#he sounds incorruptible

[inkstained-dragon]

thats it who is this Serioth guy i keep hearing wizards mutter about i swear, nobody gossips to dragons anymore even though we're very amicable

[meidui]

#i would say that he could make it to mordor but not destroy the ring#maybe he could have if he had been in isildur's place and had only been carrying it for a short time#but not if he'd been in frodo's place#he's very difficult to corrupt#but i don't think any human has the ability to withstand prolonged contact with the ring without succumbing at least in part ( @bulkyphrase )

[yeyinde]

Father John Price has been acting strange lately.

It started as little things most wouldn't notice—an odd slur to his words, far rougher than what you were used to hearing. A sway to his gait when he walked as if he was unfamiliar with the layout to the monastery. Gaps in his memory when pried for pieces of information that he should have known better than anyone else within the walls of the old building. Little slips. Missteps.

Nothing to worry about.

Not at first, anyway.

Not until it bleeds out, grows. Turns into touches. A searing, angry gaze drilling into your head whenever you look away from him. Ire lashing over each word he growls out in the alcoves he corners you inside, the guise of polite conversation falling to pieces when he slips his foot between yours, prying your thighs apart to stand between them. Towering over you as he rasps out commands for you to tell him about how you spent the evening prior on your knees—

Praying, you whisper feverishly, feeling the deep indents of the rosary beads imbedded into your fingers.

But that never seems to matter much to him. Not when the prayer is always an afterthought, and he makes noises like a wounded animal when you breathe out how long you stayed like that, and how—unable to resist temptation after gripping the rosary for long—you had to slide your cold fingers under your robes, numb, shaking hands seeking the blistering heat between your thighs.

("not close enough to tempt the devil," you mutter, shamefaced, heart lurching when the noise he makes in the back of the throat sounds like a misfiring gun. "But—" he drops his head to the wall, heaving. Eyes burning into your temple as you stare at the crooked tilt of his collar, unable to meet his gaze. Scared of what you might find. "But close enough that I had to—to pray again—")

And as the distant, unflappable mask of a seemingly incorruptible man begins to crack, breaking apart to unveil a yawning chasm, you find yourself trapped in confessional box with him after dark, quickly realising that the man you devoted your life to has fallen into that crater.

And something else has taken his place.

[always-just-red]

A/N: So I threatened a while back to write MC arresting Sylus since he literally won’t shut up about it. Thought this would be a silly fic but it ended up an angst-driven exploration of how his time with MC is probably finite and ill-fated?? Anyway Sylus is too soft for this, I’m sorryyyy (Sy I love you! I would never do this to you! ‘Didn’t it come from your imagination, though?’ Ssshhhh you don’t know what you’re saying!! 🥰)

To Remain Silent

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus has told you to arrest him one too many times...

Genre: Emotional rollercoaster honestly? Some angst, some comfort (and a lil spice for flavour)

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, vaguely established relationship, gets a little steamy at the end (mostly kissing tbh), artistic licence applied liberally since this would be WAY too risky for MC to actually attempt 😭😭

| Word count: 2.7k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Sylus knows this isn’t real.

You watch him through the glass of his cell, and the subtle tint to it lets you know that he can’t watch you back. He’s sat on the single bench inside, leaning against the far wall, his long legs stretched out before him. His hands are cuffed— tucked away behind his back— but he still looks comfortable. More than comfortable: at ease. At home. Bored.

“You think I can’t feel those pretty little eyes of yours on me?” he mutters, head back, eyes closed. “I’m at your mercy, kitten. Are you really only going to look?”

You tap a button on the glass. “You should start taking this seriously.”

He smiles at the sound of your voice, but his eyes don’t open; there’s still nothing to see. “I’m taking it very seriously, sweetie.”

“I don’t think you are.”

The smile turns even more smug: a confession, all by itself. He sits up and leans forward, like someone who’s found a change of conversation to be interesting. His eyes open— managing to find you, somehow, and— can he see you? No. It’s an educated guess, he’s just selling it with confidence.

Leisurely, he rises from his seat and saunters over to the glass. “Let me see you,” he orders, then bargains: “Please? This is so very—” he toes the division— “one-sided.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, can you? This is hard enough without the windows to your soul baring your heart and your mind to him, like they always do. You should have worn those sunglasses he bought you for that undercover assignment. This is what they’re for, right? Hiding.

With a circular swipe of your finger, the glass before you clears and Sylus meets your gaze.

“Hi,” he teases.

You fold your arms across your chest. “Hey.”

“This is quite some effort you’ve gone to, kitten. And all for me, no less.”

“What effort?” you dismiss plainly. “You practically slapped those handcuffs on yourself.”

It’s not an exaggeration: from the cuffs to the ride here, not a single stage of his arrest has been resisted. The closest he’s gotten to a lack of cooperation was when you’d first restrained and dragged him from his study, where he’d been inclined to point out that the bedroom was the other way.

“Well, I didn’t want to cause a fuss,” he smirks. One of his hands is brought forward, and his handcuffs now hang uselessly from a finger. “Tell me,” he says, letting them swing as he holds your gaze, “what am I to expect now I’ve been so masterfully captured?”

You glance at the restraints, unmoved. “That isn’t for me to decide.”

A door behind you slides open, and— right on time— an altogether more impressive presence joins you before the cell. Sylus glances her up and down as the click of her heeled boots come to a stop; he has never met your captain, but he knows her face.

“You really cashed in all your favours, didn’t you, sweetie?” he observes. He turns to address the woman beside you: “We haven’t been introduced. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Jenna interrupts, her tone as incorruptible as yours.

Sylus’s arm lifts, resting on the glass above you so he can tower over you, despite the partition. “Is that right?” he purrs absent-mindedly, dropping his head so he can speak into your ear. “Sweetie… I thought you could keep a secret.”

He’s goading you into your usual game, but the stakes don’t interest you. “You were wrong.”

You’re at your own table, dealing your own cards. Does he want to play? You think he might. His lips are curving at the delicious prospect of a challenge. You’ve given him a taste of it. He wants more.

Jenna is studying her clipboard, acting oblivious. She senses the impasse. Asks Sylus: “Do you know why you’re here?”

He huffs impatiently. “Enlighten me.”

“Sylus,” you scold.

Red eyes widen a fraction.

You see it.

Good.

��

Sylus thinks this might be real.

You said his name. His real name: the one with sharp, bloody strings attached. The one on all the posters. The one in your precious Association’s archives, linked to stacks of files and crime scene photos, most of which he isn’t even responsible for.

Sylus. You said: Sylus. 

It was worthy of a grand reveal— the sort of plot twist that delivered the suspense of so many thrillers— but here you are, speaking it like it’s nothing. Not a slip of the tongue; not a mistake. And it’s different here. He’s not your Sylus. He’s theirs.

Their murderer. Their monster. Their convenient little scapegoat for everything dark and unholy.

The captain is reading him a list, reeling off every crime— each alleged sin. As if he needs a reminder. As if all the time in the world could ever let him forget. “Needless to say, Mr Sylus,” she summarises, “due to the nature of these crimes, you may prove exempt from our standard procedures. A case like this is… unprecedented. Onychinus has much to answer for. You have much to answer for.”

Sylus hasn’t really been listening; it’s all senseless bureaucracy. “You have the wrong man,” he says, because whatever you’re doing— whatever stunt this is— a confession is sure to derail it. You know that, don’t you? You must be counting on it: holding that guilty breath of yours and hoping he’s smart enough to not be Sylus.

You don’t look worried in the slightest. You must have an awful lot of faith in him.

He studies you, waiting for a small, deliberate smile or a moment of weakness. Give him a sign, don’t give him a sign— it doesn’t matter; he’ll find one. His intentions must be clearer than yours, because you step up to the glass to face him.

Do it, your silence says, even though the rest of you is illegible. You want to look? Look.

His eye could light like a crimson fire— could burn the truth out of you— but it won’t. It’s a promise he made what feels like a lifetime ago, not long after you’d met: Your thoughts and desires are yours to give, not his to take.

Even here. Even now. He’s a man of his word, after all.

Impressed? You smile faintly, but there’s no warmth to it. “Captain,” you speak, your eyes not leaving his, “can you give us a minute? Please?”

“Of course,” the woman answers with a nod.

Sylus does not see her go. He hears it: the retreating rhythm of her shoes. He feels it: it’s just the two of you, alone again. Well, the two of you and that ‘hidden’ camera in the far corner of the room. “Whatever game this is,” he grins good-naturedly, his teeth gritted, “it stops. Now.”

“It’s not a game, Sylus. I told you to take this seriously.”

“What are you doing?” he snaps, and that good-natured grin didn’t last very long. 

Your hands land on your hips. “My job.” When he scoffs, you continue: “Did you really think this would end any other way? After everything you’ve done?”

He laughs and it’s deeply sardonic. He’s no saint— to try to convince you he was would be a crime worthy of punishments far worse than this. But you know him. You know the line and what stands on each side of it: everything he’s done, yes, and everything he’s been made to take the fall for.

You wouldn’t do this to him. Would you? “You want to play pretend? Fine,” he hisses. He wants to wrap his Evol around that godforsaken camera and annihilate it. “You caught the big, bad boss of Onychinus— congratulations, sweetie. Sure. Let’s say that’s who I am. A man like that has power, right? So what’s to keep him— me— from escaping? Right now?”

“You’re not going to leave, Sylus. Wanna know why?”

He’s sure you’re going to tell him, and you do:

“Because you’re all talk. All smoke and mirrors. You want to go? Go. But there’s not a single person in this building who wouldn’t give their life to bring you back. Someone will catch up to you eventually, and what then?”

“I’ll have a lot of fun, I imagine.”

“You’ll do nothing,” you correct. “Because those people out there? They’re my friends. My family. You hurt them? You hurt me. Make all the threats you want, Sylus— we both know the truth.”

He towers over you, still, but it’s hard not to shrink at your next words:

“You don’t have it in you.”

Your eyes are sharp: whetted with resentment. Sylus is your reflection— your worthy opponent, always— but he just can’t look at you like that.

There’s a quiet hiss as you slide a finger over the cell’s control panel. White, neon light carves through the glass partition: two vertical lines that bleed upwards, either side of him, before bending to meet each-other. The glass between them shimmers, then fades.

Sylus stands on the precipice of the doorway, cool air crawling past him. He stares up at the camera, then down at you. Your arms have folded again as you watch him— a narrative of apathy.

“How about it, Sylus?” you ask bitterly. “Still think you can outrun fate?”

“No.” Not since it started wearing your face. Fate is you, putting a bullet in his heart, and him, waking up so you can do it over and over again. Maybe this is real. Maybe it isn’t. “What do you want from me?” he entreats softly, because you’ll get it— either way.

“Isn’t it obvious?” you sneer, and your hand shoots out, grasping a fistful of his shirt. You use it to drag him out of the cell, closer, lower, so that his face is mere inches from yours.

“No,” he repeats. “Say it.”

Your eyes burn like pyres: so dangerous, so beautiful, so suited to being the death of him. “I want you—” you begin, as they flit briefly to his lips— “to tell me…”

“What?”

“How you cheat at kitty cards.”

Oh. Oh.

You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?

Sure enough, you drop his shirt and burst into laughter— irrepressibly you again. The fire in your eyes has simmered down into something warm, safe, and comfortable, and— gods— you’re even crying. You’re doubled over, holding your stomach as though it hurts. You lift a hand to wipe your wet cheek. “Your face,” you get out between gasps, “oh, your face!”

Yours is not the only laughter, but it’s the only laughter Sylus hears.

“We so got you, Skye!” Tara’s vaguely familiar voice resounds from an intercom.

There’s some confusing static with it— more tittering voices— and Sylus suspects he’s found himself the star of your colleagues’ after-work entertainment. He puts his hands on his hips as he looks up at the camera. “Is the whole office—”

“Yeah,” you manage, wiping away another tear. “Figured it would be good for morale. Good practice, too.”

“Practice?”

“Mmhmm,” you confirm with a hum. You’ve apparently gotten a handle on the hilarity of the situation, because you approach him with something close to composure. Meditatively, you smooth down the fabric of his shirt. Straighten his collar. “For when we catch the real Sylus one day.”

He captures your wrists; that’s a lot of tenderness for someone who just tried to give him a heart attack. Maybe he’s a little too rough, because you pout at him in a way that makes him instantly soften his grip.

“You ok, Skye?” you enquire with an ironic smile and an adorable tilt of your head.

His thumbs are feathering over your pulse points, and slowly, he leans in to deliver a message, just for you: “If I say no, will you make it up to me?”

…

Sylus knows this is real.

His mouth is on yours and it’s relentless, desperate; you made him wait for it. How long has he been wanting to trap you against the nearest wall, just like this, so he can kiss you until he forgets just how cold you can be? 

He’s been very patient. He didn’t roll his eyes or utter a word of complaint when you’d dragged him to join your colleagues for dinner. It was your victory party, your ‘I made you look like an idiot’ party, but he was his usual, charming self, and your friends all adored him for it. They’d spun him the tale of his ‘arrest’— the planning, the preparation, and your lightbulb moment: 

“Hey, guys, have you ever thought about how Skye kinda looks like Sylus?”

Only he could understand how wickedly clever it was. His eyes had sought yours as he listened, lazy, content, and so obviously biding his time. You’d smiled at him. He’d smiled back. 

And he’d stayed smiling, even after the party was over and you’d had to walk a slightly-tipsy Tara home. She’d refused a taxi, insisted Sylus escort her— oh, and you could come, too! He’d lent her his arm: humoured every squeeze and chuckled at each remark about the size of it. You’d had to swat her away, in the end.

“I’m just teasing, y’know?” she’d giggled as the three of you arrived at her front door. “Skye knows I’m just teasing. You’re such a sweetheart, Skye. Imagine! You— the leader of Onychinus!”

She’d laughed, much too loud for such a quiet street, and with a less-than-subtle wink, left the two of you alone. Which is how you’d ended up here, in an alley around the back of her building, because it was Sylus’s turn to drag you somewhere. 

His attentions have moved lower; there’s a subtle clink as his fingers find the clasp of your shirt collar and he peels it back, exposing your neck. His lips leave yours, trailing down, down— past the line of your jaw and over the soft, vulnerable column of your throat. You gasp as he brushes over a sensitive spot, and you could swear you feel him smile.

He’s always been passionate, but this is a different fire, fuelled by something you can’t ignore, no matter how much you want to:

Relief. 

“Sy,” you murmur breathlessly, your hand in his hair, tugging gently. “Sy, stop.” 

“Mmm?” he acquiesces, voice sinfully low as the cold evening air takes his place kissing your neck. His eyes shine like blood spilt in the dead of night— lingering on you. He looks drunk.

You lift a hand to cup his face and run your thumb over his cheek. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, Sylus. You know that, right?”

Those dark eyes find clarity with your words, full of apprehension for just how naive you can be. The future will turn on you just as quickly as a wild animal someone boasts about having tamed, and aren’t you foolish, thinking you can control something like that? 

Besides, that’s his job.

“I know,” he says like he’s supposed to— ever the martyr, following the script. He goes to nuzzle into you again, but your hand is still tight in his hair and he groans as you use it to pull him back. 

“I mean it,” you reassert, forcing him to look at you. You don’t care that it’s ridiculous. You don’t care that fate is so hot on your heels that you have to keep running. You’re tired. He’s even more tired.

Isn’t it nice to stop and catch your breath?

Pretend you have time: His gaze is full of faith and oh, the world is going to enjoy punishing the two of you. “I know,” he insists, because this is the second time you’ve fooled him tonight. You feel his hand on your face and you let him kiss you— again, then again— so achingly slow, so arrogant. 

The world can wait; he wants to punish you first. 

“Do you really want to know—” he distracts as he finds that sensitive spot on your neck again— “how I cheat at kitty cards?”

The pad of his finger is chasing the path of his mouth; it tickles. You whine: “Tell me later, Sy.”

“Ok,” he breathes against you.

Later. There’ll be a later.

Won’t there?

[24kmagiic]

I've been reading your fics for years and I gotta say I love how you write Bonnie. She's so fierce. How do you think Bonnie being with Klaus would influence her personality/character in canon?

First of all, thank you! I’m so happy you found joy in my fics and hope to continue them all. My musings for Bonnie have been so fickle recently.

So! To answer your question, I think being with Klaus would allow Bonnie to “unmask”. So much of her character has been suppressed so her true personality is sort of a mystery. We draw conclusions but what is actually canon? Bonnie went from being a quirky "mean/party girl" to being an uptight recluse in a span of five episodes so which one is the truth? In the first three episodes, she seemed fun, slightly immature, and dismissive of anything 'deep' and then she became a broody 'bitch' who's morally sound and incorruptible. I don't think that happens overnight with the discovery of the supernatural world but that's how they portrayed her because they didn't give a damn about her development. OR it could be that they changed the progression of her character at the last minute and didn't think anyone would notice. I did.

Klaus wouldn’t necessarily turn her into a “villain” as we love to fantasize, but by Bonnie suddenly creating and enforcing boundaries, along with an unwillingness to put on the brave front she usually does, it would feel (to them) like disrespect and they'd 1000% make her out to be villainous.

I think the box she’s been placed into would shatter and Bonnie would be faced with the fact that yes, she has simply been tolerated all these years by the only friends she’s ever known. I think this would cause her to lean on Klaus heavily and we may even see her codependency shift from Elena to him. Let’s face it, our girl is seriously co-dependent. Klaus would of course benefit from her codependency but it'd probably skeeve him out because as clingy a Klaus can be, I feel like he despises clinginess. He gives off Cancerian energy and, as a fellow cancer, I can attest to this. We can be clingy but you can't because, ew.

That said, Bonnie's codependency wouldn't look like what you'd normally expect when you think of your local co-dependent idiots. It's not following him around everywhere and doing everything he says.

It's harming herself for his benefit.

In the same way she was so eager to die for Elena, she'd try to do the same for Klaus except he would not allow it.

Bonnie sees NO value in her presence in other's lives. It's why she's so gungho to sign up for martyrdom. But not because she actually thinks that the world would be better with them in it. It's because she can't bear the thought of surviving without them.

Because in WHAT world do we benefit from Elena over Bonnie? Or Klaus over Bonnie? NONE. And if she digs deep, Bonnie knows that. But in HER world, they have to outlive her because she can't handle losing yet another person.

So on to the driving force behind her co-dependency. Abandonment and therefore, Abby and Rudy, and let's face it, Sheila. This girl has been abandoned three times in three different ways.

Before you hang me out to dry, forget I mentioned grams because I know you're chomping at the bits to correct me.

Abby represents physical abandonment and so does Rudy. The fact that you'd just up and leave your only child is beyond my comprehension but we've already beaten that dead horse so let's move straight into Rudy, the other dead horse.

While he was physically present some of the time, he was still gone a lot and did the bare minimum when it comes to children. Food, clothes, and shelter. Emotionally, he was completely gone. Showing up at the high school graduation after the hard work is over is such deadbeat behavior but again, the horse is dead, no need to whack it.

Now, take a deep breath and think about how I'm about to chop Sheila's ass up real quick.

This type of abandonment, I don't have a label for but it's so unique to Bonnie as a character that maybe by the end of it, I'll coin a catchy phrase.

Bonnie mentioned that Sheila was a drunk (even though the writers abandoned that idea) but let's go with it. As a product of TWO alcoholic parents, (who both came from alcoholic parents) I can attest that there is a unique form of abandonment that borders emotional, physical, and mental neglect.

Sheila had 16 years to help Bonnie wield her magic and defend herself against the great evils out there and instead, she chose to get drunk and 'ramble' about the occult. WHO is going to take a drunk person seriously about any of that? Family or not, ain't a soul out there that'll believe anything you say when you can't control your intake. It sounds like everything Bonnie knew, she had to piece together from the tidbits Sheila bothered to mention.

She left her granddaughter utterly defenseless and yeah, you can argue that she was following Rudy's wishes but guess what. RUDY WAS NEVER THERE! He left Bonnie in Sheila's care so if Sheila decided to teach her granddaughter magic, then what the hell was he going to do about it? Stay home?

I think Sheila used that as an excuse to shy away from the deeper issue which is her ultimately losing her own daughter to magic because Sheila never saw Abby again after she left Mystic Falls and I can imagine how painful that must have been but knowing the evils out there, it was completely neglectful to leave Bonnie defenseless.

Humans always operate in extremes. They go from one extreme to the next without ever addressing the root cause. Both Rudy and Sheila felt like they failed when it came to their relationship with Abby so they did the COMPLETE opposite with Bonnie and in turn, created a whole new network of problems. They are the root cause of our self-sacrificing, co-dependent queen because they were so focused on Abby that they never once considered Bonnie.

I tend to be long-winded as hell, my apologies. You're probably wondering, 'Well, what does all this have to do with Klonnie?' Well, I needed to explain my view of Bonnie before I could get into how I think her being with Klaus would affect her personality and character.

For the first time in her life, Bonnie would actually be considered. As boneheaded and selfish as Klaus is, when he's in love, he is surprisingly considerate and while all we truly got from him in canon was heavy admiration (cause he ain't love them hoes), it was a nice glimpse into what could have been for him.

Let's use his relationship with Hope when we reference Love.

First, let me say that the writers did a terrible disservice of having him abandon Hope for all them years but when he was there, he always looked out for her best interest. When Freya entertained the thought of Hope binding her wolf as Klaus's mother did to him, we got to see him fight for her even if Hope herself thought that's what she wanted. Klaus uniquely understood what that would do to Hope and did everything in his power to prevent it, including threatening to dispatch his own family.

As for Bonnie, no one understands abandonment on that show like Klaus Mikaelson and he would instantly catch on to Bonnie's toxic behavior pattern. He'd see right through the lies she'd weave and while it may have worked on Gilbert the Younger, it ain't fidna fly with Bad Ass Mikaelson, the man who carried his family around in coffins because they threatened to leave him or jeopardize their relationship.

The two of them are two sides of the same coin. Where Bonnie internalizes her abandonment issues, Klaus externalizes his. While Bonnie has an "I'd rather die young than live my life without you" approach to love; Klaus has an "I'll kill you and every mf in here before I let you go"' approach.

It'd be a very toxic paring at first but once they 'healed', they'd work so well because each of them has a love that the other has been looking for. Bonnie has been waiting for someone to fight for her whether she knows it or not. She wouldn't know how to handle it at first because it's too much and very dangerous but deep down, she'd feel relieved to finally know what it's like to be fought for. As for Klaus, he's been waiting for someone to give up everything to be devoted to him because in the past, people so easily discarded him to go after what they wanted and it was never him. He's always left behind in the grand scheme of others. Rebekah easily discards him for love. His mother bound him with a spell to hide her own transgressions, Elijah, though loyal, was always at risk of falling in love and detaching himself from Klaus and the threat alone was enough to drive Klaus to commit the most grisly murders.

So, again, to answer your question, simply put, I think they'd bring out the absolute worst in one another at first but not in the ways you'd expect. Like I said earlier, Klaus would force Bonnie to work on her boundaries in general because he's notorious for overstepping boundaries and he's the perfect punching bag to practice on. But once they got over the initial shock of one another and realized that they both (essentially) want the same things from one another, they'd mellow out.

I hope that somewhat answers your question. If you have any follow-up questions, please submit them because I definitely cut myself short for the sake of "brevity" lol.

[paingoes]

Crash Out - CTRL

(Content: (ex) royal whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, guns, minor character death, rescue, reluctant caretaking, blood, past torture, wound care, panic attack, crying, guilt, comfort)

~~~~~

Antony looked again to the girl stood in front of him, one of her arms propped up against the ancient computer tower. Her other hand hooked two fingers on the collar of her broken heels. She’d come dressed like it was a new job interview. He supposed in some ways it was.

He carded through the folder she’d brought him, recognized Vi’s monogram at the corner of the page. The two of them spoke in a language no one else could. Even without the aid of the cipher-breaker, he could make out some of the fine script off memory alone. Amendments to the passion project. Top secret. Vi wouldn’t even send it over the wire, but she’d sent it with her.

“I’m an excellent shot,” Lorelai had said. And a smooth talker, apparently, if she had wormed her way out of the imperial arms. She’d been proud of that, he could tell as she recounted the story. She described the soldier who’d released her, asked for him to be spared if CTRL so happened across him. The infantry all looked the same to him, but he said he’d do his best.

She wasn’t bad, he thought. He could see why Vi had wanted her. But something about the gesture felt too showy for his tastes.

Look what I bagged, he could hear Vi’s voice in trills down his mind. She was beautiful, there was no question. But more than that, she was cute. Incorruptible and delivered right to their doorstep.

She could be such a roué when she wanted to be.

They were not onboarding, exactly, and she had picked a hell of a time to show up. The timing was no good for him — and it seemed it was no good for her either. 

“I can’t stay all night,” Lorelai had said, as if he’d invited her to.

He liked her, though. He didn’t mind walking the dark tunnels of the base with her, didn’t mind showing her around. 

“Long way from home, then,” Antony said casually. “All on a whim?”

She laughed lightly, the same trill in her voice.

“It might as well have been, the way it happened.” She brushed a hand through her hair. It caught on her broken nail. She unhooked it. 

In the range, he watched the target light up where it was shot. He watched the way she reached to reload — in the wrong place, on the wrong rifle. Muscle memory.

“Military school?” He asked. And she blushed, as if she had caught the same tell but was too late to stop it.

Then - “Are you always this giddy in a warzone?”

“No.” She put the gun down. “I don’t mean to be. You think I’m a tourist, don’t you?”

“No,” Antony answered. “Just that you’re strange.”

She couldn’t argue with that. As they started back towards the center, he held the door open for her. She did something like a curtsy as she passed through. And for the fifth time in twenty minutes, she glanced at her phone. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she saw the display.

“Something wrong?” he asked her.

Lorelai scrolled back up the message log. She bit at her nails, then stopped as her gaze returned to him.

“I told you, I didn’t know they were planetside when I first got here.” She refreshed the messages again. From the colors alone, Antony saw no change on her screen. “I left my friend — and my ship — out by the edge. Now he’s not answering my texts.”

“Oh,” he paused, “You think something might’ve happened.”

“I don’t know.” She bit her lip again. “I left the keys with him, I don’t know.”

Antony paused a minute. He was not in the business of charity. For a long while, their footsteps on the concrete floor were the only sound.

“What are the ship coordinates?” He offered, finally. It wouldn’t hurt just to send a scout. She’d done Vi a favor, so he could spare one for her. The fighting hadn’t even started yet.

Lorelai looked up in surprise. Maybe she wasn’t such a smooth talker, the way he’d taken her for. Maybe all those encounters had gone just like this. He felt a kind of chivalry for her, some deeply buried instinct. Maybe she brought that out of everyone.

She listed out the long string of numbers that revealed the ship’s location. She must have memorized it, even before she left.

~

The sky held the first gloom of twilight and so CTRL’s units felt no need to persevere. Even when they could see in the dark, it wasn’t a fun game to play. 

But Milo had liked it once, the way the woods turned evil at night. He’d lived in the center all his life — all his best memories had been in this stretch of land. Maybe that’s why he took it so personally when the soldiers arrived. Even when they were all flushed out, the woods still would not be safe to play in for the kids who lived there now. It wouldn’t be safe for years afterwards, when all the mines were finally dug out and the bodies all excavated.

They’d taken out two imperial units in one day and sustained minimal injuries in return — all stealth. The off-roader ran wild through the undergrowth. They didn’t need to take their chances.

But then another unit was right there — and their coxswain could not help herself.

“Floor it,” she said.

It was so easy when they were all congregated like that. Nobody was even standing watch. All close together, all it took was a single-

Milo covered his ears, covered his eyes. He didn’t enjoy it, not for anything. But he enjoyed it more than the alternative, easily.

Body parts were strewn out into the dirt. Those who survived the first explosion were shot dead right after, too dazed to even crawl away.  Cleo plucked them all off with her revolver in swift and unpretentious shots. Milo scanned around for any signs of life, anyone lying in wait to avenge themselves upon them. There was no movement.

The coxswain stood up through the sunroof, taking in the scenery just the same. The camp was shoddily arranged, probably only pitched a few days before. Maybe even a few hours.

She elbowed him. It was only then that his attention was drawn to the large hole right by the edge of the camp’s clearing. It cut a rough shape into the earth, but it was — unmistakably — a grave that had yet to be filled.

His heart sank. There was no one unaccounted for on their side. It wasn’t one of their own. If it was full, then…

She elbowed him again.

“What?” He threw his hands up. “It falls to me?”

But the others had already unloaded from the vehicle, taking what they could of the discarded imperial weaponry and food stuffs. Milo grumbled, taking unenthusiastic steps towards the grave.

His eyes widened as he caught movement inside.

He gasped in shock, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. They were all there then, none of them eager to see a corpse but all too eager to see what else could possibly be there.

It was not a comforting sight. The figure there was bound and bleeding. Both their hands were tied behind their back. A thick rope was wrapped around their ankles — and another length connected the two restraints. Even with the limited movement, the figure had rearranged themselves into a half-upright position against the wall of earth. A blindfold — once white, now colored with dirt and blood — covered their eyes. Blood dripped in a thin line from their mouth.

“Holy shit,” Milo said.

The figure tensed at the sound, seemed to back further into the wall. Milo was pretty sure they were a boy the longer he looked, but couldn’t really tell. He looked to the coxswain for advice. Cleo stared at him like he was crazy. The others did, too. Why did this fall to him?

“Okay,” Milo said louder, “Hold on a sec. Stay right there.”

As if they had any choice. 

Milo carefully lowered himself down into the grave. It was a tight fit. He was glad the other had tried to rearrange himself. He wouldn’t have had the space to maneuver otherwise. Milo landed on the soft earth, crouching down beside the figure. He took them in.

That couldn’t be right.

When he looked back up at Cleo, he could tell she saw it too.

He untied the blindfold. The prince stared back at him with eyes so full of fear and hatred that he actually startled. 

“Holy shit,” he said again, “Your Highness?”

He visibly cringed at the title. Milo supposed he shouldn’t have used it. He wasn’t prince anymore, and CTRL wasn’t supposed to recognize that authority even if he had been. But it’s not like they were on a first name basis with each other. He didn’t know what else to say.

The prince said nothing. He seemed too occupied with trying to breathe properly inside of the tomb, though his eyes followed each of Milo’s movements with a laser precision. The air did feel thinner in here, stale. The earth was cold and seemed to wick away any life inside of it.

“Hey,” Milo’s hand moved to his knife. “If I untie you, you’ll behave? No hitting?”

He stared at him for so long that Milo began to wonder if he’d been deafened too. Or maybe just dazed, hit in the head too many times. He looked confused. 

Finally, he gave a small, slow nod. Milo removed the knife from his belt and cut away at the binds around his ankles. Without the pressure holding them there, his legs fell into a more natural position, but did not move any further. No kicking. A good sign. He placed one hand on the prince’s shoulder, gently tilting him forward to cut his wrists free from behind his back.

The prince pulled them forward slowly, just as cognizant of the threat as Milo was. Milo saw the absolute state that his hands were in. There were rope burns around the wrists, but that was far from the worst of it. The palms had been worked raw. One had a hole right through the center of it. The wound bled openly onto the soil.

Milo put the knife back into his belt, scooting backwards a bit.

“Can you stand?” He would’ve usually offered a hand, but he was very careful not to touch those right now. He stood up and took his forearms for support instead. The prince stood unsteadily. His limbs were all locked up, like he’d been tied there for a while. Milo caught him before he could stumble all the way. He leaned against the dirt wall to keep upright.

Cleo and one of the gunners helpfully extended their hands down.

“Boost,” Milo said, forming a cage with his fingers. The prince stared at him, untrusting, still unable to speak around his own gasps.

“Boost,” Milo insisted.

They nearly had to carry him out of that pit.

They pulled Milo up next, after joking for a few seconds about just leaving him there, which was not very funny. He clambered up along the dirt. He hadn’t liked those clothes anyway — and the soil was easier to wash away than gore.

He saw that the prince had collapsed onto the ground. He seemed unable to even sit up, leaning back on one elbow for support. It had to be the blood loss.

“He needs bandages,” Milo said, though Cleo had beat him to it. Her hands were cleaner anyway, better for the job.

She knelt down onto the grass beside him, taking the punctured hand in her own. The prince yanked it back abruptly, protectively. He got more blood on his shirt in the process.

“You’re bleeding,” she said impatiently, like it wasn’t obvious. She held up the water bottle. “I’m just gonna patch it up. I’ll be quick.”

She gestured to the torn up, makeshift bandage that now hung in tatters on the prince’s wrist. He did not offer his hand back, but when she reached for it again he did not resist. The torn strip of fabric fell away.

She poured the water over his injured hand, washing away the dirt and blood that had coated every inch of it. Milo watched carefully — it was a nasty cut. He thought he was seeing it wrong, but no. It went all the way through his hand. It had to hurt.

The prince made a small, choked noise as she pressed the gauze to it, confirming his suspicions. His hand was shaking slightly, barely steadied by her grasp. She wound the bandages tightly, stopping the bleeding for the first time in what was surely hours. Was he always that pale? Milo couldn’t remember, couldn’t tell from the pictures he’d seen.

Cleo handed the water bottle to Milo, which he took thankfully. He moved over a bit. Before he could pour it out, the gunner stopped him. She grinned mischievously.

“You’ve got royal blood on your hands.” She pressed her hand to his own, smearing some of it onto her fingertips. “That was one of my bucket list items.”

It’d been one of his, too. This was not how he had pictured it.

They loaded back into the off-roader. Cleo took the prince’s arm again, helping him to stand even though he fought against it. She shrugged, letting him walk the remaining few steps to the vehicle without help. Even though he was clearly about to keel over.

By then, the sky was fading from twilight and into the true dark. Milo was glad to get out of there. Something about that camp felt haunted. Probably something to do with all the dead bodies.

He slid into the backseat beside the prince, who immediately backed up into the furthest side of the vehicle, one leg drawn up protectively in front of his chest.

Milo said, “You’re quiet.”

He’d been told the opposite was true. But the prince just stared at him wide-eyed, his expression heavy with doubt and accusation. Milo noticed he hadn’t really closed his mouth once since he’d found him. His chest was heaving rapidly beneath the bloodied shirt. Panic attack, maybe. 

“Drink,” Milo said, removing his canteen from his bag and offering it to him. Dehydration was a consequence of blood loss — and even if it hadn’t been, who knew how long he was in that grave?

Somehow, the look grew even more accusatory.

Good instinct, honestly. Milo almost admired it. He took a swig from the bottle, just to prove it wasn’t poison, before offering it up again. 

This time, the prince took it. He held it carefully in his less-injured hand, fingertips only, shaking just a little.

“Better?” Milo asked once the bottle was empty. 

The prince handed it back, nodding with an expression that Milo could really only describe as abashed.

~

“My family was very protective, so no.” Lorelai shook her hands out a little bit. “No prior experience.”

“Bit of a big jump,” Antony had to point out. 

“To armed militias? Yes, I’ve been told.” She smiled. “I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t have to be armed, necessarily. I’m good at data input. I’m good with field work. All I’m saying is, if you wanted me to, I could.”

“And do you want to?” He had to ask. The secret question hung in the air. Do you enjoy it?

She seemed to sense the trap as soon as it was laid. Her smile grew crooked.

“Do you want me to?” She asked slyly. Her tone was almost playful.

He rolled his eyes. She was only a handful of years younger than him, but she seemed so much more like a kid. He guessed that was what money did. The scars along his arms ached right on cue.

She glanced at her phone again.

“Nothing?” He asked.

“No. You?”

“Nothing.”

She’d kept it under tight cover this entire time, but the worry slipped through whenever she saw the unchanging screen. It was more than worry now.

At that same instant, the doors to the compound opened.

He saw Cleo first, then a blur of motion to his left as Lorelai sprinted across the room. He caught sight of the prince standing upright for only a second before she tackled him. He just barely caught her as they fell onto the floor.

He murmured something to her in his native Latin. Lorelai, who was sobbing into his shoulder, responded in kind. Antony guessed she really had been holding it down. And it looked like she’d been right to be worried. The prince was pinned in place by her — and though half his face was buried in her hair, the bruise was still visible on his cheek. There were matching ones all along his arms, stark against the pallor. Blood stained his skin and clothes.

Antony looked to Cleo. Cleo looked to him. 

What do we do?

He almost didn’t want to interrupt the moment — he was sure if he said anything in that instant, neither of them would even hear him. 

“Watch them,” he gestured to one of the guards on-duty. He knew Lorelai was unarmed, was certain they wouldn’t have brought Paris inside if he had a weapon — though he would’ve appreciated some notice that he was being brought in at all. 

Milo crossed the threshold. He looked worse for wear.

“He’s gonna need a medic,” he explained, unhelpfully. Antony could tell that much. 

~

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” He didn’t keep the irritation out of his voice now, remembering the way she’d said my friend. Well, if that’s all-

“You didn’t ask,” Lorelai said, “I didn’t think it’d come up, honest.”

Antony facepalmed. 

The two of them hung just outside the medbay. Lorelai’s nice blue jacket had been turned purple from the contact. The gems on her face glistened just the same as her eyes.

“It’s a pretty fuckin’ huge conflict of interest,” he explained.

“It’s not like I’m married to him,” she said in that honeyed accent, almost apologetic. 

Antony sighed. She continued.

“And it’s not a conflict, not anymore. You heard what happened. Empire hates him.” 

The hatred was clear, but that didn’t mean there was no conflict. Antony could think of a long, long list of conflicts. They had names and families. 

“I hate this,” he said to no one in particular. Lorelai frowned. “I guess you’re in no rush to go anywhere now though, huh?” 

It was fully dark now. No stars were out tonight. Only the neon glow of the low-flying battleships. She nodded, a small blush rising to her face.

“You can’t stay long,” he told her. The needle was dipping dangerously close. The real conflict could pop off at any second. He needed them both out quickly. He didn’t need to bring that same wrath down on the base. He just got this job.

“But you can stay for tonight, I guess,” he conceded. “Don’t think you’ll make it far otherwise.”

~

CTRL had carved them out some corner downstairs — not a bedroom. Many of their own didn’t even have bedrooms. But it was passable for what it was, a collection of pillows and blankets against a soft mat, guarded by an armed sentinel. 

Antony would not have felt safe enough to sleep there, but then he never would have gotten himself into that situation in the first place.

From what he could tell, the girl had fallen asleep quickly, making herself right at home. The prince had not. Antony looked up over the comms to find him leaning in the doorway. He leaned more heavily against his left than his right. The fracture of his rib showed when he walked. He looked more alive after they’d given him plasma, less ready to pass out at any second. But not by much. 

He’d washed the blood off him. His hair now lacked the pinkish tint it’d taken at the base of his neck. The bruises were all the more visible along his bare arms than when he’d had blood and soil to hide them. He was wearing what Antony distinctly recognized as one of Milo’s shirts.

He’d regained his speech, apparently.

“What do you want?” He asked through gritted teeth. His voice sounded sore, cut up somehow. It was clear that it hurt him to speak.

“Excuse me?” Antony replied, still not appreciating the tone.

“What. do. you. want?” Paris glared back at him. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Antony said. He was out of patience for this kind of thing. What did he want? He wanted to live until the end of the week. In the long term, he wanted the destruction of Empire. Somewhere in between, he wanted to see the beaches of Sedonia again. He had no desire to share any of these dreams with the lapsed prince and was sure he’d have no interest either way.

“What do you want from me?” Paris clarified. Naturally. Antony didn’t expect for him to be thinking about anything other than himself.

“I want you to get the fuck out of my sight, frankly,” Antony admitted.

And a shadow of a recognition crossed Paris’s face. Contempt was a language he could understand. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“What? It doesn’t mean shit. I told her: you are leaving tomorrow morning and that is the end of it. Goodnight.” Anthony waved him away.

“Don’t fucking giving me that,” he hissed. “You didn’t have to lie to her. What do you want?”

“Are you stupid?” Antony asked. “I want you gone. That’s all.”

“Are you seriously just letting me walk out of here?” He said it like he was angry about it, a heavy note of accusation just beneath his words. 

He reminds Antony of a mouse he’d once saved from his cats. It had been curled up in the corner of the box he’d trapped it in. Nearly every part of its body stayed deathly still, but each rapid heaving of its chest as it tried to catch its breath showed enormously on its small frame. Its eyes had been enormous as it stared out the edge of them. He could tell how fast Paris’s heart was beating just by looking at him.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” Antony squinted at him with a disgust he didn’t bother hiding. “We don’t have a court system. We don’t even have a cell. I could kick it off to Galatea, if you want. Do you want that?”

Paris gave a small shake of his head, visibly alarmed at the suggestion. Thank god. It was an empty threat, anyway. Antony would hate to bring Galatea into this, the busybodies that they were.

“As far as I’m concerned, you were never here.”

Paris only looked angrier. He looked like he wanted to kill him.

“You’re lying,” Paris spat. His hands curled up his fists at his side. As if he’d get any use of them now.

Something clicked in Antony’s brain. He tilted his head, a soft and astonished smile appearing on his face.

“Oh wow,” he realized, “You can’t stand it, can you?”

The prince’s eyes widened. He knew he’d hit the mark. He dug in.

“You can’t accept that not everyone is like you. You think we have to take advantage of any weakness, because that’s what you would do, isn’t it?”

His voice picked up too quickly, too loudly. He was sure everyone could hear it out in the hallway. Paris recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

“That’s all you know how to do. You think the whole world is as cruel as you are. But it’s not. It wasn’t. It’s cruel because you made it this way! It didn’t have to be!”

Decades of rage and frustration bled into Antony’s words. He couldn’t help it. God, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He watched as the shock eclipsed Paris’s expression, as the fury seeped out of it. He’d got him.

“You spend your whole fucking life abusing and exploiting everyone you come across and you think it’s okay because it’s just the way things are! But it’s not! It’s not fucking okay! It doesn’t have to be like this! It never did!”

His own anger got away from him. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. Now he was the one struggling to catch his breath, the one about to pass out. It took everything to bring himself back.

He looked up at Paris — he’d been looking his direction the whole time, but he’d stopped seeing him somewhere in between. His head was somewhere else. Now he regained his focus. 

Paris looked like he was about to cry. For a minute, with his hair still wet and the oversized shirt, he appeared so young that Antony almost felt bad. Almost.

“You can’t stand it,” he repeated, “Oh god, this must ruin everything for you.”

He was even paler than he’d been when they found him. His eyes were wide, but the pupils were all dilated. He was shaking. Antony didn’t have the patience for it anymore.

“You leave tomorrow morning,” he said. “There’s a back door, you won’t have to deal with the Imperial checkpoints. You should sleep while you have the chance.”

Paris nodded, taking a few unsteady steps backwards to the exit. He didn’t answer. Antony felt his irritation flare up again.

“And would it have fucking killed you to say thank you?!” he snapped. 

To his amazement, Paris’s face reddened several shades, eventually settling on a soft pink.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He couldn’t look at him.

~

Morning came. Cleo sat up on the fortress walls with Lorelai. Dew was settled onto every surface. It was colder that sunrise than it had been in months, but not unpleasantly so. 

“Um, I spy…something orange,” Lorelai said around bites of a red apple.

“It’s the surveyor mark,” Cleo said.

“Shit, how are you getting them all first try?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve played this game here?” Cleo responded.

Lorelai shrugged. “FMK?”

“It’s 4AM,” Cleo said.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

The trapdoor flipped open. One of the scouts popped through midway.

“Car’s ready,” he said to Lorelai. 

She nodded and pass the remaining half of the apple to Cleo. She left all clad in the other girl’s clothing, down to the tennis shoes.

“I’ll see you around, then?” she said hopefully, the same way she had to Vi, without quite the same implication.

Lorelai climbed down the ladder until she’d hit the ground level of the base. She found Paris where she’d left him. Conscious now, but just as silent and sullen as he’d been the night before. She did not particularly blame him for that.

His hands were still a bit too bloodied to hold, so she placed her own gently around his wrist, feeling the pulse that still beat there. He rose reluctantly from beneath the blankets. She knew moving hurt him. 

Antony was waiting by the exit. She was relieved to find she had not totally burned that bridge. Antony said none of this had ever happened. He meant it. She’d check in with them later, once she’d gotten Paris across the border. It wouldn’t be long now, anyway.

She watched Paris slip Antony a folded up note. She knew what it said. It was signed from him, but it was in her handwriting. He couldn’t have bend his fingers around the pencil.

Ships are moving in Gamma formation but half of them are unarmed carriers. It’s a feign. Late gen G-12 ships have a point of catastrophic failure at ball turret joint. IRW Palace is in orbit so there’s a 99% chance Lt.Furness is here. He will try to torch the whole forest if he feels like he’s losing. Keep an eye out for that. Invest in flame retardant.

Thank you.

                                                         ~Paris

Antony’s eyes scanned the paper. Paris walked away before he could see a reaction, but Lorelai saw him slip the folded note into his jacket pocket. She waved goodbye before she clambered up into the transport.

The ride back to the ship was fast and quiet. The woods went by so much quicker on wheels and they did not run into any trouble. She couldn’t believe she’d trekked through it, alone and on foot, just one day before. It felt like forever ago.

She was pleased to see her ship was right where she left it, free of crack marks and bullet holes. The driver opened up the door for them. They fell out onto the forest floor.

“Make sure you do those hand exercises. I’m serious,” the driver called after Paris. He nodded in response, not really paying attention. His eyes were all far out.

The transport disappeared back into the forest, leaving thick tread marks in its wake. 

She opened the door for Paris, because she wasn’t sure he could it himself. He climbed in silently. She slid into the driver’s seat. It was all icy inside. She adjusted the ship’s settings to break through orbit again. It gradually warmed as the engine kicked to life. She felt a sense of homecoming that surprised her.

She glanced over to him to find him still staring off into nothingness.

“…Are you okay?”

It wasn’t a very good question. She knew that. She already knew the answer.

He nodded mutely. Lorelai frowned. She waited a while, hoping he’d go on. But the distant look in his eyes remained and his lips did not move. She realized the rest of the drive would probably be in silence. He got like that sometimes, even on better days.

“…Okay. I love you.”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said. He gripped the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling it up to cover his face. As much as he tried to be quiet, he couldn’t help the way his body gasped for air in-between sobs. 

“Oh, honey,” Lorelai gasped. 

She’d seen him cry before. It happened enough out of frustration, bitter tears forming at the edges of his eyes, wiped away just as quickly as they came. Not like this.

She placed a hand in between his shoulder blades, trying to steady him. She might as well have not been there at all.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” his voice broke up. He curled away from the touch. “I-I-I-“

None of the words were making it out. Lorelai moved mechanically, so used to piloting by now that she could do it without thinking. She put one arm behind the passenger seat, checking behind her before she backed out.

“Okay. Okay, breathe,” she whispered, because he needed reminding sometimes.

He stopped trying to speak through it. The ship entered the open morning sky. The inside of it was filled up with the sound of his half-sobs, barely muffled from within the fabric of his shirt.

“Easy,” The ship was on autopilot now. The sky gradually darkened as it pulled out of the upper atmosphere. She ran her fingers in circles along his arm. “In for four, out for eight. You remember. You’re fine.”

She could feel him struggling to make up the ragged breaths through all the convulsions. Little half-formed words slipped to the surface, none of them coherent. 

“Breathe,” she insisted.

Slowly, it steadied. He was still crying, but it didn’t possess him the same way it had. He reluctantly removed the fabric. His face had turned red and blotchy underneath it. He turned away as if he was embarrassed by it, like it might’ve offended her. 

“…’m sorry,” he mumbled into the glass pane of the window. She looped her fingers into his own, careful of the blisters that had formed there. His skin was warmer than hers now. It was the only time she could remember that happening. 

“It’s okay.” She pressed her lips gingerly to the bruises on his knuckles, the same way he’d done for her when her arm was cut open. “That was a lot. I’d cry too. I’d cry way worse, you know me.”

“…’s not that,” he said. His voice still shook even on small sentences. He wiped desperately at his eyes.

“What is it?” She brought her other hand to hold his now. She traced her fingers gently over the raw skin, as if she might be able to read his fortune that way.

He shook his head and he did not answer.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @dietofwormsofficial @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen

[terrence-silver]

Can I be blessed with some CK Terry and college beloved headcanons Bea💚 I just started my freshman year of college recently and I'm already getting stress acne it's only week 2 🫠 (also you’re sticker on my water is helping me get through my criminal justice class half the time lol I'll just stare at it looking at all the beautiful detail keep up the amazing work!)

-

― You sure you don't your diploma simply...you know, bought? Because that's the first idea that permeates Terry Silver's mind; just cut to the chase and buying the damn thing for you like he would buy a new race car or a new mansion. Maybe give the college or university in question a tactical 'generous grant' that leaves them indebted to him, as a benefactor, doing so to such a high degree letting you graduate under mysteriously premature circumstances is simply a given. Is it unfair? Yeah. Is it sleazy? Yeah. Does Terry care? No. In fact, the notion that it's morally wrong makes the whole idea more attractive as a prospect to him. Maybe he should simply charmingly threaten the head Dean if the place proves to be incorruptible, which only makes his desire to corrupt all the more ardent; whatever the case, Terry might see the college as an obstacle to himself. All the time beloved's investing focusing on exams, learning, studying and extracurriculars is time not spent with him, which is the way it should be. But, it isn't. And that's a problem. He's a territorial person, you see, and everything could potentially be a threat; even college.

― As a result, he undoubtedly mentions the whole 'lemme buy your graduation credentials for you' plan very, very, very often. On the daily. Tries to practically muscle you into it, not taking 'no' for an answer, having a whole onslaught of reasons why his standpoint is correct and why you're, in his opinion, making this harder for yourself than it really should be; he comes off strangely compelling and logical about it too. Why spend years and years on this when he knows the right people who know the right people. Not that Terry Silver's against education; on, in the public eye he's the patron of all causes noble (supposedly), so clap in awe of him, except, in his own private life he's just too greedy to share those he considers his. Too possessive to be eclipsed. Look at you; your face is breaking out in zits from the stress, oh, beloved; that right there, among many other factors is a tool of manipulation Terry might use to have you capitulate and let him have his ways because these pricks and punks are here stressing his beloved out to the degree the stress is physically manifesting all over their face. There should be hell to pay for that. He wants revenge on your behalf.

― But then again, as an upside Terry Silver does enjoy having a beloved currently in college because for the lack of a better word, it's hot, regardless if this is a very young post-Nam era Twig, 80's Terry Silver or old man Terry, the fact beloved's still in education has major fetishistic qualities for him and not to lie, said fetishistic quality only ripens and gets stronger as he ages. Old man Terry, for example, is fully aware the fact he's with someone who's still in college would raise eyebrows, run into critique and even downright judgement and disgust but he doesn't care and in fact, he relishes in it for that specific reason. It's quite literally a trope as ancient as can be and he realizes this, playing into it majorly; an older man and the student. Just the sound of that makes him gleeful and turned on and while he might be meddlesome and feel jealousy over the actual educational aspect of...you know, getting an education, the sound of it suits him far better than the practical aspects. Suffice to say he's as invested in this as beloved themselves is, if not more. Everything beloved does is something Terry himself is overinvested in more than beloved.

― Means that while he'd might wanna keep beloved away from school, or invent tactical shortcuts to the whole process by pretty much buying everything for them and presenting it on a silver platter (because, why not, if he can?), but he sure likes the sound of beloved being in college and regardless if beloved consents to this or not he will absolutely meddle, one way or another, into all of this. He'll be there making donations to the university, becoming a backer and a sponsor for various projects around campus, he'll be attending opening ceremonies, holding speeches, probably opens a Karate extracurricular headed by Cobra Kai just to drill the point home that this is now his territory through you and if it's at all possible, he'll invest so much into this philanthropic deeds around this college that these people will have no choice put to put up his framed picture in the lobby. It's like Terry Silver's presence infects everything it touches. Beloved's only a freshman and my god, the man they're with is already in everything. People who fight against it or speak up on the subject? Promptly fired. Maybe they get embroidered in a convenient scandal not of their making if Terry decides that's more fun for him.

― It's obsessive, yeah, but Terry loves beloved. Adores them. In his own messed up, dark way, sure. This is how his devotion manifests; this university? Better be honored to have someone his within their walls. That he's allowing beloved to grace this place at all. Better give them a preferential treatment as a result. They better be just as biased as he is. Yeah, they better be afraid on the downlow because he's butter up, shake everyone's hand, lowkey threaten everyone, bribe whoever he feels needs it and weave everyone into their web to ensure this happens. You want this education? You'll have it. And you'll have it however you want on whatever terms. He could've bought it for you and he's infinitely disappointed you didn't accept that route (or...maybe you did) but these people will worship the very ground beloved walks upon because he'll ensure that happens through his power and influence; the long reach he has. Might not be immediately apparent, but when you're loved by someone as influential as Terry Silver, it pays off. When your significant other's picture hangs in the hallway? People tend to notice. Might just make you valedictorian by the end of your educational career because Silver money just lined the halls of that school.

― Nothing's for free, see? Beloved does graduate with exemplary grades and achievements regardless if they actually did or if, uh, the system of said university got a couple of well meaning nudges in the right direction, if you catch my meaning. If Terry made the right people a couple of offers they couldn't refuse. They're their generation's best student. Probably got handled multiple accolades and awards too simply because Terry had the itch to see them happy and beaming. And he'd do it. He'd do anything to make them content and fulfilled. He's undoubtedly with them, right there on that stage once they graduate because he's invited up to hold a speech. An audience of hundreds of students know beloved belongs to him. Heck, they might even know a great many of these achievements are a source of complete and utter nepotism, but Terry doesn't care. He's amused by it. Totally gleeful like a smug snake. He laps it all up. Sees it as feeding fuel. He crapped over the system in effect in the name of devotion. Beloved's all smiles. Terry's won in their name by any means neccessary. So, that's all that matters to him. If they said 'burn down the campus' he'd just as easily do that as well, so everyone should count their blessings all beloved wanted was a diploma and a graduation cap and not blood.

― 'Perfect' Terry would purr looking over beloved's immaculately perfect grades in the back of his limousine he's totally bribed out of the professors for them. All the better if beloved's just naturally that accomplished and talented, but my god, if they aren't, the whole world's gonna be what Terry Silver wants it to be because he'll make it so.

[imthepunchlord]

So with my thought on different yin-yang pairs that would cycle between 6/7 Miraculous, I also wanted to cover the different pairs for Felix and Marinette as I do think they are a pair that can easily use both Ladybug and Cat.

So I wanted to see if that could extend to my idea on other pairs, particularly Fox/Peafowl and Bee/Butterfly.

Which, for this, there are tweaked themes for these pairs.

Fox and Peafowl echo themes of Deception and Truth/Vision.

Bee and Butterfly echo themes of Order/Notion and Chaos/Emotion.

Bonus, Turtle/Serpent.

As this got long, going to exclusively focus on Fox and Peafowl.

Initially, for me, Fox and Peafowl stand out to be the most interchangeable pair for these two.

Felix is an easy stand out for Fox. He has an eye for detail and being clever, and he's always been a deceptive character (pretending to be someone else why trying to woo LB, being deceptive in canon, pretending to be Adrien at times, ect.). Canon has also brought in Felix doing magic tricks, being something of a magician, who are illusionists. And of course, there is that little detail that Trixx and Felix both keep their hands behind their back when idle.

Felix with Fox can also work off questionable loyalties, as the Fox is often a self-serving animal, not known to be loyal and helps with their own interest (sounds a lot like Felix). Additionally, with canon, Felix also matches the Fox in terms of curiosity/nosiness and being a risk taker. And of course, doing illusions would be right up Felix's alley, as that allows him to decide when to have the stage and when to be more elusive.

With Trixx, that could've been an interesting kwami to work off Felix, being another deceiver/manipulator, and should be a little impish and selfish at least, and you get these two cunning manipulators trying to outsmart each other, clashing only because Felix prioritizes himself while Trixx is for the greater good.

And as a (dark) monochrome character, I do think it can be in the best interest to get something colorful to signify the change in life. And orange represents warmth, spontaneous, and playfulness, working off Felix needs to learn to lighten up, to be "warmer" as he's initially cold.

For Marinette, Peafowl's a pretty natural click when factoring all things that peacocks represent.

Peafowl is a big symbol of Vision, which can include having an eye for deatil/being perspective, looking to the future, being a visionary, and seeing what others do not see (including a supernatural sense). All of which matches with Marinette, being observant, having goals for the future that she works towards, and a knack for predictability and how she can pull off her elaborate plans. She's also quite vigilant, and can usually pick up on trouble or when something is off, which can work off peacocks tied to vigilance and guardianship.

Peacocks are also big symbols of incorruptibility, able to literally take in evil and turn it into beauty (which really kinda makes it weird for it be a misused villainous Miraculous). This works off Marinette as a natural creator of beauty, but it works off her role as a cleanser/purifier.

The Peafowl naturally works off Marinette's interest in fashion, as a natural symbol of beauty and vibrancy, able to stand out.

And on the topic of visual, Marinette has a nice inverse color coding to Duusu:

Visually, this nicely sets them up as foils that click and balance each other out, with Duusu being more "cool" coded to Marinette who is more "warm" coded. So where Marinette is more affectionate, energetic, and humble, Duusu in contrast should be more sophisticated, level headed, and egotistical/vain (this is not Duusu's canon personality, based on the little I've seen, but emotional birdbrain isn't what really comes to my mind for a peafowl kwami).

Working off this set up for Duusu's personality, you can get two dramatic characters with similar moral alignments working off each other, but able to balance each out. When Marinette overthinks and spirals, Duusu brings the truth and logic, where Duusu has the ego, Marinette has the humbleness. Duusu should also be a kwami who adores her interest in fashion, and should be one of the most romantically engaged kwamis, a literal wingman, who wants Marinette to display her colors and show off her interest to her crush (not that she's there yet). Additionally, Marinette can be chaotic and unpredictable, which as a peafowl, Duusu is set up to be more for integrity and order, so anything sketchy will be called out.

Working off Origins, where Marinette's biggest issue is self-confidence, Peafowl is a natural answer as that's an animal that's all about confidence and knowing your self-wroth. This can also work off Marinette getting pushed around (mostly by Chloe), giving up what she's rightfully won (Gamer), and putting herself down/shifting to prioritize someone else's feelings over her own when she also needs a chance to be upset (Glaciator).

Peafowl can also cover Marinette learning leadership as they are tied to royalty and clarity.

It could feed into her Atlas complex a bit, as this is a symbol of absolute goodness and fortune, but this animal has themes of being self-serving (flaws of pride, ego, and vanity), so it probably wouldn't be to the extent of Ladybug.

Now, on the reverse...

Prior to Felix officially joining canon, Peafowl was a natural click for Felix in fanon content, especially as an alternative to Cat. And there was a lot of merit to the possibility.

Felix is a naturally deceptive character who does questionable things, it makes sense for him to get an animal that's tied to truth and integrity, to challenge how he is. Duusu would also come with a lot of the similar appeals to Tikki if paired with Felix being more for the greater good, strong sense of responsibility, to step up to help others, and be morally upright.

Blue as a color can also work off what Felix needs growth wise, it's tied to trust, loyalty, responsibility, security, and truth. But it also vibes with him better as a cool color, one that is more passive and reserved.

But Felix also clicks as he is observant and does know how to grab attention and stand out as needed. And for PV Felix, who seems fine just minding his own business and not wanting attention all that much, that adds another nice contrast as this is an animal about having attention, and showing off your vibrancy (which can have some comedic potential for a more reserved character like Felix).

Now Marinette with Fox is another fun and interest kwami swap, one that's also pretty decently popular.

Marinette matches Fox in creativity, observation, quick wit, being chaotic, and being a risk taker. She also is someone who likes to work long range if she can (though will make do with close range). Similarly, she also knows when to grab attention and when to step back and be in the background.

Fox just very easily can click for Marinette. And the show did give us an example in how elaborate her illusions can be (Kwamibuster).

The biggest intrigue can be with Marinette and Trixx. With Marinette having more moral integrity can Felix, making her the more morally upright character, it can open up Trixx to be more of an impish wildcard. It's actually a similar appeal to Marinette and Plagg, where Plagg is up to be more problamatic in contrast to her. Given the Trixx we saw in Sapotis, I got an impression that with Marinette more likely to get involved and do the right thing, it opens up to Trixx prioritizing Marinette own needs and growth. And with foxes being a more self-prioritizing animal, that can work off what Marinette needs, while still working off Marinette's knack for meddling.

I do also see Trixx getting into Marinette's antics too and having fun with it.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Stranger Danger! [Entry #1]

HEADCANON

PAIRING: Dark!Modern!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader [Modern AU]

WORDS: 3,049.

SUMMARY: Moving into a desolate, small-town suburb, you would think the risks of finding yourself in "peril" are close to none. And yet, how could you not have been more wrong...

WARNINGS: stalker!Aegon/stalking tendencies mentioned, posessive!Aegon, mentions of kidnapping, slight BDSM (spanking), Daddy kink, slight dub-con, swearing.

A/N - he literally took over my soul & there’s no going back now. when I tell you this took me forever, 4 fucking days... NO IDEA WHY I JUST KEPT GOING. ANYWAYS I had to split this HC up, because I wrote too much! So here is the first part, nearly completed the next :) hope ya'll enjoy xox

A small, simple town, nonetheless, it would suffice for you. It was inevitable that newcomers would mingle with most of the residents in a day or two, you had been advised upon your relocation.

Your case was no exception: withdrawn from your previous livelihood in the city, you wished to escape to the serenity a desolate, small-town could offer.

That was where you'd meet, Aegon... Just, Aegon [as he had ambiguously introduced himself].

Working in a minor, stuffy bookstore/cafe, many of the local townspeople often visited or dined, in which is where Aegon was introduced to you.

At first, he would dare not to approach you, though rather seek in the comfort of lurking in the noisy, bustling background as his younger brothers or sister would heroically order in his steed.

Like a dangerously ravenous predator prowling at its innocent, mindless prey, he watched you closely. Your precise movements, your ever so often-changing facial expressions, your disciplined mannerisms, your light-hearted voice. Every fine detail he saturated his senses completely, soaking himself in your vicinity, in your divine presence.

Surmising that you were a sweet, honest little thing: he fathomed and relished in the notion that you were incorrupt, all for his undoing. He'd never seen the likes of you before, and was frustrated with himself that he hadn't ever clocked you.

Aegon would often grow impatient with himself, as he observed other males conversing with you, knowing their true, carnal intentions... It made his blood boil, and yet you paid no mind, he was comforted by this, although knew his time was wearing thin.

He would eventually start to visit you every chance he could cease, even in the absence of his younger siblings. Finally building the courage to converse with you, even if it was short, simple-minded banter as you politely took his order, your voice, its tone sounded like decadent, pure honey to his ears.

He was madly obsessed with everything about you.

You could not deny on your part either: Aegon was quite handsome, with his doe, lilac eyes that enraptured you, his soft facial structure, yet also formidable. The contrast of his pale, silver hair against his fair skin, was unearthly. And Gods, did he love to listen to you. He made you feel utterly giddy, often blurting out random, cringe remarks, feeling your cheeks flash hot with blush.

Nonetheless, he continued to return to the store, coincidentally whenever you were scheduled for a shift.

Eventually, Aegon grew tempted to follow you after hours, desperate to seek you in your travels back to your humble abode. He often waited in the distance, as you closed and departed from work late in the evenings, all by your lonesome.

He'd convinced himself he was doing you a favour... Gods forbid, someone tried to attack you, he'd be your saviour, like some damsel in distress. He was being harmless otherwise.

As he fell more comfortable in this consuming routine, compulsively following you home, often making up incessant lies and pathetic excuses for his absence from home: found solace in watching you through your apartment window.

Whether it was watching you do your laundry, making a simple dinner, or prepping for bed as you'd read a book, he grew infatuated with your wholesomeness.

Although, earning even more luck, he'd caught a glimpse of another side of you, a much, much more titillating side. Attentively observing you, how eagerly your fingers ventured between your thighs, as your hips bucked forward, back arching and convulsing in swift motions. The circular shapes of your mouth, he could only imagine the lewd sounds echoing from your lips. He found himself moments later, stroking his own cock, desperately aching for pleasure and release, as he envisioned himself being the reason for your excitement.

All this entertainment however, came to an abrupt end, when Aegon found you bringing some random, strange man into the confinements of your home.

He was livid beyond words: fists clenching firmly on his steering wheel, his knuckles whitened even more against his pale skin, his jaw tense as he spied on the two of you, the way you'd laugh and grip at the man's arm. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Much to his infuriated relief, nothing escalated beyond the red wine you'd generously shared. After being certain the man was completely gone, and you safe and sound in bed, he knew he had to make some sort of a move. He was adamant in avoiding this situation from repeating itself all over again, or worse...

The notion of another man taking you all for himself, was enough motive to set his plans to motion.

How it happened and how Aegon had panned it out, was all a blur initially.

You'd recognised him instantly as he slowly pulled up along the kerbside, pulling his frosted window down, as you were walking back from work. His familiar, tender smile was heart-warming in contrast to the dim, winter weather and cloudy, light sprinkle that had been hazing the day since the mane.

"You poor thing, you'll catch a cold if you wander about in this weather. I can drop you off, if you would like?"

At first you remained reluctant, out of consideration: not wanting to intervene in Aegon's plans for the day. Your meek attempts at refusing his offer however, failed, for he remained persistent.

"I don't mind at all. I have no plans or commitments, I swear it...Please, it-it's the least I can do after all."

Defeatedly you succumb to his offer, although a partial side of you is grateful that you have a reason to be out of the cold weather. Aegon leans over towards the front passenger seat, opening the door for you, like a true gentleman. You were convinced he was the only gentlemen in the town, with how chivalrous he was towards you.

As the journey began, you'd disclosed your address to Aegon, who immediately knew the directions [since having grown up here]. Although, taking a wrong turn, you initially acknowledged it at first, laughing it off. Yet, another wrong turn...

"A-Aeg, you took the wrong turn-" Glancing over towards him, that familiar, heart-felt smile began to fade as his face turned rigid to stone. Stern and stoic in his expression, he turns to look over at you with a threatening, dark tinge, before uttering the chilling, final words you would hear for the last time out in the open...

"You made me do this."

Memory hazy, you could only vaguely reminisce the moment a wet, white cloth was shoved towards your face before the darkness had closed in.

You awoke in a dingy, empty yet neatly structured basement, solid brick walls and metallic pipes enclosing the sturdy foundation of the architecture, where dense, black padding foamed across the walls and ceilings. Your breath was heavy, yet mouth taped and your movements restricted, only noticing the tight restraints around your wrists, digging into your soft flesh. Your cries muffled loudly, feeling the hot tears streaking down.

Eventually a part of the ceiling where stairs rose towards had opened suddenly, and cautiously, Aegon entered, a beaming smile across his face.

Approaching you carefully, as though you were some kind of hurt, defenceless animal that he dared not to frighten nor startle, he bespoke some "rules": no screaming, no fighting back, no disobeying and no running, under any circumstances.

"Try any of those and your punishment will be severe, understood Y/N?"

Internally, your mind raced a million thoughts incoherent to his words and yet you remained blank. Sensing the adrenaline beginning to surge intensely through your body, as Aegon began to untie the restraints, you felt yourself lunge forwards towards the steps, yet something had firmly tugged you back, causing you to grow unsteady on your feet, falling to the crowd. Met with darkness once more, your memory clouded the second time you awoke.

"What did I say? Look at what you made me do, Princess.... I told you NOT to run, didn't I? What did Daddy say, huh?"

Your head immensely throbbing with a dull pain, it took you a few seconds to settle, before realising that familiar feeling of the restraints and tight concealment of your mouth forcibly shut. Aegon's hand gripped at your jaw tightly, pulling your attention unto him, as he attempted to calm you down.

"You made Daddy hurt you... I never want to hurt you again, baby. I only want take care of you, okay?"

"Wh-What did you do A-Aeg? Wh-What have you done?"

"Only taken back what is mine."

You withdraw and grimace at his gentle touch, as he cleans your bloodied scar across your forehead, before softly applying a bandage. The faint, proud smile produced on his face as he admires his work, before his eyes linger over yours once more, the smile fades again.

"Do not think that your little defiance won't go unpunished... Daddy always commits to his word, sweet thing. You will eventually come to know this. I am in charge, you will respect this or learn the hard fucking way."

Aegon suddenly departs that very moment, leaving you lonesome to cry inconsolably for God knows how long: ignorant to the notion of time now, it felt like hours as you weakly pondered over your destitute thoughts, wondering if anyone cared enough to know or realise of your abrupt disappearance to send for help... Yet again, you were scarcely known in the neighbourhood, people barely recalled your name correctly, had you not worn your employee name badge.

Feeling your reddened, puffy eyes slowly succumbing to sleep, you had awoken instantly by the sound of the ceiling door opening suddenly, to Aegon's heavy footsteps etching down.

Without an exchange of a word, Aegon pulled a chair right in front of where you crawled up and sat, before slapping at his thigh, harshly gesturing for you to sit atop.

"Bend and lay over my lap, now-"

Not wanting to add fuel to the fire that ignited from within Aegon, you dared not to disobey. The dark, forbidding look in his lilac eyes, that you once fawned for, now frightened you into compliance. The feeling of your tense body relaxing over his sturdy, meaty thighs, you found more comfort over than the stony cold floor you sat upon for hours ago.

Without a warning, Aegon's rough palm came striking down hard against the naked flesh of your ass cheeks.

"10 spankings for my naughty girl, cause for 10 seconds she tried to run away from me-"

"2 slaps- 3 slaps-"

Reciting each total, and the shrieking cries from your behalf echoed across the empty room, feeling the skin of your ass growing number by the minute, your hands instinctively gripped at the flesh of Aegon's thighs for support. Your mouth pressing down against its side, to muffle the cries more.

"6 slaps- 7 slaps-"

"Sweet heart thought she could get away? What does she think, that Daddy will let her go that easily? I promise I'll take care of you- 8 slaps- I'll feed you, nurture you- 9 slaps- I will love you."

The final stroke stung sharply, your skin burning with the heat of the friction, it was definite Aegon took the silence to admire his handprint over your bare skin, a stifled chuckle escaping his growling laugh.

Guiding you to sit upright on his lap, you felt tense and immense discomfort as you hovered over. Tears streaming down your scarlet, tender cheek, Aegon stroked each fallen drop across your sobbing face, cooing you in his lap, as one free hand soothed at your back and the other gently squeezed at your thigh.

"Promise me, Princess... Promise me you'll never leave me. I'm the only one that can take care of you, protect you and love you. Mark my words."

general taglist - @evenstaris @bel-bottoms @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @ilikeitbetterangsty @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylas-the-grim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit

credit to - @saradika for the headers 🤍

[revolutionarywig]

I saw my friend took pictures of this play apparently now ongoing in Paris and I had to search it up

LE DÎNER DE- WHAT???

So Robespierre is not a character in the play, but rather there are these characters who must dress up as a figure from the French Revolution...

Also there's Camille (middle) and presumably Marie Antoinette on the right

Summary:

Dans une petite ville de province, un groupe d’amis de la bonne société se donne rendez-vous pour un « dîner de têtes ». Chacun doit se faire la tête d’un grand personnage de la Révolution française. André Bitos, fils du peuple devenu magistrat incorruptible et vertueux, est l’invité d’honneur : il jouera Robespierre. Mais il semble que l’objectif de cette soirée ne soit pas uniquement de refaire l’histoire de France... Cette bande de notables en smoking-perruque va se lancer dans un jeu de massacre aussi cruel que jubilatoire. Drôle, grinçant et terriblement actuel, ce chef d’œuvre d’intelligence renvoie dos à dos haine de l’Autre et tyrannie de la Vertu.

"In a small provincial town, a group of friends from high society meet for a dinner of heads. Each must reimagine themselves as a great figure from the French Revolution. André Bitos, son of the people who became an incorruptible and virtuous magistrate, is the guest of honour: he will play Robespierre. But it seems that the goal of tonight was not to only reenact the history of France...This band of notables in their tuxedo-wigs are heading into a game of massacre as cruel as it is exhilarating. Funny, grating, and terribly current, this intelligent masterpiece brings back to back the hatred of the Other and tyranny of Virtue."

Okay HMMMM from the wording of that it sounds like it's not gonna be the most redeeming or best depiction of Robespierre or the Revolution in general. From the website it seems to be connecting the "Terror" with post-WWII France "purge"? (l'épuration, from the wording on the website) .....I am not knowledgeable in WWII France but I am a bit on the fence for that.....

BUT heyyyyy look at that Camille

The height BRUH

[linksthoughtbrambles]

Thought I'd give you a one word prompt for any of the Zelinks: Ghost.

@nocturnalfandomartist, thank you, thank you, thank you for this prompt. This astonished me more the more I wrote - and I couldn't stop writing. It may be longer than you bargained for at 9K words, but I enjoyed writing every single word of it. I will write at least one follow-up. This is a canon-compliant sequel to What to Expect When Fetch-Questing and a loose sequel to The Seeds of Love, Well-Worn and What Once Rang Hollow (with a few continuity differences for that last one) but it can stand easily on its own. Rated T, post-TotK, humor, drama, and romance. Also available to read on ao3.

Eternal

Link was extremely pleased he had his own arm back.

Unfortunately, he was the only one.

Purah (“Are you fricking KIDDING me?! I wanted to study that thing!”), Robbie (“I must repair my balloon myself?!”), Impa (“Mmm��a pity. With it, we might have learned how to create our own constructs—perhaps incorruptible ones.”), Paya (“That’s too bad, Link—it looked good on you!”), Tauro (“Ahhh. I’m sure you’re feeling better, but I was hoping I could learn more of the Zonai language from it, somehow.”), Calip (“It’s gone?! What did you do with it? You should’ve given it to me as an expert in these matters!”), Sidon (“My dearest friend! Where has your adult arm gone? Are you well?”), Yunobo (“Oh NO, Link, you lost your cool arm!”), Tulin (“Oh mannn. You still have my pledge, Link, but I don’t think I should just…slap my rune on your body. We gotta get you some rings or something.”), and Riju (“I didn’t expect you to look so much smaller without it.”), not to mention every single member of the monster control crew, and essentially anyone in Hyrule who ever recognized him, all thought he’d been better off with part of Rauru grafted onto his body.

Even Zelda wasn’t (entirely) an exception.

She did appreciate Link’s hands during their personal time (“I must admit, Link, I’d have felt strange were you doing this with a Zonai’s hand rather than your own”), but the scholar and sovereign in her definitely mourned the loss of such a unique artifact.

“Link, is there any chance you still share a psychic connection with Rauru?”

“Nope,” he said.

She blinked at him.

“Sorry,” he said, blushing and sheepish.

Now that the depths, sky, and newfound caverns had created vast opportunities for exploration, research, and innovation, Zelda’s original aim of rebuilding Hyrule had essentially tripled. She and Link knew if they didn’t make depths exploration and settlement official, people would do it on their own and get themselves killed (or the Yiga would claim it, and Hyrule would be threatened again in a few centuries). So it was, indeed, official as were new initiatives to investigate Zonai technology—making the Great Abandoned Central Mine one of several hubs of Hyrulean activity in the depths. Its proximity to the healing spring directly beneath the Shrine of Resurrection had made it a frequent destination of theirs.

Link and Zelda materialized beneath the Koradat Lightroot to the weighty vertigo of silence in the dark beyond the root’s oasis.  It was the same every time—some quiet dread sinking into the deepest pit of Link’s belly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.  He kept telling himself it would be better once people settled, with their warm lights and the sounds that come with them going about their daily business.  Zelda kept telling him otherwise. (“We oughtn’t fill this place to the brim with light, Link. We would disturb its ecosystem severely”).

Link was usually on board with leaving nature undisturbed for the most part.

Maybe it was the time he’d spent down here in utter silence but for his own footsteps, utter darkness but pale flowerlight shot into a black so matte it may as well have been death’s void; the pressure of vast expanses of pitch-black felt nothing like a sea of undisturbed trees far above in the light.

There wasn’t even any wind.

Were both nature? Yes. Were both natural?

It didn’t feel like it.

“Shall we?” Zelda said.

It severed Link’s fledgling reverie. He tore his eyes from the lightless maw beyond Hylia Canyon and turned to join Zelda in descending the steep slope on the path toward the Great Abandoned Central Mine. He gave her a small smile, though he knew, from her face, it didn’t reach his eyes.

Her return smile did. “I hear one of our survey teams discovered another root in that direction,” she said. “We merely- ah- well-“

“Have to figure out how to light it up without my arm,” Link said.

A hint of pink dusted Zelda’s cheekbones. “Yes. Sorry, Link.”

The mine’s central structure loomed in the distance, its light cold, the highest statue of the ancient Gerudo sage always watching, an intimidating glower over the hilt of her sword aimed at any who would ascend the formidable stair toward its main entrance.

“Hello, Aratra,” Zelda whispered, as she always did, as though the woman herself could still answer her.

As they neared the bottom of the hill, blue flickered in Link’s vision. “Zelda,” he said, pointing to the small cluster of poes coming into view on the left.

The spectre of that intimate grief between them passed over her face as she nodded.

He didn’t say it wasn’t her fault.

Since he didn’t say it, she didn’t say it could be.

The words floated between them, spoken so many times they’d become an immutable understanding: that she’d been too slow, that he’d been too silent, that they’d both been too obedient to the long-dead king whose grave Zelda still brought blue gentians to in the early days of each summer.

That neither of them blamed the other for it.

That they’d both spend the rest of their lives making up for it.

And that they’d do it together.

Neither of them knew whether the spiritual flames were casualties of the Calamity.

Link only knew the vague sense of relief he felt when they entered him. It felt like they felt safe—sometimes, he even sensed joy—and they clung to him so hard.

They clung to Zelda, too, it turned out.  As they approached, the spirits snapped eagerly into whichever of them was nearest, nestling somewhere unfathomable within them until released to a bargainer’s care. Link still didn’t trust the bargainers, exactly, though they intended to visit the one in the mine that day.

They didn’t talk much. They usually didn’t when sliding through the depths’ silence—sound felt like a beacon to whatever might be beyond the lightroot’s reach; yet they moved in unwavering agreement, sweeping up every poe in their path and off it within sight. It’s why they took the long route to every work site.

They veered far off the path at one point to collect a dozen wayward souls atop a half-buried ruin of a toppled archway.

“If we go much further, we’ll be at the spring rather than the mine,” Zelda said.

“Yeah,” Link answered quietly. They turned to rejoin the path further up, hugging the rounded base of a monumental column presumably carved by nature, reaching the impossibly high ceiling of what was far, far too large to consider a mere cavern. It was like a space willed into existence by the gods themselves.

Link’s mood lifted as the sounds of civilized activity reached him, more and more distinct as they neared the foot of the quadruple-flight of stone stairs beneath the statue’s feet. Link caught a glimpse of a Sheikah scientist, little but a few motes of color on the highest level of the structure, cheerful construct “Brrrp!”s reflecting toward them off any of hundreds of stone facades: every surface the same pale grey—every light cool and lifeless.

Link couldn’t imagine living in such a place. With an irritated grind of his teeth, he realized he strongly preferred the haphazard Yiga structures, with their paper and oil lights and bound wood. The real, green-leaved brightblooms were also better than the Zonai’s artificial torches.

“Rupee for your thoughts,” Zelda whispered.

Link huffed. “The place needs some color.”

She paused on the stairs, a third of the way up, her torso shaking with laughter and her hand squeezing his tight.

Link tried not to smile. He didn’t want her to think he liked being laughed at.

“Link,” she said, holding her stomach, “that is…precisely the sort of observation I ought to expect you to make.”

He really tried to keep a sour grimace on, but he knew his lips were going twitchy.

“Unfortunately,” Zelda said, eyeing his lips with suspicion, “I am no longer in a position to pass on your criticism of Zonai décor.”

Link snorted. “Neither am I. But I definitely would’ve said something to Rauru if I’d seen this before he disappeared.”

“I have no doubt! And truly, you’re right. I cannot imagine spending any great length of time down here with nothing but grey stone and white light.”

Link nodded. “At least not without experiencing crushing environmental depression.”

Zelda inclined her head, no longer laughing. “Indeed. It makes one wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“…Whether the monsters find it as unpleasant as we do,” she said, her eyes sweeping the far-off dark.

Link let that one sink in as they made the landing. Zelda touched the dais on which her old ally stood with reverence. When her hand slid from the porous stone, they continued up the staircase on her right. The chamber below would wait until later.

They ascended among tents clustered on the flagstones before the forge, lining the walls both natural and Zonai-made right up to the great arch.  They littered the circular courtyard on the other side of the building, too, the royal crest and symbols of the Sheikah, Zonai Survey Team, and Gerudo adorning many. The familiar sound of a fan whirred somewhere above them, out of sight.

It had been quite a stroke of luck, really, that Link had activated these facilities before Rauru’s arm vanished. The constructs had still recognized him as their “primary authorizer” and he’d been able to grant access to others.

He admitted, though, it was getting cumbersome; the moment he saw Ponnick, he knew he’d run out of time to think about Zelda’s monster-wonderings.  He flagged Link down (as if Link wasn’t looking straight at him) with arms wild above his head. “Thank the skies you’re here, we have new recruits!”

Link then spent the obligatory hour introducing them to all the constructs in the facility.

Zelda had her own work in store for her. Between decisions regarding distribution of newly acquired zonaite and reports from the excavation, inventory, innovation, and engineering teams, she easily had a full day of deliberation and arbitration ahead. Link joined her for much of it once he’d fulfilled his authorization duties—after all, he’d become something of an amateur engineer himself. It was nice to have something scientific to contribute when talking with Zelda.

“You can totally build a wing/hot-air-balloon hybrid!” he’d said.

 “Link, that sounds quite impractical-“

“No, no, you don’t put the balloon in the middle, you put it on the nose at an angle, see?  Then it drags the wing upward.”

“L- Link- what of the flame needed?“

“Oh, no, it’s fine, you only get burned a little bit.”

“What?!”

“And you still put the fans on the back, you know, to help out. Oh, and the steering stick.”

“Link, forgive me, but the flame shall not be directed straight up. It is inefficient and unsafe.”

“Yeah but the LIFT!”

He’d quite liked his flaming plane. So had Robbie.

Today, the engineering talk had more to do with shoring up mining tunnels, which while important, did not require Link’s particular flair for incendiary devices. All their talk of angles, sines, and cosines seemed a bit more precise than his higgledy-piggledy constructions to hold up Addison’s signs, so he eventually left them to it, jogging instead to the rim of the courtyard, climbing up, and inviting all the poes newly showing themselves to join him—then scouting for more from his higher vantage point. He’d grown used to the quizzical looks from everyone else but Zelda.

“What?” he’d asked as Ponnick watched him jog, zig-zagging, in a roughly circular area covered in pale grey and lavender fungi.

“What are you doing?”

“Collecting the poes,” Link said.

“Poes? Where?!” Ponnick spun, wildly searching for spirits which glowed blue, plain as day, in Link’s vision.

At least Zelda could see them, too.

On balance, between the poes, soldiers’ spirits, koroks, Hestu, and the dragons of the springs, he’d have presumed himself insane if no one else ever saw what he saw.  He almost had after the ghost of King Rhoam disappeared right in front of his face in the Temple of Time: an insane amnesiac with delusions of heroism.

Except they hadn’t been delusions, because he’d killed the crap out of Ganon.

Twice.

Or, of course, he imagined it. Twice.

Link shook his head. No point going down that route. If he imagined that, he imagined everything, and if that was the case he might as well relax and start attaching rockets to every exhausted korok’s backpack like that one by Outskirt Stable.

Poor little guy. At least he made it the eleventh time.

He huffed to himself. Sometimes, Zelda thought he was a little nuts. He supposed he could see why.

As a particularly large poe with a bright pink fringe zzipped its way into his body, Link caught a wink of blue between boulders at the stone circle in the distance to the north—a small zonaite deposit he’d cleared of monsters for what seemed to be the final time, the blood moons having ended.

It sparked his curiosity.

He sprinted the first hundred feet, then slowed to a reasonable pace. He didn’t want to go too far and worry Zelda, but if there were poes at that old monster nest, he didn’t want to leave them there.

Ten minutes later, he entered the mouth of the circle, three moldy, rickety old watch-posts within and another gap in the rocks across from him. Blue flickered beyond it: five poes huddled together. As he approached, flashes of his last encounter there played across his mind’s eye. The bokoblin on the platform before him had seen him first and tried to rain fire-fruit-arrows on him. Two silver moblins had slouched toward him, intent on splitting him open with their horns or the decayed royal claymores they’d somehow gotten. The other two bokoblins had fallen quickly to Tulin’s duplicate. Five monsters in all.

Link’s lip curled.

He hesitated on the brink of turning back, the thought of helping anything that may once have been a bokoblin sending a shockingly wicked taste of bile up his throat. He brought a fist to his mouth, pressing it deep to his skin, the imprint of his teeth stark against his lips.

No one memory stood out.

He’d never met a bokoblin that hadn’t aimed to kill on sight—never known one to show mercy, or even disinterest. Once they knew a person was near, they entered an unstoppable, murderous frenzy until they succeeded or someone put them down.

Link shut his eyes and took breath after deep breath.

He didn’t know anything for sure, and the bargainers never said.

Except they did say.

“Good… Evil… That’s the futile perspective of narrow-minded beings… There is no such distinction in wandering spirits.”

When he next looked, the flames flickered every bit as forlorn as they always did. He shook his head, his feet finally choosing forward for him.

When the poes joined the others in Link, he felt the usual sense of relief. Whoever or whatever they were, they seemed glad to be with him—not as happy as the ones he’d found in the deepest pit of the mine beneath Hateno, but if he was stuck for Goddess-knows how long at the absolute bottom of a pitch-black pit, he’d have been overjoyed to get out, too.

He took his time on the way back to the courtyard, half-watching a team excavate a buried section of the cracked enclosure and half-scouting for more glints of spirit-light, pensive, wrinkling his nose as he became aware of the sticky sheen on his skin. He pulled a handkerchief from his pouch and took it to his face. It came away slightly green with the powdery spores always floating in the too-still air of the depths.  Zelda collected them to study, but Link preferred not to be the collection vessel.

Zelda herself appeared over the edge of the wall as he swept the cloth beneath his left eye a second time. He watched her make her way down the inclined stone the natural grace she’d always had.

When he reached her, she was busy snapping images of the newly excavated section of stone.

“It is remarkable how they accomplished this precision on such a massive scale.” The Purah Pad clicked. “These structures were erected before my time with them—long before for most. They are scattered so far and wide and yet certain markings on them are precisely identical. I suppose they may have mass-produced stones as they did construct parts and delivered them afar.”

Link grew a soft, sideways smile as he listened. He could imagine her doing exactly this in the sunshine, her hair brushing the small of her back, himself silent as always, allowing her voice to wash over him until she inevitably remembered who she was talking to.

“The compendium feature is still something of a mystery,” she’d said, snapping a carefully-timed shot of a warm darner just as it paused, searching for prey.

“It recognizes certain species, but not others. Initially, Purah and I believed its recognition to be related to useful effects. Warm darners are of use in elixirs to resist cold temperatures, for example. Yet despite being unable to identify any species of tree, the Slate recognizes certain perfectly ordinary fruits, including apples.”

Link thought apples were too delicious to be ordinary.  He didn’t dare say so, but the phantom flavor of hot buttered apple flooded his mouth and his stomach betrayed him with a thoroughly embarrassing hunger-pang much-too-much like the sound of a hopeful retriever begging for an appley treat.

Zelda’s back stiffened. She glanced over her shoulder at his now-pink face, her eyes flicking to the blue pommel peeking out behind his ear. Link remained perfectly still, and that included not swallowing his imaginary-apple-induced-saliva.

Then-Zelda had returned to imaging wildlife in a rankling silence.

Now-Zelda heard him huff a laugh and turned with a smile sparkling despite the cold light of this place. She hooked the Purah Pad onto her belt. “May I ask what’s amused you so?”

Link shrugged a little. “Ways you haven’t changed.”

“Ah,” she said, threading her fingers through his. “And what of ways I have?”

His voice emerged low and soft. “I love those.” He squeezed her hand.

It made her smile at him in a way far too similar to how she had much earlier that morning, not long after waking up. He swallowed as she pulled him toward her—then she squinted at him and laughed a little through her nose, taking the handkerchief still in his other hand and beginning to wipe his forehead.

“I did that already,” he chuckled.

“You missed your hairline,” she said with the soft laugh he’d come to recognize as her equivalent of a giggle. “It’s fortunate this substance does not irritate your lungs as it does for some.”

“Especially Nappin.”

“Indeed, yes, especially Nappin. I do not believe depths research is his calling.”

“Nope.”

“You must have walked through a thick patch.”

“Ran through, more likely.”

“Oh? Where did you go?”

Link motioned toward the stone circle in the distance.

Her brow pinched. “Monsters?”

“Poes,” he said, wondering if he should tell her about the coincidence of the number. It might make her feel better, to have some hint these weren’t all souls marooned by the Calamity, but he wasn’t sure how she’d take the possibility they might be doing favors for monsters who’d been intent on murdering them in life.

She must have seen it in the motions of his mouth, nearly but not quite speaking. “Something else?” she asked.

He sighed soft through his nose. “Just something that made me think.”

The corner of her mouth quirked. Then her whole face opened up in mock-surprise. “Incredible!”

“Pfff,” he said with a poke to her ribs.

She squeaked. The three people working on the excavation behind Zelda went from studiously ignoring them to unabashed staring. Link gave them a small wave just as he registered Zelda’s eyes narrowing at him.

She began to rub the handkerchief all over the crown of his head with unnecessary vigor.

“Hey!”

The sounds coming from her as he pushed her hands away were much more like a girlish giggle than anything she usually produced. “It was in your hair, too,” she pointed out.

“There’s probably some in yours, Princess,” he warned.

Her eyebrows shot very close to the hairline her hands had risen to protect.

Link smirked. Her braid was much more difficult to fix than his ponytail. He made short work of his, shaking his now-mussed hair out and re-gathering it in the tie. Hyper-aware of the team still at rapt attention in the background, he finished up and offered his hand to Zelda. “Truce?”

She took it with a small smile. “Yes, please—but sincerely, I would like to know what gave you pause in the short time we were separated.”

His smile ebbed as he began to lead her over the shallower side of the half-buried stone walkway. It was no use, really. He’d only been good at hiding things from her when she refused to look at him, so long ago.

“There were five poes,” he said, “same as how many monsters I last cleared out.”

Their feet fell so quiet on the soft courtyard ground covered in pale, fuzzy flora he had no real names for, some soft and mossy, others more like wisps or powders. A few prickled. He liked the purple ones best for breaking up all that grey.

Their feet followed the same path without any hesitance or need for confirmation—toward the great central corridor. Zelda finally answered ten feet from its first stones.

“The statues say… good and evil… are meaningless for them.”

“…Yeah.”

“For a few moments, I was wondering whether only the spirits remaining clear in the shape of Hylian soldiers were people, but… no.  For they aren’t poes at all, are they?”

Link shook his head. “No. They… find their way on their own. Once they’re done.”

Zelda nodded. “They had a purpose—to help you,” Zelda said.

“To help someone, anyway. Whoever came around to fight back.”

A series of clanging sounds echoed down the stone steps into the corridor, along with quizzical "Brrrp!"s and a Hylian's grumbling. Link's right hand flexed. No more convenient ultra-glue. He kept walking.

“Why down here?” Zelda asked.

She’d spoken so quietly he had to think to process her words over the noise.

“You mean why in the depths?” Link asked.

“Yes. Why so far beneath the place they perished? There seems little hope of aiding someone here, doesn’t there?”

“I came along.”

“Yet they can’t have known you would. They wouldn’t even have known the depths were here to travel here intentionally.”

Link shook his head. He had absolutely no idea.

They descended in thoughtful silence to the base of Aratra’s main statue, then behind her into the yawning chamber tucked deceptively beneath the center of the great structure.

It struck Link, as it often did, as the offer of an embrace. As the chamber opened before them, the long bridge leading from the entrance directly to the four-eyed face of the greatest bargainer statue, the platform running abreast its shoulders combined with its massive arms and it appeared so ready to encircle whatever came before it. When he’d first stood there, he expected it, watched those hands out of the corner of his eye, waiting for movement.

It had never come.

Instead, a distant but surprisingly level-headed voice had issued from the alien face. It had helped him—no question about that.

The poes gladly rushed into its waiting arms—no doubt about that, either.

But this entity had also played a trick on him to get him down here. He would never trust it the way he trusted the Goddess.

The Goddess statues were another matter entirely. Now that he knew more than one thing could talk out of them, he was a lot more wary than he’d been before.

They came to a halt near the great statue’s face.

“You who stand before me,” it said in tones of single drops of water echoing in a deep, black lake, “offer poes to me. They are spirits that ought to return to the afterlife.”

As always, the poes simply left them. With hundreds or thousands of spirits somehow housed within him, Link always expected there to be something like a whirlwind, or flashes of light—but there wasn’t. It was swift and gentle as a sigh: barely a murmur of any motion or sound. It took merely a moment.

Then a wave of desperate grief seized the core of Link’s body and he cried out, clutching at an anguished heart, though neither the cry nor the heart were his own.

“Link!” Zelda gripped his biceps, her face stricken.

“Z-elda-“ he said, more to answer her than anything else, at a complete loss.

“Two do not wish to leave you,” said the bargainer.

Link’s breath caught.  Zelda’s eyes flew wide, and she looked him up and down as though trying to find them. “Can you- pull them from him?”

“I can do no more than guide,” the bargainer answered. “I show the way home.”

“They usually seem quite pleased to go home. So- why?” Zelda’s face seemed approaching a panic like none he’d seen in over a hundred years.

“I’m fine, Zel,” Link said, “really- NO, really, I’m fine, I’m just- I feel what they feel.”

“Yes, I do as well, but this-“

“This is them not wanting to go,” Link said, shaking. His eyes met first the lower, then the upper pair of the bargainer’s. “Can you talk to them?”

“After a fashion.”

“Can you figure out why-“

“I know why.”

Link and Zelda waited a few beats.

“We would appreciate it if you would inform us,” Zelda said, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

There was a depth of quiet, as though all sound plummeted into some unseen pit, unable to return, siphoned, whenever the bargainers spoke across fathoms to their brethren.  It muted Link’s accelerated breaths. Zelda’s grip tightened, her mind visibly whirring behind the eyes flicking between his features.

“…You have made a substantial offering,” the bargainer said at length.

Link and Zelda exchanged a glance.

“You have made many offerings,” it continued, “many more than any other being in countless ages.”

Link experienced the distinct sensation of someone…curling around him, like Zelda would, holding him tight, but inside his own chest.

“If you agree, I will honor these spirits’ requests as repayment for your offerings.”

“Agree?” Zelda asked. “What requests?”

“They would speak with you,” it clarified.

The curl tightened. It felt like far, far more than a desire to speak. A creeping dread rose in him—his own—of what spirits would choose to cling with such desperation to his body.

Someone terrified of death? Of the afterlife? Maybe someone with a last request—a regret? Two someones—at the same time, when it had never happened before?

Or did the bargainer mean… “W-wait,” Link said with a swallow. “Do they want to speak to someone in general? Or is it just me? Or Zelda?”

Link resisted an inexplicable urge to whimper.

“It is you who stand before me,” the bargainer said.

“Meaning Link,” Zelda said squinting at the statue.

It stared as though its answer had been obvious.

“Do they mean him harm?” Zelda’s tone had hardened considerably. “We have seen spirits lift weapons- perform magic.“

Link lurched with a sudden fear—could he have picked up Ganondorf’s soul?

“I offer you a boon,” the bargainer said, “not a curse.”

Zelda blinked, taken aback, while Link registered the depth of the anguish invading his heart.

It didn’t feel like Ganondorf. He’d have been hatred—envy—fury.

No, that wasn’t it.

This was regret. Something undone or unfinished.

Link closed his eyes and tried to… reach—within himself, where this spirit wound around him. So tight—clinging—stubborn. Something made him breathe an incredulous laugh, and he didn’t even know why; but the more he seemed to press into the spirit’s space the more familiar it seemed, an intense vertigo hurtling toward him from an invisible horizon slamming his awareness into long ago, when the world was over a hundred years younger.

Link’s body gasped.

Link’s mind looked down at a very spiteful young girl with a thick mop of mixed sand-and-straw-and-acorn-colored hair which he’d wrestled into a braid for her earlier that day, springy strands poking out at odd angles as she narrowed her eyes at him, her gangly arms vice-gripping his ribs, her hands fisted, and her feet planted wider than shoulder-width apart, as though to brace him immovably in-place.

“This isn’t going to work out for you, cheeter,” Link said.

“You’re not going,” she answered, her voice a mix of petulant and acrid.

“I… kind of am.”

“Nope.” She sniffed, a bit of her own hair having tickled its way to the edge of one nostril.

“I mean, if you won’t let go, I can just drag you all the way to the castle.”

“Good.”

“Good?!”

“Dad takes you everywhere. My turn.”

“You clinging to my midriff isn’t the same as Father taking you somewhere.”

Her lip curled and Link felt kind of bad, but what did she expect? “You’re eleven.”

“So?”

“So you’re not even out of school yet!”

“Castle Town has a school.”

“So you want to go to school in Castle Town while I’m in training all day and pretty much not see me anyway?”

“At least I’ll get to do something.”

Link laughed so hard he went silent, the girl’s chin bopping his ribs painfully with each spasm of his diaphragm.

“What are you laughing at?!”

“Chee… for Hylia’s sake, you’ll just be at a different school!”

“With you.”

“What about Mom?” Link said.

Chee went quiet for a moment, her eyes softening a little, though they still shone like tiger’s-eye. He could tell she was trying not to grimace.

“That is totally your sheepish face trying not to come out,” Link said.

 “Dad leaves her alone,” Chee said quietly. “A lot.”

Link’s smile left him. “No… he doesn’t. Because she has us.”

“You mean me.”

“Yeah, okay… so it’s been you more than me. But do you really want to leave her here while we both go?”

“She could come.”

Link shook his head. He was getting sidetracked. Mom wasn’t really what this was about, and neither was a different school, or Castle Town, or even his sister getting to do more exciting things. “Look, Chee… I know you’ll miss me.”

She grunted and pumped all the air from his lungs with her bony arms (damn she was strong).

“I’ll miss you too. A lot.” He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, hard, but not too hard. He was way too strong for his own good, or hers. “More than anyone,” he whispered.

“Link?”

“No way.”

“Yep.”

“You’re a total mommy’s boy.”

“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean my sister can’t be my favorite person.”

“Link, please- answer me!”

“He communes,” the bargainer said, the sound of distance itself as the image of Link’s little sister faded.

The feel of her arms around him remained.

“I agree!” Link blurted.

“What?!” Zelda said, her thumb swiping at a wetness on Link’s cheek.

As the embrace of his innermost self bled from Link, he tripped forward, his arms desperate, seeking to return it. His hands found Zelda’s waist, and his eyes found hers—whatever she saw in them made her hug him tight about his shoulders.

“Link?” she said.

He held her too, unsure how to begin, but any words died on his lips at the sight of blue flame coalescing behind her. He tapped Zelda’s back, taking her by one shoulder and turning her to look.

Two spirits came into slow being before them, veiled in a pale blue glow, their features weaving into existence as patches of light, seamless once in place. Flames licked their feet, one moment there, then gone. They were old women, but as Link watched, their edges shimmered, and they took the forms he knew they would—some hidden heart within him had already known, had felt their shades only in his most dreamless of sleeps, in the darkness with them.

One woman stood almost exactly his height, about forty years old, and looked very much like him. The other had become the girl who’d insisted he stay home with her over a century ago.

How could his waking mind have forgotten them so thoroughly? He really was an insane amnesiac with delusions of heroism. He’d have to be insane to forget people he loved so much.

“Mom. Chee,” he said, and as he did, their tears fell, too. They rushed to embrace him, both at once, and he could feel them, they were real, and his deepest core spoke a wordless vow to offer a gift worthy of the bargainer’s extraordinary blessing.

--

Zelda balanced privacy and caution, wandering the length of the bargainer’s platform, the communion of three always at the corner of her eye, sitting cross-legged, knee-to-knee and hand-in-hand.

She’d known of his mother and sister, but they’d never met. He’d spoken of them only in bare, short spaces, quiet moments when Calamity’s imminence dulled.

How their Hateno home had not brought their memories forth long before now, she didn’t know. She’d sensed, sometimes, as Link stared at a piece of pottery or brushed his fingertips over a length of wood-grain on the banister, some glimmer of their former reality floating near to the surface—but it never emerged.

It’s why she’d delved into the mystery of the Shrine of Resurrection—into the healing spring beneath it in the depths—as though the missing parts of him had drifted into its bed, lying nascent against its darkest earth, far below.

They’d have stopped there again after this, on an ordinary day. She’d have given him her most sincere of smiles as she removed his leather—his bracers, his belts, his boots—her eyes never leaving his. She could feel the way his chest would rise and fall, quickening against the heels of her hands. They’d have entered the water together.

Zelda reached the platform’s edge. Hundreds of feet below, a small cluster of poes huddled in the great chamber’s corner, near the bargainer’s ankle; Zelda wondered that they’d come so close to the guiding statue, yet not found their way to the afterlife.

“They do not wish to cross,” the bargainer said.

Zelda gasped, one hand pressing flat to her chest. It had heard her?

“I can hear only you who stand before me.”

Zelda craned her neck toward the statue’s head, half-expecting it to have turned toward her. It hadn’t. “Not the others above us, then?” she whispered.

“Only you who stand before me.”

Zelda sighed, the bargainer keeping its secrets as always. She centered Link in her vision, speaking quietly with his lost family, so engrossed he’d not spared the statue a glance as its voice sounded.

“I spoke to you alone,” the statue said.

“Oh?” Zelda’s curiosity piqued. “I didn’t realize you could.”

She waited for a response, the spark of excitement slowly fading in the silence.

She oughtn’t have expected anything else. These beings showed interest in nothing but the welfare of the spirits they shepherded. She peered over the railing once more, at the flames flickering far below.

“If I go to collect them, will they come?”

“For you, yes. Undoubtedly.”

“And would they then move on as the others have?”

“Almost certainly.”

She wondered why her carrying them a few hundred feet would change their minds.

“Listen with he who also stands before me. You will understand.”

Zelda’s brow tightened, taken aback and hesitant to simply eavesdrop. She shuffled her feet.

The bargainer remained silent.

She approached the three with great reservation, her hands clasped before her, unwilling to simply insert herself within their conversation. She stopped partway across the platform. Should Link wish to include her, he would—yet he was rapt. He appeared as though drinking in every detail of his mother’s face over and over again. Perhaps he feared a more ordinary forgetfulness would take her from him a second time.

Zelda’s lower lip rose in understanding. Some days, she, too, struggled to see her father’s face clearly. Her mother’s had long been wiped blank.

She gasped, her hand touching the Purah Pad.

Link looked up at the sound, giving her a small smile, and as he did, the spirits looked at her as well, as though only just noticing her presence.

The spirit of Link’s mother smiled wide. “Link! Is she with you?”

Link turned deep crimson, his face twisting in a smiling grimace Zelda had never seen on him.

“Oooh!” his sister said, her face full of mock-scandalization. “Your face, Link. Wow. Is she… with you?” she asked, her eyebrows inching upward.

Link’s rested his face in his hands as the spirit-women giggled at him. Zelda couldn’t help but quirk a smile, herself, though she felt strange. She could not ignore the hesitance in her heart.

Transient.

It would be transient.

Her eyes threatened tears as she watched her lover, watched him be with them as though they yet lived.

Their departure would sink him as his forgetfulness never could have.

It took Link a minute and a few resurgences of giggling to recover enough to peer over his hands at her.

Then he held one out in invitation, turning that smile on her- the one that was for her alone. She drew a steeling breath, her fingers worrying at the pad’s cool surface. “Are you certain?” Zelda asked. “I’ve no wish to intrude.” I’ve no wish to cut your time short.

“I’m completely sure,” Link said, beckoning her toward him.

Her shoe scuffed on the first step and she swallowed, extending her hand. When he took it, his mother’s spirit slid to make room for her. Zelda sat as they did, her knee to Link’s, unable to smile and unsure what to say—though she had no intention of asking questions about the mechanics of spirithood, despite the bargainer’s nebulous words.

Link seemed to sense her uncertainty. He threaded his fingers through hers and moved closer, drawing her hand warm into his lap, his shoulder to hers. Zelda couldn’t help but find his eyes, and though she knew his smile and the squeeze of her hand were nothing but sincerity, a truth to reassure her, the smile she gave held a depth of sadness for the future this would bring.

“That is so a yes,” his sister said, snapping the moment in two. Link’s eyes rolled and fluttered shut, and a small laugh left Zelda’s nose despite her visions of Link falling apart.

“The sky’s sake, Chee,” his mother chuckled. “You lived to be ninety-two. I’d expect you to have matured eventually.”

“Are you kidding? This is my chance to be a kid again. I’ll take it!” The girl smiled at Link, but an intense sadness lay in the core of her eyes, the precise contours of her lips. Zelda recognized its longing.

It was in his mother’s, too. “Link, my little love,” the older woman said, shifting a soft smile between him and Zelda, “why don’t you introduce us?”

Link huffed a laugh and gave Zelda a look so like one he’d given her just before the Calamity struck—on Mount Lanayru—something sad yet loving and utterly immovable all at once. She wondered wildly for a moment exactly how he’d introduce her—for she wasn’t his wife, not yet, but “fiancé” seemed an entirely inadequate word.

Fated. Soulmate. Destined. Those- those began to approach the magnitude of whatever connection had laid between them even from the beginning.

“Mom- Chee,” Link said, his eyes and smile still soft, still on her. “This is the love of my life.” His thumb stroked the edge of her hand. “Zelda.”

She and her smile warmed, his words an anchor to the present. Her free hand curled around his bicep and their foreheads somehow met, though she’d not intended to approach him.

His eyes on hers.

Those calm waters she always wished to dive deep within. They seemed to go on forever, further than Link himself could know, to a place warm, safe, and eternal.

Should she ever tell him so, he would give her his lopsided smile with that deep dimple of his. He would tell her the reverse—that she was his eternal goddess, and he worshiped her—that it wasn’t about him.

But it was about him. She knew it in her deepest self. They two were as one. When it came time for her to pass into the afterlife, she knew she would not go without him.

A sudden understanding drew an aching smile on her face for all the little lights in the darkness.

Though the silence between them bore no tension, its length emerged in her awareness. No irreverent remark issued from his sister; his mother had asked no questions of her. She turned with a flutter of dread, expecting, somehow, the spell to be broken—to see empty space where the spirits had been. Instead, she found their gazes on them, awed.

“What is it?” Link asked softly.

They seemed at a loss for speech. Their eyes traveled all around and above and below them, their hands locked together. His mother’s eyes fell on Zelda’s, and his sister’s on Link’s.

“It was you,” his sister said.

Link shook his head. “What was?”

“You… shine,” his mother said, her voice like a whisper in a cathedral. “Together. Like- the light of a thousand Suns.”

Link turned as though searching for that light himself. “Zelda does- she shines with her magic.”

 “No, Link. Both of you,” his sister said, shaking her head hard, her eyes shut for a moment. She opened them, squinting at Zelda. “I see you both ways right now. Before, I didn’t have eyes, not anymore. I do now, and I can see you sitting there, but I could see you before, too. You… you were the lights. You…” she gestured at them, her palm wide, “are the lights.” She swallowed. “Mom? Same for you?”

“Yes,” the older woman breathed. “Yes. I thought- Link, I’d thought the light had led us to you. I felt- so happy to finally be with you again. My little boy-“ tears slipped down her cheeks again, and she reached for Link, cupping his cheeks. “I thought- I still don’t understand- I thought I’d outlived you. I kept wishing, and wishing, and wishing in a sea of darkness to find you again.”

“We all thought you died at Fort Hateno,” Chee said quietly.

“But the light didn’t lead me to you,” said his mother with a tearful smile. “The light was you. And…” she smiled at Zelda, “you. And together…” she shook her head.

“Together you get a lot brighter,” said Chee. “Like, a lot. Way more than double.”

His mother laughed. “I don’t have the right words- to tell you- just how beautiful it is. I wish you could see it.”

Link’s sister raised her hand like a schoolchild, her eyes on Zelda, one eyebrow intensely arched.

“…Yeah, Chee?” Link asked cautiously.

“So… are you Princess Zelda?”

Zelda couldn’t help but laugh. “I am.”

Chee gawked and whacked Link’s arm.

“Ow-“

“You landed the Princess?!”

“It’s not-“

“And you didn’t even INTRODUCE her as the Princess?!!”

“Well, I didn’t want to- to-“

“To what, brag?”

“No, it’s just not what’s im-“

“It is so important-“

“Children,” their mother said.

They ceased so completely their hands froze mid-gesture.

The older woman offered her hand, palm up, to Zelda with a kind smile.

She took it, astonished to feel warm skin, no different from anyone else’s, a mere shimmer of blue at the outline setting her apart if she looked hard enough.

“My name is Junilla,” she said, placing her other hand over Zelda’s. “I am so sincerely pleased to meet you, Princess- and overjoyed that my son has found such love in his lifetime.”

Zelda returned the gesture, placing her other hand over the spirit’s. “I am grateful,” she said, “for this chance to meet you. That Link has been reunited with you after all this time…” she took a breath, “is a blessing.” Her gaze rose from Junilla to the eyes of the bargainer. The others’ gaze followed hers.

Chee traced the unfamiliar shapes of the statue’s eyes, a hand worrying in her lap. “How- how much time do we have?”

Junilla’s hand tightened for the space of a pulse around Zelda’s, searching the stone for an answer.

“The- bargainer didn’t say how long we could speak,” Link said softly, suddenly breathing strangely.

“The choice to move on is never mine,” the statue said.

Link blinked. “So- there’s no time limit?”

“I impose nothing. Yet my gift cannot extend beyond these walls.”

Link nodded, his face flat.

--

Ponnick and several Sheikah entered the space several times to check on them, so long they remained below.

They never appeared to notice the two strange women, though the Purah Pad had been able to take their pictures.

When she and Link finally left—at 5:17am according to the Purah Pad—the women faded without even a whisper of sound to two flickering blue flames, resting together beside the bargainer.

They would wait for Link’s father.

He and Zelda would begin their search in the depths beneath Akkala to find him—under the Citadel—though the bargainer warned that spirits may drift or become bound.

“End the final tide of gloom,” the bargainer said. “Only then may they all return home.”

Link seemed to understand.

They kept their appointments in Lookout Landing and Goron City for that morning and afternoon, having skipped their detour to the hidden spring of resurrection in favor of them. Link was unusually subdued as she’d expected, and her heart fell further and further as the day lengthened.

He’d barely smiled at Yunobo’s fist-bump.

He broke down in her arms, as she’d thought he would, at home in their bed, exhausted and shuddering with a grief which should have been foreign to him, as it should be to anyone—yet he had felt it before in lesser magnitude when the spirits of their friends, their allies, had become known to him, one by one and memory by memory, a sudden knowledge of what had been lost.

He’d even grieved over her in this way, for he’d no way to know she would emerge from the Calamity’s innards as a living being.

Zelda could not imagine it.

All she could do was hold him, kiss the crown of his head, stroke his hair, tell him it was alright.

“I am here, my love,” she said. “I am with you, and I shall stay.”

He nodded, unable, for the moment, to speak.

It was days later, the Sun a deep gold resting in a bed of lavender above the stand of trees west of their garden, when Link suddenly took her by the waist with his only-for-her smile and kissed her, gentle and questioning, then deeper as she rose to meet him, passionate, her arms wrapping about his neck, their bodies moving as a single unfettered wave. Her mouth parted from his breathless.

“L- Link,” she said.

He kissed her again, on her jaw—behind her ear.

“Are- you alright?” she breathed despite her body’s insistence that now was not the time to worry.

He breathed a very soft laugh in her ear and pulled back to look in her eyes. His hands left her hips to cup her face.

He spent a very long moment just like that. When he spoke, the sweet summer breeze danced with the sunflowers, his soft voice like its rustle through the birch leaves.

“I don’t want to remember what I’ve lost only to forget what I have.”

Her hand covered one of his, pressing it to her cheek.

“I love you so much,” he said, his smile growing, a joy nestled there despite the shadow always upon his features. A hint of mischief twitched his mouth. “So much we attract poes in the dark.”

A laugh burst from her. “Link- you are indeed the love of my life, but I’d rather thought it was our magic-“

But Link was shaking his head. “Magic, sure, for glowing when we’re alone, but… the light of a thousand Suns? That’s love. I know it.”

A memory burst to her mind’s eye, of a power as though the surface of the Sun itself, flowing from her as her knight clung to the thread of life behind her.

It had been love then. She knew that. Love of Link which had hurled her bodily before him, willing to die in his stead.

She pulled him close and tight—placed a long, gentle kiss on his cheek. He breathed a laugh and nuzzled her hair.

“You are- absolutely right, Link,” she said. “Absolutely right.”

They held each other, quiet, unhurried as the soft changes in the palette of the sky, restful as the setting sun, resting in the place sought by all the little lights far below—that place in Link’s eyes: a far deeper depth than any within this earth, for eternity had no limit.

She ought to have understood it sooner.

The lifetime of the Light Dragon had been a mere blink of an eye.

Link would love her far longer.

It wasn't transient.

Nor was his love for his sister, his mother, or his yet-unfound father. What resurrection had taken from him in life would have been found beyond the bargainer's crossing, just as she and Link would follow each other to the spirit realm, to whatever lay beyond.

Some well deep within herself whispered in the language of forgotten memories, a truth woven of silent echoes, veiled shades of her many selves passing through her as a thick-muffled feeling—and in that moment, safe and warm in Link’s arms, she felt they had done so before. Over and over again, passing in and out of death and life and realms and voids and time together, and always each other’s light.

She looked at Link, eyes and mouth wide open in a sort of shock, as though seeing him for the first time—as though just having remembered him.

“Zelda?!” He ducked, flickering from feature to feature of her face, his thumbs brushing tenderness on her cheeks and temples. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Oh- oh yes,” she said, her voice shuddering. Her next smile glowed, for him and only him, all else in reality falling from her present. “I love you, Link.”

He grew a smile to match hers and then some. “You sound surprised,” he said with a chuckle.

She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth, softly, full of reverence, and it felt like a first time. Link’s palm came to rest flat on the table beside her, pressing hard, bracing himself against a force Zelda felt, too, and welcomed—a compulsion to rejoin, to reunite. A shocking elation flooded her that he was wholly him, that he carried no spectre of an ancient king, no matter how benevolent, by his side, and she surged forward against him, delving, caressing: worshiping.

Her kiss released by a hair’s breadth, the heat of their lips a promise of imminence. Link’s heart raced against her elbow where it met his chest. “Z- el,” he said, utterly breathless, even more than he’d made her.

“I’ve always loved you,” she said, her voice quiet’s paramour. “And I always will.”

He stood before her, an avatar of adoration, every aspect of his being focused on her, the softness in his eyes unlike any she’d seen outside those moments he watched her at pleasure’s height. He brushed his lips to hers—not a kiss: a caress.

“You understand,” he said.

She kissed him again, her hands carding through his hair, thrilled when his eyes fluttered shut. She pulled back, a pause. “I do, now.”

“Forever,” he said.

“Through death and life again,” she answered.

In bed that night, Link slept soundly, his arms wrapped around her and his head resting on her chest. She sat partway up against the pillows, stroking his hair and thinking in a way she hadn’t in her waking life: a thinking more like feeling—more like acceptance.

This life was a gift.

A time to feel with skin, with heart and blood.

A time to be separate.

Not because they wished to be—but because it made their reunions that much more joyful.

And when it came time to fade from the physical, there would be nothing to separate them. They would be as one.

Death was not the end.

Birth was not the beginning.

And love…had neither.

She held Link a little tighter, smiling at his sleeping grumble, and closed her eyes.

[sasha199]

Gale/ Rolan Drama Part 14

Read all of me on A03

Mayhem and Madness

Rating: E

Pairings: Rolan & Fem Human Tav, Astarion & Shadowheart & Fem Half-elf Tav

This post is mostly fluff and angst but others are explicit.

Y’all…this game hits different when your Tav is a stand in for yourself.

My sister and I are playing a multiplayer as ourselves, as sisters. I (Sasha) am romancing both Gale and Rolan. Sister (Marlie) is pulling both Astarion and Shadowheart.

"It was out of nowhere, I don't understand." I'm pulling on my Gloves of Power as we sit in the yard of Last Light. "I mean, it didn't even really make sense."

"Sounds to me like you were shit talking his ex-girlfriend and he got upset."

"Sure, but that doesn't mean I was wrong. Does it?" It's been a while since I've worn these gloves, they fit more snuggly than I remember.

"Not the point. Nobody likes being reminded of how awful their partners were, even if it is justified. Shall I list YOUR exes and all their flaws?"

"There's just the one."

"No there's two. But the one was bad enough."

"The second was a re-bound from the first, that doesn't count."

"It does…" Marlie glances at Astarion as he approaches, swaggering up from Dammon's smithy, "especially if you said those three little words to her?"

I think back, flexing my wrists, trying to stretch the leather. "I plead the fifth."

"A fifth of what?" Astarion drawls, "Tea is best served warm, darling."

"The phrase is 'spill the tea,' friend. You're thinking of revenge."

"Always," he smiles sarcastically, "my favorite chilled dish."

"If we're done exchanging incorrect idioms…" Marlie frowns at me, "What's happening here? Are you wearing those gloves or not?"

I stop fidgeting, "Yes, yes. Let's go inside I want to see Lia."

"Planning to shoot her full of thorns?"

"I'd like to shoot somebody, not Lia though."

"Oh." Astarion's eyebrows wiggle appreciatively as we make our way into the foyer of the Inn. I see Shadowheart seated at a table near the bar. "Has our little pacifist gone feral? I do love to see it. We'll make a villain of you yet."

"You're wasting your breath, Astarion." Shadowheart smirks, pushing the chair next to her aside for Marlie. "Sasha is as incorruptible as these pathetic Selunites."

"Say it a little louder." I hiss, as a couple of the nearby Harpers glance over at us.

"I would if I thought it would do any good, but they're depressingly dedicated." Shadowheart tosses her braid, she makes a face like she smells something rotting.

I look around for Lia, she's not at the bar. Jaheira is at her usual post, deep in discussion with Isobel.

So that's what's gotten Shart's braid in a twist. She’s taken to becoming extra finnicky any time the Selunite cleric is present. I’m starting to think her devotion to Shar is all an act with how kind and considerate she's been, particularly towards Marlie.

I'd tried to approach her religion with an open mind upon the reveal that she worshipped the Lady of Loss. How could I not after she'd gone to such lengths to hide her affiliation from me? My background in religion was far from extensive, the Faerun pantheon is huge, but the more I learned about Thorm and what he had done to this land in Shar's name the more I hated it. These Dark Justiciars that she was so adamant about learning from and joining seemed downright horrible to me. Plus, the whole concept of loss, of giving up oneself for the relief of oblivion, touched a nerve that brought me right back to stark white walls and meaningless medical jargon.

My senses are suddenly consumed by a sterile chemical smell and I breath in the goblet of wine Astarion set in front of me to drown it out.

"You sniff your drinks now? I'm glad to see you've learned caution, but I did not spike that particular bottle." Jaheira has come over to us, the druid places a hand on her hip, a crooked smile flashes across her face. She always looks like she's on the verge of laughing, perhaps a habit she picked up after so many dangerous adventures.

"This time." Shadowheart’s words are biting and her eyes throw daggers at Isobel who stands just behind Jaheira, "I'd not let you poison my allies twice."

"What can we do for you Jaheira?" I ask politely, I've grown to respect the Harper, if not exactly like her. I haven't quite found it in me to forgive her either. She gave me quite the fright when she wrapped Marlie in vines and threatened to kill her, to kill us all, until Mol intervened.

Mol. The memory of that one-eyed little girl, the thought of her out there lost in this blasted darkness sets my stomach churning. I realize Jaheira has been speaking, and I drag my mind back to the conversation, force myself to focus on her words.

"We'll let you know." Marlie is saying to her, "When we have answers so will you."

"All our faith goes with you." Isobel says. The cleric always sounds composed, so perfectly unruffled. The only time I’ve seen her surprised was during the attack with Marcus.

Shadowheart snorts. Loudly.

"Thank you," I say hurriedly rising from the table, "we won't let you down." That feels like the right thing to say. I follow Jaheira for a few steps as she and Isobel walk away, "Have you seen Lia?"

"She's upstairs," Isobel's voice is cool but not unfriendly, "she requested a quiet place to think. I offered her my room."

"Thank you," I say quickly, " And we do mean it, we’ll share all the information we find."

Isobel catches my sleeve before I can depart, "Please, be cautious. I did not exaggerate about the dangers. There is urgency, yes, but Ketheric Thorm is not a merciful man. Do not run afoul of him, do what you must to maintain your cover."

I look at the cleric a moment, not sure how to respond. I place my gloved hand on top of the one clutching my sleeve. There's a desperation in her grasp, something her eyes aren't giving away, but I can feel it regardless. "I won't let anything happen to my sister. Or to any of you. I’ll do my best, I promise."

She nods. There is no relief in her tight eyes, words weight as much as wind, but she does release me.

Isobel's room is the only one on the second floor, to give the cleric privacy for her Moonmaiden rituals. I can never find the stair case to get up there so I circle the inn a couple of times. I see Bex and Danis talking, the tiefling children playing a hopscotch game, and two Harpers having an intimate discussion in an office-type area. I enjoy seeing quiet moments between the people who dwell at Last Light, it reminds me of why we do what we do.

Lia is out on the balcony, near the shrine that Isobel has set up for Selune. The moonlight is especially beautiful here, almost completely piercing the darkness. It's the closest I've come to seeing daylight in so long. She turns as my footsteps echo on the hollow wooden planks, pushing her hair behind her left ear. She's polished her horns. I feel a smile stretch across my face as our eyes meet. Every time I see her I feel such relief, to know that she is safe is a weight lifted from my heart. She rushes toward me, enveloping me in a crushing hug. I hold her and rock her, letting the strength of her embrace walk me back a step or two. I'm careful to tilt my head away from her horns.

"I've come to say good-bye," I say as we break apart. "We're going for him."

Her orange irises flick back and forth between my eyes, as if she's searching for something. "You can't mean that."

"I do." I walk with her to the edge of the balcony, taking in the shadowy view. "I'm tired of strategizing, tired of waiting for more news that makes this all seem insurmountable. Its time we let the whole of Moonrise know exactly what they're dealing with. I'm ready." I don't know who's steady and sure voice this is, but it sounds a lot like mine.

"Well," Lia tosses her dark hair out of her face, it swings back to cover her right eye, "then I hope you know that I love you. That I'm grateful you stood by me in the grove. That you didn't abandon me, or Cal. That you haven't given up on us…despite Rolan's best efforts."

It's then that I hear a throat clear loudly. I turn to see Rolan and Cal seated at the makeshift bar behind us.

"We'll be rooting for you." Cal walks over to envelop me in an awkward side hug, "For you all to come back in one piece."

I smile up at him, "Marlie would love to see you," I say snuggling my head playfully on his shoulder. "One last chance to talk shit about older siblings?"

He laughs and excuses himself, Lia kisses my cheek before following him.

I move to go as well, and Rolan clears his throat again.

I purse my lips, pausing mid-step to turn to him. He's not looking at me, instead he's examining the bar in front of him, one hand scratching idly at the splintery surface.

"Yes?"

"Are you not going to bid me farewell?"

"Farewell."

His eyes flash up, brows furrowed in emotion before he schools his features. "Such cheek." His hair is twisted back over his ears, hiding them. Disappointing. "You could die."

"Of course."

"I'd never see you again."

I blink at him. "Such is the finality of death, yes."

His face falls a bit at that response, I try to ignore the guilt blooming in my belly. Of course he knows that, damn it I'm the worst. "If that does happen, Isobel will need you, Rolan. I hope I can count on you to persevere."

He walks over to me, fiddling with a bracer on his left wrist. "It seems that's all I do these days. Persevere. Endure. Wait." After a moment, his mouth quirks into an odd contemplative smirk, "Perhaps, if death were to be your fate, I could come after you."

I'm confused, "Like you'd follow me?"

"Only to drag you back into the land of the living, mind. I have heard the Fugue Plane is an awful place for mortal souls this time of year."

I glance around, "Worse than this?"

"Avernus was worse." His tone is serious at those words, but his voice takes on a more jovial cadence as he continues. "I'm sure even I could handle the dreary assembly lines and bureaucracies of the plane of 'in-betweens'. Might be interesting to watch you play the damsel for once. Though I'm sure you would be terrible at it."

I want to laugh, I really do. But what he's saying touches me, even if it is just a joke. It's a nice thought that someone would care, would think about me and make an effort to rescue me for a change if all of this went to the hells in a handbasket.  

"Rolan..."

His expression is expectant, when his eyes meet mine...I'm suddenly overwhelmed. I'm afraid my words won't be enough, and I can feel my face reflecting that.

"I wish-" I attempt to swallow the lump in my throat, "- I could do more for you."

I wish I could be more for you.

"For you all. I'm trying…" I take a breath, or two. It might actually be a frog in my throat. "I just want you to know that if I fail…if we fail…please, know I tried."

He smiles. It starts from the corner of his mouth, slow and warm. And like a rouge in the dark, it sneaks up over his whole face. Before I know it, I've crossed the space between us. He reaches for me, cups my chin with a clawed hand. Heat is radiating from him in waves. His face is so close I can count the freckles that dance across his nose. I get to twelve before I lose track of them.

Is he going to kiss me? I hope he doesn't and yet…rose water. I breathe deep, hating myself for it.

"You will not fail. It's the damnedest thing...your dependability."

"Maddening."

"Some would say that, yes," he's looking at my mouth.

I nod, his nail grazes my chin. I frown hard to keep my bottom lip from trembling. He closes his eyes and I tense slightly, braced to pull away if he tries to kiss me. But when his soft lips close over my right eye, I find myself…melting. It feels soothing, like a hot compress…I hear a sound and realize it's coming from me, from somewhere deep in my throat.

I take in breath to say something, but as his lips move to kiss my left eye, my words falter…the pounding of my heart drums out all thought.

"Come back…" I feel captured by that gaze, as if a bottomless pool of molten gold has swallowed me whole. "I'll…be here."

"Good," I say, finally finding my voice. It sounds an octave too high. "And, I'll have you know, I'd make an excellent damsel...I can faint and everything."

He huffs a laugh and lets me go.

I walk slowly off the balcony, my knees wobbling. I feel silly, why did I say that?

I don't look back, but as I blink I can still feel the gentle pressure of his lips on my eyelids.

[rey-jake-therapist]

Spoilers episode 4 of Rings of Power

Does Nenya really guide Galadriel, or is it Sauron who's guiding Galadriel through Nenya, so she can find him and take the offer she refused last time?

Galadriel says she feels in her heart that Sauron didn't corrupt the rings and that she can use hers without fear. But her absolute certainty is... suspiscious, to say the least. Is the voice speaking to her heart hers, or Sauron's? Did they really fall into a trap in episode 4, or did Sauron actually want them to take the other way, because he wanted Galadriel to come to him safe and sound?

Charlie Vickers made no secret that Sauron had not lost the hope to convince Galadriel. He's such an arrogant twat he believes he can change her mind. What would be the point in leading her into a trap where she could be killed by a bunch of human ghosts? He can't forge an alliance with her if she's dead...

Seriously, I'm on Elrond on that one. I just don't know how to reconcile that even with the film lore, where Galadriel kept the ring, built her own kingdom and was apparently free of any influence from Sauron... Maybe the show will say that facing Sauron one last time and not joining him will make Galadriel and her ring somehow incorruptible?

[everyones-fangirl]

Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers. Stalking. Being super forward/not taking no for an answer. CNC. Female and Male Masturbation.

Word Count: 3760

Chapter 15

Astarion

In my attempt at running, disguised as working mind you, I found myself looking for an old friend in Waterdeep. The Castle Ward to be exact. The white marble palace of the city's Lords stood as a beacon of the incorruptibility of their rule over the city. The shining tower housed the Lords' court, embassies from other city-states and nations, and the offices of city officials, including those from the City Guard and Watch. As I walked through the grand halls, the opulence of the place did little to ease my anxiety. The polished marble floors echoed with each step I took, the sound a constant reminder of my presence in this world of power and influence. I passed by ornate tapestries depicting historical events, their intricate designs a testament to the city's rich history. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and aged paper, mingling with the faint traces of incense from the various chambers. I found myself in front of a large oak door, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of arcane symbols. This was where Gale of Waterdeep resided, if his plans to return here after his explosive good time in Baldur’s Gate had come to fruition. Gale was a man of immense power and knowledge, someone who could potentially help me navigate the challenges of finding one of his own. The wizard who took Cassara.

I knocked purely for show because I knew he sensed I was here the moment I stepped through the doors. I didn’t send word in fear of someone else finding out my movements and plans; hopefully, he’d be able to forgive me. I walked into the room trying to look much more confident than I felt. I held my head high as I approached where Gale had been sitting at a cramped desk. I was so focused on maintaining my facade of confidence that I didn’t fully take in my surroundings until I had come to a stop. Gale's room was a chaotic sanctuary of intellect and arcane mastery. The walls, lined from floor to ceiling with towering bookshelves, held an impressive array of tomes, scrolls, and loose parchment. Each shelf seemed to overflow with knowledge, some sections meticulously organized while others appeared haphazard, as if Gale had frantically searched for a specific piece of information and never quite managed to put everything back in its place.

The floor, made of dark, scratched wood, was almost entirely obscured by an assortment of richly patterned carpets. These rugs, layered one atop the other, created a sense of warmth and comfort amidst the scholarly disarray. Scattered across them were various relics and artifacts, each one seemingly older and more mysterious than the last. An intricately carved statue of an unknown deity stood sentinel in one corner, its eyes forever gazing into the distance. Nearby, a pile of ancient, leather-bound books teetered precariously, their spines cracked and faded with age. A large, cluttered desk dominated the center of the room, its surface barely visible beneath the with an assortment of magical implements—crystal balls, quills, and ink-pots, alongside various alchemical ingredients. Candles of varying sizes and shapes were scattered across the desk and room, their flames flickering gently, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls and ceiling. The open window by which Gale sat allowed a light sea breeze to filter into the room, bringing with it the scent of salt and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. This touch of nature provided a refreshing contrast to the otherwise dense and arcane atmosphere.

Gale looked up from his work, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of curiosity and mild amusement. His dark hair was neatly tied back, and a light stubble graced his jaw, giving him a rugged, scholarly look. The light from the window played on his features, highlighting the sharp intellect and humor that always seemed to dance in his gaze. “Astarion,” he greeted, his voice smooth and welcoming. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“I need your help,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “There’s someone I need to find. Someone dangerous.”

“What? No ‘Hi? How are you? Glad to see you didn’t blow up?’”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the smile from forming on my face. With an exaggerated flourish, I waved my hands between us and sarcastically announced, “Hi. How are you? Glad to see you didn’t blow up.”

Gale chuckled, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers as he considered my words. He wore a simple yet elegant dark blue robe, adorned with subtle, arcane symbols embroidered in silver thread. “And I’m glad to see I’m still talking to the same old Astarion.”

He had a way of making even the most serious requests feel like a casual conversation. But I knew better than to underestimate him; behind that easygoing demeanor was a mind sharper than any blade. “And you think I can help you with this?” he asked, his tone turning more serious.

“I know you can,” I replied, stepping closer. “You have resources and knowledge that I need. This is about more than just me—“ I hesitated to say too much, the weight of Cassara’s safety heavy on my mind. The room seemed to close in slightly, the air thick with unspoken concerns.

Gale’s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing my unease. “You’re not one to ask for help lightly,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Tell me what’s going on, Astarion. Who is this person you’re looking for?”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “A powerful wizard, one who has taken someone important to me. Cassara. He’s a threat, not just to her but to anyone he crosses paths with. I need to find him before it’s too late.”

Gale’s expression shifted, a mixture of concern and determination. His dark eyes, usually filled with a mischievous sparkle, now held a serious glint. “A wizard, you say? That narrows it down, but not by much. Do you have any more details? A name, a location, anything?”

“Lucian,” I said, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “He’s elusive, but I have reason to believe he’s still in Baldur’s Gate. You have connections, resources that I don’t. I need your help to track him down.”

Gale nodded slowly, his mind already working through the possibilities. He ran a hand through his hair, a habitual gesture when he was deep in thought. “I’ll help you, Astarion. But you need to be prepared for what we might find. Wizards like Lucian don’t go down easily.”

“I know,” I replied, my voice firm. “But I can’t afford to fail her. Not again.”

For a moment, silence hung between us, the weight of our task settling in. Then Gale stood, his presence commanding as he moved toward one of the many shelves lining the room. His movements were graceful, almost feline, a testament to his innate confidence and power. “We’ll start by looking into recent magical disturbances,” he said, pulling a thick tome from the shelf. “If he’s been active, we might be able to trace his movements.”

As he began to sift through the pages, I felt a flicker of hope. With Gale’s help, I might just have a chance to save Cassara and put an end to Lucian’s reign of terror. The room was filled with the faint scent of old parchment and ink, a comforting reminder of the countless hours Gale had spent poring over his books and scrolls, seeking knowledge and understanding. The walls, lined with bookshelves, every corner stuffed with books and loose parchment, added to the sense of purpose and dedication that permeated the space.

Gale glanced up at me, his expression softening slightly. “You’re doing the right thing, Astarion. We’ll find him. And we’ll make sure he pays for what he’s done.”

Relief flooded through me, washing away some of the anxiety that had been building. I had convinced myself I’d be turned away, that Gale would be too wrapped up in his own pursuits to help. During the adventure that had brought us together, we had grown close as friends, more so than I had with the others at least. But we had both changed quite dramatically since then, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. “I have a party planned at the manor soon,” I began, my mind already working through the logistics. “I need your help to make it a ploy to draw him out.”

Gale’s brows furrowed in thought, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. “A party, you say? Interesting approach. What’s the plan?”

I took a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. “Lucian craves power and influence. He’s always seeking out opportunities to expand his network. If we can make it seem like the party is a gathering of powerful individuals, he might be tempted to attend.”

Gale nodded slowly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I see. And you think he’ll come if he believes there’s something to gain?”

“Yes,” I replied, confidence growing. “We’ll create an illusion of an event too important for him to ignore. I’ll send out invitations to various influential figures, real and fabricated. We’ll make it seem like everyone who’s anyone will be there. Lucian won’t be able to resist.”

Gale leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s risky, but it could work. We’ll need to be careful, though. If he suspects a trap, he won’t come near the place.”

“I know,” I said, my voice steady. “That’s why I need your expertise. Your illusions and wards can help create the perfect facade. And once he’s there, we’ll have the upper hand.”

Gale’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Very well. I’ll help you with this. We’ll craft an event so irresistible that Lucian won’t be able to stay away. But we’ll need to be prepared for anything. He’s not the type to walk into a trap without a plan of his own.”

I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. “Agreed. We’ll need to be ready for whatever he throws at us. But this is our best shot at taking him down.”

Gale stood, moving to a nearby bookshelf and pulling down several tomes. “We’ll start with the invitations. I’ll create some magical seals to ensure they reach the right people and convey the sense of importance we need.”

As he began to work, I felt another flicker of hope. With Gale’s help, we might just have a chance to save Cassara and put an end to Lucian’s reign of terror. The room, filled with the faint scent of old parchment and ink, seemed to hum with purpose. The walls, lined with bookshelves stuffed with books and loose parchment, added to the sense of urgency and determination.

Gale glanced up at me, his expression serious but warm. “We’ll get him, Astarion. Together, we’ll make sure he can’t hurt anyone else.”

We spent the next few hours gathering items he believed he needed, and I was too worried to poke fun at what I thought looked ridiculous. Gale's workspace transformed into a controlled chaos of arcane instruments, scrolls, and potions, each one more bizarre than the last. Normally, I would have had a field day with sarcastic commentary, but my mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of Cassara and the looming threat of Lucian. My silence seemed to unnerve Gale at first, but he quickly adapted, his focus unwavering as he meticulously packed everything into a series of enchanted bags. “We’ll need all the advantage we can get,” he muttered, more to himself than to me, as he double-checked a particularly intricate rune on one of the scrolls.

The journey back to Baldur’s Gate can be very long, especially now that we have more cargo, but I had prepared for this. There is a ship waiting at the dock to take us back. It being a smaller vessel and with no issues ensuing, we should make it back in four to five days. The vessel, though modest, was equipped with all the necessary amenities to ensure our comfort and safety. As we approached the waterfront, the atmosphere shifted. The sounds of the city faded into the background, replaced by the cries of seagulls and the gentle lapping of waves against the pier. The docks were a hive of activity, with sailors loading and unloading cargo, ropes creaking, and the distant clang of shipwrights at work. Amidst the organized chaos, our vessel stood out. The ship was a sleek, modest-sized brigantine, its hull painted a deep, rich blue that shimmered in the sunlight. It had two masts, each rigged with a complex web of sails and ropes, ready to catch the wind and propel us swiftly across the waves. The name "Sea Serpent" was elegantly painted on the prow, with a small, intricately carved figurehead of a serpent coiled beneath it. The deck was well-maintained, the planks polished to a smooth finish that spoke of the crew's care and pride in their vessel. Barrels and crates were neatly stacked along the sides, secured with sturdy ropes to prevent them from shifting during the journey. A small cabin at the rear of the ship provided shelter and accommodations for the captain and any important guests—namely, us.

Gale and I made our way up the gangplank, greeted by the captain, a weathered, middle-aged woman with piercing blue eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. “Welcome aboard,” she said with a curt nod, her eyes briefly assessing us before turning to oversee the final preparations for departure. As we stepped onto the deck, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. The ship was ready, the crew efficient and focused. We were one step closer to returning to Baldur’s Gate, and with Gale's resources and knowledge, I felt a renewed determination. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the water, and as we cast off from the dock, the Sea Serpent glided smoothly out into the open sea, leaving Waterdeep behind and carrying us towards our uncertain but resolute future.

Sleep eluded me. Being used to working through the night made it difficult to switch up, but there was more to it than just a change in routine. I hadn't been able to rest since that night. I had left Gale snoring in the top bunk he insisted on having and crept out into the cool night air. The wind pulsed around me, and I nodded curtly to a few of the crewmen who passed by. They could clearly tell what I was, if they didn’t already know who I was.

I climbed onto the forecastle, a higher section of the deck, and lay down on my back to look up at the sky. The stars were scattered across the velvet expanse, twinkling like tiny diamonds. The gentle rocking of the ship and the distant sound of waves crashing against the hull created a rhythm that was almost soothing. Almost. My thoughts drifted back to Cassara. The anger, the fear, the confusion. It all swirled together in a chaotic storm that I couldn’t seem to escape. Her words haunted me. “You are alive, Astarion. And you deserve to feel loved.” The sincerity in her voice had cut through me like a knife, exposing wounds I had long thought healed. The darkness within me was a constant presence, whispering in the back of my mind. It offered power, control, and a way to keep the pain at bay. But it also threatened to consume me, to turn me into something I couldn’t come back from. I had seen it in Cassara’s eyes too, a glimpse of that same darkness. She was stronger than she knew, but the path she was on was dangerous. I needed to protect her, to save her from the fate I was desperately trying to avoid for myself.

The ship sailed steadily through the night, the sails billowing in the wind. The moon cast a silvery light over the water, illuminating the waves and casting long shadows on the deck. The crew moved about with practiced efficiency, their voices low and their movements smooth. The quiet rhythm of the ship was extremely hypnotic until a voice broke through the stillness, startling me. "Never took a vampire lord for a star-gazing type," came the voice of our captain.

I turned my head to see her standing nearby, her silhouette framed against the starry sky. "How did you... sneak up on me?" I asked, trying to mask my surprise.

"A lady has to keep her secrets," she replied with a cheeky wink, offering me a flask that had been attached to her hip. I took it hesitantly. "What keeps you awake?"

I unscrewed the flask and took a swig. The liquor burned my throat and deep into my gut, its horrid taste a stark contrast to the luxuries I’m used to. Her question, though, made me chug more, trying to buy time to think of something other than Cassara. "Old habits," I finally said, my voice low. "I'm not used to sleeping at night. And there's... a lot on my mind."

The captain nodded, her expression thoughtful as she leaned against the railing. "Aye, the sea has a way of bringing out what's buried deep inside. But whatever it is, you'll find your way through it. We all have our battles."

I took another sip from the flask, the warmth spreading through me. "Battles, indeed," I murmured. "Some more literal than others."

She chuckled softly, the sound mingling with the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull. "True enough. But you're not alone in this, clearly. You've got friends, allies. And you'll find a way. Good always does."

Her words, simple as they were, brought a chill to my bones. I handed the flask back to her, offering a nod of thanks. "I'll keep that in mind."

She took the flask, securing it back to her hip, and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Get some rest if you can. Dawn will be here soon enough."

As she walked away, I turned my gaze back to the stars, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on me. I wasn’t sure who she thought I was, but good couldn’t have been further from the truth. Not with the things I’ve done. A bright light shone through my pocket, catching my attention. I quickly retrieved the small, enchanted looking glass that had caused it. Opening the compact, I was immediately transported, in a sense, to my bedroom at home. Every mirror I own is enchanted, and I had placed a tracking spell on my little pet so when she enters my bedroom it tells me. Through the looking glass, I saw her pacing the room, her chest heaving from ragged breaths. Anger radiated from her in waves, her movements frantic and restless. The sight of her, furious and beautiful, stirred something primal within me. Then, something completely unexpected happened. She stopped pacing, her hands moving to the hem of her dress, and with a quick, determined motion, she began to undress.

My breath caught in my throat, and my cock twitched in my pants. I quickly sat up, unable to tear my eyes away from the image in the mirror. Cassara, driven by anger and perhaps a need for control, was exposing herself in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

The darkness within me, always lurking just beneath the surface, surged forward. I could feel its seductive pull, urging me to return to her, to reclaim what was mine. The ship rocked gently beneath me, but my thoughts were far from the open sea. They were with Cassara, in our bedroom, where she was challenging me in a way only she could. I tried to will myself to stop watching, to regain some semblance of control, but as she reached for the pillow that rested on my side of the bed, a fire lit up within me. That wicked little creature was using my pillow to satisfy herself, and the sight was intoxicating.

My hand moved on its own, grabbing at my painfully hard erection through my trousers. The thought of anyone being around to see me didn’t even cross my mind. I was entirely consumed by the vision of Cassara, her body moving rhythmically as she rocked against the pillow. My breath became shallow, and I began to think of all the ways I could punish her for this later, each thought more deliciously wicked than the last. With each pump of my hand, I imagined her beneath me, her body writhing in pleasure and torment. I envisioned her gasping my name, begging for release, only to be denied until I decided she was worthy. The power, the control—it was exhilarating.

The ship's gentle sway, the creaking of the wood, and the distant sound of the waves became a backdrop to my fevered fantasies. My strokes became firmer, more insistent, as I watched Cassara’s movements grow more frantic, her pleasure evident even through the magical lens.

My mind was a whirlwind of dark desires, each one fueling the fire within me. The need to possess her, to dominate her completely, was overwhelming. And as I neared the edge, I knew that this was just a taste of what was to come. When I returned, she would be reminded of the true meaning of submission, and I would revel in every moment of it. With a final, shuddering breath, I found my release, my body convulsing with the intensity of it. For a moment, I was lost in the sensation, the darkness within me sated, if only temporarily. As I came down from the high, I closed the compact, the image of Cassara still burned into my mind. The night was still and silent around me, but inside, a storm was brewing. The journey back to her couldn’t happen fast enough. And when I finally had her in my grasp, she would pay for every wicked little thing she had done to drive me to this point.

With that thought, I stood up, my resolve stronger than ever. The ship continued its journey through the night, and I knew that soon, very soon, I would be home. And Cassara would be waiting. I had to keep my wits about me, though, at least until Lucian was handled. I couldn’t risk being distracted— not even by the woman I’m trying to save from myself.

[psalm22-6]

Reading the screenplay for Les Misérables (1917) by Frank Lloyd and Marc Robbins

So the 1917 American film production of Les Miserables (starring William Farnum, directed by Frank Lloyd, and produced by William Fox) is not lost per se but it isn't readily available to watch either. According to @melancholyarchivist's research, a version is preserved by the Filmoteka Narodowa and can be viewed on-site (Is there anyone in Poland who's interested in visiting?) and we may some day get a restored version. In the meantime, I found that (most of) the screenplay is available through the Library of Congress, where it was submitted as part of the studio's copyright claim. I will tell you straight away that it itsn't complete. It ends right at the story's climax, which was incredibly frustrating to me but there's still lots of cool info. Here were some high/low lights for me: The film begins with a forward displayed through intertitle cards:

1. In the realm of prose Victor Hugo’s immortal classic shows that if sin dims the Divine Image, conscience disturbs the soul with sore discontent. 2. We see how God uses conscience to waken a dead soul and “plague the sinful man with dark despair,” until the conscience, that first made a coward of a bad man, at last makes a hero, of a good man. 3. In “Les Miserables,” Victor Hugo portrays the worst man as having a Diving Spark that no injustice can extinguish, which God guards and feeds, making it incorruptible in this life, and immortal in the next—SLOW FADE

That is not a great start but okay. Then we see Napoleonic soldiers walking triumphantly through the streets (the year is 1796.) Contrast this with scenes in Jean Valjean’s household, where children are fighting over a scrap of bread. Valjean sees the baker's window full of cakes and bread. He breaks the window and reaches over the cakes in order to take the bread. He is of course immediately caught, and the baker rejoices smugly. For context to this next part, an iris shot was a common technique in silent films where the camera’s “eye” opens and closes to direct the viewer's attention. (Also I have added punctuation to a lot of these quotes to make them more readable.)

SLOW IRIS in on loaf of bread on Judge’s bench. Open full on Judge, looking off and talking sternly, pointing to loaf of bread

This makes it sound like the bread is on trial. The bread on display in the courtroom is present in the 1935 American film production as well and like in the '35 production, 1917 has Jean Valjean dragged out of the courtroom while dramatically reaching for his sister. In Toulon, we see Javert as a prison guard. Although Valjean is repeatedly referred to as a "galley slave," he is not shown working on a ship (as he will be in the '35 film). He demonstrates his strength by saving a prisoner in a quarry. There is a lengthy scene of Jean Valjean attempting to escape prison (which was eventually cut down according to what I've read. Notice how the title page says "a film in 10 reels." It was later cut to 8.) Jean Valjean strangles a guard to death. Bloodhounds chase him across a marsh. When Valjean is released from prison, instead of being chased by the dog out of the dog house, there is a scene where Jean Valjean asks a man for food. The man refuses but Jean Valjean then sees him give his dog steak. He exclaims “I am denied food–when even dogs are fed.” A nun directs Valjean to the Bishop's. After the classic Bishop's Candlesticks sequence, we do see Valjean steal from Petit Gervais. Cut to the bishop praying in front of his empty cupboard. Then cut back to Jean Valjean, who sees the coin. Cut to the bishop. Back to Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean has a vision of himself: beside him fades in images of him as a prisoner, which are slowly replaced by a vision of the Bishop surrounded by light and looking at him sadly.  The police are looking for Valjean but they don’t see him because he is on the ground sobbing. Then he goes to the Bishop’s house and prays outside it.  There is a very sad scene of Fantine leaving Cosette with the Thenardiers but this scene was later cut. After Fantine is fired, an “old hag” tells her “Why should you starve when you are still young enough to attract men?” (This intertitle was cut by the Chicago board of censors.) In horror, Fantine holds up her hair and has a vision of Cosette as a baby, which dissolves into the hair. We see Fantine go to the hairdresser to sell her hair.  Immediately after this she encounters the Bamatabois character and remembers what the old woman told her (that intertitle was also cut by the Chicago board of censors). She smiles at him, and touches his arm, and he pushes her into the gutter, telling her it is where she belongs. When Javert arrests her, the money she got for selling her hair is left behind in the gutter.   Meanwhile, we see Valjean coming into the homes of poor families to give them money. He arrives in time to see Fantine's arrest and orders that she be freed, leading to this direction:

Very dramatic. I'll try to limit my use of screenshots though, since the typeface is a bit hard to read but one thing that's very charming and at times hilarious are the typos. See for example this scene where Javert tells Mayor Madeleine that he has denounced him:

Interior Madelein's room-- He writing at desk. Door opens. Housekkeper announces Javert. Javert enters. Stands looking at Madeleine. Housekeeper exits. Madeline turns around, asks Javery his business.

Even ignoring "Javery," they just spelled Madeleine three different ways.

Closeup Javert-- Her looking at Madeleine with resigned expression says: "I WISH TO TENDER MY RESIGNATION." Closeup Madeleine-- He looking at Javery in tense manner, suddenly controls himself, quietly says "Well."

As Jean Valjean decides what to do about Champmathieu's arrest, he sees visions of prison and of the bishop. When he arrives at the court in Arras, he is transfixed by the doorknob, which transforms into the face of prisoner 24601 (I thought that part sounded pretty cool). In the courtroom, no one believes that Madeleine is Jean Valjean. He addresses the prisoners and reveals that he knows Valjean's prison number. Then he lifts up his sleeve.

Closeup Madeleine left arm and shoulder. Letters T.F.P. and numbers 24601 is seen branded there

Of course, the musical would later do this but what other early adaptations show Jean Valjean with a brand? Fantine dies, Simplice lies to help Valjean escape (a fair amount of emphasis on Simplice actually.) We see Madame Thenardier send Cosette out to get water. In the woods, witches and ghouls haunt Cosette. Valjean buys her Catherine, shows the Thenardiers the letter from Fantine and gives them money in exchange for Cosette. Cut to 1832 (funny, this is basically just like how the musical abridgesthings). We get a birds eye view of Paris and the

Closeup Courfeynac-- He surrounded by men, who are eagerly questioning him. Marins enters. They greet one another in friendly manner. Courfeynac tells Marius he wants to speak with him. They exit from friends. Long Distance-- Men gathered in knots whispering as Courfeynac and Marins go to table, sit and start to talk. [...] Interior room at coffee house-- Marins on stall, addressing men in earnest manner. He finishes speech, is congratulated by Courfeynac and others. IRIS OUT.

Yes, Courfeyrac is called "Courfeynac" for half the script, until they switch to "Courferac" which isn't as bad. Marius is always "Marins," except once when he is called Marius and I swear that "Marius" is the typo. We also get a short scene of Gillenormand, who receives a letter from Marins saying that he won't accept his money. Meanwhile...

Long Distance Garden-- Cossette out of sight. Valjean enters, sees her gone. Registers surprise. Cossette creeps out behind him, startles him. He turns, sees her. They exit together.

It's not super egregious but Cosette is always called "Cossette." Marins leaves Courfeynac. Cossette and Valjean go to the park.

Long Distance-- Valjean and Cossette seated on bench Closeup Marins-- He looking off, registers fascination. Closeup Cossette-- She reading book, slowly raises eyes. Sees. Closeup Marins-- He looking toward her, fascinated.

He looks at her like she's a bug.

Long Distance-- Marins walks past Cossette and Valjean. He exits past camera. Closeup Cossette-- She peeping over top of book after book after Marins. Very interested. Pathway-- Marins going from camera, turns and suddenly walks back.

Freak behavior.

Long distance-- Valjean speaks to Cossette, who is shyly looking toward Marins. They both rise and exit past camera. Marins comes to bench, picks up Cossettes handkerchief, gazes after them, registers facination.

I don't think that there is any payoff to the handkerchief, it seems to really be Cossette's. Cut to the Thenardier's. There is no Azelma, Azelma is replaced by Gavroche (sometimes spelled Gavroch, Gavranche, Bavranche or Gavrouche.) Eponine comes to Marin's room and he gives her money. Then that very afternoon, Valjean comes to give the Thenardiers alms. Gavroche actively participates in his parent's schemes (he breaks the window with a rock, not his hand.) Thenardier recognizes Valjean and decides to rob him.

Outlet of Sewer-- Low barred arch gate in background, river seen beyond. Thenardier come to outside of gate, opens it with key, enters, close gate behind him as he comes to foreground toward camera. 4 men creep past camera and join him. He starts to whisper to them.

I love that Thenardier is meeting Patron-Minette (unnamed though) in the sewer and that they introduce his key here. Meanwhile, Marins goes to the police:

Police Headquarters-- Javert with back to camera, listening to Marins, who is telling of plot. Javert suddenly swings around, full face to camera. THE SUBLINE IRONY OF FATE. JAVERT NOW ATTACHED TO THE PARIS POLICE TAKES CHARGE OF THE CASE.

I bet that that reveal was awesome! Javery gives Marins a gun. Then Valjean arrives at the Thenardier's house and is forced to write a letter luring Cossette there. But before he can be made to give the address, he escapes and burns his arm. Marins fires the pistol and Javert arrives. Valjean then knocks over the candlesticks and escapes in the dark. He goes home and Cossette tends to his wound. Eponine and Gavroche see their parents arrested.

Closeup Eponine and Gavranche-- Gavranche turns to Eponine and says: SISTER DEAR - I AM GOING FAR FROM HERE.

Meanwhile Marins is distraught because he can't find Cossette

Interior Meeting Room, A.B.C.'s-- Room crowded with men. Marins seated alone at table. Courfeynac addressing men. Marins does not pay much attention.

Eponine finds Cossette's house and leads Marins there.

Exterior Valjeans house-- Eponine enters followed by Marins. She turns, points to garden gate. He joyfully starts toward gate. She stops him. He turns to her. She wistfully says: DO YOU LOVE HER? Back-- She finishes line. Marins nods yes, then eagerly exits to gate. Eponine looks after him and sighs. Garden at bench-- Cossette gazing out dreamily. Marins enters quietly behind her, stands looking at her with great love. She suddenly feels his presence, sees him, rises, stands staring at him. They look at one another. Marins registers great love, starts to speak to her. She turns away from him, registers great confusion and emotion. Close up Eponine-- She leaning against iron fence, registers dumb suffering.

Unlike in the book, where iirc Marius and Cosette embrace straight away and then never again until they are married, Marins and Cossette do not embrace as first but after many meetings, they embrace A LOT. One night Valjean looks out his window and he just sees them making out. Then Marins leaves. Cosette goes inside.

Interior living room (night)-- Cossette discovered arranging flowers in old fashion vase and lighting candles in happy manner. Valjean enters to her, stands looking at her in silent anguish. She turns, sees him, goes to him lovingly, asks him what's the matter. He quietly says: FOR REASONS WHICH I CANNOT EXPLAIN WE MUST LEAVE THIS HOUSE TONIGHT FOR ANOTHER I HAVE CHOSEN.

So yeah the reason they leave is because of Marins. Meanwhile, Javert gets a message:

Interior Police Headquarters-- Javert discovered writing. Gendarmine enters, hands him letter. He opens it, read INSPECTOR JAVERT A MALE PRISONER NAMED THENARDIER ESCAPED TONIGHT FROM THE LA FORCE PRISON. ACT ACCORDINGLY. LEBLANCC

This letter makes me laugh. MEANWHILE, Cossette is distraught at leaving. She sees Eponine (Marins had previously pointed out his friend Eponine) and gives her a letter for Marins.

Insert note-- DEAREST MARINS FOR SOME UNEXPLAINED REASON MY FATHER HAS SECRETLY TAKEN ME TO NO 7 DE L'HOMME WHICH IS TO BE OUT FUTURE HOME. COSSETTE

That also makes me laugh. Then a riot breaks out for no reason except that it is 5 June 1832.

Street near coffee house-- People seen hurriedly entering homes, all in state of alarm. Courfeynac at head of 35 men marching toward camera, old man and Gavranche at side of him. They all singing revolutionary songs.

Eponine is there in men's clothes and she gets the idea to give Marins (who has discovered that Cossette's house is empty) an anonymous note telling him to go to the barricade.

Long shot-- Shooting barricade in foreground, fight in progress. Red flag which is attached to pole at top of barricade suddenly falls, shot away. Old man grabs it, starts to climb to top of barricade. Close up top of barricade-- Old man starts to put flag back into place. Close up soldiers at end of street-- Officer gives command, they fire volley. Close up old man-- He trying to fix flag, suddenly his body sags, clutching flag, he falls. Long distance-- Old man falls from top of barricade to ground. Courferac goes to him. Close up Courferac andold man-- Courferac raises the dead body, registers strong emotion Close Up Marins-- He gazing off, exits toward Courferac Behind barricade-- Marins with Courferac laying dead man on matress, Marins has dead man's coat in hand, suddenly rises, calls off, raises hand, says: "LET THIS DEAD HERO'S COAT BE OUR FLAG."

They continue to fight the National Guard. Marins strikes a soldier senseless. Eponine gets shot, gives Marins the letter, and asks for a kiss. Marins kisses her. She dies. Then he writes a note to Cossette. Gavroche delivers the note to Valjean. Valjean is about to rip it up when he has a vision of the Bishop.

Sub title-- KNOWING THAT COSSETTE'S HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON MARIN'S SAFETY, VALJEAN GOES TO THE BARRICADE TO WATCH OVER HIM.

The next morning, the insurgents are still fighting:

Iris in on old man's coat-- Top of pole at barricade. Open full, showing long distance shot of street, men in barricade being served with coffee, fighting going on. Valjean in background, tending wounded.

Couferac tells them that they are going to run out of ammunition and Gavroche goes to get more. Valjean yells at him to come back. When Gavroche is shot and killed, Valjean retrieves the body and the ammunition.

Interior coffee house-- Courferac followed by Marins and Valjean leave body of Gavrouche. Courferac sees Javert and in terrible rage points to him and says: "YOUR FRIENDS MURDERED THAT BOY FOR WHICH CRIME YOU DIE."

I forgot to mention that Javert had been caught and tied up earlier. Marins is horrified but Courferac agrees. Valjean secretly lets Javert go. The barricade is attacked by cannons. Marins is shot. Valjean takes Marins and leaves. We see Courferac fighting terrifically. Shots of Valjean carrying Marins through the sewers are interspersed with shots of Courferac and others fighting. The insurgents retreat into the coffee house. The others die until only Courferac remains. He runs into another room, slamming the door behind him. The soldiers follow. The screenplay ends there! Don't you wish you could read the rest??! I feel certain that we were going to see Thenardier again, since he had escaped from prison, plus we saw him use that key. And I think we would have seen Gillenormand too. Also obviously Jean Valjean dies, but I read that his death scene got cut down in the final version.

[tobiasdrake]

I complained earlier about Byakuya's needlessly wordy title of Ultimate Heir Wealth-Inheriting Loinfruit, but I actually need to take a moment to complain about title localizations in DR1 some more.

Toko is the Ultimate Writing Prodigy.

Why not just say, "Ultimate Writer"? The word Prodigy isn't doing shit in that title. All Ultimates are prodigies. The whole concept of Ultimates or Super High-School Levels is to accredit child prodigies.

At least it's better than her Japanese title, the SHSL Literary Girl. Really? What even is that? Hifumi gets to be SHSL Doujin Author, and Toko's over here saddled with fucking Literary Girl. I'd be screaming down everyone's throat in every conversation too if I was the class literary girl.

Hina's Ultimate Swimming Pro title is fine but again I'm not sure why they didn't just say Swimmer?

Sayaka and Junko's title switches at least make a lot of sense. Sayaka is the SHSL Idol and Junko's the SHSL Gyaru, both of which are Japanese cultural references that could be lost on American audiences.

Idols and pop stars are close enough conceptually that it's an easy jump to make. Gyaru's a bit trickier to translate since so much of gyaru culture is about over-the-top westernized girly fashion; Fake tans and blonde dye jobs and long painted fake nails and the like. Over in the west that's just, like, fashion. So making her Ultimate Fashionista loses some of the intended artificiality of her persona but gets the point across.

There isn't really a Westernized concept for "purposefully appropriating a Western fashion aesthetic in order to stand out from everyone else". So the SHSL Gyaru was always doomed to be a little bit lost in translation.

Similar with Taka. Taka's the SHSL Public Morals Committee Member, which is another Japanese cultural reference. A public morals committee is a disciplinary organization made up of students whose job is to police the behavior of the other students.

"Ultimate Moral Compass" kinda works, but makes it sound like he's more just. Like. Incorruptibly Lawful Good, rather than the specific thing that he represents. Personally, I probably would have gone with Ultimate Hall Monitor.

Ultimate Clairvoyant is a suitable localization for SHSL Fortune Teller, if lacking a bit of specificity. SHSL Gang Leader became Ultimate Biker Gang Leader because while the bikes are fairly standard for Japanese gangs (to my understanding), there are different kinds of American gangs so the clarifier is helpful.