#heard of their not so ideal stance before but not in this detail

[xshingie]

Edouard Character Profile and Analysis: A second look at the man behind the bright-eyed smile.

Introduction/Context:

One of the most difficult challenges when analyzing Edouard’s character is that much of his backstory is enshrouded in mystery. The most we know of him is told through Annette, which necessitates peeling back layers from how Annette would perceive him with her limited perspective. 

However, we can look at history to construct what sort of life Edouard might have had, and what unique challenges he might have faced. By piecing together circumstantial details of Saint-Domingue’s theater culture, we can start to ask the questions: What might have shaped Edouard’s motives, ideals, and beliefs? What motivates Edouard’s character? 

So, let’s embark on a iceberg-level deep dive where I explore a potentially cynical interpretation of Edouard that hasn’t been examined before...

Note: Throughout you will notice certain words enclosed in brackets following the end of a sentence with a number. This references the cited source by author's last name or website name, which is listed in full at the end.

PART I.  Annette and Edouard, Revisited

1.1 Initial Impressions

I initially held the belief that Annette/Edouard relationship was intimately close -- closer than anything, family, perhaps bordering on romantic. There was something implicit in their connection through demonstrated character actions: (1) Edouard saving her from Vaublanc, (2) fighting side-by-side during the Haitian slave insurrection. (3) How Edouard chose to follow Annette to France without hesitation (4) how Edouard’s death affected Annette so deeply.

At the time when I had completed my first Annette/Edouard fic, I had written an in-depth analysis ("On the Edouard/Annette 'ship'") where I posited how deep their closeness must have been, and what they had meant to each other.

However, as I’ve let things sit in the fridge more, certain observations have made me reconsider. I believe they were 'close' in terms of trust when fighting alongside each other, but they didn't truly understand each other on a deeper level.

1.2  Re-Analyzing Sampled Interactions

Richter: Are you alright? You can’t be sure that was him. Annette: Those were his eyes.

At the time, I had thought that Annette recognizing Edoaurd’s eyes in a vastly different form was an implicit indication of their closeness. However, as mentioned in this previous post here ("Exploring The Narrative Significance of Edouard’s Blue eyes"), my stance now is that this speaks more to her own personal perception of how well she thought she knew him, rather than actually knowing him. 

Annette: Edouard believed singing was the soul's way of speaking. That's why, from pauper to statesman, everyone is drawn to music. He'd say that when he was on stage looking out to the audience, he could see the colors of everyone's soul. Mine was pink. He was wrong, though. Green is my favorite color.

When Annette recounts Edouard’s belief about singing and souls, there’s a wistful quality in her tone, sentimental and romantic with a subtle laugh. This scene can be interpreted in multiple ways -- perhaps she felt the notion Edouard held was silly, something she appreciated but perhaps didn’t understand or didn’t quite see it the same way he claimed. Note the visual storyboarding setup -- she is quite literally, reconstructing an subjective image -- her subjective image -- of Edouard as she speaks through memory. 

As I began to research more into Saint-Domingue’s colonial theatre scene, I began to understand on a deeper level what kind of environment Edouard was in. This led me to question why the only things we heard about Edouard from Annette was from a rosy lens. Of course, here I ought to extend some grace. When grieving, it is only normal human tendency to want to remember the best parts of someone. 

Annette: My sweet, beautiful Edouard has been turned into a monster conjured from hell.

But… Annette’s phrasing of “my sweet, beautiful Edouard,” combined with the fact that we only hear only rosy things, suggests me that either (1) Edouard didn’t share much about himself beyond his romantic ideals, and/or (2) Annette didn’t know him as well as she thought, perhaping lacked the capacity to understand him deeper with her framework of understanding at that stage in her life.

Another instance that may hint at this disconnect is when she finds NightCreature!Edouard, she offers to give him penance through killing him. 

Annette: I can make it quick, Edouard. No. pain [..] I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought that's what you would have wanted.

This situation, taken in isolation, is not a strong one. With limited knowledge of night creatures, Annette wouldn’t have known that Edouard could be cognizant or the extent he retained his humanity (his case being unprecedented in the animated Castlevania universe). However, this still highlights Annette’s tendency to jump to conclusions and take action first rather than seek understanding.

----

PART II. Who was Edouard, Really? Constructing a Character Profile from History and Headcanon 

2.1 Saint-Domingue’s Political, Social, and Economic backdrop in context of French Colonial Theatre

At the peak of the Haitian revolution, the racial diaspora in colonial Saint-Domingue had evolved into a nuanced and complex one --  with the burgeoning rise of the mixed race population, some of which had amassed wealth and economic influence. Even within the mixed race population, there were nuances and subtleties regarding their rights -- i.e., a gens de coleur that would have been born free, compared to an affranchis, a slave that had earned their freedom. A mixed race person’s circumstances of birth governed mobility in what careers, ownership of property/land, voting rights, and strategic marriages/unions could be pursued (Maguire[3]).

Edouard was shown performing in the Comédie du Cap (also referred to as the Comédie le Cap), which became open to the public in 1764 and experienced a boon/bustle in hosting performances, ushering a peak of French colonial theatre all through the 1780s before the slave revolution sunsetted the end an era.

Background Art from the Portfolio of Mark Adams, Lead 3D Artist @ Powerhouse Animation, where he shares the design inspiration is from the theatre Comédie du Cap.

This theatre was situated in the heart of Cap‑Français. now known as Cap-Haitian. At the time, it was one of the wealthiest cities with its key strategic seaport location and boasting a diverse urban population, and eventually became a key staging ground for the Haitian slave revolt that sparked in 1791 through 1793.

A fun detail comparing the skyline of modern Cap-Haitian (courtesy of Wikipedia) and Cap‑Français as depicted in Nocturne. Note the similarity of the eminence of the peninsula that resembles a "widow's peak."

Note: Detail the specific theatres and setting will be important once I discuss Edouard’s transition from theatre to joining the maroons, or escaped slaves.

The theatre scene in Saint Domingue was complex social, political, and economic space that both (1) reflection of a system that reinforced the French hegemonic colonial presence, but also (2) may have influenced and challenged the complex social structures that arose through the eventual Creole influences in performances -- all the while serving as a melting pot where a diverse body of people convened to immerse themselves (the perception of) high-end French culture and music (Prest[6], Clay [1]).

As discussed, there were a lot of nuanced social ordinances, not too dissimilar to a caste system. The majority of theatre attendees were wealthy plantation owners, businessmen, stationed military, or visiting government representatives traveling abroad on business or behalf of the crown; eventually, gens de coleur and free blacks were admitted. Enslaved persons only of the audience if they were attending their masters, and were only allowed to perform under very strict circumstances (Prest[6]). Theatres also enforced French colonial cultural influence by primarily performing French pieces (as we know, African-influenced expressions of song/dance were greatly suppressed and theatre was no exception) (Clay[1]). Structural rules on theater seating arrangements and social fraternizing by race were also imposed.

With the vibrant diversity of individuals also came varying motives within the theatre’s social scene. People gathered to negotiate business or political deals, exchange ideas/sentiments regarding the current economic and political climate (sentiments that were growning increasingly tense as the revolution progressed). Wealthy gens de couleur saw this as an opportunity to enhance their social standing and economic influence, given Au Cap’s self-touted reputation for French sophistication and culture. It was also a place where less scrupulous motives were afoot, where colonists and soldiers would visit specifically to seek the company of the mulatto prostitutes (Clay[1]); or colored families would strategize in matchmaking for their daughters, tutted in well-spent attire, in hopes of being backed by a white sponsor (Powers[5]).

These details paint a vivid picture of Edouard's position within a broad social circle, ranging from the wealthy and educated, petit blancs, freedmen, and possibly even enslaved persons. By playing his cards right, Edouard could have gained insight into military, political, or business dealings and conversations happening at the time.

2.2 Edouard’s Unique Challenges, Motives, and Ideals

What drives Edouard as a character? 

Edouard clearly has a passion for song, and any opportunity he has to express himself so, he eagerly does. We also know that and he verbally espouses romantic ideals. If the theatre was such a place where people constantly tried to leverage to climb higher within the social and economic ladder, did Edouard ever have any similar aspirations or motivations? Or was he just content with the pure passion of singing and performing?

Edouard openly admits to being relatively privileged due to his birthright and likely enjoyed access to material possessions, given we are shown his inclination to accessorize with jeweled rings and the first thing he says to Annette is, “You’re stepping on my French silks.” As a side note, the theatre scene was also a place where gens de coleur often saw this an an opportunity to flout their wealth and proximity to french culture to up their social standing. Since fine goods (most fabrics in Saint Domingue were muslin/linen) from France would to be imported, and carrying/wearing something like silk in a social setting is to the effect of an opulent display of indulgence.

What other disadvantages or challenges Edouard might have faced?

We must also consider if Edouard faced any financial or economic pressures or constraints. As discussed, opportunities afforded for mixed persons depended on the circumstances of birth and their family's amassed wealth of social network and monetary resources. A subset of gens de coleur had indeed acquired wealth through merchant, administrative, artisanal, or clerical areas of business (Walton[8]). The primary passageway for a nonwhite to live or study abroad in France, i.e. to receive education, would be through sponsorship from a benefactor (Powers[5]). Was Edouard already born into wealth, or did he have to procure a benefactor or sponsor to fund/support his lifestyle? 

During this time, the majority of performers were imports from France during this era (Powers[6]). Since it was a challenge to retain native French performers in Saint Domingue, salary contracts customarily were generous in incentives for these white performers (Clay[1]). If Edouard was a native of Saint Domingue and of mixed-race origin, it is likely he may not have been able to levy a favorable salary contract with the theatre relative to his white colleagues. 

Although there were mixed race and black artists in performances documented in passing mention, the majority of their identities and names were lost (more likely, white people who left written records didn’t care to name them). The individuals who stood out enough to be recorded in history by name often had their talent begrudgingly acknowledged alongside backhanded remarks about their status or skin color in historical records. To obtain the opportunity to be be showcased as a soloist like we see in Edouard performing in Nocturne (i.e., the theatre agreeing to hold a named benefit in concert) especially for a mixed-race person, would have required a benefactor’s backing. The most well-known case was Minette and Lise, two affranchis both sponsored by Madame Acquire and Saint Martin (Powers[5]). This suggests that, given the disproportionate lack of named black performers in written records, Edouard would have faced additional hurdles to gain recognition and credibility as an individual artist. He would have had to overcome social stigma while competing against predominantly white contemporaries -- most black performers never achieved this. Additionally, he likely needed a benefactor to sponsor him to achieve headlining solo performances.

Although the culture of benefactors sponsoring performers is known in theatre settings elsewhere, I have not found conclusive source regarding what the environment for Saint Domingue would have been like -- the why and what constituting these arrangements, and each party’s respective leveraging influence in negotiation. I can only remark on what would be an inherent power disparity due to financial reliance -- it begets the question, what would the benefactor seek in return, and what would the performer be able to offer? (Note: I have written an analysis regarding 19th century opera scene in Paris where is a harrowing example where young female performers were exploited by their benefactors) However, I don't think circumstance have to be that dark -- perhaps Edouard came from a family who was able to leverage a business deal, or Edouard’s talents were remarkable enough to draw in an audience to generate revenue.

What were Edouard’s motivations, ideals, and beliefs? 

Annette: Why do you sing for these people, then? Edouard: I make them happy, and they loosen their tongues. You learn useful information that way.

If we revisit the above exchange with additional historical context, this exchange might be the closest insight to Edouard’s underlying character. It hints of an Edouard who is fully cognizant of these invisible, subtle barriers governing economic/social mobility within the different sub-classes, and is willing to engage in what types of flattery are necessary evils to grease interactions with socialites to acquire a favorable standing. 

Theatre played an important role inculcating the audience with not only French sentiment; pieces normally performed centered on themes of virtues of innocent love, pursuit of pleasure, tranquility and serenity -- a stark contrast to the growingly disparate mounting tensions arising in reality due to the oppressive political, social, and economic climate.  Issues like increasingly non-virtuous behavior of French men toward black and colored women, misery, corruption, and other intricacies of court and city. (Powers[5]) Edouard would have been singing and trumpeting about rosy ideals all the while reality was the opposite.

Edouard: It's in our hearts what matters, Annette.

Yet, some part of me now has to reconcile: to what extent these rosy ideals he spouted were truly ones that he believed? Given his explores to various facets of human behavior that shed a darker light, how can he say something like, "It's what in our hearts that matters”?  

Perhaps he was aware of this hypocritical farce, or perhaps that in spite of certain darker realities, some part of him did continue to harbor these romantic sentiments.

Some part of me can't help but speculate -- did he ever feel like an empty puppet within the society, effectively an empty puppet for the French crown?  Did he ever become jaded, if he ever witnessed greed, corruption, and indulgence?

All these details provide insight on not only the potential complexity of his personal circumstances, but also how Edouard would have required social acumen to navigate around  -- observing both things that would jade him (greed and corruption), but also engaging things that make him happy (enjoying the privileged life, being able to perform his passions). 

----

Part III. Annette and Edouard: Revisiting Their Relationship Yet Again, with Historical Context

3.1 What motivated Edouard to leave stage life to join Annette? 

If Edouard ostensibly was happy and comfortable doing what he loved performing and singing, what prompted him to join Annette to fight in the front lines, putting his life at risk for no good reason? 

This is actually a two-pronged question: Did Edouard leave of his own volition from a true character growth standpoint, or did he have no other choice to leave? Again, the timing and aligning of the history that occurred is a little murky If we look at the excerpted timeline courtesy from (Dayan[3]) as follows:

August 22-23, 1791: Slave Insurrection in the North

Sept 26, 1792: Cap Francais, the oldest, riches, and most densely populated city of the colony, burned to the ground by rebelling slaves.

June 20-21, 1794: Cap Francais again consumed by fires, and white inhabitants desert the island.

We know that the Comédie le Cap likely would have been burned/looted alongside the raid of Cap-Français in 1792 and faced subsequent closure. When Annette and Edouard blaze into the frontlines from the Vodou Ceremonial ritual, there is a shot of the same seaport view we were afforded, now on fire.

We also know that present Nocturne takes place in 1792. I am inclined to think that when Annette recalls taking up arms and Edouard is shown alongside her it would have referred to the August 1791 revolt, meaning that Edouard must have joined before the theater closed down. Maybe he had heard the disgruntled rumblings and saw the writing on the wall through the grapevine. Perhaps he had become jaded with the business of theatre. Maybe something about Annette's honesty, candor, and simple and straightforward nature inspired him to take up arms, too.

3.2 How well did they understand each other?

Edouard’s lifestyle was markedly different from Annette’s, full of subtlety and nuance. Ironically, what drew Edouard to Annette (her simplicity and candor) may also have created a fundamental rift in their ability to understand each other. At the start of Nocturne, Annette’s simplistic approach to situations would have prevent her from comprehending the nuanced aspects of Edouard's life -- a life that both granted him relative privilege and constrained his opportunities.

With Edouard’s background in interacting with various people, he is portrayed as observant, empathetic, and kind, as seen when he inquires about Maria’s connection with her birds. Being naturally emotionally attuned to others, he would have recognize Annette’s short-sightedness and tendency to make overly simplistic judgments without considering nuance. Knowing these traits, Edouard likely contributed less to their dynamic, often following her lead rather than suggesting his own ideas.

In conclusion, although Edouard and Annette were close, I believe there would have been certain things Annette wouldn’t have been able to understand about Edouard; ultimately limiting the depth of their connection before it was tragically cut short with Edouard's death.

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PART IV. Conclusion, Acknowledgements, and Further Readings.

tl;dr I way over-engineered a potential backstory for not even a side character that had less than five minutes of screentime in total probably 

If you managed to read all of this, thank you! I mostly write these character analyses for personal reference when I find myself struggling writing a character. Because  Edouard’s screentime in Nocturne is lacking, I had to substantiate insight with an unusual amount of research. 

I think I’m ready to tackle a writing story focusing on Edouard perspective now. 

Cheers! - Shingie. 

Citations: Works Referenced for Further Reading

Clay, Lauren R. Stagestruck: The Business of Theater in Eighteenth-Century France and Its Colonies. Cornell University Press, 2013. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7591/j.ctt1xx50x

“Colonial Society.” Traveling Haiti, 23 Mar. 2016, www.travelinghaiti.com/colonial-society-haiti/ 

Dayan, Joan. Haiti, History, and the Gods. 1st ed., University of California Press, 1995. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/j.ctt5hjhnv.

Maguire, Léa. Haitian Soldiers at the Battle of Savannah (1779), 8 Jan. 2018.  https://www.blackpast.org/global-african-history/haitian-soldiers-battle-savannah-1779/

Powers, David M. From Plantation to Paradise?: Cultural Politics and Musical Theatre in French Slave Colonies, 1764–1789. Michigan State University Press, 2014. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.14321/j.ctt7zt6t5.

Powers, David M. “The French Musical Theater: Maintaining Control in Caribbean Colonies in the Eighteenth Century.” Black Music Research Journal, vol. 18, no. 1/2, 1998. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/779400.

Prest, Julia. Review of Public Theatre and the Enslaved People of Colonial Saint-Domingue, by Julia Prest. The French Review, vol. 97 no. 3, 2024. Project MUSE, https://dx.doi.org/10.1353/tfr.2024.a920002,

Walton, Charles, "Saint Domingue", The Digital Encyclopedia of British Sociability in the Long Eighteenth Century [online], ISSN 2803-2845, URL: https://www.digitens.org/en/notices/saint-domingue.html

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[gemsofgreece]

hi ! I apologize if it is a weird or rude question, but as a history buff and mediterranea lover, i'd love to visit greece one day as everything about her seems fire, plus you have great historical relationship with my country, france. The thing is that im muslim and half north african, and i look very arab (plus i have like the most cliché arabic name, so no one would probably see me as french), so im a bit apprehensive about going in greece, because you dont have the most cordial relationship with muslims (i understand tbf), and that in a lot of countries know for their "hospitality", it is actually only for white people. I know that you have a lot of tourists and immigrants but that doesnt really means the average greek tolerate them (like france for exemple were there is a lot of muslims but french dislike them). So i wanted to ask what do greeks think of north africans and women wearing the hijab and how they are treated, bc i wouldnt be comfortable being somewhere where half of the population would be glad to see me suffer. Im sorry if i sound ignorant, racist or rude ^^'

Hello! Before I go into detail I think you should not be concerned about this or allow these thoughts to fill you with stress that could affect your enjoyment of your vacation in Greece.

While Greece is part of Eastern Europe where there are more racist beliefs towards muslims compared to West Europe (or at least so it was, but I am currently seeing far right rising in the west exponentially), Greece is also one of the most visited countries in the world at this point and during the last decade it has been receiving tourists from all around the globe, people of all skintones and faiths. A huge number of Greeks work in the tourism sector and are perfectly acquainted with providing tourist services to everybody without exception. In fact, we also get a lot of tourists from countries with less than ideal relations with Greece and I have never heard reports of something going wrong or of Greeks being unfriendly to them.

Now a few words about racism in Greece in order to help you develop a better understanding of it. First of all, I am sure extremely problematic individuals who usually express the dark side of themselves on the Internet do exist in Greece, however the likelihood of stumbling in real life onto a Greek who would like to see one "suffer" on the basis of their skincolour or religion is incredibly slim. This is neither a prevalent nor even a considerable let alone a normalised behaviour in Greece at all.

Racism in Greece is usually very... contextual. Greeks foster negative feelings for specific nations first and foremost and it usually has to do with historical trauma, about which I assume you know some stuff since you said "I get it tbf". Greeks also may have negative feelings for nations who are traditionally allies of aforementioned nations. The second thing that can ignite racist behaviour amongst Greeks is the religion indeed but not so much due to the religion itself but because a religion may be heavily associated with any of the nations that are on their black list. This sometimes causes biased stances towards all believers of the religion in question, even if they have nothing to do with those few nations. Skincolour comes last in the possibility of triggering racist behaviour in Greece, especially when it comes to tourists. But again I dare say even in an 80% of the cases it is because it is associated with countries that might be viewed as unfriendly to Greece or Christianity than any sort of rhetoric about inherent superiority or inferiority based on skincolour. Again, I am not saying there are no individuals who think this way - there definitely are - but it's not the primary type of racism encountered in Greece and it is exremely unlikely to interact with such a person in your vacation. We had such a type of political party but it was outlawed and its leaders got imprisoned. Meanwhile, the West was screaming nonstop that bad Greece has such a political party and now they are putting theirs in their parliaments or letting them govern. The irony.

Several Greeks are against the immigrants but it is primarily due to the financial and unemployment problems the country has even without a constant influx of new-comers and then because most of these immigrants are again viewed as nationals from countries unfriendly to Greece and secondarily Christianity that only arrive here as a necessity and not because they want to live and contribute to the Greek society. Then there are also many Greeks who rally for the immigrants' rights. But racism in Greece is really SO contextual that a dark Muslim can melt away a suspicious Greek's reservation, if they express feelings of appreciation or understanding for Greece, within the course of five minutes! It's kind of amusing.

Now, you being a woman actually minimizes your chances of an unfortunate racist incident way more. Exactly because Greek racism is founded so much more on past historical trauma or perception of extremist movements in nearby parts of the world rather than ideologies of superiority, nobody considers women as part of the problem or views them as a threat. The worst that can happen to you is to notice that someone may be initially neutral or indifferent to you until they hear your french accent and your positive perception of Greece and instantly warm up or something. But someone could be neutral or indifferent for just about any reason, including having a bad day. I honestly don't think you could get a worse reception as long as you are a considerate polite tourist. The hijab is indeed an uncommon sight in Greece but the worst thing you may get is looks, mostly out of curiosity, not hatred. And that is if you are in a more remote or less touristy location. In the largest cities or the busiest islands people won't care.

Now there's also the other side to all this. Greeks are known to often make good friends with people from the "black list" countries. Greeks are friendly and sociable and they usually only expect from you a positive outlook on their country to discard their reservations. Greece also in fact has very good relations with many Arab countries. Politically, Greece has very good relations with Egypt, Libya (supported the progressive side in the civil war, the House of the Representatives and the National Libyan Army), Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Lebanon, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and UAE. So, a great part of the Arab world. In fact, Greeks and Arabs are believed to be friends in general. Now, this does not apply to every single situation or to what every single individual thinks from either side but I am just saying it to dispute any potential misunderstanding that Greeks supposedly have some sort of major feud with Arabs or some Arab-centric racist feelings.

In short, you should not be concerned about it : you are a woman, you are a tourist genuinely interested in Greece, everyone will pick up on your french accent lol and you can freely mention your North African Arab background. Obviously I cannot guarantee nothing will ever happen 1000% but it is not more likely here than it is in France.

[shadowmaat]

Biases and belief

I follow T Kingfisher over on Bluesky. So much fun stuff! Wonderful author. Excellent additional nerdery things. Unfortunately, she's become a target for rage trolls because of her very reasonable stance on the recent bombshell in the bookworld.

Look. Everyone knows that when a woman comes forward with allegations about a man regarding SA, it's a good idea to believe her. Chances are that she wouldn't put herself through the shitscape of public scrutiny if something hadn't happened. While there are outliers who only do it for attention or to try and get back at someone, generally speaking there's every chance she's telling the truth.

There is, however, a difference between speaking up on your own, speaking to a credible news source, and going to a hate group with a grudge against the target of those allegations. This doesn't make anything that happened less true, but it's going to vastly alter how the news is perceived by the general public.

The issue is further complicated by a lot of people having a very deep hatred of the accused for various reasons. They are highly motivated to believe the allegations because it "proves" they were right to hate him. That's the whole "confirmation bias" issue and leads people to believe things without fact checking because you're already inclined to believe the worst about someone.

Personally? I've enjoyed a lot of the author's stuff, but I wouldn't consider myself a fan and I don't follow him on any social media sites (though I've reblogged stuff that crossed my dash). I've also defended him in the past when I felt fans were being unreasonable in their expectations of him.

When I heard the news I was inclined to believe it. Because, as stated above, when a woman (or women in this case) come forward, chances are there's truth in what they say. I've also heard questionable things about him before. And, generally, I think men steeped in popularity and with certain levels of money and power are more likely to take advantage of women knowing that they can get away with it.

Then I learned that the source of the news- the ONLY source of the news- was unreliable, heavily biased, and inclined to lie and/or misrepresent information. This is less than ideal because you have "believe women" coming up against "don't trust liars with a grudge."

"Legitimate" news sources have been reporting on the allegations, but every single one of them has cited the same questionable source. This is, again, less than ideal, and I really wish that news agencies cared more about truth than page hits. I wish that they'd make an effort to verify and confirm info themselves rather than leaving it at "so-and-so reported" and pretending that was good enough.

And this is where Ursula (T Kingfisher) has run into trouble. She's stated over and over that it isn't that she disbelieves the women, but that she doesn't find the source credible and that there's no way to confirm the accusers actually exist. I can see how that would be tricky given that victims have a right to a certain amount of anonymity in cases like this, but also, how do you prove they exist?

Ursula has faced a LOT of angry dogpiling, telling her to shut up, demanding she delete her posts/account, and accusing her of being a SA apologist who refuses to believe women. (And probably worse stuff I'm not seeing on account of her blocking/ignoring the really terrible ones). It isn't true, but every time she tries to explain that people just get angrier and keep ignoring her words in favor of raging at her for what they believe she said. If it's exhausting to watch I can't even imagine how it feels to be the target of so much misguided anger like that.

As for me, like Ursula, I'm still inclined to believe the allegations, but it'd be really damn helpful if an independent and less biased source could confirm the details. Maybe even police reports? A court filing? A court filing would really cement the issue, and I know they have provisions in place (at least in the US) to protect identities exactly for cases like this.

Anyway, my points are:

Ursula did nothing wrong and is, in fact, right to want a better source.

Believe women.

Question unreliable sources.

Beware of confirmation bias.

Don't fall for the fallacy that all men are scum.

Remember that some men ARE scum, even if they're your faves.

Read. Carefully.

Don't attack someone when you aren't in possession of all the facts.

Stop assuming the worst out of every conversation you start with someone.

You can believe women and still want a credible source of information.

Also, as an addendum, just because That Author hasn't responded to the allegations doesn't make them true. It means he's listening to his lawyer while the situation is investigated.

[anghraine]

Update from months later (13 Jan 2025): Vulture has published a very detailed and thoroughly researched account of the whole story by Lila Shapiro. You can reach the official link on Shapiro's Bluesky account, though for some people it's been paywalled. I'd encourage paying for the article if you can, but if not, archived links are circulating.

Shapiro covers Gaiman's background in Scientology is more detail than I think anything before has, without even remotely excusing his many crimes, which are described in vivid detail (much more than previously, including rape and child abuse). It has more sources, analysis, and more complex, nuanced, and thorough reporting than many of the previous ones IMO. Amanda Palmer also comes out looking like an enabler at best. The article is obviously the work of months (and likely exhausting work for Shapiro).

I'd like to add that I've seen this used to excuse the pointed silence of so many SF/F outlets and communities when the news first broke, and the desperate arguments of some Gaiman fans, and I strongly disagree. This article's quality is certainly is the result of months of work, yes. But it was not time restrictions that led to e.g. Tor publishing quite decent coverage of the accusations on their German page but not the English one, when they're based in the US. Time constraints didn't keep so many SF/F news sites absolutely silent for day after day (not even mentioning that allegations had been made until there was a certain amount of outcry, when they normally at least acknowledge the existence of reports around less prominent figures). It was, in part, that aggressive silence which allowed Gaiman and his team and certain swaths of his fanbase to partly bury the story even as coverage trickled out in later months. Something I've noticed in response to the Vulture article is not only the understandable shock and horror, but a lot of people saying they hadn't even heard about the previous reporting—which is unfortunately quite credible given how many outlets in the SF/F community initially responded (or didn't, rather).

Also, I kind of hate the frequent takeaway that the real problem here is parasocial idealization of celebrities when they're just people.

Gaiman actively nourished these kinds of relationships, concealed the grotesque realities of what he was actually doing, and used his popularity and good reputation in progressive fannish circles to prey upon his own fans. It is not the fault of his fans that they were lied to by someone this monstrous—this is not behavior to be expected of "just people," even totally random ones you know nothing about. There is, in fact, no reason for those outside the whisper network to know what was really going on when they had no reason to do so.

Expecting public figures who present themselves as allies and advocates to not be rapists and child abusers is not some wild parasocial idealization of strangers even if the dynamic is genuinely parasocial. Not assuming strangers are secretly sexual predators when you have no reason to suppose they are is a perfectly healthy and decent approach to the world that most of the time is entirely accurate. Gaiman (and Palmer tbh) exploiting their status as artists and public figures and the vulnerability of fans is their fault.

So no, it's not parasocial idealization to hope that e.g. Pratchett didn't know about it, it is appropriate and healthy to not want a creator whose work you like to be cool with rape and child abuse (and we have no reason to suppose Pratchett did know, fwiw, so it's extra weird to use this as "proof" of fans' unreasonably high expectations). This is not a weird or baseless stance to hold wrt other human beings of any standing and hoping an artist isn't a lying rapist is absolutely not putting them on an impossible pedestal. Fannish betrayal shouldn't be prioritized above Gaiman's victims, true—but he habitually targeted his own fans and misrepresented all relevant information to them, so blaming fans' idealization of him as the main takeaway of all this is doubly grotesque.

Is there a good post outlining all the evidence against Gaiman? I know the podcast has it and that's what people pointed to me, but considering it has been days I was wondering if someone had gathered it all into seperate post so one does not have to listen to someone advertising their work every few minutes in order to listen to the important parts.

Belatedly (given that at least three other women have accused him since my post), there are some. The best of the original ones is probably "Manufacturing Consent" by Annabel Ross, but there are also transcriptions of the original accusations that, iirc, weed out some of the editorializing and focus on the raw material (which is, just be warned, very raw).

This (long) thread provides the important links in terms of the accusations conveyed by Tortoise, I think (a more to-the-point list is here at muccamukk's Dreamwidth account). I included the long thread because I'm in strong agreement with the final person in the chain that, Tortoise's many failings notwithstanding, they provided enough evidence for the SF/F community to judge and respond more appropriately than with a collective blanket of silence punctuated by occasional cavalier or desperate dismissals of the accusers, before the other accusations broke.

In all honesty, I'm pretty appalled by the idea that, well, now there's enough to start talking about it with a modicum of decency and respect but wasn't before, because apparently it was okay to use trans people (who had nothing to do with any of this) to justify defending a cis guy beloved of fandom from very thorough rape accusations.

I particularly feel this way about the parts of the community dedicated to publicizing news and major ongoing discussions that simply said and did nothing. Scalzi's "I'm horrified, might take awhile to process, here's a link to RAINN" personal statement was fine (Vernon's wasn't), and I don't think every random author was obligated to make their own statement as such. But spaces that exist specifically for covering ongoing discussions and news in the SF/F community not saying anything at all—even that the allegations existed—was far worse and really disheartening. So I wanted to link to a discussion that acknowledges how very few people lived up to their stated principles when there was solid evidence against an influential, popular man in their own circles who knows the right catchphrases and terminology.

I was particularly unimpressed with Mike Glyer's handling of discussion at File 770 and, as far as I could tell, Tor only acknowledging the whole thing on their German-language site. The German article seems to be very good, but ... they're based in NYC and Gaiman is an English-language writer, why was their only commentary for weeks shunted away from the English site? US law should absolutely cover acknowledging the existence of the accusations.

There was, let's say, a lot of disappointment to go around, so I'm also grateful for the other women who kept the ball rolling, awful as it is that they a) had similar experiences and b) had to reveal those to get the whole thing taken seriously.

[snow-system-wol]

Part of the reason we posted the whole vampire explanation is bc we wrote a short fic thing just about how the Ishgard situation in that AU was kinda becoming a Problem.

Here ya go:

Alphinaud was reasonably certain Count Edmont de Fortemps had not actually met a Miqo'te before now nor heard of one living up in the colder climes like this. Perhaps that was why he seemed on the verge of asking S'ria if Miqo'te became ill in cold conditions, like some sort of wilting houseplant that needed special growing conditions.

It was a fair concern, with S'ria showing little appetite and looking weaker by the day. Normally, the blue tinge to his lips might be blamed on the cold, but he looked ashy and drawn on top of that. Edmont didn't seem to know what to make of it all, and Alphinaud's goal was to make sure things stayed that way.

After all, neither he nor S'ria knew what the Ishgardians would do about his condition, but it was likely to be catastrophic in any scenario. Really, the accusations of heresy were too easy, especially with the tales of how heretics drink draconic blood for some sort of unholy powers – if the truth got out, S'ria would be exiled at bare minimum, but most likely put to death.

Alphinaud was especially cautious in keeping it from the Fortemps, even if that was the most difficult. At best, they would be accommodating but put themselves at extreme risk, and at likely worst, they'd have all possible horrified reactions.

He'd wanted to directly help S'ria more, but… well, S'ria had hesitantly agreed to feed from Alphinaud just once, nearly two weeks ago, and had regretted it near immediately. S'ria insisted that, even though he was hungry, he didn't take more than he should've… but Alphinaud felt weak for the rest of that day and the following one as well. S'ria quickly returned to the stance that feeding off of someone much smaller and younger than him was a bad idea and refused to do it a second time.

(He'd not even considered trying with Tataru, certain that he'd overestimate how much was safe to take from a Lalafell.)

Things could've stayed at a stalemate for a bit longer, but their host showed the good sense to conclude that the Warrior of Light dying in his guest bedroom was a less than ideal state of affairs, and that forced their hands. He approached the two of them, Alphinaud sitting primly next to a S'ria curled up miserably on the couch, with clear purpose in his stride.

“I have been consulting with some of the best chirurgeons I know – some of them have treated Miqo'te outside of Ishgard as well, so do not worry yourself over that. I am sure you would like your weakened state to remain under wraps, but I assure you that they know discretion. I can have them on hand at a moment’s notice.” His tone rather suggested he'd like that moment to be now.

In any other circumstance, such an effort would be sweet. Here and now, though, Alphinaud could see S'ria's ears flatten against his head. Alphinaud had no idea what a medical exam of S'ria may reveal, but it hardly seemed a good idea to allow. They also just would not be able to help him. Alphinaud cleared his throat nervously.

“S'ria is rather… uncomfortable with doctors, I worry causing him undue distress could worsen his state.”

Edmont opened his mouth, and Alphinaud would bet decent gil that he was about to point out that his current state already seemed fairly dire – but S'ria quietly spoke up instead.

“I apologize…I just recalled – some of my medications are among personal effects left at Camp Dragonhead during the chaos of those first few days.” His words were slow, but at least clear. “I'll be quite alright if I go fetch those, and I can set up a supply line to import them there.”

Alphinaud tried not to look as bewildered at what he knew to be a blatant lie as Edmont appeared to be at that statement. (The latter presumably reacting to the fact that S'ria only brought this important detail up now.)

“No, you should stay put. I can send some of our knights to go retrieve them for you.”

Alphinaud quickly jumped in. “My lord, I am more than capable of escorting him.”

The response he received was still a stern frown. “There is simply no need for him to make such a tiring trip out of the city.”

S'ria sat up, eyeing the Count dubiously. “They won't even know what they're looking for, though, that's the problem. And –”, S'ria put on a distressed effect that Alphinaud had never seen him do on purpose (desperate times, he supposed), “–I am just anxious about my medications passing through so many hands, when it – it could be… tampered with.”

Edmont cringed and Alphinaud did not know whether to be impressed or concerned that S'ria had intentionally leveraged his traumatized reactions to his benefit, with their host knowing full well why they'd be anxious after a poisoning. For someone who usually did his best to hide any psychological issues, it was certainly a last ditch effort.

In the end, Edmont had no further complaints – though they never truly needed his approval in the first place, it was simply ideal to keep things civil. S'ria bundled up and sluggishly followed Alphinaud out of the city. The two of them were plenty light enough for Sea to carry them both, though Alphinaud kept a cautious eye on S'ria lest he accidentally fall off the chocobo. S'ria slumped tiredly against her neck and let Alphinaud hold the reins behind him to steer – though she seemed to know the way herself.

Once they were well out of earshot of the city gates, Alphinaud leaned forward to speak to him quietly.

“Are – are you intending what I assume? To tell Haurchefant?”

“Mhm. I hope you don't intend to protest. It's really the best option, and… somehow I can't see him selling me out or telling his family about this.”

Alphinaud shook his head, heedless of the fact that S'ria wouldn't easily see the movement. “Not at all. To be quite honest, I had begun to come to this possibility myself and was considering suggesting it – if you continued to insist on avoiding Tataru and myself as options.” His voice took on the tone of one trying to make a joke, but too anxious to make it work. “If we are too short for your comfort, surely some seven fulms of Elezen will be plenty.”

Even if it fell a bit flat, S'ria graced him with a chuckle all the same.

They needn't have worried, really. Haurchefant never even made the oh-so-Ishgardian comparison with heretics nor seemed particularly scared of him. He was merely quite alarmed at S'ria's weakened state and then somewhat baffled at the explanation. He never doubted that S'ria was telling the truth, but … well, such a thing was not something he'd ever heard of before. If anyone would suprise Haurchefant, though, he seemed used to it being S'ria.

After that, though – having such a direct way to assist the Warrior of Light felt like more of a privilege to him than a burden. All in all, Haurchefant was far more fascinated than fearful – a blessing to be glad for.

Haurchefant was more than happy to keep up the cover story – that importing medicine from Gridania, through the Northern Shroud, was best done to his custody (to avoid Ishgardian control of goods entering the city) and that S'ria insisted on receiving them with his own hands.

Really, though, any excuse for such delightfully frequent visits from the Warrior of Light would have been fine by him.

[sup-hoes-its-me]

I have a Shikamaru request! It’s a bit long winded so dust with me 😊. Shikamaru is assigned to protect reader who is the last of her clan that a lot is not known about. (So he also has the secret mission of finding our more about the clan and their abilities). They end up falling for each-other (of course). And after reader finds out she is pregnant she learns that Shikamaru was meant to learn about her. I’m seeing some angsty fluffy goodness! And hopefully a happy ending. 🥰

Healing You (Shikamaru x Reader)

A/N: Thank you for your request! These long detailed ones are perfect and give me just enough information to give you the perfect story. I skipped the pregnancy part because im not totally comfortable with that...hopefully you still enjoy.

word count: 5500

Shikamaru had been anticipating this mission for a while. The Hokage told him it was of utmost importance to be ready at any time for this clan princess to show up. He was expected to drop all other missions or plans to escort this woman, whoever she was across the country to her homeland deep within Frost country. He wasn’t expecting much, actually he was expecting probably the worst client ever.

For someone to request escort at the drop of a hat like that, someone with enough money to do so as well... Shikamaru could only assume they were an asshole of the highest caliber. Probably some old woman or a spoiled little child, someone he definitely would not get along with for a month long mission just the two of them. He could remember the urgency in Kakashi’s tone when he assigned the mission, the amount of trust behind his words.

Shikamaru walked into the office casually, hands shoved deep in his pants pockets. Kakashi sat there alone at his desk, looking through paperwork and sifting through piles of white sheets, each with different names and faces. He must have thought long and hard about who he was to pick for this mission, the boy concluded.

This was going to be tiresome, he deduced quickly. Another tedious mission.

“Shikamaru, I have an important mission for you,” the man said clearly. “You can look through these files, if you want, but we don’t have any clear information on this one, I’m afraid.” He tossed over a folder full of records. Death receipts, birth certificates, first hand accounts of battles witnessed. He didn’t know what to make of what he was looking at other than a common last name running across the pages.

Hirawa.

“What is this about?” he questioned.

“In about a month's time, possibly longer, possibly shorter, I don’t have an exact date, you will escort Princess Y/N Hirawa, of the hidden Hirawa clan to the Land of Frost.”

“Who’s on my team?”

He shook his head at that question. “No one. This is a solo mission, and I’m entrusting you alone with this. It’s important you keep your mouth shut about all of this until we know it’s safe, for you and the princess.” Safe? Just what kind of mission was this anyway? Obviously it had something to do with this clan, not that he’d ever heard of them. “She has a bounty on her head, quite large at that. But we believe she can become the key to mastering some ninjutsu, particularly medical jutsu.”

“Well, what’s her clan’s kekkei genkai?”

“That’s what we don’t know, and for you to find out. All we know is that there's some dangerous people out there who want this power, and we need to protect her at all costs, you understand,” he stressed, and Shikamaru nodded. This wasn’t that big of a deal, he guessed. Protecting one girl from some rookie bounty hunters, not to mention he was being sent out alone. This was going to be a walk in the park.

The worst part of it all would be putting up with some troublesome girl for an entire month. Making conversation and having to pretend she wasn’t getting on his last nerve. That would tire him the most.

“Rumor has it, she was never able to awaken her ability, so I’m hoping you can help coax it out of her and see what we’re dealing with.”

“Of course. I’ll figure it out.”

“Good. I’m counting on you. You should take the files to look over in your free time, you’ll have lots of it before this mission. I have copies here for myself,” he motioned to another folder on her desk filled to the brim with papers just like the one he was holding. It was strange to have so much information at their fingertips, but not enough to put a description to their kekkei genkai. They must be secretive, similar to how the Uchiha hides their secrets on the stone tablet, or something.

He left the Sixth Hokage’s office and walked away to his home, where he could more closely go over the information in this folder, try to deduce something from all this random information. He would get to the bottom of this, he was a genius after all. Whether he had the help of this woman or not, he would figure it out for the Hokage.

And so, here he stood outside of Kakashi’s office with all his supplies packed in his bag, dressed for a long mission away from home. The princess had arrived. He was to meet her and then immediately they were supposed to leave off to her homeland.

The Anbu officer to his left opened the door, and motioned for him to walk in. So uptight for just a little meeting, was all this security really necessary, he wondered to himself. As he looked into the room, he spotted Kakashi standing along the window behind his desk with a smaller woman at his side, wrapped up in thick robes made of wool, embroidered with thick silver and white yarn.

Admittedly, her clothes looked incredibly expensive. He questioned how she wasn’t sweating bullets with the typical warm weather outside here in Konoha. He was expecting her to turn around, to be this hideous creature.

“Ah, Y/N, it seems your escort has arrived,” Kakashi hummed, placing a soft hand on the woman’s back as she turned around. When he finally got a good look at her face, he was taken aback, nearly enough to throw him off balance. She was decidedly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life. Wrapped up in those blankets was a young woman, who couldn't be much older than he was, with piercing eyes that immediately cut through his.

Her hair fell just perfectly around her face to frame her features, the soft color suiting her eyes and skin perfectly. Her eyelashes flickered over her eyes a few times as she gazed over at him, and he felt swoon. She had the softest skin he’d ever seen combined with those mesmerizing eyes and the shape of her face which looked like it belonged cradled in his hands.

He felt this inert urge to run in the opposite direction from her, out the room and down the hall, back to home where he could catch his breath. He already knew his cheeks were turning bright red under her stare, and he could tell Kakashi was judging him with those dark eyes of his.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shikamaru Nara,” she hummed, and he felt faint. Even her voice was precious, almost like she was singing. He choked down his breaths, trying to keep his cool the best he could. It was uncharacteristic of him to act this way with a client. He was just her escort, not some pervert. They were going to live together for basically a month, he needed to get a grip on his emotions. “Your Hokage was telling me great things about you.”

“Oh, uh,” he paused, frozen without words to leave his lips, just an empty mind full of her image. He shook his head a bit, eyes now glaring down at the floorboards beneath him. “You too, Princess.”

“Please, just call me Y/N. Princess is just too formal for me,” she told him, waving off the title almost as quickly as it left his mouth. “Kakashi, it was nice getting to know you this morning, I hope to see you and your wonderful village again soon.”

“You’re welcome back whenever you like.”

She rounded the table and approached Shikamaru carefully, eyeing him down as she did so. She took in his appearance and his stance, the emotions she could see radiating off his person from his body language. From the looks of it, he simply appeared flustered and confused. Not exactly the most ideal for the situation at hand, but they would manage. Men usually had a similar reaction when they saw her for the first time, either they were in awe or they were trying to kidnap her.

He nodded in her direction and then to the Hokage before turning around and starting out the door, the girl following closely behind him. He could hear the swishing of her thick robes around her ankles, just barely skimming the floor. He still didn’t know her personality at all, but he wouldn’t mind looking at her once in a while on this trip.

“So, why are you heading to the Land of Frost?” he asked, and she sighed.

“One of the village elders is dying. They believe my kekkei genkai is the only way to reverse the incoming death, and its consequence on my people,” she explained.

“Why doesn’t another one of your clan members do it? Surely the rest of your family lives-”

“There is no one else. I am the last living Hirawa,” she told him simply, and he could sense a bit of ice dripping off her tongue at those words. How could she not be upset recalling the annihilation of her entire clan. “The problem is that I haven’t been able to awaken my kekkei genkai. I’m not sure what they want with a useless Hirawa like me.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about your clan, but calling yourself useless really isn’t-”

“How would you feel, Shikamaru, if you were the only person in the world with the ability to save a human being from their certain death and you couldn’t even activate that gift? You have to understand how that feels for me,” she told him solemnly, her head hung low as she walked toward the gates of the village right beside the boy. People looked at her as she moved through the village, they stared in awe at her clothes and her face and the unique glimmer in her eyes. And she cowered inward, tucking herself into her robes and the fur of her hood even further, away from the prying eyes of this village.

He stayed silent, not really knowing how to respond to what she’d said to him. The sadness and the anger in her tone, deep within her words, was immeasurable. She was in pain, a conflict with herself. He wasn’t going to get into that just yet. They’d only met a few minutes ago.

They left the village together and started on their journey. It was going to be a long month, that’s for sure.

________

It had been a week of walking through the forest already, days of sleeping on the ground beneath the stars, eating rations out of his bag over the fireplace. Originally, he thought this mission would be easy, that she seemed like a normal-ish girl who wouldn’t give him any trouble, but he was wrong.

She was too quiet. It was strange, walking with someone for hours without a single word shared between them. He tried to start up a conversation, and she would reply with one word answers, sometimes if he was lucky, two or three words. She rarely looked at him, choosing to either stare at the ground where she took each step, or up at the stars and the vastness of it all. She was lost in her own mind.

Every night, as they were falling asleep, he could hear her looking over at him, scanning his form for a sign that he was still awake. He would remain still, facing the opposite way on his side, head propped up on his bag. Then, when she thought she was safe, he would hear the sobs run through her weak form. She would shake and quiver, curling in on herself and crying out into the forest for only Shikamaru and the moon to hear.

He felt terrible for her, needless to say. The guilt he felt just from hearing her cries, and knowing her internal struggle was enough to make this trip difficult. His heart hurt for her, as strange as that was to say. Normally, it was easy to remain objective, but with Y/N, it was different. He felt attached. He felt like her problems were also his. It was maddening.

She laid on the ground beside him, the majority of her soup still in her bowl and her water bottle resting at her side. She stared up into the clouds, occasionally, her eyes would slide over to see what he was up to and then she would look back at the sky. “You need to eat. We have a lot of walking until we reach the next town, probably a week’s worth. I can’t carry you if you get too tired,” he told her, pushing her bowl closer to her side.

“You know, Shikamaru, sometimes I wonder why people like you Leaf nin even protect someone like me. What’s the point? I’m useless to you and the enemy,” she muttered hopelessly. He still pushed the soup closer until she sat up and took the bowl into her hands, taking a small sip from the spoon. “I just don’t get it. How can you call me princess when I’m just as normal as the next woman on the street?”

“Listen, I don’t know what anyone else has told you, but that’s a load of bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, just because you can’t access your abilities right now doesn’t make you useless. You’re still a person just like everyone else,” he explained, stabbing his spoon into his soup as he found himself getting a little worked up. He couldn’t stand this self-pitying bullshit from her. Yeah, she was sad and all, but she didn’t have to rub it into the wound like this.

She looked surprised at his words.

What did she expect him to say? That she was right and then just abandon her out in the woods? He was beginning to think this girl was just plain stupid.

“It’s just been impossible since the incident to think of anything else. I’m sorry for upsetting you,” she sighed, taking another sip of her now cold soup.

He questioned carefully. “What incident?” He was on a mission after all. To discover her clan secrets and bring them back to the village to study. Even if she was being emotional, he could still gather some intel.

She bit her lip, and looked up to the sky again, blinking back tears from gathering in the corners of her eyes. She took a few deep breaths before explaining herself. “The day my clan was massacred. The day that those people slaughtered my sensei in front of the entire village and then killed my parents.”

He paused, lifting his eyes to look at her. She was crying, as he expected, silent tears dripping from her eyes into her lap. But she was holding strong otherwise, not a falter in her voice or a catch in her breath. She wasn’t even shaking. She was really serious about keeping these emotions private, in the middle of the night where he couldn’t hear or see.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he assured, but she shook her head.

“I’m fine. I should talk about it anyway. I haven’t had a person to talk to in years, you know.” Sitting on her face was the saddest of all smiles, a weak attempt at remaining strong. She wiped at her eyes with her wrist and continued. “I’m not even sure why they wanted us all dead, but it had something to do with the war and my clan’s actions. They were barbaric. They slit the throat of my sensei in town square and we watched her blood drip across town while they carried her head.”

“Oh, damn.”

“I know,” she agreed, “As sick as it is to say, I’m glad they only stabbed my parents with a sword. We used to be royalty, it took them killing an entire army of soldiers to get to the throne room to kill them. I was only a child hiding in the curtains, I had to watch without making a sound. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t even breathe, or they would have killed me too.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. That’s horrific.”

“When they left, it was only me. I had to walk my way to one of the outer villages for help. I was a mess, covered in my parents blood. They’d stolen everything. All the secrets of the clan. I never got the chance to read the sacred texts. I only know from my Sensei the very basics of what we can do.”

He absorbed what she had said, taking in each word. Admittedly, she lived a terrible, horrible life, one to rival Sasuke at that. He asked, “You haven’t been able to retrieve any of the texts, have you?”

“No, unfortunately. That’s why it’s taken me this long to figure out how to unlock my ability. I literally do not know how,” she confessed, rubbing the back of her neck nervously. “It feels strange, knowing I have this ultimate healing ability and I can’t even use it to save anyone.”

“Ultimate healing ability?”

“Well, yeah. That’s our kekkei genkai. We can heal basically anything besides death. Blindness, deafness, rotting limbs, in some cases, paralysis. I’m not sure how it works, but that’s what it does. That’s why they want me to come home so desperately. I’m the only one left who can heal her.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he stated bluntly, and she tilted her head to the side in confusion.

“What?”

He reiterated, “You’ll figure out how to use your kekkei genkai. I believe in you. You’re beautiful, smart, and modest, not a fool.”

She found her cheeks begin to heat up at his words, and she leaned back, her eyes catching onto his. “Thank you, Shikamaru. It’s not everyday I get earnest compliments like that.” It was true. Normally, she did get compliments, but not the nice kind. She would often get harrassed on the street by men without brains, or recieve backhanded comments from people of her own village who hated her for what she could not be.

He shook his head, “Well, you should. You’re a strong woman, you just need more faith in yourself. You have almost no self-confidence whatsoever.” He was right about that too. Sad, wasn’t it? “You’re obviously a good person, so be proud of yourself. Not a lot of people could have gone through what you did and still be on the good side to this day.”

“I-” Y/N froze, her eyes growing wide. “Did you hear that?” she asked, her eyes flickering from Shikamaru into the woods. There were voices, soft and quiet voices, but they were still there, hush in the background. He stood up on his feet, and motioned for her to stay down close to the ground.

“Come out, whoever you are.”

And, indeed, a group of men emerged from the forest, at least ten of them. They sauntered up to the pair and the leader smirked. “We’re not here to hurt you, Leaf shinobi. Just hand over the princess and no harm will come to you,” he said, his voice musty and disgusting, like he’d been smoking cigarettes everyday for the past ten years. They knew, clearly, that a leaf shinobi wasn’t just about to abandon their charge and go running for the hills. His request was a joke.

Y/N wasn’t a fighter. She couldn’t help even if she wanted to. She was solely a healer, and even then, her skills were shaky at best. She could only do the most menial and mediocre of work on her patients. Shikamaru was against these men completely alone.

She felt fear creeping up her spine and sending shivers through her body. She barely knew the boy, had only known him for a week or so, but damn, did she like him. He was kind to her, one of the kindest people she’d met in a long time. She wanted him to be safe, to save her and come out on top like the shinobi of the Leaf are supposed to.

He turned around and waved for her to run. “Princess, Imma need you to run. I’ll come find you when it’s safe. Just go.”

She was hesitant to take off, but one stern look from him shot down any thought of staying. The woman gathered up her robes and ran in the opposite direction of the crew and her protector. Immediately after she left, she heard screaming from behind, the shouts of men in pain and men filled with anger. So much yelling. She held her breath, and kept running, running until she could only hear the faint yells of the men. She couldn’t hear Shikamaru. He was far too quiet to have those loud theatrics on the battlefield.

Y/N took cover in the roots of a tree, and just listened, felt what was going on around her. She studied the chakra signatures floating through the air, counting how many men still lived and how many were alive and well. Likewise, she kept close track of Shikamaru’s energy, making sure he was still going.

If he died, she didn’t know what would come of her. Would she be sold off? Murdered? She knew of the unspoken bounty on her head amongst the criminals, and that struck fear in her heart. All she could do was pray for Shikamaru’s survival.

After what seemed like hours but in reality only about 10 minutes, the screams and shouts finally came to a halt. The chakra signatures of most of the men were completely gone, meaning they had died sometime during the battle. Only some remained, and they were weakened severely, probably passed out or bleeding out.

Shikamaru’s alarmed her. It was weak, almost as weak as the rest. She crawled out from under the tree and started back in the direction of the campsite, keeping her head low nearly in a crouch to stay unseen. There was no telling what was happening over there or who was still out here.

When she got to the campsite though, her eyes widened and she nearly screamed. While the rest of the men collapsed on the ground in bloody heaps, Shikamaru lay in the middle of them, bleeding out from a ginormous wound protruding from his side. She fell onto her knees beside his barely breathing form and held her hands over the wound, trying her best to run her chakra through her, but she was weak. Only a faint light emanating from her hands, not enough to come close to saving him.

“Shikamaru? Shikamaru, can you hear me? Please, try to stay awake, okay?” the girl pleaded, resting one of her soft hands on his cheek. He sighed into her touch. It was just as he imagined. Warm and gentle, like the caress of a feather. At least, if he were to die, it would be in the arms of an angel, he decided.

“You need to head back to the Leaf. Tell Kakashi what happened,” he sputtered out, blood leaving his lips and dripping down the sides of his face. “I lived a good life.”

“No, no, no. You are not dying on me. Not happening,” she whispered. She continued to pour her chakra into his wound, not that it was doing anything serious. Tears filled her eyes and she bit her lip, trying to keep them from falling, but she couldn’t help it. All these tears plagued her life. Memories that made her cry. All the pressure. All the death. Poor Shikamaru lying here dying after saving her life. “I’m going to save you,” she muttered firmly.

Pressure built up in her chest and she pushed further and further, digging deeper into her chakra reserve. It actually hurt the amount of effort she was putting in. It was exhausting, and after about a minute, she was gasping for breath. “Stop. It’s okay, princess.”

“Dammit, Shikamaru, I told you not to call me princess, “ Y/N shouted, and in that moment, she felt something shift inside her. A well of energy she never knew she had opened up and she felt it being filled not by her own chakra but by the men around her. Her body absorbed every last bit of chakra in their bodies, filling hers completely. When Shikamaru looked up at her, he noticed a slight glow coming from her skin that wasn’t there before.

It seemed she awoke her kekkei genkai.

With all the newfound energy she had, she channelled it into saving Shikamaru. Right in front of her eyes, his wound began to close and blood sunk back into his body. He groaned at the feeling, shifting uncomfortably on the ground. Finally, she had done something great.

And as she watched the last bit of his wound shut and the blood to seep back into his body, she found herself grow lightheaded.

As she was passing out, she heard him calling her name, and the only thing she could do was smile. She did it. She saved him. Her vision went black and sleep overtook her swiftly.

________

After Y/N saved Shikamaru and awoke her kekkei genkai, the boy gathered up both of their belongings, hoisted them over his shoulder, and then carried her in his arms to the next village. She wasn’t waking up anytime soon, he found that was probably a bad side effect of using the ability. It completely drained her. He just knew he had to move before any of those guys woke back up. He was not ready to fight again.

He enjoyed feeling her in his arms, pressed tightly to his chest with her head lolling side to side. Y/N was sweet and cute, with her little, “don’t call me princess” proclamation before saving him. It seemed she was just as much a princess as everyone thought she was, and a powerful one at that. She basically brought him back from the dead, and he would be grateful for his entire life for what she’d done for him.

The two of them rested for the night in a village inn just a couple miles away before waking up the next morning and setting off with a new bounce in her step toward your homeland where she was sure she could save the village elder now. He watched as the girl walked eagerly in front of him, swinging her robes by her sides and letting her hair loose instead of a tight braid.

This side of her, it was gorgeous. She was gorgeous. Maybe, he found himself harboring just a tiny crush on the girl who saved his life, the girl who took his breath away when they first met. Maybe he liked her a lot. It was pointless to have such feelings for a girl he would probably never meet again after dropping her off in her homeland.

But he could enjoy his time now, with the girl of his dreams at his side.

He found himself wanting more time with her. Much more time. He knew they only had about a week before they arrived in the Land of Frost, and it was depressing him. He wanted her to come back to the village with him and live there, just so he could see her face everyday and hear that sing-song voice run off her tongue.

Was that so much to ask for? Well, yes, but he still wanted it…

They found themselves stopped for the night or two in a village on the coast. She was tired from all the walking and sleeping in the grass. She was willing to spend a few dollars to have a nice bed to sleep in for the night. She booked a room at one of the inns in town and collapsed into the mattress in the room, throwing her robes to the side and cuddling into the comforter. It had been so long since she was living in such comfortable conditions.

He took a seat beside her and pulled out a book, flipping to the most recent page and diving in. He was more than happy to finally rest. He was lazier than she was, after all. They had been walking for almost a month now, he was tired of it. The only thing that kept him going was seeing her smile every now and then, especially the ones directed at him, or in response to something he said.

Something about those smiles just made him feel good inside. It was sickening. These mushy, gushy feelings he was having. He was beginning to think he might be falling for the girl, like, falling in love. He was disturbed. Was he really that weak to a pretty face, soft hands, and a warm heart?

“Shikamaru?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll be home in a week, and you’ll have to go back to the Leaf Village,” she said. He nodded. At that point, they would go their separate ways and it would all be over, this friendship they had. He’d never felt so torn about a mission until now.

He replied casually, “Yeah. Time flies, huh?”

She held her breath for a moment, thinking over her next words very carefully. She’d actually been pondering when she was gonna tell him over the last few days, thinking over every way the scenario could play out. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to leave you, Shikamaru,” she confessed, finally letting go of the breath she was holding.

He raised a brow, setting down his book and turning to face her. “What do you mean?”

“Well...it’s just that your Hokage seems to really like me, and I don’t really have a home anymore with my clan gone,” she mumbled, twiddling her fingers in her lap. “I was thinking maybe after I heal the elders and the village that I could go home with you instead. Live in the leaf village.”

He just looked at her. Had all his longing been for nothing? Could she really mean it? Coming home with him? Could his future really involve seeing her every day, introducing her to his best friends, and healing his people when they were injured?

“I mean, if you don’t think it’s a good idea, though, I totally get it-”

“No! I-I love that idea, actually.”

“Really?”

“Would I say it if I didn’t mean it?”

He watched as her lips curled into a bright smile and she clasped her hands together. “Shikamaru, I’m so happy. You and the other Leaf nin are the only people to show me any kindness in a long time. I get to go home to people that will care about me.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty good at that back in the Leaf. Caring, that is.”

She fell back against the bed and sighed, curling up in the sheets once again. He watched as she smiled into the covers and closed her eyes, relishing in this feeling of newfound freedom and happiness, of the hope she found in him and the village. Despite finding women troublesome most of the time, he was willing to go through trouble for her. He felt like he’d do just about anything for this girl.

So unlike him. Tch. Get a grip, Shika.

Her next words had him melting like putty in her hands though. He just couldn’t help it.

"I'm glad you were assigned this mission with me. You helped me awaken my abilities, and I think it was fate that brought us together for that to happen," she sighed. "This meeting, you and I, it was always meant to be. I'm sure of it now."

"Maybe you're right. I wouldn't know," he replied.

It was quiet for a while, just her lost in her own dreams, her own thoughts. Her eyes trailed over to him, and she just knew she was swoon. With his lazy grin and his thoughtful gaze. It was so obvious to her now.

She confessed, “I think I like you. As more than just a friend, Shikamaru. I know I probably shouldn’t be telling you this considering I still need you to escort me to the village and all, and you might not want me to go back to the Leaf with you now, but I just-”

He couldn’t wait anymore. He was going crazy. Finally, he kissed her.

She felt his hands resting on either side of her head and his lips pressed carefully to hers, testing the waters. She brought her own hands up to cup his own, bringing him closer and deeper into the kiss. She smiled and sighed, enjoying the feeling of pure bliss. It had been so long since she felt something so good. Something so sweet.

“You like me too?”

“You’re dumb as hell.”

And he kissed her again. And again. And maybe a couple more times after that.

[tiredassmage]

wip wednesday!

It happens to be Wednesday! And I happened to be up later than planned in some weird form of tomorrow denialism performed in Google Docs.

I have like... two versions of this piece that I’m jumping between atm and I have no idea which one I’ll end up keeping; the base idea is the same, just involving two different companions, so ideally, whichever doesn’t happen will just happen at a different time and also assuming I decide to keep it happening in either case, but anyway xD That's why it's a wip, Dot.

It’s SWTOR! (ofc). Loosely set around 7.1 events after a particular conversation on the Fleet, but doesn’t particularly detail anything so spoilers kinda and but mostly not // Gen rating, light swearing // feat. Tyr/my Imp Agent (naturally) & my brainrot about Tyr/Theron/Malavai, but this one is  primarily a conversation between Malavai & Tyr.

[brief context bc I apparently can't write chronologically to save my life; this is obvs set after my rewrite of Iokath where Tyr recruits Quinn to the Alliance despite siding with the Republic, and... sometime between then and now (undetermined don't look at me), Tyr brings him into confidence about the double agent plot and also 3 pretty boys all catching feelings for each other bc I love all of them, that's really how we ended up in this mess. Anyway, enjoy!

“Commander.” The prim, yet gentle greeting drew Tyr out of the haze beginning to descend upon his mind as his fingers danced over the controls. Was it time already?

He looked over his shoulder to find Malavai attentively waiting for him, as always, and a fond smile slipped across his lips easily - as instinctive as the systems checks he’d been running, supposedly in anticipation of this moment to make the Major’s job easier, but…

“Apologies,” Tyr murmured, “I hadn’t heard you coming.”

A slight frown pulled at Malavai’s lips as he joined him on the bridge. “Love, if I may…” His hand rested first on Tyr’s shoulder as the Commander finished the check he’d been in the middle of, rubbing a few circles before he reached for the back of the Commander’s neck, seeking out the tension doubtlessly built there.

Tyr sighed almost instantly - and nearly involuntarily. Malavai’s head tilted in the corner of his vision, but Tyr only closed his eyes and tried to ignore the inevitable for a moment longer. The Major’s careful ministrations were a welcome warmth and distraction.

“You should get some rest,” Quinn counseled quietly, “It’s time for a shift change. And you’ve barely slept since we left Vaiken, love…”

Tyr’s shoulders sagged with a faint groan. “That obvious, is it..?”

A half-smile quirked the corner of Malavai’s mouth. “With all due respect, love, it is much easier when we all share quarters.” The expression didn’t last long, however. Quinn had never been much for sugarcoating things.

“Commander…” Tyr’s teeth dug at the inside of his lip as Malavai’s hands fell away, returning to that formal stance of a soldier. “I feel I must express some concern… You’ve barely loosened up since we departed the Fleet. You simply cannot maintain this schedule.”

“Always to the point, Major,” Tyr murmured as he bowed his head.

Malavai’s small smile was almost apologetic. “In my concern for you, I… find it most prudent to be blunt,” he replied. “You spies have a way of wiggling out of my care otherwise.”

A faint breath of a chuckle tumbled from Tyr’s lungs. “You know what they say about old habits…”

“I do.” Malavai gestured to the seats behind them. “If you’re offering me the pleasure of your company, you might at least consider your own comfort, love.”

Tyr rolled his eyes fondly. “Alright, you win this round, Malavai.”

“Don’t act like you’ve gotten off easy.” Malavai’s eyes quickly scanned a few of the displays to assure that their flight would remain largely uneventful. “You’ve still yet to admit what has been keeping you up. You were pacing last cycle.”

“Sorry,” Tyr muttered as he sank further into his seat. He didn’t want to admit it, but exhaustion was beginning to wear on him. He briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t keep you up, did I?”

“No,” Quinn assured with another small smile, “Theron is a gifted and persistent cuddler. I slept quite well, actually.” He carefully narrowed his eyes at Tyr’s tired, fond smile. “Tyr…”

The Commander blinked at the shift in his lover’s voice - it dropped lower as the Major fixed him in a careful gaze, brow knitting over his vibrant blue eyes.

Both Theron and Malavai had both learned quickly that it captured his attention and eased him. Just as Lana’s irritated stubbornness could coax him, so, too, could their gentle insistence. Both had their strengths, time, and place to be employed.

“You made me a promise,” Malavai reminded him, taking one of his lover’s hands carefully in one of his own to brush his fingers carefully over his knuckles. “When we agreed to this, I promised to be there for you and walk this path with you. I cannot do that unless you allow me to, Tyr.”

“I know,” Tyr breathed softly. He gently gripped Malavai’s hand back as he watched his lover’s fingers work. “I guess I just… We’re all in over our heads.., aren’t we..?”

Malavai sighed quietly. “You should have told us your plans with Malgus. I would have gone with you.”

An amused puff of breath loosed from the Commander’s lungs. “All three of you have said that, you know? Which of you was going to mind the ship?”

Quinn clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You know the Fleet staff is more than capable, love,” he chided, though the mild reprimand was somewhat betrayed by the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Lana and I at least enjoy assumed clearance.”

“Good. I won’t have to pick any fights with the Dark Council again.”

Malavai narrowed his eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d accuse you of putting me in an early grave,” he scolded dryly. He leveled a stern gaze on his lover once more. They could only keep bantering around the matter for so long.

Malavai’s fingers had stilled over his hand and his grip had tightened. “Do you have any new concerns?”

Tyr shook his head. His free hand rose to rub over his chin. “No.” The gentle hum of the ship was all that filled his following silence for a few moments as his gaze drifted over the consoles. “I’m just… hell, I don’t know… getting too old for all this shit,” he muttered.

Malavai frowned down at their entwined hands. One might have been inclined to instinctively differ with someone they loved, but… none of them were quite ‘average’ in that respect.

“Do you regret it, Tyr..?” he asked quietly.

The Commander and ex-Cipher was silent for another long moment. “No.” Tyr rolled his jaw before he finally looked back at his lover. “May I speak frankly with you, Major..?”

He’d lowered his voice, reverted once more to the comforting distance of professionalism afforded by their titles. It’d helped Quinn find his footing in the Alliance - something grounding and familiar and unchanging, unlike so much else in the last several years.

“Always, Commander.”

“I’d burn the Empire down to the foundations, Quinn. All of it. Not for the Alliance, not for the Republic… Just… me."

[where-dreamers-go]

I’d love a platonic Boba Fett x Mandalorian! reader where reader worked with the clones as a kid, so she got really good at telling them apart by the tiniest details! So when he meets her on a hunt or something she recognizes him immediately and they catch up over a meal. Then they maybe finish the hunt together or just just talk about fights they’ve been in? Thank you dear!!

“Reunion” Boba Fett x Mandalorian!Reader

(A/N: Requested by the awesome @the-and-sign-anon.

Here’s some platonic Boba Fett fanfiction for yah! I feel like this has taken me a year to do, but it hasn’t, obviously. I just want it to be cool. I hope you like it! This is my first time writing for Boba Fett.

Aliit - family

Beskar’gam - armor

Buir - father

Vod - brother

Warnings: Canon violence (blasters). Death (no details).

Word Count: 1,445 words)

Late afternoon on an Outer Rim planet was not out of the norm for you. The system’s small sun casted long shadows behind the roughly structured buildings. A coolness crept into the air as evening grew near.

Perched atop of a well used cantina, you awaited a clearing near your intended location across the main square. You preferred less attention where you were going. The less people at small tucked-away building’s entrance the better.

It should not be much longer, you thought.

Earlier in the day, you had staked out the surroundings and where exactly you were to get the object. The bounty of the hunt. Was the objected named by the one who hired you? No, they had only told you who had it and where. Then added that it was valuable and quite decorative.

Helpful, you mused sarcastically.

Standing up, you decided that you would make it the right time to grab what you needed. The shortcut route would be best. Not the fastest way per se, but more your style. Rooftops were fine walkways in their own right. You were more interested in keeping the high ground. Only being in the area for less than twenty-four hours was a semi-followed rule of yours. Plus there were sightings of other bounty hunters.

It was prime opportunity to get the object of the bounty and leave. No more further delays.

Armor glinting in the sunlight, you kept your shadow hidden within the growing darkness cast by buildings and their antennae.

Three buildings and clothesline away from the unguarded door, you paused.

A bounty hunter.

You knew of course that there were others hired to grab the same object, however the one that caught you eye did not tickle your fancy nor did you care for their style. Too flashy with his large weaponry and inflated attitude. He was strutting a little too close to the door of your objective. Not to forget he was causing more trouble than needed. Pushing citizens around physically and verbally was unnecessary.

Can easily get passed him while he’s occupied. You thought, boot pointed in the direction of a small balcony below. Just—

Green paint grabbed your full attention. A very specific colored Beskar’gam in the next structure over. The sight of the colors and their arrangement lead you into a pursuit. The Mandalorian was steadily leaving a building. Closer. A small dent on his helmet.

You smiled, your thoughts on the bounty pushed aside.

Time to say ‘hello’, you thought as you leaped down into the dusty path.

A blaster was already lowering from its aim as you rose to your full height, meaning he recognized you.

The Mandalorian’s stance was slightly relaxed yet bent and ready to move. There were a few moments of long silence. Two Mandalorians watching one another.

“Are you just gonna stand there quietly?” A modulated male voice spoke from the green helmet. An accent in his voice pulled the air from your lungs. The familiarity striking and comforting.

“I wanted to give dramatic effect.” You said as you lifted one of your blaster pistols.

“Not sure your knees will approve.”

“Probably not.”

The grin you held disappeared as someone rounded the corner. A tall weapon in their hand. The bounty hunter you had spotted before. Not a well known one, you had not heard much of him. Only disliked any time you crossed paths, however briefly.

“Two Mandalorians? What…are you two after the bounty?” He laughed. “Why don’t you go shine your armor.” With loud steps, he walked closer. “Something you’re good at, right?”

That one’s unreasonable, you thought.

“If you’re after the bounty, why stop and chat?” You asked.

“What are you gonna do about it?” They clicked their tongue. “I’m going to get it anyway. Can’t have dusty troopers in my light.” A gloved finger edged to the trigger of his weapon as he continued forward. “Rona Olien. I’m that good.”

You and Boba turned your helmets to face one another. A silent conversation and decision transpired.

click

You charged forward in a crouch as the first round of blaster fire came from the bounty hunter’s modified weapon. The blasts stopped as the bounty hunter, Olien, staggered back as a blasterbolt hit them in the shoulder. Boba’s doing. Using the blunt end of your blaster pistol, you hit the side of the man’s head. The bounty hunter landed on the ground in a heap, groaning.

Walking up beside you, Boba kicked the large weapon out from Olien’s grip.

“If you’re going to shoot a Mandalorian, next time have better aim,” said Boba.

The two of you started walking away from the man. That was until a laser fire hit the wall of a building beside you.

In a flash of color, Boba had angled in a twist and had fired his blaster.

thump

“They were quite rude,” you said as Boba turned back to you.

“No honor.” Your brother lowered his weapon and walked with you to the destination.

It did not take long for the both of you to enter the building and find what you were after. A little digging and Boba had it in his grasp.

“A vase?” You tilted your helmet-protected head.

“An expensive vase.” Boba clarified. Rotating the piece, he examined it.

“Is it more or less than the job?”

“A bit more. Not by much.”

“Is it enough for you?”

His green and silver helmet turned in your direction. “It’s enough that we can split the difference for the job. And don’t tell me you don’t need it.”

You raised your hands in mock defense.

“Come on,” Boba turned on his heel. “They can wait one more day for their vase.”

His words surprised you. Yet you knew deep down that family meant a great deal more to him than a job.

You and your brother walked to a decent hotel and rented a room for the night; after grabbing some food of course. Neither of you wanted to part ways immediately. Besides, communicating via two separate ships was not an ideal way of spending time with family you had not seen in years.

Once in the quiet and privacy of the room, you relaxed. The food, vase, and weapons were put aside.

“It’s good to see you, vod.” You walked up to one another and inclined your helmets together.

“I’ve missed you.” Boba took a step back. “There’s a dent in your shoulder piece.”

“I know,” you groaned. “Too bad it wasn’t on my helmet then we’d match.”

“Hardly.”

You shook your head, smiling. There were more scuff marks on his armor than you remembered. Then again, so did yours. You had not seen one another in more than two years. Taking different opportunities tended to do that.

Living in an Empire was much different than whatever it really was when you were younger. You and Boba practically grew up together on Kamino. A rainy world where all you two saw was the insides of the cloning facility. The three of you, your shared father included, stayed there together. Jango Fett, your buir, had found you on a battle-worn world and brought you into the aliit, family, where Boba was your constant companion. A vod who was your only aliit after the battle on Geonosis.

Lives could always change so suddenly. Ones who lived together and depended on one another could find themselves on opposite ends of the galaxy.

Comfortable where you were, you started removing your armor and setting it down in your preferred arrangement. It was strange to have your helmet off while in the presence of another, however your vod was a major exception. The was a freedom to it all, the familiarity and the opportunity to just be yourself with on you trusted.

“That guy from earlier…,” you started as you yanked off your boots. “Have you seen him before?”

“Once or twice. He’s sloppy.”

“And had an ego the size of a rancor’s butt.”

He chuckled at your comment.

“Tomorrow,” you sat back in your seat, “I think you should give them the vase. Just in case they think of shortening you credits because I’m with you.”

“Changing subjects fast….They wouldn’t dare.”

“Just in case. Plus the whole bounty hunter image…”

He scoffed. “You’re my aliit.” Sighing, he nodded. “Fine.”

“Now that’s settled.” You grabbed the food and brought it closer. “Let’s eat.”

And eat, you did. Lounging about, the two of you talked and joked about the past. Catching up was half the fun. Making new memories was even better.

“I really have missed you, Boba.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

~~~

Best wishes and happy reading.)

(If you love my writings and want to support me, I have a Ko-Fi where you can buy me a coffee. I would be eternally grateful.

coffee

~~~~~

DreamerDragon Tags: @cubedtriangle

Star Wars Tags: @darkenwolfy @sweetheartliz07 

**Let me know if you would like to be tagged in insert readers, either through replies, ask, or message.**

[tinyboxxtink]

"Broken" A Sharky ANGSTY O/S

So I made a one shot called Baby Shark where Sharky and Rafael get pregnant and after some bumpy conversation, decide to have the baby and she grows up to be a great kid, and you love being a mother.

However, at the time I also had an idea for the OTHER outcome of the pregnancy. But I let it go, and then I got a request from-- someone, I don't know if they want this out in the world-- to write a fic about a miscarriage. So, I figured I'd go with the idea I had already planned out.

AND SO,

I present to you, the alternative outcome of "Baby Shark".

Warning: VERY angsty, dealing with abortions and miscarriages. Also religion, if you're sensitive about that.

Read at your own discretion.

If you would like to read the happy version of this story, it is here.

Tag List

@objection-argumentative

@madamsnape921

@lolliepopsicle

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@milkshqke

@wanniiieeee

@word-scribbless

@gibbs274

@sassyada

@aprildecker-blog

@bookishfanfic

@stars-in-the-skies-world

@stars-trash-18

@omgsuperstarg

You stared at the four pregnancy tests on the counter, waiting on the fifth. Plus signs and “Pregnant” words were sitting there, mocking you. You heard your phone alarm go off and picked up the last test.

Positive.

“Dammit!!!” You threw it across the bathroom. This was your worst nightmare. You didn’t want kids right now, you weren’t sure you wanted kids EVER. But you knew Rafael did, he probably wanted them as soon as possible.

“Mi Amor?” Rafael slowly opened the door.

“Raffi!” You spun around angrily. “Don’t you knock?!”

“Well I heard you yell…Oh my god,” Rafael suddenly noticed all the positive tests. “Y/N, are you…are you pregnant?”

“Yeah, well obviously,” You scoffed, gesturing to the many positive tests. You weren’t trying to be mean but he walked in just when you were trying to wrap your mind around this.

“…Why are you angry about this, carino?” He looked at you confused. “You…you do want kids, don’t you?”

“We really should have had this conversation before we got married, god why didn’t we have this conversation…”

“Oh my god,” Rafael stepped back. “You DON’T want kids?”

“I don’t know!” You threw your hands up. “Rafael I had given up on being a wife a long time ago, let alone a mother,”

“I can’t believe this,” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Look I just don’t want to have to make this decision right NOW,” You tried to act softer, lowering your voice. “You know we JUST got married, and we JUST started the practice. I just wanted some time to BREATHE,”

“So…you want to abort it?” Rafael’s voice was soft and sad.

“Christ Almighty Rafael it’s not ‘aborting’ it’s…” You paused, noticing his face was getting more horrified. “What?”

“I thought when you were defending me, your whole ‘cold medical’ argument was a tactic…”

“Yeah well,” You ran your fingers through your hair. “Look, baby,” You took his hand again. “If I…got rid of it,” You saw him flinch. “It would just be taking a pill that rips apart cells and tissue. It doesn’t disintegrate arms or legs, or a tiny beating heart,”

“Yeah I get it, Y/N” He dropped your hands and walked out of the bathroom, you ran after him.

“Rafael, come on!” You chased him through the apartment, grabbing his hand and making him face. “At least hear me out,”

“Why? Why should I? You clearly won’t hear me out! You’ve already made your decision, I bet you weren’t even going to tell me about it,”

“That’s not fair,” You replied, hurt. Of course you would have told him, wouldn’t you?

“And…it’s not just this,” He sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you don’t want kids right now is one thing, if you don’t want kids EVER, then…” He wiped his eyes. “Then we’re just delaying the inevitable,” He said softly, you could hear the tears in his voice.

“What?” Your heart fell into your stomach. “What are you saying?”

“I want kids, Y/N,” He looked at you very seriously. “I want kids and I’m not going to give up that idea,”

“So, you would just walk away from me for some hypothetical kids you might have some day?” You were getting upset now. How dare he threaten you like that.

“I don’t…” He ran his hands through his hair, tears still falling from his eyes. “I don’t want to,”

“Then DON’T,” You crossed your arms.

“Why should I appease you when you won’t even THINK about it?” He suddenly went from sad to angry, matching your attitude.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t think about it, I said I really don’t want to decide NOW,” You yelled back, as you sat down on the couch. All of this yelling was making you dizzy.

“Then when do you want to decide, Y/N? When-- when our baby actually has fingers, toes? Is that going to change your mind about killing them?”

“Oh my god, you are so--” You stomped out of the bathroom and through your living room.

“Where are you going?” He called after you.

“To prove to you I’m not a heartless bitch!” You yelled back as you stormed out, slamming the door behind you.

=====

You drove to the clinic that Dr. Ramoray worked at, pulling into the parking lot and rushed into the waiting room.

“I need to speak to Dr. Ramoray,“ You informed her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but we’re old friends,”

“Excuse me?” She looked at you quizzically.

“Can you-- can you just tell him Y/N is here and really needs to talk to him?”

“....Okay…” She looked at you skeptically but stood up and went to find the doctor. After a few minutes Dr. Ramoray walked out and greeted you.

“Hello, Y/N. Nice to see you,” He shook your hand. “Don’t tell me you have another case--”

“No, it’s personal this time doctor,”

“Personal?”

“I...can we…?” You motioned towards the rooms.

“Well...sure, Stella hold my appointments,” He informed his receptionist.

He walked you back and into a patient room. It was lined with charts of the different stages of pregnancy, lists of do’s and don’t during pregnancy, things like that. You took a seat in the regular seats as opposed to the patient stirrups.

“So, how can I help you dear?”

“Well, you know that man I defended?”

“The ADA? Well of course, that’s one day I will never forget,”

“Well he’s my-- husband,” You looked down, hoping that wasn’t a lie.

“I see,” He nodded. “Well, that makes a lot of sense now that I think about it,”

“Right,” You nodded sheepishly. “Well, see we uh-- I got us in a...situation,” You put a hand on your stomach.

“Ah,” He nodded again. “I see,”

“Yeah..”

“And guessing by your argument in court, you’d like to get rid of the...zygote?”

“I don’t know,” You shook your head. “I...I didn’t have the greatest role mode of a mother growing up, and I have no idea how to--” You rubbed your temples. Too much detail.

“Look my husband has the opposite stance on my...views, of a zygote,”

“Well that’s ironic, isn’t it?” He chuckled.

“Yes haha. I just want you--- I just need a picture of this thing to show him it’s just cells, it’s not a--”

“A baby,” he finished for you.

“Right,”

“Well, as you must know due to your research Ms. Y/N, depending on how far along you are it might be impossible to even see the zygote,” He explained.

“Well that’s even better,” You half smiled. “Then it will really prove to him I’m doing nothing wrong-- if I decide to get rid of it,”

“As you wish,” He nodded, gesturing for you to get on the patient table. You laid down on the table and pulled your shirt up, while the doctor got the gooey gel and rubbed it on your stomach. He pulled up a screen that recorded the sonogram, as he ran the scanner over your uterus.

“....Hmm…” He studied the screen intently.

“Hmmm?” You asked. “Hmmm doesn’t sound good,”

“I...well, there seems to be an...issue,”

“Excuse me?” You sat up. “An issue? What kind of issue?”

“Well Ms. Y/N according to this, your uterus is what we would call-- hostile,”

“Hostile?” You half laughed. “Why does that not surprise me…?” You shook your head. Of course you, the cold hearted shark, would have a hostile uterus on top of everything else hostile in your body.

“Yes, see all of this extra tissue? It’s not ideal for a fetus to grow and develop,” He pointed out clouds of white almost filling your uterus. “To be completely honest with you, it’s a miracle you even got pregnant,”

“...Oh Jesus…” You put your hands over your face. “Why...God why…”

“If you decide to terminate this pregnancy, there’s a slim to none chance this will ever happen again,” He continued.

“Great,” You chuckled sarcastically. “So now even NATURE is forcing me to make a choice right now,”

“Well,” He pushed the screen away. “If it helps your decision, there’s an 75% percent chance the baby will even survive full term,”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You laughed harder. “So, even if I decide to concede to my husband and go ahead with this, there’s a 25% chance that he’ll get attached to it, and then it will die anyway?!”

“Look Ms. Y/N,” He put a hand on your shoulder. “In my experience, more often than not women with hostile uteruses that do actually get pregnant, end up having perfectly healthy babies. Granted most are preemies, but with today’s technology that’s almost never an issue,”

“...Right,” You shook your head with a dry sarcastic smile, still in disbelief this was all happening.

“And if you don’t mind me saying,” He added. “I really think this is something you should discuss with your husband,”

“I actually really do mind you saying, Doctor,” You said curtly. “I just...I need a minute, can I have a minute?”

“Sure, take a minute. Call him, maybe ask him to come down,”

“...Yeah, right,” You shook your head with a smile as you walked out of the room and down the hall through the waiting room and outside in front of the clinic. You walked over to a small bench off to the side of the walkway into the clinic and sat down, and before you could think your body just erupted in a loud, angry scream.

“....Do you think this is funny, huh?!” You yelled up at the sky. “Is this, what is this, some kind of TEST?” You stood up now as you continued your rant.

“Are you-- are you trying to test how much I love Rafael? Testing just how much I’ve REALLY changed? Or are you just trying to prove to me that I can’t be happy? I can’t have the nice, perfect man, with a perfect family? That I’ll just lose anything good that I touch? You’ve turned my own BODY against me?!” You started to cry in the middle of the grass.

“Why would you do this, huh?” You asked Him. “You know the kind of mother I grew up with, you know I have nothing GOOD to reference on being a mother!” Tears streamed down your cheeks.

“Why would you do this to me? Have I been that shit of a person? Really? I went through...I went through hell and back my entire life, and then I fought like hell for Rafael, for someone who actually loved me, for the very first time in my life! And now-- now you want to take that away from me? Or are you giving me a second chance? TELL ME! TELL ME WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO!!!!!!!” You screamed, falling to your knees sobbing.

“....Y/N?” A soft voice made you leap to your feet and spin around to see Rafael standing there, his mouth slightly open with a confused look on his face.

“Rafa,” You quickly sucked the rest of your breakdown back into your body, wiping tears away and clearing your throat. “W-What are you doing here?”

“I...I came to support you,” He said softly as he walked closer to you.

“Support me?”

“Well I figured, you came down here to--”

“To what, kill our baby? Without even discussing with you?” You scoffed.

“No!” He cried. “Well, maybe..”

“Right,” You shook your head with a dry laugh.

“But I was going to support you no matter your decision!!” He defended himself.

“Oh well, that’s really big of you Rafael. Coming down here to hold my hand while I abort our child and then breaking up with me as soon as we walked out of here,” You scoffed with a roll of your eyes.

“That’s not--” He shook his head. “Look, I think-- I think that what matters right now is your little...soliloquy there,” He gestured towards the bench where you were having your screaming match at God.

“...Right,”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me about your mother, carino?”

“Why would I, Rafael?” You rolled your eyes with a laugh. “I already inadvertently told you I’d never heard the words ‘I love you’ in my life before you, I thought that was pretty obvious I didn’t have the greatest parents,”

“...Fair,” He closed the gap between you, taking your hands. “I’m sorry, I should have taken that into account when were...talking,”

“Arguing,” You clarified.

“Right,” He nodded sadly. “I just-- I ...I’ve always--”

“Yeah, I get it. You’ve always wanted kids. I should have taken that into account when we even started dating. I should have thought this could happen. I’m usually so level headed and ten steps ahead of things, but with you--”

“It’s different,” He finished for you with a sad smile.

“Yeah,” You nodded softly, looking at the ground.

“Well,” He tilted your chin up. “I don’t--I don’t want to impose anything on you, but--”

“But…”

“But...you did just ask the big guy what to do, and I was here,”

“...So you’re saying, God is telling me to go through with this?”

“All I’m stating is facts, Sharky,” He rubbed your cheek with his thumb. “I’m not telling you to do anything, I’m really not. I swear,”

“....Well, you should know all the facts then,” You sighed, leading him back to the bench where you both sat.

“All the facts?” He asked you curiously.

“...Dr. Ramoray says that I have a…’hostile uterus’,” You shook your head with a laugh, just saying it sounded absurd.

“A hostile uterus? You? I’m shocked,” He joked, trying to ease the tension.

“I know right?” You chuckled. “Anyway um-- he said, that it was a miracle I even got pregnant,” You said softly while you played with his hand in yours.

“...A miracle?”” Rafael’s voice perked up a little. Did that mean you were considering it? Surely you wouldn’t have told him that if you were going to get rid of it.

“Yeah,” You nodded. “And um-- he said, he said if I terminated this pregnancy, there was a slim to none chance that I’d ever get pregnant again,” You looked at the ground.

“I see,” He squeezed your hand softly. “So...basically, even mother nature is forcing you to make a life decision right now,”

“That’s what I said!” You looked up into his eyes; you really were so in sync.

“...Which is why you were yelling at God,”

“...Right,” You looked up at the sky. “But there’s another thing,”

“Oh?”

“The doctor said that even if I decide to go ahead with the pregnancy, there’s a 25% chance that it will die anyway,” You looked into his eyes sadly. “Because of course, my body would be just like my mother, rejecting it,” You looked away from him with another sarcastic laugh, thinking of the irony of your situation.

“Hey,” He put a hand on your face, making you look at him. “You are NOT your mother,”

“You didn’t even know her,”

“I know she wouldn’t be wrestling with this decision, would she?”

“No,” You shook your head. “She definitely would not. She made it very clear that my father MADE her have me, because he didn’t believe in abortion,”

“....Like I was trying to do,” He said sadly.

“No baby,” You took his hands. “I know you weren’t trying to force me to do anything,”

“....But I kind of was, when I threatened to leave you,” He looked down in shame.

“No, uh uh,” Now it was your turn to pull his chin upwards. “It’s not the same. Not even close,”

“....So,” He took a deep breath. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“....Well,” You gave him a small smile. “I can’t exactly argue with God for giving me what I asked for, right?”

“Wha--you mean me?”

“I asked him what to do, and here you are,” You pressed your forehead against his. “I’d say that’s a pretty big red flag of an answer,”

“Carino,” His lips curled into a huge smile before they were on yours.

-----------------

----Six Months Later----

You were in your last trimester, and were finally starting to breathe about your impending labor. Every month, every doctor’s appointment, you’d walk into the office with the worst expectations, and every time you were proven wrong. In that time, you had grown attached to your little girl, who you decided to name Isabella. Izzie, for short.

Rafael would talk to Izzie as much as he talked to you, always speaking in Spanish thinking she’d pick it up in the womb. You’d just shake your head with a smile, it was adorable the way he was so excited. It made you even more excited, just seeing him so happy. You had never been so invested in someone else’s emotions other than your own, especially not someone who hadn’t even been born yet. But you loved Izzie already, you would smile to yourself when you’d feel her moving around inside you. It was like she was snuggling you in her own little cocoon inside you.

However, on the day of your baby shower, all of your new hopes and dreams came crashing down. You were doing your makeup, humming and bouncing along with the Spotify playlist you had playing-- when you felt it. A sharp, overwhelming pain struck your abdomen, causing you to hunch over, falling to your knees.

“RAFAEL!!!!!” You screamed as your insides felt like they were being stabbed everywhere. Everything you had feared was coming true.

Rafael sprinted into your bathroom half dressed and instantly was down next to you.

“Y/N, baby what’s wrong?” He asked frantically, checking your body everywhere as you writhed in pain and began to cry.

“It’s...Izzie,” You sobbed, knowing what was happening. “I’m losing her,”

“Oh God,” Rafael dialed 911 while he tried to help you stand. When he saw your pelvis however, he stopped moving you.

“What?” You asked in a panicked tone. “What is it?”

“You’re...You’re bleeding, Y/N,” His eyes began to fill with tears as he watched you quickly begin to bleed out in front of him.

“What?” You tried desperately to look down at yourself, all you saw was a pool of blood running down the floor to your feet. Everything started to go fuzzy, you could barely hear Rafael screaming on the phone for someone to hurry up and come to your rescue. Pretty soon, you blacked out completely.

----------------------

The next thing you knew you were waking up in a hospital bed with a nurse taking your vitals.

“Welcome back, Ms. Y/N,” She smiled sweetly. “We almost lost you there,”

“...Lost me?” You looked at her in confusion before looking down at your stomach. A huge bandage was wrapped around your torso, covering several stitches and tubes coming out of your pelvis.

“Oh my god,” You whispered, beginning to panic again. “Oh my god, oh my god--”

“Whoa whoa calm down sweetie,” The nurse tried to keep you from squirming around. “You’ll pop your stitches,”

“Where’s Izzie? Where’s Rafael?” You asked her as you started to hyperventilate.

“Your husband ran to get a coffee” She assured you. “And um, your-- your baby is…”

“She’s dead, isn't she?” You began to sob. “I killed her,”

“No! No ma’am,” She shook her head. “Well, I mean she-- she is-- gone,” She said sadly. “But you did NOT kill her,”

“No, just my hostile body,” You continued to sob.

“Look I’m-- I’ll be right back,” She rushed out of the room, leaving you crying and screaming in horror and guilt.

After a few minutes, Rafael was bursting into the room, instantly at your side and taking your shaking body in his arms. He was still covered in your blood, he hadn’t dared to leave your side since they had gotten you there.

“I killed her, Rafa,” You sobbed into his chest. “I knew it, I knew this would happen. I’m broken inside, I told you I was broken,”

“Shhh, no no no mi amor,” He whispered as he tried to not start crying himself. “Shhhh, you’re-- you’re not broken,”

“I am!!!” You sobbed harder. “I killed our baby, just like I knew I would. It’s the one thing I was supposed to give you,”

“...Shh, baby I know. It’s okay, it’s alright--” He looked up at the sky as he began to cry himself.

“No it’s not, it’s not okay!!” Your sobs became heavier, you could barely breathe. All of your fears were coming true, you were being punished. You lost your child and now you were going to lose the love of your life. “Please don’t leave me, Please please please,”

“What?” He suddenly looked back down at you, pulling you from his chest. “Why would I--”

“I KILLED OUR BABY!!!!!!!!” You screamed. “That’s the ONE thing you asked me not to do!! The one thing! And I did it anyway!!!”

“NO, you did NOT,” He took both of your shoulders. “You did not kill our baby, do you hear me? You tried so hard, you took such good care of Izzie, carino--” He started to cry again as he said her name.

“She’s dead, Rafael,” You had just started to get your sobs under control until you saw him cry. You hated seeing him cry. You hated being the reason he was crying. “She’s dead!”

“And so were you!” He said through his tears. “You died on that table, they told me. But you came back to me,”

“....What?” Now you started to control your crying in shock from this new information.

“We may have lost Izzie, but I almost lost both of you. And I-- I don’t think I would have survived that,” He was still crying. “I...I’m devastated about Izzie, but I’m grateful you’re alive,”

“....Even though I’m broken?” You sniffled.

“You are not broken, mi amor,” He shook his head as he kissed your forehead, getting his own emotions to calm down. “...And if you still don’t believe me, then I promise you, I will spend the rest of our lives putting you back together,”

“....Okay,” You whispered, finally relaxing into his arms as he laid back against the wall.

“I love you, Y/N,” He whispered as he stroked your hair. “I will always love you, no matter what,”

“I love you too,” You sniffled as you started to fall asleep against his chest.

You wanted to believe him, but you knew deep down inside: You’d always be broken.

[ferinehuntressmoved]

Despite the previous night and her disheveled attire of a sheet, Mel didn't feel exposed or as if modesty was required for such a conversation. Silco's current posture and gaze told her she could walk around naked and still be treated with the respect she had earned whether she was clothed or undressed. A differing position compared to Piltover, whose conservative nature had men gawking when a woman wore anything that didn't cover their shoulders. Even with the previous rough and tumble the night prior did not change their stance with each other. A heavy yawn broke the air, as Phobos stretched her legs forward before flopping back onto the floor. They saw no threat currently and had no reason to act any less their what their feline nature desired: and that was enjoying the heat of the floor where the sun hit the ground.

"Many will drop all pretenses when it comes to some coin, no matter where they might sit," Not all would, she highly doubted Silco, and Sevika for that matter, were swayed by coin and gold to bend their own choices or beliefs. She knew a few councilors who would gladly bend a knee if it gave them more coin in the pocket. Pompous men and women who would do anything for the acquisitive of gold to heavy their pockets.

His tone left it clear he had no desire to go into detail and she would not press for it either. The undercity struggled to survive, every day a fight for food and necessities. Leaning her back up against the wall, as the conversation shifted toward the more sensitive topics of her nightmares. Turning her eyes as Silco spoke. Indeed, Noxus wanted soldiers, expendable men, and women to fling into war. It was a gift to be given more eyesight into the cultural differences of Zaun; one she did not squander. Eyes attentively focused on the man in the chair and an appreciative gaze to hear more from the undercity below. "In some ways, it sounds beneficial. Removing incompetent or less than ideal leadership," She knew just how difficult it was to work with the councillors she had. She had slowly conditioned most of them to twist around her finger but still; they had some control that even she could not always win her hand.

"Mhmm," The words spoke truth as she agreed. Her eyes flicked over toward the painting on the wall, the brilliant shades of red and white and jade dashes over the wall. A memory, one tormented her mind when she had ultimately failed her mother's last test. Words resonated with truth she had never once heard before. A sense of validation that often only came from Elora. Her eyes flicked down toward her hand, turning her palm to gaze at her nails. They had always been stronger than normal nails. Slightly thicker keratin, and typically resistant to any kind of breaking that normal nails would snap for. She painted them naturally, lined with gold tips and little patterns matching her house; but underneath the paint still laid the deadly claws of the panther.

"The moment she banished me was the day I turned my back on her," While the nightmares could not be countered, at least she knew who she was. She took claim over the Medarda name, with no association with Noxus. She had never heard anyone speak so casually of the word, monster. Even Noxus never used such words. Experiment, test subject, combatant, conscripts. Yet never a monster; even Noxus refused to associate anything that could be remotely animal-like in association. "I have honed it on my own, though I do believe Zaun is far more suited in fostering such natures," Mel complimented the region as she lowered her hand and turned back to face her business partner. "In time, the nightmares should fade, they do not happen often," Mel said, as she pulled back the sheet and climbed out of bed. She moved toward the armoire closet and started to grab some attire for the day.

"You mentioned a daughter?" Mel asked curiously as she grabbed a dress and undergarments to match. "I do hope she has not suffered too much from the poison of the waters," She deduced things must be fine on that end, as Silco did not appear troubled at the mention of his daughter. Hopefully, the problem would be fixed soon, so that Zaun would no longer suffer at the hands of this mistake. And, perhaps they could continue their forged alliances with Bilgewater to  better suit their city. Fingers slipped on her undergarments, the white offset from her dark golden skin, highlighting the spots against her back and hips.

Mel Merdarda was a business partner to him now. That meant that Silco had to give her the time of the day once every while. He felt it was only right that she learned of what progress the Undercity made with her assistance and that her generous donations were actually being used. For Silco, it was a control of trust. While their work proved itself to be very beneficial for them both, there could always be the nagging fear that one party was not honouring the deal. Silco would certainly have that fear. Thus by visiting Mel, he was not only limiting her own fears and second thoughts, but he was also reforging the bond of trust.

Just like he had broken the ice between them upon first meeting with a meal, Mel Merdarda was now being his hostess. She had even prepared a dinner, which was more akin to his own palette. It would take them a while until they found a meal, which suited both their culinary interests. After all, nothing withstanding, they did come from different places. Still, Silco greatly appreciated Mel's effort, which he let her know during the dinner. Maybe, it had been this mutual appreciation and admiration for one another, which had led to their night of passion.

"You are more than welcome to", Silco said and lowered his cigar a touch. Peering over at Mel from the armchair, he remarked: "I am sure Babette will appreciate the extra coin, though, I would be hard-pressed if she didn't accidentally brag. For someone who claims they have such a strong moral compass, she sure does follow the money a lot."

The only comment, Silco made on the nature of soft beds and sleeping on the floor, was: "I learned to sleep in different and less-than-ideal locations out of necessity."

He didn't feel like going into details about it. His childhood had been hard, way before the mines. Being ostracised from your own community meant that Silco didn't have a proper home to return to, much less a bed. However, he understood the dislike of Piltover's overtly soft beds. For him, it was just another passive reminder of how Topside had everything and the Undercity had nothing. That invoked his ire based on the principle alone.

Even now that his status as the leader of the Lanes afforded him and Jinx a bed, he had purposefully chosen one, which was not nearly as large as anything, Mel Merdarda slept in. Furthermore, Jinx herself was growing accustomed to sleeping in her hammock. At first, she had needed to sleep beside him in his bed, snuggled close like a kit needing the warmth of its mother. However, now, she was starting to fall in love with the loose, freeing sway of her hammock and the knowledge that even now, Silco was never far away.

His gaze was hard to read, however, the way his heterochromatic eyes bore into Mel's dark brown showed that he was listening with his whole being. All that existed, were her words and the memory, she was painting with them. It was a brutal, harsh and unforgiving one, so similar to Zaun and yet so very different at the same time. In Zaun, children didn't become violent because their parents forced them into gladiator battles or brutal schools. They became violent because they mimicked the violence of the adults. Just as predator young learned in game how to prepare for the real deal, so did Zaunite children emulate gang wars, trespassing and everything in between.

"You have my condolences", Silco spoke softly once Mel was finished, "Noxus' violence is man-made. It abides by the rules of men and their wars. Because of this, they need soldiers. Not predator, not prey. Soldiers. People, who follow an order without a shred of hesitation or doubt. You cannot conquer something, if you do not have an army. In Zaun, a gang war only results in an attempt to take more land if the aggressor has squandered their own resources. Or they have more mouths to feed than prior. It could also be that the reigning Chem-Baron was so inefficient at his duty that he got replaced. There is a reason, we have no last names or houses in Zaun. The apex predators can easily change at the drop of a dime.

"I know what it is like to be ostracised by your own community." Silco tapped his cigar against his knee, briefly making some ash rain down on the floor. "It never goes well when you contort yourself into an unnatural shape to please your betters. Especially when you are someone who is just as strong as them if not more. Your mother was not interested in making you a leader. She wanted a soldier. What she failed to realise, was that she was training someone who was more naturally suited for leadership and negotiation. You are probably one of the only Noxians to make the jump to Piltover without a massive hiccup. If your mother cannot respect and foster the predator and monster within you, then she does not deserve you as her daughter."

@ferinehuntress

[starrysnowdrop]

“ i had a dream about you. ”

“I had a dream about you.”

Imperial Cid AU

Yume x Cid

1,029 Words

Thank you so much @mythopoet-of-amaurot for this prompt, as it was the perfect one to begin my first exploration into the Imperial Cid AU! I want to also tag @meepsthemiqo here for sending me the ask that inspired me to write this AU in the first place. Hope all of you enjoy, as I’ve seen the anticipation building for this!!

Following the intense battle with Ifrit and the subsequent victory over the primal, the Raen ronin who helped lay the Lord of the Inferno low agreed to discuss the aftermath further with Thancred and the other adventurers back in Camp Drybone.

Yume brushed some loose locks of her raven hair off of her face and began her long trek back to town. While walking along the path, she soon heard footfalls behind her... they were quite faint, as if trying to conceal themselves from her notice. Yet, this person was no trained rogue, as it was abundantly clear to her that whoever it was seemed to be closely following her.

Yume reached for her katana at her side and in a flash of steel, unsheathed the blade and swung it around so she could face the lurker.

“I know you are there, show yourself!” She shouted to the mountains surrounding her, certain that the person concealed in the shadows had heard her loud and clear.

“Wait, adventurer!” A masculine sounding voice called out from the nearby rock face just off the path.

Seconds later, the voice revealed itself to belong to a man with long, white hair down to just below his chin, a short, full beard of the same hue, wearing what appeared to be a white lab coat, purple shirt underneath, and fancy adornments hanging from the coat. The man’s most noticeable accessory, to Yume’s eyes at least, was one that she recognized from her time as a mercenary in Kugane: a pair of brass engineer’s goggles with blue colored lenses sitting on his forehead.

His white gloved hands were raised in the air in surrender, and he seemed to be, oddly enough, smiling at her gently. “I mean you no harm, I promise.”

Scowling as the man approached, Yume raised her katana a few ilms. “Who are you?! What do you want?!”

“Please, lower your weapon. I only wish to speak with you.” The white haired man pleaded as he stepped closer to the Raen woman, his voice smooth and steady.

Yume raised her eyebrow as she lowered her katana. She still held the blade in her dominant hand, but took a more relaxed stance. “Oh really, you only wish to talk? Do you honestly think that I can trust your words, Garlean?”

The man chuckled, “What makes you think I’m a Garlean?”

“Your goggles... they fit over your third eye... I have seen a pair like those before.”

Momentarily, Yume noticed the Garlean raise his eyebrows slightly. “You have?”

Yume quickly decided to merely nod in response, as the stranger did not need to know such details of her past. She sheathed her sword and then folded her arms in exasperation. “You did not answer my question.”

“No, I guess I didn’t. Well, I shouldn’t be surprised at how defensive you are, as I have given you no reason to trust me.” The man shrugged his shoulders and sighed deeply before continuing, “Still, if you permit me but a moment, I have come with a warning.”

“A warning...?”

It was the Garlean’s turn to nod. “Listen—whatever highfalutin ideals your new Scion comrades have touted, whatever grandiose rewards as recompense the Eorzean Leaders have promised you, do not be swayed to do their dirty work for them. You will only get yourself killed.”

The ronin took a step back in a mix of defensiveness and confusion. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning, nothing more.”

Yume shook her head and her eyes widened as she tried to make sense of what he just said. “You, a Garlean engineer, went out of your way to follow me, only to warn me of being in danger? I am a mere adventurer, so why should it matter if I get killed or not? Would my death not make it easier for you to accomplish your goal?”

With a smirk, the Garlean man replied, “Perhaps... but I have a personal interest in seeing you alive.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not sure myself.” The man ran his hand along his bearded chin, closing his eyes in what looked to be recollection. He took a deep breath before returning his gaze to Yume. “I... I had a dream about you... and now you’re standing before me in the flesh. I wish to know why.”

“You... dreamed of me?” Yume’s eyes grew even wider as her heart started beating wildly in her chest.

She looked back at the Garlean and began to stare intently at his face. From that distance, she couldn’t tell if his eyes were a grey or blue in color, only that they were soft and so expressive. Even if he were trying to conceal his intentions, she knew his eyes would give him away. In that moment, his eyes were gleaming and searching her own, searching for an answer that she could not give.

The two broke eye contact when the Garlean cleared his throat and began to turn around and go back the way that he came. He looked back over his shoulder towards her when he spoke, “I have taken too much time already. I promise that we will meet again soon.”

Her arm began to move before she could understand what she was doing. Yume instinctively reached out for him, beckoning him back to her. “Wait, please! You never told me who you are, nor have I given my name.”

He stopped dead in his tracks when she called out to him, and he turned back around fully to her, though he did not walk back to her. He simply answered her from afar.

“My name is Cid nan Garlond, Primus Architectus Magiteci of the Garlean Empire. And you are?”

“I am Yume Aino, a ronin trying to find my way in this strange new land.”

The Garlean engineer, now identified as Cid, beamed when she gave him her name. “Yume, Yume... beautiful.”

Cid waved and then left Yume standing there on the dusty path through the mountains with her breath caught in her throat and heat rising to the surface of her cheeks as she watched his figure disappear from whence he came.

[neverflownwithme]

“They didn’t tell you anything else?”

Hal struggles to hear the question over the mechanical whir of engines and the rattle of supplies in overhead bins, only realizes that the words are aimed at him because Ollie is sitting just two seats away from him. The shove of a foot against his leg makes him roll his eyes. He slides deeper into his own seat in initial response, head leaned back and eyes looking to the ceiling above him. The headrest of his seat is stiff against the back of his skull.

“I’ve already told you everything that I know,” Hal reminds, not the least bit surprised by the scowl that he sees Ollie give him out of the corner of his eye. Hal had worn a similar expression when the first message from the Night’s Watch had reached him. Specifics had been lacking during Hal’s own exchange with the Black Brothers of the Wall. His expression had remained more or less the same since.

“Leave it to a bunch of Northerners to skimp on needed details,” he mutters, shoving himself back into his own seat. There’s a loud thunk as his back connects with the backrest. “You’d think they’d have more respect for their Warden of the North.”

There is a jab laced in the man’s muttered words, one that Hal chooses to ignore. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a bit of truth to it.

Hal’s heard Ollie’s complaints since the moment the man arrived at Winterfell from the Arbor. He’d departed his plane muttering and grousing about having to journey so far North in the beginnings of winter at King Aegon’s order. When he had learned the --limited-- details surrounding what he had journeyed there for, his complaints had increased tenfold.

It’s strange to Hal how Ollie always claimed he was looking for adventure, but was now rebelling after he’d been presented with one. After all, how many Southron Lords could say that they had journeyed to the Wall? How many more could say that they had journeyed beyond the Wall and into the lands of the Far North? Hal thought the number to be few… if any at all.

Most Southron Lords saw little use in journeying past the Neck.

In the back of his mind, Hal knows that Ollie’s complaints are justified -- to a degree. Days before Ollie arrived at the Northern capital, Hal had been in contact once more with members of the Night’s Watch at the Wall, searching for answers or, at the very least, for clarification.

It had been members of a scouting garrison that had discovered something among the seaside ruins of Hardhome beyond the woods of the Haunted Forest.

Whatever the discovery was, the Lord Commander of the Watch had not disclosed. The man had seemed almost frightened to even discuss the vague details that he had given to Hal. Asking for specifics had been met with clipped, one word responses. Jeor Mormont had always been a prickly man, had become even more so since making the journey to the Wall to take over its command. His responses were extreme, though, even for him.

No matter the find, significant or not, it was important enough that Hal had thought it was in his best interest to investigate for himself. Anything that could still Mormont’s normal growling and snapping had to be investigated, Hal thought. The Lord Commander had never been one to rattle. Hal was curious to see what had actually managed to do so.

The order that had come from King’s Landing from the desk of King Aegon that same day had only sealed his fate even more.

When Ollie had contacted him the following day stating that King Aegon had requested he journey North to investigate some archeological discovery over the Wall, Hal had known that he’d been right in his belief.

Even if he wanted to, Hal couldn’t very well go against a direct order from the King.

“We’ll find out more when we get there,” Hal finally says. Again, he chooses to ignore the grumbling reply that Ollie gives back. Ollie will have some sort of reply no matter what Hal says. It’s better just to let him stew with his head up his own ass for a little while. He’ll come around. At some point.

The rest of their flight is uneventful. The closer they come to the Wall, the more intense turbulence becomes. The North has always been prone to severe winter storms. But, they are at their utmost worst, at times, when the seasons are beginning to shift from one to another. Now, so far north, the weather is all the more erratic. By the time their pilots announce their descent to land, both Hal and Ollie have been jostled for the last hour of the journey. 

Solid ground is a welcomed relief.

Hal has brought only what he thought to be necessary for the journey. Ollie, in contrast, had brought whatever could be needed for the discovery site beyond the Wall. When the rear cargo ramp is lowered, Hal finds Lord Commander Jeor Mormont waiting for them with a pair of Black Brothers at his back.

“Lord Commander,” Hal greets, his bag in hand and his pack slung over his shoulder. As he descends the ramp, the Black Brothers who have accompanied Mormont to the airstrip tromp up the cargo ramp to assist Ollie with his own supplies.

“Lord Stark,” the Lord Commander returns, his voice and his expression grim. “Welcome to the Wall.” The man looks over Hal’s shoulder after he speaks, watching the men he’d brought with him aboard the airplane. His hard gaze quickly travels from them to where Ollie is now coming down the cargo ramp. He snorts as he turns, motioning to two awaiting military humvees. They’re painted white with the chargeless black shield of the Night’s Watch emblazoned upon the front doors. “I hope your Southron friend brought something warmer than what he’s currently wearing.”

When Ollie’s supplies have been loaded into one of the waiting humvees, Hal climbs into the front seat of the one that Mormont motions him to. Ollie is in the second one with the pair of Black Brothers. It’s a five mile drive from the airstrip to the Wall. Normally, in ideal conditions, the Wall is visible from the airstrip. Snow has started to fall, though, and heavy clouds are hanging low in the sky. It makes for poor visibility.

Winding through the rough roads, Hal watches the flicker of the following humvee’s lights in his side view mirror. There’s nothing ahead of them but snow covered roads. And, beside them, Hal only sees the dark of the forest on either side. It’s Hal that breaks the silence in the cab.

“Has anything else been found since we last spoke, Lord Commander?” he asks. Much like his greeting back at the airstrip, Mormont’s response is short.

“Maester Aemon knows more of what’s been found,” the Lord Commander says. “He’ll tell you more when we arrive at Castle Black, my Lord.”

“You could have saved me a trip if you’d allowed him to speak with me to begin with,” Hal reminds.

Mormont grunts, his hands gripping tighter at the steering wheel. Up ahead, the first gate that leads from the forest into the first inner sanctum of the Wall is fast approaching. “Maester Aemon petitioned His Grace to have you come in person. The King was in agreement with his request. You didn’t expect me to go against the King’s command, did you?”

Hal mutters in concession, watching as the gates ahead of them begin to part.

As Mormont steers their humvee to a stop within the inner courtyard of Castle Black, Hal catches a glimpse of the Wall. It still looks like he remembered. The sheer height of it is dizzying. The top of it is not even visible, hidden among the low hanging clouds up above. Hal can tell, even then, that there will be a storm later in the night.

Mormont is barking orders when Hal pushes open the humvee door, the sheer force of the wind catching him by surprise. It looks as though his prediction is going to be correct. A storm is rising.

Black Brothers immediately move to the second humvee at the Commander’s orders, unloading the materials and supplies that Ollie has brought with him for their journey. As soon as the Lord of the Arbor is within earshot, Mormont barks for them to follow after him.

“Maester Aemon said to bring you to him when you arrived. He’ll be waiting,” Mormont calls over the howl of the wind, already starting across the courtyard. “Come with me,” he yells back to them.

“Charming guy,” Ollie mutters, falling into step beside Hal as they begin to walk.

Despite the cold out among the courtyard, the inner hallways of Castle Black are surprisingly warm. Mormont leads them through a number of doors and stairwells, taking turn after turn without so much as a pause. He never stops to allow for either Hal or Ollie to deposit their bags anywhere. When he finally does stop, it’s before a large pair of oak doors. The knock of his knuckles against the wood echoes heavily through the hallway.

Hal is barely able to make out a frail sounding call for them to enter.

When the doors are opened, Mormont’s frame blocks the view into the room. He pauses mid step, nearly making Ollie collide into his back in the process. Mormont’s stance seems to straighten a fraction as he stands in the doorway.

“I beg your pardon,” the Lord Commander says.

For once, Hal believes that his voice carries some sort of sincerity in it.

“I was unaware that you were in council with Maester Aemon, Your Grace,” Mormont continues.

Hal’s brows immediately wrinkle in confusion. ‘Your Grace?’ When he looks over at Ollie, he’s wearing a similar expression. 

“You owe me no apology, Lord Commander. Uncle Aemon was merely informing me of what has been discovered at Hardhome.” There is a pause and the slide of a chair across the stone floor. “Please, do not allow me to detract from your own needs. Uncle Aemon has already informed me that there would be visitors to join us.”

It feels as though something has bolted down the column of Hal’s spine at the first sound of the answering voice from within the office. His mouth goes dry for a moment and his hold tightens around the handle of his bag. Even though he cannot see beyond Mormont’s frame, he needn’t lay eyes on the other person to know who the voice belongs to. 

Even if a decade has passed since they’ve last spoken, he knows the voice practically as well as he knows his own. 

‘No. No. No.’ he thinks to himself. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

As Mormont’s frame moves from the doorway, everything around Hal seems to come to a grinding halt. Seated beside Maester Aemon next to the hearth, a woman is staring back at him. For a moment, Hal almost believes she seems just as shocked to see him as he does to see her.

“Your Grace,” Mormont begins, motioning to the men at his back, “Lord Harold Stark of Winterfell and Lord Oliver Redwyne of the Arbor.” When he looks back at the men, he motions to the woman with a nod of his head. “My Lords, Princess Laira Saito of Valyria.”

[ @mymothershumility @fullrangeofemotions @truetargaryen @thequeenmaker @ialwayswasthebest @xcoatlicuex @iveneverbeenagoodgirl @aladyofwinterfell @iwasahunter @fairytalesandstars @arisiarrxb ]

Notes: These are (typically) going to be pretty short little blurbs. Some might get longer. Liz and I are co-writing some together. This verse was influenced by the (2017) version of The Mummy and will weave in elements from the War for the Dawn into a modern setting. As always, the verse is available for threads and such.

[johannstutt413]

(requested by mathmaticalknight) TOURNAMENT ARC

Nearl was in her room, tending to her equipment, when there was a knock on her door. “I wonder who that might be...Maria?”

“Sister!” Blemishine wrapped her arms around Margaret’s neck and pulled her in for a close and loud hug (armor plates). “It took me forever to find someone who knew the way to your place, but you’re actually here!”

“When did you get her, Maria? I thought you and Zofia were still working out the details.”

The other Nearl simply beamed at her. “She said she’d be here soon and that I could go ahead. It’s a good thing I did, too - there are posters all over saying you’re fighting someone today. Is that true?”

“I am, yes,” she confirmed. “The Doctor organized a tourney for Operators in all positions to prove themselves, if they so desire.”

“Are you gonna go easy on them, or is the Radiant Knight going to be fighting in a new venue?” The look on Maria’s face was a blend of concern and excitement - after all, it’s not every day she got to see her sister fight.

The older Nearl thought about it for a moment before going for another hug. “My opponent is my sparring partner, and I know she will be giving this fight her all. It would be a dishonor not to do the same.”

“Then I’ll be watching you from the stands.” She sighed. “Next time I see you, though, can we hug without all this metal in the way?”

“If you’d like, you can come to dinner with me.” Margaret hadn’t had the chance to ‘properly’ introduce her to her girlfriends, after all.

Blemishine nodded. “That sounds good to me...Alright, you need to finish preparing for your fight, so I’m going to find the Doctor. I heard there’s an Engineering Department here, and I want to go talk to them before the match. Good luck!”

“Thank you, Maria.” As the shining knight left, the Radiant Knight returned to her maintenance. “Tonight, however, luck will not be a factor.”

TOURNAMENT ARC: NEARL VS HOSHIGUMA (continuing...sort of from this [I keep forgetting which ships are already established in some of this multiverse soup going on; can’t make it a direct continuation because of the first fic in that two-part series, but Tourney!RI still has a horse triumvirate nonetheless. ANYWAY.])

——–

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Operators, Staff, and Esteemed Guests! Welcome one and all to the Top Operator Tourney!!! *crowd cheers*

“Thanks, Hung! I love how consistent he is with that...Anyways, hi! You’re probably wondering why we’re here-”

“We should introduce ourselves first, Swire.”

“Good point, good point. Well, I’m Swire, aka Hoshi’s biggest fan, and here with me in the commentator’s booth is Meteor. You’re Nearl’s girlfriend, right?”

“That is why I’m here, yes. I appreciate the Doctor allowing us to do this, especially since you and I don’t talk very often. Do you have the statistics in front of you? My tablet and I are having a fight.”

“Yeah, I’ve got ‘em. *clears throat* So, looking at the numbers, my girl’s got the advantage when it comes to size, experience and stamina, but Nearl is faster, more tactical, AND she’s got some serious Arts at her disposal. Hoshi’s got an uphill battle ahead of her, I say.”

“It’s important to note that Margaret Nearl and Hoshiguma both are in the top three seeds for the Defender bracket - first and third respectively - which means regardless of the apparent discrepancy, both are incredibly skilled combatants. Accounting for the amount of time they spend dueling each other to keep their skills sharp, and I suspect this fight will be much closer than the numbers would imply.”

“I certainly hope so! No offense, but I do want Hoshi to win this - if Nearl loses, you’re still in the tourney, after all.”

“That is true...But we’ll simply have to agree to disagree.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s get to the action!...Also, why did you say her actual name rather than her codename?”

——–

Hoshiguma and Nearl walked into the coliseum, fully prepared for the fight ahead of them. The Oni took up a defensive stance, holding her shield just above the ground and planting her feet. “Well, Marge, today’s the day. Promise you’re not gonna hold back on me?”

“I swear by my honor as a knight: today, I will not stay my hand.” The Kuranta unsheathed her blade, already glowing beneath the bright lights above. “I entrust your life to the Medics of Rhodes Island. Ready?”

“It’s your time, not mine.”

A curious turn of phrase...With that, the fight was on.

Nearl’s first goal was knocking out that shield arm. Fixing amputations was something the Medics could do (at least, Aak and Warfarin could), but ideally she wouldn’t have to do that much damage. She charged forward, feinted going one direction but bounded the opposite way, and swung for her opponent’s arm, lighting up her blade as she did with a dazzling gleam-

-only for Hoshi to pull her arm towards her body, forcing the Knight to clip the shield instead and feel the sting of her opponent’s Thorns. “You’re taking this seriously. Good.”

“Of course I am.” The Kuranta had lost all her forward momentum thanks to the deflection, but that didn’t stop her from spinning around; her next attack was an attempt to knock the Oni’s shield out of the way with her own before landing a sword stroke, once again lighting it up before the attack would land. “Hyah!”

“Good try.” Rather than block the swing, Hoshiguma punched Nearl’s sword arm, taking the blade to her forearm but nevertheless crippling her opponent in the process. The counterattack sent the disarmed warrior backward and left Lungmen’s strongest with a choice: charge forward, get Hannya spinning, and go on the warpath? Stand her ground and do the same?

The Kuranta got to experience the answer firsthand as her opponent began to simultaneously spin her shield and run forward. ‘I can’t let her hit me with that attack, whatever it takes...’ Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough time to get to her feet and get out of the way. There was only one option she could see...

——–

“Alright, she’s getting to her feet; she’s not done yet, but damn Hoshi’s spinning Hannya as fast as she can.”

“Margaret, what are you doing?! Get out of the way!”

“She’s holding her shield up with both hands- wait, that light-”

“Glasses on!” *flash* “...No!”

“There’s no way she’s getting up after that...Aak and Warfarin are making their way out. Hoshi’s tossed Hannya to the side and seems to be trying to help.”

“She’s done enough.”

“Meteor, you’ve seen some of the other fights-”

“They didn’t have my Marg’ret in them...We’re done here, right?”

“Yeah, that’s all she wrote. Everyone at home, have a good night, and we should have FEater and Click back up here next time. Thanks for tuning in!...I’m gonna make sure my co-host doesn’t do something she regrets.”

——–

By the time Meteor had made it to Medical, there was a small group in the waiting room. Platinum and Blemishine were talking cordially, Swire was talking to Ptilopsis at the desk, and Hoshiguma...Hoshiguma was there, in a chair, as stoic as she’d ever seen her.

That stoicism didn’t change when the huntress walked over to her and slapped her across the face.

“Miss Meteor,” Ptilopsis observed from her post; Swire had already turned around after hearing the sound, “violence is not tolerated in the waiting room.”

“It’s alright, Tilly. I deserved it.” The Oni cracked her neck as she looked up at her attacker.

The Kuranta sat down next to her. “At least you agree.”

“I didn’t expect her to try and block me like that,” she continued with a sigh. “The flash actually made it worse for her.”

“Why did she do that? It makes no sense.”

At this point the other two Kuranta in the room walked over; Platinum immediately sat in Meteor’s lap for a chair-hug. “We got here before she did, and they rolled her past us...” There was now a silver-haired puddle in the Sniper’s lap.

“Are all the fights in this tourney like this?” Maria shuddered. “The sport is the same everywhere, I guess.”

“Well, the good news is, Nearl’s Arts were enough to stabilize herself,” Swire reported, joining the group and sitting on the opposite side of Hoshiguma, who immediately set her head on her shoulder.

The huntress, stroking her assassin-girlfriend’s hair, nodded. “Thank you, Swire. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this, Maria.”

“We’ll have a second chance at it when my sister’s back on her-” At that moment, there was the distinctive sound of armor jangling from down the hall. “Eh? One second.”

“It hasn’t been five minutes,” Hoshi muttered as everyone, including herself, stood up.

Sure enough, Blemishine walked around the corner with Nearl’s arm around her shoulder, gear beaten to shit but otherwise okay. “I’m taking her back to her room for a change of clothes, but she and the doctors both said she’s good.”

“Maggie!” Platinum practically became her jacket with that hug. “I’m so glad you’re alright! Even Hoshiguma was worried.”

“I’m not surprised. My training partner proved herself the better fighter today.” The smile the Radiant Knight sent the Oni’s way literally made her take a step back.

Meteor continued the original thread. “You’re feeling alright, though? Does it hurt anywhere?”

“The soreness will remain for a few days, but no lasting damage, certainly.” She looked down at her armor. “Not to my body, at least. Maria, could you help me fix this later this week?”

“Of course I will!” Her sister already had some thoughts on how to stop something like the Spinning Shield of Death from doing so much damage again.

The Feline in the room, glad to hear the all-clear straight from the horse’s mouth, nudged her girlfriend. “Go on, I know you want to say something.”

“I’ll talk to her later.” The Oni picked up her girlfriend. “Let’s go home.”

“Hoshi?” Nearl called out to her, and she froze.

The moneycat in her arms answered for her. “Yes, Nearl? Margaret, more specifically?”

“Either is fine.” Another warm smile. “That was a good fight. Good luck in the rest of the tournament.”

“...Thank you, Maggie. Goodnight, everyone.”

New destination: the bar.

[aquilaofarkham]

Much like his infamous father, the aesthetic of Alucard has changed tremendously since Castlevania’s start in the 1980s—yet certain things about him never change at all. He began as the mirror image of Dracula; a hark back to the days of masculine Hammer Horror films, Christopher Lee, and Bela Lugosi. Then his image changed dramatically into the androgynous gothic aristocrat most people know him as today. This essay will examine Alucard’s design, the certain artistic and social trends which might have influenced it, and how it has evolved into what it is now.

☽ Read the full piece here or click the read more for the text only version ☽

INTRODUCTION

Published in 2017, Carol Dyhouse’s Heartthrobs: A History of Women and Desire examines how certain cultural trends can influence what women may find attractive or stimulating in a male character. By using popular archetypes such as the Prince Charming, the bad boy, and the tall dark handsome stranger, Dyhouse seeks to explain why these particular men appeal to the largest demographic beyond mere superfluous infatuation. In one chapter titled “Dark Princes, Foreign Powers: Desert Lovers, Outsiders, and Vampires”, she touches upon the fascination most audiences have with moody and darkly seductive vampires. Dyhouse exposits that the reason for this fascination is the inherent dangerous allure of taming someone—or something—so dominating and masculine, perhaps even evil, yet hides their supposed sensitivity behind a Byronic demeanour.

This is simply one example of how the general depiction of vampires in mainstream media has evolved over time. Because the concept itself is as old as the folklore and superstitions it originates from, thus varying from culture to culture, there is no right or wrong way to represent a vampire, desirable or not. The Caribbean Soucouyant is described as a beautiful woman who sheds her skin at night and enters her victims’ bedrooms disguised as an aura of light before consuming their blood. In Ancient Roman mythology there are tales of the Strix, an owl-like creature that comes out at night to drink human blood until it can take no more. Even the Chupacabra, a popular cryptid supposedly first spotted in Puerto Rico, has been referred to as being vampiric because of the way it sucks blood out of goats, leaving behind a dried up corpse.

However, it is a rare thing to find any of these vampires in popular media. Instead, most modern audiences are shown Dyhouse’s vampire: the brooding, masculine alpha male in both appearance and personality. A viewer may wish to be with that character, or they might wish to become just like that character. 

This sort of shift in regards to creating the “ideal” vampire is most evident in how the image of Dracula has been adapted, interpreted, and revamped in order to keep up with changing trends. In Bram Stoker’s original 1897 novel of the same name, Dracula is presented as the ultimate evil; an ancient, almost grotesque devil that ensnares the most unsuspecting victims and slowly corrupts their innocence until they are either subservient to him (Renfield, the three brides) or lost to their own bloodlust (Lucy Westenra). In the end, he can only be defeated through the joined actions of a steadfast if not ragtag group of self-proclaimed vampire hunters that includes a professor, a nobleman, a doctor, and a cowboy. His monstrousness in following adaptations remains, but it is often undercut by attempts to give his character far more pathos than the original source material presents him with. Dracula has become everything: a monster, a lover, a warrior, a lonely soul searching for companionship, a conquerer, a comedian, and of course, the final boss of a thirty-year-old video game franchise.

Which brings us to the topic of this essay; not Dracula per say, but his son. Even if someone has never played a single instalment of Castlevania or watched the ongoing animated Netflix series, it is still most likely that they have heard of or seen the character of Alucard through cultural osmosis thanks to social media sites such as Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, and the like. Over the thirty-plus years in which Castlevania has remained within the public’s consciousness, Alucard has become one of the most popular characters of the franchise, if not the most popular. Since his debut as a leading man in the hit game Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, he has taken his place beside other protagonists like Simon Belmont, a character who was arguably the face of Castlevania before 1997, the year in which Symphony of the Night was released. Alucard is an iconic component of the series and thanks in part to the mainstream online streaming service Netflix, he is now more present in the public eye than ever before whether through official marketing strategies or fanworks.

It is easy to see why. Alucard’s backstory and current struggles are quite similar to the defining characteristics of the Byronic hero. Being the son of the human doctor Lisa Țepeș, a symbol of goodness and martyrdom in all adaptations, and the lord of all vampires Dracula, Alucard (also referred to by his birth name Adrian Fahrenheit Țepeș) feels constantly torn between the two halves of himself. He maintains his moralistic values towards protecting humanity, despite being forced to make hard decisions, and despite parts of humanity not being kind to him in turn, yet is always tempted by his more monstrous inheritance. The idea of a hero who carries a dark burden while aspiring towards nobility is something that appeals to many audiences. We relate to their struggles, cheer for them when they triumph, and share their pain when they fail. Alucard (as most casual viewers see him) is the very personification of the Carol Dyhouse vampire: mysterious, melancholic, dominating, yet sensitive and striving for compassion. Perceived as a supposed “bad boy” on the surface by people who take him at face value, yet in reality is anything but.

Then there is Alucard’s appearance, an element that is intrinsically tied to how he has been portrayed over the decades and the focus of this essay. Much like his infamous father, the aesthetic of Alucard has changed tremendously since Castlevania’s start in the 1980s—yet certain things about him never change at all. He began as the mirror image of Dracula; a hark back to the days of masculine Hammer Horror films, Christopher Lee, and Bela Lugosi. Then his image changed dramatically into the androgynous gothic aristocrat most people know him as today. This essay will examine Alucard’s design, the certain artistic and social trends which might have influenced it, and how it has evolved into what it is now. Parts will include theoretical, analytical, and hypothetical stances, but it’s overall purpose is to be merely observational.

--

What is Castlevania?

We start this examination at the most obvious place, with the most obvious question. Like all franchises, Castlevania has had its peaks, low points, and dry spells. Developed by Konami and directed by Hitoshi Akamatsu, the first instalment was released in 1986 then distributed in North America for the Nintendo Entertainment System the following year. Its pixelated gameplay consists of jumping from platform to platform and fighting enemies across eighteen stages all to reach the final boss, Dracula himself. Much like the gameplay, the story of Castlevania is simple. You play as Simon Belmont; a legendary vampire hunter and the only one who can defeat Dracula. His arsenal includes holy water, axes, and throwing daggers among many others, but his most important weapon is a consecrated whip known as the vampire killer, another iconic staple of the Castlevania image.

Due to positive reception from critics and the public alike, Castlevania joined other titles including Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda, and Mega Man as one of the most defining video games of the 1980s. As for the series itself, Castlevania started the first era known by many fans and aficionados as the “Classicvania” phase, which continued until the late 1990s. It was then followed by the “Metroidvania” era, the “3-D Vania” era during the early to mid 2000s, an reboot phase during the early 2010s, and finally a renaissance or “revival” age where a sudden boom in new or re-released Castlevania content helped boost interest and popularity in the franchise. Each of these eras detail how the games changed in terms of gameplay, design, and storytelling. The following timeline gives a general overview of the different phases along with their corresponding dates and instalments.

Classicvania refers to Castlevania games that maintain the original’s simplicity in gameplay, basic storytelling, and pixelated design. In other words, working within the console limitations of the time. They are usually side-scrolling platformers with an emphasis on finding hidden objects and defeating a variety of smaller enemies until the player faces off against the penultimate boss. Following games like Castlevania 2: Simon’s Quest and Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse were more ambitious than their predecessor as they both introduced new story elements that offered multiple endings and branching pathways. In Dracula’s Curse, there are four playable characters each with their own unique gameplay. However, the most basic plot of the first game is present within both of these titles . Namely, find Dracula and kill Dracula. Like with The Legend of Zelda’s Link facing off against Ganon or Mario fighting Bowser, the quest to destroy Dracula is the most fundamental aspect to Castlevania. Nearly every game had to end with his defeat. In terms of gameplay, it was all about the journey to Dracula’s castle. 

As video games grew more and more complex leading into the 1990s, Castlevania’s tried and true formula began to mature as well. The series took a drastic turn with the 1997 release of Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, a game which started the Metroidvania phase. This not only refers to the stylistic and gameplay changes of the franchise itself, but also refers to an entire subgenre of video games. Combining key components from Castlevania and Nintendo’s popular science fiction action series Metroid, Metroidvania games emphasize non-linear exploration and more traditional RPG elements including a massive array of collectable weapons, power-ups, character statistics, and armor. Symphony of the Night pioneered this trend while later titles like Castlevania: Circle of the Moon, Castlevania: Harmony of Dissonance and Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow solidified it. Nowadays, Metroidvanias are common amongst independent developers while garnering critical praise. Hollow Knight, Blasphemous, and Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night are just a few examples of modern Metroidvanias that use the formula to create familiar yet still distinct gaming experiences. 

Then came the early to mid 2000s and many video games were perfecting the use of 3-D modelling, free control over the camera, and detailed environments. Similar to what other long-running video game franchises were doing at the time, Castlevania began experimenting with 3-D in 1999 with Castlevania 64 and Castlevania: Legacy of Darkness, both developed for the Nintendo 64 console. 64 received moderately positive reviews while the reception for its companion was far more mixed, though with Nintendo 64’s discontinuation in 2002, both games have unfortunately fallen into obscurity. 

A year later, Castlevania returned to 3-D with Castlevania: Lament of Innocence for the Playstation 2. This marked Koji Igarashi’s first foray into 3-D as well as the series’ first ever M-rated instalment. While not the most sophisticated or complex 3-D Vania (or one that manages to hold up over time in terms of graphics), Lament of Innocence was a considerable improvement over 64 and Legacy of Darkness. Other 3-D Vania titles include Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, Castlevania: Judgment, and Castlevania: The Dracula X Chronicles for the PSP, a remake of the Classicvania game Castlevania: Rondo of Blood which merged 3-D models, environments, and traditional platforming mechanics emblematic of early Castlevania. It is important to note that during this particular era, there were outliers to the changing formula that included Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin and Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia, both games which added to the Metroidvania genre. 

Despite many of the aforementioned games becoming cult classics and fan favourites, this was an era in which Castlevania struggled to maintain its relevance, confused by its own identity according to most critics. Attempts to try something original usually fell flat or failed to resonate with audiences and certain callbacks to what worked in the past were met with indifference. 

By the 2010s, the Castlevania brand changed yet again and stirred even more division amongst critics, fans, and casual players. This was not necessarily a dark age for the franchise but it was a strange age; the black sheep of Castlevania. In 2010, Konami released Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, a complete reboot of the series with new gameplay, new characters, and new lore unrelated to previous instalments. The few elements tying it to classic Castlevania games were recurring enemies, platforming, and the return of the iconic whip used as both a weapon and another means of getting from one area to another. Other gameplay features included puzzle-solving, exploration, and hack-and-slash combat. But what makes Lords of Shadow so divisive amongst fans is its story. The player follows Gabriel Belmont, a holy warrior on a quest to save his deceased wife’s soul from Limbo. From that basic plot point, the storyline diverges immensely from previous Castlevania titles, becoming more and more complicated until Gabriel makes the ultimate sacrifice and turns into the very monster that haunted other Belmont heroes for centuries: Dracula. While a dark plot twist and a far cry from the hopeful endings of past games, the concept of a more tortured and reluctant Dracula who was once the hero had already been introduced in older Dracula adaptations (the Francis Ford Coppola directed Dracula being a major example of this trend in media).

Despite strong opinions on how much the story of Lords of Shadow diverged from the original timeline, it was positively received by critics, garnering an overall score of 85 on Metacritic. This prompted Konami to continue with the release of Castlevania: Lords of Shadow—Mirror of Fate and Castlevania: Lords of Shadow 2. Mirror of Fate returned to the series’ platforming and side-scrolling roots with stylized 3-D models and cutscenes. It received mixed reviews, as did its successor Lords of Shadow 2. While Mirror of Fate felt more like a classic stand-alone Castlevania with Dracula back as its main antagonist, the return of Simon Belmont, and the inclusion of Alucard, Lords of Shadow 2 carried over plot elements from its two predecessors along with new additions, turning an already complicated story into something more contrived. 

Finally, there came a much needed revival phase for the franchise. Netflix’s adaptation of Castlevania animated by Powerhouse Animation Studios based in Austen, Texas and directed by Samuel Deats and co-directed by Adam Deats aired its first season during July 2017 with four episodes. Season two aired in October 2018 with eight episodes followed by a ten episode third season in March 2020. Season four was announced by Netflix three weeks after the release of season three. The show combines traditional western 2-D animation with elements from Japanese anime and is a loose adaptation of Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse combined with plot details from Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, and original story concepts. But the influx of new Castlevania content did not stop with the show. Before the release of season two, Nintendo announced that classic protagonists Simon Belmont and Richter Belmont would join the ever-growing roster of playable characters in their hit fighting game Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. With their addition also came the inclusion of iconic Castlevania environments, music, weapons, and supporting characters like Dracula and Alucard. 

During the year-long gap between seasons two and three of the Netflix show, Konami released Castlevania: Grimoire of Souls, a side-scrolling platformer and gacha game for mobile devices. The appeal of Grimoire of Souls is the combination of popular Castlevania characters each from a different game in the series interacting with one another along with a near endless supply of collectable weapons, outfits, power-ups, and armor accompanied by new art. Another ongoing endeavor by Konami in partnership with Sony to bring collective awareness back to one of their flagship titles is the re-releasing of past Castlevania games. This began with Castlevania: Requiem, in which buyers received both Symphony of the Night and Rondo of Blood for the Playstation 4 in 2018. This was followed the next year with the Castlevania Anniversary Collection, a bundle that included a number of Classicvania titles for the Playstation 4, Xbox One, Steam, and Nintendo Switch.

Like Dracula, the Belmonts, and the vampire killer, one other element tying these five eras together is the presence of Alucard and his various forms in each one.

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Masculinity in 1980s Media

When it comes to media and various forms of the liberal arts be it entertainment, fashion, music, etc., we are currently in the middle of a phenomenon known as the thirty year cycle. Patrick Metzgar of The Patterning describes this trend as a pop cultural pattern that is, in his words, “forever obsessed with a nostalgia pendulum that regularly resurfaces things from 30 years ago”. Nowadays, media seems to be fixated with a romanticized view of the 1980s from bold and flashy fashion trends, to current music that relies on the use of synthesizers, to of course visual mass media that capitalizes on pop culture icons of the 80s. This can refer to remakes, reboots, and sequels; the first cinematic chapter of Stephen King’s IT, The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, and both Ghostbusters remakes are prime examples—but the thirty year cycle can also include original media that is heavily influenced or oversaturated with nostalgia. Netflix’s blockbuster series Stranger Things is this pattern’s biggest and most overt product. 

To further explain how the thirty year cycle works with another example, Star Wars began as a nostalgia trip and emulation of vintage science fiction serials from the 1950s and 60s, the most prominent influence being Flash Gordon. This comparison is partially due to George Lucas’ original attempts to license the Flash Gordon brand before using it as prime inspiration for Star Wars: A New Hope and subsequent sequels. After Lucas sold his production company Lucasfilms to Disney, three more Star Wars films were released, borrowing many aesthetic and story elements from Lucas’ original trilogy while becoming emulations of nostalgia themselves. 

The current influx of Castlevania content could be emblematic of this very same pattern in visual media, being an 80s property itself, but what do we actually remember from the 1980s? Thanks to the thirty year cycle, the general public definitely acknowledges and enjoys all the fun things about the decade. Movie theatres were dominated by the teen flicks of John Hughes, the fantasy genre found a comeback due to the resurgence of J.R.R. Tolkien’s classic works along with the tabletop role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons, and people were dancing their worries away to the songs of Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, and Madonna. Then there were the things that most properties taking part in the thirty year cycle choose to ignore or gloss over, with some exceptions. The rise of child disappearances, prompting the term “stranger danger”, the continuation of satanic panic from the 70s which caused the shutdown and incarceration of hundreds of innocent caretakers, and the deaths of thousands due to President Reagan’s homophobia, conservatism, and inability to act upon the AIDS crisis. 

The 1980s also saw a shift in masculinity and how it was represented towards the public whether through advertising, television, cinema, or music. In M.D. Kibby’s essay Real Men: Representations of Masculinity in 80s Cinema, he reveals that “television columns in the popular press argued that viewers were tired of liberated heroes and longed for the return of the macho leading man” (Kibby, 21). Yet there seemed to be a certain “splitness” to the masculine traits found within fictional characters and public personas; something that tried to deconstruct hyper-masculinity while also reviling in it, particularly when it came to white, cisgendered men. Wendy Somerson further describes this dichotomy: “The white male subject is split. On one hand, he takes up the feminized personality of the victim, but on the other hand, he enacts fantasies of hypermasculinized heroism” (Somerson, 143). Somerson explains how the media played up this juxtaposition of “soft masculinity”, where men are portrayed as victimized, helpless, and childlike. In other words, “soft men who represent a reaction against the traditional sexist ‘Fifties man’ and lack a strong male role model” (Somerson, 143). A sort of self-flagellation or masochism in response to the toxic and patriarchal gender roles of three decades previous. Yet this softening of male representation was automatically seen as traditionally “feminine” and femininity almost always equated to childlike weakness. Then in western media, there came the advent of male madness and the fetishization of violent men. Films like Scarface, Die Hard, and any of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s filmography helped to solidify the wide appeal of these hyper-masculine and “men out of control” tropes which were preceded by Martin Scorcese’s critical and cult favourite Taxi Driver.

There were exceptions to this rule; or at the very least attempted exceptions that only managed to do more harm to the concept of a feminized man while also doubling down on the standard tropes of the decade. One shallow example of this balancing act between femininity and masculinity in 80s western media was the hit crime show Miami Vice and Sonny, a character who is entirely defined by his image. In Kibby’s words, “he is a beautiful consumer image, a position usually reserved for women; and he is in continual conflict with work, that which fundamentally defines him as a man” (Kibby, 21). Therein lies the problematic elements of this characterization. Sonny’s hyper-masculine traits of violence and emotionlessness serve as a reaffirmation of his manufactured maleness towards the audience.

Returning to the subject of Schwarzenegger, his influence on 80s media that continued well into the 90s ties directly to how fantasy evolved during this decade while also drawing upon inspirations from earlier trends. The most notable example is his portrayal of Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian in the 1982 film directed by John Milius. Already a classic character from 1930s serials and later comic strips, the movie (while polarizing amongst critics who described it as a “psychopathic Star Wars, stupid and stupefying”) brought the iconic image of a muscle-bound warrior wielding a sword as half-naked women fawn at his feet back into the collective consciousness of many fantasy fans. The character and world of Conan romanticizes the use of violence, strength, and pure might in order to achieve victory. This aesthetic of hyper-masculinity, violence, and sexuality in fantasy art was arguably perfected by the works of Frank Frazetta, a frequent artist for Conan properties. The early Castlevania games drew inspiration from this exact aesthetic for its leading hero Simon Belmont and directly appropriated one of Frazetta’s pieces for the cover of the first game.

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Hammer Horror & Gender

Conan the Barbarian, Frank Frazetta, and similar fantasy icons were just a few influences on the overall feel of 80s Castlevania. Its other major influence harks back to a much earlier and far more gothic trend in media. Castlevania director Hitoshi Akamatsu stated that while the first game was in development, they were inspired by earlier cinematic horror trends and “wanted players to feel like they were in a classic horror movie”. This specific influence forms the very backbone of the Castlevania image. Namely: gothic castles, an atmosphere of constant uncanny dread, and a range of colourful enemies from Frankenstein’s Monster, the Mummy, to of course Dracula. The massive popularity and recognizability of these three characters can be credited to the classic Universal Pictures’ monster movies of the 1930s, but there was another film studio that put its own spin on Dracula and served as another source of inspiration for future Castlevania properties.

The London-based film company Hammer Film Productions was established in 1934 then quickly filed bankruptcy a mere three years later after their films failed to earn back their budget through ticket sales. What saved them was the horror genre itself as their first official title under the ‘Hammer Horror’ brand The Curse of Frankenstein starring Hammer regular Peter Cushing was released in 1957 to enormous profit in both Britain and overseas. With one successful adaptation of a horror legend under their belt, Hammer’s next venture seemed obvious. Dracula (also known by its retitle Horror of Dracula) followed hot off the heels of Frankenstein and once again starred Peter Cushing as Professor Abraham Van Helsing, a much younger and more dashing version of his literary counterpart. Helsing faces off against the titular fanged villain, played by Christopher Lee, whose portrayal of Dracula became the face of Hammer Horror for decades to come. 

Horror of Dracula spawned eight sequels spanning across the 60s and 70s, each dealing with the resurrection or convoluted return of the Prince of Darkness (sound familiar?) Yet these were not the same gothic films pioneered by Universal Studios with fog machines, high melodrama, and disturbingly quiet atmosphere. Christopher Lee’s Dracula and Bela Lugosi’s Dracula are two entirely separate beasts. While nearly identical in design (slicked back hair, long flowing black cape, and a dignified, regal demeanor), Lugosi is subtle, using only his piercing stare as a means of intimidation and power—in the 1930s, smaller details meant bigger scares. For Hammer Horror, when it comes time to show Dracula’s true nature, Lee bares his blood-covered fangs and acts like an animal coveting their prey. Hammer’s overall approach to horror involved bigger production sets, low-cut nightgowns, and bright red blood that contrasted against the muted, desaturated look of each film. And much like the media of 1980, when it came to their characters, the Dracula films fell back on what was expected by society to be ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ while also making slight commentary on those very preconceived traits.

The main theme surrounding each male cast in these films is endangered male authority. Dracula and Van Helsing are without a doubt the most powerful, domineering characters in the story, particularly Helsing. As author Peter Hutchings describes in his book Hammer & Beyond: The British Horror Film, “the figure of the (male) vampire hunter is always one of authority, certainty, and stability (...) he is the only one with enough logical sense to know how to defeat the ultimate evil, thus saving the female characters and weaker male characters from being further victimized” (Hutchings, 124). The key definition here is ‘weaker male characters’. Hammer’s Dracula explores the absolute power of male authority in, yet it also reveals how easily this authority can be weakened. This is shown through the characters of Jonathan Harker and Arthur Holmwood, who differ slightly from how they are portrayed in Stoker’s novel. While Dracula does weaken them both, they manage to join Helsing and defeat the monster through cooperation and teamwork. In fact, it is Harker who lands one of the final killing strikes against Dracula. However, the Jonathan Harker of Hammer’s Dracula is transformed into a vampire against his will and disposed of before the finale. His death, in the words of Hutchings, “underlines the way in which throughout the film masculinity is seen (...) as arrested, in a permanently weakened state” (Hutchings, 117).

This theme of weakened authority extends to Holmwood in a more obvious and unsettling manner. In another deviation from the source material, Lucy Westenra, best friend to Mina Murray and fiancé to Arthur Holmwood, is now Holmwood’s sister and Harker’s fiancé. Lucy’s story still plays out more or less the same way it did in the novel; Dracula routinely drains her of blood until she becomes a vampire, asserting his dominance both physically and mentally. This according to Hutchings is the entirety of Dracula’s plan; a project “to restore male authority over women by taking the latter away from the weak men, establishing himself as the immortal, sole patriarch” (Hutchings, 119). Meanwhile, it is Helsing’s mission to protect men like Arthur Holmwood, yet seems only concerned with establishing his own dominance and does nothing to reestablish Holmwood’s masculinity or authority. Due to the damage done by Dracula and the failings of Helsing, Holmwood never regains this authority, even towards the end when he is forced to murder his own sister. His reaction goes as follows: “as she is staked he clutches his chest, his identification with her at this moment, when she is restored to a passivity which is conventionally feminine, suggesting a femininity within him which the film equates with weakness” (Hutchings, 117).

So Van Helsing succeeds in his mission to defeat his ultimate rival, but Dracula is victorious in his own right. With Jonathan Harker gone, Lucy Holmwood dead, and Arthur Holmwood further emasculated, he succeeds in breaking down previous male power structures while putting himself in their place as the all-powerful, all-dominant male presence. This is the very formula in which early Hammer Dracula films were built upon; “with vampire and vampire hunter mutually defining an endangered male authority, and the woman functioning in part as the site of their struggle (...) forged within and responded to British social reality of the middle and late 1950s” (Hutchings, 123).

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Alucard c. 1989

As for Castlevania’s Dracula, his earliest design takes more from Christopher Lee’s portrayal than from Bela Lugosi or Bram Stoker’s original vision. His appearance on the first ever box art bears a striking resemblance to one of the most famous stills from Horror of Dracula. Even in pixelated form, Dracula’s imposing model is more characteristic of Christopher Lee than Bela Lugosi.

Being his son, it would make logical sense for the first appearance of Alucard in Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse to resemble his father. His 1989 design carries over everything from the slick dark hair, sharp claws, and shapeless long cloak but adds a certain juvenile element—or rather, a more human element. This makes sense in the context of the game’s plot. Despite being the third title, Dracula’s Curse acts as the starting point to the Castlevania timeline (before it was replaced by Castlevania: Legends in 1997, which was then retconned and also replaced by Castlevania: Lament of Innocence in 2003 as the definitive prequel of the series). Set nearly two centuries before Simon Belmont’s time, Dracula’s Curse follows Simon’s ancestor Trevor Belmont as he is called to action by the church to defeat Dracula once he begins a reign of terror across Wallachia, now known as modern day Romania. It is a reluctant decision by the church, since the Belmont family has been exiled due to fear and superstition surrounding their supposed inhuman powers. 

This is one example of how despite the current technological limitations, later Castlevania games were able to add more in-depth story elements little by little beyond “find Dracula, kill Dracula”. This began as early as Castlevania 2: Simon’s Quest by giving Simon a much stronger motivation in his mission and the inclusion of multiple endings. The improvements made throughout the Classicvania era were relatively small while further character and story complexities remained either limited or unexplored, but they were improvements nonetheless.

Another example of this slight progress in storytelling was Castlevania 3’s introduction of multiple playable characters each with a unique backstory of their own. The supporting cast includes Sypha Belnades, a powerful sorceress disguised as a humble monk who meets Trevor after he saves her from being frozen in stone by a cyclops, and Grant Danasty, a pirate who fell under Dracula’s influence before Trevor helped him break free from his curse. Then there is of course Adrian Fahrenheit Țepeș who changed his name to Alucard, the opposite of Dracula, as a symbol of rebellion against his tyrannical father. Yet Castlevania was not the first to conceptualize the very character of Alucard; someone who is the son of Dracula and whose name is quite literally the backwards spelling of his fathers’. That idea started with Universal’s 1943 venture Son of Dracula, a sequel to the 1931 classic that unfortunately failed to match the original’s effective atmosphere, scares, and story. In it, Alucard is undoubtedly the villain whereas in Dracula’s Curse, he is one of the heroes. Moral and noble, able to sway Trevor Belmont’s preconceptions of vampiric creatures, and with an odd sympathy for the monster that is his father. Alucard even goes as far as to force himself into an eternal slumber after the defeat of Dracula in order to “purge the world of his own cursed bloodline” (the reason given by Castlevania: Symphony of the Night’s opening narration).

When it comes to design, Castlevania’s Alucard does the curious job of fitting in with the franchises’ established aesthetic yet at the same time, he manages to stand out the most—in fact, all the main characters do. Everyone from Trevor, Sypha, to Grant all look as though they belong in different stories from different genres. Grant’s design is more typical of the classic pirate image one would find in old illustrated editions of Robinson Crusoe’s Treasure Island or in a classic swashbuckler like 1935’s Captain Blood starring Errol Flynn. Sypha might look more at home in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign or an early Legend of Zelda title with a large hood obscuring her facial features, oversized blue robes, and a magical staff all of which are commonplace for a fantasy mage of the 1980s. Trevor’s design is nearly identical to Simon’s right down to the whip, long hair, and barbarian-esque attire which, as mentioned previously, was taken directly from Conan the Barbarian. 

Judging Alucard solely from official character art ranging from posters to other promotional materials, he seems to be the only one who belongs in the gothic horror atmosphere of Dracula’s Curse. As the physically largest and most supernaturally natured of the main cast, he is in almost every way a copy of his father—a young Christopher Lee’s Dracula complete with fangs and cape. Yet his path as a hero within the game’s narrative along with smaller, near missable details in his design (his ingame magenta cape, the styling of his hair in certain official art, and the loose-fitting cravat around his neck) further separates him from the absolute evil and domination that is Dracula. Alucard is a rebel and an outsider, just like Trevor, Sypha, and Grant. In a way, they mirror the same vampire killing troupe from Bram Stoker’s novel; a group of people all from different facets of life who come together to defeat a common foe. 

The son of Dracula also shares similar traits with Hammer’s Van Helsing. Same as the Belmonts (who as vampire hunters are exactly like Helsing in everything except name), Alucard is portrayed as one of the few remaining beacons of masculinity with enough strength, skill, and logical sense who can defeat Dracula, another symbol of patriarchal power. With Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse, we begin to see Alucard’s dual nature in aesthetics that is automatically tied to his characterization; a balance that many Byronic heroes try to strike between masculine domination and moralistic sensitivity and goodness that is often misconstrued as weakly feminine. For now though, especially in appearance, Alucard’s persona takes more from the trends that influenced his allies (namely Trevor and Simon Belmont) and his enemy (Dracula). This of course would change drastically alongside the Castlevania franchise itself come the 1990s.

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Gender Expression & The 1990s Goth Scene

When a person sees or hears the word “gothic”, it conjures up a very specific mental image—dark and stormy nights spent inside an extravagant castle that is host to either a dashing vampire with a thirst for blood, vengeful ghosts of the past come to haunt some unfortunate living soul, or a mad scientist determined to cheat death and bring life to a corpse sewn from various body parts. In other words, a scenario that would be the focus of some Halloween television special or a daring novel from the mid to late Victorian era. Gothicism has had its place in artistic and cultural circles long before the likes of Mary Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker, and even before Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, a late 18th century novel that arguably started the gothic horror subgenre. 

The term itself originated in 17th century Sweden as a descriptor of the national romanticism concerning the North Germanic Goths, a tribe which occupied much of Medieval Götaland. It was a period of historical revisionism in which the Goths and other Viking tribes were depicted as heroic and heavily romanticised. Yet more than ever before, gothicism is now associated with a highly specific (and in many ways personal) form of artistic and gender expression. It started with the golden age of gothic Medieval architecture that had its revival multiple centuries later during the Victorian era, then morphed into one of the darkest if not melodramatic literary movements, and finally grew a new identity throughout the 1990s. For this portion, we will focus on the gothic aesthetic as it pertains to fashion and music.

Arguably, the advent of the modern goth subculture as it is known nowadays began with the 1979 song “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” from Northampton’s own rock troupe Bauhaus. The overall aesthetic of the song, accompanying live performances, and the band itself helped shaped the main themes of current gothicism including, but not limited to, “macabre funeral musical tone and tempo, to lyrical references to the undead, to deep voiced eerie vocals, to a dark twisted form of androgyny in the appearance of the band and most of its following” (Hodkinson, 35-64). This emphasis on physical androgyny in a genre that was predominantly focused on depictions of undeniable masculinity was especially important to the 80s and 90s goth scene. Bauhaus opened the gates in which other goth and post-punk bands gained popularity outside of underground venues, including The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Southern Death Cult. Much like Bauhaus’ “twisted form of androgyny”, these other bands pioneered a romantic yet darkly feminine aesthetic which was then embraced by their fans. It wasn’t until the producer of Joy Division Tony Wilson along with members from Southern Death Cult and U.K. Decay mentioned the word “goth” in passing that this growing musical and aesthetic subculture finally had a name for itself. 

The goth movement of the 1990s became an interesting mesh of nonconformity and individual expression while also emphasising the need for a mutual connection through shared interests and similar aesthetics. Unique social outsiders looking for a sense of community and belonging—not unlike Stoker’s vampire hunting troupe or the main cast of Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse. Paul Hodkinson author of Goth: Identity, Style and Subculture describes the ways in which goths were able to expand their social networking while making the subculture their own. In order to gain further respect and recognition within the community, “they usually sought to select their own individual concoction from the range of acceptable artefacts and themes and also to make subtle additions and adaptations from beyond the established stylistic boundaries” (Hodkinson, 35-64). This was one of the ways in which the goth subculture was able to grow and evolve while maintaining some typical aesthetics. Those aesthetics that had already become gothic staples as far back as classic Victorian horror included crucifixes, bats, and vampires; all of which were presented by young modern goths, as Hodkinson puts it, “sometimes in a tongue-in-cheek self-conscious manner, sometimes not” (Hodkinson, 35-64).

The vampire, as it appeared in visual mass media of the time, was also instrumental to the 90s gothic scene, reinforcing certain physical identifiers such as long dark hair, pale make-up, and sometimes blackened sunglasses. This was especially popular amongst male goths who embodied traditional gothic traits like dark femininity and androgyny, which had already been long established within the subculture. 

As always, television and film did more to reinforce these subcultural trends as recognizable stereotypes, usually in a negative manner, than it did to help people embrace them. In media aimed towards a primarily teenage and young adult demographic, if a character did not possess the traditional traits of a hyper-masculine man, they instead fit into two different molds; either the neurotic geek or the melodramatic, moody goth. However, there were forms of media during the 90s that did manage to embrace and even relish with no sense of irony in the gothic aesthetic. 

Two films which helped to build upon the enthusiasm for the vampire were Francis Ford Coppola’s lavish adaptation of Stoker’s novel titled Bram Stoker’s Dracula starring Gary Oldman in the titular role of Dracula and another adaptation of a more recent gothic favourite among goths, Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise. The majority of the male goth scene especially emulated Oldman’s portrayal of Dracula when in the film he transforms into a much younger, more seductive version of himself in order to blend in with society, everything down to the shaded Victorian sunglasses and the long flowing hair; a vision of classic, sleek androgyny combined with an intimidating demeanor without being overly hyper-masculine. 

Primarily taking place during the 18th and 19th century, Interview with the Vampire (the film and the original novel) also encouraged this very same trend, helping to establish European aristocratic elements into the gothic aesthetic; elements such as lace frills, finely tailored petticoats, corsets, and a general aura of delicacy. 

Going back to Hodkinson’s findings, he states that “without actually rendering such categories insignificant, goth had from its very beginnings been characterized by the predominance, for both males and females, of particular kinds of style which would normally be associated with femininity” (Hodkinson, 35-64). However, it is important to acknowledge that the western goth subculture as described in this section, while a haven for various forms of gender expression, placed heavy emphasis on thin, white bodies. Over the years, diversity within the community has been promoted and encouraged, but rarely do we see it as the forefront face of gothicism.

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The Japanese Goth Scene & Ayami Kojima

Modern gothicism was not limited to North America or Europe. In Japan, the subculture had evolved into its own form of self-expression through clothing and music that took inspiration from a variety of 18th and 19th century themes (mostly originating from European countries). Yet despite the numerous western influences, the eastern goth community during the 1990s and early 2000s embraced itself as something unique and wholly Japanese; in other words, different from what was happening within the North American movement at the same time. To refresh the memory, western goth culture focused primarily on the macabre that included completely black, moody wardrobes with an air of dark femininity. Japanese goth culture maintained those feminine traits, but included elements that were far more decadent, frivolous, and played further into the already established aristocratic motifs of gothicism. This created a new fashion subculture known as Gothic Lolita or Goth-Loli (no reference to the Vladimir Nabokov novel Lolita or the themes presented within the text itself). 

In Style Deficit Disorder: Harajuku street fashion, a retrospective on the history of modern Japanese street fashion, the Goth-Loli image is described as “an amalgam of Phantom of the Opera, Alice in Wonderland, and Edgar Allan Poe” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 160). It was an aesthetic that took the western notion of “gothic” to higher levels with a heavier emphasis on opulence and an excessive decorative style—think Gothic meets Baroque meets Rococo. Teresa Younker, author of Lolita: Dreaming, Despairing, Defying, suggests that during the early years of the Gothic Lolita movement, it acted as a form of escapism for many young Japanese individuals searching for a way out of conformity. She states that “rather than dealing with the difficult reality of rapid commercialization, destabilization of society, a rigid social system, and an increasingly body-focused fashion norm, a select group of youth chose to find comfort in the over-the-top imaginary world of lace, frills, bows, tulle, and ribbons”. One pioneer that helped to bring the Goth-Loli image at the forefront of Japanese underground and street fashion the likes of Harajuku was the fashion magazine Gothic & Lolita Bible. Launched in 2001 by Index Communication and Mariko Suzuki, each issue acted as a sort of catalogue book for popular gothic and lolita trends that expanded to art, music, manga, and more. 

According to Style Deficit Disorder, during this time when Gothic & Lolita Bible had helped bring the subculture into a larger collective awareness, the Goth-Loli image became “inspired by a yearning for something romantic overseas (...) and after taking on the “Harajuku Fashion,” ended up travelling overseas, while remaining a slightly strange fashion indigenous to Japan” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 137). Then came KERA Maniac, another magazine launched in 2003 that had “even darker clothing and international style points and references, such as features on the life and art of Lewis Carroll, Japanese ball-jointed dolls, or interviews with icons like Courtney Love” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 140). The fashion trends that both Gothic & Lolita Bible and KERA Maniac focused on also found popularity amongst visual kei bands which were usually all male performers who began sporting the very same ultra-feminine, ultra-aristocratic Goth-Loli brands that were always featured in these magazines. 

Similar to traditional Kabuki theatre, “this visual-kei placed great importance on the gorgeous spectacle created onstage” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 135). One particular visual kei performer of the early 2000s that became Gothic & Lolita Bible’s biggest and most frequent collaborator was Mana. Best known for his musical and fashion career, Mana describes his onstage persona, merging aristocratic goth with elegant gothic lolita, as “either male or female but it is also neither male nor female. It is both devil and angel. The pursuit of a middle ground” (Godoy; Hirakawa, 159).

Opulence, decadence, and femininity with a dark undertone are all apt terms to describe the image of Japanese gothicism during the 90s and early aughts. They are also perfect descriptors of how artist Ayami Kojima changed the face of Castlevania from a franchise inspired by classic horror and fantasy to something more distinct. As a self-taught artist mainly working with acrylics, India ink, and finger smudging among other methods, 1997’s Castlevania: Symphony of the Night was Kojima’s first major title as the lead character designer. Over the years she worked on a number of separate video games including Samurai Warriors and Dynasty Warriors, along with other Castlevania titles. Before then, she made a name for herself as a freelance artist mainly working on novel covers and even collaborated with Vampire Hunter D creator Kikuchi Hideyuki for a prequel to his series. Kojima has been dubbed by fans as “the queen of Castlevania” due to her iconic contributions to the franchise. 

Kojima’s influences cover a wide array of themes from the seemingly obvious (classic horror, shounen manga, and East Asian history) to disturbingly eclectic (surgery, body modification, and body horror). It is safe to assume that her resume for Castlevania involves some of her tamer works when compared to what else is featured in her 2010 artbook Santa Lilio Sangre. Yet even when her more personal art pieces rear into the grotesquely unsettling, they always maintain an air of softness and femininity. Kojima is never afraid to show how the surreal, the intense, or the horrifying can also be beautiful. Many of her pieces include details emblematic of gothicism; skulls, bloodied flowers, the abundance of religious motifs, and lavish backgrounds are all commonplace, especially in her Castlevania art. Her models themselves—most often androgynous men with sharp cheekbones, flowing hair, and piercing gazes—look as though they would fit right into a gothic visual kei band or the pages of Gothic & Lolita Bible.

Castlevania: Harmony of Despair was the final Castlevania game Kojima worked on, as well as her last game overall. It wasn’t until 2019 when she reappeared with new pieces including promotional artwork for former Castlevania co-worker Koji Igarashi’s Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night and a collaboration with Japanese musician Kamijo on his newest album. Her work has also appeared in the February 2020 issue of TezuComi, depicting a much lighter and softer side of her aesthetic. Ayami Kojima may have moved onto other projects, but the way in which she forever influenced the Castlevania image is still being drawn upon and emulated to this day.

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Alucard c. 1997

There were actually three versions of Alucard during the 1990s, each of which were products of their time for different reasons. The first example is not only the most well known amongst fans and casual onlookers alike, but it is also the one design of Alucard that manages to stand the test of time. Ayami Kojima redesigned a number of classic Castlevania characters, giving them the gothic androgynous demeanour her art was known for. Most fans will say with some degree of jest that once Kojima joined Konami, Castlevania grew to look less like the masculine power fantasy it started as and more like a bishounen manga. No matter the differing opinions on the overall stylistic change of the series, Kojima’s reimagining of Alucard for Castlevania: Symphony of the Night is undoubtedly iconic. His backstory has more or less remained the same, carried over from Castlevania 3: Dracula’s Curse. After killing his father Dracula, Alucard, unable to fully process his actions or his bloodline, decides to force himself into a centuries long slumber in order to rid the world of his dark powers. Symphony of the Night begins with the Byronic dhampir prince waking up after nearly 300 years have passed once Dracula’s castle mysteriously reappears in close proximity to his resting place. The only difference this time is there seems to be no Belmont to take care of it, unlike previous years when Dracula is resurrected. Determined to finish what was started during the 15th century, the player takes Alucard on a journey throughout the castle, which has now become larger and more challenging than past incarnations.

Despite being somewhat of a direct sequel to Dracula’s Curse, Symphony’s Alucard is not the same dhampir as his 80s counterpart. Gone are any similarities to Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee; now Alucard bears more of a resemblance to Anne Rice’s own literary muse Lestat de Lioncourt from her ongoing Vampire Chronicles. Instead of slicked back dark hair, thick golden locks (which were originally black to match his father) cascade down Alucard’s figure, swaying with his every pixelated movement. Heeled leather boots, a black coat with gold embellishments along with an abnormally large collar underneath a flowing cape, and a high-collared cravat replace the simplistic wardrobe of 80s Alucard—from a traditional, minimalist goth mirroring his father’s masculinity to an extravagant, aristocratic goth with his own intense, almost macabre femininity.

With the early Metroidvanias came the inclusion of detailed character portraits designed by Ayami Kojima which would appear alongside a dialogue box to further establish the illusion of the characters speaking to each other. Symphony of the Night was one of the first titles where players got to see Alucard’s ingame expression and it looked exactly as it did on every piece of promotional poster and artwork. The same piercing glare, furrowed brow, and unshakeable inhuman determination, the sort that is also reflected in his limited mannerisms and character—all of which are displayed upon an immaculate face that rarely if ever smiles. Just by looking at his facial design nearly hidden behind locks of hair that always seems meticulously styled, it is clear that Alucard cannot and will not diverge from his mission. The only moment in the game when his stoic facade breaks completely is when he faces off against the Succubus, who tempts Alucard to give into his vampiric nature by disguising herself as his deceased mother Lisa. Yet even then he sees through her charade and, depending on the player’s ability, quickly disposes of her. 

Despite his delicate feminine features, emotional softness is not one of Alucard’s strongest suits in Symphony. Though for someone in his position, someone who must remain steadfast and succeed in his goal or else fail the rest of humanity, where little else matters, Alucard’s occasional coldness (a trait that would return in recent Castlevania instalments) makes sense. There is a scene near at the climax of the game where he exposits to the other main protagonists Richter Belmont and Maria Renard about how painful it felt to destroy his father a second time, but he reframes it as a lesson about the importance of standing up against evil rather than an admission of his own vulnerability. However, he does choose to stay in the world of mortal humans instead of returning to his coffin (depending on which ending the player achieves).

The second 90s version of Alucard is a curious case of emulation, drawing inspiration from both Kojima’s redesign and other Japanese art styles of the 1990s. Castlevania Legends was released for the Game Boy the exact same year as Symphony of the Night and acted as a prequel to Dracula’s Curse, following its protagonist Sonia Belmont as she traverses through Dracula’s castle alongside Alucard and becomes the first Belmont in history to defeat him. It was then retconned after the release of Castlevania: Lament of Innocence in 2003 due to how its story conflicted with the overall timeline of the series. As with most of the earliest Game Boy titles, the ingame graphics of Legends are held back by the technological limitations, but the box art and subsequent character concepts reveal the game’s aesthetic which seems to take the most inspiration from other Japanese franchises of the decade. The biggest example would be Slayers, a popular comedic fantasy series that included light novels, manga, and anime. Legends Alucard is portrayed in this particular animated style, yet his design itself is very similar to how he looks in Symphony of the Night with only minor exceptions. 

The third and arguably most obscure 90s Alucard comes from the animated children’s show Captain N: The Game Master, a crossover that brought together popular Nintendo characters like Mega Man, Kid Icarus, and Simon Belmont. The episodes were presented as traditional monsters of the week, meaning each one focused on a brand new story or environment usually taken from Nintendo games. One episode that aired in 1993 centered on Castlevania and featured a comedic and parodied version of Alucard. Although the episode took elements from Dracula’s Curse, Alucard was meant to be a stereotypical representation of rebellious 90s youth, i.e. an overemphasis on skateboarding and “radical” culture. A colorful, kid-friendly version of the character that was never meant to be taken seriously; much like the rest of the show.

Out of the three variations, Ayami Kojima’s Alucard is the one that made the biggest and longest lasting impact on Castlevania. Redesigning an iconic franchise or character always comes with its own risks and gambles. In the case of Symphony of Night, the gamble made by Kojima—and by extension Konami and director Koji Igarashi—paid off. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said regarding Alucard’s next major change as a character and an image. 

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Lords of Shadow

“What motivates a man to confront the challenges that most of us would run from?” This is a question put forth by Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, the first attempt by Konami to reinvigorate and inject new life into the Castlevania brand name by completing rebooting the universe. Starting from scratch as it were. Originally, Lords of Shadow seemed to have no connection to the Castlevania franchise. Announced by Konami during a games convention in 2008, this was meant to give more attention and not distract from the upcoming Castlevania: Judgment. However, merely a year later at Electronic Entertainment Expo, it was revealed that Lords of Shadow was in fact the next major step that Konami was taking with Castlevania. From its announcement and early trailers, the game was already generating a healthy amount of media buzz due to its updated graphics, design, and gameplay. Having Konami alumni, video game auteur, and creator of the critically acclaimed Metal Gear series Hideo Kojima attached to the project also helped to generate initial hype for this new phase of Castlevania (though it should be noted that Kojima was only credited as a consultant and advisor for the Lords of Shadow development team). After nearly a decade of near hits, substantial misses, and a lack of focus for the franchise, Castlevania had once again become one of the most highly anticipated upcoming games. To quote gaming news and reviews website GamesRadar+ at the time, “this could be a megaton release”.

And it was—so to speak. As mentioned in previous sections, the first Lords of Shadow did relatively well, garnering critical and commercial success. By November of 2010, nearly one million copies had sold in North America and Europe alone. While not a monumental achievement or a record breaker, Lords of Shadow soon became the highest selling Castlevania game of all time. But enough time has passed since its release and nowadays, fans look back upon this reinvented Castlevania timeline pushed by Konami with mixed feelings, some more negative than others. 

The main criticism is that when it comes to gameplay, environment, and story, Lords of Shadow changed too much from its original source material. Change is not always a terrible thing especially in regards to long-running franchises and Castlevania had already gone through one massive upheaval with Symphony of the Night. Although the difference is how well that dramatic change was executed and how players reacted to it. For many, Lords of Shadow felt less like the game it was supposed to be emulating and more like other action hack-and-slashers of the time. The gameplay didn’t feel like Castlevania, it felt like Devil May Cry. Elements of the story didn’t feel like Castlevania, they felt like God of War. Each boss fight didn’t feel like Castlevania, they felt like Shadow of the Colossus (a frequent comment made by fans). Despite the familiar elements from past games that made their way into this new instalment, for many, Lords of Shadow was too little of Castlevania and too much of everything else that surrounded its development. Meanwhile, the afformented familiar elements seemed like attempts at fanservice in order to make sure that longtime fans felt more at home.

Does the game and its following sequels still hold any merit in terms of aesthetic and story? They do, especially when it comes to its style. Lords of Shadow, its midquel Mirror of Fate, and the sequel Lords of Shadow 2 are not unappealing games to look at. When examining the concept art of characters, enemies, and environments, one could argue that the Lords of Shadow series has some of the most visually striking Castlevania art in the series. The monster designs in particular take on a much grander, ambitious, and menacing presence that take inspiration from various mythological and biblical sources, the best example being Leviathan from Lords of Shadow 2. 

By the 2010s, AAA video games in general were going through a sort of golden age with titles such as Assassin’s Creed 2, Batman: Arkham Asylum, and Red Dead Redemption among many others. Not only were the stories and gameplay mechanics improving by ten folds, so too were the graphical capacities that each game could uphold. Due to technological advancements, Castlevania had the chance to become more detailed and fleshed out than before. The locations of Lords of Shadow and its sequels, which ranged from gothic castles, to modern decrepit cities, to fantastical forests, grew lusher and more opulent while the monsters evolved past the traditional skeletons of the series into far more imposing nightmarish creatures.

The first game along with Mirror of Fate kept themselves fairly grounded in their respective environments. Nearly every character looks as though they firmly belong in the gothic fantasy world they inhabit. Gabriel Belmont and the rest of the Brotherhood of Light are dressed in robes reminiscent of medieval knights (with a few non-historical embellishments) while the vampiric characters of Carmilla and Laura dress in the same manner that typical vampires would. However, a new location known as Castlevania City was introduced in Lords of Shadow 2, modelled after a 21st century metropolitan cityscape. Characters with designs more suited to God of War or Soul Calibur intermingle with NPCs dressed in modern clothing, further highlighting the clash of aesthetics. While this is not the first time Castlevania has featured environments populated with humans, the constant shifting between a dark urban landscape with more science fiction elements than fantasy and the traditional gothic setting of Dracula’s castle can feel like whiplash. 

The Lords of Shadow timeline was an ambitious attempt by Konami to try and give fans a Castlevania experience they had not seen before. New concepts that were previously unexplored or only alluded to in past games were now at the forefront. Yet the liberties that each game took with established Castlevania lore, both in terms of story and design, were perhaps too ambitious. The biggest example is the choice to have the Belmont protagonist turn into Dracula through a combined act of despair and selflessness, but Alucard went through a number of changes as well. Transforming him from the golden-haired aristocrat of the 90s and 2000s into an amalgamation of dark fantasy tropes. 

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Alucard c. 2014

After the success of Castlevania: Symphony of the Night, Alucard reappeared in a number of following titles, most of which depicted him in his typical black and gold wardrobe. There were exceptions, including Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow and its direct sequel Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow where he adopts the alias of Genya Arikado, an agent for a futuristic Japanese organization dedicated to stopping any probable resurrections of Dracula. Because of this need to appear more human and hide his true heritage, Genya’s appearance is simple and possibly one of Ayami Kojima’s most minimalistic character designs; a black suit, shoulder length black hair, and the job is done. In Dawn of Sorrow, Alucard briefly appears as himself, drawn in a less detailed anime style that softens his once intensely stoic expression first seen in Symphony. The next exception is Castlevania: Judgment, a fighting game where characters from separate games and time periods are brought together to face off against one another. Konami brought on Takeshi Obata (who by then was famously known for his work on Death Note) as the lead character designer and in many regards had a similar aesthetic to Ayami Kojima, creating lavish gothic pieces that were heavily detailed and thematic. 

Like Kojima, Obata was given free range to reconceptualize all of the characters appearing in Judgment with little to no remaining motifs from previous designs. This included Alucard, who dons a suit of silver armor and long white hair to match it. Judgment’s Alucard marked a turning point for the character in terms of appearance; a gradual change that was solidified by Lords of Shadow.

This is where things get complicated. While Castlevania could be considered a horror series solely based on its references, aesthetic, and monsters, nearly every iteration whether it comes down to the games or other forms of media tends to veer more towards the dark fantasy genre. Edward James and Farah Mendleson’s Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature describe the distinction between traditional horror and dark fantasy as a genre “whose protagonists believe themselves to inhabit the world of consensual mundane reality and learn otherwise, not by walking through a portal into some other world, or by being devoured or destroyed irrevocably, but by learning to live with new knowledge and sometimes with new flesh” (James; Mendleson, 218). While horror is a genre of despair, directly confronting audience members with the worst of humanity and the supernatural, “the protagonist of dark fantasy comes through that jeopardy to a kind of chastened wisdom” (James; Mendleson, 217). 

Dark fantasy is ultimately a genre of acceptance (i.e. characters accepting a horrible change or embracing the world they have been forcibly thrown into), but it also represents a rejection of traditional tropes implemented by the works of Tolkien or the Brothers Grimm, thus defining itself by that very same act of rejection. An example of this is the theme of failure, which is common in many dark fantasy stories. There are far more unhappy or bittersweet endings than happy ones while the construction of the classic hero’s journey hinges more on all the possible ways in which the protagonist could fail in their quest. 

Going off from this definition, the Lords of Shadow timeline fits squarely into the dark fantasy genre, especially concerning its two leading men. We already know that Gabriel Belmont sacrifices his humanity in order to become Dracula, but what happens to his son borders on a Greek tragedy. Before the “deaths” of Gabriel and Maria, they had a son named Trevor who was immediately taken into the care of the Brotherhood of Light and kept away from his father in order to protect him. Years later when Trevor is an adult with a family of his own, he vows to defeat Dracula for bringing shame and dishonor upon the Belmont bloodline. Yet when their eventual confrontation happens, Dracula easily beats Trevor who, on the verge of death, reveals the truth about his connection to the lord of vampires. In a desperate act of regret, Dracula forces Trevor to drink his blood and places him into a coffin labeled “Alucard” where he will seemingly rest for eternity.

Time passes and Trevor Belmont—now transformed into the vampire Alucard—awakens, just as he did at the beginning of Dracula’s Curse and Symphony of the Night. During his disappearance, his wife Sypha Belnades was killed by Dracula’s creatures, orphaning their son Simon Belmont. The two eventually meet and work together to stop Dracula, but Alucard cannot bring himself to tell Simon the truth.

Despite a well-deserved happy ending in Lords of Shadow 2 (he and his father reconcile before going off to presumably live a peaceful life), the character of Trevor/Alucard is built upon the same themes of failure and learning to accept terrible change found within dark fantasy. His design is especially reminiscent of one of the darkest and most tortured protagonists in the genre, Michael Moorcock’s Elric from his Elric of Melniboné series. First appearing in the June 1961 issue of Science Fantasy, he stands out amongst most sword and sorcery heroes, different from the hypermasculinity of Conan the Barbarian for his embittered personality, philosophical motifs, and memorable design. Elric is constantly described as looking deathly pale with skin “the color of a bleached skull; and the long hair which flows below his shoulders is milk-white” (Moorcock, 3) and a body that needs a steady stream of potions in order to function properly or else he will gradually grow weaker, nearer towards the edge of death—more a corpse than a human being. 

Lords of Shadow Alucard is very much like a walking corpse as well. His long hair is the same milk-white tone as Elrics’, his skin is deprived of any real color, and his open chest outfit reveals a body that is both robust yet emaciated. Moorcock’s Elric was the prototype for many other white haired, pale faced, otherworldly antiheroes in fantasy that came afterwards and the darkly ethereal aesthetic that reflected his constant state of self-loathing and tragedy was the most ideal fit for this new version of Alucard. Both fail as traditional fantasy heroes, both abhor their physical states, yet both learn to embrace it at the same time.

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A Brief History of Modern Animation

Before we move onto the final iteration of Dracula’s son, let us first acquaint ourselves with an artistic medium that has not been fully discussed yet. This essay has gone into detail concerning the aesthetics of video games, fashion, filmmaking, and music, but where does animation fit in? Since 1891’s Pauvre Pierrot, the only surviving short film predating the silent era with 500 individually painted frames, animation has evolved into one of the most expressive, diverse, and groundbreaking art forms of the modern age. There were earlier methods that fit into the animation mold before Pauvre Pierrot including but not limited to shadow play, magic lantern shows, and the phenakistoscope, one of the first devices to use rapid succession in order to make still images look as though they were moving. Throughout the 20th century, with the help of mainstream studios like Warner Bros. and of course Walt Disney, the medium quickly began to encompass a variety of techniques and styles beyond a series of drawings on paper. Some of the more recognizable and unique styles are as followed:

Digital 2-D animation

Digital 3-D animation

Stop-motion

Puppetry

Claymation

Rotoscoping

Motion capture

Cut-out animation

Paint-on-glass

The most common forms used in film and television are traditional hand drawn and digital 3-D, sometimes merged together in the same product. There has been much debate over which animation technique has more artistic merit and is more “authentic” to the medium, but the reality is that there is no singular true form of animation. Each style brings its own advantages, challenges, and all depends on how it is being used to tell a specific story or evoke a feeling within the audience. For example, the 2017 semi-biographical movie Loving Vincent is animated in a nontraditional style with oil paints in order to create the illusion of a Vincent Van Gogh painting that has come to life. As Loving Vincent is about the influential painter himself and his tragic life, this animation technique works to the film’s advantage. If the story had used a more traditional form like 2-D or 3-D, it might not have had the same impact. Another example like the film A Scanner Darkly starring Keanu Reeves uses a somewhat controversial technique known as rotoscoping, which entails tracing over live action scenes in order to give it a realistic yet still animated feel. A Scanner Darkly is a futuristic crime thriller meant to evoke a sense of surrealism and discomfort, making the uncanniness of rotoscoping the perfect fit for its artificial atmosphere. 

Throughout its history, animation has gone through a number of phases corresponding to political, artistic, and historical events such as propaganda shorts from Walt Disney during World War II and the rise of adult-oriented animators who rode the wave of countercultural movements during the late 1960s and early 70s. Animation meant for older audiences was especially coming into its own as most audiences had become more comfortable associating the medium with the family friendly formula perfected by the Disney company. The only other western mainstream animation studio that could stand toe to toe with Disney while also dabbling in mature subject matter at the time was Warner Bros. and its juggernaut Looney Tunes, which even then was mostly relegated to smoking, slapstick violence, and mild suggestive material. Meanwhile, the works of Ralph Bakshi, arguably the father of elevated adult animated features, dealt with everything from dark humor, sexuality, profanity, and complex themes most of which delved into pure shock value and were highly offensive in order to make a statement. There were later exceptions to this approach including Bakshi’s own adaptation of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, Wizards, and Fire and Ice, a high profile collaboration with Frank Frazetta, in which both films utilized rotoscope animation to create unique, fantasy-based experiences for mature viewers.

With the right amount of funds and creativity, other countries began developing their own animated features with distinct styles that reflected the culture, social norms, and history in which they originated from. The 1960s are referred to as “the rise of Japanese animation”, or as it came to be known worldwide as anime, thanks to iconic characters of the decade like Astro Boy, Kimba the White Lion, and Speed Racer. The longest running anime with over 7,700 episodes to date is Sazae-san, based on the popular 1940s comic strip of the same name. Western audiences commonly associate modern anime with over the top scenarios, animation, and facial movements while having little to no basis in reality when it comes to either story or character design. 

While the Walt Disney company was steadily losing its monopoly on the animation industry with financial and critical disappointments (making room for other animators like Don Bluth) until it's renaissance during the 1990s, the 1980s turned into a golden age for ambitious, groundbreaking anime projects. Not only were films like Akira, Grave of the Fireflies, Barefoot Gen, and Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind among many others, appealing to a wide variety of audiences, they were also bold enough to tackle mature, complex subject matter with a certain degree of nuance that complimented each film’s unique but often times bizarre or surreal styles. Akira watches like a violent cyberpunk splatterfest with extreme body horror and juvenile delinquency, yet its borderline exploitative methods serve a larger purpose. Akira takes place in a bleak, dystopian Japan where Tokyo has been rebuilt after its destruction in 1988, setting up an allegorical story that directly confronts government experimentation and the fallout of nuclear warfare.

Artists of all mediums have always influenced one another and the impact that anime has had on western animation continues to this day whether through passing tongue-in-cheek references, taking inspiration from common anime tropes while also depicting them through a western lens, or shows that feature a heavily emulated anime style like Avatar: The Last Airbender and its successor The Legend of Korra. Then there are shows that completely blur the lines between western animation and anime, with the ultimate distinction usually coming down to where it was originally developed (i.e. North America or Japan).

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Alucard c. 2017

The overall aesthetic and image of Netflix’s Castlevania is built upon a number of different influences, the majority of which come from Japanese animation. Executive producer and long time Castlevania fan Adi Shankar has gone on record saying that the show is partially “an homage to those OVAs that I would watch on TV (...) and I was like, “This is beautiful, and it’s an art form”. He has also directly compared the show to those golden age-era ultra violent anime features of the 80s and 90s, including titles such as Akira, Ghost in the Shell, and Ninja Scroll. Director Samuel Deats, another avid Castlevania fan, has mentioned the long-running manga series Berserk along with its 1997 anime adaptation as one of the animation team’s primary inspirations numerous times, explaining in further detail in a 2017 interview with io9: “I pulled out my ‘I love the Berserk manga, Blade the Immortal’ and all that. That dark fantasy style of storytelling, character design, how gorey it gets… I put together a bunch of drawings and sketches, and a few color images that channeled all of that”.

Watching Castlevania, the aesthetic references to Berserk are obvious. Both series merge together medieval fantasy elements with gruesome horror but they are also similar in their particular animation styles. One director from Korean studio MOI Animation who partnered with Powerhouse Animation collaborated on the feature length film Berserk: The Golden Age—The Egg of the King along with its two sequels. But the biggest inspiration for the design of Castlevania, especially when it comes to its characters, is Ayami Kojima herself. 

From the pre-production phase, the team at Powerhouse knew they wanted Kojima’s art to be the main basis of how the finished product would look and feel. According to Samuel Deats, “In the back of everyone’s heads, we knew that we wanted to heavily reference the style Ayami Kojima used in the Castlevania games. We wanted to bring the same shade-before-image sort of thing”. However, due to the sheer amount of details and embroidered style of Kojima’s aesthetic, many of her original designs had to be simplified into 2-D animated forms (just as they had to be reduced into pixelated form for Symphony of the Night).

Alucard’s animated design is the best example of this simplification process, but it took some trial and error in order to arrive at the finished product. When Castlevania was originally planned as a movie, his design veered closer to the otherworldliness and corpse-like aesthetic of Lords of Shadow Alucard—something that looked as far from a human being let alone a dhampir as possible. Following the years of stifled development until Netflix picked up the project, Powerhouse opted to fall back on Kojima’s artwork for sheer iconography and recognizability. 

On the one hand, animated Alucard’s facial expressions are identical to his game counterpart with the exception of a few liberties taken; same determined scowl, same intensely golden eyes, and same lush eyelashes (there’s even a note from his character sheet specifically stating that they must cast shadows for close-ups). Most of all, the same feminine androgyny of Kojima’s work. But there are just as many omitted details from Alucard’s updated model as there are those that were carried over from the original design. When compared to Symphony of the Night, his wardrobe seems to be severely lacking in excessive ornaments, instead opting for a sleek black coat with simple gold embellishments, knee high boots with a slight heel, and a white shirt with an open v-neckline. Despite these supposedly easy changes and evocation of Kojima’s art style, Alucard is still one of the more difficult characters to animate as stated by Deats: “I mean, Alucard has to be just right. You can’t miss an eyelash on him without it looking weird”. 

For the most part, it shows in the final product. There are moments when the animation goes off model (as is the case with most 2-D animated shows for time and budgetary reasons), but rarely is Alucard drawn from an unflattering angle. The other reason for his change in design is the fact that Castlevania takes place three centuries before the events of Symphony of the Night. Because of the story constraints and console limitations, players were not given an in-depth look at Alucard’s character beyond his quest to defeat Dracula and the guilt he felt afterwards. It would make sense that his demeanor differs from the stoic nature of how he reacts to certain situations three hundred years later. As a result, Alucard is given a toned-down design to reflect what he might have been like as a younger, brasher, and more immature version of himself.

This immaturity and juvenile nature of his visual image comes through in his portrayal. While the show is in its third season, we will primarily focus on season two as when compared to the others, it revolves around Alucard’s personal journey towards an important aspect of his long established character the most; namely, the reason for his rebellion against Dracula and his eventual act of patricide. Because Alucard only appears as a silhouette in episode one then makes his full introduction during the last fifteen minutes of the final episode, season one gives the audience a very limited idea of his character. What we do get from Alucard is the same impression that Symphony of the Night left fans with: someone who is determined, intensely fixated on his goal, and is willing to use any means to accomplish it—even if it involves striking a tentative truce between a vampire hunter and a scholar of magic. Season two expands upon this, showing an Alucard who is soft-spoken, careful in his mannerisms, more feminine than masculine, yet always rises to the occasion whenever he needs to match Trevor Belmont’s own crassness. For all of his grace, Alucard’s high emotions coupled with an unchecked immaturity (especially in the presence of Trevor) show how ill-equipped he is when dealing with human interactions.

One other piece of evidence that adds to this chink in Alucard’s carefully crafted metaphorical armor is the goal of stopping his father. Throughout small interactions and moments of dialogue, the truce struck between him, Trevor, and Sypha eventually develops into more of a friendship, yet Alucard continues to suffer from extreme tunnel vision, going as far as to chastise his two companionships whenever they get too distracted or unfocused from their mission. This character flaw is also touched upon in Castlevania: Grimoire of Souls when characters remark upon Alucard’s (otherwise referred in the game as Arikado) overly serious nature. A flaw that does more to unintentionally push others away rather than any attempt to bring them closer to him.

When Alucard finally achieves his goal of killing Dracula, it leaves him feeling hollow. He doesn’t quite know how to fully process this ultimate decision, maintaining a delicate sense of composure on the outside while in the presence of others. It’s only when Alucard is left alone does he allow the emotions of everything that has just happened to overwhelm him in a moment of genuine vulnerability that was only alluded to in previous scenes.

--

Conclusion

Despite the show being renewed for a fourth season, the future of the Castlevania franchise in general remains uncertain. There’s been no talk of any other past games being set for rerelease, Grimoire of Souls continues to make sporadic updates to its gacha system rather than its story mode, and Konami has since chosen to take a step back from developing video games in favour of manufacturing pachislot machines. Symphony of the Night and Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night creator Koji Igarashi has mentioned in past interviews that should Konami somehow make a return to Castlevania, he would be willing to direct a new instalment. But at the present time, rumors have remained rumors and there are no signs of a new official Castlevania game in the near future whether developed by Konami or an outside company.

No matter what direction Castlevania takes in the years to come, it seems as though Alucard will always follow it, just as Dracula and the Belmonts will as well. This is his franchise as much as it is theirs thanks to continued fan popularity. He’s taken many forms in the past thirty years and become the visual representation of certain trends, yet one thing about him never changes: he is still Dracula’s son, the opposite of his father. He can be cruel, powerful, cold, and everything else a Byronic hero should be yet he can also reject his masculine inheritance in both character and aesthetic. 

Above all else, the human side of Alucard is greater than the monstrous side.

--

References

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Castlevania Wiki | Fandom. https://castlevania.fandom.com/wiki/Castlevania_Wiki

Dyhouse, Carol. Heartthrobs: A History of Women and Desire. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017.

Godoy, Tiffany; Hirakawa, Takeji. Style Deficit Disorder: Harajuku Street Fashion, Tokyo. San Francisco: Chronicles Books, 2007.

Hodkinson, Paul. Goth: Identity, Style and Subculture. Bloomsbury Fashion Central, 2002.

Hutchings, Peter. Hammer and Beyond: The British Horror Film. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1993.

James, Edward; Mendlesohn, Farah. The Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012.

Kibby, M.D. Real Men: Representations of Masculinity in the Eighties Cinema. Sydney: Western Sydney University Thesis Collection, 1997.

Kojima, Ayami. Santa Lilio Sangre. ToÌ"kyoÌ" : Asukashinsha, 2010.

Metzger, Patrick. “The Nostalgia Pendulum: A Rolling 30-Year Cycle of Pop Culture Trends.” The Patterning. WordPress.com, 2017. https://thepatterning.com/2017/02/13/the-nostalgia-pendulum-a-rolling-30-year-cycle-of-pop-culture-trends/

Moorcock, Michael. Elric of Melniboné. New York: Ace Fantasy, 1987.

Narcisse, Evan. “The Animation Studio That Made Castlevania Explains Why It Was A Dream Project.” io9. Gizmodo, 2017. https://io9.gizmodo.com/the-animation-studio-that-made-castlevania-explains-why-1797476526

Younker, Terasa. “Japanese Lolita: Dreaming, Despairing, Defying.” Standford Journal of East Asian Affairs, 2012, 97-110.

[scribbleseas]

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter II: The Woman In Beige

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault, objectification, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER  | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

DECEMBER 17TH, 1891

LONDON, ENGLAND

The outside of the Globe theater was alight with bustling crowds as Oscar Wilde's London premiere of Salome had just concluded for the evening.

You were never partial towards theater. In fact, it made you wonder how a show could captivate such a diverse audience, as you watched formally clothed aristocrats and their servants cringed amongst the middle-class plebeians as they exited the theater through the matching front doors. Little did they know, the real show would take place inside of the closed carriage you waited in, peering through the red blind that covered it. Your thumb ran over the smooth pommel of your dagger. You focused on its smooth entirety as you sat back in the carriage to wait, distracting yourself from the consuming darkness.

Thankfully, Felix Keating, the wealthiest factory owner from Birmingham, valued his privacy. He opted for a carriage that had a single window on the door. This made his carriage an ideal place for you to intervene and elude any potential witnesses, considering the man had little to no time alone. In your case, it was less than optimal, but strategically, it was going to do the trick.

You stared at the wall of the carriage across from you before squeezing your eyes shut. You tried to focus on something concrete- perhaps the weight of your weapon, the tickle that your wool scarf gave your lip as it concealed the bottom half of your face. You inhaled deeply, reaching out for the drape of the window to let a fraction of light, but you froze and for a moment, you were...gone. When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in the hallway of your home, a lantern burning dimly in your hand as you heard two men talking- one voice familiar, the other strange.

'Lass? I haven't the slightest-'

'Just hand over the money and we won't have to blow no one's brains outta their skulls.'

Gunshots. Blood.

'Has she already been broken in? Lord knows what she was doing here with that old bum.'

'Doesn't matter, she's ours now, isn't that right?'

'Whore?'

Cold.

Piercing pain in your neck reminded you that you were in a carriage with years of difference from that morning. You had a job to do as you heard approaching steps and the posh voice of the factory owner himself. Before sinking to the corner furthest from the door, you took a generous inhale of the drafty air and focused on how it filled your lungs, rather than the poorly timed panic that the darkness insisted on showing you towards. You wiggled your toes in your black boots and wrinkled your nose, which served as tics that you had cautiously picked out years ago to help ground yourself when necessary. You held the dagger in your hand, the blade ready to pierce a sinner's flesh.

"That playwright will bring tears to the steeliest of lads. Quite brilliant. I must write to Wilde," Felix Keating's dulcet voice sounded as his coachman greeted him. "Reckon I could stick my nose into the theater enterprise, Her Majesty is quite interested in renovating these rubbish theaters," Keating mused, his muffled voice growing closer by the step.

"A clever investment, Mr. Keating," the coachman validated as you hugged your legs, making yourself smaller in the corner of the carriage, your head down and hood up. The door opened and you held your breath, as your heart pounded against your ribcage in protest. "May I offer you extra linens for warmth? The wind's just startin' up."

This wasn't the first time you've had to hide in order to carry out an assignment, yet the adrenaline between waiting and pouncing was always riveting.

"Ah, no Horace, I'll be 'right," Keating took his seat, more focusing on lighting his cigar. The scent caused you to tense, reminding you of the conman, someone smoked as if his life depended on it. He was a smart man that would scold you for the way you grew past his death. He'd be disappointed in you, a relentless advocate for diplomacy. Ask questions, shoot later.

"Right. If you change your mind, you gimme a holler," Horace, the coachman, shut the door as Keating settled himself with an exasperated sigh. He pushed the short drapes that were concealing the window, allowing the city lights to illuminate the small quarters and simply watched the street go by as Horace told the horse to "get walkin".

Without wasting another moment, you got to your feet, your dagger precariously reflecting light that shone through the window.

"Who is it? Who's there-" Keating started to shout, immediately sitting to attention as you used the whole of your arm's strength to shove him back against the wall that he was previously reclining against. Your nondominant hand barely fit around the circumference of his clammy neck, but nevertheless you were able to force his head back completely, his torso following in suit. You squeezed firmly, your fingers digging into the warm flesh and you could feel his hurried pulse with ease as you kept your back straight and legs strong. The angle was awkward, seeing as you were bent over in a moving carriage, but your balance was more than you gave it credit for. "Why- please!" he gasped for air, his glasses low on his nose, threatening to fall to the floor. "Stop! I have...money! Take anything you want. H-Horace!"

"Shut up!" Unintentionally, your grip tightened as you shoved his head back into the wall again, causing Keating's extinguished cigar to fall on the cushioned seat next to him. His hands flailed in panic as his chest tensed with effort as he tried to yell out to Horace again. "Maggie Calvert," you snarled as your petticoats moved with your short steps closer. Your nose could have touched his while you held his sightline. You adjusted your hold on the wooden handle of your dagger in your dominant hand before impelling the blade between his fourth and fifth ribs and close to his midline. "This is for her."

His body froze, his mouth agape. You couldn't tell if he recognized the name, but you wanted him to. A greedy businessman of his caliber deserved to think about someone other than himself during his last few moments alive. You pushed your dagger until both quillions were making contact with his white shirt. You have the dagger a small jerk for maximum damage before pulling it out, allowing blood to immediately gush out of his wound. Finally, your heart rate was beginning to slow with the rush of merely completing the task and you let go of his neck, your fingers aching from being tense. Keating was choking as he tried to yell or scream, or perhaps curse you, but the blood that was rushing into his collapsing lung was going to keep him from doing so.

"Maggie Calvert," you repeated solemnly, using Keating's long coat to clean off your dagger and tuck it into your pocket bag, one of the two large pouches that were nestled between your skirts. The body was limp and the strangled hacking had finally come to a stop. After all, the blood had stained your stomacher as it had come up through his mouth during his final moments of struggle. However, the compensation you were about to receive for this task would more than cover it. Unfortunately, it left Horace with more than a mess to clean up. Blood was a stubborn substance.

. . .

DECEMBER 20TH 1891

BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

Before you could knock, the door of the brick building flew open, causing you to jump in surprise.

"Miss Y/l/n," Eric Calvert's muddy green eyes were glassy with unshed tears as you pushed the hood of your cloak off of your neck out of respect for the modest home. The housing in Birmingham, an industrial town, was much different than London's. It was more compact, the air was more polluted with factory smoke. The Calverts seemed to be better off than most common families, but that meant nothing in this case. Factory conditions were poor, even after the reform laws from the 1830s. You were blessed to be introduced to more lucrative work upon your arrival- drawing money straight out of pockets with the most genuine man to have strolled down the cemented walkways of the city. "Please, come right in," he gestured with his gloved hand, moving out of your way as he removed his hat and bowed.

"Mr. Calvert," you offered a tight-lipped smile at the bowing man. In the hand that pressed against his chest, Eric pressed his grey hat into it, like a proper gentleman. The gesture had only fed into your discontentment, while Eric seemed no better off. You weren't blind to the pallid shade of his face, the withheld energy in his stance. "You mustn't bow to me," you assert, waiting for the man to right himself as he frowned.

"Oh, please... Mr. Calvert's my father." Eric said with a miffed shake of his head, raking his fingers through his sloppy waves of hair. The two of you walked down the short hall that led into a big foyer. A fireplace was on the far side with several articles of outerwear hanging on the mantle to help warm them from snow, you presume. The scent of the burning wood brings you a foreign nostalgia that ideally, you would've failed to notice. The past deserved to stay where it belonged- in the past. The only hearth you were to be a part of was your own.

"Evelyn, dear! Draw some tea, she's come back!" Eric called his wife, who seemed busy in the kitchen that was located in an attached room. "Hurry!" You presumed that he felt apprehensive about being left alone with you, which was fair.

"Just a minute!" Evelyn called from the attaching room, the door left ajar. You were right to assume that it was a kitchen of some form, seeing as the general layout of this building resembled that of your own home, the fuss of her brown petticoats catching your eye. You wished she'd move with more urgency. You had yet to eat properly, seeing as you were more occupied with moving efficiently over the past day or two. At least the vicinity was warm, allowing you to pull off your thick gloves and tuck them into either pocket bag as Eric led you to a small area near the fireplace. There were two big loveseats across from each other and with a rug in between. The cushions were patched together with random sheets of fabric.

There was a single photograph in a hanging frame over the fireplace's mantle, the glass dirty. It was Eric and Evelyn, jubilant in light, fancy clothing as they cradled their baby girl between them. You understood how the couple found themselves in such desperation to acquaint themselves with someone like you when they had once smiled without any semblance of malignity. She was stolen from them, and it had seemed that the world was prepared to let the men at fault see their own children grow up. You were the one to right that wrong- by driving your knife between the ribs of Felix Keating and watching him choke as blood filled his lungs. His eyes tearing as he begged for mercy when Maggie Calvert, who was no more than nine, died in his workhouse because of his cheaply built machinery. She wasn't given a chance, so who was Keating to think he deserved one?

"She'll be uh...right out," Eric smiled at you again, repeating the words of his wife, those of which you had no problem hearing. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the uncomfortable way he held himself, as opposed to the haughty attitude he sported during your first meeting. He was dubious that a mere lady like yourself (months shy of twenty) could hurt a fly, much less hold a body count to her name. Yet the morning prior, the bustling headlines of The Daily Telegraph reached Birmingham, selling quickly as they covered the murder of Felix Keating, owner of many iron manufacturing factories who narrowly escaped an immense prison sentence for a major accident in his Birmingham factory a week before.

"Oh my, Eric," Evelyn entered the main room, precariously balancing a steaming teapot and a modest spread of small bites on a tarnished, silver tray. "Where have your manners gone?" she tutted, setting it down on the oakwood table before turning her attention to you. Her blonde hair was tied in a disheveled bun, droopy and with tendrils falling out of it like spider legs that swayed as she moved.

"My manners?" Eric began to protest, only to be interrupted by his wife again. You found their dynamic as a couple quite refreshing. After all, you would not have been there, had Evelyn worked to contact you without her husband's knowledge.

"Miss Y/l/n, allow me to take your cloak," Evelyn gestured to the many hooks that were nailed into the fireplace mantle where there were drying articles of clothing hanging, narrowly dodging the short flames.

It was difficult to compel yourself to smile, but the corners of your lips turned upwards anyhow. There was a line where social niceties ended and another where gullible kindness started. This was the latter as they knowingly welcomed you, a murderer into their home because you made an ally out of yourself. "Don't trouble yourself any more than you have, Mrs. Calvert. My time here is brief," you found satisfaction when she shook her head and began to pour you a cup of the steaming tea, despite your words. Thankfully, she made no attempt to sit with you.

"Brief?" Evelyn repeated, gently passing the delicate teacup to you. The warmth spread over your palms on contact as you brought the rim to your lips. Your hold was improper, though necessary, seeing as the finest details are what make the best disguises. Only the wealthy held their teacups with so much consideration. Besides, the warmth was much more satisfying when it went beyond the tips of your fingers. "I reckon a woman such as yourself is a tad busy," she concurred, causing you to tense in surprise. You were rarely referred to as a woman.

"Quite," you mused after her, taking a contemplative sip of your tea. "I ought to be at the station in less than an hour," you lied, gently tapping the tips of your short nails on the warm cup. All that was necessary was payment and crucial parting words. The assorted bites on the tray were beginning to seem unappealing, the longer you stood there. "But we must discuss a few things-" you start, only to be interrupted by Evelyn, which was common.

"Your fee. We have the first installment," she gestured to Eric with her chin, her smile long gone as he offered a small pouch made of different, threadbare, fabrics. While you had already discounted your normal charge for the couple's situation, they could hardly afford a fraction of the sum.

"We've tried to save as much as possible. Take it. It's the least we can do at the time," Eric spoke, linking his arm with his wife's. Reluctantly, you hold your cup in one hand and deftly slide the pouch into the pocket bag between your petticoats. They would have felt worse if you refused to take their money. After all, you avenged the silenced death of their girl.

"It's plenty, thank you," after finishing the rest of your tea, you proceed with your original thought before they could try to pass their relief for protest. You had to recite the practiced discourse that you gave to every one of your patrons before making your leave. "Now, the two of you will be suspects to the Yard, be cautious," you put emphasis on your words by meeting each of their gazes. "You must avoid London and keep your heads down. Do you understand?"

"And... what happens to you?" Eric asked, sipping out of his own teacup. His shoulders were still unnaturally squared and attentive as he actively avoided your sightline. "Where are you off to?" his focus quickly turned to Evelyn, who was untangling her arm from his and bringing the tray back into the kitchen.

"The distance from Birmingham to London is great, she'll starve before she returns!" Evelyn stopped to yell from over her shoulder before leaving the door open behind her. In the kitchen, she promptly began to wrap the biscuits in napkins.

"Nevermind me," you coaxed Eric back to the conversation by answering his question. You smiled once again as you put your cup on the table and begin to put your gloves back on their respective hands. "You need to make certain that you both have an alibi for the night of December 17th, I cannot stress this enough, Mr. Calvert," you looked up from your gloves, pulling them so they covered your forearms again.

"I assure you, Miss Y/l/n. We were both working in that refinery- until dawn," you had no doubt about the truth to that statement, though any Peeler would press further. That part was to the Calverts to handle, seeing as you had played out your role. Pursing your lips, you took a generous inhale to soothe the ominous pit of anxiety that had settled in your stomach.

"Sure," you pulled your hood back over your head as Evelyn returned with a minute basket. It was covered and you wished you still had your appetite from when you had entered their home.

"Here you are," Evelyn allowed you to take the handle in your non-dominant hand. In a city, it was always smartest to have your dominant hand free, which was yet another insignificant habit that you had inherited from the old conman. What was the date? December 20th, which meant there were still a few weeks before it was the anniversary of his death. Otherwise, the most difficult twenty-four hours to bear out of a calendar year.

Evelyn was smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes. After all, for most women, motherhood was a privilege and it had been torn away from her. She was attempting to care for you as she would have for Maggie...had she lived to nineteen. Tears were welling in her eyes as she watched your hand extend to briefly touch her shoulder. "Take care," you said, finally meeting Eric's green hues that were tearing up as well. "I can show myself out," you shook your head dismissively when he moved to go to the front door with you. Evelyn needed to be coddled more than you did.

. . .

JANUARY 5TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

Evenings at home always unsettled you, being the start of an all-too boring night, which made you feel restless- itchy for action. Rather, your quiet home always put you on the height of your guard, even as you were sitting behind the short shed, submerging your assorted gowns and petticoats into the warm, soapy water that bubbled in your wooden tub. It was a tedious, once a week process that perhaps irked you more than cooking. With a huff, you directed your stress into the iron grip that you kept your washboard upright with, rubbing fabric over its ridges.

The water made your fingers prune and the stool under you caused your bottom to grow sore, the longer you had to sit there, toiling away until each article was hanging on your makeshift clothesline- fastened with pins. When you were a girl, you had about twice the amount to wash and yet, you enjoyed the task because there were two more hands to make light, fun work of it. The conman liked to sing to pass the time- the lyrics had taken you ages to comprehend, seeing as your English had challenged for years. He was anything but a schoolteacher.

You cringed as your hand slid down the washboard too quickly, causing the hot water to splash back up at your face. The weather was foul, the winter in London was always tempestuous and the warm water on your face had only reminded you of how little warmth your wool scarf provided. It was wrought with holes by now, but you couldn't bring yourself to give it away, you've had it from the day you arrived...nine years ago. Dismissing the thought, you allowed the cooling water to run down your forehead, passing the slope of your nose, until it finally fell and assimilated with the top of your stomacher.

You squeezed the wet petticoat, turning it in order to ring the water out. Although you could have been more thorough, the boredom that came with domestic chores was causing you to rush and find something more occupying to start. The tranquility of the night was eerie, an uneasy contrast to the violent life you led.

The sound of approaching voices caused you to pause, your hands pulling the washboard out of the water to hold, ready to swing. The petticoat that you had been wringing out fell back into the wooden tub with a quiet splash. The soap suds ran down your forearms, dampening the brown sleeves of your gown.

"No entiendo por qué la señora quiere una chica. Podríamos bombardear el sitio de Phantomhive más rápido que esta pérdida de tiempo," the voice of a woman spoke quickly, in a language that you couldn't identify. A denomination of Latin? Knitting your eyebrows, you conceded, deciding to focus on what you could understand. Bombard, Phantomhive. Bomb?

Vaguely, you recognized the name 'Phantomhive' from the newspaper. The Earl Phantomhive ran the Funtom Company, children's' toys and confectionery.

"Quiere su nombre lo más lejos posible de esto. La chica es una asesina exitosa, así que sería más discreta que los explosivos," a masculine voice responded, a stiff twig cracking beneath one of their shoes. You scowled as you shifted your weight from your left side to your right. The washboard was a viable weapon, but it was simply a matter of timing. Their silhouettes were getting closer, each short and clad in neutral earth tones.

"A menos que te interese en enredarte con ese mocoso," the man chuckled. He wasn't secretive or trying to be discreet. By the way he trudged, he was probably leaving deep tracks in the slushy excuse for snow.

"No tengo un deseo de muerte, a diferencia de ti. Callado!!" The woman said, her voice suddenly at a harsh whisper.

"Ah. There," the man spoke in English, finally a language that you could comprehend. "Y/n Y/l/n?" He asked, pulling down his scarf to expose the rest of his face. In comparison to yours, his accent was much thicker. Your grip on the washboard didn't waver.

"Who are you?" You demanded, stepping forward to stand your ground as they approached you. The pair wasn't visibly armed, their figures weren't particularly threatening to you. The man merely smiled at you while the woman to his side scowled.

"Diego- and uh, Carmen. Peace! We come in...uh, peace," Diego stammered, stopping at a respectful distance from you while showing you his empty hands as they beckoned with his rapid words. He seemed amused with your choice in weapon and assertive stance. "Carmen," he elbowed the sour-faced woman, causing her to grunt and hold her gloved hands up as he was.

"What brings you here?" They must have knocked at your door and came around when there was no response and a dim light behind the shack. Their winter gear suggested that they had some tier of wealth or deft hands in thievery. If it was business, this wouldn't be the first time you were asked to aid in stealing. However, as tempting as the offers were, you turned each one down. 

"Business." Carmen answered this time, her hand slowly reaching into her jacket pocket. "No fret. Is just a letter," her English was just as mediocre as yours had been, years ago. Your eyes followed her hand as she pulled out an envelope with a dark red seal. "Business for our...líder?" She explained and looked at the man, leaving a long pause before her last word. It was essentially 'leader', but the stress was on an 'i' sound instead.

"Yes. Leader," Diego cleared his throat in a weak attempt to mask a laugh as you dropped your washboard back into the washbasin with a short splash. You ignored him as you took the letter from the woman, your wet hand causing the ink on the front to smear. It read your name, Y/n Y/l/n, in a pompous script, the illegible type that royalty and aristocrats penned. "All you needa know is there."

The Undertaker was supposed to be the partition between yourself and clients. Who did he think he was to give these servants your address? You'd have to give him a stern reminder for the next time you cross paths. With a frown, you pushed the envelope into your pocket bag, allowing it to jut out due to its dimensions.

"Is this all?" You asked as you waited for them to either leave or proceed with more broken commentary. Your lips were pressed together in a tight purse, a fresh lump of apprehension growing in your stomach. However, you couldn't let it show as the man sheepishly removed his hat with a shallow bow. It was more unctuous than anything as it only caused your scowl to deepen.

"Yes, Miss. We can... be going now," Diego righted himself and put his hat back over his dark curly hair. You didn't offer either of than a proper dismissal for the favor of going back to your washing and ruminating over the letter. It merely had a location, date, and time with no further information. No explanation of identification. You could appreciate the impudent nature of it, as this 'leader' assumed you had no plans for January 10th or presumed that you would handle any conflicts yourself when they were approaching you for your services. It was crude of them to assume that you still took orders.

. . .

JANUARY 10TH, 1892

READING, ENGLAND

Perhaps it was curiosity or a lapse of judgment that led you to board a train and throw caution to the wind. Whatever it was, your default prudence seemed to abandon you at each instance you dared open the letter that you were given- if you could call it that. The paper inside merely had your name, a distinct address, time, and date all in a presumptuous formality that made you want to tear it to shreds. But you refrained and instead, rolled your shoulders back and down as you knocked on the painted door of the lofty residential home that coincided with the address in the letter. The walls were constructed with sturdy brick and there was smoke wafting out of the chimney. As you predicted, the entirety of the property before you suggested wealth, just as the note and the delivery had.

You knocked on the door, the letter in your hand as you waited several long, cold moments before a woman greeted you. Most of her features matched Carmen's, deep olive skin and brown hair that was tied back. "You are late," she spoke, disdain clear in her voice as she ushered you through the open door and into a foyer. You were only late by a few minutes, according to the clock on a passing wall. "My mistress is impatient," the woman added as an afterthought as if that fact was supposed to faze you into an apology. Her accent was quite notable, pronounced, and sharp like the other servants.

As she led you to a winding staircase as your gaze trained on each room that you passed. They were each decorated in a modest fashion and the colors were left to a simple tan palette. It was more simple than you would have expected from the manor's proud exterior. The woman cleared her throat, "Doña, she has arrived," she knocked twice on the closed door before opening it, revealing another woman. She stood behind a mahogany desk, watching you with relaxed shoulders. The bay window behind her illuminated the silk of her beige dress, contrasting her tan skin as it hugged her slender figure. Beige was uncommon at the time, given the dullness of it, although this woman wore it like a badge, using the simple color to allow other parts of her appearance to stand out.

"Leave us, Andrea," the woman's gaze had yet to leave yours, causing you to look away in mild discomfort. Once the door was closed again, she extended her hand to you, speaking again as you cautiously shook it. Her grip was confident and warm against your bare palm. "It is my pleasure, Princess Helena. I feared you would disregard dear Carmen and Diego." You retracted your hand, the name causing you to meet her eyes again.

"Y/n," You corrected, your mouth running dry as you calculated each of your words, down to the syllable. This foreign woman was able to unravel each of your lies within the latest nine years and frankly, it took every bit of your skill to remain composed. The conman would assess the person standing in front of him and decide if they were entitled to the truth that they were trying to extract. He would run through each advantage and disadvantage and return to the same conclusion- murder was always an option. After all, it was the only sure way of containing sensitive information. "Y/n Y/l/n," you repeated, causing the woman to laugh, her rounded cheeks eclipsing her eyes.

"We may both employ our pseudonyms, then. Address me as Doña," she sat in the red, cushioned chair behind her. Doña raised her eyebrows at you expectantly as she motioned towards the decidedly less opulent wooden chair across from her. You complied, frowning at her as she leaned towards you. Her smile only seemed to expand. "I have a task for you, Y/n. Only you can complete it for me."

"I know there are other services in London you might have requested," you contradicted, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair as you showed no qualms in testing her.

"No," Doña said with a simple shrug of her slender shoulders, "I need you to eliminate the Earl Phantomhive- the Queen's Guard Dog who puts an end to anyone she names. The graveyard to his name exceeds even yours. Although... it seems to be watered with the blood of the innocent, instead," her smile finally melted, causing her red lips to lay in a natural frown. In the streets of London, her lip color was enough to impose any of the filthiest assumptions about her.

"How does this concern me, specifically?" You asked. As your interest piqued, your eyebrows furrowed and you found yourself leaning towards the edge of the desk, rather than sitting slack against the wooden chair. The notion of the proprietor of a children's company having blood on his noble hands was more endearing than anything, especially to someone such as yourself, living substantial evidence that no one was who they appeared to be.

Your eyes followed Doña's hand as she opened a drawer in the desk, pulling out a pristine, folded newspaper. The masthead read 'DIE SUEDLlCHE POST' (THE SOUTHERN POST), a German newspaper with the headline of 'PRINZESSIN MARIE-LOUISE GIBT IHRE VERLOBUNG MIT PRINZ ARIBERT VON ANHALT BEKANNT' (PRINCESS MARIE-LOUISE ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO PRINCE ARIBERT OF ANHALT). There was a picture within the columns of words of your twin sister as she sported a gaudy dress and faux-smile as she beckoned the public into her personal life. Seeing Marie's matured face resemble yours so flawlessly was disarming and you only remembered to release a breath you had been holding when Doña spoke again. "The Queen trusts the Earl implicitly- enough to put the safety of her granddaughter in his...capable hands. At any mere threat, the Princess will come overseas to stay under his protection," she paused, smiling again as she unfurled the groundwork of a meticulous plan. "The monarchy is quite predictable, no?"

You had to give her credit for her unwavering confidence. The idea that she implied was beyond mad and yet, she sold it well. "We intercept her transportation before she reaches the port," Doña raised her chin as she explained, her expression smug to challenge you. Someone had trained her to manipulate others, just as the conman had done for you. She was reflecting your body language, while keeping her own polished mannerisms as a subtle attempt to establish trust, but express her own certitude.

"And you intend for me to take her place," you finished mapping out her plan for her, almost speaking in disbelief. Reclaiming your past? Your sister represented the whole of what you had resented in Germany; the wealth, the social faux pas, down to each ruffle of every gown. "Kill the Earl within his own estate," you bit the inside of your bottom lip, keeping yourself in the present.

The door opened behind you, the startling sound of a crying baby caused you to jump and turn your head to the source. A frazzled Andrea, the servant who greeted you, held a crying infant in her arms as it squirmed. "Doña, su hija te necesita ahora," she said, offending you as again as the two individuals conversed in a foreign tongue, ignoring your confusion.

At the sight of the distressed child, Doña's expression curled such as milk did. Her nose wrinkled, her eyes staring at it in disdain. Her glowered response came quickly as she gestured with her hands, "debes llevártela. Andrea, deberías saber mejor que interponerme cuando estoy ocupado con los negocios."

Immediately, and to your relief, Andrea left the office with a mumbled curse that you couldn't decipher. The baby was still crying. "You never learned Spanish?" Doña mused, her hands slowly returning to the wooden surface that separated herself and you. At least you had been correct in assuming it was from a Latin dialect. "That was my daughter," she explained with a careless shrug, causing you to frown. Your mother always spoke of you with the same amount of indifference, if not more than what this woman expressed, calling her daughter a 'that'. Bearing witness to that treatment left you vulnerable to frustration, an emotion that distracted you from the clear thinking you were trained to maintain.

"Earl Phantomhive," you said, bringing her back on topic before she could fiddle with your strained heartstrings any more. "It's a personal vendetta, is it not?"

"Ah. Correct," her face grew serious again as she brought her heavy stare back to yours. For a moment, you looked down at the newspaper- at your beaming sister and her Prince. "The Earl killed my husband after my whole family," Doña said as she shifted in her seat. Her eyes pried into your soul as if she was weighing each of your sins and virtue against each other in that moment. "I cannot rest until he feels the same anguish. What do you say?" She asked, raising her thin eyebrows, leaning forward in her seat.

For the first time that afternoon, you understood the woman sitting before you. You understood the lingering pain behind every smile, the loneliness behind her confident handshake. For that, you didn't need her to prove that the Earl was deserving of just intervention when normally, you required a means that ensured you that you weren't being sent to murder an innocent. The Calverts allowed you to read the court records of Keating's failed prosecution. But in this case, you recognized the raw emotion in her face. You saw it weekly in your employers and it used to stare back at you in the mirror...before you grew.

"Fine," your shoulders relaxed as you shifted in on the wooden chair, tempted to retreat, the more she invaded your space.

"We will begin our preparations immediately, then. We may discuss the finer details over tea."

. . .

JANUARY 17TH, 1892

READING, ENGLAND

"Diego and Carmen have returned," Doña entered your room without the formality of knocking, even though Andrea was in the middle of preparing you for your arrival to the Phantomhive Manor while you were attempting to keep yourself present. You gave your toes a discrete wiggle while they were crushed in tall heels. At least the slight pain was grounding. "Your personal effects will be included with ours," she added as a suggestion for you to respond. Over the week you had spent in her presence, you learned that talking to her was an exhaustive endeavor when most of the time, all you needed to do was listen. Meanwhile, Andrea was finishing your complicated hairstyle behind you. She tied strands of your hair into braids that led into a single low ponytail behind your head. Frankly, the steps she took had you standing there for ages, but you didn't protest, as opposed to the riot you always threw in Germany.

"At last," you stared at your reflection in the mirror before you, willfully ignoring the addition of her behind you. It was almost difficult to recognize yourself, considering you were staring at the visage of your sister, Marie as you dawned a sky blue gown that was embroidered with white designs around the bodice and top petticoat. The neckline had simple ruffles that covered the top of your stomacher, alternating with lace. Your skin was smooth to touch, almost delicate with the amount of cold cream that Andrea had insisted on smothering over every inch of you each morning and night. Even the apples of your cheeks were lightened with a gentle hand of pink rouge. "Putting that off to the last day was careless."

"At least our princess needs not to remember her privilege," Doña smarted, her red lips pursing in a sardonic grin. "Only her grace."

"And what of the princess?" You asked, turning away from yourself to give the packed trunks in your room a quick once over. They were each packed with fine clothing and luxury products that Doña had procured over the week, whilst important belongings of your own had just arrived, according to the woman herself. The conman's watch stayed with you for each task, whether you wore it, forced it into your pocket bag, or wrapped around a garter.

"Her steamship was supposed to dock about an hour ago. It should be in the process of sinking in the North Sea." The words had no effect on you, other than perhaps, relief. While Marie was your sister, you grew up in her looming shadow, her constant jibes, and haughty smiles. Her death secured your role in perhaps, one of the most complicated schemes you have ever dared take part in and did well to rid the world of another self-absorbed leech. Doña's hand gave your shoulder a patronizing pat as she smiled, "peace, Y/n. Your face is too young for frown lines. Remember, princesses haven't a care."

"You would know?" you asked, pressing your lips together and gathering your breath in a shallow inhale. The statement affected you more than it should have, but you blamed the superior tone that Doña attempted to pull over you. Although there were many years separating the two of you, it gave her no right to treat you as a child. You believed that Evelyn Calvert said it best- you were a woman, a lady that deserved every brutal sentiment that the world had to offer. "I believe the monarchy in Spain ended years ago."

"Someone did their reading."

"Enough," you glared, "I believe it would be best to allow Andrea to finish here. Before I stain this gown with your-" Andrea gave your hair a slight tug to tighten the hold before she gave you a quick once over. She seemed proud of her work- turning a runaway back into a princess. Quickly she patted a bit of power over the exposed junction between your neck and shoulders, adding some to your throat. Rather than making you appear paler, it was mostly translucent and served as a more natural aromatic while hiding blemishes. Andrea then left and quickly returned with a white coat that ran down to your mid-thigh. Deftly, she buttoned down the middle of it, closing both sides with little effort, seeing as it was made to be snug over all of your tight layers.

"-No, I believe that is quite enough, Y/n. Don't forget- we are allies, love." Doña reminded you with a smile. "In fact, I retrieved something else of yours to prove it," her hand disappeared into the deliberate fold of her pocket bag, revealing a small box. It was a black velvet that was soft in your hand. "Go on, she prompted, nodding at the box with her chin, "open." Slowly, you opened the box as it revealed a breathtaking emerald ring. The band's soft rose gold shone in the sunlight that came through the windows as small diamonds lined its circumference and outlined the expensive gem itself.

It couldn't be-

Your breath hitched as you took the ring out, putting the box on the vanity to your side as you looked at the interior of the band, your eyes wide as the engraving read 'Prinzessin Helena Victoria, 5/3' (Princess). It was your family ring, the exact one that you had given to a young boy because he was too poor to buy himself a proper jacket. All he wanted were a few coins for you to buy his newspaper, but you had no currency at the time. Instead, you gave him the ring and changed his life, rather than allowing the damned thing to burden you any more than it already had.

"That ring has seen...nearly all of Europe before returning to you," Doña said as she watched you slide the ring back over your satin glove. It fit your ring finger perfectly. Marie was made a completely identical ring, emerald, rose gold, and diamonds. You shared the same birthdate with her, being twins. "It would have been wiser to procure hers, but we must make do. You may never take it off." She was right. Though the ring was in fact, a smart decision to make your appearance more legitimate, the engraving could just as easily be the end of you.

"I understand." You confirmed, with a generous inhale. You felt your chest expand against the confining corset you wore.

"Andrea, ¿está lista ahora?" (Andrea, is she ready now?) Doña asked the servant, who was cradling her daughter, a chubby infant in her skinny arms, seeing as she finished tending to you. Andrea was not given enough credit, seeing as she took care of you, the baby, and everyone else within the household. She seemed to be around the age of Doña herself, perhaps younger, though missing a ring on her own finger. You owed her more respect than Doña, seeing as she took the time to teach you bits of conversational Spanish. Sitting in that house for a week while most individuals spoke in their native tongue was frustrating to you, and she cared enough to alleviate some of that pressure.

"Yes. You all should be going. Marie would have been near to our destination." Andrea said, before leaving your room to presumably, get Diego and Carmen to load the carriage with the aforementioned trunks. She left you and Doña alone, in temporary silence.

"Diego and Carmen are escorting you," she spoke, ushering you to leave the room behind her and start to the carriage that waited in front of the brick manor. "They are dock workers to you since the Queen called for finesse; minimum security." Marie's steamship was private- it made sense that she'd only have a few individuals as personnel. Although, they were likely dead at the bottom of the sea with the intended princess. "I will be in contact," her eyes, once again, stared into you, but you refused to falter. At a time like this, it was important to appear confident, even when there was residual panic racing through you.

"I won't be long," you replied, quite sardonically. The Earl Phantomhive was just a boy, about two years younger than you. He had a butler and four servants and an opulent estate that gave you plenty of opportunities, space, and minimal witnesses. You have surmised much harder conditions in the past, considering you've posed as a maid and drowned a woman in her own bathtub since she kidnapped and sold little girls to the highest bidder. That case had reached a particular soft spot within you, although it made you sensitive to the scent of rose water.

For a moment, you were back in that bathroom. The steam of the heated water hit your face in droplets as the curvaceous woman thrashed, her knees peeking out of the water, kicking. She was screaming, but it was garbled by the water as she choked on it. You had to use both of your soapy hands to press her forehead against the porcelain tub and apply moderate pressure around her trachea before she went limp...

"I'm sure," Doña rolled her eyes as she opened the carriage door for you. Diego and Carmen came out the front door with the small trunks in their arms. Carmen's tan features were still warped in her perpetual scowl, but Diego beamed at you, his eyelashes fluttering. You squeezed your eyes closed before opening them again, repeating the process multiple times while wrinkling your nose. It was, naturally, still cold and unlike the staff, you were only given a coat and gloves to stay warm. How Doña stood her ground without sleeves in this weather was lost to you.

"Andrea, fixed you up real good, Your Highness," Diego said, leaving Carmen to finish packing the carriage as he approached you. He bowed at his waist, over-exaggerating the movement. You had come to the conclusion that he was an excitable puppy dog, personified in a man. It was hard to imagine a man like that had the nerve to use the handgun in his holster. You frowned, the sight of firearms never failing to unsettle you, despite your line of work.

Trap the gun.

You urged yourself to focus on the people in front of you and the task that was rapidly coming into fruition. "You ought to ask her for a hand," you shrugged dismissively, the jab subtle as you shrugged and showed yourself through the carriage door. You sat down on the cushioned seat, closing the door and staring out the window of the carriage. Though you could have afforded a simple goodbye to the staff, your growing demand to be alone was overwhelming. Even the carriage, though it was white and an unassuming beige upholstery lined the seats, you had to force yourself to stay present.

Felix Keating.

"Y/n, we're pulling out now!" Carmen's grumpy voice announced as she knocked twice on the closed door to get your attention. She and Diego were to be driving the carriage- as Doña said, they were acting as port attendants to substitute Marie's dead servants. Your fingers wrapped around the pommel of your dagger, giving it a long squeeze.

"Fine!" You responded, watching the street from your window as it slowly passed by, paired with the trotting hooves of the horse that dragged you to your possible demise.

. . .

JANUARY 17TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

The Phantomhive manor was on the outskirts of London, shielded within the countryside by a thin forest line. As it rolled into your sightline through the small window of the carriage, you shamelessly allowed yourself to gape at the sheer size of it- the height of the walls, the militant stone masonry, and expansive stone garden that surrounded the cobblestone path. The cobblestone caused the carriage to bump clumsily and you could hear the sound of the packed trunks shifting around, even though they sat in the front with Carmen and Diego. To you, having so much space for one person was simply a waste- you made do in a shoebox that was going to be comparable to a linen closet on this property.

There was no describing the intimidating grace of the noble manor that stood proudly before you- although it was the furthest from your first complicated infiltration and as much as you tried to repress it, grew up in a castle. However, even Glücksburg was feeble in comparison to the fortress that your carriage slowed to a stop in front of. Diego wasted no time in opening the door, allowing more of the afternoon light in. You shuddered as the cold, once again, attacked your face and outer extremities, despite the petticoats that Andrea had precariously piled under your gown.

"We have made it, Your Highness," the joke was obvious in Diego's face, the apples of his cheeks too perky with his enthusiastic smile. He needed some of Carmen's restraint while the latter required at least a semblance of his warmth.

Your Highness. The form address was foreign to you. It was nothing but a burden that weighed just as much as the genuine metal around your ring finger and the tight corset that restricted your torso. But this was your role- at least for the next week or so. Your smile was small enough to not seem horribly forced, though anything but enthused. Restraint was something Governess Lydia always stressed, making it one of the single things she had in common with the conman, who never let you forget about the strength of words. This task required you to heed lessons from the both of them, which was unfortunate, considering the conman represented the best two years of your life, while Governess Lydia was the embodiment of your poisonous girlhood.

"Your prudence is more than appreciated," you accepted his hand as he helped you down the two, rather short stairs of the carriage. This was it- now you were Princess Marie of Schleswig-Holstein. Her identity belonged to you- rather than a withering corpse in the sea- however Doña had managed to get her there. For your own sake, you found it easier not to ask. You didn't need the blood of your sister on your conscience while you embodied her likeliness. Or at least...what you could recall from your spoiled bias and hourly etiquette classes in the castle. "Thank you, Diego," you let go of his hand once you stood on your own feet. You didn't need to look at him to know that he was shaking his head, discouraged that you were being kind to him simply because you had to. Prior to the carriage ride, you'd told him to see Andrea and give her a chance to improve his scraggly appearance.

"Of course," he responded with a hasty bow. Diego shut the door with a slam, clumsier than he needed to be. You pretended that all of your doubts were conveniently left sitting on a cushioned seat- as dispensable as a glove. Confidence in your own vast skill sets was going to get you through this and the blade of your dagger between the Earl's ribs. "To the door, Your Highness. You'll catch cold." Diego led you to the door, leaving Carmen to unload your baggage. The door opened immediately after he knocked, revealing a simpering man.

"Wir heißen sie herzlich willkommen, Eure Hoheit. Ich hoffe, dass Ihre reise bis zu diesem punkt angenehm war.," (Our deepest welcome, Your Highness. I do hope your journey was pleasant to this point,) he spoke, his German succinct as if he was a native speaker himself. Following his practiced welcome, he bowed, the silver accessory that was pinned on his lapel moved as he did. A gloved hand pressed politely over his heart as he righted himself at your nod. In this case, you would have preferred him to speak to you in English, seeing as the whole of the experience was already quite out of body for you. "Bitte, treten sie ein." (Please, come in).

You complied, reluctantly crossing the tall threshold. Diego was behind you and silent as you took a moment to look over the barren foyer around you. "Sie haben ein schönes anwesen. Danke, dass sie mein Refugium beherbergen - Ihre Majestät kann mehr als exzessiv sein," (You keep a lovely manor. Thank you for housing my retreat- Her Majesty can be more than excessive,) you replied, noting the butler's endearing features. His face was pale as if the moon decided to bless him with natural illumination and in contrast, his hair fell in black tresses that framed his face. His smile was too perky for his darker disposition.

"Es ist unser privileg, mit ihrer sicherheit betraut zu werden." (It is our privilege to be entrusted with your safety.) The unctuous pleasantries were in excess. A little went a long way, especially for you, who tended to be brief towards every accessory- every pawn. As a girl, that efficiency labeled you as ill-mannered, as Lydia, the uptight Governess, cautioned you.

"Gibt es einen namen für sie?" (Is there a name to call you by?) It was more appropriate for his master- the rudely absent Earl, to introduce him properly, but you were growing weary of having no name to associate with the man. You tilted your head, thinly smiling at the butler who immediately stood to attention to respond. He had more effortless poise than you did, but at its essence, it couldn't be hard. Between your intense life in the monarchy was nearly a decade of living amongst the middle class and working for anyone with the fortune to pay you.

He bowed again, the palm of his right hand returning to his heart. "Natürlich. Mein Name ist Sebastian, mein meister-" (Of course. My name is Sebastian, my master-) he was interrupted by the door opening again, proceeding with three individuals and Carmen entering the foyer, bringing the trunks that were in the carriage. There were only six boxes, but the shorter boy out of the group was holding three heavy boxes instead of one.

"Sebastian! Where should we be putting these?" A woman asked rather loudly, as opposed to the smooth dulcet of Sebastian's German. Her voice had a clear, animated quirk of an English accent and it took you a moment to return your brain to the language, seeing as focusing on one at a time rather than two at once was simpler. Then you entered her sightline, causing her to shriek in surprise as she gasped. "Princess Marie- Your Highness!" she dropped the box, sinking into a clumsy excuse for a curtsy. At your side, you could hear Diego attempting to stifle his laughter. As for yourself, you weren't one for sudden noises and had to feign understanding. By the end of the day, your cheeks were going to ache from constantly having to smile.

"Your Highness, these are the other servants of the house," Sebastian finally spoke in English as he gestured with an arm to the two men and the woman. As the three other servants put the trunks down. The woman's face was red under her disproportionate glasses as she looked from the older man to the younger one at her sides, searching for validation for her abrupt enthusiasm. "Our gardener, Finnian-"

"-Finny!" He interrupted with a bright smile, before meeting Sebastian's eyes and shrinking. Finny cleared his throat, his gloved hand rubbing under the hat that covered the nape of his neck. "Please, um...call me Finny, Your Highness." In front of him were the three trunks that he had been carrying- stacked vertically. One alone was heavy for even yourself, but he seemed unaffected.

"Right...Mey-Rin, the maid," Sebastian continued. Mey-Rin's face was still red as she looked at Sebastian and then you, uncomfortable with the attention of the room on her. "Our cook, Baldroy."

Baldory seemed to be the most composed of the three. Notably, there were strands of grey in his blond hair as he regarded you with an easy simper, his shoulders relaxed. "Good to meet ya," he said with a simple nod of his head. His voice reminded you of the conman's- perpetually at ease.

"And ...Tanaka- the executive director of the Funtom Company," Sebastian said, guiding your attention to a small man that watched you from behind Baldroy's legs. He wore a monocle and seemed to hold a cup of tea as he bowed. The executive director of the Funtom Company was a frail man?

"Oh but, that's how he is- he rarely goes into his full size," Finny chimed in, once again, cutting himself off at Sebastian's pointed gaze. He only gave you more questions than he had answered. How was such a large estate taken care of by such a small cast of individuals?

"Might I ask about the Earl himself?" You didn't feel the need to properly introduce Carmen and Diego, seeing as they were only supposed to be distant dockworkers to you. Marie wouldn't have thought twice about them, seeing as she was her own sun, moon, and savior. Instead, she would be miffed that a mere Earl had the self-importance to show tardiness in meeting her.

"Our master should be with us in a moment. Please allow me to show you to his study," Sebastian said, easily making a transition from the exhaustive introductions to sitting in. "In the meantime; you three, take Her Highness's belongings to her quarters." This time, Baldroy picked up Carmen's neglected box as she stood at Diego's side. The three of them responded enthusiastically as if they were excited to be given a laborious task from their superior.

"Sure," you agreed, more than aware that this was going to be a temporary goodbye to Diego and Carmen, the final allies you'd speak to before heading into a minefield of social complexity, corsets, and lies. You turned to Diego, almost unsure of how to let him depart. It was almost pathetic of you, growing tongue-tied from a simple goodbye. The duo had no semblance of sentimental value to you. All you had was yourself, a dagger, and a large sum of money waiting for you.

"We leave you in capable hands, Your Highness," Diego smiled as he bowed, before quickly winking at you.

"Farewell," Carmen added, her expression illegible as she too, bowed and left with her counterpart.

"Right then," Sebastian led you up the massive staircase. Each step was narrow and troublesome but you attempted to tread smoothly. "Would you care for tea? You toiled through quite a long trip..."

. . .

Tags:

[mcfanely]

The Ice Emperor and the Earth Dragon

As their routine becomes intrinsic to their day, and honestly more enjoyable as time seemed to go on, the pressing matter of the mech and the broken processing unit couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Much to Cole’s chagrin. 

Chapter 06 - Out of Sight, 2571 words

Cole let out a heaving breath from where he was laid on the floor, his hair was stuck to the sweat beading on his forehead as he paused, forcing some oxygen back into his body. He eventually got up, and easily settled back into a fighting stance. His legs a shoulder width apart and his arms raised in front of him, fists clenched. 

Zane mirrored the position meticulously. 

This was the morning routine. 

Just because they were stranded in a foreign realm didn't mean they were going to let their skills and training be wasted because they weren't actively using them. 

That, and any form of inactivity, Cole could swear he could hear the phantom words of Sensei Wu when he'd realised that they'd taken being lazy to a whole other level after the defeat of the Oni. 

He shuddered lightly at the memory, at all the booby traps that had been set around the monastery. All the times they'd been caught out, and called out about going soft. 

He wasn't going to go soft now, and the best thing about fighting against Zane, they each knew the others limits. 

They knew when the other was holding back, and being in a cave, just the two of them, they could fight and train to their heart's content without someone else encroaching on their training area or having to rotate and spar with someone else. 

They could just fight, and if they felt like it, agree that other than severe and possibly major physical trauma; they wouldn't hold back. 

Cole hadn't held back when he'd struck Zane hard enough to send him flying clear to the other end of the cavern. 

Zane didn't hold back when he'd used his shoulder to barge Cole into a wall and will the ice there to grab onto his clothing; weave into his hair until all he could do was stand there like a frozen popsicle, feeling every inch that the ice encroached further. 

This time it was hand to hand combat, strictly no powers; Cole had cracked the floor where he'd flipped Zane, and Zane had probably successfully given him a black eye. So they were even, and frankly enjoying themselves. 

No restrictions. No interruptions. 

Zane was the first to move forwards, and Cole made the mistake assuming he was going to aim high. His posture lent towards it, arms up and covering the face and his shoulder level. Only, Zane dropped at the last second and swept Cole's feet out from under him.

He was down in a second, but recovered even faster. Cole hooked a foot behind Zane's knee and pulled. Zane dropped forwards, but Cole kept up his momentum. He wrapped his legs around Zane's, locking them into place as they scuffled and rolled on the ground for some form of purchase. Zane was going for it, he was twisting in the hold, striking his elbow backwards into where Cole's chest was in an effort to get his strength to wain and relent. 

Cole winced with every contact, but carried on. He flipped Zane over on the ground until his back was pressed against Cole's chest. One arm threaded around the front of Zane's neck, and the other acted as a way to lock it in place. Then the struggling and brawl came to an end when Cole tightened the choke-hold and straightened out his body. 

Zane wasn't going to be going anywhere. His legs were immobile, his back had limited movement because Cole was forcing him to keep his body straight with the arm over his neck. 

There was a moment where neither of them moved, Zane's hands were wrapped around Cole's wrist. After a couple seconds, he released the hold and Zane promptly rolled off to the side, rubbing his neck lightly. 

Cole sat up, a hand coming up to rest against his lightly bruised ribs, but that wasn't important at the time. "Are you okay, I didn't hurt you too bad, right?" He questioned. He liked to think he knew his own strength. 

Zane eventually dropped his hand and sat back, shaking his head with a smile. "I am perfectly fine, nothing severe. How's your side?"

Cole laughed, "Okay. Little bruised but at least I won." And that was the whole point, technically. Or it wasn't, no one was really keeping score. 

"What's that, the first time in three days?" 

"Shut it, tin can, let me revel in my victory."

He definitely heard the quiet exasperated sigh that came from Zane as he collected himself up off the floor. He didn't miss the eye roll either. 

"Sore loser?" he joked as Zane held out a hand to help him up off the floor. The offer was accepted easily and eventually Cole was up and dusting himself off.

"Just sore." 

Cole grinned, "Because you lost."

Zane waved a hand, as if to say that it’s all water under the bridge before he retrieved their makeshift bucket, fashioned from a domed piece of metal that had fallen off the mech. It held water collected from a nearby river, still very cold, but after a fight, very refreshing. 

"Thanks," Cole said as he took some water into his hands and wiped his face clean of any grime. Training was probably the best part of the day, and the least stressful. 

It was their form of relaxation, a way to zone out from the actual pressing problem of trying to survive day to day. 

"What are your plans for today?" Zane questioned after a second, spurring on the conversation. 

Even though day to day, the routine stayed the same. More or less. 

"Head out, the storm from last night has dropped a bit - I mean, it's still snowing but we need to stock up on food for a couple days, just in case it starts up again. I'll go to that lake we scouted, spend today fishing."

Cole pushed himself up off the ground. Better head off sooner rather than later, more time fishing would ideally translate to a higher turn around of fish. That was the idea, anyway. He brushed himself off. 

Zane had made his way over to the computer screen, connecting one of the jumper cables back to the battery so it powered up.

"What're you going to do? Tinker with the mech again?" He asked, walking over to his companion with a slight smile, "You could always take a break from it, have a quiet day. What can be done today can be done tomorrow."

"You should never put off tomorrow, what can be done today." 

Cole sighed and rolled his eyes, "Quoting Sensei Wu, really?" 

"I was only observing the fact that the advice you gave me was not accurate to what we've previously been told." 

"And I was saying, there's no harm in taking a break." He gestured over to the mech loosely, then brought his hand up to brush some hair out of his face. It was starting to get unruly. "I'll go and catch some food, maybe scout the area a little more, you can take a break here. Your job today can be keeping an eye on the mech."

"You know I'm not a fan of sitting around."

Cole held up his hands in a mock show of surrender, "I know that. You've just been doing stuff constantly--" 

"As have you--

"-- Over the past couple weeks,"

"Twenty-five days," 

"I'm just saying," He shrugged, "no harm in a day off."

Zane seemed to think on the advice for a second, though when his eyes flicked quickly between the mech and the green cable they'd trailed from the motherboard down to the ground the day prior, Cole was ready to shut the idea down. 

He knew what Zane was going to say, "We," Cole gestured between the two of them when his brother's attention moved back over to him, "Will sort out the damage to the processing unit later on, when I'm back."

"A system diagnostic to discern the problem would barely take more than two minutes. If at all that." 

As if the whole process was as simple as that. 

They'd sat down and spoken about what could be done with the problem when they'd first figured it out. It had been awesome, a big relief to even know a possible cause for the mech's inactivity. 

Then Zane had given the details about what would be done next, how he'd have to connect himself to the mech to get a better idea of what was wrong. 

And what could go wrong with the process itself. 

On the mech's behalf, an irreparable system failure. 

But for Zane… 

"Cole, we can't keep putting this off, we need to do it at some point." He reasoned, placing one hand onto Cole's shoulder to keep his attention, though his eyes were trailing elsewhere around the room. 

They could talk about it later, do it later. 

Anything not to see his friend at risk. 

"If we can get the mech working, we can scout more of our surroundings, move over the snow and ice both quicker and much more safely. We can leave it running and get warm." Zane sighed, eyeing Cole's gi. The one dotted with rips and holes and was probably in no way keeping the biting winds at bay, yet he was still the one volunteering to go outside. 

He was going to head out the cave soon too, and here Cole was giving a small speech about safety and how he didn't want Zane risking himself when that was exactly what he was doing. 

Unless, he had a way to protect himself, keep himself safe, an extra line of defence. 

Zane cleared his throat, then said, "You should take the staff with you." 

Cole paused and raised an eyebrow as if he hadn't taken in what had been said, though in reality he had, he just wasn't so sure, "I should what?"

"Take the staff. If you're so insistent on risking freezing to death, you should take something that can prevent that."

He stared. 

Then he moved his attention to the staff. 

Then back to Zane, who had promptly busied himself with the screen and the wiring in the back of it. 

"I'm not insistent--" Cole sighed and moved over to his brother, to properly get his attention away from his not so subtle attempt at avoiding the coming conversation. "Neither of us have used the staff since we moved the mech in here," He gestured over to where the staff was situated, on the exact wall it had been propped against when Zane had put it down previously. Cole intended for it to stay there. 

Sure, the rush of power it gave was truly an… Experience. It was like a tidal wave, a huge oncoming force that seemed to crash over the wielder and drowned out all sense of anything but the sheer force and power it wrought with it. 

Sometimes Cole laid awake in the dead of twilight just staring up at the cavern ceiling, long past when Zane had turned in for the night. He found his mind wandering, getting lost in thought, and for some reason it always ended up on the same subject. 

If he picked up the staff, if he used it, then it could make their current situation a whole lot easier. He could use it to hunt more effectively, get different foods other than the fish he managed to catch on a daily basis. He'd seen rabbits hopping about, birds in trees, and whilst they were fair game; the energy expenditure in comparison to sitting down and waiting for a fish to bite his line wasn't worth it. 

Energy conservation in a cold environment was key, there was no sense in wearing himself out going for trickier prey animals just for some sense of variety to a meal. 

But the staff… Cole wouldn't have to worry about contending with the elements. He wouldn't have to stress out over getting tired, or not catching much food, some extra power could help with that. 

The staff… 

The scroll. 

"Cole?" came a questioning voice, and his attention quickly flicked to Zane's face crowding his own. 

If Zane hadn't been standing right in front of him, Cole would have been staring directly at the staff. 

How long had he zoned out? 

"I'm not going to take the staff." He concluded after a moment, running one hand through his hair. He'd been out multiple times already to fish, the track there and back was already etched fairly solidly into his brain and it wasn't as if it was a mile off. Barely five minutes, nothing really. 

Cole didn't miss the slightly relieved look that passed over Zane's face. He'd probably settled on his recommendation being a bad idea. "We should figure out a way to cover the thing, you know, when I get back later." He mumbled. 

Zane nodded slowly, "Out of sight out of mind."

Had he been thinking about the staff too? Or was Cole on his own with that? 

Cole clapped his hands and cleared his throat, startling them both back into their initial route of conversation. 

"We'll run the diagnostic when I get back. We can have something to eat, clear our heads, then run the diagnostic."

He could see Zane pondering over that idea at that very moment, and Cole knew what his rebuttal would be, it was fairly simple to predict. 

So he beat him to it, "If it takes two minutes, then we can do it when I'm here. I don't want you doing this on your own, just trust me on this. I want you to be safe."

Zane let out a slight laugh, "Says the person who always braves the snow to go fishing. What if I want you to be safe too? It's a miracle that you haven't gotten hypothermia, or even a cold over the past few days." 

"Hey, it's not just been me going out, you've been doing it too. And I don't like watching you walk out of this cavern anymore than you like watching me, but we gotta eat. Or, like, I do." He waved the point away with a flick of his hand, "You risk your life as much as I risk mine, and we agreed that we can't just leave this place unguarded. Just because we haven't seen anyone around doesn't mean this place is empty."

"How observant of you."

Cole's eyes widened and he scoffed, "Wow. The sarcasm." He put a hand to his chest and winced in mock pain, "That hurt. I'm hurt."

"Go fishing, Cole." 

"And now you're sending me away."

There was an audible and exasperated sigh. 

That just made Cole grin more. He walked over to the entrance of the cave and retrieved his fishing rod, a simple stick with a stripped and useless fried wire they'd found during their preliminary check of the mech. Though it did its job, it caught fish which was it's main and only purpose. 

He was about to step out into the light flurry of snow, though he gave a quick glance back. Zane was still tinkering lightly with the computer screen, for whatever purpose, though as if sensing someone looking at him, he looked up and caught the Earth ninja's eye. 

They shared a small smile, and a nod before Cole went on his way. 

-

From the beginning

Ch 05 > Ch 06 > Ch 07

AO3