#fact core on embracing shapeshifters

[thevalicemultiverse]

Fact Core: Shapeshifters becoming Embraced will depend on the breed.  Garou, Ajaba, Bastet, Gurahl, Ratkin, and Rokea may all become vampires, although Ratkin decay like normal corpses and Rokea immediately go insane. However, they lose Gnosis whenever they violate their tenets unless they submit to the Wyrm. If they lose all of their Gnosis, they become little more than animals. An Embrace of an Ananasi, Camazotz, Grondr, Nagah, or Nuwisha simply fail.  Corax and Mokole die at sunrise regardless of if they are hidden from it, although Mokole will go insane like the Rokea do. Kitsune will immediately burst into flames when Embraced, which may kill the attempted sire.

Alice: ...thank you for that. I don't suppose you have any facts on how I can solve this bloody laser puzzle, do you?

[pennys-rose-garden]

OC: Omen

age: ??? (initially a juvenile; later seen as a young adult, but is basically a baby in demon years)

gender: none gender with left boy (it/he)

species: demon (initially unaffiliated; later becomes a greed demon thanks to, ahem, a certain miser’s influence)

height: 5’11”

story/universe: you’re a drifter, shape-shifter (AU for scrooge: a christmas carol)

abilities:

can shapeshift into any animal it’s seen before, or into an incorporeal force. its most common forms are a wolf, a cat, and a crow

in its incorporeal form, omen has general poltergeist-like abilities; it can throw or manipulate objects, break things, wail, change the temperature of a room, and make lights or fires go out

can speak any language necessary to interact with a human, including several dead or obscure languages

true form is a tarry, amorphous monster with many limbs; it sometimes gets stuck in this form or lapses into it when stressed

makes a variety of nonhuman noises, such as purring, shrieking, chattering, and snarling

doesn’t deliberately cause bad things, but misfortune tends to follow him…

personality (pre-arc):

very friendly and enthusiastic to everyone it meets

eager to please; will follow basically any commands a human gives it because it’s desperate for some kind of connection or praise. in fact sometimes it’s a little too eager and will obey instructions to a T, exactly as they’re said to it

slightly afraid of humans, acts like a people-pleaser both to hide his resentment toward them and to minimize the possibility of him getting hurt by them; has trust issues related to his past

cowers and hides when cornered or threatened; does not resist or fight back, despite being more than capable of doing so

has a mischievous streak; loves stealing, scaring people, and playing pranks; a bit cocky when doing so, as omen assumes he’s too good to get caught and thus throws caution to the wind

perfectionist, especially when given instructions; becomes confused and panicked when instructions are unclear and contradictory

personality (post-arc):

little SHIT

becomes the owner of a grandiose (and fucked up) hotel through a series of schemes

covets and is deeply obsessed with money; gets jealous and frustrated when it sees other people become wealthy or improve their financial situation, because it deems them unworthy and views them as competition

will fuck someone over for all they’re worth; unlike his mentor, he isn’t afraid to cut corners and to scam, cheat, and lie his way to success

snarky and condescending; fully embraces his resentment toward humans, views them only as a means to an end; to him, there’s no such thing as an innocent human, and to say so is hypocritical. he believes that humans aren’t good for anything aside from what they can do for him— and that they’re so horrible that they deserve his treatment of them

also unlike its mentor, omen is of the affably evil variety. it’s sarcastic and it’s vitriolic, but it’s not grumpy. it remains some of its old friendly demeanor and enjoys talking with anyone who can banter with it, even if it’s frustrated or annoyed with them. omen often uses charisma to its advantage

deep down, there’s still that vulnerable core, the person omen was to begin with. because omen is convinced that money, property, and standoffishness are the only means by which it can truly be safe, though, it’s wrapped that core in like 50 layers of barbed wire and electric fence

(here’s post-arc omen, by the way!)

backstory:

has no memory of any sort of family, human or otherwise; omen only remembers waking up one day in the woods, hungry, cold, and alone. for a while omen survived like this, until it caught the scent of roasting meat, saw a light in the forest, and decided to investigate

this would turn into the first of many instances of omen being rejected, attacked, or otherwise treated with hostility by humans— largely because of his appearance and mannerisms. he has spent much of his life traveling from place to place in the forms of various animals, searching for food and shelter and leaving only when he’s been pushed out. this is how, over time, omen made his way to london. almost all of his time there has been spent in the form of a cat or a crow, and he’s narrowly dodged several incidents.

omen met ebenezer, its mentor, when prudence captured it in its cat form and dragged it into the house. ebenezer reluctantly nursed the injured cat back to health, only to be shocked and horrified when it took humanoid form and begged him to let it repay him. a lot of confused screaming and one contract later, and the rest was history

[maxwell-grant]

May I please ask what your preferred dynamic between Holmes & Lupin would be? (From what I can tell, the term 'frenemies' might have been invented for these two - if any two characters in fiction WOULD spend all their time trying to one-up each other it's these two, if only their diverse other commitments, challenges & interests left them the free time to do so: I'm also morally certain a sadly-hypothetical Holmes/Lupin team is one of the few things that could bring down Fantomas for Good).

I think "frenemies" is what ultimately works best for these two specifically, because there's a certain untouchability to icons as big as these two that limits the potential stories you can tell with them (although yes, definitely on board with the two having what it takes to bring down Fantomas, although probably not as cleanly and easily as they might expect).

The original Leblanc stories involving this premise are very much centered around one-upmanship, even embracing a theme of national rivalry of England vs France. They acknowledge Holmes's talents but without the awe, with a somewhat aged Holmes with mundane imperfections easily exploited by the daring young thief, someone deserving of his legend but who doesn't quite live up to it. Obviously Lupin's gotta have the upperhand, not just because it's his author writing it, but because the whole point of Lupin's creation was to be the new hotness, the counterpart to both the stuffy old Great Detectives as well as the aristocratic master burglars, and really, what kind of rising superstar would he be if he couldn't put one over the other guy? If he's gonna live up to his claim of being the greatest criminal ever, he's gotta be able to humble the greatest detective at least a little.

The treatment of Watson (Wilson) is tasteless and it's frankly a bit saddening to see that even back then writers were still shitting on Watson far too much, but on the whole I think Leblanc was a lot fairer to Holmes than he could have been (certainly other writers from this time period who added Holmes to their stories were not as fair), he makes it very clear Holmes is not just another Ganimard out of his depth and is very much as close to an equal Lupin's ever had. I think the description used to cap off their final meeting is very much on point:

"You see, monsieur, whatever we may do, we will never be on the same side. You are on one side of the fence; I am on the other. We can exchange greetings, shake hands, converse a moment, but the fence is always there.

You will remain Herlock Sholmes, detective, and I, Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar. And Herlock Sholmes will ever obey, more or less spontaneously, with more or less propriety, his instinct as a detective, which is to pursue the burglar and run him down, if possible.

And Arsène Lupin, in obedience to his burglarious instinct, will always be occupied in avoiding the reach of the detective, and making sport of the detective, if he can do it. And, this time, he can do it" - Arsene Lupin vs Herlock Sholmes

The consistent outcome is that Holmes "wins" the material battle while Lupin gets away with the spiritual or karmic victory. The first story, Holmes has Lupin figured out from a glance, robbing him of his greatest asset, and Lupin even tells Holmes under a guise that he has no greater admirer than himself. Holmes choses not to arrest Lupin, and instead solves the mystery as quickly as Lupin would. But he is also, well, inferior. His "commonplace appearence" dissappoints the guests and detectives at the crime scene, he doesn't resemble their expectations, he is gruff, ungracious, arrogant and all-business, an Englishman all the way, and Lupin one-ups him by returning to him his stolen watch, and Holmes is not a good sport about it.

The whole "Herlock Sholmes" name change, although it was out of legal obligation, almost reads like a cheeky courtesy of Leblanc, like he's giving Holmes enough of a courtesy in sparing him the embarassment of being the loser. And the following adventures stay consistent: Sholmes is smart, as smart as Lupin, and he's a gentleman. But he isn't as smart as he thinks he is, and he isn't as much of a gentleman as Lupin. He resorts to unsporting tactics like intimidating Lupin's lover and involving the police in their conflict, and in the end, he's solved the crime, but "sown the seeds of discord" in a family Lupin was protecting, becoming the villain for a change, a role reversion Lupin openly laughs at. Holmes wins the "loot", he wins the material battle, but Lupin has the last laugh, and despite being a self-proclaimed villain, Lupin gets the moral victory.

It's a quite unflattering view of Holmes and one perhaps not suited for a crossover outside of the specific context of Holmes being the old and stuffy intruder in an Arsene Lupin story. Then again, every great hero needs a lesson in humility every now and then.

There's a particularly interesting variant of this dynamic to be found within China's own takes on Sherlock Holmes and Arsene Lupin.

Sherlock Holmes was quite the breakout hit for Chinese audiences at the time of his release, revered as an alternative to Judge Bao and the court-case novels. It's estimated that from 1903 to 1909, detective fiction constituted over almost 50% percent of all Western translated fiction, and with Holmes followed others like Nick Carter and Charlie Chan, and then Arsene Lupin, and soon their own local versions. The most famous and popular of which was Huo Sang, created by Cheng Xiaoqing, who was one of the main translators for Conan Doyle's stories. Cheng Xiaoqing even wrote his own take on Sherlock Holmes vs Arsene Lupin called "The Diamond Necklace", intending on correcting Leblanc's take, although interestingly, he unintentionally recreates the exact outcome by giving Holmes an unsporting attitude, where he "wins" only because Lupin lets him, and Lupin gets away again with the moral high ground. He would fare off much better in correcting Holmes with his own character, Huo Sang.

Huo Sang has a lot of similarities to Holmes, even with his own Watson counterpart, but was also designed to represent a few more traditional Chinese values. He is a science teacher with no addictions who belittles the wealthy class and fights for the poor, and he is praised for humility, one story even making a point to criticize Holmes for arrogance. He is a very Westernized character, with suits and guns and cigarettes galore, but the books were very dictatic and the author marketed them as "disguised textbooks for science", playing up on a newfound social reverence to scientific methods and self-improvement and national rejuvenation.

The stories deal heavily with corruption of the police force and institutions. In the earlier stories he outright calls police detectives useless rice buckets only good for solving petty thefts and preying on those that can't defend themselves, and while they become less sinister in later stories, Huo Sang's relation with law enforcement is much more frayed than Holmes's own. He uses dirty police tactics of his own and sometimes takes the law into his own hands, thinking the law cannot possibly achieve justice on it's own. His biggest loyalty is to his country and he values his reputation above all else. He values justice more than the law, like Holmes. But like Holmes, he still prefers to work inside the law and within Chinese traditions.

"Bao Lang, you scholar, you're too idealistic. Don't you realize how weak the law is in modern society? Privilege and power, favors and money - the law has all these deadly enemies

"We investigate half to slake our thirst for knowledge, half out of duty to serve and uphold justice. In the realm of justice, we are never constrained by the wooden and unfeeling law. For in this society, which is gradually tending to surrender its core to material things, the spirit of the rule of law cannot be put into general practice, and the weak and ordinary people are aggrieved, more often than not unable to enjoy the protection of the law.

Lu Ping, as you'd expect from a counterpart to Lupin, was much different. In fact, right in his very first story, he was already pitted against Huo Sang and outsmarting him, in a story called "Wooden Puppet Play". The character is inspired by an already existing tradition within Chinese literature of the "chivalrous thief", shapeshifting masters of deception and martial arts, and considered admirable and benevolent opposite to the corrupt government officials they outwit.

His stories are more whimsical, energized, more varied, less dedicated to strict science. He whistles while committing crimes, is identifiable by a red tie and wooden puppets he uses to signal his goons on what outfit he's gonna be wearing, and even cracks asides to the reader. In many aspects Lu Ping is influenced by hard-boiled Western detective stories, and naturally, he has a much more contemptious view of the law than Huo Sang

Well then, was he willing, in his capacity as thief, to represent the sanctity of the law and catch the murderer? Yes, he would be quite happy to round up that murderer. But he wasn't at all willing to boost the reputation of the law. He'd always felt that the law was only something like an amulet that certain smart guys had fabricated to get them out of embarassing situations.

Such an amulet migh be good for scaring away idiots, but it oculdn't threaten the violent, crafty and arrogant evil ones. Not only could it not scare them away, a lot of them hid right behind it to work their evil tricks!

Conflicts between these two are not just rooted in one-upsmanship or the patriotic conflict between the two, but instead in two differing approaches to justice, their influence on fellow Chinese writers to step outside tradition, and the respective ways they address issues in society. Additionally, it's not just a conflict between Great Detective vs Gentleman Villain, but the Holmesian Detective and the Hardboiled Detective. And, naturally, when the two met, a pattern reocurred again.

Writing a Lu Ping tale in his usual manner, Sun Liaohong deprives the detective of the advantage he typically enjoys at the hand of Cheng Xiaoqing or any other follower of Conan Doyle - narration by the detective's coadjutor.

It is Huo Sang who slinks around like a thief, alarming hotel service personnel. He becomes rattled, and even so is vain and arrogant. He is a bit too positivist about searching for clues, and he spends a remarkable amount of time just relaxing and waiting for something to happen.

The figure of "wooden puppets" turns wicked when the author uses the term to refer to Huo Sang, Bao Lang, and the police. Satirizing the genre as a play in which the author woodenly manipulates his character. But Lu Ping as puppet is a genius, moving from one identity to another, whereas Huo Sang is a dumbbell - wooden indeed, bourgeois, ridiculed.

A gentleman's agreement occurs only at the end. Huo Sang has the formal victory. He frees Lu Ping in order to get the paining, but the exhibition is held a day late and it now bears Lu Ping's seal.

In wartime, peace talks, diplomacy and gentlemen's agreements are just smoke screens, the stuff of puppetry. Both Huo Sang and Lu Ping surround themselves with lies to reach their final accomodation. Perhaps they are both puppets - Chinese Justice, the Fiction: Law and Literature in Modern China, by Jeffrey C. Kinkley

Both characters were canned in 1949 when the CCP banned detective fiction, and it was replaced with anti-spy literature about how the party police would expose counterrevolutionary conspiracies. They never got to have a rematch, and to my understanding there were a couple of films made afterwards about them, Huo Sang had a very recent one in 2019, but never another meeting.

I guess the takeaway here time and time again is that, credit to Holmes and all, but:

[softly-penned-valkyrie]

Pre-Order the ‘Sheer Trouble’ Erotic Fanzine! A Double Trouble Erotica Zine!

So a while ago I announced I was one of the small batch of writers to be a part of a new fanzine focusing on the character of Double Trouble from She-Ra and now it’s available for pre-order!

Trust me when I say this (because I’ve seen a lot of the images in this amazing zine), if you’re remotely a fan of Double Trouble or of She-Ra in general, you will love and adore this project!

Even more! All proceeds from orders and sales are going to the Marsha P Johnson Institute and the Trans Women of Colour Collective! BLACK LIVES MATTER! TRANS LIVES MATTER!

Pre-orders are running until December 13th so please get yours soon! After this period the zine is going to be released and you can get your hands on it all the way until the end of the day on Jaunary 6th. Trust me folks, you want this thing. The zine is digital only, to make things easier all around. 

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR??

In case you’re still debating getting this zine and supporting our chosen charities, have a teasing snippet from each of the fics I wrote for the project. 

You can acquire your pre-order HERE! and also go check out the main account for @sheertrouble​ for more information including details on all the artists and other writers.

That’s right... I wrote two fics, TWO!

    “Today is gonna be a fun one,” they chuckled, parting their thighs and stroking the base of their tail again. The water hit them right, and the fantasy of what fun they’d be having soon gripped their mind and overtook their thoughts.

    Heat warped around their scales, softening their texture and making DT feel downright euphoric of their body. They consumed their thoughts of what Glimmer had asked of them – had given to them. The curling tip of their tail brushed around their naked and smooth chest, wrapping around their waist as Double Trouble held firmly against the root of it. It was a performed struggle against the one of the more sensual and attractive parts of their own body. And that was a fact that the lizard one had never hidden from themselves or anyone else. Even Catra and Scorpia had known a lifetime ago in the Fright Zone that Double Trouble was one narcissistic and erotic operative of a near primal variety.

    They simply adored their own body.

    “Catra... and Adora too, all for me...”DT giggled, catching their sharp teeth and laughing into their soaked palm as their tail flicked the spare droplets. With a nimble reach they sprang for the tap with the tip of their appendage and the water ceased. “It’s a damn good thing,” they breathed, stepping from the stage-like curtain of the shower blinds and into the expansive wet-room of their domicile; looking down, they almost salivated as their tail whipped and curled even more.

    “...I’ve got a cock for each of them...”

    They reached the mirror, the steam clouding the room still simmering in contact with their scales, making their body moist and soft all the while. The whole pane as fogged up from the elongated shower, giggling even more, almost high off of their own energy and the excitement for having both her darling Catra and Adora together at the same time, DT wiped their hand along the full width of the mirror.

---

    “Well fuck, Adora...” Double Trouble cursed, lurching over the blonde and kissing her back, gently licking at her shoulder blades with a forked tongue several inches long. “Didn’t peg you for someone who gripped so well...”

    “Stow it!” Adora protested while Catra continued to moan the more Double Trouble segmented their thrusts to fill her ass as much as they could.

    The blonde gasped, a sharp cry into the air as she felt claws reaching for her ponytail and clenching around it in a firm grasp. Double Trouble pulled harshly, keeping her in their power while Catra rode pulse after pulse of sensation passing up her tailbone. Her firm entrance wrapped tighter than ever around the second lizard prick while Adora began to bob and bounce against it. The lovers were pressed practically together – Adora could feel the firm growth of Catra’s cock pressing against her beautiful bush. The tip of her instrument throbbed into the hood of Adora’s clit while Double Trouble pushed their hips again to meet the bobbing motions of the already desperate human. The way her folds latched onto every inch that they could of their dominant’s cock was splendid to feeling. From tip to stem Double Trouble’s member throbbed and swelled at the gratification delivered through their partner’s sex. More of Adora’s sweet nectar enveloped their tentacle-like appendage, slathering it in a veil of beautiful secretion and doing the work to force the shapeshifter harder. Their firmness was unparalleled, feeling the soft and warm embrace of Adora’s darling lips in tangent with the second cock tightly pressed and surrounded by Catra’s firm rear.

  Double Trouble let loose a small and slight moan masked as a sigh as ripples of pleasure worked their way from both cocks and into their core. It had been ages since pleasure like this. Almost with a detached mind, their body began to shift – the fledglings of thoughts from earlier taking indulgent hold as they filled both women further. The sultry melody of Catra and Adora huffing for air and moaning in exhales combined pushed their mind into definitely debauchery.

    Within a moment their chest had swelled. Their pierced nipples falling from their rib cage and bowing down as pectorals inflated into green and soft breasts, which the reptilian degenerate immediately felt the need to grope and fondle.

    “Damn it you two... Making me so damn hot,” Double Trouble breathed, the firm softness of their illusory breasts forcing their cocks to swell somehow more inside each girl.

[limitededitionsanderssidesblog]

The Snake and The Frog

Pairings: Romantic Moceit, platonic moxiety

"The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children." William Shakespeare.

Janus had once told him that balance rested in karma, a life for a life, but Patton didn’t believe in such a thing. If nature dictates that the child shall pay for the sins of the father, then he will reshape the natural order and refuse to take revenge so that the next generation can be spared.

Or

Patton, cursed by an unknown sorcerer, is now forced to live his life as a frog, alone in the forest. That is until he meets a snake named Janus, a fellow cursed being.

AO3 - Here

-

Having only four, webbed fingers was something Patton wasn’t sure he’d ever truly get used to, not to mention being one-tenth his size. The long tongue was odd too, and many nights he went hungry because he still wasn’t quite sure how to catch his food. Not to say he wanted to eat disgusting things like crickets or flies, but Patton wasn’t too sure that he could walk up to the local baker and ask for a cookie without being squashed.

Overall, life as a cursed one was something he never believed he could get the hang of completely.

Only two weeks ago, Patton had been an ordinary twenty-three-year-old man, enjoying his life as the son of a wealthy tenet master who owned most of the land the local farmers worked. Every day was spent with games and fun, he never had a care in the world. He and his best friend, a sorcerer named Virgil, would hang out at his father’s estate, doing whatever they wanted.

That is, until a strange young man, about his age, appeared at their doorstep. He didn’t see it coming, but without any warning or caution, Patton felt the world fall away from him and turn black. When he woke up, the man was gone, and he had been turned into a frog.

Distraught, his father hadn’t recognized his own son in that amphibian’s body and cast him out of the estate, dumping him in the forest that surrounded his home.

Patton had tried to return home several times within the last few weeks, but he had always been attacked and chased away by the guards that once protected him. 

He hadn’t given up, however, and continuously made plans to sneak his back into his home and show his father that he was, in fact, his son.

But first, he would try to catch the firefly floating over the lake.

Hopping over the lily pads, a bit clumsily as he still wasn’t used two his new body even after a fortnight, he chased after the firefly, aiming his tongue unskillfully and missing the bug each time. Patton whined and whimpered to himself, feeling pity for the little fly that was just trying to go about its day, but the growling in his stomach reminded him that he couldn’t give up, and he continued to chase after the firefly. However, while he was so engrossed with his own bit of hunting, Patton failed to notice that he, himself, was being hunted as well. As quick as a flick, right as Patton was finally about to nab the little fly, a yellow head popped out of a nearby bush and struck him, capturing Patton in its wide jaws. 

“Ah! Please don’t eat me!” He shrieked, flailing wildly as he was pulled off of his lilypad and back onto shore.

However, as soon as he was back over the ground, away from the lake where he had been hunting, he was quickly let go and dropped. Still too stunned by the attack to flee, and much too scared to try and fight, Patton huddled on the ground, covering his eyes with his little webbed hands, waiting for the final strike to come.

“You… talked?” A cool and elegant voice said in surprise.

Confused as to who had just spoken to him, Patton looked up and around for a human but found only a yellow corn snake.

“You… did too?” Patton answered in wonder. Since he had been turned into a frog, Patton had tried over and over to communicate with the other animals of the forest, but to no avail. None of the animals could understand or speak with him—except this one. “Are you like me?”

“Cursed? Yes. I’ve been trying for the past week to undo the spell myself, but my magic isn’t strong enough in this form.” The snake grimaced, curling his body around in a loop to rest himself on like a bench.

“Wow! You know magic?” Patton gasped in excitement, forgetting completely that the snake had tried to eat him only a minute before.

“I just said that didn’t I?” 

Ignoring his rude tone, Patton began to hop around in excitement. He couldn’t believe it, not only did he meet another cursed one, but he met one who knew magic. If he was lucky, perhaps the snake would help him find a way to gain his father’s attention or even turn him into a human.

“That’s so cool! Can you do any cool tricks? My best friend is a sorcerer and he can fly. Can you do anything like that?” Patton asked, speaking fast and fumbling over his words, as he was too ecstatic to pause to properly breathe.

“Well normally I can shapeshift, but as I said before, this small body has weakened my magic. I can barely do anything now.” The snake hissed sourly, dropping his small head down on himself, obviously annoyed and wanting to drop the topic of conversation. 

Realizing that he had upset him, Patton gingerly hopped over to him and reached out a hand to him but froze when he hissed at him and turned away. Sighing, Patton lowered his hand and laid down on his stomach next to him.

He knew the feeling, not being able to do anything like he used to. He still had trouble walking, or rather hopping, not to mention the fact that he struggled to catch anything to eat. It felt weird and wrong to be in another body. Their lives had been stolen from them, Patton had lost his father and best friend, and he couldn’t even imagine what the snake had lost. Life as a cursed one was not pleasant or kind, as the name suggested, it was a cursed existence to live.

But at least it didn’t have to be a lonely one now.

“Do you want to be friends?” Patton asked, looking over at the curled up snake.

His question went unanswered for a heartbeat until he was met with a gruff and snarky chuckle as the snake turned his head a little to peer at him.

“You aren’t too bright, are you?” The snake ridiculed him, “I just tried to eat you, and now you want to be friends with me?”

“Well, there’s no one else to be friends with, here,” Patton replied softly, looking down at his webbed toes.

The snake continued to watch him as though he were analyzing him to his core, trying to reach inside his mind and understand his thoughts. Perhaps, with the help of his magic, he was doing just that. 

With a long and tired sigh, the snake replied and said, “Janus.” Patton raised his head and looked over at him in confusion, waiting for the snake to follow up and explain himself. Once the snake realized that he was waiting for an explanation, he groaned in exasperation and continued. “That’s my name, friends call each other by name, right?”

Smiling wide, Patton hopped up and landed on the snake, pulling him into a hug. “I’m Patton!”

Hissing at him, Janus tried to shake him off but was able to get him off. Eventually, he gave up and accepted his fate of being hugged by the overly affectionate frog.

“I already regret this.”

“Too late!”

...

Growing up the son of a wealthy Lord, Patton had never had to worry about things such as his daily meals and shelter, but both proved to be difficult to come by as a small frog in the forest; especially before he met Janus. 

His first night in the forest was spent underneath a bramble bush as the rain around him threatened to flood his newfound home away. After that he found a little hollowed out log and stayed there for a few days until he was chased away by a badger. The next day Patton found a little hole under a tree and made it his new home.

His meals were also hard found and almost always came in a meager amount. He was surprised by how much he needed to eat despite his small body. However, once Janus came into the picture, finding food became just a little bit easier.

“You closed your eyes again.” A sardonic voice said, interrupting Patton in the middle of his attempt to catch a dragonfly. “Are you expecting the bug to fly its way into your mouth?”

Without being asked, Janus took it upon himself to teach Patton how to properly catch his own food, mostly by criticizing and correcting his every move. It never took the snake long to find his own meal, so he would often spend his time watching Patton try to fill his empty and sad belly while he was happy and full. And while Patton did appreciate the help, he did wish sometimes that his friend would be a little nicer about it.

“But it’s so pretty! And it’s just going about its day. I don’t want to hurt it.” Patton complains childishly, watching the dragonfly flutter away high above his head.

Sighing loudly, Janus slithered his way over to Patton and circled his way around him, draping his long body around him in an almost intimate embrace. With his head, Janus directed Patton’s gaze over the lake.

“Dragonflies eat the gnats that hover over the lake, fish eat the dragonflies that go for the gnats, and humans capture the fish that swim too close to the surface. It’s a perfect cycle that has existed for eons, natural order, and balance.” He murmured into his ear, his voice smooth and sweet, but precise and cold. Patton gulped and shivered uncontrollably. “The magic that you are so fond of is no different. When a being takes a life, another will take it back, that is the karma and balance that maintains order.”

“Even so, does life have to be taken? Can’t someone break the cycle so no more life needs to be lost?”

Janus went quiet, pondering that notion as if it hadn’t occurred to him before. There was a haunting pain in his eyes, old yet fresh, as though a past wound had been agitated by his innocently intended words.

“Hm, perhaps.” He murmured, winding himself around the frog. Patton relaxed once he was let go, yet his body subconsciously followed after the snake to maintain their embrace before he was able to catch himself and remain in place. “You’re an odd one, Patton.”

“Thank you?” The frog said in confused gratefulness, unsure whether he was just complimented or insulted.

Janus gave no further explanation either and only directed him to follow after.

“Come along, I caught enough for both of us to eat, just in case you came up empty-handed again.”

A wide grin spread across his face and he quickly hopped after the retreating serpent. His stomach growled loudly again, almost as if it knew it was about to be filled.

After that, food had become much easier to find, as Patton simply made a daily habit of going to Janus’s den and eating whatever he brought back. The fellow cursed one commonly voiced his complaints about his doing so, but he never failed to bring back enough for both of them.

…

There was something Patton had been wondering about for a while now. The thought came to him fleetingly as a secondary thought as he watched how Janus caught his food.

After his mornings became lonely from waiting alone for Janus to return from his hunts, Patton decided to join him. He promised to stay a ways away to not scare away the prey and he was able to peacefully observe the snake from a distance. It was then that Patton was able to see Janus use magic for the first time.

Sneaking up on whatever creature he was hunting, whether it be a mouse or shrew for him or cricket or grasshopper for Patton, he got just close enough before he would shoot out, yellow light and haze surrounding him, and his prey would be rendered motionless and free for the taking.

It seemed to be a simple spell as Janus was able to use it multiple times in a single day without tiring himself out. Patton recalled his best friend, Virgil, learning a similar spell when they were younger. After two casts he would become faint and would need to rest. Eventually, as years passed and he received training, Virgil learned to cast the freeze spell with ease. Even so, he still had his limit on how many spells he could cast in a single day. Yet Janus never showed any signs of fatigue.

Surely that meant that either the spell was simple and didn’t require a lot of energy, or that Janus was an extremely powerful and talented sorcerer. Which then begged the question as to why he still remained a snake.

“Hey, Janus?” Patton asked unprompted,

“Yes, Patton?” The snake replied, stopping in the middle of a long sip of water he had been taking from the lake.

“If you’re a wizard-

“Sorcerer.”

“Then how did you get turned into a snake? Did you mess up a spell or something?”

Janus paused and sat quietly for a moment, turning his eyes down at his reflection in the rippling water, gazing into it as though it were a Jin Mirror that would tell him all he wished to know. Patton looked down into the water as well but saw nothing besides a snake and a frog.

“I went to a sorcerer more proficient than I and asked to use his advanced spellbook. He agreed, but once he learned what spell I was tampering with, he turned me into a snake and threw me into the woods.” He explained, his voice full of bitterness and loathing. His eyes burned with something harsh and fierce, but it oddly seemed to bear a close resemblance to regret.

“But aren’t you a shapeshifter? Can’t you just shift back?” Patton asked.

“I wish I could, but spells and curses are different. If it had been a simple transformation spell I would have changed back weeks ago. But a curse is much more powerful and can only be undone by the one who caster.” He explained, hanging his head low in despair. “And I doubt that man will change me back anytime soon.”

Remorse was not a good look for the snake. Patton was so used to his usual sardonic smirks and sarcastic grins that it appeared wrong for him to look any other way. What was more, the pain in Janus’s eyes was too raw and made Patton’s heart ached for him.

“Well, that isn’t right!” He declared loudly.

Janus pulled his head up off the ground and looked at him in astonishment, gazing at him as if he couldn’t believe he had just heard what the frog said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It isn’t right!” Patton repeated, hopping over to his friend and reaching out to hold the snake’s head in his webbed hands. “Just because you wanted to learn a spell isn’t a good reason to be cursed! If I knew this sorcerer, I would march right up and command him to change you back!”

Janus stared at him with wide eyes, lifting his head up further slowly as if to try and confirm that he wasn’t dreaming and that he had actually heard Patton’s silly declaration correctly. After a moment passed between them, the wind and chirps of the forest the only audiable noise between them, Janus erupted in laughter, but Patton didn’t join in with him because it sounded almost sad.

“You're too kind, Patton.” Janus breathed, catching his breath between laughs. “Too kind for your own good.”

“What do you mean?” Patton asked, confused by his odd choice of words.

“Nothing, forget what I said.”

…

Life was, oddly enough, boring as an amphibian. Despite having a human mind and consciousness, he was still in fact a frog. Sleep had come to him more often, so by the time he woke up, half the day was already spent and gone. But, once he was awake, he had almost nothing to do.

Like a snake, Janus slept much more frequently than Patton, around sixteen hours in fact, although he’d never be able to tell since he can’t close his eyes. This meant that, despite their shared meals, the two of them had pretty much nothing to do except sleep. It wasn’t as though there were many options for leisure activities when you were cursed into a small body with tiny, webbed hands, or with no hands at all.

Usually, when he wasn’t with Janus, mostly because he was busy napping, Patton would go to the lake and swim. One small perk of being a frog was the fact that he could go under for hours on end and still be fine. He liked wandering down at the bottom of the lake, looking around and exploring the depths of six feet.

Patton learned very quickly not to venture in too deep, as one sour meeting with a bass taught him that one wrong move could end him up as a tasty snack in a predator’s belly.

Still, the thrill of swimming only lasted so long, and Patton would eventually become bored again. Without Janus, Patton had very little to do, and it became a lonely stretch of hours while he waited for Janus to wake up again.

In spite of his appearance, Patton could not communicate with any of the other kinds of frogs in the forest. It was possible that they themselves knew what Patton was, as all of them stayed clear away from him and never came near him. The fairy tale books were all a lie, he didn’t get any friendly forest animals to befriend.

Although he hadn’t asked, Patton had the hunch that it was the same for Janus, or else he probably wouldn’t have proper cause to remain with Patton. He knew he didn’t have much to offer the snake, he couldn’t help hunt, and he lacked any skill in magic to help him try to find a solution to the curse. Even so, Janus continued to spend his days idly with Patton, chatting and sharing meals, doing nothing of great importance.

Cursed ones were damned in more ways than one, the transformation into lesser creatures was one thing, but then they were sentenced to live life alone in isolation, understood neither by man nor beast. They had no one but each other in their large, forest world. Life as a cursed one was meant to be a life of torment, but at least with each other, it was more tolerable.

Patton sat in a hollow log, not too far away from the entrance to Janus’s den, nodding off as he waited for Janus to wake up. He was determined to stay awake until his friend resurfaced so they could spend the rest of the daylight together. However, the calm strings of the gentle, summer breeze, the chimes of a distant brook, and a choir of birds all sang a soothing lullaby that pulled at him sweetly, weakening his resolve. 

Before he knew it, he was being roused awake by the yellow snake, looming over him with an amused glint in his eyes. Patton smiled up at him and sat up, stretching in a way that was most likely more proper for humans than frogs.

“Afternoon sleepyhead.” Janus teased, backing up as Patton sleepily made his way out of the log.

“I should be saying that to you.” Patton giggled, “Are you all rested up, beauty queen?”

“Trust me, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t spend more than half the day asleep. I can hardly get anything done in just eight hours.” The snake grimaced, slithering away from and around the log.

“I, for one, would love to sleep the day away.” Patton sighed, subconsciously following after him. “I barely got any sleep when I was human, what with all the tutors my father hired to teach me. I still remember the time my Math tutor refused to let me leave for over three hours until I got all the questions on my trigonometry worksheet correct. Mister Nelson was really strict like that all the time, but my Literature teacher was probably worse. She-” 

He went on and on continuously, sprouting random stories from his years of education, which would then inspire more stories from his childhood and teen years. He chased after bunny trails, telling Janus about random things, unsure if the snake was actually listening.

Patton was so focused on talking that he failed to focus on where they were going, only making sure that he remained at the snake’s side so he could keep telling him more stories. It was only when Janus came to a sudden stop that Patton paused to look around at where they had been going the entire time.

In front of him expanded a wide and vast meadow, filled to the brim with tall grass, and a brook that ran through the center, heading back towards the lake. Patton gasped and gawked at the scenery, edging closer to the beautiful field.

“It’s gorgeous,” Patton said,

“Indeed it is.” Janus agreed, his voice soft and tender.

Patton turned around to say something but was caught off guard by the gentle expression Janus was directing at him. Patton could not physically blush, but his heart certainly skipped a beat.

“I want to show you something,” Janus said, slithering on ahead once more. 

Patton remained where he was, watching his every move intently, almost fearful that if he looked away, Janus would disappear like a sweet dream, leaving him alone.

The snake slithered a few paced ahead to where a large rock rested on its side. Climbing up, he settled himself down on the highest point and stretched his body out as far as he could. He closed his eyes, stilled himself, and began to glow a beautiful gold, shimmering in the sunlight. Patton held his breath and time seemed to slow down around them.

Then, almost out of thin air, golden specters were lifted into the sky and took on the form of a snake and a frog. They took to the air and began to chase each other and play, frolicking through the clouds. They ran back down to the ground but continued to hover just above the earth. The specters turned into balls of pure light and circled around Patton in a spiral, sprinkling glitter upon him. Patton giggled and began to chase after the lights, trying to catch one of his hands.

The lights suddenly took to the sky once more and began to take on new forms, but this time they took the appearance of two men, one he recognized as himself, while the other he did not know. The man had a rigid and sharp face and was impeccably handsome. Patton looked over at Janus, still stretched out on the rock, and wondered if the man was him.

The two men joined hands and began to waltz, dancing elegantly across the heavens as though it were a ballroom. Their movements were smooth and graceful, hypnotizing Patton with their dance. Eventually, the two men began to float down together, returned to pure light, and faded away into glitter. Janus ceased his glow and relaxed, resting back and curling his body around.

“That was amazing!” Patton cheered, hopping over to him, “It was so pretty and cool! I can’t believe I just saw that! How’d you do it?”

“It’s a simple light animate spell. I usually prefer to animate shadows, but I thought you’d like the light puppets more.” Janus explained, slightly out of breath.

“I did, I loved them!” Patton grinned and pulled Janus into a hug. The snake stiffened and turned solid, but gradually began to loosen up. “Thank you, Janus.”

“You’re welcome, Patton. It’s the least I could do.”

Patton wanted to ask what he meant by that, but he didn’t. Janus would often say things that he didn’t understand, but every time he asked about it Janus wouldn’t answer.

…

It had been one full month since Patton had met Janus that day he had coincidentally almost been eaten by the said snake. In that time that they had spent together, they had grown close as friends. Their mornings would be spent over breakfast, chatting about random nonsense, and laughing over their mutual love of puns. After that, they would often spend their time around the lake, where Patton would splash around in the shallow end and Janus would sunbathe on the stones along the water’s edge. Once they began to feel famished, Janus would go out and hunt for their next meal and they’d share it again in Janus’s dugout den. As soon as their bellies were full once again they would part ways to go to sleep and start it all over the next day.

It was during one of Janus’s hunts when Patton didn’t join him, that he decided to wander around and explore in search of a new home while he waited for him. As much as he enjoyed his home underneath the tree, it was too small for him to do anything besides sleep, and the wide-open hope in the trunk made it easy for other forest life to find his way into his home. At this point, Patton was tired of chasing away squirrels trying to hide their nuts in his home.

Instead, Patton found a small crevice in the earth, no deeper than four feet. Tall and luscious grass was growing inside the hole, which would make for good bedding; and a large bramble bush grew at the top, overshadowing the hole and offering shelter from the sun, wind, and possible rain.

In blind excitement, Patton rushed down into the crevice to get a better look at what may be his new home. However, a patch this perfect surely had to already be occupied, but Patton was too enthusiastic to think that far ahead.

While pushing around the grass, looking for the best patch for a bed, Patton uncovered a pre-dug hole that had been hidden by the tall grass. Upon seeing it, Patton knew that something else had made that hole and it was not naturally occurring. Even so, Patton had noticed it too little too late, and before he could backtrack his way out of the crevice, a brown and black rat snake shot out of the entrance and aimed its fangs directly at him.

“Janus!” Patton screamed, launching himself into the air and away from the rat snake.

Quick as he could, Patton scurried back up the slope and out of the crevice. However, once glance backward told him that the rat snake was right on his heels chasing him. He tried desperately to shake the predator of his tail, hopping over and underneath rocks and fallen branches, but all his efforts proved futile as the rat snake remained practically glued to him.

“Help me! Janus!” Patton cried again, unsure if his friend could hear him or where he even was.

However, a voice called back in reply to his cry, filling him with relief.

“Patton!” Janus suddenly shot out from the side, tackling his body directly into the rat snake.

Finally free from the chase, Patton was able to escape up a high rock, and subsequently found a vantage point to watch the fight. Janus had plunged his fangs into the backside of the rat snake right underneath its head. The rat snake thrashed and struggled, attempting to wrap itself around Janus to strangle him, but it failed to do so properly, giving Janus leverage to do just that.

The fight lasted several minutes, neither reptile wanting to back down. They twisted and turned over and around each other until the rat snake finally went limp. Once the fight was done and won, Janus let go of his hold on the other snake and slithered over to Patton, who had hopped down from the rock.

“Are you okay?” Janus asked upon reaching the frog.

“Yes, I think I’m all right,” Patton replied and moved to greet him, but once he moved his right leg he winced at a pain he hadn’t realized was there, most likely hidden by the adrenaline rush while escaping.

Janus noticed and commanded him to remain still as he moved closer. Patton complied and remained where he was as the snake slithered up until their faces were resting against each other. At that time, Patton was incredibly grateful that it was physically impossible for frogs to blush, because Patton was sure that if he were still human that he’d be as red as wine from being in such close proximity to his friend.

A moment passed between them in expectant silence, Janus gazed intently into Patton’s eyes, and he looked right back into his, not knowing what else to do. Gradually, a warm, welcoming yellow light began to surround them both, encasing them in a small dome of energy. Slowly, as they remained together in that light, the pain in Patton’s leg began to fade away until it was eventually completely gone, and with it, the light went as well.

“Wow, you’re amazing!” Patton gasped in awe, hopping around in glee that the pain was gone.

Patton had seen a similar spell from his friend Virgil, in fact, he had watched as his friend struggled to learn the healing spell for several weeks until he was able to master it. It was unclear how long Janus had been studying magic, but if he was able to carry out such a spell in the state that he was, he had to be incredibly gifted.

“It’s nothing really,” Janus said sheepishly, turning his head away.

“No, it totally is! You have an incredible gift!” Patton hopped over into the snake’s line of vision and gave him a wide smile. “Thank you, Janus. You saved my life today.”

It had been minuscule, and Patton had almost failed to see it, but he saw the way Janus flinched at his words as if Patton had slapped him with his praise. Patton almost frowned at it, but Janus quickly turned away again and changed the subject.

“It’s nothing. Let’s get you back to your home so you can rest.” He said, leading the way back towards the lake.

His smile fell away at his friend’s aloof behavior, but he gave a shy smile as he chased after and caught up to him, hopping at his side as they went across the forest ground. The ambiance of the singing birds overhead filled their silence and made their walk a little more comfortable, but Patton still couldn’t bear the silence between them, nor could he understand what made his friend act so coldly. After a second of thought, Patton decided to take it upon himself to fill the gap between them.

“This reminds me of when I fell off my horse when I was twelve.” Patton said, laughing lightly as he thought back in his memory, “My dad blew a gasket and confined me to my bed for a week so I could heal. But my friend Virgil, who was apprenticing under the family sorcerer, snuck in and healed me so we could go out and play.”

“Sounds like a strict father,” Janus mumbled, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the forest path.

“I guess. What about your parents?” Patton turned the subject onto the snake, hoping to keep the conversation going. “Did they do things like that too?”

Janus stopped slithering and froze, looking up to the tops of the trees and out beyond to the lake morning sky, which had begun to be overshadowed with gathering clouds. The eerie calm before the coming storm.

“Well… there was this one time I fell sick with a cold. My mother made me hot duck soup and fed me while I laid shivering in bed. My father sat at the fire for the whole night, keeping it lit so that I would be warm.”

“They sound amazing,” Patton said with a warm smile, wondering if his mother had done the same when he was sick. 

“Yeah,” Janus continued on, “They were.”

Now it was Patton’s turn to freeze in place, as he realized he had unknowingly crossed a line and brought up bad memories for the snake. Quickly, he hopped back to the snake's side and tried to apologize for his mistake.

“Oh, Janus I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s alright.” Janus stopped him, letting him off with what would have been a sad smile if he didn’t have the face of a snake. “It was a long time ago.”

One by one, drop by drop, the sky began to cry out and rain fell from the heavens to the earth. The wind picked up and began to beat at the trees, shaking the branches into a wild dance. In the distance, rumbles from the sky began to roar across the land, followed by bright, angry flashes of light and fire.

The two cursed ones rushed their journey to take shelter away from the elements. Then forgoed returning to Patton’s home under the tree, as they risked a lighting strike by doing so. Instead, the snake and the frog went to Janus���s den underground.

Breakfast had not been caught that morning, as Janus had abandoned his hunt once he heard Patton’s panicked call. That meant that their empty stomachs were left to growl and complain at them for the foreseeable future, as it was too dangerous to attempt a hunt during the storm.

The den was dark and cold and damp. The only insulation the hole had was sticks and leaves. Janus, who was now a cold-blooded creature, tucked himself under the small patch of foliage and coiled around himself to keep warm. Once he was comfortable, the snake invited Patton to join him, as frogs were also cold-blooded.

A bit sheepishly, Patton crawled under the leaves and laid down beside the snake. The two rested there quietly, listening to the echo of the rage outside. Slowly, Patton began to tire and grow sleepy, yawning as he let his eyes close.

“Do you ever think about your father?” The snake beside him asked out of the blue, shaking Patton back into wakefulness.

Patton blinked at him in surprise, not expecting Janus to bring up their families again after the last conversation. Janus didn’t look back and kept his face turned away, but Patton still smiled at him.

“All the time.” He answered simply, “I know he didn’t mean to kick me out. He was just so scared that he didn’t recognize me. But eventually, I’ll be able to go back home.” He said confidently, sure to himself that his father was looking everywhere for him, and that Virgil would find a way to turn him back into a human. 

Perhaps Janus could come with him, he was sure that his father would welcome such a powerful sorcerer, and Virgil always loved meeting others in his trade to exchange knowledge and skill with.

“It will be good riddance for me. Then I won’t have to keep hunting for two, freeloader.” Janus huffed, finally looking over at him, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Hey!” Patton cried and tackled the snake, landing on his back and wrapping his arms around his long body. Janus let out a squeak and tried to shake him off, cursing him, but laughing nonetheless.

Eventually, the two cursed ones settled down, giggling at each other and panting to catch their breath. Outside, the storm grew stronger, leaving the two stranded together in the den. Tired from the stressful day and their roughhousing, the two fell asleep together, Janus loosely wrapped around Patton like a comforting blanket.

…

Patton woke up sometime later, at what hour he couldn’t know, but the sheer darkness that surrounded him told him that it was late into the night. In that darkness, however, was a pale light casting shadows around him, pulsating instead flicker as a flame would. A tingling sensation covered his body and a warmth settled in his stomach and chest.

It didn’t take long for Patton to direct his gaze up and realize that it was Janus, still wrapped around him, who was giving off the light. The whole of his body glowed a soft yellow color and acted as a sort of lantern. His eyes were glossed over and he appeared to be intensely focused on something.

The frog decided then to remain quiet and simply watch as the snake did whatever he was doing. The intensity of the glow would grow and wane, almost to the point of going out, until it would grow again. Janus looked exhausted and seemed to be struggling greatly, almost as if he had been casting repeatedly without rest for hours on end.

Although Patton wasn’t a sorcerer himself, he did know much about the art from growing up with Virgil. He knew for a fact that casting multiple spells one after another without rest caused severe fatigue and strain on the body. Just as running ten miles with no rest could damage the body, so too could spell casting.

Patton knew it was taboo to interrupt a sorcerer while they were in the middle of casting, as losing focus could cause them to lose control of the spell and harm themselves or the interrupter. But he couldn’t bear to see Janus continue to suffer and endure such pain any longer.

“Janus?” Patton whispered, moving to sit up.

The snake flinched and gasped, breaking focus on the spell and stopped glowing as his eyes snapped down to look at the frog. A force pushed Patton back a bit, drawing a squeak out of him, but Janus’s tight grip around him kept him from falling over.

“Patton, you’re awake.” He noted in surprise, clearing his throat and relaxing his grasp on the frog.

“Couldn’t really sleep with the light flashing.” Patton chuckled sheepishly.

“Right…”

An awkward silence fell on them, heavy with unspoken tension about the spell casting. Patton knew it was rude to try and get Janus to reveal to him what he was doing, and sorcery was a sacred trade, but curiosity remained burning in his gullet to know why and what the snake had been casting. However, instead of intruding on his art any further, he decided to change the topic to his well-being, as Janus was still wheezing ever so slightly.

“Are you feeling alright?” Patton inquired.

“I’m fine.” He answered plainly, laying his head down on the ground.

“Did you want to talk about it?” Patton edged closer.

“I’m okay, Patton, don’t worry. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

The frog pouted but decided to let the topic go and follow Janus’s lead and go back to sleep, but not before he gave one more reassurance.

“Well, alright, but if you ever need it, I’ll be here to listen. Nothing could make me turn away from you, Janus.” Patton told him kindly.

Janus lifted his head sluggishly and peered over at him, his eyes dim and hesitant.

“Are you sure?” He asked softly.

“Of course! We’ll always be together!” Patton grinned.

Janus didn’t smile back but laid his head back down on the dirt floor. Not long after, the steady intake of breaths and light snores told him that Janus had fallen asleep, likely due to exhaustion. 

Patton continued to watch him for a while more, his heart clenched and torn in concern for the other. He wished he had the innate ability to read others’ minds as some sorcerers had, or at the very least could know how the snake was feeling. It was obvious that whatever had caused Janus to act so miserably was somehow linked to whatever spell he had failed to cast.

He worried that Janus might try it again and end up hurt. Especially since it appeared as though Janus was trying to cast it on Patton. The last thing he wanted was for Janus to be hurting because of him.

…

The storm had not yet ended, but merely calmed down to a drizzle. The thunder and lightning had passed over their heads, but could still be heard in the far off distance. However, it was enough for the local wildlife to peek their heads out of their hiding places, drawn out by their hunger from the long night.

Patton was roused awake from the slow dripping water droplets that had seeped down through the earth to reach the den. Shaking his head dry, Patton yawned and stretched, pulling himself out of his little bed nest of leaves and sticks. Behind him, Janus remained asleep, snoring peacefully in a little curled up ball.

He smiled and then frowned; Janus still panted lightly in his sleep and looked sick and pale from overexertion. Patton remembered the look of desperation he had on last night as he struggled in his spell cast. The pain looked torturous and it concerned Patton greatly. He wondered what had caused him to push his body that far, and why he had been trying to spell cast on Patton.

A thought crossed his mind about the possibility that Janus had attempted to break their curse, but he ignored it, as Janus had told Patton himself that only the caster could take away the curse, and Patton didn’t even know who had cursed him.

It had happened all too suddenly for him to completely grasp the situation. He had been out on his daily stroll through the garden, he had heard that a strange man was visiting the manor and was on his way back to the house to greet him when a shadow appeared before him in the center of the walkway. A black puddle, rippling and swaying minisculely like tar, seeped up through the gravel. Patton was about to ignore it, thinking that maybe some ground oil had been pushed to the surface, but then a hand, seeping with the tar-like substance, reached out to him. Panicked, thinking someone was trapped underground, ignorant to the sinister forces at work, he reached out to save them and grabbed hold of the hand.

However, the second that he did, the shadow began to swirl around him and seep into his body through his eyes, mouth, and skin. He had tried to fight it off, but he was helpless to resist the dark magic. Everything went dark, and the next thing he knew, he woke up in the body of a little, green frog.

His father, in grief and anger, refused to believe that the frog was his son and demanded that he be executed. However, Virgil, in defense of Patton, convinced his father to merely banish him, and his father agreed. The guards then took Patton and threw him out over the wall, laughing as they watched him flail around and land harshly on the other side. Patton wandered around, trying to get back to his father to convince him he was indeed his son, but he was never able to make it past the guards. After a week passed, he went and settled in the forest by his home, waiting for the day when he’d finally be able to return.

This was the reason why Patton never learned the identity of who cursed him or their reason for doing so. It had happened all so fast, his cursing and his exile, he wasn’t even sure if his curser had been caught.

However, Janus knew who cursed him, he said so himself, it was another sorcerer who shared different beliefs than him about sorcery and cursed him for it. If he wanted, Janus could have used his magic to find the sorcerer and try to undo his own curse, but he remained with Patton anyways.

Janus had done so many things for Patton in the time that they’ve known each other. He’s fed him his daily meals, saved and healed him from a rat snake attack, and more so just offered his comforting company and ear to listen. Patton wanted to show his gratefulness to the snake for all that he’s done for him but knew he could never fully pay him back for all his kindness.

But he decided to at least start with something small and decided to be the one to provide breakfast that morning so Janus could sleep in just a while longer. 

Leaving the den, Patton went around the rim of the lake and decided to catch some of the flies that usually hovered above the surface. Since Janus usually provided all the meals, Patton still wasn’t that good at catching his food and lacked coordination and timing. However, once he sat in position on a lilypad, floating on top of the water, Patton recalled back to the advice Janus had given him all those weeks ago. 

He kept his eyes trained on the rain-rippled water, searching for any and all prey that may come into view, and once one did, he never took his eyes off of it. Some reservations still nagged at him, but Patton mostly ignored it, knowing that Janus would only get weaker if he did not eat. Once he was locked onto the dragonfly and had a clear shot, Patton shot out his tongue and caught the insect in his snare, yanking it back into his mouth, but making sure he didn’t swallow it.

Happy with his first catch, Paton hopped off of the lilypad and back onto the grass to return to the den to drop off the dragonfly so that he could go and catch more food. The snake usually preferred mice or shrews over crickets and flies, but Patton just had to make do with what he had.

As he returned back to the den, a strange and peculiar light began to shine above his head, creating a dim trail behind it. The light was much too large to have been created by any insect and had an odd purple hue to it. Before Patton could ponder it any further, loud footfall resounded behind him.

Taken off guard, Patton quickly lept into a bush and hid, peering out from behind the leaves to see who had created those footsteps and that light. Out from behind the foliage and trees, walked his best and oldest friend, Virgil. His face was hidden by his favorite black cloak, covered in odd, little purple patches, but Patton still recognized him nonetheless.

Overjoyed to see his childhood friend after so long apart, Patton chased after him as quickly as he could. He almost called out his name to catch his attention, but the words caught inside the back of his throat when he saw him stop directly in front of the den Janus was sleeping in. The purple light he had been following began to fall down slowly and seep into the ground, A light began to shine out of the den’s entrance, signifying that the light was now inside the little hole in the ground. Patton moved again and opened his mouth to say something, but was startled when Virgil suddenly punched his fist through the ground, his hand bursting with magical energy, and ripped a now awake Janus out from the ground.

Janus hissed, screamed, and failed around, but all his efforts were weak and fruitless. He was still too weak from last night, he couldn’t even use magic to defend himself. 

Reaching into the back of his cloak, Virgil pulled out a long, twisted dagger and raised it to strike the snake. But before he could make any sort of move to hurt him, Patton screamed at him, dropping the dragonfly from his mouth, and threw himself at Virgil’s legs.

“Stop it, Virgil, don’t hurt him!” Patton cried and begged, grabbing Virgil’s pants and yanking him as hard as he could, although he knew it didn’t do anything.

Shocked by the sudden intrusion and the familiar voice, Virgil stepped back and looked down at the little frog that was clinging to the cuffs of his trousers. Instantly he recognized who Patton was and his eyes widened in welcomed surprise.

“Patton! You’re okay!” He said in joy and relief, but then a brief look of confusion passed across his features before he switched over to anger and accusation as he asked him, “Why would you defend this bastard?”

“Because he’s my friend!” Patton exclaimed, trying to climb his way up Virgil, clinging to his clothes, in order to get to where Janus was still thrashing around. “Please let him go, Virgil, Janus hasn’t done anything wrong!”

Reaching the top of Virgil’s arm, Patton quickly went to the fist that kept Janus captive and forced it open, causing both he and the snake to fall down. Reacting quickly, Virgil was able to catch Patton before he hit the ground, but he gladly let Janus crash into the dirt. Patton tried to hop away and go to the snake’s side, but Virgil cupped his hands around his small body and forced him to look at him.

“Hasn’t done- Patton, who do you think cursed you?” Virgil questioned him, his dark eyes drilling at him unforgivingly with an unbelievable truth. 

Patton stared back at his oldest friend with wide, incredulous eyes. He hadn’t realized it, but he began to pant heavily as his heart rate spiked and his lungs failed him. His whole body had gone stiff, frozen in terror, and at a loss for what to do or how to react. 

“You’re… you’re lying. Janus wouldn’t… he would never…he...” Patton said aimlessly, unsure whether he was trying to convince Virgil or himself of Janus’s innocence and benevolence. He looked down to Janus for a rebuttal, a shake of the head, a cry of dispute, anything to show that Virgil was wrong. But the snake said nothing, refusing to even look at him, and instead, he hung his head in shame.

After all, they had been through together, the countless hours spent in each other's company, the sweet and tender moments, the silly and nonsensical moments, he is now to believe that Janus had cursed him to live in misery. Janus, kind and caring, snide and cunning, protective and compassionate, had committed such a heinous act against him. Now he was to understand that the cursed snake, who he had been endeared to, who risked his life to save and heal him, was the sorcerer to make him the being that he was, taking him away from his family and friends and everything he had ever loved and known. But Janus was all that he loved and knew in the new life he had built as a cursed one. A false life created after his real one was ripped away.

Patton hopped down from Virgil’s hand and slowly hopped closer, but kept a sharp distance between them. Janus backed away as though the frog’s mere presence had burned him, widening the rift that had been created.

“You… cursed me?” Patton asked, still clinging to the last shred of hope inside of him that it wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry.” Was all that the snake said.

The world crashed around him in that instant and his heart shattered like glass hitting the floor. His breath was stolen away from his lungs like a relentless punch to the stomach. He choked on the sobs that began to spill out of his throat like vomit, the acid of betrayal stung his mouth. He couldn’t cry, however, no matter how much he wanted to, because of the creature he had been turned into. The creature that Janus had turned him into.

“So it’s true?” Patton croaked, “You did this to me?”

Janus looked up at him with sorrow and regret in his reptilian eyes, but Patton refused to see it, no longer able to trust anything the snake did.

“I didn’t mean to, well I did, but that was before I got to know you. At first, I was just trying to get revenge for my parents, but then-” Janus tried to explain himself, but Patton stopped him and cut him off, not wanting to hear his petty excuse for what he had done.

“But then what? How did me becoming this way solve anything?” Patton shouted in a shrill voice, his eyes locked uptight, his body overcome with tremors.

“It didn't solve anything, I know that now. I just wanted to get back at your father and wasn’t thinking about-”

“So even if you didn’t curse me you would have hurt my father to achieve your own selfish goal? No matter what you had done, I would have suffered and you didn’t even care.” Patton accused him, glaring him down with brokenness and unfettered rage, too consumed with grief to concern himself with his own words. “It’s because of people like you that there’s suffering in this world.” He scoffed bitterly.

Janus physically retracted from him, his mouth hung open and eyes wide in surprise and hurt. Patton realized a moment too late that he had gone too far, but he refused to apologize despite the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him. The snake hung his head and breathed slowly to steady his readily increasing pulse.

“Suffering in this world?” Janus repeated in a small, harsh voice, and raised his furious glare back up to meet Patton’s hesitant but firm gaze. “Don’t you dare speak of the world to me, young lord. You’ve lived in a mansion your entire life, having your every need met with the ring of a bell, you’ve always had a full stomach, a warm bed, and a safe home. You don’t know anything about suffering, Patton. You have no idea what I’ve been through.” He yelled,

Patton stared back at him in shock, and regret. After the weeks they had spent together, Patton had believed that he knew Janus very well. Despite not knowing that much about his past, besides him being a sorcerer and without parents, he had thought he was able to understand him. Yet, that notion had been torn away from him that day because he couldn’t understand him at all. He couldn’t see what had brought him to do such harm on those he barely knew, nor did he believe there was a reason that could justify his actions. 

“You’re right, I really don’t know anything about you, do I?” Patton said sadly, his voice quiet and defeated. The anger on Janus’s face immediately fell away and turned to worry and fear. Patton gave him one last smile, forced, and miserable, and then turned away to leave, “Come on Virgil, let’s go home.”

Virgil, who had been silently watching the argument from the sidelines, stepped in and bent down, offering a hand put for Patton to hop on so he could carry him. Patton stepped into his palm and was led away, leaving Janus alone on the cold ground. The light drizzle that had been falling since morning grew heavier and began to pour down more harshly, washing away the earth as the floodwaters began to rise once more. 

“No, Patton, wait!” Janus called out in desperation, “Take me with you! Only the caster can take away the curse. Let me fix this!” 

The small yellow snake tried to chase after them, but Virgil whipped around and hit him with a paralysis spell, stunning Janus and leaving him flopped over on the ground frozen. Patton flinched when he saw Janus get hit and fought the urge to go to his side. Instead, he simply looked away.

“Stay away from Patton! If you even try to go near him again then I will personally end your life.” Virgil threatened him with a deathly serious glower before turning and striding away.

The cursed frog let himself be taken away from his once dear friend in the palms of his oldest, and most trusted friend. He whimpered silently as Janus’s screams resounded through the trees, echoing and crescendoing on the howl of the wind. The tears that he could not physically shed himself, fell from his eyes as the rain ran down his face, allowing him to weep in sorrow as the pain of losing Janus consumed him as his reality.

“Patton! Please, forgive me!” The wind wailed, “Patton! Don’t leave me, please!”

…

The anger of the heavens had died away since last night and had since turned into grieving as the sky wept over the earth and its creatures, flooding the land with tears to wash away the heaviness that had settled in the atmosphere. The earth could not stand the mourning of its beloved friend and reflected those cries with a lament of its own as the earth shook and creaked, land sliding and trees falling, weighed down too much from the shared anguish.

Virgil rode through the rain and the wind on a skittish horse, none too happy about being forced to travel in the terrible weather. Patton sat on his shoulder, taking shelter underneath the brim of his hood. He lied down wordlessly, his eyes low and empty, barely registering the journey away from the forest and back to his father’s estate. His body was cold and soaked, but he didn’t mind too much and welcomed the feeling of icy skin, shivering. 

The sorcerer made a few attempts at light conversation, but Patton only responded with simple noises or grunts, if he answered at all. Eventually, Virgil got the message that he didn’t want to talk and let him be. Although, Patton could feel his anticipation and curiosity eat away at him; and he could understand why. After all, he had at last escaped from the one who cursed him and was to return back to his father and old life, he should be ecstatic and celebrating. That’s how any normal person would be reacting anyway.

After a strenuous period of travel, both physically and emotionally, the two childhood friends arrived at the familiar iron gates. Virgil muttered to Patton to hide further in his hood, and he complied quickly, frightened for what would happen to him if his father’s guards spotted him. Like the last time he saw them in his current form they had tried to kill him and then catapulted him over the wall.

Virgil strode up to the gate and called to be let in. The two men who had been charged with guarding the entrance that afternoon, got up from their bums on the ground, stumbling drunkenly to Virgil to inspect him.

“Sir Virgil? ‘Ere ‘ave you bin all mornin’?” One of the men asked, lazily scratching his ass with one hand and rubbing his bright red nose with the other, a bottle of brandy tight in his grip and spilling out the top. 

“I was searching for the young lord, as per usual.” Virgil responded his head up high and face scrunched up in distaste for the foolish man.

“When’re ya’ goin’ a give up on that?” The second guard asked, equally if not drunker than the first. “We all know he’s dead.”

“Don’t be witless, the boy is not dead but alive. Sober yourselves up and go to the lord of his house and tell him that he will see his son by sunrise tomorrow.”

The two guards, now frightened by what Virgil had said, quickly moved to open the gates, allowing Virgil to enter, before going ahead to the manor to give the message they had been sent with. Patton, who had been listening to the conversation the entire time, peered out from the hood and up at Virgil and asked, 

“What do you mean by ‘sunrise tomorrow’? I doubt my father will welcome me back the way I am.”

“Be patient, I have a plan for that.” Virgil replied as he guided his horse to the stables. Once there he dismounted and handed the reins to the stableboy to unsaddle and care for the animal.

Turning to the house, Virgil went and entered through the servants doors on the far side of the building. The inside was not that much different temperature-wise compared to the outside, and was even darker than it had been out in the rain. Patton looked out at the surroundings over Virgil’s shoulder and instantly recognized it as his old home. The walls and floors were all the same, all the candlesticks sat in their usual places, however they were not lit. Even the curtains, which were normally drawn to let in the sunlight, were pulled shut, allowing the halls to be consumed in darkness. Indeed this was Patton’s home, but it felt more despondent than usual.

Maneuvering his way through the meandering hallways, Virgil arrived at and entered his study, locking the door behind him so that no one could bother him. Stepping to his desk, he lit a single candle with a vocal spell and sat down at his bench and began gathering different ingredients from the many shelves above and beside him. Patton took this opportunity to hop down from his shoulder and onto his desk, choosing to watch his friend work from his seat on an old book. The study was dark and dusty, filled with many odd smells from old spells. The room was in chaos and disarray, books and pamphlets littering every surface. Patton found this peculiar, as he had always known Virgil to be neat and tidy, but he chose not to ask about it at that time.

“So,” Patton began, “You said you had a plan?”

“Oh, yes, I do.” Virgil agreed, getting up in a hurry across the room to rummage around in his aged, wooden chest. He pulled out a filthy looking velvet bag and looked inside, gave it a whiff, and grinned, rushing back to his bench and setting it to the side. “Since you were banished, I’ve been scouring the library for spells powerful enough to undo the curse. After more than a month of searching, I found one that lets you take on a human appearance in the sunlight. So as long as we hide you at night and keep you away from darkly lit places, we should be fine.”

Patton didn’t voice the wave of disappointment that passed over him when he realized that he wasn’t going back to normal forever. He should have suspected as much though, after all, Janus said only the caster can remove a curse. 

Patton shook his head and shooed away any and all thought of the snake.

The bottom line was that he would be human and with his father and best friend again, and that was enough for him to be happy at least for now.

After nearly an hour of preparation had passed with Virgil scurrying around the room, grabbing various ingredients, measuring them into different containers and mixing them in his caldron, Virgil clapped his hands and spoke a vocal spell, igniting the furnace at the far side of the room. The flame had a curious purple tint to it, which symbolized the caster, as most sorcerers preferred to differentiate their magic with a specific color, and Virgil’s was a deep violet. Speaking another spell, Virgil telepathically lifted the small cauldron and set it on top of the flame. It burned and boiled there for about ten minutes until Virgil spoke the same spell and carried the cauldron out of the fiery furnace. He cast another spell to cancel out the fire as well for good measure.

Patton, still sitting atop a stack of books, watched as Virgil took a small cup and dipped it in the caldron to measure out a small portion of whatever concoction he had cooked. Virgil, analyzing the potion, grinned to himself and reached into his pants’ pocket, pulling out a small vial filled with a few drops of a red liquid that looked strangely enough like blood.

“What’s that?” Patton asked,

“Janus’s blood,” Virgil answered plainly, removing the cork from the lid and pouring it carefully into the cup. “a key component to the spell. It’s a good thing that I only cursed him instead of killing him.”

“You were the one who cursed Janus?” Patton questioned, taken aback.

“Of course, there was no way either your father or I would let him get away with what he did without punishment. After you were cast out, I led a hunt for Janus and found him in the city near the orphanage where we lived as children.” He explained, his face turning sour at the mention of the orphanage.

“You knew him?” Patton said, shocked. He never would have guessed that the two had known each other by the way they interacted back in the forest.

Virgil paused in the middle of stirring the cup, setting it down softly and keeping his eyes trained on his own distorted reflection in the liquid. A peculiar air settled around him, Patton wasn’t sure if it was more akin to hatred or fondness.

“It was a long time ago, before the Sage, Thomas, took me in here. Thomas was going to take Janus in too when he saw that he too had the potential to learn magic, but…”

“But what?” Patton pressed further, literally on the edge of his seat as he leaned in to hear more.

“Janus was too angry and wild after his parents’ death, which left him orphaned. Thomas feared that if he was trained that he would use his power for evil.” Virgil scoffed bitterly at that, “Turns out he was right. He may lack proper training, but Janus’s magic is raw and powerful. I was only barely able to win when we fought.”

The frog, and soon to be human, frowned and sat back on his haunches. He knew that Janus had lost his parents, but he hadn’t realized that he had been so young when it happened. Patton had lost his mother when he was young too, but he had been so young that he had almost no memories of her. However, for Janus, he was old enough that he not only could remember them, but young enough to where they were his entire world. 

Sympathy filled Patton for Janus and his experience and he longed to offer him his condolences and comfort. And then he remembered what Janus had done to him, and how he had planned to take away his father, and that feeling of sympathy dwindled down, but didn’t leave entirely.

“Alright, it’s ready, drink.” Virgil directed him, setting the cup down on the table.

Patton looked at the cup, which had become a dark mahogany and was lightly steaming, and hopped down from the stack of books and made his way to the cup and peaked his head over the edge. It smelt both sweet and sour at the same time, which made him flinch away and gag slightly.

Virgil chuckled lightly and helped Patton up with one hand so that he could reach the cup’s contents. Heaving a deep breath, Patton went back and put his lips to the liquid. Part of him hesitated when he realized he’d be drinking Janus’s blood, but he pushed through and took a large gulp.

Again, he ripped himself away and gagged, but this time from the horrible taste. Just then, a numbing sensation took over his body and he flopped over on Virgil’s palm. The sorcerer took him to the center of the room and rested him on the floor and took a step back.

A stinging pain erupted in his veins and boiled throughout his body, the entirety of his flesh broke out in a near unbearable itch, and his bones began to ache and groan in discomfort. A scream tore its way from his throat as he shook and shuddered on the wooden floor. Not even a minute passed before the pain became unbearable and he blacked out.

When he came to, he was lying down in a mock bed on a floor mat with a thin seat cushion under his head. He opened his eyes slowly and took in his surroundings, noticing that he was still in the study. The light of the rising sun shone directly on him from the window, and bathed him in a warm orange glow.

Instantly, Patton could feel the difference in his skin and body. He didn’t feel cold anymore, his back was stretched and straight, and his arms and legs under the blanket felt longer, thicker, and distinctly human. Patton sat up from the bed and reached up to touch his face, and he let out a sob when the soft touch of his cheeks, nose, and forehead was all there.

Virgil, who sat at his side, offered him a kind “welcome back,” as he handed him a mirror. Patton took it from his hands with a “thank you,” and glanced at his reflection, and indeed his old face is what greeted him. Patton sobbed again in joy, relieved and overjoyed that he had at last become human once again.

“I’m human again… I’m…” Then a terrifying realization hit him. “I can’t cry.”

Patton looked at his reflection and realized that no tears had fallen despite his cries, in fact his eyes hadn’t even glossed over. They remained dry and cool, showing no emotional reaction. Patton lifted his hand slowly to his face again and felt around his eyes, but felt a discernible change in them, they weren’t swollen or puffy and held no wetness.

“I can’t cry,” Patton repeated, his voice quiet and empty.

He wasn’t human, after all he had gone through, what he did and who he left behind, he still wasn’t free from the curse. He almost wanted to laugh at the cruel irony.

“I’m sorry Patton, the curse was too powerful, even for me. I could only give you a human appearance.” Virgil apologized, pulling him into a loose hug.

“No, it’s okay.” Patton said, shaking Virgil off and standing up, “Let’s go see my father.”

Virgil followed at his side as Patton walked down the familiar halls and up the stairs to his father’s personal study, where he often spent most of his time. For much of his childhood, his father would work away the day in his study, leaving him to eat alone at the table and play by himself. This meant that if he wanted to be reunited with his father as soon as possible, he would most likely find him in his office.

Once he reached the door, he gave a tentative knock on the door, knowing that his father had a distaste for being interrupted.

“Leave me! I don’t wish to see anyone right now.” His father’s gruff voice called through the other side of the door. 

“Father? It’s me, Patton.” He called back shyly,

A crash and the sound of shattering glass could be heard from inside the room but the door was ripped open swiftly before Patton could worry for his father. A short, wrinkled old man stood before him still wrapped in his nightgown and robes. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot from lack of sleep and his face was grimy and unshaven. Patton briefly wondered who the man before him was, as he had always known his father to be prim and proper, until it dawned on him that in his absence, his father had become a hollow of his former self, shriveled and faded by grief.

However, despite his dismal appearance, in that instant, his father lit up like a bright Christmas candle as he teared up and cried in disbelief and joy. He reached out warily and gently laid his hands on his face, as though Patton would turn to dust before his very eyes and disappear from his life again. However, once he was sure that it was his son standing before him and not an apparition, he pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Patton, my son, you’re finally back!” He wept gladly,

“I’m home,” Patton said weakly, feeling the wetness of his father’s tears soak into his shirt, but nothing from himself.

“Why did you leave me?” His father asked, more to himself than as a legitimate question towards his son.

Because you cast me out. Patton thought but did not say.

...

A week had passed since he had come back to his father’s house, and since then he had not been allowed off the premises. Most days he was confined to his room, with the occasional excursions to the dining room or bathroom, but he was always accompanied by at least two guards from the moment he stepped out of his room. 

The first day his father had thrown a banquet in celebration for his arrival back at the estate and had sent out speedy word to all of his close business partners and people of note from the town to join in the festivities. However, the party had been stiff and awkward, as Patton didn’t know any of the guests well and most of them only spoke to him in congratulations for his return and their interest in their future as partners once Patton took over his family’s wealth and tenant farms.

Since then he saw his father every day at all of his meals, but only then. His father would always speak about the prospect of spending a day together in town, but whenever Patton would ask about it, his father would always say he would have to postpone it for later, as he was far too busy with work. When they finally did go to town, it had been a short, awkward outing, surrounded by four guardsmen, neither of them knowing what to talk about. They went out to lunch and bought Patton a brand new, tailored suit and spoke about his father’s business as the old man showed him around his town office where his employees managed his tenant's harvest quotas and debtors interest and balances. 

Patton only half-listened to the lectures as they walked through the little port town’s streets. Instead, he looked around at the buildings and people, searching for something, but he wasn’t sure what until he spotted it. At the end of once long street was a little half-decayed brick building--the town’s orphanage. Three young boys played jacks together in front of the steps to the building, and, despite his current feelings, Patton couldn’t help but imagine what Janus would have looked like as a young boy playing outside the orphanage, possibly with Virgil.

Once the sun sunk past noon, his father decided it was time to head back to the manor and the two of them loaded into the carriage, while the four guards and the coachman sat on the front and back seats. During the ride, his father continued to talk about his company and his future plans to start Patton as an intern next spring so that he can gain experience before he took over, as his father was planning to retire within the next few years as his old age began to weigh down on him. Again, Patton mostly tuned him out and simply watched the scenery pass by as they left the city and began to enter the countryside.

After a while, they entered the forest that surrounded their house, and Patton immediately perked up. He couldn’t help but scan the trees and bushes for Janus, hoping to at least catch a glance of the snake. He hated to admit it, but ever since he left, Patton often found himself wondering about him and whether he was okay. He had left him while he was weak and tired, and he feared he may have gotten sick in the storm. But then the remainder of what Janus had done to him would always come to his mind soon enough and he would cut his worries short. 

It didn’t take long for Patton to realize that it wasn’t only his inability to cry that had presented itself. Patton still slept at odd hours and could hold his breath underwater for over an hour, which he had tried while he was bathing, and his palette still held the desire for insects, which meant he often had to force his food down unwillingly. Thankfully, those traits were easy to disguise as a human in the few hours he interacted with his father and the staff and no one was none the wiser to his true condition. Except of course Virgil, who had been the one to continuously help Patton navigate the changes to his body.

Every night after the sun had set, Virgil would come to his chambers with different potions and spells, researching and testing ways to undo the lasting effects of the curse--and also to feed Patton insects so he wouldn’t starve from going a day of stomaching very little food. If it had been anyone else, the staff probably would have become suspicious of the constant nightly visits in his personal chambers. However, since it was Virgil, who had been raised alongside Patton and treated like a brother to him, no one batted an eye.

A week had gone by with no progress, but Virgil still came by that night after his outing with a brand new potion for him to try. Unsurprisingly, it bore no fruit when Patton drank it and there had been no physical change to his body. Virgil frowned and groaned when yet another attempt failed to work and opened up his spellbook on transfiguration to look for another solution.

Patton sat in the middle of his bed, munching on a few of the crickets Virgil had caught in the garden. He watched Virgil hover a foot off of the ground as he flipped through his book, which was suspended in the air by a purple glow. It was a little odd to see Virgil use his magic so easily and without much thought. Despite growing up with him and being more than well aware of his affinity for the magical arts, Patton couldn’t help but compare it to Janus’s style of magic, which had always appeared more strenuous and focused. Perhaps it was because of his cursed form hindering his powers, or maybe it was the fact that he was self-taught, but Janus always had to take his time and use all his strength to spell cast. While Virgil on the other hand, cast spell after spell as easily as he breathed air through his lungs.

Then again, the more Patton thought about it the more he realized that Janus had rarely spell cast at all in the time he was with him. He often preferred to use his own physical strength over his magic. The only times Patton ever saw Janus use magic was when he was using it for him, such as well he put on that light show or when he healed him after he was attacked by a rat snake. He never used his magic for himself, he was never selfish or cruel with his power, only thoughtful.

An ineffable emotion settled in Patton at the thought of Janus acting selfless, because that image had been tainted by his selfishness. Even so, Patton couldn’t help the fondness in his heart as he reminisced on the memories he shared with the cursed snake. But the bitterness still lingered in the back of his mind like a dark shadow.

His heart and mind were in conflict with each other and confused about what image he should remember Janus by. As the caring friend who shared in his suffering in their cursed world. Or as the liar and manipulator who had cursed him with ill intent towards his father. Patton couldn’t settle on one and be left to wonder how Janus had become the way he was; what had brought such a kind-hearted man to be filled with such hate. 

He remembered that Virgil had mentioned that Janus was angry and unhinged as a child after he was sent to the orphanage, which meant that whatever had caused him to become the way he was had to do with the reason why he was sent there in the first place: his parents. The only time Janus had ever mentioned his parents it had been with sorrow and longing, accompanied by the mention of their deaths. Now, Patton was no detective, but it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots between Janus’s wrath and the loss of his parents. However, while that explanation certainly filled in pieces of the picture, much of the canvas was still left unpainted. 

“Hey, Virgil?” Patton asked suddenly,

“Yeah, Pat?” Virgil responded without looking away from his spellbook.

“You said you knew Janus when you were in the orphanage. Do you know why he was there?” He asked hesitantly, unsure if Virgil would even answer him. It was more than a little obvious that Virgil had a distaste for the snake, but he was the only one Patton could talk to and possibly answer his questions.

Virgil, startled by the question, immediately snapped him away from the book and over at Patton, his face riddled with shock, dubiety, and bewilderment. The book ceased its magical glow and fell to the floor in a defiant crash as Virgil lost his concentration, ending his own hovering as well and standing to his feet. After a taut, wordless moment passed between them, Virgil sighed and walked over to sit at the edge of the bed. Once he was seated, Patton inched cautiously to rest at his side.

The sorcerer’s face was tight and twisted in discomfort, as though the answer to Patton’s question was not a pleasant topic to speak of and weighed heavily on him. Patton waited patiently next to him until Virgil was okay to reply if he wanted to at all.

“I don’t know the details, but I overheard our house mother speaking with the baker while he was making his delivery the week he arrived. According to her, his parents had been jailed and executed.”

“What, executed?” Patton gasped, taken off guard, “Do you know what for?”

Virgil shook his head slowly. 

“No, Janus never said anything about it either. Although, he did once say that he lived on a debtor’s farm.”

Patton looked up at Virgil in fear and disbelief, and then looked off at nothing as he took in what he had just been told. To lose his parents at such a young age is one thing, but for them to have been executed was something else entirely. Of course, the death of his parents, no matter the cause, would surely be a source of resentment and anguish; but their execution gave Janus a direction to point all of those negative feelings. That revelation made Patton fear whatever reason had brought Janus to point them at his father.

Virgil, noticing Patton’s troubled expression, turned the conversation back towards him, steering away from Janus’s parents’ cause of death.

“Why do you care? He’s the one who cursed you, remember?” Virgil told him,

“I know.” Patton mumbled, turning his head down at the bed, “I just want to know why he did.”

...

Since Patton was no longer allowed to leave the residence without his father’s permission, and Virgil often spent most of his time in search of a cure for his condition, Patton was left with little to do to entertain himself. In order to alleviate his boredom, he would take light strolls through the manor’s gardens daily and tend to the flowers. Of course, the family already had a hired gardener, but the old man never minded the little extra help. His assigned guards would sit under a nearby tree and monitor him, but otherwise never spoke to or bothered him. The old man, on the other hand, Patton soon learned loved to tell stories from his youth. Patton enjoyed the company and would ask him questions to keep him talking.

Yet, there was only so much work that could be done in a day, and Patton would always be left with nothing to busy his hands and mind with to keep his thoughts at bay. After some odd hours passed, the old man would call it a day and head back inside to rest, leaving Patton alone without direction for what to do next.

His family’s property was quite expansive, so not only was there a beautiful garden, but also a shallow pond. Patton would regularly use the pond to swim in as a small child, but he had long since grown too large for the water, so he would simply rest at its edge, dipping his feet in and kicking the water around. By himself, not including the guards' several paces away, he would hum and sing to himself an old tune his mother would sing to him. He didn’t remember her too well, and in fact, this song was the only memory he had left of his mother.

“Upon a hill, under the sky, sat a bakers mill, alone without a wife. Lonely little man, on his own without his true, a flower in his hand, and his knees in the morning dew.” 

Patton’s voice shook and cracked as he held the last note, his throat clenched and closed in the middle of a breath, causing him to lightly choke. He inhaled and exhaled deep breaths to steady and calm himself, but his emotions raged and stirred inside him like a typhoon, scratching at him to be let out.

In an outburst, Patton ripped at the grass beside him and threw it with a scream. Next, he tore the glasses from his face and reached his hands into the pond and splashed the water over his eyes, allowing the tears that could not fall to fall.

It had been ten days since he had learned that Janus had been lying to him, ten days since he had left Janus alone in the forest, and ten days that he’d been longing to see him again. Patton was still so angry and hurt that Janus had cursed him, but more so that he had acted as though wasn’t the one who did it and played innocent. He was resentful that he had to, and still has to, live a cursed life as a frog because of something he had no part in, and that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been his father, who he loved.

And yet, at the same time, Patton felt empathetic towards Janus’s plight. Although he couldn’t comprehend it entirely, he did understand the grief of the loss of a parent to some degree. Patton would give almost anything to have his mother back, and if the disease that took her was a person, he surely would hold hatred towards them.

Besides that, Patton purely just missed the snake. He longed to hear his sarcastic comments and sardonic humor once again. He wanted to be able to rattle on and on and be comforted by his inviting presence. He loved the way Janus would always respond to his puns with an even cornier pun and missed the way they would constantly try to outdo the other, only to be left a giggling mess by the end of it.

He was stuck, unsure of what he should do and how he should feel. He tried to ignore his emotions in hopes that he could simply forget him, but Janus was like a stick of gum trapped in his hair and refused to leave his mind no matter what he did. Worst of all,  the part of him he remembered the most, was the way he had been begging when he left. It was clear he was repentant and wanted to right his wrong and help Patton become human again, but he had been too consumed by his anger to listen.

Patton still held the belief that no act of revenge was ever completely justified. An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. Even so, he had never even bothered to try and learn Janus’s side of the story and made a judgment based on his own personal experience. That’s why he knew what he had to do, he had to learn the truth of what happened between Janus’s parents and his father, from both sides.

Paying no attention to his guards, Patton placed his shoes back on his feet and stood from the grass and marched back to the house, entering from the back door next to the stables. The halls were dark and dimly lit by odd patches of sunlight from the barely parted curtains. Patton strode through in a flurry, yanking the drapery open as he went and flooding the area with light. The servants and maids watched him go by scrupulously as they worked, muttering amongst themselves in hushed whispers.

He rushed to his father’s office, practically sprinting his way up the stairs, and pounded his fist against the wood once he reached the door. He was sure that he looked like he had gone mad to the staff, but at that moment he was too single-minded to care.

“Who is it?” His father called gruffly from inside, sounding a bit annoyed and offended by the abrupt, loud knocking.

“It’s your son,” Patton responded, pushing his way in through the door, not bothering to wait for his father’s approval to be allowed in. “I need to speak with you.”

“I’m preoccupied at the moment, son. Perhaps later?” His father said without looking up from the letter he was busy writing.

“It can’t wait.” Patton said firmly, standing his ground and refusing to budge or leave.

His father paused in his scribing and looked up at Patton with a raised eyebrow. Patton had always been quiet and submissive, never asserting himself to or refusing his father in anything he did. This time was different though, he stood up taller and more confident, putting his foot down in this matter. His father looked at him, almost impressed and welcoming to his new manner.

“Very well,” He conceded, setting his quill down, “What troubles you?”

Patton faltered slightly at that, unsure what to say now that he finally reached the moment of truth, but he steeled himself, took a breath, and pushed forward, ready to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.

“Father, did you ever know a man named Janus?” Patton asked bluntly,

“Humph, he’s the wicked sorcerer who cursed you isn’t he?” His father harrumphed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaned back in his armchair.

“Well, yes, he is, but do you happen to know him personally, or his parents?” He pushed further, walking closer to his father’s grand, dark oak desk. 

His father scowled at that and turned his head over to the side, scrunching his eyebrows in what seemed akin to remorse, or perhaps detestation. Whatever the emotion the mention of Janus’s parents brought up in him, it was clear that they were not a pleasant memory for him.

“I never knew the boy myself, but his parents were debtors of mine that owed me more than their weight in gold combined. They were minor nobility, barely even scraping the bottom of the barrel, and in financial ruin. Frederick came to me for a loan, but never paid a cent back and eventually lost all I gave him. They worked one of my plots for a few years, but they were unskilled laborers and struggled to bring in any grain to pay back what they owed. After a while, they had tried to make a run for it, and I had them thrown in a debtors prison and they were eventually executed. I took pity on the boy, however, and had him sent to the orphanage; a mistake I now regret.” His father explained, his voice and expression shadowed with tainted memories of the past.

Patton’s body tensed up and his jaw clenched as his breath caught in his throat and he had to force it down. Deep inside, he had already known the truth but could not bear to accept until now. After all, Patton loved his father and didn’t want that image of him to be blighted.

“You… killed his parents?” Patton murmured, 

“Not me, son, the authorities did. I simply turned them over once they were caught.” He corrected,

“But, you could have shown mercy, couldn’t you? You could have lowered their interest rate or forgave them of their debt!” Patton tried to argue, trying to find a solution or a loophole for a consequence that had already taken place and could not be altered.

“If I forgave every debtor of their account then I would drive myself into financial ruin. It was their actions that brought them to poverty, and their decision to run that led to their demise.” His father expounded in his own defense. Yet, he didn’t try to justify what had happened, only explain the extent of his role. “I admit that I could have gone about it in another way, but what’s done is done. I cannot bring those two back from the dead.” His father sighed and leaned his elbows on his desk, resting his face in his palms, suddenly looking much older and tired. “Learn from my mistakes, son, so that when you become the landlord you will be wise as to where to lend a hand and were to draw a line.”

Patton wanted to retort and argue, but at that point it would only be for the argument's sake and would not serve to bear good fruit. His father was right, what happened in the past could not be changed, choices were made and lives were unfortunately lost, and a boy was left orphaned and alone. No amount of apologies or plans for revenge would ever undo what had been done.

Janus had once told him that balance rested in karma, a life for a life, but Patton didn’t believe in such a thing. If nature dictates that the child shall pay for the sins of the father, then he will reshape the natural order and refuse to take revenge so that the next generation can be spared. He could never speak for Janus, nor could he ever understand what it felt like to lose his only family in such a horrendous way, but the cycle of hate had to be broken, and he will end it with him by choosing to forgive and go back to Janus.

Despite his previous reservations, Patton could deny himself no longer, he had to see Janus. He needed to apologize to him, for everything he had done and what his father did.

So, that evening, as the sun began to kiss the horizon, Patton retreated to his chambers and began to pack his bad in secret. He hoped to sneak out before the light of the sun disappeared and left him to return to his amphibian state. Slipping past the guards wasn’t going to be easy, but he used to do it all the time when he was little. Of course, he had the help of Virgil and his magic, but he was sure he could pull it off on his own.

“Going somewhere?” Virgil asked behind him. 

Patton jolted up and spun around, hand on his chest as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. Virgil, who had been hovering upside-down behind him, laughed and spun around in the air to face right-side-up and settled himself back on the ground.

“What’s all this about?” He inquired, gesturing to the half-packed sack on Patton’s bed.

If not for the side effects of the curse and spell, Patton would have been bright red, but instead he simply smiled sheepishly and turned back to his back around to grab an extra change of clothes and place it in his bag.

“I’m going back to the forest to see Janus.” He stated.

“Why would you do that? Did you forget what he did to you already?” Virgil questioned him, losing the previous light-hearted and mischievous disposition.

“My father is responsible for the death of Janus’s parents.” Patton told him, walking over to his bedside table and reaching into his drawer to pull out a small sack of gold coins. “That’s why he cursed me, to take away the only family my father had, just as he had done to him.”

“And? You're gonna forgive what he did just like that? What your dad did was shit, but that doesn’t change the fact that what Janus did was fucked up too.”

“I know that, and I’m still mad at him!” Patton retorted, raising his voice, “But, now I understand his reasons. It still doesn’t justify it, but it does explain it.” He said, his eyes then softened and his voice went quiet again, “He was just suffering.”

Malicious acts of revenge brought on by suffering only breeds more suffering. The only cure to pain is to move forward and live life well. When his time came to take up his father’s mantle he will be responsible for hired workers and debtors, and it will be his responsibility to be gracious and compassionate towards those under him. He will not be the kind of man his father was, he will show mercy and protect those he’s been charged with. But he will also show restraint and solidity, so that he will not be viewed as weak and taken advantage of.

Patton was willing to forgive Janus and give him a second chance because he showed remorse for his actions and a will to change his ways. Had he not, Patton wasn’t sure he would have allowed himself to go back, no matter how much he wanted to.

“You fell in love with him, didn’t you?” Virgil grinned, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“W-what? Why would you ask that?” Patton spluttered in embarrassment, staring back at Virgil with wide eyes while his friend laughed.

“Come on Pat, it’s kinda obvious.” He said, wiping away a tear from his eye.  Patton kept his mouth shut and crossed his arms away, not wanting to give anything away despite being an open book. Virgil shrugged and reached past him to grab his packed bag and threw it over his shoulder and walked over to the open window, where he had most likely come in from in the first place. “Are you coming?”

“You’re not going to stop me?” Patton question, having expected a bit more resistance from his childhood friend.

“Would you listen if I tried?” Virgil countered, 

Patton chucked and grinned, already knowing the answer and glad to have Virgil’s, perhaps begrudging, support. He went to the window and grabbed Virgil’s outstretched hand, and with one word from the sorcerer, they were out the window and flying away towards the forest. The sunlight shone its last bit of rays over the horizon before disappearing, and by the time they landed back to earth, Patton had once again reverted back into a frog.

…

The twilight forest glittered and glistened as fireflies danced through the trees like flickering candles. The sky above their heads became stained with black ink as the crescent moon began to rise into the sky. Hues of purple and pink remained far off on the edge of the earth, fading away as the night grew long. The crickets chirped and strung their instruments in an orchestra, filling the quiet void with music as the singing birds slept. A new melody then rose up to accompany their strings, a pounding drum of footsteps running across the forest floor, with the occasional clang of a symbol from crunching leaves and snapping sticks.

Virgil sped down the dirt paths to the lake with Patton tucked safely in his hood, peering over his shoulder and directing him where to go since his frog-state granted him night vision. They had flown most of the way there, but they had to land in the open meadow before they reached the den since landing in the trees was too risky to do in the dark. Luckily, Patton recognized their whereabouts and was able to guide them to where they needed to go.

Soon enough, they had arrived at the threshold of the den at the base of an old cedar tree. Virgil slowed down to a stop and lifted his hand to Patton for him to step into and sat him down on the ground.

“I’ll be right here. You go do your thing.” Virgil told him with a tilt of the head, crouching to settle down comfortably in the grass.

Patton nodded and turned to the den entrance and suddenly felt extremely nervous. It had only been a little less than two weeks since he last saw Janus, but it felt like much longer. He didn’t know what to do or say or how Janus would react to seeing him again. It could be that Janus wouldn’t want to see him and cast him away, or perhaps he would be overjoyed and welcome him back readily. Well, no matter what reaction he was met with, Patton decided that he would go and was not about to back down from that decision.

Patton took his first step, and then his second, and continued on until he was on his way down the tunnel into the den. The air was stiff inside and slightly dank, it seems colder than usual as well despite the night air being warm above.

“Janus?” Patton called out cautiously, peering around the den, “Are you here?”

“Patton?” A hoarse and sleepy voice answered.

Patton turned his head to where the voice had come from. At the far side of the den, among the pile of twigs and leaves, Janus stuck his head out and stared at him in disbelief. 

“Janus!” Patton squealed in excitement, hopping over to him swiftly like lightning and pulled him into a tight hug. Janus lurched in surprise from the sudden act of intimacy, and yet he did not pull away. “I am so sorry Janus, I should have let you explain yourself, I should have listened, I was just angry and-” Patton said in rapid-fire succession all in one breath, not pausing to breathe or rest. Janus quickly interrupted him, though and quickly put an end to his long-winded apology.

“Stop, Patton, stop, please don’t apologize to me. I’m the one who should be begging for your forgiveness.” He told him, his voice quiet but earnest, “Why did you come back?”

“Because I’ve missed you, and I know what happened, to your parents I mean.” Patton explained sympathetically.

“Oh,” Janus said, becoming uncomfortable and didn’t say anything more, clearly not waiting to visit or talk on the subject.

Patton didn’t really know what to say either, but still tried to offer his condolences, even if they meant very little to alleviate his pain.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Janus didn’t openly respond to his solace and let the topic fall, and instead turned the conversation back around and at Patton.

“You’re not angry anymore?” He asked,

“No, I am,” Patton said bluntly, smiling softly, “But that doesn’t change the fact that I still love you.”

Patton could see Janus physically and mentally halt at his words, as though he was still processing what he heard.

“You love me?” He echoed slowly,

“Yeah, I-” Janus then out of nowhere, shocked him by nipping at his leg. Not enough to make him bleed, but enough for it to sting. “Ouch! What was that for?”

“Are you sure you’re not dreaming? You realize who you’re talking to right?” Janus asked for confirmation, still looking unsure and doubtful.

“Yes I do, but now you’re starting to make me rethink-” Again, Janus surprised him, but this time with a, albeit awkward, embrace as the snake did his bed to hug him as a creature with no limbs.

“I love you too.” He whispered back,

Patton gasped a little at the confession, half of him expecting to be rejected, and his heart filled with joy and exuberance. He suddenly felt like he was floating high above in the sky, dancing across the surface of the moon.

“I’m so sorry.” Janus whimpered,

“I know, I am too.” Patton shushed him, petting his scales soothingly.

“I’ve wanted to undo the curse for a long time, but my magic is too weak in this form.”

“I may have a solution to that,” Patton said, pulling with a smile.

He gestured for Janus to follow after him and led the snake out of the den and outside to where Virgil remained seated in the dew-soaked grass. Janus immediately tensed up upon spotting him and hissed, backing away defensively.

“Sup, Janus.” Virgil greeted nonchalantly,

“What are you doing here?” Janus questioned impudently,

“I’m here for Patton, not for you; and let me just say one thing.” Virgil rose to his feet menacingly, “If you hurt him in any way again, then next time I’ll turn you into a flea and squash you myself.”

“Please don’t do that.” Patton chimed in, sighing, “Can you undo his curse?”

Virgil narrowed his eyes at Janus, and Janus narrowed his eyes right back. The two appeared to be having a silent game of wills. It could also be that they were using a spell to speak to each other telepathically as sorcerers because after a few moments passed, the two seemed satisfied as if they had come to a mutual agreement.

“Fine, just hold still, snake,” Virgil commanded, holding his hand out at Janus as both it and his eyes began to glow. Words of an unknown language began to spill from his mouth, and at the same time, Janus began to glow with a purple gleam.

Gradually, Janus’s shape began to alter and change, and as this happened, his power and magic began to be restored to its former strength. So, without waiting to finish his transformation, Janus turned to Patton, stuck halfway between a snake and a human, and started to lift the curse on him as well. A radiant gold surrounded Patton as he began to shift back into his human form. However, unlike all the times before when he had turned once he was touched by daylight, it wasn’t excruciating or painful. Instead, it was soft and comforting and filled him with new life and energy.

After a minute or two, the light around them began to fade, leaving the two cursed ones to be cursed no more and fully human once again. Patton looked down at his hands and feet and saw that they were his own, however, it wasn’t until tears of joy began to prickle at his eyes that he realized that he was indeed back to himself for good. 

“I can cry again.” He sniffled, wiping the tears away from his eyes and staring down at the water in his palms with jubilee.

“And I can finally do this,” Janus said before grabbing Patton by the bicep and pulling him into a kiss.

It was short and not very deep, but it was sweet and passionate, and more than enough to make Patton flush a bright red. The moment passed quickly, however, as Virgil soon stepped between them and pushed them apart.

“Dress first, kiss later, you damn snake.” He said, throwing a set of clothes in his face and handing another pair and glasses to Patton.

It wasn’t until he said that that Patton looked down at himself and realized that he was, in fact, nude. He squeaked and rushed to cover himself, blushing even more furiously and not daring to lift an eye towards Janus.

“You just had to ruin my fun, I actually prefer to do it undressed-”

“Thank you for the clothes, Virgil, but do you mind giving us some privacy so we can talk?” Patton hastily interrupted, stopping Janus before he could say anything too risque.

Virgil looked hesitant to comply, obviously against leaving his friend to be left alone naked with the other man, but eventually gave in to the puppy eyes that Patton gave him.

“Fine, but I’ll be watching,” Virgil said and floated directly upward into the trees to sit on a branch high above their heads, out of earshot, peering down at them like an owl.

Patton watched him as he went, and once he saw that his friend had settled down he looked back to Janus, who was staring at him intently. 

“Um, Janus, you mind turning around?” Patton asked shyly, fidgeting awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

“If you insist, although you are rather beautiful to look at.” Janus complimented with one last look before turning himself around and getting dressed in the spare clothes Patton had brought along in his bag. Patton twirled around as well, keeping his eyes up and not daring to look anywhere south.

The two remained quiet for a moment as they clothed themselves in the dark. Patton missed his ability to see in the dark as a frog for just a moment, as he ended up putting his shirt on backward twice before he was able to get it right. Once they were decent, the two spun back around and looked at each other, both at a loss for words. 

The forest was poorly lit in the night, the crescent moon unable to provide as much light as when it was full. Due to that, despite Janus standing right before him, he could only see his silhouette and couldn’t determine any distinct features. What he did notice, though, was that he was slightly taller than Janus by about an inch or two. 

Janus must have had a similar train of thought because he silently cast a spell to illuminate the area around them, the same light spell he had used in the meadow as a present. All at once, Patton was able to see Janus for the first time as a man and not as a snake. He had sharp, pointed features and medium length, wavy brown hair. Although, what stood out to him the most was his beautiful heterochromatic eyes, with his brown right eye and golden-hazel left. His beauty took his breath away and he was left to stare at him in wonder.

Tenderly, Janus reached out a hand to cup Patton’s cheek and run his thumb across his cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall. Patton sighed and leaned into the touch, placing his hand over the others. They remained like that for a few moments longer, neither wanting to let the feeling of each other pass. However, something left unsaid still remained between them that needed to be voiced.

“So, what now?” Patton murmured,

“I don’t know.” Janus stated, frowning and lowering his hand, “Despite my love for you, I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to forgive your father.”

“I thought so.” Patton said with a sad smile, “But maybe you don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?” The other asked,

“Perhaps we can go away together, travel around until my time comes to be the landlord. I can live among the commoners, so that I may better understand them and their lives. That way I can be a kinder master to the tenants.” He suggested,

Patton still loved his father, and although he was angry with him for what happened in the past, he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly been able to hate him. But that’s because of their familial bond and he can’t, and shouldn’t, expect the same from Janus. He would miss him, but he needed to get away so that he could think and grow on his own. His father has been overly protective and stifling since his mother’s death; he was already twenty-three years old and had never set foot out past the port town. It was a time that he left the nest, even if he didn’t have his father’s permission. As long as he had Janus by his side he knew he'd be okay.

“How would your father feel about your sudden departure?” Janus asked him,

“I will write to him when I can so he will know that I am well.” Patton responded, “So, what do you think?”

Janus brought his fist up to his chin and lightly tapped his skin with a finger, humming in mock thought.

“It sounds like the perfect revenge.” He grinned.

.

.

Taglist: @enragedbees @canvas-the-florist @self-taught-mess

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play An Ogre

(Portrait of Arthur, the Once And Future King, provided by Hyenapie, character by me. You can catch him in New Avalon.)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, & So You Want To Play An Elemental

Lost society is comfortable with violence; indeed, no Freehold truly has the power to not choose violence. They live in a precarious position, beset by threats from the Hedge, by the Gentry, by privateers and loyalists, and sometimes even by mortals who are willing to resort to abuse to get what they want from the Lost. But those their peers know as Ogres are more comfortable than most. Exposed to violence, beaten and terrorized, Ogres faced a choice to make it stop: fight back, or hide. Now that they are back home, the trick they must learn is when to not fight.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost, as well as Winter Masques and Swords at Dawn. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for depictions of torture, maiming, abuse, cannibalism, and dad jokes. 

Hurt People Hurt People - Ogre Overview

Ogre is the fifth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost; it joins Darkling in being one of the two Seemings most defined by violence, and Elemental in having a relationship to Lost society that is greatly informed by their expected function. Ogre is a surprisingly strong and versatile Seeming, with great breadth of concept, which unfortunately has been consistently published in...a particular way. We’ll get into that later.

Ogres have a relationship to strength and violence whether they like it or not (and many don’t like it at all); before their abduction they may have been consumed by envy for the strength of others, or they may have already lived a life defined by violence or brutality. The rarest and most striking Ogres were neither, but volunteered for their fate in the place of someone else. Regardless of how they came to the attentions of the Fae, Ogres are infused with inhuman might and come to learn how to use violence, intimidation, assault, and brute force to get their way. To be an Ogre is to always understand that there’s a second solution to any problem you’re faced with. What you do about that, that’s on you.

Put Some Battles Back - Homecoming As An Ogre

Ogres remember Arcadia with greater clarity than their peers, a fact for which they are decidedly not grateful. Rare is the Ogre whose Keeper’s image is not seared into their memory, alongside blurred months or years of constant abuse, beatings, and brutality. Though some Ogres, like the Wizened, are deliberately transformed by the Fae - racked until their living bones stretched inside their torn flesh, glutted on meat torn from shapeshifting oozes, hollowed from the inside-out by origami beetles that left them hungry and haggard - most transform simply because of how they are treated and what they do to survive that treatment. A Water-Dweller was kept, chained at the neck, in the pool of the Languid Nymph and offered no food but what he could catch, until he had sharp fangs and glowing eyes. A Stonebones used to be a construction foreman, until King Kobold needed someone to be his foreman - his endless fight against the things that dwelled beneath the Arcadian rock turned him into an Ogre when his peers became Miners and Tunnelgrubs. In the high castle kept by the Lady of Diamonds, a lurking Corpsegrinder is born amidst Darklings: the Lady leaves many corpses in the course of her cruel work, and she demands that her floors remain spotless. However it happens, these Ogres are transformed in ways that are similar to other Seemings (especially Darklings), but colored by violence and deprivation, to which the Ogre responds by fighting back. That urge to hit back, to roar and struggle, is the core of the Ogre experience - simultaneously their greatest strength and greatest weakness.

There’s a certain industriousness, for lack of a better word, to many Ogre Durances. Certainly some are simply turned loose into the Arcadian wild, where they become the Fairest of Lands’ sick equivalent of a murderous cryptid (quite a few Farwalkers and Gristlegrinders are like this), but most Ogres are put to simple, rough work - moving mountains, operating a slaughterhouse, herding & subsistence farming, guarding doors, hunting oathbreakers, and the like. Many, perhaps even most, Ogres have a fairly stationary Durance, defined by unchanging routine. Those Ogres who survive this abuse by becoming part of those systems and thriving inside of them rarely escape; often, it can feel safer to be the king of shit mountain than it is to flee to somewhere else that may be worse, with people you do not know and rules that are strange to you.

To escape, Ogres must change their relationship to violence. It isn’t just a matter of fighting back, but of remembering a time when they did not have to fight, when they walked without fear and bargained with no axe to hand. An Ogre cannot abandon violence entirely, not just because it is part of their Wyrd (and thus soul) but because their escape means bursting chains of moonlight, breaking the bones of cunning captors, and battering down the orichalum doors that separate them from their home, but they must remember that violence is a tool meant to serve them rather than a way of life. Most Ogres that make it back home have a very good idea of who they are and what they want out of life, precisely because these are the anchors necessary to rise above their Durance.

Ogres are typically brought back home by a need to defend someone or avenge themselves upon that person (or both, depending). Like all Lost, special people and places form the memories bright enough to guide an Ogre back through the Hedge, but for Ogres the awareness that those they love could become victims of the Fae, of hobs, or even just of mortal society, weighs heavily on their mind. Most Ogres are not inclined to leave the safety of their loved ones in someone else’s hands, and quite frequently the first thing a newly-returned Ogre does is make a beeline directly for those people they cherished, only to learn a harsh lesson about their Fetch. What happens from there varies wildly, but rare is the Ogre who puts a lot of physical distance between themselves and those they came home for, even if they make the choice not to re-enter those people’s lives.

Onions Have Layers, Ogres Have - Ogre Kiths

Even the scrawniest Ogre can become stronger than they look; their ability to invest Glamour in Strength, Brawl, and Intimidate rolls means that Ogres can always fall back on force or intimidation in order to get their way (and to lift the heavy-ass furniture in their house to get a vacuum under it, but I digress). This forms somewhat of a problem in terms of early coping once they make it back to the Iron Lands; falling back on intimidation to get your way makes sense when you’re confronted in a dark alley at 3 in the morning, but it’s not the ideal way to handle learning that your server at McDonald’s forgot your sauce. Still, this access to force means that Ogres often fall naturally into filling their Freehold’s need for violence, a need all Freeholds have. Having an early and easy place to belong can be a help for an Ogre’s integration into their new society, but it can also be a hidden weight; often, in their thirst for soldiers, Freeholds leave behind other talents their Ogre citizens might have. An Ogre that used to be a civil engineer, an quartermaster for the Army, a librarian, or even a technical boy still has those talents - talents that can be rarely found in-house amongst the Lost.

Where the common weakness of Wizened is often overlooked or misinterpreted as willful rudeness, the mystical flaws of Ogres are as famous as their strengths. Ogres, to put it bluntly, have problems with emotional control that go above and beyond other Lost; their penalty to Composure makes them vulnerable not just to social manipulation and magical attacks on their emotions, but also means that Ogres have problems concealing their feelings even when they’d like to. How this manifests in your game can be...complicated. nWoD never really had an okay relationship with social skills, which are quite often run as a sort of mind control; make the roll, person does what you want. This is...bad...but replacing it is tricky (we’ll get more into this later). Either way, this means that Ogres can often get a reputation for being gullible, stupid, violent, and/or horny on main depending on how those around them choose to both needle and interpret their vulnerable emotions, and while an enraged Ogre can certainly choose to, say, leave the room instead of start a fight, the fact of the matter is that everyone sees them losing their cool first.

How Ogres cope with this varies. Some, uncomfortable with social situations to begin with, adopt a gruff persona - after all, you can’t lose social games that you refuse to play. Others lean in, cultivating a reputation for forthright honesty that, in a society as riddled with trust issues as that of the Lost, helps dispel some of the intimidating air that stalks Ogres. A few, generally those whose life is spiraling out of their control or who are under great stress, instead embrace violence and fear and relate to everyone else by hitting first and asking questions later, or never. However, even the friendliest Ogre never quite shakes the habits of wariness and caution when others are opening their mouths; for too many, letting disrespect slide was a sign of weakness that could get them hurt in Arcadia, and for almost all of them the manipulations of others have left them understandably leery of being used up and thrown away.

Ogre Kiths generally embody forms of violence; they reflect the abuse the Ogre suffered through, but also the strengths that Ogre learned in fighting back against said abuse. The industriousness of Ogre Durances means that for most, their Kith is the result of the fae labors they undertook, but unlike Wizened or Elementals few Ogres were deliberately transformed to suit such labors: rather, those who were incapable of transforming often died instead, and the voices of those who never made it back may yet haunt a given Ogre’s dreams. Regardless of Kith, Ogres show remarkable solidarity with one another; all other things being equal, an Ogre is more likely to turn to another Ogre for advice, help, or shelter than a member of another Seeming, because their common bonds make such a request feel like less of an admission of weakness.

Some thoughts on the individual Ogre Kiths follow:

Cyclopean - Cyclopean’s hard mechanical effect - 8-again on perception rolls - is an absolute workhorse of a bonus applicable in an incredible amount of situations, and as Kiths go it’s worth taking for that alone. However, Cyclopean also gets the power to smell things that are not, strictly, scents; the regretful heart of a widow, the blood of an Englishman, the sharp-sweet scent of fear-that-is-ended, and more. Even White Wolf seems to have realized they made this part of the Blessing a bit overly broad (you can see it get an entire sidebar in Winter Masques), but I would encourage you to resist the urge to restrain it. Though this potentially has overlap with several Contracts (the entire Fleeting line and Spellbound Autumn, for starters), one’s choice of Kith is rather fucking expensive, and even running Cyclopean generously neither wholly replaces the Clauses in question nor precludes your character from using them in combination to learn even more.

Farwalker - Ogre does Darkling, and a favorite of furries who don’t see Beast and immediately lose their goddamn minds. Farwalker is rarely a bad choice; it’s got a powerful and straightforward bonus that comes with a free reroll and is applicable in many environments, and for the most part it’s what it says on the tin. Farwalker is also a great choice to Dual Kith in-house to make a more violent concept into a stalking predator.

Gargantuan - I have two questions for you: do you like being lorg, and do you know what being lorg actually does? Because White Wolf sure the fuck did not. The hard mechanical effect of Gargantuan is to increase your Size by your Wyrd, then deal 1 Lethal to you when you go back to normal size. This has numerous problems; first, while you get additional Health (because you lorg), any damage you take that goes over your normal max ‘crushes’ into your usual health bar, immediately stacking with the extant damage; turning back to normal may well kill you on its own. And that’s it, that’s the whole effect as of Lost 1e RAW. Which seems weird, right? White Wolf seemed to think a whole +1 Size was worth FOUR FUCKING DOTS of Merits (Giant Size, World of Darkness core), but Size doesn’t actually...fucking...do anything. Melee combat doesn’t represent any increased reach or advantage through Size, as would be the case in real life; you can’t apply your Strength in bigger or better ways based on your Size (so your Gargantuan can’t more easily lift or shift heavy weights or carry more friends on her back). Having greater Size doesn’t help you in grapples (and even if it did the grapple rules in this system don’t work). So what’s it for? White Wolf writes like Size does all these things, but it just...doesn’t, and I cannot suggest this Kith in good conscience given that situation. It’s a shame, as Gargantuan is otherwise full of fascinating thematic and personal potential; it’s rife with the potential to explore why abused people in a new situation might consider going back to an abusive one where they understood the rules and felt as if they had power. But it just. It just sucks so much. Don’t take this Kith.

Gristlegrinder - Gristlegrinders are your cannibals, your hungry demons, and the like. Unfortunately this is another useless Kith; gotta grapple to bite, or you could do literally anything else because FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS GRAPPLE IN WORLD OF FUCKING DARKNESS. White Wolf wrote a lot of narrative about Gristlegrinders being able to take bites out of furniture, chomp through walls, and digest solid metal, but guess what didn’t make it into the Kith’s mechanics and therefore doesn’t exist? I’m not sure where to start on fixing this, because letting them bite without grapple makes them strictly better than Hunterheart and the new home for melee optimization, but letting them eat objects might not be enough in itself.

Stonebones - Ogre does Elemental But Better. Stonebones are your rock trolls and their kin, but their blessing of Obdurate Skin can also be used to represent mystical invulnerability (think about Grendle in Beowulf), thick fur or hide that grows to protect the Ogre, or even implanted force fields for those Grays-inspired Lost. Stonebones’ Blessing isn’t the greatest at first (when it’s a 1-1 trade between Armor and Defense) but it scales rapidly with Wyrd, quickly becoming one of the most powerful defensive tools in the game second only to five-dot Contracts that turn you fucking ethereal.

Water-Dweller - This one’s interesting, but like the other water Kiths I’ve talked about it’s very specialized. The power to Lie Under Waves means you can do a lot of water stuff without having to invest in specialized abilities, but honestly you’ll probably still want to Dual Kith into Swimmerskin for the swim speed. If your campaign is good for a water concept, this is a good Kith. If it’s not, it isn’t.

Bloodbrute - Bloodbrute is Fine(tm). It doesn’t speak to a lot of folklore, but it slots in well with urban legends, slasher horror, and the like. Mechanically, Improvised Mayhem is strictly worse than just having Lethal Mien or being a Hunterheart or Razorhand, but it works fine enough and has some interesting creative uses with a generous storyteller.

Corpsegrinder  - The secret errata for Gristlegrinder; Corpsegrinders are also cannibals, corpse-eaters, and predators, but their Kith Blessing actually works. It’s not the greatest, but it’ll happen in most fights and it’s extra spicy if your campaign is thematic for a Corpsegrinder character. Do you want to be Goth, but also Lorg? Here you go.

Render - No Kith quite captures the themes of industriousness in Ogre like Renders do. Renders may have been overseers of Wizened slaves, or you could use them to represent the sort of things Gristlegrinder is sold to do but can’t; eating walls, slurping up noodles made from bicycle parts, and the like. Mechanically, Render is Fine(tm) but most of what you’d use Render for you can cover with Contracts of Stone already, and as an Ogre you’re running Stone or you’re wrong.

Witchtooth - Half of this Kith’s blessing doesn’t work. Witchtooth is for representing ogrish sorcerers; cannibal witches like Baba Yaga, fearsome wizards like Koschei the Deathless, Grendle’s mother (who knew secrets of sorcery she shared with her son) or Utgard-Loki, and the like. The bonus to Occult rolls is cool and legit, but the Contract bonus does literally nothing. Now, for me one thematic element that links these stories are the magical tools these Ogrish witches use, so I’d personally suggest adding a thing that mimics or even just does what Spellbound Autumn does and let Witchtooths divine the functions of items of Wyrd with some time and maybe Occult rolls; a powerful but ultimately still mystical bonus that is not easily replicated out-of-house.

Troll - “Oh damn, Vox is doing a culture Kith,” you say. “Did he finally remember that chapter of Winter Masques exists?” Well you see, I never forgot, but Troll is the only one I’m going to bring up because the others fucking suck so instead of doing an entire-ass entry for each article about a bunch of sloppy cultural appropriation that doesn’t have the decency to even be mechanically viable we’re gonna bring up the only one that’s both good and respectful and then MOVE ON WITH OUR LIVES. Troll! It’s Ogre Does Fairest, but in a distinctly Ogrish way; adding your Strength dots to Manipulation rolls for a Glamour lets Trolls “flex” their social skills the way other Ogres flex their awesome might, which is both a powerful tool and a genuinely interesting dynamic. Trolls are great for riddling giants, sneaky predators, retained guards who test intruders who would enter their castles, and the like. I’ve got a lot of love for this Kith and it should have been baseline.

Incel Propaganda And Other Reasons To Hate White Wolf - Lost’s Canon Ogres

I need to preface this section in particular, and its later companion section in the Fairest article, that this is nothing to do with Lost 2e and the writers at Onyx Path. They’ve been doing phenomenal work with the gameline thus far and have not really exhibited the problems I’m about to describe; this is definitely a product of Lost 1e and more broadly of the vile management that White Wolf employed before Daddy Paradox banished them to the shadow realm over that whole Vampire fiasco, finally ridding our hobby of their evil at long fucking last.

That said, let’s get the fuck into it.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: an evil, manipulative woman uses her feminine wiles and the tempting but eternally withheld reward of Sex With A Real Person to manipulate a Nice Guy into doing her bidding, whom she Strings Along and Teases to keep subservient to her, only to throw him away with Cruel Indifference once he has done something sufficiently awful so as to render him useless.

Welcome to Ogres as depicted in Changeling: the Lost, not just once but multiple times per supplement. Frequently Ogres are depicted in relationships of various kinds with Fairest, and these relationships consistently reinforce toxic stereotypes about men of color, bears, and butch lesbians, as well as a reductionist view of hetero relationships that lines up almost exactly with incel propaganda and transphobic rhetoric. To be clear, all of the canon depictions are heterosexual and white; what I mean by this statement is that attempting to queer the presented dynamic only makes it worse, not better. Ogres are framed as violent brutes out of control of their own actions and behavior, who are dangerous to the fragile flowers in their lives, whilst simultaneously being the innocent Nice Guys who are victimized by promises of love or sex that will be eternally withheld.

This is, needless to say, some fucking horse shit. And yet we see this over and over again, male Ogres victimized or traumatized by women specifically; Bert’s subservience to Damiana (Autumn Nightmares), who lies to him to keep him in her life. Long-Tooth Tom (Night Horrors: Grim Fears), who lost his mind when he came home to find his daughter gone, Violent (Dancers In The Dusk), who is literally mind controlled by magic titties (no really. No, really), and my personal favorite, the dude from the opener to Goblin Markets who paid Liz Malloy to force someone to love him, then brutalizes Liz when she didn’t do it exactly as he wanted. The only Ogre relationship not characterized this way is in The Rose Bride’s Plight, and it is the only good part of that otherwise godawful adventure; the relationship there is genuinely loving and loyal, and motivates the plot.

Taking that a step further, we only really ‘see’ two female Ogres with names in the game’s run. The first is the Warhawk in core, a classical Stonebones (tall, broad, muscular) running a shell game with her identity in order to prosecute open war against Arcadia. The second is Angel, from Winter Masques, who is rather more classically feminine than the Warhawk, with a djinni-like Mien, but is also framed for the entirety of her only appearance as an object of desire on the part of the narrator.

You can begin to grasp the problem.

So, what do you do about this at your table? I’d argue that the coding of Ogres is going to be unavoidable unless you’re reading this article in a future where we’ve solved our gender problems, in which case ah, hi archaeologists, I hope this has been fucking helpful. But under the assumption that you’re trying to enjoy Lost 1e here in The Year Of Our Lord Two Thousand And Twenty, I’d suggest that instead of trying to duck or avoid this coding, you take a two-step approach; leaning in (showing the positive sides of the Ogre experience and making and portraying Ogres with nuance), and providing folks of other Seemings that have similar coding or are just explicitly the things Ogre is an allusion to. If you’re the Storyteller of your campaign (or the author of a fic, like myself), hit us with femme Ogres with butch Fairest or Wizened girlfriends. Show your players Winter Ogres who keep their desires close to the chest and conscientiously work for the good of others; drop a trans Ogre into the mix (a Corpsegrinder lass, perhaps, who caught the eye of a Spring chef that likes adventurous palettes).

As a player, well, there’s not much I can say besides don’t be a dick. The beauty and power of Lost is about being able to explore your own experiences and if you’ve chosen Ogre to do that then you’re gonna be a better judge of that than I am. I’ve laid out the traps in the writing for you to be aware of.

More on the Ogre/Fairest dynamic will appear in the Fairest article; for now, we move on to...

Now I’m A Believer - Ogres In The Courts

All Freeholds have an existential need to enact violence, and most assume, rightly or wrongly, that a new Ogre arrival will help them fulfill that need; even the most peaceful and isolationist Freehold lives in fear of the True Fae, to say nothing of marauding hobgoblins, the threat of privateers, and dream-demons. More typical Freeholds not only take pro-active action against such threats, but may have to engage in violence in the mortal world as well; Summer spends its time beating the shit out of abusers and predators, and the Freehold as a whole might compete with more mundane criminal interests for resources, specialized skill sets, or access to local government. Even an Ogre seemingly disinclined to violence (an extraordinary rarity) will generally get lumped into a sort of ‘manual labor’ role without a lot of thought on the part of Freehold leadership a lot of the time; after all, things need to get built up, torn down, placed in high spots, or remodeled, yeah? Ogres are good at that!

Ogres tend to be of the opinion that they get the worst of the magical racism to which the Lost can be prone, and honestly, they’re not wrong about that.

As alluded to earlier, this unthinking habit leads a lot of Freeholds to misuse or neglect the skill sets their Ogres might have; some of the worst never bother to ask or find out what those skills are in the first place. Often, though, they misuse violence too; Ogres have a keen awareness of what it means to threaten violence, to enact it, and to perform it, and when to do each one. Your average Ogre engages in serious, for-real violence against other Lost or mortals pretty rarely, because Ogres understand that violence is a tool that can get them what they want - but not if they beat a man so badly that he can no longer give it to them. And that’s not even mentioning the way that threatening people any time you want something from them tends to make relationships with them much less friendly. These truths, combined, mean that any given Ogre is resorting to violence to fulfill a very specific and actionable need, and once that need is fulfilled the violence will stop like a switch has been flipped.

In terms of how Ogres relate to their Courts, they often hope for high ideals, but expect cynical realpolitik. The reality is often not quite either, but from the perspective of the Ogre it certainly feels like realpolitik a lot; when you’re the guy they call to beat someone, break something, lift something else, or haul something out of a ditch all the time, it’s easy to start thinking that’s all the folks you work for want or need done. For many Ogres, who struggle with their self-image and with guilt over what they’ve done and become to survive, the promise of healing and high ideals is something precious that they both must have and must hide, lest it turn out to be false - or worse, true and then stolen from them by some new tormentor. the attempt to hide their needs rarely works, but most other Lost politely pretend that it does for the sake of their Ogre friends.

Spring - Like most Lost, Ogres tend to be late joiners of Spring, and as a Seeming they do tend to be somewhat underrepresented in the Antler Crown. While there’s some truth to the idea that Ogres end up in Spring due to the Lost equivalent of thirst following, or because they have friends in Spring and they want to be closer to those friends, these are mainly the rare Ogres who are early adopters; more typically, an Ogre joins Spring looking for the renewal it can offer, after they’ve had the chance to come to terms with their trauma. It’s not a decision made lightly, as Ogres understand full well that in joining Spring they enter an arena in which they are highly vulnerable, but for those who embrace the promise of Spring and can learn the game, Ogres can exemplify the relationship between Spring and Autumn, learning how to ‘threaten’ others by withholding that which they Desire, implying that others might take it instead, and sowing doubt and fear of what those close to you might really want, need or feel. Once they do join, Ogres often go quite far in Spring.

Summer - The Iron Spear is a Court that Ogres often join early on, and it has a lot to offer them; a positive outlet for their new skill set, advice on coping with anger and loss, a knightly ideal to live up to, and a brotherhood worthy of trust. That said, Ogres can be somewhat more vulnerable to the toxic aspects of Summer, and can indeed flock to toxic Summers for the promise of strength and all the luxuries that unfettered strength can provide them. On the whole, though, Ogres that join Summer are often looking to protect others, and are shining examples of the Iron Spear’s ideals gone right, both as works in progress and as veteran members with the chance to heal.

Autumn - Ogres are often considered ‘natural’ Autumn joiners, partially because they can excel there (violence is scary, and the Ogrish propensity for the Intimidate skill serves them well in the Leaden Mirror), and partially because other people are scared of Ogres and assume they belong with the spooky Court. Ogres who join Autumn are often those who don’t want to - or deliberately decide not to - change the survival tactics they learned in Arcadia. Cannibalistic Corpsegrinders and murderous Water-Dwellers get a lot of press as Autumn Ogres, but folks such as Farwalkers, Stonebones, and Trolls are actually far more common; such Ogres are defined by their own personal fears, and they seek the promise of Autumn to learn how to respond to their terror with a sense of proportion. That same promise speaks to Ogres more readily and more clearly than that of Spring; the promise of rebirth can feel like a distant fantasy, but a more controlled monster? One who scares only those they want to scare? That’s a lot more immediate and real. In Autumn, the thoughtless prejudice of other Lost serves the Leaden Mirror’s Ogres in good stead; few anticipate a seven-foot Stonebones who can rip an engine block in half with his bare hands instead attacking them in their dreams or subverting their fragile Pledges.

Winter - Winter is a relatively rare choice for Ogres, and Ogres are among those Seemings least likely to sign on for an early stint and least likely to stay even if they do. Those who do drift towards the Silent Arrow do so for the promise of a new life built on their own terms, and because Winter’s openly transactional nature is a way for them to control the terms on which they deal with their new fellows and new society. Many Ogres are, after all, out of practice in the arts of handling Other People, and even more are justifiably wary of being tricked or manipulated into their own ruin, and Winter’s openly mercenary culture and habits of silence can be an immense comfort in terms of those fears. Ogres in Winter tend to flourish in roles like the Sun Banisher or Archers of the Lonely March; positions in which their physicality can meet Winter’s firm insistence on stealth and come out on top.

Blood On My Name - Ogres And Changeling’s Themes

No Seeming embodies the inevitability of violence in the life of the Lost the way Ogres do; not just in that Ogres are primed to look for and directly combat the many ways in which Freeholds live under siege, but in the way that Ogres embody that all abuse is, in itself, a form of violence. Fittingly for the Seeming, Ogre is not subtle about the kind of trauma it’s meant to embody, and the books go into quite a bit of it; even before becoming Lost, Ogres may have been the victims of child abuse, athletes pushed to break their bodies only to be discarded by those who claimed to love them, poor citizens forced into violence and crime to survive, or those scarred by trying to protect the victims of any of the above. Together with Darkling, Ogre is part of the so-called ‘Prison Duo’ as well; the two Seemings best primed to represent the horrors of for-profit prison and other forms of abuse disguised as justice. That the Fairest of Lands so often reflects abuse they already knew in life is a throughline that is not lost on those who survive to return to human lives they may well have hated. To cope with their abuse, and to survive it, Ogres learn violence and practice it. For many, that means learning to prey on those smaller, weaker, or slower than they are, and coming back knowing that you’ve become the kind of person who does that.

A wise friend of mine once described PTSD - a condition she copes with herself - as having your pattern recognition stuck on recognizing fucked-up shit, and this is the reality that Ogres face. ‘Raised’ amidst violent environments in which small gestures are signs of threat, attack, or danger, Ogres face the challenge of adapting to a human society in which many of those same gestures can be much more innocuous or in which violence is not an acceptable answer. In Arcadia, if someone is shouting at the Ogre and putting him down, the answer is to hit first, hit hard, and keep hitting until they submit; on Earth, that sorta thing is generally called battery and it’s going to get you into trouble. That human society frames such reactions as evil, monstrous, malevolent, feeds into the self-worth problems that plague Ogres; so many see themselves as having turned into monsters to survive, and feel crippling guilt over their ‘monstrous’ thoughts, fears, and skills.

But they’re not monsters. They’re just people, whose coping mechanisms have become at least partly (but not wholly) maladaptive. The struggle that Ogres go through in learning to tell the difference between violence that is necessary, just, and righteous, versus violence to soothe the howling terror in their minds, reflects the struggle of far too many real-life people who had to learn violence to get out of their own situations alive. That many Ogres remain in violence as a profession has its own grim parallels as well, but it’s not all bad news; marginalized groups do need people that are good at kicking shit in and de-escalating violent conflict, and Ogres are very good at being those people, if they want to be.

Just as Elementals are not wholly defined by their magic (see this section in So You Want To Play An Elemental), so too should your Ogres not solely be defined by violence. Think about the things that comfort or soothe your Ogre characters, about the other skills in which they take pride or practice, and especially in how they cope (or fail to cope) with their intense emotions. Gluttony is a famously Ogrish vice (and alcoholism definitely beckons for many who structure a life around violence), but there are many other possibilities. One Ogre joins with Summer, looking to become a great enough hero to ‘atone’ for her crimes in Arcadia; another signs on with Spring, basking in the gratitude and intimacy of the more fragile Courtiers he protects. Does a peaceful and meditative pursuit like bonsai or painting suit your Ogre? What about the opposite; athletics, videogaming, or drag racing? Even the grimmest and most failed Ogre does something for fun besides just Being An Ogre.

WHAT! ARE YOU DOING! IN MY SWAMP!? - Coping as an Ogre

Ogres join Wizened and Darklings in having a great concern for their immediate environment; their fears revolve around their personal sanctity and safety, and establishing that feeling for themselves is paramount in coping with their day-to-day lives. All other things being equal, Ogres generally prefer to own their own homes rather than live with others or in a group environment such as an apartment or condominium. Some of that is just that other people can’t threaten you if they’re not around, but in large part it’s actually practical; many Ogres are, to put it scientifically, swole as fuck and need to be able to make modifications to their home in order to actually live inside of it. Those with the privilege to be invited as a guest to an Ogre’s home may notice that the decoration, regardless of other elements of the Ogre’s style (which might be spartan, artistic, colorful or bleak, or anything else that reflects its resident), the home has a lot of open space and clear paths of travel. It may be lacking in furniture such as coffee tables, and its shelves, desks, and kitchen tables will generally be up against the wall, out of the way of the owner and any guests. This is because an Ogre’s first line of defense in trouble is generally the Ogre; those who break into the home or attempt to attack an Ogre in their place of power find out quickly that there is nowhere to run or hide.

Like Beasts, Ogres often extend this sense of territoriality over the area around their home, but this manifests in markedly different ways. Ogres generally want to at least meet their neighbors in person, and even the gruffest and most retiring Ogre will introduce themself to ‘their’ people, offer contact information (in case of trouble), and make some neighborly gesture. This lets the Ogre size up their neighbors and also make it clear that they can be turned to if they’re in need of help. Woe betide anyone fucking with an Ogre’s neighborhood; even if an Ogre genuinely hates all of their neighbors and wishes them ill, robbing the house at the end of the street is going to turn on the Ogre’s ‘fight’ response and you’re gonna find yourself hauled out of the window you’re climbing into and getting your shit kicked.

Once they’re settled in, Ogres - ironically much like Fairest - tend to define the arc of their lives in Lost society in terms of friends defended, accolades earned, and glory gained. Many have a strong urge to earn their keep, and even for those that don’t the praise of their peers tells them that they are valuable, loved, and accepted amongst their own. Ogres often make friends with Wizened and Darklings, who share similar problems in Lost society to them and whose own strengths and weaknesses compliment those of the Ogre. It is not necessarily uncommon to find an Ogre playing telephone between two Lost whose anxieties keep them from talking to each other directly, and in this sense Ogres can also earn their way as unsung diplomats; a party trusted for their guilelessness and honesty as much as for their feats of strength. Of course, any given Ogre is often as socially awkward as the people they’re helping, but in some cases that’s an advantage; it makes them feel more trustworthy in comparison to fast-talking Beasts or silver-tongued Fairest.

Example Ogre - Trista Blossoms, Spring Troll

Trista Blossoms serves her Spring Court and her Freehold as its Sage Escort; she councils Lost young and old on matters of romance, sexuality, identity, and relationships of all kinds. Trista rather famously used to serve in Summer as the Sun’s Tongue before unexpectedly defecting to Spring in a scandalous move that probably would have been a much smaller deal if not for Spring’s incessant thirst for drama. More than a year of speculation buzzed around the Troll’s ‘betrayal’, until it all came out at the Spring Revel; Trista had joined Spring seeking the heart of one Clockwork Claire, an Artist serving the Emerald Crown, and professed her love in front of God and everybody - only to learn that Claire was straight as an arrow.

It didn’t really go down how anyone expected. In that moment, Tristra learned that her love - even unrequited - had motivated her to become and live as her best self. She remains very close friends with Claire to this day, and a darling of the Freehold’s lesbian community. She’s even smoothing things over with Summer now that all of the cards have been laid on the table, as it were, and working hard to help her fellow Ogres deal with their shit when they make it back home. It’s a good life, and Trista Blossom’s having a good time living it.

Next up: Darklings

[serastarless]

__________________seraphina diana anastasia parkinson.

age & birthday. seventeen, december 3.

sign. sagittarius.

house & year. hufflepuff, seventh year.

blood status. pureblood. muggleborn.

character pronouns. she, her. they. them.

sexuality. bisexual.

siblings. julian parkinson. allegra parkinson.

other relations. archie and merritt parkinson - adoptive parents. david and ella griffiths - biological parents.

clubs. quidditch only.

favorite classes. flying, transfiguration.

least favorite classes. potions, charms, defense against the dark arts.

height. 5′2″

hair color. variable.

eye color. variable.

hair style. sera’s hair is usually the first sign that she is a metamorphmagus. she has very littler control over the changing color with her emotions. however, the style is almost always a clipped, choppy, and short bob. some days she is in the mood for long silky hair, though. it just depends on her mood. she rarely wears it up because the ties pull when she shifts.

fashion style. colors. patterns. textures. sera likes things to be bright and bold and different. she loves mixing feminine and masculine styles. she wears very high heels since she is so short. she likes to wear furs, leathers, sequins, silk, and spandex. sera wears a lot of things that might not mix well together, but seems to make it work for her. she has a very early punk and glam rock style. [ fashion moodboard ]

distinguishing features. her face changes shape. the most distinguishable feature about sera is that she can have any feature at any time. the face that is generally accepted as her normal has high cheekbones and sweet, rounded dimples. sera has a friendly face.

______________________________wand.

13 1/3″ hawthorn wood, phoenix feather, unbending.

The wandmaker Gregorovitch wrote that hawthorn ‘makes a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.’ While I disagree with many of Gregorovitch’s conclusions, we concur about hawthorn wands, which are complex and intriguing in their natures, just like the owners who best suit them. Hawthorn wands may be particularly suited to healing magic, but they are also adept at curses, and I have generally observed that the hawthorn wand seems most at home with a conflicted nature, or with a witch or wizard passing through a period of turmoil. Hawthorn is not easy to master, however, and I would only ever consider placing a hawthorn wand in the hands of a witch or wizard of proven talent, or the consequences might be dangerous. Hawthorn wands have a notable peculiarity: their spells can, when badly handled, backfire.

This is the rarest core type. Phoenix feathers are capable of the greatest range of magic, though they may take longer than either unicorn or dragon cores to reveal this. They show the most initiative, sometimes acting of their own accord, a quality that many witches and wizards dislike.

______________________________pets.

Seraphina has a pet cat named Bubblegum, a pet ferret named Tingle, and a pet owl named Cindy.

______________________________amortentia.

broom polish.

quidditch has been seraphina’s passion for as long as she can recall. there is nothing more peaceful to her than an entire day spent on the quidditch pitch. the smell of broom polish is equivalent to those serene moments when she prepares.

coconut.

it is a warm and inviting scent that sera associates heavily with her favorite desserts, lotions, and places to travel to.

cherry.

cherries are a guilty pleasure for seraphina. they are her favorite and go-to snack on any given day. she loves to add cherries to anything.

______________________________boggart.

her worst fear is the idea that she will be found out. her true parentage will come to light and put not only her, but everyone she loves’ lives in danger.

______________________________patronus.

flamingo.

People with the Flamingo patronus know how to use their hearts to find the right solutions to their problems. They also find comfort in group situations. Therefore, folks with this patronus know how to maintain their individuality within large groups and enjoy being around people. These people are often flirtatious and flamboyant in the way they dress. Moreover, they know how to balance a busy lifestyle and often find themselves in a supportive role when someone is having relationship problems. They also know how to help them heal and move on. Their decisions in life usually come from the heart.

______________________________biography.

It was an early frost. The sun had only just set and each breath exhaled produced a puffy cloud of steam from the nostrils and lips of the hospital patrons as they entered and exited the sleek, upscale building. It was the Griffiths’ third child. The private birthing suite at the hospital had been reserved for a day and a half by the time labor started. 

They were the picture perfection muggle family for a short time. Both mother and father bursting with pride at the three perfect, healthy offspring. It lasted in bliss until the first time that infant Seraphina laughed. Her raven dark locks shifted to a bright, inexplicable pink. It was the same color as a cloud colored by a sunset. No expense was spared as they took her to doctors and experts in various fields to attempt to explain her shifting features. It was when things started floating off of shelves, rattled off the wall, and zipping up from the ground that the Griffiths could take no more. 

A friend of a friend of a friend who was in the know took the babe to a magic adoption agency. The Griffiths paid well to ensure the trail back to them was nearly impossible to discover. They didn’t want an angry witch or wizard coming after them some time down the line. That was how the Parkinson’s discovered the babe. 

Archie and Merritt Parkinson had already given birth to two children when they came to the decision for a third child. The social elite of pureblooded society, they were well known for their philanthropy. The Daily Prophet had done plenty of stories on the couple’s generosity. While some claimed that the very publicized adoption was just another stunt to gain public appeal, the truth was that they couldn’t have another child due to complications that Merritt faced when she’d had her last child. 

Of course, that wasn’t a reason to avoid using the adoption to their advantage. They needed a child and a pureblooded one at that. It was the bundle of swiftly changing hair that caught their heart. An infant metamorphmagus was a rarity, and they were told of her pureblooded parents who passed from dragon pox in another country had been a tragedy. (An insignificant lie if it got the babe adopted, right?) What reason would they have to doubt it? Obviously the infant possessed magical abilities and that was a safer bet than potentially adopted a squib. It was a win all around. Thus, Seraphina Diana Anastasia became the newest and welcomed member of the Parkinson family. 

Childhood for the Parkinsons was not all too different from any other pureblooded family. They were often flaunted in the name of their parents’ many pureblooded charities, but they never wanted for anything. Despite how public her adoption was, Sera never felt unwanted or out of place with her family. She was never made to feel anything less than a Parkinson. Seraphina embraced her role. She was ever the dutiful daughter, although she had a penchant for not thinking things through very well. But why would she need to? Any trouble that she came across, her parents would find a way to fix. 

As they got older, Seraphina grew prone to long periods of boredom as her siblings became old enough to go to school. It was during this time that she first discovered her love of flying. Soon enough it became time for Seraphina to go to Hogwarts. While she’d somewhat expected to get sorted into Slytherin with the rest of her peers, she wasn’t upset when the Sorting Hat decreed her a Hufflepuff. Her marks were always average in everything but flying. Frankly, she didn’t care to practice anything except Quidditch. She joined the team her second year and it has been her passion since. 

Life was normal. Well, as normal as it could be for a young, shapeshifting witch until the summer before her sixth year. An attack decimated an old orphanage not too far outside of Godric’s Hollow. Her mother was fast to say it was tragic that they’d lost the place that Seraphina had been adopted from. It was strange. Her adoption had never been the focal point of her life. More of a mere passing fact in the biography of her story. However, that sentence planted a seed in her. The attacks that were popping up over the nation, her father’s beliefs he became more and more vocal about, the tension of her peers… it all made one point abundantly clear. Blood was becoming more important by the day.

It was time to discover just precisely what bloodline was hers. Seraphina began digging. There wasn’t much to be recovered from the incinerated files of the old orphanage, but galleons greasing the palms of the right people supplied her with the right direction to continue her inquiries. It took time. It took money. It took resources that her mother was not always so willing to arrange. Eventually, Seraphina uncovered the not so pure history of her past. Then she destroyed every evidence of it. No one could ever know lest her own life or the life of her family be forfeit. She wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what. Besides, it didn’t change anything. Not really. Seraphina was what she’d always been raised to be. 

It was less than a week later that she began to ask her father about taking the Dark Mark. While hesitant to allow his youngest daughter into the less savory nature of his organization, Archie Parkinson was proud of her tenacity. However, it was the rest of her that impressed the right people under the dark hoods. Seraphina became notoriously able to take a hit and keep going. Her temper could shift at the drop of a hat, and there no were apparently no lengths to which she would not go. She was an incredibly loyal and malleable follower in more than one way. It was swiftly agreed that her loyalty would be an asset. Sera took the Dark Mark the month before her last year of schooling was to begin, a fact which was easy to hide given her particular abilities. 

Her marks have fallen to below average as Sera struggles to come to terms with the truth of her existence, with what she will do to hide it, with her ambition towards her quidditch career, and with her new found responsibilities. The girl who has always stood out by nature, is desperate to fit in. Survival is now the only thing that matters. 

[magicalgirlagency]

yes you should ABSOLUTELY talk about your story's villains when you get a chance, gotta have villains to be a hero after all! (also btw i'm sorry you've been getting crappy anons for just having AU ideas like just about everyone in fandom circles does to some extent, hope they let up sooner rather than later)

FIrstly, thank you for your kind comments! It seems some people can’t understand that one can change their opinion… the next time I recieve a rude anon, I’ll block their IP.

And secondly: I was kinda aiming for the villains to be irredeemable pieces of shit (since Steven Universe and Star Vs.The Forces of Evil have failed in doing so), but whatever. I wanted to talk about the villains because I talk about the heroes a lot. Anyway, on with the ask:

(NOTE: This AU of mine surprisingly is Rebellion-compliant, but I can assure you that both Homura and Kyuubey get the punishment that they deserve…)

So, as you all know, the main villains of my AU are the Incubators.

After having their plans ruined, they team up with Homura (now under the new identity of Homucifer, and also cursed to be a non-existent concept forever), and the demon becomes their new consciousness. Having no other choices left, and also growing even more bitter and resentful, she accepts the aliens’ offer.

Their plan? To destroy planet Earth, because have grown tired of their plans failing; “If we can’t succeed, then no one can”, that’s their mentality. The aliens also aren’t albino anymore; their new color scheme is now black and purple, to “embrace and honor” their new consciousness.

Homucifer uses what little remained of her time-traveling powers and goes back to the beginning of the times to spread the Incubators throughout the Earth like a virus. Unlike their old selves, they don’t make contracts with young women, nor can grant their wishes; they have been reduced to soul-stealing creatures. Human souls are their food.

Their emblem is Homucifer’s salamander-esque symbol in Rebellion:

Despite the fact that most of their original powers have been stripped away from them, they still can transform human souls into gemstones; but they hoard it like dragons hoard their riches.

In the second try of the new Universe, they now act like the Witches; with tricky barriers/labyrinths and mindless minions (their minions are the Clara Dolls, Lotte, Luiselotte, Liese and Lilia; they are respectively, servants that once were Homulilly’s).

The hierarchy goes like this: Homucifer (consciousness) > Incubators (consciousness’ followers) > Minions (Incubators’ servants/barrier defenders).

The Incubators are rather discriminatory particular when it comes to stealing human souls. They only steal souls of human women, or rather, who fits in their conception of “a true woman”. In other words, if you’re trans, non-binary or anything that doesn’t conform to gender norms, you will not be targeted, because the Incubators think your energy is “too rotten to be consumed”.

With that being said, those who are left out of the soul purge are brainwashed and become something akin to zombies. The emblem (as shown up above) can be found as a mark on the necks of the brainwashed victims, like a Witch’s Kiss.

Their mortal enemies, the Magical Guardians, are immune to the aliens’ evil magic, and are able to spot them without fail. Once an Incubator’s cover has been blown, the critters shapeshift into a monster. Their monsters forms are variate; they can be weirdly humanoid (like the ones in Sailor Moon), kooky inanimate objects come to life (like the ones in Pretty Cure), or mutant/feral-like (like the ones in Steven Universe).

The creatures’ weak spot is a purple diamond-shaped gem in their bodies known as Core (the placement of an Incubator’s Core may vary). Shattering the stone results into the alien's instant death.

When their Core is shattered, the alien is instantly killed, the barrier fades away, and the mind control is broken and the stolen souls return back to their original bodies.

Despite wanting to destroy the Earth, there have been cases of cruel and coldhearted humans striking deals with the Incubators and forming anti-magic cults, most of these said cults leaded by religious nutjobs who believe that Magical Guardians are “works of Satan”, and conservative jerks who think that they are “stealing the jobs of poilce officers and military soldiers”.

Since the ask has gotten quite big, I’ll tell more about the anti-magic cult in another ask if anyone ever gets interested in hearing more about it!

[randomnameless]

On the topic of “revised history”, I remembered I heard during some class at uni something about origo gentis being used as a corner stone to create a national identity, and of couse thought about some bullshit regarding FE16 :

Warning : serious nonsensical bullshit under the cut

basically, origo gentis are epic chronicles that are actually a load of historical bullcrap but they paint “your ancestors” in a superb good light with dubious genealogy stuff to make sure that you will be proud to be a part of your gent because your gent is so awesome and descends from enlightned people who aren’t alive anymore :’( or to legitimize a conquest (Wilhelm the Conqueror wasn’t some douchebag from Normandy wanting to be famous, he was actually mandated by an old celtic/britton (?) king to help him defend against those barbarian saxons! So of course he’s totally legitimate!)

And that is how, in the 8th century some guys, using a fanfiction written in the 6th by Gregory of Tours, came to the conclusion that Franks were actually the descendants of Trojan refugees who founded Sicambria in Hungary and Franks weren’t germanic barbarians, nope m8, they (we) totally were descendants from the advanced and refined greek civilisation.

So of course one would be proud to be Frank, leading one of the basis of some sort of Frank identity while also reclaiming some greek/roman heritage because everyone had a hard-on for ancient Rome back in the days.

With that being said,

Fodlan AU : Liber Historiae Faergusum (apologies for pig latin i didn’t play a lot of Square Enix games when i was younger)

thank @ultrakatua​ for launching me on the general vagueness in the game about Seiros’ descendants

After Loog got rid random Adrestian Emperor and managed to get his independance, the Faergusians thought they needed something else than Archbishop Rheond (rhea with a blond wig)’s approval, especially to create a true Faergusian culture and not just be known around as “those barbarians in the north”.

Pan said to slender Adrestia saying it was ruled by shapeshifting beasts hiding in the light, but Kyphon got rid of Pan.

Still, they had to find a reason to explain why they removed themselves from Saint Seiros’ Empire, given how Seiros is the mythical hero of the era and Blaiddyd was just one of her randoms, a mere Elite, of course everyone would prefer to be a part of the Empire blessed by Seiros, more advanced, than part of the Kingdom, now blessed by the Church, but hey, Archbishop Rheond’s blessing isn’t on par with Seiros’. Also, the Emperors descend from Seiros herself, a Saint. Loog is only one of Blaiddyd’s descendants, it isn’t as prestigious.

One of Dominic’s descendants then thought about writing an origo gentis for Faergus. He founded a special order composed of theologists and philosophers which came to be later reknown around the continent for its intellectual tradition (it became an obligation for every member of House Dominic to attend the Magical Academy because Dominic = savants in Faergus). The members of the Western Church were also involved in the Dominician Order - Central Church told them not to interfere with political matters but the members of the Western Church retorked that Seiros herself participated to the creation of the Empire, so they’re doing the same thing here.

Rhea raided a secret cache of chamomile after receiving that answer

What they came with was : 

Just before marching to his last battle, Emperor Wilhelm and Saint Seiros had another son - Lycaon’s brother. Since that new son was second, he was not in line for the throne.

The war ended, but Lycaon was assassinated. Lycaon had no surviving male heir, so the throne should have passed to his younger brother

the male heir picked by the Empire wasn’t actually Lycaon’s child, but a bastard fathered by a member of the senate, the Emperor always had doubts about his son’s parentage but no one found his will, only his “treacherous” wife assisted to his death

The Senate tried to use this position to get rid of Great Emperor’s Wilhelm’s line and seize control of Adrestia ; Second son was sent to the northern limes to protect the empire from the barbarians of Sreng and also maintain peace

Meanwhile, in Adrestia, Lycaon’s not child had a son with one of his Lycaon’s I daughter, eww incest, so the Adrestian line is completely rotten but they managed to keep a Crest of Seiros

technically it would not be incest if Lycaon’s son wasn’t really his, but the Western Church then theologised something about milk-siblings being like full-blooded siblings if they shared the same wet-nurse and of course they did

plus if you acknowledge that Lycaon had no son his daughter couldn’t produce and Emperor or a new Imperial line because she was a woman and male primogeniture was trendy/and useful here so it became part of the Western Church’s dogma of that time.

Second son was doing such a splendid job that everyone rallied behind him as the true Emperor of Adrestia, but he did not want to start a new war in the already recovering Fodlan, so he remained in the North (of course, the actual Faergus).

He founded Firdiad and married Blaiddyd’s last daughter

Blaiddyd’s line is actually the one who should rule over Adrestia

which made Pan return a few decades later saying they should totally war against the Empire to recover their birthright and slaughter the Archbishop for some reason

Kyphon’s great grandson kicked Pan away again

But Adrestia became decadent and rotten to the core, only seeking their own enrichment and their own pleasure instead of “defending the people” like Seiros herself would have done had she not died in mysterious circumstances

Loog had actually all authority, lineage and spiritual, to have founded the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and Adrestia sucks - we Faergusians are the real descendants of the heroes who won against Nemesis, not those decadent people of Adrestia!

This bullshit was believed for around 200 years (to Rhea’s chagrin, she nearly emptied her secret marijuana stash but young!Jeralt made her reconsider the idea of being stoned for the next 300 years) until Margrave Gautier of this era said fuck, why should we hail the fact that we come from the Empire, we won our independance with weapons, strength and bravery from Loog, it is him who should be hailed as a hero, not the fact that he descends from Great Emperor Wilhelm.

Everyone was okay with dropping the origo gentis, save for the Western Church who came to believe it, because hey, they supported the real Seiros line, unlike those losers from the Central church who were supporting the Empire - they should be the ones calling the shots!

(but no one cared about them, save for Pan who mysteriously returned and began slithering around “yes the central church sucks, you should kill the Archbishop”)

Sadly, the fact that they dropped the Adrestian narrative had been a stone in the creation of the Leicester Alliance - who pretty much adored and loved the glorious history of Adrestia and tried to replicate it, instead of embracing the Kinngdom’s more martial values.

Rhea was overjoyed when the mention of her supposed child disappeared from history, only to be revived by Seteth when he returned 20 years before the beginning of the game, politely asking her what the fuck

they both had chamomile

[blueberrygloss-blog]

Pearlified (Amethyst, brainwashing, MC, identity death)

It was the right decision. She knew it, they knew it. Amethyst didn't regret her decision for a moment. Her friends were safe, and one of Yellow Diamond's largest battlecruisers was floating stricken in space with a reactor core sporting an Amethyst-sized hole.

She had to laugh. She shouldn't have even survived that explosion. But here she was, months later, on trial on the angry space giraffe's nearest colony.

What else could she do but mock them at every turn? Constantly shapeshifting into the prosecuting zircon, or the emerald presiding. The topaz guards would slap her down each time, try to torture her into silence with those disrupters... but it was pointless, she'd already won. They knew that, and they hated her for it.

"This court is satisfied that the accused is beyond ANY doubt," the emerald glared at her "not only guilty, but absolutely insufferable in her rebellion against her betters."

"YAWN!!!" Amy yelled loudly before being struck to the floor by the guard to her left.

"HOWEVER..." the judge continued, "let it never be said that the perfect justice of the diamonds is a justice devoid of mercy or concern. We recognize that this amethyst was left behind on a hostile, primitive planet, with only savage natives and TRAITORS to shape her."

Amethyst glared and yelled. "ROSE QUARTZ WAS TWICE THE GEM YOU'LL EVER BE! AUGH!!!" She yelped in pain as a disrupter was jabbed deep into her physical form.

"As such..." The emerald rose, and the rest of the court, save Amethyst, followed. "The accused will be reprocessed and allowed to return to a productive life in service to the Diamonds. Sentence will be carried out immediately. This court is now adjourned."

Amethyst was, perhaps for the first time, lost for words. She couldn't even manage a final shout of defiance as she pulled inside a topaz fusion and carried from the courtroom. Reprocessed? What even was that? She was supposed to get shattered! That's what Homeworld DOES to gems they don't like! She could only ponder her fate as she was carried to a warp pad, only her eyes and hair protruding from the imprisoning fusion.

Where were they taking her? It was a short trip in any case, the warp pad quickly depositing them in a dark room. Glowing white pods lined the walls, and large tanks of milky liquid formed a central pillar. Will little fanfare the topazes unfused, grabbing Amethyst by the arms and dragging her toward an open pod.

"HEY! Let me go you big yellow jerks!" Amy hissed.

The topazes smiled at each other a moment, before obliging the overcooked quartz, throwing her violently into the pod's maw. It shut quickly, locking her inside as she groaned in pain. She could hardly react as robotic shackles grabbed her wrists and ankles. She grunted and tried to struggle, blasting the grinning topazes with every obscenity she could muster, hardly noticing as a sharp hammer lowered from the top of the pod. Her yelling stopped when she heard a crack. And looked down. At the hammer that had just put an agonizingly deep crack through her gem.

"Crapbaskets..." was all she could muster before she poofed.

The machine bubbled her instantly, holding her gem floating in the pod. The topazes wandered off as the machine began its work in earnest. The tanks and pipes hummed to life, as the pod began to fill with the milky liquid. The bubble faded as the pod filled, leaving the crystal gem to float, as the fluid began seeping deep into the crack in her gem, and then penetrating deeper into her being…

"Wake up, 8XM."

Amethyst groaned. Her head throbbed as she struggled to open her eyes.

She wasn’t in the pod, as far as she could tell. Looking around, in fact, it didn’t look like she was anywhere… just some empty, white void as far as she could see.

Well, save for one thing.

"Hello 8XM." A pearl was standing in front of her. Slim, delicate, graceful, like all of her kind. But this one… Amy was immediately unsettled. This pearl had her colors, her purples and lavenders. This pearl had her wild, curly hair, falling over her left eye, and hangin just below her tush. She even wore a perversion of Amethyst’s clothes: her off-the-shoulder dress looking like it had been painted onto the pearl’s torso, save for where it flaired at the shoulders and waist into delicate transparent whisps of loose material.

"Wha… who the heck are you?" The earthling glared accusingly as the strange pearl smiled.

"Who am I? Well, I’m you, I suppose is the most direct answer!"

"Hah, you WISH." the quartz grumbled.

"Hmm... Well, to be more correct, I’m the you you’re going to be." She leant down and pressed a finger to Amethyst’s lips before the rebel gem could interrupt. "I know, that sounds scary, right? A strange pearl saying you’re going to turn into her? You’re trying to be so brave, but I frighten you." She stared straight into Amy’s eyes. "Yes, I know you are. I can feel it."

Amethyst shivered at that. And try as she might, she found she couldn’t interrupt now. The finger left her mouth, and opened to scream obscenities and threats... yet, no words could be found. And so she watched a growing existential terror as the pearl continued.

"Do you remember the pod?" the pearl asked as she sat cross-legged in front of Amy.

Amethyst felt a gentle calmness wash over her. Not crushing, but enough to lift from from her lying position to find herself mirroring the pearl’s posture. "I guess so?"

The pearl nodded sagely. "Your gem was cracked so that I could be introduced. I’m inside of you 8XM, and you are inside of me."

Amethyst stared in confusion. "But... but why? I thought I was going to be shattered. This doesn’t make any sense."

The pearl leaned forward and took Amy’s hand in hers tenderly. "You’re not being punished, 8XM. You’re being given a gift."

Amethyst gave a skeptical look.

"You are being given a second chance, 8XM. An entirely new life. The kind of life you should have been given in the first place. You were left behind, 8XM. I know how hard that was for you, to emerge alone, without guidance. You were so alone, so frightened."

"I wasn’t that scared..." Amethyst protested, but even as those words left her mouth, they felt less true, somehow. She winced and shook her head, something didn’t feel right at all.

"Yes, yes you were. That’s why you bonded with the only gems you could find. You didn’t know they were murderers and traitors. What you did wasn’t your fault."

The pearl’s words were insidious, as though each statement was reaching inside Amy’s mind and scooping out a piece of herself. "No... no, they’re my friends, I love them!" she protested, tears beginning to pool as each loose thread of her mind was tugged.

"They couldn’t give you what you needed, though, could they? You needed order, and they never gave that to you... allowed you to run feral, to live in filth... you had to try to make your own purpose, because they’d taken away everything that was supposed to give you your place in life."

"N-no… that’s not true…"

The pearl scooted around behind Amethyst, wrapping her arms around the overcooked quartz in a protective embrace, nuzzling softly into her hair. "All gems need a purpose, 8XM... we exist to serve, it’s the only reason we’re made."

"I... I…" Amethyst choked out, staring up in absolute desperation as she tried to cling to unravelling memories. All the good times with Rose, with Pearl, with Garnet, and with Steven, turning into hollow moments of longing for structure and direction. A happy life turning into one of sorrow and depression.

"I can feel it... that craving for certainty, for order. You want a purpose, don’t you 8XM? Something real to fight for? Fight with me, 8XM. Fight for a better Homeworld. A Homeworld that is safe and orderly. Let your fight be one of quiet, dedicated service." Amethyst shivered as the pearls words dripped like honey into her ears. "That's it, doesn't that feel better? To know your purpose, your place? The certainty of order and structure. Pearls are an essential part of the order, we all work to the same goal, the same end, the same order and perfection. As a pearl you are perfect. As a pearl you belong. As a pearl you have a purpose."

"I... I belong." Amy closed her eyes, peacefully. Her body glowed reforming, her gem disappearing into the white glow, until she reformed. Two perfect copies of a long-hair purple pearl now sat, tenderly hugging each other, smiling through their shared tears.

"T-thank you..." the newly-formed pearl choked out.

The pod opened with a hiss as a newly-minted pearl emerged. Full of new life and energy, she gracefully stepped down, and admired herself in the mirrored surface of the tank. Her body and face, she shared with other pearls perfectly. They were all cultured from the same material, after all, and the last thing this new pearl wanted was to be different. She sighed in relief as she saw her gem: a pearl, perfectly formed, sunk into her chest. She thought for a moment, that this was strange, that another gem should be there... but she couldn’t remember what it was, or how it looked. She closed her eyes and shook off the thought, the vague pain and sadness banished to the edges of her mind, and growing ever more distant. She gazed at her face a moment more. What was her name? She had one once, didn’t she? Or, no, maybe a designation?

No... no, of course not. She was a pearl, cultured like all the others. Made to serve. She felt a warmth swell within her at just the idea of serving those placed above her.

With a quick twirl, she made her way through the door marked "PROCESSING". Soon, she hoped, she’d be assigned to a noble gem, and at last, she’d truly belong.

She couldn’t help but squee and smile at the thought.

[captaingondor]

I’d Rather Be Shiny

Tamatoa as an ideological villain

The Disney animated movies have many times succeeded in something another franchise owned by the company, the MCU, has so often failed - making their villains memorable. Perhaps if  Marvel allowed its villains to express their personalities and motivations in the form of a musical number, they’d be doing better in this regard. Disney music is well-loved by many, giving us catchy sidekick songs, stirring ‘I want’ songs,  and beautiful love songs. Some of the most fun, to my mind, are good old villain songs.

[spoilers for Moana and a lot of thoughts about it under the cut]

Usually, of course, villain songs are given to, well, the main villain. In Moana, this is not the case. There are multiple reasons for this - besides the ultimate reveal of Te Ka’s identity, she’s far more effective as a non-speaking figure. All the same, from a casual view, it can seem a bit strange giving the honor of a villain song to Tamatoa - a one-off humorous side character, just one of many obstacles along Moana’s journey, in the same category as those little coconut guys. He is a side journey, not an ultimate goal. But Tamatoa is not only, or even primarily, a physical threat, but an ideological one, and it is his ideology, running counter to Moana’s, that makes his villain song a perfect and thematically cohesive addition to the Moana soundtrack.

Tamatoa represents an explicit challenge to Moana’s worldview, to the point that he specifically calls out Moana’s primary mentor with the assertion ‘your granny lied.’ From this point to the conclusion of the matter in ‘I Am Moana,’ the movie is a competition between the philosophies of Tamatoa and Grandma Tala, a question as to which one Moana will embrace. Is Moana her own person, or a pawn of those stronger than her? Is she a chosen hero, or just one small girl? What defines her, what makes her who she is?

The rejection of Tamatoa’s philosophy by Moana is not only what makes her able to assert her identity, take up the calling of the ocean by her own volition, and go out to face Te Ka on her own. It is also what enables her to win. Moana is able to look past the outside and realize who Te Ka truly is. She tells her that what she is on the outside is not what defines her, and calls for her to remember who she is - something that cannot be changed by outward appearance, or by what anyone else has done to her. It is the restoration of her heart that gives Te Fiti back her power - but it is Moana who reminds her who she is, even before the return of the heart.

The challenge extends to Maui, as well - who is, when we meet him, much more torn between ideologies than Moana. Moana doesn’t doubt that she is chosen by the ocean until after she has faced a devastating failure. Maui, however, has struggled since birth with the fact that he was abandoned. His parents ‘took one look at him’ and, from what they saw, decided he was worthless. Maui desires to combat this by being seen as a hero. But instead, his last great heroic act brought darkness and death to mankind, and now he can’t even shapeshift properly.

Tamatoa admires Maui’s tattoos, because he believes it’s what’s on the outside that counts. He assumes Maui has them for the same reasons that he covers himself in shiny gold - to add value to himself by adding to his appearance. Maui, however, has a different story when Moana asks - ‘They show up when I earn them.’ Even while struggling with what makes him who he is - the inside or outside - Maui has never gone as far to Tamatoa’s view as the materialistic crab has. The tattoos do not have value because of themselves, or because of how they make Maui look. The tattoos gain their value from Maui, what he has done, the choices he has made - from who he is. The tattoos do not make Maui who he is, he makes the tattoos. Nonetheless, Maui still struggles with outward appearance defining him as he claims he is not himself, and cannot be the hero he wants to be seen as, without his hook.

It is Moana, with the ideology represented by Grandma Tala, who is able to talk Maui back around after their encounter with Tamatoa and help him regain his shapeshifing ability. She sees past the outside, past the bravado and self-aggrandizement, to who Maui is. She sees his care for others at the core of who he is, and reminds him what it is that defines himself. Maui’s triumph comes when he fully rejects Tamatoa’s view of the world and decides to not merely be seen as a hero, but be a hero, and comes back to face Te Ka knowing that he could fail, that no one might ever see or know, but that making this choice it what makes him Maui.

It is fitting that Tamatoa is defeated by Moana in the way that he is - by luring him with a false Heart. Because he only judges by outer appearance, he is unable to detect the ruse in time. The only value he sees in the Heart is that it’s shiny. His outward position in the end - stuck in one place, lying on his back - is only a reflection of his inward state. Tamatoa cannot move forward, he cannot learn, he cannot grow, because he has put all his focus on the outside. And therefore, the outside is all that Tamatoa is. He is only a side villain, only an obstacle along the way, because it is all that he can be. He has no motivations, no desires, no aspirations beyond his own increased shininess. And while the heroes may be tempted to listen to his ideology in moments of doubt, it is ultimately as empty as he is.

[junker-town]

Jaren Jackson Jr. is what the NBA unicorn was always supposed to be

Jaren Jackson is the type of big man every team wants in the modern NBA.

In an NBA world where too many players get the unicorn moniker, the young Grizzlies big man actually embodies what the term once meant.

Four years ago, then-Thunder superstar Kevin Durant was asked about Kristaps Porzingis, a athletic, sweet shooting tall man that was capturing New York’s attention. As Durant laid out Porzingis’ long list of attributes, many of which were once the domain of smaller players, he suddenly found the perfect word to sum them all up. “That’s like a unicorn in this league,” he said. Just like that, a new NBA term was born.

In the years since, the combination of skills Porzingis possessed have become ubiquitous, if not required to succeed at the highest levels. For big men, novelty has become necessity. If they all need to become more unicorn-like, then how can any really embody the term? What does it mean to be a unicorn in these times?

The answer has come in a new class of bigs defined more by their versatility and tantalizing possibility than their status as top scoring options. They are unicorns, but really, they’re shapeshifters, much like Kirby in Super Smash Brothers. From Lamar Odom, to Al Horford, to Draymond Green, to Pascal Siakam, to Bam Adebayo, these NBA Kirbys have added something new and repurposed something old to further build on their ancestors.

Now, the Kirby lineage of basketball unicorns is poised to add a new member to its group: Jaren Jackson Jr. The second-year big man is not the best player (Ja Morant), best prospect (Morant, Brandon Clarke, or maybe even DeAnthony Melton), loudest leader (probably Dillon Brooks, to be honest), most seasoned veteran (Andre Iguodala Jae Crowder), or most engaging personality (OK, maybe he is) on the delightful Memphis Grizzlies, somehow the West’s No. 8 seed despite possessing a roster of kids. If their rebuilding project goes as expected, he may never be any of those things.

But at the ripe old age of 20, he’s already showing why he’s on track to be the all-important connective tissue that allows all of those other players to be themselves. Jackson is a basketball chameleon, and the rest of the Grizzlies’ young core have already become the beneficiaries of his many color changes.

Jackson’s list of special skills runs deep, but his accurate three-point shooting at a heavy volume vaults to the top of the list. His unorthodox motion — take a drink every time an opposing announcer refers to it as a “shot put” — belies his remarkable accuracy. He’s currently approaching 42 percent from downtown on 6.5 three-point attempts per game. The only other bigs to approach that accuracy on that volume: Karl-Anthony Towns, Ryan Anderson, and Davis Bertans.

These aren’t just your run-of-the-mill open pick-and-pop jumpers, either. He takes stationary threes.

Pick-and-pop threes.

Transition threes.

Threes on the move.

Step-back threes.

Threes off screens.

And threes like whatever this is.

The diversity of his three-point shot profile would be staggering for a wing. For a big man? The only word to describe it is ... unicorn-ish.

The fact that Jackson can take and make so many different kinds of threes enables the Grizzlies to deploy him in so many different spots on the court. He has no obvious sweet spot, which means there’s rarely a worry he’ll catch the ball somewhere he doesn’t belong. He can toggle between playmaker, primary scorer, screener, and floor spacer, depending on what the Grizzlies need at that particular moment.

Better yet, he can do all four within the same play, which ensures Memphis’ sets always have secondary options. A pick-and-pop that the defense covers effectively can quickly swing into a dribble handoff, post-up, or second-side screening action, and it’s difficult for the defense to peg exactly where Jackson fits in to those sequences. In an instant, he’s flipped from the big man screener that gets a guard open into the primary option on a flare screen to get him a three.

And if that shot isn’t there, he can quickly flow back into being a screener for a guard curling up from the corner.

Or — and this is spicy — he can invert the traditional big/guard setup and act as the ball-handler immediately.

Jackson’s perimeter shooting opens all of those options, but that only scratches the surface of his offensive versatility. He holds his screens and rolls hard to the rim in open space, much like a more traditional big would. Jackson was initially more comfortable diving to the basket when backup Tyus Jones was on the floor, since Jones would often look for him instead of driving himself. Of late, though, Jackson’s chemistry with Morant is growing. Just ask the Rockets.

per usual, them boys up to somethin @JaMorant x @jarenjacksonjr #GrzNxtGen pic.twitter.com/EHfnsnw7vi

— Memphis Grizzlies (@memgrizz) January 15, 2020

Jackson’s also a nimble ball-handler for a man his size, especially going left. When he attacks closeouts, he dips his body low enough to the ground to angle off shot-blockers and retreating defenders alike. Considering how often he puts the ball on the floor in space, it’s amazing that he only turns it over on 10 percent of his possessions. For reference, only seven other players taller than 6’10 finish more than 20 percent of their team’s plays while turning it over less often.

Jackson’s sudden low center of gravity allows him to absorb contact and sneak his shoulders through defenders to get to the rim. He’s more comfortable attacking left, but he’s beginning to come back to his right hand effectively when defenders overplay. This wrong-footed, gliding righty finish resembles the kind of move that makes Siakam such a difficult cover.

Jackson’s ball-handling skill is increasingly becoming a boon for Clarke, who loves to slip screens and dunk on fools. Jackson’s shooting already opens the lane for Clarke’s dives to the basket, but now the two are even hooking up on pick-and-rolls like this.

Defend Jackson too much like a guard, though, and he can punish smaller defenders in the post or stand along the baseline in what’s commonly known as the “dunker spot,” named because of finishes like this.

We’ve yet to discuss Jackson’s defensive potential, which is what got him drafted so high in the first place. He’s showing he can stone smaller players on switches, using his quick feet and long arms to envelop the space those penetrators need to thrive.

His shot-blocking instincts are terrific, as are his pick-and-roll fundamentals. Once he builds more upper-body strength and gains more experience, shot alters like this will become more common.

For now, fouling is a major weakness that constantly holds him back. Jackson commits 5.3 fouls per 36 minutes, thanks to overly jumpy feet that combine with his still-developing core strength to produce too many sloppy infractions. His diverse array of skills won’t do much good when he’s on the bench.

But remember, Jackson’s only 20. His consistency comes and goes, but that tends to happen with big men who possess uncommon skills and a willingness to experiment. Retaining Jonas Valanciunas was a shrewd move; his reliability is a useful foil to Jackson’s tantalizing possibility. JV gives Memphis the luxury of choice. They can sit him to ramp up Jackson’s learning curve, but they can also use the two together or play Valanciunas alone during one of Jackson’s tapering periods.

There’s a world in which Jackson becomes a star, especially if he further improves his right-handed dribble and cuts down on his propensity to foul. At the same time, that aspiration may prove to be a poisoned chalice if it requires Jackson to turn one of his many skills into a mega skill that becomes the foundation of his game. When you force an NBA Kirby into a specialized role, even one as well-regarded as being the main star of a team, it often takes away from the essence that makes them so valuable.

That’s why the Kirbys who have laid the groundwork for Jackson followed unique development paths. Siakam didn’t take a jump until he was freed to fail on Toronto’s second unit. Adebayo always had potential, but needed a defined starting role and a playmaking vacuum to rise to the occasion this season. Green may not have redefined the center position if not for David Lee getting hurt in training camp. They needed to walk their own unique paths to properly develop their unique games.

Jackson has something his ancestors didn’t: an opportunity to be himself from the jump. He’s one of the pillars for a rising young team, free to fail, learn, and develop consistency without too many short-term stakes. On top of that, he’s in an era where unique big men are treasured instead of scorned, with a young coach in Taylor Jenkins that happily embraces his perimeter skill instead of forcing him to be the kind of burly big man that he’s not. That makes Jackson a unicorn, even among his unicorn-like peers.

Let’s hope the destination is as fun as the journey promises to be.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Suffering

 Rolling the Dice of Theodicy

                 There are three stages to a human life: birth, the middle, and death. What happens in the middle is an accumulation of choices, reactions, and their consequences. Life is in a constant flux; moving eternally in a serpentine manner that continues with or without your acknowledgment. One can surrender to the unknowing force that propels us forward or be crushed by the weight. We are creatures who are sentient enough to recognize the chaos and the absurdity, because of this, Suffering is inevitable. However, Suffering is necessary and perhaps the greatest teacher if a person wishes to grow and learn about themselves and the world that is before them. One simply needs to be receptive and listen.  

               Our first breath begins with a cry. It is the lament of new terror and our first overwhelming burden of being alive outside the safe womb of mother. Suffering is synonymous with the Earth’s own cycles. Just as seasons come and go, and the oceans break and retreat, as does our Suffering. It itself is a law of nature for human beings. Just as the Earth cannot fight the repeated cycle to heal and balance itself, the same must be applied for us. Every person will wear many Winters in their heart throughout their lifetime. “When a man finds that it is his destiny to suffer, he will have to accept his suffering as his task; his single and unique task. He will have to acknowledge the fact that even in suffering he is unique and alone in the universe. No one can relieve him of his suffering or suffer in his place. His unique opportunity lies in the way in which he bears his burden.” (Frankl 78) It truly is man’s destiny to suffer; just as we are meant to face our own death. Each of us will suffer in his or her unique way, and it is our choice to establish meaning to what befalls upon us.  A person must attempt to cultivate a perspective that is suited for their suffering. Frankl explains that humor and hope were the soul’s weapons during the Holocaust. (42) Hope in itself is a product of suffering. If there was no suffering, there would be no reason to give Hope a name. Each individual defines Hope in a different way, however one unifying relation is that Hope is birthed when Suffering is present. Through Suffering, we must ask ourselves what the driving force to exist is, and why we have kept going so far in the first place. As we consider these formidable questions, a deeper sense of purpose or self can begin to mature; a sort of inner submission and complacency that was not present before.

Suffering is the foundation of personal and emotional growth and allows the individual to truly embrace themselves and their responses to the weight of simply living. However, this is a choice that each person must bear. In our modern world, many people collapse from carrying the luggage of life. There are shortcuts and distractions that give the option to ‘evade’ suffering. These can include substance abuse, pharmaceuticals, sex, shopping, eating disorders, television, etc. I will not deny that some individuals with illnesses truly need to be medicated, however, our society is conditioned to advocate shutting down those receptors that allow us to embrace our pain fully. If a person is depressed, anxious, or even suicidal some of the first options that are thrown into their lives are medications, when what is truly necessary is that they have a source that allows them to focus on understanding what the core of their pain is trying to tell them. (Unfortunately, this is also a societal issue. Not everyone has access to true help.)  Suffering disguises itself as an internal demon, one that keeps any logic and sanity tucked away into a corner. However, beneath this illusion is a teacher. Just as biblical angels are much too overwhelming and illuminate for man to fully perceive, they say, “Fear not.” That is what our suffering says to us. Fear not, for there is an admonition of counsel beyond all of those unconscious and unresolved layers.  

               To accept our suffering means submitting the self to the great mystery. Since suffering is just as part of life as anything else, so is our choice to affirm our actions to live and understand it. “…For ultimately, man should not ask himself, ‘What is the meaning of my life?’ but should instead, realize that it is not up to him to question—it is he who is questioned, questioned by life; it is he who has to answer by answering for life. To respond and be responsible” (Frankl 107) A person will walk away empty handed if they are merely trying to extract some sort of answer from life’s big questions. Suffering and Meaning are abstract concepts; ones that shapeshift as we do.  We are responsible in how we interact with Life and the tribulations that are tossed at us. However, this involves the slow trek against the current. A person must allow themselves to be carried through, except on Life’s watch rather their own. If life included no suffering, there would be no reason for autonomous choice. By choosing our reactions to adversaries, we are literally creating ourselves.

               Suffering balances moments of beauty and completes the circle of life. It is our responsibility to assign meaning behind every juncture and epoch. “Thus we see that life’s meaning includes even the meaning of suffering and of death. We have not only the potentiality of giving meaning to our lives by creative acts and by the experience of nature and culture through the experience of love; we have not only the possibility of making life meaningful by creating and loving, but also by suffering: by the way and manner in which we face our fate.” (Frankl 45) Viktor Frankl believed that our attitude towards life was fundamentally important. This could be our contemplation for events and internal sorrows or man using his will to shape his own fate by action. It is a tiresome yet necessary task since life perpetually throws out its tasks to each individual. As a person performs these tasks of life one creates room for expanse and each time grows minutely stronger. This process is a slow and gradual one, however, it is only through unpredictable storms that a captain can truly develop his seaworthiness and talent as a navigator.

               The subject is difficult to helm specifically because of how deeply intimate each person is with their own Suffering. It is a specific art for every person, one that grows more poignant over time and one that should not be diminished or explained as if it were a hard science. Suffering is a spiritual fasting for the self. Since we create our own realities, it’s not an easy task to pin point any concrete benefit for it, except for what we individually elect. The simple foundation is that if any meaning can be found in Suffering it only presents itself if one allows it. The world goes on without you.  It is our autonomous choice to see beyond bad things merely happening to “good” people and realize that there is no such thing as luck, but what our responses to misfortunes are. The Holocaust is an essential example of Suffering because it was the prime image of the evil that human beings were capable of enduring. It almost seems illusory to even imagine justifying such Suffering with some sort of meaning. How can you if you were not there living through it without projecting your own idea of what occurred and how it was dealt with? However, there were survivors, and even though they were forced to live with their own brutal recollections of darkness, perhaps they lived at the very least to understand that calamity can only be justified when a person vindicates it for themselves. When a person suffers, the mind goes into an incubation period and a foreign seed is planted. The seed acts almost like a divine intellect and gradually a person “lives the answers” that they seek. Suddenly a person looks back upon the catalogue of memory and realizes that they lived and learned and because of this each of us is their own teacher.

               In response to being weary of projecting our own hypothesis on other people who endure their own individual suffering, we can instead synchronize our intrinsic suffering to help coax or relate to someone else who might need another perspective at least in the hopes of not feeling isolated. I cannot relate to the survivors of the holocaust by any means, however, I am more equipped to empathize through my Suffering. If human beings lived without Suffering, there would be no reason for empathy. Without empathy, our very momentum for living would be diminished—we are designed to crave connection with one another. Suffering is a universal truth that we share whether one chooses to face it or not, through our unique truths we can reach an apex in true conversation and meaningful connection. Each of us can teach our own version of the trails that were faced and relay them to another. This other human uses their own memory of their Suffering and the process of relation harmonizes. We cannot truly have anybody understand our solitary truth, however, we can aid in helping somebody else realize their own.

               The Garden of Eden is a sham, for this specific world leaves no room to grow and develop our true abilities as humans. If only pleasure and happiness can be attained, then they become the epitome of stagnation. Praise should be given to Eve for consuming the forbidden fruit. The forbidden fruit was “sin” disguised as virtue and a potentiality of wisdom that held a form of verity that man would not have been able to understand otherwise. It was the fall of paradise because even in their pleasure and happiness they were unfulfilled, lacking the final piece in making the complete, mortal circle. Adam and Eve craved the sugary truth before they even knew how to name it. Human beings can be liberated by their suffering because it is the death of an ego and the reminder of one’s own mortality. Without this perpetual resistance, we would be aimless; driven by a carnal desire and instinct, existing without truly living. Fear not. It never gets easier; you just get stronger.

[strainingfororiginality]

Chapter 1.5 - Justice

Raphael led him out of the building and the cool, fresh air of the outdoors hit him nicely. Quintus took a big deep breath of it, hoping to catch the scent of the angelica that he had caught in the hallway days before, but he smelled nothing. He desperately wished to have his abilities back and a frown crept upon his face.  Raphael took note at once.

"What’s wrong?" The angel prodded.

"Nothing." Quintus shook his head as he sighed.

The angel walked him down to the street, bringing him before some kind of carriage. It was more modern than any he’d ever ridden before and it was pulled by what he could only assume was a hydra. The colourfully feathered serpent easily standing over twenty feet tall and all five of its heads peered at Quintus with inquisitive yet accusatory eyes. Raphael spoke something in their special language and the beast responded with full sentences in turn.

While they spoke, Quintus admired the gold, silver, and bronze swirls interlaced throughout the steel compartment. As the tiny door opened, he squeezed himself in, facing forward as Raphael took the opposite seat, directly facing him.

"A hydra?" He asked and Raphael smiled widely, as he always did.

"Arariel is a water seraph. They are formally called Chalkydri, but yes. You do know them colloquially as hydras."

When the carriage began to move eventually, there was no amount of rocking or bumping involved. The movement was entirely surreal as they seemed to just glide forward. The lack of sensation was completely unnerving.

"Where are we going?" He questioned at once.

"To the Court. It’s not housed in the Citadel. It’s built on top of the River of Truth. It is the place that allows no lies." Raphael answered matter of factly.

"But, if there is no where any longer, then why do we need to travel to get there?" Quintus asked and Raphael laughed out loud, showing his full set of fangs for the second time.

"Good. You’re quite right." He shook his head, “This trip is for … your benefit.”

Quintus shifted his attention momentarily from the window back to the angel, who was watching him quite intensely, "My benefit?"

"To show you that it might be in your benefit to continue your existence here. It's not a bad place to be, after all. Would you really give this up for simple vengeance?"

Turning back to the window as he spied what he assumed were dragons dancing across the far horizon and he sighed, "I do wish to exist."

"Good." Raphael chimed before he leaned back, smiling again, “But I have asked that it take us the long way regardless.”

Quintus watched and cataloged each thing and building they passed, however he doubted the need to do such a thing. Everything was abstract enough that he thought it might change and quite regularly.

But whatever he saw, his face remained devoid of emotion driving Raphael to comment on it. "I am learning that it must take quite a bit to impress you."

"I’ve seen many things." Quintus stated simply.

"But nothing like this." Raphael assumed.

"I am no longer shocked by anything I might see here. This is simply how things are now." Quintus huffed a shrug but he refused to tear his eyes from the spectacle occurring all around them.

"Your hubris is absolutely astounding." Raphael mused. It wasn’t an insult nor was it conveyed with any hint of annoyance. Nothing he said ever was. It was simply an interesting fact to him and the laugh that followed was of pure entertainment.

"My hubris has been well-earned." He assured him with a sneer.

"Perhaps … perhaps there it was. But here, you should learn to let go of it. You are far from the strongest any longer." Raphael stated and Quintus looked back to him in slight discomfort.

"I am aware of that."

"Good. Accept it. Let go of your need to control everything around you. There is no longer a need to struggle, Quintus." Raphael leaned forward and spoke softly. “Embrace change. It has to be freeing to … no longer worry about the entire world? To no longer need to worry about Destiny?”

He turned his attention back out of the window, "You say that as if it is an easy feat. You have no idea what my life is … was … like."

"Actually, I’ve learned many things about you over the last few weeks. Things that even you aren’t aware." Raphael leaned back and relaxed with smugness, “And honestly, I am surprised you are not more affected by your life. Most men would have been crushed by what you’ve had to endure.”

Quintus was uneasy about what he might have learned. "I do not wear my emotions on my sleeve … as you apparently do."

"Perhaps you should consider it. I’ve always found it quite … enlightening." That damn contagious smile again and if the golden sphinx hadn’t just walked by them stealing his immediate attention, he felt that he might have returned a small smile to the mocha-skinned angel.

With all of his pleasantries and grins, this laid-back being seemed simple, but Quintus knew this was far from the case. His presence was gentle, genuine, and virtuous yet there lurked a power hiding within him that shook Quintus to his core as he observed Raphael again.

Though his mannerisms were slight and small, the conveyance was energetic and his smiles were shared with almost reckless abandon, even in his most serious moments. For the first time since he’d met the ancient being, Quintus felt his own disdain for Raphael finally starting to disperse. As clarity took hold in his mind, his felt his mistrust begin to fade and something happened that he had never experienced before. He felt himself pulling emotion. His face fell as he ingested the feeling and found that it was sadness which emanated so strongly from the ancient being.

His mouth opened to ask what might have been troubling the angel when he realized that he should probably not disclose being able to feel this. This was coming from In Nexu. He uttered another question as Raphael had already noticed he was in the process of asking something.

"How long has it been on Earth since I arrived?" He asked hoping Raphael knew this since Ozryel did not.

The angel grew quiet as he seemed to think about it for a moment, "A little over five months now."

Quintus nodded with acceptance and appreciation. "Thank you." It was much longer than he felt he had been here, but it was not years and for this he was grateful.

"You still worry for those you left?" Raphael inquired but Quintus ignored him as he diverted his attention back to the landscape and watched quietly as the urban setting became less dense and more rural the farther they traveled down the bumpless road.

He leaned forward to peer out the window and down the bridge that they had come across. The water beneath them was crystal clear and he could see things swimming with in, just under the surface, but it was the little things that fluttered around its surface in a massive swarm that drew his ultimate attention. They were dragonflies, hundreds of them, possibly even thousands and Quintus’ mouth fell agape slightly.

"Dragonflies?" He gawked, trying to mask the surprise that leaked into his voice.

"Yes. The Serpent’s Doctor." Raphael was pleased to offer, “Divine messengers. The carriers of the dream.” Raphael smiled, “And there is no greater divinity than the dream.”

"Serpent’s doctor?" The term was strange to Quintus.

"Yes. There are few creatures that are considered more divine than either the serpent or their doctor."

Quintus twitched at the thought of it before offering up something he thought was almost common knowledge, "How is that so? Serpents are generally representative of evil, are they not?"

Raphael shook his head, "As well as fertility, life, and healing. Christianity chose to villainize serpents because of Eden …" His words seemed to trail off, but he steered the conversation back on track immediately, “But if you consider other cultures, they are universally worshipped.” That smile again. “Look around. If you haven’t noticed yet … We’re all serpents here, Quintus.”

Raphael’s face was suddenly much like Ozryel’s face had been in the beginning as Quintus gazed upon a far more gaunt face, drawn and tight, with much higher cheekbones and much thinner lips as his face came to more of a central point now. It was entirely more like a serpent now and at once Quintus realized the angel was sharing his own facial features. But the spectacle was short lived as Raphael’s face was now back to entirely human and he beamed at Quintus as he blinked softly. Damn shapeshifter.

After the display, he wasn’t sure what else to ask and for the first time since they had left the Citadel, Raphael turned his attention away from Quintus and out the window as he watched the massive swarm of flying bugs dance across the surface of the crystal clear lake, seeming to keep perfect pace with the carriage itself. The angel seemed to lose himself in thought before he spoke strangely, his voice almost distant, "The dragonfly is considered to be an agent of change."

Taking note of the uncharacteristic behaviour, Quintus brazenly asked, "Does something trouble you?"

The speed at which Raphael candidly responded surprised Quintus incredibly, "I am worried about Michael. Ozryel’s return has affected him greatly. I have never seen him in such a state before." The angel’s face expressed his internal concern clearly as he looked down to his hands.

"He is not always so … disagreeable?" Quintus asked, attempting to be somewhat polite about the unlikeable governor.

Raphael found himself laughing at the statement as he shook his head, "No, no, no. He’s always disagreeable. Or at least he has been since … Ozryel was lost."

"Hmmm. I get the impression that she was quite different back then than she is now." He sighed as Raphael nodded.

"Yes." Raphael spoke as he remembered fondly, “She was a force of nature. Body, mind, and spirit. Heaven lost something profound that day … Even God wept.” Seriousness crept back over his face and Quintus jumped at the opportunity to breach the subject.

"She claims that God is ... absent?"

A sober expression befell the angel’s face as he closed his eyes momentarily before looking back out the window, offering no response. No words were needed as the answer to his question was clear.

Quintus followed suited and returned to watching the landscape as it passed them by. The flora and fauna seemed to frolick with no particular rhyme or reason and he almost found the vividness of the sky and the creatures that danced within it all too much as he looked back and saw the angel staring directly at him intently … again.

"Do you have cameras here?"

The question confused the angel and he furrowed his black brows, "I suppose so. Why do you ask?"

"You might take a picture instead. It will last longer." Quintus quipped as he turned to eye the man who seemed to be unable to stop staring at the dhampir any chance he had. Raphael, still slightly grinning with amazement, was not embarrassed nor deterred by Quintus’ obviously annoyed remark.

"You misunderstand. I find you fascinating. This gives you discomfort?" His smile, always genuine and without any hint of malice, showed his amazingly white teeth fully again.

"On the contrary … I am quite used to people gawking. I just assumed that such an act would be beneath someone like you." Quinlan sneered in response.

"Your words are defensive without proper cause. You are assuming that I look because I am disgusted." Raphael never moved his eyes from Quintus’, “I marvel because you are a wonder, Quintus. A unique being ... destined for greatness.”

Quintus furrowed his brow at the words as those had been Ancharia’s words for him exactly. Did Raphael know this? Could he know this? Perhaps she had told him this in the last few weeks? A unique being … destined for greatness. "I am not unique. There were four before me." He challenged.

Raphael frowned as he shook his head, "It’s unfortunate. They no longer exist."

Quintus turned quickly to stare into the violet eyes, his brows furrowing in trouble, "No longer exist? They were …" His voice trailed off as he looked down to the floor, not wishing to finish that sentence. “By whom?”

"Michael. That is his charge. His duty." Raphael said with a straight face.

"Why was I permitted to exist?" He asked, finally exposing some hint of mild emotion.

"That is a conversation you should have with Ozryel. Perhaps even Michael if you wish to risk it. It’s not my place. Regardless … you are nothing like they were." As Quintus stared back into the man’s vibrant violet eyes, Raphael permitted him reprieve from his attention, as he looked out into the countryside, offering up one final intriguing thought before their ride came to a gentle stop, “You really have no idea do you?”

As Quintus started to stand, Raphael waved him to remain seated and he peered out the window. What he had called a barrier was in fact a mountain range that seems to encircle around them for as far as he could see. Before them was the widest and longest staircase that he had ever seen and it was littered with people and other beings. There seemed to be a bit of a crowd gathering around their carriage as well and Quintus sat back, out of view, as people began to try and peer into the window from outside.

Raphael waved a hand at him and Quintus furrowed his brow, "What?"

"Your appearance."

"I …" He looked down at his hand and tried again, closing his eyes tightly as he concentrated but when he opened them, his hands were still the same as he shook his head, “I cannot.”

"You are trying. That is the problem." He looked up to an amused violet-eyed face. “Don’t try to do it … just will it.”

Will it. The same words the angel’s older brother gave to him when he was coaxing him to defeat the Master. Will it.  He tried, but his hands remained just as white and he huffed.

"Keep trying. We won’t go in until you have it." Raphael said.

"Then we will be here forever." Quintus spat and sat back in the seat with sullen defiance.

Raphael laughed, "So very dramatic. Are you always this way?"

Quintus could feel himself pouting and he sneered a lie to the angel, "No." He was only dramatic on certain occasions.

You were the light that is blinding me

You're the anchor that I tie to my brain

'Cause when it feels when I'm lost at sea

You're the song that I sing again and again

All the time, all the time

I think of you all the time

"Do you wish to exist, Quintus?" Raphael asked simply.

"Yes." He frowned again.

"Why?" Raphael pressed.

"My reasons are my own." He said lowly as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Why?”

"I’m not asking to know your reasons. Whatever they are, you don’t need to disclose them. it doesn’t matter to me. But use them to encourage yourself. You wish to exist, think about why and know that unless you do this now, it's unlikely that what I have planned will work."

Quintus leaned forward as he raised a brow, "And what exactly do you have planned?"

"Nope." Raphael shook his head as he smiled, “You decided to be difficult, so you’ll just have to remain in the dark like everyone else.”

Quintus closed his eyes tightly as he didn’t wish to remember these things right now, especially not in front of the archangel who could feel so very much. He’d push the memories out of his head as soon as they would try to surface. He feared that he would break down again if he revisited them now. Up until this point, he had been terrified to even think about … his reason.

Sighing deeply, he thought about this fully now. He thought about it very clearly, picturing every single element in his mind. He thought about its spots and the lovely green of its eyes. He thought about its short stature and then about the mole on its lower right back. About the texture of that mole after he had touched it softly that night on the couch when he had no right to do so. He could admit that even back then, he knew he had already laid claim. No, it was even before then. He knew the moment that she saved him, she was his.

He thought about the feeling of its curves crushing against his chest. He thought about her aroma next, so earthy and musky and sweet. He thought about his reason for wanting to exist and the flavour of her, of every part of her that he had tasted. And finally, the sound of her voice as she spoke his name.

He smiled as he realized he was so full of shit. So absolutely and utterly full of shit. There wasn’t a moment that went by where he wasn’t thinking about this reason. He was thinking of it all the time.

"Good." Raphael’s voice shook him from his trance and as his eyes opened, he looked down at his human skinned hand and found it was shaking with hot emotion. And for the first time since he’d met the angel, Raphael touched him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he gripped it firmly, “No separation is permanent, Quintus. Whoever it is that makes you ache so very much, rest assured that you will be reunited here eventually.”

Raphael removed his hand promptly and Quintus shook his head, while he qualified the angel’s statement, "If … I am allowed to exist."

"Have faith. It will be a good day for you. I promise it." The angel smiled even wider as he raised his eyebrows playfully, “This trial was over before it even began.”

"Now who is the one full of hubris?" Quintus quipped causing the angel to chuckle at him with extreme amusement.

Raphael exited first without another word and as Quintus stepped down from the stairs, a gentle and warm breeze struck them as it carried more dragonflies on its currents. He smiled to himself as Raphael’s confidence seemed to be contagious and he felt like it might actually be a good day today.

The crowd was now impressive and seemed to only be growing as they mounted the steps, making their way up the side of the steep mountain. People gawked, whispered, and pushed to get full view of the two as they walked.

"Mister Quinlan! Mister Quinlan!!!" When he heard the voice, he did not recognize the tone of it but he turned to see who would call out to him using such a title. As he spun, he saw a shorter young man who waved for his attention from the crowd. While Quintus paused, Raphael kept his forward momentum as he approached a couple just ahead of them, striking up a conversation.

Quintus stared for a moment. The young woman was quite short, though a smidge taller than his poet, with rich blonde hair and vivid blue eyes. While she wasn’t generically beautiful, he found her extremely pleasant in every single way that was possible. Her smile was warm and kind.

The man who stood beside her was markedly less warm and kind and at least an inch taller than himself. His face was gaunt and serious as he seemed to be staring directly at Quintus with an uncomfortable and judgemental glare. He knew this look as the man was sizing him up. His eyes were a colder blue than the woman’s whom he held a protective arm around and his hair was a lighter and duller blonde.

His stare was unnerving to Quintus and very few people were even capable of having that effect on him and as he gazed back, he was almost certain he had seen that face before, but he was having a hard time pinpointing it. It had not been recent, whenever it had occurred and he urged himself to go forward and greet them with Raphael, but something held him back. Some part of his subconscious was almost nauseated at the thought of approaching them.

Unable to hear what was being discussed, he turned his attention back to the man in the crowd who was still calling out to him and Quintus squinted at him.

It took him more than a moment to realize he’d seen this face before and very recently, though it had been much older. As he approached the man, he found himself questioning his assumption briefly, "Professor?" He stuttered.

Once he was within reach, Abraham reached out and grabbed his hand firmly as he smiled massively, "How are you?!?"

Quintus blinked in surprise, "You look a bit … different, Professor."

The ‘young’ man nodded as he clasp a hand on the dhampir’s shoulder, giving him a friendly and relieved squeeze before he pulled him in for a full embrace. Quintus generally didn’t like this type of contact, but he found himself returning it fully, "As do you, Mr. Quinlan." He chimed as he grinned, “As do you.” And he chuckled, “And, it’s just Abraham now.”

"Indeed. Abraham. Indeed." He stared with amazement at the man as the last time he’d seen these eyes, he had closed them on his severed head. Today was a good day and Quintus bit back the desire to embrace the man again.

"You did it." Abraham’s young face was on the verge of tears as he continued, “You did it.” Quintus was rarely at a loss for words and as he stared the ‘young’ Professor, as Abraham actually hugged him yet again and he allowed and return it yet again.

"Yes." He said plainly and Abraham looked at him perplexed at his lack of exuberance at completing his lifelong task.

"You did it." He reiterated as Quintus finally took note of the lovely woman by the professor’s side, clinging to his arm quietly, and he found himself staring as he wondered about her.

Abraham turned sharply, "This is Miriam. My wife." Abraham beamed as he introduced him to his beloved.

Quintus bowed to her slightly, "Mrs. Setrakian."

"I have heard so very much about you, Mister Quinlan." She said to him timidly but her attention shifted immediately to the angel that now stood beside them and she blushed furiously as she looked down to the ground.

"I am sorry to interrupt." Raphael stated as he placed his hand on his chest and gave Miriam a small apologetic nod. “But, we need to be going. You’ll have eternity for reminiscing afterwards.” Raphael waved up the stairs as he met Quintus’ eyes, “Shall we?”

The top of the stairs opened to a remarkably small amphitheatre. Besides its size, its layout reminded Quintus distinctly of the Colosseum. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being on display at the very center, but he walked closely with Raphael as they descended towards the middle.

All manner of creatures bustled around, carrying on loud conversations with each other, yet a noticeable silence fell over them as the two would brush by. For the most part, the audience was not human, though he spied a few scattered throughout the celestial beings, particularly a dark-skinned and dark-haired woman that he’d met once before in that somewhat embarrassing dream.

His eyes locked onto hers for a brief and fleeting moment and she looked away immediately, unable to conceal her nervousness at his attention. Quintus read the intent easily. She did not wish to give the impression she knew him. This was a secret, as he was getting the impression everything having to do with his Poet was. _So be it. _ He looked away, smoothly and naturally, not sharing even a lingering stare as their acquaintanceship went entirely unnoticed.

The bearded man who stood before them now was nothing short of a mountain. Quintus had to cock his head up to look into his face as this man was easily at least an inch taller than even Mr. Fet himself. He recognized him instantly. This was the creature that had … retrieved him when he had first arrived in Heaven. He distinctly remembered the punch and Quintus flared his nostrils at him.

His build was incredibly muscular and wide. His hair was long and brown, and his eyes were an unnatural amber. There was a conspicuous scar across his left eyebrow and for a moment Quintus doubted who he was assuming it to be. Did angels scar? Did archangels scar?

"Brother." Raphael nodded as he smiled, providing the mountain with a single word greeting and now Quintus was absolutely sure.

This was Gabriel.

".רעהטאָרב עלטטיל, נוואָד קקאַב אָט עטאַל אָאָט טאָן ס'טי"

Gabriel spoke to his brother in their secret language and Quintus found himself glaring at the giant. He had no idea what had been said, but given the mannerisms and tone, it had been unpleasant.

"But I thought you enjoyed a good challenge?" Raphael smirked a response, to which Gabriel shook his head, turning his attention directly to Quintus.

"Hiding your true nature won’t save you from Justice, Abomination." He spat as he turned his back and walked to his side of the court floor, taking a seat on a stone bench.

Raphael waved Quintus to a bench directly opposite of Gabriel’s and they both sat as the dhampir leaned over to ask in a whisper, "How does he have a scar?" He pressed. He was mostly curious if something could hurt an archangel and Raphael sighed heavily shaking his head.

"It's because he’s a child and he does it to mock Michael."

"Mock Michael?"

There might have been more conversation on the matter as Quintus wasn’t fully grasping what he meant, but as Michael entered, the chaos of the area seemed to melt away. People began to take their seats all around. He wondered … to mock him? Was Michael scarred? He was not even sure Michael had a face behind that helmet. He was partially convinced the armor was all he was.

The silver clad angel sat down loudly and Quintus’ mouth fell agape instantaneously. He’d seen the angel before, but now Michael carried with him an ornate metal staff. It was intricately carved with spirals, leaves, and various other geometric shapes; inlaid with gold, silver, bronze and copper. Its top housed four stones, all of varying colors, in a circle, each pointing outward, perpendicular to the handle itself.

It was, for all intents and purposes, an exact replica of her Sun Stick. A sea of goosebumps ran across his skin as he realized that particular thought was backwards. No, her staff was a replica of this one. It was in this glorious moment of clarity that the aroma of angelica hit Quintus fully. He tensed and Raphael noticed immediately.

"Is everything alright?" The violet-eyed angel began to ask before Michael spoke.

"The defendant is aware of the charges?" His voice was firm and loud.

Raphael stood, "Yes."

"And how does the defendant plead?"

"Innocent."

"So be it then." Michael bellowed, “Let it begin.”

[amwritingmeta]

13x06: Dean vs the Oven - Hansel and Gretel Parallels

Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean. He’s been on a long, hard journey towards adulthood for a long, hard time now. The good news: he’s almost done baking! (there will be a few oven related tongue-in-cheeks in this post) (how could I possibly resist?) (*couldn’t*)

I’ve talked about Dean and Hansel before (yes, that Hansel - he of Hansel and Gretel fame). I first paid attention to this little narrative quirk in my 4x05 long ass meta, because by the end of Monster Movie, Dean has been drugged up and - for no conceivable reason - dressed in a Hansel outfit by our MotW: a shapeshifter with a serious case of conflicted identities. 

(the shifter favours the shape of Dracula - a vampire - who is linked to bats, not visually in 4x05, but through dialogue - and bats are linked to someone else Dean keeps tying a red ribbon around in dialogue - someone who has a serious case of conflicted identities. That’s right –> Batman, dudes. The Caped Crusader himself. And why is it exactly that our protagonist so closely relates to this specific orphaned donner of masks? Hmmmm? I know you know why. Anyway…)

The reason why I interpret Monster Movie as the starting point for Dean’s coming-of-age story is because the plant of it is visually established for us through our classic horror movie obsessed MotW shifter making the nonsensical choice to undress an unconscious Dean and put him in the outfit of a character from a children’s fairytale. 

I mean, seriously, WTF, right?

And not only does the shifter sincerely break away from his established character MO (horror), oh, no, he goes one step farther when he chooses an outfit so outrightly linked to a fairytale that is a euphemism for growing up, for leaving the nest and breaking out on your own, that it’s kind of amazing. (no not just kind of) (it us utterly amazing) (and clearly oh so very deliberate)

Hansel and Gretel, at its core, is all about moving from adolescence into adulthood. The tale teaches you to, when confronted by all of these horrors and responsibilities of adult life, refuse to give into the temptation of crawling back into the warmth of the womb (the witch’s oven) and remain a child (metaphorically by sacrificing your adulthood in the fire) and instead choose to eliminate the threat (by using your wits), enabling you to triumph over the forces that would oppress you, breaking free from them and, by doing that, growing up. Taking your destiny into your own hands, so to speak.

Now, last night I watched the delightfully awesome 10x12 - About a Boy - where a wicked witch is turning adults back into teenagers. 

Helping this wicked witch is Hansel, and this version of him did not choose to eliminate the threat to triumph over oppression, but instead embraced evil as a new role model and - in fact - ended up eating his own sister.

Yeah. I know.

*slow eyebrow raise at the absolute opposite of Dean that this Hansel represents*

The lay of the land is that in S10 Dean is struggling with the MoC still affecting him, and being turned into his fourteen year old self effectively takes the Mark off his arm and gives him a clean slate. 

He’s getting a second chance, as Tina will call it by the end of the episode, when she can’t be turned back into an adult. (this is the woman wearing purple who Dean has an honest and open conversation with about himself at the beginning of the episode and really connects with who teases him she’d better go before he falls in love with her ohhhh set up and purple is everywhere) 

And let me give you a brief comment on the contrasting here: Tina and Dean connect in that bar - they’re alike and meant to be alike because by the end of it, Dean chooses to move towards adulthood because his life is not riddled with mistakes, the way Tina’s is. The mistakes Dean has made thus far are mistakes that have helped shape him, rather than hold him back and keep him down, the way Tina’s mistakes have. This contrast tells us that however dark it is for Dean, there is also strength and hope and he doesn’t need a do-over because that’s not where he wants to be. And he knows it, too.

Now remember that, of course, this is a stepping stone in his coming-of-age journey. This is the narrative telling us that Dean Winchester wants to grow up, wants to learn to let go of Sam, wants to move towards facing down all his fears. The episode has moments of non-performing Dean that will come to reverberate throughout the following episodes (all the way up to the confessional in 10x16)

So, when he’s confronted by a life/death situation at the end of 10x12, he chooses to do a Dean Winchester, and instead of clearing himself of the burden of the Mark by staying a teenager, he cancels out the spell of youth, turns back into his adult self and does this –>

Holding the source of the spell that turned him young again - having stabbed Hansel in the stomach and effectively killed the representative of choosing the dark path - Dean shoves the spell down the witch’s throat, rejecting staying a child as a viable option to getting a “second chance” and then –>

–> putting his foot down that this is not the answer and doing so by eliminating the threat to him reaching adulthood, triumphing over this symbol of oppression. 

I mean, look at how the witch is actually introduced to us:

Yup, she is chopping up the purple. *screaming ghost face emoji* I mean, if purple is a colour code for Dean achieving inner balance and reaching endgame (read more here) then I don’t think we need more evidence that this “second chance” is not what Dean needs or should want. At all. 

So, good call, Dean. 

Oh, yes, also, there’s this visual plant of the oven that Dean pushes the witch into, and this plant is important –>

–> because look what happens in 13x06! —>

–> You know this moment, right? At the end of the epicsode, after the helpful White Hatted Sheriff gets dragged into one of the ghoul’s tunnels and after Dean has reluctantly gone into that very tunnel (aka the birth canal………..) at the cemetery and has crawled through it. 

He, for some reason, ends up behind this oven door –>

Firstly, this season is all about Dean peeling back his layers, right? It’s about his rebirth. It’s about change. And look what hangs on either side of this oven door: images of a man with his skin peeled back to reveal all the workings underneath. 

Secondly, notice how this oven was made by the exact same company who made the oven used by, and consequently ending up burning, the witch? Yeah, this is obviously not coincidental. (damn these guys are good at their jobs) (jaw constantly dropped) 

So in S13 we have witnessed Dean come face to face with representatives of toxic masculinity over and over and over again, forcing him to take one long hard look at his own behaviour, at the stuff he’s repressed and suppressed, because of course it’s all about putting him face to face with himself.

By 13x05 we got the change in him acknowledged by Death herself.

By 13x06 we get this above visual.

We get Dean Winchester’s long, hard coming-of-age journey reaching a subtle, but apparent, end station. 

He is an adult now. He will (or at least I believe he will and hope he will) tackle whatever is up ahead in new ways. 

And I mean, okay, so Dean may be out of the oven, but he’s still on the rack, cooling off. So there’s still a ways to go, don’t get me wrong here. But I bet you when he’s done, though, he’ll be delicious! (told you I was going to do this) All golden crust and gooey insides and melting in Cas’ mouth. (I cannot help it okay?) Oh yes Dean will be melting in Cas’ mouth! (I am now actually insisting on resisting before this gets really really really smutty)