe still something true about that Great Prophecy

[yume-x-hanabi]

Lore, Beliefs and Customs in Rieze Maxia

A long time ago, I made a post on this topic. It was in dire need of a rewrite, and since this fits so well with the theme for Xillia Week's Day 1 (spirits/beliefs), I thought now was a good time to do it!

References used to write this post: in-game contents (cutscenes, NPC chatter...), Official World Guidance Book, Perfect Guide.

--

As a world that mostly revolves around spirits, it comes to no surprise that Rieze Maxia’s cults and legends are also heavily spirit-based. The countries of Rashugal and Auj Oule do not have an organized religion—rather, towns and regions have their own myths and traditions, some shared, some not.

This post will examine the various beliefs and customs of the Rieze Maxian people, with a few notes about Elympios when relevant.

Pre-Schism

In the distant past, people did not know of the spirits’ existence, and channeled instinctively. There were beliefs in spiritual entities, however, and there existed a language to communicate with spirits. Maxwell’s appearance eventually confirmed their existence, but the creation of the schism shortly after muddled things up.

Post-Schism Elympios

The Elympion population seems to be split between those who simply do not believe in spirits, and those who acknowledge their existence from a scientific viewpoint (usually in relation to spyrix issues or the otherworld reactor plan). Knowledge about Rieze Maxia was not widespread either—its existence appeared in old legends, but it remained unconfirmed for a long time.

Despite this more rational approach to spirit lore, some remnants of spirit lore remain in the tradition of middle names, which uses words from the special language mentioned above. Middle names are picked by parents carefully according to their meanings. For more details about names, see here.

X2 Exclusive—The Kresnik Clan and the Land of Canaan

While legends about spirits, Rieze Maxia etc were rare in Elympios, there was an exception: the Kresnik clan. In order to stand a chance in Origin’s Trial, they passed down a lot of the original lore surrounding the trial and the Land of Canaan from generation to generation, though they kept those secrets closely guarded.

Post-Schism Rieze Maxia

To ensure that the existence of Elympios and its spyrix would be lost to future generations, the first settlers of Rieze Maxia established strict rules that banned the mention of such topics. Thus, the confirmation of spirits’ existence was lost as well, and they returned to a status of legends. From there, many myths developed. The spirits’ existence was eventually confirmed again thanks to the scholar Howe (famous for his Egg Principle).

The Rieze Maxian Calendar

The Rieze Maxian calendar is heavily influenced by spirits. The four seasons are named after the Four Great Spirits, and each month and week is associated to an element. This is useful to know when elemental power is the strongest. For more details about the calendars, see here.

The weeks are each associated to a priestess, and it is not uncommon for parents to name their child a variation of the name of the priestess of their birth week. For example, Presa (named ‘Jill’ by her parents) was named after Julia, the priestess of Pluvia Rubra, which was the week of her birth.

Rashugal—Science over Faith

Spirit artes have become very developed in Rashugal. As a result, spirits are seen as an everyday part of life, and worship is thus less prevalent there.

On the other hand, Auj Oule is home to many traditions.

The Maxwell Faith

Maxwell is especially worshipped in Nia Khera, the first village established by the first settlers. The Maxwell faith and myths related to the creation of Rieze Maxia were passed down through the ages, and though the faith declined over time, many traditions remain. The dwindling faith was recently restored thanks to the advent of Maxwell,

A shrine dedicated to Maxwell stands on the outskirts of the village, and a family of shamans have been tending to it from generation to generation. Their last descendant, Ivar, became Milla Maxwell’s handmaid at a young age.

Altars hosting ‘temporal stones’ representing the Four Great Spirits were erected in the village. Those stones were excavated from the hallowmont, and were worshiped by the villagers. They can be used to summon the Four.

The Nia Khera Hallowmont is a sacred mountain near Nia Khera where it is said that souls and spirits gather. It also holds a special significance to Maxwell.

Efreet—The Patron of Warriors

As the Great Spirit of Fire, Efreet is revered by warriors, especially in the Xian Du area, which is home to the coliseum.

Undine—The Guide of Souls

As the Great Spirit of Water, Undine is often associated with the reincarnation myth (see below). It is said that she guides the souls of the dead on the river of souls.

Gnome—The Master of Harvest

As the Great Spirit of Earth, Gnome is the one people pray to for good harvest. Hamil even has a Gnome festival every year. As a thanks, Gnome makes sure their fruits are especially sweet.

Pluto—The Lord of the Abyss

As the Great Spirit of Eternity, Pluto used to be revered in the Xailen Woods Temple near Kanbalar. The temple is now abandoned, aside from twin shrine maidens who suspiciously do not seem to age. According to legends, the lord of the abyss was sealed in the temple by Maxwell a long time ago, and its worship died out afterward.

Those legends are true. Pluto was indeed sealed by Maxwell, but started undoing the seal over time. The shrine maidens are actually Pluto themself.

Kresnik The Sage

Kresnik the Sage was the one who listened to Maxwell’s warning and gathered followers to renounce spyrix usage. She and her followers were the first settlers of Rieze Maxia (note: in X2, her story is altered a little, and she no longer comes to live in Rieze Maxia herself).

In Rieze Maxia, she has become the subject of many legends:

In Rashugal: the six noble houses claim to be descendants of Kresnik’s six disciples.

In Auj Oule: the seven major tribes claim to be descendants of Kresnik’s seven sons.

Kresnik the Sage also comes up in the creation myth of Auj Oule.

Auj Oule’s Creation Myth—Kresnik and the Chimera

According to the legend, When Rieze Maxia was created, Kresnik the sage battled a legendary monster, the Chimera, which was so huge it blotted out the sky. When Kresnik stabbed the Chimera with her lance, its body fell to the ground and became the continent of Auj Oule.

Gaius’ bodyguards, the Chimeriad, are named after the Chimera. Each of their individual names represent a part of the Chimera.

The Myth of Reincarnation

According to the myth of reincarnation, the souls of the dead are carried by rivers to the hallowmont, where the souls are taken to the land of spirits to be reborn. For that reason, Undine is worshiped as the one who guides the passage of souls.

The Xian Du version of the myth says that only the souls of strong warriors enter the land of spirits, while the souls of losers sink to the bottom of the sea.

The myth of reincarnation is strong in Xian Du/the Kitarl clan, the Long Dau clan, and was also relayed to Elize by her parents.

In regions where the myth of reincarnation is strong, spirit worship is often closely tied to ancestor worship.

The myth of reincarnation is confirmed over the course of the game to be true. When a person dies, their soul enters the river of souls where they cleansed and their memories wiped out, then they are reborn as a spirit. It is part of the reincarnation cycle that rules Rieze Maxia.

Xillia 2 establishes new facts about the reincarnation cycle, but as they have no bearing on the people’s beliefs, they won’t be detailed here.

Prayer Pennants

It is a custom in the mountain clans of Auj Oule, especially Xian Du and Kanbalar, to hang a cloth banner called prayer pennant and make a wish.

Kanbalar’s prayer pennants are sewn with firethread, which prevents them from freezing.

The Xian Du Coliseum

The coliseum is considered a sacred ground. For that reason, it is only accessible by boat so that people purify themselves before stepping inside.

Prayer pennants in Xian Du are often hung with a wish for victory (or a loved one’s safe return).

In the Kitarl clan, it is a tradition to offer a gladiolus to a warrior fighting in the coliseum.

The coliseum was built in Trames 1800 (about 500 years before the game) and used to serve as a way to settle tribal dispute.

The Royal Hunting Grounds

Another sacred ground near Xian Du. They belong to the king of Auj Oule and are administrated by the Kitarl clan.

It was a tradition for clan leaders to hunt a monster in the Royal Hunting Grounds to receive an omen about the fate of their clan—the stronger the monster, the better the fortune. Many clan chiefs lost their lives in those hunting grounds.

Xian Du’s Stone Statues

The tradition to erect statues in honor of strong warriors started in Trames 1670 by a major tribe leader named Xiaman. This is another tradition tied to ancestor worship and the myth of reincarnation.

The Ghost Ship

In recent years, there are legends of a giant ghost ship roaming the sea, moving on its own without the help of spirit artes.

It is in fact the E.S.S. Zenethra, Exodus’ base. It must have been spotted a few times by a few dumbfounded sailors, giving birth to the legend.

There are probably many other legends, cults, and customs over Rieze Maxia (and Elympios, even though they might not be spirit-based). The world is vaster than what we can explore in-game, so there must be other villages and clans with their own traditions.

[house-of-galathynius]

Only You ~ Rowaelin

A Rowaelin fanfic, set if Aelin’s parents had lived and she had met Rowan under normal circumstances, if Erawan and Maeve weren’t threats. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Eight: Distractions

Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Nine

@aflickeringsoul @tillyrubes10 @fredweasleyhasadhd @rowaelin-cressworth @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @rowaelinismyotp @rosegoldannie @maryberry @viajandosinalas  If you’d like to be tagged, just let me know :) 

Aelin tried to busy herself in the coming days. She would wake just as the sun bathed the palace in its soft glow; when the world was still and all was quiet. She would leave her rooms, and would run for miles, until her lungs were burning and her legs sore. She would bathe and eat breakfast in her room, usually on her own, but sometimes with Aedion or Lysandra. No one mentioned Rowan or their curiosity to what had happened. 

Aelin had not gone back to training with her magic, something always feeling off, like she was missing a piece of herself— it wasn’t hard to figure out what that could be— nonetheless she avoided using it. 

The days meandered on, passing by with little excitement. Her afternoons were spent looking after the other Whitethorn family members or joining Orlon in meetings. Aelin found the monotony of meetings kept her mind from wandering too far into itself— they kept her from thinking of the gaping hole that was left in the absence of Rowan. 

It had been nine days since his departure and she couldn’t deny the ache in her chest. She still did not know the real reason for his leaving. Endymion had said it was urgent business, but wouldn’t state what business, and Sellene wouldn’t even see Aelin alone, only acknowledging her existence at dinners or to deliver glum looks in passing. So Aelin tried to forget, giving herself no time or opportunity to sulk over Rowan or Sam. 

The weekend proved difficult when she couldn’t busy herself with court dealings, but she found solace in Lysandra and their rides through the mountains. Which is where she found herself, bundled up in fur and leathers, teeth trembling at the bitterly cold wind that was blowing against the two of them as they made their way up the steep mountain path. 

“Tell me again why this was a good idea?” Lysandra said. Her voice muffled by the maroon scarf she had wrapped up to her nose. 

“It’s good to get fresh air. Plus the sunsets are beautiful from up here at this time of year.” Aelin could feel her toes going numb, she’d already lost the feeling in the tips of her fingers. 

Lysandra let out a huff, her sandy horse doing the same. “I could’ve been curled up by the fire devouring the almond tart that Aedion got me.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes. She would never admit it to Lysandra, but she too, wanted to be bundled by the crackling fire with a good book and a hot cup of tea. She would never admit it though. 

“It’s only a few minutes longer, Lys.” She could already see the final curve in the road that led to a ruined temple; abandoned hundreds of years ago, but still in good enough condition to go in and watch the sun as it would flood the inside with a golden glow. She imagined the temple was built there for that specific reason. 

“Is there a reason you’re not heating us both up with your fire? I could really do with that right about now.” 

Lysandra was right of course, but Aelin hadn’t touched her magic, and every time she went to use it, she froze, her magic nowhere to be seen. “We’re building character. It’s good for us.” 

“I have plenty of character already.” Lysandra pulled the scarf up higher, her emerald eyes squinting. “Please tell me that’s the top.” 

The temple was in front of them now, the grey stone crumbling in places, ivy and plants swallowing the walls in their green claws; winding their way into the cracks and crevices. 

“This place is so creepy.” Lysandra hopped of her horse, inspecting their surroundings. “I hate it.” 

“Stop being such a baby. There’s literally nothing here Lys.” Aelin followed suit, jumping from her own horse and following Lysandra inside. 

The ceilings were high, a huge dome rose above them as they entered the central part of the temple. The floors were once white marble, the walls covered in markings that had become indistinguishable. Tall pillars of stone circled the outer edge of the room, plants curling around them. Aelin could almost imagine the beauty that this once would have been. Towards the other side of the room a tall window stood, the view looking over the meadows and forests that eventually turned into the sparkling waters of the sea. The sun had started sinking into the horizon and Aelin lent on the ledge of the window, basking in the last rays, watching as the sky changed colours. 

“Okay, so maybe it was worth it.” Lysandra had come to lean next to her, her friend staring out to the world beyond. The two of them silent as they watched the sun sink lower and lower, disappearing for another day. Lysandra broke the silence first. “I have something to tell you.”

Aelin looked to her, curious. 

“I slept with Aedion.” Aelin didn’t reply as Lysandra continued. “We had been into Orynth to go dancing with a few friends. I had planned on leaving earlier, but they all convinced me to stay… so I did.” Lysandra sighed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. But we were the last to leave, and he walked me to my room and I invited him in; and… you know.” 

Aelin mulled it over. “You know you could’ve told me sooner. You went dancing last week.” 

Lysandra shrugged. “You were preoccupied with Rowan and Sam,” she flinched at the names, but Lysandra continued. “I didn’t want you to think my problems were more important.” 

Aelin couldn’t help but let the guilt rise up. “Your problems are just as important!” She faced Lysandra. “I don’t care if my life is a shit-show right now. I will always have time to listen to you. Always.” 

Lysandra smiled. “I know, but I’m pretty sure your problems trump mine anyway” 

Aelin huffed. “I would much rather not talk about my problems.” She turned back to the sunset. “Have you spoken to Aedion?” 

“We haven’t spoken about what happened, if that’s what you mean. But we’ve talked, yes.” Lysandra twirled a strand of hair. “I don’t think he wants to scare me off. I think he’s worried I regret what happened.” 

“And do you?” Aelin asked. 

“Yes. No… I don’t know.” Lysandra pushed off the window ledge and leant back against the wall. “Everything is so complicated with us. He’s been chasing me for so long… and I’ve finally given in; and now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” She looked at Aelin. “Does he want it to be casual? Does he want to be in a relationship?” 

Aelin let out a laugh. “Lys, he literally told you he would marry you one day. I think it’s pretty obvious what he wants.”

She groaned in response. “That doesn’t help! He might have been joking!” 

“Gods above. He is in love with you Lysandra! I think he has been from the moment you tried to fight me when we were twelve.” 

Lysandra smiled at the memory. “I would’ve won if it hadn’t been for your father interrupting.” 

Aelin chuckled, Lysandra had been a force to be reckoned with when she was younger. 

The two remained silent for a while longer, dusk falling over the landscape. 

“Have you heard from Rowan?” 

“No.”

“He’ll come around. You’re mates, he won’t be able to stay away for long.” 

Aelin wasn’t so sure about that. “I really messed up. Like catastrophically.” 

“It can’t have been that bad.” 

“I was practically crawling after Sam, bawling my eyes out, begging him not to leave.” She started to pace. “Rowan just stood there, he just watched as I begged for another man. And when he tried to offer some comfort, I refused. I turned down my own mate because— because…” she didn’t know. Pride? Embarrassment? Stubbornness?

“Sam meant a lot to you, and you didn’t want him finding out about Rowan that way.” Lysandra thought for a moment. “Life is messy and unpredictable; and so maybe this didn’t go exactly the way you planned it. But you’re still here, you still have a family that adore you, friends that would do practically anything for you. You just have to give Rowan time, give Sam time. They’ll both understand eventually.” 

“I hope you’re right.” 

“Of course I am.” She smiled. “You know what? I think with everything that has happened we need a night in the city, just us women. We’ll see if Elide can tear herself away from Lorcan and then we can get absolutely plastered in town and forget all of the crap in our lives.” 

“My parents will never let me go out without guards.” 

“They can stand at the doors, or sit at another table making sure you’re fine. I don’t care, we just need to let loose, have some fun!” 

Aelin hesitated just a second before squeezing her eyes together and letting out a long groan. “Fine. For a couple of hours tops. I want to be in bed by midnight.” 

“Anything you wish, old lady.”

Lysandra grabbed Aelin and led her to the horses. The mountains were cloaked in darkness, the night air cold. They rode back to the castle in record speed, Aelin heading straight to her rooms to change. She knew this was a bad idea. Going into the city on the busiest night of the week… going drinking. But maybe it would be a good thing. She could forget about her problems for the night, relax with her friends for the first time in forever. Aelin pulled out the first dress from her wardrobe, an emerald green gown with gold lining the cuffs of the sleeves. She threw off her old clothes and dressed quickly, giving her hair a quick brush letting it fall in golden waves down her back. 

Elide was the first to knock on her door. She looked lovely in a simple blue gown, her hair piled on the top of her head, small silver ribbons running through. 

“Lorcan was adamant about keeping us safe… so he’ll be chaperoning tonight.” 

Aelin barked out a laugh. “He couldn’t bear to let you go?” 

“Something like that.” She smiled timidly, moving to the couch. “He won’t bother us.” 

Lysandra entered at that moment, her red dress low and revealing. “Are we ready? I could do with some wine.” 

Aelin gave a look to Elide, who returned it with her own. The three of them made their way down to the foyer where five guards were waiting, as well as a sullen looking Lorcan, and her parents.

“Remember to stick together.” Her mother said as she fussed over Aelin’s hair. “Don’t drink too much, and please be safe.” She kissed Aelin’s brow. 

“Stop fussing! We’ll be fine.” Aelin swatted her mother’s hands away as she looked to her father who was chuckling at her mother. 

“Just be careful.” 

Elide and Lysandra started to lead the way, the doors of the palace opening to reveal a carriage waiting for them outside. 

“Remember to pay your tab! We don’t need a bill being sent here and then having to explain to Darrow why you spent so much gold on wine.” Her father called out as they were climbing into the carriage. 

“Did anyone bring any gold?” Lysandra laughed as the doors closed.

Aelin couldn’t help herself but laugh too. Gold had been the last thing on her mind as she had hastily got dressed. 

“Looks like we’ll be explaining to Darrow.” 

The carriage jolted forward as it began its journey. The city was close enough that it would take only ten minutes at most to reach it. Aelin was excited to go out, despite her reservations, she was looking forward to spending time with her friends. It had seemed that over the last couple of weeks she had neglected them and she had forgotten how nice it felt— to be with people who weren’t foreign royals or generals or mercenaries. She could feel herself starting to relax as they neared the city. 

The tavern they had picked was not by any means fancy, nor was it the worst that Orynth had to offer. But it was nice enough, and it had enough privacy that they could sit in a booth and not be bothered by people. As soon as the barmaid saw who was entering the tavern a bottle of their finest wine was brought to their table. 

Lysandra lifted her glass. “I’d like to make a toast.” 

Aelin and Elide lifted their glasses in unison, waiting for Lysandra to continue. “To my two best friends who I love and adore. Thank you for putting up with me and joining in with my impulsive ideas. Cheers!” She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip, the others following suit. 

They remained in the booth whilst they polished off the first and second bottles of wine. They chatted about everything and nothing. Elide telling them about her newlywed life with Lorcan, whilst Lysandra prattled on about Aedion. Aelin mostly stayed silent, chipping in here and there with jokes or comments. By the end of the second bottle she had started to feel tipsy, her body going light and she found the lure of the music and the dance floor too much to resist. Lysandra and Elide refused at first, claiming they needed more to drink; so Aelin had marched up to the bar and ordered their strongest liquor, taking it back to the table and demanding they all drink. 

It didn’t take long for it to kick in; and soon enough they were all up in the middle of the tavern, laughing and spinning to the music. Aelin couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so free… so light. The music changed to another upbeat song, Aelin joining hands with Elide and Lysandra, dancing in circles, her head to the ceiling, smiling from ear to ear. 

They stayed dancing for a while longer, going back to the table a few times to swig some more wine that they had ordered. Not long after that Elide claimed she was going to be sick if she continued, Lysandra agreeing and the three of them going to sit. A guard came over shortly after exclaiming it was late and they should leave, much to the protests of Lysandra. 

So they headed back to the carriage, Lorcan looking relieved that they were finally leaving. Even the guards looked happy at their exit. They scrambled into the carriage, giggling and breathless. 

“I am drunk.” Elide said as the carriage pulled away. 

“I’m hungry.” Lysandra leant her head against the side of the carriage, her eyes watching the scenery pass. 

“We should raid the kitchen when we get back.” Aelin suggested. 

“I still want to devour that piece of almond tart Aedion left me.”

“I want to devour Lorcan.” 

Lysandra and Aelin stared at Elide, at the words that had left her mouth. Aelin could never remember Elide being so cras, the words so alien from her mouth. She couldn’t help but burst out laughing, Lysandra doing the same. 

“Who knew you could say such things, Elide.” The three of them still laughing as the carriage pulled in front of the doors to the palace. 

Elide and Lysandra were the first to stumble out, Aelin following. She didn’t pay attention to where she was stepping, and couldn’t stop herself as she tripped on the skirts of her dress and fell face first into the ground, her head smacking against the hard stone. 

She didn’t hear much as she remained there, splayed on the ground, her head now pounding. The world was spinning and she could’ve sworn she could smell blood. She heard muffled voices around her, alarmed shouts of guards. 

“Someone get a healer. She’s hurt.” 

She didn’t respond as she felt herself being picked up, her body heavy and limp as they rushed her up the steps of the palace and inside. 

“What happened?” She could hear Orlon as he walked beside whoever was carrying her.

“She fell getting out of the carriage, she’s bleeding. We’re taking her to a healer.” 

The words of people around her became hard to decipher as she felt herself going in and out of consciousness, the pounding in her head only increasing. 

She didn’t remember the rest as she plunged into darkness. 

[haloud]

things we could burn in one go (eminence) - chapter 7

also on ao3

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, starts forlex ends malex, other characters may appear - Freeform, tags subject to update

Chapter Summary: Alive but weak, Michael wanders Alex’s house as he tries to come to terms with the past few days.

Excerpt:

 At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

 What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

 But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

 So he’d live with it.

--

 “Fuck!”

 Michael’s water glass flew to his hand but bumped the edge of the table and skidded the last few feet, spilling water across its surface. Still cursing, Michael shoved his chair back and got to his feet to clean shit up the old-fashioned way, on weak and shaky legs, with weaker and shakier lungs.

 Max kept healing him, checking for any possible little injury, but it seemed that Michael was just weakened by the enormous strain Jones’s “teaching” had put on his body, and he’d have to build back his strength.

 So there it was. All his fears about not being to protect anyone, all the needy clamor in his head, all of them led him here, by nothing but his own recklessness and desperation. Weak as a kitten. More a burden on Alex, quite literally, in his life, taking up his space, invading his home, leaning on him to get from point A to point B.

 Fuck.

 He was, at least, too tired to wallow in much, in between long jags of ragged sleep, torn apart by vivid dreams of light and letters and scraps of knowledge just out of reach. But despite the awful aftertaste of near-death those dreams represented, they were almost better than his waking hours, hovered over by a furious Isobel and a Max worried half to death, Valenti inspecting him head to toe the normal way, Maria trying to cheer him up, and      Alex    .

 They hadn’t spoken much since Michael awoke. Alex had to work, and when he didn’t, they, well. Cohabitating was a lot to get used to. But no matter how awkward things got, he offered a perfect porcelain protection, and Michael studied him obsessively for flaw, for the true Alex underneath the façade brought on by Michael’s own foolishness.

 “Everything going okay?” Max asked, emerging from the guest bedroom, Buffy at his heels. She’d become his shadow in the days since Michael’s near-death; it was almost endearing enough to keep Michael from snapping at him, but only almost.

 “Fine,” he snarled, but far from driving Max off, his tone brought Max forward, to sit across the table from him and fold his arms.

 If snapping wasn’t gonna keep people away, why had he been working so hard to not be a total asshole for the past few days, through every well-meaning coddle and condescension from any one of their friends, from everyone but Isobel, who wasn’t talking to him.

 Max sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, and a twinge of guilt disturbed Michael’s surly mood.

 “Go ahead,” he said a little too loudly, before those thoughts could get to him. “Tell me what a hypocrite I am. One of you has to, and it might as well be you. I was fucking stupid after getting on your case constantly, and it almost killed me. Go ahead!”

 “You seem to have gotten a head start, so I don’t see the need,” Max said wryly.

 Michael scoffed.

 Picking up Michael’s abandoned glass, Max ran his finger around the rim as he spoke. “You know, I know what it’s like to lose this. When my heart was still so weak…I pushed myself too hard and almost…well. You know. So I understand. Give yourself time. Let your system settle and see where you are.”

 The words were too kind and too logical for Michael to bear, so he let out another bratty huff and didn’t respond.

 Max just sighed again. “Well. Anyway. Kyle’s going to be here soon. I know you hate him, but he’s—”

 “I don’t.”

 “Huh?”

 “Hate him. Kinda hard to hate the guy after what he did for you. I don’t like the doctor shit, but…”

 That brought out a small smile on Max’s face, and the knot in Michael’s stomach unclenched. “That’s good,” he said.

 A knock on the door saved Michael from having to find a dignified answer, and he stood hastily to answer it—a little too hastily, it turned out, because the world tipped and took Michael with it.

 “How ‘bout you let me,” Max said as Michael dropped heavy back into his chair before falling. He clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Alex’d kill me anyway if it was trouble and I let you answer it.”

     Alex.    The too-casual reminder that he might have some kind of stake in Michael’s well-being sent him reeling. What was he supposed to do with that information, that perspective? How did he earn it, how was he worthy of it, and how did he keep it from flying away? All questions that were too much to answer—questions he’d asked his ceiling and his eyelids and his stars every night for a decade and was farther than ever from answers even now that he was coming to accept the core truth of the problem’s existence.

 Of course, there was no trouble at the door; it was just Kyle, as expected, and he pet Buffy with one hand while waving at Michael with the other.

 “Hey, Guerin. How’s it going?”

 Michael marshalled himself to answer.

 “How do you think it’s going, Doc? A newborn deer’s got fancier footwork than me right now. But I’m alive, so…”

 “Can’t complain,” Kyle finished the sentence with an amused shake of his head. “That’s one way to look at it.”

 His exam was quick and efficient, something Michael was grateful enough for that he’d die before he ever let Valenti see it, and when he was done he took a seat across from Michael.

 “It’s not exactly a clean bill of health, but your condition seems stable and improving. The condition of your body, at least. It’s hard for me to give any diagnosis about what might be impacting the use of your powers.”

 “Yeah, yeah, wouldn’t expect you to. I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough,” Michael said, scratching idly at his temple where Max’s handprint lay, thankfully hidden by his hair. “Tell me this, Doc.” He glanced around to make sure Max wasn’t in earshot, and when he spied him through a window throwing a ball for Buffy, he continued, “Have you had a chance to check out Max yet? The healing he did, with his heart—”

 Kyle smiled, and Michael glanced away from his knowing face, shifting in his seat.

 “I did, and you have nothing to worry about. He’s fine. It was a significant strain, but considering the alternative, the outcome could have been much worse.”

 “But what about his condition otherwise?” Michael powered through. “He’s been dealing with depression and exhaustion for months since—"

 The back door swung open and Buffy bounded in for her water bowl, Max following. “How’s it going?” he asked them both, but mostly Kyle, voice full of false cheer.

 “All good,” Kyle said easily, getting to his feet. “It’s going to be fine,” he tacked on the firm reassurance to Michael. “I should get going so I can get ready for work. Catch you later, Max.”

 “Thanks again, man.”

 “Free drinks at the Pony for life, you know my price.”

 As little as Michael cared to socialize with Valenti even now, awkward silence descended when he was gone and it was just the brothers again. What did you say to the guy who saved your life—again—when you had nothing but your own stupidity to blame?

 It didn’t help that Max’s ability to make Michael feel small and stupid and guilty as hell without even trying was still unparalleled, or that he was still too weak to pace it out, or that he was hyperaware of how everyone would perceive him if he sampled some of Alex’s liquor cabinet to take the edge off.

 “I’m going out to the back to get some light exercise,” he said eventually.

 “Okay,” Max said, not arguing or inviting himself along.

 “Thanks,” Michael replied, not elaborating on what for as he passed him at the fastest shuffle he could manage.

 Outside, under the sun, Michael’s head was no clearer, his muscles no stronger. Alex’s backyard was featureless, incomplete, clearly not somewhere he spent much time, unlike the front patio, which at least had some furniture, some lived-in rested energy. And, Michael thought, of course: Alex would spend his leisure somewhere he could anticipate most attempts to accost him.

 Letting out a heavy sigh, Michael ambled from one end of the fence to the other. As he went, Alex’s cameras followed him, and Michael tried not to feel weird about that, weirdly paranoid despite it being      Alex,    weirdly comforted to know Alex could watch him. The whole thing was weird. Living in Alex’s home was…weird.

 At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

 What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

 But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

 So he’d live with it.

 His pocket buzzed frantically, and he swore loudly, startled, before he realized it was just his phone ringing.

 “Fuckin’ spam calls,” he muttered as he fished it out. “Why the hell does anyone carry this shit around all the—”

 But it wasn’t a spam call at all.        Ortecho    sat dead center on the screen, and, not knowing what ring it was on, Michael answered immediately.

 “Mikey!” Liz’s breathless voice shouted before he could say a word.

 “Well it’s about damn—”

 “Thank god, are you okay, why am I hearing from Maria that you almost      died,    what the hell?”

 “Glad to know that’s what it takes to get a hold of you,” Michael snarked back.

 “Listen, I—”

 Michael just sighed. “I know. I get it. But we’ve been calling you a damn lot, Ortecho.”

 “…I know.”

 Despite what he said, he didn’t understand. He’d never understand the running, not as someone so stuck in the ground he’d been planted in that he’d die if he tried to rip himself away. But he couldn’t love Alex after ten years without accepting what he’d never understand and knowing how to survive it.

 He hadn’t thought, until now, that maybe he and Max could talk about this shit. But maybe it’d be worth a try. If there was one thing that Michael      did    know, it was that Liz and Alex wouldn’t talk about how the situations made them similar until they’d exhausted all possible escapes from that conversation.

 “Well…” Michael said into the silence. “How’s California been? How’s the Genoryx lab; they better be letting you do all the mad science shit, or else what good’s a shady government drug company…”

 “Don’t change the subject! You haven’t even answered me.      Are you okay?    ”

 “I…”

 What was the harm in being honest? Liz wasn’t even here, wasn’t even talking to anyone who wasn’t dying, so who would she tell? Maybe Maria, but Maria could read it from him like an open book.

 “Gotta tell you, I’ve been better,” he admitted.

 Liz let out a soft, sympathetic noise. “What happened? You can…you can talk to me, if you want. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but we’re friends. We are. Okay?”

 Shaking his head, Michael paced the length of the fence again, one hand on it to steady himself.  He reached the house and kept walking to the front, leaving the barren back garden behind.

 “There’s not that much to say. Maria probably told you already. I made a bad gamble on Hyde, and Jekyll had to haul my ass out of the fire. That’s it.”

 That version of the story left out the part Isobel played, but Michael didn’t have the words to describe walking his own head as it melted around him, images flying past bright enough to sear his eyes, snatches of conversation, aphasia in every sense, and how empty and cavernous and      bereft    he felt now, knowing what Jones had stuffed inside him—the knowledge of his entire people—knowing he wasn’t      enough    to contain it, weak, corrupted, and now he might never get it back. And knowing Jones did that to him on purpose, gave him more than his body and mind could handle to make him feel this way, didn’t make the feeling it any damn easier.

 Liz went silent on the other end. There was a question she wasn’t asking, but Michael let it ride, gave her the space.

 But finally, he answered it for her. “Max is okay. His heart held up, and so did the pacemaker. And I’ve got a handprint six inches from my nose, so I can call him on it if he tries to bullshit me.”

 “I—okay. Thank you, Mikey.”

 “Don’t thank me. Seriously, don’t. I, uh, said a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have in your voicemail, about Max. But it’s up to you if you want him in your life at all, so, uh. Yeah.”

 “No, no, it’s fine.”

 There was a thunk on the other line like she’d dropped or hit something.

 “Look, I should go,” she said.

 “Okay,” Michael replied.

 “I’m—really glad you’re okay.”

 “And, uh, it was nice to hear from you.”

 “Okay.” Her final reply was soft and hesitant and awkward as Michael felt making an earnest overture a friend might make. “Bye, Mikey.”

 “Don’t be a stranger.”

 She hung up.

 Michael dropped his arm and let his phone dangle at his side for a little while. His legs shook a little, so he held onto the back of one of the patio chairs to steady himself, but he wasn’t ready to sit just yet.

 Friends or not, clearly he and Liz had plenty to work on if they were that fucking awkward without a project between them.

 Still, this was something. Something unexpected. Michael was too tired to sort through feelings right now.

 But he should have—

 Before he could second guess himself, he pulled his phone back up and dashed a text off to her.

     We all get together on Thursday nights. Open invitation. -G  

 Then he dropped his phone face-down on the seat and sat down several feet away so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it if she texted him back.

 All the chairs on Alex’s patio were tilted subtly to watch different angles of the approach to the house, so Michael settled in the one that was shadiest. It was too fucking hot to be relaxing outdoors without water or sunscreen, but the air indoors with Max hovering and Alex…everywhere…was just as stifling.

 Max hadn’t asked him why, yet, even though the question itched at Michael’s head, even through the careful distance they were keeping from the handprint bond between them. Which was good, because, in the sunlight, on the other side of the storm, his arms wrapped around his own stomach, holding himself, Michael couldn’t have answered it himself.

 Eventually, though, people would ask. And what would he tell them—should he admit he thought that the pollen would be enough to keep himself from harm, should he confess that he’d been willing—or thought he was willing—to accept the risks if it meant no one would have to take a blow for him?

 The street stretched long and quiet as far as Michael could see. Every now and then, a car would pass from one point on the line to the next, disappearing down some other driveway or just continuing until the heat haze swallowed it whole. The sun hurt his tired eyes, so he blinked slow, and let minutes trickle past, waiting for something to happen.

 Maybe his phone would ring again; maybe Max would come looking for him. Maybe Flint Manes would leap out of the bushes and shoot him. Maybe Alex would come home from work and smile when he saw him. Maybe Forrest would come home early and try and fight him for shacking up while he was gone. Maybe Jones did something to him that was lying in wait and would detonate his heart any second.

 Thinking of possibilities was an endless sort of entertainment for a man who never knew what to do with having a future and who just nearly lost his lease on it.

 As Michael watched the road, a truck appeared on one side of the horizon, moving faster than most would on a residential street like this. It whipped up dust as it went, and Michael rolled his eyes and slouched deeper into the chair. Fucking assholes in their screaming steel overcompensators almost universally considered themselves above getting work done in a junkyard, and that didn’t exactly give Michael a better opinion of them.

 And this piece of shit in particular, Michael recognized. What the hell was Wyatt fuckin’ Long doing on this side of town? Michael tensed as he roared by, just waiting for him to slow or stop—did he drive by often, harassing Alex for dating his cousin? Or looking for his cousin to harass somewhere off the farm where a real adult might stop him?

 He didn’t do either, though, and in seconds he was gone, cowgirl mudflaps dangling behind him.

 Asshole.

 What time was it anyway? Narrowing his eyes, Michael focused on his phone where he dropped it in the other chair and, slowly, tried to pull it toward him. It took seconds and enough strain his head hurt before it moved, but move it did, wobbling slowly towards him. Halfway there, it changed velocity and came shooting toward him, and he only barely managed to catch it before it overshot and slammed against the wall behind him.

 Still, progress.

 It was later than he thought. Shouldn’t Alex be home from work by now? Should he be worried?

 He was just hovering his thumb over Alex’s contact, deciding whether or not to call, when another car hissed along the drive and slowed. This one, though, turned into Alex’s driveway, and Michael relaxed.

 Alex pulled the car to a stop, and Michael stood up to greet him, stretching as he did. Unexpectedly, Maria was also in the front seat, but her presence answered the question of why Alex was late. If he wasn’t talking to Michael, at least he was talking to someone.

 “Hey,” Michael greeted them.

 “Hey, Guerin,” Maria replied.

 “Is everything alright?” Alex demanded.

 “Yeah, it’s fine. Kyle was by earlier. Seems like I’m still on the mend.”

 “That’s good to hear,” Maria said, as Alex said nothing.

 Michael gave her a smile. “Yeah, it is. So…are you staying for dinner? Maybe I can cook something…”

 Side-eying Alex, who stood as stiff and stoic as Michael had ever seen him, shoulders and back soldier-straight, Maria returned Michael’s smile and said, “Oh, Alex just asked me to take Buffy out for her walk for the next few days, so I’m here to see her.”

 “I didn’t want to impose on you for that,” Alex added.

 Michael rocked on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets, chewing on his tongue to hold back any indication of how desperate he was to be imposed upon. The weakness in his legs kept him from making a real argument; despite her age, Buffy was a hell of a walker.

 Was that the reason Alex was asking Maria to step in? Was his leg okay? Michael rocked forward again, swaying toward Alex and tugging himself back, an old, familiar dance.

 “You could’ve. You’re puttin’ me up, I oughtta work for room and board,” Michael joked.

 It didn’t exactly land. If possible, Alex shut down harder, face cold and hard, though his voice was soft.

 “You don’t have to work for me to take care of you when you’re in need,” he said, every syllable clipped and careful.

 Michael should have known something was up then and there, seen it, seen Maria’s downcast eyes and crossed arms, the way she hovered close between them and kept to herself; he should have expected it, Alex to pull some kind of bullshit, but his head didn’t go there. Not yet.

 “So…you going somewhere?” he asked, licking his lips. The thought might have sent a bolt of panic through him, but now that Alex had a life here, a house and a job and roots, the threat was less immediate.

     That didn’t stop Liz,    his mind whispered, but he shook it off.

 Alex wasn’t answering, so Michael continued, “You heading out to meet Forrest in DC? You should have gone with him in the first place, man, take some time off.”

 Maria shot Alex a loaded look, but Alex’s face just hardened.

 “And been across the country when you almost died on my doorstep?” he demanded so fervently Michael took a step back, and Alex closed his eyes, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry.”

 “No, uh, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m glad you were here.”

 Somewhere deep in his heart, Michael thought that it wouldn’t have mattered where in the universe Alex was when he lifted his foot and stepped across space to get to his door. His thoughts were inside out, tripled and rearranged with pieces missing, he couldn’t have said what he did or the powers he used or how he could do it again, but he could say this: for a brief moment, he’d possessed the ability to reorder the universe to put himself at Alex’s side, and no technicalities of time or distance would have stopped him.

 He didn’t have that power anymore, though, and neither did he have the ability to read Alex’s mind.

 “Seriously, though,      are    you going somewhere?” he asked again.

 “…I should get inside. My phone’s dead, I need to charge it,” Alex said.

 “      Alex,    ” Maria said in a scalded voice.

 Michael, though, was cold. Frozen. It barely registered when Maria reached out and squeezed his wrist to reassure him; he wasn’t reassured, though he was pathetically grateful to her for trying. She was a good friend—better now than she was or he was when they were two isolated points on a severed line, ten years as two stars on an unintelligible constellation, half its lights gone out.

 But that friendship, as cherished as it was—could it hold him up if the new foundation he’d built for his life was ripped away again? Again, he’d built it up around Alex without expectation or intention. It was reflexive, habitual, migratory. He followed a pattern etched into his bones. He didn’t know any other way to build.

 “Alex, I told you,” Maria said.

 “I know. But—”

 “No! No buts. If you can’t even be honest about what you’re doing, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

 “It’s fine,” Michael said. His voice was distant inside his own skull. “I get it. You don’t have to tell—you don’t owe me anything.”

 For some reason, Alex turned back around to face them, then, his face so openly wracked with pain and indecision that Michael had to close his eyes.

 Even less than he could stand to watch Alex walk away again, he couldn’t stand to watch it hurt so bad and him choose it all the same.

 “I’m      not    leaving you, Guerin. Michael. I’m—not. I’m not!”

 He said it again and again, like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t Michael or Maria, both of whom were silent. Maria pressed closer to Michael, leaning her weight against him, wordless but telling him:      I’m here.  

 “I’m not leaving,” Alex said again.

 Michael forced himself to open his eyes. A few feet in front of him, Alex took up the same amount of space he always did, posture helplessly perfect, hands helplessly flat at his sides.

 Through a tight throat, Michael said, “Okay. Then why…”

 Alex struggled for the words. At his side, Michael felt Maria breathe in and release a heavy sigh.

 “Talk to us, Alex. Please,” she said.

 Dropping his eyes, Alex replied, “I’m just going to be busy and out of the house a lot for the next few days and won’t have time to give Buffy the attention she deserves.”

 “Really? That’s it?” her voice was close to tears, and Michael unlocked himself to wrap his arm around her. She continued, “I asked you to      talk to us,    not just repeat what you told me before. What business, Alex? You’re scaring me.”

 “What am I supposed to do?” Alex cried, spreading his arms wide. Then he dropped his arms just as suddenly, head snapping back and forth looking for anyone who might have heard the outburst, then he dragged a hand over his face. He continued, quieter, flatter, “I get so wound up about one threat, and another one starts swinging from my blind side. I’m not waiting for Fields to come calling while Michael is here. And Jones—” That awful blankness crossed his face again. “—What am I supposed to do, let what he did to you go without doing something about it? Wait until he tries again? Absolutely not.”

 Every word stung Michael’s senses; he had no response, mouth parted but silent, eyes wide.

 Maria let out a frustrated growl. “And would you have told anyone these plans if I hadn’t forced you? Oh my god, of course not, you both suck so bad! What part of this one,” she jerked her thumb at Michael, “getting his gray matter pureed forty-eight hours ago makes you think now is the time to run off with some lone wolf Rambo act? What’s the point of being able to see the future if no one ever asks or listens?”

 “Did you? See something?” Michael asked.

 “Well. No. But I might have,” Maria replied.

 “Wait, nothing at all? It’s been how long now?”

 “Too long,” she admitted. “It’s not nothing, I just keep seeing our bearded friend standing in a field. I can’t even tell if it’s now or if it’s from before or even if it’s from the home planet. He doesn’t look at me, just…stands there.” She shivered.

 Alex’s eyebrows drew down. “Can he…block your sight? Is that possible?”

 Shrugging helplessly, Maria said, “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure we can’t just ask him. What are we going to do?”

     We.    Part of Michael wanted to protest, in the face of the danger that alliance would pose to two of the people he loved most in the entire world. Standing alone already almost got him killed, left him weaker than he’d ever been, but still part of him would try again, and again, until he was out of second chances, if it meant sparing Alex and Maria anything.

 But that wasn’t in question, was it. They’d made their choice. It was time for Michael to learn to live with it.

 “Thursday’s coming up,” he said. Maria and Alex turned to look at him, and he lifted and dropped his shoulders, curling in on himself. “If you guys are still available. We can talk about a game plan.”

 “      Guerin,    ” Maria sighed. But she smiled when she reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. “Of course we’re available.”

 Alex didn’t reply. Silence fell between the three of them, until Maria sighed again and headed toward the front door.

 “I already came all this way, I might as well spend a little time with Buffy. Since I won’t be walking her after all.”

 As she passed Alex, he made a soft noise, and whatever it was, she understood perfectly, because she turned to meet Alex’s raising arms, and the two of them hugged tightly.

 “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t--I shouldn’t have made you--”

 “Stop with the ‘shouldn’ts’,” Maria replied. “Just...don’t make us watch you destroy yourself alone when we’re here for you, okay?”

 Michael flinched. Neither of them looked at him, but her words hit home anyway. He was part of that grief, too.

 Alex nodded against her shoulder. “I won’t.”

 Then she gave him one last squeeze, he let her go, and she went inside, leaving Michael and Alex alone.

 And alone, what was there to say? They hadn’t found it so far.

 Michael’s heart still beat uncomfortably fast in his chest, a frantic effort to keep him standing and sane while his brain and body figured out that Alex wasn’t going to disappear from before his eyes, and it only pulsed harder when—he blinked to clear his eyes and—Alex got closer, closing the space between them in a few long, uneven strides.

 On instinct, Michael took a step back, but Alex stopped six inches away, just staring at him with his dark eyes. They scanned from his feet to his hair, taking in every minute tremble of his damaged muscles.

 Jittery, Michael licked his lips and said, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer--”

 Alex took Michael’s shirt in his fist and pulled him in. They hit, chest to chest, Alex’s arm trapped between them until he pulled it away, down and out, clamped it around Michael’s back and held on, held on for dear life. He didn’t need to hold on so tight; Michael froze with the shock of Alex around him and couldn’t have budged for love or money, not until his mind caught up with his body and he slumped in Alex’s safe arms.

 “I’m so mad at you,” Alex said in his ear, close enough that his hitching breaths stirred Michael’s ear.

 “I know. I know,” Michael spoke back, lips moving against his shoulder. He let his eyes fall shut again. Like this, he didn’t need them, dropped every sense that wasn’t touch, anything that didn’t tell him the only thing he needed to know. Alex was here. Michael was here. They were alive. They were together.

 “How could you? What did I do wrong?” His breathing hitched harder, enough for Michael to feel it in Alex’s entire body.

 Gripping him tighter, one arm around his lower back, one arm around his broad shoulders, Michael murmured, “Nothing, God, nothing. I was stupid. I just wanted—I just had to—”

 “I wanted to protect you. That’s all I wanted—did I push too hard?” Hot, wet heat hit Michael’s neck. “I’m so shit at this, Michael, every time I try, I just make everything worse!”

 “No! No, hey, hey.”

 They were too tightly entwined for Michael to do much, but he maneuvered them enough to press their foreheads together.

 “I just wanted to protect      you,    ” Michael rasped. If he looked at Alex this second, this close, he wouldn’t be able to stand it, so he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to—be protected. You making that sacrifice for me, I don’t know how to be worth it. It’s not your fault.”

 “You don’t have to do anything. Ever. I’m so fucking—sorry, for all the times I made you feel like you had to—earn...”

 They swayed slightly back and forth, half because Michael had pushed himself too far on his weak legs, half because it was an old self-soothing motion one or both of them fell back on, completely alone in the universe as children. They did it together, now.

 “We’ll figure it out,” Michael swore, clasping Alex’s sweaty hand in his own sweaty hand, in the nonspace between their chests, knuckle to sternum, palm to palm, sternum to knuckle. The words tasted like hope on his tongue.

 They opened their eyes, Alex first, then Michael, and they stood like that for a long time. Alex’s eyes were red from crying, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

     We’ll figure it out.    Neither of them believed it fully, but if both of them held a half, maybe they’d manage to make it work.

 “We should get back inside,” Michael said eventually, dropping Alex’s hand, stiffening his own to keep the shape of it held to his side as they parted.

 “Actually, could we, um.” Alex cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we could sit out here a while longer. It’s a nice sunset? And maybe we could catch up on normal stuff.”

 Michael looked over his shoulder at the sky. It really was stunning, broad beyond comprehension, all alien with pinks and purples and golds.

 “Normal stuff sounds great,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

[koukouture]

Frostbite and Burn scars  Chater 3) Godless

"So we're in Khaenr'iah..." 

"Yes" 

"And it's on a completely plane of existence..." 

"Not completely different, just on the border between life and death but yes go on"

"And there's just a portal to this place in Musk Reef?" 

"Congratulations you've caught yourself up" Kaeya said sarcastically, standing up. 

Diluc rubbed his temple and wondered just why the hell he decided to jump into a swirling blue light with a no good spy. But it was too late for second thoughts, Kaeya said that the portal only opens every moon cycle so he'd be stuck here for a while. 

"Why exactly does the portal need a moon cycle specifically?" Diluc asked, irritated. 

"Well it's a very old relic" Kaeya had said "It's magic is weakening. It used to be a continuous portal back before I was born, but in recent years it's power has slowed down and it requires time to recharge. Plus do you know how taxing it is to travel in between different dimensions? It requires a significant amount of magic, it's amazing how it still works." 

Diuc adjusted his gloves again, it was an odd habit of his to do it whenever he was anxious. Now, in another nation, in another world, he found himself doing it quite a lot. Perhaps it felt familiar, the tug almost felt like holding someone's hand, though he'd be surprised if holding hands felt different. He hadn't held anyone's in years. 

"Well, let's go now" Kaeya said, walking in the direction of the city. 

"Why would they recognize you?" Diluc asked. He had met Kaeya when he was five, Kaeya was seven. He can't have lived for more than a few months in Mondtadt before father found him. He'd know, Kaeya kept crying and mumbling for his father in his sleep. It's probably been years since he had last been seen around here. And who's to say time didn't work different here? 

"Why would they forget their prince?" 

Diluc's head snapped to see a man coming from deeper into the forest. He wore mostly black with blues and golds decorating him, blonde hair hung half down and obscured an odd mask that only covered his right eye that was glowing yellow. A long cape flowed behind him as he walked, and he bowed respectfully before Kaeya and him. No, more to Kaeya. 

"I'm sorry, prince?" Diluc inquired, turning to look at Kaeya for an answer. 

"With all due respect, Prince Kaeya, you've never told this man who you were?" 

Kaeya shrugged "Never had a reason to" he said nonchalantly "If you'd like, you may introduce me properly to my dear associate here. You are a royal advisor and herald after all, Dainsleif" 

The man, Dainsleif stood up "May I introduce to you Lord Kaeya Alberich, heir to the throne of Kaenr'iah, son of the the Crescent Moon dynasty, and Kaenri'ah's savior" he said. He didn't seem to be lying and the way Kaeya held himself right now, seemed to suggest that it was the truth. Kaeya wasn't some bastard, he was a fucking prince. 

"Hmm, never gets old" Kaeya mused. "Diluc, this is Dainsleif. He's a trusted friend of house Alberich and one of my father's closest and youngest advisors. Speaking of dear old dad, I heard the young man has finally kicked the bucket?" 

Dainsleif nodded "Indeed. I arranged for you to be brought back here for his funeral and your eventual coronation as king" 

Dilcu saw Kaeya's fists clench, seemingly not fond of the idea of being king. He couldn't argue with that, being a carefree prince seemed easier than a king with the fate of an entire kingdom on his shoulders. 

"I believe you said your companions name was Diluc?" 

"Hmm? Oh yes, this is Diluc, he's a member of the Fatui, an organization that has helped me with my goal quite a bit" 

Dainsleif looked at Diluc suspiciously,  Diluc pretended not to notice and tried to prevent himself from maiming Kaeya for using the Fatui of all originations for cover. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a guest..."

"That's the spirit!" Kaeya cheered.

"There's a carriage awaiting us, just this way, Prince Kaeya, brother Diluc" 

Diluc still couldn't quite wrap his head around the whole "Prince Kaeya" thing. Prince? This bastard? Well, bastard doesn't really suit him anymore. 

"I see you're still a bit confused about all of this, Diluc?" Kaeya asked. 

Dainsleif had ushered them into a carriage and rode on horseback behind them, the carriage itself was nicer than anything Diluc's ever been in. Yes he was wealthy and had seen his fare share of luxuries, but this carriage was a lot nicer than the ones Dilucs been in, and this was just a fraction of Kaeya's fortune as a prince. 

"You could say that..."

"Hmm yes, I'm well aware that Mondstadt and most of the other nations don't have set rulers, rather most are overseen by an organization or a council" 

"And why is Kaenri'ah not? The monarchy system never worked for the other nations" 

Kaeya's eye turn bitter and dark for a moment, peering out of the window "Kaenri'ah  doesn't have a god to guide them like the other nations do. So, they turn to royalty to be their gods, to worship and grovel at their feet, to rule them with the flaws of man. It's rater pitiful" 

Dilcu had never really thought of it that way. There was always someone with power over the nation, but not in charge as a whole. That was because the respective archon of the nation was seen as the true ruler. He knew that some archons even lived amongst their people like royalty, Rex Lapis had for a time he had heard. 

"Oh..." 

Humans ruling humans, what a mistake. No wonder Kaenri'ah was falling apart. They were godless, abandoned, they refused the gods. They made their own gods and ignored the warnings of the archons. An entire nation, suffering from pride. No wonder Kaeya's symbol was the peacock, all flare, too proud to pay any attention, to bow down to anyone. Fitting for a godless country

There seemed to be peacock motifs everywhere in Khaenri'ah. Flagpoles flew the emblem of a peacock, citizens were dressed in rich blues and greens, with gold adorning those who looked to be part of a wealthier caste. The godless city, suffering from their hubris, proudly flying flags with a peacock of all things on them. What fools. Dilcu almost wanted to laugh at the irony. 

"Diluc" 

Red eyes met a single lilac one "Be careful. The walls have ears here in Kaenri'ah. Be careful of what you say" 

Diluc scoffed "Are you concerned about me?" 

Kaeya shrugged "If you don't want them to find out. And frankly, I'd like it if I didn't have to say I didn't know you. The people here are going to maim you if they find out you're this... defender of Mondstadt" 

Kaeya had a point, for once. Mondstadt was supposed to be Kaenri'ah's enemy. Diluc would be dead if he was found out. He didn't really have a choice. He was stuck here until the gateway opened again and he could return home. Home... to that empty mansion, to the quiet tavern, with no one but servants and workers surrounding him. Mondtadt's most eligible bachelor, the wealthy young prodigy, the rich and famous Master Diluc! What a joke. Empty lies, all of them. 

They rode on in silence for a while, Kaeya absentmindedly looking out the window while Diluc sat and looked down at his feet.

"We're here" Kaeya said. The door to the carriage opened, the two men stepped out, and Diluc's breath hitched at the site of the giant palace. Architecture unlike any he's ever seen, the colossal white and grey palace almost seemed to scrape the heavens. 

"Welcome to Babylon, palace of the godless"

A colossal palace, built so high it scraped the heavens. A vain attempt to reach the gods. How fitting, Kaenri'ah really was the city of peacocks, the city of fools and bastard, city of the godless. 

[ceescedasticity]

Ficlet: 5 Children of Jin Guangshan Who Never Came To Carp Tower (+1 Who Will Probably Be Talked Into It Eventually)

This is missing all its italics, thanks loads tumblr, and will go up on AO3 after I give it a while longer to decide if I hate it.

(1)

Her mother was a rogue cultivator who met the Jin heir at a crowd hunt and accepted an invitation to have a few drinks with his party. She hadn't intended to do any more than that, but, well, probably the wine, right? No point dwelling on it. She left town quickly and avoided Jin sect in the future.

She realized she was pregnant in plenty of time to do something about it, but thought it over and decided against it in the end. Instead she saved up her money carefully, and sought out a sworn sister she'd wanted to see again anyway. She didn't say who the baby's father was, only that he wasn't going to be a factor. When they settle down in a river town (one with a negligent local sect and enough water ghouls to be grateful for resident cultivators), they claim she was widowed. There's gossip, but no one ever presses the issue.

Her daughter grows up with two mothers who love her, learning cultivation from both of them, never quite accepted as one of their own by the neighbors but nevertheless treated with respect as one of the only people who can do anything about the damn water ghouls. She wants to leave town when she grows up anyway, tired of being strange. Her mothers convince her to wait a little longer — until they've gotten her a proper sword of her own — then until she's eighteen — then until there's not a war going on—

But finally they send her off with the best of wishes, and advice not to drink in public and if possible avoid Lanling.

She lives as a rogue cultivator for a few years, but eventually joins the (still-underpopulated) Jiang sect as an outer disciple, and does very well there. She visits her mothers once or twice a year, and hunts water ghouls for old time's sake. The town which considered her strange is now proud that she's a disciple of a Great Sect, which could be annoying but usually she manages to laugh about it.

She never finds out who her father was. Sometimes she wonders — but never for very long.

(2)

His mother was a landowner's second wife, beaten and cast out for faithlessness hours after the Jin party left. No one asked if it had been consensual; no one much cared.

Very often during the first year she thought she was going to die — sometimes she thought she would rather die than drop even lower to survive — but she never did. Every morning she wondered what would kill her today, every night she wondered if she would never wake up, but it just kept not happening. For some reason she wanted to live. She learned to beg, she found a city, she met prostitutes who took it for granted she was one of them and didn't correct them — she just kept living.

It wasn't for the sake of the child. The child hadn't ruined her life — its father had done that all on his own — but it wasn't something she wanted.

Labor was excruciating, and when it was over and the women the other prostitutes called Older Sister offered her the baby to hold, she threw her arms over her face and begged her to take it away.

Older Sister asked once more, to be sure, and then carried the baby to the temple outside of town, set it down outside the door, knocked, and ran. She had never personally verified that the monks took care of foundlings, but they were said to rear up their fosterlings kindly, and it was easier on the conscience than leaving unwanted infants in ditches.

The boy is raised firmly but kindly — and entirely secularly; some in the temple do practice cultivation, but no one expects random foundlings to be able to join them and rubbing the difference in their faces would be unacceptably rude. He's taught to read and write, and if sometimes he still wonders what it would be like to fly on a sword he doesn't wonder what it would be like to fight monsters — at least he doesn't wonder past the age of thirteen or so.

He doesn't have a vocation, but that's all right. The temple helps him find a job as a clerk. He makes generous offerings.

It's hard to exercise proper filial piety when you have no idea who either of your parents are, just that you were abandoned. All he could do on the relevant holidays was thank them for giving him life, and thank them for leaving him somewhere safe, and give the rest of his attention to his fosterers.

(His mother never regrets abandoning him — she couldn't have built up a functional career as a prostitute with an infant in tow, and she still doesn't want anything of that man's — but she is… glad, a few years later, to learn he was taken in at the temple. She doesn't wish him ill. Just — far away from her.)

(3)

Her mother was a mundane noblewoman who visited Carp Tower — beautiful, bitter, and bored. Her husband, twice her age, tried to keep pace with cultivators in drinking and passed out early. She thought a suave, handsome cultivator might be more entertaining than the usual. She was mostly disappointed in the results. Her husband never suspects any infidelity. He can't imagine anyone would be so brazen as to have relations with his wife when he's in the same building.

If the child had been a boy, she might have felt a little guilty about passing it off as her husband's, but a girl would just be married off anyway — it didn't really matter. So the nobleman has a daughter.

She grows up in a luxurious but narrow world, reading everything she can get her hands on for a glimpse outside. Her mother is seldom demonstratively affectionate, but is deeply invested in her welfare and indulges her desire for books. She's beloved in the household — enough so that when it occurs to the oldest children of her father's second wife that she really looks nothing like either of her parents, they refrain from making open accusations for her sake.

She marries a man she's never met before. But he's kind, and doesn't object to her ever-expanding library, and comes to rely on her for the bookkeeping.

By that time she has her own suspicions, about who her father is — who her father is not, more — but  that's hardly something she can bring up.

(4)

His mother was a maid at a rural inn. The innkeeper did attempt to explain to Jin-zongzhu that this was not that kind of establishment, but Jin-zongzhu ordered him to send up his prettiest maid regardless, and raised the price he was offering, and the man crumpled.

He did feel bad enough about it the next day to give her maybe a quarter of the money.

She took that money, and the wages she was due, and the "tip" Jin-zongzhu tossed at her, and went back to the farm she was born on. It had been a successful, if small, farm until one of the battles of the Sunshot Campaign happened basically on top of it. Her father had been killed along with most of their livestock. The whole point of her work at the inn had been to contribute money to rebuild, and, well. Money was money.

Her sister-in-law was a shrewd bargainer, and Jin-zongzhu's stupid trinkets got them two pigs. The guilt money from the innkeeper put them over the edge to afford an ox. By the time they realized she was pregnant, they were secure enough that it wasn't a catastrophe.

The farm was out of the way enough that they didn't have much trouble turning her son into her nephew, and that was that.

He grows up working hard but still notably prettier than either of his parents — maybe even prettier than his aunt, who he's heard what passed for a local beauty at his age and who certainly didn't have any trouble finding suitors when she finally decided to marry after his grandmother died — but it mostly just means he gets more attention when he goes to the local villages for festivals or markets. He's a good boy, credit to his family, responsible with his little sisters and his cousins. He's got a mundane future, but a bright one.

Of course he knows who his father is? He's lived with him all his life.

(5)

His mother was a disciple of a minor sect, who might have been flattered and awed when the Chief Cultivator pulled her into his guest room, and was definitely pressured not to say anything indicating otherwise. They don't need trouble with Jin Sect. They won't make trouble with Jin Sect. Will they.

She was terrified she'd be thrown out when she told a senior sister she was pregnant, but instead there was a quick, quiet marriage to another disciple. On their wedding night she admitted she was pregnant; he admitted he'd been caught with another boy. The marriage was always a bit of a sham but the cultivation partnership turned real quickly. They worked well together, and built up a good joint reputation together, and three years later left together. (They weren't entirely ungrateful — many people in similar situations had been treated far worse — but the hurt lingered.) Their destination was another minor sect, one closer to where his parents lived, so the move could be explained away as filial devotion, saving face all around.

There's talk, sometimes, because they don't try very hard to hide the fact they seldom share a bed. It's usually brushed aside as probably a cultivational thing.

Their son grows up a promising young disciple. He doesn't have many close friends, has trouble really opening up to people, but he's always polite and hard-working and keeps his temper, and he's not bad at calming other people down, too, so he's liked enough. His parents are a little strange but they love him and love each other.

When he's thirteen the Jin Guangyao scandal becomes the talk of the cultivation world. His parents take a break from fussing over his half-dozen senior martial siblings still recovering from their imprisonment in the Burial Mounds to have a private conference, and that evening they pull him aside.

She never wanted to tell him this, she says. And maybe she should wait, but she might lose her nerve, and contrary to what she thought it seems like this is something he needs to know—

She cries. He cries. His father (definitely his father) cries.

He understands why they told him finally — they don't want him to end up like poor Lady Qin Su — but he wishes it wasn't necessary. He was happier not knowing. But if his mother can be all right after what happened to her, he can be all right after finding out about it, so he puts the knowledge away in a box and gets on with his life.

(+1)

Her mother was a prostitute who tried to be careful, who always tried to be careful, but nothing works all the time, and she got unlucky.

It was several weeks before she realized she'd been unlucky. By that time, Lanling was in full mourning for the sect leader and chief cultivator.

This was probably, she realized, probably the last bastard Jin Guangshan ever sired. Even the brothel proprietor agreed that had enough novelty value to make a pregnancy worthwhile.

It was suggested that, perhaps, she could go to the new sect leader. Everyone knew Jin Guangyao's background. Surely he would be welcoming.

She thought about what she'd seen of him, of the look in his eyes when he looked at the prostitutes, and found she wasn't sure at all.

She did not go to Carp Tower.

It turned out some non-cultivators would in fact pay money to listen to a woman tell salacious supposedly true stories about life in Carp Tower. (This was legitimate! She was the mother of Jin Guangshan's last bastard!) In fact, some of them would pay pretty well. Some of them paid quite well. She finished her pregnancy with less debt than she started. She spent the next few years saving carefully, and finally packed herself and her daughter off to a city.

A big city; a mediocre city. A city without much cultivator traffic, though of course they knew about cultivators there.

She got a job in an only somewhat disreputable teahouse, telling stories — some but not all of them dirty, some but not all of them supposedly true (and fewer of them actually true), some but not all of them using the names of real people (who would hopefully not be visiting such a large and mediocre city where they had no authority). …The teahouse proprietor turns out to be deeply involved in at least one information network, but that's not really her problem.

Her daughter grows up surrounded by musicians, entertainers, more than a few spies, and the nobility all the rest are feeding on. She learns reading, writing, coding and decoding, how to use a scandal to your advantage, five different musical instruments (although pipa is the only one she can be said to be good at), and poetry. Some of her poems are considered praiseworthy, although she's never quite sure if that's because they're actually good or because the pavilion could benefit from having a young, precocious, pretty, inherently scandalous poetess around. Hopefully it's both.

They more or less retired the 'Jin Guangshan's Last Bastard' gimmick when she was six or so, but then news arrives that the Jin Sect has done something even more mortifying, so it's back. She feels a little bad about it honestly. It sounds like the new sect leader isn't much older than her, and she still feels like she's in over her head just understanding what's going on in the teahouse.

Her nephew, isn't that a funny thought.

Her mother never has anything good to say about the cultivational world and she can't blame her, but this world can get tiring, too.

It doesn't matter, though. That family rejects bastards who are much less scandalous than her. She's sort of interested in that world, but not enough to try to push in when she's not wanted. It's fine.

(And somewhere not too terribly far away and yet in a different world, Ouyang Zizhen picks up a poetry booklet featuring a writer with the strangest pen name…)

[qvid-pro-qvo]

Ok there’s many prompts that could be used with this but I really want to see a fluff fic with Sonny where he talks about the time he was almost shot with the reader, maybe with prompt 16. “It’s alright, I couldn’t sleep anyway” (I hope I got that right) but honesty you can add any other prompts that you see fit 😄

oh, my god. you asked for a fluff fic. i am... SO sorry, but this is not a fluff fic. i thought i had the whole prompt down, but i... well. i’m dumb. this is SO MUCH ANGST, and i’m dumb, and please send in another prompt for fluff fic, and i will write fluff, i promise.

anyway.

sonny carisi x gender neutral reader.

word count: 1700

rating: mature, for the aftermath (tw: canon-typical violence, gun mention, blood mention, ptsd, panic attacks).

-

Bouts of insomnia were nothing new. It was the nature of your work after all – writing took time, and took energy, and sometimes took burning the midnight oil. It was how your works took shape after all, going from notes on your phone to full stories, “pure poetry” as your dad liked to say.

You didn’t know why people liked your work. But you loved doing it, loved creating, and creating meant time and effort and sleepless nights. No matter how elaborate your bedtime routine was, sometimes your eyes shot open in the middle of the night, and sometimes you tossed and turned, and sometimes that’s just how it was.

Like that fateful night. Close to 2:00 AM, and your eyes were not even close to closing. Your hands were fidgety, your toes tapped on your floors. You felt the energy but didn’t have anywhere to put it. No ideas, that night, just wakefulness no matter how many cups of sleepy time tea you made yourself. And you didn’t know why, because there wasn’t a source. No deadline, no stress, just roaming the rooms of your studio apartment wondering why the hell you couldn’t just sit down and stop.

You didn’t know why.

And then there was a knock.

Soft at first, a couple of timid taps. At first you thought you imagined it, but they came again, a little firmer. A third time, hard against the wood, and repetitive, over and over and over –

You lifted yourself from your couch, tea abandoned on the coffee table. Your steps to the door were quick, and you peeked through the peephole to see Sonny Carisi on the other side.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected to see an NYPD detective on the other side of your door, which was unfortunate to say. Your family wasn’t exactly a fun one to read about in the headlines, after your mom left your dad and ended up on the arm of some of New York City’s worst. You found yourself learning how to field questions at a young age, and that skill only grew as you gained your own fame and your mom built up the worst kind of notoriety. All building to one final case, the Special Victims Unit the latest in a long line of detectives looking for answers about what your mom did, or was doing.

And the truth was, most of the time, you didn’t know. So their questions went unanswered more often than not. But that didn’t mean that they didn’t come back, and Sonny Carisi came back more often than the others. At first you thought he was just being nosy, and then you realized that he was just being sweet. Questions through the doorway turned into questions over the dining room table. The dining room table turned into dinner. Dinners turned into drinks into dessert, and before you knew it, the two of you were…

Well.

The showing up at 2:00 AM on your doorstep was kind of self-explanatory, you supposed.

Anyway.

It was Sonny Carisi. That’s who was knocking, louder and louder and louder until you pulled the door open. It was Sonny Carisi who offered you a weak smile, who you let inside without another word.

Who blinked blearily at you until you pulled him close, who buried his head into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

Who cried against you, silent, painful tears.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, when the two of you moved to the couch, when you offered him a cup of what was brewing and he held it tight, leeching as much warmth from it as he could.

“It’s alright. I couldn’t sleep anyway,” you told him. And you offered him a weak smile right back, reaching for his hands and pulling the mug away before he could drop it.

You didn’t want to push. He looked haunted, each time you dared to study his face, looked traumatized, and you couldn’t help but sigh when you thought about what brought him here. But each moment that passed seemed to edge him closer to another breakdown, and so your hands reached for his. Your hands wrapped around his, and with a tug pulled him against you. He was longer than you, seemed to fill the space with his limbs, and you let him cling to you, his head on your chest, his hair soon flowing through your fingers.

“Sonny,” you whispered. Pressed a kiss against his forehead. You almost wanted him to insist that he was alright, and mourned the loss of his voice.

“Talk to me,” you urged, when another hour passed, when his catatonic state began to unravel. When there were familiar hums in response to your touch, and movements of his head pushing you to dig deeper with your nails against his scalp. “I’m here.”

“I don’t want to –” he started, and aborted just as quickly as he began. Thought some more, long and hard, before sighing. “I just don’t want to worry you.”

Oh, Sonny.

“You showed up at my apartment without warning. You cried on me, Sonny. You haven’t spoken more than a couple of words at a time… I think it’s okay if I worry a little,” you told him, and he sighed. “I know you don’t want to worry me, but you are, and I need to know what I can do.”

“There’s – it’s nothing, sweetheart,” he tried, but you clicked your tongue. “I just need you right now.”

“And I’m here,” you reminded him. “I’m here, just… let me… listen, at least.”

He didn’t turn to face you. It was like he couldn’t, any movement to do so stopped before it could begin, with a sigh, you reached for his hands again, wrapped your arms around him from behind and kissed his temple. And then he was standing, quick, wrenching himself from your grasp, and the instinct to feel hurt battled with understanding. He was hurting, that was all, he was just hurting.

And then he started speaking, and all you could do was listen. Because his words grew frantic, his hands opening and closing until they were clenched into fists so tight they were white knuckled. You kept looking at his hands, worried that blood would start dripping through his fingers –

“I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop him. It was a cop, it was a fucking cop, and he… he had done so much good. He’d saved so many people in his career, a sergeant, okay, and then he goes and – he goes at he takes her. And me and Lieu, we just keep moving through the place, looking for them, and I wasn’t fast enough! God, I just – I wasn’t fast enough. I looked through the house, and I found her but it didn’t matter. He had his gun on me.”

– and when it didn’t you found yourself staring at his face, at the way his eyes didn’t leave the carpet, at the way the only time he unleashed his grip on nothing was to push his hands through his hair. No wonder it had felt so soft in your fingers, the gel that held it back for cases worked through, gone with the friction –

“And all I could do was stand there. Because he was gonna shoot me. He was gonna kill me, his gun was right against my fucking head. I turned around, and god, I thought – I thought I was gonna die. I thought I was gonna die. He made me – he made me drop my gun, and I tried – I tried to say something, anything, but it didn’t matter.”

– and falling in his face, and he started, back and forth, and back and forth. And you could only sit and watch, because your hands were on your face, covering your mouth, your eyes wide with horror as Sonny’s life flashed before your eyes. He was panting so hard that you thought he was going to hyperventilate, but then all of a sudden, he stopped. Turned to look at you. Not to see you, because he couldn’t see anything. He saw through you, and you forced yourself to stand, then, stand to reach for him, grab him, catch him as he fell against you.

“I had – I had his blood on me,” he gasped out, weak. You were crying, too, and your tears dripped onto his jacket. “Lieu shot him, and his… his blood was on my face. I spent… so long just trying to get it off…”

“Sonny,” you managed, the word strangled, and the two of you started to sink onto the floor. “Sonny, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, baby, I’m here.”

“He was a cop. That could’ve been me. I could… I could be like him.”

“Oh, baby,” you whimpered. “Oh, no.”

“It could be me.”

The panic faded, because eventually it had to. A panic attack, you realized, later, a panic attack from the trauma, a panic attack from the feeling of a gun against his head. And when the panic faded, you were there, holding him against you, the two of you on the floor of your living room, with nothing but each other to cling to.

“That’s not you” is what you told him on that floor. “That’s not you” is what you promised him, small kisses against his forehead.

“Sonny Carisi, that is not you,” you swore, when the energy was gone, when the pain lingered behind. “You’re strong, and brave, and a good man. Whatever that was, whatever that man was… that won’t happen.”

And when he asked you, begged you to tell him how you knew, your answer was clear. Simple and clear.

“Because I won’t let it. I’m here, Sonny. I’m here now, and I will be here, whenever you need me.”

“Whenever?”

“Whenever. Wherever. For whatever.”

The morning came. Eventually. The sun rose, peeked through your curtains with a vengeance. Too bright, for what came before the dawn. But the dawn came anyway, as it always did. Another day began, started, and would end. And together, holding each other, the two of you would face whatever came next.

Whatever. Wherever. Whenever.

[poptod]

None Like You (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: You're the god of the forgotten, and upon birth you become friends with a prince. The bond is lifelong and beyond.

Prompt: Cat

Notes: Your name is Mahjur (again, because it makes more sense for those times rather than a modern name). Gender neutral again!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21614689

Word Count: 25k

Warning: There is smut in this, and it IS underage. I regret writing it now, but it’s historically accurate, and I wanted to show the complexities of the relationship. 

With a deep breath, your eyes opened for the first time. Standing over your lying form was a woman with the head of a cat, and she was smiling, seemingly happy with who you were. To your fortune you didn’t actually need to be taught very much - everything had already been instilled in your mind. Language, images, recognition, all of it you knew, and you knew how the universe worked.

“I have crafted you from the mud of this nile, the Aur,” she had said, and she introduced herself as Bastet, claiming to be your mother. You knew nothing else from experience but that, and you trusted her, which was a good decision on your part. “Your bones are made of alabaster and porcelain,” she said, and she warned, “be careful not to break them.”

You knew how the universe worked but humans were entirely new, with careful rituals that took hours to explain the history of. Beside your mother, both of you in a separate form of a cat, she showed you their inner workings, their worship, how you were one of their supposed gods.

“One day, someone will build a temple,” she said, leading you away from the small village. “They will ask for a god of something very specific, and when the time is right, you will know to come. Do not force yourself into any position.”

She showed you all of Kemet over the span of a month, and then she left you, having her own duties to attend to.

Not long after you found your calling, a young child building the smallest shrine on the edge of a village, asking for protection. She had been abandoned, so you came to her aid, and you blessed her with luck. That was how you found your own footing in the world.

All of that happened in very quick succession, so fast that you wondered how the many years ahead of you would fare. Only two months you’d been alive and you’d grown to quiet popularity. No one spoke aloud about you, thinking that speaking of the protector of the abandoned would bring bad luck, but they built shrines, dedications, sometimes even temples. The hushed word spread so quickly in fact, that you had a garden shrine in Memphis of all places, another two months after you’d found your title.

When you visited, it was in your cat form, staying in the shadows of the temple and watching servants tend to the various cats who had taken up hold in the shelter. It was a nice building, with a short staircase leading to an open area held up by magnificent white pillars. Alabaster stone, you noted, with red design painted on.

That evening, relaxing in the temple, a noise from outside disturbed you. You arose from your rest, nose twitching as you dragged the scent of lion out of the air. The fur of your neck standing up, you came from your spot to meet the animal.

“Hello, Mahjur,” the lion said in a low, growling voice, befitting his long and unruly mane. You did not respond, not fully sure of what to say. You hadn’t ever met this lion before. In fact, you hadn’t met any lion before, and certainly not one that could talk.

“I am Maahes, your brother,” he clarified, sitting on his hind legs, looking considerably more calm once he noticed who he was speaking to. “You are Mahjur.”

“Yes,” you said hesitantly, sitting down opposite him.

“You’ve made a name for yourself - deity of the abandoned. Is that all, though?”

“Can there be more?”

“Yes. Our mother is the goddess of many things. Cats, namely, hence our forms, but also of fire, sunset, dance, pleasure, the home, and… many other things.”

“You don’t remember, do you?” You asked, almost laughing.

“Shut up, you’re two months old, I’m at least three hundred.”

“I’m actually four months old,” you said.

“And have you even once strayed from your current form?”

You hadn’t, but he didn’t need to know that, so you just sniffed, pointing your nose upwards. He scoffed, shaking his head.

“I’m not here for petty sibling feuds.”

“Really? ‘Cause from the way you’ve been acting it seems like -“

“You’re insolent. Thoth has news for you.”

You stiffened. You didn’t have to remember your mother’s advice considering Thoth as you already had the knowledge implanted at your birth - he was, in essence, the god of knowledge. Noticing your state, Maahes continued.

“His only words were, ‘be wary.’ My own advice,” he checked to see if you were still listening, which you were, quite intently, “is to be open to everything. If someone asks you for help, acquiesce. If adventure calls, go, but do not stay still. Be wary. Most of all, be ready.”

“Thank you. I think,” you mumbled, your brow furrowed.

“Be safe. I’ve heard what Bastet made you from, and I don’t agree with the material use. You’re very small, and… flimsy.”

“Thanks,” you said again, more sarcastically.

With a grunt he was off again, jumping off the short ledge of the temple, wandering through the tall grass that the rivers brought.

Throughout the night you contemplated his words, his advice, and the overall conversation. Be wary, Thoth advised you, and it astounded you beyond reason why he would give advice to you. You were hardly known but, then again, you were thinking that as you sat in your temple in one of the largest cities in Kemet. And perhaps your brother was right, maybe you did need to spend more time in your human form. The whole cat thing was mostly for worship and easy travel, but human was supposed to be your main form.

You breathed deeply, taking in the scents you could, for your other form was subpar in that area of things, before switching forms.

Almost as small as you were before. Not really, but compared to the servants still outside of your hiding spot, you were pretty small. In the shadow of the pillars you went unnoticed till dawn, where it’d be painfully obvious that you were a human, and to them, not where you should be. So you left, taking to wandering the streets of the great city, mostly staying in market areas. The homes sort of creeped you out.

It was a lively area, filled with different cultures you had no idea existed, all with their own fabrics, spices, and history. In amazement you walked through the streets, stopping at every stall you could to see what different things they sold. Eventually you figured out that many places sold the same thing but in different quality, or from different places. It bored you, but it didn’t put you off too much, still wandering with a smile.

One stand in particular caught your eye, filled with glittering gemstones and carved bone decorated and molded into fine jewelry. The man who owned the stand smiled as you examined the goods, getting pushed every now and then by the passing crowd. As your eyes trailed over the different necklaces and rings you found a band, thick enough to go around your neck, made of solid gold.

“How much is this?” You asked, and he replied with a hefty price. With a whistle, you materialized the necessary amount of silver rings to pay for it. When the transaction was completed, the necklace was tight around your neck, hanging just below your Adam’s apple and rather heavy. You supposed you probably looked nice, but you couldn’t check until later.

Later that evening you found yourself being the holder of new titles, just as your brother had suggested the night before. Though you hadn’t officially ‘pronounced’ it (you had no idea how to do that) you wanted to be a deity of joy and innocence. This very sudden urge came to you as you watched a boy, older than you by around ten years, play by the riverside with a stick and three rocks.

He didn’t have much, but he was happier than any of the adults you’d seen walking the roads.

You’d later come to learn two things as you followed the child home: number one was that it was rude to follow people home without their consent. The second was that he was not, in fact, a bearer of very little, but instead a bearer of all the riches he could wish for, but it didn’t deter your fondness of the boy. He could’ve chosen from many of the vast gifts he was given but, instead, he picked up a stick and played with the fish. It swirled something inside you, and for the first time in your very short life, you smiled genuinely.

A few more days passed before you even thought to talk to him. In your cat form you could follow him unnoticed in his palace home, and that was how you’d learned in the first place that he was the prince of all of Kemet. It was also how you’d learned his name, and it was the same form you often watched him in. If you were to approach him, it’d probably be best to do so in a form closer to his age. Your current human form was a more average age of twenty, so you switched it around, making a younger version of it.

It then occurred to you, watching him in the safety of the reeds, that you had no idea how to approach him. You hadn’t ever had friends before. Would he be a friend? Were you allowed to have friends? More importantly, how did you make friends? You’d learned from watching that simply approaching someone could be weird and you felt far too anxious to do so.

With a twitch of your nose your form changed to a child, and with your thumbs not in your previous form, you picked away at the mud beneath your feet. Beautiful, fertile mud black with its’ own nurturing. Gulping, you decided that maybe, making friends just wasn’t for you.

He wasn’t doing much. Just kneeling there, one knee pressed into the dirt, arranging the rocks and mud to make a house but it was all too much.

You turned. The reeds brushed against bare skin and cloth as you tried to walk away in silence, but the motion gave away your position in the still of the evening. No wind, no excuse for the noise, and the boys’ head turned in sudden alertness, staring directly at you but not seeing you.

“Hello?” He said after a moment of waiting. “Is anyone in there?”

You just sniffed, your body shaking from nervousness and your hands clenched tight together. Your throat too tight and too thick to form any coherent speech.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said with a giggle, his voice turning from alarm to playfulness. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Still, you couldn’t seem to get your feet to move. So closer he came, wading through the mud and the reeds till he came face to face with you, the two of you now both hidden away in the privacy of the Aur.

“Hi! What’s your name?” He asked, his eyes bright with curiosity, beaming a smile that only served to make you more anxious despite its welcoming features.

“Mahjur,” you mumbled quietly, rubbing your arm with your hand, trying to create some sort of distraction for yourself.

“I’m Ahkmen. Nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand for you to shake. You looked him up and down rapidly, having never come this close to him before. Then you took his hand, trying hard not to grasp too firmly or too loose.

“I’m trying to build a house for this turtle. Want to help?” He asked, grabbing your now held hands and pulling you out of your safety. You tried to say something, only getting out stutters and half words as he sat you down beside him in front of the failing little mud hut. Beside it, a tortoise you never saw before, looking rather unbothered by her failing house. She looked perfectly contented in her shell, but you didn’t say anything. Children were fickle. Then again, by all accounts, you were a child as well. Ahkmen was older than you. By a lot.

“I can’t seem to get the mud to stay though. Not long enough for a roof anyways,” he sighed, stacking more mud on top and watching as it flopped back down onto the ground. Without really thinking you pressed two fingers to the little mud hut, blessing the house and its innocence so that it may stay upright.

“It should work now,” you said to him, still keeping your voice quiet. It seemed odd to use, having never used it for extended conversation before. He nodded, piling the dirt on till it made good walls.

“There we go,” he muttered, pressing his lips together in concentration as he worked.

“The roof… might want to make that out of grass,” you suggested, watching as the roof fell again to both your disappointments.

“You’re right,” he sighed, and the two of you grabbed at the grass, pulling it out of the ground and weaving it into a simple pattern. When the small square was complete, you placed the tortoise into the little hut and put the roof over it.

“It’s good you made a door,” you said.

“Wouldn’t want him to starve to death, right?”

“Her.”

“Oh, okay,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “Want to go to my house?”

“Your house?” You clarified, wondering if this was what friends did. And of course, you already knew his house was the pharaoh’s palace, which might not be the most welcoming environment for an unknown child.

“Yeah! It’s up on that hill,” he said, pointing to the palace in the distance, the regular white painted red and gold in the dying sunset.

“Nice house,” you noted as though you didn’t know.

“I think my mum will like you,” he laughed, grabbing your hand and pulling you along. With stammering words and failing footsteps you followed, tripping over various things (including your own feet) before you made it to the entrance.

Stone raised a few steps off the ground, the entrance lined with magnificently large pillar ordained with paintings, murals, and carvings, all etched intricately by artists many years ago. Guards stood in waiting, pacing the halls in shifts to keep the royal family safe. Torches also lined the walls, and burning incense filled every room with intoxicating white smoke.

“Fancy,” was all you said as he took you to his room.

“A little,” he said, ignorant in his youth of the poverty the people he would one day rule were even now facing.

His room was just as fancy, gated with a large door that he had a little trouble opening. You helped, and with that you saw the grandness of his own quarters.

“That,” he pointed across the hallway to the opposite door, “is my older brothers room. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

You nodded, thinking mostly about royal succession. Ahkmen would, if all went according to plan, not become pharaoh. Turning to your left, you were caught completely by surprise by a new piece of architecture you had yet to see anywhere else.

“Wow! What is that?” You asked, rushing out to the platform that jutted out from the rest of the building. Around it was a railing, keeping you from falling off, and from there, you could see the world. In the distance, the sun had just disappeared over the Aur.

“It’s a balcony?” He said, pushing past the billowing curtains you hadn’t even noticed before to stand beside you.

“It’s a beautiful view,” you sighed, breathing in the cool air.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” he replied.

+

“You’re quite smart,” he commented one day, a few months after your first meeting. He’d taken a shine to you, and you him, and you felt it to be the start of a wonderful, first friendship. “Especially for a baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” you grumbled, crossing your arms as he made his move in the game in front of you.

“Yesterday I tried to give you shoes and you didn’t even know what they were!” He laughed, leaning against his hands as you examined his move and strategy. You pouted, thinking mostly about how you were most certainly not a baby.

“Lots of people don’t know about shoes,” you said in quiet defense.

“But you must’ve seen them around? Maybe on your mother, or father?”

“I don’t have either of those,” you answered on instinct, a sudden pulse of fear going through you before you remembered it’d probably be better if you left it at that. In your child, human form that was always growing, you couldn’t say you had a family. You didn’t, except Bastet and Maahes, and people knew who those gods were.

“What about a brother or sister?”

“Neither,” you said, making your decision and moving the piece.

“No home then,” he murmured, and suddenly the game in front of you was forgotten.

“I stay at my temple,” you said, thinking there to be no actual reason to really hide your identity. Maybe it was your child brain kicking in.

“Your temple?”

“Yeah, I’ll show it to you sometime soon!”

You smiled, and awkwardly he returned it, and the game continued. Eventually he won, having been playing the game longer than you had.

Despite the fact that you’d been staying in the palace for several months, you had yet to run into his parents or his brother. He kept it that way, leading you away from more common corridors, grabbing your hand and bolting out of the room if any of his relatives seemed to be nearby. You never asked him why, as it always felt like an adventure, your heart pounding as you giggled, breathless on the floor after a sprint.

The many near abandoned hallways became well known to you, often unlit and uncleaned. Filled with old carvings and paintings from when they were once used frequently, before the building had been extended to fit more pharaohs and more gods. You didn’t mind in the slightest, coming to enjoy the feel of empty spaces filled with only your conversation with Ahkmen.

You had a temple, offerings, sacrifices. You had respect. An adult body. Godly powers. Sometimes you wondered why you chose to live within the palm of his hand. Then he’d grab your hand, pull you along, and you forgot to question yourself, only existing to laugh with him.

The day eventually came where he brought up the previous subject again.

“You said you’d show me your temple.”

You nodded.

“Haven’t done that yet,” he commented, earning a glare from you.

“Let’s go then,” you suggested, beckoning him away from the palace garden filled with greenery, through the hallways till you came to the streets, winding your way through before reaching the familiar alabaster steps of your temple. Cats still lounged freely outside, purring in the warm sun.

“Tajahul’s temple?” He asked, walking up the steps, you trailing behind.

“Is that what they’re calling me now?” You giggled as one of the cats rubbed his cheek against you.

“It’s a nice name. Not right I’m guessing,” he said as he rubbed his palm against one of the tall pillars.

“You know my name.”

“Mahjur? Shouldn’t this be the temple of Mahjur then, not Tajahul?”

“Yes, but I never gave my name, so it’s understandable.”

“I could tell my father,” he said, looking at you as he sat down. You sat beside him, cross legged as you both leaned against a pillar.

“Actually,” you said after a moment of quiet thought, “that’d be nice.”

“I’ll tell him I had a dream or something,” he plotted, a scheming look on his face.

“You mean lie?”

“I don’t really feel like telling him my new best friend is a new god.”

You snorted, covering your mouth as you laughed.

“Probably not,” you sighed.

That evening you were introduced to the rest of a terribly dysfunctional family. Not as a god, but as a friend. The whole table was set like a typical feast, and though your eyes widened as you entered the room, Ahkmen’s stayed relatively the same, so you safely assumed this was like any other dinner. Surrounded by guards and servants and fan wavers who all looked delighted to be serving their king.

The king, overall, looked bored, paying little attention to anything beside his food. The queen seemed concerned, glancing at her husband, only catching sight of you when she finally turned to face her two sons.

By sheer power of luck, the king was so disinterested in everything that wasn’t on his plate that Ahkmen could easily slip in the fact that you were staying in his room and have close to no reaction from his father. His mother didn’t seem so quick to accept it, but after seeing her husbands’ reaction, seemed a little more relaxed.

His brother sitting next to you said nothing.

+

Your friendship spanned many years after that. Over those many years, you hadn’t had one fight, agreeing to do terribly reckless things together. Each time, without fail, neither of you were punished. Unfortunately, you had sort of become the pharaoh’s third child - at least that’s how everyone treated you. However fortunately, the throne was not going to you. Never to you. Actually, you had suspicions it was going to your friend.

Kahmuh, which you learned was the brothers name, was in all essence of the word vile. Not even truly cruel or barbaric, merely childish in a way that made him unfit to be the royalty he was. Constantly screaming and killing slaves (a habit his parents tried to break him off, unsuccessfully, of course).

In every field you’d run through Ahkmen had been by your side, or you by his, sailing boats down the Aur and watching sunsets from his windswept balcony. The whole world was a newfangled wonder, a toy right in the palm of the pharaoh’s hand, and by extension, his sons’. Only his youngest son.

You found yourself feeling sorry for the older brother, the king to be, having to deal with a sibling far more successful and well liked than him. One evening, when Ahkmen was around 13 years old (and you around three years old, technically), you attempted to speak with him. Immediately he forced you out of his room, and you saw where his parents got their disappointment from.

“Don’t worry about him,” Ahkmen had told you later that night, his arm over your shoulder in a comforting manner. “He’s just odd.”

After that you payed little attention to his antics.

That was two years ago, that night you decided that maybe Ahkmen was the only friend you could have in the life you had chosen. Not that you would ever complain, life was a luxury you could afford to enjoy with him beside you.

A few days before his fifteenth birthday, the Pharaoh offered to take him on a sedan ride, to waltz him around town. At Ahkmen’s apprehension, the Pharaoh quickly explained how well guarded it’d be, how there would be fan wavers, and he could have every need attended. Not that he didn’t get that every day.

“Can I take Mahjur along?”

You looked up from your carving, a technique you’d been trying to recently perfect. It wasn’t going well.

“Yes, of course,” the Pharaoh said with a smile, nodding to you. You nodded back, a more bow of your head. He left after that, his hands folded behind his back as his guards followed him out of the room.

Ahkmen came up beside you, leaning against the wall and sliding his back down till he hit the floor.

“You’d almost think they forgot I picked you up off the streets,” he laughed, his head pressed against the back of the wall as he looked up, his eyes closed.

“Off the river, dearest,” you reminded him, your voice aloft from your concentration.

“What are you carving this time?” He looked over your shoulder, squinting his eyes.

“Trying to work on a face.”

“That’s a face?”

“It’s not done!” You whined, pulling the tablet out of his sight.

“I could teach you how to do hieroglyphs,” he suggested, leaning against you again anyways.

“It’s a bit fancy, isn’t it?” You said, still trying to concentrate.

“Come now, my parents are designing something and you could help them,” he said as he stood, pulling you up with a forceful tug of your arm. Your tablet clattered onto the floor, along with your carving tools.

“If you broke one of those, you owe me a new one,” you said glaring at him.

“Not a problem,” he laughed.

The next morning you did not take him up on his offer. You had a sedan ride that day, and though he’d requested for you to come along, you were reluctant. Slaves never settled very well with you, but Ahkmen insisted they were servants. Paid. You relented your pushing.

What was failed to mention was the exact number of chairs available for the ride. Apparently it was strange for a Pharaoh to own more than two at a time, so him and his wife could ride comfortably. Any more would indicate weakness, or something - you weren’t really listening, mostly caught up in the fact that you were now subject to several miserable hours out in the heat sitting right next to Ahkmen, all squishes up in that terribly heavy looking chair.

“It won’t be that bad… we’ve got fans,” he said awkwardly, shrugging as he looked just as uncomfortable with the thought.

“You’re wearing three layers and a wig. I’m wearing shoes. I hate shoes,” you hissed.

“You’re also wearing two layers of clothing, guilty party,” he retorted back with the terrible nickname, still glowering at you as he was seated.

“I -“

“Now come take a seat next to your husband,” he said with a smirk, patting the space next to him.

“One of these days,” you growled.

“Ah! Who’s the prince?”

You sat next to him, your arms crossed and shoulders tight as you both squirmed at the proximity.

“I’m not going to enjoy this.”

“No one said you had to,” he replied, sliding right into you as the chair was lifted onto the backs of eight people. You winced as you looked down, then in front of you, where the Pharaoh was being marched on a golden throne, surrounded by fans and guards.

“I suppose this is your day,” you sniffed, turning away.

“Thank you nedjem.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The heat of simply being next to him began creeping up your body all day, starting first at the thighs where you touched, whispering up your body, persuaded by the currents of the suns heat. Up to your hips, through your stomach and shoulders before burning into your cheeks, your already red face turning hotter.

“You look awful,” Ahkmen noticed halfway through the day, looking over with a concerned look.

“You look like a dream,” you mumbled, feeling like you were melting through your clothes. Certainly it couldn’t be that hot, right? And the heat wouldn’t explain your heart going haywire in your chest. It wouldn’t answer the weird numbness of your legs or the shaking of your hands, unless… you were having a heat stroke. That must’ve been it.

“No, really, let’s stop off somewhere, alright?” He put his hand on your cheek, testing how hot you’d turned, his face close up to yours.

You swallowed thick, turning away.

“I’ll be alright. We’re stopping at the temples, remember? I’ll be fine.”

“… Okay,” he said, looking like it was the furthest from what he believed but complying anyway.

In a few moments your breathing became under your control, the numbness fading into background fuzz and the shaking stopping all together. If you had, perhaps, been born somewhere near the year 2000 and gone to school, you would’ve had the experience and knowledge to identify what was a panic attack due to a crush. However you’d been born in Egypt, certainly not in the year 2000, and you had been born around three years ago. There was no telling what a panic attack was. Or a crush.

The day of his birthday you didn’t take him up on his offer to teach you hieroglyphs either, swept up in the chaos of the party. You were excited mostly for the music, till Ahkmen explained to you about the specialness of this specific party.

“My parents are bringing in a lot of wine for the adults. I haven’t been able to have it yet, but I bet it’s delicious. And,” he put his hands on your shoulders, staring intensely into your eyes and making you sweat, “I think we can steal some.”

“Wine? Why won’t they let you have any?”

“Apparently large doses of it make you a little dizzy, I’m not sure, but -“

“You do remember who I am, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

You hadn’t ever explicitly said you were really a god, not in a way of, “hey Ahkmen, I’ve been your friend since I was born, isn’t that weird because we met when we were both ten? Well I was born about four months before that point. I’m a god,’ instead more hinted at and replied to in a way that made it clear to, at least you, that you were a god.

“I can just summon wine if you want it,” you said, frowning. This solution was so blatantly obvious to you, but Ahkmen hadn’t ever shown interest in drinking wine.

“Yes I know, but it’s so much more fun this way!” He smiled wide and chaotic, rushing down the hall in his new, golden cape. You followed in your silver necklace, dangling low on your stomach, an expensive gift by your friend a few years ago.

Peeking your head past the corner and into the kitchen, you saw the bustle of chefs preparing food for the upcoming feast. Servants swarmed, perfecting the platters and carrying them out. Off in the distant corner, in a large water basket, sloshed red as blood wine.

“That’s a lot of wine,” Ahkmen gasped, his jaw dropped as it took a few servants to set it in the right place.

“That’s heavy,” you mumbled along with his amazement. “What’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

You nodded.

“Yes, uh, my plan. Well, um… they’ll have pretty much unlimited wine for the party, right? So we just wait for all the adults to get too dizzy to see us and then we sneak in and take a little!”

That was a terrible idea for actual results. No shock factor when the adults found it empty, no finesse except deceit, and there was always the chance that it’d be drunk dry before anyone got too dizzy at all.

“Alright,” you agreed anyway with a shrug of your shoulders, thinking it’d probably be safer if the two of you didn’t drink in the first place. Then again, you’d heard pretty good things about wine from your visits with your brother.

“Let’s go then!” He whisper shouted, careful not to be caught by the chefs as he bolted out, followed by a jumpy you.

It didn’t take long till the two of you were sat together at the head table, gorging on bull and bread, honey cakes and jujubes. All of it utterly delicious, but you still kept eyeing each other, attempting silent signaling for when either thought everyone was drunk enough. The plan was simple, gone over as the two of you ran to the table. Sneak back into the kitchen, there was a whole vat of it there, and all the chefs and servants would be too busy serving everyone to notice.

“This is going to be so much fun,” he giggled, the two of you kneeled side by side, watching the kitchen door from a safe distance.

“Take your cape off, it’s getting in the way,” you mumbled, already undoing the material falling from his shoulders.

“Hm. I thought it looked cool,” he said as he beckons you, slipping past the leaving chefs.

“It does,” you whispered into his ear, your hands on his shoulders as you stood behind him, scanning the room as you kept low.

Keeping close to the furniture you made your way, making sure that no server was coming to refill their cups for serving. Once you realized all of the servers had gotten a refill you jumped, opening up the wicker lid as he grabbed two large cups.

“Aren’t these for serving?” You asked, playing with it in your hands.

“All I could find, hurry up!” He hissed, dipping his own in and pulling it out, running out of the room as soon as you’d done the same.

The two of you giggled all the way back to his room, as though you’d committed a heinous crime you’d never get punished for. In your mind and his, you surely had. You wondered, sitting on his balcony as the stars reflected in dark red wine, if you’d ever get caught. With your legs dangling, you wondered if you’d ever tire of him.

“Do you think you even can get dizzy from this?” He asked, looking at you with a curious frown.

“What, just because I’m a god means I can’t have fun?”

“No, just… biologically speaking.”

You hummed, raising your eyebrows and wondering just as he did.

“Considering Sekhmet could, I think so, but... let’s find out.”

The rest of the evening was spent in an alcoholic haze. Turned out you could get drunk, much to the joy of Ahkmen and the surprise of you. You’d thought with being a god perhaps it’d take it at least a little bit easier on you, but to no avail. When you woke up the next morning, your headache was just as bad as his, and neither of you could recall how you ended up in each others clothes.

“You know, my clothes don’t look that bad on you,” he commented with a smirk, biting his lip in a funny looking way.

“Shut up, will you?” You had huffed.

+

It wasn’t until a few weeks that you took him up on his offer to teach you hieroglyphics. In that time, you’d looked back at the different ones adorning every surface of the palace, finding them to be a sort of art. Your growing interest and his parents beginning to shower him with far too much attention to punish his insolent brother made the both of you desperate for some excuse to spend some alone time together.

“What am I designing anyway?” You asked as he sat you down at the table in his room, papyrus and pen in front of you.

“Not yet. That’s for when you can actually write in this,” he said, giving you another sheet of papyrus with the whole of the main hieroglyphs on it.

“Yikes,” you said, pulling the sheet closer to you. “That’s a lot of drawings.”

“It gets worse!”

“Fantastic, why am I learning this again?”

“Don’t you want to help with my parents design, nedjem? I heard it’s going to be for me,” he teased, nudging you with his shoulder.

“Everything they make is for you,” you sighed, rolling your eyes as he began the lesson.

It started at one lesson per week, but in a second that was decided it wasn’t enough time, so it was upped to one lesson a day. Then his parents came swooping in even more, his brother beginning to target terrible pranks on him and you, and relatives tried to earn his favor so badly seeing as he was the favorite, that he begged you for two lessons a day.

“Three,” you said.

“Yes,” he sighed, a relieved smile bright on his face.

Three lessons a day and you began to get the hang of it quickly, what each image symbolized and how it worked as not an alphabet but an art. While most of your days were spent inside at his table, going over things and learning how to stroke in just the right way, sometimes he’d take you out. Around town, no guards, the both of you adorned in more common clothing, though you insisted on keeping your gold neckband.

“Didn’t they teach you this stuff in, I don’t know, god school?” Ahkmen leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as your finger pressed into the painted hieroglyphs carved in the walls.

“I was born with holy knowledge. My mother filled in many human traditions. But language is so fleeting to gods, she didn’t think it was important to teach me this formal writing.”

“That’s dark,” he mumbled uncomfortably.

“Oh.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Learn to,” you chuckled, looking over at him to find him smiling right at you. Grinning, actually, a little dreamy like. You snorted, shaking your head as you read out what they were saying. Mostly stories, talking about your own relatives or other gods. A whole lot of Ra.

On the walk home, the sun barely touching distant hills, you confronted what it was you were really learning this all for.

“Could I know what this tablet that I’m doing is?”

“My father is making a tablet out of gold. It’s supposed to be connected to Khonsu. We were both wondering if you could do the design; he thinks you’re artistic, I think you’ve got connections so you could use some extra special hieroglyphs or something. What do you think?” He asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with you just as always. He was beginning to grow taller.

“Sounds good. However I don’t think I can call up Bastet for what will probably sound like a school project to her,” you laughed, and he nodded with a chuckle.

“I understand. I’m sure he’ll like whatever you come up with either way.”

After that day you had considerably less time on your hands. The lessons had stopped, yes, but the Pharaoh had decided his sons, and you, needed training. Specifically weapon and hand to hand combat training, ‘just in case,’ as he put it. Out of the three of you, Kahmuh was probably the most excited, and you the least. How could you be the deity of innocence if you were off punching people in the nose?

You didn’t argue with it though. Of course, you and Ahkmen complained to each other behind closed doors, but never to his fathers face. That’d be certain death. When Kahmuh joined you, ranting about how ridiculous this whole thing was. Even if he was the most excited didn’t mean he was at all looking forward to it. It was out of the three of you, meaning the standard for most excited was quite low.

“It’s foolish! We’ve got guards! I’m going to have at least fifty guards surrounding me at all times when I become Pharaoh!” Kahmuh exclaimed, pacing in front of you and Ahkmen as the two of you sat against the wall.

“Besides, that teacher he’s having teach us? I’ve heard terrible things about him,” Ahkmen added, crossing his arms.

“Really?” You leaned forward to look at him better. “What sort of things?”

“He’s really strict, supposedly,” he said.

“And ugly. Violent too, I bet,” Kahmuh growled.

“I thought you liked violent,” Ahkmen said, shifting his position.

“Against you? Yes. But against me it’s horrific. I won’t stand for it,” he hissed, marching out of the room. You and Ahkmen looked at each other, brows raised in a questioning stance.

“What a funny man,” you said.

“If you could call him a man.”

“Oh,” you tutted, elbowing him gently. “Don’t be rude.”

The next day, bright and early the three of you found yourselves in a large, stone courtyard. Laden with statues and pillars, standing taller than the heavens and glaring down at you. You stood in a straight line, chests puffed out and hands at your side.

Neither of them had been joking when they’d said that this instructor man was ugly, and though he hadn’t said a word, he looked very violent, and the way he jammed his staff into the ground showed just how strict the next few months would be.

“You three are used to a pampered life,” he finally said, starting off his speech like any stupid fighter would. “And I - I didn’t know there were three of you.”

“Does this mean I can leave?” You asked, still keeping your position.

“No! Now, do any of you have any basic weaponry training?”

“I’ve stabbed a few people,” Kahmuh said, looking particularly and unsettlingly bright. You knew all too well he was remembering all those slaves he murdered… or maybe Ahkmen had embellished the story.

“Hasan jiddaan,” the instructor said in a cooler voice. “My name is User.”

“Typical,” Ahkmen whispered to you as his back was turned. You almost snorted before remembering you might get caught.

User went on to explain the rules of combat, of fair play, and how to maintain an upper hand while playing cool. He kept you intrigued, though your feet hurt from prolonged standing, and he kept his voice quick and sharp. To the point.

Once he had fully tired all three of you out with his lecture on ethics in battle to the point where at least three or four hours had passed, he gestured to the rack of weapons behind you.

“There you’ll find bows, spears, daggers… maces. I want you to pick one that you’ll master.”

Your fingers danced across the rack, deciding spear and dagger were too violent for you in a bloody way. The maces had beautiful designs, colored gold and black, but still too violent.

“There’s a sling down here,” you noticed, crouching down and tugging on Ahkmen’s skirt.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to choose from that shelf,” he mumbled, picking out a bow and returning to his position. Looking to your left, you saw Kahmuh had already picked out a long, black dagger.

“User,” you called, “can I pick a sling?”

“Yes,” he answered simply, and you grabbed it, standing back in line.

While you and Ahkmen fiddled around with your newfound weaponry, User grabbed Kahmuh for a more private lesson.

“This’d be so much easier if you all just picked the same weapon,” you heard him grumble as he pulled the older away.

“What do you suppose we do now?” You asked, sitting on the floor with your legs splayed out in front of you.

“We could fight each other.”

“That sounds horrible. I could never hurt you.”

“Even if I hit you first?”

“Never,” you said with finality, crossing your arms.

“Look at you. You look like a pouting child,” he laughed, crouching beside you.

“And - and you look like a, uh,” you turned to look at him, coming nose to nose with his smiling face.

“Like a what, darling?”

“Like a - a very handsome, very spoiled prince,” you attempted your insult weakly, having it fall flat as he smiled even wider.

“Why thank you.”

“Would you stuff it?”

“Oh come now,” he grunted as he sat beside you, leaning his hand against your shoulder uncomfortably as he was now taller than you. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I didn’t either,” you mumbled.

“You didn’t mean that I was handsome?” He asked, looking up at you with wide, doe eyes.

“You’re absolutely awful, I hope you know that,” you hissed, feeling your face shoot up to the temperature of the sun.

“I do, you remind me every now and then. You still love me though,” he laughed, resuming his relaxed position on your shoulder.

“Sure,” you mumbled, fumbling with the sling in your hands.

The classes from that day forth weren’t as tiresome as they were annoying and dragged out. Why the two others had to wait while one person got their lesson was beyond any of you, but it did bring you closer in shared pain. It was usually right before lessons that Ahkmen and Kahmuh got along the most, whining and grumbling to each other about how sore they were from their previous lessons as you stayed behind them. Other times they returned to their fierce sibling rivalry.

Eventually, once you’d gotten a handle of your weapons, you started on hand to hand combat. That was less fun, the repetition of moves boring the hell out of all three of you as you all punched the air in unison.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never felt more humiliated,” Kamuh whined.

“Really? This outranks the time you slipped in the mud and flew about fifty feet down that hill and into the Aur?”

“Would you stop bringing that up?”

Then came the sparring. Months after the lessons had originally started User thought the three of you were ready enough for one on one sparring, practice for real life battle. It was certainly interesting, watching the two brothers fight in an arena meant for fake fights. The way they fought always felt far too real, their punches too strong and succinct.

“Kahmuh, relax, I think he’s done,” User stopped his movements with a flick of his hand. Ahkmen was on the ground, backing up from his brothers punches as he kneeled above him. You sat at the edge, eyes wide as you willed yourself away from interfering.

“Take a break, Ahk. Mahjur, face Kahmuh,” he said, beckoning you from your place. You swallowed thick, readying yourself as you stood face to face with the boy who had a violent fire alight in his eyes, a residual burning from the attack he had just done.

Once User raised his hand to begin, Kahmuh launched at you, immediately going for a punch to the face. You blocked, throwing his hand off and attempting for a jab to his gut. While he kept his hands in fists, you kept yours straight, for more of a sharp motion than a blunt. You hit your mark, and as he keeled over in just the slightest way you kneed him in the chin. A dirty move, but he stepped on your foot after it, and considering he wore sandals and you didn’t, it hurt a lot. Still you kept your ground, attempting to block every one of his moves and trying to hit some of your own.

Sure, if you used your godly powers the boy would be dead in a second, but that wouldn’t be much fun for any of those present.

Eventually, due to his sheer skill in fighting he won, throwing you to the ground with a sweep of your legs. User stopped the fight from continuing right at that moment, instead of letting Kahmuh finish it as he had last time.

With deep breaths you hauled yourself to sit next to Ahkmen again, puffing your hair out of your face.

“Intense,” you huffed, leaning against the wall.

“I have a feeling these next few weeks are going to be torture,” he mumbled in reply.

“Hey, look on the bright side. If we get better, we can beat him up!”

User, in all his wonderful mercy, let you rest before calling you up again, standing you in front of Ahkmen. He raised his hands, and neither of you did anything, completely confused.

“Hey!” He snapped his fingers in front of your faces. “Start!”

“What?” Ahkmen looked between you and User, just as confused as you were.

“This is a sparring arena. Why do you think you’re in it?” User glared at him.

“You want us to fight? Each other?” You asked, eyes wide and mouth hung open in astonishment.

“Yes!”

You burst out laughing, followed in succession by Ahkmen, who held his stomach as he belted out a laugh.

“We’re not going to -“

“Now!” User snapped, and you jolted back into position, looking warily at your friend. He sniffed, eyeing you as if to say he’d take it easy.

You moved first, aiming a weak punch at his chest that he easily blocked. In return he attempted a hit just as weak as yours at your shoulder, something you learned could disarm. You dodged, successfully hitting the side of his stomach with your elbow. When you hit, he laughed, and you felt yourself get into the motions once more. Hit, but not too hard, dodge, and prove yourself to be better. Thinking of it more as a competition than an actual fight helped you as you moved.

When you tried to land a blow to his shoulder, he grabbed your wrist, and in a flash he twisted it behind your back. You gasped in pain, barely even feeling his other arm pressing your back against his chest. However, you could feel his heart beating fast, beating right into your skin.

“Ahkmen wins that round. Good job - go get cleaned up. We’re done for today,” User said, dismissing the three of you.

As you walked the steps back up to the palace and hopefully to the baths, Kahmuh gloated his victory.

“Wow, you won against two people who couldn’t care less about fighting,” you said sarcastically, waving your hands like it was a big deal.

“You’re just jealous,” he said in a stiff manner, sticking his nose up in the air and running ahead of you.

Slowly, you and Ahkmen made your way into the bathing room, being greeted with steam clinging to your skin and servants at your hand.

“Come, let’s bathe together,” he asked of you, tugging the wrist he had twisted earlier. You winced as he pulled, stumbling closer to him.

“Why?”

“Well we can certainly see each other easier then.”

You shrugged, agreeing. Most of the people you’d met were casual about nudity, but for some reason you couldn’t find yourself sharing the sentiment. It was the reason you wore a cover over your shoulders and chest as well as your legs. All of that was stripped before you got into the tub, sinking into the warm water with a relaxed sigh, feeling the alkaline and juniper perfume relax your muscles and sore bruises.

With closed eyes you hardly noticed Ahkmen slipping in opposite you, sighing in a just as relaxed way as you did.

“See? Isn’t this fun?” He giggled, leaning forward and putting his hand on your lower leg.

“Something along those lines,” you mumbled, sinking deeper into the water to mask your reddening face. A servant pulled you up by your shoulders, tugging the wig off your head to tend to your actual hair which was much shorter. You looked away from your friend, feeling embarrassed to have him see you like that. Usually you didn’t bathe together, so it was rare that he saw you without the wig.

Ahkmen’s hair, in your opinion, was much more attractive than the wig he wore. Sure, it was short, but it was lighter and curlier, and sometimes you felt the urge to push your fingers up into it. Just to test how soft it was, because at least it looked soft.

“Here,” he said suddenly, opening his hand out to you.

“What?”

“Your wrist!” He grabbed your bad wrist, pulling at it again and making you wince. “Sorry,” he mumbled, dipping his fingers into a bottle of honey and slathering your wrist in it.

“People say it’s supposed to help,” he drawled sweetly as servants tugged at his hair, pouring water over his head. You watched, blood running thick through your veins as they did so, feeling his touch on your wrist far more intensely than you should have. “I don’t know how much I believe that, but it couldn’t hurt. Probably.”

You hummed a distant agreement, barely feeling your own hair being tugged from your scalp.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” he apologized, looking up at you with those doe eyes of his.

“We were fighting. It’s not your fault,” you said, feeling the hands leave your head as the servants departed for a moment. He nodded, silent for a moment before speaking.

“Mahjur, you’re… a god. Do you… do you know much about, uh, sex?”

You choked on your own saliva. No, you absolutely did not. Your mother may have been the goddess of fertility but so were fifteen other gods and goddesses and you were not among their ranks.

“Actually I know nothing. Nothing at all. Why?”

“Mm. No one’s bothered to talk to me about it, but I pick stuff up. I think it starts with kissing.”

“Sounds fun,” you said, feeling like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“I wouldn’t know, haven’t done it yet.”

“Really? Aren’t you fifteen?”

“Shut up, would you?”

“Anyway I’m…” you rubbed your wrist, “I’m actually surprised you didn’t break my wrist.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s made of porcelain. Not the best material for bones, but Bastet said she had to work with what she was given, and apparently that wasn’t much,” you sighed, leaning back in the tub.

“Why have you waited five years to tell me this? I could’ve killed you!”

“I just remembered it!”

He threw his hands up into the air with a loud groan, splashing you as he did so.

“Let’s get back to your room, you can yell at me there,” you laughed, grabbing a towel on the floor and drying yourself off.

“I’m not mad, I’m concerned,” he replied indignantly, grabbing his own towel.

“Alright, mother.”

“I’m not your mother!”

Back in his room, he continued to pester and fret over your newly remembered state of fragility. You continually tried to tell him you’d been fine so far, and that you had not yet died, but it did little to comfort him.

“But you could,” he insisted. “What would I do without my best friend?”

“Experiment by yourself, I suppose,” you suggested weakly, sitting on his bed as he paced.

“Experiment on what?” He asked cluelessly, looking at you wish his hands on his hips.

“With your - weird sex thing you were talking about earlier,” you said, waving your hand through the air and whining when you twisted your wrist wrong again.

“You’re implying that if you’re alive I’d experiment with you,” he said out of the blue, suddenly in front of you, stating his aim clear as day.

“Wh - what? I, ha, I don’t know about that, I, uh, just - I -“

“It’s alright if you didn’t mean that,” he said quickly. “I just thought it’d be easier to have someone with a bit of shared experience.”

Well, you did do practically everything together. Maybe this would just be another one of those firsts.

“Uhh… yeah, no, it’s fine. It’s alright, I just - I’ve still got weak bones.”

“I don’t think I’ll forget that anytime soon,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your inner wrist. You hummed weak, high in the throat.

“I still don’t know anything about sex,” you told him as he took off your clothing.

“Neither do I. This is just - from all that weird porn stuff you see in the temples,” he said, putting your skirt and shawl in a folded pile along with his own clothing.

“You actually look at that stuff?” You asked as he pushed you down on the bed.

“Sometimes. It’s good art, you know,” he said, kissing your neck.

“Oh! Uh, I never, uh, mm, never really payed attention to it,” you mumbled, the words catching your throat when odd noises jumped from your chest and through your mouth.

“I’ll take you to see them sometime,” he said, his hands moving lower to your hips in slow caresses as his lips continued kissing at your neck.

“I think I’m good actually,” you laughed awkwardly, your whole body feeling like it was about to fly off at any moment. He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations having a calming effect on you.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing and, I don’t know if sex with a, uh, not human will be different. Do you have the same genitals as us?” He asked, still not knowing what female genitalia looked like.

“I… don’t know? Guess we’ll find out,” you shrugged.

“Just like with everything. Not one damn teacher around,” he rolled his eyes and laughed, moving his hand between your legs. Something sparked down there as he did so, warm and shocking.

“That - that’s good. For some reason,” you added awkwardly to the end, looking up at him. He smiled, moving more decisively as he leaned down to kiss your nose.

“We’re having fun,” you joked, watching as he palmed at his own erection.

“Don’t we always?”

“Not always. Remember when you pushed me into the Aur right as we were getting into the deep part?” You held back a moan as he circled some sort of hole you had down there.

“I’ve told you a million times and I’ll tell you again, it was an accident,” he said, his brows knitting together as he rubbed himself up against you.

“Oh,” you said, the sound involuntary as the new feeling came around you.

“Oh come on, I haven’t even put it in yet,” he frowned at you, wondering if you were alright.

“Put it in?”

“Yeah, like this,” he said, pushing his dick into you. The most incredibly, full feeling ran up your stomach, running sparks through your fingertips and eyelids as you shut them, a pleasant hum ringing in your throat. You barely processed him feeling just the same above you, leaning on his elbows right above you.

“Right. Put it in. That’s… that’s what that means,” you murmured, grinding your hips down.

“Ah, don’t -“ He grabbed your hips, stilling you. “Feels good. Just let me, uh…”

Turns out, neither of you really knew what to do. So he did what felt good; he pulled out and pushed back in, a weirdly wet sound coming from the motion.

“That sounds bad,” you commented, trying to push moans back down into your chest.

“Felt good,” he shrugged, repeating the motion, dragging hums and sighs out of both of you.

“Can’t argue with that,” you murmured, your lips barely on the skin of his shoulder as he continually thrusted into you, soft and gentle. The feeling of skin on skin alighted warmth within you, and you closed your eyes, enjoying the moment. You wondered for a moment if this meant that maybe you couldn’t be a god of innocence, but when he kissed your neck tenderly again, you decided there was nothing more innocent than childhood experimentation and love.

Could you say love?

+

“You probably can’t get pregnant,” he said as the two of you laid down on his bed, a few days after that evening spent together.

“Hopefully not,” you mumbled, scratching your head.

Love. It was such an intense word, so selfish and selfless, absorbing all your time and effort into the protection of just one person. The more you thought about it, you wondered if maybe you’d loved him the whole time. Of course, there many definitions of love, not just romantic, but you knew at this point that it wasn’t just friendship. Probably. Humanity was odd like that.

“Ahkmen?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever been in love with anyone?”

“If I ever do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Because it’ll be with me?

You shook your head, pressing your lips in a thin line.

“I don’t think I even know what love is.”

“Of course you do,” Ahkmen said with a frown, sitting up. You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. “You love the water. The tortoises, and the grass, you love the sky. You love looking at art, and I know how much you love cats, and I’m sure you love your mother.”

“I do enjoy all those things. But is it enough to be considered love? How do I know what I’m feeling is really real? What if I really am some emotionless god?”

“Those are questions even humans ask themselves,” he comforted softly, scooting closer to you. “But… I think you do love those things.”

“Mm.”

“And you love me.”

Of course you did.

“I don’t like being an adult,” was what you said instead. You weren’t even adults yet, still at the ripe age of sixteen. Well, Ahkmen was sixteen. You were six. Technically.

“Why?”

“Too many complicated emotions.”

“Is this because I said you love me?” Ahkmen asked with a sigh, lying down beside you closer than he was before. “If it makes you feel better I love you.”

“As a friend, right?” You asked too fast for your own liking, looking over to make eye contact with him.

He shrugged.

“Why define it?”

You looked back up at the ceiling. Maybe he was right.

“Come now, we can’t spend all day in bed,” he said with a jump, patting your leg as he got to his feet.

“Please?” You asked, pouting.

“You’re such a baby.” He rolled his eyes laughing, dragging you off his bed. “There’s much we can do today. It’s been a while since we’ve gone through town, I want to get you something nice.”

You chuckled, coming to your feet and leaning tiredly on him.

“Okay, but I’m not agreeing to this because you’re getting me something. I just don’t want you to leave without me,” you sighed, trying to stand on your own. He put his arm round your shoulders, waltzing you out of the room.

“Lots to do, so little time!”

It was a surprisingly cool day. The sun didn’t hit quite as hard, though shining just as bright as usual. Cool breezes flew in from the north, and for a few hours during midday you were worried your wig would fly off into the distance. Luckily it stayed put, but you couldn’t say the same for your sanity.

He’d been so terribly close to you all day. Never mind the fact that you already stood uncomfortably close, verging on unbearable during hot days, but what was soft touches of knuckles brushing together was now your palm over his, from simple proximity. Not even from the actual act of holding hands, it was simply because he was standing so close to you it was near impossible to identify the difference between you.

“Should we go swimming?” He asked you, sitting on the edge of the boat, his legs dangling beside yours.

“Sounds dangerous. And it’s not very appropriate anymore,” his mother told him softly, not leaving her husbands side as she spoke. Ahkkmen looked at you, half rolling his eyes and half grimacing. You snickered, elbowing him lightly.

Later in the afternoon you trekked around down with his father, surveying temples and offering meager sacrifices which were more for show than actual use at this point. It wasn’t long till you came to your temple, and as Merenkahre did his duties, you and Ahkmen giggled in the corner.

“So - so there’s. There’s a lot of cats here,” he noticed, gesturing vaguely at the lounging cats. “Can - do you have a cat form?”

“I, in fact, do. It’s been a while actually. I’ll -“ his mother looked at you sternly, “I’ll show you later,” you finished.

The eventful day of town travel ended with a full meal, and a giggly trip back to his room.

“I haven’t felt this good in ages,” you laughed as the doors shut, feeling as carefree as you ever cold.

“Well there has to be a reason for that,” he fumbled, biting at his lips as he collapsed on a seat, staring up at the ceiling. You sat on the ground, watching him sort through his thoughts.

“I think I’ve got a magic penis,” he finally said, his voice far too serious to be joking.

“YOU DO -“ you hushed yourself in case anyone was walking by the room, “you do not have a magic penis, oh my gods,” you laughed, covering your mouth as your face turned red.

“How do you know? You can’t prove or disprove it!”

“No one has magic - you know!”

“Genitalia?”

“Yes! You’re out of your mind,” you said, shaking your head.

“I’m mad, you say?” He asked, furrowing his brow and looking at you skeptically.

“Yes indeed I do say,” you replied.

“Then let’s do something mad!” He laughed, loud and crazy in your face, a childish act. You couldn’t help but laugh along at his antics. He came to your level, pulling you up by the hands with a great heave.

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Get dressed in something lighter,” he said, pulling off his own golden necklace and putting in its’ place a sheer material over his shoulders. You stuttered for a moment, taking off your own shawl and wrapping a much thicker, scratchier material over your shoulders, putting on a shorter skirt. He then turned to you, pulling your wig off and his own with a soft smile.

“I still don’t understand what we’re doing,” you said as you walked down the empty hallways.

“I saw this beautiful cove off the side of the nile,” he finally informed you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along quicker. You stumbled over your feet, sloppily catching up to his speed. You tried to stammer a reply but the heat of his fingers digging into your bones kept you from speaking.

Down from the steps you ran in unison, lit by a crescent moon that hung low and massive in the sky. Off in the distance the lights of the city shone like the stars, more lively and dancing than they’d ever be. Though you surveyed the mass of land out in front of you, all you could feel was the now searing heat of his hand in yours. It made you feel funny, if a little sick in the stomach. You swallowed, now training your eyes on the Aur, shining with star and moonlight.

Eventually your bare feet hit dirt and you continued down the path, tugging lightly at your wrist to get him to slow down.

“Getting tired?” He asked when the two of you stopped in the shade of a tree.

“I’m a god. A higher being. I outrank you by a thousand suns,” you panted, kneeling on the ground with the exhaustion from running.

“Yes, of course, darling,” he chuckled, kneeling next to you and kissing your temple. You grumbled, pushing him off, but he just laughed at you, waiting alongside you so you could catch your breath.

“You’re so rude. And no one besides me believes it!”

“That’s because I’ve mastered the art of deception,” he teased, hitting particularly hot breath on your cheek.

“Whatever you like to tell yourself at night,” you hit back, standing up with a deep breath.

“I don’t tell myself anything at night,” he sniffed indignantly. “I have you to listen to. You snore, you know.”

“So do you.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go!” He pulled you by the arm this time, making sure you kept up as the brush got more intensive, surrounding you in flush greenery lining the banks of the nile. When the dirt turned to mud he stopped pulling you, slowing to a walk as he took in continually deeper breaths of air.

“How that cloth has stayed on you is a mystery,” you panted, pulling at the back of the material on his shoulders.

“I have a pin. Not much of a mystery,” he giggled.

“We’ll never know the answer,” you said, ignoring his statement by pointedly turning your head away. He laughed, tugging you to the waters edge.

Sitting on a rock adorned with hanging vines you watched him. Dragging over the movements of his muscles as he stepped into the warm water, coming up to his knees till it began soaking his skirt. He then took off the shawl, tossing it your way, though you barely caught it, too enraptured with the way he seemed to glow in the light of the moon.

“Are you going to join me, or are you going to sit there?” He asked, smiling cockily at you.

“I think I’m good sitting here,” you said, coughing awkwardly.

“Come on, that’s no fun. I took us out here to do something fun and a little reckless.”

“I’d hardly call wading in the river something reckless.”

“My mother said not to, qualifies enough for me. Now come join me. Please?”

You glared at him, trying to force your way through those sweet eyes of his whenever he asked sincerely for something. Grasping tightly at the rock beneath you, you caved, slipping off it and into the short reaches of the water. Twisting back around, you set your own shawl on the rock

“One day you won’t get the things you want in life by begging,” you said playfully, letting him pull you deeper into the water, till it began soaking your own short skirt.

“Oh, but I’ll always get what I want from you,” he smirked, his hand on the side of your neck, his thumb stroking your jawline.

“I swear to the gods, one of these days I’m going to get you and it’ll look like an accident,” you said in turn, the both of you breaking into fits of giggles as you did.

“Relax, take in the moonlight! It’s a wonderful night,” he advised you, taking the both of you deeper in till the water almost came to your hips.

He wasn’t wrong. You didn’t even have to look around to know that, the feeling of cool water against your legs and the spritz of gentle mist and wind on your face.

“If someone steals our clothes,” you said, getting up close to him till your noses touched, “it’s your fault.”

“If someone steals our clothes I’d be happy to do a portrait,” he flirted, looking you up and down with flitting eyes.

“You’re dirty!” You exclaimed, making sure not to be too loud.

“Come here,” he entreated, smiling soft and pure, focused entirely on you.

“I’m already here,” you grumbled.

He moved in to kiss you, pressing his lips to yours like petals upon your skin. You closed your eyes, breathing in his perfume, wandering his body with your hands. As your hands came around his jaw he moved further into you, kissing deeper with a furrowed brow, grasping at your waist firmly.

“You’re very handsome,” you breathed out as you parted, his kisses trailing towards your ear.

“That’s quite a compliment coming from you,” he murmured, rubbing circles into your stomach with his thumbs. His hands dipped lower, tugging at your already low hanging skirt.

“I’m not having sex with you in the river,” you said firmly, laughing as he pouted.

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” he tried to convince you, pulling you closer so your hips met with his.

“It’s dirty.”

“I thought I was dirty,” he joked, kissing you when you just frowned. His tongue dragged across your bottom lip, pushing in when you parted just slightly. Following your gasp, he brought his knee in-between your legs, pressing up against your crotch.

“Ah, I, uh, guess I could, oh -“ he grabbed your hips, grinding you down on him, “I could make - make an excuse, but, uh, not in the - the water, I -“

“On the shore then? You want me to fuck you in the mud?”

“That’s vulgar!”

“It’s not wrong either,” he chuckled, dragging you back through the water and onto the black shore.

“That doesn’t mean you have to say it. And especially not like that,” you said, your voice digressing into a mumble as he began kissing your neck, pulling at the knot tying your skirt together.

“You loooove it,” he teased, smiling against your skin as you fingered at the edge of his skirt.

“I do not. I love you,” you murmured, feeling heat building up in your cheeks. He was silent, still sucking at your neck and clavicle.

“… You do?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes.”

He threw your skirt to the side, stepping out of his own, shoving his hips up against yours with a thick moan. You gasped at the sensation of him heavy against your stomach, pressing yourself back against the rock behind you.

“Ahk, please, I -“

You needed him to say something. Something to deny or return what it was you’d said, slipping past your lips like the moans now falling freely. But he just stayed silent, chasing the friction he desperately needed against you.

“How… how do you love me?” He asked, his voice rough and quiet as he continued thrusting.

“I - I don’t -“

He slipped himself between your thighs, thrusting at a faster pace that rubbed right against that wonderful spot. At that point you were pretty sure you didn’t have male or female genitalia (as you’d seen a naked woman recently), so you weren’t sure what to call everything down there. All you knew was that it electrified you, enthralling you in pleasure.

“I need you, I need you to tell me,” he gasped, biting into your sternum.

“Ah - mm, I don’t - I love you, I just,” you trailed off, almost jumping out of your skin when you felt him nudge against your entrance.

“Fuck it,” he growled, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist and shoving himself inside you. You let out an all too loud moan, the feeling off him thick and full inside you.

The two of you stood for a moment, gathering your breath and composing yourselves. He kept his hands on your thighs, helping you to stay where you were, nails digging into the sensitive skin. Your own arms were around his shoulders, pulling his chest closer to yours.

Then he thrusted, pushing himself in to the hilt, forcing another moan from your throat. Keeping you in place, your back on the jagged rock keeping you upright, he allowed his hand to come between your legs and begin rubbing you right where you needed it. He was beginning to know your body better than you did.

“Come on, finish with me inside you. I know how good you feel,” he mumbled, kissing your jaw in feather light touches.

“Ahkmen, I - you’re, ah, so good to me,” you gasped, trying not to let his thrusting get in the way of your speech, to little avail.

With a few more well angled thrusts you came undone, muffling your moans by pressing your face into his hair. A few moments after and he came as well, biting hard enough into your shoulder to leave a mark. You were left gasping, the rock scratching your back as the two of you slid to the ground.

“What kind of love?” He finally asked, still panting, but looking at you through hooded eyes.

“What kinds are there?”

“Lots,” he answered, an answer which disturbed you. “Familial. Friendships can be love. There’s… playful love. Obsessive. The point is, there’s lots of love. Romantic is one of them.”

You tried to shift in your position on his legs, feeling his cock drag inside you. Wincing, you gripped his shoulders.

“Could you pull out? I’m sensitive.”

“Oh, sorry. Yes,” he apologized, that familiar wet sound following him pulling out, one that you recognized now as sexual instead of weird.

He kept you in his lap, his hands on your hips to keep you close to him. Looking down at him, the moonlight barely shining through the cover of trees reflected in his wide eyes, looking up expectantly at you.

“I suppose I wouldn’t know how to describe it,” you finally settled for, an answer that was inadequate for both of you.

“Try describing how you feel,” he suggested, and with thought you complied.

“… Good, all in all,” you chuckled, looking down. “My heart beats fast, and I feel like all that I want in life is to make you happy.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, Nedjem.”

“I told you not to call me that,” you grumbled.

“But it describes you so well!”

“It absolutely does n-“

“Just continue with your feelings, please?”

You sighed, leaning your head against the boulder.

“I guess… I want to hold you. But that’s normal, so is the whole kissing thing… I don’t know how to make this more specific?”

“I don’t want to alarm you, but - that’s not normal. At all. Mahjur, are you in love with me?”

“I already said that!”

“No, I clearly remember that, but what it sounds like you’re telling me now is that you’re… romantically in love with me.”

You froze. Was that it? Was he correct? Moreover, if he was correct, how would that affect your relationship? You couldn’t let mere feelings get in the way of your friendship. He was your best friend. Your only friend. You hardly had time to think about what it’d be like when he died, less so if your friendship ended before hand. You couldn’t even begin to imagine that.

“Mahjur? Are you alright?” He asked, cupping your cheek. You stuttered, meeting his eye with shame.

The entirety of your thoughts seemed to escape you, as though your brain had decided to take a vacation, leaving only first instinct for you to act on.

You laughed. Loud, your hands curling into yourself as you did so, your eyes darting anywhere to avoid looking at him.

“Uh… Mahjur?”

“Me? In love with you?” You barked out another laugh. “Please. That’s not… realistic. In any way.”

“You mean you having a crush on someone you’ve known all your life, spent most of your nights with, and slept with several times is unrealistic?”

“Of course I don’t love you, not like that!”

“Well I do!” He finally yelled, his hand slapping onto his thigh with a sense of finality. Looking directly into your eyes, he seemed to burn with his own intensity, teeth grinding and fists clenched tight. You blinked, breath quickened as you examined him.

“Ahk,” you spoke softly, placing your hand on his cheek. He sighed, relaxing into your touch with closed eyes, calming himself. “Let’s go home. I think you need some sleep.”

He’s young, you told yourself. But so were you, that little voice in the back of your head nagged as the two of you put your clothes back on. He’s human, you tried to reason, but the voice just replied, asking if you were really any different. He held your hand, walking the trail back to the palace, his eyes trained on the ground.

A long silence stretched, in which you both consumed yourselves in thought, only kept sane by the touch you shared. Distant, but certainly there, warm and familiar.

Just acknowledge it.

You feel the same; would it really be that wrong?

You moved close to him till your shoulders touched, leaning into him and tightening your grip on his hand just barely. His lips quirked up into a small smile, pressing his own shoulder into you.

“My father asked me when you’ll be finished with that tablet design,” he said as the steps of the palace came in sight. You sighed tiredly, your back slumping.

“I haven’t even started on it. Who’s it supposed to be connected to again?”

“Khonsu. Can’t you remember?”

“Obviously not,” you laughed.

+

It wasn’t as though you were purposefully avoiding him for the next few weeks. You hadn’t meant to - you were just busy. Busy with his father mostly, designing that tablet and what it was meant to do. Something you weren’t allowed to know. Perhaps if he knew what you really were he’d be more patient and willing to tell you, but it wasn’t something he needed to know. Either way, the symbols you were designing unsettled you. Lots of imagery concerning eternity and death, so much so the thoughts began entering your dreams. What could the Pharaoh be planning?

Sitting on the floor of Ahkmen’s room, your back against the wall and your knees up, you fiddled with a small, stone figure. It was supposed to be a woman, but it didn’t look that much like it.

The door opened, and through it Ahkmen dredged himself through. He collapsed on the bed, turning his head to you with a tired expression.

“What’s been ailing you?” You asked, letting the figure dangle from your fingers, supported by a limp wrist.

“My mother is one hell of a party planner,” he grumbled, turning over onto his stomach and staring at the wall.

“What’s the party for this time?”

“Ugh… uh, I’m being anointed Pharaoh by my father. My mother insists that a celebration is in order, so of course she’s inviting everyone we know.”

“And the whole city.”

“And their cousins, yes,” he grumbled, turning to face you again. “What’s wrong with you?”

He must’ve noticed your own passive facial expression, twisted into a mild confusion.

“Your father.”

“Seems we’re both doing well,” he laughed. You chuckled heartlessly, rolling your eyes.

“Something of the like. That tablet of his is… confusing. And dark. Feels an awful lot like he’s about to do some very unsavory things.”

“Have you asked him what it’s about yet? He won’t tell me,” he said, stretching his arms out.

“I have. Hasn’t told me. It’s finished now, so it’s not my problem anymore.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” he shrugged.

“Isn’t it for you though? Shouldn’t you know?”

“It’s a surprise.”

You chuckled, placing the small statue on the ground and getting to your feet. Walking over to him, you collapsed next to him on the bed with a bright smile, linking your arms together. He scooted himself closer to you, breathing deeply as he dug his face into the crook of your neck.

“You smell nice,” he murmured.

“It’s your perfume,” you told him with a laugh.

“Mm. I have to say, I don’t think I’m going to enjoy being Pharaoh,” he said, changing the subject but remaining in his position, arm slung over your torso as he lay on his stomach.

“Why not, darling?”

“My father has hardly any time to spend with us, and he’s always busy with lots of boring stuff. Then I have to deal with my brother,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he mentioned Kahmuh.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s always jealous! I mean, it’s not my fault our parents love me more, it’s really his. I - you know how he acts.”

“Atrociously,” you said.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “And it’s only going to get worse! Imagine his hatred for me, but tenfold.”

“He is the oldest. It’s technically his right for the throne,” you looked over at him, seeing him grimace, “but he, uh, definitely shouldn’t have it. A bit immature, isn’t he?”

“An understatement. Glad you understand,” he sighed, scooting ever closer to you till his lips pressed into the bare skin of your shoulder. Taking a deep breath, you relaxed, allowing yourself a midday nap.

+

In a few days time the palace was crowded with people, flooding with food and wine of the highest delicacies. You hung close to the wall, fortunately allowed to do that considering your status as ‘not royalty.’ Poor Ahkmenrah though, center of attention, was seated at the head of the table. No longer did he don the wig he’d worn so long, but in its place he wore a golden crown, rising high off his head and glittering in the light of the dying sun.

He glanced at you across the crowd, a half smile gracing his features. You just laughed, mocking his pain in a friendly way that he despised. With his head he gestured, asking you to come stand next to him. You sighed, shaking your head, but stood beside him nonetheless.

“Enjoying yourself?” You asked, keeping behind him.

“Not in the least,” he replied, continuing to keep his smile up to keep appearances.

“It’s a far cry from your birthday. When we first stole that wine,” you chuckled, trying to bring his mind off his nervousness and bring it to a happier memory.

“I’d say so. Now,” he grabbed two glasses, handing one to you, “we drink freely.” You clinked your glass against his, taking a sip from the sweet drink.

“Thank you, darling. How do you feel, now that all these people are your subjects?”

“Stressed? Uh - less so, with you,” he chuckled nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he kept his gaze down.

“I’m glad I can be of help.”

Per his request you sat next to him, on his right. To his left sat his parents, and to your left was his brother. It had been a while since you’d even seen Kahmuh, though he seemed to hold the same amount of poison he had before, glaring and tense. For the most part, Ahkmenrah spoke to his parents, leaving you to stare out over the feasting crowd and deal with the negative energy pouring off of his brother like waves of hatred.

Ahkmenrah turned back to the crowd, his mouth open and brow furrowed. He turned to you, gesturing to his parents.

“They’re already making their tombs! They aren’t that old,” he hissed, leaning towards you as he half whispered the words.

“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” you tried to compromise. “Besides, doesn’t it take a while to build those massive things?”

“It’s still morbid,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, still frowning.

“Don’t worry about it. This is your night, love,” you said with a smile. He scoffed but smiled, grateful for your support.

Somewhere near midnight, it was clear how on edge he had gotten. People came up to him, paying respects, bringing offerings that showed the prosperity much of his city had. He wasn’t ever one for conversing with hundreds of people within the timespan of a few hours. Thus, an hour or so after midnight, he gripped your hand, pulling you away from the table and leading you down the old hallways.

“Your parents are going to -“

“They’re too drunk to notice we’re gone, so is everyone else,” he said quickly, his voice low and clearly annoyed. Just from that you could tell how stressed he was, clinging to your hand far too tight and pulling you along in an almost painful way.

You stopped trying to talk to him, stopped pulling at your held hand, allowing him to drag you down the hallways till you came to his room. Flinging open the doors he pulled you inside, shutting the doors and collapsing against them.

“Wow,” you said, sliding down the door to sit next to him. “Someone’s not feeling very good.”

“It’s just a lot. I’ll be fine,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Aww,” you tutted, snuggling in beside him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders and your hand on his arm.

He hummed discontentedly, shuffling closer to you and resting his head on yours. His crown dug into your skull, but you didn’t say anything, just letting him relax.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the future. Everything’ll work out… and I’ll be with you,” you murmured, breathing slow and deep, closing your eyes as you dug your face further into his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t have much else to do,” you joked, feeling yourself grow tired.

His fingers came beneath your chin, tilting you upwards till he captured you in a soft kiss. You moved into it, shifting to a more comfortable position on your knees. He molded perfectly into you, warm and mellow in a soothing way.

“What would I do without you?” He mumbled, still keeping his lips right above yours.

“Probably try to become friends with your brother.”

“Yuck.”

You laughed, resting your forehead on his shoulder as he joined you, the vibrations of his laugh spreading from his chest to yours.

“A very apt word,” you giggled, pressing quick kisses to his cheek.

“Yes - mm,” he grabbed your cheeks, pulling you to kiss him on the lips.

You ended up just sitting beside him, half asleep for the next hour. For the most part you did not speak to each other, reveling in the silence that peace between two good friends brought. When your head drooped, obviously falling asleep, he spoke.

“Let’s get to bed,” he suggested quietly, moving you to your feet.

“I’m sure your parents and your subjects are waiting for you,” you slurred, leaning against him.

“And I’m sure they’re drunk. Bed time,” he chuckled, and the both of you collapsed on the bed.

“Take the crown off.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to wake up with a massive headache,” you said, tugging uselessly at it.

“Fine,” he said, pulling it off and setting it on the ground beside him.

Still fully clothed, you curled up next to each other, falling fast asleep in a half drunk, hazy state.

+

The sun hid just below the horizon when you woke, dragging yourself away from Ahkmenrah’s hold. He mumbled something incoherent, quickly falling back asleep. You smiled to yourself, kissing his cheek before you left to the balcony.

You could still hear shouts from around town, singing and joyful drinking echoing all the way up to the palace where you stood. Dusk rounded the corner, the sky just barely glowing, the curtains behind you billowing in the wind.

Beside you, Maahes appeared. You furrowed your brow, wondering silently why he was there. You hadn’t seen him in forever - maybe he wanted to talk.

But his eyes watered. They were red, and his mouth parted as he took a shaky breath.

“Mahjur,” he spoke, holding out his hand. “I am so sorry for this.”

“Sorry for what? Maahes -“

He grabbed you by the waist, restraining you, keeping you looking towards the city. Behind you the door creaked open, and you could hear Ahkmenrah stir with a quiet mumble.

“Good morning,” he said, sounding confused. “What are you doing here?”

All you heard was footsteps. The person who had entered did not speak, stepping closer to the bed.

“Wait, Kahmuh, I -“

You felt your heart beating faster. Faster, faster, and faster, beating out of its cage at a painful rate, cracking away at your resolve to stay complicit.

“No, what are you doing, please! Help!!”

“Everyone’s asleep, dear brother,” Kahmuh said in a low voice, and suddenly Ahkmenrah’s screams were muffled. A shimmering sound of a blade came from behind you and you twisted, elbowing and kicking your own brother wherever you could just to see. Only to help, you needed to get to him, needed it more than anything, and still -

A slashing sound echoed through the chamber. With a burst of strength you turned yourself and Maahes around, watching, drowning in your own helplessness as Ahkmenrah pushed his brother away, dragging his bloodied self out of the room. Kahmuh ran after him, pulling him back into his room and driving a black knife into the back of your friend, over, and over, and over again, muffling his dying screams with his other hand.

“Ahkmen, no!” You cried, jumping off the ground, pulling as hard as you could, cracking your own fragile bones as you pushed and pushed against your brother. But Maahes didn’t even have to use his full strength. He was strong, you were weak, and easy to hold back.

Even Kahmuh couldn’t hear you. Even as Ahkmenrah stopped flailing, resigned himself to being naught but a body in a pool of its’ own blood, he kept stabbing. Viciously, till the doors of the chamber opened, and the dreadful cry of his mother rang through the hallways, alerting guards and servants alike, calling her husband.

Only then you felt your throat hoarse with your screaming, your cheeks hot with tears and muscles tired from the strain. You couldn’t help it as you continued crying, still desperately trying to get to Ahkmenrah, hoping beyond hope that he was still alive.

You closed your eyes tightly, feeling tears burn through your skin, your nails digging into the arms of your brother. When you opened them, you were not where you were before.

Surrounding you were clouds, alight with a golden haze, and in front of you was your mother. It had been so long since you’d seen her, a rush of joy went through you before quickly dying. Grief had not yet struck you, but it wouldn’t be long till.

“Mahjur, my beautiful child,” she said, and you had almost forgotten how soothing her voice was. She gathered you in a hug and you melted, your tears staining her dress.

“My best friend has died,” you sobbed against her, catching a glimpse of Maahes standing to the side with a remorseful look on his face.

“I know. It’s not your fault,” she cooed, stroking your hair.

“Why did you hold me back?” You opened your eyes, referring now to your brother.

“I needed to. Divine intervention is not allowed in matters of life and death, but more importantly the latter.”

“I don’t even know what half of those words mean!” You cried, knowing full well what he meant. Maahes still shied away, closing his eyes as he watched you sob. “Send me back,” you begged.

“The spirits of the dead roam the earth,” Bastet spoke in a soft voice, pulling you away from her body so she could look at you. “Ahkmen will roam the earth incorporeally, till his tomb is completed, and Anubis and Ma’at have prepared his hearing.”

“His hearing?” You sniffed.

“The rite of passage.”

“Oh,” you said, recalling the afterlife once more. “I need to go back, he’s probably lost and confused.”

“Do what you must, darling,” your mother hummed.

When you blinked again you were back where you were before, facing the bedroom, standing on the balcony. Below you you heard soft crying, muffled by hands. Looking down you saw Ahkmenrah, his form fuzzy and transparent.

“Ahk?” You whispered, kneeling down beside him. His legs dangled off the edge, his head in his hands, the golden cloak he wore so often splayed out behind him. It glittered in the morning light, though still see through.

“Mahjur?” He looked up, sniffing, his eyes red and puffy with tears. His eyes widened, standing up and pulling you into a hug. To your surprise he did not go through you as you had expected, but he felt warm against you, as though he were still alive. Tender and tight you embraced him, burying yourself in his scent and hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” you breathed out, tears pricking away at your eyes.

“I thought I left you behind,” he replied, just as choked up as you were.

“Let’s just say it’s been an emotional morning,” you said, kissing below his ear, moving to his cheek. He laughed, almost cheery, smiling bright as he held your face in his hands.

“I’ve never been more happy to see you,” he cried, kissing you on the lips.

“Not even after that lesson about granary?”

“You’re - unbearable,” he laughed, catching your tears with kisses.

You laughed, pulling him into another tight hug. He breathed deeply against you, holding you firm to him.

“Oh Mahjur,” he murmured, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Uh… it’s a little… morbid,” you warned him, but he nodded, waiting for you to continue. “You need to wait till they bury your body in a sarcophagus. Then you… can do all that, uh, Hall of Two Truths thing.”

“Hopefully they bury me properly,” he muttered, frowning.

“You mean with that papyrus that holds all the truths?”

“Yes, I mean that,” he grumbled, his fingers fiddling with the material of your shawl.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” you said, looking over the edge of the balcony. “You’re royal. I don’t think they’d forget.”

He looked over the edge as well, measuring up the height of the palace from where his room was situated to the ground below.

“Y’think we could survive that fall? I’ve always wanted to jump off here,” he finally said, giving you a mischievous smirk.

“We’re already dead. Can’t get much worse.”

He shrugged, grabbing your hand and pulling you off with him. You expected the wind to whip loudly around you, pulling at your clothes and biting your skin, but it was actually rather pleasant. Together, you drifted slowly downwards, holding hands all the way. With a laugh you looked over at him, finding him in the same state of delight.

The ground soon approached, and you landed with a feather light touch.

“Not quite as risky as I thought it’d be,” he said with a shaky breath.

“Let’s just be grateful you didn’t try it when you were alive, alright?”

Was it the appropriate time to be making death jokes? Either way you’d already said it. It didn’t seem to bother him too much either you noticed as he laughed, falling into you with his side.

“Oh my god, my parents,” he said suddenly, and you could feel the dread killing the joy he felt.

“They’ll be alright,” you tried to comfort, but in that short second he was already too far gone, clutching your shirt and staring into you with wild eyes.

“My brother! What are they going to think?!”

“Your brother?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yes! My brother, oh goodness, they’re going to be so worried! Do you think I could say good bye? Can they even see me?”

It hit you very suddenly, like a punch to the nose that knocked out all your senses, blocking your air. He didn’t remember how he died. How that was possible, how that worked you hadn’t the faintest idea, but you did clearly remember that he did not see his body. He was turned away. What could you say to him? The truth?

“I’m sure your brother will make a good pharaoh. If not, there’s always cousins. And your parents will understand. It’s hard, but they’ll understand.”

“Oh, dearest… do you think we could check on them?”

You exhaled sharply, unsure. You weren’t any more wise than him in your age, and even containing all the understandings of the musings of the universe, you couldn’t find an answer.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” you said quietly, nodding just slightly. “But I think it’d be best to avoid your room.”

“Why?”

“Seeing your own dead body, I’m assuming, probably isn’t a nice experience.”

“Ah. Uh, you’re probably right,” he agreed, pursing his lips together, following your lead around the palace and back up the steps.

Around you people swarmed, but none saw you, multiple walking through you. You’d gone through the experience before, when Bastet was first showing you Kemet, but the feeling was new to Ahkmenrah. Upon the first person walking through him, a man in his golden years, he stopped, gasping and shivering.

“What was that?” He asked, turning to you with wide eyes, desperately wanting an answer.

“Not much - seems like that man just walked through you. You’ll get used to it, it’s normal.”

“It felt like searing heat,” he said with a frown, holding your hand once more and following you.

As you had guessed, the visit did little to really help him. He had gone hoping for closure but was left with more questions and needs than he had arrived with, wishing more and more with each step you took away from his sobbing mother, that he could simply comfort her. You held his hand tight, a reminder each time he looked back that he could do nothing.

It was an intense thing to go through at such a young age. Or so you presumed, you hadn’t ever thought about this - the in-between from life and death. Still walking among the living but not with them. But, maybe, it was something everyone expected. On the other hand it might’ve just as well been something that no one anticipated. Looking over at Ahkmen, he didn’t seem to be doing well enough for such questions. So, in silence you sat with him by the river side. Off in the distance to your left you saw the trees of the cove you’d been to with him. An emotional night, you remembered, but you tried to keep your thoughts on the present. Your friend needed you.

“What do we do till I’m… fully dead? Will you still be able to visit me?”

“One question at a time,” you laughed softly. “Concerning your first one, we can do whatever you want. Regarding your second question, I’m not too sure. I could ask my mother to pull some strings.”

“Who is your mother, anyway?”

“Same woman who made me. Bastet.”

“Ah, right,” he said, seeming to suddenly recall the various hints you’d dropped. “Do you think we can still have sex?”

“Gross,” you said off instinct, shriveling up your nose. “You’re dead and that’s one of your worries?”

“At least it wasn’t my first worry,” he laughed.

“… I guess,” you grumbled, pulling at your clothes to cover more of you.

Both of you sat cross legged next to each other on the banks of the Aur, not worrying for your skirts getting dirty with the mud. A few people came down, a few bathing, and a few coming for better fertilizer. Some came for water, but none noticed you. Life seemed peaceful, almost maddeningly so, completely invisible. Too long, you thought, and one might wonder if they were real at all.

Much of life felt like that, so thank goodness you had Ahkmen beside you. Never one for long, quiet moments that lasted just a little too long, he ranted. About anything at all. Often it was about food, how he hated to lose that of all senses. Most of the time you laughed, just staring at him with a dopey smile on your face as he yelled at the air, his hands gesturing wild and in sharp movements. While people ran around you, caught up in their lives, you never once looked away from him. Everyone else blended together as your whole world came crashing down to a single point - him.

“-and it’s not like they have to follow that rule, right?” He asked, his hands gesturing to the people below.

The two of you sat upon the tallest statue you could find, easily climbable in your inexhaustible state. For the past hour and a half he’d been discussing incest and its’ relationship with royalty and commoners.

“Right,” you agreed easily.

“Commoners are gross most of the time -“

“Don’t be rude.”

“ - sorry - but, they can’t afford the niceties that we can, anyway. So if even they won’t do something, I don’t think we should.”

“I think you’re looking at it from a negative angle.”

“It’s a negative thing!”

“It might be that you think that only because you don’t get along with your brother and, he’s, well, your brother. What about cousins?” You asked, leaning your head on your hand.

“No! I have never, ever found my cousins attractive! I mean, thank the gods my parents aren’t related.”

“What would happen if they were?”

“… You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

A smile broke off your face, cracking you up as you shook your head, sighing.

“Alright, you got me. I don’t really favor it either,” you finally agreed.

“You’re a little trickster,” he said, ruffling your hair.

“You’re a little boy.”

“I’m still older than you!”

Once a day you’d go back to the palace and check how things were going. Every now and then Ahkmen would follow close behind, hiding behind your back like he’d be seen. In those trips with him, you spent the majority of your time hiding how he died and his body from him. Stab wounds or not, dead versions of yourselves aren’t pleasant things to see.

You had learned a good deal - the tombs being built for his parents would be fitted to host him as well, a special chamber in between his mother and father. It all felt too morbid and too real, so you tried not to spend too much time listening to building plans. The only other thing to do was to see how preparations were coming with his body. Mostly making sure they were burying him with everything needed.

“I do not want to go into that hall of truths without that paper!”

“Wow, you’re rather insistent about this aren’t you? Any childhood fears I should know about?”

“I - I just, imagine getting eaten just because you forgot something. I’d get eaten every other day!”

“Ahkmen,” you said, squishing his cheeks together with your hands, pulling him closer to you. “They aren’t going to forget.”

He blushed, frowning and pushing you away.

“Probably,” he mumbled.

With your newfound inability to fall asleep many nights were spent stargazing. According to those living within Kemet, whenever a king died, they became a star. That wasn’t at all correct. You knew that, instilled with such a knowledge of the heavens and everything below that you had to fight yourself each time Ahkmen asked a question to not share too much.

You lay beside him in the great expanse of the desert, staring up into the vastness of the lights, lining the sky with a thick belt and shining so brightly it would’ve kept you up, could you need sleep.

“I never thought of it before,” he said, moving closer to you, “but do you think I’d become a star? I mean, I wasn’t really Pharaoh that long, was I… would it count?”

“Pharaohs don’t become stars. When someone good dies there is a god in the south who takes their body, their ashes, whatever is left of them, and turns them into a star. Thus they keep their soul in whatever way they see fit, and there is a star remembering them. This good person, they don’t need to be a king. In fact it’s often not kings. It’s just… good people. Like you.” You nudged him with your elbow, smiling gently.

“You know a lot about this stuff,” he commented.

“It’s the heavenly knowledge. That, and it’s interesting.”

“What else do you know?”

“A lot.”

“I mean about the stars.”

“Oh, that. Uh… you’re made of dead stars. We all are. When a star dies, which they only do once every fifty human lifetimes, their stuff goes everywhere. Then a very special person is born only in idea, and a god from the east takes the star stuff, takes that idea, and molds them. Then they write their story with the winds of the north and the water underground, and once all is written and prepared, they are put on earth to grow. If they are good, they become stars. If they are bad, they rot and fester in the earth till they fertilize the plants, which, are in turn, eaten by the animals of the plains.”

He looked at you with furrowed brow, his mouth parted slightly, looking thoroughly confused and mildly grossed out.

“Too much?”

“Yeah, bit too much - interesting, though. Didn’t have to phrase that last part like that.”

“Right, right. Sorry.”

He was quiet, before he asked, “what are you made of?”

“Mud mostly,” you said, looking up at the stars, your hands crossed behind your head as a makeshift cushion.

“What else?”

“Alabaster. Not conventional ingredients, I know.”

“Oh my - what happened to you?”

“What? What’s wrong?” You bolted upright, grabbing his hands, scanning his face frantically.

“No, you’re fine but, what do my parents think happened to you?!”

You hadn’t actually… thought of that.

“That’s a question for the morning,” you sighed, caught off guard but glad nothing was wrong. You leaned forward, resting your forehead on his shoulder.

He put his arm around you, allowing you to relax into him. He allowed you to listen to his breathing, to mourn at his lack of heartbeat, lack of pulse, and to adore his warmth.

“I think I like you more with your real hair,” he mumbled, his face pressed into the top of your head.

“It’s much shorter,” you said.

“It’s easier to pull, too,” he chuckled, tugging on it harshly, stopping when he noticed you didn’t budge. Actually, you nearly purred pressing yourself into him more.

“That feels nice,” you hummed.

“Did you just purr?” He asked at the same time.

“Well, I am partly cat.”

“Weird.”

“Rude,” you shot back, going weak when he put his hand in your hair again, petting you and making you warm all over.

“I love you,” he murmured in the silence, and in all the world you seemed to be the only ones alive. Secluded from everything you knew and everything you didn’t, only existing for the sake of each other. It seemed pure bliss, stretching for miles around you, his words echoing in that blissful quiet.

“I love you too,” you replied.

+

In the morning you kept your word, finding the answer to his question. What happened to your physical body? What did they think happened to you?

Turned out the answer was not as nice as you might’ve thought. You suspected that perhaps your physical body simply disappeared. Ahkmen didn’t express his own thoughts on the idea beforehand, so you had no idea what to say when looking through records and finding you died of all the bones in your body being crushed.

“… Wow.”

“Uh, yeah,” you said, blinking at the papyrus in front of you.

“At least it sounds badass.”

“You’re the worst.”

The rest of the day was spent attempting to cleanse yourself of the image of your body mangled and bloodied on the bedroom floor. You thought that perhaps you weren’t even bloody - maybe it was mud that spilled out. You also knew, right as you saw it, that it had been your brothers doing. Not on purpose, simply stopping you from saving your friend.

You kept up to date with the proceedings till you, alongside Ahkmen, watched as his sarcophagus was carried into the large tomb.

All around you quiet seemed to engulf the space. You stood close to him, your shoulders brushing as you watched with unblinking eyes as he was lowered away, locked into a chamber with riches surrounding him. Beside you, you heard him finally breathe once they sealed him in. When you turned to look, he was gone. You panicked, jumping and looking around you wildly for some sign of where he went.

With a blink of your eye you found yourself in a hall, expanding seemingly forever. Fantastically giant pillars lined the walls, humongous statues beside him, art carved intricately into the stone. Sitting at a large, semicircle table made of dark wood that you hadn’t ever seen before, you gripped at your surroundings. Looking to your left, Bastet sat beside you. To your right were more grand deities, ones you had never met before and that you were nearly terrified to be in close proximity to. In the middle of the whole table was Ma’at, keeper of the balance and truth. Near her sat Osiris, who was flanked by his sisters Isis and Nephthys. On the other side of Ma’at was Thoth and Anubis, the latter of who seemed the most solemn of all. His hands were folded neatly together, placed on the table, unnervingly even. Beside Anubis, looking small, was his daughter Qebhet.

All the gods, you noticed, had their heads on. Bastet had her cat head, Anubis with his long snout of a black jackal’s face.

It was silent.

Far too silent. They all stared ahead, into the vast blackness of the never-ending hall, their brows furrowed or looking perfectly at peace, undisturbed by the slow passing of time.

“What’s happening?” You finally asked your mother, nudging at her dress.

“Ahkmen is special, to you. That is why you are here,” she said in a quiet, serious voice. Turning to gesture at the others, she continued with, “they have allowed you to be here. Do not press that privilege. You are lucky you even get to know the fate of your friend.”

You nodded. By all technicalities, even Bastet wasn’t supposed to be there either. She wasn’t part of the judging process.

Anubis stood suddenly, followed by his daughter and Nephthys, all three of which walked down from the platform on which the rounded table stood, walking down the hallway. You gulped, your throat tight as you watched them walk down the hallway to receive Ahkmen’s soul.

Despite wanting to follow you sat patiently, in the everlasting quiet, your eyes closed as you waited for sound.

At last it came, the sound of footsteps, and from the darkness you saw the three forms of the gods joined by a fourth, one you knew to be Ahkmen. You tensed, your hands gripping at the wood, willing yourself not to jump up and greet him.

He kept his face down, the only sound still being the footsteps of the four, till he came to the middle of the room, and the gods joined you at the table. Clutched in his hand was the papyrus he’d been so worried about them forgetting, and when Ma’at cleared her throat, he looked up. She looked at the paper, and with quick, shaking hands he opened it, and began reciting his negative confessions.

“I have not committed sins against me,” he said, his voice firm but anxious, long breaths keeping himself under control. He hadn’t yet truly looked upon the table of judges before him, and had thus not seen you. “I have not wrought evil.”

You closed your eyes, hoping beyond hope that he would be alright. That he wouldn’t slip up, that he would weigh righteous against her feather.

“I have not inflicted pain.”

Please, please, please.

“I… have not masturbated in the sanctuaries of the god of my city.”

You bit your tongue, taking a deep breath. You would not laugh. It’d be inappropriate and immature, you tried to tell yourself.

“I have not carried away the milk from the mouths of children.”

Please, please, please.

“I have not stopped water when it should flow.”

Please, please, please.

“I have not extinguished a fire when it should burn.”

Please, please, please.

“I have not turned back the god at his appearances.”

At long last he looked up from his paper, his eyes immediately going to you, widening upon recognition. His mouth hung open and you nodded, looking at his paper to cue him into the fact that he wasn’t done. With another deep breath, he continued.

“I am pure. I am pure. I am pure. My pure offerings are the pure offerings of that great Benu which dwelleth in Hensu. For behold, I am the nose of Neb-nefu, who giveth sustenance unto all mankind, on the day of the filling of the Utchat in Anu, in the second month of the season Pert, on the last of the month. I have seen the filling of the Utchat in Anu, therefore let not calamity befall me in this land, or in this Hall of Maati, because I know the names of the gods who are therein.”

Ma’at turned to Osiris with unnerving steadiness, nodding in one, slow motion. He stood, his hands on the table to balance him before he came to stand in front of Ahkmen. From seemingly thin air, Osiris pulled his heart out, and with wide, shocked eyes Ahkmen watched as it was placed upon the golden scale in front of Ma’at. You watched in anticipation as Ma’at plucked a feather from her crown, small and white, placing it on the other side of the scale.

The weight jumped a little, but came steady. The two were equal.

You heard Ahkmen let out a breath, breathing steady for the first time since his body had been buried. With a quick glance to your mother, silently asking permission, she nodded, and you jumped from your position, running towards him. Your arms outstretched, you engulfed him in the tightest hug yet, feeling him bury his head into your shoulder, holding you back just as tight.

“I was so worried,” he said, not moving from his position. You didn’t either, keeping him close to you.

“I knew you’d be alright,” you said, brushing his hair with your hand.

Distantly you heard footsteps approaching. Upon finally breaking away from him you saw Anubis standing over the two of you, his eyes steady as they looked between you.

“Ahkmenrah. You have been allowed an easy trial due to Mahjur’s testimony,” Anubis spoke, his voice surprisingly smooth and easy to listen to. You hadn’t given any testimony, you remembered in an instant, but you said nothing. “I will guide you to Lily Lake. There you will meet Hraf-hef.”

“Yes, uh, thank you,” Ahkmen stuttered, bowing slightly in his gratitude. He grabbed your hand, pulling you along as Anubis departed. Without thought you followed, eager to spend just one more moment with him.

Then from behind a voice boomed, echoing through the empty chambers with a lilt that nearly crippled you to your knees.

“My child can not go with you,” Bastet said, but it wasn’t quite her. Like many of the judges, she was partial to having two natures - one for every day (that was usually kind and docile), and one for battle.

“What?” Ahkmen asked, looking confused. It was the first time he seemed to feel confident in his words since he’d entered the hall.

“If Mahjur goes with you,” Bastet turned to look at you, “you will not return. And no one may visit you without getting trapped themselves. It is not a fate you wish to have.”

Eternity with him, locked away in a second world. The past week or so had been just fine, speaking only with him, but it was bound to drive you mad. As much as you loved him, one needed more than just one person they spoke to. Even if those other people weren’t really friends, it was necessary.

“Mahjur,” Ahkmen murmured, soft and pleading as he tugged gently at your hand.

Eternity without him, barred from ever seeing him again. You hadn’t ever lived without him truly. How would you fare? Would you grow away from him, or burn yourself into nothingness in his absence?

“I -“

You tried to speak, stopped when you noticed the weight of his hand in yours began to dissipate. Turning to him you found his form half gone, see through as it had been on earth. You rushed to him, trying to grab him, hold him in place, but he was gone before you could take another step closer, leaving naught but the space between you and Anubis.

Around you you heard the horrified gasps of the gods, but it did little when you were met with stunning silence once more. Consumed in darkness you tried to see, reaching with shaking, scared hands for any sign that you were still alive. Eventually your eyes adjusted to the dingy light, finding there to be no light at all. You were sealed into the ground, surrounded by the many gifts given to Ahkmenrah.

You were sealed in his grace, and a sudden feeling of understandable dread came over you when you heard screaming. Turning around slow and terrified, you saw the lid of his sarcophagus jumping up and down each time it was pounded against, the screaming occupying it in its’ confused terror.

In sudden realization you jumped into action, unlocking the coffin, pushing the lid off, and helping him sit up. Still encased in wrappings you kept your eyes wide, wondering how awful he was going to look.

With careful hands you reached up behind his head, unwrapping him. It came off slowly, and when you were at last done, you were surprised.

He looked perfectly fine. Healthier than healthy, actually, fighting fit and beautiful as the night he was anointed.

“Mahjur,” he said, his voice shaking and his eyes impossibly wide. “This has been a very intense day.”

“I know, darling.”

“I really want to go to sleep,” he said.

“I know. Come here,” you comforted softly, helping him out of his grave and onto the bed they had so helpfully supplied for the afterlife.

“What’s happening to me?” He asked, his voice cracking as he put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“I don’t -“

“This is all that Khonsu’s fault! If he wasn’t so damned sentimental, he’d, he’d… this would never had happened!” Bastet said, appearing before she even seemed to be speaking, pacing in front of you. Your eyes widened as you watched her, pulling at her ears with human hands.

“What do you mean?” You asked, trying not to aggravate her further.

“Oh - uh, just a moment,” she said, turning to the room, her eyes scanning over it. “It’s bound to be somewhere around here.”

As you watched her, you rubbed Ahkmen’s shoulders, helping him try to relax. He was still tense as ever, rubbing his temples as he tried to digest the many things that had happened to him within a very short timespan.

“Here it is,” she said at last, pulling a golden tablet off the wall that seemed to glow with its own ethereal light. She handed it to you, and immediately you recognized the design to be your own. It had to be what Merenkahre was making for his son.

“I know this, I designed it. I don’t know what it does though,” you said, handing it back to her. Ahkmen looked up, watching with the same confusion as you.

“It brings to life that which is dead. Whether that be statues or carvings, or… you,” she said, turning to Ahkmen, who looked like he did not appreciate an old god looking at him.

“Shouldn’t everything in this room be coming to life then?” You asked.

“Look around, child of mine, and see.”

“I can’t, it’s too dark.”

Bastet sighed, a tired, weary sigh.

“Right. Night vision, you don’t have that because you don’t have the cat - okay, here,” she grumbled, lighting a torch with the materials she could find.

Eyes surrounded you. Stock still, following you in their statue forms that could not move. Mummified cats moved beneath their dressings, wriggling like they were full of worms. Paintings whispered about you, seeing for the first time your face.

“Yikes.”

“We’re pulling Khonsu into court in the morning, and you,” she pointed to Ahkmen, “will be there. We will find how this magic works. For now… do whatever you children do.” She left.

You sat, your mouth parted slightly, the torch on the floor illuminating the hundreds of eyes. Ahkmen moaned miserably, putting his head in his hands again, leaning against you as you began rubbing his back again.

“Have you ever met Khonsu?” He asked after a while of you just sitting next to him.

“No. I have heard varying accounts on what he is like.”

“How foolish of my father to do this. What’d he think would happen? That I could free myself of my wrappings, open up an entire sarcophagus from the inside, and open up the giant door holding my own tomb closed?” He groaned, his voice cracking as he said tomb.

“Love blinds the lesser and the nobler to dangers and common sense. Grief can do the same,” you said quietly.

He was silent for another moment before he spoke.

“Mahjur,” he said, “how long have you known me?”

You pulled your hands away from him.

“All my life. I met you when I was four -“

“Four months. Yes. Why… why have you stayed beside me?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“Just answer,” he said, finally meeting your eye as he finished, “please?”

“… You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to stand for. I’m young and I don’t make good decisions which is probably why we ended up with so many reprimands, but my one truly good decision was being with you.”

“In what sense?”

“Hm?”

“You’re with me, in what sense?”

“I - I don’t… understand,” you said slowly, trying to think his words through in a way you might get.

“Never mind,” he mumbled, put off.

“Ahk,” you whined, pulling at his arm. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing!”

“It’s obviously not!”

“I’m still in love with you!” He practically shouted, untangled from his position before tangling himself right back into it, pulling his knees into his chest and hiding his face.

What could you say to that?

“Now isn’t the time, dearest.”

Nice going, that’s sure to make him feel better, you chastised yourself.

“I know,” was all he muttered, keeping his face away from yours. You hurt him, you knew that, and though you weren’t aware of it until that point, you’d been hurting him for a while. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that he still had those sorts of feelings - you thought you were alone in your affections. However, in all reality, it really wasn’t the time. He was half dead and half alive and had just met the more terrifying set of gods, all of which can be a traumatic experience.

You put your arm around his shoulders, letting him fall against your side. He whimpered something you couldn’t fully hear, burying his head in your clothing.

“Things are… difficult, right now,” you said, keeping your voice quiet and low. “But I will always be by your side. I will fight each god if I need to.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he mumbled.

“It’s only common sense if it’s you.”

+

By the time daytime came once more, you’d helped him back into his wrappings, lying him down in his coffin.

“Don’t close it till I’m… you know,” he requested, and you complied, waiting till his cheeks hollowed and his breathing stilled before shutting the lid. You then closed your eyes, following the trail of his spirit back to the court full of judges. The long hall before you was lit by torchlight, the flames flickering as you watched.

Ma’at leaned forward, looking down on Ahkmen with a critical stare.

“What do you propose we do with you?” She asked, leaving your friend to speak.

“I - take away the uh, spell. Then I don’t come to, uh, life, anymore,” he suggested, keeping his head high.

“We cannot do that. It interferes too greatly with the fate of things.”

“But me being there and influencing every one of his decisions doesn’t?” You asked, standing up. Before you could even blink you were standing next to him, placed there by Osiris himself.

“Do you wish to be tried as well?” He asked, his eye wide with questioning near indistinguishable from anger.

“Yes,” you said firmly, standing your ground. Behind you Ahkmen tugged at your hand, trying to calm your anger. You grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers and squeezing in affirmation that this was what you needed to do.

Osiris sniffed, clearly taken aback by your boldness, if not impressed. “Very well,” he said.

In the far corner, Bastet glared at you.

“There can be only one option,” Ma’at spoke once Osiris had taken his seat once more. All turned to her, waiting expectantly for her verdict. “Ahkmenrah will die each morning, and he will stay here and be judged. Hopefully you complete your sayings in time to be allowed into Aaru for a time before you will once more be submitted to life on earth.”

She spoke with such a cool formality, as though she didn’t believe Ahkmen was truly a living thing. Like she was above him in every way. Your fists clenched at her, in all her wisdom and age she was insolent.

“That is unfair and cruel and you know it,” you hissed, practically seething.

“It is the only option. You are young, you cannot know -“

“Yes, I am young, but I obviously know more than you!” You bit back, interrupting her. Right below the surface, beneath that confident, angry exterior you knew this was wrong. You knew how childish you were being but damn you if you were going to let him suffer like this for all of eternity. “It’s in your hands and you know this is the wrong thing to do!”

“Unless you have another option,” she spoke with a thousand fires behind her, backing up every word she used, “this is my final word.”

“Give me time. I will come up with something that will suit both parties,” you insisted, feeling Ahkmen tug at your hand but paying it no notice.

“Until we convene once more tomorrow, we have other souls to judge.” With a flick of your wrist, you were gone. Sent away into some other space, a vast whiteness that spread for eons.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Ahkmen finally said, gasping as he spoke, clutching his hair in tight fists.

“What?”

“You - you argued! With Ma’at, who’s the fucking God of logic and justice, oh my gods!” He said, his eyes wide as he turned to you. He grabbed your shawl in a fist, pulling you towards him in a harsh manner. You couldn’t quite tell if he was excited or angry, the way all his muscles tensed and his mouth hung open.

“I said I’d do anything for you. I wasn’t lying,” you replied, coming closer to him with small steps.

“I know, I know, but… I just… again, I suppose it’s a lot. Very much a lot.”

“You could say that,” you laughed.

“So what’s your plan?” He asked, releasing you.

“My what?”

“To get me out of eternal purgatory,” he said, his brow furrowed and speaking in a suddenly soft voice.

“I’ve got to think. Apparently we can’t stop you from dying every morning and coming back to life every night, so we’ll have to deal with that. Maybe every time you became, uh, this again,” you gestured vaguely to his spirit form which, if you saw in the street, you wouldn’t think anything of, “you could just come here, instead of facing trial.”

“So I’d spend half my time in a dingy cave filled with meaningless treasure and the rest of my time in a white desert.”

“Mm… doesn’t sound as good out loud,” you muttered, beginning to pace.

Together, you brainstormed, coming up with various, shoddy solutions to your dilemma. Every now and then one of you would get up and pace, eventually brought down by the other to the sitting position on the floor once more. This routine continued, till as you were rubbing your eyes tiredly, a thought came to you.

“Ahk,” you started with.

“Yes?”

“What am I the god of again?”

“The forgotten and abandoned. That, and, uh.. what was it… childhood love or something?”

“Exactly! The first part, exactly, I’m the god of the forgotten! I - I need to go for a moment,” you said, stuttering through your words as you went over your idea in your mind, churning it at record speed.

“Wait, don’t leave me!” He cried, grasping your wrist and igniting an old pain from an injury he’d given you long ago. You hissed and he relented, backing off quickly.

“I need to. I’ll be back in less than an hour,” you comforted him, holding his face in your hands. He sighed softly, leaning his head into your hold. “I’ll always come back for you.”

“Do what you have to,” he said finally, his hand lingering on yours as he pulled away. “I will be counting though.”

“I’m counting on it. Get it?”

“Ha, ha,” he said, rolling his eyes, but a genuine snort did come out. You grinned, leaving with a snap of your fingers.

Memphis seemed not to have changed too much. Statues of gods still lined temples and the palace, each and every animal being worshipped in some way due to their connection with a god. Keeping yourself invisible you entered the palace you once considered your home, crawling your way through shadows till you found the throne room. Atop the largest seat was Kahmuh, who seemed to be relaxing away his time. The servants in the room referred to him as Kahmunrah, a name which disgusted you, making you shrivel up your nose.

As you assumed, Ahkmen’s brother had risen to power. That left the other question you had; did he erase Ahkmen’s statues?

Racing around the palace and the streets of the city, it seemed so. Every reference of him was destroyed, the faces of once grand effigies tarnished by the hands of slaves ordered by Kahmuh.

“By all accounts,” you said, addressing the court at large, Ahkmen tucked safely behind him, not one for facing the stares of gods. “Ahkmen is a forgotten man.” The following words you did not wish to say in front of him, but it was necessary for the court to hear, and he needed to be there at all times during its’ proceedings. “History will not remember him, and if I do recall, I am the deity of the abandoned. I protect them. He has been abandoned by his family, and his city, his people, and they have all forgotten him.”

Ma’at looked unamused, but she always looked like that, so you were beginning to think that was just her face. She cleared her throat, looking down at the paper before her.

“You’re a new god,” she said, looking up for your confirmation which you quickly gave. “What do you do with these forgotten things you pick up?”

You stopped yourself from insulting her. Desperately you wanted to be able to respect her, but when she kept degrading Ahkmen, it was difficult.

“I protect them. They find solace in me, or whatever else they need, and I guide them.”

She nodded, closing her eyes in contemplation. You waited, watching each little micro movement of her face. The way she pressed her lips together, the small moment when her eyes closed tighter. You kept waiting, waiting for her word, but she said nothing.

“I would stay by his side when he is alive, and he will stay with me when he dies. I will make sure we do not cause any trouble,” you added when the silence became unbearable.

“You had a habit for causing trouble when you were living as a child,” Thoth noted in a quiet voice.

“It was a time of no great consequence. Please, I beg of you. Life isn’t fair but you can make it so, at least for just this one time,” you asked of them, watching in careful anticipation as they looked at each other, communicating in small looks and quirks. At last she turned to you, her face hiding emotions you could not fathom.

“Have your way,” she sniffed, “and care for this child. But if he is ever discovered, if he ever be remembered, leave him. At that point he will no longer be in your domain, and you must forget him.”

“Of course,” you immediately agreed, not thinking of any consequence. Leaving him when he is known would be better than leaving him when he would be sorely, terribly alone.

You held his hand tight, and with her dismissal you left, keeping him close to you. Your descent back down to the surface of earth was slow, and from your position you could watch tiny people flit about in their tiny lives, thinking their world so much larger than the others around them.

“Are you sure you made the right decision?” He asked, pulling himself closer to you.

“I don’t know. All I know is that you won’t be alone anymore,” you said, speaking softly, not meeting his eye.

“What if I am found?”

“Then you will make new friends.”

“None like you,” he murmured, holding your chin and forcing you to look at him. You sighed, casting your gaze downwards. You’d be utterly alone if he was found.

“No. None like you.”

+

By day you wandered the earth. Staying mostly in Kemet the scenery soon got boring, but it was better than the night. By night you spoke about anything, and soon everything began to run out. It seemed everything experienceable had already been done by you, and in his state, the numerous ways to live were limited. No new foods, no need to sleep. Days and nights grew long, everything meshing together till the only distinct in a hazy grey world was him.

It was the fate you had chosen for yourself. No more stars. No more drink or food, no pleasure such as the sun shining on full skin. It wasn’t long till Ahkmen forgot to count the days, too busy counting seconds, far too concentrated on looking over the carvings of his tomb for the five hundred and sixty fifth time. You kept time though, vigilantly. It was a way to occupy the passing time.

When you suggested leaving Kemet to explore the rest of the daunting world, six hundred years had passed. Six hundred years of feeling half the life of water around your ankles, six hundred years missing the taste of honey, six hundred years remembering what once was. Six hundred years loving him and never telling him.

“Where would we go?” He asked, and despite the years behind him, he still held the excitement of a child. You smiled wide, grabbing his hands in the dim of the cavern.

“I don’t know,” you said excitedly. He grinned, toothy and wide, just as enlivened as you had become.

That morning you helped him back to sleep, kissing his forehead, watching as he turned back into the rubble he had become. Then, pulling yourself out of your own body you helped him, reaching into the gulfs of his tomb and pulling his soul far away from the dank room.

“Which direction?” He asked.

“Wherever the wind may lead.”

With a strong gust of wind you headed northeast, and with all the speed you could muster, you were halfway across the world by midday. Surrounding you were mountains covered in snow, something you scarcely saw. In such large amounts it astounded both of you, shivering despite your half alive states.

“So, where do you suppose we are?”

“Asia?” You guessed.

“What’s Asia?”

“It’s uh, a place,” you stammered, unsure of how to define a continent.

“That’s so terribly helpful, thank you so much,” he sassed, crossings his arms in an attempt to keep warm.

“There should be a fire that way,” you said, pulling your shawl tighter over yourself and pointing down the slope.

“How can you tell?”

“I can smell it.”

“Stupid cat senses,” he muttered, trudging down through the deep snow.

You happened upon a group who called themselves Huns. They could not see you but you still sat with them, enjoying the warmth of their fire and rather joyous laughter. You couldn’t partake in earthly pleasure, but you could certainly appreciate the sound of laughter, and the obvious telling of stories, though you couldn’t understand the language.

“Mahjur,” he spoke softly, pulling you to the side with the biggest, clearest smile you’d seen on him in centuries. “Let’s come back here tomorrow.”

You agreed easily.

When one spends enough time listening to a language, one picks it up. After fifty years that’s what happened to your dear friend, as well as you. The stories they’d been telling you found were not especially innocent stories, but some were entertaining to hear. Ahkmen soon realized both of you were fluent in the language, and thus started a new expedition in his life.

“I want to learn as many languages as possible!” He said to you, and his vigor and excitement melted you, and you so easily agreed.

In your adventures you took him to so many places, interacting with nothing but seeing everything, like absent observers. If strong enough you could enjoy scents, leaning in too close to a pie who’s scent drifted from the open kitchen window, pressing roses too close to your noses to enjoy what it had to offer. You waded through massive oceans, finding warm and cold ones alike that, to both your surprise, ended up actually being the same ocean. The earth was one, big, massive ocean that had some land swelled up in it. Every evening without fail, before the stars could shine, before you could finally see their light again, he disappeared, and you rushed back to his tomb.

You always helped him out of his wrappings, and every night you’d talk about your experiences.

“These Roman people, they have fantastic food,” he said, focusing intensely on the memory of focaccia.

“You haven’t even tried it yet,” you giggled, staring mindlessly at him, caught up in your own admiration of him.

“I know, but you can practically taste it on the smell! And,” he looked at you, raising his eyebrows and pointing a finger at you, “I quite like the language.”

“It’s rather nice to hear, isn’t it?” You mused.

“It’s elegant! I can’t wait till I understand more of it!”

Two thousand years since his death and you returned to Asia, hoping to refresh some of your Hun, finding them speaking an entirely different language. Ahkmen looked distraught upon the town as they spoke the vastly different dialect. You shrugged, turning to him.

“Best thing is you’ll get to learn this one as well.”

He gave a small, sad smile, but agreed, sitting on a bench with you. Together you watched as families passed by, small children and men, women and merchants, speaking a language that sounded like garbled noises but rolled off their tongue so smoothly.

“I’m starting to recognize some similarities,” he said to you on your tenth day of observation.

“Well, it is the same continent.”

“Fair point.”

With the similarities it wasn’t long till he picked it up, speaking near fluently with you.

“Have you ever wondered if we’re actually getting it all wrong? That a thing we’re saying isn’t what we think we’re saying?”

“That was a confusing sentence to hear, but yes. However I think we’re getting it right for the most part,” you said.

Even in all your conversations, endless silences and endless talks he never once brought up what had bothered him so many centuries ago.

“I’m still in love with you!”

“Now isn’t the time, dearest.”

When was the right time?

You finally found out. Years of maturity helped you grow with him, and eventually you found your answer. No time was going to be right till you made it so.

As always, the cave was enveloped in darkness, not a single stream of light getting through the walls. He rested his head on your shoulder, dozing as you both leaned back, sitting on the floor.

“Ahk,” you murmured, your cheek pressed into the top of his head.

“Mm?” He hummed softly, half asleep.

“Do you remember what you said to me,” you took a sharp breath, “when we were being tried?” Anxiety seemed to replace every blood cell in your body, overcrowding your breath and halting your thoughts.

“I said a lot of things I’m sure.”

“You know,” you said, choking up for no particular reason, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Mahj?” He looked up at you, pulling himself away to look at you better.

“What I said must have hurt you terribly. I never meant to do that. I - I was just… nervous, I guess.”

“This… this is about, how I said that I still loved you?”

“… Yeah,” you mumbled, hiding your face in your pulled up knees.

He scooted closer to you, putting an arm around your shoulders and pulling you so you could rest your head on his shoulder. You calmed yourself listening to his breath, feeling the slow up and down against your body.

“I don’t mind so much anymore. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop loving you like that, but. I understand that you aren’t - you don’t think of me like that.”

“Don’t think of you like that? Are you insane? Ahk,” you tugged yourself away from his grasp, looking him in the face. “I loved you more than anything. I still do. My dearheart,” you held his face in your hands, watching as it grew red and teary, “I was scared. I’m not anymore. Not with you. Never with you.”

He let out a laugh, looking down in embarrassment as he grew more red in the face. Looking up he beamed at you, leaning in for a kiss sweeter than any shared before. No more words were shared that night, the only thing to be needed was one another.

Two thousand more years.

Four thousand since his death.

Four thousand years spent together, when one afternoon spent exploring whatever the hell a cars was, he suddenly shot up. You looked up from the black wheels with a concerned look, asking him what was wrong.

“Something’s terribly wrong,” he said, frowning and looking back at you. In an instant that confusion switched to fear, his eyes widening, mouth parting and hand reaching for you as he tried to yell, silenced by his own disappearance. You bolted upright, running towards where he was standing, grasping at empty air, hands shaking from shock.

“His tomb has been opened,” came a cool, familiar voice from behind you. You whipped back around, finding Ma’at in a suit, fiddling with the cuffs, bearing a human head upon her shoulders.

“Is he safe?” You asked, first and foremost, walking to stand in front of her, desperate for an answer.

“Yes,” she answered simply, looking at you as a lesser being, looking as though she was almost sorry.

You fell to the ground, sitting cross legged as you contemplated your own life. You had submitted yourself to this. She sat down beside you, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Visit him if you’d like, but do not show yourself. I will not punish you for that.”

Looking back up at her you found no deception, only a sadness that hit her too close to home.

“Thank you,” you murmured instead of crying, realizing that she was experiencing her own empathy. She nodded, patting your shoulder, and with that she disappeared.

You followed him, close behind, making sure he was safe, never interfering. Cambridge was his first stop, where the both of you, in separate lives, learned english.

Watch.

Watch.

Observe.

Please don’t hurt yourself.

From afar you watched him converse with the other exhibits that came to life from his tablet. From afar you watched him laugh, and from even further you watched him weep.

“I miss you,” he would say to himself when no one was around. He’d gotten a bad habit of talking to himself, but you knew the words were meant for you. They had to be.

“I know you’re listening. You… you wouldn’t give up on me that easily,” he’d say. “Would you?”

Never.

You watched from afar as he was transferred across the ocean, to a new land you never got the chance to see. The whole place was overrun with people, flooding out of the woodwork, flitting about in daily lives that they’d come to regret too soon.

You watched as he was locked in his sarcophagus.

Night after night.

Screaming himself hoarse, pounding so hard on the lid it’d rattle like windows in a harsh storm.

It became so difficult to watch year after year, but you stayed. Just in case. Maybe he could sense you were there. Probably not, but you would never leave him.

A change of the night guard and a healthy dose of thievery and fear led him to finally taking real, fresh air again. You gasped in your own relief, watching as he ran down the hallways, golden cape trailing behind him as he helped the strange man with the debacle he’d gotten himself into.

Sometimes he’d spend the night dancing, laughing and listening to the many stories each exhibit had. You smiled to yourself as you watched him live, glad his existence amounted to so much more than you could give him.

“I, uh,” he said, sitting down with a man who called himself Theodore, “I had this friend, once.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your breath halting in anticipation.

“Friend is a bit of an understatement,” he said, chuckling. “They were… I guess what you would call a soulmate. They gave up a lot for me.”

“Sounds like a good friend,” Theodore said.

“More than that.”

He explained how you were a god, and though it seemed the man didn’t quite believe him, he nodded, acting like he did.

“Mahjur, that was - that was their name.”

“Mahjur? I know that name. There’s a few stories concerning that god.”

You frowned. You hadn’t heard of these stories.

“Really?” Ahk asked, scooting closer. “Tell me one.”

“It’s long, so I’ll sum it up - the lesson is to be kind to everyone, as you never know if one could be a higher man! Such as your friend. In this, uh, story, Mahjur gave up everything to help this abandoned boy simply because the boy had been nice to them once.”

Ahkmen was quiet, absorbing the words, thinking of when you could’ve done that.

“They saved me. It’s foolish, but I think they’re still listening. I don’t think Mahj would give up on me. It’s probably just a fools hope though.”

“Never doubt hope, boy. That’s a foolish thing to do.”

Wise words, you thought to yourself, but you kept your eyes trained on Ahkmen.

“Perhaps you’re right. They would’ve done anything for me, least I can do is believe in them.”

Theodore pat his shoulder twice, leaving with a tip of his hat. Ahkmen watched as he rode off on his horse, resting his head in his hands once he was out of sight.

“I was right, Mahjur,” he said, and you perked up. His eyes watered as he gazed up at the ceiling, never spotting you from your hidden position. “I knew I'd miss you. I knew this decision of yours was a mistake.” His voice cracked and he wiped his eyes, sighing and leaning back against the wall. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes.

That evening, you paid little heed to Ma'at's warnings from so long ago. You snuck in and, atop his casket, you placed your gold necklace, and left before you could be seen. However, no matter what you told yourself, you couldn't stay to watch.

You couldn't come back.

[being-held]

There’s Something Strange About How It All Began by Alexis Pera

A draft piece for a book not yet written. Enjoy.

I.  eight when I first caught fire. It was a cold day in my village, as it usually was, near the shores of the lake where my family’s home was built. It was a small dwelling in my home region of Plivium. It rained a lot in Plivium, unlike the rest of Alienis, and no one knew why, or no one really cared. It was home, no one questions that. But, when  it wasn’t pouring, most Plivumians preferred to be outside. We kind of had to be, or else the work would never be done, the harvest never brought up, and the damages never fixed. So as my parents worked, I was free to roam and explore.

    Yet, out of all the land my parents had, all the forests and rivers and ponds, I loved my father’s garden, beautiful in every sense of the word. He had grown flowers of every color and nurtured trees so full of fruit we could never harvest them all. It was my favorite place in the entire world. I would run through the paths, looking up the entire time as I watched the trees rush by and the leaves brush my legs as I went. Who knows how many times I fell, or tripped, or just ran full on into things. My father would always scold me about being more careful, but he would have a smile on his face because he was more than amused by how happy I was despite having just run into a tree or tripped over some vines. My mother would be more upset, she didn’t like seeing me hurt, even if I wasn’t upset about it, and I always had bruises and scratches but a smile on my face. Of course, that all stopped the day I Specialized.

    Most children didn’t Specialize until they were older, when they were turning into grown men and women, but I didn’t. I was still a child, still scared of the stories my parents told me about Specializing, still carefree and unable to prepare for what would happen.

    Because gaining your Specialty and becoming one with nature was something that usually didn’t come in a nice package with a pretty bow. It was painful and unpredictable, and with my family’s bloodline, my Specialty was to be even more so.

    The wind was strong that day, or so I thought at least, and it kept growing more and more until the chill in my spine wouldn’t go away. Then my small kid brain finally realized that none of the trees or plants were swaying from its force, and that my clothes and hair were still in place. I was then wondering why I was so cold and why it felt like someone was waving cold air on my neck. I didn't have much time to think about it.

    A searing pain had bloomed in my temples, my vision and balance immediately going awry. It was paralyzing, and as I hit the dirt, a terribly cold tingling took over my hands and arms.

    My mother found me first, and she was the one who first saw the visible effects of what was happening. My fingers, hands, and lower arms had turned completely black, right up to my elbows. And though it seemed as if I stuck my hands into a smoldering fire pit, my skin was entirely numb to feeling. The headache had faded and vision only slightly better at that point, so I was left sitting on the ground staring at my arms as if they didn’t belong to me. In that moment, it didn’t feel like they did.

    Then the second wave hit.

    While my vision cleared enough for me to see and the overall pain had deadened to a dull throbbing, my arms sparked and white flames enveloped them. I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t stop it, I could barely see it, but I screamed and yelled and cried. My mother didn’t know what to do, neither did my father when he finally found us. They couldn’t come near, and my mother learned that the hard way. She hated seeing me in pain, so her motherly instinct to hold me, to comfort me, backfired when she tried. She now has a large burn scar down her right arm, a daily reminder of how dangerous I was.

    Because to the horror of myself, my mother, and my father, I had managed to inherit one of the rarest and most dangerous Specialties known to our world, called Aerdior. The unfortunate ability to conjure heat from one’s skin. My version of it, of course, came with the bonus of flames.

    I don’t remember the rest of that day. I just know that my parents had to reach out to one of our neighbors, who could manipulate water, to put me out. And that that day was when everything became different.

II.

    I can’t count how many times in a day I used to catch fire. At first, it was really often, every hour or so, and that’s how I was forced to learn how to will it away. And eventually I could. And after a month, it would go down to every two hours. And after another month, three to four hours.

    By the time I was nine, I could go at least two days without catching, on a good week.

    I also can’t count how many times I’ve hurt someone or something around me. It would come so suddenly, I never had enough time to get away from whatever I was touching. My father had a couple burns on his shoulders and arms, my mother on her fingers and hands. I banned myself from my father’s garden after I destroyed almost half of my father’s rare Cossia flowers, and later from even going outside when I injured a creature that had come too close. I spent most of my time in my room, where anything that wasn’t or couldn’t be fireproofed had been removed. I cried when my mother wanted to take my books, but my father, who taught me to love and cherish reading, spent almost two weeks trying to figure out a way for me to keep them. He finally found the perfect mixture of plants and special roots to create paper that couldn’t burn. And he then spent the next several months copying all of my favorite books onto the special paper so I could read them. I only have one of those copies now.

    I was terrified and paranoid of my Specialty, and of what I could do. No matter where I was or who I was with, I had to watch what I touched and how I handled things. Before long, I was labeling everything as burnable or unburnable, what I can’t touch and what I can, who I couldn’t take the chance on and who I could. It was an unbearable existence for a nine year old child.

    And then we moved.

    I say moved like it was optional, like we made the choice, but truly, we weren’t just changing scenery, we were running.

    I don’t remember much of it. One day we were happy; my mother, my father, me, and the little baby in my mother’s belly that we were all so excited for. Then the next, I was being dragged through the forest by my parents who kept insisting everything was alright. Right up until it wasn’t.

    My father died that day, protecting us. My mother will only tell me that without him saving us, we wouldn’t have escaped, we wouldn’t have made it to earth, the Connected World.

    It’s been nine years, and she still refuses to tell me more.

    But now, I only catch randomly, with no pattern. A rushing feeling will run down my spine, and then my fingers will start turning black. If I don’t separate myself from my surroundings and put all my willpower into making it go away, I will eventually catch, though it’s much slower on earth.

    My mother would always tell me that it was all a blessing in disguise, that coming to earth was good because I was less likely to hurt others. I used to believe that, and maybe a small part of me still does, but now I know that it doesn’t make a difference. Who am I to have a better life when my father never got to live the rest of his?

III.

    My little sister was born the day we came to earth. Because of the way we came, in the chaos and madness, my mother went into labor not even an hour after arriving. We had come through the Pathway into an old church, which had seemed to be abandoned with no one left to take care of it. I was the only one there to help my mother as she gave birth.

    It was a horribly long, terribly painful, and rather traumatizing experience that I would never like to experience again. But once it was over, we had another problem to handle. Because my little sister didn’t come out crying.

    My mother had pretty much passed out once the baby was out, so I was left to try to understand what was happening. It was, fortunately, not long before I realized that my sister wasn’t dead. She was still moving and her heart still beating, with her face scrunched up as if she wanted to cry but just couldn’t get it out. She was mute, a birth defect common to Plivumians.

    I had shifted my mother into a lying position and covered her with an old curtain I found, then proceeded to wrap my new born sister in the torn up cloth from my shirt. I held her as she slept, and didn’t sleep myself, and that night I named her. I never asked my mother after if she liked the name I picked, or of she was upset that I did, but I was fully convinced that my father would have loved it.

    I named her after my father’s two favorite flowers, the ones which he had spent years growing to be perfect for their blooming season, and the ones I adored more than any of the others. Her name was Pella Cossia, my little sister. And the only thing I thoroughly remember from that day, was the promise I made to her, that I would never let her get hurt, that I would protect her no matter the costs.

    I still keep that promise, and I don’t ever plan on breaking it.

IV.

    We found the dwelling, or town, as the earthans called it, that the church belonged to, and met many people who were confused about who we were and what had happened to us. One person called himself an officer, and he helped us find clothes and food. We also met a lady who gave my mother a job at a restaurant, which at the time was a very strange concept, as we didn’t have restaurants or food suppliers back in Plivium. But we adapted quickly, and it was only a year of taking help and staying in hotels before my mother could finally afford a home.

    It was a small, unkept, dirty place, but we were decent enough at cleaning and home-keeping to get it livable again.

    By the time we found out about school, I was twelve and completely unqualified. But due to the laws of the land, and the strict suggestions of anyone we knew, my mother thought it wise to send me to school. The idea of school seemed promising, an organization built to help children learn and grow in the world, but the actual reality of it was a lot more disappointing. The education part was pretty much an afterthought, as the talking, sports, and teasing took the forefront. I came to be a wallflower, even more so because of the... heat problem. People liked to point out that I wore sweaters and gloves all the time, even when it was warm; little did they know that I couldn’t feel warmth at all, or cold for that matter. The sweaters and gloves were more for a safety precaution(made of a special heat resistant material that took years to find and use), and a comforting mechanism.

    I caught up quickly; in my studies, that is. I was pretty much enthralled with anything I didn’t already know, as we didn’t have education anything close to Earthan education back home, where we learned to read, write, count, and that was it. In Plivium, reading more than what basic training required was like being a genius, which both my father and myself easily overstepped. But on earth, being an avid reader was somewhat normal, and even the small amount of people who actually enjoyed learning maths and science and literature were many more than at home. I also had more than enough time on my hands, as I still stayed cooped up in my bedroom with things least fire-prone. I had more books than clothes, and more library passes than shoes, which I was more than okay with. I enjoyed it, even if school itself was much less than fun and little more than torture.

    Though as high school came, with my Specialty growing stronger and more worrisome, my mother thought it time to pull me out. At that time, I wasn’t attached to school, as long as I got to keep the books and the library trips. My mother obliged, but, unfortunately, she was still listening to coworkers and neighbors. Because apparently, by the time your fifteen, your supposed to have a job. Which, of course, my mother and I thought strange and ridiculous, because the whole employment thing was an entirely different situation at home. But we adapted anyway, and I managed to get a job at a small bookstore in town, but only because it was run by an older lady who majorly needed help.

    I still work there today, and Mrs. Gorgio is like the grandma I never had, feeding me when I forget myself and praying when she knows my mother has a job interview. She instantly fell in love with Pella, and asks about her every day I come in. Pella doesn’t like books as much, preferring music and other loud ways of expressing herself, but she likes Mrs. Gorgio and the fact that the older lady wasn’t shocked to find she can’t speak. Pella comes in once a week, and is continually teaching Mrs. Goegio sign language so that it’s easier for them to communicate. I sometimes watch them interact, sitting in the big cushion chairs in the back of the shop, laughing and smiling and gesturing. It’s rather funny to see Mrs. Gorgio get the movements wrong, in which Pella will simply smile and correct her with gentle fingers.

    When we walk home together, Pella will sign to me the whole way, explaining what they were working on and how Mrs. Gorgio has the best taste in music and why the old lady always wears that rusty necklace around her neck. Though I trip on the bumpy sidewalks and my own feet watching her hands fly, I don’t ever shove it off. I know how much it means to her, and that she looks forward to that one day of the week when I take her.

    It also distracted me, helped me pretend that our lives were normal. And that we weren’t foreigners in disguise, tricking everyone into believing we belonged, when we really truly didn’t.

[feminist-propaganda]

The Star Wars Saga Is A Meditation On Single Motherhood

It recently dawned on me that the entire story line of the Star Wars saga is built on the lives, loves and tribulations of 3 generations of single mothers. There are monsters to slay and aliens to find and planets to explore, yes, but if you think about the powerful message in the movies, you’ll come to realize it was mostly a reflection on the status of single mothers, the outcomes of their offspring, and the conflict that lives forever in their descendants.

Each trilogy, once reframed, becomes the story of one woman, who finds herself in a situation that is as old as time. She is with child, but the person who planted the seed in her is not by her side.

Shmi Skywalker or The Good Single Mother

In the Phantom Menace, Jedi Knight Qui Gon Jin meets Anakin Skywalker, a slave boy with a talent for repairing machines. The Jedi knight is impressed with the child’s abilities. He’s knowledgeable, intuitive, and most importantly he’s also kind and thoughtful. When a sand storm threatens the group of travelers, Anakin takes them to his own home and offers them shelter. 

We meet Shmi Skywalker, who in many ways is the archetype of the good single mother. She is not just quiet. She has completely erased herself. She has no personality, apart from being Anakin’s caretaker. She expresses no needs, no desires, no dreams. She simply loves Anakin, and when she sees an opportunity for him to leave the desert planet ruled by the Huts, she doesn’t stand in his way. 

In a now famous scene, Qui Gon asks her about the child’s origins and Shmi famously responds “There was no father”. The line continues: “I carried him. I gave birth. I raised him. I can’t explain what happened”.

The immaculate conception myth refers to the idea in Christianity that Mary, much like Shmi, was impregnated by some magical force, a holy spirit. Both are parabols: images we use to discuss painful topics. Single motherhood has probably always been a part of the human experience. Jared Diamond explains in “Why Is Sex Fun?” that in terms of evolution, it is more rewarding for human males to be “super spreaders “ rather than “good fathers “ . The “good father” gene does not pass down to future generations, because in effect, not sticking around to raise the child is a better strategy for a human man to pass on his genes to the next generation. Not convinced? Just count how many women have been impregnated by a rapper like Future (8 last time I checked). If you’re not into hip-hop, you can think of the offspring of the Mongol Genghis Khan

The purpose of the parabol is to provide an image, to extract ourselves from the technicalities of onr person’s story and to instead talk about all single mothers at once. Indeed, single mothers come in all shapes and sizes. Some are widowed, some are abandoned, others are lied to, and some run away from abusive environments.

Shmi raises her son the best she can, and her love for him is unconditional. She doesn’t bat an eye when he is freed while she is to continue her life as a slave. She doesn’t even seem to mind when Anakin leaves the planet and never returns to free her, even after he marries into some serious money. 

But the story of Star Wars tells us that Shmi’s relationship to Anakin, because it was so fusional, because it was all that he had, led to his undoing. In Episode 2, when he senses she is in danger, he jeopardizes his mission to protect Padme to go rescue her. When he eventually finds her, he is so upset about her ultimate death that he commits mass murder, targeting the Tuskan riders of the sea of Dunes.

When Yoda first lays eyes on Anakin, he senses Anakin’s pain, he is just a child whose been ripped away from the only human that’s ever cared for him deeply. The turmoil inside the boy is palpable, and Yoda advises against training him. 

Padme Amidala or The Bad Single Mother

Anakin develops feelings for Padme, and in Episode 2 the pair decide to secretly get married in the lake district of Padme’s home planet Naboo. Their relationship is very intense. Both share a strong sense of civic duty: Padme was elected queen of the Naboo when she was just 14 &  Anakin is a keeper of the peace. They care deeply about issues such as how the galaxy must be governed, how much action needs to be taken versus when diplomacy must be prioritized. 

Their strong sense of service has made them lonely young people. They’re far away from their families, surrounded by advisors, servants and droids - not friends. 

They jump into their relationship with an eagerness that suggests it is their original caretakers they crave for.

Padme becomes pregnant while the Clone Wars are raging, and immediately Anakin begins to experience trouble with his sleeping. He imagines Padme is dying in childbirth, and the visions haunt him during the day. His fear that she will die ultimately leads to his decision to join the Dark side of the force. Senator Palpatine has manipulated him into believing that Sith Lords have discovered the power to prevent death itself. 

Just like his mother before him, we need to look at Anakin’s story in terms of symbolism. It isn’t really about his specific experience with fatherhood : it’s about the universal conflict that men feel towards their own offspring. Even the way it is announced to him, in the Senate chambers, barely hidden from the rest of the Coruscant elite, implies some sort of entrapment. The columns around them seem to be like a cage that is closing in on his life. He is in the middle of the Wars - he should be celebrating his victory over General Grivious, but instead he is stuck with his wife and he has to absorb her anxiety & reassure her. 

Anakin makes a weird, forced smile and says : “This is a happy moment.” But neither Padme nor the audience believe him. Nothing about him feels happy, he isn’t relaxed: he is tense.

At the end of Episode 3, Anakin attempts to kill Padme when she condemns the mass murders he’s committed against the younglings in the Jedi temple. Hr uses for the first time his “strangling” trick, which becomes his signature move in the original trilogy. 

Palpatine makes Anakin believe that he’s killed Padme, but the truth is somewhat more nuanced. She dies of heartbreak shortly after giving birth to twins. For anyone who thought this was corny, it’s actually been proven by the scientific community that heartbreak reduces your life expectation (it diminishes the size of the telomeres in your body cells, which is the molecule that helps replicate your DNA). 

As Lisa Feldman Barret wrote in How Emotions Are Made: 

Emotional harm can shorten your life. Inside your body, you have little packets of genetic material that sit on the ends of your chromosomes like protective caps. They’re called telomeres. All living things have telomeres—humans, fruit flies, amoebas, even the plants in your garden. Every time one of your cells divides, its telomeres get a little shorter (although they can be repaired by an enzyme called telomerase). So generally their size slowly decreases, and at some point, when they are too short, you die. This is normal aging. But guess what else causes your telomeres to get smaller? Stress does. Children who experience early adversity have shorter telomeres. In other words, emotional harm can do more serious damage, last longer, and cause more future harm than breaking a bone

More severe cases involve patients actually dying of a broken heart, the myocardia just collapses under the weight of the sadness the human feels.

The original trilogy should be re-viewed with all of this new information we have. In the 80s, when Empire Strikes Back came out, the “I am your father” line became instantly iconic. But the plot twist was more like an “Oh My gosh!” moment rather than a profound reflection on fatherhood. The audience sympathized with Luke not because his father had been absent and negligent, but because his father’s job was to serve a fachist leader. It was the actions of Darth Vader as a political servant that were questioned, not his refusal to nurture a smaller being. 

Padme is the opposite of Shmi. She is the archetype of the “bad” single mother. The bad single mother is the single mother who can’t deal with the situation and checks out of it. She collapses under the weight that she feels on her shoulders. She can't get over the heartbreak, she can’t find the will to live. 

Society tends to punish the Padme’s just as much as it praises the Shmis. Television programs like “Teen Mom” are set up to shame the young deviants into adopting the correct behavior. The purpose of the show is to judge these young women into becoming self-sacrificing mothers.

Leia Organa - The Non-single Single Mother

Leia Organa is Anakin Skywalker’s daughter. She is raised by an adoptive frailly on Alderaan after she’s separated at birth from her brother Luke. Much like her mother, she becomes a dedicated public servant, a trusted leader and a beloved public figure. 

She is raised by a wealthy family in the central galactic systems. The Organas teach her the ways of the elite political class. As an adult she serves the cause of the Rebels, and when she meets Han Solo in Episode 4, the mediocre smuggler fascinates her. 

In the now famous scene from Hoth in Episode 5, Leia declares her love for Han Solo right as he’s about to be frozen in carbonite. The ultimate bad boy responds his chilling, because realistic  “I know”.

Han is nothing compared to Leia. He drives a broken down ship, doesn’t have any morals or even a simple code of conduct, much less a cause that he’s dedicated his life to. He has nothing to offer her, and is definitely not in her league. But still, in Episode 6, the pair become an official item.

The last Trilogy was an opportunity to explore Leia’s experience with motherhood. By now we know that Leia’s grandmother was a “Good single mother”, she completely sacrificed herself to protect her son & more importantly she never questioned her status of sole caretaker (remember the “there was no father“ line). We also know that Leia’s mother was a public servant, and a passionate woman who allowed herself to fall deeply in love with a sensitive young man with a non existing support system. Leia’s mother was the “bad” single mother: driven only by her career (Queen of the Naboo, later a Senator of the Old Republic) she did not step up to the task when her destiny revealed itself to her.

Leia seems to share her mother’s taste in reckless young men with a lot of attitude and no emotional security to offer. It’s the excitement she craves, not the tranquility.

Her fate will be the same as her foremothers. She has a child with Han, but when she sends him away to be trained by Luke, she loses them both.

Their dialogue in Episode 7 goes like this: 

Han Solo : Listen to me, will you? I know every time you... Every time you look at me you're reminded of him.

Leia : You think I want to forget him? I want him back.

Han Solo : There's nothing more we could have done. There's too much Vader in him.

Leia : That's why I wanted him to train with Luke. I just never should have sent him away. That's when I lost him. That's when I lost you both.

The last trilogy develops Leia’s character in a way that allows her to be something else than just a single mother. She loses her husband, she even loses her son to the dark side: but she never loses herself. Leia doesn’t allow her condition to define her. She becomes a leader of the Resistance even if it means going after her son’s New order. 

In Episode 9, Leia even destroys her son to protect Rey - the symbolism is that she’s overcome her role as a mother, she’s rejected the notion that she must sacrifice everything for her son even if it goes against her own self interest (like Shmi). She also rejects the idea that her partner abandoning her is the end of her. It isn’t. Unlike her mother, she finds the will to live, and to lead the next generation of freedom fighters and peace keepers.

The saga ends on a hopeful note for all of us single mothers out there. It comes with a message for us : we don’t need to choose between the austere Shmi and the weak Padme. We can instead decide that this “single mom” problem is kind of like beauty : it lies in the eyes of the beholder.

Single moms don’t need to think of themselves as failures, they don’t need to live in modest conditions, they don’t need to beg society's forgiveness for merely existing. They don’t need to be ashamed. 

Single moms don’t need to erase their brains and their lives, and sink into an ocean of denial either. They don't need to be obsessed with their careers or caught up in romantic entanglements that are only going to exhaust them.

Single moms can just decide that they’re women, with beautiful, inspiring personalities and kind, loving hearts. Mothers are first and foremost, the leaders of the young, the protectors of the realm and the makers of the future. It’s not that it doesn’t matter that they’re alone. It’s that they don’t have to be alone at all.

[raidbossmadi]

People Like Us: What’s in your Head

If we were to step into your characters' psyche, what would it look like?

Sloane 

When you enter Sloane’s psyche you step into a vast forest, trees so large you cannot see their tops and canopies so thick you cannot see the sky between them. However this forest is neither dark or uninviting. Bird songs punctate the background noise and you can hear a stream somewhere in the distance. Walk for long enough and you’ll eventually stumble on the old cabin Sloane called home on Eden-4. You can find the present version of herself there tending to her daily business, Persephone curled up in the corner of the room watching Sloane work.

Just outside the cabin is an impossibly large painting sitting on an easel, on it the world turns into childish scribbles. If you approach it you’ll find that not only can you step into it but when you do you also turn into a childish scribble version of yourself. Sloane’s childhood lives inside this easel, the innocent young girl who never knew she was going to become a Siren. You’ll find that this part of her psyche operates a lot like a children's picture book,Child Sloane doesn’t think in words she thinks pictures, concepts, colors. Mommy and Daddy are green and calm one moment but can turn red and angry. Things grow and shrink here with little regard for actual proportion. If you encounter Child Sloane she’s very trusting, she assumes you're a friend. You are a friend? Aren’t you?

Or perhaps you see the stone bricked path leading to the right of the cabin, as you walk down it the sound of the forest disappears and a thick fog covers the sides of the path. The only way to go is forward. If you look out into the fog you might be able to make out the shape of something you aren’t sure what and it never gets any clearer. All you know is it is massive, it is ancient, and it is sleeping. You stay on the path and soon enough you’ll be in the dream of Vanagard, an old abandoned temple with a fountain in the middle that runs despite all logic saying it should have stopped years ago. Leda and Steele can be found here sitting on the edge of the fountain or walking around the temple proper. You get the feeling that this is something you could never fully comprehend, but you feel at peace here. Steele will not talk to you, you are not Sloane, She is here for Sloane. Leda is more chatty, you get motherly vibes from the moment you start talking to her, she wants to know what your relation to Sloane is, oh you’re friends? Make sure she’s not working too hard, she’s doing her best.

Maybe the sounds from just beyond the forest call to you and walk abruptly into the Pandoran desert. There are so many people here, a crowd that stretches on forever and they are loud. They turn to you, their eyes are flowers and vines spill out of their mouths yet still they talk, still they beg for absolution. You press on through the never ending crowd until you meet a wall, the Cathedral of the Twin Gods towers over you and towering over it are two silhouettes the only defining features on both red and blue siren markings.

“What’s the Password?” Shadow Tyreen asks her mouth full of razor sharp teeth, you stumble and guess things you know are important to Sloane, Flowers,Vines, Persephone.  Shadow Troy laughs gilded fangs ever present. “There is no password shitweasel, but good try.”  His mechanical arm lifts you up by the scruff of your shirt and puts you over the wall. You realize now the wall has no gate, the only way in was to be brought over by the shadow twins, they are protecting the temple only they decide who goes in or out.   Inside the temple things are much more welcoming, the people have faces and you recognize them. They wear the outfits of temple priests but their all Sloane’s friends, you see yourself among the priests and get a feel for what Sloane’s idealized version of you is like, it's all your best qualities. You walk into the throne room, it’s bathed in pink light and upon the dais sit idealized versions of Tyreen and Troy. It’s a little off putting to be fair, these are manifestations of what Sloane loves about each twin, they are far far friendlier than either twin would ever be in real life. Tyreen says things like “Dear brother, would you mind fetching Sloane, she’s running late for our date.” batting her eyelashes and talking in a too sweet tone. Troy is much the same, there's no tension here no anger or sadness. Everything in this temple is the best of Sloane’s life since joining the CoV and it’s welcoming enough you almost don’t want to leave.

But when you do and find yourself back at the cabin, it’s probably for the best that you don’t investigate the gated garden, as you step towards it the sky darkens and a chill runs through you. This gate creaks open and if you ignore your better judgement and enter anyway you’ll find that the garden is overgrown, weeds and giant thorny vines have taken over what was once clearly a vegetable garden. Continue on and you’ll watch as the vines destroy and overtake anything in their path.  You come across a young Sloane covered in cuts and scrapes.

“I don’t wanna go! Don’t let them take me!” she cries but as you reach to protect her the vines spring from behind wrapping around her legs and midsection pulling her kicking and screaming back into their mass.  Continue forward and you find bodies of scientists wrapped in the tangle, syringe or scalpel still in hand. “This is for your own good.” you hear them say as you walk past along with Sloane’s protests. You will continue to encounter the young Sloane desperate for you to save her but the vines will always win.

Eventually you come to a throne of thorns towering over the landscape,built on the bodies of all the people she’s ever killed, and on the throne, literally one with it, her legs lost in the tangle of vines sits the queen of thorns; Sloane but her markings replaced with thorny vines that cut into skin and bleed constantly. This seems of little consequence to the queen of thorns who merely laughs and fills her chalice with the spilling blood. Her smile shows gilded fangs and when you look her in the eyes, you know that all she wants is to see the world burn. To see humanity laid low for its treatment of her.  But she cannot leave the throne, it is her prison and you feel  safer knowing that this creature, this aspect of Sloane will never see the light of day.

Tyreen

Entering Tyreen’s psyche is entering a place that you cannot easily make sense of. It is a vast Eridian ruin with hallways that curve upwards and stairs out of Escher painting. 

In the center you find Tyreen sitting idly on a sofa that looks entirely out of place. She’s picking her fingernails or her nose, being casual really. What’s really off putting is the fact that every so often an image of Nyriad flashes into existence around the room. She doesn’t say anything but she’s there just long enough to unnerve you. 

If you follow a hallway long enough it’ll lead you somewhere, like Nekrotafeyo. Hostile and cold, the mantas are three times larger than they should be but when they get near you they turn to dust. Young Tyreen sits outside the ramshackle shack her parents built poking bugs with a stick. If you go inside the world turns grey and you feel a tangible sadness wash over you. Leda and Typhon sit vigil at the sides of a bed and in the bed, a sickly young Troy. He’s so small, and he’s getting smaller and smaller. 

You go back outside Tyreen’s a teenager now and Troy’s there too despite having just been in the house. He’s chained to her at the wrist she looks at it and promises she’ll find a way to get it off, that they’ll be free one day. 

Again if you look closely enough around the edges, Nyriad steps in and out of existence.

Or perhaps you see the neon city of Promethea stretching upwards higher and higher. Do the buildings ever stop? People walk past, they walk through you, you don’t exist to them. Tyreen sits on the street corner begging for food, shelter, for help. No one notices her. 

Again Nyriad flickers into being. 

The way to the great stone temple of Vanagard is shattered. You can still walk the steps but they are shaky and uneven. The fog is thick here and in it you can hear the pained noises of a creature beyond. The temple is shattered in two when you get there, literally half of it flowing into oblivion.  

“Not your fault... Shouldn’t be like this...We aren’t a monster…” The words of Nyriad fade in and out. She’s more solid here than anywhere else but you can tell she can’t stay in one place. Her image flickers and vanishes when you try to get close to it. 

Beyond the sofa that Tyreen sits on in the middle of her mind scape is a door and when you open it the darkness of the ruins is bathed in golden sunlight. You walk in and find a room made of gold. Women nude save for their faces which are covered by the solid white masks of the handmaidens. They lounge on daybeds and chaise lounges holding grapes and offering them to you. There is however one person with a visible face, Sloane, who sits demurely on a throne dressed in a lavish gown. Everytime to you try to reach her though the throne gets slightly farther away. It’s not until she laughs at your attempts to reach her and approaches herself that you get any closer to her. Like she willingly has to choose to want to be close to you for that to be allowed to happen at all. 

The atmosphere changes when Sloane steps off the throne though, all the other women disappear, the gilded chamber turning to a comfortable house instead. 

You thought you were heading back to the main chamber but instead you find yourself in a black empty void. 

“T-Ty….help me.” You hear Troy call from all directions. His pain is palpable in the air.  You aren’t even sure what direction you're going in but the cries for help get louder. 

“You lied to me! You lied, again Tyreen!”

“No! That should have worked! Why didn’t it work? This was a mistake we never should have left…” you think that the space might be shrinking. You feel walls you can’t see closing in around you. Just before you can be compressed into a cube the blackness explodes. 

Towering above you is a massive vault entrance. An eye peers out of the vault inhuman and angry, the destroyer. Tyreen stands at the base of the vault  so small in comparison.  

“I understand. We could be gods. That would save Troy. Thank you.” She whispers to no one in particular. Nyriad stands behind her shaking her head frantically, her vision misinterpreted; she tries to touch Tyreen to get her to turn around but fades from existence before she can. 

You stumble out of the void you found yourself in and follow instead an iced over path walking down it you end up in a statue garden in winter. You look at the statues, they're all Tyreen’s friends and family. She sits in the middle of them all crying, she never wanted this to happen.  She reaches for the one of Leda, but it cracks and crumbles as she touches it. 

“Can you ever forgive me, mother.” 

Troy

When entering Troy’s psyche you find yourself in an editing room with only one computer turned on. Troy sits at it working away cursing under his breath. Something about nothing ever turning out quite the way he wants it to. If you try and approach he’ll put up a hand and push you away. Can’t you see he’s working?

A screen lights up despite being off a second before you walk towards it and fall into the screen. You’re on Nekrotafeyo, at least you think you are? Chunks of it open up in gaping holes in the sky and ground visual representations of the holes in his memory. They leak sweat and blood, it’s getting hotter out here. You have no choice but to run for the shack at the edge of it all.

Inside you are very small. An ant, while everyone else is so much taller, Typhon, Leda, a young Tyreen perched on the bed. All the giants speak in soft whispers.

“He’s getting sicker you know.”

“He’ll be alright.” Leda promises.

The temperature in the house is rising again. You climb the tree sized bed post to get to the top. You see Leda cradling her young son in her arms offering him her siren energy. The house begins to cool again things seem calm and serene almost. You’re no longer ant sized, you can make it out of the house again. The computer is waiting for you.

Falling back through the screen you notice things have changed, You’re on the bridge of the Centurion now. Troy stands next to his sister desperately trying to break free from the chain that binds them left wrist to left wrist it’s blue on her end and red on his.

“I don’t want to do this Tyreen! You lied to me! You lied to me then held this” he thrusts the chain at her. “Over my head. What kind of loving sister does that. Oh you’ll die if you don’t come with me, what the actual fuck Ty?”

“I… I didn’t mean it to hurt you. You don’t understand now but you will Troy, you will. This is for both of us.” Tyreen begs as she talks the chain morphs into a two headed snake sinking its fangs into both of them but neither seem to notice this.

The stone stairway is missing every other step and you have to take care not to fall into the fog. It seems hostile like it knows it should be here. The other half of the  Vanagard temple is here but it’s a collapsed heap on stone and rubble, the fog covering most of what remains. The broken half of the Eridian rune that sat above the door flickers with red light every so often but it is swallowed by the fog. Take care as you leave, you wouldn’t want to fall.

The cathedral is a medieval castle, with everyone in time period appropriate clothing. Peasants begging for an audience with their king, the broken and forlorn being allowed in to speak with him. You note that half  the castle staff are all disabled in some way but this does not seem to hamper them, they are valued here. You walk into the king’s chamber Troy sitting on a regal throne, a gilded crown on his head and a matching golden prosthetic replacing his oversized one.

“I’ll send what help I can.” He tells the serfs before sending them away. Tyreen is seated next to him though she’s snoozing away letting her brother deal with the diplomacy.

“Troy!” A high pitched voice comes from the window and in flutters a pixie Sloane who lands on his shoulder. “You’ve been working so hard all day, you should come out to the garden and relax.” She says in a singsong voice poking him on the nose.

He laughs and agrees with her, shaking Tyreen awake and then all heading out to the garden.

You try and follow after but find yourself instead in a junkyard. Hundreds of broken toys and robots all piled up on each other.

“Broken.” The wind whispers. “You’re broken. You will never be anything but a broken little man.”

Troy sits in the middle of it all, but only the left side of him. The right is a void that he claws at desperately.  The void pulls in anything to close to it including you as you try and get away but it takes you anyway.

You find yourself back in the editing room but now Sloane is there, perched on his desk. Sunlight shines from behind her as she smiles and asks what he’s working on. He answers and she laughs at the light spreading across the room enveloping him. Flowers start blooming in the cracks in the tile.

You get the feeling everything will be ok in the end.

[tigereyes45]

Can you write something with someone giving Doc love and respect? Bonus points if its not Donut (I love donut but I want more than just him to love doc 😫)

Thanks for this request! I went for probably the rarest dynamic in the fandom but I enjoyed working on this! Here’s the Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429991 (If you want it gifted to you let me know!)

                                                  Rediscovery

Carolina wasn't all too sure as to what Doc's whole thing was. Even now as she watches him pacing around the kitchen she couldn't really figure out why he was still hanging out with them. Donut was gone. As far as she had seen the red soldier was the only one even remotely close to the purple clad medic. Did he have no where else to go? He had been friendly enough with Temple's lot. Surely he could find another group of friends on Chorus. Even she had managed to meet, some people.

Slowly sipping from the cup of hot chocolate in her hands, Carolina silently ponders. Every reason she conjures can be wiped away with knowledge of just how this group works. Maybe he feels loyal to them? If he did he wouldn't have betrayed them for an AI posing to be a god. Did he like them? Grif had made it clear that Doc doesn't like any of them. Not a single one, save for perhaps Donut. If all he cared for was the one of them now gone then why? If it wasn't for Washington and Church she wouldn't have stayed long enough to even care for the others. If it wasn't for Church she wouldn't have stayed long enough to actually give a damn about Wash.

"Carolina?"

With an expression she can only describe as total and utter despair Doc stands stock still just beyond the counter. Watching her with small, beady, brown eyes. She couldn't see but Carolina would bet that his knees were knocking against each other. As soon as her gaze meets his, the medic looks away.

"Sorry, um, but I just," he stops and looks down at the coffee cup. "Didn't you make that for Washington?"

With a brief glance she sees that he was, in fact, correct. She bites her lip. Letting a hiss out Carolina sets it down. "Yeah though I doubt he'll drink it now."

"Haven't you two shared beers before?"

"Yeah," but that wasn't the problem. She had become so distracted that it was lukewarm at best. Only the soulless drink hot chocolate lukewarm. "It's too cold now."

"Oh I'm sure you can heat it up real quick in the microwave." She must've made a face because he immediately backtracks. "Or, or not! I'll just start making another cup for him! Well for you too take to him! Tucker still doesn't want me too close to Wash. Apparently his injury uh, made him too gullible." He turns around and starts opening the cabinets. With almost every door open he finally finds the right shelf. He's lived here for months already. How does he not know where their cups are yet?

"Not that I can blame him! I did try to kill them, and I betrayed everyone. Even Donut." There's a sadness in his voice then. Not the pathetic kind of tone that made her feel pity for him. Then disgust at feeling it. That emotion she's still not sure how to deal with.

"So why'd you do it?"

With a jolt he goes rigid. The sky blue mug he just pulled down goes flying. It smacks against his finger before spinning as it hurdles towards the ground. Acting on instinct Carolina runs around the bar between them. As if coming out of a trance Doc drops, hands held out in front of him like a mitt catching a baseball coming straight down at it. Somehow he was fast enough to save the mug. Though he fell on his ass right after. "What?"

"Why'd you do it?" He humbly looks down at the mug in his hands. Carolina crouches down. She looks at it too. It wasn't one Tucker or Caboose had gotten while out shopping. This wasn't their color. Even though they were blue team, the two of them didn't like shades of blue that were so light. It was too close to his color. Casually she takes the cup from his shaking hands. With dull eyes Doc's head follows the mug. His body never really stops moving. Not even when he's sitting down. On that it was easy to relate to him. "Why did you betray Donut?"

For the first time he looks her in the eye. He still wasn't confident. Carolina's not sure if he has ever been confident in his life. Well there was that time he supposedly helped saved Wash in the Labyrinth. Apparently he was more confident then Wash was. Given how it was David's nightmare scenario it was probably easier for others to be confident in it. A shiver runs down her spine. She should have been there for him. If she had just been faster about getting over that fight,

"I don't know."

Simple and honest. What did she expect? Some long winded answer about all the little things they had done to him and how it built up over the years? Well that would be more in character for people who've dealt with the reds and blues.

Carolina rests the mug back on the counter. Standing, Carolina cracks her neck.

"Fair enough."

"What?"

Shrugging Carolina offers him a hand. "I said that's fair enough. So why are you still here?"

Timidly he takes her hand. With a firm grip she pulls him up easily. He feels like a small sack of potatoes to her.

"Ah well will I don't know work answer that too?"

"It could but I think that's a lie."

"But it worked the first time?" His voice cracks on the but. It was sort of funny.

"The first time you were honest." She lets him go and absentmindedly runs a finger around it's edge. "Not knowing why you betray this bunch is easy. But sticking around." He leans on the counter next to her. "You know why you're still here."

"I guess it's nicer then being alone." Simple and honest. It was starting to be his theme.

Carolina slides the mug across the counter towards him. He catches it easily without even looking. Those beady eyes were zoned in on something in the distance. An image she just can't see. A moment she's not a part of. It's not so bad being part of the watching of when a person lives one of those moments again. A silent comrade in the now. An anchor. Lately all it feels like is that she's weighing everyone down. Though she rather it be her then Wash burdened with that feeling.

"Could've gone with Donut."

Doc chuckles. "I could've. I love him. Well loved. Maybe I still do. I don't know." He runs a hand through his graying hair. How much stressed caused that? "We lived together before. Twice. Out of everyone we were the two abandoned. TWO TIMES." His laughter grows darker, slower.

"It was just us and Lopez once. Which was nice. The second time it felt like there was something off. It was like he had grown or changed. I was the same." Doc taps the mug against the grayish blue marble counter. "You know who else hasn't changed?"

"The reds and blues."

"Bingo. They were the same more or less. The same and they needed help. You freelancers, you can fight. I can't save someone from dying but I have something to do when I'm around them."

Carolina nods slowly, listening closely. "They have changed."

"Yeah they did, Eventually. In a gradual, slower then a fucking snail sort of way. I haven't changed since I had to deal with having my head to myself again. Then finding out he wasn't really gone. There was still an imprint in my head. A twisted distorted feeling. He was still there. I craved to have him there."

"They make you feel stronger. AIs."

"They do, but I think I'm starting to feel strong without him. I'm becoming me again." Doc finally sets the cup back down. It rings out one last time. He pushes himself off the counter and smiles. Taking an easy stance he rests his hands on his hips and looks back at her. Finally free of that memory. "And these guys were the last people who knew me before O'Malley. I feel closer to the old me around them, and if I can help, even from a distance I'll stick around for that."

It didn't take finding someone who knew the old her for Carolina to heal, but being with these assholes was nice. They helped push that progress along.

"It sounds like you have a plan."

"For once, I do!" He says it so cheerfully, she can't help but smile. It's the happiest she's ever heard him sound.

She grabs the mug and pushes it back into his hands. "Why don't you take Wash his drink?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah Doc. You aren't the only one of a journey of recovery."

"Thanks Car."

"Carolina."

"Right. Carolina. Sorry." He dips his head back down.

"Don't worry about it. I don't let anyone call me by a nickname." Doc smiles and somehow he knows right where the hot chocolate packets are. "And Doc,"

"Yeah?" He looks nervously back over his shoulder.

"You'll find yourself again. It just takes time."

There's a falter in his nervous smile. A simple moment when she thought she saw doubt. It's gone in a flash. He goes right back to making the hot chocolate.

"Thanks Carolina. I hope I do."