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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

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I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Two: Truth

Author's note: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: allusions to sex, mention of trauma

Word count: 4,400>

Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Two - Next

"Can I help you?" you jumped when you felt a tap on your shoulder. You spun around on your heel, diverting your attention from the man on the television to the petite blonde girl who was doting a pale pink pant suit. Her blue eyes seemed friendly enough, but her expression of bewilderment and slight disdain was enough to make you uncomfortable. Your lips parted slightly as you tried to gather your words.

"I'm… I'm looking for someone," you said hesitantly. You turned back around to watch the television, pressing the palm of your hand against the screen and watching him with awe. You weren't sure if you were more flabbergasted by this brand new technology, or by the handsome man who was attempting to sell you oil.

"You're going to have to be more specific," the woman placed a hand on her hip and quirked her eyebrow.

"My friend Alistair…" you said slowly before shaking your head and smiling. "Do you know this man?" you pointed at the television.

The blonde woman looked completely and utterly perplexed. "Mr Lord?" she asked. Her mind was racing: everyone knew who her boss was. She pondered for a moment, questioning who exactly you were and where did you come from before shaking her head profusely. "Wait, I’m sorry. Did you just say Alistair?" she pinched the bridge of her nose and began to circle around you, taking in your appearance; judging your native Amazonian outfit and muddy skin.

"Yes, Alistair. We met in the park earlier," you explained. "Please excuse the dirt on my body."

"Mr Lord’s son…?" the lady said, speaking her thoughts out loud. No woman had ever come to Black Gold Cooperative requesting to see Alistair, note even his own mother. "Who are you?"

You smiled politely, taking the lady's hand. "I'm here to help. Where can I find Mr Lord?"

"Do you have an appointment with him?" the lady in pink asked, walking around the main desk and checking the computer. "I'm his secretary by the way. My name is Raquel." she mumbled as she pressed a few keys.

You introduced yourself and shook her hand, admiring her beautifully manicured nails. "An appointment?" you repeated. "No, not really. He doesn’t know I’m coming.”

“Mr Lord is a very busy man,” Raquel sighed, tapping her manicured acrylic nails against the oak wood desk. “He doesn’t do surprise visits.”

“That’s okay, I wish to see Alistair anyway. I must know if he’s okay.” your body was still rife with concern over what you had witnessed happen to the little boy earlier at the playpark, and how he had disappeared.

“There is no way for me to contact Alistair, he’s just a child… but uh, let me see what I can do.” Raquel sighed, knowing she wasn’t easily going to get rid of you anytime soon. “I can give Mr Lord a call and let him know you wish to see him,” she told you, ringing in his phone number. “Can I ask what your business with him is?”

“I’m here to help him,” you repeated with an eager grin.

“Right,” Raquel said slowly as you turned back to the television, admiring the man with the dark blonde hair, sporting the three piece designer suits. “Help him with what?”

You blinked momentarily, watching this Mr Lord drone on and on and on. “Oil.” you practically squeaked out.

“Oil?” Raquel questioned, not believing you for one minute. She had every right inkling to believe you were dangerous, but it was her job to contact Maxwell in this type of situation, no matter what. You squeezed your eyes shut almost sensing her disbelief when you heard her speak again. Her voice had changed completely, high pitched and almost articulated. “Oh, yes, hi! Mr Lord! There is someone here who wishes to see you.”

Thank the Gods he’d picked up the phone before Raquel could quiz you further.

Maxwell had answered from the car phone. He’d just dropped Alistair off at Julianna and Theodore’s home. It was never fun, having to go see his wife. He wanted to be strong, and he certainly wanted to keep his promise to Alisitar, about spending the whole weekend together - but there was too much at stake. He knew that deep down, Alisitair would understand one day. Maxwell cursed himself for messing up so quickly. The phone rang just as Maxwell slid back into the car. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Max huffed a sigh and held the phone to his ear. “Who is it?” Maxwell asked wearily. “If it’s the FBI or the FTC…”

Maxwell was nervous. He was even confused that Raquel was still at Black Gold, still happy to work for him after he did commit what potentially could be classified as war crimes. Maxwell was a realist and he knew that with every action, came a consequence. The world had never been kind to him, and he looked down at the envelope that Theodore had handed to him. His name, Maxwell Lorenzano, was written on the front in Julianna’s perfectly inked calligraphy. Max hated it. He didn’t have his name legally changed fifteen years ago just so his ex wife could throw his old identity back in his face. He hated his real name. It was a constant reminder of his past life. But now he didn’t know what was worse, being a Lord or a Lorenzano. The name Lorenzano had been tainted for him, by his family, and years of bullying. But the name Lord? He’d tainted that himself. A conman. A stupid, messed up loser. Julianna hadn’t wanted to see Maxwell, and instead sent her new boyfriend to collect Alistair from him.

“Julianna wants you to have this,” Theodore said with a frown, taking Alistair’s hand and pulling him away from Maxwell. “When you read through it, give her a call.” was all he said before slamming the front door in Max’s face. Max didn’t know what was inside the envelope, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

“No, it’s not the FBI or the FTC. It’s a woman,” Raquel said hesitantly. “She… she’s a bit odd,” Raquel whispered, but not quiet enough for it to go unnoticed by you. Nevertheless, you pretended to ignore her comment. Perhaps you were odd, and perhaps that was okay. The world of man was not something you were used to. But you were here for a reason. The delay in Maxwell’s response prompted Raquel to say more. “Mr Lord… I don’t think she’s going to leave without seeing you. Would you like me to call the cops?”

“No!” Maxwell practically barked. He turned on the engine of his car and held the phone between his ear and shoulder, reversing out of the driveway. He didn’t know what was going on, it was too early to tell - but Maxwell couldn’t have the police anywhere near Black Gold. There was a good chance the police might be looking for him anyway. There was a good chance Max believed he might even have to go into hiding. “I’m on my way.” Maxwell promised before putting the phone down.

You turned back to Raquel when you heard the phone click back onto the hook. “Well, he’s coming,” she shrugged. “Just take a seat please. He won’t be long.”

You walked over to the centre of the lobby where there was a long circular velveteen sofa with a silver foiled surface. You ran your finger over the material, savouring the soft feeling. It was unlike anything you had ever felt before. You let out a small gasp when you noticed your gladiator sandals had trailed in mud and made a mess of the pristine marble floor. You knew it wouldn’t take much to clean, but you still felt bad.

The lobby of Black Gold Cooperative was large, with pillars similar to what they’d have in the Themysciran palace back home and vases of white roses decorating every corner. You wiped down your skirt and tunic, not wanting to be responsible for any more mess, and sat down on the sofa. You groaned as the velveteen plush engulfed you. You couldn’t help it, Raquel was gone and you were exhausted after spending the day looking for Alistair. You hummed in contentment, unbuckling the leather straps on your shoes and laying down on the sofa, curling up and closing your eyes.

Everything was dull. The sky was grey, dark and rainy clouds casting a cold shadow over your shoulders. This was weird. Normally your dreams would be utter and complete blackness - the inability to see anything, only hear the chaos that surrounded you. Only hear the cries and pleas for help and terror - and his voice. The man you were soughting for. You wondered if upon venturing to the world of man, your premonitions had stopped. But that didn’t make any sense. You were one step closer to finding this mystery man.

In the distance, you saw a group of kids tormenting and teasing another little boy. The image reflected what you had seen earlier at the playpark with Alistair, but it was different children this time. “What are you wearing?” you heard one boy mock as you ran closer. “Look at your shoes! Little Lorenzano can’t even afford new shoes!” a different girl cackled.

Lorenzano. You stopped dead in your footsteps, your eyes widening as you watched the group of kids disband, leaving the little boy with glazed brown eyes and ripped clothes shaking with fear. Lorenzano was the name of the man you were looking for - the man you had to help. Your mother Hestia had helped you learn that, but you had never seen him before. This Lorenzano was just a child. There was no way he could have a son.

You took a deep breath and reached out. “Sweet boy?” you called, taking a cautious step forward. Little Lorenzano didn’t even flinch. “Hello?” you asked again. You got as close as you could to him, walking around in circles and taking in his appearance, but he didn’t even notice you. It was almost like he couldn’t see you.

That’s when you realised you weren’t in a dream. You were in a memory. And suddenly everything made sense. This broken little boy was in fact the same person you were looking for. But now, he was a broken man who was desperately trying to make things right. Desperately trying to turn his life around. You’d seen a fleck of his past and you wondered if he was anything like that now. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you had to find him.

There was no way of telling how long you were asleep for, but when you heard Maxwell Lord’s voice, you couldn’t distinguish it from your dream or reality. It was so familiar, so rich and articulate.

“Jesus Christ,” Maxwell muttered, pacing backwards and forwards before turning back to you and prodding a finger into your bare arm. “Wake up.” he said sternly, his voice a little louder than before. You yawned, bringing your hands up to your eyes and giving them a gentle rub before sitting up and looking at the man.

It was him. The same man you had seen on the television. Only there was something not that right. You couldn’t put your finger on it. You grinned, your eyes gleaming with delight as you stood up and cupped your hands around his face, squeezing his cheeks and getting as close as you could. You touched him and maneuvered his body in different ways, lifting his arms up and brushing down his shoulders. He was broader than any Amazonian woman, and that said a lot. Surprisingly, Maxwell became putty in your grip. He would’ve never have expected it, but he just let you mould him and sculpt him in any which way you pleased. You traced his skin with your fingers, taking in every detail. It was certainly the man from the television - but this version of Maxwell Lord looked more tired and disheveled. His hair wasn’t perfectly styled and he wasn’t fitted into a perfectly pressed suit. But he was still just as remarkable and there was something about his presence that simply took your breath away.

He could say the same about you, too. He was completely stunned by you. Your beauty was incomparable to anyone else he’d ever seen. You almost looked out of this world. He was quick to shrug off his fascination with you, boiling it down to the fact you were covered in dirt and dressed in the strangest costume. He had more important things to worry about… like Alistair and whatever was in that damn envelope Theodore had given him.

“You’re a man,” you whispered in disbelief.

“I- what?” Maxwell asked, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“A real man,” you gasped, running your fingers through his dark blonde hair. Maxwell had to push back a longing groan, as your touch went straight to his semi-hard and already throbbing manhood. He gulped, diverting his gaze from your beautiful eyes.

“Do I- do I not look like a real man?” he asked curiously, ignoring the shudder that felt like it was swallowing him whole.

“Themyscrian depictions of man illustrate a strong, tall, muscular fellow who carries a sword and shield,” You explained, biting your lip and placing the palm of your hand over his chest. You could feel his beating heart under your touch and it almost took your breath away. You dragged your hand down to the curve of his tummy and Maxwell felt his cheeks heat up with insecurity. He never let anyone touch him like this. “They were naked too.”

Maxwell practically choked on his own tongue. That comment alone was enough to get him to step back and raise his hands up defensively.

“Well princess, I won’t be getting naked for you anytime soon, that’s for sure.” He chuckled nervously.

You smiled. “Princess? No no, I’m not a princess,” you giggled before introducing yourself. “I’m the goddess of home and hearth.”

Maxwell gulped before bursting into a fit of laughter. He looked around the office lobby, his movements quick and stressed. “Right, where’s the camera?”

“The- the camera?” you asked, confused.

“Is this for TV? Come on, tell me quickly. It’s a practical joke… right? You’re here, in my office, covered in dirt and in the most ridiculous clothes I’ve ever seen. And you say all these weird words like Themysciran - whatever that means, and you’re telling me you’re the goddess of home and… hearth?” he said almost quizzically. “You’re the crazy woman who stole Alistair away from me at the playpark earlier.”

So Raquel was right. He really was Alistair’s father. “Hey!” you frowned at his accusations. You hadn’t lied to him once. “You weren’t where Alistair left you. You disappeared and I was helping him find you!” you shot back, feeling an anger bubble inside of you.

“I don’t know where you come from princess, but here in America, you don’t just go round stealing people’s kids. That’s like, a federal offence.” Maxwell shouted, wiggling his finger in the air. “Jesus, where do you come from?”

You defensively crossed your arms over your chest, his yelling making you feel vulnerable. You could tell that he was clearly already under a lot of stress but he had no reason to take it out on you. “Themyscira.” you told him calmly.

He scrunched up his face in disdain. "There it is again. Them-a-what-now?"

"Themyscira." you said, this time making conscious effort to say it slower and clearer.

"With all due respect darling, I've travelled the world. I've been to many different places. I spent my adolescence studying a map of the world and never in my life have I heard of such a place." Maxwell shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm not here to prove anything to you, Mr Lord. But I find your attitude towards me to be quite upsetting." you revealed, looking back at the revolving doors you came in. There was a deafening silence that filled the room.

"Why are you here?" Maxwell snapped eventually with a huff. You swallowed as he stalked over to you, his gaze not breaking from you once. There was something primal in his walk. "Why… are you… here?"

He wished he could ignore the distracting erection in his pants. He didn't even know you. You were just a random girl who had come into his office demanding to see him, refusing to leave until he came. You were just a random girl who had got close with him, who had touched his face and dragged your hand down his body. Who… talked about naked men. Truthfully, Maxwell had never been with a woman who was quite like you, but things were starting to make sense for him. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he were to just take you up to his private office.

Your throat felt dry and for the first time, you couldn't fathom words. His honeyed brown eyes were now dark and lust blown as he raised his hand to caress your cheek. You didn't even realise the way you subconsciously moved your face further into his hold and a wicked smirk crossed his lips. His hand was large and warm and his touch filled you with a sense of protection you didn't even think you needed. "Oh," Maxwell chuckled darkly. "I know what you want from me."

"You do?" you asked timidly, not even realising the hold he had you under. For a second, you'd forgotten why you were even here. You were so taken in by Max. You were feeling things you had never felt in your life for this man who had been haunting your every thought. He was so close to you, his breath fanned over your skin and you felt a sensation erupt between your legs. His presence was intoxicating, and he could say the same about you.

"But I can't," Maxwell shook his head, his gaze falling to your lips before dropping his hand from your face and taking a step back. He cleared his throat and looked away awkwardly, moving his hand down to his crotch trying to hide his arousal from you. "I… I should go."

There was an immediate feeling of guilt that washed over Maxwell. He'd gained reputation in the past for sleeping with women, namely his assistants and secretaries, and not shown them a slither of affection or care. He was a selfless lover and he could get away with it because he was rich, famous and attractive. But now he was none of those things. When he looked at himself in the mirror before heading to the playpark, his own appearance knocked him sick. The stress wrinkles setting in his forehead, the dark circles around his eyes… and he hadn't showered in a week. His hair was a mess and he couldn't even bring himself to check a whiff of his underarms. He didn't know you, but he sure as hell knew you deserved better than a man like him.

You were bright eyed, polite, and curious about the world around you. Not only that, you had demanded to see Maxwell just because you wished to check on his son and make sure he was okay. You had gotten very close to Max and not said a word about his bad hygiene or his tired eyes, instead, you looked at him with hope and admiration. Almost as if you believed that he could become a better man.

"Wait!" you called, reaching your hand out before Maxwell could walk away. "I'm sorry if- I'm sorry if this wasn't a good conversation for you. I've never spoken to a man before."

Maxwell titled his head and quirked an eyebrow. "You intrigue me," he admitted, pursing his lips slightly. His gaze fell from your face to the circle of rope attached to your belt. It didn't take long before he realised what it was— but no, it couldn't be. "What is that?" Maxwell asked, pointing at the rope as fear dripped from his tongue. He even took a few steps back.

You unravelled the rope and held it out for him to see. "This is the lasso of Hestia, it was my mother's. She gave it to me before I left for the world of man. Only two were made and this— this is the last one," you smiled a tearful smile at the memory of your mother. Diana had taken the other lasso, as well as the sword of Athena, back in 1918. "My mother Hestia is the goddess of Truth. And the lasso of Hestia compels any individual it uses to see the truth, or speak it," There was no telling what the expression on Maxwell's face showed. You frowned. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

The lasso had initiated a trauma response in Maxwell as you turned it on. He watched it glow yellow, the same yellow that Diana's lasso had glowed when she wrapped it around his ankle in the island bunker. He remembered her words; "See the truth." and his heart sank into the depths of his chest. That's when he saw Alistair.

Maxwell had always thought Diana Prince was strange. Ever since she told him she didn't own a TV— because who in the 1980s didn't own a TV? And who would deny a free 19 inch TV from Sears? But when she had followed him to Cairo with her pilot boyfriend and caused nothing but chaos in her red, blue and gold superhero outfit, he knew she was special. That she possessed powers. This was later reaffirmed in The White House, and then in the bunker as Maxwell tried to plot world domination and grant wishes to every citizen.

He looked at you behind all the mud and dirt, and he looked into your eyes. Could it be true? Could you be telling the truth? What if you were like Diana? Would he really want to be around someone like you?

Maxwell took a huff of air and wrapped the lasso around his wrist. You watched him, letting him do so. "Prove it." Max swallowed the lump in his throat that he hadn't even realised was there. You looked at him with hesitancy before nodding your head. If this worked, he has no reason not to believe you. A magical lasso… and it wasn't the first he had seen.

"What do you wish to see?" you asked Maxwell, your voice quiet. You didn't detach your gaze from his eyes once.

"Do you see what I see?" He asked, and you nodded your head in affirmation. Maxwell thought for a second, before remembering you had come all this way to Black Gold Cooperative just to see Alistair. At first, there was something deeply unsettling about it… but your presence made Maxwell feel safe. "Show me my son."

You closed your eyes and Maxwell followed your actions, and it wasn't long before your vision was clouded by the image of Alistair in his bedroom at Julianna and Theodore's house. Sitting at a desk, he was humming a song. Maxwell couldn't help but smile, recognising the song from the video game Alistair played with him earlier in the day. With an array of colourful crayons, he intricately sketched a drawing of a man with messy yellow hair and a tie, holding the hand of a smaller boy with black hair holding a teddy bear. He labelled the drawing ‘me and daddy’.

"Alistair sweetheart," Julianna called, peeking her head through the door that stood slightly ajar. "Dinner is ready," Alistair didn't look up once, continuing to rub pink crayon into his paper. "What are you drawing there?" Julianna asked, slipping into her son's bedroom and peering over his shoulder and the drawing.

"Me and daddy," Alistair mumbled, only half listening. He was too busy concentrating on adding the purple detailing on his daddy's socks.

"Oh sweetie, I told you that maybe, sometime, you could draw yourself and Theodore? You know, since he's your father too. He does so much for you Alistair, he takes you out to the movies, takes you to your piano lessons… he's a good guy," Julianna smiled, ruffling her son's hair. She pressed her finger into the yellow haired stick man wearing purple socks. "He's not a good guy."

Alistair furrowed his eyebrows, dropping the crayon to the paper and turning to face his mother. "My daddy is my hero." Alistair told his mother, his brown eyes wide and full of love.

Julianna didn't say a word. She stiffened up, standing tall and glared at her son's drawing. Her stare was so intense, you wondered if she was about to eject lasers from her eyes and set the paper on fire.

"Go eat your dinner." She finally said coldly, her words dripping with malice before barging out Alistair's bedroom.

The lasso of truth unravelled itself from Maxwell's wrist and you curled it back into your holster, clipping it in place on your belt. You looked up and noticed the tears that were pricking Maxwell's eyes.

"You- you probably shouldn't have seen all of that," Maxwell admitted, his voice croaking slightly as he tried to hold himself back from becoming a sobbing mess. "I'm not a hero."

You reached out and took the hand of the big-name businessman who was standing before you on the verge of tears. His hand was big, cold, and his fingers were calloused. You took him in both of your hands and rubbed soothing circles into his skin, desperately trying to provide him with warmth and comfort. His glazed brown eyes looked up at you with bewilderment as he wondered why you were being so nice to him. He was a monster, he deserved every bad consequence that would be coming for him. And yet, you treat him like a human. Even at the height of his career when he lived in riches and luxury, nobody had treated him with the politeness and love you were currently giving him — and you were a stranger. A stranger who was covered in mud with a magic lasso.

"Maybe you are a hero."

—-—-—

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie

I Believe In Love: @mrschiltoncat @thebloodrobin @bxxbxy @marydjarin @the-feckless-wonder @typicalnerd98 @thwiso @julieteagk @starsandmando @kishie8 @supernaturalcat7 @galaxypox @cocastyle @welcometothepedroverse @galactic-rhi @honestlystop @walkerchick007 @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @criminalmind1927 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @thesadvampire @wonder-jedi @eternallyvenus @way-too-addicted-to-anime @spacedaddydinn

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #ww84

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chidoroki · 4 years ago

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Sk8 the Infinity EP12

aka: I HAD FUN OKAY

Oh okay Adam, really getting serious with that fancy footwork out in the rain now aren’t you?

Please tell me he didn’t say he needed a suit for a funeral..

I’m getting sad watching the OP. I can’t believe we’re at the last episode already.

Yay Reki is finally getting around to fixing Langa’s board.

I’m happy everyone is off to watch his beef against Adam despite their injuries.

“And.. after the finals are over..” Reki! What did you say! The two of you are being all cute in the back of the car I wanna know what was said!

Adam put a gravestone at the finish line.. oh no.

The usual course got sealed off due to the storm so now they gotta race on this crazy, dangerous one instead.. great.

Adam’s board is even shaped like a coffin. This dude is going all out with the death theme tonight, just look at his new outfit.

Oooh just listen to that song though!

Oh wow they both took that jump and somehow Adam got more air than Langa.

The bastard is gonna love hug? Here? On this narrow as hell track?

Ah fuck! He switched right into a full swing kiss!

My boy with that smooth dodge yesss! Although Adam doesn’t waste time and tries again.. but results in another miss thank god.

He’s really trying to kill Langa by causing the stalactites to fall..

He.. broke his board and it changed into a cross shape.

What’s with this odd world again?

Langa needs to get out of that zone before he makes a stupid mistake.

Oh come on! That’s barely a bridge!

Shit! Langa! Snap out of it boy, you’re falling!

Reki put the word “fun” on the bottom of Langa’s new board, aww.

That’s such an intense cliff to be skating down though.

Aw he saw a vision of his father!

Okay I know they’re from Canada and figured they must have spoke English, but I wasn’t expecting to hear it so that caught me off guard.

Oh.. of course Langa wants to help Adam see that skating is fun again.

Whoa! Whoa! Chill! The hell is happening now with the crazy bastard flying around like this??

Langa what do you have planned?

Oh lord.. that was some collision.

They’re both down?

OH but Langa stands first!

And.. asks Adam to skate just like Tadashi did to him when they were younger.

Adam’s mask fell off but is he truly good now or are we still a psycho?

It looks like a normal race at least.. hurray for no more murderous intent.

Ahh they’re so evenly matched.

Is Reki gonna be waiting for him at the end?

Y’all my heart is beating I’m so nervous and excited to see this finish.

AAaahHH! Langa WINS!!

AWWW! He literally jumped into Reki’s arms!! YESS!

Even Miya is gonna call Langa a hero.

Big group hug for Langa! I love these boys!

Oh they’re playing the ending song over the final scenes, how mean!

Hahaha, Sketchy fell asleep on Carla and Cherry is so not pleased.

Oh my god, Adam parachutes down to the party and gifts Langa more roses. Dude you are so extra!

Aww Langa and his mom visit Oliver’s grave! No doubt to tell him all about skateboarding.

Reki teaching his younger sisters how to skateboard too!!

OH NO!! Shadow’s boss had a boyfriend this entire time! Poor guy..

Pfftt Cherry’s calligraphy note to Joe! He even called him “little Kojiro” and painted his face.

Aw did Miya’s old friend just say hi to him? Look at his precious smile! Ahh!

“You are my dog for the rest of our lives.” Oh my, Tadashi you’re in trouble.. although it seems like he’s completely fine with that.

Bruh they’re ending it with Langa just like how Reki started the first episode.

“My happiness is..” as the camera shows us Reki.. HELLO?? Go ahead and tell me that’s not cute as hell!

I guess having a final race together is what the two of them were talking about back in the car earlier.

Aah but don’t end there! I wanna see them actually race together damn it!

I don’t know what to feel. Every character was fun to watch, the action was great, and it had so many fun and suspenseful moments too. I want more! But luckily the dub still has a few more episodes to go through, so nice!

#sk8 the infinity #episode reaction

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aquilaofarkham · 5 years ago

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title: half spent was the night rating: mature (canon-typical violence, blood, coarse language) summary: Upon receiving an ominous invitation, Trevor Belmont, Sypha Belnades, and Alucard attend a strange wedding during a winter night where not everything is as it seems and the veil between the living and the dead is thinner than ever.

AO3

DECEMBER 24

The scroll sits on his desk, unopened and untouched amongst scattered piles of books and other papers left neglected for some time. Sparingly, Alucard’s train of thought will latch itself onto it while he sets about completing another mundane chore of the hour. It’s only when he enters the study does his gaze drift away, drawn towards the piece of rolled parchment held together by a red wax seal. Even from a distance he sees its emblem—a sparrow carrying a branch of mistletoe in its beak.

How seasonally appropriate, he thinks, looking more sullen than usual.

Alucard received the scroll the same way most ghost stories begin. There was a sound at the castle entrance that he could not ignore. Knock. Knock. Knock. Each pound echoing throughout the corridors like a persistent drumbeat. The steady beat within his own chest quickened, his ind a flurry of quick, presumptuous answers to his one question—have they returned? Yet upon opening the massive door, he found nobody. No familiar face, not even a messenger. Only what they left behind.

Another wayward glance towards the parchment. Alucard can still smell the cinnamon and roasted chestnuts as strong as it was when he picked it up the day before. He’s tried to bury the memory of his father. There’s no sense in dwelling over dead things. But something he said a long time ago haunts Alucard now more than ever. A warning about strange parcels that might be left on his front doorstep.

“If ever in late December you receive a letter sealed with a sparrow and a mistletoe, do not open it.” Those words used to confuse Alucard. Why should Dracula fear a simple letter? Until he discovered much later that the warning was never meant for the castle lord himself, but for his wife and child.

He knows his history and is fully aware of the story behind such a letter. Yet ominous memories and facts from the past are not enough to dissuade Alucard’s innate sense of curiosity—one of many traits he inherited from his mother. He is an adult now, and ghosts do not scare him. They only cause him melancholy.

Tired of his own hesitation, Alucard picks up the scroll and breaks the seal with a sharpened nail. The parchment feels soft under his fingertips, surprisingly so. He unravels it and reads, just to confirm his suspicions. First, he notices the calligraphy; familiar, recognizable, most likely commissioned by a monk. Yet the lettering hasn’t been in popular use for centuries. Then the message itself:

Thou art cordially invited to attend the joining of Lady Sofia Cel Tradat and Sir Darius Lupei in holy matrimony on the thirty-first evening of December. The celebration of this blessed union between houses shall be witnessed at Castle Cel Tradat upon sundown.

Stationed at the very top of the invitation are two crests, one that shows a feral wolf holding an arrow in its fangs. Beside it is the very same sparrow with the same mistletoe. Alucard sits at the desk, his chin resting upon his fist thoughtfully. There are two normal reactions one can have when receiving a wedding invitation. First being joy, then apathy. Indifference. Alucard feels neither. It’s not fear that grips him, yet the ink words creep through his bloodstream like the very same ghosts who reach out to him. Not fear, but instead an odd sort of resolve.

He leaves the study and makes the long, cold trek through the freshly fallen snow then down to the underground archives. The newly built staircase creaks under his weight but Alucard is light on his feet. Large portraits obscured by curtains displaying the Belmont crest surround him as he descends. Maybe one day he’ll finally unveil whatever’s behind those curtains. The hold itself hasn’t changed much—perhaps a bit neater, better organized, and with less bloodstains.

The mirror is where he left it: centre of the room near the directory. Alucard runs a hand across the cracks in its glass then over the newly engraved runes along its frame. Hopefully everything will work. Hopefully they will hear him this time.

Who knows how long it’s been since Trevor Belmont last greeted his days with a gruelling hangover—an awful habit, which he doesn’t miss. The groan that escapes his lips as he stretches upon his makeshift bed is one that comes from a night well slept, not a headache that pounds away behind his eyes. Bright winter sunlight streams in through the slight opening of the canvas. The wagon feels cramped but also warm and safe.

Trevor sits up, surrounded by their provisions, and sees Sypha right where he left her. Close by his side, securely curled up within her own little fortress of blankets. The sight amuses him, especially since she’s the only one who can walk through snow while wearing nothing but sandals upon her feet. A few more minutes sleeping next to her won’t hurt.

Something rattling inside the wagon catches his attention, causing Trevor to jump slightly. Must be a rat trying to steal what little food they have left. He grumbles at this slight morning annoyance before lazily pushing aside every container in order to find this little devil. It’s a wonder how Sypha can sleep through the sound of boxes and heavy burlap sacks being tossed about. Trevor finally reaches the source of all that noise: a thin rectangular travel case shaking on its own.

Funny... He thinks, not terribly concerned with its sudden jerking movements. The rat probably found a way inside and now can’t get itself out. I don’t remember packing this. Trevor opens the lock only to stare down into a pile of broken glass, as though whatever was in there had already been shattered beyond repair. But he saves his expletives for when the shards come to life, dancing in the air before they form a small mirror. Trevor stumbles backwards and stares into his reflection—awestruck, confused, a little bit panicked. It soon dissipates until he comes face to face with familiar golden eyes.

“Can you hear me, Belmont?” Asks the vision of Alucard... if it really is Alucard. Trevor might still be asleep, and this is only some wishful dream. “Let’s try this again. Can you hear me?” No answer yet; Trevor needs a moment to settle on one question at a time while they’re spinning in his head.

“... a nod of the head or a simple ‘fuck’ would be helpful.”

“How are you doing this? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m using the distance mirror from your family’s museum. With the repaired runes, it can once again be used for communication as well as observation. Only with other distance mirrors, of course.”

Oddly enough, this is all beginning to make sense to Trevor. “That’s why you looked so... cracked. When did you even pack this thing in our caravan?”

“Right before you and Sypha left. I thought I could surprise you both.”

“Well, you sure as shit surprised me.” He taps one of the levitating shards and watches it spin back into place. “This is the strangest thing...”

“You’ve seen far stranger.”

“Trevor, why are you talking so loud...” Complains Sypha, her words slurring together as she forces herself out of a heavy sleep. Her half-lidded eyes open wide at the sight of Alucard in the mirror. He smiles, glad to see the absence of bandages on her arm and shoulders. After exclaiming his name, she climbs over Trevor, shoving her hand into the side of his face (not on purpose) in an excitable attempt to get closer. So much for feeling tired.

“Is this another distance mirror? Why is it smaller? Or is it meant for travel? Are you using the one back at the hold?”

“Good morning to you as well, Sypha. Has this one gotten you into any trouble lately?”

“Actually, she gets me into trouble more often.”

Sypha ignores Trevor, entirely fascinated by this ground-breaking method of communication. Already her frantic mind begins to conjure up ways in which it could help the Speakers. “How are you, Alucard? And why have you waited so long to speak with us like this?”

Alucard doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he wasn’t waiting all this time. That he’s tried over and over again, yet could never reach them. It doesn’t matter; he can see them now and there are more important matters at hand. “Poor management of time on my part. I’ve actually reached out because I am in need of assistance.”

“With what?” We’ve done away with one existential threat to humanity, don’t tell me there’s another already. Trevor holds his tongue, biting back his irritable thoughts. He’s gotten better at it; maybe one day he won’t even acknowledge them.

“It would be better if I showed you.”

“That means we would have to travel back to the castle.” Sypha’s point is valid, but she doesn’t make it sound like a hardship. In fact, Trevor and Alucard think they hear the slightest hint of excitement in her voice. Why shouldn’t she be? There’s still much within Dracula’s laboratories and libraries which she hasn’t yet uncovered with her own eyes hungry for more knowledge. Trevor on the other hand feels a twinge of apprehension. True, the castle has been subdued but the Belmonts have always been taught to remain wary of a vampire’s abode. At least he trusts the new lord of this one.

“I realize how tall of a request this is, as I presume you two have been traveling for some time now. But I would prefer it if I saw both of you in person.”

Alucard’s stoic, near professional composure cracks when he catches a better view of Trevor’s face. There it is again—another one of his wry grins. The kind that forms on its own whenever the Belmont is about to say something stupid. Yet those who live in glass houses should not throw stones. Alucard has also said his fair share of stupid things directed at Trevor. While he would be caught dead if he admitted to this, he’s glad to see that unmistakable smile along with the man behind it.

“Aw you missed us, didn’t you? You can say it, we promise we won’t judge.”

Sypha clasps a hand over Trevor’s mouth before another syllable can crawl out of it. “It would be no inconvenience to us, Alucard. We will leave now and be at the castle within the next day or so.”

“I look forward to it. Safe travels.” Alucard’s last words before he’s left staring into his own fractured reflection. At the same time, countless of miles away from the castle, Sypha and Trevor watch as the mirror shards gracefully return back into the box until they’re needed once again.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask if he’ll be preparing dinner for us.” Trevor’s little quip is rewarded with the sudden feeling of Sypha’s foot pressed against his lower back. Giggling, she gently pushes him towards the front.

“Up you get. Remember, you’re still in charge of the reins.”

“Easy now, I was just asleep.”

“You woke up before me!”

Their wagon is situated between two towns, yet close to neither of them. All that surrounds them are trees, fields, and mountains— everything blurs together in a painting of deep greens and the endless white of snow. But Wallachia is not a terribly large country and they always know where to go.

DECEMBER 25

Sypha blows into her cupped hands, warming them while they drive down yet another road that cuts through dense forestry. Skeleton trees all around, straight as the bars of a cage. There’s the sound of fresh snow crunching beneath the horses’ hooves coupled with the caw of a nearby crow or two. It’s like those damn birds will never leave Wallachia, even in the coldest seasons. She recognizes this pathway, as does Trevor. He remembers to say good morning to his beloved tree (perhaps his oldest friend) and makes the incorrect assumption that Sypha can’t really hear him. Just as she thinks he can’t feel her arm tighten around his.

The road begins to widen and soon they arrive at the gutted remains of a family’s legacy. Trevor huddles into the fur of his new cloak, breathing out a soft huff of frozen air. There used to be a sharp pain that gouged its way into the very pit of his chest whenever he looked upon these ruins. Like the tip of a needle that’s been shoved into the still burning embers of a slowly dying fire as a cruel joke. A reminder that he never left his home behind.

Of course, Trevor never allowed himself to show it— not consciously. It hurts less, now that the manor is in better hands. At least the walls are still standing. Maybe one day while he’s still young and able, he’ll put down the Morningstar, pick up a hammer, and get to work.

Soon another structure comes into view, far more imposing than a pile of old stones. Standing as tall as the mountains, a maze of spiked towers and bridges going in all directions. Dracula’s castle was once filled with an ever-present orchestra of steam and working gears. These days, it remains unnaturally silent —as though it shouldn’t really exist.

Trevor and Sypha believed that before. It’s strange to think and even stranger to admit, but they’re glad the castle exists, all due to its current lord. A few more trots forward and they already see him waiting patiently by the grand steps leading up to the massive front door. He greets his two guests with a smile.

“Welcome back.”

Sypha is the first to jump out of the wagon and run towards Alucard, joyfully exclaiming his name. His body goes stiff, his expression more surprised as she suddenly wraps her arms around him. He was expecting a friendly “hello” or “it’s good to see you again”. Perhaps it has been too long.

“Oh... I, ah...” Alucard returns the embrace not uncomfortably, but stunned, nonetheless. “It’s... nice to see that both of you are in good health.”

“You’re looking rather stately as well.”

“Yes, well...” He searches for a better response to Trevor’s comment only to find himself empty-headed and feeling more awkward than before. They hold themselves so casually, speaking as old friends should. To his relief, Alucard regains his equilibrium and tries matching their nonchalance. “Come in. We have much to discuss.” He turns to the castle, leaving Trevor and Sypha a bit put off.

“Right to the ugly business, eh?”

“We were hoping to tell you about our travels... at least a little.”

Upon hearing the utter dejection in Sypha’s voice (coupled with the always recognizable snark of Trevor’s), Alucard stops. He faces them with a soft, penitent gaze. Always speaking too soon, more from the head, less from the heart, much to his and everyone else’s detriment. “And you shall. I want to hear everything. Every adventure, every mischief... but I’d rather not delay any fur—”

Trevor raises a hand. “It’s fine, Alucard. Just tell us what you need help with so badly.”

“Then it will be our turn to talk your ears off.”

Still wounded by his own unintentional single-minded thinking, Alucard manages another smile. “I would like that very much. But as you said, let’s get this... ugly business out of the way first.”

They follow him up the snow-covered steps, cloaks and robes billowing in the cold breeze, wondering how “ugly” this business really is.

“Need a hand up there?”

“I will be down in a moment. I just need to find it...”

Trevor and Sypha have already heard those exact words—multiple times, in fact. They can’t even see Alucard as he searches the shelves that curve around them in a perfect circle. It’s not that there’s no enjoyment to be found sitting in Dracula’s library, marveling at every book and tome amassed over centuries while they wait for his son. But one can only stare up at each level spiraling higher towards the heavens for so long without feeling the slightest bit bored. Trevor is far more antsy, still getting used to the castle as a whole.

The very antithesis of what Sypha felt the moment Alucard led them through the door. She mentally congratulates herself for keeping the excitement in check, despite her growing desire to comb through every forbidden page until her fingertips become bloody and raw. Hopefully there will be time for that should she and Trevor decide to extend their visit.

“Here it is,” announces Alucard from some unseen level. Before either of them can stand up, he jumps—or rather glides down and lands on two feet with poise while holding a book that barely fits underneath his arm. The pages, so thick they’re near to bursting out of their binding, have turned brown and tattered along each edge. Even sitting from afar, Sypha notices these minuscule details before Alucard can join them on the cushioned bench. Trevor tries to get a closer look at its cover but with the obstruction of Alucard’s arm and the old lettering, he has difficulty making out the title.

“You wanted us to come all this way for some light reading?” He asks as the dhampir squeezes between him and Sypha.

“No. I wanted you to come all this way to read this.” Reaching into a pocket of his robe, Alucard withdraws the letter. It looks deceptively harmless in his hand. He unscrolls it and waits for the message to be read by new eyes. In the silence, Trevor touches the parchment between his thumb and index finger slowly, thoughtfully, and with the right amount of care. Just as Alucard did when he first received it.

“This feels new... but no one writes invitations like these anymore.”

“I recognize this calligraphy. It’s ancient, isn’t it.”

Alucard interjects, significantly more comfortable with the letter’s presence now that others have examined it. “Mid 12th century. Not entirely ancient, but old enough to remain somewhat alien to our own time.”

Trevor sits back and leaves the scroll to Sypha’s capable hands. “So the Cel Tradats obviously know their history. They want to show off their nobility and wealth through the wedding of their daughter Sofia. Well done to them and to her. What’s the issue, then?”

Without giving either side of him a slight glance, Alucard begins flipping through the book. “Sofia Cel Tradat has been dead for two centuries.” Said as though it were a simple fact. Expressions harden as everyone’s collective gaze settles on a page with gold and red lettering that shines in the light. Painted vines creep along the sides like the ones sheltering the Belmont manor.

“Sometime during the late 12th century, a minor civil war broke out between two noble families—the Cel Tradats and the Lupeis...” Alucard’s fingertip ghosts over the exaggerated sparrows and wolves that intermingle with the surrounding vine.

“The dispute concerned territory in the Carpathian Mountains. Eventually, money for the Lupei family ran completely dry and they had already suffered more losses than the other side. So they were forced to surrender on their own volition, but as a sign of good faith, the patriarch offered to marry off one of his sons in an effort to unite the two houses. Lucky for him, the Cel Tradats had a daughter named Sofia who was of age and yet to be wed.”

“You mentioned something about lack of funds,” interrupts Trevor. “Did Lupei really want to unite the houses or was he just looking for a sizable dowry?”

“That may have been the case, but it’s not important to us.” Alucard lets his annoyance drip off every word. At least it’s a sign that Trevor’s been paying attention thus far. “Despite the arranged marriage, it’s said that Sofia grew to admire her fiancee in the weeks leading up to the wedding.”

“However...” Sypha voices just what Trevor is thinking. There is always some sort of “however” with these particular stories.

“Not everyone was happy with the arrangement, especially on the Lupei side. The matriarch thought this entire affair was a sign of weakness. Her husband had lost the war, willingly surrendered, and was now marrying off her last remaining child to the enemy. She hated them all and saw only one way to restore honour to the Lupei name.’

The wedding ceremony itself was perfect and both parties behaved. But during the celebration, Sofia Cel Tradat was stabbed by a Lupei assassin while the rest of her family were either poisoned or assaulted themselves. They wouldn’t even spare her husband from their blades. There was no mercy for traitors of their house.”

“That’s terrible...” Sypha’s voice is low and her gaze unfocused, turned away from the open book.

“It does not stop there. Despite bleeding out, Sofia watched as her entire bloodline was being destroyed and became consumed with rage for the Lupei matriarch.” Alucard turns the page to an illustration that might as well have been ripped from the Belmont’s family bestiary; two women engaged in a violent clash, one with blood covering her open mouth as though she were a vampire.

“Sofia stumbled towards Lady Lupei, knocked her to the floor, and tore out her throat with her own teeth and fingernails. During this, any Cel Tradat who wasn’t dead yet started attacking the nearest Lupei. That night, Castle Cel Tradat was filled with over a hundred people, but only a small handful of guards who saw what happened walked away alive.’

‘Since then, those who pass by the abandoned castle on the last day of the year claim to see lights and hear music coming from inside. Every December, nobles and lords receive the very same invitation in your hands. Those foolish enough to accept are never seen again. Dracula always warned my mother and I in case one ever found its way to us.”

He closes the book, his palm lingering atop the front cover a second longer. “Seems Sofia Cel Tradat finally found the Tepes family.”

An air of silence, thick and unavoidable, once again passes over all three as they let the story sink into their thoughts. Trevor is the first to speak up after letting out a less-than subdued “fuck” under his breath. “That’s quite the winter ghost story. But how does it concern us?”

“I’ve decided to accept her invitation.”

Sypha narrows her eyes; perhaps she misheard Alucard. “You just said those who do that are foolish.”

“It must have been foolish of me to oppose my father, yet I did it anyway. I’ve accepted because there might be a way to help Sofia. It’s been said that when a person dies while deep in the throes of an intense hatred, a curse is born upon that soul, forcing them to remain in this world. Reliving the very moment of their death over and over again until something changes.”

“You’re talking about exorcising the spirit of a centuries old bride who ripped out her mother-in-law’s throat with her own bloody teeth.” It’s no surprise to Alucard or Sypha that Trevor would speak so plainly. Exorcism must have been his family’s bread and butter, along with the more common business of bestial slayings.

“You make her sound like a monster.”

Trevor contemplates for a moment, resting his elbows on both knees. “Not exactly. Shit, I honestly respect the poor girl for what she did. Still, she sounds like a force to be reckoned with.”

“You could be right. But this curse clearly isn’t any fault of Sofia’s. She was betrayed; the attempt on her life and the lives of her family occurred during her own wedding. Of course she would want to take immediate revenge. The fact that this event took place during Yule might have also contributed in some fashion.”

“Why do you think so?” Inquires Sypha.

“Originally, Yuletide referred to the days between winter solstice and the new year. During this time, it was believed that a veil separating the seen from the unseen world grew thin. This allowed for certain things to pass through—ghosts, the Wild Hunt, and the like.”

Sypha perks up at the mention of such a festivity. “I know the Wild Hunt. We never celebrated Yule, but my family used to hear stories about it from locals whenever we traveled... then again, they were always meant to frighten the younger ones so they would go to bed earlier.”

“That does not surprise me. There are less than savoury tales involving the Wild Hunt. I remember my father entertaining us every dark midwinter’s night with stories he heard himself. In any case, Sofia doesn’t deserve to continue suffering like this. I believe there’s a way for her soul to finally be put to rest.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing. What do you need us for?” Trevor doesn’t mean to sound cynical, but the tone of his voice says otherwise. He’s still trying to shed that former version of himself.

For your companionship. “From my experience, there is always strength in numbers. And I don’t know what to do or where to start... not really.”

Trevor gives him an empathetic nod. He himself knows what it’s like to give off the illusion of knowing—he’s practically mastered it. Though Trevor never thought he would hear Alucard of all people admit to something like that. “Then I guess it’s back down into that museum you love so much.”

“So, will you help me?”

“What do you think our answer is? No? We’ve already done this before, one more time shouldn’t hurt. Besides, I’ve never been to a wedding. Should be fun.”

“Sypha?” He looks to her for a similar response. She stays quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically so, but raises her gaze to match Alucard’s.

“We did not come all this way just to leave again.” Sypha rolls up the invitation before handing it back to Alucard. “Now would you like to hear about our travels over a hot drink?”

Neither man wants to refuse her offer, especially not Trevor. Letting out a sigh of what sounds like relief, he stands up and follows Sypha to the door. Alucard would join them, another introverted smile on his lips, until the smell of cinnamon and chestnuts returns. It briefly lingers in the air until something changes. He fiddles with the parchment, his senses slowly overwhelmed by the creeping stench of rotting flesh.

Trevor and Sypha are already out of the library before either of them can smell it as well.

DECEMBER 27

Sypha Belnades gets to tell her stories. The evening of her return to Castle Dracula, she’s quick to fill Alucard’s head with tales of the somewhat heroic deeds she accomplished alongside Trevor. Every road their humble little caravan came across, they disposed of the remaining night creatures who continued to plague the shadows, stumbling from place to place, searching for their next prey. Lost, hungry, and with no master they could crawl back to. Killing them was almost a mercy. The duo had found themselves in far direr circumstances with certain men of the cloth who brandished false words and insidious influence than they did with fangs and claws.

There are the softer stories. When the two of them wore crowns made from wildflowers and were convinced by other Speakers to join in their celebratory practices. Sypha still makes light of Trevor’s two left feet, despite his honest attempts. Then as reparation, she recounts the day when she took him to the beaches of the Black Sea and how he stared in awe at the open waters with their hues of lapis lazuli and turquoise. Awe and a sense of peace he thought had been forever lost to him. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t need to.

Alucard’s gaze instinctively glances to his side and sees a familiar blush warming Trevor’s cheeks.

All three spend the evening in content spirits, despite the dark task that lies ahead of them. Yet now as Sypha sits at one of the worktables in Dracula’s bright laboratory, combing through tome after tome, a pervasive feeling dulls her usually sharp focus. It’s not boredom, god no. She could never get bored in a castle like this. It’s more of a melancholy; not as intense as that night down in the Belmont Hold when Trevor offered his dusty blanket to her and they sat together in the glow of a single candle. Yet it makes her just as tired, just as depressive.

Sypha’s finger flips over another heavy page, her eyes half-lidded, skimming over the words. I feel like I’m slowly turning into Alucard by the day, she thinks, a little bittersweetly.

In the midst of her daze, she hears a rough yet understated voice coming from behind her. It reminds her of rich coffee mixed with more than a hint of whiskey. She enjoys both, much to her own surprise. “You’re a hard person to find.”

“What makes you say that?” Sypha closes the book, an easy smile on her face, and turns around to face Trevor.

“Thought I’d find you down in some corner of the archives.”

“I like it here. The castle gives me something different to look at... and something different to think about. You might disagree.”

Trevor awkwardly scratches the back of his head; a way of confirming Sypha’s assumption. “At least it looks, err, neater than how we left it.”

“I think Alucard has been busy since we last saw him.” A pause, then a change of topic. “Did the Belmonts ever receive one of those invitations?”

“Not that I can remember. Either they were destroyed, or we never got them since Yule wasn’t something we celebrated.” Despite the tense way he carries himself close to Dracula’s scientific instruments, Trevor aimlessly wanders around the laboratory while speaking. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t something about these contraptions that fascinated him.

“I doubt Dracula ever celebrated it either.”

“Maybe those spirits saw a kinship with him. Creatures of the night always flock together, remember? Like flies to an open stable.”

“That is disgusting.”

“But an apt analogy, no?”

“No.” Sypha laughs, causing Trevor to join in. It quiets down before dying completely when that pervasive feeling comes back, souring the mood. The expression in Sypha’s eyes and on her face changes—it no longer feels right to smile. As much as she appreciates Trevor’s attempt at a casual conversation, somehow it feels wrong to make light of their mission. She looks to the floor, wondering if she should really get back to work.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“I’ve heard that excuse before.”

“Really, nothing’s wrong.”

Trevor still won’t take that as a good enough answer. He’s far more perceptive than most believe him to be. “You’ve gone quiet and you’re staring at your feet. That means something’s eating away at you. What is it?”

“It...” Sypha crosses both arms across her chest, encasing herself in a cocoon made from her own baggy robes. “It is difficult to put into words.”

“You’re not happy here.”

“No! I am! And I’m happy to see Alucard again. But it always seems like all three of us are brought together because of a monster or dire situation.”

“Always? It’s only happened twice.”

Twice is enough. A sign, or rather an omen of patterns that have yet to happen. For Sypha, twice is one too many. “I only wish for us to be like other friends. Spend time together without worry or urgency and do things not involving some threat to humanity.”

Her lamentations are reasonable, and they spark a twinge of empathy within Trevor—perhaps even revelation. What he wouldn’t give to have all three of them settle down and live their lives without blood caked underneath their fingernails or the threat of being ripped apart by something inhuman. But whatever unseen higher power must have said no. Sypha was right (again); god truly does hate them.

Trevor tries to rationalize as best he can. “Maybe it’s alright if we’re not like normal friends. You have to admit, none of us are particularly ‘normal’ people to begin with.”

Sypha cocks an eyebrow. “Are you calling me strange?”

“I’m calling everyone strange, myself included.” She doesn’t know how that answer is supposed to make her feel better, yet it does. Trevor always has his own peculiar way with words. His eyes then briefly light up as he reaches into one of the pouches attached to his belt. “Almost forgot. I came here to give you this.” Something calls from his hand before dangling from a thin chain—a six-pointed star made from silver, the bane of every night creature.

“A Magen David?” Sypha takes the necklace and holds it in her palms, unfortunately cracked and turned dry from the frigid air outside. It’s simple, maybe even the simplest piece of jewelry she’s ever seen, but it feels heavy. Sacred.

“Found a couple of those down in the Hold; enough for all three. They’re meant to protect the wearer. Went looking for them last time we were there but couldn’t find any in time. It’s not much...”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Trevor almost returns a smile to Sypha until a knife plunges its way into the centre of his back—at least it feels that way. A sharp pain that slowly dulls while coursing through his body as easy as the blood in his veins. He grits his teeth behind closed lips, trying to hide the discomfort but like Trevor, Sypha is perceptive.

“Everything alright? Did you injure yourself?”

“Might have. My fucking back and chest have been itching to be the death of me for a couple days now.”

“I didn’t know you were that old,” Sypha giggles. Trevor’s reaction is amusingly frustrated.

“I’m not.”

“You should speak to Alucard about your pain. He might be able to help.”

“Well, I did plan on finding him but how would he know what to do?”

“His mother was a doctor. He might have inherited some of her knowledge.” Trevor heads towards the door, even when Sypha isn’t finished talking yet. He needs to listen and hopefully learn from this last piece of advice. “You could also use this opportunity to settle your differences.”

She receives a flippant scoff in response. Typical. “I’ve already settled my differences with him.”

“You know what I mean, Trevor.”

He does, but only after a moment of thought. There’s no witty comeback, no stubborn retaliation, and no self-preserving denial; only acceptance. He and Alucard haven’t really made up—not in the way that adults are supposed to. Some things need to be settled through words and not only through vaguely charitable acts. Trevor leaves Sypha to her own work with the tentative hope that Alucard will feel just as willing.

The castle is alive.

Dracula said this to his son the day he took him into the engine room. Adrian was getting old enough, thus it was about time for the boy to learn. Despite his grand stature looming over everyone and everything, Dracula always felt dwarfed by the massive gears and pumps emitting billows of steam. His son even more so; like a mouse amongst the giants that breathed life into his own home.

But the lord of vampires was secure in the knowledge that Adrian wouldn’t remain a mouse for much longer. Soon he would have power, duties, and responsibilities. Which was why Dracula felt it necessary to show him the very ribcage of the castle along with its ever-beating heart stationed at the front—a geometric device hovering above a pedestal that rotated on command without a single touch of one’s finger. A bloodless, meatless organ in which Dracula poured his very intellect and soul into.

Now it means nothing. Pieces of black iron and dirtied gold lay scattered upon the very altar that once held them. Worthless. At least to a stranger’s naked eye. Alucard holds up one of the triangles against the bright winter sunlight pouring through the towering windows. It seems as though he’s done this a hundred times before and always comes to the same conclusion: the castle cannot be fixed.

And yet it remains alive, now more so than ever. Alucard noticed this immediately. In his efforts to create the perfect machination that bent to his every will, Dracula must have miscalculated. For when does a home feel truly alive? When there are beating hearts residing within its walls.

Alucard almost loses himself in his own thoughts—a common occurence—until he hears footsteps close behind. Followed by an exasperated “fucking finally...”

“You still know how to announce yourself.” Without turning around, he places the castle’s broken heart back with its brothers and sisters as the familiar presence draws nearer.

“And you’ve still mastered the art of sulking off by yourself.”

“What do you need, Belmont? Usually you don’t come to me willingly unless you want to say something important or crude.”

“It’s not all that important.”

“Then it must be crude.”

Another flinch from Trevor, which Alucard notices out of the corner of his eye. But the hunter manages a smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” A second mildly humorous jab almost makes its way out into the open until Trevor receives a look which tells him he should choose his next words very carefully, so he does. “I do need your help with something.”

“Yes, I can see that now.”

“How?”

“You’re slouching more than usual, and you seem discomforted.”

Sure, if you want to use that term. “It’s my back and chest. Must have been all those nights sleeping in that cramped wagon or swinging around the whip, but I’m worried it’ll get worse before it gets better. You know more about medicine than anybody else so...”

Alucard’s cold expression melts; did he just hear a hint of bashfulness in that last sentence? How interesting. Normally Sypha’s the only one who can bring out that hidden side of Trevor. It’s more than enough to convince Alucard. “Alright. Let me have a look at it.” He walks down the altar steps and gestures for Trevor to follow him.

“Wait, just like that?”

“I’m not cruel, Belmont. And I can’t have you injured right before we make our way to Castle Cel Tradat.”

They leave the engine room, which bears more of a resemblance to some grotesque art installation with melted gears and pillars that have hardened over a period of time than a well-oiled facility. “Is that why you’re up here? Trying to figure out how to move this thing so we don’t have to travel like regular human beings.”

“We’ll arrive fine enough using that old wagon of yours.”

“But is it actually possible to get the castle working again?”

Alucard leads Trevor into a different, smaller room filled with more books, more glass vials, and decides to leave the question open-ended. He would have answered a while ago: “this castle is as dead as the man who created it”. Now he’s not so certain. “Sit up on the table.” A convenient way of diverging the subject, to which Trevor thankfully doesn’t pry about any further.

“Am I your first patient?”

“Only if you don’t count childhood toys and small animals.”

Trevor glances over his shoulder at Alucard, whose hands are hovering dangerously close to his body. He lets out a regrettable chuckle. “That wasn’t meant to be taken literally, right?”

“You will be fine. You said it was your back and chest that hurt the most, correct?” Trevor mumbles out a presumable “yes”. Alucard reaches around, placing his fingers upon his ribcage just below his left breast. His touch is firm like a doctor’s yet gentle like a friend’s. He presses into the soft flesh. “Breathe into this hand.” Trevor’s breaths are shaky despite his efforts to keep them long and deep. His ribs barely move due to the pain. He’s stiff, understandably so not only because of his ailment. Alucard tempers his hold on him.

“You’re very warm,” he says with a smile (grateful that Trevor can’t see it else he’d have to explain himself). But his statement is true; he can feel it even though the worn fabric. A comfortable, soothing warmth. If he’s not careful, his hand might sink into the hunter, followed by the rest of himself.

“Is that some kind of diagnosis?”

“No. Just an observation.” Perhaps a compliment as well if Alucard swallowed his lingering pride and just admitted to it.

His hands continue their course along Trevor’s back muscles, searching for any abnormalities, any sources of his irritation. He thinks about every scar and bruise he might have passed over. How many are small; small enough to heal on their own? How many did Trevor have to stitch up with his own bloody, trembling fingertips? As Alucard reaches the other side of his chest, he dismisses any questions concerning past scars. He knows Trevor wouldn’t want to talk about that—not with him. Not yet.

“Well? Am I going to live?”

“Oh, absolutely. It isn’t that serious. A few displaced ribs, that’s all.”

“... sorry, my ribs are what?”

“When you strain your body too much or have poor posture, your ribs can slide out of place. It’s common and easily fixed. I’m shocked this hasn’t happened to you sooner.”

“You know, it’s bad bedside manners to insult the patient.”

“And you would know a lot about manners.”

“Enough to fill a book.”

Alucard tries to hide his smirk—and another snide remark. A very short book, maybe. Adjusting the positions of his hands, he forces Trevor to sit up a bit straighter. “Start counting. You’ll feel much better before you reach ten.”

Unlikely, but Trevor plays along. “One... two... three... four... fi—Jesus fuck!” It lasts for only a few seconds, the feeling that every bone in his body has been broken apart then hastily put back together. At least it’s short-lived. Hand presses against chest as Trevor takes a breath, vocalizing his surprise and whatever’s left of the pain through long-winded gasps. Alucard pats his back, rather pleased with himself.

“Go rest and try not to move too strenuously. You’ll also need to hold something cool against your ribcage. I suggest a damp cloth.”

“Thanks.”

“No need. You could have done it yourself.”

“I still appreciate the help.”

Alucard could let things lie; he’s been blunt and honest with Trevor enough already. Yet his next question won’t leave him alone until it’s let loose. “Why did you come to me? Was it so we could bury the hatchet together?” He pretends to busy himself with another task, unable to watch Trevor’s expression—and unwilling to show his own. The response he receives is... unexpected. A strange sort of comfort.

“I buried that hatchet the moment you decided to stop swinging that needle of yours at me. I just enjoyed pushing your many, many buttons.”

“... I acted like a spiteful brat, didn’t I? You can say so.”

Still feeling tender from the sudden rearrangement of his bones, Trevor joins him as they stand in front of a cabinet filled with things both scientific and occult. Consolation is not the strongest suit of his. There was so little of it during his own life, giving it seems almost alien to him. But he tries. With a simple touch on Alucard’s shoulder, he tries. “We both did. At least we can admit to it now.”

Words stop there, for the moment. Trevor remains at Alucard’s side in an unsure manner. Is this how it’s done? Have they finally made up? Buried the hatchet as they put it? In the midst of his over-thinking, he remembers why else he sought out the dhampir. “Here.” Trevor slips the same Magen David necklace into his cold hand. “Sypha’s got one as well. Thought it might help us when we’re inside the castle.”

Alucard stares down, entranced by the piece of silver in his palm, prompting Trevor to say something a bit too revealing. “Once when I was fifteen, I tried to do some good and handed these around to local communities, so they’d be protected. Made them from sticks and twine I picked off from the roads... felt stupid doing it.”

“Efforts to commit good deeds are never stupid.” Alucard retorts, his voice softer than usual.

Thanks for the vote of confidence. “I managed to get a rabbi to bless them. They actually worked fine until...”

“Until what?”

“Nothing. Forget about it.”

The word “pogrom” tastes like bile in Trevor’s mouth. He’d like nothing more than to spit it out and stomp on it until it’s nothing more than a stain upon the stone floor. But he wants to leave this meeting with Alucard on a much lighter note—or as light as he can make it. “I’ll leave you to... whatever it was you were doing.”

“Trevor...” Before either one can realize what was just said in place of “Belmont”, Alucard swiftly regains his stoic composure. “A bath might also help. With your ribs, I mean.”

Trevor snorts. “Sure. For my ribs.” He leaves the room, determined to own the last witticism spoken between them. Alucard lets him have it, but not begrudgingly. He’s more focused on how the Magen David hangs perfectly in the v of his shirt’s neckline, sitting against his bare skin. It feels warm atop the scar, though that could be from when it was held in Trevor’s hand.

DECEMBER 31

The hunter, the scholar, and the former sleeping soldier make good use of their time. When the day comes and they follow the sun as it descends across the sky, each carries an arsenal of their own. Sypha’s head is full of new spells as though it might burst. Alucard’s sword is sharp enough to cut a single drop of ice water in half. Trevor’s belt is heavy with blades large and small, resting next to his beloved Morningstar. He might as well be married to it.

The Magen Davids hang off their necks, swaying and dangling with every bump the wagon drives over. Tiny pieces of armour they’ve put most of their faith in, but not all of it. The rest goes to each other for support, protection, and morale.

Up in the Carpathian Mountains, the wind blows differently. Through the dense woods, it howls and batters against the wagon’s canvas covering, blowing ice into exposed eyes and exposed skin. The three shelter themselves into the furs around their shoulders as best they can hoping to either wait out or outrun this squall. Then the mountains become quiet and clear the deeper they venture, like a graveyard in the dead of night. Not a single falling snowflake to obscure their vision. Until they turn round another corner on the road, kicking bits of snow and dirt into the ravine below.

The travelers hear Castle Cel Tradat before they see it. Jovial and celebratory music that cuts through the silence, growing in volume as they drive closer—just as Alucard described it. The castle itself seems humble; stout with thick walls and a set of four towers on each corner. Not a ruin similar to the Belmont abode and nowhere near the profuse architectural opulence of Dracula’s. From a distance, the dim torch fire that lines the entrance look like fireflies in the darkness.

They leave the wagon at the foot of the bridge; any closer and they fear something might happen to the horses. Trevor takes a moment to pat their snouts and gives them a few dried apple rings before catching up with his companions. In a rare sight to see (at the suggestion of Alucard no less), all three are dressed in the same dark tones save for their halos of grey fur.

“Someone should tell him we’re going to a wedding, not a funeral.” Trevor whispered to Sypha before they left. He soon realized the mistake of his comment. Perhaps they are attending a funeral and they’re the only ones who know it. As they make their way down the bridge alongside other attendees comprised of both ghosts and unfortunate living nobles who never bothered to read up on their history, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard wordlessly hope they won’t end up betraying themselves or their true intentions.

“Invitation,” demands one of the gateway guards. Alucard slips the rolled-up parchment out of his coat pocket and presents it. “And these two?” Just as the guard makes eye contact with Trevor, he carefully hides the Belmont crest beneath the folds of his cloak. No particular reason, only an old habit.

“My guests. I assume guests are permitted?”

The guard pauses for a thankfully brief moment. “Go on in. Straight through the doors.” Alucard and Sypha bow out of respect, but Trevor glances over his shoulder as they ascend the front steps. It all feels too easy; he didn’t even check for weapons. The Cel Tradats must have been incredibly trusting or woefully naive that night they all died.

It’s a short walk to the grand hall. If it weren’t for the stench of old blood clouding Alucard’s heightened senses, he would assume the place had been untouched by death. Dresses and fine tunics move across the tapestries in a thick haze caused by candlelight smoke, one can barely see to the other side of the room. Cinnamon, winter cranberries, and pine tree furs line the tables alongside an endless multitude of food. Sypha has never seen so much meat or drink in one sitting. If the butchers and farmers of Targoviste’s most bountiful markets could witness this sight, they would weep as though on their mother’s deathbed. People laugh, cheer, and dance upon the centre floor. They live like they’ve never lived before.

Trevor quickly takes hold of Sypha’s wrist and the back of Alucard’s coat. “Don’t eat or drink anything,” he warns in a dire tone. Neither one needs an explanation as to why. Rather than join the revelry, they hurry off to the side out of sight.

“Look. Up at the front.” Alucard is the first to find Sofia overlooking her merry subjects, seated halfway between the Cel Tradats and the Lupeis, now an envoi of both houses. A sparrow and a wolf. Full rosy cheeks, brown irises deeper than the richest chocolate, and long red hair like a river of blood. Her husband with wide eyes and an even wider smile is almost as beautiful as his wife.

“They seem so happy.” And unaware, Trevor thinks to himself.

Sypha chimes in with her own opinions. “There wasn’t much written about Darius Lupei in the history tomes. Apparently, he was an idiot... but at least a loving idiot.”

“One of us needs to warn her. But don’t make a spectacle of it otherwise this entire room will be thrown into chaos.”

“What about the assassin?”

“We will need to find them as well without drawing any attention.”

“So, we stop Sofia from being murdered and the whole night goes on without a hitch.” There’s skepticism in Trevor’s voice, which doesn’t surprise Alucard. “Is that supposed to bring peace to her soul along with the rest here?”

Sypha turns to Alucard and waits for an answer. He’d say “yes”, but it would be dishonest of him to even think that he knew what they were doing. “I don’t know. But it’s worth it to try.”

Trevor lets out a heavy breath; a common response when he doesn’t feel like analyzing the gritty details of a plan. “Not exactly a traditional exorcism. I’ll go warn Sofia.” Barely a step forward and Alucard already stops him.

“I said don’t make a spectacle of it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you have as much subtlety and tact as a kitten drunk on milk.”

Sypha mutters “he does have a point” under her breath to no avail as Trevor turns to her, shocked and a little insulted. “You have to admit, Trevor, negotiations are not your strongest skill. You’re better at ending fights with that whip than you are with words.”

“Traitors. The both of you.”

Alucard’s golden eyes narrow with growing frustration. “We don’t have time for petty squabbles. I will go speak with Sofia.”

Trevor places a palm against his chest and holds him back. “She’ll take one look at your fangs and start screaming about a vampire in her court.”

“Boys...”

“Can you keep your voice down?”

“I am keeping my voice down!” Trevor’s short-lived outburst carries itself throughout the hall, attracting the attention of a few confused onlookers. Fortunately, they return to their own little worlds while the music plays on. Alucard and Sypha push their hunter towards the nearest wall, silencing him with their hands.

“If we let you walk up there and request an audience with the bride, will you please be quieter?” Trevor nods, which is enough for them. An unseen clock ticks ever closer to the fated moment between Sofia and the assassin’s dagger; it would be better if they hurried. Alucard and Sypha let go, exasperated but willingly.

“I’ll watch your back in case something happens.”

“I’ll search for the assassin.” Alucard pulls Trevor in close. “Please do not make me beg for you to not fuck this up.”

“When have I ever?”

A sharp inhale, then Alucard decides to let it be. The two men set off in opposite directions while Sypha’s cheeks burn hot with irritation towards both of them. She hides behind a pillar and keeps an eye on Trevor as he navigates himself through the sea of dancers. Her fingertips tingle with fiery embers and the cold prick of ice, yet she holds back. Not yet and if all goes well, not tonight.

“You seem to have your hands full with those two.” A different voice speaks up. Sypha ignores the comment, assuming she had just received a snippet of some unrelated conversation. That it wasn’t meant for her.

The same voice speaks again. “Friends of yours, I presume.”

Still composure turns into masked panic. Sypha’s heart thumps against her ribcage in an almost painful manner. She could stay focused on the tuff of Trevor’s fur cloak as it weaves as it weaves amongst moving bodies, or she could make absolutely certain of one thing: how much did they hear?

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop on strangers.” She does not face whoever’s talking.

“It’s also not polite to refuse a bride and groom’s generosity.”

Sypha remains where she stands, but glances at the crowded tables against her better judgement—one woman, not quite elderly but past middle age, stares at her with friendly curiosity. Sypha tries to avoid another instance of eye contact. “I am not hungry.”

The woman laughs. “You don’t have to eat anything, though it would be preferred if you did. Just come and be present.”

Impulse pushes against intuition as Sypha struggles with herself. If it will please the woman (and possibly shut her up), then fine. She can watch Trevor just as easily from the tables. Finding an empty yet claustrophobic space on one of the benches, Sypha squeezes in between a happy drunkard and her sudden enabler. Already her body wants to close in on itself or leave altogether.

“There. Now I’m present,” she mutters bitterly.

“Well you’ve got quite the tongue... that’s meant to be a compliment, love.” Sypha gives her a hesitant smirk, which fades the longer she speaks. “Though it can’t be easy putting up with two men who have so much pride.”

Sypha scratches the tip of her index fingernail along the table wood until it nearly falls off. She isn’t in the mood for conversation, even with a harmless ghost who seems to understand her. Still, the urge to play the woman’s game is too much and Sypha has just the response for her. “It is easy enough. Find something that gently wounds their pride and they are like puppies with their tails tucked between their legs.”

The woman chokes on her gulp of ale before letting out another laugh that sounds too big for her thin frame. Personally, Sypha didn’t think the joke was that funny but she appreciates the reaction. “And I would not trade either of them for anyone else in all of Wallachia.”

A few drops of the woman’s drink might have somehow made its way into Sypha’s veins, but she speaks truthfully. She’s always let the truth be heard; it’s molded her into the person she is now. Honesty makes her and those around her stronger. So perhaps she should save this particular truth for the ones who need to hear it most.

All these unfocused thoughts cause Sypha to drift away from what’s important, what matters right now in the moment. Only the woman’s next inquiry brings her back, but not in the way she wanted. “Is that why you’re not with your family right now?”

Sypha’s stare drives daggers into the woman’s throat while she sits there and simply drinks her ale, aware and uncaring. “Doesn’t surprise me. You don’t really belong with the Speakers anymore, do you? Bit of an outsider. There are other scholars of magic, of course, but none quite like you. That’s another compliment. It might be best that you stay away from them for a while... maybe forever.”

Fire and ice surge their way through Sypha’s hot blood, begging to be released. Anger dulls her senses along with her movements. “I will never abandon my people.”

“You already have, love. You abandoned them when you agreed to join that hunter and the bastard son of a vampire.”

Sypha’s first instinct is towards violence. She wants to slap the woman with the backside of her hand or wrap her fingers around her neck and squeeze as tight as possible or place an iron hot palm against her cheek and give her something to talk about with her friends and neighbours. But none of it would matter. Sypha tears herself away from the table and regains control. The castle’s deceptions will not get inside of her so easily.

Only now does she notice the smell of sour fruit, moldy bread, and rotting meat being picked apart by greedy flies. Flies to an open stable.

If Alucard were thinking straight, he would have found the assassin by now. If he had found the assassin, this night would be done and the three of them would be on their way back to Castle Dracula. If they were back home, he would be in bed savouring his first peaceful sleep now that he’s no longer alone. But none of those wishes have come to fruition. Alucard’s search leads him away from the wedding feast and down into one of the side corridors. Darkness has never given him much trouble, yet here it blurs his vision. If only he held a torch or even a simple candle.

“Lost, sir?” Alucard turns to face a tall woman with broad shoulders dressed in the same funeral-coloured garb as he. There’s rouge upon her sharp cheekbones, dark hair held back by a golden pin, and demeanour cold yet polite. She must be the Lupei matriarch.

Alucard’s immediate response is to bow courteously, despite his hand twitching closer to the holt of his sword. He could consider Lady Lupei to be the real assassin, but she would never dirty her hands in such a direct way. Killing her now would only quicken the oncoming madness. Better to make an excuse than to act on rash thinking. “Apologies, my lady. I simply wandered off for some fresh air. If you will pardon me—”

“No, I do believe you are lost. You’ve been lost for some time.”

“I’m sorry...?” Her steps towards him are slow, calculated. She keeps a coldly gentle expression on her serene face. Alucard tries to look past the Lady, his eyes searching for the warm glow of the grand hall. He sees nothing, only more of the same corridor he finds himself trapped in. The song of his sword waiting to be unsheathed rings louder in his ears.

“I know you like to think it wasn’t your fault. Once your father went mad, there was nothing more you could have done to pull him back.”

The tip of Alucard’s fang grazes his lower lip, drawing blood. Just a drop, but the taste of metal floods his mouth. “You know nothing of me or my father.”

“But I do know. When you get to live as long as I do and see people for what they truly are, you come to know a lot of things. How you lie to yourself and those around you. How you think it will help mask your guilt and shame.”

“There is no guilt!” Alucard’s voice suddenly cracks. Lady Lupei continues to descend upon him as a shadow—like his father did that night of the blood moon. “My hand was forced... I had no other choice.”

She laughs; more out of bitterness and anger than amusement. “You’re just like my husband. Nothing but excuses.”

“Leave me be, damned spirit.”

“When your father’s ashes scattered to the winds, you should have turned that very same stake against your own heart. Why not do it now? You have your blade, so finish what you started.”

Alucard feels his hand grow heavy. He looks down and sees the silver of his blade trembling. Steadying himself, he knows how to use it. Forget his previous hesitance; if Lady Lupei is in his presence, then better to end this cursed night now. If only she were still here. Raising his head, he realizes that he’s been left alone—and with no easy way of returning. Alucard turns in both directions; the corridor has no end in sight. The castle, its ghosts, the curse, none of them are through with him yet. He sheathes the sword back in its place and follows the faint sound of music.

What’s the polite way of saying “your mother-in-law is about to brutally murder you”?

Trevor snakes a path across the floor, resisting the increased urge to push everyone aside and march straight up to Sofia before pulling her away. Knock the goblet out of her hand, spilling expensive wine all over her pretty wedding dress. She’d struggle, kick about, possibly curse like a sailor in their faces. A small price to pay for sparing her from a violent fate. It would be so easy if they all moved out of the fucking way.

Closer now; it seems he’s been getting closer for hours. The floor feels soft beneath his boots. Yet she’s still out of reach. Maybe if I just shout at her. Trevor remembers the “promise” he made to Alucard and Sypha, but to hell with it. They want this night over with as much as he does.

Something crashes into him. Trevor spins around, thrown off his already weakened equilibrium, and is carried away from Sofia by one of the dancers shoving himself into his arms. “You’re a handsome one!”

“Would you let me go...”

“Come and dance! It will clean that scowl right off your face.”

“Thank you but no thank you. I need to—” He doesn’t care for his protests, no one does. They hand him off from dancer to dancer; it’s a miracle he hasn’t tripped over himself yet. In his disorientation, Trevor is struck by a familiarity. A much better time than this. He said he didn’t want to dance, never learned it enough as a child so it would be at best humiliating and at worst painful as an adult. The Speakers convinced him otherwise—they always manage to. Placing a crown of wildflowers atop his head, he turned away so they wouldn’t see how red his cheeks grew. He couldn’t hide it forever, not when Sypha took his hands and lovingly teased him. That night felt like a dream blessed enough to be real. It felt like something he’d been missing for so long.

“It felt like home.” Trevor stops, unsure if the voice came from him or one of the dancers. He’s not given the luxury of time to think or resist when he’s thrown into another’s arms, then another’s.

“You miss that feeling. You miss having a home.”

“You miss being part of a family.”

“You can have a home here. You can stay if you would let yourself.”

“Come home.”

“Mother? Father?” There’s a warm sensation in Trevor’s stomach that burns and aches. Home, family, and stay meld together spoken by the sickly-sweet tones of the dancers and the voices of two dead Belmonts. His worst nights after crawling into the very bottle he emptied at a local tavern were never so terrible.

“Trevor! Trevor, look at me!” Cold hands press on either side of his head, dragging him away from all the suffocating bodies. Eyes shut tightly; he now finds the will to fight back.

“Fuck off of me! I want to go home!”

“Trevor, it’s me. Calm down.” He tears open his watery eyes and feels his heartbeat slow when Sypha wraps her arms around him. Trevor holds her, terrified that she might fade as all the other ghosts will. Even more scared of what he had contemplated.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry.”

“It’s just the curse. You’re alright.” Sypha repeats it until Trevor can believe it himself. He catches a glimpse of Sofia—does she know? From the way she laughs and clings to her husband’s side, she evidently may not.

“Sypha, where the hell is Alucard?”

“Honourable allies of the Lupeis and the Cel Tradats.” Trevor, Sypha, and the rest of the party turn in the direction of the announcer. “May I present to you, Sir Darius Lupei of House Lupei.”

“Shit...” They’ll have to make do without Alucard. While everyone else stands at attention, the two of them use this as an opportunity if not a fleeting one. As Darius begins his speech, they run.

“I wish to thank all of you for witnessing this momentous event. Once the Lupeis and Cel Tradats were enemies. Now through this bond of love and marriage, we are made friends and equals.”

“Stop! Sofia! Lady Sofia! Move, you fucking idiots!”

“We need to speak with Lady Sofia!”

All members of both houses stare in confusion at the man and woman attempting a mad dash towards them. “What is the meaning of this?”

“She’s not safe! None of you are!”

Darius takes pause, considering the roguish man’s warning, yet dismisses it just as quick as he heard it. Sypha should have better taken those passages written about the living but small-minded lord to heart. “Must have let all that drink overtake their common sense. Remove them. They shall be dealt with later.”

Sypha and Trevor wrestle with the guards, driving their feet between their legs and beating fists against armour until their knuckles turn a sickening purple. They create more of a spectacle while Darius carries on with his public address. he extends a hand, places it in Sofia’s, and motions for her to stand.

“May I present to our joined courts, my wife and your new lady, Sofia Cel Tradat Lupei.”

Trevor’s vision is momentarily obscured by his own thrashing, though it does not matter. He, Sypha, and the entire castle hear Sofia’s screams all the same. A dripping rose appears on her white and green dress, spreading over her abdomen and turning her fingers a similar dark coloured red. Darius’ own shouts of shock devolve into choking gurgles as knives slash across his throat. The grand hall erupts like a pack of beasts let loose from their cages to attack whoever is nearest. There’s panic from all except Lady Lupei and her house, including the guards that hold Trevor and Sypha. They should have noticed the wolves on their chest plates.

Sypha acts the quickest. One guard shrieks in horror as blue and red ice daggers appear straight through his arms; the other spits blood and teeth upon contact with Trevor’s sword. The two find shelter underneath a table and watch the centuries-old carnage. Sypha never knew ghosts could bleed so much.

They fear the worst for Alucard. The castle with its lies has swallowed him whole. Until another Lupei guard falls dead in front of them, a familiar sword lodged in his back. “Where the fuck were you?” Trevor snarls as a disgruntled dhampir joins them.

“Trying to survive this wedding, same as you both.” Before any of the bickering can start, a far more dire sight begs for their attention—Sofia and Lady Lupei on the ground, their nails digging into each other, one of their mouths spraying blood the louder she screams.

“This is not working, Alucard. What do we do?”

“It’s too late. I don’t know if there is anything we can do.”

“You’re saying we just let this happen, wait until next year, so this whole shitstorm can repeat itself until we get it right?”

“I would prefer to hear a better plan come out of your mouth, Belmont.”

Alucard is being facetious (to ill effect), but Trevor does have something better in mind. He fiddles with the Magen David like a nervous tick. There is no maybe; this will get him killed, he’s certain of that. When has it ever stopped him?

“Clear a path for me.” He’s already out from under the table before Alucard or Sypha can rightfully question him. They react fast, moving in front so he might have a shield. Fire scorches bodies into blackened cinders; limbs fall to the floor with the effortless swipe of a thin blade; Trevor uses his whip sparingly. He doesn’t touch it when he reaches the bride. She turns with wild eyes, blood seeping through the cracks of her teeth. Rivers of red flow from her stomach and down the steps, mingling with the rest. The tapestries did her rage no justice.

“Don’t touch me!” She violently sputters.

“I just want to talk.” Trevor raises his hands, his voice oddly calm. When she doesn’t listen, he removes his cloak and shows her the embroidered emblem on his breast. Sofia’s fury melts into realization.

“The Belmonts...” As Sofia gazes down at her defiled hands then towards her mutilated court, something shatters within. The past hundred years of darkness and repetition make themselves known. “Merciful god, what have I done...” She whimpers, face wet with tears and blood. “What have I done...”

“Sofia...”

“Get away from me! I know who you are! The Belmonts kill monsters. You’re here to kill me.”

“You’re not a monster.” Along with his cloak, Trevor lays the Morningstar and his Magen David by his feet. Alucard and Sypha stay behind with the shaky hope that he knows what he’s doing. “I know what it’s like to lose your family to violence. Betrayed by the very people you wanted to help. You deserve every right to be pissed off and hate them. But you also deserve peace. You shouldn’t have to continue suffering like this.”

“It hurts so much.”

“I know it’s hard. But let go.”

Sofia forces herself to look up. The tears have turned her bloodshot eyes into shining glass. “If I do, will I face eternal punishment?”

“You won’t.”

It’s quiet behind them. No more sounds of the dying or killing. No more broken bones or blood-filled screams. Sofia grows weary, her last few breathes slow. Pieces of skin begin to peel and float like snowflakes. Before they can see how she’ll fade away back into the annals of history, the windows shatter and release a blizzard that had been waiting far too long to break in. It blows through the grand hall, carrying itself around the castle as a cascade of snow, dust, and wind. The last time a curse was lifted in this manner, there were ashes and the disembodied moans of despair.

Then it’s over. The three of them stand in the middle of a dark empty room. Trevor picks up his belongings, leaving the unchanged Magen David for last. There are no words shared amongst them because they cannot find the right ones. Alucard steps up, perturbed by Trevor’s silence. He offers a hand on his shoulder for comfort, mirroring what Sypha once did for him, but his touch is too light for Trevor to really notice.

“We should go.” After such a bout of silence, Sypha’s voice makes them jump slightly. They leave the castle in its true abandoned state and hope never to come back. Perhaps a brief visit at the end of every Yule to place flowers where Sofia used to stand.

Halfway across the bridge, Sypha turns her head up to the snow speckled skies. Shouts of merriment and well-earned victory grace her ears; the arrival of a hunt returning with its spoils. Though she cannot see it, nor is she completely certain of its presence.

“You alright?” Asks Trevor.

“... I thought I heard something.”

JANUARY 1

The first early morning of the new year is always strange, even stranger to spend it alone inside Dracula’s castle. A disheartened hunter, a thoughtful scholar, and a tired dhampir retreat to his library without so much as a “happy new year”. They should sleep and yet they crowd onto the same chair, silently wishing for someone to lighten the mood before shuffling off to bed.

While the other two stare at their feet, Sypha looks around for some topic of small conversation. Her eyes eventually bring her to the top of a bookshelf, squinting at a tiny branch of green leaves which didn’t seem to be hanging there before.

“Mistletoe?”

Alucard overhears her mutter and glances upwards. His explanation is very matter of fact, with no joy. “Sometimes pieces of nature will appear on their own... an old spell put in place by my father to make my mother happy. He never had the need for growing things before he met her.”

Sypha knows the traditions and the good superstitions, despite never partaking in their origins. Standing up (the first one taking initiative to do so), she kisses Trevor’s cheek then does the same on Alucard’s forehead. “Shame to waste it.”

The boys are left in pleasant surprise—and with ideas of their own, especially on Alucard’s part. He doesn’t want to end the night with nothing to say to Trevor. They’ll step into this new year on good footing. Just when the Belmont least expects it, Alucard kisses his opposite cheek. An admittedly risky act on its own accords, but he thinks it was worth it to try.

“I was wrong. You did well tonight.”

Pink faced, Trevor’s gaze never leaves Alucard until he’s through the door and out of sight. “Mistletoe is supposed to be poisonous; you know.” He says to no one in particular.

#castlevania #trevor belmont #alucard #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #netflix castlevania #castlevania fanfiction #my writing #*cvfic #its done..... its finally done.....#oh god i hope the read more works

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carli113 · 5 years ago

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Story

Its been so long since I’ve been back here. I joined the xuania fandom and wrote a chapter for a non existent story. Now I want to draw some pics.

Okay. Continuation of Dong Hua and Bai Feng Jiu Eternal Love Drama story. This was supposed to be something that could transition from the drama to the novel without much trouble.

Bai Feng Jiu held back the tears as she formerly responded to Donghua's message upon her coronation. The time for games was over, she had to become queen and with that new position, many new responsibilities would come her way. She remembered that when Si Ming had answered her request regarding a message from Donghua, he had mentioned that the secrets would be inside the map. Her curiosity was peaked and for many hours she waited awaited, until finally the crowds had filtered out of her home.

“Thank goodness!” she cried when all was quiet , “Who knew that a coronation could be so exhausting?” With that the young queen retired to her bedroom, trying not to notice the fancy gift that was carefully situated beside her bed. Doing her best to ignore the map, Feng Jiu crawled into her covers and did all she could to get comfortable. Her attempts were in vain as she tossed and turned, but to no avail.

With the mysterious map staring at her from the side of her bed, Bai Feng finally gave up. Her curiosity had peaked, and Bai Feng couldn't help but open sacred treasure. “Oh my.” she gasped as she slowly revealed the picture. The map was absolutely beautiful. From the eloquent calligraphy to the perfectly inked and detailed map of the ages. The world had indeed changed, not a thing remained, but why in the realm would Dong Hua give her such a valuable item?

Peering over the map with laser eyed focus, Feng Jiu grappled to see if there was any message that he could be trying to give her, but could find none. Scanning the map with her essence, Feng Jiu sighed in defeat. She had no idea what Donghua's message was, or even if there was a message. Grumbling away, Feng Jiu began to return the map to it's place. It was then that a small piece seemed to resonate with her touch.

“What's this ?” she thought quietly, and quickly focused her energy on the strange oddity. An unusual fog began to settle in when a chime rang loud and clear from the Wu Wang sea. Startled out of the fogginess overtaking her, Feng Jiu slammed her hand on a sharp rock that seemed to appear from nowhere.

“Ouch!” she hissed, her eyes wide with horror as the object disappeared and two drops of blood fell upon the priceless treasure. “No!” she cried, her body suddenly feeling weak.

“Feng Jiu!”

“Your Majesty!” Came the faded cries, but it was no use.

Feng Giu woke with a start as her body seemed to burn like flame and her whole body seemed to be encased in an inky blackness. “Where am I?” she asked quietly, “Is this a dream?”

“Little flower, little flower,” called a frightful voice, loud as the thunder, and deep as the sea, “ Why have you hidden from me?”

“Hidden from you,” she asked , “What do you mean? Who are you? ”

“I am you, and you are me,” said the strong voice, “A Shadow of what once was and still can be.”

Hazily an image appeared in the inky blackness, a tall man, swift and strong with eyes as stormy as the ocean and hair as bright as the moon. “Is that...” she whispered, as the hazy image soon became clear ans sharp.

“Donghua.” Feng Jiu whispered quietly, her face pale as the figure slashed through hundreds and thousands of bodies. Never had she seen such a deadly look in his face. Soon a striking man with sharp eyebrows and long black hair revealed itself. “Yehua?” she whispered, then taking a look once again, “No... “ she whispered, “ Mo Yuan?”

“Yes,” the voice called, “This is an image from long ago, when the demon uprising nearly destroyed the world twice over. The battle was long and harsh and millions of souls died, god and man a like, even more so then battle of Roshui from so many years ago. Times were harsh than and the needed light had not yet appeared. Three great sacrifices were needed to stop the war filled with death to no end.”

“Three sacrifices...” trailed the young princess, Feng Jiu did not understand at first, but as she reflected on the most recent goings in her present life. “Are you saying...”

After a long pause, the voice rang out loud an clear once again.

“Yes,' whispered the haunting voice, “Of these three, there are two that you know quite well. The Donghai bell, a powerful artifact that required a powerful spirit to seal or quell the spirit of the vilest soul, the phoenix heart to scatter the darkness and start the world anew, and loss of love to tame the passionate fury of the strongest soul.” a pause, “Tell me little flower...do you know what this means?

“No...no.” stuttered the young queen, though a dawning of understanding seemed to appear behind her eyes.

“The Donghai bell has been destroyed, the strongest soul has weakened, the light has appeared, and the calamity that threatens the world has begun to move...” after a long pause, “ Your role, little flower, has come into play.”

“No. No, ” Cried the young princess, “ My role? What do you mean?”

“The phoenix blade is calling for it's master, and you little flower, must light it's way.”

With that the darkness seemed to fade, and Feng Jiu cried out as her essence seemed to melt away, and every inch of her body turn to Ash. Never in her 30,000 something years of life had she ever experienced such pain, not when the pagoda beast slashed her, the lightning struck her, or she took the full brunt of the Demon Lord's power to protect Donghua.

Feng Jiu bit her lip as a shining tear fell from her eye. The unbearable heat had been calmed and thousands of images filled her mind. Images of what once was and what can be came into play. Her purpose had been found, and her dear Donghua had guided the way. Feng Jiu just smiled, as her burning body began to cool and a bright red gem appeared on her forehead. “Donghua...” she whispered, “I understand.”

“Huh!” gasped the young queen. She was back and her body felt much stronger than before. Grabbing the mirror to her side, Feng Jiu looked at her appearance to see the half closed flower mark on her forehead had appeared to bloom.

“Majesty!” cried the beloved Migu as he attempted to embrace her.

“No!” cried the princess, putting her hand out , a fiery flame engulfing her palm.

“Princess!” he exclaimed in surprise, “What happened?”

“I-”

“She's ascended,” came the familiar voice of Si Ming. “Congratulations once again, high immortal Bai Feng Jiu.” he said, bowing slightly.

“Si Ming, what are your doing here?”

“His majesty Dong hua, requests your presence,” he said calmly.

Widening her eyes, Feng Jiu willed her heart to stop it's wretched hopeful pounding. Donghua and her no longer had anything to do with each other, so why was he requesting her presence? She hadn't talked to the ancient deity once since Yehua had been taken from their home three years ago, though she had indeed been tempted. With all he had told her on their last acquaintance, Why would he be summoning her now?

I don't understand, she thought silently, but her words came out, “I understand, please tell his majesty I will meet with him shortly.”

“His majesty Donghua Dijun requests your presence immediately.” emphasized the lord of dipper.

“ But father...”

Silently the familiar blue cloaked figure slipped out behind the silver clad figure. Clearing his throat, he gave her an almost proud look. “The manner has been addressed, ” quietly the man put his hands behind his back and gave a slight bow. “Though your power is strong, your discipline is lacking, do not keep the Dijun waiting any longer.” Though he did not say it, Feng Jiu could tell her father was not pleased with development, most likely do to her shameless actions, but no one was to stand against the formidable Dong Hua.

“Of course.”

“Little highness,” bowed Si Ming, and Feng Jiu nodded before following him to the aforementioned place of meeting. Swallowing slightly, Feng Jiu tightened her fists as the entered the deity's chamber. She had been here hundreds of times for thousands of years, but for after her ascension to high immortal, she had learned so much more about him. Suddenly being in his chambers seemed a thousand times more intimidating.

Presenting himself to the ancient deity, Si Ming bowed and announced his formal greeting,“ Lord of Dipper has arrived with Her highness, high immortal Bai Feng Jiu as per your request.”

“Thank You,” spoke the high deity, “ you may be excused.”

“Your majesty.” he responded and disappeared into a puff of smoke.

“No. Dont leave me!” squeaked out the young queen, her heart pounding as the object of that had earned her respect, awe, affection and recently her fear transported within a few centimeters and pulled her close to him.

“Don't leave me?” he quirked his eyebrow, ignoring the little prick of annoyance that cropped up in his stone heart. “Since when have you wanted his presence so much?” he teased before letting her go and stepping a way, arms folded behind his back.

“W...what?” she sputtered, “Thats not it...I just did..” want to be alone with you right now. She thought silently, not after-

Stopping less than a meter away from his little fox, Donghua . “Since when have you been afraid to be alone with me, little fox?”

“What?” oh dang it, she cried silently, I forgot! “Well I mean...”

“I seem to remember a little fox here not too long ago who dispersed just before my waking, snuck into my quarters with drinks, snacks, and lets not forget those lovely outfits...had I been a normal man, it may have been too much to bear.”

“Eep.” Feng Jiu squeaked out, body stumbling backwards as the man stretched out his arm and wrapped it around her , a knowing smirk on his face. “You mean ...You knew.”

The stone hard God nodded his head, “Of course I did.” he stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “After spending all that time at my palace, do you think I'd be fooled by your tricks?”

“N..No. I mean ” she breathed, face as red as a tomato. “I know I shouldn't have but.”

Remembering how her aunt used to break into the back way of heaven Feng Jiu decided to disguise herself as one of the deities and did the same. She didn't see much harm in it as she quietly watched over her Lord Emperor, brewing his favorite tea , dressing in his favorite outfit, or making his favorite snacks. As long as she left no trace, it would be fine.

“Now now,” he said almost kindly, “Did I say anything against it?” Though he should have dissuaded her from returning, her presence was like a drug, and whether or not he could be with her, he would drink it in like the addict he was.

“No.”

“So pray tell” he stroking something attached to his belt, “Why are you so frightened now?”

Based on the set up in the end, I strongly believe the new producers could do it. However, Dong Hua would need to continue that change from after he saw the rock of three incantations, Bai Feng Jiu would have to train and Ji Heng ( Bai Feng Jiu’s rival) would have to be introduced differently.

#dong hua dijun #bai fengjiu #pillow book #eternallove

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irelise · 6 years ago

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the yew tree 2.1/?

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw, mutant revolutionary, ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier and claiming his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

part one now on ao3!)

Warnings for this part: Child abuse, corporal punishment, sexual exploitation of children Rating: M Word count: 2159

The mansion in Westchester is huge. Father had told him that he had lived there when he was a baby, but Charles had been too young to remember any of it. Now, peering out of the automobile as they roll up the driveway, craning his head back and back and back to see the full height of the mansion, Charles doesn’t know how he could have forgotten it.

His rooms are huge too, nothing like the dormitory he had shared with five other boys back in the boarding school in Britain. Everyone is so nice to him when they help him get settled in. Charles knows they feel sorry for him. Poor thing, they repeat, over and over again. Losing his father so young, and now his mother too! He’s only six, isn’t he? A shame, a shame… Poor thing, he’s holding up so well, what a dear!

Charles feels awful. He knows he should be crying because Mother had just died and now both of his parents are gone, but no matter how hard he tries, the tears just won’t come. He doesn’t so much as sniffle. The staff think it’s because he’s a brave lad.

The truth is, he just hadn’t known Mother at all. He misses his friends and instructors at boarding school more than he misses her, and isn’t that just an absolutely wretched way to feel? He’s an awful son.

The wretched feeling stays for the next few days. Everyone is nice to him, but nobody knows what to do with him. He doesn’t have a nanny or a governess or a tutor and he’s bored.

“Do you know when I’ll be meeting my uncle?”

The servant bringing him breakfast looks uncomfortable. “No, sir. But Mr. Marko is a busy man, I expect he’ll call for you when he’s ready.”

The call doesn’t come until another few days later, and by then Charles had absolutely had enough and had snuck out to explore the grounds. He’s messy and mud-splattered when the servants find him and march him to Uncle’s study, and Charles gulps. He’s in big trouble.

It’s the first time he’s met Uncle even though Uncle is his “legal guardian” now (whatever that means), and despite the nervous butterflies tumbling around in his stomach Charles can’t resist a curious peek at his uncle. He’s a tall, broad man with dark hair and a coarse beard to match, dressed very respectably. He seems angry, but also…satisfied? Charles fidgets before he remembers his manners and gives a proper apology.

Surprisingly, Uncle doesn’t give him a thrashing, verbal or otherwise. He only looks stern. “We’ll have to find some way to keep you occupied so you don’t get into more trouble,”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Call me ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

It’s just not right for that Marko to take control of the estate – he’s not even a proper noble, is he?

And what is he thinking, dragging poor Young Master Charles all the way back from England? No, it’s not right at all.

Shh, back to work, don’t let him hear you. Haven’t you heard what he did to that kitchen boy?

***

Two days later, Charles decides Uncle is a big liar. He promised to give something for Charles to do, but there’s nothing, just Charles idly lying on top of the rug and counting – for the fifth time – how many threads are woven into the faded golden tassels. He gets all the way up to three hundred and a bit this time and he’s proud of his focus.

Grumpily, he pulls himself up to his feet. His nails are chipped from picking at the walls and floorboards, and his eyes feel dry and itchy. He couldn’t stop himself from crying earlier, hating how it feels like he’s been put into time-out forever for no reason. He misses school. He misses having things to do.

Charles scrubs at his eyes. He knows he shouldn’t, but there’s nobody here to stop him, so there.

And if there’s nobody to stop him…

There’s a huge tree right on the edge of the estate, with the widest, thickest trunk Charles had ever seen. He sneaks there now, entertaining himself by trying to scramble up the rough bark and the thick and gnarling branches. If he climbs up high enough, could he see all the way back to Britain?

It’s almost sunset by the time anyone comes. Charles gives his best smile to the harried maid that had come to collect him, and some of the annoyance radiating off her fades.

“Oh, look at you,” she fusses at the dirt and bark gathered under his nails and the soil smudged all over him. “Come along, Mr. Marko wants to see you right away.”

“Is he mad?”

The maid looks at him as if to say When is he not mad? “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Young Master. Come on, now! Oh, it’s a shame I don’t have time to get you cleaned up some…”

Uncle is waiting for him in his room. After the maid leaves, Uncle has him strip off his shoes and socks, his pants and underwear. Charles bites his lip as Uncle bends him over the bed, a slender switch in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s always been a good boy, not the sort to get the switch despite the occasional bit of schoolyard mischief.

The switch comes down with a loud crack.

For a moment, there’s nothing – then Charles wails as heat and pain flare to life against his bare buttocks. Uncle doesn’t say a word, just brings the switch down again and again, until Charles is cringing and sobbing and scrambling onto the bed, trying to escape.

It hurts. It burns.

Uncle follows him. This time the switch lands across his bare feet, and when Charles kicks, Uncle only pins him down.

It goes on and on until Charles can only lie there and cry. His face is hot with pain and humiliation. When Uncle finally lets him go, he curls up into a tight ball, head swimming. He wants to go home. He wants to be in class again, wants to be with the other boys even though they’re all older than he is since Mother had him shipped off to boarding school early. He wants to go home.

“Stop that,” Uncle says severely, and Charles flinches. Shaking, he rubs at his face, telling himself to be brave. He sits up, but it hurts so much that he just crumples down to lie on his side again, his eyes still hot and sticky.

“Better,” Uncle says. He sets the switch on the bedside table where Charles can see. “I’m making arrangements for you to have a private tutor. My late sister – your mother – had said you’re a bright boy, so I only want the best for you. In the meantime your aunt has kindly volunteered to help you keep up with your reading. Now, what do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” Charles whispers, making sure his enunciation is perfect despite the way his voice wobbles.

Uncle nods. “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

***

He hurts all over the next morning. There are raised red marks on his foot, and he’s sure his buttocks look just as bad. The maid clucks as she helps him dress. “No more sneaking off from now on, Young Master, or you’ll get it even worse next time.”

“Okay.”

Every step hurts as the maid brings him to the other side of the mansion. They don’t go to Uncle’s study or Aunt’s rooms; instead, the maid takes him to a performance hall of some sort. There is a circular stage in the middle of the room that is slightly raised off the floor, and surrounding it is a ring of benches. The place is small and intimate.

Uncle is on one of the benches, and Aunt is waiting for him on the dais. It’s the first time Charles had ever seen her. She’s a small woman, pale and fashionable, seated gracefully on a cushion on the floor. In front of her is a reading lectern placed low, close to the ground.

“Go sit by your aunt, Charles.”

Charles obeys. It’s a relief to get off his feet. His aunt doesn’t give him so much as a glance as he settles down next to her, and he shrinks away slightly, thinking of Mother.

“Eyes on the book.”

There’s a book on the lectern. It’s a picture book, the sort they use to teach kids their basic words. It’s opened to show a picture of a man and a woman, with the corresponding words written next to the picture in beautiful calligraphy.

“Excuse me, sir,” Charles says politely, “but I know these words already.”

“Read them.”

“Man. Woman.” His aunt turns to the next page, and Charles frowns when he sees the words are incredibly simple again, the sort he learnt years ago. “Hair, eye, ear, nose, mouth.”

“No,” Uncle’s voice cracks down like the switch. “Slower, boy. Listen to how your aunt does it.”

Aunt flicks back to the first page, never once glancing at Charles. “Man. Woman.” It’s the first time Charles had ever heard her speak. Her accent is much more like Charles’ British accent than Uncle’s American one, and even though she’s only saying two simple words, she reads them like they’re art, her enunciation perfect, a precise and deliberate pause in between the words. Even the expression on her face changes, growing warmer and more alive.

Charles likes it. It feels like a performance. He sits straighter (wincing a little), watching her as she recites the next words, so different from his rushed and bored reading: “Hair. Eye. Ear. Nose. Mouth.” Her voice dips up and down, melodious.

“Try again,” Uncle tells him. Charles copies his aunt as well as he can, and even though he knows he sounds boyish and unpractised next to her, it’s enough for Uncle to nod. Charles beams.

They move on. Charles ends up learning a few new words, nape, shoulderblades, pelvis…

And then –

“P-penis,” he stutters, face bright red. He knows it’s not the sort of word you’re supposed to say out loud even though it had always seemed a bit silly to him. “Va…ah, um.”

“Vagina,” Aunt says.

“Vagina,” Charles squeaks, still red. Aunt turns to the next page, but the illustrations remain the same, beautifully detailed brushstrokes in coloured ink showing Charles more than he had ever seen before. His cheeks feel like they’re burning, the heat spreading all the way up his ears and through the rest of his body.

“They’re, um, the same pictures? As before?”

Uncle interrupts. “We can have different words for the same things, don’t we? Have you heard of the word ‘synonym’ before?” He nods to Aunt. “Continue.”

“Member. Cock.” Aunt’s red lips purse around the word, a perfect round shape. “Prick.” One elegantly manicured fingernail traces along the illustration. “Glans. Shaft. Scrotum.”

Uncle looks at him expectantly. Charles tries to swallow down the squirmy feeling that makes him want to fidget and look away from the book. He’s always been a good boy – sweet boy, people had said, eager to please, so he begins: “Member…”

***

How can I do this? He’s only a boy.

How can I do anything else? If I leave him, if he casts me out, I have nowhere to go…

It’s only words. It’s not so bad.

Better than being on the street.

He’s only six.

***

Things improve. He reads a lot, always with his aunt and uncle, and he’s learning plenty of new words even though the squirmy feeling never goes away completely. He knows vaguely that there is something not-right, but how does he even talk about what’s happening? Who would he even tell?

Only words, he thinks to himself, staring at the golden tassels of the rug. It’s not so bad. Stop being a baby.

Uncle gets him the tutor he had promised and Charles throws himself into his studies happily. For the first time since coming to the mansion, he wakes up each day with something to look forward to.

“How have you been settling in, Charles?” Uncle asks him one day.

Charles looks at his hands. There’s a bit of ink smudged there, from where he’s been practicing his letters earlier. There are books scattered all around the room, with more arriving by the week since he’s going through them so fast and Uncle had generously agreed to buy whatever books he needed. Outside, it’s bright and sunny, and his tutor had promised they could study outside later.

Everything’s good. It’s nice and wonderful and all those other synonyms for good.

“Are you happy here, Charles?” Uncle prompts him. The switch is still on his bedside table. In another wing of the mansion, his aunt waits.

“Yes, sir, thank you for asking.”

***

help me help me help us help me

(next part)

#cherik #xmfc #my writing

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ashintheairlikesnow · 6 years ago

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Tamlin stared down at the letter in his hand. He had been staring at it for a long time. The servants he could hear, whispering and hushed, out in the hall. Their masks may have blanked much of their expressions, but their eyes gave enough away, didn't they? It was almost over. Tamlin's own mask did not move; neither of them did, either the one affixed to his face, or the face itself. Grief at Feyre's death still beat dully within him and he wondered if he really had come to love a mortal so much, so fast.

There were two men who stood before him. One wore his foxlike mask easily, for all that Tamlin knew he would have clawed it off and taken half his skin with it, if it would have worked. The other, unmasked, smiled easily, dark wings folded behind him.

She dumped a winged man over our border to die, and you didn't even care. Were you the one who tore them off, at her command? Did you wonder what it would feel like, if done to you?

The letter had his nightmares written into every line, but… there was something else here. Something that would save his servants, save Lucien, save the Spring Court. He could not let them be taken as Amarantha's slaves. Tamlin knew the stories of how the Queen Under the Mountain treated slaves.

"Well?" Rhysand drawled the word out, turning one syllable into two, into three. "You have to admit the offer is generous. You lost the human woman, and still she offers to set your Court free if you come to her willingly. You could hardly have asked for a better outcome." Rhysand shrugged one shoulder slowly, a gesture Tamlin loathed. "The Spring Court answers to her, of course, but you see she's even given you leave to name a Regent."

"I'm surprised she gave so much slack to your leash," Tamlin snapped, eyes narrowed. "To come so far, and it's not even Calanmai. I thought you weren't allowed outside any longer. After you refused to kill Feyre."

Rhysand did not rise to the bait, but a pulsing swallow in his throat told Tamlin his aim had been true. "Her Majesty thought I made a fitting emissary today, since you will soon replace me."

Tamlin's eyes drifted back to the letter. She must have written it herself; the script was elegant and beautiful and yet there were jagged, dangerous edges to the swirling calligraphy. Amarantha, who pretended at a royal bearing but never quite had the patience for follow-through. Amarantha, summoning her new pet home. With the death of Feyre, all his hopes were gone. Even if Rhysand had refused, Amarantha herself had never even hesitated. She'd torn Feyre apart.

Tamlin shook himself all over, trying to calm his mind. Lucien could keep order, until things were settled. The Spring Court would not be left unattended, although even now he could see darkness pooling at the edges of the woods, hear the songs of the trees become muted and mournful.

It was over.

"I… accept Amarantha's offer of mercy for my Court. Give her my thanks," Tamlin said through gritted teeth." I will appear before her tonight, of my own will. I understand that the deal is done."

At first, Rhysand did not move, only raised one eyebrow. Lucien stepped up, effortlessly putting himself between Rhysand and Tamlin, fixing his good eye on Rhysand as his metal eye whirred, just barely audible. "The deal is done, Rhysand. If Amarantha finds this… generosity in her heart, my Lord will honor it."

"Can't wait." Rhysand's voice was nearly a sneer, but even he had thinly-veiled relief in his tone. "I've waited a long time for this." He spun around and stalked away. There was a scramble of servants as he passed through the doorway into the outside air, and winnowed himself away. All of them battling to not be touched by the High Lord of Night's awful darkness.

Tamlin grasped for words that would not come. He raised his eyes, looking slowly all around Rosehall's beautiful walls. Thinking of the gallery he had shown her. The first few smiles that he had brought out from Feyre's face. Discovering she could not read and writing limericks for her as a kind of gift, some way to break the ice between their races. Strange, to have so much of her reflected here when he'd really hardly known her at all. "Lucien. You will act as High Lord in my stead? I am… not sure how much aid I will be able to give, Under the Mountain. I don't know how much... power she'll give you."

"Yes." Lucien did not look at him. His red hair seemed dimmed, somehow. Tamlin stood there, for a long moment, trying to come up with something to tell his Court, some message to pass on. Words had never been an easy thing for him, and neither was giving up; but Feyre was dead and with her, all the hope he'd placed his own survival on.

"You will… say something, to all of them? For me?"

"Of course, Tam. I'll come up with something moving and eloquent. Everyone will be duly impressed. You'll be written into history as a great speechgiver, in the end." The humor was bitter, and Lucien's voice trembled in a way Tamlin could not bear to hear.

"I'm going to my rooms," He muttered, and turned to leave.

Lucien cleared his throat. "Tam…"

Tamlin paused, glancing sidelong at him. Rage boiled within his chest, a helpless child's rage at a world he could not change. "She sent an outfit," Lucien said, softly, pityingly. Tamlin could feel the edge of his claws pressing against his knuckles, wanting to tear and rip and kill. Would he ever have a chance to hunt again, down in the darkness? "You are expected to wear it. When you are… presented. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. I want you here. I want…" He trailed off, thinking of her eyes. "I want someone to be safe." Tamlin paused, his jaw working, staring down at the floor. He tried to say something more. To explain, to even begin, what Lucien's friendship had been for him.

Finally, he simply growled wordlessly, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw it to the side, and stalked away. Lucien closed his eyes, good eye and metal, as the servants outside the door collapsed into murmurs, a mix of excitement - finally, the masks would come off! - and fear that, perhaps, Amarantha might not keep her end of the bargain at all. Amarantha's mercy was famously subject to her whims.

Finally, Lucien reached down and picked up the letter, gently unfolding it, reading it himself. What he saw there made his eyes flare, just slightly, and his face blanched. He looked the direction Tamlin had gone again.

"Shit."

He took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Then he snapped his fingers, Alis appearing as if she'd waited her whole life for the summons, staring at him. He could see tear streaks on the bark-skin of her cheeks, where they trailed out from under her mask. "Alis, I need a new robe. And a dead chicken."

Alis nodded and hurried away. Lucien swallowed.

I have a Suriel to catch.

The outfit was simple, his usual shirt with a baldric, although the pants were tighter than he liked. He could hardly hunt in pants like this. Well, you're the prey this time, so no worry there. Really, though, even that wasn't so bad. What bothered him was what the outfit meant. The shirt, baldric, and pants were all the same flat shade of black. Tamlin wasn't exactly vain - well, compared to the rest of the fae, he wasn't - but he knew it did not suit his skin, or hair.

What was left of his hair, anyway. What wasn't in a pile on the floor behind him.

She was dressing him like a doll, in clothes that didn't look right and hardly fit, just because she could. He'd agreed, after all, to go to her tonight. Willingly. He would kneel before the Queen. His stomach flipped and he fought to keep himself calm.

The outfit wasn't completely flat. In certain lights he could see a silvery trace of letters and patterns, like tattoos. Like Rhysand. Tamlin fought back the urge to vomit. She was really piling on the subtlety, wasn't she?

He stopped before a mirror looking himself over. He'd done what she had ordered in her letter; used a knife to cut his long hair short. A bit of blond fell just over his eyes, but the rest was as close-cropped as he could make it. He'd put on the black outfit, down to a pair of newly-made boots in a leather so expensively fine that even he had never seen anything like it. His damned mask, the emeralds making him sick in their leaflike whorls, could never hide enough. It couldn't hide his disgusted sneer at himself.

The orders in the letter had been exact, and the threat had been precisely spelled out. Do what she says to the letter, or forfeit the Spring Court to her service forever. Everyone, down to the children, would be given to her will. There had been a very… detailed threat in there about what would happen to Lucien.

I don't think he'll need his tongue any longer, unless perhaps you beg me to leave it as a gift to you. Perhaps he could use it on you. I of course will leave him his eye, so he can watch while you-

"For my Court," Tamlin said out loud, in something just louder than a whisper.

He straightened the way the tunic laid over his hips, frowning at himself. The black washed his skin out to nearly nothing, even with his tan from time spent outdoors. He looked like a short-haired ghost of himself, with only his green-and-gold eyes a splash of color in his expression. Exactly what she intended. An eternity so far from the sunlight… he could feel himself withering at the thought. No more spring. No woods. No hunt.

As if Rosehall itself mourned, he heard cracking somewhere above, the sound of a mournful wind shifting the foundation of this very old manor.

Go on, then. He swore he could hear the manor itself whispering. Go be Amarantha's whore. Rhysand could use the recovery time.

He snorted. There was a sound outside his door, and he paused. He could see shadows through the crack at the bottom of the doorway. Feet. It must be Lucien.

Tamlin walked over as if to open it, but paused his with his hand on the door. The two of them stood, one man on either side, in a long, drawn-out silence. Tamlin never saw it, but Lucien raised his own hand, the red-headed man standing in silence with his fingers resting on the door in exactly the same spot as Tamlin's.

Finally, the shadowy feet simply turned and walked away. He listened to the footsteps disappear down the hall, and leaned his forehead against the door.

It was never supposed to come to this.

"I haven't got all day," A silky voice purred behind him. Tamlin spun around to glare at Rhysand, dressed in his own finery. One raised eyebrow told him Rhysand noticed the similarity in their outfits. Where the black suited Rhys, it washed Tamlin out.

Mirror images. We're mirror images of each other. She's not going to let Rhysand go. She wants a set. Does… does he know she won't let him go?

"How are you here? These are my rooms! Get out!"

"Your time is up. The deal is done, and you belong to Amarantha. Now." Rhysand smiled, languidly, and his tone dropped to something softer, a lover's voice. "I can find anyone who belongs to her, wherever they are. She asked me to come and get you. Apparently she thought you might waste time if left to your own devices."

Tamlin, never one to have ready words for any occasion, only growled, the roar of the beast an echo behind the sound. Rhysand, after a moment, simply shrugged again and winnowed the both of them away.

Amarantha had spared no expense for the celebration. Spiced wine poured from huge fountains. Guests simply dipped their cups as they saw fit and drank them full nearly to the brim, laughing at the droplets that found their way down the side of the glass to splash onto the stone floor. Tables groaned under the weight of delicacies from every Court in the kingdom.

Musicians played in the corner, a series of mocking mutations of the Spring Court's favorite melodies, changed into minor keys, slower tempos. Turning sprightly into seductive, and cheerfulness into lust.

When Tamlin entered the hall, the sound of the crowd quieted. By the Cauldron, there are so many of them here to watch me fall. He ignored their stares, the whispers behind their hands at his close-cropped hair that fell just barely over his eyes, his skin seemingly paler set against his black outfit, following Rhysand like a puppy.

He ignored most of all the familiar faces he saw mingling through the crowd, the members of the Spring Court who had chosen to suck up to Amarantha, to kiss the ring. Others who had stayed here for one reason or another, but with their masks intact. How right their choices seem, compared to where I am now. The High Lords were here, no doubt at least a few happy to witness his humiliation. Perhaps not, though; it was only a reflection of their own humiliation at her hands. It was their power she was using to hold him.

Everyone would have their stories to tell soon enough, Tamlin thought. His black boots dragged as he forced himself to walk forward, Rhysand falling behind to greet a courtier here or there. His mask slipped, just slightly, and he took in a sudden breath at feeling a hiss of air touch the skin underneath.

"Almost off," Rhysand muttered from just behind him. "Play your part, Spring."

"I fucking hate you, Nightmare," Tamlin snapped, but he kept it a whisper.

"You're going to hate fucking her more," Rhysand replied, that smug smile playing on his face once again. Tamlin fought back the claws that teased at the ends of his fingertips. He could have ruined Rhysand for Amarantha forever, he thought, and never batted an eyelash. Torn his mouth to pieces so he could never smile again. Ripped him apart where it mattered most to someone like Amarantha, left Rhysand's mutilated cock in her bed. Calm, Tamlin.

"High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court!" Amarantha cried joyfully, announcing his entrance and calling every single fae to turn and look right at him. Tamlin's face burned with shame and he froze where he stood, stone heart a hammer in his chest. Her joy was evident, her bright eyes shone. He had never seen her wicked face so radiant. Tamlin clenched his hands into fists. "Welcome to Under the Mountain, where you will now make your home, by my side."

There was a curl of thought inside his mind, a whisper that did not belong to him. You'll writhe in my bed. Tamlin flinched, and felt Rhysand put a hand on his arm.

"I should have told you she does that, here," He murmured. There was something like sympathy in his face and Tamlin snorted, disgusted at the position he'd found himself in. He had never been one to beg for pity. He should have simply slept with her when she asked. He should have been her lover, until she tired of him. None of this had to happen. He'd done it all to himself. He should have protected Feyre, sent her away in time, gone to Amarantha and tried to bargain.

He should have torn them all limb from limb, all of the fae, left Under the Mountain a bloody mess with Amarantha's corpse as its centerpiece, to turn to bone and be buried. Let the mortals find them someday, when they were brave enough to breach the wall and see why the High Fae's presence was gone. His hands twitched. There was a hint of fur standing up, sharp teeth to bare. He could feel his claws-

"I won't have you do any of that without my permission," Amarantha said from her throne, and the welcome reassurance of claws and teeth just… vanished. He struggled to recover it, but nothing happened. His heart dropped to somewhere near his knees. Amarantha watched his obvious panic with delight.

"The Court of the High Queen of Prythian recognizes Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court. You may approach the throne," Amarantha purred. She crooked her finger to him.

Only Rhysand's soft nudge got him to move forward, each step like a clanging bell in his mind. He went to her, standing before her throne. Her crown, with its jagged golden spikes, was a thing of hideous beauty. Jurian's bone hung at her neck, and his eye looked up at Tamlin with some strange intensity from the ring on her finger. Amarantha was beautiful, in the way that certain venomous snakes are beautiful. Her hair was in a pile of elaborate, perfect braids, immaculately pinned into a pattern that nearly made him dizzy. Those wide eyes focused intensely on his. His remaining powers were wilting here, more as he stood before her and felt her magic settling into him, into his bones and under his skin. He wondered if Rosehall would simply collapse, without a High Lord to care for it.

What could Lucien really do? It wasn't his Court, and it was a Court under Amarantha's sway, now.

The smell of her was everywhere, a cloying vanilla touched with cinnamon. A sweetness with rot underneath. He felt drunk on it, terrified by it. She stood and leaned over just a little, put her hand out, rings up. "Kneel, Lord Tamlin. You are High Lord no more."

What am I, then?

He hesitated, but there was an ache between his shoulders and an unseen pressure that simply compelled him helplessly downwards until his knees cracked on the stone floor. He did not flinch, to his credit. He reached out, taking her hand in his, looking up at her as he slowly kissed Jurian's eye. It twitched, under his lips, and he fought back sour bile. "I am still Lord, my Queen," was all he said, but every seething ounce of hate he felt for her was in his whisper.

Amarantha smiled at him. The love in her smile was so genuine, so carefree and pure, that she looked like someone else entirely. This woman he could have loved, might even have helped ascend the throne. She could have fooled him for decades, with a smile like that. Centuries. He understood, now, how the High Lords had been so easily deceived. Her smile softened her, made her look almost like… but it was gone, replaced by the sneer he knew so well, saw in his dreams. Nightmares. She stepped back and sat back in her throne, several feet away. "All this could have been avoided if you had come to me in the first place, accepted my love for what it was without being forced. The Court of the High Queen's Consort could have wielded great power and influence."

"You know I could not do that." Why not? He'd doomed himself and Lucien and all of them in the end.

"No," She said thoughtfully, pulling her hand back. "You couldn't, could you?" As Tamlin went to stand, she shook her head. "No. Crawl to me on your knees."

In the hush of the court, he could do nothing else. His body was no longer responding to his commands, only hers. He felt fear, an icy stab through his chest, a stone settling cold into his stomach, as he crawled on his hands and knees the last few feet to kneel before her.

Was this why Rhysand never stopped helping her along with her schemes? Was his body truly no longer his own?

"The High Queen can show mercy," She said, now loudly, a performance for her court. Representatives of each court were there, the other five High Lords in attendance, Rhysand lounging in the shadows, as well as chosen courtiers. That vanilla scent was so heavy he felt himself gasping for air. "The Spring Court is free of its curse. But stand against me and the curse will be so much worse than his." She stood, making the most of every moment, tilting her hips to one side. Tamlin chose to stare down at her feet, realizing with a start that they were bare.

"Look up," She commanded. His eyes slowly rose, to meet hers. She reached down, ruffling her hand through his hair, smiling at him with that sparkling honest genuine joy. "I win, Tamlin," She said quietly. "You should have come here 49 years ago." She touched the side of his face, and his stomach twisted with disgust and… something else.

Something darker, and shameful.

Amarantha removed his mask, easy as you please, and dropped it onto the floor with a clatter. There were answering happy cries from those members of the Spring Court present as they freed their own faces. In Rosehall, he thought, Lucien must be pulling off his own mask, stepping outside into the air. Truly feeling the breeze on his face for the first time in fifty years. For you, Lucien. For the Spring Court.

"Stand, Tamlin. Rhys, if you will." He stood as he was commanded, feeling Rhysand at his elbow again, grasping it gently. Tamlin swallowed and looked down at the ground. They were all watching. Every inch of his skin felt like it was caked in shame and slime.

"Say it, Tamlin," Amarantha commanded. "Say I won. Make it loud enough for them all to hear. Let your courtiers take that moment back to your precious Lucien. Tell them what has happened here."

Tamlin felt Rhysand slowly turning him to face the crowd, but he was somewhere else, somewhere far away, trying to get a handle on how frightened he was. He'd never been good with words. He'd been better at war, but he wouldn't see any down here. Not the kind he knew how to fight.

He thought of Feyre's flashing eyes, her beauty, of the hope he'd had that she would be the one. He thought of her broken body, of his own servants carrying it away to be tended to. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as she'd died, a mix of genuine grief at losing her and fear of what it meant for his own future. It had been his own fault, for not sending her back over the border in time. For letting Amarantha find her.

He had hesitated too long to obey. He felt the compulsion again, the ugly twist of pain between his shoulder blades, the way even his body wanted to do what she said, although his mind resisted.

"You win, Amarantha," His voice said, as if from a distance, muffled in his mind. Someone shouting down a long cave. "My time has run out. I could not meet your demands." There was laughter, from some in the crowd. Cruel, jeering laughter. The other High Lords, though, did not join in. Tamlin fought to hold his head high, and saw in Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court, an answering rage that made him wonder if he might still have an ally or two, after all.

"My mercy has been great, for your Court," She said smugly. "I will hold to it. The Spring Court now belongs to me, but I will let them live in a bottled land. Let Lucien play caretaker, Lord-in-waiting, whatever he fancies himself. We have quite the new world to build, my love. Take him to my chambers, Rhys, and wait for me." She turned to address the crowd. "My new paramour must wait patiently for my attention, of course. My heart is only for my Court."

The courtiers tittered and jeered and Tamlin's face was crimson. He had never felt so ashamed of himself, of his failures. He would have roared at them all, but no words came to mind. His hands hung empty at his sides. "Rhys, darling?" Amarantha's voice drawled. "You remember your first night?"

Tamlin saw Rhysand's jaw tighten, teeth gritting together. Some old pain flashed in his eyes. If he heard the scandalized whispers of the courtiers, he did not show it. His head was held high. Tamlin realized the inner strength it took for Rhysand to withstand this, day in and day out. "Yes, my Lady. I remember."

"Prepare Tamlin just the same."

Rhys bowed at the waist, his hand still on Tamlin's arm. "Come with me, Tam, or she'll order you to," He muttered. The usual sneering hostility was gone, replaced by a simple emptiness, something that echoed the empty space inside Tamlin's own mind.

Tamlin went, drifting like a boat loosened from its moorings. Only Rhysand's touch kept him moving in any particular direction. They made it to her chamber doors before Tamlin simply could go no further, shivering like a leaf. He felt a sudden sympathy with the animals he had once hunted in the wood.

He stopped in his tracks as Rhysand opened the door and gestured him in. He turned to look at him, unable to hide the panic. "I can't-"

"You have to," Rhysand said, softly. "I'm sorry for what is about to happen. Please believe that. If it's a comfort, you'll enjoy it, in the moment. She makes sure you do." That flash of pain again.

"I don't want to enjoy it," Tamlin's lips were numb. Rhysand pulled him in, and he stared around. What nightmares Tamlin had often took place in some version of this room, especially as the countdown to the curse's end had begun to weigh on him. It looked nothing like he imagined. It was beautiful in here, not nightmarish. Well-lit and with a crackling fire adding a bit of warmth. It was the sort of room he would have loved to give Feyre. Everything was finely carved, smooth and shining wood everywhere he looked. Bookshelves, a vanity with a large mirror, everything a Queen might want in her private chambers.

Including you.

"You don't get to not enjoy it. You don't get to control it." Rhysand was lost in some inner world. "You will have no choices to make here."

The bed was huge, and could have easily fit a half-dozen people sleeping in it or more. Silver like moonlight snaked up around the wood at each corner, to the canopy that let a filmy black veil, speckled with starlight, slightly obscure the pile of blankets and pillows within. The walls seemed to shift as he walked, patterns moving in the wallpaper, forming eyes, as though they were watching him.

"Do you sleep here?" He asked. He'd mocked Rhysand for what he was so many times. He'd never imagined he would be her whore, too. He'd always thought there would be enough time.

Feyre. I thought we had more time. I should never have kept you close to me.

"No. I have my own chambers. She doesn't usually like me to stay, after. Thank the Cauldron for that, at least."

"Will I have my own, too?" There was something to hope for. Privacy. He felt himself cling to the thought like a raft in a storm-tossed ocean. In war and in hunt, all things made sense. In this, it was all chaos, and fear, and helplessness. It had been so, so long since Tamlin had felt so helpless.

"I don't know. I assume so. I… need to get you ready, Tamlin." The sneer was there, but for the first time it occurred to Tamlin that it was not a sneer of hate or smugness, but something self-protective. The ugly superiority was a mask he wore, a shield, a protection against the harm she could inflict.

"Ready how?"

Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly, eyebrows furrowing together. "For your first night." He gestured to the bed, pulling Tamlin over to it. As he pulled a cord, the veiled curtain was lifted on one side, and Tamlin saw what he has missed when they first came in. What the veil had obscured just enough to hide it.

A band of heavy, ugly iron was affixed just above the headboard, and ran the full length of it. There were twelve small circles soldered in. From each circle hung a chain, which began as links of that ugly ironl but gradually changed, silver beginning to twine around and through until the last few links shone in the firelight. At the end of each chain there was heavily engraved, thick silver cuff with a hinge. The bands hung open like terrible hungry smiles, a chorus of watchers, ready for him.

Six sets of silver cuffs.

Tamlin pulled back and away from Rhysand, staring at him wide-eyed. He tried to call for his claws again, and nothing happened. Nothing. "I don't do that. Not even with-"

"You don't have a choice." Rhysand cut him off, frowning, that strange inward expression again. "You never get a choice."

"I don't want it like this."

"Good for you. She does. Get on the bed. Please, before she-"

Do as you're told, Tamlin. Let him chain you up. Enjoy it.

"Cauldron," Rhysand swore, softly. "She must be listening to us." They both flinched at her syrupy-sweet voice, as loud as if she'd been shouting inside their minds. For a moment Tamlin fought himself, tried to step back further, to get away.

The twist of pain in his shoulders hurt enough to make him grunt, and he stumbled onto his knees. Her magic threaded through every pore, that vanilla scent seeped into his nose until it was the only smell there was.

"Get up, Spring." Rhysand snapped. "It's not worth it. Focus on survival. Get through tonight, and the next night, and the night after that. If I can do this for fifty years, you can last for a few nights. And never stop planning for your way out."

"There isn't one," Tamlin said through numb lips, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet, moved into the bed. The mattress gave way invitingly underneath him as Rhys gently pushed him. He could feel the silk and fur and velvet of her sheets and blankets. Rhysand pushed him until his back rested against the headboard. He stared into Rhysand's face as one wrist was gently lifted above his head, trying to find some hint of his future in it. Rhysand was empty of expression, but his eyes were a wild shriek of pain.

The other High Lord's face was close to his, and Amarantha's orders murmured into the back of his mind. You're going to enjoy this. He felt himself stir, just a little, towards arousal, a sudden rush of blood between his legs, as Rhysand closed the shackles around his wrists.. He fought it back with a snarl of disgust.

Rhysand's eyes dropped, taking in the situation much more slowly than Tamlin thought strictly necessary, then drifted back up to meet his. "My beauty truly must be legendary," Rhysand smirked, the expression emptier than ever. "I told you she ensures that you enjoy it."

When Tamlin's furious eyes met his, the smirk gradually faded. Tamlin saw, for perhaps the first time in centuries, Rhysand making a genuine and unprotected expression. Worry for me. He wished just as quickly that he hadn't. Rhys leaned in, whispering into Tamlin's ear. "She hears everything. Learn to keep even your thoughts down. Just survive. If there's anything I know in the Night Court, it's ambition and scheming. You'll get out from under her, one day. We both will."

The silver cuffs flashed suddenly blue, and then the light faded again. They were molded expertly perfectly, to the size and shape of his wrists. Where the silver touched skin, he felt cold as ice. Tamlin understood snares in a whole new way. "She's dead, Rhys. This is all I am, now. There isn't any way out."

Rhysand gave him that same smug smile. "Not with that attitude, there isn't. I'll tell her you're ready."

"Do you have to announce it, Nightmare?" Tamlin snapped. "I don't see why I have to be an animal on display-"

"That's what you are," Rhysand drawled, the protective sneer back on in a flash. His wings ruffled, almost. Like an animal going into a defensive crouch, Tamlin thought. "You are her animal. Her victory. Her display." He stood back up, brushing imaginary dust off one dark sleeve. He shouldn't be so pale, Tamlin thought. Fifty years of darkness would do that. He blinked, looking down at the shirt, baldric, and pants. At the boots. He thought of how Feyre would have considered the cost of each piece of fabric.

"I'm still wearing my-"

"She likes to cut them off," Rhysand snapped at him, pointing off to the side. Tamlin, knowing even as he did so that it was a mistake, looked. On a side table next to the bed lay yet another thing he'd been too distracted to notice. A double-ended dagger lay on the table. One end was a shimmering, sharpened silver. There was a space in the middle that seemed to be iron or some other, lesser metal. It had a grip carved into it. The other, where the hilt would normally be, was simple wood, narrowed and sharpened to a deadly point.

Tamlin knew ash when he saw it.

Rhysand stalked away. When the door slammed behind the High Lord of the Court of Night, Tamlin was left alone, chained to her bed, feeling his body working hard to betray him.

He could see himself in the great mirror that hung over her vanity, dimly through the veil, and quickly looked away. As he shifted in the bed, trying to get into a position that did less to pull the fabric of his pants so tightly over the maddening, stubbornly developing arousal he was trying to ignore, the throbbing that grew each time he moved his wrists or tried to shift position or, Cauldron forbid, actually thought about Rhysand chaining him to the wall above the bed (how does she control even this, with an order?), some flicker of reflected light caught his eye above him. He looked up.

The entire top of the bed, on the inside, was one large piece of mirrored glass.

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vintagesewingmachine · 6 years ago

Text

The Shadowsinger - Azriel - 4/?

Azriel struggles to contain his feelings - for Elain, for Mor, for himself- and a jewel thief is running around Velaris, causing confusion. And with Cassian in Illyria, Azriel feels alone in his darkness. Into this mess waltzes a stranger, an enigma who calls herself Amuten with a mysterious past and connection to Amren.

Warning: angst, depressed thoughts, self-loathing, dark azriel, cold azriel, anxiety

dont worry there is happy Az too

<<Previous -- Next>>

Azriel sat in Rhysand’s office with him, flipping through reports. Azriel notices as Rhys looks down at his desk with a curious expression on his tanned face.

“This letter is addressed to you, I think, Az.” Rhys handed him a letter.

The envelope was of good quality, expensive. Heavy, almost.

Rhysand cleared his throat. “Read the other side.”

Azriel turned the envelope over in his hands.

In exquisite calligraphy, it read: To The Most Beautiful Mysterious Curious Shadowsinger of the Night Court

He opened the envelope and slid out the letter. Again, good quality, expensive paper. Quite a few pages, too.

Dear Azriel, it said in messy, yet elegant, scrawl.

I never did get to tell you the juicy gossip I promised. If you are still curious, be at the Seventh Lamppost on the Seventh Bridge across the Sidra when the sun bleeds the sky red.

Wear something nice, Spymaster.

Thats all I really had to say, but I bought a lot of paper to put in this envelope to make it more intriguing to on-lookers. Flip through and scan the pages, please. I do love tricking people.

Sincerely, The Most Beautiful, Mysterious, and Curious

And that was it. Azriel kept his face neutral as he did as she asked, even though it made him chuckle inside. The writer was obviously Amuten. Eventually he folded the letter and extra pages up and slipped it back into it’s envelope. It vanished in a puff of black smoke to his desk at home.

“Who was that from?” His High Lord questioned.

Azriel debated telling him it was from The Most Beautiful, Mysterious, and Curious. He settled on “Someone possible information on the jewel thief.” Truth.

Rhys raised a brow and commented, “Sounds like they have a pretty high opinion of you. What did it say? The Most Beautiful, Mysterious, Curious Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“The first two were crossed out.”

Rhys gave him a look. “They wouldn’t have written it if they didn’t think it.”

The shadowsinger shrugged. “She signed it as The Most Beautiful, Mysterious, and Curious with nothing crossed out, so I don’t think you should read too much into it.”

“A she? Oh, Az, do you have a secret lover?” His brother teased.

“No.”

Rhys looked into his eyes, as if attempting to discern the truth. Good luck with that. Azriel held the stare, unreadable ice in his hazel eyes.

This staring contest went on for several heart beats before Rhys eventually gave up.

“Whatever,” he sighed dramatically. “Don’t tell me anything.”

Azriel winnowed away without another word.

*****

Azriel lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His shadows floated leisurely around the room, most settling in dark corners or underneath his bed.

Sunset approaches, his shadows murmur to him. The shifter will await your presence soon.

Alright, alright. Azriel sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. After forcing himself to get off the bed, he ruffled through his closet. No, no, no.

His shadows rushed to help him, black ripples of excitement. Here.

Azriel pulled out the clothing his shadows and picked out. The nicest thing in his closet. A simple, formal black jacket and suit pants and a crisp white shirt with a bow tie.

I am not wearing a tuxedo for a meeting to gather information. He got the impression that if they had been able, his shadows would’ve shrugged as they retreated, leaving him to his own judgement since he had dismissed their own.

Azriel ended up putting on casual black pants, a form-fitting white shirt, and a black jacket. He left the jacket open, and strapped Truth-Teller to shiny black belt. It was classy enough to pass in most place in Velaris, but he would certainly never be overdressed. He wondered why Amuten had told him to wear something nice. The spymaster of the High Lord of the Night Court looked down and argued with shadows about what shoes to wear.

Totally normal.

His shadows won out, so he pulled on dress shoes rather than his combat boots. Finally, he looked in the mirror to assess his appearance. Not that he would ever admit it, but Azriel liked to look good. Intimidating and mysterious, but sleek.

And he did. With sapphire siphons on his hands, large wings creating hulking shadows behind him, and inky hair, he looked good.

A thought popped unbidden into his mind. What would Elain think? He blushed, thankful it was invisible to himself in the dark.

Yes, Azriel was getting ready without the lights on. He rarely had lights on.

*****

The wind ruffled his black hair and cut through his clothing. As evening grew, the spring air chilled.

He grinned and flapped his massive wings. Man, he loved flying.

*****

Azriel had already scoped out the meeting spot beforehand. So now he leaned against the seventh lamppost on the seventh bridge, one hand in his pocket and the other resting casually on the hilt of Truth-Teller. Shadows swirled around him, blending in with the darkness as the sun continued its path behind the mountains.

Amunet wasn’t here yet. Not that he could see, anyway. Realizing he had no idea what to look for (she could change her appearance after all), he sent some shadows to seek her out. They singled out a tall, elegant female who looked High Fae with pearly skin and pale blonde hair. Ice blue eyes met his across the bridge, and she sashayed her way to him. Amuten wore a silver evening gown that hugged her curves until it fell in a sparkling waterfall to pool at her feet, with a split up to her mid-thigh, so when she stepped her left leg forward, you got a full view of her long, smooth leg, and the dusty silver, strappy heels. The dress also had sheer sleeves that reached her the middle of her forearm, showcasing a large silver-and-diamond bracelet on one wrist. A matching pair of chandelier earring hanged from her ear lobes.

Azriel almost wished he had listened to his shadows and worn the tux.

“Hey, Azriel,” Amuten greeted him warmly. Then she eyed him in a way that had his insides fluttering. “You look even more handsome than usual. Absolutely dashing.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, trying not to blush. “You look stunning.”

Azriel had a feeling she would have tossed her hair had the locks not been swept, pinned and curled with diamond pins over one shoulder.

But she did flash him grin, saying, “I know.” No sharp teeth this time.

Suddenly a shadow flew up to his ear. Your High Lord is near, and has suspected your presence. He will discover you within a few heartbeats.

Unwilling to be seen by his brother, Azriel stepped forward quickly, and grabbed her arm. Then, acting on shadowy instinct, he took her into the shadow realm. But not before catching a violet eye in the crowd.

*****

Why he had taken her into the shadow realm instead of winnowing? Azriel didn’t know. (I do it makes the escape way more interesting.)

But he did. He had rarely taken someone into this realm. Only a handful of times and even fewer people in centuries. They usually freaked out in the hallucinatory and chilling realm. But Amuten was come, if awed. Together, they weaved between the faeries. Once Amuten realized that this was shadow-Velaris was the same layout as regular Velaris, she tugged him in one direction. Towards the theatre part of time. They ran through the grey streets, shadowy feet not really touching the ground. The silence was deafening. In the shadow realm, you couldn’t even hear yourself breathe.

Amuten tried to pull on his arm, but learned that nothing was really substantial in this realm, so she resorted to waving her shadow-arms wildly, leaving streaks of black in the shaded atmosphere. She pointed to the theatre door, and he brought them back into colour and sound and life.

“That was freaking awesome!” Amuten’s eyes were glowing with exhilaration.

Azriel cracked a small smile at her. Amuten’s moods were so contagious. Shadows spun around them in stirred energy. Scraps of black nothingness still clung to the female.

When she peered at them curiously, he said, “They feel more at ease with someone who has been to their realm.”

When she looked back up at him, she wore a smile so similar to Elain’s he had to blink. Elain. The female’s name flooded him with warm feelings.

When Amuten made to enter the orchestra hall, Azriel realized why she had told him to dress nicely.

They sat in Amuten’s private box, and listened to the concert. It was beautiful. Music never failed to arouse emotion with in the shadowsinger, and it made his shadows come out and surround him in contented silence.

During the intermission, Amuten told him that yet another jewel had been stolen, but another one was also returned. He thanked her for the information.

Then she asked, “Why are you called a shadowsinger? I mean, I get the shadow part, but what about the singer?”

Azriel paused. Nobody had ever asked him that before. There was no harm in telling her. But it was private information. Besides, she was always asking questions but never telling him anything.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “I’ll tell you something personal about me.”

He cocked his head, silently signaling for her to go on.

“I’m part Illyrian,” Amuten confessed.

Part Illyrian? What? That doesn't even make any sense. Does she have wings?

“I know what you’re thinking,” she went on. “And I’m not going to explain my messy, complicated lineage to you right now. Maybe some other time. But I do have wings, but I usually hide them, because I never learned how to fly.”

Unsure how to respond, Azriel answered bluntly, “I sing to my shadows.”

Their conversation was cut off when the performance started again, and they turned their attention to the stage. They spoke of nothing of importance for the remainder of the night, and parted ways after the show.

*****

The full moon shone down on the shadowsinger as he flew home.

*****

eek okay so I drew Amuten from her first scene and i also used charcoal pencils to draw the scene where they are running through the shadow realm. I might post them. hope you guys liked this chapter. I know its short but I just wanted it up.

Smiles, Holly ;)

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #azriel #just azriel #the shadowsinger #shadowsinger #darkness #spymaster #night court #oc #part four #fanficiton #fanfic #bat boi #smol bat #illyrians

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wiseabsol · 6 years ago

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WA Reviews “Dominion” by Aurelia le, Chapter 4: Found

Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6383825/4/Dominion

Summary: For the Fire Nation royal siblings, love has always warred with hate. But neither the outward accomplishment of peace nor Azula’s defeat have brought the respite Zuko expected. Will his sister’s plans answer this, or only destroy them both?

Content Warnings: This story contains discussions and depictions of child abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, and incest. This story also explores the idea that Zuko’s redemption arc (and his unlearning of abuse) is not as complete as the show suggested, and that Azula is not a sociopath (with the story having a lot of sympathy for her). If that doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, I would strongly recommend steering clear of this story and my reviews of it.

Note: Because these were originally posted as chapter reviews/commentaries, I will often be talking to the author in them (though sometimes I will also snarkily address the characters). While I’ve also tried not to spoil later events in the story in these reviews, I would strongly recommend reading through chapter 28 before reading these, just to be safe.

Now on to chapter 4!

CHAPTER 4: FOUND

Hey there, Aurelia. Please excuse my delay on chapter four’s review. I spent the past week in a pit of job-related despair, but I have a bit more energy tonight, so onwards we go! So we start this chapter with a flashback to just after Zuko was burned by his father. I’d never really considered the possibility of Azula staying at Zuko’s bedside – that seemed more like something Iroh would have done – though for all I know, Iroh could have visited Zuko while he was unconscious, and is just away at the time of this meeting. I do like having Azula there, though – especially when she opens with lines like, “You know, it’s stimulating conversation like this that I think I’ll miss the most” which made me laugh. Okay, I never noticed before – for some reason I’d been assuming that Azula was sitting and reading at Zuko’s beside – but her laying in the bed beside his and reading that way is a neat mental image to me. It’s also better in terms of Azula’s characterization. “She had started wearing makeup a few months ago. It bothered him for some reason he could not pin down.” – That’s because she’s eleven, and while children might play with cosmetics, that’s usually exactly what they are doing: playing and pretending to be adults for brief periods of time. The use of makeup on a regular basis, on the other hand, is usually done to try to look more adult to other adults/to conform to society’s expectations of what a grown woman should look like. It’s possible, of course, that Azula entered puberty at eleven, but she should probably still look girlish at this point. As such, her using makeup like this isn’t justified/appropriate yet, and acts as a subtle warning sign to how Azula is being groomed. “That this was not a nightmare. This was his life now.” – Oh the feels. The horror Zuko feels here will, I think, be paralleled by Azula’s in chapter twelve. “When had she ever shown mercy before?” – Careful, Zuko, your bias is showing. “[ . . . ] to unwind it with the fine concentration that made her such a natural in their calligraphy class. Just like in everything else.” – While Azula no doubt has some innate talent, I feel like her considerable skills mostly derive from hard work. Zuko thinking of those skills as being all “natural” to her implicitly dismisses the effort she put into them, so this may be one of the ways his jealousy expresses itself. “He could think of no one more fitting to reopen a wound.” – Oh screw you, Zuko. “But his sister peeled the bandage away slowly, with a care he thought of as so unlike her that for the first time in living memory, she almost reminded him of-” – Ugh, comparing her to Ursa like this is just cruel. Then he adds, “He couldn’t think of what else he’d lost,” which makes me grumble, because Azula totally also didn’t lose her mother back then. “Well, someone’s vainer than I ever guessed” – Oh lol. The following banter between the siblings is delightful, but then we hit this line: “But the warm light shining through the painted glass softened her features, and Zuko remembered how people would sometimes say that he and his sister looked alike. He thought they wouldn’t say that, anymore” – which is very effective mood whiplash, all in all. “The only people who /ask/ for mercy, are those too weak to deserve it.” – Ozai’s life lessons are not child appropriate, or even people appropriate. Lines like this make you see how Ozai drove Azula to the point where she honestly thought that trust was for fools and that fear was the only reliable way to ensure loyalty. “You haven’t earned the /right/ to want. You haven’t earned the right to an opinion.” – Considering how Azula keeps repeating that what she wants doesn’t matter, it’s easy to imagine that Ozai said something similar to her at one point, or at least made it clear that she had to earn his favor before he’d take her words/desires into consideration. No one, especially not a child, should have to meet those kind of demands, though. The discussion about how Zuko interrupted before his father could approve or veto the general’s plan, which indicated that he didn’t trust his father to do the right thing, is something I’d never considered before. I personally don’t think Ozai would blink an eye at losing soldiers to gain a tactical advantage, but since there was no confirmation of that, Zuko seemingly slighted his father’s honor without cause. Ozai’s response to that was entirely out of proportion, but given his position, it fell into the realm of social acceptability, even if some characters expressed their doubts about that later. Here's another fun tidbit, and by fun I mean painful: “You’re lying.” - “If /you/ say so.” “Until he remembered that she hadn’t hugged him, or even consented to be hugged, since before their mother….” – Azula hasn’t been hugged for /three years/? That’s horrifying. Someone (namely Ty Lee) needs to fix that immediately. “‘You really don’t feel anything? That must be nice.’ Zuko looked up to see something like a shadow fall over her eyes.” – Um, what exactly is /that/ referring to? Training injuries? Burns? Backhands to the face? Okay, probably not that last one, but I have a theory on that later that I’ll discuss when we reach chapter seven. Zuko doesn’t even ask about what she means here, though, instead focusing on himself again. Of course he does. (Sigh.) Azula touching Zuko’s shoulder and the base of his spine unsettles me, by the way, given that touching the back of the neck often equates to a “bad touch” in this story. “He hated it when she tried to act like a normal person.” – Oh shut up, Zuko. Then Zuko learns about his exile, accuses Azula of lying about it, and we get another nice line from her: “Lies are supposed to be /plausible,/ dumdum.” It’s both amusing and true; lying all of the time wouldn’t be an effective tactic, especially in the Fire Nation’s poisonous court. “Yes, Azula! Any one of them, /anyone/ but /you!/” – I’m pretty sure Azula was hurt by that outburst, given her guarded expression and her cutting tone of voice afterwards. “You’re expecting what, /congratulations/ [for hating me]? It’s not exactly hard to do.” – Azula! That’s a terrible thing to say about yourself! We love you, Azula! We actually really do, or else we would not be reading this story, since you’re the protagonist here (I guess Zuko…sort of…counts…too. Both of them acts as protagonists and antagonists depending on the situation/who is narrating at the time). “He had never wanted to hurt her so much in his entire life. And the clear certainty that he /couldn’t/ - because she was simply better, and beloved of their father – only made him want it more.” – Good lord, this man should never have been entrusted with Azula’s well-being post-finale. Tension between siblings is inevitable, but Zuko’s thoughts here are uncomfortably violent. Him declaring Azula a monster, which only dehumanizes her further, doesn’t help. Her response to him is admittedly satisfying, but also incredibly awful at the same time. These two need so much therapy and we’re still in the prologue. Zuko nearly chucks the book she brought at her, but then realizes what it is and starts reading it instead. Azula undoubtedly ordered the servants to bring him other books on the Avatar as well, but Zuko doesn’t realize that, and so doesn’t realize that Azula was, in fact, trying to help him. Her doing so doesn’t help her at all, either. As long as Zuko remains in exile, she’ll be heir to the throne. She should be trying to hinder him, but because she cares about her brother, she does the opposite instead. Zuko, unfortunately, takes her harsh words and veneer at face value, and so doesn’t connect the dots and see that. We then move forward in time to Azula screaming, “Oh no /no/ NO! What will - /Father/ say? /What will Father say?!/” – and I cringe back at how nightmarish that is. Dear lord do I not want to think about how Ozai would react to Azula losing her bending. A large part of Azula’s value to him rests on it, thanks to firebending being a requisite to being Fire Lord, for one thing. Azula’s terror here is entirely understandable, even if no one is absorbing the implications of how scared she is right now. “He’ll /never forgive/” is one of the things she says, and what they should get from that is that Ozai mistreated Azula too, even if they don’t know how. Being scared of disappointing a parent is normal; being scared of one’s parent is not. “How it almost made him miss Azula - /almost/” – I think you’re lying to yourself, Zuko – “because at least she still treated him like himself. She’d been a pain in the ass, but she’d /been there./ She was the only one who never flinched for him, and now… He couldn’t even look at her.” – He’s such a coward, but at least he admits that to himself. I can’t believe he just walks away from her. Who /does/ that? “When he thought it was his punishment to hear her now and always, because he hadn’t heard her until it was too late….” – Uuuuggggh the pain! After this scene, we move on to a reparations conference, which Zuko is not paying much attention to, because he’s expecting to get word any day now that Azula has died. The Earth Kingdom representatives, particularly General How, are being especially prickly at this meeting. Among other reasons, they are angry because they think that Azula is faking her mental illness to avoid being tried and executed for her “war crimes.” The Earth Kingdom is the only one really upset about these crimes. Pakku, in contrast, has some amusing lines (especially coming from him) in which he points out that Azula’s crimes are no worse than what some of the now pardoned Fire Nation soldiers did during the war, and Shinu points out that the only reason the Earth Kingdom is upset is because they were bested by a girl. Their pride what the only thing damaged during the bloodless coup at Ba Sing Se, but that is enough for the Earth Kingdom to want Azula's head. Of the nations in A:TLA, the Earth Kingdom's culture is probably the most overt in its sexism (though it shows up in the other groups too), and this has led to some ugly consequences where Azula is concerned. Had Iroh conquered Ba Sing Se, I can't help but think that they wouldn't be responding quite like this – because Iroh, after all, is male, and was fighting them in an open and perhaps more "honorable" way in their eyes. Even though Iroh's siege and hypothetical conquering would have led to thousands of more people dying, it was not as "deceptive" and "underhanded" as Azula's methods, even though her methods ultimately spared thousands of lives. Ty Lee arrives, and Zuko thinks: "Because as long as she didn't say it, he could pretend Azula was still alive, and there was still a chance for her to be something more than one more life their father ruined. For them to be something more than bitter rivals and deadly enemies..." – First, ouch; second, do you really know what you want from your sister, Zuko? What would a healthy relationship between you two even look like? It's so poisoned at this point that it's hard to imagine, and that's not even counting what happens later in this story. Okay, so you randomly put in here that spidersnakes are a thing that exists in the A:TLA world, which makes me incredibly glad that I live in this world instead. What would those things even look like? (Shudders.) Anyway, it turns out that Azula realized that she needed to eat to regain the strength to bend, so she's decided to stop starving herself! Hooray! "Be sure to tell Mai the good news, she'll be so relieved!" – Yes, I'm sure /that/ will be how Mai reacts. You keep thinking the best of people, Ty Lee. The conversation between Aang and Zuko is heartwarming, though we get this exchange during it: "'I know it's hard to think clearly, when someone you love is in danger.' Zuko blinked once in surprise, and Aang added, 'I mean, she's your sister.' He looked at the Fire Lord with an intentness unusual to him. 'You /must/ love her, right?' Zuko frowned, and let his hand drop from Aang's shoulder. 'What are you getting at?'" - This effectively highlights how /off/ the relationship between Zuko and Azula is: that his desperation to save her wasn't something he recognized or possibly even considered to have love as its source. "It was a new and wonderful awareness for him, that his friends could make jokes about his sister. That they could find her funny sometimes instead of just sad…or horrifying." – I'm not sure how this makes me feel, though its somewhere between heartwarming and sad I think. "He had named his uncle Azula's legal guardian in the interim, after taking a hard, honest look at the situation that was long overdue. [ . . . ] He was too close to this to think clearly, to make the decisions that needed to be made for her care." – No kidding, Zuko. "When he thought how close he'd come to killing her…. He could not live with that on his conscience." – That faint wailing sound you hear is me screaming from across time and space. Oh /Zuko/…. "Iroh had always seen her for exactly what she was, and Zuko knew his honor was beyond question." – (Snorts.) Uh-huh, sure. "[ . . . ] his usual nightly send-off when Mai wasn't available…." – Okay, now I'm laughing. "He was the one in control here, even if that was easy to forget when it came to Azula. He was the Fire Lord. It was not for /him/ to be afraid of her, or anything she might have to say." – You keep telling yourself that, buddy. "Its panels depicted two dragons, one red and one blue, fighting viciously with teeth and claws and flames. Or maybe mating. He supposed it was hard to tell, with dragons." – OMINOUS FORESHADOWING IS OMINOUS. Zuko just unintentionally summed up his relationship with Azula in this story, even if he doesn't know it yet. "Didn't she think he would /tell her/ if he found their mother after all this time?" – No. No she does not think you would tell her, Zuko. Of course she doesn't. He then thinks that Azula is asking him about their mother to torment him, and I groan again. I'm pretty sure you're not Azula's most pressing concern/focus right now, Zuko, as much as you'd like to be. Zuko ends the chapter on that note of moping. By far my favorite parts of rereading this one were the first flashback scene, the discussion of why the Earth Kingdom is so ornery about Azula, and that OMINOUS FORESHADOWING. I'm looking forward to going over the next and last of the prologue chapters, though I'm not sure when I'll be able to do so. Things will be busy for me over the next few weeks…possibly longer because my classes are starting next month. Oh my god. That's a terrifying thought. Keep me in your prayers to Agni, Aurelia! Until next time, WiseAbsol

#WiseAbsol #Azula #avatar: the last airbender #Dominion by Aurelia le #Fanfiction #Review

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alvvayspure-blog · 7 years ago

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hello & good evening everyone ! my name is monse, and i have been awarded the privilege of writing with you. this is bellatrix ( bella, for short ) and so under the cut you’ll be able to find more details about her. here you can find her pinterest board and her musings blog. // EDIT: i love plotting, and chances are that i’ll be down to write mostly anything. i’d love to flesh out connections, i’m super chill with going witht he flow, i’m happy to write your own plot ideas -- like i said, i’m happy to write a lot of things ! i’ll be contacting you ( probs tomorrow ??? ) but still, if you’d like for us to plot, HIT ME UP ! feel free to send something through the ask box or tumblr dms, or discord ( monse / bella 🕷#7358 )

* △ — the dark lord has targeted [ BELLATRIX BLACK ] ! the muggles say she holds resemblance to [ CRYSTAL REED ]. the [ 29 ] year old [ CIS-FEMALE ] was [ SKILLFUL & PERSEVERANT ] before the war, but have now become [ MALICIOUS & UNBALANCED ]. though they were once a part of [ SLYTHERIN ], they have now taken up the position of a [ METAL CHARMER ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ PUREBLOOD ] is actually [ A DEATH EATER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.

𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆...

( THE BASICS )

.— name: bellatrix black

.— age: 29 years old

.— wand: 12¾", walnut, with a core of dragon heartstring

.— profession: metal charmer working at some dodgy establishment in magical london. however, it’s a mere mask used to keep suspicions away -- the only ‘position’ she dedicates herself to is that of a death eater, she’s fully committed to the group.

.— amortentia: humidity, copper, old wood

.— height: 1.73

.— gender: cis-gender female

.— sexuality: pansexual demiromantic ( but closeted due to her family’s beliefs )

.— previous house: slytherin.

.— boggart: the two most important male figures in her life ( her father & her master ) being disappointment at her

.— patronus: * is unable to produce one *

( THE AESTHETIC )

.— moonlight seeping in through dark curls ; black velvet ; sharp citrus perfume ; bruised and bloody knuckles ; ‘you’re better than them’ muttered into a young girl’s ear as her mother combs her hair ; laughter echoing down a dimly lit hall; dark shades of lipstick ; wood burning in a fireplace ; smirks that whisper ‘i know something you never will’ ; cold, empty rooms ; self-made haircuts ; thunderstorms ; a hatred for all things sweet ; a beckoning void ; dimly lit alleyways ; taste of copper in the mouth ; mysterious knocks in the middle of the night ; curling your hands into fists to keep the tears from falling ; a sheltered heart ; the chilling glint of a pair of eyes amidst the darkness ; your father’s daughter ; ‘you’re purer than them ’ ; heels hitting the elegant marble floors ; ignoring opinions foreign to your own ; a mother’s disappointed looks ; boxes and boxes of jewels that will rot away with rust ; the smell of the burning tapestry on the wall ; deceitful grins ; ‘i’m better than them’ ; treasuring the sister you’ve got left as though she’d been the only one from the beginning ; feeling as though there were something lurking in the shadows ; a starless charcoal night sky ; inked skin ; power’s taste so fresh and addictive on the tongue ; mocking thoughts and voices clouding one’s mind right before going to bed ; a child infected by her parents ambitious ; bottles and bottles of liquor kept inside the night table drawer ; ringed agile fingers with ; black lace ; dead flowers ; and candles on bedside table ; the smell of incense ; the half-moons engraved on the palms ; eyes that were raised never to cry ; talk back, get slapped ; long dark gowns ; ‘ always pure, always better ’ ; wicked sisterly love ; unparalleled devotion ; blood before family.

( THE HEADCANONS )

.— you were the firstborn, the eldest daughter, the one to set the examples. that didn’t mean your parents’ slaps on the cheek and disappointed gazes hurt any less. you came first, and although many would think it’s the firstlings who experience new parents’ clumsy mistakes, this wasn’t your case - you were modeled after what your parents believed in, shaped to their liking by feeding you their wicked ideology like it was gospel. they vowed to raise you as perfectly as possible, and perfect was pure. “don’t mingle with them, bella. you’re better than them,” your mother said to you over and over, and although young, you were perfectly able to see past the soft, motherly tone and absorb the warning, the so-called ‘truth’ you’d follow later on in your life. your upbringing was stained by opulence and wealth, your family displaying you and your sisters like rosy-cheeked porcelain dolls. your father’s daughter, you became far too much like him. your youth was not yours, but his and your mother’s to mold like clay. you frequented balls and events with your family, gatherings you’d never care for or worry over. this was the only good you knew, the only truth, so you never blamed them for what you turned out to be, for what they turned you into. much too absorbed by the mirk, your distraught urges caught up with you - but you let them. you let your shadow friends embrace you and carry you. the darkness was light to you - so tempting, so satisfying to the touch, so addictive -, and so you’d eventually make your home amidst the fog.

.— ever since you were young, you’ve always shown brilliant skills in whatever it is that caught your attention. your parents enrolled you in violin, harp, and piano lessons. it was a matter of a handful of years before you were playing like the most prodigious of musicians. you mastered italian and french, and calligraphy. you began displaying signs of magic at an early age - flickering lights, shattering vases with a look -, and so your parents could not be prouder at the sight. you’d always been talented, skillful, and determined to excel at whatever you got your hands on, so it was only expected of you to thrive during the time you were to study at hogwarts. you had an enviable knack for charms and transfiguration. admittedly, your parents never doted nor coddled, but you found pride and fulfillment in the envy projected by your fellow classmates’ eyes. your mother’s words were a self-fulfilled prophecy: you were better than them, after all.

.— you couldn’t shrug off that mixture of frustration and confusion when you first managed to boil a successful amortentia potion. your classmates were in awe, describing scents like poppy flowers, cinnamon bread, cardamom – all you smelled was humidity. similar to the scent of moist soil, you couldn’t help but feel perplexed at the scent. it seemed miserable, dull. you managed to pick up other smells - old wood, like the one your family’s piano was made of, and copper – you were annoyed, mostly because you couldn’t comprehend what these scents indicated, and secondly, because you felt as though they lead you nowhere. to this day, the smells haven’t changed, yet you’re still puzzled by it.

.— you’ve been known as one to have a short-temper, but nothing had set you off like the inability to produce a corporeal patronus did. you felt the others’ gazes engraved on you as you tried and tried to achieve it during class, each attempt more frustrating than the previous one. you took in a deep breath each time. your mind always projected an image of your family - so noble, so strong, the only support you knew and had -, of your mother. you saw her singing to you as you practiced the piano, yet the memory soon became bitter, as it was followed by her getting upset at your mistakes and scolding you to no end. you thought of your father, the powerful, intelligent man he was and the massive shadow he cast on your path, yet all you could think of were his words about those less pure than you, words expressed at every gathering, words him and his inner circle constantly shared and nourished you with. you thought of your sisters, of andy and cissy, the three of you playing outside your family home. nothing seemed to be enough, and so after what seemed like an infinite number of attempts, you ended up throwing your wand across the room. many years later you tried, the first two memories resurfacing and soon becoming stained by the torment that followed those moments, yet you landed in the same place. now you couldn’t think of your siblings without feeling disgust for andromeda take over you, her carelessness, stupidity, and stubbornness costing you a sister. the image of her would be forever stained, and so you found yourself out of memories to use to try cast the spell effectively. you treasured your youth, you weren’t raised an unhappy child – were you? you told this to yourself over and over, and for a couple of moments, it eased the sting of pain failure had left you with.

.— a boggart managed to sneak into the garden adjacent to your family’s house one afternoon, while you and your sisters were out enjoying the pleasant weather. it hid behind a nearby bush, catching your attention. you didn’t scream when you saw, you simply froze, too consumed by fear to move or make a sound: you saw your father’s figure, with bloodshot eyes that showed the clearest shades of disappointment and hatred, his head shaking in discontent. “i thought we’d compromised, bella,” he said, approaching you in a way you found menacing and terrifying. “i thought we’d agreed you’d do your part…” and right then, the monster before lounged forwards, making you lose your balance and fall down. the creature seemed confused, changing form in a tornado-like way, and it was until you turned to look at one of your sisters, who had just approached and had managed to throw the boggart off. you shrugged off their worried inquiries and pushed the memory to the recondite of your mind. years later, however, the two of you met again: it’d hidden in an old, dusty closet, and so as you unknowingly went to open the door, the figure stepped outside. it wasn’t your father anymore, however. it was a different silhouette, with different features, the creature no longer taking after the man who’d fathered you. it was no stranger, and this time, you found yourself slipping and crawling away from it in the most pathetic manner. you whimpered like an injured animal as tears welled up in your eyes. “i thought we’d compromised, bella,” it was the same sentence you’d heard as a teenager, that day in the garden with your sisters, but before stood the man you’d developed a fascination toward, the man who’d managed to corrupt you more than your family ever did, the man who’d implanted himself amidst your thoughts and ideas, the man you were completely and utterly devoted to, the man you referred to as your lord. the distorted features showed you nothing but disapproval and discontent, the pale, waxy skin glimmering and planting fear in your heart in a way you’d never experience. you sobbed until a foreign noise sent it storming out of the room, your limbs still shriveling.

.— there must be something in the water, or rather, in the way children of the black and lestrange families are raised, something that plants in them an attraction to the dark. despite having a seemingly-calm exterior throughout your earliest years, you always knew there was darkness inside of you. like a void holding what you desired the most, whispering to catch your attention and draw you in, you grew up with a fascination with matters that were too complex and far too obscure for a girl your age. your family made no effort to cease these thoughts, but rather, they fostered them, encouraging you to believe in exactly the same things as they did: purity and destruction. it was a matter of time before your malice bloomed - you were shoving your playmates aside, finding amusement in their suffering; you’d stare at the hues in the bruises and scratches you gave yourself in fights and duels, much too amazed at the unnerving yet pulchritudinous allure. it was the force and power you exercised over others, the thought of your judgment determining their state and place, that what you’d always lacked and thus that you could not resist upon getting the opportunity to experience. it was the electricity to the pain what kept your heart beat fast and your temples pounding & what caused you to develop a tolerance and fascination for it. you’d find ways to entertain yourself and encourage the growth of this evil within you, and so it was no surprise you joined the death eaters upon leaving hogwarts.

( MISC. )

character inspirations: anakin skywalker ( star wars ), elena de la vega ( zorro ), elizabeth swan ( pirates of the caribbean ), nebula ( guardians of the galaxy ), harley quinn ( dc comics ), o-ren ishii and gogo yubari ( kill bill ), magenta and riff-raff ( the rocky horror picture show ), count olaf ( asoue )

TO BE CONTINUED...

#noc.intro #× — intro !#× — about !#× — inspo !#tw abuse

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clockworkspider · 7 years ago

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Prompt: Learning to write, Suwon & Minsu

Disclaimer: I don’t know which period of history ANY is supposed to be based off of… or whether literacy is common in their world. It’s kind of hard to tell when rarely anyone is shown to be reading/writing anything. I’ll change this to reading cause close enough. (I also don’t know whether they’re writing in hangul, chinese characters, or Japanese… So uh… *waves hand*)

Minsu did not like king Soowon.

But he remembered a time, an earlier, more innocent time, where the young lord would smile, and the whole world would spin around.

The young lord had beautiful calligraphy, or so Minsu would presume. Not that he knew for certain, as he only knew enough characters to read what he needed to, characters for rice, for wine, apothecary labels. Still, there was grace in the way Soowon’s brush glides across the paper, strength in the strokes, and gentleness in the curves. And to Minsu, that was beautiful. As was the ability to create meaning on a piece of paper.

“Are you interested in the history of Kouka?” the young lord asked, lifting his brush off the paper.

Having been caught staring, Minsu ducked his head with embarrassment.

“I… cannot read or write very well, Lord Soowon,” he answered, “I just thought that Lord Soowon has beautiful calligraphy.”

“I can teach you, then!” Lord Soowon smiled brightly.

“I… that wouldn’t be appropriate…” Minsu said, a bit hesitant. After all, he was but Lady Yonghi’s attendant’s son.

“I’m learning too, it’d help me practice. I’ll tell Auntie Chimin that you’re helping me with my studies. I’m sure she’d approve,” it was difficult to deny Soowon when he got a plan, and Minsu couldn’t help but feel excited about the prospect of learning alongside the young lord.

“Ah… Of course, this is an invitation, not a request,” the young lord said, ever cautious, “only if you’re interested, of course.”

It was a nice thought. Lord Soowon always asks. It was something that sets the young lord apart. Minsu saw no reason to refuse.

“I’d like that.”

“Wow, your calligraphy has improved so much!” There was genuine awe in the young lord’s voice. Minsu could feel his own heart swell with pride, just a little.

“It’s beautiful…” Lord Soowon traced his fingers along the trail of characters.

“Thank you, I’ve been practicing like how you taught me,” Minsu accepted the compliment humbly. There was no reason for the young lord to flatter him. Lord Soowon has always been the genuine kind.

“Keep this up, and you’ll be good enough to serve as an attendant for his majesty,” the young lord teased brightly.

At some point, the prophecy came true.

Things lord Soowon have said, Minsu observed, almost always came true.

There was a point, Minsu remembered, when he didn’t find it frightening… or loathsome.

“It’s a message from Princess Yona,” the king said, his voice cold, unaffected.

“Princess Yona… she…” The princess… Minsu was told that she and general Hak were dead. He was one of the few who knew what really transgressed that night, one of the few who was responsible.

“Yes, Minsu,” the king didn’t look at him, he rarely does anymore, “she’s alive.”

“How’s your writing?”

So shocked was Minsu from the news that he almost missed his majesty’s question.

“I’d like you to transcribe and deliver a message for me,” the king said, “your writing is better than mine.”

“Besides, you’d like to see Princess Yona again, don’t you?”

Sometimes Minsu remembers the warm summer days, where the young lord sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

“Wow Minsu,” he said, smile bright as the sun as he looked straight at Minsu, “your writing’s beautiful.”

#sorasan000 #soowon #minsu #akatsuki no yona #akayona #akayona fic #that was a very interesting prompt thanks for sharing <3 #team currently-dead-inside

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sogokita · 7 years ago

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blood’s as good an ink as any [ovw fic]

“Don’t–” It catches. “Don’t look at me like that.”

It piques his interest just as much as it stings. “Why not?”

“Because,” A pause. Somewhere in the distance, metal collapses on metal, tinging the air with silver. “I feel like I’m dyin’ and–” Another pause. McCree breathes out, shaky. “I don’t trust myself not to say somethin’ I shouldn’t.”

(mccree loses his arm. genji finds himself at an emotional crossroads he never wanted to have.)

read @ ao3 here

a/n: it’s super late, but this goes for the ‘survival’ part of day 2 for mcgenji week (i know ok.....i know). i can’t do anything on time.

Blackwatch agents aren’t ones to end up with the short end of the stick.

That responsibility falls to the honorable ones, the ones Overwatch holds under their thumb with glorious promises. Genji’s lost track of how many times Lena’s come back with a broken bone, her very existence blurring at the edges, stuck somewhere between present and past. He pretends not to notice Reinhardt’s sweltering burns, scorch lines crisscrossing his arms. Cruel reminders.

Blackwatch’s the clean-up crew, the shadow in the alley, the monster under the drug lord’s bed. He’d caught onto it fast, because despite it all Genji’s always been a quick learner. Nobody’s supposed to see them coming – and they almost never do.

Almost.

Sometimes, all’s well that ends well. Never according to plan, but enough so that they don’t spend the whole night bagging bodies. They can crawl into a transport, collapse against each other and pretend for the few blissful hours back to whatever makeshift base they’re holed up in that the world isn’t crumbling around them. Sometimes, McCree’s fingers nudge the back of his knuckles, blood-caked and tentative. It’s a feeling Genji thought his body had forgotten – something he tries to stamp out when it bubbles through the murk boiling in his veins.

Genji can afford to ignore the way a place where his heart used to be burns, a hollow and aching thing longing for more than brushed fingertips and cut-sharp quips. He can pretend to not look at McCree looking at him. It isn’t important in the end, anyway. They both know it: Genji wasn’t reborn to be a loving thing. Overwatch had made sure of that when they buried a killer somewhere in his insides, a hunger for revenge that ran so deep it’d swallow the rest of him up one day. They both know.

But sometimes, it’s nice to pretend they don’t.

And sometimes there’s that Almost, the 1 time out of 100 – and things go horribly, horribly wrong.

“God fuckin’ shit, motherfucker–”

Genji tears another piece from McCree’s serape, the cloth falling apart easily to his razor-edged fingers. McCree’s still cursing quietly, right hand shaking and unstable over the mess of torn muscle and shredded skin where his left arm had been. He’d been silent at first, blanched white with shock and docile enough to let Genji poke and prod at his arm without so much as a wince.

Despite everything, McCree still hadn’t lost his hat. Genji again contemplated the theory that he’d somehow glued it to his hair.

“Shimada–” Reyes’ voice cracks, fizzes out like a doused flame. “–ou copy? Do you–”

“Commander?” Genji spares a hand to press it to the shell of his ear which, thanks to Angela, functions as his own built-in communication device. All that answers him is static. In front of him McCree sends out another string of curses so slang-riddled Genji gives up on trying to understand what they mean.

They’re stuck on the far east side of the omnium, near the omnics’ weapon stock house – which is where they’d been when all hell had broken loose. The small team they’d brought with them had scattered, bullets and broken bits of shrapnel alike raining down on them once the secret stash of omnic forces busted in and sprayed down fire. Which is how they’d ended up here: pinned down and hidden with one less collective limb between them, neck deep in jamming signals strong enough to make Genji’s sensitive ears physically recoil.

They’d gotten lucky with their hiding spot at least – a tucked away spot through a busted in wall, an old empty storage until forgotten on the edge of the omnium. Underneath the scent of blood there’s dust and oil, something vaguely metallic. Genji sniffles. Smells burn now more than they ever would’ve before.

“Hey, partner–” McCree twists his torso, straightening up and instantly regretting it. “You got some kinda plan?” He’s still breathing fast, the shock starting to wear off in earnest and give way to the bone splitting pain beginning just above his elbow.

Genji looks down at what remains of McCree’s dirty black serape in his lap, glances over at the two, tiny first aid packs they’re each required to carry – small and compact enough Genji can hold one in the palm of his hand. They were meant for small things: a handful of stitches, a particularly nasty scratch that won’t cauterize, black eyes. Genji looks down. McCree’s arm is a stitched puppet limb hanging on by only a few threads. Muscles shredded, tendons turned in a twisted U shape. At least he can’t see any bones.

They’d all been taught the barebones of first-aid on some initiative from Commander Morrison to Make A Safer Blackwatch, which is basically an oxymoron, but now Genji’s a little less bitter about it than before. Then again, he’s been staring at the compactable, unlabeled clear bottles for over 10 seconds unsure of what to do, so maybe he should keep the gratitude pending for whether they get out of here alive or not.

He grits his teeth, drops down two biotic fields, and starts working.

“What is that?”

Genji’s breaking the seals on the first two identical bottles, tossing the caps away behind him. He holds up the collar of McCree’s shirt, splattered with blood and most definitely unsanitary – not that it really matters at this point. “Bite.”

McCree stares at the fabric for a second, like he’s seeing it for the first time. “I don’t like where this is going.”

They stare at each other for a second. Genji offers again. After another second and a sound somewhere between a whine and a grunt, McCree bites down, barely missing Genji’s fingers.

“It’s peroxide, I think. It will sting…I think.”

“You think?” The collar in his mouth makes the t more of an f.

Genji deadpans, sarcasm dripping off his mouth. “No. I’m lying.”

“Okay, fine, Dr. Smartass–”

“How do you know I’m not being truthful?”

“Oh goddamn it, Genji just do it–”

He does. McCree only blinks a few times, hard, blank-face expression a tell for the blinding kind of pain that sends sparks behind your eyes, dazzling. He does a commendable job of muffling the scream – and the gag probably helps.

Dressing the wound’s a long, messy process. It takes all their collective medical knowledge to figure out a way to wrap it, and it isn’t until the painkillers and biotic fields start doing their work in earnest that Genji can touch his arm at all. They use all of the tight rolled bandages from their kit as well as most of McCree’s poor, dismantled serape, most of them ending up gory pile of rags at Genji’s feet.

He isn’t sure how many hours it takes – or if it’s even been that long at all. Reyes taps in again once or twice, sometimes clear, sometimes all static. Neither of them can send a reply.

At one point, when Genji was sweaty and wrist-deep in blood, their eyes had met through the omnium’s yellow-washed shadows, and they both knew: McCree was going to lose the arm. All Genji could do was salvage the situation long enough to keep him alive.

Genji remembers, when he was younger he’d had the pipedream of being a doctor, another more sophisticated form of family rebellion he’d entertained between lovers, between responsibilities. It feels like the memory belongs to someone else now, but between the blood dripping off his fingers and smell of antiseptic it feels like he’s gotten a taste of what it might’ve been like, in another life.

Once Genji ties off one of their last clean bandages and sits back, McCree exhales for a long time, eyes fluttering shut. Neither of them say anything for a long time.

“Thanks, doc.” McCree says, eventually. “Put it on my tab.”

Genji crawls to lean against the wall next to him and does his best not to collapse. He doesn’t exactly get tired anymore, not physically, anyway. Mentally, his exhaustion is an ocean. Always gnashing, always a ship-wrecker.

He watches McCree’s breathing even out from his peripheral, going slow and steady while Genji can feel the gears of his heart churning in his chest, immeasurable and loud. The hollow of dark shadow beneath his eyes is what sends needles of fear pinpricking across Genji’s skin, cautious and creeping in on him.

Genji doesn’t remember dying. There must’ve been a moment, even one split second of time when his heart stopped beating, the blackness behind his open eyes unlike any he’d ever seen. Darker than calligraphy ink, darker than his mother’s charcoal waterfall hair. Time moves differently there, faster and slower all at once. He doesn’t remember but he wonders if McCree sees a glimpse of it when his eyes close: that gaping, awful yawn. The thought affects him more than he likes.

“McCree.”

It earns him a groan.

“McCree.”

“Genj–” he coughs. “What?”

The words stick in his throat because he doesn’t know what to do with them, how to piece them together to make it sound anything short of weirdand frantic. As it turns out, McCree’s read on him is good enough that he doesn’t have to.

“Let me sleep, darlin’.”

Genji grimaces, the memory of that eternal blackness curling in on the edges of his vision. “No.”

“Let me sleep, please?”

“No.”

“Genji.” McCree opens his eyes and tries to smile with his usual charm but it’s lost around the fact that he looks about to pass out. “ Sugar, sweetheart, sun and stars of my goddamn life–”

“This is not negotiable.” Genji bends over to cinch the bandage, a little tighter than necessary. It’d been bothering him. “Sweetheart.”

McCree winces, biting down a yell between his teeth, letting it come out in a stream of closed mouth curses. “Asshole.”

“I might have just saved your life.”

There’s a huff that Genji takes to be a laugh. A little bitter. A little enamored. “Yep.” He pops the p on the end. “Angie better watch out. Might be outta a job soon.”

And this – this feels normal. This weird dance they do around each other, close enough to touch but never taking the leap. The things left unsaid pile around them, weight that threatens to break through the floorboards but they’re both stubborn enough not to care. Both a little too frayed and broken at the edges to pretend that stepping so close to the proverbial cliff of closeness isn’t terrifying.

“McCree–”

“I’m just restin’ my eyes. Scout’s honor.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.” Genji keeps his focus on the makeshift bandage tied across McCree's torso to hold his arm in place, the bloody pulp of skin and torn muscle already seeping through, a ghastly shade of red. He almost can’t bring himself to look away.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me, then.”

When he doesn’t reply McCree sighs, long and heavy, like it hurts. In all likelihood, it does. Like hell. “I ain’t gonna die, Genji. If anything–” he sucks in a breath with every small movement. “If this don’t do me in, then Angie just might do the job herself.”

“I don’t think Angela’s the one you need to worry about.”

It takes a moment before the realization dawns on McCree’s face with a new, and growing, degree of horror. “Shit.” Then, after another moment. “Ya can’t let her take me, Genji.”

He can’t help but let out a laugh, either at the idea of McCree becoming Moira’s new lab rat or at how earnest his face had been when asking to be spared. “Don’t worry.” When he tries to choke it back down it bubbles up again, persistent. “I won’t.”

“What, am I just that funny lookin’ right now?” He still sounds a little delirious and, with a bit of added alarm, only makes Genji laugh harder.

“You are always funny looking.”

“Aw, sugar, you wound me.”

Then they’re both laughing, tired and hurt but laughing. It peels out in quiet echoes across the walls, a very human sound in a place where it doesn’t quite belong. They laugh until McCree hiccups, a smear of brown-black blood striping across his nose when he scratches at it. Genji pretends not to see the way McCree’s looking at him. He tucks his knees up towards his chin, trying to remember how to breathe.

“It looks good on you, y’know.” McCree says, suddenly.

Genji must look confused, because then he snorts. “You smile with your eyes. Looks good.”

“How could you tell?”

“What? That you’ve got a nice smile?”

“No.” He already feels foolish for asking. “That I was smiling.”

McCree grins, lopsided, a little more like himself with only a layer of pain, like a dark shade of paint. “You’re more transparent than ya think.”

Genji scowls, and that must show, too. McCree’s grinning even harder. “Pouting now?”

“No,” he lies. “And I am not the only transparent one.”

“Never claimed to be anything but.”

And Genji can tell he’s serious now, beneath the nicknames and country vibrato is the flip side of the coin: the sincerity, the weariness. They both know the unspoken agreements between them – and this feeling, right now, sitting between them, is one of them. It’s a small thing, a terrifying thing. There isn’t a word for it and that makes it all so much worse. Whatever it is, whatever they are is just two hands, flesh and marrow, reaching out through the dark. Their fingers barely graze together but the balance is tipping, and tipping fast. Genji swallows loud enough that it seems to ring in his own ears.

“Hey.” McCree’s voice goes raspy, wrought with some unnamable emotion. “Don’t. Not now.”

“Don’t?”

“Don’t–” It catches. “Don’t look at me like that.”

It piques his interest just as much as it stings. “Why not?”

Genji stills, some wire buried deep in his body short circuiting. It coaxes something out of him, a ball of half hurt, half anticipation that he swallows down until it catches, chokes. He’d had to dig for it – the pieces of his old self that still remained, the ones that could catch McCree by the edges and tug on all the right places. The quick draw kind of humor. The pet names. The smell of cigar smoke to fill the quiet moments. The flirting is one thing. The feelings are another.

Genji can feel it caving in on him, another overwhelming threat to consume him, without warning.

Because at some point since they’d met, Jesse McCree had dug a way into his heart. And now Genji doesn't know what to do.

“Then, say it.” Genji looks up the same moment McCree flicks his eyes to the ground. “If you do not trust yourself to keep it a secret, then say it.”

“I don’t think it’s any secret how I feel ‘bout you.”

If it’s meant to throw Genji off, then it works. “I need–” His mouth turns to sandpaper. “I need you to–” He’s tenses, breathes deep and sets his forehead on his knees. McCree seems to lean harder against the wall with each passing second, closer, until their shoulders touch. It’s warm, almost burning against his exposed skin. Genji feels the press of heat against his temple, the brim of his hat resting against Genji’s hair. He can see McCree from the corner of his vision, eyes shut and brows pulled together. Thinking.

If Genji tilted his head the right way now, he could kiss him. In another time, in another body, maybe he’d have the courage to do it.

When McCree finally does speak it’s low and soft against Genji’s neck, almost a sigh, almost a laugh. “We’re no good at this, are we?”

He almost starts laughing again, because it is funny, in some sad way. “No. We are not.”

“But, y’know what–” McCree’s voice, already a drawl, gets heavier with drowsiness. “I don’t mind. Bein’ bad at somethin’.”

“That is…out of character.”

“Well, see, I don’t mind ‘cause if you’re there then I know I’ll get better at it.” He straightens up, thumps his head back against the wall. Genji already misses the warmth. “You make me better. Make me wanna be better.”

He can feel his body tensing, coiling up tight like a spring ready to burst forward, bust a getaway. “Oh.” It comes out more a whisper than a word. They let the silence sit between them, uneasy, like standing at the edge of something inescapable.

“McCree.” His name sticks in Genji’s mouth. He wonders, briefly, if the shape of it will mold to his mouth, caught on his tongue forever. “Jesse.”

McCree seems to snap forward, eyes the most clear and focused Genji’d seen them since his arm’d been torn away. The current of pain is still there but there’s something else, something beneath it that kicks at Genji’s flight instincts. He shoves it away to the back of his mind. A problem to deal with later.

“Jesse.” He says it again, despite the alarms ringing in his head, but it feels like a step forward, like a step they should’ve taken a long time ago. “I–”

“Shimada?”

They both freeze.

“McCree? Do either of you copy?”

For all the amount of comedic timing and McCree’s priceless expression, all Genji can bring himself is do is blink a few times in disbelief and press an unsteady hand to his ear. “Commander?”

There’s a sigh, heavy on the other end of the line. He can hear the edge of exhaustion in it, of threadbare patience and shotgun shells. “Sorry, boys. We finally broke down the network encryption enough to get through. What’s your position?”

Genji shifts forward, almost crouching in apprehension, shaking himself back to the present. Omnics. Blackwatch. The arm.

“Near the storehouse. There’s a series of hallways behind the main room. We found cover in the fourth one from the right.” He pauses. “McCree is injured. Hurry.”

“What’s his condition?”

Genji doesn’t miss the poorly concealed prick of worry – because despite the front, everyone in Blackwatch, and likely Overwatch as well, know where Gabriel Reyes’ soft spot lies.

“Stable.” He doesn’t know if it’s a lie yet or not. “But hurry.”

“Hang in there. We’re coming.” There’s a rush of static, and then the comm goes silent. The air burns like ash in the one lung he has left.

Genji turns to find McCree still staring at him. After another few seconds he groans, running his only good hand down his face, laughing quietly in defeat.

“McCree–”

“It’s enough, alright.” McCree tilts his head, so understanding it makes Genji ache. “Don’t mind waitin’ for the rest.”

He can hear footsteps now, coming closer. His ears are too sharp now, a liability in moments he wants to keep quiet, undistracted. He doesn’t have time to do what he wants now – they’d had all the time in the world before but their bubble isn’t going to last much longer. He doesn’t have the time, or the courage but–

When he leans forward and shuts his eyes, he senses McCree start to move away only to stop, stock still when Genji presses his faceplate to the side of his cheek. It isn’t much – hardly anything at all really – but it’s all Genji has to give. A shadow of a kiss.

“Enough?”

The footsteps round the corner and Genji can pick up Reyes’ heavy boots, moving faster once he spots them. McCree still hasn’t looked away, and a small, selfish part of Genji finds himself hoping he won’t, for a long time.

“Always, darlin’.”

#mcgenji #overwatch #jesse mccree #genji shimada #jfc i haven't posted my writing on tungle in a long time #Embarrassing #mcgenjiweek17 #my writing #i hope i die swiftly

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beyondvisualgeopolitic · 7 years ago

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During my time off from facebook I decided to look at one of my favourite subjects and collect Pins for Islamic Art on one of my Pinterest accounts. I have a great love for it, throughout the centuries – Islamic Art and Architecture. I stumbled across some Artists from Saudi – some institutions in Saudi that are currently promoting Arabian Modern Artists – and I did not like what I have seen. Some of the Photography is OK, some of the paintings are sort of Dadaism – but disturbing. Monochrome. But most of it is ugly and it appears that in their haste to be “Modern” the Saudis have actually become victims of Zionism. Out of a naivety no doubt, as any rush to develop at such a fast pace is always going to pose problems. This is a subject I am getting back to after a few years – I first started to study it when first expanding my activism for Palestine to the greater conflicts of the MENA Wars – as ISIS was rampant in all the social media groups at the time. And I discovered not only the tragic ugliness of modern Saudi Urban Design, one of the ugliest in the entire world in my opinion but the destruction of Heritage across the Levant due to Da’ish (ISIS) and connecting the dots and realising that Zionism has manipulated it all was a very fast and simple connection to make. It is, in fact, crystal clear. Only Zionism stands to benefit from such destruction and the destruction of all that is Islamic in Mecca and Medina – giving way to Architecture designed by a British company for the site of Mecca has yet again broken my heart today looking at the scar and what has to be the ugliest monstrosity of Architecture I have seen globally. I think it will take thousands of years actually to beat it. I am also a recent Revert to Islam. And I am – like many Reverts and even Non-Muslims hungry to soak up Islamic History and Culture – and Art and Architecture – which for Centuries has been the most scientific and the most beautiful ancient architecture I have ever seen in the world. It is breathtakingly beautiful, from a simple Moroccan tile, to the great Mosques stretching from the Levant to the other side of Asia. From the Calligraphy, old and new, to the modern art. Most of which is so absolutely breathtaking, I wish I was 17 again. Because to plan a life and career in order to travel and see most of it would be a life spent in such beauty and awe and amazement – it would lift the soul, lighten and brighten and spiritually bring one as close to heaven as it is possible to get on this earth. And that is not said because I am a recent Revert, I thought the same about Islamic Art and Architecture decades ago. When the concept of Reverting would have been something I would never consider. I am an artist. I have an Education in Art. I also have an Education in Spatial Design. Colour and Form. Architectural Design. So I am not one of these people who is just taking aim at the Modern Art and Architecture in Saudi and shooting it down as the ugliest and most soul destroying thing this planet has seen in a thousand years and more for the sake of just insulting it – I happen to have an educated opinion. We – as humans are directly affected emotionally by our surroundings. It is why, in most of the West, Interior Design is such a great movement. From the Professional Designer to the man and woman on the street – we all like to relax in spaces that make us feel better. And there is a science to it. A proven science behind it. Colour – each colour emits a light wave more powerful than a microwave. And each colour directly affects our mood and emotions. Some colours can even be used as torture. Blood red, for example, is used sparingly in nature and always surrounded by plenty of greens and blues. A poppy growing in a field is a bright and jolly thing, but if the entire field was the colour of the red poppy without a break and no other colour, you would not be able to look at it. Physically – your eyes would involuntarily move away, and you would start to get stabbing pains in your brain and central nervous system. It is why Surgeons are protected and able to rest their eyes in theatre while operating – the gowns, the walls, indeed the drapes covering the patient are all in a specific colour of green – the exact opposite of the blood red on the colour spectrum, to rest the eyes and absorb the colour wave of the blood red. Enabling them to focus on the job at hand without any involuntary eye movements and without any discomfort or loss of common sense throughout their central nervous systems. Other colours can literally produce Joy – they cause the brain to start producing positive hormones. The yellows the yellow ochre, the orange colours. Other colours are good for Therapy. It is advised if you are suffering from emotional stress or from bereavement to paint your walls in a room of your house a shade of violet – it actually absorbs the negative emotions and soothes your emotions. In a very powerful way. A similar effect is caused by what we term as Designers by “Form” – or the shape of objects and rooms and spaces. As with colour – our brains are pre-programmed over thousands and millions of years to react to certain colours – blood red, the red of a poisonous berry, there is nothing we can do to re-program our brains. Our Central Nervous Systems are going to react. Bright yellow and black stripes – the colours of a stinging Wasp or Hornet – in nature you do not see those colours or patterns in many places or on many objects. Most people, when shown the two colours together striped like that will think of a Wasp – and get stung. So there is a central nervous system reaction. Similarly – the shape of everything has just a monumentous effect on us. Sharp objects will repel. Round curves will appeal. In a large public foyer of a public building, it is poosible to create a very large space, with no interior corridors or partitioning and make crowds of thousands of people walk the way you want them to walk as a Designer simply by using Colour and Form. If you want all the people to turn left as they enter a building, you don’t have to put a barrier to stop them from turning right. You just adapt the shape on the left and the right and add some colour and or form which repels slightly the way you don’t want them to walk, and everyone who enters the building will walk the way you want them to walk. This can bee seen in airports for example. And most commonly in Supermarkets and Super Stores, where every isle and every bit of colour is used to make you walk a certain way and stop and look at things you don’t want to buy, and buy them. It is subliminal. Totally and it is being used in ways and to levels that the vast majority of humans are completely unaware of. And who can say that a Supermarket Foodstore is an attractive place – an attractive space you’d love to spend all your time in in the West? If you were put in the exact same Space but with nothing in there for sale – just as objects, you’d want to get out. It’s as simple as that. Humans have been designing for thousands and thousands of years. And Design and Architecture has evolved, simply because humans feel comfortable and pleased in a Space – so that type of Space has become more prolific. And in fact, when you study it very deeply on cause and effect when it comes to emotional benefit – the best Designer by a million times is Nature. And the proof of that can be seen these days by the Scientific Researched Proof that a great medication for Stress, in fact, one of the best of all – is nature and getting out in it. Or just by looking at Photography of it. Not as good as being out in it for real, but some images will do a great job of a short fix if you can’t go on a nature ramble instantly you feel stressed. This type of Design, Colour and Form is used in the Design of Hospitals – Schools and Public buildings, it’s used everywhere in the West and the Mechanics of it have been known for a long, long, long time. So knowing all of this – before even without bringing into the equation – the destruction of Heritage and History in Saudi Arabia in their Modernisation Program – the Destrcution of Islam in fact and everything related to it, let’s just focus on the actual “Colour and Form”. And we are going to start with the “Form” – the shape of things. And the effect that it has on you when you look at it. And for that, we shall use a Saudi Photographer who has been documenting the changes. The images are much more recent and the structure is a lot more finished than when I last focused on this a few years ago in 2015/15. And the effect on me when looking at it – well, I wouldn’t to go there. And I am a recent Revert, so one day if I can I should go there. But for the effect the “Form’ will have on my emotional wellbeing, I will be dreading going. And I will be packing some things in my bag to focus on, so I don’t have to look at it. And to concentrate on why I am really there if I ever get there, will be really difficult. Because my Central Nervous System will be overwhelmed with the Ugly affect. It’s as if the beast itself has scarred the landscape. And everything I had ever imagined, the soothing sand colours, punctuated with souks and stalls selling the purest wares on sale, from perfumes to spices to calligraphy and all things one woruld expect – has been replaced with a Beast that is enveloping a Scar. A Beast so big over a Scar so huge, there is nothing left of anything else. Nothing. It must be overwhelming to finally get to the Kaaba and see it is actually there. Stood defiantly in the middle of the ugliest Beast over lording the Ugliest Scar in the entire World. This plan to shove the Arab States into the Levant to redesign it started with Da’ish (ISIS) you thought – well you thought wrong. This Plan to abolish the Beauty, Light and Peace of Islam started when the British started planning it all. It started before 2002. And in my opinion, it was deliberate. The entire Design of Mecca is designed to be an “Experience” – one to Pre Program every Muslim who goes there so when they leave they are “Disturbed”. In fact – in my opinion, if anyone was asked to design Architecture that could spiritually and emotionally “Disturb” a human more, then the Architecture and Design of the New Mecca could not be better at that. It’s like a giant Multi Storey Carpark built in 1960 – one that requires a Demolition Order on it. Most of this type of Architecture in the UK – though none of it quite so ugly – has either been destroyed and blown up or is synonymous with the worst parts of cities and towns. And by the design of this – once you get there – there is no escape from it. It remonds me of a Freak Show at a Theme Park – an indoor Roller Coaster that has freaky things in it to make you scream and feel uplifted when yo finally come out, something you pay to go on to upset yourself and feel thankful you live in a world where that isn’t real. With Mecca – you are trapped inside this monstrosity until you can get out. When you can walk round the full circuit and leave. I don’t want to go there. Ever. And for the first time EVER – having listened to many Muslims from many Countries state on social media that for them, to be near God no longer requires them to visit Mecca – I understand them, and I agree. I’d rather look at a picture of what it used to be, and I’d rather time travel in my mind, back to a time before this epic and total abhorrence was built. I don’t blame the Saudis though, I blame the UK, as it was a British Architect that designed it. And it was US Contractors that built it. I blame Saudi only for not insisting that one of their own Architects was not employed to have overall control of the Design. Saudi – you could vastly improve it by changing the colours. The colours and the lighting. And you could vastly improve it in a lot of ways. And I suggest you start employing some people that know how to do that immediately. But there is absolutely NO WAY that anything other than your money should EVER go into the Levant for Re Building – and if you drag your British EVIL Allies into it with you – or those EVIL American destroyers, well, expect World War Three and the entire Muslim World turning on you in ways you have not yet experienced. And MBS – with the sense of humour in your Time Magazine Article – you grew up in this Modern MONSTROSITY – what difference would you know? You want Sunni Islam to dominate the Shia of Iran and Persia. I suggest STRONGLY that you start traveling. And that you go to Iran and some of the Asian Islamic Countries – and that you stay off your Super Yacht and you stay OUT of expensive Hotels. And that you start experiencing what the landscape of ancient Cultures can do for lightening and brightening. Because I have taken a trek through the so-called Art of Saudi – and the so-called Design of Saudi from your most esteemed institutions, and I have not seen a thing of beauty except some Portraiture Photography. Faces. Old people’s faces. That is literally the ONLY thing of beauty I have seen, in hours and hours of trawling through your so-called Cultural and Art Institutions and your so-called Art. There are no words to describe it. It’s not Fundamentalist. It is – it’s Fundamentalist. But it is also totally fucked up. But then it is hardly surprising really is it – there is nothing beautiful or lightening or brightening surrounding any of you over there to evoke any superb art. So the only work any of you can create is DARKENING. Gulf States have destroyed the Levant with Da’ish (ISIS) – but if Trump gets his way and Saudi wades in with the British and Americans to Rebuild the damage – then what ISIS have so far done will be a tiny drop in the ocean of destruction. MBS – you need to sign up to UNESCO and go and Intern there for a couple of years before your country can EVER get their hands on any Rebuilding. You definitely have to send Al Turki off for a cuple of eyars to do that. In fact – I am starting to worry about what harm could come of Libya in your hands. I hate the French right now due to their involvement yet again in the Tri- Partate bombing of Syria last week, for the Zionists. But architecturally – and with regard to Heritage and making the Spaces Spiritually Enlightening – they are safer than the UK and USA and Gulf States. UK and USA as far as I am concerned, have scuppered every single chance they have ever had in Re-Building any of the Countries they put ISIS into. For everyone that wants to see what I am talimg about – just follow the link. If Architecture was Psychological Warfare then the new Mecca woud win Global Prize. And nothing I think could really top in in a century. Or more. <a href="http://www.ahmedmater.com/desertofpharan" target="_blank" rel="noopener">www.ahmedmater.com/desertofpharan</a> Trump wants Arab States to rebuild Syria and Iraq, but what type of Spiritually killing architecture would they plan? And is this one of the reasons Trump wants UNESCO abolished? Zionist Fundamentalist eyesore of Mecca and Medina is a reason everyone needs to see before the entire Levant is destroyed along with Islam throughout the Levant.

During my time off from facebook I decided to look at one of my favourite subjects and collect Pins for Islamic Art on one of my Pinterest accounts. I have a great love for it, throughout the centuries – Islamic Art and Architecture. I stumbled across some Artists from Saudi – some institutions in Saudi that are currently promoting Arabian Modern Artists – and I did not like what I have seen. Some of the Photography is OK, some of the paintings are sort of Dadaism – but disturbing. Monochrome. But most of it is ugly and it appears that in their haste to be “Modern” the Saudis have actually become victims of Zionism. Out of a naivety no doubt, as any rush to develop at such a fast pace is always going to pose problems. This is a subject I am getting back to after a few years – I first started to study it when first expanding my activism for Palestine to the greater conflicts of the MENA Wars – as ISIS was rampant in all the social media groups at the time. And I discovered not only the tragic ugliness of modern Saudi Urban Design, one of the ugliest in the entire world in my opinion but the destruction of Heritage across the Levant due to Da’ish (ISIS) and connecting the dots and realising that Zionism has manipulated it all was a very fast and simple connection to make. It is, in fact, crystal clear.

Only Zionism stands to benefit from such destruction and the destruction of all that is Islamic in Mecca and Medina – giving way to Architecture designed by a British company for the site of Mecca has yet again broken my heart today looking at the scar and what has to be the ugliest monstrosity of Architecture I have seen globally. I think it will take thousands of years actually to beat it. I am also a recent Revert to Islam. And I am – like many Reverts and even Non-Muslims hungry to soak up Islamic History and Culture – and Art and Architecture – which for Centuries has been the most scientific and the most beautiful ancient architecture I have ever seen in the world. It is breathtakingly beautiful, from a simple Moroccan tile, to the great Mosques stretching from the Levant to the other side of Asia. From the Calligraphy, old and new, to the modern art. Most of which is so absolutely breathtaking, I wish I was 17 again. Because to plan a life and career in order to travel and see most of it would be a life spent in such beauty and awe and amazement – it would lift the soul, lighten and brighten and spiritually bring one as close to heaven as it is possible to get on this earth. And that is not said because I am a recent Revert, I thought the same about Islamic Art and Architecture decades ago. When the concept of Reverting would have been something I would never consider.

I am an artist. I have an Education in Art. I also have an Education in Spatial Design. Colour and Form. Architectural Design. So I am not one of these people who is just taking aim at the Modern Art and Architecture in Saudi and shooting it down as the ugliest and most soul destroying thing this planet has seen in a thousand years and more for the sake of just insulting it – I happen to have an educated opinion.

We – as humans are directly affected emotionally by our surroundings. It is why, in most of the West, Interior Design is such a great movement. From the Professional Designer to the man and woman on the street – we all like to relax in spaces that make us feel better. And there is a science to it. A proven science behind it.

Colour – each colour emits a light wave more powerful than a microwave. And each colour directly affects our mood and emotions. Some colours can even be used as torture. Blood red, for example, is used sparingly in nature and always surrounded by plenty of greens and blues. A poppy growing in a field is a bright and jolly thing, but if the entire field was the colour of the red poppy without a break and no other colour, you would not be able to look at it. Physically – your eyes would involuntarily move away, and you would start to get stabbing pains in your brain and central nervous system. It is why Surgeons are protected and able to rest their eyes in theatre while operating – the gowns, the walls, indeed the drapes covering the patient are all in a specific colour of green – the exact opposite of the blood red on the colour spectrum, to rest the eyes and absorb the colour wave of the blood red. Enabling them to focus on the job at hand without any involuntary eye movements and without any discomfort or loss of common sense throughout their central nervous systems. Other colours can literally produce Joy – they cause the brain to start producing positive hormones. The yellows the yellow ochre, the orange colours. Other colours are good for Therapy. It is advised if you are suffering from emotional stress or from bereavement to paint your walls in a room of your house a shade of violet – it actually absorbs the negative emotions and soothes your emotions. In a very powerful way.

A similar effect is caused by what we term as Designers by “Form” – or the shape of objects and rooms and spaces. As with colour – our brains are pre-programmed over thousands and millions of years to react to certain colours – blood red, the red of a poisonous berry, there is nothing we can do to re-program our brains. Our Central Nervous Systems are going to react. Bright yellow and black stripes – the colours of a stinging Wasp or Hornet – in nature you do not see those colours or patterns in many places or on many objects. Most people, when shown the two colours together striped like that will think of a Wasp – and get stung. So there is a central nervous system reaction. Similarly – the shape of everything has just a monumentous effect on us. Sharp objects will repel. Round curves will appeal. In a large public foyer of a public building, it is poosible to create a very large space, with no interior corridors or partitioning and make crowds of thousands of people walk the way you want them to walk as a Designer simply by using Colour and Form. If you want all the people to turn left as they enter a building, you don’t have to put a barrier to stop them from turning right. You just adapt the shape on the left and the right and add some colour and or form which repels slightly the way you don’t want them to walk, and everyone who enters the building will walk the way you want them to walk. This can bee seen in airports for example. And most commonly in Supermarkets and Super Stores, where every isle and every bit of colour is used to make you walk a certain way and stop and look at things you don’t want to buy, and buy them.

It is subliminal. Totally and it is being used in ways and to levels that the vast majority of humans are completely unaware of. And who can say that a Supermarket Foodstore is an attractive place – an attractive space you’d love to spend all your time in in the West? If you were put in the exact same Space but with nothing in there for sale – just as objects, you’d want to get out. It’s as simple as that.

Humans have been designing for thousands and thousands of years. And Design and Architecture has evolved, simply because humans feel comfortable and pleased in a Space – so that type of Space has become more prolific. And in fact, when you study it very deeply on cause and effect when it comes to emotional benefit – the best Designer by a million times is Nature. And the proof of that can be seen these days by the Scientific Researched Proof that a great medication for Stress, in fact, one of the best of all – is nature and getting out in it. Or just by looking at Photography of it. Not as good as being out in it for real, but some images will do a great job of a short fix if you can’t go on a nature ramble instantly you feel stressed.

This type of Design, Colour and Form is used in the Design of Hospitals – Schools and Public buildings, it’s used everywhere in the West and the Mechanics of it have been known for a long, long, long time. So knowing all of this – before even without bringing into the equation – the destruction of Heritage and History in Saudi Arabia in their Modernisation Program – the Destrcution of Islam in fact and everything related to it, let’s just focus on the actual “Colour and Form”. And we are going to start with the “Form” – the shape of things. And the effect that it has on you when you look at it. And for that, we shall use a Saudi Photographer who has been documenting the changes. The images are much more recent and the structure is a lot more finished than when I last focused on this a few years ago in 2015/15. And the effect on me when looking at it – well, I wouldn’t to go there. And I am a recent Revert, so one day if I can I should go there. But for the effect the “Form’ will have on my emotional wellbeing, I will be dreading going. And I will be packing some things in my bag to focus on, so I don’t have to look at it. And to concentrate on why I am really there if I ever get there, will be really difficult. Because my Central Nervous System will be overwhelmed with the Ugly affect. It’s as if the beast itself has scarred the landscape. And everything I had ever imagined, the soothing sand colours, punctuated with souks and stalls selling the purest wares on sale, from perfumes to spices to calligraphy and all things one woruld expect – has been replaced with a Beast that is enveloping a Scar. A Beast so big over a Scar so huge, there is nothing left of anything else. Nothing. It must be overwhelming to finally get to the Kaaba and see it is actually there. Stood defiantly in the middle of the ugliest Beast over lording the Ugliest Scar in the entire World.

This plan to shove the Arab States into the Levant to redesign it started with Da’ish (ISIS) you thought – well you thought wrong. This Plan to abolish the Beauty, Light and Peace of Islam started when the British started planning it all. It started before 2002. And in my opinion, it was deliberate. The entire Design of Mecca is designed to be an “Experience” – one to Pre Program every Muslim who goes there so when they leave they are “Disturbed”. In fact – in my opinion, if anyone was asked to design Architecture that could spiritually and emotionally “Disturb” a human more, then the Architecture and Design of the New Mecca could not be better at that. It’s like a giant Multi Storey Carpark built in 1960 – one that requires a Demolition Order on it. Most of this type of Architecture in the UK – though none of it quite so ugly – has either been destroyed and blown up or is synonymous with the worst parts of cities and towns. And by the design of this – once you get there – there is no escape from it. It remonds me of a Freak Show at a Theme Park – an indoor Roller Coaster that has freaky things in it to make you scream and feel uplifted when yo finally come out, something you pay to go on to upset yourself and feel thankful you live in a world where that isn’t real. With Mecca – you are trapped inside this monstrosity until you can get out. When you can walk round the full circuit and leave. I don’t want to go there. Ever. And for the first time EVER – having listened to many Muslims from many Countries state on social media that for them, to be near God no longer requires them to visit Mecca – I understand them, and I agree. I’d rather look at a picture of what it used to be, and I’d rather time travel in my mind, back to a time before this epic and total abhorrence was built. I don’t blame the Saudis though, I blame the UK, as it was a British Architect that designed it. And it was US Contractors that built it. I blame Saudi only for not insisting that one of their own Architects was not employed to have overall control of the Design.

Saudi – you could vastly improve it by changing the colours. The colours and the lighting. And you could vastly improve it in a lot of ways. And I suggest you start employing some people that know how to do that immediately. But there is absolutely NO WAY that anything other than your money should EVER go into the Levant for Re Building – and if you drag your British EVIL Allies into it with you – or those EVIL American destroyers, well, expect World War Three and the entire Muslim World turning on you in ways you have not yet experienced. And MBS – with the sense of humour in your Time Magazine Article – you grew up in this Modern MONSTROSITY – what difference would you know? You want Sunni Islam to dominate the Shia of Iran and Persia. I suggest STRONGLY that you start traveling. And that you go to Iran and some of the Asian Islamic Countries – and that you stay off your Super Yacht and you stay OUT of expensive Hotels. And that you start experiencing what the landscape of ancient Cultures can do for lightening and brightening. Because I have taken a trek through the so-called Art of Saudi – and the so-called Design of Saudi from your most esteemed institutions, and I have not seen a thing of beauty except some Portraiture Photography. Faces. Old people’s faces. That is literally the ONLY thing of beauty I have seen, in hours and hours of trawling through your so-called Cultural and Art Institutions and your so-called Art. There are no words to describe it. It’s not Fundamentalist. It is – it’s Fundamentalist. But it is also totally fucked up. But then it is hardly surprising really is it – there is nothing beautiful or lightening or brightening surrounding any of you over there to evoke any superb art. So the only work any of you can create is DARKENING.

Gulf States have destroyed the Levant with Da’ish (ISIS) – but if Trump gets his way and Saudi wades in with the British and Americans to Rebuild the damage – then what ISIS have so far done will be a tiny drop in the ocean of destruction. MBS – you need to sign up to UNESCO and go and Intern there for a couple of years before your country can EVER get their hands on any Rebuilding. You definitely have to send Al Turki off for a cuple of eyars to do that. In fact – I am starting to worry about what harm could come of Libya in your hands. I hate the French right now due to their involvement yet again in the Tri- Partate bombing of Syria last week, for the Zionists. But architecturally – and with regard to Heritage and making the Spaces Spiritually Enlightening – they are safer than the UK and USA and Gulf States. UK and USA as far as I am concerned, have scuppered every single chance they have ever had in Re-Building any of the Countries they put ISIS into.

For everyone that wants to see what I am talimg about – just follow the link. If Architecture was Psychological Warfare then the new Mecca woud win Global Prize. And nothing I think could really top in in a century. Or more.

www.ahmedmater.com/desertofpharan

from Trump wants Arab States to rebuild Syria and Iraq, but what type of Spiritually killing architecture would they plan? And is this one of the reasons Trump wants UNESCO abolished? Zionist Fundamentalist eyesore of Mecca and Medina is a reason everyone needs to see before the entire Levant is destroyed along with Islam throughout the Levant.

#Anthropology #Architecture #Arts #Capitalism #Crime #Daesh ISIS Terrorism #Environment #Fascism #ISI

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beyondvisualgeopolitic · 7 years ago

Text

Trump wants Arab States to rebuild Syria and Iraq, but what type of Spiritually killing architecture would they plan? And is this one of the reasons Trump wants UNESCO abolished? Zionist Fundamentalist eyesore of Mecca and Medina is a reason everyone needs to see before the entire Levant is destroyed along with Islam throughout the Levant.

www.ahmedmater.com/desertofpharan

#Trump wants Arab States to rebuild Syria and Iraq #but what type of Spiritually killing architecture

0 notes