#everyone has things they carry and scars and wounds and marks from their history

[thedoubteriswise]

okay so. I am a smart adult with many important responsibilities. I have good taste and care about things that matter. for this reason, I’ve been trying to identify where in cql canon wangxian manage to fuck.

because they definitely do; I like a good post-canon getting together fic as much as the next guy, but it’s just not realistic.

allow them. it’s already been so long.

(just like this goddamn post turned out to be, let’s do a cut)

right. so initially it looks like you could place this right after the time skip in episode 33, because it shows us that wwx is with lwj in cloud recesses. we know that he spent the night in the jingshi because he wakes up there the next morning before he goes for a nostalgic tour of his old school.

and also visits the cold spring, where lwj is mostly naked. nice.

but wait! wwx is surprised by the scars on his back and chest. that seems like something he would have known about if they’d already been naked together the night before, so I’m going to say they did not fuck immediately upon wwx’s return to cloud recesses. okay, fine, they’re taking things slow, that’s cool.

maybe they could work it into the next night, then. oh wait, lqr is injured and... staying in the jingshi? for reasons?

I don’t know why. he must have his own house in cloud recesses, and it’s probably at least as comfortable as lwj’s, but here he is. he lives to stop his nephew from getting laid, I guess.

the next day they do some Q&A with the kids and determine that they need to head to qinghe to figure out what’s going on with this sword thing. great! we love a romantic road trip, plenty of alone time. but they also have to do their jobs, and then jin ling needs to get rescued from a wall of dirt, and jc is unfortunately there being himself, and then they have to grill nhs about his tomb full of angry sabers, etc. etc.

with all that going on, their next obvious chance is at the inn immediately after interviewing nhs. this evening has already included:

wwx gazing lovingly at lwj from afar

lwj carrying wwx on his back

lwj pawing at wwx’s robes trying to deal with his cursed leg

lwj helping wwx up the stairs, serving him wine, fixing his flute, and generally being at his beck and call

a very sexy and homoerotic duet

and now they’re alone and drooling over each other as usual. this seems like a plausible spot, right?

it does! but no. after they go back to the nie basement o’ swords and hear the backstory on nmj’s death, we see them walking in yueyang and lwj asks wwx how the curse mark on his leg is doing. wwx says it’s almost healed, which may or may not be a lie, but his inner monologue says:

he’s more concerned about the wound on his arm from the sacrificing curse, which lwj doesn’t know about, because wwx won’t tell him and they still haven’t been naked together.

also, this silly teenage shit doesn’t make much sense unless they’re still dancing around each other.

you guys love the sound of opportunities as they go flying past, don’t you?

right after this, lwj gets drunk. I’m aware that Stuff Happens in the novel scene that inspired this bit, and they do incorporate some of that into the show by having lwj commit petty larceny and admit that he “likes rabbits” as part of the softest and most loving conversation in human history oh my god

but lwj goes to sleep right on time, and the next morning, wwx is laughing and reassuring him that nothing happened.

after this, it’s time to go on a fucked up field trip with the kids in yi city, so they don’t really have any time alone for a few episodes until they’ve finished that and everyone is back at yet another inn. I wonder if they learned something about wasted chances and poor communication from this miserable songxiao story?

maybe! look, they’re being cute and domestic. there are currently no material barriers preventing them from having sex, nor will there be any specific evidence later on proving that they didn’t.

but they’re still firmly in mystery-solving mode and the juniors and lxc are floating around. the vibe isn’t quite there. if I were to pick the most solid reason why I think they’re saving room for jesus at this point, it would be the tension that happens when wwx again asks how lwj recognized him. lwj asks why his memory is so bad, and wwx replies that he wishes he had a bad memory. even though they’re comfortable and happy being together, there’s still some fundamental distance remaining. there’s no sense of romantic resolution. that was actually a point against all their previous opportunities as well; they’re all very sweet, but none of these feel like the place in a story where the romantic leads Officially Get Together.

okay, off to koi tower! shit is getting extremely real. everyone’s busy insinuating that they recognize wwx, but no one is saying it explicitly. wwx isn’t supposed to be here. the guy he’s pretending to be also isn’t supposed to be here. he and his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s brother are trying to figure out if his boyfriend’s brother’s boyfriend is a murderer. no one is comfortable and the political intrigue leaves no time for fucking in front of anyone’s salad.

I guess there’s plenty of time to make dozens of armed guards and like half the people they know wait while they have a romantic moment, though.

could they be more in love? And that sure feels like a romantic resolution that might be followed by narratively-earned sex.

ah. no, unfortunately wwx gets stabbed again. this certainly sucks, but it does have the helpful consequence of making lwj take him back to cloud recesses, where they are mostly alone and as safe as they can be in the circumstances. now there’s even more tenderness and also some plot-justified touching and skin exposure. plus, lwj just made a very public declaration of love.

too bad wwx has probably been unconscious since he started coughing up blood in the forest near lanling. he’s also still visibly in pain. fresh abdominal wounds tend to kill the mood.

but hey, the injuries on this show are only as serious as they need to be to move the plot forward and facilitate gentle h/c scenes, so by evening he’s looking perfectly healthy and walking around under his own steam like nothing’s wrong. I guess that problem can be ignored moving forward.

lxc then offers the the most devastating highlights of lwj’s backstory, like, all at once. it’s nice that he includes a flute solo to give wwx a second to process this mountain of terrible information. what the fuck.

there he is! the most devoted man in the whole world! turns out they can actually be more in love after all.

and then the following scene... look, I’m lazy and I don’t know how to make gifs, but screenshots cannot properly convey how good it is. you all know. the hesitant way wwx approaches, the slow and gentle piano version of wangxian, the two of them watching the snow together, it’s. ugh.

remember how I was talking about how the last scene with no material barriers was an unlikely candidate because of the lack of romantic resolution?

well, here’s wwx still being cagey at the beginning of this conversation.

and here they are in the middle of this conversation, having some epiphanies about the course of wwx’s life - I love this shot for a lot of reasons, but I extra love it because it shows wwx out in the snow, with lwj as the safety and warmth waiting behind him, god this show goes hard, holy shit

they both recall their vow to live with a clean conscience and internally say some very corny things about each other because they are both So Much, and then,

ah, what the hell. he can say it out loud after all. romantic resolution accomplished.

and then the camera slowly pulls away as wuji plays.

a slow zoom out? swelling music? listen, I am a connoisseur, I know a tasteful fade-to-black indicating a sex scene that won’t happen on camera when I see one. at last, we have a winner!

now you may think this post is finally over, but I actually have one more piece of evidence for you - the next scene shows the two of them the morning after, meditating behind a screen in the hanshi while lxc is waiting for jgy to show up.

before wwx got de-cored, he was a pretty powerful cultivator, right? the chances that he’s just bad at meditating or that he can’t stay focused on this task seem slim to me. so why does he keep falling asleep?

well. he had kind of a late night.

[wellhellotragic]

These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal 1/2

Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself.  It’s not his fault. 

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

Rating: Mature (mostly for language)

A/N: I'm a day late but hopefully not a dollar short. Happy birthday to @searchingwardrobes​. This woman has the most generous heart and I hope she knows how much she is loved and appreciated by all of us! If AO3 is more your jam...

She’s been listening to Annie drone on for the better part of their lunch break. The girl is sweet, she really is, but she talks. A lot. So much so that Emma started to tune her out sometime between finishing her chips and opening her brownie. She nods her head in what she hopes are all the right places. But when she hears Killian’s name, Annie has her full attention again.

“I wonder what he’s like in bed.” It’s said with the longing sigh of a high school girl with her first crush and Emma has to physically hit her chest to dislodge the bite of brownie she just choked on. “Have you and he ever...”

The sentence drops off but Emma knows exactly what Annie is getting at. Have she and Killian ever slept together. The answer is no, despite half of the station house being 100% sure they have before. Past tense. No one thinks it’s happening anymore.

“No.” Her voice catches and she hopes that the woman doesn’t pick up on it.

“Well he’s a goddamn masterpiece. I mean, just look at those arms!” Emma is well aware of how toned his arms are. She used to be intimately familiar with them. "I can only imagine how cut he is under that uniform. Like a flawless Greek God.”

It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.

But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself. It’s not his fault. Liam was always so headstrong and there was no way Killian could have talked him out of confronting the guy.

Sometimes she still has nightmares. She sees the gun raise in slow motion but she’s frozen. In her dreams the bullets get her too and she falls to the ground right next to Killian. She watches helplessly as he tells her that he loves her, and then he’s gone and all she can do is wait for her turn. That’s when she wakes up gasping for air, clutching her chest.

That’s not what really happened. But the truth almost feels worse. She heard him yelling for backup over the radio. Heard the officer down call and then nothing. The speaker went silent. She and Boothe raced there, sirens blaring, red lights run. They were the next on scene.

Liam was already gone. Boothe told her that, but at the time, her only focus was on Killian. There was so much blood and it was all she could do to keep it together enough to keep pressure on both of his wounds. Boothe tried to help, but she wouldn’t let him. She couldn’t bring herself to let Killian go, so instead she screamed at him to get away. That she had it.

She heard the ambulance coming, but it was still blocks away and Killian was fading. She pleaded with him to hold on. To stay with her. To stay for her. But he was tired and she knew he’d given up. When he told her that he loved her, that he’d always loved her and he was sorry that he never told her before, she knew it was a goodbye.

He lived by some miracle. The doctors couldn’t even explain it, but he didn’t come back whole. He changed after that. Those fleeting glances, the flirtations and innuendo, the easy physical affection all gone now. He’s shut her out. He’s shut out the world and whatever chance they once had is now long gone. She’s never stopped loving him, never will stop, despite him being lost to her now.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

He’s a Captain now, a dream that came at the expense of his brother’s life. One that he resents to his very core. He puts on a mask, but she can see it when he doesn’t know she’s looking. When he’s in his office with the blinds only partially drawn. The way his barely visible hands ball into fists. It’s a nervous habit, one she noticed for the first time when they were studying for the detectives exam.

He’s been clenching the armrest of the couch for the better part of twenty minutes, and while it didn’t bother her at first, realizing that he’s now starting to leave marks in her favorite sofa may be the final straw in an otherwise frustrating night. He knows all of the answers, more than her and he’s still stressed about failing, when it’s become painfully obvious that she’s the only one that should be worried.

It’s not that she hasn’t studied, she’s just not great with standardized testing. She over thinks everything and starts contemplating of all of the unnamed variables that could affect the answer, and how is she supposed to know if the drop of red paint is significant? Are they in an industrial warehouse or in the middle of a grassy park? Are they sure it’s paint and not blood splatter? How is she supposed to answer without knowing the facts?

He’s told her twice tonight to get out of her own head, to focus on her gut, that it’s never lied to her before, but it’s easier said than done, especially when she hasn’t been able to convince him of the same damn thing.

“Killian, you’ve got this. Why are you so worked up?”

He takes a deep breath and she can see a storm brewing behind his eyes. He’s rarely like this. So serious and stoic.

“It’s not,” he pauses, thinking over his words. He’s also rarely at a lose for those too. “Swan, I’m not worried that I’m going to fail the test. It’s more that I’m worried I won’t live up to expectations.”

“What expectations? Everyone up at the station loves you, lord knows why, but they do.”

She shoots him a wink, hoping that he realises the teasing for what it is, but the sad lift in his lips he gives back shows that her attempt at cheering him up has fallen flat.

“Liam wasn’t just top of his class in the academy, and he’s not just the fastest promoted officer in recent history. He’s always been the best at everything, and he’s one of only three people in the history of the Boston PD to get a perfect score on his detective’s exam. He’s set this bar and it’s so high that I’m scared I’ll never live up to it.”

She’s up and off the floor before she knows it, at his side, grabbing one of his clenched fists.

“Hey, you have to stop trying to compare everything you do to how Liam would do it. You aren’t the same person. Liam, he’s, well, he’s a little self righteous if you ask me.” He tries to interject, and she knows he’s about to defend his brother, but she won’t let him. “No, he is. And I get it. You two had it rough and he had to grow up too fast. But Killian, it’s okay that he’s so formal and by the books and that you aren’t.”

He’s eyes are fixed on hers, and she can still see the doubt, the fear of failure he lives with daily. He’s usually better at hiding it, but sometimes when it’s just the two of them, he lets the mask slip. He’ll let her in, just in the rare moments that he needs her support to fight away the self doubt.

“And just between us, of the two Jones brothers, yours is the company I prefer.”

She can hear him take a hard swallow just as she closes her eyes, letting her body move forward. Letting her feel his lips against hers, unresponsive, but only for a moment before he’s moving in tandem with her.

The kiss isn’t long. It’s happened a handful of times before, usually when one of them was drunk or had just made a big bust. And it never went beyond that. It’s never gone beyond that, and even though sometimes she fantasizes about what it would be like to be with him, to really be with him, she’s not sure she can take the risk that she's wrong about him. She’s been burned before, and can’t lose Killian that way too.

She thinks he understands, that he feels the same way since he’s never tried anything more.

They break apart and without hesitation, she moves back to her spot on the carpet next to the coffee table to grab her book.

“Just making you take your own advice to get out of your head for a minute.” She winks at him again and this time there’s an audible chuckle.

He got a perfect score on that exam, just like his brother before him. She did well enough to promote not long after him. She got assigned to homicide while he got his dream job in the narcotics division one floor up.

It was strange at first, not seeing him everyday on patrol, instead only getting glimpses of him on the elevator or in the lobby in the morning. Having to schedule drinks at the Salty Wench a couple of nights a week, which eventually became a once a month thing. It was okay though. Both of them were excelling in their careers. She got partnered with August within a month of becoming a detective, something she still thinks was likely a PR stunt from media relations. Something to boost the PD image. The two of them, the posterboard for troubled teens now respected law enforcement professionals. What a glowup story.

“And what pray tell are we talking about over here ladies?”

August wastes no time in pulling up a chair to their little table in the back corner of the breakroom. Emma’s always admired him that; the ease he has in any situation with any group of people. He’s always been confident in a carefree way. Guess that’s a win for nature over nurture.

“Oh, not much. Just the renasonician piece of artwork that is Captain Jones.”

“Whoa. That’s a big negative ghost writer. That pattern is completely full.”

Emma doubt’s that Annie understands the reference, but the point is made as Annie’s face falls.

“So he’s taken then?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that taken is necessarily the word for it. He’s just not into dating any of the lovely ladies right now. Hasn’t been for awhile.” She appreciates the way August keeps things casual. Taking the emotional boulder from Emma’s shoulders onto his own. “But, I can give credit where credit is due.”

There’s a moment, just after Annie notices the way August is taking in Killian’s form as he leans against a beam, reading a file while he waits for his lunch to finish warming up. Emma can see the exact second that it finally dawns on her. That August Boothe has a type that neither of them fit.

“Wait!” It’s almost a screech and Emma has to move her hand in front of her face to hide in embarrassment. “Is he? Are you two, you know?”

He’s about to make a quip, something that will leave Annie guessing for days, but she can’t do that. Can’t let the rumor mill stir up anymore about Killian than it already has.

“Please, he couldn’t handle it. Even on a bad day Boothe here is way out of Killian’s league.”

“Damn straight!”

She and August don’t even have to look at each other to give the perfect high five. It’s just muscle memory at this point.

August does make another quip, one about how the new DA is more to his standards and how he’d catalogue his evidence any day. It’s a stupid joke but it makes them all laugh. She doesn’t even think, the amusement slipping from somewhere deep inside her.

She usually tries not to call attention to herself when Killian is around, preferring to blend into the background like a wallflower. But this time she’s caught off guard, and between the three of them, they’ve made a scene. She stops, but it’s too late. Even without looking up she can feel his eyes on her, can feel the contempt he has for her even just being in his presence.

She doesn’t know how to fix it. The thing that broke between them. She’s not even sure what she did wrong. But it’s done, whatever it was, and there’s no mending it.

He grabs his tupperware out of the microwave, not even letting the timer finish and throws it away in the trash can next to the counter, and without so much as a word, only the tensing of his jaw, he’s gone.

It stays the same, day in and day out, week after week, month after month. She does her best to avoid him, and he her. Her assignments usually come by way of Lance, the poor middle man trying to keep the peace. Her case reports move through Lance as well. The only congratulations she and August ever get for closing some of their tougher cases comes from the lieutenant, or from their colleges. Never from the Captain.

It’s Emma’s birthday, or what she celebrates as her birthday. It’s a little hard to tell considering the way she was left on the side of the road. The way that anyone in the foster care system that might have known never bothered to keep up with the paperwork.

But it’s okay, because she’s got August, and he’s been there for almost every birthday since she was six years old, when they both lived with Ingrid. She still remembers that first cake, she’d never had a birthday party before, and even without having any real friends to invite over, Ingrid had made it so special, just the three of them.

She’s got friends now though. More than she ever thought possible. And she’s got August, singing along to Smooth Criminal with a childrens reverberating microphone that he bought just for that very purpose. She’s laughing harder than she has in months, the tequila in her veins helping her to relax for a change.

“Emma, are you okay? Are you okay, Emma?”

He’s not a horrible singer, but he’s not the best. Neither is Ruby from the forensics lab either, but the sound of cheers around her from most of the 56th precinct is music to her ears.

She’s so engrossed in Ruby’s encore of Hit Me Baby One More Time that she doesn’t even notice Killian standing in the doorway, but August does.

“Oi!” Emma realises too late what’s happening and is powerless to stop it. The mockery in August’s voice. “Look at this cheeky bloke here coming to get pissed with us mates!”

There’s cheers from the crowd, and now there’s no way Killian can just leave unseen. She also knows there’s likely going to be a massive pile of grunt work on her desk first thing in the morning as retribution.

“Captain!”

“I uh, I can’t stay. Just wanted to drop by and wish you all well.”

He’s waving them off, and Emma just prays that August knows well enough to let it go, but he’s had too much to drink to think clearly. His inhibitions are lowered, and long gone is his ability to think clearly.

“Bollocks! Come have a cuppa with us,” August continues, raising his nearly empty beer bottle, “in Emma’s honor.”

She can see the smugness forming on August’s face as he challenges Killian. It’s only matched but the sneer Killian shoots him in return.

Killian doesn’t say anything, just walks to the bar and orders a drink. She knows what’s inside the glass the bartender is handing him. She knows that it won’t be the only drink he orders that night.

Things mostly go back to normal. Everyone mingles amongst themselves, and as the night goes on, she assumes that August’s little outburst earlier was the worst of it. But August hasn’t stopped drinking, and a drunk August has awful judgement.

It’s almost midnight, and she should be leaving, knowing that all of the aspirin in the world isn’t going to save them from having to be at work in the morning. She’s trying to leave actually, but Ruby and Annie convince her to stay for just a few more minutes.

It’s one minute too long. Especially when August stands up near the bar, calling for everyone to be silent so he can give a speech. Considering that he’s probably way past the legal limit, the speech is actually impressive and emotionally moving. He knows her better than anyone after all.

It’s the perfect ending to the night, except that it isn’t. Because August has no plans of letting her leave without some words of encouragement from their mentor, Captain Jones. Killain declines, warning him that he’s drunk and should go home. August won’t let it go though.

“Seriously man, what’s your problem?”

“Boothe, you’re inebriated and you need to think carefully about what you say next.”

Emma grabs August’s arm, trying to drag him out of the pub, but he won’t budge.

“No, no. You’re right, I am inebriated. And what’s that saying? A drunk man’s words are a sober man's thoughts?”

“Boothe.” It’s a growled out warning. Killian’s never been a fan of August, even in the early days, and Emma knows that he’s been looking for any chance to put the man in his place.

“So here’s the thing. Both drunk me and sober me want to know what your deal is. What the hell crawled up your ass? Is it because she wouldn’t sleep with you, so now you’re punishing her?”

“Patrol duty, one week.” Killian’s malcontent is evident in every word he yells, and now the entire pub is silent, watching the carnage taking place.

And there’s nothing Emma can do to stop August’s arm from pulling away and decking Killian clear across the jaw.

There’s just silence, and the hissing sound August makes as he shakes his hand out.

“That’s it. You're suspended indefinitely.”

She hears Killian mumble the word prink under his breath as he makes his way to the door, and she’s torn about what to do. But when Archie hands her a bag of ice, the choice is made for her, and she goes after Killian.

Maybe it’s the tequila making her brave, or maybe it’s making her stupid, but she just needs to know what she did to make him hate her so much. She’s tortured herself, going through every interaction they had at the hospital. Trying to dissect every word, but she has nothing. No explanation for what could have happened between him confessing his love for her and then forbidding her to go to Liam’s funeral.

“Killian!” She has to jog to catch up to where he’s standing on the corner trying to hail a cab. “Here. Take this.”

She tries to hand him the bag of ice, but he won’t meet her gaze.

“Go back inside, Emma.”

Emma. He’s never called her that before and its stings for some reason. She turns, but the last shot if tequila is still kicking in, and she needs to know, and as horrible as August’s approach was, it’s the first real opportunity she’s had to be alone with him. Choosing to stand her ground for once, she turns back to him.

“Look, I know that this probably wasn’t the best way to approach this, but I think I deserve to at least know what I did. What was so horrible that you can’t even stand the sight of me anymore?”

“Go back inside, Emma.”

It stings just as much the second time, and gives Emma the fight inside of her that she needs.

“No. I don’t get it. I don’t understand. Please, just help me understand it.” She’s got tears forming in her eyes from the anger of it all, and he’s still just so damn dismissive. “You don’t get it do you? I saved your life and somehow I still lost you that night!”

“I was scared I was dying. I didn’t mean it. God, don’t you understand? I never loved you. You’ve just been clinging to me all of these years, this sad little orphan and I felt guilty, like I had to say it!” There’s so much spite in his voice.

“You told me you loved me. I was there, covered in your blood, fighting for you, for us, and you told me you loved me. You don’t get to just take it back.”

She hasn’t seen him in the better part of a year. It was only supposed to be a six month assignment, he promised her, but eleven months later, he’s still undercover. Liam won’t tell her anything, and even if he would, the chances are that he doesn’t know much either. Somewhere around month seven Killian stopped checking in regularly. He was paranoid that they were on to him and didn’t want anyone to see him with his handler.

The only reason she even knows that he’s still alive is from security footage at the docks where a deal had gone down about a week before. All of the men were in masks, and anyone else reviewing the tape probably would have missed it, the barest hint of a tattoo sticking out from just under his left wrist sleeve. From the camera angle, it looks like the tip of a dagger, but it’s a point, one of eight. She knows the meaning behind it too, a compass that he got etched into his skin on his eighteenth birthday. Something to always remind him of where he’s been and where he was going.

To keep him always moving forward in life. Aside from letting down Liam, Killian’s biggest fear has always been turning out like his dad, a poor, unfortunate soul. A lost boy who never grew up into a man worthy of his children’s respect.

It’s hard. Knowing that he’s out there, only being able to imagine what he’s going through. If he’ll still be ‘him’ when he comes back, not letting herself wonder ‘if’ he’ll come back. They’ve both seen what can happen when someone goes too deep, how they come back fractured. A part of them left behind, the humanity shed away, sloughed off to make room for their new toughened skin. Peter went too deep and came back in a bodybag, courtesy of a bullet from her gun.

He promised her he wouldn’t lose himself though, that he’d come back to her. That he was a survivor.

But then again, he’d always promised her he wouldn’t go undercover without talking to her first, and he’d broken that promise, volunteering without much prompting, only telling her as he was leaving the station for the last time. The truth was that they’d grown apart in the year before he left. Their careers pulling them in different directions, and she wasn’t sure how well she knew him anymore. Of course, she’d also never expected him to develop a romantic relationship with a heroin king’s sister, but she’d seen evidence photos of the girl sitting on Killian’s lap, so what did she know.

There’s a commotion coming from down the hallway near the bullpen, and Emma doesn’t want to be around people, not like this. Not when it’s taking everything she has not to let the tears welling in her eyes fall, not to scream and punch the wall. Trying so hard to hold herself together when she’s barely hanging on.

She takes a right, ducking into an evidence room, closing the door behind her. She walks to a table, lets her hands grasp the edges, the cold metal against her skin helping to anchor her to reality. She takes a few deep breaths, the air burning her lungs in a way that reminds her she’s still here. She has to accept it. He’s gone, and she’s just going to have to learn to live with that fact.

Except he’s not gone. Her eyes go wide at the sound of his voice behind her, not even realizing that someone had slipped into the room with her.

“Swan.”

It’s soft, like he’s testing the sound of it on his tongue.

“Killian?”

He’s standing toe to toe with her in a flash, his arms going around her, one hand tangled in her hair. It’s suffocating almost, how hard he’s pressing her against his chest, but she doesn’t care. Not when he smells of leather and salt air. Not when he’s there with her just like he promised.

“How are you here?”

He leans back and there’s something in his eyes that she’s never seen before. A fire burning behind the icy blue. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the door to the evidence room is thrown open and Emma can hear the proud bellow of his brother. Liam tells him to come to the bullpen, and Killian tries to object, but Liam won’t hear of it.

“I, we’ll talk later, ya?”

She nods, wrapping both of her arms around her torso keeping away the chill that’s entered the room, the way she feels the distance growing between them already.

They never talk about it though.

There’s something in his eyes that she’s never seen before. A haunting. Shadows filling in the recesses of his soul. And he’s encroaching on her space, making her feel like a small empty shell of herself.

“Killian, please. Stop it.”

“Liam was right you know. You’re nothing more than a pretty blonde distraction.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because, I want to hurt you, like you hurt me.”

He gets into his cab, driving off and leaving her alone on the sidewalk. It’s ironic, the way she’s ending her birthday just as she started her life. Completely alone and unwanted. But it gives her peace in a way. It’s a form of closure. The true end of what they had. She now knows that it’s over. That chapter of her life. She’s ready to finally close the book altogether.

Her legs carry her into her precinct, she doesn’t even bother with the elevator, taking the stairs instead. Just taking it all in. It’s been her home for years. She’s spent more time there than she has at her own apartment. She knows every dent in every way, all the uneven floor planks. She knows that there’s going to be food left out on Leroy’s desk, and that the only thing that will be on Arthur’s desk is an excalibur shaped letter opener that he uses as a fork more often than not. And she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her desk will have someone new sitting at it before anyone else realizes that she’s gone.

She fills out the form, leaving it as ambiguous and impersonal as possible. It isn’t until she’s signing her name that she hears someone else walk into the bullpen.

“I thought it was your big birthday. What are you up here instead of celebrating with everyone?”

She looks up to find Lance standing behind her.

“And I thought you would be at home with those cute kids of yours.”

“I forgot my phone.”

It’s peaceful, this small moment shared between them in a dimly lit room.

He sees the form, and by the way his face drops, she feels like she’s disappointed him in some way.

“It’s our loss.” There’s something in the way he says it, and she knows he's talking about more than just the precinct transfer order she’s filled out. “May I?”

Emma hands him the pen he’s gestured to and watches as he signs the approval line. He hugs her before he leaves to rejoin his family. The calm feeling he left stays though, even after it’s just her there again, even when she steps into Killian’s office to set the form on his desk. There’s a picture of him with Liam on the desk. She picks it up, letting her fingers brush over Killian’s form, only the barest hint of her shoulder still showing from where he’d cropped her out.

Closure.

[zeleniafic]

Hello!! Can you please tell me everything about Tansy Evans and her story? I think Cicatrix means scar, I could be wrong about that, and that last edit looked amazing and now I’m super curious. If you don’t mind talking about it a bit?

Hi!! I absolutely can and would love to!!

You're correct, the title of Tansy's story is Cicatrix, defined as: "the scar of a healed wound. a scar on the bark of a tree. IN BOTANY — a mark on a stem left after a leaf or other part has become detached."

So Tansy is, as that edit showed, the identical twin of Lily, and her name of course follows the Evans girls theme of flower/plant names, which is where the inspiration for that title came from. In Cicatrix, Lily is the leaf that has become detached, and Petunia as well in a different way, while Tansy herself is the mess of scar tissue left behind.

Cicatrix is... a story about a very damaged and broken individual. Tansy survives the first wizarding war, but she's never going to be the same after the things she lived through, including the very violent loss of her fiancé (one of the Prewetts) and too many friends to count, and when it all culminated in losing Lily she was fundamentally, irreversibly changed as a person.

And the thing is... a lot of stuff happened to Tansy in the first war, just like a lot of stuff happened to EVERYONE — but that's not where the story kicks off. Most of that has already happened in the past, and when we meet Tansy in her narrative... the character she is is the result of those traumas. As I have always planned it, Cicatrix begins during the second war, but then the main plot REALLY kicks off in the wake of it — when Tansy finds herself with an unprecedented chance to rewrite history, she seizes it, regardless of the dangerous implications of changing time.

When Tansy crash lands in the 70's she's back in her teenage body, with the memories of decades into the future, and she's just as if not even more damaged after the second war (and, especially, after watching George Weasley relive her own worst trauma by losing Fred)... she's really honestly in a horrible mental place. Saving Lily is her ONLY goal, it's literally THE only thing she cares about — killing Tom Riddle is a mission she stumbles into purely because she sees it as step one to guaranteeing Lily's survival, not because she wants to save the world. She's there for her sister, and no one else. It's honestly a very unhealthy, obsessive and single-minded determination and her personality seemingly changing overnight really alienates her from a lot of her original friends and family, because the Tansy that returns from the future is not at all the Tansy they are used to.

Throughout the course of her mission to kill Tom, she's healing a bit more and more as time goes on. It is 100% intended to have... maybe not a happy go lucky "everyone survives" type of ending, but it's not going to end in tragedy. Tansy carries so much pain to begin with I don't think I could stand to write it otherwise; Cicatrix at its core is supposed to be a story about pain and healing — about the things that we will always carry with us, and the things that we find a way to let go of. She carries some of each, both the burdens that never leave and the ones that she manages to move past, which is a theme that tapped into some really heavy IRL events for me when it was originally plotted and which is why Tansy has always been a very meaningful character for me personally.

She will never be the girl she once was but she DOES heal throughout her story, and the war is ended and Lily and James live to raise Harry themselves, and no one but Tansy and the person she accidentally brings back in time with her will ever remember a world where Harry James Potter was an orphan.

[elias-veturius-laia-of-serra]

*Contains Sky SPOILERS*

All my favorite Musa Of Adisa quotes and scenes 🥺  ❤️

“I am Musa of Adisa,” the man says. “Son of Ziad and Azmath of Adisa. Grandson of Mehr and Saira of Adisa. I am also the only friend you have in this city” - A Reaper At The Gates

“Who’s the Beekeeper, and how can I find him?”

“Ah, Laia Of Serra.” His white teeth shine like those of a smug horse. He offers me his arm, and under the brightening sky, I finally get a closer look at his tattoos - dozens of them, big and small, all clustered around a hive.

Bees.

“It’s me, of course,” Musa says. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t guessed.” - A Reaper At The Gates

“You listen. How fast can you get information on the jinn?”

Musa strokes his chin. “Let’s see. It took me a week to learn that you’d broken Elias out of Blackcliff’s dungeons. Six days to learn that you’d set off a riot in Nur. Five to learn what Elias Veturius whispered to in your ear the night he abandoned you in the Tribal desert for Kauf Prison. Two to learn that the Warden-” - A Reaper At The Gates

“Musa and I go back again and again, carrying out those who cannot walk themselves, pulling to safety as many Scholars as we can.” - A Reaper At The Gates

“As I told the story, my attention was on the king. I did not notice the ghuls emerging from the shadows and congregating around the princess. I did not notice them latching themselves on to her like leeches. Musa looks as if he is watching the slow torture of someone he loves—which, I finally realize, he is.” - A Reaper At The Gates

“Nikla and I eloped ten years ago,” he says. “We were only a little older than you, but much more foolish. She had an older brother who was supposed to be king. But he died, she was named crown princess, and we grew apart.” I wince at the perfunctory nature of his recitation, a decade of history in four sentences. “I didn’t mention it before because there was no point. We’ve been separated for years. She took my lands, my titles, my fortune—” 

“Your heart.” Musa’s harsh laugh echoes off the hard stone of the buildings on either side of us. “That too,” he says.” - A Reaper At The Gates

“Another arrow shoots out of the darkness, but it too misses its mark, dropping in midair—courtesy of Musa’s wights. 

“Nikla!” Musa snarls. “Show yourself!” - A Reaper At The Gates

“When I rush her,” Musa whispers, barely audible, “run.” I’m just processing what he says when he’s past me and heading straight for Nikla. Immediately, silver-armored bodyguards step out of the shadows and attack Musa so swiftly that he is now nothing but a blur.” - A Reaper At The Gates

“Musa’s voice rings in my head. We need you as a voice for the Scholars. We need you as our scim and shield.” - A Reaper At The Gates

“You pull that hood any lower,” Musa of Adisa whispers from beside me, “and people will think you’re a jinn.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Stop waving around your blade, aapan.” Musa uses the Mariner honorific that means “little sister” and speaks with the same exasperation I sometimes hear from Darin. The Beekeeper, as Musa is known, is twenty-eight—older than Darin and I. Perhaps that is why he delights in bossing us around.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Musa eases my hand off the hilt. “You break Elias Veturius out of Blackcliff, burn down Kauf Prison, deliver the Martial Emperor in the middle of a war, face down the Nightbringer more times than I can count,” he says, “and you jump at a loud noise? I thought you were fearless, aapan.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“This . . . thing. This Rehmat. It was living inside you?” 

“Like a parasite?” Musa says. “Or a demon?”

 “Don’t be so horrified,” I say. “Whatever it is, it’s inside you too. All of you. Or so the Jaduna said.” 

Musa looks down, clearly wondering if some fey beastie will burst unexpectedly from his chest. 

“So if one of us had lost our temper and yowled at the Nightbringer—”

 “I did not yowl—” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Laia! Watch it!” a Scholar man with dark skin and long, black hair calls out. He holds off three legionnaires with a scim, a short dagger, and—I squint—a cloud of hundreds of wights who befuddle his foes. They defend him with a vicious protectiveness that wights aren’t known for.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Tend to your wounds,” I say. “Then leave. Go back to the beach. To your boats. To a quick death, it matters not. But you will not enter the Waiting Place.” 

“He’s your brother.” Musa speaks up, nodding to Harper. The Mask gapes at Musa, who doesn’t seem to notice.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“The Soul Catcher gives her a brief, unreadable look. “Yes. One human might slip through the forest undetected by them. But a half dozen? They will know you are here soon enough.” 

“Can’t you just—” Musa puts his hands around his throat and mimes choking—referring no doubt to how the Soul Catcher can steal away breath.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“You’re late.” His armor is splashed with blood, but he doesn’t appear to have any wounds. Musa materializes behind him, limping. “Good in a fight.” Quin nods to the Scholar approvingly.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Not hard to look at, is he?” I jump at the voice next to me, my scim half-drawn. It is Musa, one hand gently nudging my blade back to its scabbard. He has a dozen bruises and as many cuts, most half-healed.

“So jumpy, Shrike. One would think you’d only just escaped a band of Karkauns by the skin of your teeth.” He chuckles darkly at his little joke, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says. “Laughing hurts less than facing what happened. I am sorry about Faris. I liked him.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And your joke was terrible, so naturally, Faris would have loved it.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“He pats his face, preening. “Everyone says I’m even more dashing with scars.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Now, Shrike.” Musa follows me reluctantly. “While I do like my women tall and bossy, and while I know this face is difficult to resist, sadly, my heart belongs to another—” “Oh, shut up.” I stop when we’re far from the courtyard. “You’re not that pretty.” He bats his eyelashes at me, and I wish he were just a bit uglier” - Sky Beyond The Storm

“In fact, I’ll offer you a little tidbit right now. Captain Avitas Harper is on his way here. He’s in the northwest corridor, passing that very ugly statue of a yak, and moving rather quickly.” 

“How—” I know how he does it. Still, the specificity is uncanny.

“Ten seconds,” Musa murmurs. “Eight—six—” I stride swiftly away, wincing at the pain lancing up my leg. But I’m not fast enough. 

“Blood Shrike,” Harper calls in a voice that I cannot ignore. I curse Musa as he walks off, laughing quietly.” - Sky Beyond The Storm

“Within the crowd of Karkauns, a squad of my men fight their way toward me, Musa among them. I try to join them, but the Karkauns surround us. Musa disappears, his scims flying, and I remind myself to ask him who the hells trained him before I am inundated by the enemy again.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Just the blather the Karkauns were spewing. Ik tachk mort fid iniqant fi. Haven’t been able to get a translation of it, but—”

“‘Death wakes the great sea,’” Musa translates, nodding a greeting to a group of Scholars as they pass. “Or—no, wait. ‘Death feeds the great sea.’”

I stop in the middle of the hall, ignoring the irritated grunt of a Mask who nearly runs into me. “Why didn’t you tell me you spoke Karkaun?”

 “You didn’t ask.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“My grandfather taught me to fight. He was a palace guard. Saved old King Irmand’s life when he was a boy. Got a beekeeping estate for his trouble. My father became a healer, but I spent more time with the bees. I think they both thought training would toughen me up.”

“Did it?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Go on, insult me,” Musa says. “But you and I are more alike than you know, and that’s not a compliment. You’re in a position of great power, Shrike. It’s a lonely place to be. Most leaders spend their lives using others. Being used. Love isn’t just a luxury for you. It’s a rarity. It’s a gift. Don’t throw it away.”

“I’m not throwing it away.” I stop walking and pull the Scholar around to face me. “I’m afraid, Musa.” I don’t mean to blurt the words out—especially to a man whose arrogance has vexed me from the moment I met him. But to my relief, he does not mock me.

“How many in Antium lost those beloved to them when the Karkauns attacked?” he asks. “How many like Dex, who hide who they love because the Empire would kill them for it?” Musa runs a hand through his black hair, and it sticks up like a bird’s nest. “How many like Laia, betrayed and then left to claw her way through her pain? How many like me, Shrike, pining for someone who no longer exists?” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“But that’s not what we’re talking about,” Musa says. “You are lucky enough to love someone who loves you back. He is alive and breathing and in the same vicinity as you. By the skies, do something about it. For however long you have. For whatever time you get. Because if you don’t, I swear that you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it for all your years.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Do you know where Musa of Adisa was in the fight to take Antium, Pontilius?” I say now. “At my side, bleeding for an Empire he’d never set foot in until a few months ago. Fighting for the Scholars. Tell me, General, where were you during the fighting?” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“As I walk through the freezing palace, I search for a flash of color amid the drear. Musa can always be counted on to wear at least one loud item of clothing—and I need his information now.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Someone who will know how to deal with Musa’s pain. But the Scholar does not release my hand.

“I shouldn’t mourn her.” He wipes his face, and I almost don’t hear him.

“She jailed my father. Took my lands. My title. The Scholars suffered under her rule.” - Sky Beyond The Storm

“We got married a decade ago. I was eighteen. She was nineteen. Her brother was crown prince, but he died of an illness and the palace healer—my father—couldn’t save him. She—” He shakes his head. “Grief took her. The ghuls found ripe prey with her, and they nibbled at her mind for years. And when I spoke of them to her, she called me insane. King Irmand was so grief-stricken after his son’s death that he did not see what was happening to his daughter.”

“My father died in prison. My mother soon after. And yet—” He looks between Harper and me. “I still loved her. I shouldn’t have, but I did.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“I have to go to Marinn,” Musa says. “Find Keris. Kill her. Nikla’s heir is a first cousin. Skies know if he’s still alive, but he’s young. He’ll need help.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“You want me to stay,” he says. “But the Mariners were my people first. They need me. And you owe me a favor, Shrike.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“All the way to Avitas’s quarters, where we can speak without interruption, I think of Musa’s cries. The way he sounded as if his soul had been dug out of his body.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Ah, young love,” Musa says, and I glance at him, wondering if I will see bitterness in his regard. But his smile takes years off his face, which has been drawn and desolate of late.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Love can be more powerful in a battle than planning or strategy. Love keeps us fighting. Love drives us to survive.”

“Skies, stop meddling—”

“I meddle because I hope, aapan.” The humor bleeds from his voice, and I’m certain he’s remembering his beloved, doomed Nikla. “Life is too short not to hope.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Soldiers on both sides of the escarpment stumble to their feet, still shaken from the maelstrom. Musa has an arm under the Blood Shrike’s shoulders, and together they stagger away from the front line, anguish emanating from both.” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“The Blood Shrike, Musa, and I are discussing how the troops should handle any rogue ghosts. When Laia appears, Musa kicks the Shrike in the ankle.

“What the hells, Musa—oh—” - A Sky Beyond The Storm

“Duty gives me a straight back when Musa, his own eyes red at the loss of Darin, finds me and takes me to a line of bodies to be buried in the jinn grove.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“Musa is here too, gesturing with the flatbread while flirting with Afya Ara-Nur. The Tribeswoman is still pale from her injury, wincing even as she laughs. Mamie looks amused while Spiro Teluman watches with a dark glare. The smith shouldn’t worry. Musa’s heart is as shattered as mine” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“Gird your loins, Shrike.” Musa gives me a sidelong glance. “You’re about to get quite the promotion.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“I heard her tell Zacharias a story last night. He was rapt.”

“Where is he?”

“With Tas, eating moon cakes.” I nod to a cart near Mamie’s wagon, where the young Scholar boy, who appears to have grown a foot since I last saw him, grins as my nephew stuffs a cake into his mouth. Musa, keeping them company, hands over another.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“Musa has been invaluable in court, charming Illustrian Paters as easily as he has Scholars. When we broke up the estates of Keris’s top allies, it was Musa who suggested we award them to Scholars and Plebeians who fought in the Battle of Antium. And when grief threatens to consume me, it is Musa who appears with a meal and insists we eat it out in the sunshine. Musa who drags me to the palace kitchens to bake bread with him, and Musa who suggests a visit to Zacharias, even if it means canceling two weeks of court. I thought at first that the Scholar had wights watching me to make sure I did not fall too deeply into despair. But the wights, he told me, are no longer his spies.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“How am I supposed to take the Pater of Gens Visselia seriously when I know he spends most of his time composing odes to his hounds?” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“Yes,” I say to his uncertainty. “I want you to stay, Musa.” He lets out a breath.

“Thank the skies,” he says. “I don’t actually like bees very much. Little bastards always sting me. And anyway, you need me around.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“I’m not lonely!” A lie, though Musa is too much a gentleman to call me on it.

“But you are alone, Empress.” A shadow passes across his face, and I know he thinks of his wife, Nikla, dead six months now. “As all those in power are alone. You don’t have to be.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“It should have been him dancing with you,” Musa says, and at the raw emotion in his voice, my eyes heat.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“Alas.” The Scholar spins me in a circle, then pulls me back. “We’re the ones who survived, Empress. Unlucky, perhaps, but that’s our lot. And since we’re here, we might as well live.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

“Though I was reluctant moments ago, now I find that I want to give in to that exuberant beat. So does Musa. So we laugh and dance again. We eat a dozen moon cakes and chase away the loneliness, two broken people who, for this night, anyway, make a whole.” - A Sky Beyond the Storm

[vampiresuns]

Lay Down, My Friend, We’re Going Home

✴︎ LAY DOWN, MY FRIEND, WE’RE GOING HOME ✴︎

1.5k words. In which Anatole thinks it’s impossible not to love Zurkhi.

This is a lovesong to Anatole chugging his ‘I love my friends’ juice, found family, and the one and only Zurkhi.

Zurkhi and Haider belong to @atypicalacademic​, happy Monday, Kani.

Anatole should’ve known he was going to fall in love with Zurkhi in his own, platonic way the moment he saw him, because he had almost the same face as someone he had loved once, and still carried with him with infinite tenderness. 

The Kaur were a Prakran family, both Hindi and Gujarati, but settled in the capital. Devdas, a doctor, and Rajni, a social worker had seven children: Navneet, a surgeon, Sashi, a cartographer, the twins Althea, a botanist, and Leonore, a therapist and soon to be Doctor of the science of social behaviour, and lastly the triplets: Isha, a theatre student, Vaishnavi, a seamstress apprentice and Ashok, a student of history. 

He had met them through Leonore. Him, Medea and Anatole himself had shared quarters when they all attended the University of Prakra. Medea and Anatole had the same studies but with different focus, and while Leonore had a different field of study altogether, the three of them became inseparable. The year Anatole turned 30 would also mark almost 11 years of them being friends. 

Zurkhi did not have Leonore’s face. He had Navneet’s. Once, him and Anatole could’ve been in love. Perhaps they had been, quietly, neither of them realising until it was better to remain friends. He still loved him, however, in his own way. They were friends, and friends were the family you chose. The Kaur had opened his home to him and Medea, and Leonore — along with Medea — had been of the fundamental pillars in his process of healing from many things Anatole rarely talked of.

Like Decimo Lemione. 

Navneet had been part of that by closing the process. By giving him a gentle but steady reminder of where he was now, and where he had come from. He would never forget their final conversation on the matter, with Navneet’s steady hand drawing mehendi on Anatole’s own as they both realised their feelings a little too late. 

By that time, Anatole had already begun working at the Vesuvian Court, and a couple of months later he would meet Julian Devorak, when the Plague was still unheard of in Vesuvia. His life would take a lot of turns before it somewhat settled, if life ever settled, but Anatole who had ‘love conquers all’ tattooed over his heart would carry all those loves which had grown, settled, gone or transformed into something different. Piling them up with those he had found along the way, like Nadia’s, or more importantly Haider’s. 

The first time he talked to Zurkhi it was because from the angle he was looking at him, he looked just like Navneet, but then Zurkhi turned to him with his blue eyes and the spell was broken. Kind of. He still looked just like Navneet, scars, blue eyes and red hair aside. From there it was a quest of its own rhythm: of shared passions and topics, of jokes and colliding moments, of each of them developing their own sense of respect for each other to the point where Haider and Nadia had to ask them to please return their partner to them, if they would be so kind. 

The loneliness Zurkhi had etched on his bones was a loneliness he had learnt to recognise because he grew up with it. It was the loneliness of his father, who still had inside of him the child who for 14 years had to endure Matilda Cassano and Krešmir Radošević for parents. It was, above all else, the one of his mother: taken away from her family and her country — by her own family at that — because she had the courage to speak against military regimes. His wonderful, brave exiled mother who had raised him to never feel like she had felt for years, and his taciturn, immensely loving father who raised him in such a way so he never doubted that he mattered. 

And it wasn’t because they had bonded over exposing their wounds to each other, nor his parents at their time, nor him and Zurkhi now. That had come out at it’s own time, on its own accord. Anatole loved his friend because of who he was, and Anatole respected his friend for how he had chosen to live, but Anatole was so incredibly moved by Zurkhi because he too understood what it was like to have life be infinitely unfair to you when all you ever did was speak your truth. 

Not because Anatole had been lucky at life, not because he danced and sung and dared and lived didn’t mean he was never done no injury. Those were very different things. 

Haider pulled him out of his daydream. 

“Amar shona, have you seen Zurkhi?” 

“I thought he was with my mother?”

“He was, but Louisa wanted to show him something, and he excused himself, and now we can’t find him.” 

“Have you tried yelling ‘I believe in the divine right of governments to destroy their citizens as they see fit’?”

“Yes, but given your family lives here, it’s more likely I’ll feel the wrath of 17 different Radošević-Cassano before we find Zurkhi… and your mother’s.”

“That’s fair, I’ll look.”

If it didn’t take him long to find him, it was only because he asked someone in his staff who had the chance to have seen him recently, and surely enough Anatole found him where they said: sitting alone, on a bench, looking at a painting. Anatole sat by him, crossing one of his legs over the other.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Vitale Cassano and that’s Mirabel, his mother— why?”

“Where they both Consuls?”

“Yep.”

“He looks like you, if you squint.”

“If you say so… any reason you’re sitting in an empty room, looking at a painting of my great, great grandfather?”

“To rob you all.” 

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right? Look, you don’t have to tell me, but I also can tell when you’re upset, Zurkhi, because I know you.”

“I just needed some time alone.”

“Do you want me to go, then?”

Zurkhi looked at him, asking him to stay before he resorted to look everywhere but at Anatole. When he spoke again, he was looking at his hands. “Were they all like you? You know, did they all think like us?”

“Not all of them, but most of them had ideas in that direction. The family belief of ‘protecting’ Vesuvia doesn’t come from being insufferable, it comes from the idea of bettering the City so it’s sustainable on it’s own— it doesn’t always go right by Counts and Countesses though, but I do suppose most of us did think similarly, to a degree.”

“You’re all so weird.”

“I know.”

“How has no one assassinated any of you?”

“That’s… a fairly good question, but there is a saying that nothing mortal can kill a Cassano, so perhaps there’s your answer.”

“That would’ve been a helpful thing to be at some point of my life.” 

“Who says you aren’t?” Anatole said after a pause. “The Cassano were friends with the Radosšević for a generation or two, before Mircea married Florentino. Valerian’s best friend was Mircea’s mother.”

“What did she do?”

“The same thing as you.”

“What?”

“Baba Elysian was a partisan, Zurkhi. You’re old news, my friend… you know, my mother was looking for you, but I can tell her you needed a moment. Actually, I don’t know if that’s a good idea, she’ll think you have a headache and the Dr. De Silva instinct will kick in.” 

“You know, in my head, there’s still part of me who thinks families don’t do this. I know happy families exist but they seem like an abstraction to me.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a happy family.”

“Fake modesty, really?”

“No, dumbass, what I mean is happy families don’t exist, loving families do. And you have one. You have your friends, and Nadia… and you have us. Just think about it.”

They sat in silence again, but when Anatole stood to leave, Zurkhi spoke. “I don’t remember what it’s like.”

“How what was like?”

“Having one.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Means you can define what it means. That’s what we do, Zurkhi. We take the pieces and we rearrange them to suit ourselves. Doesn’t fix anything immediately, but we all need a place to lay down and rest.”

His friend smiled at him. Tentative and nervous, bright and hopeful all the same. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Oh, not at all. Best part is, I can get you new shoes as a gift and there’s no way you can deny them, or I can tell my mother you’re overworking yourself and send Dr. De Silva down on you—”

Louisa’s accented Vesuvian interrupted her son. “Who’s overworking themselves?”

Anatole said Zurkhi quicker than what a second lasted, which began a snowball effect of bickering as Louisa gently but surely guided Zurkhi back to where everyone was so they could relax properly and share some time with their friends in the same way she went after Anatole when he was being difficult. 

Anatole himself walked a little behind, leaning against a distant wall to yell incendiary things so Zurkhi got more pampering as he leaned against it. 

“Nana, what have you done?” Haider asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Caused problems on purpose, obviously,” he said as he wrapped his arm around Haider’s waist. “He deserves it. I hope he knows I’d kill for him.”

“You know? I think he does.”

[one-leaf-grimoire]

OC Profile: Lisa

I decided to do one of these like everyone else. Not everyone wants to read a 100 chapter fic so this should be a bit more digestible lol.

Anyway, here's Lisa!!! She's a mess but at the core of it all, she's babey.

Basics

Name: Lisa Ambrose Petalon

Ambrose- Greek “ambrosios” (immortal)

Petalon- Greek “butterfly”

Age: 26 (at time of canon)

Occupation: Currently a Royal Advisor, formerly a Magic Knight

Place of Birth: A small town at the edge of the common realm, near the border with the Diamond Kingdom.

Current Residence: Clover Caste

Social Class: Commoner by birth, Noble by marriage

Magic

Grimoire Appearance: Lisa’s Grimoire is a light blue color, matching her magic. It only has a little dark blue trim around the edges and a three-leaved clover in the middle, without any other decoration.

Magic: Lisa’s primary attribute is blue flame magic. However, she inherits Dyad magic from her father’s ancestors, which allows her to combine her magic with another person. Because of this, she now uses Time Magic as well.

Spells:

Solar Bolt- a super-heated, super fast bolt of fire that cauterizes the wound it creates as it moves through a person. The shock from the impact usually knocks the opponent off.

Solar Blitz- an explosion of Solar Bolts from every part of the users body, usually only one use at a time. More recently, Lisa can shoot other spells from its tip.

Flaming Condor- entity created by creation magic that can fly the user around and administer a powerful diving attack. However, it’s very clumsy and Lisa can’t ride on it for long.

Sun God's Leap- Creates winged shoes and a mana-amplifying aura that allows the user to fly.

Dyad- This spell, which only manifests once per generation, creates a magical link with another person, combining their mana into a never-ending, infinite loop that amplifies it to amazing levels. The Dyad is so potent that its mana lingers far after it’s over, and full separation is never possible. The users will carry a shard of each other’s souls within them for the rest of their lives.

Simulcian nonsense: The Simulcian civilization was a small, island nation off the coast of the diamond kingdom, who’s people had magic marks on their body. Each generation was lead by a Dyad, and all Simulcians could tap into the great mana they had. Simulcians believe very strongly in fate, as they also believe they are descended from a Goddess of Fate... the accuracy of this is debatable. However, the Simulcians were all killed in a “natural disaster” caused by a Dyad, who was being manipulated by their son. This son happened to be Mikal, Lisa’s uncle. Mikal relocated himself and his family to the Diamond Kingdom, where the Dyad were forced to fight for the DK while Mikal enacted his plan. Over 100 years, he artificially created his brothers and sisters to be synchronized into Tetrads, Triads, and Septads. His goal was to make seven Septads, who’s resonance would be enough to control humans as well. However, this was stopped by Lisa, who freed the rest of her family. Read Dyad for more details I guess lol. BTW: Simulcians claim to be a distinct species from Humans. This is still an unanswered question, but sometimes Lisa feels very detached from her humanity. 

Physical

Height: 5′6″ (~168 cm)

Weight: 126 lbs (~57 kg)

Race: White // Human-Simulcian Hybrid

Description: She has short, neck-length auburn hair that curls up pretty dramatically, and it’s usually a little messy. Her eyes are black, so dark black that you can’t see her pupils. She is fairly petite, lean, but surprisingly strong.

Clothing: She’s often seen wearing her short blue uniform dress over tights and a shirt with fringed wrists and neckline. She opts to just wear her red cape instead of the usual advisor cloak.

Scars/Tattoos/other marks: Her most distinguishing features is the mark on her forehead, in the shape of a stylized infinity sign. It constantly has a dull blue glow from both loops. She has one tattoo in the shape of an arrow that snakes around her arm. Julius wanted to get a matching one but he could only take about a minute of it-

Abnormalities: Lisa's magic mark constantly channels mana through her body, amplifying her magic and giving her some strange side effects. She no longer needs to eat, drink, or sleep (even though she still likes cooking and coffee). Also, any diseases that enter her body are immediately killed off. Her aging has slowed to almost a complete stop. Probably the most drastic side effect is that she is sterile (at least- for now-), and won't have any children.

Relationships

Family:

Easton Petalon (father/deceased): Owner of a Tavern in town, which he inherited from his father-in-law. A happy-go-lucky yet mysterious man who loved nothing more than his only daughter. He died in a Diamond Kingdom raid.

Arleth Petalon (mother/alive)- Waitress. She was a cheerful, energetic woman with a dream of having a large family. However, once it became obvious that dream was done for, she distanced herself from her husband and developed a bitter hatred of her daughter, who she irrationally blamed for her infertility.

Lyra Ambrose (cousin/alive)- despite being a bit of an airhead, she’s one of Lisa’s best friends.

Other cousins: Rocco and Patrick Ambrose

Aunt: Portia Ambrose

Friends:

Marx Francois- Lisa met Marx shortly after she started seeing Julius. They got along, which was good because Lisa eventually ended up working with him for many years. She considers him to be her best friend.

Fuegoleon Vermilion- Fuegoleon took Lisa under his wing when she first joined his squad. Then vice-captain, the two went on many missions together and became pretty good friends.

Yami Sukehiro- Lisa met Yami through William, and Yami quickly took a liking to her. He never misses the chance to tease her for something, usually her magic mark on her head or her “sugar baby” status.

William Vangeance- When Lisa was 15, she took the MK exam for the first time, and ended up going against William for the 1 on 1 portion. She lost and ended up failing the exam, but William encouraged her to keep trying. Years later, they met again, and their friendship resumed. 

Mereoleona Vermillion: When Lisa was 11, a certain royal stopped in town on her way back to the capitol. Mereoleona thought Lisa was a nosy kid, but encouraged her to try out for the MK so she could spite the other kids in her town. Years later, they meet again, and Lisa regularly visits her in the strong magic region to be trained.

Enemies:

Patri+the Eye of the Midnight Sun- Patri had been watching Lisa through William’s eyes for a long time. He recognized her to be the reincarnation of the elf Saida. Right after the MK exam one year, Lisa was abducted by the EMS, where Patri attempted to cast the evil eye spell. However, it was unsuccessful, and Lisa was able to escape. 

Augustus Kira- Yes, Lisa has her own feud with the King. Julius made the mistake of leaving her alone in the castle, where Augustus quickly showed up and tried to make a move. Lisa, of course, didn’t like this and ended up elbowing him in the face and breaking his nose. Soon after, Augustus realized that she and Julius were in a relationship, and decided that executing her would be a victory against Julius. Luckily, Lisa was able to get out of it, but ended up being stripped of her status as a MK.

Mikal- This is kind of a Dyad thing, but Mikal attempted to use Lisa to enact a plan that would pull many many humans under his control. Luckily, this plan was thwarted and Mikal was killed by Lisa and Julius.

Romantic Relationships:

Julius Novachrono (Dating/later married)- By some strange stroke of fate, Julius and the Grey Deer were close by when Lisa’s town was raided by the Diamond Kingdom. After it was over, Lisa’s magic was awakened, she had a weird mark on her head, and her father was dead. The newly-coronated Wizard King encouraged her to try out for the MK again, while he researched the strange magical presence that was now within her. Lisa found herself admiring him, and it quickly became clear that it was something more than just respect. As for Julius... well, she was cute, had really cool magic, and was a delight to be around. They both made points to spend lots of time together, growing closer and closer. However, things escalated after an assassination attempt, which Lisa thwarted herself. Lisa pushed past her limits once she realized that this desperation was love, and ended up getting gravely injured while fighting. Julius realized that she was special, more special than anyone else, and someone he had to have by his side. However, they faced a big problem when they found out that Lisa was sterile. Julius had confided in her before that he was excited to have a big family with her, and Lisa felt terribly guilty about it. She wouldn't have blamed him if he wanted to end things after that, but Julius, in true Julius fashion, pulled her from her lowest point and made it clear that he was never going to leave her. She was made for him, and he was made for her. The rest is history :))

Personality/Beliefs

Personality: At her core, Lisa strives to be a free-spirited, dependable, and energetic person. She devotes herself entirely to any task she sets for herself and never leaves anything unfinished. But even though she is genuinely interested, polite, and kind to others, there is a subtle distance to her that most people will never quite cross. Lisa’s true self is a closely guarded secret, something people only see in short glimpses. She’s very good at controlling her image, but Julius is the one person who knows her inside and out. Lisa’s very afraid of opening up any vulnerabilities and likes to feel like she’s in control. She is extremely devoted to Julius, the only person she believes would love her unconditionally. The two of them have shared more of themselves than any couple has, and it has gotten to the point that they are described as “so similar, it’s almost scary.”

Religion: Lisa doesn’t really consider herself religious, even though she was brought up worshiping whatever most Clover citizens worship.

Greatest fear: Being left alone in this life, disappointing others, being helpless

Morality: Lisa’s psychology and distance from her humanity have bred some very strange morals within her. She struggles with her individuality at times, stemming from the Dyad she formed with Julius. To be in a Dyad is to let part of your self be destroyed, and sometimes she feels like she’ll never quite be whole without Julius around. Because of this, her views on death, murder, even good and evil are skewed. Is she even human? That’s a question she struggles with every day. She wants to be patriotic and selfless, but deep down inside she knows that she would willingly let everything burn if it would make her feel just a little bit better. Evil is something she doesn’t believe even exists; all people are selfish, vengeful, and dishonest, but they can still be loving or, at the very least, useful to her. She has killed before, countless times in war, and she believes that death is necessary if she deems it so. Even Julius, the most wonderful, pure person she knows, has blood on his hands, after all.

Despite this, Lisa manages to overcome any base instincts she has, and devotes herself entirely for the good of the Kingdom and, more specifically, Julius. In Lisa’s eyes, her love for him, and all the friends she's made over the years, is what makes her human. This strength and resilience has allowed her to defeat the darker side of herself, and turned her into someone many people are ready to follow.

[aboleth-eye]

(you might have already answered this) how do you feel about additions to damage? for example a wound getting infected if left untreated for too long. or a bone not healing the correct way if it breaks. I personally like scars and wounds, it shows the history of your adventures. And gives you bragging rights

Scars as a whole can be interesting to utilize in your roleplaying, backstory and storytelling.  In the moment they happen probably won’t be seen as a “cool backstory moment” in-character, but I think only once the wounds have healed they can be thought of more fondly if at all. 

This topic brought a lot to mind, so please bear in mind this is gonna be a long and lengthy response.

TW: mentions of violence, bones, scars, self-harm, abuse, torture

Infections, bone fractures and other more serious medical stuff like that, however, can get rather graphic if you go into too much detail.  Not everyone can handle that sort of thing or wants to see that in their escapist fantasy (whether its ttrpgs or novels).  If you establish a rapport with your d&d/ttrpg group or introduce your thresholds for gore and trauma right away in your writing, then I think you can use them without taking people out of the adventure.

Recently, I started re-listening to The Witcher series on audiobook.  One of the biggest moments in the story comes when Geralt suffers major physical trauma from a climactic combat he loses.  Its so bad that he’s effectively out of the story for the remainder of the book, and going into the next book he is not the same person from before he got wrecked.  Thankfully the writing doesn’t go into too much detail about the ramifications of such physical trauma, but Geralt does not think it’s a badge of honor.  Some scars merely hint at traumas below the surface, and some physical wounds are more than skin-deep.  That can really affect the mood if you’re not willing to handle the weight of it.

Two other characters in that same franchise, Triss and Yennefer, both suffer intense physical traumas just before the first novel because of a big battle.  They had to go through a lot of recuperation, both physical and mental, before they could be active elements in the story.  And afterwards they carry the memory of their trauma, the physical toll of the recuperation and the survivor’s guilt (mental scars) afterwards all throughout the story.  Later Yennefer is directly written to suffer physical torture by the principal antagonist; and while it is an effective storytelling moment its one I dread awaiting me as I re-listen to the story.  I personally can’t handle certain things that just outright punish characters for no reason other than making it “dark”  and “realistic”; so I’ll probably fast forward through those parts that really hit me bad.

 Scars can mean completely different things between individuals:

One adventurer may show their scars from a dragon attack as a badge of honor, having slain the beast themselves.  

Another might hide their burn scars because of some accident with a kitchen fire or a trauma from the slain dragon’s fire. 

Some character might be new to adventuring but have the scars of a blacksmith’s forge on their hands.  They wear gloves because the marks from the hot tools hurt when its cold.  

Another character has a scar from a sword-sharpening accident, but because it led to a bad series of events they cannot even look at it for the longest time (until their later experiences help them process what happened to them). 

Lastly, one character wears a unique scar openly because they gave it to themselves.  It could be for religious reasons, making a promise, punishing themselves for breaking a taboo or oath...�� or even self-harm...

If you want to use scars just to show how experienced and awesome your characters are, please do so so long as you take things seriously (because no matter what scars are not pleasant to get).  Whoever has to read or hear about your scarred characters might take things well, they might just think of them as run-of-the-mill character introductions, or they might have negative emotions about their own scars and experiences brought to mind.  

In a casual game of d&d or a light-hearted story, scars are just what you originally offered: badges of honor and marks of their experience in dealing with danger.  But for a lot of people, myself included, even in that sort of environment or story we have very different thresholds when it comes to delving into scars and injuries like that.  

For D&D and other tabletop roleplaying games, I’d recommend the campaign host/storyteller put the ball in your player’s court when it comes to describing repercussions for their actions.  And have feedback sessions to make sure certain triggers are either on or off the table if you want to talk about them.

For writing stories with scars and other stuff like that, make sure not to pull a “gotcha” moment on your readers.  Don’t go three quarters through a story where nothing worse than a papercut happens and then suddenly hit a character (and your audience) with a visceral, intense physical or mental trauma.  If you want to write something “dark and gritty”, make sure its “dark and gritty” from start to finish so new readers can easily see if your story is for them.  

Thank you for asking about this topic, though I wasn’t sure whether you meant this in a more d&d-focused way or in a fantasy writing way.  I’m sure this is way more than you intended but it got me thinking hard about this.  My own thresholds for that sort of thing are probably different than all of you reading this.  But I hope this helps start the conversation with your player group/readers.  

Thanks for reading!  I hope you are all safe and healthy out there, make good choices!!  I love you all.

Aboleth-Eye

[treegirl-love]

HP Voltron crossover?

When Harry went to Hogwarts there was a group of ghosts they were..... strange to say the least. No one only a few ghosts knew their names, and they wouldn’t tell a single soul their name’s. They went by Paladins of the colour of the lions that followed them, the sixth went by advisor and the last Shiro but no one could find their names in history books. A group of seven, five followed by lions. 

The lions had a ghostly hue with a bright colour emanating off of them.

Blue, Green, Red, Yellow, and the assumed pride leader, Black. Black was the biggest followed by Yellow, then Blue, followed by Red, and finally Green. Each followed a ghost with mysterious ease, sometimes looking at people if considering them for something but never deciding.

They each stayed at a table two at the Slytherin table, one of which had the Paladin name of the Red Paladin he was with tall and lanky with freckles covering his body, short hair, a few big scars, and rumour had it that in life he had beautiful eyes that seemed to hold an entire ocean, he appeared to wear a long cloak with robes underneath along with some armour, the reputation he carried for being a massive flirt was no lie he would flirt with any year seven even went after the Blue and Black Paladins -he failed with Blue not Black- he also bore a marking of what appeared to be a bruise of a rope on his neck. The Red lion would follow him around purring and nudging and -rarely nipping- for attention. The other a smaller person half the time you could here them teasing each other, she had short hair that makes her look like a boy, she also bore similar scars but had less as if protected or missing during all the important battles, she wore the same outfit as the other Paladins. Her own lion would stand there and observe with here for what appeared to be hours on end. From what Harry had learned from Hermione -who had been told a bit by the Green paladin for her amazing aptitude for knowledge- she was the youngest Paladin.

The Slytherin’s had bragged at least several times that both of their Paladins were pure-bloods, when the Paladins found out the Slytherins ended up having a very large mess in their common room for seven months, they never did it again.

On the other end of the spectrum at the Hufflepuff table were two resided.

The Yellow Paladin and the Black Paladin.

The Yellow Paladin had a bandana wrapped around his head, short hair, he had a smile on his face all the time except for when he was worrying, the fact that he had some scars but not as much as the others, he always had a spark in his eyes at the feast, he would help the house elves cook, you could always tell when he did everyone went hard on grabbing as much food as they could. He was quite chubby though no one said it aloud apparently, one year someone called him “fat” the Paladins made that person suffer for the rest of their time a Hogwarts. The Yellow lion would follow purr nudge and listen to his rants about the food. The Black Paladin was the second smallest of the group with a mullet -as of from the 80s though probably much, much older-, he had eyes that would slit and glow yellow when extremely mad, there was a scar that went up his left cheek down his neck, some people say Shiro gave it to him then it was debunked the fact they are half brothers, to quote Ron “no one in their right mind would maim their sibling” Shiro had looked so ashamed as Ron said that, when he wouldn’t come to dinner the Red Paladin or one of the others -most of the Red Paladin- be playing with a small cat most people theorized that he’s an animimagi he denied as the black lion just rubbed her face against his hand. 

Whenever Slytherin and Hufflepuff had a quidditch match or one was beating the other at the house cup it seemed a flare was sparked between the Red and Black Paladins that had many insults thrown and often the Green Paladin would scream at them to “SHUT UP AND KISS ALREADY!” to which a truce came into existence to bring down the Green Paladin. To which they would kiss over her head and at the same time ask if she was happy now? The answer would always be “it was worth it” or “put me down or I’ll skin you two dead!” 

At the Ravenclaw table two people sat there the ‘advisor’ and the Blue Paladin or Princess, they had somewhat of a father daughter relationship.

They had bright hair and two weird markings under their with pointed ears.

The Blue Paladin had a crown with long flowing hair her cheek markings always glowed a bright pink, she wore a dress and a cloak cut of at the elbows she had a hole in her stomach an assumed stab wound, she could so regally like royalty which she apparently was it made total sense she usually was the peace maker between the Paladins, she and the Blue lion would often mother the rest of the Paladins and lions -except for the Blacks that was the Reds job- but would not hesitate to tease them, all of the Ravenclaws respected her who wouldn’t she’s smart intelligent and beautiful, also because boys fell at her feet. The advisor had blue markings, with a fancy suit -”not this century!” “Ow you’re kidding me Black” “none of us are!”- he often would speak in charms and potions on things that only the Flitwick and the seven years -Hermoine and a couple Ravenclaws- could understand, he would also spout things like Yalmors and Weblums along with balmarans, no one except the other Paladins, Luna, anyone who read the Quibbler, and Dumbledore would understand.

The last Paladin was Shiro he had a scar right across his nose and his right arm was missing no one knew how but then again no one knew much about them. He was the Black Paladins half brother and now and again you would see him leave the Gryfindor table to talk to Hufflepuff Paladins other times all the Paladins would sit a table and just talk.

The last thing Harry expected to find when he was looking for a place to host the D.A. meetings were the two of the Paladins laughing and talking.

“Keith ha! we are definitely gonna win against Hufflepuff!”  “What makes you say that Lance? You gonna cheat?” He saw the Black Paladin - no Keith- talking to who he assumed was Lance.

 “No I’ve already got the most competitive Hufflepuffs head out of the game.” 

“Really?” Keith said raising an eyebrow. 

As he watched Lance lean down and kiss Keith. Harry almost immediately backtracked walking out of the room. Two thought repeating in his head ‘nope nope nope’ along with ‘I know to Paladins names’

Ummm sorry if I misrepresented any characters been awhile since I read Harry Potter.

[spiritmaiden23]

DASHBOARD GAME: CHARACTER DETAIL.

GENERAL.

NAME: Zelda. NICKNAME(S): Zel, Zellie, Zeldy, Zelduh(?), she’s happy with nicknames friends come up with something to keep in mind!! Her grace, Hylia reborn while not nicknames are still things she’s called by and prefers Not To Be unless they have to call her this. AGE: 18-19 claims to be that age when in actuality she’s pushing 1,000+ years old post game SPECIES: Seemingly human like any other Hylian/Skyloftian but is literally a mortal goddess

PERSONAL.

MORALITY: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil RELIGIOUS BELIEF: Standard Hyrule creation mythos, used to be more partial to the sect dedicated to Hylia in particular until she learns that she is Hylia. It’s a little weird to worship beings she once saw as her sister in arms and herself, so tough to say for sure but there is respect to be found for the gods of the old and the spirits/dragons of the realm. VICES: envy / greed / lust / gluttony / sloth / pride / wrath / despair VIRTUES: chastity / humility / charity / diligence / kindness / patience /temperance PRIMARY GOALS IN LIFE: Protect the Triforce while creating a new life beneath the clouds!  LANGUAGES KNOWN: Ancient form of Hylian. Good luck trying to figure out her dialect for you youngsters from another timeline wahahah!  SECRETS: Aside from never coming to terms with her not crush on best friend? It’s anxiety for whether or not people will accept their new life on The Surface because like it or not the islands in the skies will all come back to the lands as intended once Demise is gone. Along with hiding the Triforce elsewhere because while she wants to believe that those she’s befriended and cared for wouldn’t take the ultimate power of the gods, she knows that the Triforce draws out the madness and greed hidden in humanity itself. It’s no surprise that the Triforce is back though and while it’s canon that the Skyloftians don’t know what the hell the Triforce is... it’s better to be safe than sorry, and keep in mind that there’s a lot more going on in The Surface maybe there are people out there who align themselves with Demise’s forces and still carry out his will in a way, or search for the power for their own benefit. It’s not all rainbow and sunshine and she’s highly aware of this hence why it’s a secret where it is. And well, she’s not ready to reveal that she’s Hylia reborn as mortal to others aside from her father, Link, and Groose with the last two already knowing the fact.  SAVVIES: She’s pretty good at singing and playing the harp, perhaps not expert levels like Kina but still pleasant to listen to all the same! She’s strong enough to lift Link but not like, strong enough to lift Groose sadly. That said, she can use swords, preferring more light weighted and nimble blades but is handy with the more heavy ones too. Considering the fact that she is The Gods, her divine magic, while not as OP as the princesses due to not having the Triforce of Wisdom or blood of the sages that’s to come down the line later on, it is divinity itself and more than likely far more potent than any of the members of the royal family since she’s the one who started it all and is actually Hylia herself, so. Granted, without immortal proprieties to it and probably not as extensive as it was when she was a goddess but still something that’s enough to make satanic avocado turn back to satan so that should say a lot. And explains why people would be after her magic!  

PHYSICAL.

BUILD: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average / muscled HEIGHT: 5′3″ (160 cm)  SCARS/BIRTHMARKS: VERY SELF INDULGENT HEADCANON COMING IN HOT but reincarnation scar on her chest, right above her heart, it’s a scar from her past life the finishing blow and mortal wound that Demise inflicted onto Hylia. Depending on the cut of the dress, you can see it; highly unlikely to see it with her goddess/spirit maiden dress and that pink dress she made when playing the role of the goddess for the wing ceremony. And also several moles/beauty marks like near her belly button, upper arm, and thigh!  ABILITIES/POWERS: Light magic! And very powerful sealing magic too! As explained above. She doesn’t seem to have the same ESP powers that the princesses do on the account of not having the Triforce of Wisdom, her clairvoyance rather poor to the point that Link might be more clairvoyant than her this time around! But perhaps that’s a good thing ;v;  RESTRICTIONS: She doesn’t have the same longevity as she did when she was a goddess, as such her magic is pretty limited to before she was reborn as a mortal. Though she can seal herself away she’s putting herself at a huge, huge risk since she’s at the mercy of everyone. She does not have cool telepathy powers like goth zel so major bummer for those who want 3 AM telepathic convos. 

FAVOURITES.

FOOD: Veggie based dishes!! Pumpkin seems to be a big staple so it should come as no surprise that she adores the pumpkin soup from Lumpy Pumpkin or the fact that she loves wild veggie rice stuffed pumpkin! So long as it has no meat, she’s fine with eating whatever!  DRINK: Water, juices, tea... maybe coffee... maybe... she doesn’t really need to drink it though honestly  PIZZA TOPPING: ??? veggie mayhaps, again she’s not a fan of meat so....  COLOR(S): Lavender, pink, blue, green MUSIC GENRE: Folklore  BOOK GENRE: Historical non-fiction, legends lost to time, fictional history for fun time reading, and fairytales about the Surface that holds grains of truth to it. MOVIE GENRE: ??? SEASONS: Fall. SCENT(S): Freshly baked goods, forest smells, fresh morning air

FUN STUFF.

SINGS IN THE SHOWER: YES WHO DO YOU THINK SHE IS?!  LIKES BAD PUNS: You know what, it depends but for the most part she does!  CURSE WORD: Goofball 

TAGGED BY: no one!!  TAGGING: whomst ever!! 

[thatgirlonstage]

@fluffyblue-multifandommess so I tried to save your ask in draft at one point while I was working on answering it (it uh.... got... long on me) and fortunately I didn’t actually lose it but it did fuck the formatting to hell and I couldn’t fix it, so I just copy-pasted into a new post entirely; sorry about that.

@fluffyblue-artnwriting asked: I'm thinking about possibilities for a wangxian Witcher!AU and I can't decide which one of them is the Witcher because on one hand WWX has a personality way closer to Jaskier but ALSO the whole Public View Of Witchers Is Shit thing parallels demonic cultivation nicely.... And THEN I thought, but what if LWJ is the witcher and WWX is... like Yennefer. Then who would take on the bard's role... IDK. Maybe NHS? I like the idea of LWJ&NHS friendship A Lot but their dynamic would be very different from Geralt and Jaskier’s obviously. However that all works out, one thing is obvious; A-Yuan is Ciri.

*rubs hands together* Okay hear me out: WWX as the Witcher and LWJ as the Bard, but paralleling a sort of Jaskier/Geralt roleswap AU. The one where Jaskier is a witcher and Geralt is a bard, albeit a much more subdued type of bard, the kind who sits in the corner of an inn and strums his songs and gains a reputation as this guy with a deep, husky (well, Geralt is husky, LWJ in this instance is more… warm and round) kind of voice who is maybe not the best for a jig but whenever he sings he has a way of just making everyone stop and listen. He tells stories with his songs, and he makes people want to hear them. And he doesn’t really like to stick around after he plays, he doesn’t want to be dragged into every piece of gossip and every scandal of every small town he visits, he prefers to meet people privately and gather his stories thoughtfully and carefully before he sets them to music. But one day after his set, just as he’s packing up, this has-no-fear witcher sprawls himself across the table nearest the bard and calls for a drink and a meal for the man who sings so beautifully, golden eyes glowing (like the sun, Lan Wangji thinks, like he wants to light the world around him, not hellfire and brimstone like he’s heard). So he takes the meal but turns down the drink and requests instead to follow him for a day and see if there’s a story waiting in the witcher’s company.

And there is, there’s dozens of stories, but more importantly there is Wei Ying with his golden eyes and bright smile and fierce whirling swords, and the way he laughs and waves it off when the innkeepers throw food in his face or people lie about what they agreed to pay him or even when he is literally stoned out of town. So Lan Wangji vows he will write songs about the witcher, about the children he saves and the long nights in the mud and the wilderness, about stitching his own wounds back together because not even a doctor will touch him. He will write songs so beautiful it will make grown men weep, he will write songs so popular that no one will be able to get them out of their heads, he will write songs for noble and common alike, he will make people stop looking at Wei Ying with fear and revulsion if he has to play until his fingers bleed.

(“Lan Zhan, why do you write so many songs about me?” Wei Ying laughs as he asks it, the question only half serious.

“I write songs that I want people to hear,” he answers, and Wei Ying’s mask slips slightly to the complicated face beneath the smile.)

(He writes one song that is not about him, but for him. One song that no one else will ever hear.)

(“Wangji, be careful with your songs,” his brother tells him, but it doesn’t stop him.)

(Oops it got long, more under the cut)

I am vaguely aware from fanfic that there was at some point, some kind of attack? On the witchers? A bunch of them were wiped out? This would be a lot easier if I knew more lore and history but I want to read the books now* so I’m not gonna spoil myself by looking at the wiki (I also imagine with the number of different canons that looking at the wiki is likely to confuse me more than anything). But anyway: the destruction of Lotus Pier.

Lan Wangji eventually meets Wei Ying’s family, Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli, two other witchers, three of very very few witchers left. Jiang Cheng fights monsters with a whip that crackles with purple lightning. Jiang Yanli uses potions that make her monstrously strong, and drips poison on her blade. Lan Wangji asks Wei Ying why his swords seem perfectly ordinary, if largely too heavy for the average man to swing about with ease, or why he doesn’t use the same potions and poisons Jiang Yanli does, the ones she warned Lan Wangji not to touch lest they burn his skin. He asks why the scars in his skin seem so much deeper, like they took far longer to heal. Wei Ying laughs it off and hastily changes the subject.

(Netflix told us fuck all about witcher lore so I am kinda flying by the seat of my pants here and also this is a more subtle version of losing his core. But the idea here is that WWX gave up some degree of witcher magic that would have allowed him to use magic weapons/the potions. He’s still unnaturally strong, he can see in the dark, he can smell out monsters, but he’s not quite what a full witcher should be.)

One time, when they meet in a roadside inn, Wei Ying seems fit to burst with excitement at seeing him. He pulls him up to his room before Lan Wangji can protest and takes a glossy black flute from his saddlebags. “Teach me to play it, Lan Zhan?” Golden eyes shine like the first glimmers of dawn. “I’ve always wanted to learn music but the witchers never allowed it, and now I’m never in one place long enough to learn.” He has a way of talking around things, Lan Wangji has learned, when it’s something that he fears will evoke pity. Lan Wangji knows that no community suffers a witcher to stay a day longer than necessary, and that even if he managed to earn his keep in a borderland city or somewhere like that, somewhere he could return every month or so, no one would take a witcher as a music student. “But we travel together all the time!” Wei Ying is saying. “So you can teach me!”

Lan Wangji takes the flute, examining it. “I do not play the flute,” he says. Wei Ying’s face falls.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. I thought about getting a guqin like yours, but it’s too bulky to carry with everything else, and I’d be too worried about breaking it when I get in fights…” He reaches for the flute, but Lan Wangji does not return it.

“My brother plays. I took some lessons with him when we were children. I remember the basics. I will teach you.” And Wei Ying lights up again, the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

He’s fumbling at first, his ear unused to the difference between flat and sharp, his fingers unaccustomed to the delicate pressure needed. But he’s a fast learner, and his hands have always been clever. Soon, the days that they travel, when they don’t end in monster hunts, they end in music, in quiet evenings around a campfire, improvised duets weaving through the smoke.

One time, when they meet out on the road, both chasing the same rumor of a cockatrice (well, Wei Ying chasing the rumor, Lan Wangji chasing Wei Ying), Lan Wangji takes out a newly purchased jian and says “Will you teach me?” He doesn’t expect the horror and sadness that spasms over Wei Ying’s face.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, more somber than Lan Wangji has ever seen him, “you don’t have to kill monsters to travel with me. You don’t have to kill anything.”

“Mn. I have no wish to kill. I only want to be able to defend myself, so that you do not have to risk yourself if I am in danger.” Wei Ying still looks hesitant, but he brightens considerably, and agrees to teach Lan Wangji the basics of swordplay. He is not starting from scratch — he learned a few things growing up the child of nobility — but it has been many years since he has been near anything more serious than a bar brawl or a mugging. He is also a fast learner, and so long as Wei Ying does not use his witcher strength, after enough practice Lan Wangji holds his own and even puts Wei Ying in the dirt from time to time.

As for Yen, I actually really like NHS as Yen? He grows up in a family where he was supposed to swing a sword he never wanted to pick up, and he hated it so much that one day he simply teleported away. By the time Nie Huaisang makes it back home, his brother has a plan. He has recently thrown out the Unclean Realm’s Brotherhood advisor, Meng Yao, for treason. If Nie Huaisang has the spark, then Nie Mingjue will send his defenseless little brother to become a powerful mage, and then he can be the Unclean Realm’s advisor. So much easier when things stay in the family. So Nie Mingjue writes to one of the rectors, Lan Qiren, and secures Nie Huaisang’s place in the school. Nie Huaisang goes, and he is a shuddering, tearful mess, and he seems to survive by the skin of his teeth, and not even his classmates notice how skillfully he learns to make the world dance with a crook of his finger.

Years later, Lan Wangji accidentally destroys an amphora containing a djinn. He, in a fit of anger, speaks carelessly for once in his life, at the worst possible moment he could have done so. He rides back into town as fast as Wei Ying’s horse can carry them. He hears of a mage who might be able to help. “No mages,” Wei Ying tries to say, but there’s barely enough air in his lungs to force it out as words. Lan Wangji drags him to the mage’s door and begs for help. Nie Huaisang does it out of curiosity more than anything. Never met a witcher who couldn’t guard their mind before. What happened to your magic?

Get out of my head, Wei Ying thinks, but he lets the mage heal him.

“Why no mages?” Lan Wangji finds the courage to ask, much later, months later, fingers trembling over his guqin with the paralyzing shame of his actions. Wei Ying looks away and tells him the story of two siblings — Wen Qing and Wen Ning — marked as cursed, tells him the head of the Brotherhood, Jin Guangshan, sent his nephew Jin Zixun to kill them for fear of what they could become. He walked into the middle of the conflict. Both Jin Zixun and the siblings asked him for his help. Wei Ying chose the Wens. He killed Jin Zixun. The mages declared him an enemy. When Jiang Cheng tried to protect him, they nearly killed him. To repay Wei Ying, Wen Qing saved Jiang Cheng’s life. But no magic comes without a price, and the price for this was Wei Ying’s witcher magic. Afterward, Wei Ying demanded the Jiang school of witchers disown him, and make peace with the Brotherhood, for everyone’s sake. To cement the peace, Jiang Yanli married a mage and Jin Zixun’s cousin, Jin Zixuan.

(Lan Wangji understands, now, why he’s only every met Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli in the wilderness, and then only rarely, why Wei Ying has pleaded with him not to write songs about them, why his brother tried to caution him away, why his uncle seems so exceptionally chilly on the rare occasions they see each other.)

(Nie Huaisang learned Wei Ying’s history while he was poking through his mind. He laughed when Wei Ying asked if he was going to kill him. “Your friend promised me gold and music if you live,” he said. “I would far rather have that than the dubious honor of giving your head to Jin Guangshan on a platter.”)

(It was Jin Guangshan, after all, who — with someone whispering in his ear, Nie Huaisang is certain — noticed how dangerous letting him go home to his brother would make the Unclean Realm, and instead contrived to send him to the ends of the earth, where Nie Huaisang elected to abandon his duties and the Brotherhood.)

Wen Ruohan rules Qishan with the defected Brotherhood mage Meng Yao by his side. He has found and welcomed back his distant relatives Wen Qing and Wen Ning, in the years since they met Wei Wuxian. Hearing their stories, he sends an invitation to the Black Wolf Witcher, to come visit his kingdom. Wei Wuxian pleads and cajoles Lan Wangji into going with him because really Lan Zhan, do I seem like I belong in rich halls among the nobility? I don’t even know what shirt to buy.

(Okay I am about to careen wildly into Simply Making Shit Up that only has a passing resemblance to either canon, bear with me.)

Wen Ruohan, in the midst of his entire court, demands Wei Wuxian choose a reward for saving Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s lives (Wen Qing saving Jiang Cheng’s life is not, cannot be public knowledge). Wei Wuxian tries to demur, but Wen Ruohan refuses to exist in anyone’s debt, let alone an outcast witcher’s. Somewhat desperate and on the spot, Wei Wuxian invokes the Law of Surprise. It can’t be seen as insultingly low or high in value, and he figures at most he’ll get a puppy from the next litter of Wen Ruohan’s hunting dogs, or something equally inane, and they can all call it even. Unfortunately for everyone, Wen Xu’s wife chooses this exact moment to become spectacularly ill, the first sign other than a late period that she is pregnant with Wen Ruohan’s first grandchild. Wei Wuxian flees. He spends a lot of the next few years fleeing.

(“Come to Gusu with me,” Lan Wangji pleads, some time later, on top of a mountain.

“No,” Wei Ying tells him, not because he doesn’t want to, not because he wouldn’t leave the path if he could, but because he can’t stop running, because there are too many maligned creatures who don’t deserve death and too many monsters preying on innocent people that do, because if he doesn’t help them who will, because how can he stop, because he’s terrified of stopping.

“I cannot watch you destroy yourself, Wei Wuxian.”

“Then leave, Lan Wangji.”)

It ends in fire, when Wen Ruohan grows too power hungry, and the Brotherhood turns on him with the Unclean Realm and Lan Wangji’s family on their side, and it turns out that Meng Yao’s defection from the Brotherhood was an act (some of the time? all of time?) and he’s been spying (for years? for months?). Nie Mingjue manages to pull his brother out of exile in return for his help against the Wens, although Nie Huaisang is doubtful about the merits of this.

Wei Wuxian is there when it happens, having been dragged reluctantly back by the strings of fate and the nebulous tie to a child he has never met but who is still a child and doesn’t deserve to die in the coming carnage. Wen Ruohan locks him away for trying to take his grandchild — and heir, after both Wen Xu and Wen Chao perish on the battlefield. He escapes while the city is sacked, but doesn’t manage to find Wen Yuan before he’s fled the city. Instead he finds Wen Qing and Wen Ning, and defends them from the mages when they come into the city. It would’ve been a futile effort, if not for Nie Huaisang and — surprisingly — Meng Yao, who had been at court with them for years at that point, and — even more surprisingly — Jin Zixuan, who has had years of cajoling from Jiang Yanli at this point, stepping to his side. It’s enough that they’re allowed to leave unscathed.

Wen Yuan, meanwhile, meets an elf boy called Jingyi, flees through the fields of refugees, and learns that he has the same kind of magic or curse he heard people whispering about his relatives Wen Qing and Wen Ning having.

Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning find A-Yuan in a destroyed field, lost but alone no more, and he runs into their arms.

Aaaaaaaaaand I have run out of Witcher canon, and this is also OBNOXIOUSLY long by now, so uh, pending part two, maybe, when s2 happens/when I read the books, whichever comes first

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

Name: Fynnian Lewis Species: Human (Hunter; Slayer) Occupation: Support Group Sponsor Age: 35 Years Old Played By: Greyson Face Claim: Iwan Rheon

“If there be any truer measure of a man than by what he does. It must be by what he gives.”

Growing up in a family of vampire hunters is anything but ordinary, especially when it came to the Lewis family. From the ages of two until he was seven, the boy was homeschooled and when he was five, his little brother Alistar was born. His mother always told him that he had been too smart for his own good and that attending an accredited school would give him opportunities that she couldn’t. This was why for the third grade, Fynn was enrolled at the local elementary school, which Alistar would also attend. School for Fynnian was always a battle ground. Kids were cruel to those who were different, and Fynn definitely wasn’t a normal kid, he was a bookworm and as most kids would call him, a nerd.  The boy always excelled in english and history, though math never fully did make sense to him. He was always close with his brother and tried to teach him the things that their father didn’t tend to be around to teach like shaving, and helping with homework. 

On Fynnian’s twelfth birthday he was given a dagger with a black crucifix engraved into the blade by his father. The blade had been an heirloom on his father’s side of the family for generations, being passed down from oldest son to oldest son. It was later that year the boy began his slayer training. For a while, the training was challenging, but Fynn liked the physical effort involved and since he didn’t get on very well with the other kids at his junior high school, he wanted to know how to protect himself. It wasn’t until he turned fifteen and made his first kill that he realized how painful hunting can be. The feeling of the knife slipping through the flesh of a living thing and watching it die was tragic to Fynnian. This was something his father took offense to, causing a lot of arguing and ending with frequently scheduled hunts in order to desensitise the boy. These hunts did nothing but build resentment towards his father and give Fynn a distaste for the slayer lifestyle.

When it was time for Alistar’s first hunt, Fynn was seventeen and had just graduated highschool. This was a time in his life where he was expected to be committing to hunting full time and taking over the family business, however, he had other plans, and was thinking about going to university much to the chagrin of his father. The hunt started out smooth, no issues with target locating and all seemed well, but the more the three men talked the more tense the situation became causing both Fynnian and the boy’s dad to be on edge. Once the encounter began Fynn felt like he and his father were out of sync, usually the two could tear down a vampire in no time, but their timing was off and the vamp was smart, putting Alistar in harm’s way just long enough for him to get bitten. It took years for the sounds of his brother’s cries to leave Fynn’s head. For a hunter, a bite is just like any other wound, but for a regular human a bite will turn them and that’s exactly what happened to Alistar. That was how they all found out that Alistar was an illegitimate child, and that their mother had been cheating while their father was away, due to the fact that the hunter genes came from the father’s side of the family. As soon as Alistar’s change began their father attacked him, or tried to. Sensing what was about to happen he tackled the male to the ground giving Alistar enough time to get away. This turned the man’s anger towards Fynn, leading to an all out brawl between the two. The man was skilled but Fynn was fast and that was his advantage. After landing a good hit on the old man Fynnian snapped, years of pent up anger and aggression as a result of forced hunting and absenteeism turning the brawl into a fight to the death that Fynn managed to win. 

When he returned home that night he confessed everything that had happened to his mother, waiting for the next day before going out to look for Alistar. After that night they never spoke of their father again, never wanting to actualize the events of the evening in their minds. They also severed all ties to the slayers, frightened by what could happen if they were to find out about Fynn’s father’s death. After weeks of searching Alistar resurfaced, covered in blood that was a mix of his own and someone else’s, begging Fynn to help him. It took months of trial and error to figure out exactly how to care for Alistar and his ‘condition.’ It was weeks of long nights, yelling between brothers and fighting, but the experience solidified his desires to go to university to be a counselor. Alistar and Fynn’s relationship was never the same after he was rehabilitated, there had been a lot that went on during those months, including a couple broken bones and bites that Alistar will never forgive himself for giving to Fynn causing the two to drift apart a lot as they grew older.   

Throughout his years in university he had learned everything he could about all manner of supernatural beings. He spent a lot of late nights wandering the dormitories and meeting people in the shadows as he searched for more and more information related to rehabbing supernaturals. Throughout his years of schooling Fynn worked hard to find supernatural beings that were wanting to be rehabilitated, but he also learned that not everyone wants to ‘get better.’ Fynn also learned the true power of vampires and the strength of their bites, leaving the man with more than a few bite-mark scars. He also learned the benefits of keeping his desire to rehab supernaturals a secret, in order to keep his patients safe from any hunters that could be lurking about.  After finishing his doctorate degree (PsyD) in 2014, Fynnian decided it was time to settle somewhere and open a practice. After much research and consideration he decided on moving to White Crest due to the large population of supernatural beings living within the town, and it wasn’t terribly far from his mother and brother either.

Character Facts:

Personality: Patient, erratic, moody, resourceful, morbid, well-read, enervated

While he has been with others sexually, Fynnian has never had a serious romantic relationship with another human being.  

Despite not believing in the killing of supernaturals, he always carries a knife around with him wherever he goes. The knife was a gift from his father when he first began his hunter training.

Fynnian has been bitten by various creatures and has some particularly awful scarring on his arms so he is usually seen wearing long sleeved shirts unless he is off work, or it is particularly hot. He also occasionally walks with a cane as a result of having his femur broken by an angry vampire.

Fynnian is incredibly patient and understands that failure is very much part of the trial and error process, so he is very hard to frustrate.

[spy-der-woman]

Spy-Der Woman: To Know Her

Summary: A young woman, Jessica, is captured by a mysterious group of government officials and is forced to recount her involvement in one of the most devastating events in Japan's modern history.

Word Count: 1858

Pairings: Jessica Drew/Gwen Stacy 

A/N: Hello! Hi! Thank you for taking the time to read my personal spin on the Spider-Woman origin story. Ideally, many more chapters to come. Enjoy!

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218846/chapters/55587907

Next Chapter: https://spy-der-woman.tumblr.com/post/618206045884547072/spy-der-woman-to-know-her

Chapter One: A Black Ink Face 

Tokyo, Japan

The colors were still there: the reds, the blues, pinks, and purples. They just weren’t as bright anymore. The ashes of the most devastating event in Japan’s modern history still carried in the wind dulling any glow that the city once had. If anything, the black of Tokyo: skyline, alleyways, suits of men and women were just as deep and dark as ever.

And in that black, a group of young boys played kickball in their light-up Sketchers. Haruto Yamamoto, age seven, teased little Akihiro Nakamura, age six, as he stepped up to the makeshift cardboard plate. Akihiro was the runt of the group, and it didn’t help that his sneakers were too old to light up blue anymore like the rest of the boys. Haruto had no rhyme or reason to be this mean other than he was a boy, and he could. Akihiro, along with the rest of the gang, just begged him to throw the ball already. 

But, before Haruto could finally pitch the ball, a warning siren rang throughout the city. The boys looked up at the screens on the sides of the buildings surrounding them as they changed from advertisements to a black screen followed by the logo of Tokyo’s five o’clock news. Yellow text appeared warning that the footage that is about to play may upset children and elderly viewers. 

The boys continued to look.

Helicopter shots along with cell phone camera footage were spliced together to show all different angles of devastation that occurred at the Port of Tokyo. The broadcast didn’t linger long on these images before cutting to a live feed of reporter, Mitsuko Miyazaki, who stood a few yards away from the seaport. All of it had been leveled out. 

“Good evening, this Mitsuko Miyazaki reporting live for Action News 10. 

Prime Minister Kenuichio Harada has asked me to speak to you this evening in regards to what is potentially now being deemed a terrorist attack.

It has been one week since the catastrophic explosion that occurred at Tokyo Harbour. As you can see behind me, search and rescue teams are still looking for survivors. However, hope is dwindling as the death toll continues to rise. By the end of the week, numbers are expected to double, potentially triple. 

With that being said, government authorities have been working day in and day out interviewing survivors of this attack. With the diligent work of the government, two crucial pieces of information have come to light. I urge you to pay attention carefully. 

One, the cause of the explosion came deep within the underground and not from an outside source, as initially reported. Also, while initially thought to be a chemical explosion, experts are now leaning towards this being an electrical explosion instead. 

Two, multiple eye witness reports mention a young woman helping survivors out of the wreckage, but then leaving the scene as rescue teams and authorities started to arrive. This woman has been described as being American or European, tall, black hair, with burn wounds covering her hands, arms, and chest. Gathering as much information as possible, the police have drawn up a potential sketch of what this person may look like.”

A black ink face covered the city. 

“If you have any information about the explosion or about the woman. Please give a call to the number appearing on the screen now. Do not hesitate to call. Any and all information, big or small, could prove helpful in aiding this investigation. 

If you know something, say something.

Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you have a peaceful rest of your evening.”

Little Akihiro, frightened by the images he saw, had broken away his gaze midway through the broadcast. In contrast, the rest of the boys, with eyes glazed over, had continued to watch. 

Desperately wanting to be in the comfort of his mother’s arms, Akihiro snuck off from the boys. He was only able to make it a few feet away before an unmarked car had pulled into the black. The headlights on the vehicle were so bright that Akihiro tripped over his own feet, falling into a puddle. This caught the attention of the other boys whose voices fell short of laughter when they saw a group of men exit the vehicle with guns visibly strapped to their sides. 

All of the boys, now just as little as Akihiro, ran off in the other direction. Hamurato ran slightly behind and kept his head turned to look at the men. He watched as the last one out of the vehicle pulled a woman out along with him. The man kept his gun close to her head. Akihiro was frozen. 

She was barely dressed, only wearing dirty white underwear and an oversized red and black motorcycle jacket. A large black box that hummed with a blue glow encased her hands, leaving her hunched over. The woman tried to walk on her own, but her knees started to buckle underneath her. The group of men shouted remarks that Aikhiro had only ever heard his father use underneath his breath. The woman took a few steps into the street light, exposing deep purple scars on her legs running from her ankles up to her hips. The tallest man shouted at her to stand up straight. He took a decent amount of her hair into his and yanked her head up, exposing her face underneath the street light. 

It was her. The woman Akihiro had only seen moments ago on every screen in Tokyo. Her eyes locked with his, and he felt his heart drop into his stomach. She looked like a ghost. One of those urban legends the boys would talk about after school to scare him like the one about the woman who had a smile cut from ear to ear. 

The men dragged her into a run-down building, while Akihiro, soaked and silent, got up and began to walk his way out of the black.

***

The building used to be a butcher shop. The walls, floors, even the air was stained with rancid blood. The men pulled her far into the back of what used to be a cooler. Meat hooks swinging back and forth, nipping at her exposed skin. The tall man, leading the pack, opened up a door in the back and instructed everyone to move quickly while he made sure that no one had followed them in. Once the coast was clear and the door closed behind them, all in unison they began to move forward, left foot first. The only source of light coming from flickering lights that were placed where the ceiling meets the wall. None of them spoke.

As they made their way down the hall, the hair left on the woman’s arms stood up straight. She felt nauseated and unable to keep her focus. While only four men surrounded her, she could see eight. Along with the gun firmly placed against her spine, she could feel the blood rushing through her body. Every single cell of her being trying to repair itself into some semblance of what it used to be. Exhausting the last bits of energy she had left. The smell of sulfur that came from the water dripping from the ceiling was strong enough that she could taste it on the tip of her tongue. But, worst of all, was the sound of the rats. The rats with their little claws scratched at the concrete surrounding them.  

The group came to a halt when they had reached a new door. The tall man made his way to the front and knocked on the door with a particular rhythm. The door creaked open, there were whispers, followed by laughter. A deep feminine laughter. 

“Come in. We have been waiting patiently.” 

The new room they entered was filled with old TVs, all of them turned to various news stations and presidential addresses/condolences regarding the “terrorist attack” in Tokyo. The woman kept her eyes trained on the screens taking in as much information as she could understand, even as the men shoved her onto an illuminated platform in the middle of the room. Before she could get the chance to stand tall on her own, a magnetic pull between the platform and the box encasing her hands forced her down onto her knees. 

She didn’t make a sound.

The woman that had opened the door slipped a remote into her pocket and approached the girl. “We only do this out of precaution. Not to harm you.” She took the girl’s chin into her palm and inspected every mark that marred her face. “Beautiful thing you are.” The woman looked up at the group of men, “Bring everyone else here now.”

The group of men dispersed, and for a brief moment, the two women were alone. 

“You have done a lot of damage.”

“I did what I had to do.” The girl finally spoke.

“And the whole world heard you loud and clear.”

“Should I say sorry?”

“Sorry? Nothing to apologize for. It is all apart of the process.”

The men returned with several individuals dressed in suits and ties.  Everyone took their respective seat at a makeshift table. The woman let go of the girl’s face to greet the people in the room with a firm handshake, except for the last man to which she bowed. 

“Thank you for joining us, Prime Minister.”

“And thank you, Madame, for the work you have done.”

“It’s my honor.”

“So this is the girl.” the Prime Minister was the last to take his seat. 

Madame continued to stand with one hand on the table and the other hand in her pocket firmly holding the remote control. 

“Girl? Given our base-level knowledge, she is far more than that. Aren’t you?”

The girl only gave a small glance up at the Madame before looking back down. 

“This girl from what we understand is the cause for this little incident. Aren’t you?”

The girl remained silent.

“Killing thousands, mass mourning, even pulled a few of New York’s finest over here to help the remaining survivors. All done by you and only you.”

“It wasn’t just me.” she spoke through her teeth.

“It wasn’t? Well, let’s write that down because we have no clue. In fact, for the first time in a long time, there is a lot of stuff we don’t know. Which is why this evening, you are going to tell us everything, every detail, on what happened last week and everything before it. We want the who, what, when, where, why, and how. And before you try and refuse, please remember how we found you—near death against a dumpster—which means that-”

“My name is Jessica.”

“Jessica? Last name.”

“No last name.”

“Why is that, Jessica.”

“I was told I was lucky enough to even get a name at all.”

“Interesting. Well, luck implies probability, which means there were others like you, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t we start your story there.”

Jessica gnawed at the inside of her cheek till she could feel blood trickle down her throat. 

[chaoskirin]

A Full History of Thericry

Thericry is one of the oldest stable magics, created by a group of several unnamed humans following the defeat of Erit’s original gods. Jealous of the long lifespans of other races like fauns and elves, humans sought to extend their age using newly found arcane arts. The experiments took decades, and the curse of thericry that survived is the longest standing failure.

While magic was new, science and scientific principles were well-established and it was widely understood that people–whether they be human or elf or harpy, et cetera–aged because of the degradation of DNA. The goal was to create several internal structures that would cause or harbor the production of telomerase without causing tumors.

The humans involved enlisted the help of the New Gods, who were less subtle about directly interfering in the world back then. The god Nebula would create a cycle of release. Antirrhopus would stabilize the new internal structures. 

And Xax–the deity of disease–would create a method of distribution.

That was the first mistake.

With magic held closely by the gods and their conduits, and with a series of leylines holding the planet in a stable orbit around its star, the humans realized that there was no way they could harness enough energy at once to "treat" the entire population. Such a massive implementation would tear Erit apart and negate the entire purpose of their experiment. So the idea was to infect a vector, who would then transfer their near-immortality to everyone around them, and so on and so forth, until every human carried it. Instead of using existing viruses and modifying them over a number of decades, they petitioned Xax for a bit of a shortcut. Xax didn't earn their titles of "Deity of Death" and "Deity of Pain" until years after the Fall. Initially, the mortals of the world knew the god as simply the "Deity of Disease." And the human petitioners figured that if a disease could be bad, it could also be modified to be good. Symbiotic, even.

But Xax had an important role to fill. Death was, is, and has always been an important part of the cycle of life. Without it, and with a population allowed to grown unchecked, the planet may well have died. While Xax and the other gods knew that the denizens of Erit would find ways to prolong their life, snub disease, and cheat death, it wasn't their job to predict the future. It was their job to fill the roles they had, immediately, in the present. And Xax was neither altruistic nor benevolent. They were opportunistic, though. After conferring with the other gods, it was decided that this human foray into immortality must fail. Antirrhopus, who was chaotic at best, came up with the method to implement the disease, and Nebula, who was fair and kind, limited its scope down to a manageable level. It was the hope of all the gods that mortals would cease their quest into artificially extending their lives if such endeavors created disastrous results. Thus, the humans and the gods started work on the most infamous infection the world had ever known.

In the early days of the new gods, magic began to interweave with all the sciences to produce results the world had never seen before. Experts in human biology and chemistry decided that if this magical virus was to be maintained, the infected would have to change their physiology in order to accept their new, longer lives. And while genetic sciences had been making huge strides before the dawn of widely available magic, magical interference could only perfect their work.

And so it was decided that the infection would do several things. First, it would increase the production of telomerase in the body. And second--to prevent cancer--it would store the excess of this protein in a special fifth chamber of the heart, to be distributed when necessary. Last, it would create what the humans called a terminal cycle. Once a month, a failsafe mechanism would flush any unused protein out of the body.

The magic was written carefully, with input by the gods. Everything was covered. Everything was troubleshooted a hundred times over, then a hundred more. It would work. The internal structures would develop exactly as they were meant to.

And humans would have immortality.

When the time came, Xax donated their finest virus, developed over the course of years. Antirrhopus sent a golden Familiar Spirit, which graciously sacrificed itself for the cause. And Nebula sent a drop of moonlight, bottled and concentrated into a glow so bright that it hurt to look at it without special lenses.

With these boons, the humans built a genetic lattice for their spell. It would have been perfect. The humans would have lived longer than the elves. They could have built an infinite legacy.

No one expected the gods to punish them for their lofty aspirations. The spell was specifically designed to be irreversible. Every loophole was accounted for. Short of an ingenious magical solution that would account for every tiny detail in the original magic, the disease would be permanent and particularly virulent. To ensure reversal was impossible, once the humans brewed their potion, they destroyed the written formula. No one would ever see how they made it.

The names of those who first imbibed the solution are lost to time.

It only took days for it to begin to work, as it reconfigured their bodies to accept their longer lifespan. Everything seemed to be working as planned. And while it was impossible to see what was happening on a microscopic level, their hearts split into five chambers. Blood tests showed no excess of telomerase in the blood--as planned--which meant the protein was confined.

Side effects manifested slowly. The eyes of those who infected themselves changed colors. Some became yellow. Some green, or bright blue. Even purple, or orange, or everything in between. Their appetites increased, too. They seemed to be hungry all the time.

Most curiously, one especially vain subject sought to get the rather large wound at his injection site healed, but it only scarred over. The mark remained.

A few weeks later, they all changed.

Two of them became wolves, another a hawk. One of them hid away, so her change is unknown to history. One became a monstrous insect. Another, a tortoise. Each had their own interesting qualities; some were more animal-like than others, but they were definitely inhuman. Somehow, the Familiar Spirit gifted by Antirrhopus coursed through all of them, changing them into their closest animal kin.

Realizing they had been tricked by the gods, they approached the most amicable of them, Nebula, who inquired: "Did you ask every human on Erit if they wanted immortality?"

She said nothing else to them.

As time passed, the pioneers of immortality learned to control their spontaneous transformations. Most of them intended to never shift again, to hide their failure. One of the wolves, in particular, staunchly fought against the animal side of herself, vowing never to tamper with the course of nature ever again. The disease didn't seem to spread as intended, which meant they could all hopefully put this chapter of their existence to rest for good.

Then came the New Moon.

If only they could have hidden their blunder away forever. If only it were that easy! When Ammit, the closest moon to Erit, waned entirely, the humans who sought to challenge death itself shifted violently, painfully, maddeningly. Their minds were lost to them; they became the beasts they resembled and could only think of one thing--destroying every living soul around them.

Many died in the 34 days that followed as the first therics rampaged. One of the wolves--no one knows which--was killed in the first days. The tortoise was cornered and trapped, as he was particularly slow; though even he was able to bite one of his captors in his rage. The hawk traveled far and wide, her wings carrying her to all corners. Those she didn't kill, she left maimed or in great pain.

Two whole spans later, she was shot down and killed a whole continent away.

The insect was found to have a venom so terrible that it literally overkilled those it bit. It was neurotoxic and hemotoxic, and cause necrosis that spread from the site of the bite. Most who were attacked were dead within hours.

Notably, these new creatures seemed more inclined to go after other humans. In species-diverse areas, it would bypass elves or fauns to get to the human population, unless cornered. Of course we know today that non-humans are affected by theric venom, although in much different ways. That's a topic for another paper.

It's written that most of the original therics were killed as they rampaged. One was never found, and the tortoise, of course, was kept in captivity in hopes that he could be studied. The casualty count ranged in the thousands--hundreds dead and even more injured. Those that survived reported that their scratches and bites would not heal.

34 days to the second, the tortoise passed out, reverted to human, and seemed to only have a vague memory of what happened.

He was passive. In shock. Tired. He would remain caged for the rest of his life, as well; while he received a trial for the unintentional murder of six people, he willingly committed himself to captivity in order to sort out what the gods had done to him and the others.

It took little time to find that the new fifth chamber of the heart did not contain telomerase as planned. Thereafter, the reason for theric hunger became apparent: their bodies were producing adenosine triphosphate--or ATP--in extreme volumes. It was then attached to an inert protein and stored in the heart's fifth chamber. The ATP would flood the body when a theric shifted, providing them enough energy to change without killing them. The theric would then need to recoup their losses, usually be eating, in order to shift back.

While Erit's finest scientists were studying the tortoise, the survivors of the theric rampage began to change themselves. Every human became some type of animal--bears, bluebirds, badgers--each seemed to be different and unique.

In those early days where fear prevailed, many of them were killed. Or locked away forever. Of course some avoided that fate, as thericry continued to spread.

It took decades to discover the true nature of these people and how their affliction functioned. It was the tortoise--one of the original therics--that suggested Antirrhopus would have followed their recipe for a timer in some regard. Thus, they discovered that every 34 days, the ATP reservoir in the heart would undergo lysis--literally exploding and directly flooding the bloodstream with energy. This would force the victim to shift and lose all mental faculty as the ATP literally poisoned them.

And with the destroyed reservoir unable to contain the excess energy, it would continue feeding the theric's unwilling transformation until exactly 34 days later, when the reservoir would heal thanks to nebula's boon, and start regulating ATP again.

Eventually, it was discovered that the level of ATP could be moderated or degraded. That the body wouldn't store as much or cause the theric to feel so much hunger if the theric allowed itself to spend time in its animal form. Essentially, it was hypothezied that if a theric could prevent the reservoir from lysing, it could prevent itself from losing its mind.

After much trial and error, it was determined that a full day--28 hours, to be precise--spent in the theric form would degrade the ATP cycle enough so that the reservoir wouldn't explode on the night of Ammit's new moon.

With magic involved, of course, this cycle started anew when Ammit began to wax again, meaning therics were forever cursed to spend at least part of their time as their alternate self. Because of the size of Erit, it took centuries to educate the farthest reaches as to the proper way to handle theics, and discrimination against them still persists today.

In the end, because of the stress the curse puts on the human body, afflicted people actually find their lifespan reduced by an average of twenty to thirty years. While most humans may expect to live to the age of 90, most therics won't live past the age of 60; those who are more conservative with their ability might make it to 70, but there has never been a recorded instance of a theric making it to 80 years old.

Let this be a lesson to us all: pride we may have, but we must never again gather so much hubris that we seek to spit in the face of the gods. That folly may yet be our downfall.

[codenomesailorv]

FANFICTION:

"Harry Potter and the DeadlyHallows - Final Chapter"

◇ (This fanfiction is an alternative version of the last chapter of the book "Deadly Hallows", after the last chapter and before the prologe, and It's whitout relationship with "Cursed Child" or the Harry Potter movies).

● Original History by JK Rowling

● Fanfiction by Anikenkai/A. A Otrop

FINAL CHAPTER

The four paintings at Grimmaud Place

 

 

 The first rays of sunlight passed through the transparent stained-glass windows in the calm morning air, touching Harry's face as the boy shifted on the bed. After a few brief seconds he opened his eyes and felt around on the desk, taking his glasses and putting them weakly on his face, still completely exhausted as if he hadn't slept for a whole month.

He got up slightly from the bed, and still a little dizzy, focused only on a small figure moving around nearby pulling something heavy, shrieking and letting out an exclamation of relief afterwards. Soon, Harry saw who it was.

"What are you doing, Neville?" Harry asked, rising a little further from the bed, watching his friend rummage in his trunk.

"Ah" Neville turned and smiled at him. "Good morning, Harry. Sorry, did I wake you up with the noise? You know my trunk is absurdly heavy, I was barely able to pull him to bed." 

The plump boy with scarred face smiled slightly at Harry, feeling his fingers in the huge suitcase he founded on the bed next to him. 

"It doesn't even seem like I had the strength just a few days ago to face Death Eaters. Compared to my trunk now, they were very light." 

And saying that Neville laughed, and bent down again to open the wooden lid in front of him.

Yes, it was true. For a brief moment, a flash of memories rushed through Harry's mind, recalling everything that had happened in just under two days. The Battle at Hogwarts. The deaths. The meeting with Dumbledore in his head. And Voldemort's defeat at his hands, everything quickly passing by in a glance at his still sleepy eyes. But then he felt suddenly awake, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water down his spine, and then his body relaxed.

"You can sleep later today. You will not have an exact time for the Expresso departure. He will pick up the remaining students at different times until after lunch." Neville added, tossing a few pieces of clothing in his trunk.

Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head and trying to find Ron on the bed next to his, but he didn't find him immediately.

"Ew, Neville... has Ron got up yet?"

"Oh, yes. For the breakfast, I saw him come down the stairs to Hermione when I came up just now. It looks like they were called earlier to speak to McGonagall."

"Right." Harry nodded, trying not to be intrigued by the reason for his friends' haste, and again lay down on the bed, struggling to get the faces out of his head and everything else that had happened so many hours ago.

After several minutes, Neville spoke again.

"Hey, when you get up, could you move the gifts out of the way in the bedroom? You know, I don't know if I'm going to be able to lift my trunk to bed again if I want not to crush one of them, you know."

"Gifts?"

And then Harry stood up again, looking sideways and at the dormitory floor and gaping. Scattered on the floor, and in everything that his field of vision could see next to his bed and beyond Seamus's and Ron's to the walls, boxes and more boxes lay there, some lined up and others in piles, forming piles on one another, with multicolored packages and some with sparkling ribbons, some large and small, huddled up to Harry's knee. The boy got up from the bed, looking around the room, amazement on his face. It was as if he were in the Room of Requirement, among the numerous objects lined up on top of each other.

"They're for you." Neville added, without taking his eyes off what he was doing in his trunk, laughing. "I think the news of what you did with You-Know-Who has already spread everywhere. They brought you these gifts at night. It seems that many people wanted to thank you, you know."

Harry was stunned, looking at each gift spread out in front of him, boxes and more boxes piled up, and finally he stood up, totally amazed. It was as if it were Christmas, but as if all the gifts from each student were crammed there, as if Harry's room and the boys were some kind of storage. He quickly took some packages out of the way and reached for his own trunk, taking his clothes and carefully spreading some on the way to the door so that it would be free.

"Phew, thanks." Neville said getting up and closing his trunk ready. The boy was now wearing his muggle clothes, very dark jeans with a cool multicolored knit shirt and numbers on the back, a sort of Hockey team T-shirt.

Harry turned to the bed and was about to lie down again, when he heard the crash of his friend's trunk again turning to the floor and unable to control the voice that had been stuck in his throat for many days, he turned and said to Neville:

"You deserved those gifts much more than I did, if it weren't for you cutting off that snake's head, I…"

"Harry, stop. I've won too many things from my grandmother and the Gryffindor guys, man. Relax. I don't care about that, and you deserved so much more."

 "Neville listen, I …" Harry started as soon as he sat on the bed, staring at his bare feet but it was the colleague who interrupted him before he could even finish the sentence.

"No, Harry. It's all right. You don't have to say anything."

Neville said in one breath and even though she was loud and clear, she sounded gently in the room. Harry looked up to face his friend and just managed to smirk at him.

"I didn't have the opportunity to thank you and the others. For everything."

 Harry continued, taking hold of everything that had happened in the last days in his memory, remembering what Neville had done at Hogwarts with his friends while he, Ron and Hermione did while traveling across the continent in search of the Horcruxes. The way Neville had led Dumbledore's Army, how he had brought everyone together in the Room of Requirement and fought alongside him. As he did not even hesitate when the Death Eaters marked his skin with scrapes and bruises, as he did in the first bruise, he carried out Harry's request and without blinking, killed Nagini in front of Voldemort himself.

"Don't worry." Neville stepped forward, approaching Harry and patting his friend on the shoulder, as if they were talking about some Quidditch match, as his voice was as calm as any that Harry had heard a long time ago. "It was all thanks to you. I had faith in you. But now we are talking by owls, ok?"

Harry looked up again and saw Neville's plump hand stretched out in front of him, his palm open and inviting.

"I have to leave, my grandmother is waiting in the common room. Let's take the next train and go home."

"Does that mean ..." Harry was momentarily surprised and Neville nodded.

"Yes Yes. We finish the school year. I'm a graduate of Hogwarts."

And he held out his own hand, shaking his friend's. He wanted to get up and hug him, thank him for his courage and not have doubted him, wanted to hug each one, but Harry still didn't have the strength to do either. Instead he smiled and Neville took it out of his hand, raised his wand, and his trunk began to levitate, heading straight for the slowly opening door.

"See you next time, Harry. I'll wait for your owl, huh!"

"Shure!" And Harry smiled more gratefully and waved his hand, watching Neville walk through the portal and disappear into the stairway to the Gryffindor Common Room.

(...)

Harry didn't know how many hours he had been standing there, inert but already fully dressed, staring at the dormitory ceiling without even moving, the only noise he dared to make was his breathing. He was not hungry, although there were still remnants of a deep sleep that was caused by the hours of confinement in bed weighing his eyes, as if he could not get enough sleep, as if the tiredness did not leave his back, but not any real sleep, forcing him to stand there, disabled and thinking about everything that had happened to him until then. He hadn't seen anyone for three days, not even Teacher McGonagall, not Teacher Flitwick, not Luna, Ginny, Mr. and Mr. Weasley, not even George or Percy or any of his friends. 

Harry had locked himself in the dorm hours after he left Headmaster Dumbledore's office, when McGonagall finally released him to rest and heal his wounds, stunned and impressed by everything Harry, Ron and Hermione had told her what they had done, before they returned to Hogwarts. Harry had told her everything, to the teachers and the new Minister of Magic, who met there shortly after Voldemort's inert body had been thrown away from the castle boundaries, when he learned in detail about Dumbledore's plan for the Horcruxes, about the months in the forests, about how he had found Griffindor's sword and how Harry had apparently risen from the dead. The boy told them, but hid about the Deathly Hallows. 

He did not want anyone else, other than friends and those who had already talked about objects, to know about them, their existence and formidable powers, and surprisingly no one asked them about it, they only looked at Harry when at last he finished his account of Snape, and his Patron charm  - hidden over his mother, leading him towards the Ice Water Pit that kept Griffindor's ruby-studded sword.

"But ... but ..." Professor Slugorn stammered when Harry finally finished, almost immediately and in a shaky voice. "We were sure that Snape definitely turned to the Death Eaters. You, yourself told us how he killed Dumbledore in cold blood with an unforgivable curse, and your term as Headmaster proved it, the terror of the students, the way his followers of You-Know-Who acted freely in the school, and... and…"

"I know," Harry began, still as dirty from head to toe as the others present around the director's table, with blood that had been dry for a long time on his forehead, which at that point was starting to bother him a little. "But I saw it all through Snape's last memories when he handed it to me before he died. When I got back to the castle, I just thought of going back here, right here, and dumping the memory in Pensieve."

And then he lifted the tiny shards from the small bottle that Snape had given him, which had broken from his pocket when he received the Avada Kedavra curse on his body and fell to the floor. The teachers stared at the pieces, as if they couldn't believe it.

"Don't trust me, do you? You can use a tracking spell on the flask to discover its previous content, if you want. If that's still possible…" Added Harry, now a little irritated.

"Amazing. Very amazing!" From above, Flineus Fletcher, the former director of Hogwarts and a proud member of Slytherin shouted from his painting, screamed, looking around and trying to share the astonishment in the eyes of the other directors and directors, who were watching everything very quietly.

"There's no need, Potter." Professor McGonagall replied first, raising a hand to Harry, still very stunned. "We have no reason to doubt you and everything you did today. I'm sure everyone here will agree with me."

And almost immediately the teachers nodded, Flitwick, Sprout, Firenze, the centaur and even Hagrid, and the other teachers and present together with the Minister of Magic. Even Sibila Trewloney was there, curled up in a corner, but she nodded firmly. Finally, everyone looked at each other and McGonagall turned to Shacklebolt.

"Well, that's enough for now. Now, we need to discuss what to do about the School, since it was very destroyed. Prepare funerals and alert family members who have not yet been notified, bring them as soon as possible. Potter, you can go wash up and go to the infirmary with the others." And then the teacher turned again and looked kindly at him. "You, most of all, deserve to rest."

Harry didn't agree with that. It was obvious from his countenance that he felt deeply exhausted and hurt, however, he was not in a position to lie down and sleep for a long time, have his wounds taken care of and close his eyes and pretend that nothing had happened, but he just turned around, looking to friends and simply obeyed.

Before they leave, he can see the teacher looking back, her hair loose and streaked, her clothes sooty and dark blood somewhere on her arm with a completely exhausted expression, sitting with some discomfort in the chair that had once belonged Albus Dumbledore, before the three of them crossed the room. Harry, however, went directly to the Fat Lady painting towards the Gryffindor Common Room, still devastated by the battle, where many students crowded dragging suitcases and hugging friends, but did not see them, since Harry, once again, covered up and Ron and Hermione with the Invisibility Cloak, crouched through and stepping on the rocks and dirt on the floor, crossing smashed busts to the railing of the stairs. 

Even with protests from Hermione insisting that Harry go directly to the Infirmary - or even then, the Castle Entrance, where several combatants were still lying on makeshift stretchers and being cared for by healers who had just arrived from St Mungos - Harry ignored her, stating that he didn’t want to be in the middle of everyone and being ovulated or even cursed. She didn't understand his train of thought. In any case, he did not want to receive any kind of treatment different from the others, whether it was pleasant or bad.

"Take the Invisibility Cloak if you want, bring me tomorrow. I will not be leaving the room until everyone, or almost everyone, leaves Hogwarts." Harry had said in a low voice, while Hermione pulled from his beaded purse one of the last healing potion that she still had miraculously, into the boy's hands.

"B-but ... Harry…"

"Leave him, Mione. Harry needs to be alone." Ron said, patting his friend on the shoulder. "See you tomorrow morning."

"Okay." Harry had replied and even though she was upset, Hermione followed Ron back to the Common Room, while the boy locked himself in the dorm.

Harry then suddenly returned to the present.

He blinked his eyes and realized that he had dozed off again, as his belly finally snored, and looking at the golden watch on his wrist that still worked, it indicated that it was just after two in the afternoon. He once again lifted the body from the bed, feeling his sedentary muscles protest with the sudden act, and tried to see with his crooked glasses the empty, dark and silent room, still crammed with innumerable packages and gifts up to the walls. Don't feeling no one was there. On the other side of the window, he heard the sound of almost nothing at all, just a faint patter of drops hitting his pane. The light rain then cooled the room, making Harry decided to get out of bed for good and then leave the dorm for the first time in almost two weeks since the Battle was over.

(...)

He was now on the edges of one of the parapets on one of the upper floors of the castle, along with Ron and Hermione, the three of them with pale faces and bandages spread across their arms and legs, especially Harry, who had a large bandage on his forehead where there was been hit by the stone debris that fell on him the moment Fred was attacked. Now they sat on the parapet, watching the sky painted orange and gray, shortly after the improvised dinner at the Castle, which Harry had obviously avoided as well as the other meetings with the residents of Hogwarts. So Ron snatched a small basket of caramel pies and breads with fried sausages, and inside was a bottle partially filled with pumpkin juice and brought it to his friend when they found them. 

They spent a long time silent, watching the sun go down, while Harry's mind wandered far away, when it was Hermione who finally broke the silence.

"Everyone's been asking about you, you know, Harry. Everyone wants to hug you, thank you, kiss you, shake your hand and everything. They want to talk to you, but as they have avoided leaving the dormitory, I feel an air of disappointment in the air." She said, giving a light chuckle at the end of the sentence. "I don't think they would ever understand, you know."

"Uh, I understand." Ron replied, making a face as he turned to Hermione on Harry's other side. "Like, come on. Even I would like to thank Harry, but the air is very heavy. I hope they all leave soon, then we can also take the train back home in peace."

"So, have all the students left Hogwarts yet?" Harry asked his friend, a little exasperated.

"Almost all." Hermione who answered. "I was still left, Ron, Luna, some students of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw and a few wounded from the battle, too hurt to stupor to St Mungos, but I think they all fit in the Hospital Wing and released the Hall. he ordered Goblins and some building wizards to come until the day after tomorrow to begin repairs on the Castle. I think practically, everyone in Gryffindor has already left."

Hermione turned her head to the side and looked at the large missing piece of wall that followed the castle to the towers on the west side, where its parts lay inert, destroyed on the charred grass of the countryside around below, even towards of the lake.

"Looks like they're going to have a long job, poor people." Ron sighed deeply as he poured a glass of pumpkin juice into his mouth next.

"Yeah. I only hope they finish by the beginning of the school year. I don't want to go back with everything still destroyed, you know. It would make me sad just to think."

Harry knew why Hermione talked about returning to the castle, of course. Since the three of them had missed almost the entire school year while looking for the Horcruxes, there was still a year to complete their education at Hogwarts, and of course, if they wanted to continue looking for a job in the wizarding world, they needed to complete the last exams, just like the others. That remained. Harry hadn't thought about going back to school, hadn't even thought about leaving, yet he had a glimpse of a certain plan that would make it now that it was over and Voldemort wouldn't bother him again, now that he was free of his own destiny for the first time. Time since he was born. But for that, of course, they had to finish their studies. They could not go back to attending classes normally, they were too old, so learned that Hermione had asked Professor McGonagall, the next day that Harry had locked himself in the dormitory, to do some supplementary type to make up for the countless missed classes - and that, of course at the teacher's own suggestion, they enrolled to perform. So they would only have to return for a few days, take some tests of school summaries and finally Harry, Ron and Hermione would graduate and leave Hogwarts for good. 

He then found himself thinking about Fred, George and others Ron's brother, and all the Weasleys and especially - as many, many times - about Ginny, and the funeral that followed the day after the Battle, when those left behind prepared the seats ideals and preparations to bury all who had died on the castle grounds. Many had died. Bellatrix Lestrange, the other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself had been huddled together in a mass grave deep in the Forbidden Forest, burned and then buried, as they deserved to be. 

They should not be buried with honors, or tears or even a tombstone, because not one cried forthey. He remembered Ron knocking frantically on the bedroom door that afternoon, Harry hadn't wanted to get up since breakfast to watch the Heroes' Funeral, and everyone wondered where Harry Potter was. Why was he not there to pay his respects to those who had sacrificed for him? Why didn't you have the courage to look the family in the eye without being able to apologize for taking their lives? Harry's only thought of consolation was that they would have fought anyway, even if he hadn't been the cause, to defend the wizarding world had it been at the hands of the Death Eaters or anyone who hurt more innocents.

Ron was gone from the other side of the door after he shouted his name, and called for many minutes, but Harry remained in bed, silent, on his side and hiding his face from anyone who managed to open the lock and see him there, huddled and weeping for those he loved and had lost. Again he remembered that he was about to leave Hogwarts forever, to leave that place destroyed, but still in his heart, his eternal home. He chased away his thoughts and tried to change the subject.

"I forgot to ask Neville, you know. Before I left this morning." Harry said, watching now the last copper-colored sun rays lying down at the sunset and shy stars shine in the distance of the deep and increasingly dark sky. "Asking how he got the Griphook Griffindor's sword, since he stole it from us while we were at Gringotts.

"Ah," Hermione exclaimed and swung her legs over the balcony railing, still a little distracted by the sight of the wreckage beneath the three. "He told me, you know. When we went to the St Mungus. Neville said he took the sword when it appeared to him, it appears that it disappeared when Griphook was killed. He just didn't want to tell me where and when, he looked mysterious." And then Hermione turned to pour another glass of pumpkin juice and brought it to her lips.

"Well, Harry, you've been thinking about Ted, right? I mean…" And she turned to look Harry in the eye. "You have responsibilities for him, now that Professor Lupine and Tonks... well... you know."

Ron stared at the two of them with a half-rigid face, frightened by Hermione's unexpected change of subject, and turned his eyes to his own drink, muttering something inaudible. The sky was now dyed an indigo blue as it was covered with sparkling dots, and that sight distracted the boy for a millisecond before leaping back to the ground, leaving the parapet and picking up the food basket. Harry hadn't thought about Ted until then. His head was so full of thoughts and obsessions, afraid of what would come next, of what he would become when he graduated, of how he would live, in the guilt of the deaths he could have avoided that he had not even thought of Ted Lupine, son of Nymphadora Tonks and her father's old friend, and former professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Remus Lupin. 

He was now the godfather of the baby they both left to save Harry, and then a new wave of guilt and pain washed over his head, piling up another stone on top of the others he felt carrying heavily on his back.

A horrible thought came to light. Ted had lost his parents to save Harry, leaving him with less than a year to live, just like himself. What if the little boy had to take shelter with distant relatives, with Muggles, who hated and mistreated him as the Dursleys did for so many years? No, he couldn't think of that. Harry shook his head when he stood up and felt that he was tightening the handle on the basket too hard. At least Ted was left with his grandmother, Andromeda - a wizard - who would certainly give all the necessary love and care that Ted deserved. And when, if he wanted to, and so he could, when he reached the age of attending Hogwarts, he would offer him the same house that now belonged to Harry, the same that his own godfather also offered him to live in, the same place that Sirius wished he had gone.

"Of course I will take care of him, I will be close to him. If he wants." Harry replied to his friend, after long seconds that seemed like an eternity of reflection. "I can't take the place of his parents, but... nor Sirius wanted him when mine died, but I can try to be a good godfather. I hope so."

"Brillant." Hermione stepped forward, to the two friends. "I guess I decided what I'm going to do when we officially graduate from Hogwarts. I mean, in future plans, you know."

Ron and Harry looked at her in surprise, as it seemed like centuries that they heard their friend say something like that, in the moments when they asked them what they would do with the notes O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts. At that time, Harry had said that he really wanted to be an Auror, but then at that moment, he wasn't so sure anymore. Harry’s entire focus in recent years was just the Dark Lord and Prophecy, who had barely thought about the possibility of it all ending so soon - and with his whole body to seriously think about what profession he would pursue.

"In what?" Ron's voice echoed to the side, with a somewhat mocking tone and Hermione frowned at him, annoyed. She ran her hands through her thick hair and replied:

"Well, I was thinking... to join the Ministry of Magic for some position, or…"

She paused and took a breath. Again he continued: "Proceed with what Bathilda Bagshot worked on. I mean, continue with the book A History of Magic from the point that it ended. Writing, you know. Write about... about everything that happened to us. About Voldemort. About Harry."

Then there followed a few minimal seconds of silence, and Ron with Harry who had turned to his friend and stared at them completely surprised. That was certainly new, since they had no idea that Hermione might have shown any interest in pursuing a writing career. Harry - more than anyone, even Ron - believed faithfully that the friend with all that intelligence, would try to go as far as possible, as Dumbledore had done as a young, and had already caught himself once or twice imagining Hermione arriving at Minister of Magic a few years later. But, he also knew more than anyone, that all those experiences had abruptly sealed their reality with what they dreamed of being, and that would really hinder how they saw each other when it was over, and everything was fine. But even so, he felt a wave of disappointment and embarrassment go through his body to the back of his neck. She didn't understand how her friend had arrived at that decision.

"Don't look at me like that."  She said, looking at the two a little angry, as she clearly expected another reaction from both. "I believe I'm doing it right thing. I believe that people should know the truth, know what happened. Knowing what has been done so that Evil doesn't affect the wizarding world again than pretending that nothing has happened, and helping who knows in the near future, some Hogwarts students to defend themselves better, knowing the story, don't you agree?"

"Bloody Hell, Mione." Ron snorted, rolling his eyes up. "It sounds like Rita Skeeter talking, huh? After all that she did with Harry and Professor Dumbledore's phony biography, and even more what she did to you, I thought you were the last person to want to pursue a career in something like that."

Ron had said the wrong thing, it was evident from the scary face that Hermione threw at her friend, as if she was going to stun him right there on the parapet, without any pity. Harry exclaimed but she was quicker to respond.

"That's not it." Hermione hissed at Ron. "I don't want to do anything, absolutely nothing, like that little Skeeter bug. Do not."

"Then…?"

"Something totally different from her, Ron!" Hermione roared. "Rita Skeeter is a troll on a woman's body, she wanted to gossip, spread lies, everything to sell and guarantee more galleons. Of course, as much as it pains me to say, she got some points in her research right, but the way she did it is purely disgusting to me. Not! Me," And then he pointed at himself, with an air of satisfaction in his voice now. "I want to correct the lies that that toad made. I want to write about the history of the wizarding world since the beginning of the 20th century, how Hogwarts grew up, how Voldemo…"

Ron cringed when she spoke the name of the Dark Lord. 

"Oh, no Ron! He's gone, you don't have to be afraid of his name anymore. How Tom Riddle's Voldemort achieved so many atrocities, how Dumbledore formed the Order of the Phoenix, and how Harry and we found the Deathly Hallows and the Horcruxes. You know, I really think that everyone needs to know, keep all this and keep it from happening a second time."

"What? Second time? Write about the Death Hollows and the Horcruxes? You are crazy!? This is quite the opposite of what we want. I mean, if people know about them… bloody hell, we work so hard to avoid talking about it with the teachers as Dumbledore ordered, and you want…"

"No, Ron. I don't want to teach you how to make Horcruxes or where the Death Hallows were, don't you both understand?" Hermione waved her hand, somewhat patiently. "I don't want to explain how to get them, but how and for what they existed. I think that all students should have the right to remedy their curiosity about what we did during the months of escape, how Harry managed to come back to life, like... well, you know."

And then she looked over his shoulder and saw Harry standing there looking at her still. 

"Of course, I'm just telling you a plan. I won't do anything if you don't agree, of course. I haven't even started anything."

Harry knew what she meant when she said that wish. He knew that Tom Riddle had used extraordinary and cruel methods due to the lack of descriptions of the Horcruxes and had just been defeated for not knowing all the Death Hallows, which would benefit them in a point of view if someone al intentionally tried to follow the same paths as Voldemort in the future, the lack of responsible books on how to overcome the limits of Death. But he understood what Hermione meant. 

In a few years, everyone could forget what they had actually done, the hardships and trials they had spent in the forests camping, looking for and looking for invisible information for the next step in a larger plan, but without success. She remembered the frustrations she had with her friend, the fights with Ron, all because she didn't know where to go, how to do, what to do, while friends suffered. Not to mention that, he was already very famous and now after that battle, he could put more eyes on his scar and he would return to being a point of rumors and other lying things when curiosity for the lack of information started. Hermione didn't want to reveal Dumbledore's secrets, but to tell how they got there. As everything had actually walked, and reaching that conclusion, he put the basket on the floor and put a hand on Hermione's back, who was surprised by Harry's sudden unexpected hug from behind, and released her quickly.

"Well, I think the idea is good. But I don't know if the Ministry of Magic would like us to make our point of view so accessible as well. Isn't it, Ron?"

Ron just snorted again and put his chin in his hands, staring at the sky as if nothing else was interesting. And after a few moments, he asked:

"So, do you have a plan of what you're going to do when you leave Hogwarts, man?"

He asked now, and Hermione still sitting on the parapet but facing Harry, both expressions of curiosity. Harry hadn't even talked to his friends much about what he was going to do next, about his ultimate goal, about what Harry Potter intended to do now that he finally and definitely defeated Lord Voldermort. And, catching himself rambling with those very words that came from himself, Harry smiled and looked at his friends. 

He wanted to have that image engraved in his memory, the three of them there in a corner of the castle, away from everyone, making small talk and eating treats, barely knowing that all that precious and carefree moment would be over soon.

(...)

Harry, Ron and Hermione and Luna were accommodated on the train back to Hogsmeade station, the Hogwarts Express had left a few hours ago. The boys were housed in the usual cabin at the end of the train, which was actually practically empty, taking them and just a few other students who were still unable to apparate, injured, and had not yet returned, plus some representatives of the Ministry of Magic who for some reason, they were also there. 

Harry thought they were on the train to watch him, and drawing that conclusion, he spent the journey watching the landscape of trees penetrating, blurring at high speed through the window. Hermione was reading one of the newspapers, editions of the Daily Prophet that were huddled together and tied in a single string on her lap. Ron now nibbled a carefree chocolate frog, and Luna was staring at the window with Harry. 

They stayed that way since they went up in a long silence, after all it was the first and one of the last two times that they would leave school, and it was only a fact that the four - since Luna had been kidnapped to the Malfoys' house - should return to provide the services. supplementary courses, and definitely graduate in a few months. Harry thought again about the Weasley family, and if somehow if George and Ginny would be angry with him for missing Fred's funeral, if they felt his weakness for the next few days - not that Ron had shown it or quoted those brothers' feelings, but the stones of the subconscious weight of guilt weighed him down as much as before they came back and faced Voldemort. What should have relieved him, now weighed him down even more in his heart.

Almost suddenly, he saw the smudges pass by the window and remembered what Dumbledore had said to him in the vision of after he died, talked to him in that form at Kingscross Station: "Don't pity the dead, Harry, have pity for the living, and above all those who live without love ”. It was clear that those who had died died with love, fighting for love, for what they believed, and, holding on to it, Harry let out a heavy sigh that the whole cabin heard.

"What did McGonagall want to talk to you about when we got back to the Common Room, Harry?" Hermione's voice called out to him, and Harry had been pulled from his brief detours into reality.

"Heh? Oh. She wanted to ask me a few more questions and handed me a letter, and went back to the principal's office. Only that." And he pulled from one of the sleeves of his indigo wool coat and showed a small brown envelope with the typical red wax seal with the Hogwarts symbol on his tongue. "This one here."

"Gee, haven't you opened it yet?" Ron asked now, looking at the letter. "And if it was an important thing who needed to answer soon?"

"Ah, don't be so silly." Harry smiled, analyzing the letter for a few more seconds and putting it away again, turning back to the window. "Professor McGonagall told me to open it when I got home and reflect on the content and that I could answer it later, don't you remember what I said?"

"No. I was too worried about the train leaving and packing my trunk than knowing every detail." Ron snorted and Hermione shot him an ugly look. "She's been staying in Dumbledore's office a lot since the Battle, isn't she? When did we see it right since everything happened?"

"Principal, Ron." Hermione said. "It's Principal McGonagall, now. She was Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts, they forgot. It is obvious that she was elected the new Director of Hogwart."

And then she folded a piece of the thick volume from the previous week of the Daily Prophet in her lap, showing the moving photograph of the newest nominated Headmistress.

"If I were you, Harry." Hermione added. "I would read the letter as soon as possible, see?"

"Right." He replied the friend, now with a certain involuntary coldness in his voice, as he had no desire to discuss anything at that moment, not even by a simple letter.

"I thought the Ministry of Magic would try to put someone in their position after Snape... well, you know... "And Ron glanced at Harry and went back to Hermione and Luna. "I mean ... I'm glad the Ministry made a deal, right. For once."

"Yeah." Hermione agreed, folding the newspaper and lifting the batteries and laying them on the floor, yawning. "I want to go back soon, I have to say hello to everyone and Apparate to Australia. Review my parents, explain what happened. You know."

(To be continue next Post...)

[lonely-bored-writer]

Really, Again?

Fandom: South Park/Fosters

Summary:  Kenny McCormick just got out of Juvie, just to find out his parents were arrested again and he had to go into care. Being the unwanted, trouble making black sheep, no relatives wanted him. So the social Worker calls in none other than the Fosters couple.

Kenny McCormick sighed, looking down at the new scar on his lower stomach. Since the day he turned twelve, his death wounds started leaving scars, lucky for him, most can me hidden my clothes or hair. This particular one came from when the other boys heard he was getting out from Juvie, he was reckless and made enemies, of course they wanted to off him while they still can.

Juvie, a place he's gotten to know the past four years. Fourteen, and he has a rap sheet. Kenny had to admit that the death thing helped when he didn't want some charges on his record, it often disappeared from memory just like his death. All he has on record is shopping lifting charges, and one assault. He yawned, stretching his arms over his heads. His feet moving on autopilot. He was on his way out of this hell hole, he flashed Craig a grin as he passed his cell. Craig returned with a smirk and the flip of a finger.

A snort left him, his blue eyes catching the guard eyeing him curiously. Kenny winked at the guard, a flirty smile slipping onto his bruised face. He bit back a laugh at the blush that over took the guard's face, who promptly looked away. Most guards were curious about him, he's been in and out of the facility for a few years now and he's still awake. He's young, five foot two, pretty face kinda guy but he made it and that gets people thinking. The amount of times he walked around with a bruised face didn't help the rumors that circulated.

If he was being honest, his flirty attitude didn't help either.

Ignoring the fact he wasn't in a changing area, Kenny stripped off his shirt, and pulled on his old parka. Even after six, maybe more, years the old parka still was over-sized and in one piece. He blatantly ignored the shocked look that passed both the counter work, and the guard's face at his marked body, and swiftly changed into his jeans and pulled on his shoes.

There were more reasons than one that he wore that parka.

"Hello Kenneth, I'm Rebecca I'll be covering for your usual." A cheerful redhead greeted him when he left the gated area. He knew immediately she was a social worker, his parents had to be out of commission. "It seems your parents were arrested on a battery charge. Their serving a bit of time but it will take a few months, maybe a year before they are released. We have a possible relative that can take you in, but the paper work will take a few weeks so we needed to find you a home for the time being-"

"Where's Karen and Kevin?" Kenny cut her rambling off, biting back the annoyance he felt. Leave it to his parents to fuck shit up once again. He tugged his hood up, but left the scarf resting loosely around his neck. These people weren't his friends, they wouldn't understand him.

"Karen and Kevin are staying at a relatives home." Rebecca replied, Kenny knew exactly why he wasn't going there. The hit of pity in her eyes and smile told him what he needed to know. He wasn't staying there because no one in his family liked him. He was he black sheep, they didn't want him in their home. "But we found a really nice couple, Stef and Lena that would take you in for the time. It might seem a bit crowded with five kids but trust me, you'll fit in just fine-Oh look, there comes Lena."

Kenny looked up to be met with an African American woman, she seemed to have an optimistic air about her. That almost made him smile, almost. There was a sense of nostalgia inside her brown eyes that had his eyebrows furrow, this wasn't the first time she got a kid from release.

"Hi, I'm Lena Adams" She smiled brightly, even though she hid it better than most people, Kenny could still read the pity off her and the slight tense in her smile. He liked her, but something didn't seem right...

When Lena Adams first caught sight of him, her heart clenched. She saw him before she made her way out of the car. He had a small frame, messy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, bruises and faint scars littered across his face. He wore a parka a few sizes too big, bag blue jeans, and ratty black converse. She could instantly tell he didn't grow up in an easy place, he need a safe place to sleep, something she'll give him.

Her mind kept going back to the day they got Callie. The tears that was in her eyes, the cry for help. Also the fact she got her behind Stef's back... This time was different, they had a week noticed and the family was ready for the new foster child to come in. Stef wanted to come, but Lena figured it best if only one went, not to overwhelm the poor kid so soon.

"Hi, I'm Lena Adams." She smiled brightly, taking in the kid's reaction. She didn't let her smile falter when he didn't make a move to shake her hand, or his tense and guarded way he carried himself, even with the seemingly relaxed shoulders. She's worked with too many kids to not pick up on it, or the fact that it was warm out and the kid was wearing a parka.

"Sorry about him, he can be a little... shy." Rebecca smiled, Lena just nodded in understanding. She met Rebecca a few days before this, Bill had a family ordeal and wouldn't be able to make it. "He's Kenneth McCormick, as I'm sure you already know-"

"Kenny." The small voice cut in, catching Lena's attention. She couldn't stop the genuine smile replacing the large one at what she saw. Kenny's posture relaxed a bit, he had a small smile aimed at her. "I prefer Kenny."

"Alright Kenny." Lena acknowledge, nodding her head towards her car. "I hope you're ready to meet the rest of us."

Kenny didn't know what to expect, but he wasn't expecting this. Two twins, Mariana and Jesus, a bio son, Brandon, Callie and her brother Jude. Kenny was really good at reading people, something he's been getting better at. The story this misfit of teens told him was a bit... concerning? Callie and Brandon had some serious chemistry, whether as history or present, it was there. Jude was definitely gay, not bisexual, definitely gay. Trust Kenny, he usually has a good sense about these things. Stef fit what he had been expecting, although he thought she would be more butch.

The couch was an upgrade from his mattress on the floor, much more comfortable so he couldn't complain about that. Nope, what he wanted to complain about was the odd looks the girl, Callie kept glancing his way as they all settled for dinner.

"Where you from?" Jesus asked, shrugging at the looking his moms gave him. Kenny didn't mind questions, he isn't use to them, but he doesn't mind. Maybe the attention that was focused on him was what bothered him, he was after all so use to being in the background. Out of habit, Kenny tugged to sleeves of his hand-me-down black long sleeve down, having ditched the parka when Lena showed him where he would be sleeping.

"South Park." Kenny answered shortly, ignoring the raised eyebrows it got. South Park was after all the area that most delinquents came from. "It's better than it sounds trust me" Kenny added as an after thought, taking a bite from the chicken served. He couldn't remember the last time he had a home cooked meal.

"Oh, that's pretty." Mariana cut in, motioning to the necklace resting around Kenny's neck. "where'd you get it?" Kenny toyed with it for a moment, remembering when he got it. It was the day Karen found his Mysterion costume in his closet, she had been looking for his old shirts to borrow, and that same day she had found the necklace at thought it fitting. It was a small crystal blue pendant, with a crooked halo resting on it, attached to a simple silver chain. He got it two years ago, and he didn't plan on loosing it.

"My sister gave it to me." Kenny, again, answered shortly, a small faint smile sitting on his face.

"That's sweet of her." Mariana grinned. "Where is she now?" It was after the questioned left her mouth did she realize just how bad the question really is but Kenny answered without a second thought.

"At my uncle's house." Kenny mused, ripping his chicken to pieces with his fork. His stomach not used to eating so much, if anything. "They didn't have room for me while they waited for my parents to get back."

"Why are you in the system?" Callie finally asked the question burning everyone's thoughts. Everyone looked at Kenny worriedly. Kenny shrugged, noticing Brandon's eyes flickering to the scars looped around his neck.

"Poor family, parents do stupid shit to try and get money, get arrested, here I am." He's answering remained short and direct. He made sure to leave out the point about how his father's alcoholism, or his mother's drug addiction, or the abusive nature of his family. Conversation dwindled from there, small, unimportant topics that Kenny chimed in only when asked something.

It was when dinner was being cleared and people had headed off to bed that Kenny turned to Lena and Stef.

"Can I make a call?" Kenny asked, motioning to the house phone he spotted earlier. "I have a few friends that are probably worried sick about me..."

"Of course you can, honey." Lena nodded, shrugging off Lena's worried look. Kenny typed in the number he remembered, ignoring Stef's sudden departure.

"Hello?" The confused voice of a long term friend rang form the phone after a few rings.

"Really dude?"

"Kenny?! Dude, when did you get out? Where are you? Cartman is so much more of an ass when you aren't around."

"I got out a few hours ago Kyle." Kenny shrugged, sitting at he table, not caring that Lena could hear him. "I'm at another foster home, gonna be stuck here until dad and mom get out of jail. Battery assault this time. I doubt anyone else would take me in."

"Another one? Wait, are they anything like those agnostic freaks right?"

"No." Kenny laughed, shaking his head. As much as he hated it at the time, it was the butt end of more than a few jokes for them. "Not those Dr. Pepper loving cucks. It's a les-couple, they got five other kids."

"No fantasizing about them, Kenny."

"Nah, not my type. Anyways dude, I gotta run but tell the others I say hey and that I'll be back soon."

"Yea dude, be careful... Wait, where's your parka? I'm not use to hearing your voice."

"Don't worry, I've got it. It's hotter in this part. Bye, night."

"Bye man, stay safe."

"So, even though you should only be staying for a few weeks, you will be attending school. Since you and Jude are the same age, he will be helping you out in showing you the school. Lena'll work to see if you guys can get the most classes together. She's the vice principal at the charter school our kids go to, Anchor beach." Stef explained. Kenny bit back a sigh, he really hoped he didn't have to deal with school, much less a charter school. They focused too much on student academics and shit. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"We also want you to know that if you ever need to talk, we are all ears for you." Lena popped in, resting a hand on her wife's shoulder, and offered Kenny an encouraging smile. "I've read your file and I know things are difficult for you, so I just want you to know that we are here, and if you don't feel comfortable talking to one of us, the kids will be happy to be a shoulder for you."

"uh, thanks..." Kenny nodded, tugging on the sleeves of his shirt. Sensing his discomfort from the topic, Stef decided it was best to change it.

"I hope the couch is okay for you." Stef offered. "I know it's not as good as a bed, but considering everything it was the best we could do. If you stay for longer than intended then maybe we could think of an air mattress-"

"The couch is great." Kenny cut in with a toothy grin, Stef noticed the chipped front tooth. "It's better than my bed at home." At that moment, Stef decided she was going to have Lena give her this kid's file and get to know a little about what he's gone through.

"Wait, so there's evidence and probable idea that there is abuse happening in that home, but the kids keep going back?!" Stef looked up from just the first paragraph of the file to her wife, disbelief in her eyes.

"The kids won't say who it was they hurt them." Lena had a sad look in her eyes, resting a hand on her wife's knee. "From the medical exam, it looks like Kenny's the worse one out of all of them."

"I can see that." Stef scoffed, shaking her head. She couldn't believe what she was reading or even how the McCormick couple kept getting custody back. "He had scars littered all over his body, ranging from bullet wounds, to burns, to cuts... Is he seeing a therapist?" Her train of thought shifted when she noticed to section including mental health. The kid had a self-destructive behavior, doing anything and everything that could risk his life or get him in trouble. Not to mention the little not of possible direct self-harm. The sad sigh that left Lena, answered her question before the counter-part even spoke.

"No, he refuses. When ever they try to get him to talk he blocks them out. No one can get anything out of him." Lena settled herself in bed, resting her head against Stef's shoulder. "In the time he's here, I want to try and help him. He need it, Stef. I couldn't just let him slide by and end up in another bad situation..."

"I get it, love." Stef cut into the silence that followed the statement, understanding her wife completely. "While he is here, we'll do everything in our power to help him."

Stef yawned, it was three in the morning and something woke her. Letting her eyes adjust, she saw Lena still sleeping peacefully beside her. With a sigh, she pulled herself out of bed and made her way to the kitchen for a drink. Once down the stairs, she glanced into the other room and froze. The couch was empty. Cursing softly under her breath, she walked into the room, looking for any sign that the kid was still there.

A sigh of relief escaped her at the sight of a small form, curled up on the floor, clad in an over-sized orange parka. She walked over, taking in the fact that Kenny left the pillows alone but bunched up the blanket for a pillow. She assumed the parka was his makeshift blanket.

"Hey..." She whispered, tapping his shoulder. In an instant blue eyes sprung open and he sat up, almost knocking her off balance. "Hey, it's okay. Just wanted to make sure everything was alright." Kenny blinked confused, before he realized his spot on the floor. Stef took in the messy blonde hair, bags under bright blue eyes, and exhausted form in. She felt her heart clench ever so slightly.

"Uh, sorry..." He mumbled, and hand moving to scratch the back of his head. "I'm use to sleeping on the floor... Takes some time to get use to, you know?" Ever since Karen started having nightmares, Kenny has been giving up his mattress to her and 'standing guard' against any monsters that might come in.

"It's okay, I get it." Stef sat herself cross-legged in front of the small teen. "What's your family like?" She asked, leaning back on the coffee table. She noticed the small smile sliding onto the teen's face and was glad she asked the right thing.

" There's my brother and sister, Kevin and Karen. Karen's a sweetheart, I take care of her. She's so young, and innocent, I want to keep her like that for as long as I can." Kenny smiled, a light sparking in his eyes. Stef couldn't help but smile at the amount of care and love Kenny had for her. "Kevin's the complete opposite. His a fucking bastard. He doesn't spend a shit ton of time at home, so it balances out." Even with the crude way he said it, Stef knew he cared about his brother the same. Choosing to ignore the language since Kenny was being open, she instead opted for another question.

"How about your parents?"

"Assholes, but they try." The shrug, and head tilt downwards told Stef to back off. Stef handled enough cases of abused, or neglected kids to know when to back off and when it was okay to push.

"You called a friend right? What about them?" Give she had snooped on the call, she didn't know much about them from the conversation." A laugh left Kenny, and just like that the two stayed up exchanging stories. Kenny going on about the crazy things he and his friends went through, most that Stef brushed off as an active and choosing to ignore how this teen was as crude as a sailor, while Stef popped in with a few pranks, or incidents that happened in the time that they were all together.

Stef was warming up to the small, vulgar teen and vice versa.

[wynilthyrii]

Cautionary Tales

They took a portal to Dalaran.  Wyn was silent but did not relinquish her grip on Galdanir’s arm as she headed resolutely down the city’s cobbled streets.  The mage wisely held his tongue as they moved swiftly along the broad boulevards lined with handcarts and floating pots brimming with flowers and greenery.  The girl navigated those streets with the familiarity of one who might as well have been a local.  The truth of it was, she’d spent enough time in the city over the nearly four decades of her life that these streets and the stones that built Dalaran were as familiar as the manor where she’d been raised and the city that was her people’s home.

The coffee shop she brought him to was tucked into the artisans’ quarter, dark-paneled with the faintest tinge of pipe-smoke lingering in the air, mingling with the scent of fresh-roasted coffee and baked goods.  There was a warmth to the place, but also a remoteness, a sense of anonymity and privacy. She brought him to a shadowed corner, inclined her head slightly to one of the waitstaff.  The waiter nodded and blinked to the counter, stepping behind it.

She didn’t speak until the man returned, settling a tray onto the mahogany table between them. There was a pot of coffee, two mugs full of the stuff and already steaming, and a small plate of flake rolls, savory and sweet both, artfully arranged into a pile on that tiny plate. Wyn took up her mug, stirred in a bit of sugar, and watched him for a full minute before she took a sip of that coffee.

Once her mug settled back to the wood of the table, she cleared her throat.  “Thank you.  I suppose I owe you a bit of an explanation.”

He answered with an arched brow as he took up his own mug, watching her in silence.  One corner of her mouth curled upward, expression almost rueful.

“I have a history with the Forsaken.”

“Clearly,” he said, tempering his own coffee to his liking before taking a sip.  He leaned back, watching her, and said nothing more.  She met his gaze, studying him, flickers of gold and silver tangling with the last vestiges of fel green.

Then, after a moment and another sip of coffee, he said, “Certainly not those particular Forsaken.”

“No,” she agreed. “No, but I have experienced the tender mercies of ones like them.”  A fingertip trailed along one of the scars around her neck, near her throat, her gaze growing distant for a few moments. “You’ve read my file.”

He said nothing, but his silence was answer enough.  She picked up her cup, took a sip, smiled faintly, her gaze flicking back to his face for a few seconds before she looked away again.

“You know that they held me,” she said softly.  “And now we know that I was in their custody thanks to an attack by the Eye on my family’s ancestral home, thanks to the attack a few months ago while I was there looking at my mother’s papers.”  She idly rubbed at her wrist, at one of the scars there.  It was a small thing, a neat, narrow mark perhaps an inch in length, long healed now though far younger than some of the other marks on her flesh. “Intellectually, emotionally, I knew that I had been tortured,” she said, her voice growing even quieter, as if someone might overhear despite their isolation there in that shadowed corner. “But it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I really started to remember—that I fought to remember—what had happened to me in their hands.”

There was only the most subtle shift in his expression, though she seemed to mark it.  A moment later, she produced an object and set it on the table between them: a felsteel screw, no more than half an inch long, its point facing up, balancing on its head.  Galdanir eyed it even as Wyn watched him.

“It started with that,” she whispered.  “I was a volunteer to Arthamir Tyrellian’s regiment then, and I was standing in defense of his family’s lands in the marches when the Legion returned.  It was before I joined the Order, when I was still just considering as a possibility.  I was still a mage, then, but I’d come to know Knight-Lord Dra’zar by then and we were friendly.  I don’t know how much you know about Jadoth Bloodreign, but he’s how I met the Knight-Lord. There was a sparring match at one point, probably six months, a year before the Legion assaults started, and the Knight-Lord and I were both watching it.  He could tell I was concerned about Jadoth and I think in some ways he already had a bit of a soft spot for him.  He took the time to reassure me and we got to talking.  We kept talking afterwards and in time, it developed into a friendship that I treasured.”

She was keenly aware of the weight of his gaze but chose to ignore it as she took a sip of coffee, staring at the screw on the table between them.  Then she took another sip, savoring the interplay of sweet and bitter before she continued.

“Anyhow.  There was an attack and I had joined the defense on the walls.  The Legion had made allies of some of House Tyrellian’s enemies, so the forces were a mix of elves and demons and other allies of that enemy house.  There were gargoyles and demons and siege engines and at one point, a trebuchet took out a section of the wall near where I was helping to shore up the wards.  Another of the mages and I were hit by flying debris and I broke my wrist.”  She nodded to the screw.  “That was embedded in the bone and came free when it was broken. Sufficient to say that my friends with the Vanguard and outside the Vanguard were concerned but at the same time, I think most of them didn’t want to think about what it could mean.  I think most of them assumed that it would be too traumatic and besides, there was a war coming—we all knew it—and why reopen healed wounds, after all, especially on the eve of that?”

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips and then was gone, replaced by a determined look and a fire in her gaze as she stared at him.  “No one supported me in my desire to figure out what it meant, pushed me to keep digging, like your father did, Galdanir.  Everyone was afraid that what I would find might break me, or at the very least hurt more than it was worth.  He knew different.”  She reached out and picked up the screw, tucking it away.  “I know he was worried, too.  But he supported me in what I needed to do and gave me the encouragement and support necessary to learn the truth.  I know he worried along with the rest of them but he recognized two things: that he could not stop me and this was something I needed to unravel in order for me to finally truly begin heal.  There were more than a hundred screws just like that one inside of my body. They tainted my magic, affected my ability to wield the Light, and were put there by the bloody Forsaken.

“I was brought to the Tirisfal Glades by the Eye’s adherents and turned over to some Forsaken who promised to extracts the secrets of my House from me.  They promised to break me.  I know now what their ultimate goal was, at least in the attempt to break me.  I still don’t fully know or understand what they were trying to do with the felsteel they left inside of me, but I suspect quite a few things, theories that will be either disproven or confirmed the day I get my hands on the worthless undead that did it to me.  I will never again forget their faces or their voices because I cannot and have not forgotten what the feel of their hands and their tools against my flesh.  I carry more scars than I can count thanks to their ministrations. Someday, they will pay for it—justice will come, whether from my blade or another’s, it will come.

“They tortured me, Galdanir. They used me, experimented on me. For years, I had no real idea what they did and now I know.  I have a journal full of what I’ve remembered, the dreams—the nightmares—and memories from that time.  I would wake in the dead of the night in a cold sweat with a scream trapped behind my teeth suddenly knowing what had happened, what had been.

“I will never trust them.  I can’t.  Not knowing what they come from and not knowing what they did to me and being entirely certain that I was not the only one suffering that way.  The bloody apothecaries do their damnable work on whoever has the misfortune of falling into their hands.  It doesn’t matter who you are, who you were—they don’t care.  All you are to them are a subject for their work.  That is the true nightmare—that and the fact that no one can or will stop them because they are useful and their work is useful.”

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, taking a deep swallow from her cup of coffee.  “My views are unpopular, but they are my own.  I keep them to myself, but no one can force me to believe what I do not wish to believe.  Trust in that, brother, if you trust in nothing else.  Trust in that.”

[Mentions: @darlingknave (for not-Cord), @drimmari, @worst-paladin-ever]