#he has been under the looming shadow of death and has been known as not-grim and loved by many and has done his duty almost like

[lesbiansforboromir]

oh OH hO spicey ohhh having a spicey little tantrum about the boromir tag don't listen to me at all do NOT listen I mean it I mean it this is so petty

[foulserpent]

The Palace of Kings was near unrecognizable from the last time Delphine had stepped foot within.

For a start, it no longer had doors. Its occupant was far too large for that.

The throne had been converted into one gigantic dais, lined with furs and pillows and white feathers. It was ringed by guards sporting a unique scaled armor, and a scattering of servants and attendants. They moved amongst a pile of offerings to the king that lined the platform. Furs, worn war axes, armor and gold collected into piles. Lain in reverence, or perhaps fear fear. Atop it lounged the reigning high king of skyrim. Ysmir, Dragon of the North. 

She was gigantic. She was barely recognizable as having ever been anything but a dragon, instead long necked and longer-tailed, and far too top-heavy to stand on two legs. Her feathers had lost their tan mottling, and now shone bone white in the firelight. She wore no crown but her horns, and a pillar of flame over her head that burned a royal blue. 

Delphine had known her by a different name, and different title. There was a time in her life where she was sworn to her, fought alongside her. There was a time that she even loved her.  This all had long since passed with the years, as the world around her transformed out of recognition, with this dragonborn emperor-pretender being the weight at the very center of it.

The Blades were dead. Esbern had been taken by age three years before. Sky Haven had been taken by some dragon as a roost, and may as well have been destroyed. He had smashed the outside relics of Akaviri architecture with his voice and his tail, and now his sheep grazed among the mountain scrub that grew in its place. 

Whether she lived or died, she was already merely a relic of a world that was long dead. And so she approached the throne. 

Ysmir turned to look at the visitor. 

Delphine froze under the weight of those fiery eyes. The gaze was hollow, mere pinpricks under the towering blue flame. No, not hollow. Far too full. 

She felt the same sensation she had experienced all those years ago, as the shadow of the World-Eater blocked out the sun over Kynesgrove. He had, ever so briefly, looked upon her- and in that moment she was tiny and naked and frail under the talons of his mere glance. He had seen her and acknowledged her, and in the same moment had written her off as something far too tiny and trifling to be bothered with.

This was much the same.

"Greetings, Ysmir." she said, and she cursed her wavering voice.

The dragon did not blink. Her tail- and by Talos, it was the size of an oak tree - twitched its tip in a feline languor. 

"I take it you did not just come to stare?" She said. This voice was familiar. Strangely soft, deep, and sporting the thick-tongued accent sported by only the northernmost Nords. This familiar voice now shook the stone with each flick of the tongue, more like the distant rumble of thunder than anything that would come out of a living creature. 

Delphine's grip on the sword tightened, and Ysmir seemed not to care. She steadied herself, and met her steady gaze.

"We have unfinished business, don't we? Solvej?"

Ysmir lifted her barbed chin in irritation. 

"I doubt it." She rumbled. "And it is quite presumptuous on your part to think I would be interested in resolving anything with your little group of spies.”

“It’s not about that.” Delphine said. “I just wanted to ask you something, before I lose my chance.”

Ysmir raised her head even higher than before, looming pillarlike above the woman. 

“Speak.”

"Could you just tell me why you've done this? All of it. Everything since we last spoke."

Ysmir gazed down unblinking for a moment, then leaned in until the tip of her snout was inches from Delphine’s face. Her hot breath singed the air between them.

"The gods are dead, or being killed as we speak, or turned to stone." She said softly. "Do you understand?" 

Delphine raised an eyebrow.

Ysmir lifted a massive hand. Its terminal digits had stretched and warped outwards into the bud of a wing, complete with the delicate barbs that were yet to be flight feathers. Delphine allowed herself a moment of amusement; it was naked and gray, not unlike a baby bird's wing. 

"Everything lies on a knife's-edge of destruction." She brought two hooked talons together, showing the tiny void between to the woman before her. "The Thalmor of course. You know the Empire has been too thoroughly declawed to stand a chance. But this is more than just the trifling wars of mortals. That will only be a means to an end.”

Ysmir now looked into the distance, ignoring Delphine entirely. “I can save us all. I have done it before, and now I will do it again. Is it so wrong that I try to hold balance in place?"

Delphine shook her head in disbelief. 

"What in the goddamn hell are you talking about?" She threw her arms out. "No- Do you realize how insane this all is? What you've done to yourself? How the fuck is this god-king nonsense helping anyone?!" 

There was passing moment where something resembling indignation breezed across Ysmir's face. It quickly passed, returning to a distant placidity. 

"Unfortunate." Ysmir said, pulling away from the woman to lay back on her throne. "I am not unaccustomed to mortals being ungrateful. And I suppose I should expect that much from you. But it's still quite unfortunate."

Delphine deflated. Her hand returned to her sword. She had lost her touch for subtlety with age, it seemed. 

"May I at least pay homage?" She asked through gritted teeth.

"Do as you will. I have nothing more to say to you." Ysmir huffed, and lay back down, baring her massive breast to the woman before her. 

Delphine approached the dais, white down feathers kicking up around her feet with each step. She had heard of those loyal to Ysmir doing as such. They would be allowed to approach, lay hands on their king, prove to themselves that she is as physical as she is divine. 

Delphine now did as such, lifting a lithe hand and placing it amid the feathers. She was as warm as she had ever been, skin a wrinkled velvet under the soft down. Delphine felt the heart beating between the ribs. It must have been the size of her torso, the way it thundered slowly against her palm. It made what was to come far easier.

Delphine swore a quiet oath on the grave of her order.

The dragon did not react as Delphine drew the sword. She thought she saw the slightest ruffling of brow-feathers, a raised eyebrow over eyes that had already long-since lost interest in what the little human had to say or do, but there was nothing more. 

The dragon did not react as Delphine took aim in one fluid motion, praying her age not betray her, that the strength in her now wiry arms would not fail her.  A guard shouted something.

The dragon did not even stir as the blade slid through her thick hide and slicked its way between her ribs. Several people around her cried out in shock. Delphine gritted her teeth, and pushed until the hilt met flesh and blood welled up to kiss her trembling hands. 

The chest heaved in a massive gasp. 

Ysmir let out a strangled roar. Delphine stumbled backwards, leaving her blade behind as the dragon began to thrash against the pain. Two braziers were snuffed with a swing of her tail. One attendant was crushed as the great dragon crashed off of the dais, and the rest scattered away from the dying king. 

Garbled words tore from her massive throat, and they begged fire and death into the uncaring air, then pleaded everlasting life and healing against a rapidly collapsing body. Delphine had stood transfixed for too long, and one of the Words caught the edge of her and sent her reeling against a stone brazier. Something in her body made an awful crunching noise, and she crumpled to the ground. 

Ysmir's flailing had now quieted, and now she lay sprawled across the hall. Her legs twitched pitifully. Heavy slabs of muscle were caught in spasm underneath feathers that seemed to bristle and flatten outside of her control. Her head flopped to the stone with a thud, bare of its flame. 

Her eyes fell towards Delphine, but they were distant, wide and so very Mortal with terror. Delphine held them where she lay, body broken against the hard stone and fighting with consciousness herself. The guards and attendants and stewards were now crowding in on their king, some fruitlessly casting healing magic, some just staring in awe. Delphine stared as well, face taut with pain and a grim satisfaction. Whether she was taken dead or alive, whether this was the right thing to do or not, this was the end. 

There was an irony to it all. The last of the Blades and the Last Dragonborn. Delphine was too tired to worry about what it all meant. Whatever would be, would be. 

Ysmir took in a shuddering gasp through a foaming mouth. She looked somewhere far away yet, eternally transfixed and small under something only she could see. It looked back at her across all that distance, and she was gone. 

Delphine took a breath, and let her own eyes slide shut.

[thedreadvampy]

this one IS finished (I wrote it in August 2013) and honestly? holds tf up good job 2013 Ruth

(2013 Ruth was evidently very into a) trauma and b) Bertie not being as dead as initially suspected)

TAKE NO PRISONERS GIVE NO QUARTER

The rage hasn't left him since he heard about Bertie. It's amazing what three simple letters can do to a man whose whole self rests on one person. MIA. Theoretically, that's inconclusive, but in reality, that just means there isn't enough left to find, let alone bury. MIA is a pretty common ending to a young man's story, down here in the tunnels. 

The whole tunnel came down on Bertie and the rest of the scouting party, the cracked walls giving up the ghost under the combined pressure of shellling and laser fire. Crushed Lenny and Tommy alike, erasing their differences in one bloody mess, good old boys from Blighty and moonbleached Lenny bastards all rendered down to crushed mess together, There was only one survivor to report back, and was is the operative term. It's hard to get back into active service when you're jam from the waist down, and the poor blighter never even made it far enough to be invalided out to one of the giant Medsats in orbit up above.

So Bertie's gone, and in fairness, Tim never was very stable when left to his own devices, as strings of explosive accidents and charred lab wreckages can attest.

There was shock, at first. The dull numbness of denial,  no no no NO no NO it can't be he isn't he didn't no body no proof he'll be found he'll be invalided out he'll be fine he is was will be fine he isn't gone because he CAN'T be gone. But denial's hard to cling to when you've seen death like the boys in the tunnels have seen, you know a tunnelfall is not something you walk away from. Or even crawl away from. Nowhere to run, with tonnes upon tonnes of lunar rock crashing down from above, tasting your own fate in the smoke and dust that are the forerunners of the boulders...a hellish death, a messy death, above all a certain death. If you aren't crushed you'll suffocate or die of your wounds, out in the deadland where nobody's going to hear your cries. Hells, Tim and Bertie did it often enough, that grim tunnels game you have to play, sitting by the crackling radio, rustling and banging your things around, talking, singing, anything to block out the hopeless, plaintive calls from the nearest collapsed tunnel, where hidden charges and weakened structures and exposure to fire mean you'll most likely die yourself before you can help any one of the poor bastards.

So Bertie's...

Bertie's...

For hours, days, he couldn't even bear to think the end of that sentence, and he understands now as never before why the tunnels are filled with euphemisms, those coy lies that partially cover this unbearable truths lurking behind them.

Gone.

Bought it.

Kicked the bucket.

Pushing up daisies.

MIA.

Bertie's...Bertie's dead.

His mind revolted, twisted and writhed away from considering the existence of a world with a Bertie-shaped lack, the world he now existed in where days and nights were cold and alone and silent and only filled by his cold hands and his cold eyes and his cold heart and his raging fire thoughts with nobody to guide them. There were, at that point, others around him, comrades, others in his dugout, but they no longer existed to him They meant nothing. They weren't Bertie. They weren't his. They were man-shaped shadows, who drifted in and out of his awareness to offer orders or platitudes. They weren't part of his silent cotton-wool world. Tim was...is...an ice cold, glass-sharp shard in the centre of soft, soundless, excruciating nothing.

He has yet to be aware of crying over Bertie, though sometimes he finds the salt wetness on his face to be tears, not blood, sometimes he realises with a shock that the hopeless sob he hears is his own. But thus far he has never sat down to cry, never let himself mourn. For days after the news came, it wasn't real, nothing was real, he just shut off. He stared, blank-eyed, into the middle distance, and performed his duties with silent, mechanical efficiency. His comrades muttered, as the days spread into weeks, talked about "mental", "headcase", "shell-shock," and though he heard them, they no more penetrated Tim's dead-eyed daze than anything else happening around him. But there was one, a soft-spoken Welshman by the name Griffiths (bought it at Sinus Roris a few days later), who hit the nail on the head. Looking at the detached, unreacting figure of Tim as he sat slowly dissassembling his lasgun, Griffiths said quietly, "I reckon that's what it looks like when a man gets his heart broke beyond repair".

That, Tim heard, and almost, almost cried. Almost let it fall loose, all of it, weeks of pent-up tears, crippling fear, total bereavement. Almost shed every tear he had, for the times that were and the comfort that used to be, for his Bertie and for his own heart, that he'd barely known was there until it shattered, and for the snuffing of the one and only true light in these dank, dismal tunnels. He almost cried, but he didn't. If he let the feelings in, he was sure they would destroy him; comprehension of his loss loomed poised, a tsunami waiting to break over him.

He didn't cry. The emotions stayed safely dammed back. His face stayed empty. His heart stayed closed.

And he could have stayed that way forever, floating through life in the dazed, unfocused stupefaction of unbearable grief, but for one thing. Bertie had...had died pushing the lines forward, and the Moonies were working day and night, it seemed, to push back. And they pushed hard. 

They came in the dead of night, trampling across the fallen rock under which was buried the dead of both sides. Tim was on watch that night, he saw the tiny will-o-the-wisp reflection of lights in their eyes, the firelight gleaming off polished buttons. He saw the soldiers who'd mowed down his Bertie (he wasn't there, didn't see how Bertie died, but in the fevered darkness behind his lids, he sees Bertie dying in that godforsaken tunnel night after night in infinite ways, sees him shot down or crushed or lying moaning in the dark, slowly ebbing away a few pathetic tunnels away from Tim's unknowing form), saw them in the flesh now, saw them coming from the wreckage which still buried the only person who'd been real to him, imagined their boots pounding the rubble above Bertie's ruined body. The tension which had been holding him together for every unimaginably long day since the tunnelfall snapped, and the pain crashed thunderous into his head in a flood of images and memory and raw uncurtailed loss, in curly hair and a dimpled smile and pale grey eyes clouded over lying alone dying alone in a stew of viscera and agony and bone and blood and smoke, mingling contamination, blood mixed with his enemies, crushed into moonwhite corpses, a world apart, a world alone, a world where Tim has no control, where Bertie isn't, where Tim...

And without knowing anything, unexpectedly, Tim found the wave didn't swamp him. Didn't crush him, didn't smash him, didn't destroy him. He rode it. His agony and his loss gave him strength, made him unstoppable. Grief surged in his veins, and he surged with it, eyes alive and merciless. He laid red flowers on Bertie's grave. By the time the rest of the platoon scrambled out of the dugout, sleep-fogged and panicking, the battle was all but over, and Tim was gone in a trail of broken corpses.

He is legend. He is death. The monster of the war. His shadow stalks the tunnels, makes Lenny wake up cold and sweating and reaching for his laser in the dark.

Sometimes he surfaces to find himself slick with gore, panting. Sometimes, the flash and scream of his homemade grenades blast him into a moment's lucidity. Sometimes, surrounded by the dead, he awakes to find himself laughing and crying all at once.  Always, he surveys his work with grim satisfaction, but his work is not done, will never be done. The fury which drives him will not be sated, because no matter how many he kills, how many of Bertie's murderers fall before him, there will still be more of the moonbleached fuckers out there, and there will still be no Bertie. No amount of blood is blood enough to repay the loss of Bertie. The tunnels can drown in blood for all he cares, as long as there's a Lenny left on the moon he cannot rest, will not rest.

Lips drawn back, baring bloody teeth in a deathshead grin, skin afire with reflected explosions, hair in bloody ratstails whipping the air, eyes wide and redrimmed and merciless, face soot-streaked and bloody, he runs and he destroys. You can only ride the wave as long as you keep moving. Stop, and the pain grabs you, breaks you, drowns and dashes you, you'll never catch it again.

You know this part. Tim in the tunnels, dancing to the sonorous song of gunfire and grenades, hauling on the lasgun's trigger, a wild onlaught of blood and fire, laughing a chillingly humourless laugh, shout-singing the words that make the Kaiser's men piss themselves and run, take no prisoners, give no quarter. The lucky shot, the sudden blackness that damps the fire in his burning mind. Tim wakes before the Moon Kaiser, unarmed, pained, held by guards.

He isn't like other men, that's what the Kaiser failed to take into account. He's a machine fuelled by love and blood, he runs on the pain-fire that consumes him, he won't stop, can't stop. He doesn't see the world like men do, not any more. Many men would tremble, many men would abase themselves in fear, but Tim is not many men. Many men would be surprised to see the decapitated head of a comrade come alive and wink at them, but Tim's not lived in the real world since the tunnel fell, why would it surprise him? He can't stop, and what the Kaiser forgets, looking upon the animalistic form of the monster of the tunnels, is that Tim is not stupid. He never was, was always smarter than his peers, but now he runs with the liquid fire of revenge, the fire which burnt away fear and hesitation, the fire which burnt down to its white-hot razor-sharp bones one of the Academy's greatest intellects.

The laser fires.

The moon blows up.

White hot victory sears his eyes to black holes.

Not one Lenny is left on the Moon.

For the first time since the tunnelfall, perhaps the last, Tim wears a true, unmitigated smile. His face bloody and bruised, cheekbone fractured, teeth loose in his salt-tasting mouth, lips and beard streaked with blood, burned-out holes where once he had eyes, body a mass of melting pain, Tim spreads wide hands blistered and nailless and torn, and smiles beautifically, his sacred fiery charge at last fulfilled.

Later, there is more pain, and more blood, and metal screaming and grinding bone and screeching glass and merciless, half-familiar voices around him.

Later still, head screaming from the searing, unwelcome clarity of his new brass-rivet vision, he throws away the tenth cup of tea thrust into his hands by the genially smiling wooden man, and goes walking among the wreckage of the Moon. His unfamiliar optics pick out the scorched shell of a British Medsat, palely lit by Earthlight. It's near death, battered, burned, uprooted from its umbilical attachments to the lunar surface. The airlock judders open to let Tim in, red cross shattered and blackened on the pitted and charred surface of the outer door, inside door's glass spiderwebbed with cracks but still gamely holding out against the vacuum of space.

Tim's footfalls are loud in the echoingly abandoned corridors. He passes the dead, nurses and doctors lying where they fell as the satellite buckled and split, some crushed under their equipment, some lying where they bled out, some left bloody marks as they dragged themselves into wards. Behind the airlocked ward doors, surely the dying still moan, soundproofed out of Tim's life. Emergency lights flicker on and off, alternately bright, antiseptic whiteness and total darkness, casting failing, dancing shadows on the crazed, cracked, bloodied floor. The light hurts Tim's head, and he covers his optics with a bandage to spare his tortured brain, navigating the corridors with cracked fingertips and echoing footsteps. Chooses a door at random, steps into the ward. The room is silent, but for a few gasping, cracked, airless breaths. Tim is reminded of the moanings in the tunnels all those eternal weeks ago, the dead men in tunnelfalls who just won't die. He takes another shuffling step, shuffles around when he encounters an unmoving body with his foot, explores the ward in dazed blindness, smelling sickness and death and blood, hearing hopelessness, seeing nothing.

There's a dry cough to his left, and to his right a rattling, juddering last breath, and Tim stops, drawn up short, because that breath sounds his name in impossible, familiar tones, and then is gone.

His heart stops. He rips the bandage from his eyes, flooding his vision with white flickering emergency lights, with blood and the dying, and with the nightmare.

Tim lets out a howl, wordless and meaningless and bottomless, like a wounded animal, like a dying man, like Lucifer falling. Knees and strength give out all at once. Strings cut, he lands on his knees, sprawled across the bed, rocking and shuddering, fists clenched, the unearthly despair sound still tearing out of him from the bottom of his irreparably stained soul.

Under his desperately shaking body, the fresh corpse cools slowly, bereft of the machines that were holding him together, orphaned of their care by the blast which must have blown out both main and auxiliary life support. The dead man has bandaged stumps where once he had long, strong legs, his broad chest has been crushed and crumpled on one side, his smiling, dimpled face now gaunt and etched with unimaginable pain (and now, oh god, waxy and cold and white and bloody-lipped), there's a gaping absence where once there was a laughing grey eye, blonde curls have been shaved away to allow for the livid line of stitches across his scalp, but there is no mistake, could never be a mistake. And broken as he was, he was alive, was awake, was even speaking, and then Tim took his revenge, and now...

And now the wave has broken over Tim a second time, and this time there's no riding it, no using the anger and hatred which fills his every fibre. Because there's no using that white hot fire of revenge when Bertie's killer still lives, will always live, now cannot die.

And now, now he cries, an explosion of tears and pain and keening, hopeless, echoing up from the bottom of the world, thin body wracked, shaking like every world ending at once as he pulls sobs up through every part of him, breathing raw and short and ragged, nothing left but despair and endless, futile pain and rage. Hands tear at his hair and face as if by sheer effort of will he could tear himself apart, kill himself with as much violence and brutality as he killed the Kaiser and his army, but it's hopeless, he can't be killed, he can't forget, he can't escape, it will never be over, he will live forever and he will live with this forever.

Later, Gunpowder Tim leaves the Medsat in its death throes, mechanical eyes unreadable, walks away from the hospital satellite he crippled, returns to the Aurora and the cold, mechanical distraction of her guns, the crew of once-people as hateful as himself. Leaves what was left of his humanity behind in its charnelhouse corridors with the body of his friend/love/victim. Leaves Tim-That-Was to die next to Bertie's body.

Behind him, the Medsat shudders and flares suddenly white in a soundless, soon-snuffed explosion, a funeral pyre for Tim and Bertie. Gunpowder Tim doesn't look back.

[starswornoaths]

A Little Fall of Rain - Commission!

A commission for the always lovely @anorptron, featuring an equally lovely Sage! Thank you so much for your support! \o/

Commission info!

cw: mentions of injury, mentions of death

5.0 spoilers ahead! Emet/WoL

After the sin eater attack on Lakeland, the Scions are at an all time low. Their morale is shattered, the high of their emotional and personal victories stolen from them by Vauthry’s cruelty.

And Emet-Selch should have been happy about that, so why wasn’t he?

After raising up and guiding both the Allag and Garlean Empires with his own hands, after dedicating multiple lifetimes to serving as both the Architect that built such civilizations to soaring heights, and the Harbinger of their downfall, Emet-Selch was more than aware of the delicate balance one had to strike between benevolence and wrath. When the time was right to be gentle and nurturing to a fledgling civilization, and when to bring his might as a sorcerer of eld to bear in order to tear it down at its zenith. 

Despite being one of his more resounding successes in sowing those seeds of chaos, Vauthry had no such natural affinity for wielding his authoritarian power with any semblance of grace or dexterity. Even in victory, Vauthry couldn’t help but act as a gloating child, jeering from an overhead loud speaker attached to his personal airship. 

It didn’t even matter that they were on the same side, technically: the sound of it alone was enough to grate on Emet-Selch’s patience. 

Vauthry’s bellowing, made tinny through the speaker he was projected through, rang sharply in his ears even now, after those gaudy Eulmoran airships had long since taken off for brighter skies. Even with the heaviness of the rainfall that had happened during the battle, and the fat droplets that yet stubbornly continued to fall in the ensuing stillness, were nowhere near as weighty as the defeat they suffered, nor the weight of the insult that Vauthry heaped upon them, on top of it all.

Emet-Selch should be happy. He should be pleased with the progress that his plans have made, now that the final pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. He should have taken this victory and rode its high as long as he could and just basked in it. The sin eaters besieging the already beleaguered people of the Crystarium— at the height of their hope, no less! — should have been the definitive moment of triumph that he had always thought it would be, his just reward for having played his part so perfectly.

So why did it all ring so hollow?

The wounded and dying soldiers, battered in both body and pride, barely paid him notice as he drifted about Fort Jobb as a wraith: silent, looming, practically gliding around the writhing and the eerily still alike. It was hardly a new experience, all but floating among the dead and the dying, and he paid it no mind.

“The tragedy that has befallen you is of your own making. Divine retribution for your defiance.” He distinctly recalled Vauthry taunting.

Cruel for both the callousness of the words and the lack of truth to them; those who dwelled on the First were hardly responsible for the circumstances that led them to this point— in particular when it was the Ancients that guided them to their fate, even before the Ancients themselves fully understood how they had arbitrated over their now fractured world.

They weren’t even people, these frail, fading fragments. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t stand up to destiny. Not even the Ancients could, once.

They weren’t his concern, besides. Hawkish gold eyes scanned the crumpled forms in search of someone familiar. In search of one soul in particular, though if any of those other miscreants were scuttling about, they would do: they would all lead him back to Sage.

It was ultimately the mistrustful gunblade wielder that Emet-Selch found first. Just as well; judging by the purposeful strides he was taking, he was going somewhere in a hurry. Keen on tracking down the Warrior of Light amid the aftermath of such a struggle but not wanting to have to subject himself to this particular buffoon’s empty words and threats, the Ascian hung back and observed from the shadows, as he did best.

A ponderous frown marred his face when he realized that Thancred was not, in fact, approaching the Warrior of Light, but instead speaking with one of the less wounded Crystarium guards. What benefit of the doubt he might have been inclined to give the Scion was promptly dashed when he then moved on to checking in on that discarded little shard of Hydaelyn’s voice— she had a new name, he vaguely recalled with disinterest. With a huff of frustration, he moved on to the next Scion.

That sorceress provided more promising results, for a blessing, as she did not tarry in tracking Sage down— but then, she’d admittedly not had to look far, as he was helping one of the wounded to her for healing just as she had begun her search for him. Feeling charitable— or perhaps, pitying them when they were at their lowest, Emet-Selch silently decided that this would make them even for him ripping her out of the lifestream. 

Sage himself was unsurprisingly nondescript as he helped that granddaughter of the Exarch’s into one of the cots that had been haphazardly set up for triage of the battered battalion.

Y’Shtola clicked her tongue in admonishment, even as she helped ease Captain Lyna down with him. The moment Lyna was settled, Sage withdrew and awkwardly straightened— awkwardly, because of the way it seemed like he couldn’t quite straighten himself to his full height. As if he were too injured to do so.

“Get yourself situated in one of the empty cots, Sage. I’ll be with you as soon as—”

“I’m not wounded.” Sage lied, hands attempting to be subtle as they cradled his side.

“Sage. I’m not completely blind. Nor a fool besides.” Y’Shtola pursed her lips, displeased, even as she had already begun to examine Lyna more meticulously. “You need tending to.”

The Raen’s face crinkled in an almost endearing way. “It’s nothing that can’t wait.” He insisted, unmoving and uncompromising as ever.

After a moment of scrutiny from the corner of her eye, Y’Shtola’s shoulders slumped, ever so slightly, as if in defeat.

“I will not beg you to lean on me, Sage. If you say you are well enough, so be it.”

Even Sage seemed surprised at her words, gaze flitting to the other Scions scattered about the triage center. The young boy twin in the blue coat, he seemed the most fretful, even as he continued to weave healing magicks on a soldier lying on the cot before him, with the assistance of his carbuncle. His sister winced as she looked away. That card flinging fae lover was nowhere to be found. If Emet-Selch had cared to guess beyond his indignation, he might have conceded that the man was simply using his healing magic elsewhere. The gunblade wielder sat on one of the cots, under the watchful eye of that little Oracle girl, both of them strangely silent.

When it was clear no one was going to truly argue with him, Sage took his leave and scurried off with a relieved expression on his face. Curiously, the Scions only looked all the more troubled for his leaving, even as they made no move to go to him.

He said nothing, and for a moment longer, observed from a distance. It was a curiosity, wanting to know how the Scions took Sage so obviously wounded and limping off, even as he felt a low roiling anger in the depths of his belly at how none of them even spared him a second glance as he left. 

“I can’t heal stubbornness.” Y’Shtola all but growled, as if to herself, her focus on the injured Captain.

It surprised him to hear that frustration in her voice almost as much as her dismissal of Sage had been to begin with. 

“Sage doesn’t like relying on us, you know that.” Thancred spoke, his voice oddly soft for how brusque the man had been in all the time Emet-Selch had known him.

They must not have realized he was standing there yet, still so caught up in attending to the wounded and shoring up what tattered defenses they had.

“But we are not leaving him to suffer.” Alphinaud piped up firmly, even as he didn’t look away from his task. “Once we’ve tended to the more immediate cases, he is getting healed.”

“As if that were in doubt.” Alisaie snorted, almost indignant.

Emet-Selch’s frown deepened. They might have thought that was truly good enough, but the thought of Sage being left in obvious agony for any length of time, even for reasons like this, sat poorly with him. Even disregarding what physical wounds he had, it was clear that Sage was already in obvious agony from the light that he had already absorbed.

And his task was not yet done! None of them were! Even as wounded and bleached out beyond all recognition as Sage was, those who purported themselves to be his dearest friends would leave him languish because he’s stubborn? Unacceptable.

“Let this be a lesson to all those who would walk the path of sin— the wicked shall not inherit this world!” Vauthry’s words again echoed in his mind. On that one point, they both agreed.

The writing was on the wall: things were looking grim for the Warrior of Darkness and his cohorts. If there was ever a moment for him to determine that Sage’s cause was unworthy, his abilities lacking, it would, sensibly, be here. 

And Emet-Selch should have been happy about it, Zodiark take him. This should have been a moment to gloat.

If the Scions had at all noticed him at any point before, during, or after that, he didn’t stick around long enough to find out for himself. He had already melted into the dark, already uninterested in their petty meandering and their simpering, hand wringing uncertainty . Now that he knew where Sage was, and understood that he would not be able to well and truly enjoy this victory without knowing that his enemy was alright, there was nothing else for him to do but try to make sure Sage was hale and whole.

A complication in his plan, the Warrior of Light. Emet-Selch wasn’t supposed to care.

That fact didn’t stop him from easily catching up to Sage, didn’t stop him from emerging into the moonlight and making the effort to appear as though his arrival was entirely coincidental— or at least, antagonistic.

He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” He purred as though he happened upon Sage by complete accident.

The Raen met his gaze evenly; it would seem that there was no patience between either of them for ruses and games. Just this once, given the circumstances, Emet-Selch couldn’t find it in him to be bothered by Sage’s stoicism. It shocked them both when he reached for the Bard and caught his chin in his hand. Even as his own actions startled him, Emet-Selch refused to show it, tipping his own chin up to pointedly stare down his nose at the Warrior of Light.

“You can’t just flit to and fro with such injuries.” He clucked his tongue in admonishment, and he felt his nose wrinkle in displeasure of its own accord when Sage winced.

“...Yeah.” Sage agreed quietly. “Didn’t want to worry them, but...I’ve been better.”

That admission was enough to shock Emet-Selch down to his bones. Sage couldn’t say that to the Scions, but he could admit it to his enemy? For what? To what end? He scrambled to make sense of it— what angle was Sage trying to play, what advantage—

Sage flinched again when he tried to move, and practically bit his tongue when he jolted out of Emet-Selch’s grip to curl into himself, as if to try and shield his body from the pain. It was such a reactionary, in-the-moment movement that it would have been almost impossible to fake. 

He wouldn’t anyway, the thought occurred to him, even as he did not want it to.

Something akin to understanding, bone deep and centuries old, awakened in his chest when realization settled over him: like himself, Sage felt more comfortable being weak with someone who was an active threat to him than let himself be vulnerable in the company of his comrades. 

After a long moment where neither of them dared to move, Sage deflated around a sigh, and stole the breath from the Architect’s lungs altogether when he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the shoulder padding of his coat.

The contact made him seize up bodily in spite of himself. The two of them had always, always had distance between them, physically. It had been a safety precaution— on both their parts, he imagined— and it had been preferred. To have that line crossed, not with violence but with vulnerability, was a situation that he had never thought would come to pass. Most of all, because he never believed either of them would ever allow for such vulnerability to exist in the first place.

Most worrying of all, in particular for him, was that he was not repulsed by this new nearness, but instead bent his head down and curled, ever so slightly, into that horrifying new lack of space between them.

“...Sage?” Emet-Selch called his name quietly. He wasn’t sure whether he should be upset or not that his name felt natural to say, despite having never said it once before as anything but a curse, what few times he had said it at all.

He wasn’t even sure how that name felt on his tongue, when not wielded as a weapon to be brandished at the hero.

“Sorry.” The Bard mumbled, and swayed dangerously on his feet. “...Sorry—”

At the buckle of Sage’s knees, Emet-Selch’s arms were wrapped around him to keep him from collapsing onto himself in a heap, and though the motion made the Warrior of Light gasp in pain and clutch and claw at the back of the Ascian’s coat, Emet-Selch remained gentle, shushing him as he carefully knelt with Sage in his arms.

Every tender feeling he had buried since he had lost his first Imperial son rose to the surface, burning the otherwise numb and bitter bones of him. Even as he winced at the way it made the hollow of his chest ache, he held on just as tenderly to Sage, with no less care. In that moment, something inexplicable and undefinable had gripped his very soul, and something about the predicament they now found themselves in made Emet-Selch feel as though all he had in the world who might understand him was the man in his arms.

“Stubborn fool, playing at normalcy while you’re falling apart,” said the Architect, fond even in his insults. His voice was strangely thick with emotions he couldn’t name and daren’t examine. “What ever am I to do with you?”

Any response that Sage might have given him was cut off when he choked back a noise of pain again. He shifted, just barely, in Emet-Selch’s arms to ease the pressure off of his wounds, inadvertently pressing himself deeper in his enemy’s arms.

“Need to be strong for them.” Sage ground out, as if to chastise himself, through his clenched teeth. 

The words were half grumbled into the front of Emet-Selch’s coat, almost inaudible for what trickle of raindrops still pattered against their coats. Sage’s broad hands clutched at the back of his coat with such a desperation that he heard the thick cloth creak under the strain of his grip. He felt his heart squeeze in his throat. Even now, even beaten down so low, Sage would still wrestle with himself and rally every bit of strength he had in himself to fight. And for what? A group of ingrates that didn’t understand how much Sage mattered? Or if they saw, they did next to nothing to show it?

“No, you don’t.” He said darkly before he could stop himself. 

Sage looked up at him, but Emet-Selch was already overwhelmed, and avoided his gaze as he took a moment to swallow his heart. It still pressed hard against his throat when he spoke again, voice thick with everything he denied feeling.

“Do you not understand how tales work, hero?” He asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I didn’t spend entire lifetimes as Emperors that built the arts just for story structure to be ignored.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, Emet-Selch.” Sage shook his head, still trying— and failing— to keep himself from grimacing. 

“Isn’t it?” He challenged. “Or have you already forgotten your role, hero? This is your low point. Your rock bottom before the triumphant rise. This is no time for you to hide your wounds away and act tough, or else you won’t be ready for the finale.”

The silence that Sage answered him with stretched on, marked only by the faint pitter patter of raindrops trickling down from the heavens again, inconsistent and faint as they were. It barely registered to the two men huddled around one another. Almost nothing else mattered but them in that moment.

At that point, there wasn’t much left to matter outside of them, for how thoroughly beaten down and all but decimated the Crystarium’s resistance was.

Sage looked up at him, and it was so, so hard to hold that piercing gaze when he was looking up at him so imploringly. Those eyes were too familiar for him to dismiss as a stranger’s gaze, but too different to let himself believe that he was fine with settling for this shard of his former friend. 

Too enchanting to pull away from.

“If you keep staring at me so, hero...I might think you are expecting something.” Emet-Selch managed around the lump in his throat. 

With the ongoing history of Sage flustering at such ribbing, he’d been all but praying to Zodiark that another such instance would be enough to snap the Warrior of Light out of such a state. Anything to bring back that tinge of strangeness with this new-old friend of his.

“A kiss, maybe.” 

Sage’s lips had barely wrapped around the last of his words before the look on his face told Emet-Selch all he needed to know: he had not meant to say that. The slack, shocked expression, the way his body tensed impossibly more, even through the agony and the injury, was enough for Emet-Selch to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was no ploy, no feint to try and catch his enemy on the back foot; in truth, Emet-Selch wasn’t even sure there was anything Sage could do in his condition, even if the doubt had been given any chance to take proper root in his mind.

Sage truly meant it. He wanted to kiss him. He might have laughed had he not been sent reeling by the revelation.

“And why would you want that, exactly? From me, no less?” He snorted before he could stop himself. When Sage tried to duck his head, Emet-Selch’s gloved hand shot out to hold his face there by the chin to force him to maintain their eye contact; if he couldn’t look away, then neither could Sage. “Ah, ah, ah, honesty is preferable among allies, is it not?”

“‘M no fool, Emet-Selch. I know this means all bets are off between us.” Sage ground out around another wince of pain. “Is it so awful to want a soft goodbye?”

Somehow, despite how adept he was at laying out blueprints for a plan aeons in advance, the thought hadn’t even occurred to the Architect, to end their alliance here. After one loss, even one as catastrophic as this? Even as Sage’s purported enemy, that struck him as grossly uncharitable, even were he to not account for the victories that had led the Scions here.

“Were you not listening, hero?” He sneered down his nose at the battered Bard. “I told you. This is your low point. Your rock bottom before the triumphant rise.”

When Sage opened his mouth— to retort, to gawk, it didn’t matter— Emet-Selch sealed it with his own.

Despite the man asking for it, Emet-Selch expected some level of resistance, some sort of tension, something to imply that Sage had some sort of misgiving. Something to tell him that this was wrong, that they were wrong for bridging that divide between enemies in search of something softer. 

There was no sign to be found, and its absence doomed them both.

Sage all but melted into him, those large hands of his moving in the scant space between them to clutch and claw at his robes, to pull him closer, as if breathing him in would be enough to mend the wounds and the light that have ravaged his body. His grip was so strong, Emet-Selch could hear the leather and the dense fabric of his coat creak between his fingertips. For a moment, it felt as though it were his heart that Sage was squeezing for the rush of endearment that hit him. It was enough for him to cup Sage’s face in his gloved hand, enough to inspire gentleness in him that he had long forgotten.

When had he last kissed someone, and so earnestly? His last wife, when he was the young Garlean Emperor, perhaps, but even then, his attachments to mortals were typically ephemeral, fleeting. He had made the mistake of loving the families he had helped to build, only for them to be lost to him all over again. As if Zodiark himself punished him for straying, for forgetting his first family, from an all but forgotten time when he didn’t know the fear of losing those he loved. 

Sage should have been no different. He should have been a passing curiosity, a flickering comet streaking across the night sky, momentary and easily forgotten. Not this...this aching, raw reminder of the person he used to be, even as every detail that did not match the friend he remembered was as a knife to his heart. 

There was a passing temptation, an itch, beneath Emet-Selch’s skin to rip his gloves off, to feel the Warrior of Light’s skin and scales beneath his fingertips— but that would require him letting go of Sage. The thought of it rankled something dark and possessive, awakened that long slumbering want to covet and keep. 

That wriggling want nestled itself beside that longstanding ache for the one that came before, the one that had shattered into so many fragments and scattered them among the stars. That this fragment was warm and familiar and solid was enough to stir Zodiark into pulling hard at the back of his mind— remember. Remember who you have lost. Remember who I can yet save.

Emet-Selch buried all of it— the whispers of his Lord, the almost-familiarity, the passing impulse, and his fingers, all in Sage’s hair when he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. It was hard to block out all of those warring thoughts, the thundering of his own heart, all of it, but the taste of Sage on his tongue made that struggle worthwhile.

In truth, it was harder for either of them to know where one ended and the other began anymore— or what any of this meant for them going forward. 

It startled him, how reluctant he was to pull away from Sage. By all rights, it should have been nothing but a performative gesture, a hollow token of false affection. It should have made him feel nothing. As it stood, it felt like he were drowning, it felt like he could not breathe for fear of letting even more of Sage into his very being, but he couldn’t help but gasp deeper between kisses. Intoxicated, he could only let Sage rest his weight bodily against him and hold him as tightly as he dared for Sage’s injuries.

With some paltry space between them, Emet-Selch thought, however foolishly, however desperately, that he might regain some of his good sense. But then Sage took longer than him to open his eyes, and oh, but that dreamy, dazed expression and the slow blink at him was almost enough to inspire further foolishness and kiss him again. He was fearful that he would never stop, and they would never get anywhere.

The expression on Sage’s face made it plain that there was something he wanted to say, but a worrying pop from somewhere around his hanging ribs sent him flinching as far away as the circle of Emet-Selch’s arms allowed him with a gasp of pain. It was enough to remind Emet-Selch that he was in desperate need of care. Care that he had run from when it was offered— the sweet fool. Such a pitiful state didn’t suit him.

When Emet-Selch tutted in gentle admonishment, Sage stilled, and again, those eyes captivated him, even wide and gawking as they were. Even the facade of irritability couldn’t withstand such an earnest expression, and he gentled, the hand that had held Sage’s face close once more bridging the distance between them, molding to his cheek. Even as he couldn’t feel much through his glove, he smoothed his thumb back and forth across Sage’s cheekbone.

“Mark me, hero,” Emet-Selch said softly, in the most authoritative tone he could muster, even knowing that he couldn’t muster much in the wake of the tumultuous tides of his heart. “This maudlin pall ill suits you. This is not the end— not of your struggles, and thus, not of our truce.” 

Sage’s expression twisted into one of pain again— emotional and physical both— and a part of Emet-Selch hated that he had to put such a weighty mantle on his shoulders again. Even on opposing sides of the conflict, it was undeniable that the both of them were the Scions of their people. The last bastion of hope and love and grief, meant to stem the tide of the other. 

Despite the inevitability of their fate, Sage was brilliant enough to make Emet-Selch dare to hope, even through the tempering and his own resignation at their destined clash.

And the Warrior of Light needed that hope to be rekindled in him, to spur him to go on, Emet-Selch realized, and made a point to look down his nose at Sage as he gripped his chin to force his gaze to stay on him.

“If you’re so desperate to beg your enemy for a kiss, then let me promise you another, when you can show me the night sky in Kholusia.”

Sage’s eyes widened impossibly further. His mouth opened to try and speak, but even through feeling the muscle of his jaw as he tried to work out what words to say, Emet-Selch didn’t let go of his chin.

“Sage!” Another voice called out breathlessly, shattering whatever spell they had cast on one another.

It was enough to get Sage to wrench his head free of Emet-Selch’s grasp. He snapped his focus to his approaching comrade— the astrologian one, for the life of him, Emet-Selch couldn’t find it in him to care enough to remember his name.

“Urianger—” Sage gasped.

Ahh, that had been his name, then. Or perhaps a choked back sneeze. Emet-Selch didn’t particularly care one way or the other in that moment.

Though a part of Emet-Selch was relieved to have the trance they had fallen into broken, it still startled him how much of himself was so reluctant to extricate himself from Sage; he had thought that the moment he remembered himself, it would be repulsed by his own behavior, his own fondness— weakness— for Sage, but even in that moment as he saw the elezen approach, he could only mourn the end of this moment for what it was.

Still, it wouldn’t do to let that weakness be visible— as the Ascian Architect, Emet-Selch had a reputation to uphold, after all. Though he, too, had turned his head in the direction of the approaching Scion, he glanced back at Sage, still loosely in his grip, from the corner of his eye. Half out of habit, and half out of fondness, the corner of his lips curled into a grin on its own.

“Best get to it, then, hero.” He said. “I’m an impatient paramour. Tick tock.”

Sage couldn’t stop himself from tightening his hold on the front of Emet-Selch’s coat in a desperate bid to keep him there, even as he knew better than to hope that the Architect wouldn’t fade into the shadows, out of his reach.

Again.

All the same, he clung to that comforting, somehow familiar presence until it literally slipped through his fingers, wisps of smoke and shadow and not of this world. A grim reminder of their differences— and of what fate will have in store for them, should Sage fail to hold up his end of their agreement.

He opened his hand, staring down at his empty palm, and tried not to contemplate such grim thoughts. 

When Sage tried to stand on his own, he was reminded of the other wounds he bore that forced him to his knees in the first place. For a blessing, rather than having to brace for crashing back to earth after barely managing more than a crouch, it was Urianger’s arm looped through his arms, around his back, that kept him from that jarring impact.

“Be at ease— I have thee.” Urianger reassured, the arm not holding him upright as he straightened glimmering with starlight and gently laid over Sage’s chest. “Thou mayest seek the comfort of the Architect, as is thy prerogative, I wouldst only beg thee to not do so to escape relying on thy friends.”

“Uri—” Sage winced, tempted to avert his eyes.

“I beseech thee, hark to mine words: we art here for thou, as comrades and family alike. We always have been, even as we hath failed to support thee as we should have.”

Maybe it was Urianger’s healing magic, but even his words acted as a balm on Sage’s battered soul. Reluctant as he might be to believe it, he could only look at the evidence— and when he forced his head up at the sound of more approaching footsteps to see Y’Shtola, Alphinaud, and Thancred in tow, he couldn’t help but believe that they truly wanted to bridge that gap that had always been there, between them.

“Forgive our delay— we only waited so long as we did for the Crystarium healers to arrive.” Y’Shtola spoke, her voice much gentler than it had been when Sage left them at the triage tents. “Alisaie is preparing a bed for you with Chessamile as we speak. Come, let us help you.”

“No need for the fuss—” Sage tried to insist, when Thancred, swift as the wind itself, swooped in— quite literally— to lift Sage’s legs so he was suspended between himself and Urianger’s efforts.

“Sage, you might not open up to us as much as we might hope, but we’re not stupid. There is absolutely a need for the fuss. Now let us fuss.”

Alphinaud nodded in agreement, but his efforts were focused on joining his healing magic to Urianger’s. Even just the immediate relief of not feeling any of the pain from his wounds was enough to flood Sage’s every sense with contentment, though that feeling was immediately chased with the sheer exhaustion he hadn’t been able to feel through the pain and the stubbornness and his own aching heart, twisted and conflicted and longing as it was for a living shadow now beyond his reach.

“All will be well, Sage. Thou needs but have faith.” Urianger promised him, as he had done for Ryne before him.

As he faded off, rocked to sleep by the gentle swaying of Urianger’s and Thancred’s coordinated footfalls, Sage made a desperate wish: let me one day believe that, even as he had just enough faith to fall asleep in their company and know that he was safe and taken care of. Between the healing magic and the calm that swept through him, it was easy to drift away to slumber, even as he could feel the little pinpricks of raindrops tapping at his skin and scales.

He paid it no mind. What was a little fall of rain, after all?

[highviewsmoved]

➤ dabi x reader. (doctor! reader; sort of)  ➤ A relationship that begins with mending, and then a reliance.

She has housed a stranger, this person, unconscious lying in one of her beds while she analyzes him in curiosity. She had found him, abandoned above ground near the trash, seeming to have tried to burn his gash to stop the bleeding but passing out from the pain.

He stirs awake, his movements sluggish.

“You have to lay still,” she murmurs at him, taking the wet rag off his forehead to again reheat in the tiny bowl of hot water she has.

“What the hell?” He gets up abruptly, coming to his senses, looking around the darkness to see that they both were somewhere not above. He is silent for some time and she realizes he is listening to see if there are any voices from the above shops. There are none, and judging by how awful it smells, he knows now. They’re in the sewer.

“Hey, you think it’s sanitary to fix me up down here?” He sneers, she can see the glint of his canines baring at her.

“Quiet or you’ll reopen your wounds,” she scolds him, he looks at her with a blank stare.

He’s an odd person, with dark hair sticking every which way, his skin graft twisting upon itself, the staples pressed onto him in such a way as if to ward off others. A form of intimidation, possibly; there’s something haunting about his gaze. She looks away.

“Who are you?”

“No one.”

He narrows his eyes sharply, a harsh glint in his eyes. “I’m going to ask you again, who are you?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” She looks at him challengingly and he doesn’t back down. There’s a twist in her stomach, something that warns her not to push it with him.  

“Alright, No One ,” his tone is mocking. Then suddenly there's a blue light in his palms, a grim smile pulling at his lips. “I could always use force,” he taunts.

She holds her gaze with his. He is rude and unpredictable; but she is resolute. The underground is her home, she has saved many drunkards, idiots who have strayed the wrong way, she has patched them up to send them on their way. He is not the first to put a knife at her throat.

“Do what you must,” she informs him. “But you have to be the one to explain to my clients why you left me charred and forgotten.”

He clicks his tongue impatiently. His eyes flicker to her and then to the flames slowly burning against his fingers; he presses his palm against the blanket she had over him, distinguishing it.  

“You have clients?” He is suspicious, but she understands why. She is a stranger who saved him.

“What? Do you want to look at the files?” She hands him a thick folder, lists of names; of ex convicts, the homeless, and information on low income families compiled in her messy scrawl.

“Why do you keep a registrar?” He pries, sifting through each page, eyes scanning every single detail.

“For medical purposes, what have you. I need to know the history like any other doctor might need to. It’s a personal file.”

“You know you house for nasty ex cons, right?” He shuts the folder, letting it fall to the ground.

“I know,” she says. She swallows, a hint of uneasiness at the tone he uses, the gaze he has on her is speculative, like he’s weighing her life in his hands. Thinking of pros and cons of allowing this small mercy on letting her live, despite patching him up. It’s not the first time someone has gambled on her. It is not.

“Could get you killed,” he finally adds, his jaw working itself and she sees the staples pull at his skin.

She does not answer him, and he takes her silence as is.

“You know,” he finally starts. “You did some pretty clean work,” he lifts up his shirt to show the large slice on his abdomen, already a scar.

“What’s your quirk?” His tone is demanding, voice resounding off the wall.

“Stitching,” she answers. He cocks his head to the side, wanting an elaboration.

So she shows him, she takes a small scalpel, aiming it at her arm as she makes a tiny incision. She takes her index finger and lets it glide across as it scabs over.

“It is something small, but if I use all my fingers I can tend to larger gashes.”

He looks away from her. This seems to quell whatever doubts he had of her, so he makes his way out, the moon the only thing giving light to the labyrinth underneath.

“No One,” he calls out, and she follows his voice.

He doesn’t say anything else, except the nod of his head is enough for her to know that she is allowed to continue on. He walks off into the shadows without another look back.

--

The next time she sees him, he is on the news, surrounded by his blue flames as he stands against the world.

She thinks to herself, that it could’ve been her in his entrapment, and her heart clenches as she turns away from the tv, muting the sound.

--

He returns again when there is winter and snow upon the pavement, the outside is enough to make her miss the underground. Above ground is a trial, living a life above has done nothing but brought her and others unhappiness. The suffocation of having to live a certain way taxing, especially to seem normal enough to evade any lingering eyes.

Below she is free to do as pleased, to aid those who are turned away. Villain hospitals always want a sort of compensation. An equivalent exchange, but she realizes earlier on that hero and villain are blurred lines. Help, to them, is just another way to show that people always owe something to someone. She knows that this is wrong.

Once she makes it back towards her workspace, she sees him then, waiting outside her makeshift bungalow, looking out of place, his hands shoved in his pockets.

She narrows her eyes, a sudden thought comes and goes. He may be here to kill you , her mind echoes warningly. She steals herself anyways.

He regards her with a nod of his head, a curious glint in his eye.

“I see you made it back again,” she says to him notably, stepping inside into her small workshop.

He follows her, standing near the slit of the entrance, an odd hesitation.

“I’m here to pay back a debt,” he says, in a detached tone that makes her turn to look at him fully.

“I do not require any sort of debt from you,” she responds coldly, clenching her fists as a way to ground herself.

She grinds her teeth instead, a terrible habit. The word debt has always had it’s one singular connotation, something she has loathed for so long. The thing she doesn’t want to be a part of. Someone could use it against you always, in a grudging manner.

He should’ve realized that letting her live was enough. That was part of her deals with the people she helps, they let her live and she patches them up.

He seems to catch onto this, blue eyes similar to the flames he attempted to use against her.

The villain approaches her, the shadows making his face grimmer than usual. “Oh, I get it,” he announces aloud, “I already paid it.”

She gulps, gripping the side of her desk to steady herself. “I thought you would’ve already known.”

He seems to find this entirely amusing because he steps closer to her, his frame lanky, but the broadness of his shoulders and the way he pins her down with his gaze is enough for her heart to go out of control.

If this were any different, she’d think he might touch her, the fear that forms itself is an unsettling weight in her gut.

The way his hand comes up to push a lock of hair behind her ear startles her, lips parting to exhale. She looks at him with wide eyed disbelief because that sort of gesture would be reserved for another sort of relationship entirely.

Most definitely not whatever this is.

He seems to come to his senses because he removes his hand, taking a step back. She watches the way he puts his thumb against the wrinkled skin under his eye, gaze at a random point ahead.

She is so in awe at this man, who works only in the shadows, who returned once more to repay a debt he already paid, and then to do this. This is not what she was expecting.

“Why?” She breathes out, tongue licking her bottom lip nervously.

He huffs, thumb pressing harder against the skin there, something oozing from underneath it. Blood.

“Dunno.”

Her eyebrows furrow deeper, trying to decipher everything about him. She saw him on the news; causing a raucous for the number one and two hero, encircling them in blue flames. The reporter had announced him to be Dabi from the League of Villains, a notorious group from the underground.

“Then why come here, Dabi?” She questions shakily, his eyes snap to her so quickly at the sound of his name.

He narrows his eyes dangerously, coming back to whatever odd trance he was in. Dabi looms over her.

“I don’t like to explain myself — ”

“Then don’t bullshit me. You don’t owe me a debt, you knew that,” she bites out, going against him like this is playing with death all over again. She knows she’s treading on eggshells. But Dabi does not relent.

The way he flexes his hands is enough to know he’s agitated.

He must be in some sort of merciless mood because he doesn’t lash out, not like what she’s seen on television.

She sighs deeply, shutting her eyes to collect herself, whatever he’s playing at, it will be denied even if he threatens to leave her charred. He must be going to use her. There’s no other reason why. With these types of villains if they deem you useful enough, you’ll be included in whatever scheme they throw at you. She wants no part in this. Not now. Not ever.

“Listen, I helped you once, you were in need. You let me live in exchange. There’s nothing. Unless you’re bleeding out again, I won’t help you.”

“Help?” He scoffs, his look contemptuous. “You think I came here to offer your hand or something?”

She flushes angrily at this. The nerve . “Whatever you came here for, I don’t want any part in it.”

Dabi reels back, slack jawed. He quickly regains his cool composure covering up his earlier fumble. Dabi stuffs his hands in his pockets, leaning in close.

“Maybe I came to see you.”

She gapes, perplexed by his hot and cold personality. He came all this way to give her a headache, to fill her with dread. What a charmer .

She pinches the bridge of her nose, suddenly feeling defeated. “This solves nothing.”

“Oh?” Dabi replies lazily, “what do you mean?” He taunts, teeth flashing in a curling smile as she looks away at him stubbornly.

“I feel like I’m being played,” She says more to herself, when finally she releases a breath she’s been holding, “whatever, if you want to stay then stay.”

Dabi takes this as a triumph because he stands a bit taller. “I thought you’d never offer.”

She throws him a questioning glance, going near her desk where stacks of files are, and begins to organize them through.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees him wander off near the medical supplies, to examine all the equipment she has, eyeing the monitors.

“Is this where you live?” It startles her that he suddenly wants to know this. She doesn’t answer for a bit, mulling over to actually tell him she doesn’t exactly live in the underground, that it’s only just her set up, and that her apartment is above ground.

“Well?” He drawls, holding onto a saline bag, fingers toying with the substance.

She scowls at him. “I don’t live here, this is just my workshop,” she says softly, her thumb rubbing the paper in her hands as she sets it back in the manila folder to store it away in her desk.

Dabi drops his hand, approaching her desk area, to see what she’s doing.

“Where?”

She looks up at him, tendrils falling into her face, trying to school her shocked features. He’s been probing her this entire time, and it’s starting to irritate her more than ever. What reason could she possibly gain for a notorious villain to know where she lives?

He has no boundaries, she thought he was a lot smarter than that, but now she’s going to have to set them.

“I can’t disclose that,” she replies smoothly.

Dabi in an effort to seem considerate, takes this, but his expression and smile quickly turns sardonic.

“I’ll give you a deal then.”

Her expression stern, and with no amount of hesitation, she denies him. “No.”

She spots the tick in his jaw and suddenly his arm comes up behind his head, hand resting on his neck.

“Alright, I’ll take that.”

She narrows her eyes, not trusting him in the slightest. She then checks her watch, seeing the time, she knows one of her clients should be coming anytime now.

Now, how to kick out a supposed guest with lack of propriety.

“Who are you expecting?” He asks, watching her lazily as she furrows her brows.

“I can’t tell you these things, it’s all private,” the way he acts seems almost foolish. As if he’s teetering between the image of an aloof person who holds back to a nosy man she would meet at a bar who seems all too intrigued by her livelihood in an attempt to know her.

She doesn’t quite understand the contrast.

“I’m going to need you to leave, Dabi,” she pointedly adds, “a client will be coming any moment now.”

Dabi’s form seems to slouch as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, working his jaw around.

She turns her back on him, ignoring the burning of his eyes on her back, the way they seem to bore into her. It’s as if he’s searching for something. She holds her breath for a long while, and the moment she hears the retreating of his steps, is when she finally exhales. Attempting to still the trembling deep in her bones.

--

Dabi continues to seek her out, she takes this in strides, in even glares and biting her tongue. She cannot refute him entirely, which she finds is a weakness in itself. He seems to come back for one thing only: company.

It’s a silent sort of company because she hardly tries to acknowledge his presence but he seems more than happy to make himself known when he does return.

All the more irritating for her, she notes.

So when she sees him again during a more stormy night, his expression dark, hair wet against his face she blinks up at him, when he makes his way through her tent. The lamp at her desk is the only source of light.

He sits down on the chair adjacent to her. She stops scribbling in her notepad, biting her lip because the silence seems deafening. The feeling smothering, whatever sort of emotions he has, it is a torrent.

The crack of thunder outside is heard even below.

Dabi’s hands, she notices, are facing upward on his thighs. He seems to be eyeing them blankly, and she looks down, realizing they seemed to be bleeding, new wounds opening up.

“Dabi,” she calls out to him and he seems to return, blinking away whatever trance he was in.

He only grunts out a response.

“Your hands,” she says gently, her chair moving to be closer to him, her knees almost touching his.

“I used them too much,” he tells her. He looks even more like a dead man walking than he ever has before.

“I can,” she forces the words out, hesitant on speaking them. “I can help you.”

She moves to gently grab one of his hands, understanding that if he doesn’t pull away she can proceed to do what she needs to. Once she knows he’s allowed her to, she uses her quirk to gently close the wounds opening, his skin seeming to pull away from his staples. He does not cry out in pain just watches her work as she does the same to the other palm. The way her index finger carefully glides across his skin causes goosebumps to form, but she does not notice. She is intent on working.

Dabi at this seems to calm, the wetness from his hair sliding down his face.

“You’ll need to dry up, Dabi,” her brows furrowing, “or you’ll get sick like that,” she admonishes.

He stills, his body leaning in close, head nearly touching hers as he grasps her hands.

Dabi holds them carefully, bringing one closely to his mouth, her heart beating quickly in her chest. A strange heat working its way up her back and neck.

She can feel his breathing on her hands and suddenly his lips are on the inside of her palm, flesh to flesh. She stutters out a breath, as she pulls her hand away quickly. The clatter of him sitting up abruptly and her moving away disrupts that single moment. Neither move.

She clutches the hand he had touched and looks at him wide eyed.

The roaring in her ears incessant as she watches him, unsure of what he will do. Never has he done this before, this is crossing a line that she knew they both had drawn since the beginning. He broke it by making the move first.

She looks away from him, a wetness forming in her eyes, she can’t speak and feeling so terribly foolish for not being able to say anything.

Dabi breathes heavily, Adam's apple bobbing, and he does what he knows best. He leaves without a word, into the night, not once looking back.

--

It had been weeks since the incident, she had lost track of how long it had been since Dabi had come that one stormy night. She remembers how he had looked awfully lost. Vulnerability looked odd on him, as he always carried himself in such a manner that gave no insight to what his emotions truly were.

And just like that, like the storm that blew through that day, they both left, leaving behind minor traces. She can still feel the burn of his lips against her inner palm. She did not know what his expression was, but she could try to imagine what he looked like in that moment, wounded perhaps; maybe even just as shocked as she was at what he did.

She folds the clean linen on her two hospital beds, patting them down to fix them, making sure they looked presentable in case anyone else blew through here. Last week was a nasty one, a bar fight had happened nearby and she had stitched the wounds of two grown men. Both looked completely out of it as she worked, thankful they didn’t threaten her.

When she finally adjusts the pillows she hears the bristle of the tent moving and she stands up straighter.

She looks from the corner of her eyes seeing a foot in the entrance and she sighs. “Please come back in a few moments,” she says aloud, huffing as she pats down the final sheet, tucking them in.

The person standing there steps in, revealing it to be the one person she hasn’t seen in so long, so when she turns she pales suddenly.

Dabi is there, and she gasps, nearly dropping the pillow she was fixing on the dirty ground, the expression on his face entirely too neutral for her favor. Though the only thing she can clearly read is his eyes, much brighter than usual.

She swallows down all of the conflicting emotions. He has come and gone so many times, has been an odd presence, one of torment but of company. A part of her thought she disliked him for seeming almost too familiar but he still kept her at a distance, despite always coming back.

Dabi approaches her, and she stares into his eyes, almost allured by them.

“Why?” She breathes out, voice small, her chest tightening as he seems to draw back from her question.

He pushes forward, regaining himself as he reaches out. No, no .

She is aching as his fingers graze her chin. They drop carefully away then and she licks her lips, suddenly feeling a dry sensation in her mouth. She is truly at a loss for words.

There is no other reason why he should be returning, unless it’s for an explanation. Maybe she owes him this time. A part of her wonders where the thought came from, the other is frightened by it.

“To see you,” he says finally, just saying those words seemed to take a toll on him because even he is uncertain. Then he braces himself, seeming much more certain.

“It’s to see you,” he repeats, not just assuring himself, but also for her and she gapes at him.

“I don’t understand— ”

His eyes blaze, searching into hers. “I don’t understand either, but here I am.”

She feels her lips tremble, so at odds with his determination of steel. She never could understand him, he was a stranger and yet she always felt at ease with him despite their tense first meeting.

They shared moments together that were between each other and no one else. She releases a shaky breath, her hands clasping together to keep her grounded.

Dabi takes this as a moment to take her hands in his, this time she doesn’t pull away. All the turbulent emotions she may feel are tossed out the window as she allows this.

“This is enough,” he says, close to her and her eyes flutter close, relishing in the moment. She surrenders herself, no more questions, no more turning away. She will accept it, holding it carefully in the palms of her hand like the kiss he left there.

Dabi leans in closer, that she feels his breath and she opens her eyes, they look into each other for what feels like hours. She slowly shifts her head, closing the distance between them, their lips together is chaste.  

She pulls away, licking her bottom lip, unsure if to continue. She gives him this opportunity to opt out. It is ultimately his decision whether he leaves or not.

Dabi’s hands break apart from hers and slowly move to cup her face as her lips part watching him as he dips his head to press his lips to hers once more. The kiss is slow and mind numbing. She moves to be against him, gripping his jacket to steady herself.

All of the feelings, the tension, becomes unbound for this singular moment between them and it is to her, the most divine thing to happen.

He touches her lightly, holding back, so she decides to be bold. To be the one to make her move, it is her turn now.

So she deepens the kiss and she can feel his breath stutter oddly, as they continue this for quite some time until they break apart, breathless.

He presses his forehead against hers, jaw clenching as he shuts his eyes, her hands rove up to his neck placing them there.

They say nothing for a while, just enjoying their time together before reality awards them with a rude wake up call; to remind them both of their place, of the fact that he is a villain and she is not tethered to remain above.

Dabi and her both have their shadows, their own darkness they do not speak about, but they have come to realize they are each other's harbor. They savor as much as they can here and now.

She sighs, moving to hug him close as he molds into her embrace.

“Yes,” she says, echoing his earlier words, “this is enough.”

[theaurorfileshq]

Below you will find a conclusion to the various main events of season two. If you have any questions regarding any of these events and how they may have impacted your characters please let me know. 

The Fate of Judith Eames and the Vice Presidency 

Several weeks passed since Judith Eames and her husband vanished along with all of their worldly possessions from their Vermont estate. As time wore on, and MACUSA continued to investigate the disappearances through the Bureau of Covert Vigilance, many assumed the Vice President fled of her own accord, wishing to run away as the scandal surrounding her and the doomed Scotland mission grew after her son’s testimony against her. 

The many questions surrounding just why Judith did what she did, would never be completely answered- however, the mystery as to where she may have gone would be some weeks later.... 

Central Squad aurors Abel Montero and Ignatius Yaxley were assigned to work a homicide out of Kentucky. The victims were that of two sasquatches, who’d been found in the woods deceased- both appearing to have been murdered by a killing curse. After further inspection of the bodies, Beast Medical Examiner Imelda Hawthorne would make the astonishing discovery that the two sasquatches weren’t sasquatches at all, but rather the bodies of Judith Eames and her husband. 

The case would quickly be taken out of Montero and Yaxley’s hands and handed over to the Bureau of Covert Vigilance for further investigation. The Bureau would then spend the next two years chasing down lead after lead, each one only resulting in a dead end. Just who murdered Judith Eames and her husband remains a mystery to this day, and the case file on their deaths now gathers dust on the Cold Case Floor. 

House Speaker, Francis Harbird, would eventually take Judith Eames’s seat as Vice President. Harbird would later make what would become a rather unsuccessful run for president himself, after Ortega’s final term ended. The campaign, plagued by a sex scandal after several of Harbird’s mistresses came forward, would end before it nearly began. The Harbird name would not completely vanish from MACUSA after Francis’s failed campaign, however. Francis’s son, Daniel Harbird, was beginning to make a name for himself in the Auror Department. Two decades later, Daniel would find himself serving as one half of the Pacific Squad’s administration team, serving under Chief Victoria Lin as her Deputy Chief. 

The New Blood Order Attacks Port Steward

The New Blood Order was at its infancy in early 1998, with many aurors either not having heard of them- or had simply wrote them off as the ravings of a handful of criminals. This would no longer be the case though after the spring of 1998. In the early morning hours of April 11th, a series of packages would be mailed out across Port Steward, all finding their way to the windowsills and doormats of 50 muggleborns across the city. These muggleborns were the 50 refugees Port Steward had taken in from the United Kingdom, during the height of the second Wizarding War- and would include Central Squad’s own Miranda Amaro-Bott. 

Inside these packages were infant basilisks, too young to kill their victims, but old enough to petrify any who dare gaze into the eyes of the young serpents. Mountain Squad auror, Tobias Whitney, would open Miranda’s box, and become instantly petrified at the sight. Thirty-two other muggleborns would suffer the same fate before the alarm was raised and soon aurors were dispatched to collect the remaining packages. Upon further examination of the mysterious packages, aurors would discover each contained a note, all reading- 

“Consider this a warning, and your final one. A new dawn is coming, blood will cleanse blood, and order will be restored.”      

After the 1998 attack on Port Steward the New Blood Order would soon become known nationwide, and therein cause a resurgence in blood prejudice in the country. This blood prejudice would take a somewhat different form than what had once gripped America though. For centuries it was halfbloods, born out of the result of a pureblood and no-maj, that’d faced scrutiny. The New Blood Order, however, has branded both no-maj halfbloods and muggleborns as “unequals” compared to their pureblood counterparts. 

Over twenty years later, The New Blood Order has transformed from a small group of renegade blood purists to a terrorist organization. The 1998 attack on Port Steward would only be the first in a series, and sadly the attacks would only grow more brutal and deadlier as the years wore on. 

The origins of the 1998 attack would eventually be linked to a case that the Central Squad worked on- that of the Petrification of Peacemaker Fallow. The basilisks that were used in the attack had been stored in an abandoned mine near a Quaker community outside Iowa City. After a string of petrifications, and catching the attention of the Central Squad, the basilisks would be removed before aurors could find them. The wix suspected of the attack is Raymond “Rune” Vance, and is still considered an at large and still a very much active member of The New Blood Order. 

Allen Snow’s Warning from the Grave

In the midst of everything that was happening in Season Two, an investigation was quietly underway headed by aurors Marleigh McMahon and Baron Snow. This investigation, centered on the mysterious organization known as “Appius”, would eventually lead Baron Snow to try to communicate with her long dead grandfather- a former Appius member himself. 

With the help of Cypress Crow, Baron would be able to successfully reach her grandfather. When the line of communication was successfully established, Baron would finally be given the chance to ask what questions she could to the man who was the former Chief of the Eastern Squad in 1954, and died by his own hand after being discovered at the center of an extensive corrupt plot at the time. 

When the subject of Appius was brought up, Allen Snow delivered a swift warning to his granddaughter- that Appius was more far reaching than she’d ever imagine, and to never underestimate them. When asked why Allen was a member of the group, he explained that he (like most Appius members) was first seduced by the idea of what he could achieve with the group behind him. It wasn’t until it would be too late, would Allen discover the true lengths his “deal with the devil” would truly take. 

Before the conversation ended, Allen did give Baron one additional warning. He explained to her that all Appius members take an Unbreakable Vow when they are sworn in- himself included. The spell binding together the Unbreakable Vow included the inductee to swear to keep the group’s identity a secret, swearing on their own life to do so. Allen explained that his death was the result of him having to carry out his vow, and that should Baron believe she’s discovered an Appius member she should use extreme caution. If she were to corner that member and try to force them into divulging any of Appius’s secrets, then that member’s life would be in danger. 

The Second Appius Member

A week would pass after Baron’s conversation with her long deceased grandfather, when Marleigh McMahon would finally hear from Commissioner Moira Henshawe about a new lead. The message from Henshawe was brief, simply asking McMahon to go to Wand Specialist Romero’s office, with little more explanation than that. 

When McMahon followed the Commissioner’s instruction, they would find a much more solemn Romero, quietly sitting at his desk. The usually charismatic and personable wand specialist had clearly been disturbed by some news, and the grim expression he wore only worsened when his eyes fell on Marleigh McMahon. 

When asked what was the reason for the meeting, Romero would explain that Moira had been having him examine the training dummy used on the Scotland Mission. The same training dummy that someone first charmed as a portkey then had sabotaged quickly after twelve of the Central Squad aurors used it to get to Scotland. 

Romero would go on to explain that it took him several days to figure out just what kind of wand was used on the dummy. Once he was able to determine the wand’s wood and core, he then went to the wand permit office and began searching for MACUSA employees who both carried that specific kind of wand, and would have had access to the Auror Department. 

After a long sigh, Romero revealed that he found there was only one person who both carried a wand that matched that of the one used on the training dummy, and would have had access to the auror’s training facility- 

Abigail Langer. 

With this newfound information there was little left to do but to confront the Acting-Chief herself. Allen Snow’s warning would prove to be a difficult blockade to navigate around though. Should Marleigh and Baron directly ask Langer anything about Appius, then she would no doubt meet the same fate Allen Snow did all those years ago, in his own office back in the Central Squad. If they were going to confront Langer they would have to do so, but with an amount of tact that would likely not get them all the information they wanted, should they want to prevent their Acting-Chief’s death. 

When Marleigh and Baron did go to Langer’s office, three things became clear from the distraught and guilt-consumed look on the wix’s face. The first, was that she clearly knew what they were there for, and had likely been anticipating the conversation for some time based on how haggard she looked. The second, was that it was indeed Abigail who was the Appius member that met with Marleigh a couple weeks prior, wearing Margot Brendanawicz’s face, hoping to warn Marleigh before they too became another victim of Appius’s endless stratagems. And then, the last thing that became clear the moment their eyes laid on Abigail, was that her wand may have damned them in Scotland, but it was not her hand that used it. 

Abigail Langer was far from the looming monster in the shadows Appius seemed to be, but rather another one of its countless victims. Someone who walked into the lion’s den as a twenty-four year old, hopeful the group could help her one day become Commissioner, and give her the power she needed to make the changes the department desperately needed in order to fulfill its sworn duties. And while Appius certainly had helped her on that path she- like so many other of the young naive hopefuls Appius grasps onto, didn’t realize the true extent to the bargain she’d just made. 

None of this though Abigail could communicate with Baron or Marleigh, no matter how much she wanted to. She desperately wished that she could tell them that she didn’t know what her wand was going to be used for. That she was simply given an order to leave it in her desk and drop the security wards on the training facility. She wanted to tell them how if she’d known any of Judith Eames’s plot she would have prevented the Scotland Mission from happening, rather than unknowingly start the chain of events that’d leave the aurors stranded- her aurors. 

Instead, she could say very little, without risking the Unbreakable Vow she took to claim her own life. She could say very little at all, even with the clear amount of tact Baron was using to get her to reveal anything- something. When all was said and done, and after Marleigh stormed out of the office in a storm of curses and their resignation, all Abigail could do was leave as well, abandoning the position she’d only recently taken up. 

After that day Abigail Langer would not be found again in the Aurors Department, although she’d never fully disappear from MACUSA. The next work day the aurors would be greeted with the news that Abigail Langer had been transferred over to the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance, where she remains to this day. 

Season’s Close

At the conclusion of the season, the Central Squad for the third time that year, found themselves welcoming a new chief. This time, that chief would be a wix by the name of Claudine Roy, Claudine was a former member of the Central Squad who’d left ten years prior to work for the MACUSA Surveillance and Wizarding Resources Department. Roy’s acceptance of the position was welcomed by some of the older aurors within the squad, who remembered Roy from the auror’s time as a Captain. 

For the next couple weeks following Langer’s abrupt departure, newly appointed Chief Roy worked on reestablishing a normal routine within the squad. They began holding weekly staff meetings within the bullpen to go over some of that week’s cases, and major events going on in the country. These meetings proved especially useful as The New Blood Order began to emerge as an increasing threat for the nation. 

It was during Roy’s third week on the job when they began to start seeking out a Deputy Chief within the squad to fill the empty position. Day after day, Roy would call in some of the squad’s most high ranking aurors, interviewing each one as a means to both get to know their new squad better, and see who would fit well as their second in command. 

It was on the fourth day when Roy called in the squad’s youngest inspector, Baron Snow. The interview would carry on just like all the other’s before it, the questions weren’t anything out of the ordinary, although it was clear Roy was impressed by Baron Snow’s dedication and ambition. When the interview concluded, and Snow turned to head back to the squad’s bullpen, Roy spoke up, the twang in their southern accent a little thicker than usual-

“Hey, darlin’,” they say, and they can’t help but grin as they see the young auror pause. Their voice may sound different now, but they’re certain Baron recognized it all the same. Opening their desk drawer, they retrieve a cigar out of the box that sat inside, and hold it up so that the inspector could see it. 

“You don’t happen to like cigars, do you?” 

Their smirk is a knowing one, but not malicious. They may be on two different sides to this quiet war that’s been brewing in MACUSA since Appius took its first breath in 1887, but they have developed a sort of fondness for Allen Snow’s granddaughter since they first met in that hotel room all those weeks ago. Baron Snow was meant for greater things within MACUSA, and while she may not have pledged her loyalty to Appius, Roy felt compelled to give her this first small step towards greatness regardless. 

“Congratulations, Deputy Chief Snow.” 

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Bad Blood - Chapter 8

You can read it on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

________________________

Peter doesn’t sleep on Friday night. He checks his phone for any emails and texts from other packs, and the silence is both deafening and pointed. The Hales are on their own. Deaton has emailed him. He’s heading down to Mexico to talk face-to-face with Araya Calavera, the matriarch of a hunter family known for its strict adherence to the Code.

It’s a long shot, probably, but Peter appreciates the gesture.

If the Calaveras didn’t give a fuck about the Argents going rogue six years ago when they burned the Hale pack to the ground, why the hell would they care now?

Scant hope, he supposes, is better than none at all. So Peter is grateful to Deaton for the attempt, even though he’s cynical enough to know nothing will come of it. That scant hope comes with a stab of guilt as well, because Peter has pushed Deaton away since the fire, and told Laura exactly what he thinks of emissaries and their useless advice. He hasn’t been fair to Deaton, he suspects. But then it’s been a long time since Peter has felt inclined to be fair to anyone.

It’s still dark when he pads downstairs for something to eat, even though it’s nowhere near breakfast.  

Peter helps himself to the cereal. It’s some sugary brand that Matty loves and insists that they buy for him. Nobody else eats it. Peter pours himself a bowl to save it from going stale, but he discovers that he doesn’t have the stomach to finish it.

He hopes Matty isn’t too homesick. He hopes he’s enjoying the tree house by the lake. He hopes that this ends soon, and he can come home.

That feels like the most hollow hope of all.

He thinks of John Stilinski, and how defeated the man had looked the other night when Peter had watched him through his kitchen window. That’s how Peter feels most of the time, although he doesn’t have the luxury of sinking into a bottle of whiskey. Peter might not be the alpha, but his pack—small as it is—relies on him. Laura needs to know that her left hand is steady. Derek needs to know that he isn’t alone. And Matty…

Matty needs his Uncle Peter to come home to.

Peter looks up at he hears footsteps on the stairs. He tilts his head and hears Derek’s familiar heartbeat. Moments later, the loft door opens.

“How was the party?” Peter asks.

“Why are you lurking here in the dark?” Derek mutters.

“I’m cultivating my persona,” Peter says. He doesn’t need light to know that Derek’s giving him a death glare for that. “I couldn’t be bothered turn a light on.”

Derek grunts.

“How was the party?”

“Scott kept control,” Derek says.

Peter doesn’t need to be a left hand to know there’s something Derek isn’t saying. He’s his uncle. He’s been able to read him like a book since he was a toddler. “And?”

“And nothing,” Derek says, gruff and flustered.

Well then.

Peter allows himself a slight smile at that. So Derek got distracted by some pretty thing, did he? It’s been a while. Peter doesn’t begrudge it. Derek’s no Scott, after all. He knows how to prioritise safety over sex.

These days, at least.

It was a hard-learned lesson though, for everyone.

Derek flops down on the couch opposite Peter’s.

“Deaton’s going to Mexico,” Peter says. “To speak to Araya Calavera.”

“What will that help?” Derek asks.

“Something Laura said the other day,” Peter says. “She said that even if we could win against the Argents, what would stop the other hunter families from coming? Well, this might.”

“You really believe that?” Derek’s eyebrows tug together.

“It’s a slim hope,” Peter admits, “but it’s better than nothing. Which is our other option, by the way.”

Derek shows him a tight, grim smile.

Peter thinks again of John Stilinski. Stilinski is like a pebble in his shoe. An irritant. There’s something about him that Peter just can’t ignore. Peter doesn’t like it when he can’t solve a puzzle, and that’s what John Stilinski is. He’s a puzzle, with pieces that refuse to fit together.

Derek leans over and inspects Peter’s bowl of cereal, and then, with a shrug, steals it and begins to eat.

Peter watches him with a smirk.

He isn’t sure how much Derek and Laura know about what happened on the night of the fire. They were both out and, when they were finally able to see Peter at the hospital, there was just so much to take in that night, and over all the followings days and nights, that he’s not sure that one little detail—John Stilinski breaking the line of mountain ash so Peter could escape—wasn’t swept away under the sheer weight of everything else.

The loss of their parents, their siblings, their pack.

The loss of their home.

Laura’s new alpha status.

Derek’s crushing guilt when he realized that the woman he’d thought he’d loved had been the one who struck the match.

Matty’s slow recovery from his burns and his smoke inhalation. There had been more than one occasion where, when he was fighting infection, that the doctors told them to prepare for the worst.

Peter stretches and stands. “I’m going out.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Peter flashes him a smile. “Then don’t wait up, nephew.”

***

It’s not the middle of the night at all. It’s almost dawn when Peter finds himself at Stilinski’s house. Peter approaches it from the back—he has a working relationship with the dog next door, and Jasper hasn’t given him any trouble since that first night years ago when Peter growled right back at him. There are lights on in Stilinski’s house—upstairs in his bedroom, and a few downstairs. An early shift? Peter might be a hell of a stalker, but even he doesn’t know the man’s roster.  

And then he hears voices: low and angry.

Peter slips down the side of the house to the front yard.

There’s a black SUV parked out the front of the house, and Chris Argent is standing in the sheriff’s open doorway.

Well, he’s standing when Peter first sees him.

And then he’s flying backwards and landing on his ass on the porch, and John Stilinski is stepping out of the doorway to stand over him.

Chris Argent shows the sheriff his palms. “John,” he says, and then: “Janusz.”

“Get the hell off my property,” Stilinski says.

So it’s not a lie, and it never was. John Stilinski really isn’t a hunter anymore. He’s not an ally though either, is he?

Peter watches closely.

“John,” Chris Argent says again. He climbs carefully to his feet, and takes a few steps back. Peter doesn’t blame him. Stilinski looks like murder. “You broke the Code.”

“That’s a lie.” Stilinski’s heart doesn’t skip a beat. “If that’s what he told you, it’s a lie.”

Chris flashes a bitter smile and shakes his head. “You betrayed us.”

“I didn’t—”

“You left us!” There’s more hurt in Chris Argent’s words than Peter would have thought a hunter was capable of feeling. And then his stoic mask is back, like it was never lifted. “You’re a traitor to every oath you swore to uphold, John.”

“Get the fuck off my property,” Stilinski says. “I won’t tell you again.”

Chris shakes his head again, and turns and walked down the porch steps. They creak under his boots. He stops when he reaches the ground, and turns back. “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

“You keep telling yourself that, you son of a bitch,” Stilinski says. “See if it’ll help you sleep at night.”

He slams the door.  

***

“Derek,” Laura says on Tuesday night, “are you even listening to me?”

Derek looks up from his phone guiltily. “What?”

“I asked if you were even listening to me,” Laura says, rolling her eyes.

Derek flushes, colour rising in his cheeks, and shoves his phone in his pocket. “Sorry.”

“You’ve been checking that thing for days,” Laura says. “Did you and Scott accidentally bodyswap Friday night? Because I’d swear you’re as ridiculous as him right now.”

Derek glares at her.

“Oh, you did!” Laura exclaims. “You turned into Scott, and you met a pretty girl at the party too, and now you’re in lurrrrve! Any second now all your higher brain function will migrate to your dick, and you won’t be able to form a single coherent thought!”  

“Shut up,” Derek mutters, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’m not in love.” His flush deepens. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. “And it wasn’t a girl.”

Laura’s eyes widen. “Tell me everything! Is he cute? God, no, it was a high school party. Acne-ridden nerd, or acne-ridden jock?”

Derek tries to disappear into the space between his hunched shoulders.

Peter might enjoy moments like these, he thinks, moments of teasing banter, if only the shadow of the Argents didn’t loom over them.

“Alpha,” he says pointedly. “While I’d love to tease Derek as much as the next person, can we please focus on the issues at hand? This is a strategy meeting. How about we try some actual strategising?”

Laura perches on the edge of the couch, her smile fading. “You’re right, sorry.”

And Peter feels like a monster, for stealing this moment of levity from her. She’s had so few since the fire.

“So do we have a strategy?” Laura asks. “Or are we just sitting ducks?”

“We fight,” Peter says. “That’s the strategy. We take them down before they take us down, and we hope that Deaton can make a case with the Calaveras to keep the other hunter families off our backs.”

Laura nods, and exhales slowly. “It’s the only option, isn’t it?”

“I think so, yes,” Peter says.

Derek nods slowly.

“I think that—” Laura stops suddenly, and draws a sharp breath. She sways, and Derek reaches out to steady her. “Oh god!”

“Laura?” Derek asks.

And then Peter feels it too. A sharp burst of not-quite pain, like a flash of white in his vision. It shoots along his pack bonds in his mind, a discordant twanging string on a musical instrument Peter knows well enough to play by feel, suddenly out of tune with all the others.

Something’s wrong with the pack bonds.

Something’s very, very wrong.

Peter sees the bonds in his mind’s eye, and one is rapidly fraying, strands unravelling, the pieces holding it together thinner and thinner by the moment.

Peter can almost hear it when it snaps.

Laura gasps, and her hand flies to her throat. “Scott!”

[lord-tathamet]

Dungeons & Dragons: Adventure Prompts

 1. Traveling through a particularly dense part of an elder forest, the adventurers come across eery, man-sized totems fashioned from animal bone, furs and hide looming over the roadside. Though dead and motionless, its almost as if there were eyes watching them from the dark, hollow sockets, following their every move. They come across a small but heavily fortified village, a few simple cottages hiding behind a tall, wooden wall. The inhabitants wear grim and weary expressions on their faces and all are armed to the teeth. Salt is laid out in front of every doorframe and window board and talismans to ward off evil hang over every doorstep. When questioned about the totems lining the road outside, the villagers seem to fall into complete and utter terror. Then the lights of the village suddenly go out.

 2. TROLLS! IN THE DUNGEON! TROLLS IN THE DUNGEON

 3. A new religion has been founded and it is already passing pamphlets and sending heralds and priests to voice the new scripture out to the people. All's well, you can never have enough gods to worship and blame for all your troubles in your life. There's only one problem. Their new deity happens to be an ancient red dragon.

4. An elder entity from beyond space and time has been watching our adventurers for quite some time and finds their actions of chaotic heroics highly amusing. So much so, it decides to kidnap them and have them run through a dungeon of terror and geometric madness for its entertainment, promising three wishes to the victor. Victor. Singular.

 5. An accident in an alchemists lab caused the many hundreds of potions stored inside to be shattered and their liquid contents to vaporize and spread and mingle in the form of a multicolored gaseous cloud that is now covering the town and infecting its inhabitants with random arcane effects.

6. A town painted in bloody smiles, an ivory altar rising from obsidian tiles   Their eyes so hollow, as their god they follow   To bring forth the lamb for the slaughter, all to appease to his eternal laughter   They welcome you with open arms, and hide the bodies under the soil of their farms   They wait for you to sleep so tight, then they slit your throat the same night.

7. The Vassa'li-Estate, once the proud and shining home of an old noble family, now stands abandoned and grey amidst its rotting lands. Locust swarms surround the building and feast on the flesh of those poor foolish enough to set foot on the family estate, while the river that springs forth from a source on the Vassa'li lands has become as deadly toxin, poisoning the surrounding soil of the farmland, driving its inhabitants away. They say the Vassa'li have broken the sacred laws of hospitality, and that the gods are punishing them for their transgression. But what really lurks beneath the estate does not swear its allegiance to a divine curse…

8. They are there. You know they are. They creep behind the walls and crawl through the shadows of your home. They hide under your children's beds, grinning and licking the drivel off their teeth. Their arms are long and their hands are strong, as they take your child out of its crib and vanish into the night. They dwell in the forests, under crooked roots and in dark leaved trees, their eyes lit with deceitful innocence and their smiles wide and sharp. They wear crowns of thorns and berries, their faces as fair as a dying summer. They are known as the lords and ladies. The Fair Folk. Fey or Fae. They are beautiful. They are amicable. They are promising. They are gifting. But they are not nice. They are not good. They are the Fair Folk, and they are coming.

9. Every night, people vanish. Old and young, strong and weak, poor and rich. They are robbed off the streets, out of the safety of their homes, always in the shadow of the night. The only signs of a culprit even existing are the ripped off doors and foot-shaped craters in the stone roads and the cracks in the walls of the large, shovel-like hands heaving the creature's way up the buildings. The city does not dare to sleep. The guards too terrified and understaffed to deal with this creature. But one thing they know. The creature is multiplying.

10. Ever since the Blood Moon rose above the village, madness has been spreading like a plague. Randomly does a villager stop dead in their tracks, gaze up at the dark-veined sky and laugh at the grinning moon, gouging out their eyes with their own fingers while screaming in a language foreign to this and any other world. And the Blood Moon, it hangs there, watching and grinning and feasting on the madness, its insides bulging and boiling - ready to give birth to a new Child of the Far Elder Realms.

11. One of the party members comes across a mysterious goliath gentlemen, who offers them the opportunity of a lifetime, presenting them with a strange deck of cards and ushers them to pick a single card from it.

12. A rift to the Elemental Plane of Water opens in the middle of a green valley, flooding it and the surrounding landscape with currents of ocean water and spilling all sorts of elemental creatures forth into the world - and threatens to drown the entire land if it is not closed.

13. An ancient Vampire seeks final death - but his hunger for blood has corrupted his mind to such primal thoughts that he can barely even remember his name. In desperation, he sends a servant with notices into the nearby towns, putting an anonymous contract on his own head.

14. One of the town's graves has upturned in the night - the grave of a man that died through a horrible accident. But now his course stalks the night as a revenant and seeks out vengeance against his murderer.

15. The heroes notice that curious posters have appeared throughout the land - and discover, that a playwright has apparently started to adapt their adventures for the stage! As they visit one of the plays, they discover that unfortunately, the playwright chose to ridicule a long-term enemy of the party in his adaptation, and now this enemy seeks grim satisfaction against the playwright.

16. A powerful Lich has awoken from his centuries-long slumber and seeks to further his arcane knowledge and magic experiments. The heroes hear of this, and rush to end this potential threat… Only to discover that the Lich has apparently applied as a lecturer at an esteemed arcane university, and is thus as a member of this facility and protected by its sanctioned laws.

17. A glabrezu, a heinous treachery demon has taken on the shape of a deva and is guiding a solitary village down the path of corruption, disguised as wisdoms and commands of the gods.

18. A young humanoid approaches the party, face hidden under a cowl. They ask the adventurers in aid of finding their parents, whom they have lost sight of a long time ago. When asked to reveal their face first, the humanoid reveals the glowing eyes of a celestial and the dark, curved horns of a fiend.

19. The party is approached by a harvester devil, who promises them a wish if they aid him in claiming the overdue soul of a wizard, who plans to escape their contract by turning into a Lich.

20. A succubus has opened a lucrative business in the royal city, her customers including several high-ranking members of the court. Using her charm and skills of persuasion, the succubus goes on to sell information to both cults of demons and darchdevils. Now, two representatives of both cults, one demon, one devil, approach the party and bid them to kill the succubus and extract whatever information she may have on the other cult.

21. A crafty bunch of imps have infested the holy temple of a good-aligned deity and start turning the residing friars and paladins against each other with their pranks, whispers and invisible shenanigans.

22. A high-ranking pit fiend appears out of nowhere in front of the party. But, instead of attacking, he goes on his knees and asks for redemption…

23.  A letter has been sent to bards and musicians throughout the land! An ancient copper dragon and self-called lover of the fine arts announces that he is about to host the greatest musical competition of all time: Whoever writes him the most beautiful song and performs it in front of him and the assembled crowd, shall receive a great, legendary artifact in the dragon's possession.

24. Good is not soft. It is a fact that applies to many of the metallic dragons, as their sense of good and evil and the means necessary to do the one and end the other is vastly different from that of most mortals. A group of bronze dragons has therefor decided that the only way to achieve peace in the world, would be by subjugating the mortal races under their benevolent rule.

25. Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons. A well known idiom and wisdom that the common folk adhere to. Such an idiom apparently does not exist for the dragon's themselves, as a young copper dragon believed it to be funny to steal two objects from the horde of two chromatic dragons and hide them in the other's horde, laughing as the two chromatic drakes in their fury do battle over the landscape - and causing heavy casualties amongst the poor people that are helplessly stuck between them.

26. Storm clouds gather and brew above the endless desert. A mysterious, blue haired stranger appears in the city of a wealthy sultan and bends the knee, proposing for the sultan's eldest child's hand in marriage. As the sultan refuses, the mysterious stranger angrily reveals his true form, that of an ancient blue dragon and carries the sultan's child off to his lair. A typical damsel in distress-quest, nothing new to hard-boiled adventurers… But under the golden facade of the sultan's palace hides rot and deceit, and the sultan's child does not seem too eager to return to their father…

27. After hundreds of years, a terrible doom has awakened under the ice of the northern islands. A terrible white archdrake, a beast of primordial winter and elemental fury, its mere presence causes summer itself to turn into the coldest winter. Soon, it will spread its eternal blizzard all over the world.

28. A city under siege - a chromatic dragon of great size and strength furiously lashes out against the city walls. The citizens ask the adventurers to slay the beast, but when confronted, the dragon reveals its true intention: To save their child, held captive as an exotic pet by the king.

29. The Hobgoblins have decided to play against the rules of land-based warfare and have taken to the seas, building an entire armada of ships under the command of their new Warchief. Yet, when  one vessel of their fleet is one day captured and the crew questioned, not only is the ship empty of loot or even rations besides of weaponry and the Hobgoblin soldiers seem to babble only of one thing: "The Deep Lord."

30. A drunken sailor comes up to the party and tries to sell them some trinkets and garbage he fished out of the sea. Next to broken compasses, an old cutlass and some sea-glass baubles however, there is a shining, round stone stone as big as one's head, pearl-like and shimmering. And there's something moving inside.

31. On a travel over sea, a terrible storm breaks out, capturing the ship the party travels on and shattering it against the rocky shore of a small island near the mainland. As the party awakes, not only do they find their means of travel and return destroyed, but the coast of the mainland steadily growing smaller in the distance, as the small island swims away with them on it.

32.  Hiring afoot! The captain of a harboring ship recently lost their crew after a falling out and is now seeking a replacement. The goal? A fabled island in the far east, where according to old documents the captain has discovered, an ancient temple to a forgotten deity lies in hiding...

33. There are rumors going about of a shipment of actual dragon eggs having appeared on the black market, sold by an individual known as Kaveth Dyr.

34. An infamous criminal has escaped from prison where he was awaiting his execution. The town guard warn the population that the criminal was once a study of the magic school of Illusions - meaning he could be hiding anywhere or as anyone.

35. One of the temples of the gods has been desecrated - offensive graffiti smeared in goat-blood on the wall, feces stains on the doorstep, and symbols of the deity's divine rival are hung over its gate. The priests are now seeking aid in finding the culprit, before the angry planetar that  is currently residing within the temple and was send by the deity starts rampaging through the town.

36. A rat plague is rampaging through the town - not rats as in tiny vermin, but bloody huge, spike-sprouting, rabid Dire Rats as big as dogs.

37. A rich noblewoman is looking into expanding her collection of ancient artifacts and scriptures - promising a grand reward for any adventurers willing to retrieve or sell such artifacts to her. Such a shame that these adventuring parties often never return from the same ruin she always sends each team to…

38. Over the course of the last three weeks, several of the young women of the village have gone missing. The party is hired to look into the mysterious disappearances, only to see that the women weren't being kidnapped, but saved…

39. A young wizard has set up shop in the village and is promptly being swarmed by the locals for all sorts of potions and spells and charms to aid them in their every-day business. At first business goes well, but very soon things change as the various charms and potions show weird, nasty side-effects on the villagers…

40. Ominous calls and whispers echo through the night, sending chills down the people's spine and causing the hooting of nightly owls to shush. In the morning there is much uproar and panic, as the villagers find the old graveyard entirely uprooted - every single grave desecrated and empty.

41. Near a small fishing village, a coven of sea hags have made their home on a offshore crag rising out of the sea. In return for worship and a yearly tribute, they gift the village with their nets full of fishes and clams that carry pure pearls within. A fair trade… Where it not for the fact that the tribute consisted of this year's firstborn child.

42. A farmer reports strange happenings to occur on his farmstead - the crops are withering, in the night whispers sound from behind the walls and tiny footprints are found on the wooden floor that belong to no human or beast.

43. A traveling merchant comes through the village, carrying nothing on him but a small satchel on his side. The merchant gives no trade, but sells exactly what anyone asks him for from his bag, but never demands gold - only a favor.

44. A young priest of the pantheon’s sun god, eager to prove himself and the authority of the sun deity has come to the village and moved into the old church. From there, he begins a crusade against the ancient traditions of the village - such as the reverence of the woodland spirits, fey creatures and calling to the forefather's spirits for guidance and started to tear down the old stone circles meant for bringing peace offerings to the woods- thus starting a deep, escalating rivalry between him and the village pellar.

45. Thirty years ago, a child went missing in the woods near the village. All searching was for naught, and the villagers had to hold the funeral rites over an empty grave. Now, thirty years later on the night of an empty moon - the child stands on its parent's doorstep once again, not aged a day, asking what's for supper.

[captainderyn]

Illusions (1/2)

Esrin belongs to @delavairesslegacy​

This deviates almost entirely from the Corellian story quests, but eh, the idea was inspired by those. If you squint.

Title: Illusions 

part 1/2

Summary: Two smugglers and an ex slave walk into a war zone..it sounds like the beginning to a bad joke and Rielay’s waiting for the punchline. No one’s laughing, not with each shot fired and more Republic flags being laid down everyday and she’s starting to wonder if the real joke is their chances at coming out of this alive.

 Word Count: ~6,300

Warnings: Character death, spoilers (vaguely) for both the smuggler Corellia story and the planetary story line. 

**Under the cut because this got superlong. 

Corellia had lost her shine in the twenty years Rielay had been away. It had Empire stink and slime all over her, and the war for it’s freedom was crumbling the very cities they fought for. From the air she had seen turrets and trenches tearing up the once bustling parks, columns of smoke rising from single buildings and whole sectors alike. 

It hurt, walking through familiar streets and buildings from the main docking point she had spent hours working and playing in and seeing everything a shadow of itself. Even the port was empty, the port she had met hundreds of smugglers in a single week, worked on dozens of ships in a day. Filled now only by her own freighter. Buildings gutted from explosions, walls blackened from blaster fire all rose around her. The streets..empty. 

“Taqq?” Emeldir brushed his shoulder against hers and she realized she had stopped in the middle of the street, eyes fixed on the Imperial flag hanging limp in the still air. Air that stank of smoke and dust, fuel and fire. Her hands had tightened into fists and with conscious effort Rielay unclenched them. 

“Fine, Deryn. I never loved this place anyways.” 

If she hadn’t loved her homeworld, even just looking back on it, she wouldn’t be here. As she had once been told, she was Corellian--blood and spirit. 

There was no follow up and she glanced over at Emeldir. His own business was eating at him, leeching away his usual bright energy and dulling him. She didn't like it, he had been used and now he was paying for it. He had best make Darmas and that senator pay just as dearly. But for now she needed him focused, he had agreed to help her here and he wouldn’t be able to do that if he was shot dead the first chance the Imps got. 

The silence between them stretched, with Deryn lost in his own thoughts and Rielay committing each fallen memory, each ragged face they passed to memory. Tallying up a count for all the places and people she would fight for. 

It was a long walk. Their meeting place loomed up in front of them, one wall collapsed and lifeless from the outside. No obvious residents, not an obvious target. They slipped inside unnoticed. 

Hugo, among other stragglers who weren’t a part of CorSec or the Republic military had all gathered here into one resistance force, a small entity of its own with its own forces and leaders, no matter how thin compared to the planet’s own security forces or the Republic’s whole army. It was people who wanted to fight, had been turned away from the main forces and chosen to make their own. Admirable, and a movement Rielay could get behind. 

The forefront of the base was barren, a thruway and nothing more. Deeper into the hallways and rooms people began to come out of the woodwork, medics and repairmen, soldiers in thrown together armor, civs with modified blasters. A ragtag group, with determined faces and a cause to fight for. 

It was in the largest room of the compound that the real fun began. The only room with fully functioning equipment--a data terminal, a holomap that was projected showing the base plan of Corellia--was the home to the strategists, the leaders, the behind the scenes to the fighting out on the surface. A small section at least, one cog in the whole machine. 

“Taqq, thank the stars you’re here.” Hugo was at the head of the table, leaning over long pieces of flimsi with scrawled out notes and positions. The holo conversation months ago had not done justice to the iron hand Corellia used to tear people apart. Corellia was kind to no one, not even those working to save her freedom. 

“I hope I haven’t crashed the party.” A spot was opened for her at the table and she took her spot by a mirialan boy, who couldn’t be older than sixteen and a Jedi by his robes and the saber hanging at his hip. 

“Oh it’s just getting started. Strap in for the fun.” He said dryly, brushing a hand over the flimsi as it started to curl in on itself. Always hoarse, Hugo’s voice sounded absolutely exhausted, the light of the holomap darkening the shadows under his eyes and in the hollows of his face. 

“Just what I signed up for.” She put her hands on the table and leaned forward, straining to see some of the notes scrawled in the margins of the drawings. It was written in Hugo’s hand but reading it upside down was near impossible. She pulled back, bumping into Emeldir’s chest from where he was leaning over her shoulder. 

“Maybe I should introduce everyone.” Hugo took two steps back from the table, looking around the table. There were less than ten of them, herself and Emeldir included. “Captain Rielay Taqq, and captain Emeldir Deryn are the two smugglers I suggested for our next strike.” His hands gestured to each individual as he named them. “Rielay that’s Tacka next to you, Cazi on your left, Wolf Sacul and Dakoehl next to me.”

“We need to return to the matter of Xin, she won’t wait while we make friends.” Cazi, a scarred twi’lek in the armor of a Republic soldier growled. “She’s what stands between us and a Republic victory.” 

Xin? Rielay looked between the small council but no one was moving or speaking, silenced at the drop of that name. 

“Xin is a nuisance, but we haven’t been able to pin her down. We have more important things to do than chasing a rogue sith.” Hugo said, face hardening when Cazi went to protest. “Our main focus is Beharen.” 

Rielay jumped when Cazi’s fist slammed down on the table, lekku twitching angrily. “Lives are being lost while she’s out there! We can’t just sit!”

A miraluka woman cleared her throat, Dakoehl. “Soldier, if I may, we don’t yet know how to effectively combat Xin. But our forces for Beharen have just arrived and it’s an opportunity we cannot waste.�� 

The soldier fell silent, eyes glowering around the table before fixing on Rielay. “You cannot be talking about her.”

Her eyes widened and she locked eyes with Hugo, who seemed to deflate when they accusatory eyes shifted from him. “Please explain what’s going on.” 

Hugo gave a slight nod and straightened. “Cazi, the captains are our best bet at getting in and our of Beharen successfully.” He motioned for the door. “Everyone. please leave while I brief them on their mission. With so many voices we will never get anywhere.” His look lingered on Cazi until the doors slid closed and it was just the three of them left. 

With a sigh he sank into one of the chars that had been pushed under the table, running his hands over his face with a sigh. “I’m sorry for that Rielay. General Corraliya meant well by sending Cazi, but he’s been a handful since he stepped off his speeder.” 

Rielay and Emeldir took seats as well and she clasped her hands in front of her. She had been burning to ask since the power play had begun. “They seem to listen to you. You’re in charge?”

She caught a smile behind his hands and the hair that had come loose from it’s tie. “If you count being shoved into leadership after an unfortunate string of loses, then yes.” 

Then she could hope for no better person to work under. They had been partners for a long time, she knew how he worked, she could trust him. Being able to trust the people who gave her her orders was a rare commodity. “Maybe I should give you congratulations. Or perhaps a very strong drink might be better with the show I just saw.” 

Emeldir laughed under his breath and she saw him shake his head in her peripheral.”Taqq, don’t remind the man how stressful his job is.” 

But Hugo was laughing, wry and not entirely humor fueled but still a break of his grim expression. “I’ll take a rain check on that strong drink, though you aren’t wrong. But I’ll assume you want to know what you’ll be doing in Beharen?”

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair and tilting her head to the side. “Not a necessity, I’ve gone into jobs with less.” Less than nothing, which is what she had on this. She had come to Corellia after Hugo had asked for her aid but he hadn’t specified for what exactly. 

Pulling a datapad from a shelf in arm’s reach Hugo tapped away as he started to explain. “It’s a droid factory, currently has the Empire’s claws sunk into it and has a some very strong droids we need.” He slid the datapad over to Rielay and she looked over the documents, maps, droid schematics. 

“I take it these aren’t just to woo the ladies?” Rielay frowned, scanning through the droid’s capabilities. “If they were for the offensive you’d have already seized them.” 

She passed the datapad to Emeldir and looked back at Hugo with a raised eyebrow. “What’s the reason you’re sending us in there?” 

“We managed to get the rocket trams under our control again, but Republic forces and our own resistance forces are being shot down once they transfer to ground transport.” In the slight pause he took Rielay could hear grief and she wondered how many of the lives lost had been people he’d known by name, been close to. Corellia may be harsh, but leadership was cruel.

 “We’ve found the source-prototype droids that are more powerful than any droid should be-and a location. They’re holed up with a scientist named Varik. Those disaster relief droids are your way in to Varik’s lab.” 

Good enough of an explanation for her. Find and infiltrate the factory, take the droids, go bust into a science lab. Shoot some Imperials on the way. It wasn’t enough for Emeldir, who hadn’t gotten where he had by gut feelings and going in blind. 

“These droids can withstand turret fire and blast down doors, they can’t be unguarded.” He slid the datapad back across to Hugo, leaning his forearms on the table. “It can’t be a simple grab-and-go.” 

There it was, the reason she kept Emeldir around. He asked the important questions. Questions that, thankfully, had an answer. 

“It won’t be simple by any means. There are generators all throughout a place we call Hellfire that’ll need to be activated in order to put the assembly line back up. The unfinished droids in the factory will try to take you down, without loyalty or safety programming they’ll target you as the enemy.” Hugo had taken on that grim expression again and Rielay was struck again by how much they had changed since Coruscant. “Rielay I’m relying on your familiarity with Coronet City.” 

She waved a hand dismissively. “I would hope after fourteen years I would know this place like the back of my hand. I’ve got it covered. Turn on generators, get assembly line running, defeat and seize some droids. We’ll be home in time for dinner, right kid?”

“Without question.” Emeldir grinned and she grinned back, it was about time she knocked some life back into him. Unfocused didn’t mix with this kind of job. “You’ve got no need to worry.” 

Hugo heaved himself up from his chair, tossing the datapad back onto the shelf and unrolling the flimsi again. “I’m not, I hired Taqq for a reason. Send the others back in please, we’ve got other business to discuss.” Hugo glanced up and she could’ve sworn she caught a glimpse of humor. “I would wish you luck, but you never seem to use it.” 

“If the system isn’t broke, don’t fix it.” Rielay quipped, pointing a finger at him. “Just because it’s a little chaotic doesn’t mean I don’t get the job done.” 

Hugo laughed again and she hoped it would be enough to keep him from collapsing under the expectations others were putting on him. Cazi shoved by her as soon as she passed through the door, with Dakoehl following at his heels after wishing them the best on their mission. The others filed by silently. A sullen procession. It was like they had lost Corellia already. 

“Ready for some adventure?” She asked when they stepped back into the smoke and dust. Emeldir drew his blasters, clicking off the safety and looking at her sideways. 

“Always am.”

Between the two of them they made quick work of the generators. Emeldir covered her while she fought her way past the grunt’s guarding the generator before activating the controls with a quick press of a few buttons. The Imperials didn’t stand a chance, not when they had the element of surprise, stealth and fought like a single, well oiled machine. 

She had taught Emeldir to fight and after years of working jobs together it they were nearly the same mind in combat, a deadly whirlwind of detonators and blaster bolts. 

Hellfire didn’t scorch them and they left to the steady hum of generators at their backs. It was a quick tram ride to Beharen, swarming with Imperials. They were off their guard, most of the resistance in Labor Valley killed by their own hand. They never saw the volley of blaster fire coming and their hands were too slow to draw their rifles. 

Rielay shrugged her shoulder to work out some of the arising soreness, uncapping a stim to try and fend it off completely. Emeldir did the same. “They’ve really lowered their standards. Between my metal arm and you’re half a leg you’d think they’d at least be able to get a shot in.”  

“Winning’s gone to their heads. They’re getting complacent.” Emeldir agreed, smirking when alarms started to blare. “Looks like we’ve scared them.” 

Rielay palmed a detonator, tossing it up and down causally. “Might as well make our entrance.” She made a face when the entrance remained empty, no men taking the place of those they had dropped. “Well that’s just rude they won’t even greet us at the door.” 

She pulled the charge from the detonator, throwing it as hard as she could so that it bounced through the open blast doors of the factory. Smoke billowed out after she counted to three under her breath and it was then that she stood from the rubble she had taken cover behind. “Maybe that’ll get their attention.”

It wasn’t the Imperials that troubled them, not even after Rielay’s rude awakening. Men had weaknesses, chinks in their armor--or lack there of, as the Empire seemed to prefer aesthetic to functionality in their uniform. The droids were another being entirely. 

“Keep an eye out, kid. Be prepared to dive for cover.” RIelay had her back to the racks of massive droids, fiddling with the controls of the assembly line. The generators had provided the power, but time and lack of wear had rusted the panel. “Almost got it...there!” Rielay turned, eyes widening as the unfinished droids dropped to the ground. 

“Taqq those are huge!” Emeldir scrambled for a crate, ducking behind as the first round of fire hit the wall where he had been standing. 

“Yeah I noticed!” Rielay dove behind the assembly line controls, blood chilling at the clank of metallic legs. No matter how many times she fought that would always be the worst moment; the sound of her enemy advancing. With a steadying breath she popped up, firing a few shots before scrambling for another crate. The controls were blown to scrap behind her. 

Rielay dug into the pouch that carried her explosives and pulled one out, throwing it over her shoulder. Emeldir charged his blasters before shooting it just before it hit the ground. A small explosion rocked the room. 

“Looks like we took two down!” 

“Good!” Rielay shouted, tossing another detonator and ducking as shrapnel flew. “Keep focused and maybe we can make that all of them.” 

They couldn’t afford to damage their loyal droids, but with their blaster bolts glancing off the droid’s armor blowing them up seemed to be the only way to take them down. Rielay hoped the loyal droids would be safe in the corner they were shut down in. 

 They alternated shots, with Emeldir detonating the explosives she tossed   while Rielay would sometimes join in firing volley after volley of bolts into the battle droids. Hugo had no lied when he’d mentioned their strength. They were wasting time here, but they were pinned down until every last pile of scrap was deactivated. 

“Kid you’d better get out of the open or so help me, I will blow you to pieces!” Rielay hollered. He continued firing bolts from his spot right outside the droid’s targeting system, yelping when a flashing detonator rolled to a stop by his feet. He dove forward, rolling when he hit the ground and landing in a crouch.

She saw his arm come up to cover his eyes as the detonator exploded in a flash of light. “What was that for?” He scrambled back as several scatter gun pellets embedded themselves in the metal by his feet. “Taqq!” 

“Tough love, I told you get outta my way!” She snapped back, whacking her scatter gun into the crate as it whined to a stop before firing. “Fighting that way’s gonna get you shot!” She threw the gun to the floor, leaping back when it spat out a few more pellets. She yanked a smaller pistol out of a holster on her thigh, seamlessly merging back into the fight. Four of the six droids were smoking hunks of metal on the floor, the other two whirling around firing aimlessly as their targeting systems failed. 

“You’re going to get me shot!” Emeldir swore as a droid’s fire came dangerously close to him. 

“Then pay attention and stay out of my way!” 

Out a gun and a pouch of detonators the droid’s were all finally scrap, the damage relief droids safely reactivated and under their control. The droids, taller than her and Emeldir both and twice as powerful, made short work of any enemy force that was tossed in front of them and tore the laboratory's blast doors down like they were flimsi. 

Down a scientist--a traitor, a coward who had fallen to the Empire’s propaganda--and with four more droids added to their pile of scrap metal the team of smugglers returned back to the ramshackle building. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised about the droids, but I’m impressed.” Hugo had called their little council back together even as the daylight faded outside. No one seemed surprised in fact, either they knew of her or Hugo had told them about her reputation. 

“That’s one step closer to taking Axial Park.” Dakroehl agreed. “Now our forces can join the others.” 

“First we need to get through tomorrow.” Hugo reminded, curbing the mounting excitement. “Tomorrow we plan, meet with Corraliya and determine the best course of action.” 

When they were dismissed the council’s moods were lifted, smiles were on their faces, and any animosity seemed to be forgotten. It was perhaps the largest victory of the day. Now, it seemed, Corellia wouldn’t be lost easily. 

The Republic base closest to them was little more than a re purposed cantina. Old, mostly fallen letters spelled out The Old Copper but now instead of criminals and smugglers it housed a diplomatic squad and at least dozens of soldiers. Corraliya, ex commander of the Republic’s elite Havoc Squad was their contact. She was a stern zabrak  woman, intimidating in stature and very clearly unwilling to put up with anything that would detract from the mission. 

As it turns out, Cazi had served in Havoc with her and was a trusted and formidable soldier. Rielay never would have guessed from his belligerent stand the day before but under Corraliya’s sharp eyes his temper was cooled. 

Rielay was not needed to talk strategy, she had no concept of the numbers either side held. She was just the infantry, the one to send in when things needed to be done quickly and quietly. She was here because Emeldir was here, and he was useful. He was speaking with the diplomatic squad, who were furiously working to de escalate the conflict. So far it had done nothing, but no one could fault them for their persistence.

She was leaning on a crate, listening to the commander and Hugo discussing Axial Park. She knew Axial, her mother had taken her and her sister there as kids. Lots of history, monuments to the great galactic conflicts, statues of heroes. It would be a shame to lose that but from the sounds of it the Empire had already torn it apart. Armies, walkers, trenches-

Rielay blinked when she saw a familiar face walking through the courtyard. It couldn’t be. There was no way she could forget a detail like that. None the less, she pushed herself off the crate and wove between the throngs of soldiers. “Esrin?” She called when she assumed she was in earshot. 

The look on his face mirrored her own shock and by the time he caught sight of her she was only a few feet away, with her hands on her hips. “What  are you doing here?” She asked. 

“Rielay? Why are you on Corellia?” He drew he to the side, out of the path of people walking by. “I’m here trying to calm down the fires here.” 

“I’m working a job!” Rielay said, as though it should be obvious. It should have been obvious, it was all she ever did when she flew the Promise alone. “With Emeldir.” 

Though the more she thought about the the more certain she was that neither of them had mentioned Corellia. For Esrin it was most likely highly classified Republic information that should not be gracing the ears of not-always-legal woman like her and for her...well it hadn’t seemed important. 

“This is the job you’re working with Emeldir? This is a war zone what work could you find here?” Esrin seemed to forget that they had met while she was smuggling supplies to refugees. That had been a war zone. 

She let her hands drop from her hips, pushing back a laugh. She couldn’t quite keep it from her voice. “Well if we were both going to be working here I would’ve just had you stay on the ship. No use paying transport fees when your girlfriend has her own ship.” She looked over her shoulder at the sound of approaching voices and found the resistance and Republic convoy headed their way. Both Hugo and Corraliya looked pleased, they must have found the best course for Axial. Good, it wouldn’t do well to let the Empire sit on their high horses for too long. 

“I’m doing some work with the resistance, and the Republic by association. Got a little tired of having the Empire crawling over my home planet.” 

“Rielay, our meeting here is finished. Should I wait to brief you...” Hugo paused, glancing at Esrin before looking back at Rielay. The question was obvious, had she found herself in trouble? The answer, for once, was no.

 Though looking between Esrin and Hugo she wondered if maybe this was the trouble. They had never met, Hugo hadn’t existed as far as she had told Esrin for the longest time, and she had been unbelievably cruel to Hugo in their time together. It didn’t sit well with her, even if it no longer seemed to bother anyone else. “I’ll come along for the briefing in a moment. “

“There’s no need to rush, we’ll be overnighting here. Axial is closer and Dakroehl’s raising our men back at base.” Hugo went to turn away, as Corraliya and the rest of their party had after brief greetings but Rielay without a thought blurted out;

“Wait, Hugo.” She muttered a curse, glancing up at Esrin but finding his expression curious. Hugo was giving her an odd look and she knew they could both read her sudden anxiousness clear as a book and she swore again. “Never mind. I’ll see you later for the mission details.” 

He gave a slow nod, still with that odd look before retreating. She let out a breath, feeling heat creeping into her face. Tactfully handled that had not been. In the slightest. Things with Hugo never were. 

“So the famous Hugo?” Esrin’s voice was light, legitimately joking instead of the barbed lightness that came with confrontation. What else would she have expected. He had never been bothered by the mention, or lack of, of Hugo and there was no reason for her paranoia to take a front seat now. 

She turned to face him, running a hand though her hair and sighing again. “That was, yes.” 

“Leader of the resistance force on Corellia, hm? Not quite the poor soul you claim to have ruthlessly kicked off your ship.” He was teasing her damnit. She aimed a whack at his arm. 

“Stop teasing me, that was stressful.” 

“No doubt.” A chime sounded from Esrin’s chrono and he glanced down at it. “That’s my cue to go try to pat down the fires again. If I don’t see you tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow before you set off.” 

Rielay caught at his hand before he was able to bound off, giving it a quick squeeze. “Good luck with this dumpster fire.”

Morning came too soon, the sunrise spilling over the buildings onto the preparations for battle. The Empire was already calling it the Battle of Axial Park without any real shots being fired,and the Republic was mustering its forces like they were going off to win the war once and for all. Maybe they would. 

Rielay had been briefed by Hugo the night before, he would be joining her and Emeldir to deal with the ambushes as they cropped up and were in charge of finding and spiking the Imperial Command Center. That would be the key to winning access to Capitol Square. Without their command and without their Imperial Guard the Empire would be left scrambling. 

For now she was sitting on a crate, doing last minute tuning on a new scatter gun she had nicked from the armory while Esrin ran over her supplies for what might be the fourth time. Dissuading him hadn’t been successful, he was worried no matter how many times she reminded him she wasn’t going in alone. 

She couldn’t blame him, the last time she had gone into a combat mission she had nearly come out in a body bag--something that he had been informed off over holocall by a very distraught Emeldir, though perhaps more eloquently. This was ten times worse. Here there were turrets, and Sith, soldiers and special forces. It was enough to squash her confidence and pound her heart. Instead she mustered all the confidence she could, jumped off the crate and went over to Esrin. 

“It’ll be fine.” She assured again, attaching her restocked explosives pouch to her belt and reaching out for a similar pouch, this one filled with medical supplies. He handed it over with a frown. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I know Rie. I’m not doubting you can make it out of this.” He sighed, looking hard at the ground and then lifting his eyes to the ceiling when it wasn’t enough. “I just don’t want to lose you.” 

She rested her hands on his arms, voice firm. “You won’t. I promise.” It was one hell of a thing to promise, almost a cruel thing, but the words slipped out before she could stop them. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” Esrin’s voice was soft and Rielay knew that her words did nothing to ease his fears. 

“See that you do.” She stood on her toes and he leaned down for a gentle, yet quick farewell kiss. “And I expect you home in one piece too.” 

It was among the rubble, bathed in gold morning light that she, Emeldir and Hugo took up arms and marched to war.

 Words were limited, the tension palpable as they stealthed behind Axial. The cries of fighting hammered their ears--the ground shaking roar of the turrets, blaster fire and the shouts of wounded and angry soldiers. There was no way to tell if they were winning, no way to tell if the ambush teams they had taken out did any good. 

It was agonizing. 

Just as it was agonizing to leave the noise behind for the stifling silence of the road to the Command Center. The silence weighed on them just as heavily. 

They should have known something was wrong then. As soon as they saw the control panel that would allow them to transmit data to CorSec special forces and had found opposition. As soon as no Imperial fire rained down on their heads when they left cover. 

It took them stumbling over the bodies of resistance scouts for them to realize something wasn’t right. 

By then it was too late. 

Rielay stood at the controls, spike held in her mouth while her hands worked through the systems preliminary system checks. It was just as she was slicing into the system, inserting the spike to start transmission data that the hair on the back of her neck stood on end and an unbidden wave of fear swept over her. 

She had her weapons drawn by the time Emeldir and Hugo ran back around the corner, breathing hard and gasping. “We need to leave! Now!” 

“What?” She dared a glance over her shoulder. “We aren’t leaving without that data!” 

“Rielay you don’t understand we need to leave-” Hugo broke off just as the strange fear swept over her again, sending a shudder through her shoulders. 

She didn’t need to see the violet glow of a saberstaff or hear the crackle of force lightning to know that their luck had just run out. So she raised her blaster and fired off a volley of shots. 

All of them rebounded, splattering against the wall in a small explosion of sparks. 

“We need to leave.” It was Emeldir this time, looking at something beyond the corner. She hear his sharp,panicked breaths just before he seized her around the waist, pulling her from where she had frozen. 

“Deryn no! Let me go!” She squirmed against his grip, elbowing him as hard as she could in the ribs. When he grunted in pain she almost felt bad. “Not without that data!” 

When he finally let her go he was quick to seize her wrist, keeping her from running back. Hugo was right behind them, breath harsh and wheezing in a way that wasn’t just from fear. 

“We can’t go back. Somehow she found us.” He gasped for breath, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes closed. “Damnit Xin found us. There’s no getting by her.” 

They lost that day.

They didn’t loose the Park. No, they drove the Empire back with their tales between their legs. But without the Command Center they had no way to get to Capital Square. By the blow that caused them they might as well have taken the defeat on all fronts. 

“We need to do something about Xin!” For once Rielay agreed wholeheartedly with Cazi. “We did our time and look where that got us! It’s the Sith standing between us and the Square!” 

They were around the table again, surrounded by their half functioning technology and hand drawn maps. Their numbers had shrunk. Wolf was missing, supposedly killed in action and Emeldir had been forced to leave after new, distressing information regarding the Voidhound. The room showed it, it was lonelier, quieter. Silences lingered longer and even the lights seemed dimmer. 

Maybe it was just the increased bombings. Air strikes on both sides no longer seemed to care what they hit. Communication had been all but knocked out. It had been nearly two weeks since Axial with no word from the Republic. The only connection they had with them was Corraliya and her squad, who had retreated with their forces. 

Hugo may as well have taken all the losses himself, he was growing wearier and more pained by the day. No matter how good he thought he could hide it it was there, clear as day in his eyes. No one could hide it, not the way the loss at Axial had shattered their hope. 

Victory was close enough to taste, with one indomitable barrier between them. “Then what do you suppose we do?” Hugo finally asked. “We’ve already learned throwing blasters and armor at her does nothing.” 

This gave Cazi pause and he seemed to think for a moment, lekku curling around his shoulders. “We fight the Force with the Force.” 

Dakoehl frowned, eyebrows drawing together. It was disconcerting, not being able to read the miraluka’s thoughts and emotions through her eyes. Rielay couldn’t tell whether she was considering the idea or preparing to dismiss it. 

“You are suggesting that I and Tacka face Xin, yes?” She must have sensed Cazi’s nod because she spoke again. “I am a Knight by training, but Tacka is young, I do not think he would be ready to face a sith lord.” 

“You aren’t going alone!” Hugo cut in the same time Tacka made a disgruntled noise and cried out; “You won’t leave me behind!” 

“It would be suicide to face Xin alone.” Hugo pressed on. “She’s taken out squads of soldiers, Republic trained or our without breaking a sweat.” 

“Then I will take Tacka with me and a group of our people to face her. She has yet to fight another force user. Xin is young, and prone to mistakes.” Dakoehl sounded so certain that Rielay believed her. Later she would think that she may have put a bit of Force persuasion into her words. 

Hugo was silent for several moments, staring hard at the table and the pages of ideas beneath his hands. “Alright.” He finally relented, closing his eyes. “If the others agree and it’s what the best course is to ending this then fine.”

Maybe if Rielay had paid attention she wouldn’t have agreed so quickly with the others. Maybe if she had seen the miraluka’s hand feel under the table two twine with Hugo’s she would have second guessed so willingly offering her life over to Xin.

 Maybe if she had seen the way the two always sat close to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Maybe she could have read the signs and found sympathy for a situation so like her own. There were a lot of maybes. 

 But she didn’t see and she didn’t pay attention. No one did. No one ever did, Rielay realized the longer she thought, never had when it came to Hugo. He may have been their leader but as soon as he stepped away from battle plans he faded back into the shadows. 

It took a high price for her to realize that.

Tacka was the only one to return, eyes blown wide and babbling incessantly about the lightning, the intensity, the darkness that had roiled through the force like a monster. The medics were quick to usher the young Jedi off, wrapped in a blanket away from the horrified eyes and stifled tears. 

Seven Republic military-grade coffins. Seven Republic flags laid down.

Hours after the others had said their respects and wandered back into their new normal Rielay found Hugo still there, silent as he had been since Tacka had returned. For awhile he had stood with his arm around the boy has he had cried into his shoulder, but now he stood alone. His hand rested gently on the middle coffin. His head was bowed, the tracks of tears still glistening on his cheeks. 

“Hugo I’m sorry.” Rielay couldn’t get her voice above a whisper. 

His hand brushed down an upturned edge of the Republic flag. “We were so close...” He didn’t look at her, and she didn’t know if his words were meant for her.  “I hope this was worth it.”

[ratherhavetheblues]

CLAIRE DENIS’ ‘BEAU TRAVAIL’ “This is the rhythm of my life…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     We live at a time when athletic prowess abounds. Remarkable physical health races all about us, to our amazement. Such a state of affairs has been remarkably investigated by filmmaker, Claire Denis, in her film, Beau Travail[Good Work; Nice Going] (1999).

Here, however, we find neither specimens of professional athletes, nor amateur devotees of the limber and the inexhaustible. Instead, we find—in the very small-market presence of Djibouti, once known as French Somali land, during the decade (the 90’s) when tempers were unsporting—a unit of the French Foreign Legion busting their butts in training for quelling hostilities. Whereas the contemporary athletes and devotees, mentioned above, stood a chance to live, at some level, that topspin of frisson at the heart of human swiftness, the folks we get to know here seem frozen in such an interminable training routine which they present as nearly cloistral agents of squelching mundane squabbling, heavily, thereby, invested in a form of pedantry. They go so far as to, once in a while, a sort of th’i chi slow dance, fighting strategy with hands converging in the style of prayer to a fussy (pedantic) divinity. Way too much brain, and not nearly enough bravery.

How does athleticism—acrobatics—sour like that? Look no farther than Ingmar Bergman’s, Fanny and Alexander (1982), the compass, as it happens, of Denis’ odd war story which does so much more than enforce the status quo, while, paradoxically being (as with, Fanny and Alexander) a revelation of massive devotion to crushing, not merely the Horn of Africa, but everything in sight that might have real depth, which is to say, a purchase upon “the big world.”

Just as the Bergman film has its fanatical, murderous bishop, along with one, Gustav, a wealthy polemicist for the sake of “the little world,” there is in our film today a medley touching upon both wings of the distemper, namely, fanatical, murderous Sergeant Galoup, the sheep-dog of the soldiers’ sheep being tasked to put everything right, and the polemical agency of the French Foreign Legion itself, ensuring that the hegemony of “the little world” will always be the winner, regardless of the conflict and regardless of derring-do. Therefore, these paragons of action do not introduce themselves going flat-out, but rather, fluttering in the midst of young Arabic women at a dark and intermittently light-flooding dance club. The women clearly take pleasure in their audacity about abrogating their family mores of modesty. The troopers establish a contrasting propriety, allowing themselves to maintain a hushed decorum, neither joyous nor morose. The participants are mainly shown in extreme close-up of their faces, or parts of faces, looming in and out in the darkness punctuated by lightning flashes in the generally slow swirl. Their signature of the moment, initiated by one of the self-impressed natives, is blowing a kiss on the ridge of the up-beats. Especially getting into that grove is a young acolyte about to be central to our study of what more there is to be said than what Bergman said, in Fanny and Alexander, about a nearly bloodless massacre.

Introducing Sergeant Galoup as a malignant fanatic, however, on the order of Bishop Vergerus, does not quite reach the sensibility at the core of this masterful film. (Nor, in fact, does that idea fully cover Vergerus.) In addition to Denis’ own motives bearing fruit, there will be our protagonist peppered by other Bergman films during this trek, for the sake of bringing to bear considerations which transcend that supernal prototype’s significant measure of fatalism in face of a planetary outrage, far more formidable than simple natives getting restless. There is, about Bergman’s incisiveness, a sheen and eloquence being secret and exulting in face of a perceived hopelessness. Denis’ more muscular touch upon war—her taking seriously that world religion, world humanitarianism (part and parcel of the former force) and world science, being rotting from within, triumphs notwithstanding—has discovered a critical mass of skepticism (however confused). The villainous fanatic, Galoup, therefore, whose story we hear, functions—as with “the little world” breaking hearts in Fanny and Alexander—as a disclosure of vectors possibly leading to a “truth” (a problematic key word, in the aforementioned film), requiring courage and wit to find ways to counter mob coercion.

The prelude, to that line dance by the rebel-women and the tamed soldiers, installs another instance of the series of Denis’ thematically radioactive, naive tableaus, in this case, “heroic” troopers on a ridge (reminding us of silhouettes stemming from the Dance of Death, in The Seventh Seal [1957]) beneath a scarlet sky. And they, coming to life, sort of, piously, operatically, melodramatically, stupidly, pule “Under the burning, African sun, a mighty phalanx hoisted up our banners! Cochin-China, Madagascar… Its motto, ‘Honor and Valor,’ makes for brave soldiers. Its flag, that of France, is a sign of glory!’” With subsequent aspects better held back than adding to confusion here, the second step of that prayer proceeds with a male chorus remarkably both old and obsolete, and yet uncanny, accompanied by long, black shadows (cast by humbugs) on the sandy terrain. Panning from there, the song without words accompanies flecks of light playing upon the sea near the military post. (Here the aural does some harm to the visual.) There is, after that, the imagery of an ink-well based pen, recording a saga of the “burning African sun” which elicits even more volume from a remembered chorus. On a balcony in Marseilles (following quick cuts showing our protagonist and the puff kiss night owl), Galoup tells us, “I have time to kill now… I screwed up from a certain point of view… Angels of attack…My story is simple. That of a man who left France too long… a soldier who left the army as a sergeant. Galoup… that’s me. Unfit for life. Unfit for civil life.”

Though the parallel of the bishop and the sergeant is far from close, we should pause here to secure the concomitants which Denis finds to be compelling. First and foremost is their grim delight in belonging to a venerable and powerful institution, confirming some kind of sagacity in having enlisted into an outlook being “absolute truth” in a punishing jurisdiction. The best, it seems which life affords. Moreover, both of them find nothing amiss about borrowing the fundamental findings of others—many of those others having been terrorized by bloodthirsty and cowardly idiots—and never attempting to measure alone what their specific sensibility has in store. So convinced that a very large sample of the world cannot be in error about the limits of couth, their (desperately manufactured) zeal could be such that murdering an infidel would  seem perfectly valid. Vergerus barely avoids murdering Alexander and would have killed Isak, if not for his sister’s being marginally balanced. That brings us to “a man who left France [and its treasures of audacity and creative beauty] too long,” and would have killed “the young acolyte,” Sentain, an infidel, or a witch (in the sergeant’s eyes)—like the witch in The Seventh Seal—without a mock-Spielberg rescue by a herd of camel-powered nomads. (You’ll recall the smell of Spielberg in Isak’s nonsensical rescue mission, in Fanny and Alexander.) Galoup, in fact, assuming he has killed his enemy, and becoming driven out of his dream job. The run-up to his wild revenge is the stuff Denis relishes. “We all have a trashcan deep within. That’s my theory.” Some of us, anyway, have “deep within,” something else, which is the gist of this brave and brilliant film.

Whereas Bergman stages wonders of dramatic literature, our helms-woman here trusts a somewhat different register of emotion, if not alone, then nearly alone. The outcome is double trouble; but the uncanny rush opens tinctures of grand fascination. (As if the Djibouti domain were not bemusing enough [its wasteland being corded by the bishop’s lunar, coal-dust, ascetic interiors], we have Ridley Scott’s Black Hawk Down [2001], an adjacent smashup, to add to a dead-end, a frenzy of athleticism; not entirely in vain.) The moment of Sentain’s arrival at the vigorous spa—shown quite a while after he blew those kisses—affords a study of Galoup’s disastrous migration from melodrama to improve. “I noticed one of those who stuck out. He was thin. Distant. He had no reason to be with us in the Legion. That’s what I thought… I felt something vague and menacing take hold of me. Gilles Sentain was his name. The name he gave to the Legion.” (Our protagonist’s finding a new wrinkle to his piety, shows him needing more firepower. Compare that to Vergerus’ being confronted by an overtly insulting Alexander, who goes so far as to spreading the lie that he was informed, by the ghost of the bishop’s first wife, that the holy man had locked up the wife and two daughters, which resulted in their death in trying to leap to freedom from a high window.) Here we cut back to the recent civilian in Marseilles pruning a plane tree in his yard. He reflects, “Maybe freedom begins with remorse… I heard that somewhere… [That both freedom and remorse occur to him place the largely disappointing warrior into a region of notability. Vergerus’ facile bromides concerning unholy error fail to be more than ceremonial.] My muscles are rusty, eaten away by acid.” Cut to a training program whereby the non-rusty recruits negotiate under a field of low-lying ropes. One of them crawls under the obstacles with remarkable panache, a veritable crocodile. Does he feel elated in his fluidity? No kudos from the taskmaster who seems in some kind of need  of a heaven due to his lacking any joy on Earth. Here, too, the “mighty phalanx” chant returns (angelic choristers trumping earthy moves), along with the Sergeant’s glaring at the supposed rebel in the form of Sentain. “What counts above all,” he advises us, “is discipline in the Legion. Loving one’s superior, obeying him. That’s the essence of our tradition.” (This in voice-over, while the “tradition” hurls itself over harsh procedures, to mixed outcomes.) Onwards, then, to a structure of cement forms with no content. The overseer leads the lads in some maneuvers straight out of Hollywood—“I heard [and saw] that somewhere”—but only Galoup’s actions show any commitment. His construct invasion, electric in its stealth and alacrity, seems to derive from a sense of enemy committing slovenly, and therefore, terrorist, deeds. (The youngsters, perhaps worn out by the Olympian demands a short while before, go along, of course, but the difference is palpable in this filmic passage where everything comes down to a “foreignness” of the palpable. The cool, semi-automatic weaponry—“a sign of glory” beyond the French tricolor—becomes both operative and inoperative.) The camera draws back to reveal bemused native women taking in the show, and showing how unstable a phenomenon glory can be.

So characteristic, and both thrilling and amusing, then, the camera finds a repair man in the wilderness at the top of a high ladder, attending to electrical needs. Smarts, and perhaps more. And perhaps less, as the scene changes to the warriors ironing their shirts. The instance of pedantry being at the heart ofWild Strawberries, and rebranded as “the little world,” in, Fanny and Alexander. (For the sake of somewhat bolstering Galoup’s long-shot endeavor here, we should note that the little world of Bergman’s nightmare has been reconsidered by filmmaker, Leos Carax, in his film, Holy Motors [2012]. Not only that, however, but the protagonist there is played by none-other than Denis Lavant, who portrays Galoup and his better moments. Carax’s format comes to us as the domain of an ancestor haunting the precinct of a theater, the range of which includes Lavant’s actions in the name of “Mr. Oscar,” a banker, instead of the artistic director of a concern to touch “the big world.” However, it is Oscar’s moonlighting which rattles off a spate of dramatics which intriguingly involves sensual initiatives somewhat closing the door on our helms-woman’s much earlier concentration upon undemonstrative resilience. Oscar’s unfortunate final word concerning his surreal reality is, “For the beauty of the gesture.”) In the midst of such divided initiatives, we should recognize as another beacon, to accompany the lineman and his ladder, a wrecked tank on the base. In Bergman’s film, The Silence [1961], an impressionable young boy watches from his train a series of flatcars sending tanks, like the one in the desert, to the front. He, and the adults with him, are at a loss to comprehend the language of their situation. Could Galoup, packing all those negatives, bring this matter to light in order to distinguish our guide’s own hard-won fluency. On the heels of this instance of murderous wobble, the power of cheapness and the power of care stage a little dance. The town near the base has a market where women of the hinterland sell their vividly colored rugs. As if a curtain of a stage emerges and opens within the noisy transactions, one of the craftswomen enters a doorway framed by posters of two popular products: Coke and Sprite. The grotty and the pristine. Or: out of overreaching, and balancing. Couched in this challenge, the concerns of advantage take over. “13 stripes, it’s a tradition [of the weaving in view]… Prices went up during the celebration…”/ “I made mine myself.” [the prospective client disappoints]/ Quick, “Oh!”

Also aware of the commerce is Galoup, more involved in tradition than money. His thoughts have taken on a more urgent coloration in the face of his pedantry aiming for the good old days. His reverie centers upon his superior officer, the Commandant. “Bruno Forestier… I feel so alone when I think of my superior. [This reflection occurs while our protagonist hangs up his socks on a clothesline, pointedly different from the electrical wiring not long ago.] I respect him… My Commandant…[Here we see a photo of the great man when a young soldier] … after the Algerian War… [Now he’s on camera as a flabby, slightly suspicious, sedentary blob] He never confided in me. He said he was a man without ideals, a soldier without ambition. [One with a protracted commitment to the little world.]  I adored him without knowing why. He said he was the perfect Legionnaire and didn’t give a damn…” [Here we can’t help hearing influential and significant and superficial Gustav, in Fanny and Alexander. Body language letting the good times roll and being a charming rogue. Where, however, did anal Galoup win his undying respect? We’ll have to wait until the very end of our story to understand such a mystery.] After this credo, he fishes into a drawer and brings to life a bracelet with the word, “Bruno,” on it. This profile of the piece of work in the far boonies concludes with the Sergeant’s voice-over indicating the woman who supplies the drugs to the chief who can’t do without staying pretty-much brain-dead. “Ali brought him his qat. Night after night, Forestier chewed on it, alone.” (Here we could imagine Helena, the cynical matriarch of the family on that hot seat for fucking around with littleness, in, Fanny and Alexander. Her domain is chock-a-block with plants and she always has a strong drink close by. She’s beloved by many; but she’s appallingly overrated. One of the many juggernauts goring those who take life seriously in loving its perilous beauties. Does Galoup (an athlete of impressive strength and equilibrium in leading those drills) constitute both willing victim and willing perpetrator? “I never touched those leaves. I liked to stay on edge…”

I hope, by now, you’ll be on to this film as a war with oneself, and only in a minor way a story of a war in Africa in the 1990’s. Before we accompany any more close encounters of Galoup’s tribulation, why don’t we specifically appreciate the wit of Claire Denis’ visual and aural panache, as so richly accompanying this odd and powerfully lucid endeavor? As Galoup succumbs to his catalyst (in Sentain), there occurs a spate of troopers, including himself, wearing pill-box semi-top-hat head gear. There we recall, in the Bergman film, The Seventh Seal, the knight, named Block, on a mad, uncontrollable mission to live forever, the resort to farce. The little world, making, unfortunately, the world go round. Something else, way off in the  mix, is the operatic infusion here. Composer, Benjamin Britten’s, Billy Budd, chronicles a ship’s officer and psychopath intent on murdering a young man having attended to an impressive level of disinterestedness. But the lack of disinterestedness in the howling of its melodrama, and the posing of its dance in the training, spells something off the rails, which turns the troopers in their exertions to be stuffed-shirts, notwithstanding their being bare from the waist up. Thereby, much has been made of the film as involving a high-water level of queer observances. And thereby Denis, with much more than Britten on her mind—Bergman, for instance—takes a little shot at another essentially closed menace. (It is, I am convinced, when Time Magazine feels obliged to anoint a video game wiz as one of the most notable people on earth, to become a tad less obscure than our honey of a woman giant.) Playing with the Coke/ Sprite doorway, the film, with the “little world” coagulating by the minute, we find a doorway named, “Bar  des Alps.” Galoup ventures up and, in a short while, comes back down. Gustov, in our twinned movie, bringing off a “quickie” with his wife on Christmas Eve, after having spent a long time with Maj, a servant of the house. Ever the naïf, the Sergeant declares, “There was something so strange that night, a sort of harbinger of things to come, of the circumstances that sent me far from the Red Sea and Djibouti.”

The cynical drug addict (sort-of) running the show comes to us as Galoup’s war-footing begins to reach a state of affairs where he’ll have lots of time to reflect on his truly urgent malaise. Bruno, in a taxi at night, chats up the driver, “My bastards are good company. They are my family…” The cabbie chips in with, “You are a father looking out for his sons…”/ “Could be,” the self-indulgent one agrees. Then the driver—giving us a moment of Jim Jarmusch’s Night on Earth (1991), with its bad news for bright motion—tries for cogency by way of the leaden axiom, “If it weren’t for fornication and blood, we wouldn’t be here.” They pass Galoup walking toward the club. They also share the road with many of those pill-boxes, performing a series of lifting a warrior, as if in some kind of triumph-to-come, a state-of-affairs jumping to the sense of heroism (sort of). Next morning, they’re busy with producing the sharpest’s of ironing jobs, perhaps vaguely attentive to a kinetic payoff. Cut, then, to an antithesis of training on high wires—that  measure of acrobatics always breathing down their neck, even when totally ignoring it; and being the bane of technology. Here the heavy and graceful lifting of synthesis fails to come about. A group of women hanging up their laundry underlines a “little world” digging in for the duration. Bruno, onscreen, and on some other planet, remarks, “We’re taught elegance, in and under our uniforms… Perfect creases are part of this elegance…. Here I am, Commandant. Like a watch dog… looking after our flock…” (Pause a moment to the mix of sensibility behind this madness.) Bruno, perhaps intuiting that Sentain has more range  and poise than the others, asks him why he became a Legionnaire. The youngster (when asked, telling him he’s 22) refers to a homeland—Russia—not being functional. “No money. No work. I fought for Russia. But it’s impossible to fight just for an ideal. An ideal that always changes.” Now, not surprisingly, the supposed leader, asks, “What ideal?” We knew he’d say something to that effect. But how about Sentain and his canvass of “ideals” to join? He remarks about a need to find a means of survival (a “little world”) and somehow cohering with an elusive vision to share with many others. As such, the young notable may not be the dangerous, resonant wunderkind the officers imagine him to be. He has helped along another recruit to learn a smattering of French. But how conversant is he with the thorny matter of “ideals,” which, when coming in the form of a plurality, tends to be a pain in the ass. (In the same stream, we have a program of knife-ready, underwater warfare, continuous with the sharks being on the move.)

We’ll cover the Sergeant’s sharp pathology rather quickly, because the Spielberg aspects (as in, Fanny and Alexander) are not what we need to tarry with. Where we’ve reached in this military narrative is a little romantic sidebar of Galoup’s acquiring at a bazaar a bottle of perfume and bringing it to a local woman as she sleeps. (Even Gary Cooper had his camp follower; and the contrast is there to enjoy.) The Sergeant’s stroking her hair constitutes going AWOL. But seriously AWOL takes far more guts than our dopey playboy could ever muster. (Or, maybe not?) Borrowing a bit of Bergman’s dramatic soliloquy, Denis shows the bishop-like sanitation maniac about to defend his god. “Sentain seduced everyone. People were drawn to his charm. [This while he puts the finishing touches—involving pink-red tablecloths—for a birthday party for one of the “elegant” soldiers.] Deep down, I felt a sort of rancor, a rage brimming. I was jealous…” With shock-effect change of pace (though put in place so tenuously as to cut Spielberg exotica), there is a pink-red bloody sea during a helicopter accident by another Legion unit, with one death, multiple injuries and Sentain overcoming an otherwise second death. During the party, Bruno had been morose and sneering; but he does manage to hand over a medal to the elegant hero. Our far from pleased protagonist tells himself, and us, “That day, something overpowering took hold of my heart. I thought about the end. The end of me… The end of Forestier.” Soon after the medal ceremony, Galoup has a tantrum in his quarters. Continuous with that storm, we have a menacing sergeant circling a medalist looking for a lift by a bona fide “ideal,” perhaps disinterested, but more likely pedantic. Then was the time to watch Bruno and the Sergeant playing a game of chess, and reprising, for the alert that is pedantry, The Seventh Seal, and its blockhead. Galoup can’t avoid telling his thrilling adversary in chess, “He [Sentain] has something up his sleeve. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” Bruno trots out the lazy litany, “Careful what you’re saying. Backstabbing isn’t in the Legion’s honor code.” Here a cut back to Marseilles has the court-martialed soldier of fortune hearing, in his favorite bar “You’re a rock of the nation. You are the epidemy of the Legion…” Another cut back to the exile, being at his home, has a version of Gustov’s (in Fanny and Alexander) too-little-too-late opening to something big, rather than the beloved little. “I’m sorry I was that man, that narrow-minded Legionnaire.” The unit has decamped to be closer to the “unrest.” It’s Ramadan, and Sentain is on all-night duty with a Muslim recruit who slips out to get some prayer-time. Galoup pounces on this, sentencing the pious runaway to dig by shovel a deep hole in the impacted wasteland where his hands bleed profusely. Sentain’s sentence, for countenancing the abandonment, is a truck ride to the heart of the deadly Danakil Desert, from which he could return, if he were a comic book hero. The hated one comes to a salt flat and a salt lake. Salt all over his face, he lies on the burning sand. He’s rescued by a herd of camel, owned by a singing group as they happily overcome the elements. Before the matinee hero returns (he had told the Sergeant, “See you soon, sir”), to searching for those ideals, Bruno, formulaically, has the officer, who dangerously found fault with low-key, Millennial action (along with his hunger for crude power), sent on his way. “Good riddance,” he pedantically tells Galoup.

But, on the day before he gets his one-way ticket to Marseilles, there is a recovery—not muted but not very pointed either (like the recovery of Emilie [in Fanny and Alexander], screwing up badly and now [after the disaster of religion] giving a shot to art in the form of taking over her first husband’s theatre company.) The figure of the rather dopey matriarch, Helena, always in range of a glass comes into the sightlines of dopey Bruno and his qat. Galoup commences with a display of pedantry in making his bed as fussily—and also impressively—as the greens at the Master’s Golf Tournament. And, then, he’s off to a club where his theme is, “This is the Rhythm of my Life,” running on the same track of Emilie’s first show, Strindberg’s, “A Dream Play,” saying, “Everything is possible and probable. Time and space do not exist [not the way they’ve been cemented by tradition]. On a flimsy framework of reality the imagination spins, weaving new patterns…” Spins, weaving new patterns are his swan song. Or are they? The soundtrack is by “Cascada” and the cascading by Galoup is far from shabby. (The cheap and hostile assault on the band’s video version is as egregiously stupid as the ways of Louis’ neighbor, in Denis’ The Intruder.) But it’s only a baby step, and time is running out. At least for him. The three volcanos in the nearby ocean at the second venue try to speak to the dialectic as a lifetime lover. “Like sentinels,” someone suggests. Standing there won’t help. Keeping watch might.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grGiq0yTaj4

[takadasaiko]

Demons at the Door: Chapter Seven

FFN II AO3

Summary: The Keens, Reddington and Dembe, and most of the Task Force attend a funeral.

Chapter Seven: Dearly Departed

It was more of a ceremony than a funeral, and even that was dangerous with the way things stood. The formal inquiry may have been upended when Ressler had sacrificed the evidence that he and Reddington had uncovered about Reven Wright's murder and Laurel Hitchin had shut it down with a wave of her hand, the power of the White House and the Cabal combined. Though after everything Liz wasn't sure where one started and the other ended at times sometimes.

Just because the formal inquiry had been disbanded, just because Aram had been released and cleared, and just because - at least for the moment - the Task Force stood as free men and women to continue the work that they'd put their very souls into for the last four, bordering on five, years didn't mean that Julian Gale was backing down. His presence still lingered, looming like a shadow with his eighty-six bodies and the determination of a wolf that had latched onto its prey. Cynthia Panabaker had dropped by the Post Office to tell Cooper that she wasn't sure how they'd managed it - and that she didn't want to know - but that they needed to watch their steps. They did good work, but this wasn't over, and she couldn't - or wouldn't - protect them. Liz was more inclined to think the latter was more accurate.

If Reddington had had an actual funeral for Baz, she wasn't certain. She imagined that there had been something private. Very private, as most of his closer allies were either also dead, in jail, or just gone. He'd mentioned that Brimley had bowed out after nearly two decades of working with him, and she knew that Kate had done a number on his organization. Illiquid had been the term he'd used, but broke seemed more applicable, especially when she saw him that morning.

Liz held onto Tom's arm, mentally cursing the heels in the soft grass as they sank down and threatened to throw her off balance. She caught sight of the man she'd only recently confirmed was her father. He stood at the top of the hill under a tree, his hat in his hands, and Dembe stood with him.

"Agent Keen. Tom," a voice called in a hushed sort of tone and she turned, spotting Aram waving awkwardly, Samar walking with him.

"Hey. I didn't know you were going to make it. Either of you," Liz said, quickly adding, "but it's good to see you."

"I didn't know him well, but Baz seemed like a good man," Samar offered. Her dark eyes flickered to Tom. "I see you made it home."

"I did. To stay."

"Is that good or bad?"

His thin lips pressed together. "It's complicated."

"Did you meet Baz, Aram?" Liz asked, changing the subject as quickly as she could off of her husband's stressful family situation. They had enough on their shoulders that morning without Howard, Scottie, and Halcyon being brought into the conversation.

"I did," Aram answered, "when you were, uh, well when we were trying to clear your name. He was helping Mr Reddington and Mr…. Kaplan." He half swallowed Kate Kaplan's name, his expression a bit startled as if he hadn't caught himself until after he'd already mentioned her. He swallowed hard. "When we were setting everything up to help clear your name," he amended quickly.

A short, awkward silence fell over the group of four people and after a moment Samar cleared her throat. "We shouldn't keep Reddington waiting."

Aram mumbled something under his breath, stumbling over the words, and if Liz didn't know better she would have thought he offered his arm to Samar for the hill. She turned an amused look on him, as if there was some secret between them that Liz and Tom were not privy to, and said that she was fine to make it up without help. She'd actually worn heels that didn't dig deep into the grass as she walked, unlike Liz's, and the shorter woman was tempted to just tug hers off and scale the small hill barefooted.

"So how long has that been going on?" Tom asked very quietly as Samar and Aram inched just a little bit ahead.

"What?"

"Those two? I thought Aram was dating what's her name that worked for the Thrushes."

Liz blinked owlishly at him. "I think that ended when she gave his name up to the investigation, but… I don't think…" She watched her two friends and the way that they were speaking quietly to each other as they walked. It was subtle. Very subtle, but there was a difference. It was one that had crept up quietly and she hoped that that was the reason Tom had picked up on it when she hadn't. Being away for a while and coming back in reset perspective in many cases. If that wasn't it, then she was losing her edge, and that wouldn't do her any good at all.

"You work with them," he murmured, as if reading her mind. "You've always had some trouble with people you're close to."

She elbowed him a little harder than she meant to, pulling a soft oomf from him and she gave him a look that she thought was probably somewhere halfway between an apology and a teasing smile at him for it. He wasn't wrong, but that didn't mean she had to agree outright with it.

Donald Ressler was approaching from the opposite side, sullen and grim looking even for the situation they found themselves in. Liz was a little surprised to see him at all. He'd kept to himself the last several days, and she assumed that he'd been taking the time to come to terms with the new line he'd crossed to protect the Task Force. She knew it'd been a big step for him, but she also knew how hard it had been. She had done her best not to push, letting him know that if he needed to talk, she was there, but he'd waved it off every time. She had thought that he would have stayed home for this, but despite his best efforts she thought that there was a respect that Ressler had developed for Reddington over the years that the Task Force had worked with him and that that was what drew him there that morning. He still loathed his methods, but Ressler was under no disillusionment that they would have been able to save many people as they had if they hadn't had Reddington's help.

She offered him a tight smile and he nodded in return, not even managing that much.

Liz pulled in a deep breath, satisfied when Aram moved immediately to their fair haired friend and dragged him into the conversation. She finally released her husband's arm. "Give me a minute?"

"Take your time," he answered softly and started over towards their daughter's godparents.

She pulled in a deep breath, calming herself. She'd been fluctuating wildly under all the different emotions that came with what had happened. Baz's death, Kate's death, finding out that Red was her father, and finding out that he was keeping yet another secret from her that Kate had left with her husband. It was a mess. Her life was constantly a mess.

Today, though, she wanted to put it all aside. Aram had been right. Baz was a good man and he deserved the respect of their gathering. She would do the best she could to withhold judgement on Reddington until she knew the whole story. Maybe it wasn't as bad as her imagination had come up with.

"Elizabeth," he greeted, glancing over as she approached.

"Hey. We're not late, are we?"

"No. Dembe and I just arrived a little early. I wanted some time." He closed his eyes and Liz saw his fingers tighten around the brim of his hat in his hands. "I knew Baz many years. We'd seen a lot together."

Liz felt her chest tighten at his expression and she reached out, her finger tips touching the fabric of his jacket. "I'm so sorry, Reddington. A death is difficult enough, but the way it happened… I'm sorry."

"Yes," he murmured. He shook his head, almost as if he were shaking off the emotions that were threatening to bubble out into view of everyone there. "I'm glad you made it. Baz would have wanted you here."

Liz nodded, not trusting her own voice. What was there to say? She'd been there, willingly in the car with Kate Kaplan when Baz and Reddington's people had run them off the road thinking that they were saving her. It wasn't her fault. She'd chosen to get out, to choose Red as Kate had put it, and she hadn't thought for an instant that the older woman would have intentionally killed Baz. Yes, she'd hurt many people that Reddington cared about, but she had known Baz. Injuring him, making sure he ended up in prison, those things Liz could have seen happening with the person Kate Kaplan had become, but killing him outright? She hadn't predicted that. She also hadn't predicted that the woman would have thrown herself over the side of the bridge to her death, so maybe Tom was right. When things were very, very close to home, her own readings weren't always as accurate as she would have liked to believe.

She cleared her throat. "I don't think Cooper is going to make it, so unless you're waiting on others we should probably get started."

"Afraid Agent Gale is going to pop out from behind the tree?" Reddington asked, obviously trying for a tease and Liz gave him her best attempt at a smile.

"With our luck lately, he might just do it."

Reddington nodded, and cleared his throat, calling everyone's attention. He spoke in the way that only Raymond Reddington spoke, weaving stories so vivid that Liz could see them dancing across her imagination. A time when they were caught under heavy fire in a deal gone wrong and a celebration after a deal gone better than expected. He spoke of their years together, of Baz then and the Baz that they had known. He was a valued member of his team, a former Special Forces member, and a dedicated friend. Liz's eyes closed as she listened, leaning into Tom's shoulder and she felt him shift to put an arm around her, supporting her where she stood next to him. Every detailed played out from Reddington's voice to her mind, and she saw that little smirk that Baz gave so clearly.

Dembe spoke next, his voice soft and slow as he remembered a man that he had, Liz realized in that moment, been exceptionally close to. There had been a time when he had gone back to the South Sudan to help his countrymen fight for freedom and they'd come across more trouble than they'd expected. Dembe, to that day, didn't know how Baz had heard about it, but he'd reached out to him to offer his support in that moment. It hadn't been his fight, it hadn't been his people, but Dembe had been his friend and in so many ways his family, and what had been important to the younger man was important to Baz.

Liz swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes closed and she felt a tear escape. "I, uh… I had about decided that I wasn't going to say anything, but…." She pulled in a deep breath, steadying herself, and opened her eyes again, trying to pull together what she felt about the man that had made Dembe look chatty. The thought made her smile, despite the situation, and she shook her head. "Baz was our protector. He was always there just when I needed him, even if I didn't think I did." A laugh escaped her - "I just about set the kitchen on fire one time trying to cook something. Baz was across the hall, watching for whatever terrible thing would drop on our heads next, and he came flying into the apartment with his gun drawn and ready to take on whatever danger there was. I yelled at him. I was so… upset at being watched and being shadowed every step that I took - at having been shadowed for so long by so many people - that I took it all out on him in that moment, yelling at him to get out, but Baz never held it against me. He was silent and he was steady, ready to face down anything. I've seen a lot of brave men and women - a lot of them standing right here - and Baz… I didn't think we'd lose him so soon."

She sniffed hard and Tom wrapped her up, pulling her close. She let him, and by the end of it she gave up trying not to cry. Baz was more than Reddington's man, more than their protector. He was her friend, and that day, for just a moment, she let herself mourn him without all the complications that came with it.

After everyone had said their piece Tom had stepped aside to give Liz a moment alone to say her private goodbyes. The intent had been to step over with the rest of the crowd, but he found himself a few yards further than that at a lonely and fresh grave under a tree. The stone at the head was just as new as Baz's and the lettering on it was unexpected.

"You buried Mr Kaplan here," he acknowledged, hearing the quiet steps approaching from behind. He didn't need to turn to see who they belonged to.

Reddington stepped up to stand next to him and he looked tired. More than, he thought as he studied the older man from the corner of his eye, and from what Liz had said about everything Kaplan had done to his organization there was no question as to why. People that functioned in the world that Reddington did - the world Tom never seemed to be able to quite leave - needed to be in control to stay on top. Let that control slip and the sharks came in to finish you off. Tom knew how it worked. He'd lived it more years than he hadn't, and if Reddington's organization was in as many pieces as Liz seemed to think it was then the Concierge of Crime was in a lot of trouble.

Reddington nodded. "Yes. Despite everything that happened at the end Kate was… a friend."

Tom resisted the urge to snort at the statement. Friend. The man had put a bullet through her head when he disagreed with the direction she'd taken to try to help Liz. If he hadn't nearly been on the receiving end of a bullet from a man that he'd given all of his loyalty to for one perceived slight, he might have understood where Reddington was coming from a little better.

"Problem, Tom?"

He closed his eyes and re-opened them, the action somewhere between a blink and not. He turned to watch Reddington, his expression even and the older man gave a mirthless chuckle as he shook his head.

"Liz told me about the DNA test," Tom said, his voice sharper than it might have been if he hadn't been trying to bring it under control.

Reddington tilted his head ever so slightly. "Of course she did."

"I had a pretty good idea," the younger man said. He forced himself to meet Reddington's gaze. "Listen, I know you and I haven't always seen eye to eye, but I do think we both love Liz and want her to be happy and safe."

"That's all I've ever wanted."

"As much as Liz has been shoved into this world, as much as it's part of who she is, she wasn't raised deep in it. She… needs honestly from the people closest to her. Even if it doesn't seem like anything changed between the two of you, she knows now, and if you're still hiding anything from her-"

"Where is this coming from, Tom?"

He rolled his eyes a little. "I just know how these things go, and I know how Liz is. You're going to think that you can get away with keeping things from her because you always have, and maybe you could have done that when she didn't know for sure you were her father, but it's out now, and she deserves honesty from you."

"Amusing coming from you."

"I learned the hard way. I had to watch her walk away before I figured it out. I love her. I don't want to see her have to go through that with you if she doesn't have to, but she will. You screw around with her and she will." He was bordering dangerously close, he knew, but there were enough secrets in their world that he could have been talking about anything. There was a good chance that he was referring to more than the bones. Reddington had plenty of secrets.

There must have been something in his tone though. Slowly Reddington's eyes widened and then his gaze darkened just a little. "Kate reached out to you."

"I haven't talked to her since the day you delivered me to that safehouse after Agnes had been taken and drove off with her."

He hadn't expected Reddington to reach out, his hand grasping his shoulder. It wasn't quite threatening, but the older man held him firm, as if he thought he might try to squirm away. "It makes sense. She needed someone that wasn't afraid to go against me. Someone who would sympathize with her."

"What do you-"

"The suitcase."

"I don't know what-"

He tried to shift away, but the grip on him only tightened and Reddington's voice was low and dangerous. "Don't you dare lie to me, Tom. This isn't a game. You have no idea what you've stepped into. What have you done with the suitcase that Kate gave you?"

Tom closed his eyes briefly, pulling in a breath, and when he re-opened them he leveled a dangerous glare in return. "You want to avoid losing her over whatever secrets you have, don't pin the blame on me. Tell her before it's too late." He pulled away, finally breaking Reddington's grasp, and he turned to stalk down the hill.

He'd been quiet after his talk with Reddington, refusing to say anything about it while they were at the gravesite. Liz hadn't pushed him on it, but as she closed the door behind Carly back at their apartment, Agnes down for her nap and her husband brooding irritably, Liz cleared her throat. "You going to tell me what happened?"

"Your dad's an ass."

Despite the heaviness of everything that had happened that day, Liz snorted a laugh. "That's not news," she murmured and took a seat next to him on the couch. She scooted a little closer when he didn't react, and while he didn't move away, he didn't welcome her as he usually did. Instead he was shut off, upset, and internalizing everything. She nudged him gently. "Talk to me?"

He loosed a breath, slouching back and letting his head fall against the back of the couch. "He knows I have the suitcase."

Liz blinked. "How?"

"He put it together. Maybe I'm losing my touch."

"Reddington is one of the best at reading people, and he knows you pretty well now. He can't get to it, right?"

"No."

"That's good then." She reached over, taking his hand and she laced her fingers through his. Slowly his long fingers curled around, holding onto her. "What brought it up?"

He winced, looking a little guilty. "I was… We were talking about how you wished that he would be honest the other day and I…. I thought maybe having learned the lesson the hard way I might be able to talk to him about it.."

Liz pursed her lips together, holding back her immediate response. It was sweet, she knew, even if it hadn't panned out the way he had meant for it to. "Honey, he's not you."

"You said-"

"Oh babe. I didn't mean for you to go try to do that."

He looked a little sheepish at that. "I know."

She hated when he looked like a kicked puppy, like one wrong step would land him shut out and at odds with her. He'd been trying to help her and it'd blown up spectacularly in his face. She wrapped her arm around his back and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "I love you," she reminded him. "And Kaplan made the right choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Even when it's… misplaced, you always try to watch out for me. She knew that you wouldn't be afraid to do something that would piss Reddington off."

Tom chuckled softly and she tightened her grip on him, one arm wrapped around and the other hand holding his. They sat there in silence. None of this was easy and the path was anything but clear, but they were in it together, and even if no one else did, they had each other's backs.

Notes: Sometimes chapters stay relatively intact with just a few minor adjustments when I go back through them for edits and sometimes they're like this one.... things are moved, scrapped, and reworked like crazy.

I'm still really sad that Bokenkamp said that Baz was dead. I really do hope that they give him some sort of send off next season, because that man was impossible to kill and then suddenly he's dead? He was the one I wasn't worried about. Sad times. I may not be over this death for a while....

Next time - Nez and Solomon put a plan into action, Whitehall brings concerns to Howard, and the Keens get an unexpected visitor at their home late at night.

[chierafied]

The Birth of Resistance

For February’s @jilychallenge!! So this was supposed to be all grim and gritty, dystopian alt timeline sort of AU but the Maurauder interaction ran away from me so it became more comedy and witty banter in the end... OTL  Oh well...

JILY CHALLENGE | @chierafied vs @childoftimeandmagic          Theme: Fantasy, Prompt: Robin Hood AU

Remus Lupin pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and turned to his friends, his face grim and pale in the bright torchlight.

“It’s worse than we thought,” he said, tossing a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the plush red sofa where James was sitting.

Sirius Black snorted from the arm chair in the corner, and took a generous gulp from the bottle of Firewhisky he was nursing.

He’d been doing that a lot, since Peter had betrayed them and handed Dumbledore over to Voldemort. Lily let him be; at least she had managed to talk him out of going after Peter – even if she’d had to slap him and scream he’d be no use to anyone dead or locked up in Azkaban.

James picked up the newspaper. His face contorted with anger as he read the headline.

“Muggleborn registry?” he spat.

Lily shrugged, but didn’t look up from the cauldron perched before her. “We knew it was coming,” she said, calm and matter-of-fact.

“Still, I didn’t expect him to move so quickly,” Remus said. He wiped the map clean and set it on the side table by the door.

“I guess patience isn’t one of Lord Moldyface’s virtues,” Sirius commented.

“There’s not a single virtuous cell in You-Know-Who’s body,” Lily retorted, stirring her potion. “But he has been waiting for this for a long time, he’s not gonna waste a second now that he’s finally in power.”

James was still reading through the article, a scowl darkening his features.

“People must have already started to flee.”

“We did,” Remus said glumly, plopping to sit down next to him on the sofa.

“I wonder if we could help them,” James said.

“What, sneak a bunch of Muggleborns into our glorious headquarters?” Sirius asked, waving his hand to indicate the room.

“The Room of Requirement makes for excellent headquarters,” James countered. “The fact that it’s right under the Death Eaters’ noses makes it all the better. But no, we can’t really turn this into a refugee centre.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said. “There isn’t much we could do anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Lily said thoughtfully. “With some proper organisation and planning, we might be able to set up a safe house somewhere – maybe even help smuggle some of the people out of the country. Purebloods are always underestimating Muggles, I’m sure the Ministry’s not watching every airport in the country.”

“Sweet ideas, Ginger, but you’re not being practical,” Sirius scoffed. “How the hell would we pull off something like that? With what money? The ministry has repossessed all our accounts. And as great as the Room of Requirement is, I doubt it can provide us with cold hard cash.”

“I got it!” James looked up, his face more animated than it had been in a week.

“Got what?”

James beamed at Remus. “Robin Hood!”

Remus grimaced. “Prongs, no…”

Sirius arched his eyebrow. “Robin what now?”

“Robin Hood,” James repeated, so excited he knocked his glasses askew by accident. “The bloke Muggles have all these stories and legends about. He stole from the rich and gave it to the poor.”

“You’re saying we should steal money from the Death Eaters?”

“They repossessed ours, technically we’d be taking back what already should belong to us,” James said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Besides, it’s perfect, don’t you see?”

“No, not really,” Sirius replied, taking another swig of Firewhisky.

“You’ll be Friar Tuck, since you’re always carrying that bottle these days.”

Remus groaned.

“I have no clue what you’re babbling about,” Sirius told James.

“Lily – Will Scarlet.”

“Better than ‘Ginger’,” she replied, bemused.

James turned to Remus with a grin. “Little John!”

“Hilarious,” Remus John Lupin deadpanned. He slanted a look at Lily, bent over her cauldron. “Lily, your husband is losing it, please talk some sense into him.”

“I don’t know, I think it could work,” she said slowly, leaning back in her chair. “I mean you guys are as good as professional sneaks. James and Sirius are unregistered Animagi and that might come in handy. We’re all fairly gifted, magically speaking... And we have the Invisibility Cloak and the two way mirrors.”

“As exciting as this sounds, Peter’s probably already told them about us being Animagi,” Sirius spat, taking another long sip from his bottle.

“I don’t think he has,” Lily countered. “He might be a rotten bloody coward, but he’s not stupid. He didn’t betray us because he agrees with their ideology, he betrayed us because he didn’t think we’d win. If he told them you were unregistered Animagi, he’d come too close to revealing he’s one, too. He wouldn’t risk showing them all his cards when he’s in this to survive.”

Sirius put down his bottle. “You make a convincing argument, Ginger.”

“Stop calling me that, you arse. Anyway, on top of everything else, in three more weeks we’ll have a fresh batch of Polyjuice Potion,” Lily continued, nodding at her simmering cauldron. “If we’re going to do this, there’s a bunch of other potions I could prepare for us, too – the Room of Requirement gave us ample ingredient stores.”

“My wife.” James beamed. “As brilliant as she is beautiful.”

“Ugh, get a room!” Sirius retorted.

“You can’t be serious!” Remus hissed at them, his voice strained; almost pleading. “You can’t compare marauding at school to breaking into people’s houses!”

“Why not?” Sirius was perched on the edge of the arm chair now, obviously warming up to the idea. “I think Scarlet’s making a convincing argument here, John my lad. We do have ample experience in law breaking.”

“Cheers, Tuckster.” Lily smirked.

“Have you all gone insane?” Remus demanded.

“Come on, Moony, I’m not saying we should try to pull a heist on Gringotts or anything like that,” James spoke in a reasonable tone of voice. “I’m just saying – let’s knock those bastards down a peg or two. Call it a redistribution of wealth: use the money to help the people who need it.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Lily said, turning to meet Remus’ haunted eyes. “You’re a werewolf, I’m a Mudblood, James and Sirius are known Bloodtraitors. We’re already outlaws. Might as well make the most of it.”

Remus stared at the three of them, all looking expectantly at him. His face was pinched, his shoulders slumped.

“Fine,” he said, scowling at his friends. “I guess we can’t let them get away with killing Dumbledore. But if we’re doing this, we’re gonna do it properly. With a plan.”

“Listen to our Moony,” Sirius grinned at James.

James grinned back. “Just like old times, eh?”

They Apparated to a narrow moonlit lane with an audible POP and scrambled apart, their wands pointing into every direction. But the night was still and silent; undisturbed even though their wildly racing hearts pounded in their ears.

Slowly, they lowered their wands and drew together into the shadow of a tall manicured hedge lining the lane.

James dug the mirror out of his pocket.

“Lily,” he whispered into the darkness. “We’ve arrived, all clear.”

“Be careful,” his wife whispered back, her green eyes flashing in the mirror. “And keep me posted.”

James nodded, then stuffed the mirror back to his pocket.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said with false cheer, “the night isn’t getting any younger.”

His fingers trembled a little as he fumbled for his Invisibility Cloak. He hadn’t been this nervous since his first date with Lily.

“Do not make me come and save your arses,” Remus told them, the worry in his eyes giving lie to his disgruntled tone.

“We’ll be fine, Moony,” Sirius said lightly.

Remus did not reply, only gave them one terse nod before using the Disillusionment Charm on himself and drawing deep into the dark shadows of the high yew hedge.

James turned, and found a big black dog sitting in the middle of the lane, its pink tongue lolling and its tail wagging soundlessly.

James grimly squared his shoulders and threw the Invisibility Cloak over himself.

“Let’s go,” he said, following Sirius down the narrow lane. They took a right onto a wide branching driveway, and finally came to a halt before elaborate wrought iron gates.

“Perimeter ward?” James whispered.

Sirius nodded.

“Dismantle or trigger?” James asked.

Sirius gave two quiet barks.

“You’re right, that’s safer,” James agreed. He pulled out the mirror.

“Lily?”

Lily’s face appeared, wrought with concern.

“What is it, is everything all right?”

“It’s fine, we’ve barely even started. Just wanted to point out that we might want to get a spare wand for our future excursions.”

“Good point, I’ll make a note of that – in countering complex charmwork there’s a real risk of leaving a magical signature behind.”

“Exactly. For now, we’re gonna trigger the wards.”

“Don’t get caught!”

Lily’s face vanished and James put away the mirror.

“The show’s all yours,” he told Sirius.

The dog’s tongue lolled with laughter, then he squeezed through an opening in the ironwork of the gate and sprang into the yard, starting to give one startled white peacock a merry chase.

The next seconds were tense and seemed to stretch into infinity; then a man ran up a gravel path, his wand pointed. He stopped when he saw Sirius and cursed under his breath.

“A bloody stray,” he sneered and aimed a jinx at the dog. Sirius dodged it without trouble.

“Go on,” the man shouted, “scram!”

The gate creaked open, the perimeter ward temporarily silenced. Sirius ran out onto the driveway just as James, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak, slid in through the gate. He took a deep and quiet calming breaths as he watched the man strut into the looming darkness.

They were in!

James cast one lingering glance at Sirius, sitting on the other side of the gate, and the excitement bubbling in his chest fizzled out.

No. He was in.

His friends were close by and ready to rush to his aid, but from this point on he was on his own. Suddenly, James keenly felt the stark contrast between this moment and all those times they’d huddled under this very same cloak together.

Don’t be stupid, James told himself. You’re not kids anymore, we wouldn’t even properly fit under the cloak if we were together. You’re prepared enough, you’ve been planning this for weeks. Now go and get it done!

James went.

  In the quiet dead hours of early morning Lily paced the seventh floor corridor until the door finally appeared on the bare wall opposite to Barnabas the Barmy’s tapestry. She slipped into the room, even as the effects of the Polyjuice Potion were starting to wear off.

Despite the early hour she found her friends both wide awake and in a cheerful mood.

James pulled away from patting Sirius’ back and rushed over to Lily, winding his arm around her shoulders.

“How did it go?” he asked, guiding her to the sofa.

“Everything went without a hitch, the Muggleborn kid and his parents are on a plane to Canada. They kept thanking me for buying them the tickets.”

Lily had barely sat down when James handed her the paper.

“Remus snuck out to get this,” he said.

Lily eyed the Daily Prophet, noting the small headline in the corner of the front page: Handsome reward offered to help capture the Malfoy Manor Burglars.

“Huh, and here I thought they’d want to keep it hushed,” she mused aloud.

“Too outraged to hide their wounded pride I bet,” Sirius grinned.

“How did your night go?” she asked Sirius.

“It was a success. Got Mundungus to agree to fence some of the items. I don’t trust that git, though, we need to put him under a watch.”

“Agreed. When he lets us know he’s found a buyer, one of us should take on the disguise while another hides under Invisibility Cloak and sticks to Mundungus,” Remus said.

“That’s a good plan,” Lily nodded, letting her head drop to rest against James’ shoulder. “Have you made any plans on the safe house yet while I was away?”

“Obviously we can’t use any properties that could be linked back to us,” Remus said. “And we should also avoid having it near wizarding communities.”

“I think we should have it somewhere in London,” James said. “Hiding amongst a crowd would be safer than choosing a remote location.”

“Well, as long as it wouldn’t be near Diagon Alley or the Ministry, I think that would be good idea. Let’s look into property in Muggle London, then?”

Remus and Sirius nodded.

“At least we’ve narrowed it down now. I hope we can get it underway quick to help everyone.” Lily sighed.

“Don’t worry, love,” James said, stroking her hair. “The days seem dark, but we can do a lot of good with this money.”

“I can’t believe I’m admitting this,” Remus said wryly, “but I agree. This ‘redistribution of wealth’ was not such a bad idea.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, his grey eyes aglow. “This is just the beginning.”

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Banned Horror Comics Rise from the Dead

Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s (all images courtesy of Fantagraphics Books)

The charges that Fredric Wertham made in 1954’s Seduction of the Innocent: The Influence of Comic Books on Today’s Youth — that a relationship existed between comics reading and “violent forms of juvenile delinquency” — didn’t materialize out of thin air. The oft-vilified German-born American psychiatrist gets a lot of credit for a censorship campaign that had legs long before his articles and book were pinned to it. Critics and clergymen were blasting all kinds of comics as “objectionable” for years, singling out depictions of gun violence, gore, and a broad range of fare they deemed offensive. Church bulletins and hyperbolic magazine features laid the groundwork for a national panic over comics, but the war on the medium gained steam in postwar America, just as some comics became increasingly violent and grim.

“The debate over comic books hopped from the back of the newspaper to the front, section by section — from the book reviews and religious columns to the ‘women’s’ department to the hard-news pages,” writes David Hadju in The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic-Book Scare and How It Changed America. Ordinances criminalized newsstand comics sales in the late 1940s in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and more. “Comic Books Banned in Detroit as ‘Corrupting'” blared a headline in The Washington Post in 1948, when somewhere between 80 and 100 million comics were being sold monthly.

Wertham scored a seat before the Senate Subcommittee Hearings into Juvenile Delinquency in April 1954. When governmental regulation loomed, the self-regulatory Comics Code Authority emerged that fall. A problematic and sweeping set of vanilla rules instituted to police comics’ subject matter and art, the Code sank publishers and killed off the kind of crime and horror books for which readers crowded newsstands. Hadju reports that by the early “pre-Code” 1950s, horror comics in particular had grown “ever more gruesome and lurid.” And they were everywhere.

“By the end of 1952,” he writes, “nearly one-third of all the comics on the newsstands were devoted to the macabre.”

From Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s

Swamp creatures and animated but still-rotting corpses swarm the 40 stories collected in the new edition of Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s, a survey of grisly pre-Code comics that hasn’t been in circulation since 2011. While reprints of the prestigious and oft-imitated EC Comics titles over the years have cemented a sterling reputation for series like Tales from the Crypt, scholars Greg Sadowski and John Benson mine less-well-known ten-cent anthologies like Black Magic, Weird Adventures, and more, heralding a time when cheap four-color printing processes meant that an easily reproducible palette would be manufactured from hand-separated colors. These comics feel like dessert, and they should. Benson, an EC aficionado with his own fanzine to prove it, suggests we make-believe we’re adolescents of the era, “reading these stories slowly to savor every chilling moment.”

Yarns excerpted from Beware Terror Tales and others will read like nonsense to most folk. Their smudgy aesthetic will confound today’s devotees of Marvel’s digitally polished relaunches, too, while racist caricatures like the brown-skinned people and Haitian “voodoo” in 1952’s “Drum of Doom” haven’t aged well, either. But for every predictable zombie plot, there is a hallucinatory murder mystery like “Colorama,” penciled by artist Bob Powell in 1953.

Authored by Harvey Comics editor and admitted EC fan Sid Jacobson (who reportedly directed Chamber of Chills artist Howard Nostrand to just “copy” the work of EC’s illustrators), “Colorama” has Powell playing generously with perspective and color. The direction is clever for a disorienting first-person narrative about a colorblind killer, in which the cosmic swirls representing his protagonist’s blurred vision bump up against Powell’s realist urban backdrops and assured landscape drawing. Elsewhere, MAD cartoonist Basil Wolverton, whose absurdist productions had a clear impact on underground comix artists, crafts nasty bald-headed gargoyles for Weird Tales of the Future, their leathery olive-green skin flecked with innumerable short dashes that lend a convincing illusion of ripples of movement.

From Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s

Ludicrous storylines aside, Four Color Fear‘s selection and archival research add critical context to a fascinating age for comics in North America. Benson’s insights reveal that the book’s frequent nondescript Iger Studio credit (an outfit founded by Will Eisner and Samuel “Jerry” Iger) likely refers to the sole work of an editorial powerhouse named Ruth Roche, who cranked out horror scripts and lots more for the publisher. Roche’s framework subsequently went to pencilers and inkers like New Jersey–born artist Jay Disbrow.

In an interview with publisher Craig Yoe that prefaces Jay Disbrow’s Monster Invasion, Disbrow connects his comics career to a consumption of Sunday supplements as a kid and remembers tiring of commuting from Asbury Park into Manhattan for inking and penciling gigs at Iger in his 20s. After a year, Disbrow traded up for freelance assignments as a writer, artist, inker, and letterer of horror and romance for Star Publications editor Leonard “L.B.” Cole. Jay Disbrow’s Monster Invasion culls mostly from this pre-Code horror work, specifically the creature-centric stories he did for supernatural- and suspense-themed anthologies Ghostly Weird Stories, Blue Bolt Weird Tales of Terror, and more.

“Cole wanted ghost stories,” explains Disbrow of his Star comics tenure. “I said to him, ‘That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. What we oughta be doing is monster stories!'”

Jay Disbrow’s Monster Invasion images( © 2017 Gussoni-Yoe Studio, Inc.)

There’s no supplementary material aside from the interview here, and unforgivable book design decisions give way to tacky fonts and fake blood splotches in the margins. But Jay Disbrow’s Monster Invasion adds weight to the legacy of an artist best known for “jungle comics,” science fiction such as The Flames of Gyro, and the gorgeous, full-color “syndicate-type” webcomic called Aroc of Zenith that he started in his 70s.

Like a lot of Golden Age creators, Disbrow could’ve used a watchful editor. Loads of copy swallows up word balloons and captions, and lines and lines of the artist’s hand-lettered text are given little room for legibility. His figure drawing needed practice, too. The often wooden movements and overlong, flat-looking limbs rendered his humans even less likely to succeed in battle with the monsters he loved to draw. But the inventive layouts, sinister terror, and wealth of beasts here are things of beauty.

Jay Disbrow’s Monster Invasion images (© 2017 Gussoni-Yoe Studio, Inc.)

Panels dart inward at strange angles in “A Stony Death,” allowing for worming gutters and the provocative inclusion of an odd center panel. “The Ghoul of the North,” like every creature here, is enormous amid puny mortals. Giant fanged ogres from “the bowels of the earth” terrorize a novelist in “The Insider,” while a red-eyed specter towers over his prey in “The Unknown Presence.” Cinematic shadows blanket caverns and crime scenes, and action bursts out from under audacious type in title-page headers as graphic design and vintage movie posters figure into these pages as frequently as Alex Raymond’s Flash Gordon strips do. Disbrow’s action sequences are explosive, with hulking abominations reaching out from the back corner of a panel toward a helpless character in the foreground. All of your pre-Code goods are here: blood and guns and tentacles and stranglings and hell demons.

And then … nothing.

Fredric Wertham took aim at Star’s Spook and more in his book, and the company shuttered shortly after the Senate Subcommittee hearings on comics. In Disbrow’s talk with Yoe, he recalls the “comic book crash of 1954,” owing to the good Christians who gathered around bonfires to torch comics in Wisconsin and New York, and the tarring of publishers as Communists and smut peddlers. Although University of Illinois professor Carol Tilley would find that Wertham’s “research” relied on omissions and manipulated data, the campaign to censor comics took a terrible toll on the industry. Awash in publicity, the hearings and resulting Comics Code effectively crippled then-thriving studios. Publishers killed titles deemed disagreeable and sent their staff home. There were other factors, but suddenly, hundreds of comics professionals in the late 1950s would never work in the medium again.

“Unlike their rough counterparts in the Red Scare, the artists and writers caught up in the comic-book controversy were never charged with espionage, treason, contempt of Congress or court, or obstruction of justice,” writes Hadju in The Ten-Cent Plague. “What they did was tell outrageous stories in cartoon pictures, a fact that makes their struggle and their downfall all the more strange and sad.”

Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s is available from by Fantagraphics Books. Jay Disbrow’s Monster Invasion is available from Yoe Books.

The post Banned Horror Comics Rise from the Dead appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[lullaby-mun-blog]

The Fall of a Legend(RWBY X DESTINY Fic In Progress)

Cold.... so very cold. As the torrential down pour drenched his cloak the huntsman made his way to the faint candle lit glow of a the local watering hole. The closer he got the more voices he heard, having conversations about mere nothings, and small everyday inconveniences.... how easy most people had it.... not having to accept the reality around them. No one really took notice of him as he entered the bar and made his way directly to the scruffy old man who ran the small establishment. The hooded man discretely slid a coin worth 1,000 lien followed with the statement, "I am looking for a man.... goes by the name.... Dredgen Yor." The bar tender picked up the coin inspecting it before putting it in his pocket. "Whose askin'? You another wolf under the guise of a huntsman?" the old man asked warily. The huntsman scoffed slightly "All you need to know.... is I am the man with The Last Word."-- CHAPTER 1: DARK AGE GENESIS "The Golden Age Burned bright - and the night that overtook us after the Collapse was swift and total."

There was a time before the kingdoms. Not much of this time is remembered, or cared to be. It became known as a time of humility, a primitive and ignorant time. This era prior to the discovery of dust would simply be known as- The Before. However in the basking light of Dust a golden age was born, man kind flourished and The Before was viewed as a naïve misstep, a folly in the youth of a maturing human entity, but history with all its vast volumes has but a single page and time... would once again find a way of repeating itself. For in the tidal wave that was the prosperity of the golden age that washed over mankind, it its wake followed the great Collapse, shattering mankind's strides towards enlightenment, and birthing a dark age once again. The Dark Age was much like the worst parts of The Before in the lawless time corruption ruled the ravished world of Remnant, now standing as a cultural and technological wasteland of the glory that once reigned. But in the darkness, as they so often do, beacons of hope pierced the veil of suffering rending the evils of darkness and standing monument to the power of light. The first beacon was a city, it's walls stood in defiance of the outlaying world's lawlessness and regression to primal moralities. Looming over the great walled city was a tower, a symbol of protection of what remains of the light and civility. Those willing to sacrifice all in the protection of life once again sought Dust and became the second beacon of hope, the Huntsmen. Among these heroes of light one stood taller than the rest, the huntsmen Dredgen Vale. The people looked to Vale because he was, as stated, a beacon... hope given form yet still only a man. Within this truth there was great promise, for if one man could stand up to the night, so could anyone.... everyone. Dredgen Vale, a gunslinger of no equal, in his strong hand the man held a 'Rose' and his aura burned bright. In his wake hope spread, but the man held a secret fear. His thoughts were dark, a sadness crept from within his being. He had been a hero for so long yet pride had led him down sorrows road. He had seen the lair of the creatures Grimm and found a weapon there, or maybe it found him. 'Rose' the weapon that extended Dredgen's being, struck fear into many, and brought hope to the fearful human race, but at a great cost to the warrior of light. To wield 'Rose' was a trail unto itself, only those of the purest light could withstand such a powerful weapon of death. The grip of 'Rose' was stained in blood, a reflection of the burden Dredgen Vale carried. CHAPTER 2: Wilting of Beauty "Slowly the shadow's whisper became a voice, a dark call offering glories enough to make even the brightest light wander. He knew he was fading, yet he still yearned." It's not known if 'Rose' changed Dredgen, or if Dredgen's lust for power turned 'Rose'. In the end... it is irrelevant one way or the other a darkness came to the surface claiming it's victim. Slowly the shadow's whisper became a voice, a dark call offering glories enough to make even the brightest light wander. Dredgen knew he was fading, yet he still yearned. He could see true strength in the dark, a clarity of power and purpose, a true separation of absolute supremacy from petty moral ambiguities. This philosophy overtaking Dredgen was a contradiction of the ways of light and the huntsmen who upheld rightous beliefs in faith of humanities illumination. For Dredgen, though, it mattered not, his eyes were open. Maybe for the first time, he could see clearly. And so, the warrior embraced this change. As if taking part in a ritual unknown to Dredgen, a rite predating the birth of man and technology possibly even the universe, a ceremony as ancient as light and dark itself, Dredgen would forfeit his former entity. So on his last day he watched the sun fall, his final thoughts pure of mind if not body held a fleeting hope. He knew the man he was to become would bring suffering, but despite everything he wished the people to remember him as he had been. Regardless of what he wished or hoped, the point of return was a distant blur now and the shadows were consuming him. So the nobleman hid himself beneath a darkness no flesh should touch and gave up his mortal self to claim a new birthright. Whether this was a choice or destiny is a truth known only to fate, and in that cool evening air, as dusk was devoured by night, the nobleman ceased to exist. In his place another stood, same meat, same bone, but so very different. In his first moments as a new being he looked down at 'Rose' and realized for the first time that it had no petals, only the jagged purpose of angry Thorns. Dredgen, like 'Rose', appeared to be one thing, but in reality was a stark difference. The greatest forgery of hope or good, a facade of truth and justice shrouded over a true nature of darkness. For when the petals of 'Rose' so does hope... and only 'Thorn' remains. Now in this moment Dredgen Yor and 'Rose' have both withered away their beauty, and become one and the same.... a weapon of darkness. CHAPTER 3: Open Your Eyes "To rend one's enemies is to see them not as equals, but objects - hollow of spirit and meaning." Two men stood at the edge of a cliff looking out over a wasteland that was once a prosperous town... now it was nothing but a grave sight. The two had been there from the moment the sun rose in silence looking upon it each with a different expression, now dusk was falling and one man with hair like snow clad in green would speak. "You were not always this man." he said curtly to which the man in the cloak would reply with "True." The two would now turn to face one another. "Then logic says you do not need to remain this man... you can be another." "I am another." "You can be better." "This is better." the two began speaking back and forth. "That matter, at best is subjective." the man in green replied after a moment. "Then what? Lesser?" "Some would say." "But what would you say?" at that there was long silence from the man in green which was broken by the other. "All we've seen and now, here with me, you have no words?" the hooded figure asked bluntly. "I have words..." the white haired man began. "But...?" the figure inquired the sun now barely shined over the horizon. "But you will not like them." the man finished. "Ozpin there is much I do not like." the hooded figure retorted. Ozpin couldn't help but look down "Now more than ever it would seeming." this comment earned a dark chuckle from the man in the cloak. "I find no laughing matter in your path." Ozpin said harshly. "Only in the journey." the man replied swiftly. "What brought you here was nobility..." "And my prize" the hooded figure said interrupting Ozpin. "THAT is no prize." Ozpin said in an upset tone. "A curse then?" the man asked sarcastically. "I would say so.." Ozpin respond to which he was met with "And I would disagree." Ozpin shook his head adjusting his stance a bit "You are no longer yourself." he said firmly. "I am myself. It's who I was that's gone." the man said coldly. "Who you were held all the value." "To you." "To the Light." "The Light..." "It is all." the two began going back and forth. To that statement the hooded man scoffed. "It is nothing but a crutch." he said scornfully. "One that has held you up." Ozpin said as if proving his point. "Only just, and nothing more." the man replied. "Nothing more? You were a hero!" Ozpin protested clearly more than a bit upset by that comment. The man scoffed shaking his head "And yet people still die. Corruption still exists. Light still fades, and Darkness still spreads." Ozpin sighed shaking his head "As it will ever be, that doesn't mean you give in to-" he started then the hooded man spoke up "To what, Hope?" he said looking to Ozpin. "This is not hope." Ozpin said pointing to the smoldering city. "This is peace..." the man said calmly looking out at the city. "You have blood on your hands!" "How's that any different than before?" "Innocent blood." "That is a matter of perspective Ozpin." Ozpin shook his head with a grim expression "That is the shadow talking." "And am I not?" the man inquired to which Ozpin asked "The shadow?" Another hush fell over the too as the man looked away from Ozpin and to the sky "Ya know Oz... These past cycles, you've made an honorable effort... Tried your best to correct my course, but I don't know it needs correcting." his tone was darker... even more so than before. "And if it does?" the white haired man asked. "Could be too late." the hooded man said with a tone of uncertainty for only a brief moment. "'Could be' is a winding path." Ozpin pointed out. "Long way from where I was to where I am going..." "That is my hope. That there is still time." Ozpin said stepping towards the man. "For?" the man asked glancing towards the other. "Corrective measures." Ozpin said firmly "The righting of this path, cleansing of your shadows and a return to the Light." Yet again there was a silence in the air... this one much longer the moon almost over the horizon. "Oz.... why'd you pick me?" the man asked "It doesn't work that way." Ozpin said in a worried tone. "Was I special?" the man asked to which Ozpin replied with out hesitation "You were." What came next made Ozpin recoil "But only as special as any other huntsman." Ozpin shook his head "You are all special." at this the man let out a dark laugh "Seems to contradict the word don't it?" Ozpin shook his head "Not in my estimation." the hooded man clenched his fist "If we're all special Oz, are any of us really special?" Ozpin glared at him "Is that what you want? To be special? Is that all you are after? Is all of the death worth that badge?" he asked seriously. "Am I not already more than the rest?" the hooded man asked confidently. "Looking at you here, now... the smoke, ash, and bone at your feet... it marks you as so much less." "Maybe... and yet here you are." the man said his own hooded gaze meeting Ozpin's "Meaning?" Ozpin asked re-positioning himself on his cane. "You have been at my side ever step of the way even though you so thoroughly disagree with my change in perspective." Ozpin shook his head "This change is not simply one of perspective. Your 'evolution' was no choice. This is not you having come to an understanding after careful consideration and thought. This is corruption." he said forcefully. "The shadows?" the man asked mockingly. "The Darkness." Ozpin replied seriously. "Maybe so." "There is no maybe here." "And you think you can 'save' me?" The man asked his tone still mocking Ozpin. "I rekindled your Light, and trained you. It falls first to me to aid in the Lights survival and yours." After another long silence the man leaned against the burnt remains of a tree. "I tire of it." he said with a sigh. "You must try-" Ozpin began only to be cut off "I tire of YOU." the man said aggressively. Ozpin gave a saddened look to the man "Vale..." To that the man stood up angrily "That is no longer my name!" he protested. "I will not speak the other." Ozpin said in defiance. "You will always be Dredgen Vale... a Huntsman... a Hero... you just have to try. " he said in a plea. "It doesn't matter. This is where we part ways." the man said turning from Ozpin. "I will not leave you." Ozpin said "You don't have to... I am leaving you." "Dredgen the journey set before you will be more than any one Huntsman can handle... you will need me." Ozpin continued to protest. "That's the point. It's been sometime since you have really seen me as worthy of walking among those I used to call brother and sister. Yet... now, I feel as though I am worthy of so much more." the man said a dark grin spreading across his face. "Without me.... You will die." Ozpin warned. "Someday." the man responded "Won't be the first time." "Ozpin... Consider this my last good deed. I am releasing you of the burdens of my deeds, both done and yet to come." the man said looking back at the other. "I will not abandon you." Ozpin protested. "You will. Or I shall carve the Light from you and leave your empty shell here... the carcass of my first and last friend in this blackened dirt to rot." the man said his words full of malice. "Then I've failed you, completely." Ozpin said sadly. "Not me." the man said shaking his head. "Maybe the man I was." Ozpin's yellow gaze stayed on the man. "He is truly dead?" he asked to which the man replied. "I believe so.... Ozpin, when you speak of me, use my proper name. Tell them of the man that stands before you, not the ghost of the hero I once was." this was one last request. "You will always be Dredgen Vale to me." Ozpin said to which the man turned and pulled down his hood. "If you cannot let that man go, you will forever taint his legacy. All the good I have ever done will be washed away in the fire of who I have become." he warned to which Ozpin pleaded "If you care, there is still some promise within you... hope of a return." The man shook his head giving a dark laugh. "If I am being honest? I care only to give hope to the frightened, huddled masses so that when I come upon them they will have more to lose. Their pain will be greater. Their screams more pure." this statement left Ozpin mortified. "You..." he breathed out. "After all nothing dies like hope, I cherish it." the man said grinning a malicious grin "You are a monster." Ozpin said his eyes wide. "Finally, you see the truth." the man said contently. "Dredgen Vale is truly dead..." Ozpin said, broken. "So I've said. Long live Dredgen Yor." the man said pulling his hood up and walking away. "This is farewell, but you can only run from your sins so far. In the end, you will die alone." Ozpin said having recomposed himself. "Maybe so. But I gotta tell ya... I tend to like my odds." Yor said as he was walking with a chuckle. "Your tainted 'Rose' will not always save you!" Ozpin warned. "Old friend." Dredgen began looking over his shoulder at Ozpin "It already has." and with that in a wisp of darkness the hooded man, the former hero known as Dredgen Vale was gone, the monster of darkness Dregen Yor had set out on his path.