#featuring my older and human deigns

[apocalypsewriters]

Escape (The Machine Living)

Sometimes I forget I originally made this to archive and share my work. I’m particularly proud of this lil tragic short story. The opening exposition is particularly exquisite.

This was inspired by combining two idioms “back in a jiffy” and “clean as a whistle.” This was further shaped by Jack and the Beanstalk since this was written in a fairy tale retelling class

Enjoy!

No longer was there a spinning Earth. Instead, a great breathing, groaning machine hurtled around the sun, taking the dregs of humanity with it. Fans and regulators churned fruits and nuts while people were left to survive on scraps. Time only existed in the minds of machines, jiffies ticking into seconds into minutes into lifetimes.

A smattering of privileged people stalked the catwalks, casting cruel glares at the human underlings. Almost doubled over, the unfortunate scuttled in rafters and drains, transporting as computers couldn’t move and operating where mechanical arms couldn’t see. There were scant times when the greater people deigned to walk among the rabble. They were quick to peruse the automatic work before retreating to the end of walkways and scurrying up towers locked with keys. Nostalgia and practicality kept the relics around; humans worked with the physical and machines worked with the digital.

Likewise, great train whistles kept from a long dead era were held above the jiffy counting brains. Marking days, marking shifts, the whistles would scream until nothing else was heard. The demand for silence and ringing thereafter dictated the pattering of feet, urging them on as they followed the bark of orders.

Auster was tired. She had moved beyond the veil of starvation into numbness, too. Our rations weren’t cutting it anymore. Especially when she kept giving them to me. It left her lethargic, barely able to tend to our duties at the assembly line we were trapped in. It brought me greater relief than it should when we took breaks – Auster was only three years older than me.

A tall figure shoved through our working troop a dozen strong. They distributed the rations forcefully, bowling me over in the process. I skidded across the metal catwalk and left grease stains in my wake. Two meals clatter to the floor beside me, picked specially from their coat.

Ever bold, Auster lept after the retreating figure. “Leave them alone,” she bellowed. She turned to me, audacious concern etched on her features. Exhaustion overtook her and she collapsed to sit beside me. Handing my portion to me, she tried to push her own food into my lap. “Eat, Eunostus.”

I shook my head and clamped my mouth shut. I gestured to my own poor excuse for food. I never knew anything better than the grey, disintegrating gruel, but my demanding stomach told me humans had once eaten better.

Auster looked ready to cry. She needed this meal more than me. “Please, Eunie,” she begged.

Holding my rations out to her threateningly, I stood my ground. Auster relented. To my relief, she inhaled the food. She always overburdened herself, perhaps to make up for falling behind in work.

Auster cried out, “Ow!” Working her jaw, she spat out a small gold key.

Our eyes widened in tandem. She turned the fine, glittering object in her fingers, examining every millimeter. The key stained quickly, tarnished by Auster’s filthy hands. Eager I held out my own hands. Auster obliged and dropped the key. I rubbed it between my fingers, each groove and crest memorised under my learned touch. I put it between my teeth and bit down. It was a strange kind of metallic, unlike anything I had encountered before.

I pointed to the door to the tower at the end of our walkway.

“It unlocks that door?” clarified Auster.

I nodded.

“Let’s go then!”

My heart sped up at the very suggestion. One hand caught the hem of Auster’s shirt and the other picked at the stitching on my pants. Acrid smoke pricked my throat and panic heated my cheeks beyond the temperature of the kilns below. I fought to keep my attention on Auster’s eager expression, every movement in my periphery catching my attention. My mind reeled between different dooms awaiting any bold action.

“Why not? We’ll be fine.”

I shook my head and immediately regretted it. My vision swam and my ears rang.

“I’ll go. I’ll be back in a whistle, don’t worry.” She kissed the top of my head and skipped off.

Worry ate at me as I returned to our work. I sat diligently by the press, flinching every time it crashed down in front of me. I had seen many people lose a finger, a hand, a limb doing my job. I had to watch for a little red light to flick on just above my head; on queue I would crawl into the mouth of the press and brush away whatever dust or particle was interrupting the precise mechanics.

My hands and knees were blistered from this work. The sheet worked upon by the press was abrasive, ironic given the sensitivity it required to function. I knew I would struggle without Auster beside me whispering the ideas that blew through her mind with no forethought. She allowed me to take breaks, rest against the side, ghosting my breath across my stinging palms.

The whistle took an age to sound. I slipped at one point, heart jumping to my throat as my heel caught in the coarse surface of the press. Pulling on my leg to no avail, I heard the creak of machinery above. The press built up potential energy, groaning under the weight. Tug as I might, I had no time to finagle my foot out of the grasp of the metal plate. I heard the release of the machine and dove to the side, hoping blindly. The giant metal foot soared and clamped down with a thud. The red light flicked on. Shaken, I crawled back to retrieve my mangled shoe from the jaws of the machine.

I was catching my breath from the heartstopping experience when Auster skipped back. She clutched a small bag. “Look what I got, Eunie!” she cried, brandishing the bag in my face.

I widened my eyes. The bag swayed under the weight of its contents. What had she taken? Who did she steal from? Countering her hubris, I pressed the bag away from us as if it were an omen of misfortune.

Auster scoffed, throwing my warning to the wind. “They won’t miss it. I didn’t get caught,” she gloated. “And I’m back when I said I would be.”

As if hearing her, the whistle rang out, temporarily deafening us both.

I relented, dropping my hands to my sides.

Auster gave me the bag to care for. For once I let curiosity sweep away my inhibitions and I looked inside. The weight of the bag made sense now, given it was filled with nuts and bolts. I shifted the weight of the bag in my hand, watching the pieces fall over themselves like water. Mesmerised, I watched the light glint off the metal in refracting patterns. The clank of the press startled me out of my stupor. I kicked the bag into the sleeping corner. I didn’t know what Auster’s plan for it was but I wasn’t going to spend the next whistles standing around trying to figure it out.

Retreating to Auster’s side, we watched our machine. She was buzzing beside me, occasionally looking over at her spoils. Still, she contained her plans in some regard, staying silent while we finished our shift. I zoned out watching our machine. It slammed down, making me blink from the rush of air. Clank. Blink. Clank. Blink. Shuffle. Clank. Whistles passed in a blur until it was time to turn in.

I woke up to a cold bed. Auster was gone. I sat up from the cloth designating our sleeping space and wriggled out from the nook in the side of a dormant machine. Over by our workstation, Auster had the bag by her side and was working in a panel she pried open.

I rapped on the machine to get her attention.

Auster whipped around to face me, light catching and glinting in her eyes. “I’m getting us out of here!”

Disbelieving, I gestured at the chaos around us. Machines still whispered below us, footsteps distantly echoing on grill floors.

“If there is nothing for us to fix, we don’t have to stay. We won’t be caught and dragged back here,” Auster explained. “If I fiddle enough with the parts I now have the light won’t go off.”

Oh. That made sense.

“We can go,” said Auster. She sat on the ledge and took my small hands in hers. She rubbed her thumb over the blisters on my palms. “No more hard work, Eunostus.”

My eyes widened, small hope kindling in my heart.

“Really. Now give me space. I’m almost done.” Auster turned back to her work, hands shaking with excitement. She almost dropped a bolt down the cavernous edge.

Once she was finished, we waited until the next whistle sounded. Watching for shadows above, we crept away from our station and towards the tower Auster climbed before. The key fit snugly into the lock and opened with a nigh silent ca-chink.

We slipped through the door and were faced with a winding, corroding staircase. Auster approached it with a practised ease; three steps up her foot slipped through a hole in the flooring. I slapped my hands over my mouth in a vain attempt to retroactively silence the clang of bone against metal. Smiling sheepishly, Auster wiggled out and beckoned me up the staircase. I took every step slow, like a faulty machine grinding past a hiccup in the system. Auster huffed and grabbed my elbow. She hauled me up the steps, every other stair creaking in protest and making my heart thunder. Upon reaching the top we were greeted with a cavernous room packed with trinkets. Small short haired creatures spilled from a box, square engraved wooden disks stacked in a corner, and hundreds of metal scraps salvaged from something now unidentifiable. Picking past a hulking white box with a door swinging off its hinges decorated with small colorful trinkets, we moved into a space clear enough to stand in

Auster made to speak but I gripped her hand tighter. My heart was still too fast from the staircase. Squeezing back once, Auster sighed and looked around the room. She startled then directed my gaze to a corner of the room opposite our entry – a wooden door was inlaid into the wall, half hidden by boxes. Subtlety disregarded, we scrambled over the mess and made quick work of moving the boxes. They clattered to the ground; the sound of the spilling collection drowned out Auster’s grunts as she pried the door open.

The crack was just big enough to shimmy through; on the other side of the door a walkway stretched out. I could see workers below us between the grill floor. Taking my hand again, Auster pulled me behind her as she flew along the catwalk to find another place to hide. As abandoned as the knickknack filled room appeared, upper walkways teemed with privileged superiors.

We spent the next whistle ducking between shadows, cowering at every ringing footstep. Eventually we came across a metal dispenser jutting out of a wall. Intrigued, we stayed by it for a whistle and watched someone approach it and press a button flush with the panel. Rations spewed out the chute below it. I shook Auster’s hand which was sweaty after clutching it for so long. Auster nodded back. Her hair shook around her ears. Once the figure retreated we scurried over. Ever bold, Auster pressed the button. As before, rations spilled out. We ate and ate and ate until our stomachs ached and bulged. Never before had I felt so full. Cocky, Auster reached for the button again but I caught her hand. I shook my head and pointed upwards, where whistles came from.

“Don’t you trust me?” Auster whispered.

I shook my head vigorously. I tapped my heart, mimicking its flickering beat.

Auster’s shoulders dropped and she tilted her head back. She sighed. “Okay. Let’s stay over here.”

We moved into a corner. Using the corner of a washer from the bag she worked at a panel in the wall, unscrewing it from its casing. Once it was free, she set it to the side, revealing a tiny, hot nook packed with wires. Auster wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t big enough for both of us.

“Wait in here. I’ll see if I can find something else,” said Auster. She kissed my forehead and crawled away.

The nook, though buzzing, was comfortable in the warmth of the cables. I drifted off, the sliver of hallway I could see blurring into black. I slept until the next whistle which woke me with its shriek. I was alone. I curled into myself further, hugging my knees. Tapping sounded closer and closer. There was nowhere to move to. Were the walls moving in on me? Maybe that would hide me. The panel creaked open and Auster blinked at me. She took a package jammed in the waistline of her ratty grey pants.

“More rations,” she stage-whispered. “You eat this. I’ll be back.”

I ate slower, this time, no longer ravenous. I picked through the food halfway done when Auster thundered back to me.

“Eunostos! We have to go, NOW!” She seized my wrist and hauled me to my feet. Echoing her scream, a noise unlike I’d heard before sang out. It pitched and wailed up and down.

It was loud enough to make my head spin. It rattled the bones of my body and the bones of the catwalk. Panicked and lyrical, it beat regularly, urging us onward. Boots pounded behind us. I didn’t look back, stumbling after Auster. The pits of workers yawned below us, rushing by under our frantic feet. Still, the alarm cried. People below looked up and around, confused. Some continued on unaffected. Some slapped hands over their ears. Still others curled into corners, trying to hide from the auditory torture.

Breath wooshed from my lungs. My throat was raw from the abuse it was under for running so hard and long. If I paused for even a moment, my shaking legs would collapse. Yet Auster pressed on; she almost pulled my arm out of its socket.

Pulling around a corner, I tugged Auster to the side.

I panted. My breath burned my throat. My knees wavered by the floor, threatening to buckle under the stress. Pounding footsteps were growing louder despite our efforts and flagging speed.

Auster was out of breath too. “We have to try– something else.”

I shifted on my quivering legs. The bag of bolts bumped against my side, almost knocking me over. My eyes widened. I thrust it upwards, jingling in Auster’s face.

Auster’s features twisted into a grimace. “Okay,” she relinquished.

Scattering the treasure that Auster found, our first belongings, we were just in time. A shout sounded from the end of the small hallway we found. Reinvigorated from the plan and the short break, we tore off again. As we broke into a new section, empty. We heard yells over the fading alarm.

I spared a glance over my shoulder. One hulking figure had made it past our trap. They lumbered after us.

As best as I could while half sprinting, I tapped Auster’s side to pull her attention.

Auster let out a scream of frustration.

I spotted a crusher, like the one we always worked in. I tugged us in that direction as best as I could.

Nodding, Auster began running in that direction, too. We slowed, timing the slam, slam, SLAM of the jaws. The red light flicked on. We dove in, our clothing sweeping across the surface. The machine was too short to crawl through. We shimmied through frantically. My shirt caught on the coarse plate and rode up my neck. I choked on the collar and fear. Auster tugged me free. Close behind us, our chaser was forced to take the same route as us. They were too big. The machine crashed down, freeing me.

Auster went down. She turned too hastily, tripping over her own feet.

“AUSTER!!” Her name ripped from my throat, too quiet for even me to hear.

“GO!! Go Eunostus! I’ll–” she stammered, hauling herself to her feet sluggishly “–I’ll catch up.”

Tears slipped into my mouth as my lips formed her name again. “A u s t e r.”

I ran and ran until I was in a place no one would recognise us. Through my tears, I saw glimpses of our future.

Maybe we found a new place to work, moving when we tired. Maybe we found others like us, liberated and in hiding. Maybe we were caught and returned, frisked of our freedom again. Maybe we revolted with a family we found in the crevices of the machine we lived on. Maybe we ran forever, together always.

[sunnymarbles]

what if i posted huh what would you do if i actually posted art instead of reblogging stuff huh what would you do what would happen whaMISCELLANEOUS WEBLENAS!

[katzkinder]

Radiant Spring

I got inspired by the new drama CD; Tsubaki telling Mahiru his name was “Watanuki Sunflower” just wouldn’t get out of my head! So I thought it would be fun if Kuro approached him about that, because as attuned as he is to all things Mahiru, he’d definitely note it as the special acceptance it is :3 💚🧡

There were few things Tsubaki enjoyed more than a good bath.

And few things he enjoyed less than having that ruined by a meddlesome older brother.

Yet here he was, collecting his things in the wake of the amnesiac Eve of Sloth’s memory fiasco coming to a close, when Sleepy Ash (he refused to call him Kuro, still. Why should he get to have his name spoken so lovingly by one he adored when Tsubaki couldn’t hear the voice of his beloved) came slinking over to his side like some pitiful drowned kitten washed up on the side of a riverbank.

“Would have thought you’d be all over your Eve,” Tsubaki sniffed, not even deigning to glance the eldest’s way for a single moment, “Aren’t you worried? He’s sooo accident prone, something might happen if you look away for a single second. Especially with me around, you know? Things just... Fu... Happen to go wrong sometimes.”

His jeering threat is not met with big brother Sloth running back like a loyal dog, a loyal lion, like he has hoped it would be. Damn him for knowing Tsubaki’s temperament well enough to also know that while he’d make a ruckus, he’d never do something so crass as to start a fight at a hot spring.

Instead, his eldest brother merely looks back for a moment towards where the Eve of Lust (he doesn’t care to remember his name) is still blubbering with joy over his dear, dear, dear friend’s return to normalcy.

“… I think he’ll be fine.” He shifted, subtle in his awkwardness, and Tsubaki curls his lip. How this… This thing had managed to murder his sensei— “So… Sunflower. Huh?”

Tsubaki schools his features, a pleasant, placid smile, eye narrowing ever so slightly despite his best efforts. “Hm?” If he entertained whatever stupid thought he had, perhaps Sleepy Ash would be satisfied enough to go away and leave him be.

… He really doesn’t like not being the one to harass him.

“Is that what you would have named him?” Upon receiving an uncomprehending blink, Sleepy Ash elaborates. “Mahiru. Is Sunflower what you would have named him? If he were yours.”

Ah.

“… That’s what you have a question about? Not his family name?” He keeps his voice carefully light, hand edging back towards the locker.

“Well,” Sleepy Ash starts, canting his head like he’s still a cute little kitten and not a grown man, taller than he but not stronger, he wouldn’t allow that, he’d make certain, he’d— “It’s obvious why you gave him that.”

All his thoughts grind to a halt, unable to keep the bewilderment off his face. “Obvious?” His glasses slide down his nose.

“That subclass of yours. With the prison get up? He… Really likes Mahiru. And you… Really love your subclass.”

No. Stop. Don’t finish that. Don’t read him, you aren’t supposed to do that. You aren’t supposed to care enough to do that, for any of them.

You didn’t for sensei.

Kuro watches him, and there’s something almost apologetic there. Tsubaki hates it. Tsubaki hates him.

He wants Nii-san to hate him, too. It’s simpler that way.

“If the grungy joker asked…” the first continues, as if this were all fact he were absolutely, one hundred percent certain of, “You’d have let Mahiru into your family. But he… Loves you too much to do that, too.”

It’s infuriating.

“… This conversation isn’t interesting at all,” Tsubaki replies.

“… Yeah. I guess it isn’t.” A pause, Sleepy Ash gnawing his lower lip, fingers flexing inside the pockets of his jacket, clearly having something more to say. Whatever it is, it never leaves the other vampire’s mind, the first Servamp turning away from him and back to the humans who fawn over him and who get fawned over in turn. “… See you later, Tsubaki.”

Sunflowers are flowers of warmth. Bright, bold, always turned toward the life giving sun, they symbolize a number of things. Respect. Radiance. Passionate, summer like love.

Such a person who could embody all those things…

Tsubaki takes his last belonging from the locker, and starts to leave.

Such a person would be perfect, for the kind, gentle, springtime cherry blossom.

[goose-books]

& while i am posting things today. some more maxwriting, specifically two mini-fanfictions for yves. @yvesdot​ ’s WIP the one and only universe of kay rainier (would recommend! arguments to lovers! he/him wlw! interdimensional (?) shenanigans!) one of which also features an OC i've mentioned a few times on this blog but done historically very little with.

it’s occurred to me in my moment of posting that neither of these pieces have titles. oh well.

THE FIRST ONE

you ought to send yves. some bingo prompts. anyway, i sent them kay + daemons, and then immediately realized i had ideas and thoughts about that, too. so i wrote my own version. unlike theirs, this is vaguely set in the HDM universe, which is funny because i haven’t read HDM and learned everything i know from waya vivji, a single war and peace fanfiction, and also wikipedia just before i wrote it. the notable context here is that daemons are usually the “opposite sex” of their humans, and if i got that wrong do not tell me because i am embarrassed.

Kay is a precocious child; she is twelve years old when her daemon settles. Chesire is a sleek dark mahogany, a ferruginous hawk with a wickedly curved beak and eyes that glitter like beads. He is also male. This, for the Rainiers, is not done; even the absent Ariel, despite his eccentricities, had a properly gendered daemon. It unsettles Kay in a way she will not place for many years; still, as soon as she registers her disappointment (for it must be disappointment, surely; nothing more), she’s awash in guilt.

“How lovely,” she tells him, stroking his glossy new feathers, keeping her voice low less to keep out her father and more because it is only polite. Cheshire bobs his head and flutters his wings and seems, very slightly, to preen. He must be able to sense her uncertainty, the subdued flatness to her voice, but he is a Rainier as well; the polite thing is to ignore it, and he does.

“How curious,” Father says, stroking Fauntleroy’s velvet ears.

“Not unheard of,” the dormouse says from her seat in his breast pocket. Constantine inclines his head slightly; he does not deign to offer more.

/

When the Neighborly enters the house the jackal stalks at his heel, ears pricked at attention, wet black nose gleaming, mouth crooked open in a canine grin. With it comes a distinct smell — not unpleasant so much as it is unbalancing, an earthy scent, filling the foyer as its claws click on the floor. Like his clothes, it is black, head to toe. They aren’t usually. Kay wonders if it’s coincidence, if perhaps he dyes its fur so it will match.

She thinks of it as such — it — because to be frank she is not sure what to make of Atlas, and what to assume about his daemon. During the customary introductions, Cheshire perches atop Kay’s shoulder, and Fauntleroy emerges from her pocket to whisk up to Father’s collar and cling to the fabric to study the Neighborly. He can’t stay quite still. His hands twitch at his sides. He shifts his weight. The jackal paces maddening circles around the room, eyeing the dark walls and the fine wooden furniture, too dignified to lower its head and sniff but not too good to cast judgment without speaking. Every time it passes Kay in its slow inexorable orbit, Cheshire’s claws tighten on her coat.

“It’s a pleasure, Atlas,” Constantine says stiffly, extending a hand to shake with an expression that suggests he’d rather have it removed.

Atlas shakes, grinning easily, a looseness to his motions, and then he tilts his head and says, “Anubis.” In a moment the jackal’s at his side, curling around the backs of his legs to turn its wet smile on Kay’s father. It’s too large; that’s what she decides. How does he take it anywhere? Why hasn’t it learned to behave? Unless this is his goal: to part rooms, to announce his presence as soon as he steps through the threshold.

“Anubis,” she says, the first time she and Atlas are alone. “Like the god?” Atlas and Anubis; it is the sort of half-joke she can appreciate.

Anubis looks up at its name. Atlas looks at it. “I don’t know,” he says. “It was my sister’s idea.” He looks to Cheshire, who has settled near Kay’s inkwell to reorganize her pens. “And this is…”

“Cheshire.”

“Cheshire,” Atlas repeats, piercing glinting as his eyebrow quirks.

“When I was younger, I thought he would be a cat.”

“I thought she’d be a crow. Probably better this way. Crows are poser birds.” Anubis snorts at that, a sound both doggish and human.

“She is… she, then,” Kay says carefully.

“Oh, yeah. Apparently that’s weird.” Atlas leans back in Kay’s chair until the front legs leave the ground.

“Is it,” Kay says.

Atlas’s eyes flit around her face, like he knows what she’s asking; his smirk doesn’t lessen. “Well, women have male daemons, right? Ask Cheshire.”

Kay and Cheshire look at each other. Cheshire fluffs his feathers and says, “This is dull.”

Kay is less certain. She does not smile at Atlas, but some of the edge has smoothed from her voice. “I should like to watch you explain it to my father.”

“If he could take it,” Atlas says. “What’s the mouse’s fucking name again?”

Cheshire steps back and forth, feathers ruffling, until Kay sets a hand out to still him, gentle, comforting. “Fauntleroy.”

“Christ,” Atlas says. “Bless you.” When he catches Kay stiffening, he relents a little, letting the chair clatter back to the floor. “Fits the vibe, I guess.”

“As yours fits you,” says Kay, making it as uncomplimentary as she can.

“Guess my soul’s black,” Atlas says cheerily. He balls up a piece of paper and tosses it to Anubis, who, flopped across the floor, doesn’t move. “Not the weirdest thing about us.”

“Well,” Kay says, “I think it would be rather unfair for me to talk about oddities,” and she takes a small victory in the look they share: not friendship, not fondness, but something like an understanding, reached in the quiet moment before Cheshire hands her another pen and she resumes her work.

THE SECOND ONE

this one’s a bit older but i never posted it until now, at yves.’s urging! i think i was doing... camp nano last year? or something. and couldn’t think of what to write. or maybe i couldn’t focus on my project because i was thinking about my other project, the butch4butch hamlet retelling i still haven’t written. to which yves. said, “write kay x your lesbian hamlet character,” to which i said, “you don’t think i will, but i will,” and i did. so really this is yvesmax crossover fic.

It is annoying, Holden’s habit of dropping by whenever she likes. This can probably be attributed to the fact that Holden, herself, is annoying. Kay can only adjust the items on her desk (pens, mainly) so many times; she is caught up in an aggravating state of waiting but also not waiting, and she does not care for that.

Just as she thinks so, there’s a knock at the front door.

Holden doesn’t ring the doorbell anymore. She did that the first time and Kay came down the stairs a few seconds too late to find Father staring at the creature in his front hall, looking like he didn’t know whether he should be put out or concerned. “I think the earrings got him,” Holden said later, on Kay’s bed, tapping the crosses hanging inverted from her ears. Kay’s opinion was that it was all of her, from the messy post-buzz hair to the propensity for suits to the Doc Martens to the way Holden leans on any available surface.

She opens the door and Holden is leaning against the doorframe. Which looks a little more awkward coupled with whatever she’s carrying under her arm.

“Hi,” she says.

Kay blinks slowly.

“It is late,” she says, spinning on her heel and heading for the stairs. Behind her, she hears the quiet click of Holden closing the door. The grandfather clock in the front hall is ticking toward eleven.

“I never get over how weird this place is.” When she glances back, Holden is peering into the nearest glass cabinet. “Like a little dollhouse.”

“Thank you,” Kay says stiffly. She cannot decide whether she is irritable.

“And this is coming from someone whose parents were devoted to taxidermy.” Holden follows her up the stairs, hands shoved into the pockets of her suit jacket, looking entirely too comfortable here, and Kay decides that she is irritable after all.

“I do not know what you suppose your business is here,” she says. “Especially as it is almost an hour past ten.”

Holden shrugs.

“Do not shrug at me.”

Holden opens her mouth as if to speak, then casts a glance behind her. There’s no one in the darkened hallway; Father is in his office. Still, Holden waits for Kay to shut her bedroom door.

“I know I’m late,” she says, slouching back against it. “Sorry. I lost track of time in the bookstore.”

Kay blinks. “You are late to see me because you went to the bookstore,” she intones.

She says nothing as Holden withdraws the books from under her arm and extends them. “I really wanted to find Carmilla for you,” she says. “Like, the oldest print version I could find.”

It certainly looks old. Kay purses her lips. “I own Carmilla.”

“I know. But, like… it’s vintage.” Holden attempts one-handed jazz hands. “I have a sentence in my notes app from six months ago that just says carmilla but like the old edition.” She shuffles the stack of books. “And then I sat down for — look, I swear I was trying to be timely about it. Trying to be punctual.” She pops the P. “But time isn’t real and I read two chapters of Pride and Prejudice and I don’t know if you own that but it feels like the kind of thing you’d find sexy.” Her smile glitters. “And then — I know The Catcher in the Rye isn’t your thing. But I wrote in this one, so.”

Kay reaches out, very carefully, to take the books. She does own Pride and Prejudice, actually, but she still feels a pang. She flips through The Catcher in the Rye and is met with scrawls of black-ink handwriting, filling up the margins and underlining passages.

“Thank you,” she says, very softly, and moves to set the books on her desk. “You didn’t have to… get me anything.”

“I like knowing that my parents’ money is fueling homosexual agendas,” Holden says pleasantly. When Kay turns around, Holden catches her hand and steps in closer, showing her teeth in a smile. “But I’ll try to be on time from now on.”

“As you should,” Kay says, pulling Holden a few inches closer.

Holden raises a hand to caress Kay’s cheek. “That said,” she says in a low voice, “now that I’ve — what did you say. Now that I’ve fulfilled my business here, I can think of a few things we could do. Unless it’s too late.”

Against her will, Kay smiles.

“I suppose we can extend your stay a little longer,” she says, and their lips meet.

[monstersandmaw]

Male orc (Vilugh) x male reader (sfw) - Part Two

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This should have gone up on here yesterday, and has been available on my $5 Patreon tier for a week as the fourth ‘early release’ story on Patreon in July (every Wednesday).

You may recall the first chapter that I posted as an unedited WIP (Tumblr link) a while ago and had lots of encouraging comments about and some interest in seeing more from Vilugh and the prince. So, here it is! Sorry it's a bit late - things have just been nuts here lately. I wanted this to be the final chapter, but... plot happened. So... there'll be more in the future!

Content: continuing on from last time where our scholarly prince with the unfathomably dickish king for a father was told he was going to spend six months with the orcs, we see Vilugh again, meet his sister, and finally, get to the encampment. (tw: brief mention of past death of reader’s older brother, and constantly being compared to him by the aforementioned dickish king...)

Wordcount: exactly 4000. *nice*

Part One

To say that I was furious with my father for only deigning to inform me of my new situation for the next six months would have been an understatement. I knew I wasn’t the ruler-son that he’d envisaged taking over from him, but I had thought that my rather impressive record for strategy and tactics spoke for itself, not to mention that I was responsible for almost single-handedly planning and instigating massive economic reforms that not only refilled the monarchy’s gradually-dwindling coffers but promoted trade and gave our floundering, stagnating economy a huge boot up the backside. And yet, still, I was not enough. I was not my brother.

Fuming, I strode along the corridors from the great hall up to my chambers and nearly flattened a poor serving girl as she left one of the rooms along the way. “I’m sorry,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Highness,” she chirped, dipping into a curtsy and scurrying away before I could explain myself.

My reputation had gone from ‘scholar prince’ to ‘Royal Monk’ by the time I was twenty five, but I was also known for being moody and sullen, with a perpetual scowl on my lean - I thought gaunt - face. No wonder I’d frightened her. As I stared in the speckled mirror in my bedroom, I saw a face and body that would hardly impress the orcs to whom I was about to be packed off like a spare bit of cargo for six months. Why? What what did my father have to gain from sending me to a group of people who, until my teenage years, had been our enemies? They weren’t exactly our best friends now either.

The orcs right across the continent had begun to think about trade with us since Khraxh and her warband had first agreed to peace talks, and while the mountain orcs were still ferociously opposed to any kind of truce or trade talks with the soft, plains- and forest-dwelling humans, Khraxh had clearly seen the advantages that at least a ‘polite understanding’ would have with us. We had the monopoly on iron ore with our goblin-run mines to the east, and due to our superior charcoal burning techniques, we were able to forge steel like almost no one else, save perhaps the goblins themselves.

Goblins, like humans, had a long and turbulent history with orcs. Historically, encounters between the two peoples mostly ended in absolute annihilation of entire goblin communities by the larger and stronger orcs - hence their very slight preference for dealing with humans. It really was only a slight preference, however. Goblins were wary and untrusting of most folks, but it was understandable. They were a skittish, intolerant folk, quick to be offended and even quicker to give it.

Staring into that age-freckled mirror, I saw my lacklustre, pale skin, with no distinguishing features, save perhaps for my mother’s dark eyes and a slightly hooked nose. Where Dannan had been the golden boy of our family - qujite literally with his curly blond hair - I was the proverbial and, of late, the literal, dark horse. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression…

Needless to say, I got little sleep that night, which added to the dark shadows beneath those dark eyes. I turned it over and over as I lay amid the fine silk sheets. In the end, I came to the rather unsettling conclusion that my father hoped I wouldn’t survive my time with the orcs so that he could install someone like my cousin Balgrun on the throne after his demise. Not that anyone imagined that a king as tenacious and bitter as my father would ever give up his hold on life; he was simply too stubborn to die, I was sure of it. True, I was useful, but I was not a leader. I honestly crumbled to a trembling, stammering, sweating mess if I had to address the public myself, and I considered more than three people to be an abhorrent crowd. He’d raised me to be the shadow to my brother’s light, and I fulfilled that role too well to be trained to shine in public now.

Gritting my teeth the next morning, I stood on the sweeping steps of the royal castle, awaiting the arrival of the orcs.

The squeal of a war boar from the far side of the castle’s curtain wall announced their presence before the trumpets and shouts did. I drew a deep breath and kept my skinny hands folded behind my back. No need to let them see me shaking. The king emerged from the doors behind me and fixed me with his usual, emotionless glower. “Don’t embarrass me, son,” he muttered under his breath. “They do us great honour by taking you to the heart of their lands for so long a time.”

I raised my eyebrow. My mother had been able to do that, according to Rigmore. The castle steward and she had apparently been good friends, and when I had learned to do it, he had laughed and said I was the picture of my mother. Naturally, I did it around my father whenever I could just to rile him up. “Tell me, father,” I said with carefully controlled coolness in my voice. “What exactly do you hope to achieve out of my royal stay with — what was it you called them yesterday? — oh yes… ‘those beasts’.”

His lip curled and his eye twitched. “You will do well not to repeat that, boy,” he snarled.

I laughed and shook my head. “Out of the two of us, I seem to be the only one who values my hide, father. Fear not though, I have no intention of pissing off my captors.”

“Captors? Guardians, more like. The honour of hosting the son of the most powerful king on this continent will not be lost on them,” he said fervently, grey eyes drifting to the portcullis and main entrance to the bailey behind me.

“Surely you had some mission in mind for me then?”

“Win them over with that naive charm of yours,” he said dismissively, still not looking at me. “You could have charmed your way into the beds of half the nobility of this kingdom, despite your… physique… Fuck them if you have to,” he said in a hiss in my ear, “But I want them in an advantageous trade deal by the end of next spring. Butter them up, win their trust, and we’ll have the brutes in our pockets.”

“And if I don’t manage that?” I asked.

His eyes flashed. “Then you really aren’t of any use to me at all, are you?”

It wasn’t a wholly unexpected answer. The man was always the king before he was my father, but still, I barked out a loud and undignified laugh just as the orcs entered amid a clatter of cloven trotters and squealing war beasts, feeling empty and hollow. “Goddess be merciful,” I cursed. “You just want me out of the way while you wine and dine Balgrun in my absence. Oh yes,” I chuckled back at him over my shoulder, practically skipping down the stairs and strangely looking forward to my six month ‘holiday’ from the backstabbing and conniving of the castle. “I asked around; I know you’re asking my dear little cousin to stay. Perhaps you can show him the ropes in six months, and perhaps the orcs will decide I’m more useful as a toothpick than a diplomat, and you’ll have a reason to go to war with them again, wipe them off the plains, and then nothing will stand in your way between the coast and the mountains.”

And with that, I left him sputtering on the steps, his face a rather nasty puce colour. I’d figured out his alternative plan, and if he thought for a moment I was going to let him have it, he was a dotard.

“Greetings,” I said, addressing Vilugh in the common Trade Tongue. “Regrettably I have not had the chance to learn your language yet, otherwise I would have greeted you in your own tongue.”

The orc swung down from his boar and dropped the reins to the flagstone floor, ground-tying the beast the same way I might have ground-tied my mare. Starling was, to my relief, already saddled and ready for me, standing with her bridle in the hands of a groom and stamping her hoof in anticipation of an outing.

Vilugh was every bit as colossal and imposing as I remembered him from the last time I’d seen him, if not more so. I knew he had to be ten years or so older than me, and if he was thirty five, he was still in his absolute prime. His green-skinned chest was largely bare, save for the leather strap that reached diagonally from one hip to the opposite shoulder, holding up the leather hunting skirt that hugged his hips and hid very little from the imagination. He didn’t have the defined abs of the veiner fighters I’d seen who liked to show off their lean, oiled bodies for the attention of the crowd, but his middle was packed with solid fat and muscle that spoke of the strength of two or three oxen. His thighs could have crushed one of our warhorses to a bloody slurry if he’d fancied trying, and his hands were as big as the buckler shields favoured by fancy duellers in the city. Small for a shield, but very big for a hand.

His eyes were still that unnerving black that I recalled from my youth, and they were every bit as perceptive as I remembered too. He raked his gaze up my slim form, no doubt also cataloguing my physical features and sartorial preferences. That day I had chosen simple buckskin leggings, suitable for long distance riding, and a loose, linen shirt. My hair was tied back in a practical style at the nape of my neck, and across the front of my saddle, I had instructed my servant to tie a leather hunter’s jerkin for when evening drew in and it inevitably got much colder. In my saddlebags I had had simple, comfortable clothing packed, with none of the fripperies and fineries with which a prince might be expected to travel. Orcs were a pragmatic and practical people, and having a whiny prince demanding to stop for wine and grapes halfway there would win me no favours with them.

“We can teach you to speak orcish if you want,” Vilugh said in a voice like a rock slide.

I couldn't help but grin at the chance to learn something else, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that. I can’t promise to be any good, but I’ll try.”

To my surprise, Vilugh laughed. “From what I hear, you’re a quick learner, prince. You’ll catch on quick enough I reckon.”

Relief washed through me. The warrior was polite and had a sense of humour. As much as my father’s court frustrated me, I knew where to tread there, and how far I could push and poke before I risked too much. With the orcs, I had no idea yet what might provoke them or amuse them. I also had no idea how they felt about this arrangement, or how my presence among them would be received.

“If you’d like to rest or feed your mounts, and seek the same for yourself, then please make yourselves comfortable, otherwise I’m ready to leave whenever you are.” I left it up to him to decide, and after a quick look at my father, still standing on the castle steps like a lone lion on a rock while hyenas prowled below, Vilugh shot me a look of a different calibre.

“These boar can ride all day without stopping for food or water; three days without rest,” he said in a measured voice, walking at my side and casting my entire body into shadow with his immense height and breadth.

He was testing me, and I didn’t fall for it. “And yet the ride from your mother’s bastion is four days from here,” I replied with the same even tone.

Vilugh’s eyes glittered with amusement. “The piss you people drink for ale should be enough for now.”

It was easy enough for me to take a chance on his sense of humour with my father’s bowmen lining the walls and the honour guard ranged up the stairs nearby. “For you or for the boars?” I quipped, turning away and inviting him to follow me.

Again, the massive - and honestly quite intimidating - orc let out a long, loud belly-laugh of amusement. “Hay will do for the boars just now, though they prefer meat when they can get it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I muttered.

The boars were seen to, and I led Vilugh and the two other orcs who had accompanied him up to meet my father. Neither Vilugh nor his fellow warriors bowed or bent the knee to my father I was pleased to note, and it got my father’s hackles up like a like a bristling tomcat. I almost could have kissed the enormous warrior just for putting my father on the back foot already, but honestly, what did he expect? Did he think the orcs would prostrate themselves before him? They’d hardly done that last time, so I couldn’t imagine he’d be so conceited as to think they’d do it this time.

“Your majesty,” Vilugh said.

“Welcome,” my father said, his tone more tightly-clipped than the box hedge in the castle’s knot garden. “Will you be staying for some refreshments before you return to your people with my son?”

“Just long enough to give the boars a breather,” Vilugh said with easy diplomacy.

The other warriors he’d brought with him were the older, one-armed orc I’d skittered away from as a child, and a female I didn’t recognise but who had the most incredible, blue eyes I’d ever seen. Vilugh must have caught me admiring her in the great hall because he leaned in close and growled without real sting, “Stare too long at my sister and she’ll most likely cut out your eyes, princeling.”

“I was just admiring hers,” I yipped quickly, regretting the rather boyish note to my usually hoarse tenor. “Blue eyes are not so common in these parts, that’s all. I meant no offence by it.”

Seated beside him at the table, she leaned close to her brother and barked something in orcish at him. He looked briefly back at me, and then responded in the same. They conversed for a moment and I sat there with my spine dead-straight and my jaw clenched. When Vilugh turned back to me, he grinned. “Rhana says that if the pretty human princeling wants to stare at her, he can, but he’ll have to answer to her wife when we get back.”

“Far be it from me to come between an orc and her wife,” I chuckled anxiously.

When Vilugh translated, they both laughed and Rhana reached behind her brother and cuffed me on the shoulder hard enough that I was almost sent reeling off my seat and onto the floor, which got another laugh out of them and drew a glare of daggers from my unnerved father. Good. Let him be baffled that I was already getting along with these warriors like soldiers in the barracks. He’d clearly not expected me to have any idea how to behave around them, but while I didn’t spend my spare time in our own guards’ barracks, I observed the way everyone in the castle interacted with each other. It was what I’d been trained to do, after all: notice things and remember them.

All in all, the orcs didn't linger long, and we were on our way within an hour.

The pace of the first few hours of the ride alternated between a brisk walk and trotting, though my mare jogged excitedly for the first hour of that until I finally convinced her that we were in it for the long haul. The grooms kept her fit and well-schooled since I couldn’t step away from the castle regularly enough to do it myself, but by the end of the day, even my indomitable Starling was beginning to flag. I patted her neck and murmured that we’d probably break camp soon, and, sure enough, we did.

Once a small fire was lit, with the dry twigs of plains brush-scrub, and carefully warded in a low pit to stop it spreading across the arid plain, I drew out my rations from my saddlebag and Vilugh shot me a look of mild surprise.

“What?” I asked, nervous that I’d committed some inadvertent transgression by digging in before they’d started eating.

After a moment, the orc heaved himself down onto the ground beside me, long, black plait thwacking against his back at the motion. Then he said almost conspiratorially, “You’re not what I was expecting.”

Unwrapping the bread and hard cheese from their waxed linen wrappings, I frowned. “Just what were you expecting, might I ask?”

He shrugged a massive shoulder and drew out a similarly wrapped parcel - much larger - with dried meat and a hard looking biscuit that I thought would probably crack my own teeth before it broke. “Honestly… going off the last time I saw you, and from what your father said of you in talks with my mother… I thought you’d be a fragile little bird. You’re not.” He looked at me, dark eyes glittering in the fire like polished onyx and added, “You are skinny as a bird, but you’re not weak.”

“How would you know?” I scoffed. “I could be too weak to draw my sword. It could just be strapped to my waist for show…” In fact, it was now unbuckled and lying behind me with my saddle and bags, while Starling was hobbled nearby and looking rather disdainfully at the slim grazing afforded by the scrubland where we’d paused. Finest high-summer hay, it was not.

“You move like a dancer,” he said, and I immediately choked on a breadcrumb.

He had to slap me on the back and offered me a skin of water. I washed the offending clog down and gawped at him. “What would you know about human dancers?” I asked without thinking.

“I’ve travelled to the cities on the coast,” he said. “They dance in the marketplaces on festival days.”

“Oh,” I said. And then my cheeks flushed. “I’m not… You know… those dancers are… uh… paid to do more than dance… shall we say.”

It took Vilugh a moment to catch on, but he seemed embarrassed at his mistake. “I meant no insult by it,” he said. “They’re very beautiful.”

“That they are,” I admitted. My father had tried to entice three of them into bed with me after one evening spent in the company of one of his duchesses, but when I’d shown more interest in her library than her twittering prostitutes, he’d given up. Apparently the finest courtesans in the land weren’t going to make me proper man in his eyes, so it wasn’t worth trying.

Vilugh must have seen my memories swirling across my face, because he didn’t bring it up again, and we ate in a rather awkward silence after that. The orcs drew lots for the watch, and Vilugh drew the first and insisted that as their guest, I should not be expected to deprive myself of sleep. Plus, apparently, the next day’s riding would be harder and he didn’t want me falling out of my saddle when I dozed off. Also orcs’ eyes were more like cats’ eyes in the dark, I discovered, when I looked up and saw Rhana’s glinting at me from across the fire and nearly had a heart attack. She laughed and wished me pleasant dreams.

Taking their well-meaning jibes in my stride, I nodded and bedded down in my humble bedroll. It was the type that hunters used, made of breathable buckskin and lined with fleece to keep off the chill of the plains, and although I’d only spent one or two nights in it in my life, I slept better that night than I had in years, not waking until Vilugh's surprisingly gentle touch at my shoulder stirred me not long after dawn.

Over the course of the next few days, Starling developed a comical rivalry with Rhana’s boar, the two taking every opportunity to bite or scuffle with each other, though it never seemed to get truly vicious enough for either of us to worry about, so we let it play out to our amusement. Perhaps because of that and perhaps because I just simply liked them for their gruff honesty, by the time the wooden palisade walls of the orcish war-band’s permanent stronghold drew into view on a wind-blown hilltop, I felt relatively comfortable with the three orcs who had been sent to fetch me.

The older one with one arm was called Rhakak, and was apparently Vilugh’s cousin. He was taciturn and unflinching, watchful and grim, but not aggressive towards me. I still gave him a wide berth though.

But if I’d thought Rhakak was intimidating, it was nothing to Vilugh's mother.

I remembered her from her visit to the castle, but nothing could quite have prepared me for the sheer presence the matriarch had amongst her own people. She was standing waiting for us as we rode up to the walls of the stronghold, and even though Vilugh had told me that Khraxh wouldn’t hold me to the same etiquette as she would a visiting orc, I still nearly shat my pants in fear when I got off Starling’s back and found her surveying me with a distinctly unimpressed look on her weathered, beautiful face.

She really was beautiful. Her body was honed and muscular, but her movements were sleek and efficient, and in much the way a war galley cuts through the water and bristles with power, so she moved with the dormant power of a life-long warrior. Her long, thick hair had turned grey in the intervening decade since I’d seen her, and she’d lost half a tusk too, but the way the gathered orcs arranged themselves around her reminded me of a wolf and her pack. She commanded absolute obedience in them, and unyielding loyalty. In that moment, I did feel afraid, and suddenly very much not up to the seemingly impossible task I had been set.

With a rather endearing patience, Vilugh had taught me the phrase to speak in orcish upon meeting her, and once I could finally get my tongue around the complex vocal gymnastics of the orcish language, he said I would not be flayed alive for completely embarrassing my tutor.

Thus, upon our first meeting, I nearly sprained my jaw, but I gained perhaps a modicum of respect from the veteran war chief. As the three orcs sent to the castle to fetch me had now bowed, neither did I, but I did incline my head as I spoke. There was no need to act like a prideful brat after all.

If my father was expecting me to make enemies of these people and inadvertently lure them into killing me and sparking a war, then I was bloody well going to do the opposite. I wasn’t a warrior, but I had my mind, and I was damned if I was going to fuck things up and go down in history as the skinny little prince who kicked off the orc-human conflict all over again.

Humble but not meek, studious but not annoyingly curious, polite but not obsequious, opinionated but not obnoxious… I began to feel my way through the stronghold’s hierarchy, and miraculously survived my first week there without insulting anyone.

One week down, twenty three more to go…

___

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[weslynnegoldmeadow]

Wes awoke that night drenched in a cold sweat. There hadn't really been time to process the losses in Northrend, thanks to the Scourge invasion, and it showed in her subconscious every so often when she tried to sleep.

The dreams were always the same. Her ex-wife -- or occasionally someone else she was close to, like Alexandria, Lexy, or Perynn -- would be in mortal danger, and she'd be nowhere to be seen. Doing something important, sure, but never there when she was needed. She'd return from a battle, or campaign -- once even a raid -- triumphant, high spirits dripping from her lips as she cheered and celebrated with the rest of her comrades... but it always ended with the same conversation. A hand-wringing so-and-so forced to shatter the evening's joy. To break the news that while she'd been gone, something terrible had happened. When she wasn't there, she had lost someone else.

Weslynne pinched the bridge of her nose in the darkness, a silent curse bubbled up from the pit of her throat as she tried to will the memory from her mind. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and her body creaked and crackled as she pulled herself upright, and shuffled over to the window. It was nearly dawn this time, at least, and the sun had already begun to bleed through the tallest of the weald's trees.

So Weslynne did what any Paladin would. She pulled on her britches, donned her leathers, laced up her boots, and grabbed her travel pack. The best cure for a rattled, racing mind was hard work, and there was plenty to do.

The crisp Drustvar air kissed her face as she walked, and Wes tugged up her hood against it's advances. She tore off a hunk of jerky with her teeth as she headed into the forest, enjoying breakfast on the go -- and the last bit of comfort she'd brought back from her most recent trip to Stormwind.

It took the old knight a few hours to shake the bitter feelings her dream had left behind, but walking was good for that. The forest was beautiful, and over the past few weeks of exploring, she had come to know it very well. These were her stomping grounds, now. This was home turf.

By the time Wes reached the foot of the ancient tower, her jerky was all gone, and the blazing sun had climbed high into the sky above. Wes unslung her pack in the shadow of the tower, setting it aside, against the stone, and taking a knee beside it.

It was a wonder, she thought, that such a place could still exist after so long. So often when settlements died, or people abandoned a place, mother nature would move in behind them and make everything hers once again. This... wasn't quite that. The tower seemed to coexist with the growth, standing beside the vines and branches, rather than succumbing to them.

Weslynne slipped an old, leather-bound libram from her pack. Once she'd begun to get the hang of the subtle differences between Drust, and Vrykul scripts, Wes had started to pouring over the memorial tree. There were carvings -- just like the epitaph she'd read -- all the way up the old oak. Everything from poetry to philosophical musings. Thoughts on the Light. On how people should treat one another. It struck her as familiar. The kinds of notes a Paladin might inscribe in their libram alongside their interpretations of the holy scripture.

She began to thumb through her own libram, finally opening it to the last marked page. Translating the script from the bark had been rough, intensive work at first, but she'd relished the challenge. With every word it got easier and easier, and soon Weslynne found herself wrestling not with the translation, but the philosophical teachings the owners of this tower had left behind... and it was easy to get lost in the mystery now that so much of it was unfolding before her.

"Bright one," a woman's rich voice sounded behind her, snapping the Paladin from her introspection. Weslynne's hand immediately fell to the butt of her sawed-off 10-gauge, and in the span of a breath, she had whirled on the sound with her weapon drawn.

Before her stood a colossal spectral figure, wearing a helmet adorned with antlers, a mixture of animal pelts, and what appeared to be... armor of enchanted bark. At the figure's flank sat a ghostly hunting hound at rapt attention. The exact kind of dog that'd harried her company's steps the first night they found the tower.

"I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you wan-"

Weslynne scowled in frustration as the Horned Knight cut her off, but that frustration swiftly morphed into confusion as the spirit spoke.

"I wanted to thank you."

The paladin scratched the back of her head, nails catching on the freshly-shaved portion of her undercut. Wes felt somewhat silly with the shotgun still in her hand after hearing that, so she eased the hammer back into place before holstering her firearm.

"For what?"

"For tending to my grave. For bringing Light to this place after it languished for so long in decrepitude, and darkness. Your Light woke me from my long slumber, Bright One, and -- though I mourn the fact that my followers no longer keep vigil here -- I am happy to be awake at long last, for I have work to do... and I have you to thank for that."

Weslynne's mind raced, and she nearly let the Libram fall from her hands. Nearly.

"So wait. You're the spirit we fought, and... this is your memorial?"

"This is my final resting place," she confirms. "...but it is no mere memorial. This tree was a celebration of my life. Of my teachings. Of the good I tried to do in the world." The Horned Knight's hand falls to her hunting hound's head, and she absent-mindedly scritches behind it's ears as she gazes up at the tree. "... of the good I tried to leave behind for others."

Weslynne babbled for a moment, flipping back a few pages in her libram. She clears her throat in an attempt to wrange her wayward tongue.

"Creating, rehabilitating, rebuilding, and healing should be considered sacred charges to those blessed by the Light."

Weslynne places a particularly heavy emphasis on that last word, and there's a pause as she peers at the spirit. "You -- or your followers -- wrote this, right? It references the Light, but this tower is clearly far older than the Church, an-"

"The Light is a primordial force," the spirit interjects once more. "It existed before we creatures of flesh and blood and bone ever deigned to walk this planet's surface, and it will continue to exist long after we have become dust, and she has found a new use for our remains."

The Horned Knight placed a hand on either side of her helmet, and tugged off. Tightly braided hair cascaded down around her shoulders as it came free, revealing the stern, weathered face of a dusky-skinned human woman with tired eyes, and sculpted features.

Weslynne simply watched in awe, clearly unable to fully grasp the depth and breadth of the ideological chasm that stood before her.

"Do you have a name?" She finally managed to stammer, peering at the spirit and her dog. "I have... so many fucking questions -- if you've the time to answer them?"

"I am, or perhaps more accurately, was Emma Cleyre. The first -- and now last -- of the Wildsworn, and I was bound here for this exact purpose. So ask your questions, Bright One. Ask until your eyelids grow heavy, and your voice becomes horse, and I shall do my best to answer them."

[thisentertaining]

Instinctual - The Instincts of the Airwalkers- pt 1

Zuko wasn't sure what to think about the tales of modern day figures living and flying in the Northen Air Temple. His people are... thorough. He doesn't want to let Aang down, but he finds it hard to believe that anyone not stuck in an iceberg had escaped the eradication.

When he got to the temple, he hated being proven right. What's more, he hated seeing Earth Kingdom strangers destroying what little of Aang's heritage survived the attack of his people. But the day that the Fire Nation launches a second attack on this once idyllic temple, Zuko hates the most that he has to finally make a clear choice.

He'd thought he'd made this choice already, thought he'd made it several times over, but the question remains when he'd least like it to: Is he willing to fight against his Nation?

Read on Ao3

Read from Beginning

Azula had never been shy about calling him insulting names. In fact, he was almost certain that casual insults had been more common than ‘Zuzu’, and she certainly never deigned to call him Zuko. She’d had a lot of fodder to create the names, centering on how he clung to Mother, his inability to please the tutors, his abysmal fire bending progress, the innate weakness that she and Father saw and he’d never been able to identify to change. Most of them bothered him, and he wasn’t good at hiding it, which only encouraged her to keep using them.

The only one that hadn’t bothered him was when she called him a Theatre Nerd. Ursa had been an actress, bringing life to even their bedtime stories before Azule got ‘too old’ for them. Zuko hadn’t felt too old, but he was older than Azula, and so he’d been too embarrassed to request that they continue. Regardless, he’d loved trips with his mother to see the theatre, and even Azula had enjoyed when they went to the Ember Island Players together, if only because Ursa eviscerated the poor quality shows with a viciousness that the prodigy could appreciate.  

After Mother disappeared they never went to another play, but Azula would use the insult every time she caught Zuko cramming a theatre scroll in his homework pile or humming the notes to the overture in ‘Love Amongst the Dragons’. Zuko hadn’t minded. If anything, it had made him feel closer to his mother, as if this was a part of her that remained even though she was gone. Additionally, he didn’t really think there was anything wrong with enjoying good storytelling.

This was not good storytelling.

The man at the fire had told a story that was winding, without a clear plot or purpose. Even his terminology was off, he called airbendenders ‘airwalkers’, and acted as though it was reasonable for the main character to think it was a human-sized parrot. He only really got artistic with it at the end, and by then Zuko was as bored as Aang was enthralled. The Fire Nation teen was mentally going through the Airbender-featuring plays he’d read to give Aang a proper story when the man stopped talking.

(Technically, scrolls with non-Fire-Nation main characters were illegal unless the foreigners were the villains, but Ursa had a cache of scrolls that even Ozai had never known existed.)

(They’d disappeared the night she did; all but one. Zuko’s favorite, a biography of Avatar Kyoshi, had appeared under the turtleduck tree. Mom used to joke that she regretted letting Zuko read that one because he’d learned to be stubborn from a woman renown for her will even among a nation who took pride in their tenacity.)

“Aren’t airbender stories the best?” Aang asked happily, and Zuko felt some of his annoyance at the subpar story ease. This was important for Aang, it was good that he got the reminder that his people were not forgotten.

“Was it realistic?” Katara asked. “Is that how it was back then?”

“I laugh at gravity all the time!” Aang said immediately, referencing the man’s ending line.

Zuko snorted. “You laugh at everything all the time, Aang.”

“Well, so did the other airbenders. There used to be a running tab to see how many times you could get a pie to land on someone’s head! But it only worked if they actually got pied, if they spotted it and deflected, you didn’t get the points. Monk Gyastso won every week.”

That… hadn’t been in any of the plays Zuko was thinking of. Except… maybe that one scene in ‘As the Wind Follows’… that had been a pudding, but maybe it had been inspired by the pie thing.  Zuko was just about to ask when the man showed up with his hat, obnoxiously shaking it in front of a half-dozing Sokka. The teen scrambled in his pockets, but all of them knew exactly what he would find. Or wouldn’t find. They’d spent the last of their money at the Fire Nation Festival, and had been too busy running from Zhao since to try and pick up odd jobs.

Anything but fishing.

The man walked away with a disgusted grumble and Zuko couldn’t help but a feel a pang of guilt. Mom had campaigned for funding to be channeled to the dramatic arts back home, knowing first hand how hard it was to make a living. Here, they didn’t even charge tickets, relying wholly on the tips of their listeners. Zuko wished he could give something, but he owned almost nothing, and could not spare anything he did.

Aang jumped up and followed the man, thanking him for the story. Zuko watched as Katara and Sokka bickered about their nonexistent funds. It should be fine, they should be able to survive off of what they had until they reached the Northern Water Tribe, and hopefully they would be generous to their tribesmen and the Avatar… and Zuko would get stuff by association.

Suddenly Aang was there, moving so quickly that Zuko hadn’t seen him shift, eyes wide and smile so huge that it seemed to split his face like a alli-pelican. “Guys, they say the airbenders last week. They must have- some of my people survived! I’m not the last airbender after all! WOO HOO!”

In his excitement, the boy created a tornado under him and shot into the sky, cheering all the while.

One of the other story patrons gasped. “A giant parrot!”

______________________

“We’re almost to the Northern Air Temple!” Aang said as Appa floated past yet another identical mountaintop. Excitement threaded every syllable the boy spoke, and he was practically vibrating in his seat. “This is where they had the championships!”

Zuko squinted, though he was always squinting now. Aang had never pushed Appa to go this fast before, and as they got closer the air bison seemed to just keep going faster, the wind on their ride was much more intense than the risers were prepared for after weeks or months of fairly sedate flying with occasional bursts of speed. “The… pie throwing championships?”

“No!” Aang laughed. “For sky bison polo.” The boy launched into a well-detailed explanation that was ignored by all of his passengers.

“Do you think we’ll really find airbenders?” Katara asked Sokka, but her face was filled with hope rather than the concern and dread filling Zuko’s stomach.

“You want me to be like you, or totally honest?” Sokka asked.

“Are you saying I’m a liar?” Katara asked, affronted.

“I’m saying you’re an optimist. Same thing basically.”

She huffed and turned to the boy who had said hardly a word since Aang had made his announcement. “What do you think Zuko?” She asked, as though expecting him to be on her side.

He wished he could be. “My people are very… thorough, Katara. If Fire Lord Sozin saw them as a threat… well, neither he nor any Firelord after him were known for doing things part way.” Nor for showing mercy.

The girl cast an anxious look at Aang, pain creasing her face. In attempt to just, get rid of that look, Zuko allowed. “Although… they were nomads. How can I say that they didn’t miss a couple who were off… doing couple things. In a hundred years you could have as many as four or five generations easily. There uh, there’s a chance.”

Sokka sent him a look while Katara’s smile returned. Zuko scowled in response and looked down. Nothing that he’d said was false. It was just that… well his people were very thorough. They’d killed the last of the dragons, spiritual creatures blessed to be the first Fire Benders. If they’d managed to hunt down each and every one of them, Zuko feared that the Air Nomads hadn’t been much trouble. He shouldn’t have said anything. He’d spent too long with dwindling-nonexistent hope, he’d forgotten how much it hurt to be disappointed.

Except, maybe they wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Hey guys, look!” Aang shouted, and gleefully pointed at an impossibility.

They could see the air temple in the distance, and it was absolutely surrounded by flying figures, figures larger than any giant parrot. People. Airbenders.

His people had failed.

If Zuko hadn’t become so much a traitor, that thought wouldn’t be bringing him so much job, but looking at Aang’s face he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything else.

Katara gasped in wonder. “They really are airbenders!”

“No they’re not.” Aang argued, his excitement having drained with starling speed. The boy crossed his arms and settled petulantly against the Bison’s head.

“What do you mean?” Sokka demanded. “Those guys are flying!”

“Gliding maybe.” Aang said angrily. “But not flying. You can tell by the way they move.”

Zuko squinted at the figures and could kind of see what Aang was talking about. “They’re all going the same paths.” He realized suddenly.  “They’re riding air currents.”

“Riding them, not creating them.” Aang agreed. “They’re not airbending. Those people have no spirit.”

Zuko caught movement out of the corner of his eye and hit the deck, grabbing a protesting Sokka and dragging his with him, though Katara was too far away at the front of the saddle. The pair had barely hit the ground when suddenly  cart glided inches from where there heads had been, a boy in green laughing merrily as he flew past. Zuko popped up with a scowl, punching out a firebending move that should have served as a warning shot just as close as the strangers dive had been. It would have, at least, if he could produce anything more than a weak-looking puff of smoke.

Sokka pat Zuko on the back awkwardly as Katara turned back to the Avatar. “I don’t know, Aang. That kid seems pretty spirited to me.”

The kid swung back up by Appa’s head, sending Aang a look, and suddenly Aang’s face morphed into a competitive smirk the likes of which Zuko had never seen on the boy’s face, and he immediately jumped off the bison, his staff growing it’s sails as he chased after the glider.

“Great. Yeah, just, go after the stranger, Aang. Great idea.” Zuko grumbled, and Sokka laughed at him.

“You’re just grumpy cause the guy didn’t notice your fire-poof.”

“It’s a good thing he didn’t notice my bending. He’s Earth Kingdom, it would have been bad for us. I shouldn’t have even tried.” Zuko grumbled, and looked away so that he didn’t have to acknowledge that it wasn’t the bending that had upset him. It’s was Aang’s face just before he jumped into the sky. It was an expression that Zuko had never seen before, but one that fit the child so well. How many times had he made it in the past? Flown circles around the other child-monks in the temples, played games with people who could actually keep up.

How much had his people actually taken from him.

Luckily, the teen was momentarily broken from his thoughts when two close-flying gliders got too close to Appa’s nose and the bison jerked back, jolting the trio in the saddle.

"We need to get to some land before it get’s to us first." Sokka said once they’d settled, and Zuko happily jumped to steer the bison to the temple, anything to keep his mind focused on anything else. Anything beyond how good it looked to see Aang racing the glider.

It wasn’t much of a race. Aang had a freedom of movement that the glider simply couldn’t accomplish, running along walls and using is air sphere where the earth kingdom boy was much more restricted. Though, using smoke to create a caricature of Aang was a decent comeback. Still, when Aang landed beside Katara and Sokka there was something impossible to decipher in his expression.

The earth kingdom teen landed shortly after, skidding halfway across the platform before stopping, and immediately other children came forward to remove the wings and tops of the cart, though it became clear that the boy wouldn’t be getting out of the cart itself as he expertly wheeled himself over to the trio.

What followed was a lot of geeking out. The kid, Teo apparently, geeked out about the airbending and Avatar-ness, Sokka geeked out about the gliding chair. Zuko geeked out about nothing and tried very hard not to see ghosts in every corner. Teo led them through the temple, and Zuko had to fight to keep his face from screwing up. It wasn’t bad, per say, but with the plays and Uncle’s teachings, he’d pictured the nomad’s temples as things of beauty, clean and simple. This was… not that. There were pipes filling so much space that the lines were hard to follow with his eyes, and the walls had become an odd off-grey color. Some of the pipes even bisected reliefs and carvings and sculptures, creating ugly holes and cracks in the likely once-beautiful designs.

It was… sad.

Probably a lot sadder for Aang. Zuko realized when the boy flatly refused to share in Teo' pride and Sokka’s wonder. Zuko followed when Aang walked away, placing a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. Aang cast him a weak attempt at a smile as he walked him over to a large mural that had probably been stunning before it was stained with soot and marred by piping. Katara came on the boy’s other side and offered her silent support as well. “This is supposed to be the history of my people.” Aang said mournfully, gesturing at the images on monks and bison still faintly visible. One figure had even been decapitated by an extremely disrespectful pipe placement.

He wandered over to a stylized statue of a bison, the fountain now filled with disgusting polluted refuse. A plume of dark, sick looking smog burst from the statues mouth, making Aang jump back in disgust.

Zuko twitched awkwardly. “Do you want me to yell at someone? I’m really really good at it.” He offered.

Aang’s answering smile was a little less weak this time. “No, it… you don’t have to do that.”

“If that changes, let me know.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Katara, still on this bizzarely-nice kick, sent Zuko a wide smile before turning back to Aang. “I’m sure some parts of the temple are still the same.”

“Maybe. Hey, Teo! Are there any parts of the temple that haven’t been… changed like this?”

The boy, who had been deeply entrenched with Sokka about… something, scrunched his face in thought  before brightening. “Yeah! There are some platforms in the east side of the temple that are kinda tricky to get to so we haven’t done much with them! I can show you the way if you want.”

Zuko sneered, anger and guilt melting in his stomach uncomfortably. That mural was just as stained with smoke dust and ash as it was ruined by pipes. His people had brought this pain to Aang just as much as these squatters did. He’d already realized that this war was wrong, that they shouldn’t be fighting, be decimating like they were. Was it so much of a leap to think that it had never been right? It was hard to think anything else at the moment. He was furious that Aang had lost so much, and felt horrendous guilt knowing that his people had a part to play. But Sozin wasn’t here. This kid, this trespasser was. “I’m sure Aang knows this place far better than you. We don’t need a guide.”

Sokka cast him a surprised, reproachful look as Teo flinched back physically from the vitriol in Zuko’s voice, the venom in his words. The look Aang sent was understanding, almost grateful, but he shook his head. “It’s okay, Zuko. I’m- I’m upset but this isn’t Teo’s fault.” No, it was the Fire Nations’. His peoples’. His. “We would be honored if you could show us the way.”

Teo sent a hesitant smile at the boy, but still watched Zuko carefully until Katara cut in. “Sorry about Zuko. He’s just really protective of Aang.”

“I am not!” Zuko protested hotly.

“No, of course not.” Sokka mocked, having gotten over his shock. “You just singlehandedly snuck into a Fire Nation stronghold for him.”

“I mean, that-“

“And risked getting arrested by the Fire Nation to get him a teacher.”

“I just wanted Fire Flakes.”

“And you-“

“Enough! I get it.” He grumbled, and Teo laughed.

“It’s okay.” The boy said with a easy casualness. “I can understand being protective of someone. It isn’t a big deal, I forgive you. I don’t like to be mad at people anyway.”

Zuko squinted at him. “Are you sure you’re not an airbender?”

Aang laughed. “Maybe some of our philosophies have rubbed off on you just by living here.”

Teo grinned back. "Well, I wouldn’t mind that. The airbenders seemed awesome. How about this, you can tell me all about them on our way to the eastern platforms.”

“Only if you tell me how you guys ended up here in the first place.”

____________

Zuko trailed slightly behind the group and tried very hard to look as not-Fire-Nation as possible as Teo led them through the winding corridors. They were refugees, of course they were refugees. Every time you see Earth Kingdom people in weird places, it was because they were refugees fleeing the war. Which meant that his people were not only the whole reason this place got abandoned, it was also the reason why it had gotten reinhabited, why even this last spot of the Air Nomads was being changed and destroyed.

“It’s nice to see at least one part of the temple that isn’t ruined." Aang said happily as they made their way into a courtyard.

There were wooden doors surrounding the area, likely dorms, and a few noble and peaceful statues acting as guardians. Aang stared at one of the statues with the first hint of peace that had crossed his face since they’d landed. Zuko was about to ask Aang about the figure’s history when suddenly a loud voice yelled lookout, and the statue was destroyed right in front of Aang’s eyes.

Out of the dust stepped a man with the worst haircut Zuko had ever seen (and he’d tried to do a bald phoenix plume after his injury). “What the doodle?” The man asked, and Zuko was even more certain that he did not like him. “Don’t you know better than to be in an active construction zone? We have to make room for the bathhouse.”

“Do you know what you just did?” Aang asked, voice filled with a passionate fury that sent shivers down Zuko’s spine. “You just destroyed something sacred. For a stupid bathhouse!” He cried, anger so intense that his voice broke.

The man seemed entirely oblivious, “Well, people around here are starting to stink.” As though that was the important point.

“This whole place stinks!” Aang shrieked, sending a gust of wind to push the destruction machine off the mountain face. “This is a sacred temple. You can’t treat it this way. I know what it’s supposed to be like.”

“The monks?” The man asked. “But, you’re twelve.”

“Dad, he’s the Avatar.” Teo responded. “He used to be here a hundred years ago.”

“What are you doing? Who said you could do this?” Aang asked, his fury not abated in the least. “Just because you’re refugees, doesn’t mean you can destroy something sacred. Destroy history.”

The man wove a tale that would have been heart rendering, had he not said it in such a ridiculous way, and had he not been completely oblivious to the anger that was only building in Aang as he spoke of ‘improvement’ and ‘progress’. The distracted man soon had his attention pulled away as he realized the time, dismissing his conversation with Aang as though that would clear him of the repercussions.

Zuko attempted to smile at Aang. “Looks like I’m not the only one whose good at yelling.”

The boy grimaced. “Yeah, I kind of lost my temper.”

“That isn’t always a bad thing, Aang. Maybe he’ll be more careful with this place now that he knows how important it is.”

The airbender perked. “Yeah, maybe!”

Teo rolled up to them. “Hey, Aang, I want to show you something.”

The boy looked hesitant, but nodded. Zuko looked up, but Sokka had already wandered off with weird dude so he shrugged. Might as well stick with the airbender. Aang needed all of the help that he could get.  

[morning-thunderstorm]

A butterfly dive.

Hello, @pondlilies00. I was your Natsume yuujinchou Secret Santa gifter. @natsume-ss

Here's the first of the Natsume turned god series. I'll do my best to post other parts before the deadline, too. If you prefer AO3, here's the link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959386

Name: A butterfly dive.

Word count: 6856 words.

It happens one day, in late spring, when green colors slopes of mountains and flowers cover roadside in all colors of rainbow.

Natsume smiles, listening to Kitamoto and Nishimura’s bickering and jokes, occasionally joining, but mostly keeping to himself. Kappa told him about a small river up the mountain where there is very good fish, and now they are heading there, though Tanuma was busy helping his dad with something the shrine.

“Oh, how’s your cousin?” Nishimura bites his lip, “He’s better, I hope?”

The sudden change in mood attracts Natsume’s attention. Kitamoto's cousin? Is he ill? But his somber face didn’t tell good news. Natsume scowled, but remained silent.

“No. Doctors don’t even know what’s the problem with his legs. All is good”, Atsushi exhales sharply, “Nerves, bones, muscles, it’s almost like that old telltale auntie told us when we were small”, he tangled his hair,” You know that one, about a Mononoke in the left shrine on the north slope of the mountain”.

Natsume perked up at these words. Mononoke?

“Yeah”, Nishimura sighed, “Oh, Natsume, you don’t know Koonaku!” he turned to Takashi, selfconscious. Natsume only shook his head.

'Kitamoto’s cousin could be a victim of an angry yokai', he thought, 'better check, Kitamoto likes him a lot, it seems'.

“His name’s Koonaku Ryuuzan, my maternal cousin, two years older than me”, Atsushi smiled, “He’s like a brother to me, we’re very close”.

“What’s happened?” Natsume asked, tentatively observing his friend, ready to back down any moment. After all, he had the Dog’s Circle, who could find it out for him, if the need arose.

“He walked in the forest with friends after school, to find some sort of flowers for their biology project, his teacher told them where to find them, and they came to that left shrine. He said he would go inside and look for them in the yard, but didn’t come out for about ten minutes”, Kitamoto fell silent for a moment, nervously pursing lips. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, “The shrine is small, so it couldn’t take him so long, and his friends worried. They found him in the main building, he lay on the floor. There were two small cuts on his hips, but nothing more. They weren’t even poisoned!” he swung hands in frustration and anxiety.

Natsume glanced down on Nyanko-sensei. The cat’s eyes glistened in the sun, serious expression — almost scowl on his face. So, it was a yokai. Natsume frowned. He heard about this left shrine from the Dog’s Circle. They said there was some spirit, but they were more or less peaceful, not vengeful to humans, just closed off.

“My best wishes to him”, Takashi nodded, “I’m sure he’ll be alright soon”.

“Thanks”, Kitamoto smiled wearily.

They went, more quiet now, with Nishimura talking about a new game he wanted till reaching the river. While his friends put out their fishing rods, Natsume busied himself with laying out snacks and drinks. They planned on being here for all noon, so Touko-san packed them both bento and candy bars.

"Sensei, ask Hinoe to come home, please, I want to ask her something".

The cat purred, tickled under his chin, and stood up.

"Save me those shrimps, then", he grumbled, "And don't get in trouble until I come back".

"Will do", Natsume petted him once more and Nyanko-sensei sprinted, disappearing in bushes without a sound.

He exhaled and put several shrimps away from other meals. He promised, after all.

They spent all day fishing and playing and having fun, and when they were coming back, Kitamoto was smiling, happy and wide, and it was worth all his weariness and subtle ache in limbs from running and jumping.

"Bye, Natsume!", they parted ways on the crossroad, and Takashi sped up. 'Hinoe must already be at home', he thought, pacing through streets.

"I'm home!", he spoke, taking off shoes.

"Welcome home, Takashi-kun, how was fishing?" Touko-san came out of the kitchen, greeting him with warm smile and soft homey smell.

"It was good, Touko-san, here's what I caught", he didn't keep his own smile down and stretched out a bag with several fish.

Surprise colored her face, but changed into a twinkle of a delight.

"You sure are good with it, Takashi-kun", she took the bag, "All of them big and so many, as if kappa was helping you!" Natsume laughed, not answering. It was the kappa indeed, "I'll cook something out of it for dinner. Oh, are you tired?" Touko-san tilted her head and cupped his cheek, motherly love and care in every gesture and touch, "You've been out so long, rest a bit, will you?"

"Ok, Touko-san", he nodded, "I'll be upstairs".

"Good, I'll start with dinner then", she went back to the kitchen.

Natsume went up in his room. Hinoe was already there indeed, filling the room with pale purple smoke from her pipe.

"Natsume!" a broad smile morphed her face from mildly concerned to openly glad, "You finally came!" but not a second later a pout "This guardian of yours has no manners, he didn't even offer sake or tea, despite all my long wait!" playful pout and eyes shining with well-meaning mischief from under long eyelashes.

Takashi shook head, sitting down across her: yokai and their games are so… yokai sometimes.

"Sensei, I'm sure you can share some of your sake with Hinoe, you always do", he berated gently. He was almost convinced that the cat hid some bottles somewhere in the house, with how he sometimes got drunk without even leaving it.

"What?! No way! That's feasts, this is my own sake!" righteous indignant shriek was only muffled by Takashi's hand.

"Pfft", Hinoe scoffed, exhaling a big cloud of smoke, "Anyway, Natsume, you wanted to see me. What's it?"

"Oh, sorry", he fidgeted, "Do you know anything about the spirit living in the left shrine on the north slope of the mountain?"

Hinoe hummed, inhaled and then exhaled, letting out a snake-shaped cloud. The snake turned, curling in circles and turning its head, and then slowly shifted into a more human-like form.

Natsume looked at this, not turning away for a moment. 'So this is the spirit appearance', he thrummed on tatami, 'A snake…'

"This is Mekoguro", she said, "The goddess of the shrine left it, not so long ago, couple centuries at most. He was her servant and stayed behind to look after it in case she deigns to come back, which I doubt very much. She left for another world". One more smoke-filled exhale and another figure rose near to the serpent-like yokai. Female figure in colorful heian clothes with snake pattern on long sleeves and lower hem, long black hair with a braid in the middle. Her face had fair features, just like beauties of ancient times. A small beauty mark under her right eye caught Takashi's attention. He saw someone who looked exactly like that not long ago. 'Not now', he passed this thought.

"You once said he's not antagonizing humans", he said.

"Mostly", Hinoe nodded, "If they don't disrespect rules of the shrine or trespass where they can't go. The usual of his kind", she flailed her pipe, turning her illusion null.

Natsume scowled. The usual…

"And the rules are?" he asked. Better safe than sorry, with yokai especially.

"Also the usual. Don't step on the goddess' road, cleanse before entering, and the like", she shrugged.

"You said 'mostly'", remembered Takashi, "What do you mean?"

"Some foolish humans thought it was a good idea to break those rules", Hinoe exhaled another smoke cloud, "Mekoguro punished them accordingly".

Natsume tensed. 'Accordingly' could mean a lot, particularly if it was a servant protecting a god or a god's honor.

"Was among them anyone who lost their legs?" he clenched fists.

Hinoe nodded, somber all of the sudden.

"Yes. These are the ones, who stepped on the goddess' path. It is a grave insult, you see, and I heard that Mekoguro only left those fools alive because of the goddess's order. She's forbidden him from killing humans".

"Step on the god's path…" Takashi grit his teeth. This was more than just a mean spirit.

"Do you know if they had cuts on legs and then lost their legs?" it was his last attempt at hoping for the better.

"Two small cuts, one on each leg", Hinoe's words were the final nail in the coffin.

Takashi heaved a heavy sigh and lumped, crouching. This was going to be a mess, he could say.

"You need any more, Natsume?" Hinoe smiled reassuringly, concern clear in her red eyes.

"If you could, ask around, please. This Mekoguro recently punished a human, what did that human do?" the boy massaged his temples, feeling impending doom of headache coming.

"This I can answer right away", Hinoe shook her head, "He trespassed the goddess' path and didn't even acknowledge it".

"Idiot", Nyanko-sensei huffed, "Now that you know, what will you do, Natsume?"

"So it was your human", hummed Hinoe, "I thought they know better".

"I don't have humans", Takashi snapped, "And it was my friend's cousin, I don't know him personally".

"The kin of the one under your wing, then", corrected herself Hinoe, "Still your charge, I say. Blood of your retinue is under your protection, it is a basic rule", she said, "You can use it".

"What do you mean, Hinoe?" Natsume perked up.

"I mean that this foolish human is your charge. You repay his debt and you're good", she flicked her pipe, "Though price will be high, this I can promise".

Natsume rolled his aching shoulders. Tomorrow is going a busy day, it seemed.

"Do you know what would suffice as the peace offering?" he had no idea, so any advice would be highly appreciated. Nyanko-sensei still kept silent, so he assumed the cat didn't know, too.

"Something pricy. It may be anything, I really don't know, Mekoguro is too closed off", she shrugged, with guilt clear on her face and hunched pose.

"Still, thank you, you helped me very much", his gratitude was sincere, she told a lot.

"Of course, it's you, so no problem!", cheerfulness came back to her in an instance, "Call me whenever you need me", she smiled, playful and mischievous as always.

"Will do", he didn't hold back his own smile. She meant well and helped so much, he was thankful.

——————

The next day he warned Touko-san that he may be late for lunch at breakfast.

"Oh, that's not good. Are you planning to go see friends?"

"Something like that", he nodded, uncomfortable with almost lie.

"Then wait a bit, I'll pack you something", she fussed over the kitchen after a loving kiss on the top of his head, and he couldn't find it in himself to refuse her care.

"I put a bit more, so share with your friends, okay? That's a new recipe and I wanted to test it". The woman wrapped his bento in blue fabric and gave it to him.

"Will do, Touko-san", he felt something warm clutch his heart. He didn't know what he did to deserve such good people as her and Shigeru-san. He waved her goodbye and hastened his bike.

Nyanko-sensei jumped in the bascet on the front, grumbling.

"You always meddle in other people's problems, brat, one day it will bite you back", Takashi waited till the cat made himself comfortable and then began to ride.

"I know, Sensei", his answer was quiet, "But I can't leave it just like that. I want to help, and I need to know what's happened".

The cat huffed, but didn't say anything else.

The ride till a shop and then the hospital took him less than half an hour. Even easier was to get access to Ryuuzan, when he said he was visiting a friend.

"Ward B, Room 326, third floor", the nurse at the reception waved him to the stairs, "The room's to the left".

"Thank you", he nodded and took the stairs

"Sensei, behave", he scolded the cat, who obviously didn't like the hospital smell. The cat tsk-ed, but didn't make any other move.

Takashi looked up the names, searching the one they needed. The fourth room was it.

"I'm sorry, is this Koonaku Ryuuzan's room?" he knocked and asked behind the door.

"Yes, come in", the male voice answered.

Takashi let Nyanko-sensei on the floor and pushed the door.

It was a usual hospital room, full of artificial lights and sterile white, though more habited than he expected. A teen older than him by a year or two sat on the bed, with a folded book on his lap.

"I'm Natsume Takashi, your cousin Kitamoto Atsushi's friend", under a measuring and curious look he decided that it is better to introduce himself first.

"Ah, that Natsume!", Ryuuzan exclaimed, and it took all Takashi's willpower to not flinch away, "Atsu talks a lot about you", a smile graced his face.

"Yeah", Takashi took a shuddered breath. This choice of words… "It's me".

"Why did you come?"

Now that Ryuuzan knew his name, he seemed to warm up a bit.

"I heard you got a trauma. Kitamoto worries and I worry about him", he answered honestly, it seemed like the best way to get to good graces of this upperclassman, "I brought you fruits and bento", he held out the bag in his hands.

"It's nice of you", Ryuuzan nodded, taking them, "Though I really don't understand why come here".

Something bitter leaked in his voice and Natsume's heart clenched. That… was too similar to the old him for his liking.

He took a deep breath.

"I wanted to say that believe in you", Takashi said, firm and almost strict, "Kitamoto is strong and tough, and he said he got it from you. I know him, and I believe that someone like him won't break. I'm sure you will heal and come back to family, friends, and school, and I wanted to say this", his knuckles were white from the grip force, and face flushed with awkwardness, but a startled chuckle from Ryuuzan drew his attention.

"So my cousin was right about you being a softie", Ryuuzan outright laughed at Takashi's dumbfounded face, "He often said you're kind to a fault, now I am sure it's true", Ryuuzan's smile was warm and sincere, "Thank you. Really. My family is too scared, my friends guilt themselves, and it gets… You know, heavy", he waved his hand with a grimace, "You are the first to say that and really mean it. So, thank you", Ryuuzan bowed his head.

Natsume bit his lip. This was a lot harder than he anticipated.

"I… don't know what to say", he admitted.

Ryuuzan huffed and gave a small smile.

"Do you want to hear what happened? I promise to be absolutely honest", he quirked lips and put the book on the bedtable, eyes sad but clear.

"If you are comfortable with it", Natsume nodded.

Ryuuzan took a second to sigh deeply.

"I and my friends were walking down the forest. Our biology teacher gave us a project, so we needed to find one certain type of flowers and bring them to the school for the research. We were looking for them on the mountain where she said they would probably be, but found little to none, so we decided to search on another slope, too. We found that clearing where the left shrine is, and looked around. There were a lot, but still not enough. I suggested we look in the shrine's yard too, there must have been a lot, since it's not tended. No one wanted to come in, and I decided to do it myself. I thought it wouldn't be difficult, so went through the gates and in the yard. I must say, it looked strange, like it was actually tended, but flowers were still there. I kneeled to dig them up, heard a snake hissing, and then nothing".

Natsume kept himself from scowling, but didn't manage to keep away the gentle scolding tone of voice usually reserved for the Little Fox.

"Did you step on the god's path?"

Ryuuzan looke up, perplexed, but under Natsume's serious gaze he scowled trying to remember.

"I don't know", he answered hesitantly, "I mean, I know not to stop there, but I was tired and a bit angry back then from all the walking and digging", he scowled deeper, "Yeah, I did step", he nodded, "It was unintentional, and I didn't think much of it".

Natsume heaved a sigh, shaking his head. Oh, at least he wasn't doing it on purpose.

"You really shouldn't have", Takashi said, "Even if a god forgives you, it's a tradition, and they have a reason for existence".

"I know", Ryuuzan nodded, too serious and understanding for a usual human, even a superstitious one, "I know it may look strange what I say, but I think it's a yokai's doing", he motioned to his legs, "You know, even if the shrine was left by people, no one said the gods left it".

Natsume looked at Ryuuzan and suddenly smiled. This may become easier.

"I think you're right", he said, "You should say you're sorry, just do it so you are heard".

Ryuuzan huffed, but didn't take eyes off Natsume. For a minute they just looked each other dead in the eye.

"You are right", Ryuuzan said, loud and decisive, "I will!"

"Ok", Takashi nodded, "You didn't mean any harm, so I don't think it will be hard to get your forgiveness".

Ryuuzan nodded yet again and fell silent, looking out in the window.

"You know, I once saw a yokai, I think", he says, low and unsure, "It was a frog, a really big one, its leg was broken and the poor thing was freezing in the night. I took the frog in, fed it and tied a lace around the broken leg. The next morning it wasn't there, instead was a small grey stone", Ryuuzan reached to his neck and showed him a twined with black leather cord stone, "It seems to bring luck. Nothing big, a question I know on the test or a lucky roll in a game, but..." he shrugged, "You know, it doesn't look like something normal".

Natsume tilted his head to the side. It must have been Misuzu, and the frog was his head servant. No wonder the yokai was generous with Ryuuzan, he took care of his underlings.

"I think I understand", he said.

——————

Later, after bidding farewell to Ryuuzan, Takashi headed for the shrine. There was a little money left in his wallet, so he bought two onigiri in a shop on the way to the mountain. Nyanko-sensei could be insufferable when cranky.

"Eat, sensei, I'm sure it will make you feel better", he pushed one of the onigiris to the cat.

"You better havve bought a good one, or else", mumbled his bodyguard, taking the first bite, "Not the best, but bearable", he huffed and proceeded to chew down the whole thing in less than two minutes.

Takashi shook head, smile exasperated, but fond nonetheless.

"Let's hurry, I don't want to be late for lunch", he said, feeding the last bits to his cat.

"Yeah, Touko-san promised to cook stew, so hurry up, slow Natsume!" Nyanko-sensei grumbled, jumping on the bike.

"Then don't distract me", Takashi sprinted down the road.

An hour and a half later he stood on the clearing, cradling Nyanko-sensei to his chest, the shrine walls high and intimidating, covered in vines, and gates open. The road inside, covered in stone flags, swept clean of leaves and twigs.

"Mekoguro is really a loyal servant", Takashi said stepping forward and letting go of the cat, "Sensei, don't intervene, unless I call you, ok?"

"What are you thinking of, Natsume?" his bodyguard narrowed his yellow eyes.

"I want to talk to Mekoguro and try to convince him to take his charms off Ryuuzan", explained Takashi, "And I need peaceful atmosphere for that", his soft chiding tone made the cat huff in annoyance, but nothing else.

"Ok, deal", Nyanko-sensei agreed with a sigh, and jumped upwards, turning into his true form with a big cloud of smoke. Natsume can't help his smile: Sensei really can't just say he cares, can he?

He stepped in the yard, through the gates to the left. There was the washing stand, and he was going through the usual routine, when he heard a male voice calling him.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" displeasure and hostility in lilt.

Takashi turned and saw Mekoguro, same to the illusion Hinoe had shown him. Dark blue kimono with black snakes on the sleeves and a bright yellow obi, same color as his hair, tied in a high ponytail, a sword on his back and long green-grey snake tail instead of legs. His eyes, that shade of dull yellow-green you would usually see on snakes only, were sharp and bore a threat.

"My name is Natsume Takashi and I came to talk to you", he bowed his head in greeting.

"Natsume?" Mekoguro scowled, "Are you that obnoxious girl, loitering around to bind yokai?" he gripped the hem of his sword.

"No, that was my grandmother, she is already dead", Takashi shook head, raising hands in a placating gesture, long ago resigned to being mistaken for his grandmother.

Mekoguro scowled, but his face cleared a second later.

"You are that brat giving names back", he hummed under his breath and let his hand slide back down.

Takashi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He will be a brat for the spirits even on his grave bed, they are just too much older.

"That would be me", he nodded.

"Why did you come here?" Mekoguro repeated his question, "Your kin didn't take neither mine nor my mistress' name".

"I wanted to ask you to take your punishment off from the last human you did it to", told Takashi, mentally preparing for a long bargain.

"No", was the short, aggressive and decisive answer he got. He sighed. Yes, it was going to be difficult, "He insulted my mistress. He will know better".

"He didn't do it intentionally", Takashi tried to reason, "He regrets his actions".

"As he should", stone-cold voice, "Humans still teach their young basics. It is the easiest rule. To comply to it one does not need to be clever, just walk one's road".

Takashi heaved another sigh. 'Let's try Hinoe's advice', he thought tiredly.

"I understand and I will punish him for such behavior, but he will not be able to serve his punishment without legs", he said in one breath.

Mekoguro inclined his head, looking him in the eye with contemplation.

"Is he yours?" he asked after a minute of silence, nervous to no end on Natsume's side.

"He is the kin of one of mine, he is my charge", explained Takashi.

"Then why did you not teach them better?" the spirit was angered, it showed in his pursed lips and whitening skin, "The yokai of Yatsuhara sing praises to you and your knowledge and you can't do this?"

"I didn't know about his existence till yesterday", Takashi answered, keeping himself calm and collected.

"You should take care of your human part of retinue better", Mekoguro parried, "Most of them are ignorant at best".

"I will", Natsume nodded. 'Good, seems like he's ready to bargain'.

"Then…" Mekoguro suddenly froxe, tense like tight strings, "Orokimaru-sama?.." his eyes widened with disbelief as he looked behind Takashi.

Natsume turned in a moment and saw a woman standing in gates. Her hair was swept back, but as she stepped in, Natsume was sure in his recognition. This was the goddess of the shrine, the woman he saw two days ago by the river.

Her blouse and long skirt turned to colorful heian clothes, long black hair freely falling on her back as walked in the middle of the road.

"Mekoguro", she greeted her servant, eyeing him with care and love, "You kept your promise".

"Orokimaru-sama", the yokai stepped forward and knelt before her, bowing his head, "You came back. Will you stay in this humble shrine? ".

The goddess smiled, sad and rueful, and gestured him to stand up, but the yokai didn't obey. Takashi bit his lip; he had a bad premonition about her visit.

"No, my little snake", Mekoguro jerked upright, shocked, "I came to say farewell".

Silence reigned in the shrine. Takashi turned towards the forest and took three steps back. This was a private moment, and he didn't want to intrude.

"My time has come to the end, Mekoguro. Humans forgot about me fully and even the sacred village can't protect me. Without their belief I'm fading". The goddess waved her fan and closed her face with it.

Mekoguro gripped his kimono, hunching lower.

"No one?" he whispered, "Not a single one? They all forgot your grace and all your good deeds for them?" his weak voice filled venom, fury, and desperation.

Takashi sighed. He needed to ask for the goddess' help, she could talk her servant out of punishing Ryuuzan. But right now, with how angry the yokai was at humans…

"They do not believe in gods and yokai now", her voice was soothing, pacifying, "I an no major god, just a guardian goddess of Yatsuhara".

Mekoguro gritted his teeth, "But Orokimaru-sama!.."

"Hush, my little snake", she kneeled before him and enclosed in a hug, shielding him with long sleeves of her robe, "Everything will turn out fine".

Quiet sobs and soothing murmuring could be heard, if you strained your ears, but Takashi turned on his heels, back to the entangled couple. He had basic decency, after all.

Takashi waited in silence until he was called.

"Natsume Takashi" the goddess addressed him with a nod, "Why did you come to my shrine? I believe you were notified that your kin did not bind any of us".

"Orokimaru-sama", Takashi politely bowed, "I came to ask for mercy on one of the humans in my charge", he chose words to be absolutely polite. The goddess did not look aggressive, even forbade to kill humans, but still better safe than sorry.

"What did your human do, Natsume Takashi?" the goddess waved them to a small pond, "I believe it must be serious for you to intervene".

"What do you mean?" Takashi couldn't help but tense at her choice of words: if it was small, he would not intervene? Or that he would intervene only if it turned dangerous?

"Spirit world is small, tales of your deeds reach the sacred village rather often", the goddess gave a quiet chuckle, seeing him flush, "They say you protect yokai from humans, from exorcists, you help them, and they love and follow you in turn", her smile was serene and sincere, "You help yokai reach for the humans they got affectionate to, you protect Yatsuhara, both its humans and yokai", she sat on a small bench by the pond and gestured on the same one beside, while Mekoguro took place to her right. Takashi took his seat, "So I believe it must be a serious issue to lead you here".

Takashi fell silent, not knowing what to say. She held him in high regard, it was crystal clear, and his usual actions would fall in the pattern she described, but this request he bore… Was egotistical in comparison to the others. Would it be for worse?

"The human in my charge unintentionally insulted you by the action of stepping on the god's path”, the goddess stilled, “He did not bear any ill will and regrets his actions," he added hastily, "At this time he is serving punishment of your servant Mekoguro's choice. He cannot walk despite having two good legs. I came to make amends in his stead".

The goddess scowled and didn't answer, slowly fanning herself all the while. At last, several minutes of tense silence later, she sighed and shook her head.

"I am ready to forgive this foolish human of yours, but you must promise to teach them better. Not every spirit will forgive them, be it intentional or not", she said slowly, "And I have a question for you, Natsume Takashi", she told seriously, looking in his eyes, "What is Yatsuhara for you?"

Takashi blinked, surprised by her sudden change in the topic of talk. But her gaze alone told him he must think his answer through.

But… The answer was not far away. Yatsuhara was the place he found the peace of heart in, where he bonded with many people and spirits, where the cold of inside changed into the warm embrace of family and friends.

His answer was simple.

"Yatsuhara is my home", he said, pulling his heart into his words, "The place I feel peace and safe in. I want it to remain so".

The goddess smiled at him and nodded.

"Then I know your price I will take the punishment away for", she said, prim and regal all of the sudden, "You will take over my duty of the guardian god of Yatsuhara, become thou yourself, and for this I will forgive your human".

Takashi froze. Become the guardian god of Yatsuhara? What?

"I beg your pardon", his voice rose from sheer bewilderment, "What?"

"Become the guardian God of Yatsuhara", the goddess repeated, "And I will forgive your human".

"But… That is impossible", he shook his head, "A human cannot be turned into a god".

"Who said so?", Orokimaru-sama inclined her head, "This knowledge is forbidden for most, but there is a way".

"But why me?" he pointed at himself, "I honestly doubt I am fit for this position".

To turn into god? That was the last thing he would expect from coming here. Maybe owe a favor, some object, but this never even came into his mind. This was really really not the best idea in his life.

And seething Mekoguro behind his goddess was clearly of the same mind, taking in account his pinched face.

"But why think so?" she gave a sad laugh, startling both males, "You have already been performing the duties without realizing", she said, rueful lilt to her voice, that made his heart squeeze, "You keep Yatsuhara safe and in peace, help and get respect from spirits. All you lack for the title of the guardian god is power and your human shackle not being the body of a god", she motioned her fan towards him, "And this I can change at your agreement".

Natsume kept silent, too shell-shocked by the offer.

The goddess snapped her fingers, catching his attention.

“I understand that this is a sudden proposition, and you have all the rights to doubt its usefulness, but let me clear some of your concerns”, she fanned herself, looking at Takashi sharply, “You will be able to age together with your human lot of retinue. Maybe slower, but nonetheless, you will be able to keep your human life. You won't need to eat and sleep, but can if you so desire. Your appearance will change a bit, more refined and fair. It is probable that you will be able to communicate with snakes and command them, that's my ability I intend to pass to you. You will be able to have children. Otherwise, your life won't change all that much, and yokai will be much more respectful. Your family treasure will be in more safety then because you will have all Yatsuhara to back you up against aggressors", the goddess takes Takeshi's hand in his, and now that her face is close, he sees it.

The jawline. The face's oval. The shape of her eyes. It's not much, and if he didn't look for it, he would've never noticed.

It's almost identical to his grandmother's features.

"You..." he doesn't have words. It can't be...

"I was your ancestor, your grandmother's great-great-great-grandmother, to be precise. Soon after I took up the mantle of the guardian goddess, there was a big conflict", the goddess — his ancestor, he can't believe his ears, "And my family was erased", the bitterness and echo of grief in her voice make his heart clench.

"But not all of them?" he asked. If there was him and his grandmother, then someone lived through.

"Yes. My youngest sister, the baby of age four. She hid under the ruins of our home for three days and then run as far as she could. She ended up living in Hokkaido", the goddess took a sharp breath, "I didn't know of it, I thought all my family had died, until Reiko came here", the goddess fell silent for a few moments.

"But she was gone too quickly. When I came looking for her, she already disappeared, and no one knew where to find her. There were many who remembered her, but no one close".

"Yeah", Natsume couldn't help a weak smile, "I was told she had a habit of doing it".

"I tried to find her, but to no avail. My powers were seeping rapidly, and I had to come back to the sacred village. I tried sending my snakes to look for her, but they are no yokai, they couldn't find her", the goddess gripped his hand stronger, "I lost my claim as the guardian goddess of Yatsuhara when I entered the sacred village and now can only pass it to the next holder. So please, accept this offer of mine", she pleaded, earnestly and so sincere, "I looked for you here, when I understood who you are, and yesterday I found you. I was never so happy, when I knew — my family is alive. You are alive", she exhales, trying to reign in her emotions, before speaking again, more firmly now, "I know I didn't make it in time to save you from so many hurts, but in this last moments I want to do my best to make sure that you live your life fully. I want to you to be happy, safe and live a long life that will be filled with your laughter. You are a child of my family, mine in all aspects that matter".

Natsume can't help it. Tears slide down his face, he can't stop them, and he's not sure he wants to.

This goddess is his family, family who wants him happy and healthy just because he is it — family. She could go away freely; bide goodbye only to her servant, and fade from this world. She didn't have to, and yet she did, because she cared for her family — for what left of it. And she would go away, just as she came because it her time. He thought absentmindedly that he understood the yokai who knew Reiko better.

"Hush, dear, it will turn out good", she wiped his tears and smiled, "Remember, I love you. No matter your choice, I love you, child mine, and nothing in this world will change it. I'm so proud of you, words can't describe it. You turned out so beautiful, kind and bright, oh how much I want to tell my father about you, we would all be so happy", Orokimaru cupped his face, "Never forget this words, child mine".

Natsume nods and swallows the lump in his throat.

"I won't. And I accept your offer", he squeezes her hand and smiles, "Let's do it".

Orokimaru nods in turn and takes his another hand in hers.

"It can hurt a bit, like needles in your fingertips", she warned him and began.

The wind swirled around them, and Natsume felt the itch in his hands, but held on.

She opened her mouth and breathed out. A small yellowy-grey cloud came out.

"Breath it in through mouth", he was commanded, and complied.

It felt strange on his tongue — like cotton candy Nishimura bought for all of them on the last festival, just salty and mild.

"Breath out and kneel with me", Orokimaru turned his hands so that his back of hands was turned up and hers down.

It felt strange, as if a small warm ball formed between their hands. It wasn't unpleasant, more like a small bird in hands, just not fluffy. The feeling changed as the ball cooled to cold.

"Put your hands together and concentrate. When you feel it's time, breath out into them and push towards sky", Orokimaru let his hands go and smiled reassuringly. Her hair slid down shoulder when she siddenly teetered to left, pale and gasping for air.

"Orokimaru-sama!" Mekoguro gripped her shoulders, steading her, with panick on his face. Natsume tried to reach out for her, but she cut both of them out.

"Do not worry", she clasped Mekoguro's hand, and nodded curtly to Natsume, "Continue".

He pursed his lips, holding her gaze until she sighed and relaxed into her servant's hold. Only then did he revert his attention back to the ethereal ball in his hands.

It is still cold, not quite pleasant against his skin. He brings it closer to his mouth and exhales into his palms. Suddenly the warm air is swirling in circles inside, coating the ball, and the next thing he knows is that the yellowy-gray ball changes its color to pale green with darker specs. He feels the pull to let it go, to fly high and reach all land, and raises his hands, letting go of the ball.

It flies off his hands and rises above trees. Soft dull glow grows brighter and soon it looks like there're two suns. And then it explodes, showering them with tiny green sparkles. Winds are curling around Takashi, flapping his shirt's tails, like playful kittens, when Nyanko-sensei roars, entering the shine grounds with loud swish and lands beside him. His fangs bared, crouched pose, ready to fight any moment, the inugami was quite a fear-inducing sight.

"Nyanko-sensei!" Natsume exclaimed, stunned to his very core, when his guardian snarled at Mekoguro, who tried to unsheathe his sword. This was a goddess before them! There's no way he didn't scoop this before coming here! He was confronting a goddess, albeit well-meaning and not prone to antagonizing them, but Nyanko-sensei didn't know it, and yet put himself between the threat and him. Natsume doesn't even try to contain his gratitude and happiness, hugging his guardian and nuzzling into soft white fur.

"Don't worry, sensei", murmurs he, "They don't mean harm".

"As if you would know, brat", huffs the inugami, but still relaxes a bit, coiling his long tail around his charge.

"Your guard is admittedly loyal, I see", Orokimaru chuсkles, "Good. Now I can go, that you're in good hands", she holds out her hand, and Natsume kneels to take it and stand eye to eye with her. Her figure bleaks with every moment — it's time for her to go, "You are a good boy, my child, with tender heart and pure soul. You will do just fine. Don't forget my words. I will always love you, Natsume Takashi, child of my family", her smile is quiet, all motherly love and care, and sad, "Forgive me for not finding you earlier and leaving so soon. If I had a say, I wouldn't leave your side", she squeezes his hand stronger.

"You came to find me", he can't say it doesn't matter; these years when he suffered thrown from one family relative to another as if some sort of stinky ball did hurt him. But she searched for him, cared and loved just because he was her family, she did her best to protect him, and he will never forget it, "I forgive you".

"Thank you", with smile on her lips, she closes her eyes, dispersing into nothing but flare of dim sparkles that disappear high in the sky.

Natsume brings his hand in closer — it holds a simple white jade ring, that was on Orokimaru's left hand. He smiles — he is glad to have at least this much of her left for memories.

Takashi sighs out. He is tired. With all this running and worrying and rituals he didn't notice, but a good part of his energy's gone now.

"I'm tired. Let's go home, sensei", Natsume climbs on a silently offered back of the inugami, "I'll come here tomorrow, Mekoguro. Could you please prepare everything necessary for the commemoration? And, about your curse on my charge… " he asks the yokai. He doesn’t know if it is a usable practice for spirits, but he wants to say farewell to her as is just, and commemoration is a good choice for it, in his opinion.

"I will immediately take it away, my lord, and begin the preparations", Mekoguro bows.

Natsume sighs again. And this.

"We will talk about everything else later. For now, let's go".

Nyanko-sensei leaps towards the sky, and winds billow in his hair.

[razieltwelve]

Babysitter (FF XIII AU Snippet)

"This is an unanticipated complication.” Goddess Lightning stared at the pink-haired baby. “Perhaps I should not have agreed so hastily.”

When one of her mortal counterparts from another dimensions had mentioned she needed someone to watch over her child, the goddess had agreed. It seemed like a suitable way to repay the mortal for her generosity in hosting the meetings between Lightnings from all over the multiverse, and how hard could it be to take care of one mortal child? Goddess Lightning had wiped out entire civilisations and slaughtered armies of beings that could devastate entire worlds. A mortal child should be easy enough to handle.

Or not.

“Hmmm…” The goddess had to admit the baby had a fearsome glare for someone so young. It was certainly worthy of praise. “You are a mortal, so you need to eat. However, you seem reluctant.” She raised a spoonful of ‘baby food’ toward the child. “Here. Eat.”

The baby responded by knocking the spoon away and hurling some of the food at her.

Lightning’s eyes narrowed as the food simply slid off her without leaving so much as a mark. As a goddess, nothing of mortal origin could stain her person without her permission. Even so, she did not like having baby food hurled at her. She scowled. Both of her sisters had been gifted to her at older ages than this mortal child, so she had never had to bother with trying to feed them. They could eat well enough on their own. Nor was she a goddess who often concerned herself with the affairs of mortals. By and large, her duties tasked her with dealing with her divine kin.

“Troublesome child,” Lightning said. “Do you not wish to consume sustenance? Are you will to starve simply to spite me?”

The baby responded by trying to poke Lightning in the eye. Lightning didn’t move, and the baby recoiled as her fingers essentially ran into an immoveable object.

“Hah.” Lightning smirked. “It seems you underestimate my power, child.”

However, the baby did not give up. Instead, she grabbed the spoon and tried to jab that into Lightning’s eye. The spoon likewise had no effect.

“Hmm…” Lightning’s brows furrowed. “I may not be well versed in caring for infants, but you do seem somewhat more evil than most.”

The baby glared.

“So that is how it is?” The goddess’s lips twitched. “Very well, child. We shall see which one of us emerges victorious. I am a goddess. I need neither food nor sleep. You, however, are a mortal. It is only a matter of time before I am victorious.”

When the baby - Averia was her name, Lightning remembered - finally deigned to eat twenty minutes later, the goddess couldn’t help but feel smug. Did a mortal infant truly believe she could outwit a goddess? Mortals… such arrogant creatures.

But it seemed the baby was not to be defeated so easily.

“…” Lightning’s eye twitched at the smell. “Clever girl,” she growled. “You knew perfectly well that eating would result in certain events, and you knew I would have no choice but to deal with them. How cunning.”

As a goddess, Lightning’s body was merely a shell for her divine essence. It suffered from none of the indignities a mortal’s body was subject to. Still, Lightning was not altogether clueless on how to proceed although she was not looking forward to the task.

“To think I would spend my day doing this,” the goddess muttered as she began to change the baby’s nappy. “How troublesome.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

In case it isn’t clear, this is set in an AU in which the various versions of Lightning keep in touch and help each other out. In this snippet, Goddess!Lightning has her work cut out of her babysitting one of the many human versions of Averia while mortal!Lightning is busy.

Let me know if you’d like to see any other snippets like this, perhaps featuring other characters. Can you imagine what the various versions of Vanille might get up to if they all meet up?

You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon. Please check out my newest story on Amazon. It’s called Monster Whisperer. If you enjoy my sense of humour you might also want to check out Attempted Vampirism, or The Unconventional Heroes series.

[coaldustcanary]

fic: Thrown to the Wolves (1/?)

Werewolves are pack creatures, but Emma "Swan" Blanchard has always preferred to work alone. When a missing wolf and a dead body smell like imminent trouble for the werewolves of Portland, she returns home to the city to track down whoever's responsible. She soon discovers that she's not the only one trying to figure out what's going on in her old stomping grounds, and soon finds herself stuck with a partner - the infamous Killian "Hook" Jones - in more ways than one.

Author’s Note: At long last, my contribution to the @cssns - my self-indulgent World of Darkness/Werewolf: The Apocalypse AU. Due to unavoidable issues entirely on my part, this work is dropping without any associated art - my apologies.

Also available on AO3. Rated M for mature themes, sexual content, violence, and shady werewolf politics.

The park on the south side of the bay was large, dotted with clusters of trees and spread over a vast hillside overlooking the water, meeting it directly at high tide, and with a rocky, muddy beach when the tide was low. It was shaded by a passing bridge and highway, and offered the perfect vantage point from which to see ships coming and going, or the array of vessels large and small moored in Portland across the way. From massive cruise ships making their way from warmer climates to stolid cargo ships laden with containers from Scandinavia all the way down to the squat little lobster boats and the rare elegant tall ship looking like something out of time, Portland’s harbor bustled. It was both a working harbor, with heavy trade in international shipping, and a tourist’s playground, clustered with restaurants and bars. Just beyond the harbor, on Commerical Street, for a few blocks both groups created a busy throng of cheerful humanity.

Even here, across the harbor and the Fore River in South Portland, gentrifying neighborhoods and a fair view made for more traffic, more tourists – and much less parking. Emma cursed under her breath as she eased the Bug into a narrow spot along the road that bound the south side of the park and the crest of the hill, turning the wheels into the curb and applying the parking brake to keep the old beast from rolling on into the sea. Turning off the ignition, she laid a hand lightly on the car’s dashboard, closed her eyes, and let her consciousness seep down into the sun-warmed metal.

“Blend in, buddy,” she murmured. A grumbling, mildly offended vibration was the only reply the car deigned to give, but as she opened her eyes, the sunny yellow on the car hood seemed to fade, and without any conscious thought, her gaze slid away from the car to the park and the flowered bushes just beyond. With a small smile, the opened the door and stepped out into the summer heat, walking away from the vehicle that even she had a hard time laying eyes on, now, let alone anyone else passing by. The Bug might be a difficult car to keep running, but decades of “life” had given the car a powerful spirit inhabitant that could be coaxed into cooperation nearly as easily as a dog could learn new tricks. It was more than worth the trouble, even if it meant the odd game of fetch with a bicycle tire now and again to keep it happy.

The warm, humid air was thick with the scent of mown grass and the beach roses that dotted each cluster of bushes. Beneath the heavy scents of summer the pungent, salty earthiness of a receding tide mixed with the acrid exhaust and oil from cars and ships filled Emma’s nose, nearly overwhelming her senses. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and smiled.

“So they finally believe after all.” Emma’s breath caught briefly in her throat, but she forced herself to exhale slowly, and only then open her eyes. The sight of August’s face prompted both a pang of relief and a certain undercurrent of shock. His familiar features were far more careworn than she’d ever seen them, and both his hair and scruff were peppered liberally with gray. When he’d found her as a child on the streets, sick and panicked, her body fairly vibrating with the need to become the wolf for the first time, he’d been barely out of his teens himself. Now he seemed, if not old, older than he ought to have been. The life of a city wolf came with certain benefits, but nobody would ever call it easy. Emma looked down, away from his faint smile and forced a smile of her own even as her chest tightened with guilt.

“It’s good to see you. Despite circumstances,” she said. August smiled crookedly.

“It’s good to see you, too, Emma. Looks like the woods and wilds have been good to you,” he said, tilting his head to look her over with the same curious scrutiny she’d paid him, his gaze lingering.

“Though I can’t imagine that jacket is very good camouflage,” he added, a hint of teasing humor in his tone. Emma shrugged and tugged at the red jacket’s hem pointedly.

“It’s not. The jokes I hear about hunter’s orange are really old and unoriginal at this point, but I’m not changing my style for any stuck up, stuffy werewolf nobility with more names than brain cells. They all wear clothing out of last century. Or camo. Or even plaid, when they’re obliged to blend in with the humans,” Emma grumbled. August snorted, shaking his head.

“You can take the wolf out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the wolf,” he said gently. “I did warn you. And them. But I don’t think your mother wanted to hear it.” As August spoke, he turned and gestured down the path for her to walk with him into the park territory of the city wolves. Emma hesitated, eager fondness to return warring with cautious instinct to hang back The scents of this place were so familiar, but at the same time every wolf’s instinct in her body urged her to stay back, out of this place marked and claimed by other wolves, wolves who weren’t her family any longer. August was at her side suddenly, his hand very lightly resting on her shoulder.

“It’s still your home. It’s always your home,” he said firmly. Emma swallowed and nodded once, jerkily, taking a few cautious but deliberate steps down the path, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. She let out the breath she’d held onto for too long in a steady stream, and looked sideways at August who paced her, stealing regular glances in her direction. When their eyes met, she held them briefly – not long enough to hint that she was challenging him, mindful of how the wolf could take eye contact – and managed a small smile.

“Thanks.”

“It’s only the truth. I just wish…” He paused, and at Emma’s searching look, managed a tight smile in return.

“Never mind. You’re where you need to be. But I’m glad they understand how risky this situation is for us all, and let you come back to help us.” The edge of relief in his voice was palpable, and Emma grimaced.

“Well. Gotta be honest, here. They still don’t exactly agree with you on that,” she said slowly. August’s brow furrowed.

“Then why-“ he began, and then stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. “Oh, Emma. You didn’t…”

“She didn’t outright forbid me from coming.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I might not have told her that I was leaving, though.” August groaned, clutching a handful of the hair at the back of his head in frustration.

“No, don’t act like that,” Emma started, pointing a finger at him. “You taught me the rules just as well as anyone-“

“Yes, as we follow them, here in the city. Loosely. Subject to interpretation and balanced with our need to survive among humans,” August said intensely, pitching his voice low and for her ears only. Some subjects it was best not to let strangers overhear.

“I haven’t broken any of our laws, August. I’m respecting claimed territory, both yours and theirs. I announced myself when I came, and I was permitted entry, or did you actually mean to tell me to go to hell instead of welcoming me ho-here?” Emma drew herself up straighter, a sharp edge to her voice. August abruptly turned from her and started walking, pulling Emma along by her sleeve. She fought down the snarl of anger and jerked her arm free, though she kept pace with his rapid stride, even as he snapped a reply.

“And what of your responsibility to your mother? To your pack? I sent word to you about what’s going on here because I knew you’d believe me. I thought you could convince the Storybrooke wolves that a wolf gone missing like this is just as much a danger to them as it is to us here. Even if a Kinfolk’s death is nothing they will care about,” he growled. Even as he spoke, August continued walking out on the dock that extended from the wedge of parkland tucked under the highway bridge overpass to the city. The sun was sinking below the horizon to the west, casting long shadows into the river, and though it remained humid and still, the temperature was dropping quickly. August only stopped walking once there was nowhere else to go but the river itself, staring pensively across its modest expanse to the city on the other side.

“She didn’t forbid it, August. That has to be enough. And you know my pack would stick out here like a sore thumb. They’re very good at being werewolves, but they’re not at all good at keeping a low profile. Even if I could convince them to help me, it would be a disaster. They’d talk to spirits right and left and look crazy to the humans. And if that wasn’t enough to get the cops called, they’d probably come armed to the teeth with medieval-looking weapons and wearing armor. Can you imagine Mulan casually toting her sword around the city, looking for an enemy to stab?” August sighed

“We could use their help, though. They might not trust city wolves much, but we’re all in the same boat, here.” Emma shook her head, fighting to keep her voice even.

“You’ve visited Storybrooke, what, twice? On formal occasions only? You don’t know how they are when they’re being honest. Merida told a grand tale at the last full moon gathering, you know, about how great it was that the wolves had taken out all the rest of the shifters. It was this incredible story about how great it was that the werebears were all dead, and how her father had gloriously slain one himself in single combat. She’s a bit extreme, maybe, but it’s not even unusual up there. It’s been a decade since a wereraven has been seen anywhere in the North Country, let alone Storybrooke, and they used to be our allies. And the other wolves don’t even pretend they don’t wish that they could go hunt down the last few werecats for fun.” August held up his hands against her tirade.

“As if they’d find them…” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. “But I know, Emma. I know. They’re self-righteous to a fault, but it’s not a bear or a cat we’re talking about here, it’s a wolf. It’s Will. He’s gone, and we can’t find hide nor hair of him, not the slightest trace.”

“And Liz?” Emma asked. She knew the truth of it, likely better than he did, but she had to hear it in his own words.

“Traces…everywhere.” He blew out a breath, settling on an overturned bucket with slumped shoulders. Emma crouched on her heels, squinting slightly against the glare to peer across the river before she began to speak, reluctance in her tone.

“The cops are still confused. Official investigation theory is that animals got to the body, but it doesn’t fit the timeline at all. She had not been dead long when they found her.” August looked at her sharply and Emma shrugged. “We don’t really do the high tech stuff up in Storybrooke, but Dad’s still the town sheriff. We have Kinfolk in every position of authority there. I had him pull the file from the state database. Walked him through it, step by step.” She’d hated to do it, to prevail upon the man she’d known for only a scant few years for a favor, the kind she’d wheedled as a bounty hunter from Portland police contacts under Cleo’s training. But as hungry as she was to know her family and understand their strange ways, they were just as eager, just as quick to try to connect with her in whatever way they could.

Even if for her father it meant providing illegally-obtained crime scene photos that she could pore over for evidence that one of her old acquaintances had committed a gruesome murder that could put every werewolf in Maine in jeopardy. And when push came to shove, and she had formally asked her mother for permission to return to the city, he had supported her mother’s stern denial. Not that it mattered. He was only Kinfolk, of course. Hardly more than human, and outside the city, that meant useful and little else.

Oh, her parents loved one another. That had been a strangely comforting realization, to see that even traditionalist werewolves who lived outside of human civilization as much as possible could still see the value of individual human-like Kin for anything besides breeding and propagating the next generation of werewolves. But when your spouse, or your parent, or your sibling couldn’t take the wolf form or speak with the spirits to learn their secrets, it made them less for many werewolves, particularly those who lived in their own private fiefdoms, like her family and the land they ruled, protected by magic. Kinfolk were plentiful – they outnumbered werewolves by a significant margin, with the magic, or genetics, or whatever it was that created them a fickle thing – but in the town of Storybrooke, they played a role more than anything.

David, her father, might be the town sheriff, but when your wife was one of the highest-ranking werewolves on the North American continent, what did it matter? When your mate could take the form of a terrifying wolf-human hybrid and have any mere human gibbering with fear, had slain vampires, fought off multiple challenges for her throne, and bartered with powerful spirits for secrets beyond mortal understanding, a badge and a service revolver meant precious little.

So he’d been glad to help her – he was so fond of her, so proud of all she’d become, and her mother was, too, in her way – but when it came to a decision, when it came to action, his voice was silent. It wouldn’t have mattered a whit had he spoken, of course. But Emma wished, vaguely, that he’d tried. But sometimes when Kinfolk tried to take a stand, especially if it disagreed with a werewolf, particularly one they were close to…

“Will’s probably hiding, August,” Emma said, admitting what she’d begun to suspect days ago, as soon as he’d sent word. “I don’t think he did it intentionally – he’s not that stupid and he’s not cruel – but he probably lost control of the wolf. If Liz cursed him out or got tired of his bullshit antics or even breathed funny and he took it the wrong way, and couldn’t control himself…” August had sagged on his seat, his elbows on his knees, but at Emma’s suggestion he straightened and shook his head, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline at the implied accusation.

“He wouldn’t. He can be an idiot, and impetuous, but he wouldn’t,” he said firmly.

“All it takes is one moment of weakness. You’re the one who taught me how important control was, and how quickly you can lose it. I’m sure he feels terrible about it, but I saw the pictures. If it wasn’t Will, then some other werewolf killed Liz.”

August didn’t argue the point; he knew it to be true as well as she did. They sat in silence on the docks, only the soft sound of the tide coming in, raising the slow-moving river by inches surrounding them. With the light reflecting on the soft waves and the cries of the gulls overhead, it might have been peaceful. In another time, but in this very same place, she’d spent many peaceful hours in August’s company, and with Cleo, Lily, Will, Jefferson and the handful of other tough, tradition-flouting werewolves and Kinfolk who preferred to live here surrounded by humanity. They’d found her and taught her the ways of the world when the bitter feuds among political rivals had left her a veritable orphan. It would be sweet to pretend that nothing had changed and she still belonged here, but then she’d been “rescued” from the hardscrabble city life and whisked off to a fairy tale existence as freaking fantasy-creature royalty. But Cleo was dead, Lily gone, and whatever August might say, this place was no longer her home. Emma abruptly pushed up from her crouch and walked back along the dock to the park with purpose, her eyes adjusting swiftly to the growing dark.

“Either way, I’m going to find out. Don’t wait up."

The old cobblestone streets of Portland could be treacherous even for a cautious driver – dimly lit and thick with pedestrians – but Emma took the Bug across the bay into the city nonetheless. To let the car stay hidden for too long was risky in general, so she’d coaxed it into dropping the camouflage, instead only keeping the usual distraction magic in place to keep anyone from looking too closely at the car’s registration, or lack thereof. She avoided the Old Port area where tourists thronged easily enough, skirting the west side of the city only to turn for the northern part of the peninsula where Will lived in Bayside.

Here the city mixed historical buildings with industrial warehouses, and though no housing could be considered cheap in Portland, not any longer, it was at least cheaper than anywhere else in the city proper. Whether it would remain that way for long was doubtful, however. Will lived equally quite close to both the city’s homeless shelter and the Whole Foods grocery store, and new apartment buildings sprung up every month alongside multi-million dollar renovations of old buildings. Emma’s mouth twisted with distaste at every visible change she catalogued as she pulled the Bug to a stop along a sidestreet curb. Will’s apartment was on the third floor of an aging multi-family dwelling. The first floor housed the elderly Kinfolk gentleman who owned the building, while on the second floor lived a family of city wolves and their Kin. She could check in on old Percy at least, before she went up to Will’s place. He might have a sense for where Will would be laying low. She mounted the porch steps lightly, ready to pull open the door to the building’s shared common stair, when she glanced up briefly and fell perfectly still.

The third floor window was softly illuminated from within. A human wouldn’t have seen it, or at least dismissed it as a trick of their eyes and the ambient light from streetlamps. But Emma could see the light move through the window above, concentrated and small, like a flashlight. Emma’s eyes narrowed as she considered the possibilities. Any of the building’s other inhabitants would turn on the light – they had no need to hide. If it was the cops, they’d have lit up the building like a Christmas tree at the very least, and parked cruisers all along the street. And if it was Will himself he would hardly need or risk a flashlight. That meant that while the obvious suspects were unlikely to be up there, someone taking pains not to be seen was in a missing wolf’s apartment. Steadily, her step light and cautious on the old creaky stairs, Emma crept up the first flight next to Percy’s apartment door, listening carefully.

There was the soft hum of a radio from Percy’s apartment, and that of conversation and laughter from the second floor, but beyond that Emma couldn’t make out any particular noises from above. She passed the second floor landing and continued to the third, testing each step carefully and taking her time. The apartment door was slightly ajar, and she could see the faintest glow of light and soft movement, of someone walking carefully over the creaky floorboards. As she reached the third floor landing, Emma pulled in a breath slowly, weighing her options, and then bent to pull a slender knife from her boot. She might rue the idea of Mulan bringing her sword to the city, or Merida striding down the street with her bow, but she wasn’t entirely averse to being armed. Straightening, she gently nudged the door open, pressing it with a fingertip, and thanking whatever spirit of the night or silence was looking out for her that the door swung freely and without a sound.

Will’s apartment was a single room with a high ceiling, and in the late summer heat the air was stiflingly thick and warm. A running ceiling fan squeaked rhythmically, spinning in a feeble in an attempt to keep the air moving, but it accomplished very little besides covering the sound of Emma stepping into the room, her gaze fixed on the black-clad figure shouldering a satchel with its back to her as it held some kind of light over the room’s unmade bed. She inhaled delicately in the space of a heartbeat, scenting the room’s occupant – a man and wolf-blooded, but not a werewolf. Whoever he was, he was definitely Kinfolk, but not someone she knew, and that was all she had time to decide before action was required. He paused in his apparent search, and started to turn. The room was four strides across for an average human. The muscles in  Emma’s legs burned as she leapt across the room in a bound, setting her shoulder into the figure’s back and pressing him down onto the bed. The figure crumpled with a grunt, the bed’s springs screeching in complaint, and Emma swiftly brought her knife to his throat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. A breathless wheeze was her only immediate answer as his gloved right hand convulsed on the source of the light he’d been carrying. Emma’s eyes widened and she pressed the knife more firmly against her captive’s throat.

“Drop. It.” The light source dropped to the sheets with a soft noise, and the room was plunged into full darkness. Emma swiftly moved her free hand from his back to the piece of carved wood he’d carried, picking it up and jamming it into her boot. Only then did she ease her weight from the man’s back a trifle, and he drew in a rough, gasping breath before answering her, voice muffled into the rumpled bedclothes.

“Could ask you the same question, love.” His voice was accented, but despite the playful words, he didn’t move, remaining absolutely still. Carefully, she wrapped her fingers in his dark hair and steadily pulled his head back, free of the bed. He hissed in pain, and she carefully scraped the edge of the knife a fraction higher against his neck.

“You were saying?”

“I said, ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a wretched place like this?’” Though the skin of his neck slightly indented from the blade’s pressure, his tone was somehow light. Emma used her handful of his hair as leverage, turning his head to the side so that she could get a look at him and in the relative privacy of the pitch blackness, she took a moment to take in his features. Dark stubble, good cheekbones, and thick lashes that fluttered prettily when he blinked. Not at all bad to look at. When his blue eye met her own unerringly even in the darkness, however, she froze and sniffed again, carefully, to confirm her original suspicion. His scent carried the edge of wolf-blood, but not the specific, powerful scent of a fellow werewolf. There were ways for werewolves to hide their scent, but even that trick had a price – he wouldn’t smell of anything at all if that was the case. But he smelled very much like a man, and like a Kinfolk, and no werewolf could pretend otherwise. At least not that shew knew of. Her grip tightened a fraction, and he grunted in pain.

“I do apologize if my scent offends, my morning ablutions were so long ago now,” he ground out, teeth flashing in a sharp grin.

“Is this really that funny to you, wise guy? Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she tried again.

“If you let me up, I’ll answer any question you like, but this is rather uncomfortable for us both, don’t you think?” He shifted, trying to get his feet beneath him, most likely. Emma sighed and let the entirety of her weight settle on his back for a moment, leaning close his ear as he wheezed once again.

“Stand up, both hands where I can see them, and keep it slow.” With that, she slipped to her feet and took half a step back, yaning the satchel from the man’s shoulder as she went and dropping it to the floor. With a groan, the man rolled to his side, pressing his right hand against his ribs with a wince. She stepped back away, giving herself room to maneuver.

“Just the one,” he ground out, using an elbow pressed to the bed to lever himself slowly to his feet, keeping his arms raised slightly afterward. In the dark, his smile was pained, but still disarmingly charming.

“What are you talking about?” Emma snapped, unamused. “One what?”

“Hand, darling.” The fingers of his right waved in her direction, but the left was still and lifeless. It tickled a memory, but then it was gone and she frowned, shaking her head.

“Oooo-kay, that’s just fascinating. Let’s try this again. I’m going to ask you one more time who you are and what you’re doing here, and if you don’t start answering instead of flirting pronto I’m going to lower your total number of hands further one finger at a time.” The smile on his face faltered.

“Brandon Smith. I’m doing the same thing you are, I presume – looking for Will Scarlet, but as you see, he’s not at home,” he snapped, an edge of sullen impatience to his voice.

“What’s the spirit for?” He smiled again, tilting his head.

“Why, the flask in my pocket is for my own consumption, but I’d gladly share-“ Emma growled over his lilting invitation, a rumbling, thunder-like sound that couldn’t have come from a human’s throat. His smile returned, though it was more a baring of teeth than anything.

“I don’t have your nose, darling. The carving hosts a dog spirit who can sniff and track. But you know Will’s not been here for a week or more.” She lifted her chin slightly, but he wasn’t wrong.

“And your name?”

“I told you-“

“Bullshit,” she cut him off sharply, raising the point of her knife to point directly at his face. “I know a lie when I hear one. You can deflect and dance around a topic, but when you lie to me I damn well know. Tell. Me. Your. Name.” He let out a breath through his nose, somehow still unerringly able to meet her eyes in the dark. He couldn’t possibly see her face, and yet…

“My name is Killian Jones. I am, as I’m sure you know, Kinfolk.” Truth. The first plain statement he’d made this whole time, and it was the truth. But he wasn’t done.

“You probably know me by another name, though,” he continued. Still the truth. She made a soft noise of inquiry, lifting an eyebrow, the knife blade unwavering.

“Hook. The wolves, they call me Hook.” The room fell silent, save for the steady squeaking of the overhead fan. The urge to take the wolf form swept over her like a cold wave and she inhaled sharply, his scent prickling with uncertainty despite his steady expression. The blade point wavered as she gripped it so hard her hand trembled as she fought down the howling need to have fur and teeth and claws. Hook. She’d heard stories, of course. Werewolves were nothing if not tale-tellers, particularly when it came to their enemies. Their traitors. In some he had chosen to become a vampire, in others inviting his possession by a spirit of vengeance. But in all of them, he was Kinfolk – blood of the wolf who had betrayed his own people. Murderer. Hunter. He watched her – though he couldn’t be in this lighting, not really – almost expectantly.

“It’s just there,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His arms remained slightly raised and still. “In my bag.” Without lowering her blade, Emma crouched, slowly reaching her left hand into the satchel. Her fingers brushed over the few items inside, until they settled around the one she was looking for. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal shape and pulled it free, hissing softly under her breath. It prickled at her fingers sharply, alternating between freezing numb cold and needle-sharp pain as she held it up. The wickedly curved hook seemed to glow in the dark of the room, the enchanted silver casting its own light. They both stared at it for a long moment before she looked away, back at the man who seemed to be waiting on her, his arms slowly dropping to a defensive position in front of his body.

She was leaping for him with a snarl, body contorting and sprouting thick silver fur, before either hook or knife had hit the ground.

[synnefo-nefeli]

How about... Klapallo 49?

For this meme and the prompt “coming home”

He’s lost track of all the places he’s lived in his 25 years, although some stand out more than others.

There’s the family manor tucked in the hills of Mittenwald, looming cold and austere on the hillside over the almost fairy-tail like village. It’s where the “commons” his father was oft to remark lived, and considering Klavier had the best tutors and home schooling, money could buy Klavier has few memories in the village town.

The manor is cold and impersonal, and despite it being the ancestral seat of his father’s fathers, Klavier never felt he belonged among the severe and proper halls.  Staff kept the immense galleries and rooms neat and orderly, everything had to be in its proper place.  It wasn’t until he’s older that Klavier realized that while at any point at least four people and a staff of fifteen lived within the house and grounds, the manor never felt lived in.  It was more of a museum to showcase his family’s wealth and past achievements.  The current occupants left to spend a lifetime hoping to find a place among the walls for the future generations to remember them by.

The manor is cold and chilling, and sometimes he can’t believe he grew up in such a place.  

Kristoph however, fit in perfectly.

Themis Academy is the first place he’s lived, after the manor and the first time he’s lived in a foreign country.  

It’s a boarding school and he has to share a room-  it’s and odd thing to have to share your space when you’re twelve (a whole two years younger than most of your classmates) when you’ve never had to before.

He’s not alone per se, Kristoph is an hour (plane ride) away at Stanford. 

His roommate is nice, a foreign student like himself, so they have that to bond over at least.  Joo-won will go on to be one of Klavier’s closer friends at Themis, and years later, Joo-won joins the record label and is assigned to The Gavinner’s legal council.

Klavier remembers being excited for this new chapter in his life, his first adventure, really.  Excited to learn about the Law, eager to explore “LaLa Land” itself and see if he could make his rock-star dreams come true.  He’s prepared himself for the homesickness. 

In fact he’s read up on the feeling and ways to treat the melancholy so he won’t waste a second of this new life missing out on his old.

It’s almost three months into his semester when he realizes, that the homesickness never came.

Tour-busses are an experience all to their own.  The Label has spared no expense on customizing their small fleet of buses to have every luxury and comfort as they spent hours on the road.

It’s somewhere between the lulling bouncing for hours on an airplane and wonder one gets when they wake up in a new port of call, when on a cruise boat.

It’s a surreal experience-  he’s on a bus for hours and days at a time, watching countrysides drift by, but he has a sound proofed room to practice for the next concert and a small state of the art recording booth should the muses deign to visit.

The bands moves around too much for Klavier to get attached to any one place.  He supposes the bus is his home now, considering the hours he’s racked up in his moving living quarters,  but at times Klavier feels the detachedness of the family manor.  The bus is always pristine and nice, and despite who is occupying it, never really has a personal touch other than the Record Label’s branding.

The feeling of comradely, however, is nice. When he’d left Themis to return to Germany for his badge, he’d missed having his friends about him while he studied.  Now he had his bandmates, his closest and creative kindred spirits.

Jam-sessions that are never recorded and only live in their memories, long running games of Spades in his bunk, eating and touring across so many cities and countries, that sometimes Klavier has to scroll back through years of Instagram posts (his personal- not the Label’s- they’d scrubbed a majority of the Gavinner’s posts, especially ones that featured Daryan) to specifically remember  them all.

It’s a nice adventure filled with the warmth Klavier needs after his disastrous debut and to distract him from his nightmares of that case. But he never feels safe.

Each night when he and Daryan bid each other goodnight and climb into their respective buses, Klavier willingly pushes down the nagging sense of fragility of the distraction he’s chosen to take him far away from his brother and Phoenix Wright.

After nearly a decade of being on the road, he comes back to Los Angeles as a prosecutor.  He’s divested himself from any stipends the Label provides, because despite still being a Rock Star, he’s also a public servant.  The waters of the “Dark Age of the Law” churn constantly with scandals and public opinion towards their Justice System sinks lower and lower by the day, and Klavier is loath to add any reason for his peers and public to mistrust him.

“Go in to court with clean hands and all that jazz,” he thinks, “well, as clean as my hands can be…”

Fortunately he’s amassed a nice nest egg through being a world-famous rockstar and his endorsement deals. 

He buys a nice home in the Hollywood Hills…because, well..what else is he to do?  He’s Klavier Gavin after all.

It’s a spacious Spanish-style, with rooms for days, a pool as big as his other celebrity neighbors; high-privacy walls so the celebrity tour-buses won’t see him, with a price tag that will certainly give him an amazing tax-break and justifies the home values of the neighborhood.

He doesn’t balk at the price; it’s a good investment for him.  Other celebrities blow their money on cars, drugs, women, and gambling.  Property no matter what is a good place to put his money (and his guitars) so he doesn’t think it a waste.  

What is a waste, is the interior decorator who is tasked to create the space worthy of “Klavier Gavin’s” flare.  The decorator and his team do and amazing job of it, Klavier figures.

It’s a shame because between being a world-famous Rock Star and a full-time prosecutor, he’s barely lives in the home he’s bought in the Hollywood Hills.

At least the “Hollywood Homes” Tours enjoy it.

Two years since coming back to the courts full-time, he’s moved to Century City.  It’s a duplex- still luxerous to match his tastes, but fits his needs better than the house in Hollywood Hills ever did.  That home he sold and re-invested the money elsewhere, to the frustration of the Hollywood Tourism Board.

He lives in the duplex with Vongole.  It’s closer to work, it’s in a section of the city that lets him have the glitz and glamour but also allows him to hit dive bars and be close to the local-music scene. Sometimes his colleagues come over to work on cases with him, and he doesn’t have to worry if his living space makes his co-workers feel out of place.

It’s a good place to live and he’s happy.  But he can’t shake the feeling that his apartment is more of a means to an end.

The first time he feels it, he’s not at the address of his formally listed residence.  He still lives in Century City, but since his and Apollo’s relationship has become more serious, Klavier finds himself more and more at Apollo’s small studio apartment in Atwater Village.

The day’s weather had been so hot he’d soaked through his dress shirt before he’d climbed all the way up the steps of the court.  The cases he’d dealt with- hellish as if to match the weather.

And despite winning his cases, Klavier’s mood remained sour.  At the office, Edgeworth had given him almost all of Payne’s pending cases, as the man had been suspended (again) by the Chief Prosecutor.

A long day of paperwork, re-filing the cases that his intern had sloppily sorted (because they’d had a hot date that evening and needed to leave early), and the discovery that all of his cases over the rest of the month would take him to court houses on opposite sides of the city daily, Klavier was thoroughly exhausted by the time he parked his motorcycle at Apollo’s building.

It’s when he steps off the elevator on the third floor that he smells it.  Smells the aroma of ground pork and onions; the air spiced with garlic and a feeling that his chasing away his dark mood.

He realizes he knows this smell.  The grocery cart parked outside of the apartment door with a box with a few scraps of corn husks, further confirms his suspicion that Apollo’s cooking.  Tamales, if Klavier isn’t mistaken.

Sure enough when he enters, he’s greeted to the sight of Apollo’s back and the ties of the red apron his boyfriend is wearing.  He’s busy forming the filling mixture with his hands, and on the small stove of the galley kitchen, the heat is rising in the dutch oven to cook off the stuffed corn husks.

When Apollo turn to smile at him, Klavier is drawn to press up behind him. Wrap his arms about the smaller frame and kiss Apollo’s warm cheek.  Apollo smiles and wiggles under the touch; hands are caked in cornmeal and meat and their size difference leaves Apollo with not much else than to say, 

“Welcome home.”

It’s such a normal thing to say.  Apollo’s said it many times before- but tonight’s the first time that Klavier realizes that this is his home.

It’s not Apollo’s key on his key ring, or that Klaiver didn’t have to announce that he was coming over; nor the place he’s standing in at that very moment.  It’s this person, this beautiful human in his arms. Who loves Klavier in all his glimmerousness, whose passion matches Klavier’s own for law and life. This man who smiles at him when he comes through the door and asks him about Klavier’s day, who is cooking dinner for them as if it’s the most normal and expected thing in the world.

He feels warm and safe, and a mixture of so many things at once.  That he is feeling them all at the same time confirms to him, that no matter where work or music takes him, his home and heart is here.  With Apollo.

Klavier’s response is a deep kiss, and a happy sigh.  Apollo flusters, squawks and calls him a “sap”, but Klavier can see he’s smiling and so he does it again.

“What’s gotten in to you?” Apollo breathless, and still covered in tamale mixture, “are you that happy that we’re having tamales for dinner.”

“Ja, it’s an appropriate response given that I am about to have the best in LA,” Klavier grins and enjoys Apollo’s blush.

“Well if you help me, you’ll be able to eat them sooner-”

Klavier smiles and leans over Apollo to wash his hands in the sink before pulling another apron out of the drawer.  Apollo shifts to make room for him at the counter;pushes the bowl of tamale mixture between them for Klavier to access.

May I always have a place besides you, Liebling he thinks and they proceed to ask each other about their respective days at work as dinner is made.

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

                               Ahn Junsu, who is not known by no other name;                                                     a 24 year old son of Bastet.                                     He is a night security guard and urban explorer.

FC NAME/GROUP: Oh Sehun EXO CHARACTER NAME: Ahn Junsu AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 24 / 5th June 1995 PLACE OF BIRTH: Seoul OCCUPATION: night security guard, urban explorer DEFINING FEATURES:

A small deep scar on his upper lip.

His pupils are vertical slits in the hazel-colored retina in full daylight.

His nails are a bit pointed and sharp-ish. Retractable.

PERSONALITY: His tall and lanky figure seems to be at odds with his fluid movements. It took him some time to grew into his height, at first his long, gangly form, at least a head taller than his peers, was too big and his exaggerated movements resulted in many accidents. It passed as he grew older. Now he moves quietly and efficiently, oftentimes (inadvertently - or sometimes not) sneaking up on people. However, rarely he takes full advantage of his speed and dexterity, it is too tiresome. He is more likely to exude the vibe of being laid back, slinking through his daily chores with lazily fluid movements and a vague-almost-interested look in his heavy-lidded, sleepy looking eyes. Sleep is his biggest weakness. He needs a solid 10 hours of rest, and oftentimes he resorts to napping in strange places and in strange circumstances. He possesses an ability to fall asleep anywhere anytime and generally likes to do so.

He is more active and energetic at nighttime. His bursts of activity, are short-lived in-between calmer periods. His attention, much like his physical activity, is short and easily redirected. In his more active phase, he is extremely (stupidly) curious, getting into things and situations solely because something piqued his interest, not really considering consequences and long term effects of his actions. It seems he is a master of living in “now”. He is easily distracted, flighty and inconsistent, always searching for something new to keep himself entertained.

His moral alignment may be called neutral good. He is not a bad person, however, there is a constant battle between his selfishness and somewhat present moral compass (with a dash of kindness). While he is inclined to help rather than hurt, he is also selfish and self-serving, questioning his possible actions by a simple “Is it even my problem? Do I want to bother?”

HISTORY: A vague awareness of his strangeness (his eyes for one, not to mention his claws) was always tucked in into a dark corner of his mind, binding its time until he was old enough and aware enough to put two and two together. And until someone sat him down and explained everything. In his case, the adolescent fantasy of being someone special was, in fact, real. Go figure. Harry, you’re a wizard. But in his case, it was more along the lines: you’re a kid of this old dusty Egyptian goddess (who is real, obviously) and yes, cats’r’us, as you may have noticed. Welcome to Mount Phoenix.

There were a few obstacles his mind needed to cope with. Like, They, as in Ye Old Gods, are real. And they breed. Really?!

Growing up at the Mount Phoenix was surprisingly uneventful. Somehow he managed to avoid drama. Or it might have been the other way around. Maybe he had some drama repelling powers. Maybe he just slunk away from it with cat-like grace, not even deigning to notice. Jun was never one for academics, so he skipped the college altogether, figuring there are other more pleasant ways to lose money. He settled for an exciting career of a night guard to put bread on his table. Or rather sushi. And chicken. And chocolate cakes. And after all, to add a little spice into his life, there was always his newest/recent obsession: exploring old dilapidated buildings. A natural outlet for curiosity and need for occasional excitement. Now, that landed him in a quite a few tight spots, literal and figurative ones. Plus, he may or may not brought a ghost home from one of his expeditions. (He still isn’t sure, but for some time now he feels awfully watched in his apartment.) There is just something so exciting and scary, and plainly awesome in entering abandoned or forbidden places, human-made but also profoundly inhuman in their blatant void, where life once was. Plus, he does work in the security firm. That secure many of these locations. Isn’t it a brilliant coincidence.

PANTHEON: Egyptian CHILD OF: Bastet

POWERS:

Excellent night vision

Pointed nails that are retractable.

Agility, speed, dexterity above average

STRENGTHS:

He can be faster, more agile and flexible than average, he is physically fit even though he does not do any workout routine. He also has excellent sight, be it in daylight or (especially) in darkness.

He can sleep anywhere and anytime. Quick naps in public are his specialty. He is more active and alert at nighttime.

He has retractable sharply pointed nails. And he is not afraid to use them.

WEAKNESSES:

While he is naturally physically fit, he has no stamina. He thrives during moments of adrenaline-fueled activity, when he reaches his peak performance, but cannot stay long that way. His strength drains quickly.

He needs more sleep than average. If deprived of sleep, his mind and his body will unravel quickly, to the point of health risks.

He hates cold and easily gets sick in winter. The ambient temperature of his flat needs to be in 20-something degree Celsius for him to feel comfortable and warm.

[threewaysdivided]

Young Justice: Deathly Weapons  - Prologue: For Humanity as a Whole

| Young Justice X Danny Phantom Crossover | Post YJ Season 1, Post DP Season 3 (No Phantom Planet) | 

Read the full story at Fanfiction.net // Archive of Our Own

Prologue: For Humanity as a Whole 

On the surface the meeting would seem to be quite above board.   

It was late afternoon.  The sky outside showed the faintest trace of gold, the sun traced its way towards the horizon.   Light seeped through the glass windows, illuminating the meeting room high among the skyscrapers of New York.  A plate of pastries and two emptied coffee cups occupied the centre of the table, surrounded by immaculately laid out manila folders, business contracts and blueprints. Plans were discussed, prices negotiated and deals made.  Advanced access to a prototype for a discount on a large software package.   A contract for the transfer of staff members between the research and development laboratories of their respective companies.    A 10 percent share in a company in exchange for additional project grants.   Polite small talk.  A recent win by the Green Bay Packers.  Coming and goings in the city of Metropolis.  

All in all it was a typical meeting.  Just two powerful businessmen with the potential for joint projects.  All completely above board.

But anyone who kept their eyes and ears open to the whispers of the respective underworlds would know that this meeting was definitely anything but ordinary. 

As they regarded each other across the conference table, both men understood that the charade was drawing to a close.   Signing off the final contract, the older of the pair decided to broach the topic.

“I must admit to being surprised Mr. Luthor. While I am honoured that you would deign to meet with me in person, New York seems quite aways for someone as busy as yourself to come for mere bonds and shares.”

“Not that much further than a trip from Wisconsin, Mr. Masters.   And I always value a chance to meet my esteemed colleagues.”

“But of course.”

A short expectant silence gathered in the room before the other man continued.

“Now that you mention it, I do have one more… proposition, before we finish.  Outside of my own personal businesses, I belong to a small, selective cohort of… influential individuals.   My colleagues and I wish to benefit mankind.   We envision an evolved, enlightened humanity.  A species fit to stand tall, to take our rightful place in the greater cosmos.”

“An admirable aim indeed.  And where does a mere man such as I belong in this grand vision?”

“You see, Mr. Masters, throughout history few things have puzzled humanity more than life itself.   The mystery of our own mortality and… what comes after.  What say you?”

“‘The last enemy that shall be defeated is death’. But I’m unsure as to why you think I can help with this puzzle.”

“From what I have heard you are somewhat of an expert in this… particular field.”

“I dabbled a little.  It intrigued me when I was younger, but after an… unfortunate accident… I decided that I would be best served turning my attentions elsewhere. A profitable choice, as you can see.”

“Quite understandable.   But you do have information.”

“And?”“And we’d like to propose a deal.  A contract of sorts.”

From the briefcase at his side, Luthor withdrew a thin black file, sliding it delicately across the table.   The elder opened it curiously, raising an eyebrow at the contents.   A photograph of an attractive woman with cropped auburn hair featured prominently.  He carefully examined the text that accompanied the image, eyes widening slightly before he regained his composure.

“You are a lucky man Mr. Masters. Blessed with opportunities that come to only a rare few.   But there was always one opportunity that evaded you - the greatest of them all.   We would offer you that opportunity.   A second chance… with a few undesirable variables removed.”

The grey-haired businessman frowned thoughtfully as he contemplated the contents of the folder.  It was a hugely valuable offer.  Once in a lifetime perhaps.

“And in return?”

Lex smiled thinly. “Information”

Masters nodded to himself, seemingly reaching a conclusion.

“The beings you seek are… elusive.  Powerful and mysterious, but difficult to find.  They reside within their own plane and the rifts that form between our worlds are few and rarely last more than a moment; hardly long enough to support an expedition.  But there is another option.”

From his breast pocket Masters withdrew a slim smartphone, calling an image of two humanoid figures onto the screen.

“A rare breed.  These are the only two I have encountered; possibly the only two in existence.   Perhaps more useful to your research as they closely resemble humans and favour life on our side of the veil.   Needless to say they can be energetic, powerful, wilful and supremely uncooperative. I can provide you with some of the equipment needed to take them into captivity.  The government’s paranormal investigation unit may also be of service.   Not the field agents –they are notoriously gung-ho – but certain members of the research division might be persuaded… for the right price of course.”

“And we will have your full co-operation in this?”

“Naturally.   I will provide you with whatever you desire, be it within my power.”

“Then we are agreed.”  Luthor extended his hand, smiling as Masters clasped it with a firm cool grip. “To a successful endeavour.”  

The elder man smiled thinly in return before pausing. “If I could ask a favour?”

 Luthor raised a brow at the request.

“It’s nothing serious.  Forgive an old man’s sentimentality but once you have the beings in your custody…   You may do whatever you wish with the female, I have no interest in her. However, the male was the first of his kind that I encountered and, though he is wild, I will admit to having developed a certain fondness for the boy.  So I would ask that, once you have discovered what you need, you would allow me to take possession of him; that is, if he is still in serviceable condition.”

Lex nodded.  “An interesting request. We will consider it.”

“That’s all I can ask, old friend.”

Luthor’s phone chimed gently.  “I’m sorry, but I have another appointment to keep.”  He smiled apologetically at the older man as he placed files back into his dark case.  “It was a pleasure meeting you Mr.. Masters. I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”

“I assure you Mr.. Luthor, the pleasure was mine.”

Vlad turned towards the window as his enhanced hearing detected the departure of the elevator from his floor.   The view was truly spectacular.  Looking down at the black folder in his hands, Masters had to admit that the pieces had fallen into place perfectly.  Only three things in life had escaped his grasp and within the space of a business meeting two were practically in the palm of his hand.  Not that everything was guaranteed to work out. He had no illusions about Luthor’s capacity to double-cross him.  But while Lex may stand on par with Vladimir Masters, and occasionally be capable of outwitting a certain blue boy scout, he was a far cry from playing in the same league as Vlad Plasmius.  It really was too bad that the existence of a third ‘rare ghost’ had slipped his mind during their talk. And as for his little badger…

He smirked.  Luthor and his ‘associates’ were playing exactly into his hands.  No doubt Daniel would eventually come to him seeking protection from his pursuers.  And if not, well there was a high chance that his new colleagues would agree to relinquish the boy into his custody.   After all, he could be very persuasive.

The sun dropped below the horizon, sending red and orange rays across the city.   Taking in the skyline, Vlad allowed a true, cruel smile to claim his face.  No trick of the evening light could disguise the scarlet glow in the businessman’s usually blue eyes. 

Now, if only he could get the Packers on side.

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CC fic: Hearts of Steel (ch. 2 of 3)

Len heads back to his Earth, temporarily, with Sara by his side. But fixing what he'd left behind won't be easy, and sometimes the idea of "home" is more complicated than it seems.

Thanks again to @larielromeniel! I posted this here on AO3 a few days ago, but was delayed in getting it up on Tumblr. Note that you really do want to read the first chapter first. (And probably the rest in the series.)

Angst ahoy!

It turns out that this Earth’s Mick—once Len had powered forward enough behind his shield of surging ice—had stood down once Len had managed to get his message across. He’s now standing with the rest of them in the room adjacent to the one where they’d battled, arms folded, expression blank, small flames occasionally licking across his burned, scarred skin. It’s all too clear where the faint scent of cooking meat had come from before, as the skin sizzles and blisters and heals, again and again, but the big man shows no sign of any pain. Indeed, very little reaction at all.

After a moment, he seems to feel Sara’s eyes on him and glances at her, life momentarily sparking in his own eyes—eyes a weirdly different shade than her Mick’s eyes, and isn’t that an odd difference?

There’s assessment there, briefly, almost curiosity, but it’s quickly gone, replaced by that waiting blankness. Sara knows that this Mick is a different man than the Legend she knows—he met Len when they were both about 10 years older, for one thing—but actually seeing how profound the difference is…it hurts, almost physically. She sees the regretful look Len gives his old friend as he saunters by, but his focus is on his sister, who may have deigned not to kill them, but certainly isn’t happy about the matter.

Lisa Snart—Lady Midas—is sitting on a chair at one end of the room, where she’d slowly stalked after entering, silent and grim. The piece of furniture looks like it started life as an ordinary, cozy papasan, but now it’s just like its owner: solid gold.

Lisa bears the mark of her gold gun in every part of her, living gold from her hair to her toes. She somehow still moves like flesh, which is more than anyone can say for anything else she touches with a bare hand—such as the figure, easily taken for a particularly disturbing statue, standing in the corner.

“That damn fool Scudder thought he could use her,” Len had told Sara, back on her Earth. “He…found out otherwise. No, she’s safe. But it’s no way to live.”

Len walks over to stand in front of the chair, and no one in the room can miss that he’s just out of arm’s reach. The siblings regard each other, icy blue eyes meeting golden orbs that shouldn’t even be able to see, and Sara feels her heart clench, thinking of Laurel and the way any Leonard Snart she’s ever known has talked about his sister.

Lisa’s “wearing” what seems to be a leather jacket, T-shirt and jeans, all melded into the gold that’s consumed her. The only thing that isn’t gold is the long pair of black silk gloves she’s now wearing, like something out of an Audrey Hepburn movie, and Sara knows from Len that given time, those will have to be removed too, switched for a newer pair, lest they start to turn as well. Raw silk, as far as he knows, is the only thing that’s even remotely resistant to her “powers.” For now.

“So,” the other woman says in that odd, hollow tone. “Back to the scene of the crime, big brother? We thought you were gone, fled, from both your ‘Justice League’ and us, like the coward you are.”

Len’s chin goes up stubbornly, but Sara can see his eyes are full of anguish. “I didn’t run,” he returns. “You threw me out. And I joined the League because…”

But Lisa cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “You were gone. Why doesn’t matter.”

Sara’s temper gets the better of her. “He didn’t have a choice,” she snaps, stepping forward as those golden eyes snap to her. “He was trying to get back. And he even managed to find a way to help before he did.”

Lisa stares at her, but Mick interrupts the fledgling standoff by stepping forward himself. “Help?” he rumbles. “Snart?”

Len gives him a harried look, glancing back at Lisa and Sara and then over at his former friend. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the small bottle Wells had given him.

“If you take one of these, it will undo…it will undo what I forced you into,” he says starkly. “Take away the damned ‘powers.’ Can’t give you your guns back. But…”

It’s less what he did than, more strictly speaking, what a rogue meta did, in combination with their upgraded guns, but Sara holds her peace on that. She understands Len’s guilt. Nothing she says will change that.

Mick and Lisa both look at the bottle. But Lisa is frowning, and Sara knows that’s not precisely what Len had expected.

“Undo…” the golden woman muses. “How do we know that’s true? This is…” An odd look flickers across her face. “…not the best existence, but how do we know you won’t make it worse? At least no one can hurt me now.” She shakes her head at Len as he starts to protest. “You said it would make things better, before. It did not.”

“Lis…” Len takes a deep breath, then closes his eyes. “Lis, Mick, I screwed up. Big time. I was trying to up the game. I thought I knew best. I didn’t. I didn’t plan that meta, but it’s still on me.” He sighs, voice cracking a little. “I’m trying to fix it. Believe it or not, I’ve been trying ever since. And I’m gonna get outta your hair, soon. I’m leaving for good.” He opens his eyes, glancing at Sara. “But…but I can’t do it until I know I’ve fixed my fuck-up. Please. What can I do?”

Mick remains silent, eyes unreadable. Lisa turns her gaze to Sara too, her expression turning considering, and for a moment, Sara has the scary feeling she’s considering making her brother pay by making him give up something he apparently wants. But then she turns back, nodding as if to herself.

“And would you take one of those…whatever they are?” she says in her metallic tone.

“Nanites,” Len says almost automatically, looking at the bottle. “To fix the DNA. I…” He hesitates.

He largely has control over his powers, in part, apparently, because he’d worked to get control of his gun when it was first linked with him, Sara knows. They’re part of him now. But…

“Yes,” Len says finally, abruptly. “If that’s what you want. There are three. I…”

Then he just shakes his head, pops the top of the bottle and shakes one of the pills out onto his hand. He holds it up, regarding it, then looks at Sara.

“You’re still a Legend,” she tells him quietly, ignoring Lisa watching them. “Powers or not. Do what you have to do.”

Len gives her a nod, eyes fixed on hers, and then…

Then Mick steps forward, suddenly, unexpectedly, and grabs the pill right out of his former friend’s hand. He pops it in his mouth, swallowing, as Len whirls to stare at him, and Lisa jerkily gets right up from her seat, stepping forward too.

“Mick?” she says, sounding the most human Sara has heard her yet. “What…”

The bigger man shakes his head, lowering his hand. “Sorry, squirt,” he rumbles. “I’m sick of this. Sick of…the burning shit. Thought I’d never get tired of that, once, but…it hurts.” He looks down at his hands, even as another small flame licks along his left wrist, and another curls around his right elbow. “All the fuckin’ time. And I can’t…can’t even have a beer within it getting all warm and disgusting.” He darts a look at Len, who’s regarding him with a complicated expression. “How long will it take until this stuff starts working, Snart?”

Len clears his throat, obviously taken aback by the turn things have taken. “Shouldn’t be long. Mick…I…”

“Stuff it. I get it.” Mick frowns at him. “I think I couldn’t have told you to fuck off if I really wanted to, back then? I liked the idea of throwing fire around, ‘specially at the pigs. It’s not all about you, asshole.”

Sara can’t help it; she laughs at the flummoxed look on Len’s face, at the reminder that this Mick does have some attitude in common with the one she knows. This Mick looks at her again, and this time, he actually smirks. He opens his mouth…

But Sara never gets the chance to hear what he was going to say to her. Because at that moment, Mick Rory shudders, fist clenching, and staggers, nearly toppling to the ground.  Len lunges for him, arms icing up as a defense against the involuntary flames, and catches him, sort of, lowering him to the floor—which is, fortunately and unfortunately, bare metal.

“Mick?” Lisa cries again, something unhinged in her tone again. “Get away from him!” She starts for Len, even as Sara starts for her, but Len puts up a hand and Lisa, at least, stops, staring at her estranged brother in anger and the fallen man in dismay.

Mick’s unconscious and twitching, now, and Sara makes a decision, stepping around Lisa to grab a coat--it looks like the old fireman’s coat she’s seen her Earth’s Mick wear, actually—off a chair and folding it, kneeling down to tuck it under the big man’s head. Mick jerks again, his spine arching right off the floor, and Lisa makes a noise of distress, watching.

“He’s going to be fine,” Len says in a determined tone (and maybe only Sara can hear the concern in his voice, and the promise of anger if Wells and Team Flash misrepresented this “cure”). “Lisa, I swear. It just doesn’t work immediately…”

“You said that before,” she hisses back at him, shoulders hunched, fists clenched. “ ‘Lisa, it’ll take time to get used to it.’ ‘Lisa, it’ll get better.’ ‘Lisa, it will be OK….!’ ”

Len’s shoulders hunch too, as if he’s been struck, but he continues on. “You can take the other one. We’ll watch over both of you…”

“I don’t even know who she is.” Lisa gives Sara a look that might be rather nasty—it’s sort of hard to tell with her gilded features. “One of your precious new heroes? What’d she say…a legend? Aren’t most legends dead?”

That cuts just a little close to the quick, and Sara can’t stay quiet. “Lisa, your brother’s a good man. And he’s right, this will…”

“You be quiet! You’re like them…”

“Lisa, please…”

Mick makes a deep groaning noise, then, and all three of them look at him, just in time to see flames leap up around his hands, even as they’re folded across his chest. But even as Len reaches out to douse them, they flicker and die, and Mick twitches again, going still and pale underneath the copious scars.

Len’s eyes are narrowed, his jaw set as he checks the other man’s pulse. Sara sees him relax just a little—a good sign—before Lisa decides enough is enough. She pulls off one black glove, dropping it to the floor, then another, and reaches for Len with a growl.

He blocks with an iced-up hand, and Sara can see his expression freeze as he realizes the ice is the only thing that’d stopped him from becoming another statue. For her part, she’s rarely felt so helpless. She has few defenses against Lisa’s powers, and she and Len, at least, know it.

“Lisa,” Len whispers again, wrapping his ice-clad fingers around his sister’s golden hand, “please.”

The other woman’s eyes are shining, and while it’s almost certainly the light off the metallic surface, the effect is reminiscent of tears.  “He’s the only one I have left!” she cries, and Sara can see Len’s face still in pain. “The only one of the Rogues who stayed, who isn’t terrified of me. If he dies…if you’ve killed him…” She jerks her hand back. “Get out!”

Len struggles to his feet as Sara reaches out to take his hand. “Lis, someone who can…who can touch him should stay…”

“Get out!”

There’s really only one thing left to do. They get out.

Len puts the bottle holding the remaining two pills on the table before they go.

Get out.

Len can tell Sara is letting him take the lead here; he knows this Earth, knows this city. But they’re not out of the building five minutes, just barely out of the industrial district, when he feels his steps slow, almost involuntarily.

He…thought it would be different, he thinks numbly. He’s not sure why; it’s not like he’d expected adulation for fixing what he’d screwed up in the first place. But he’d tried, he really had, and he’d thought he could help…

He can’t even save his sister and his oldest friend, not really. Some kind of hero. No kind of hero at all…

“Len?” Sara’s voice is soft, and he blinks, suddenly realizing that he’s been standing there staring at his feet. He looks up at her, and whatever she sees in his face, it makes her own expression contract, and she reaches out to take his arm.

He’s no fan of sympathy, but he just can’t bring himself to shy away from it now, not from her. He grabs her hand like it’s a lifeline and they stand there, linked, numb.

Finally, Len sighs. “I need a shower,” he mumbles, looking down at his sweaty, slightly singed uniform. “Gotta place we can go. I think. You…OK?”

He’s really not sure what he’s asking, but Sara seems to get it. She nods, squeezing his hand. “Lead on.”

The Blue Moon motel isn’t part of one of the shiny new chains that have proliferated so much in the past few decades. Rather, it’s one of the family-owned, roadside types with a tiny rectangular pool in the protective semicircle of the rooms, and an office at one end, which is where Len slowly heads, still holding Sara’s hand.

The dark-haired woman behind the desk starts as she sees them, but quickly gets to her feet, calling Len “Mr. Cold,” which gives Sara a much-needed smile. The woman listens intently, obviously holding back questions as Len asks if the motel has a spare room for a few hours, then nods, reaching behind the counter to grab a key and extending it to Len.

“It’s…good…to see you back,” she says quietly, darting a curious glance at Sara and their still-linked hands. “Are you…can I do anything…”

Len takes the key with a weary smile. “This is good, Amari,” he says quietly. “Thanks. I…I’m not going to be around long, but we desperately need a shower and maybe a nap. I appreciate it.”

Amari gives him a nod. “It’s the least we can do, Mr. Cold, after how you helped us out.” She darts another look at Sara. “Take your time.”

Sara nearly laughs at the woman’s obvious speculation—she’s exhausted, filthy, and heartsick, not really in the mood for “taking their time.” But she thanks Amari fervently anyway, then squeezes Len’s hand, tugging gently.

He blinks, having apparently zoned out again, then says something quiet to Amari and turns for the door. They slowly cross the parking lot toward the far end of the motel, Sara checking the position of the sun in the afternoon sky, then Len finds the door he’s looking for and fumbles the key into the lock.

The room is small and spare, but immaculate, and Sara pulls Len, who’s frozen again, inside, locking the door behind them. “Go take your shower,” she tells him quietly, reaching up to cup his face with a hand. “You’ll feel better.”

Physically, anyway. But neither of them says that. Len nods jerkily after a moment, then turns, heading for the bathroom. Sara watches him go.

He has the water cold, at first, just this side of icy. It’s not like it really bothers him, after all, and after the flames, the chill feels good.

But he’s weary of hiding behind ice, and after a few minutes, he turns the temperature up, to something nearly scalding. Poor penance, for what Mick’s gone through. Is going through? Will the other man wake up, in time, bellowing for a beer that isn’t warm and grumbling about finding a new heat gun? He should have stayed, should have told Lisa…

But he keeps seeing that golden hand coming for his heart, with no hesitation at all.

Len turns the water temp back down to something more lukewarm, standing under the spray with his eyes closed, memory assailing him. After a moment, he leans forward, resting his forehead against the glossy white shower walls, cognizant of the tears—hotter than the water falling from the showerhead—running down his face.

He’s not sure how long he stands there. Long enough for the water to cool even more. Long enough that he starts as the shower curtain is pulled aside, and he turns and blinks to see Sara there, regarding him.

She’s already stripped her uniform off; well, if he’d been feeling grimy, she probably was too. He blinks again, water running down his face as she studies him, then nods, pulling her sports bra off over her head and stripping off her panties in a businesslike manner.

Then she steps forward and into the shower, tilting her head back under the spray just a moment before regarding him again—and then, reading his expression correctly, moving forward into his arms.

It should be sexy as hell, and certainly his body reacts that way. But as Len’s arms tighten convulsively around her, he lowers his forehead to hers, dragging in a shaky breath, and the tears surge again, hot on his face as Sara runs a gentle hand down his scarred back, her other hand pressing him closer. They stand like that a few long minutes before Len sighs again, then tilts his head, dipping it a little more even as Sara goes up on her toes to lift her lips to his.

They kiss under the cool water, a slow, gentle kiss that tastes of salt and the faint mineral tang of the shower spray, a kiss that speaks more of love and understanding than passion and desire, at least for now. Len closes his eyes, moving his hands to Sara’s shoulders, breathing deeply for a moment before kissing her again, even as the water cools even further and goosebumps rise on their skin.

He’s lost a lot, in the past year, much of it his own doing, but he’s gained too. Changed and grown and gained so much, and the most remarkable part of it is this amazing woman, who loves him even though she knows who and what he is, his flaws and his quirks and his deeds good and bad and ugly.

Where Sara is, is home.

[aion-rsa]

Belushi Review: Showtime’s Look at John Belushi Is Almost Definitive

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The world got to know John Belushi’s eyebrows before we got to know the man. They projected his innermost confusion, telegraphed his thought processes, and misdirected his most sincere intentions. Showtime’s heartfelt and intimate documentary, Belushi, opens with clips from the comic icon’s screen test for Saturday Night Live. Armed with just his face, he lets those eyebrows steal the scene. They cajole, caress, and careen across the bottom of his brow, culminating in a series of aerobic stretches with a gymnast’s flair. Belushi didn’t have to crack a joke, he barely had to say a word, and yet showed a world of possibilities within a few inches of cranial space. Belushi really was a lot like his decathlon character in the Little Chocolate Donuts skit. All he needed was some sugar to keep him going. The documentary shows Belushi really was born that way, and didn’t need the extra sweetening.

Too bad he couldn’t keep it up. But we know this from the beginning. The first real scene takes place at the height of Belushi’s fame and adulation. He stole the movie he was just in, Animal House, which was the most successful comedy film of all time at the time. He was on the number one TV show in America. His record The Blues Brothers’ Briefcase of Blues, not even a comedy album, but a labor of love with musician friends he respected and adored, was at the top of the charts, with hit singles doing the same. Director R.J. Cutler (The War Room, The September Issue, Listen to Me Marlon) immediately declares this documentary isn’t about one of America’s favorite performers, it is about the cannibalistic hungers of fame.

“John always had appetites that were completely out of control, for everything, but I didn’t start to worry about him until he was at the Universal Amphitheatre, playing for 7,000 people,” Harold Ramis, who had known Belushi since their improvisational comedy beginnings, says over the soundtrack and applause. “I looked at John on the stage and I thought, ‘He’s on the most popular comedy show of our generation, he was in the most successful comedy film ever, and now he’s onstage fronting an amazing band.’ My first thought was, ‘How great for him.’ My second thought was, ‘Knowing his appetites, I don’t think he’ll survive this.’”

With that, Ramis throws a dark shadow over the rest of the film. Every success the documentary shows from here on has a cloud of doom hanging over it. Belushi was a wild man, bouncing around on the very edge of the most visible stage, both higher than anyone possibly imagined. SNL made overnight stars out of most of its cast. Chevy Chase was plucked out early because, well, he was Chevy Chase and they weren’t. But while former drummer Chase went on to be a matinee draw, Belushi became a rock star.

Belushi’s life has been told before. Watergate journalist Bob Woodward wrote the tawdry 1984 book Wired, which was adapted into a feature film in 1989. The documentary makes ample use of audio clips from Tanner Colby’s 2012 oral history Belushi: A Biography. Belushi’s wife Judith interviewed many of his friends and castmates, like Ramis, Chase, Dan Aykroyd, Jane Curtin, Lorne Michaels, Carrie Fisher, Ivan Reitman, Penny Marshall, and John’s brother Jim Belushi. Judy conducted the interviews in the first few years after Belushi’s death. This gives Belushi an immediacy, but also makes the stories feel older. None of the other interviews are shown as talking heads, except archival footage of Belushi himself.

While the guest voices condense the story, and breathe an even-handed life into the material, Belushi works best when it lets Belushi tell his own version. Some of the most revealing insights come from a series of letters written to Judy, who had been with him ever since Wheaton Community High School. The letters, which open “Dear Jutes,” begin when Belushi is still in an Indiana summer stock company, smoking pot and listening to The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album, which he writes makes him think of her whenever he hears it, “Especially ‘With a Little Help From My Friends.’” His rendition of Joe Cocker’s adaptation of the song is a late highlight, and Belushi’s letters are interpreted very effectively by Saturday Night Live’s Bill Hader.

The letters illuminate Belushi’s passions while humanizing the larger-than-life performer. Home movie footage succeeds in showing him trying to find an elusive normalcy in real life. The letters offset the seemingly effortless rise of the comedian with the inner turmoil that fed it. Belushi comes off as obsessed with success but terrified of fame. A late letter reveals Belushi was afraid he reached a point of no return. Some of the letters are funny, others insecure, still others come off as despondent.

One of the most unexpected revelations about Belushi is how he felt like an outsider growing up, and was embarrassed by his Albanian immigrant background. One wouldn’t think Belushi might be embarrassed by anything. “We all wanted to be American,” his brother Jim Belushi explains. John, who was expected to work in his father’s restaurant, instead put it to work for him, inspiring his Pete Dionasopoulos of the Olympia Café character in the “Cheeseburger, cheeseburger” sketches.

Much of Belushi’s story is brought to life by the animated sequences from Robert Valley. These are particularly effective when showing Belushi during his high school years drumming with a band called the Ravens, and illustrating his time with the improv group he founded, The West Compass Players, which led to his joining Chicago’s Second City troupe. His rise is spectacularly fun to hear, and the animation makes up for lost footage.

The film also gets into his many contradictions. Belushi is drawn losing himself in the albums of comics like Jonathan Winters and Bob Newhart. But when he is asked, during his Second City period, his opinion on Lou Costello, Belushi says “Nope, don’t like him.” John wanted to create something new. The film also shows how much spontaneity played into Belushi’s comedy. He’d only seen the samurai movie with Toshiro Mifune on TV the night before he auditioned for Saturday Night Live.

Belushi was flown from Chicago to New York to officiate over Lemmings, National Lampoon’s Off-Broadway spoof of Woodstock. He stole the show with his impersonation of Joe Cocker. Lorne Michaels saw Saturday Night Live as a show which would be an “upheaval” for network television. Belushi said he hated television during his interview, but told Michaels he would deign to appear on the show. He’d already auditioned for a rival series called “Saturday Night,” which was going to be headlined by sports announcer Howard Cosell.

The documentary expertly weaves the double-edged sword of celebrity. Belushi chafed at being recognized on the street as “that Bee guy” from their bumble-bee sketches, but his performances, many of them exercises in extreme physical comedy, struck a nerve with audiences. Belushi lets clips strike at the audience to back it up. Michaels compares Belushi to Jackie Gleason’s Ralph Kramden from The Honeymooners, because he brought a blue-collar vibe. On SNL, Belushi is remembered as being very competitive, distracted by the success of Chevy Chase, and dismissive of the women writers and performers. Once Chase left, Michaels says “the thing that John most hoped for, that he would be the alpha male, had now happened.”

The documentary is at its most exciting when it shows clips. From the early Lemmings stage show, through Saturday Night Live, Belushi highlights the anarchy Belushi brought to the stage. It could easily slip into be a “best of” clip show, featuring his memorable characters Jake Blues and the Samurai, or his ruthless spoof of Elizabeth Taylor choking on a chicken bone, giving herself the Heimlich maneuver and returning to the chicken. But instead informs Belushi’s motivations. Cutler consistently finds perfect clips to illustrate how Belushi’s individuality drove him to seemingly unimaginable heights. The onscreen examples justify the star quality which put him on the cover of Newsweek and Rolling Stone. We get the sense of how Belushi helped change American culture and comedy, in the same league as Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, Lily Tomlin, and George Carlin. But while scaling the dizzying heights, the movie never loses its sense of doom.

Belushi’s spiral into addiction is covered at length. In the second season of SNL, Belushi got injured doing a pratfall and was prescribed painkillers. When the prescription ran out, he turned to the street for hard drugs. Later in his career, Belushi would hire President Nixon’s personal bodyguard to keep him away from bad influences, but on his rise up, many of his colleagues cut him a lot of slack. “He was testing all his boundaries at that point,” The Blues Brothers director John Landis explains, before excusing Belushi: “I don’t think we lost more than four or five days of shooting because of the drugs.”

Belushi got clean for a year, living Martha’s Vineyard. Carrie Fisher, however, says in an interview that by skipping rehab, Belushi never dealt with sobriety’s most challenging aspects: day to day life can be boring, and the comic star didn’t have the coping mechanism to deal with feelings the drugs were covering up. Cutler’s documentary is moving, offering a look into the soul of the man who embodied the “animal” found in every college fraternity, Bluto in Animal House. The documentary deftly explores Belushi’s attempts to make the beast noble, taking his acting seriously in smaller films like Old Boyfriends, Continental Divide, and trying to break out of the audience’s preconceptions with his last film Neighbors.

Cutler finds Belushi, the performer, but doesn’t quite catch John as a person as Belushi incrementally shifts its focus from his art to his drug binges. Belushi can’t fully celebrate Belushi, because everyone watching knows the ending. In March of 1982, Belushi sequestered himself at the Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles in order to finish “Noble Rot,” a screenplay he was writing with Don Novello. Here the film very succinctly and poignantly captures the love people felt for the man, Belushi. Aykroyd, who said he fell in love with Belushi the moment they met, still bears deep wounds.

“He was sad and defeated,” Aykroyd remembers about his last conversation. “I thought I’ll finish this page, this paragraph and get out there. I didn’t get to him in time. I carry that with me forever.” Belushi’s long-time blues and soul brother thought he had a solution. “I told him I was writing something great for us,” we hear Aykroyd say in the film. “I was writing Ghostbusters.” While the documentary gives this revelation a sheen of hopeful might-have-beens, it really only underscores how that would be a mistake assumption. Everything about the documentary says a successful film might only have slowed the same inevitable ending.

For all the archival footage found in Belushi, one particular short film broadcast on Saturday Night Live is sadly not featured, except for a few stills in one of the quicker montages. “Don’t Look Back in Anger” shows John, as an old man, walking through a cemetery and reminiscing about his old friends on SNL. They’re all dead in the film, Belushi is the last survivor. Why? Because he is a dancer. This may have been how he saw himself, and as his audience most wanted to see him. But for all the missed promise it may have subverted, the skit fits with Belushi’s larger picture. John Belushi is dancing through a graveyard, happily. The film is a wake, of sorts. But the dance is how Belushi ultimately moved through life, with a dancer’s grace which defied the body held down by strong appetites. Belushi would have been a more satisfying film if it took smaller bites.

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Belushi airs Sunday, Nov. 22, at 9 p.m., on Showtime.

The post Belushi Review: Showtime’s Look at John Belushi Is Almost Definitive appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[b-radley66]

Opportunity Born: The Handmaiden Blues

Bit of an experiment here. A work in progress just on tumblr. Maybe ten parts, set just before A New Dawn (about three years after most of my stories.) Some incidents referred to in this story - http://archiveofourown.org/works/10829736/chapters/24034467

Not necessary to read, but it would make me happy. Thank you for reading and any feedback you wish to give. Sorry for the formatting marks. Can’t figure out bold and italic in tumblr. Enjoy!

Eight Years after the Fall of the Republic The Outer Rim, near Hutt Space Shaizan House Vessel <i>Equity</i>, Naboo Registry

The tiny vessel waits, powered down for an unknown rendezvous. The pilot sits in the cockpit, her eyes closed, her breathing calm.

That cannot exactly be said for her companion, sitting in the navigator’s seat. <i>Of course, it only means that her heart rate is about two beats faster than mine.</i>

“Dai-Lin, how much longer are we going to wait on them? We are sitting ducks for any of the Queen Slug’s scavengers.” the young woman says. “As long as we need to, dear heart,” she replies. “And for the fifteenth time, my name is Hana. We technically work for the same boss.”

The young Handmaiden has not quite mastered the serenity portion of her training. She rolls her eyes, but manages to catch herself. A nervous grin flows over the dark skin of her features.

Hana smiles. “Don’t worry, dear. I don’t flay beautiful Handmaidens who roll their eyes at me.” The Dai-Lin, literally, ‘the Big Shot’ of the Noble and Exalted House of Shaizan Finance, reaches over impulsively and kisses the younger woman on the cheek.

<i>The much younger woman,</i> she thinks ruefully. She hears a snort from Morene’. “Watch it sweetie. May not flay you, but I can still kick your ass in the sparring circle. Even though I am nearly twice your age.”

“That’ll be the day, Granny,” the young Naboo says. She suddenly places her hand over her mouth, a wide-eyed expression on her face. Hana laughs. “Oh, yeah, infant. Being able to do ten handsprings away from your antagonist in the space of five seconds doesn’t exactly spell ‘beating’ someone,” she says.

As she turns her eyes back to the controls, laughter still evident in her eyes and on her lips, she sees the young woman, a young woman already with great power evident in her muscular arms and legs, look at her with something like awe.

<i>Still got it, honey,</i> she thinks. A brief glance at herself in the reflection of the viewport, at her face with only a few lines of care around her dark, almond-shaped eyes and only blue streaks present in her raven-black hair. Blue streaks that she had put there.

“Why did you choose me, Da-, er, Hana?” the young woman asks. “I am the youngest and least experienced of the Queen’s attendants. You could’ve easily brought one of the twins or even the Chief herself.”

“Storae’ speaks very highly of you, as does the Queen,” Hana says, referring to the Chief Handmaiden. “They thought you were perfect for this job.”

“How so?” she asks, a thunderous expression growing on her face. “I hope it is not because I am expendable,” she said.

“What the hell? Where the hell did that come from?” Hana asks, her anger sparking.

“Well, I am the youngest. With the least experience.” Hana looks at the overhead viewport. <i>Damned shinies</i>. Memories stir as she uses the term from her past, when she was younger, with nearly two dozen pilots and several hundred ground crew as her responsibilities. <i>All when she was barely older than the gymnast here.</i>

Her response is quiet. “You speak more languages than anyone else. Also, the Queen tells me you have made a study of Hutt crime syndicate offshoots that are trying to make inroads into Naboo. The fact that you grew up in a Human-Gungan enclave may give you better insight into who some of those scumbags are targeting.” She smirks. “Plus, there is the idea that you have mastered some pretty tough and impressive disciplines in hand-to-hand fighting.”

After a moment, the creased forehead on the young woman smoothes as she processes. She nods in acceptance. Her eyes bore into the older woman.

“What exactly are we doing out here, Hana?” Morene’ asks.

<i>Good question, sweetie</i>, the financier thinks to herself.

~=~=~=~=~=

“We’ve lost some serious information over the last few ten-days, dear,” Senator Riyo Chuchi says. “What kind of information, Riyo?” Hana asks her lawyer.

“The kind that could have all of us kneeling in front of a wall, or being tortured to death by a interrogator droid,” the Pantoran says matter-of-factly. “As well as others.”

Hana takes this in. She watches her daughter play with a Naboo starfighter in the Senator’s lap. She smiles for a moment, then turns away. “N9, could you take Sosha to another room to get a snack?” she asks the Nanny Droid

“Yes, Mistress,” the expressionless voice says. She sees Sosha about to protest, her near-four-year old mind turning. She looks down her nose at her daughter. There are the beginnings of stubbornness in her green-gold-brown-in-different-light eyes. As she turns her head, there is an instant where her eyes fix in warm green. Hana’s stomach clinches as Riyo whispers something in her tiny ear. The girl giggles, then gets down and walks over to her mother. She tugs her arms around Hana’s waist briefly, then turns to follow the droid.

“She’s getting more like you every day, love,” Riyo says. “Yeah, stubborn,” Hana replies.

“I was going to say <i>responsible and loving,</i> but we can go with that, if you like,” the politician says with a grin.

“Yeah, lets,” the Naboo says. She thinks of another with at least the stubborn trait. “Thankfully isn’t showing signs of sociopathy and narcissism like my loving husband,” Hana says. Riyo’s brows knit in worry. “How long are you going to keep up the pretense of a marriage, Hana? I think you have established control of the company enough in the last few years that none of the fossils of the old board could say anything about adultery. Or question her parentage.”

Hana is silent. “I think that I want to have some stability for her, even when he deigns to come home,” she says.

The excuse sounds lame, even to her own ears. Riyo rolls her eyes skeptically. Hana holds her hands up. “I know. I know. It sounds stupid even to me.” She looks at the door that Sosha had just entered. “Me not divorcing Shaizan gives me an excuse not to contact him.”

Riyo doesn’t have to ask who the pronoun refers to. Certainly not to her wayward husband.

“He would be here in a heartbeat, girl. He is that kind of man.” Hana shakes her head. “No. We had one night. A night of memory and healing, but just one night.” She looks Riyo in the eye. “He is doing what he has to. Protecting.” Her barely discernible Soruna’sh regional accent can be heard, along with the emotion in her voice.

Riyo’s eyes are distant as she thinks of one that he protects. One who protects him, as well. She turns back to the fire. “So what are we going to do about the leak, Dai-lin?” she asks formally. Hana starts and pulls the datapad towards her. She starts to looks at the symbols. Her eyes grow wide as she recognizes one. “Goddamn it,” she says. Without another word, she rises. “Where are you going?” Riyo says, as her shorter legs try to keep up with Hana’s.

Hana doesn’t stop. She turns to look at the politician. “I need some off-the-books help. You still keep in contact with those pirates?”

“The Blood Bone Order? Yeah, why?” Riyo asks. “Oh, no reason,” she says as she stalks to a comm console.

~=~=~=~=~=

Hana starts awake as something moves into her consciousness. A blinking light and an oscillating alarm. She notices that Morene’ is already alert and letting her hands fly over the console. “Proximity alarm, Hana,” she says. “Big displacement.”

“How big?” Hana muses. “Corvette-class, maybe?”

A large black shadow pulls in close to the small yacht. “Plotting a course to jump out of here.”

“Too late,” Hana says, quietly. As if to confirm her words, there is a lurch felt by both women. She sees the young Handmaiden move to the throttle. She touches her hand. “Don’t, sweetie.” she says quietly. Hana moves to shut down the engine. “We’ll burn up before we can even pull two meters away.”

“We can’t just go down without a fight,” Morene’ says. “Who says we’re going down?” she asks, her voice controlled.

“That thing has ‘pirate’ written all over it, Dai-Lin!” the Handmaiden exclaims.

“Yeah, well, there are pirates, and then there are pirates,” the older woman says with a mysterious smile.

Morene’ sits back. <i>Great. My boss for this little junket has gone all Jedi on me.</i> She checks her blaster surreptitiously. <i>Not that I know what that means,</i> she thinks sheepishly.

She feels the lurching movement stop. A series of noises can be heard on the hull, culminating in a loud bang and the sound of sealing airlocks.

Morene’ clinches her teeth as she remembers a conversation with the Chief Handmaiden. <i>Trust Hana, dear. She knows what she is doing. She is probably the driving force behind keeping the Queen out of the spotlight, so that she can protect Naboo.</i>

As Morene’ sees Hana stand up and walk to the airlock and its entry foyer, she remembers Storae’s parting words.

She is the sanest person I know.