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polin-erospsyche · 4 years ago

Note

The prompt number 16 is quite interesting lol 16. “Control your anger or you’ll have me to worry about.” Choose the ship/character you like :)

Hello! Ok, there are literally zero reasons as to why it took me a year to write this bloody thing except maybe that I had some not fun moments and also this literally never could have been written if I hadn’t waited this long. I don’t know if you’ll read it. You’ve probably forgotten about this in all fairness but if you do read it I hope you like it.

Also taking this opportunity to thank everyone for following me. I’m at 400 followers! This is insane. I’m not sure why you’re all following tbh but to celebrate I forced myself to finish this long overdue fic, hope you like it! Also disclaimer: I love all of the characters from TLH. I am aware of the existing debate around Matthew and Alastair and my writing in here does not represent my point of view. But I I decided to represent Matthew and his view in this way for story telling purpose. Please don’t come at me with gun blazing. If you do wanna talk, we can, but in peace 😊💕

Somewhere Where Our Shadows Meet, It Feels Like Coming Home -

a Fairdale one-shot (is that even their brotp name???)

This was the fifth time James was rereading the passage of the book he had picked up. It was no use. Each time he finished the page he had already forgotten the beginning. His mind was foggy with a multitude of thoughts. Thoughts about Lucie and her strange dalliance with a boy who used to be a ghost, about Grace which inevitably led to unsolicited questions on his own identity, and, as much as he tried not to think about it, thoughts of Matthew and Cordelia. He really did not enjoy these last kinds of thoughts. He couldn’t help but imagine what kind of relationship could have blossomed between the two during their trip to Paris. He knew how Matthew felt, but when it came to Cordelia, he had no single clue. He constantly wondered as to whether she hated or loved him. Daring to hope that he hadn’t ruined everything. Just for that hope to vanish the next second because there was no possible way he did not ruin it. And even if ever decided to ask her, he would have no idea how to approach the topic without sounding like an arrogant bastard.

James let out a long breath, rolling his shoulders, trying to let go of the tension. He was pretty sure that if he ventured to look at himself in the mirror that was hung above the chimney, he would see huge dark circles beneath his eyes. Circles which color could rival the color of London’s night sky. A result of many nights plagued by bad dreams and worry. During some of those sleepless nights, James had gone to Cordelia’s room. The first time it was under the pretext of looking for books. Her room had been full of her personal belongings. A bottle of perfume on her vanity table, an evening dress carefully laid out on the chaise longue, a copy of Majun and Layla on her bedside table. So many little pieces of who Cordelia was scattered in a room she had run away from. She hadn’t been back to Curzon street since that night. Upon arriving in London, she had decided to move back with her mother using the excuse of the soon-to-be new baby’s arrival. James kept going to her home though, eventually admitting to himself that he did so because of the smell of Jasmin that lingered. It was the closest thing he had to a semblance of her presence in the house. It was a soft smell that grounded him. It was also a heady smell that reminded him of the sweetness he had lost.

He shook himself out of thoughts of her. Something he had gotten quite good at to be fair, considering how many times he thought of her in the span of a day. Pushing himself up from the table he was leaning against, he closed the book he was reading, giving up on understanding it, and made his way to the window. Outside the sky was tinged in pastel colors drawing the day to a close. James would slowly make his way back home. He would rehash the day, come up with new plans to wake his sister from her deep sleep, find out that these plans would fail again come morning, and finally decide that he would need to eat a bite because going to bed with an empty stomach was just not advisable. His parents had offered for him to stay at the Institute with them but James had refused. He preferred the calm and silence of Curzon Street. He found that the bittersweet cloak that covered his house was, in some ways, almost reassuring. Maybe he was going insane. Just when he was ready to go bid his goodnight to his family, he heard the doors of the library open wide behind him and slammed shut again.

“Did you know?” Matthew growled. James might have thought that he himself had gone slightly deranged chasing down the smell of Jasmin throughout his home, but at least he did not look half as unhinged as Matthew looked right this instant. Matthew’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, and his fist clenched so tight his knuckles were turning white.

“Are you alright?” James asked, keeping an even tone.

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

Matthew took a few strides in James’ direction. His stare holding James’ gaze in place as if daring James to contrary him. “Did you know about Thomas?”

“Um yes,” James nodded, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I do know Thomas.” At that Matthew narrowed his eyes and almost seemed as if he was trying hard not to grind his teeth. Noted. Attempts at humor and alleviating the situation were not going to work. “What about him?” James tried again. His smile replaced by a serious gaze.

“Did you know about Alastair?” Matthew asked, almost spatting out Alastair’s name.

James took a few steps back, reinstating the much-needed personal space for such a conversation. James did know about Alastair, but only because Thomas had looked so miserable and James had pried so insistently that Thomas had had no choice but to give up his well-kept secret. James had understood, sometimes you couldn’t choose who you fell in love with. Sometimes you fell in love with something that only you saw in the other person. Love was usually shrouded in mystery this way, best not to question how it worked. Obviously, by the look of things, Matthew did not agree.

“Please sit down,” James pointed to one of the green velvet armchairs. “I’ll pour you a drink.” James said, making his way to the stash of liquor in one of the dark wooden commodes. James had always wondered what kind of people, for what kind of situation kept alcohol in the library of all rooms. It always seemed to him that a secret stash of tea would have been more appropriate. Now he understood what kind of situation required people to put alcohol in every room, even if it was just one abandoned bottle of Parkmore. “Is Whiskey alright?” James turned his head in Matthew’s direction.

“So you knew?” Matthew answered, seemingly in a staring competition with the mustard yellow wallpaper in front of him. “He told you?”

Whiskey it would be for a total lack of all other present choices James thought as he started to pour a glass.

Matthew kept going on his verbal onslaught towards the wallpaper. In all fairness mustard yellow was a color that could potentially enrage everyone. “How can he? It’s Alastair that we are talking about. It’s not as if there wasn’t any other man in London that Thomas couldn’t have a fling for.”

James very much doubted that a fling could start to describe Thomas’s feelings for Alastair. However, seeing how Matthew was nearly spitting out every single one of his words, he thought it safer not to share this piece of information.

“Matthew, please calm down and control your anger or you’ll have me to worry about.” James handed the glass to Matthew, which he waved away.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink.”

James squinted. “Since when?”

“Since Paris.”

James couldn’t help but feel a pinch in his chest at the mention of Paris. Paris city of lights, city of lovers. An escape his friend had taken with the only girl James had ever, truly, loved since he was barely old enough to understand the concept. It was a wondrous thing how much pain a single word could hold.

“What a strange place to decide to stop drinking.” James took a sip of the honey-colored liquid, trying to hide his hurt to the best of his ability.

“Cordelia asked me to. That was her condition for coming with me.”

James did not want to go in the general direction of a conversation that involved Cordelia. Especially not if that conversation was with Matthew. He had written a letter. James had understood. He slightly had the urge to strangle his best friend for going with her; for loving her; he did not quite know. But that was it. They hadn’t spoken of Paris nor of Cordelia together and that was for the best. Neutral conversations were for the best, they could avoid the hurt and the blame, and if James let it come to that again who knew what would be next. Yet he couldn’t help but ask.

“Why did you leave?”

Matthew turned to James, his anger receding ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” A beat, a choice to either keep going or retreat before it is too late. A beat, a choice to see where this could go “why did you go to Paris?”

“You owe me an answer first. Did you know about Alastair?”

“Yes.”

“How could you not tell me?”

“You weren’t here Matthew.” James’ voice almost broke, almost. “How was I supposed to tell you anything?”

James had wanted to throw so much more at Matthew’s face. Throw words that he wouldn’t be able to take back. He had been feeling so alone. So utterly lost after Grace’s admission. After Cordelia’s departure. He had needed his best friend. He had wanted to tell him so much, to figure it all out with him. To have Matthew hold him at times when he didn’t know if he could hold it up together and tell him, simply, that he believed in him. But Matthew hadn’t been in London. He had been in Paris. Happy. With Cordelia.

“And you accept it?” Matthew asked, carefully studying James.

“I guess it depends on what we are talking about. In any case,” James turned away from the fireplace to look at his friend. “why are you so against it if it makes Thomas happy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because Alastair doesn’t deserve to be loved?”

“Maybe it is more about deserving a second chance rather than deserving of love. Maybe it is about getting a chance to fix your mistakes. Surely no one is worthless of that.”

“Sometimes the mistakes are too big to fix.” Matthew shrugged, breaking eye contact.

“Is that why you ran away?” The question was asked so softly as if asked any louder and James would be terrified to see Matthew run away again. James wasn’t sure he could bear it, no matter how much frustration towards Matthew he still felt.

“I didn’t run.” Matthew shook his head. His gaze far and distant as if in another land, in a shadow realm. “I took a train, there’s a difference. And I left because of Cordelia.”

James had an inkling he hadn’t left because of Cordelia but rather Cordelia had followed in a desperate pursuit to drown both of their sorrows in the glamour of a city like Paris. After all, Paris was so similar to Matthew, it was no wonder he had chosen it. At the surface, both were golden and shining like a polished jewel box. Once that jewel box was open, however, shadows, pain, and sadness would pour out like a damn breaking loose.

“I never thought you’d try to run away from me.” James knelt in front of Matthew, his knees landing on the soft midnight blue carpet. “That one day, I’d become a part of the shadows that you try to outrun.”

Matthew turned around so fast and reached for James’ face. His green eyes were darker than usual. “You’re not my shadows, Jamie Bach. You’re my home. You are the reason why I still believe I’m worth being forgiven for.” He said those words like a damned man dying for a confession, following blindly a faith he held so dear to his heart, hoping that that faith could be his saving grace. James understood that he had become that faith.

“Forgiven for what?” James asked.

“I can’t tell you.”

“It’s me, Matthew. What is so bad that you cannot tell me?”

“I can’t tell you because I’m afraid. I need you to stay with me. I need you to believe that I am good, even if it means that you believe in a lie.”

“Matthew …”

“If you keep choosing me and believing in me,” Matthew interrupted. If he couldn’t finish now, he never would. “then maybe I can believe that I am no monster.”

“You are not a monster, you are my parabatai.”

James felt like they were back on that bridge, at night, so close to being let in in Matthew’s secrets. Back then James hadn’t been in control of himself, he hadn’t known what was happening to him. He had lost his chance. It would not happen again. It could not happen again. James was so tired of walking a frayed rope line with Matthew, guessing at hinted truths. Being someone’s constant north took work and time and effort but because it was Matthew, James could do it. He would always do it and he needed Matthew to know that as clearly as they both knew that one day would come when they would both cross the other side together. Because after all, that was what it had always been about. Despite shadows and lies and deceptions and miscommunication, they would always be together. So James continued.

“Do you know what that means? It means that I made a promise to you. I said entreat me not to leave thee, for wither thou goest, I will go. If aught but death part thee and me. I will not leave. No matter what you’ve done, I will stand by you, because that is the choice that I have made. That I still make. There is not a thing in this world that you could have done that would make me stop loving you, calon fy enaid.”

Matthew looked up at James and teased “Does that mean that you accept my feelings for Cordelia?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I must say, I don’t think I’m her type. It’s a pity, really.” Some strands of Matthew’s hair fell in his eyes as he shook his head. James could see the old Matthew again. The carefree one that balanced out his own shadows so well. The one he would choose and forgive a thousand times over because he too was his home.

“Matthew.”

“All right, all right.” Matthew threw his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. “I just … wish you could promise that I would not lose you.”

“I promise.”

“You can’t promise something you don’t know.” Matthew said before he started to talk about his own misbeliefs that had led to a terrible accident. James listened and did not judge and stayed long in the night after Matthew had said everything that had weighted so heavy on his heart for so long. And somewhere, under the warm light of oil lamps and next to a warm fire, the frayed rope between the two started to mend and James could only describe the feeling as one of coming home.

Tag List: @lady-ofroses @clockworknights @the-axewielding-herondale @tess-the-dreamer @coloandreablog

Do let me know if you want to be on the tag list and I’ll happily add you! (I have a tag list now visibly, wild and mind-blown) I will try to post more now that my exams are somewhat done. Who am I kidding? There will always be more stuff to do XD

#tlh fanfic #the last hours fanfiction #the last hours #tlh #coi spoilers #coi #chain of iron #chain of gold #chog #Matthew Fairchild #james herondale #lucie herondale #jesse blackthorn #cordelia carstairs #thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #grace blackthorn #jordelia

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meetevieinthehallway · 5 years ago

Text

just harry.

in which harry is a prince but craves normalcy.

this is all insane.

insane: a word only used for the outcasts of this god forsaken kingdom—god bless the king and queen!—that were deranged enough to be put away and imprisoned within their rights and their own minds.

harry grew up believing he was one of the insane. because the insane were shipped away for having qualities deemed too different to be socially acceptable, so much so that they were deemed inhumane: locked away for life and considered a danger to society.

it’s insane for someone to ponder outside the realm of the king’s religion and it’s insane to visit a neighboring kingdom and it’s fucking insane for you to not bow and break your spine and bruise your knees and hands for those who sit upon the throne.

all they did was think a little differently— all they did was not conform.

and there was always something different about harry—something nonconforming—that he couldn’t place his finger on.

nobody could. and that was a problem.

he was different— would prance around the palace singing and humming and proclaiming he wanted to be a florist or painter with cherub cheeks and messy curls and a twinkling in his eyes.

and apparently, that was enough of a danger to the kingdom—to the king—when he would eventually take the throne.

i’m going to leave my kingdom behind to what? music and flowers and— something disgusting? you’re soft, harry. you’re an ungrateful brat who needs to grow some skin, and be a man.

but how could he grow more skin when it was whipped off in sections across his back?

too soft too soft too soft, it was always the same tirade from his father and harry didn’t comprehend why his love for music and art and animals was considered as a thing of abnormality.

of insanity.

and as a boy, harry didn’t understand. he had no concept of his role in this god forsaken kingdom, or how embarrassing it was to the king that his son embodied some form of anything than what his father wanted. he wasn’t enough to his father, never would be, never could be.

all he was enough of was dangerous: to everything about his family and their place in the world.

dangerous enough to where he was locked away from being himself and a burden on the reputation of his family.

i didn’t raise you this way. you are not my son.

a burden. that’s what he was.

a burden as burdening as the crown that laid upon his head by the time he was four— the one that bent his neck out of shape and twisted the bone structure of his back and his ribcage and with enough gold and silver to blind him when he looked at himself in the mirror.

every time he looked in the mirror he didn’t recognize himself.

this wasn’t him— this poised, royal, locked away self was not him.

a crafted crown fit for a prince like his crafted self— leaving certain parts in, eliminating others, because all he was to be was a beautiful, groomed, shiny exterior that his people gawk at— something that they lower their eyes to.

why look at the empty hole in the middle of the crown when the jades and rubies glisten? the ones that show the strength of his status?

the only jades that never held entitlement and refinement are harry’s eyes—but only if you bothered to look close enough—that hardened as he aged. twinkling eyes turned to crushed, broken jades sorrily held together, like how the impossibly stoic stone imprisoned the sword.

he was helplessly imprisoned from the inside and out.

harry had known to imprison his own feelings at a very early age. although he was a burden, it was never showcased, only forced to be repressed and repressed and every “negative” deep into the core of his being was grounded him so intensely that he was stuck. always fucking stuck somewhere he didn’t want to be— in this stupid crown and cape or at the royal table or in the presence of the people or his father or—

no.

repress the feelings like we oppress the insane and the people of this kingdom who are just the peasants we look down upon—

the crown he wears is not much heavier than his tears.

you are to rule with an iron fist, boy. what good will compassion do for these people?

maybe his crown was heavy in accordance with the weight pressing down on his shoulders.

harry was called insane for disliking war and dominance and carrying no respect for his father—the fucking king of this stupid fucking kingdom—

and the insane are kept locked away until some other bullshit authority takes them out and away and he is really just a burden— trapped in his own lonely swirling head and becoming dizzy with the thoughts of wanting to flee and escape this all or cry or— or die—

i-i’d be free.. wouldn’t i? and wouldn’t my father be happier?

but although his despair held enough strength of its own to pull the sword out of the stone like the legend itself— he was never brave enough to plunge it into his chest.

maybe he was too soft. too pitiful for his own good.

harry has come to believe in past lives.

he isn’t sure exactly where or when the idea formulated among the chaos in his mind, but he believes—he hopes—that past and future lives are real.

he knows they are; they have to be. he prays they are.

(that’s why he’s always been tempted to die at his own hand— take some control and be the one to send his soul into a new life already.)

he has always considered himself an old soul, deja-vu common but disheartening, and he never rationalizes why— other for the reason that he must have an older life still lingering in his body.

maybe that’s why he feels so out of place in this lifetime.

another book was probably crammed down his throat at some point in his suffocating youth— one with the idea of rebirth and reincarnation and how the soul is separate from the body so much so that it keeps moving when the physicality of a person dies— probably from some philosophy, some theological text—some middle-age epic poem that clogged his lungs with dust and imbibed pages of bullshit in his head.

even though he didn’t know where or when this thought came into his head, he sure knew why it did.

there isn’t a possibility that he hasn’t lived a different life before this time.

and he dreamed for the truth of it.

there is a taste of normalcy dancing along the tip of his tongue and the edge of his fingertips— too far in reach to fully grasp and be absorbed into. he’s met other princes and nobles and duchesses and queens— he’s met the love they have for their titles and status and it creates a film in his mouth he wants to spit out for hours. those people would rather die than live a normal, commoner life— wouldn’t he be that way too if there wasn’t some part of him holding him back?

between the mess of words and allegories and praises within the books he read and the poems he penned endlessly—the ones he’s hid from his father—something about the idea of multiple lives lived by the same soul stuck with him.

he wanted to be normal. common. he dreamed of it.

and if there was a chance his soul could be at some point, harry would leave this life soon. or at this point, at least suffer through this one for the hope of the next.

he hoped and he prayed and he dreamed for the sake of his sad, locked away soul that it would get to live a life at some point.

this wasn’t a life— he’s never had one.

harry saw for himself the way kids his age ran and shouted and chased each another when he traveled into the cities or the countryside, and he longs for it— the normalcy of it all— the beauty and simplicity and bliss.

he remembers reading about god when locked into the library for the day after he saw those children—tears dripping off his nose and splatting on worn pages and he’s sniffling at the words and he wonders when he will see god, for real. he wants to—needs to—see if there’s a purpose for him, for this life. if there is a god, he wouldn’t do this to him— make him fall to his knees and to his feet for a life so foreign to him, but familiar to his soul.

god, if you’re there, just fucking take me now, please.

but god didn’t answer.

maybe he was even burdening to god.

and harry wiped his tears and what was left of his heart had dissipated.

but then, an angel was sent to him.

he doesn’t remember the exact emotions he felt when he first saw her, but he knows that he believed his heart to reconstruct itself.

since his fingertips couldn’t grasp the normal life dangling in front of him, he was brushing them against the rose petals as he walked through the gardens. he liked how they felt against his skin— soft and pliant and delicate and this is why he liked june.

for the color. the feelings.

the feel of warmth from the sun on his cheek and the breeze through his hair and the gentleness of his humming swirling around him. the feelings of being lost and being free and being one with nature.

not that he could voice that.

but the older he grew the less his father scolded him— it was embedded in the both of them and the scars on harry’s skin that he was the way he was. it was easier when he pretended to be alike his father in front of the public— in private he could be what he wanted.

that’s why he roamed the gardens at sunrise— nobody would find him here and nobody would correct his lack of being proper.

or at least he thought nobody was there.

“ow! silly thing— was trying to be nice!”

harry had jumped when he heard the gentle voice— and although he couldn’t see who it came from, there was an annoyance in the tone that caught him off guard and dragged his vision towards a rosebush. his eyebrows dropped over his eyes in confusion, and he released the petal between his fingers and moved slowly towards the voice, which was still mumbling in disgruntlement.

and he’s walking towards the sound and thinking about who else would be here at sunrise—“um.. hello?” and he was responded with a gasp—and he’s walking around the bush and he—

he sees eyes.

beautiful, beautiful eyes.

and he thinks he may have finally died because he forgets how to breathe.

they’re glistening up at him, wide and bright and unmoving and he doesn’t know how his expression looked because he was so lost.

so incredibly lost in those eyes.

her lips are parted and his eyebrows raise and he’s staring down at her and the wind blows at the hair draped across her neck.

and it’s silent for a long moment that he can hear the bees buzzing.

“y-you… your highness i-i am so- … so sorry please forgive me i—”

he’s shaking his head as she looks down at her knees and she’s rambling and spewing apologies and bowing low to the ground and he can see her start to literally tremble and he’s so enamored and confused.

“are you alright?”

it cuts her off. i shouldn’t have spoken unless he did first. she sits up again and she’s still looking down in respect and he hates that he can’t see her eyes anymore. she’s silent and still.

“miss? are you okay?”

she sputters. she bows her head lower if that was possible and he slowly crouches so he’s at her eye level. and then he lowers completely and he sits next to her on the grass of the gardens, running a hand through his hair and she’s still shaking and she’s so confused. why is he stooping to a commoner’s level— i’m no ‘miss’—

“i-i’m so sorry, your highness i-i—..”

“miss?”

she sputters again.

“please look at me.”

she chokes but keeps it in the back of her throat. he wants me to look at him? is it so he can get a better description of my face for when he reports me o-or has me killed—

“you can look at me. it’s not a crime.” there’s a softness to his voice and she doesn’t understand why she isn’t being scolded or condemned or imprisoned at this point.

“.. your majesty..—”

“this is no trick, can you… will you please look at me?”

and her eyes flicker up hesitantly, her head still slightly bowed and she meets his eyes again. and she falls in his gaze and he melts in her’s.

and she realizes how utterly beautiful he is. she’s only ever seen him from afar— but up close his lips and skin are smooth and soft and his eyes… they look—… kind.

“there you are.” he gives her a small smile. “beautiful eyes, you have.”

she’s beautiful. prettier than any rose he’s ever seen and he wants to fiddle with her lips between his fingertips and slot them between his own.

“can i ask what you’re doing?” he murmurs, keeping his voice soft and she shivers under his gaze and his low voice.

“i was just… trying to…—” her eyes move in front of her lap and harry sees that there’s one of the garden rabbits in between her and the bush. he chuckles softly.

“tryin’ to pet him? they can be fiesty little buggers sometimes.”

but he leans over and scoops the bunny up easily and holds him to his chest, petting between his ears with his fingers and moving his eyes back to hers.

she’s in awe; she blinks and looks away, shifting in her position.

“you’re timothy’s daughter, no?”

she blinks at him again, nodding slowly, tentatively. how would he know the palace gardener by name? is he mad? will he tell father—

he grins. “like a friend to me, your father. he used to bring your brother around when i was younger too.” he’s still petting the bunny and she’s in awe. “used to play with him. jack, yes?”

she nods again.

“mm. used to help them plant tulips when my father wasn’t here.”

she wonders why her father never told her about him— how different he seemed than his father. she only looks down at her lap and fiddles with her fingers.

“you’re awfully quiet. think this little thing is louder than you, love.” harry smirks at her.

love.

he calls her love.

she blushes when she hears it and can’t help but crack a small smile. she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and chews on the inside of her cheek in apprehension.

“what is your name?”

so she tells him softly— as calm and gentle as the morning breeze and the sun is just beginning to peek out and illuminate her skin.

and with a smile, he takes the bunny and places it on her lap.

her fingers move to nestle between its ears and she smiles softly.

and then his touch melds with hers.

because he takes her other hand in between his two and lifts it to his lips. and he kisses her skin once as if she were royalty, and her lips part as his do from her hand.

“i’m harry. just.. just harry.”

—

that was when they were eighteen.

they fall in love so deeply and so quickly—of course they do—and harry knew he would fall in love with her the moment he saw her and he detests god for not sending her to him sooner.

but he lets it slide.

because she loves and cares for him so wholeheartedly that harry’s frozen and broken heart has thawed in his chest and his stoic eyes have softened.

everyone can see it— but nobody could put their finger on what had happened to the sad little boy that was whipped into refinement for so long. the palace workers are shaking their heads at him fondly again, murmuring how he seems to be back in the clouds and it’s become normalized again by the time he’s twenty-three. he’s asking for paints and instruments and spends hours writing poetry and he feels like himself.

harry feels bliss.

pure blissfulness and it’s all from falling in love with the pretty girl in the garden who loves him authentically. not for his title— not for his riches— just him. just harry.

his flower, his rose, his pretty love who he calls his and identifies himself within parts of her.

he finds solace in her touch and sees her glowing cheeks in the sunsets and he wants to wrap himself in her heart.

he writes her poems and songs and paints her face and eyes and lips and she gets emotional when he does— kissing him endlessly and murmuring how in love she is with him and he can’t help but grin into her skin.

he says it back with a fire in his eyes and he could drop dead from her smile shining his way.

he’s happy. he’s so utterly and unbelievably happy.

even though it’s all a secret.

as much as he wants to shout from every rooftop and into every face of his royal family— she is his, the one thing he has that is his, the thing he cherishes most. and it’s not that she’s a dirty little secret— he just loves that he feels ultimately comfortable and normal around her; he doesn’t need to act.

she’s the taste of love and happiness and normalcy he’s begged and prayed for for all these years.

his fingers are lost in her hair and skimming along her body and he soaks in her smiles and her laughs like they’re rays of sunshine and he could spend the rest of his days basking in her presence. he sneaks out to watch the stars with her in the countryside and they dance in the pouring rain and they bask in the sunrises that appear bright above the kingdom’s horizon. he’s had dinner with her family in their small cottage at the late hours of the night— feeling like he belongs to a family. they’re the only ones who know— kind enough to treat him as their own and allow him to stay the nights or cry on their shoulders when it’s been particularly hard.

he’s attained the normalcy he’s always craved— and it’s all because he’s fallen in love with his flower.

“you’re the love of my life, y’know.”

she whispers it into the space between them in her bed, fingers caressing his bare chest while harry drifts in the floaty space between being asleep and awake. he hums, low in his throat and he feels her lips sponge on his neck.

he shivers.

“and you are mine.” he murmurs, and she’s smiling into his skin and nipping at it softly.

she sits up, rubbing at her eye as he stares up at her from his place on his back. her hand then finds the top of his head, rubbing through his curls and he could easily forget everything and drift back asleep. her sheer curtains let the light pass through from her window and the golden hue that falls on her skin makes him want to kiss every inch of her.

“want to take a bath, love?” she asks softly, watching his eyes flutter.

and he sighs, “can’t. have to be back before they notice i’m gone.”

she frowns, “stay? just a little longer?” she whispers.

“hey,” he speaks softly, eyes opening to see her lip trapped between her teeth. “promise you we won’t have to cut our time short anymore. soon, okay?” he stares at her intently, sending his promise through the sharpness of his eyes.

she nods, looking down. but her hand falls away from his hair.

she’s used to the sinking feeling in her stomach but that doesn’t make it feel any better. she’s sad— it’s easy to tell. she wants to love him openly and outwardly— paint each other in the garden and kiss and dance in the ballroom without being questioned or scrutinized. she hates that it makes her upset—she doesn’t need validation or the attention of being the prince’s new woman! (only ever woman, actually)—but she gets paranoid that he’s ashamed of her. no matter the countless times he’s assured her of the exact opposite or the endless evidence of his character that he doesn’t care about that stuff, it still pangs her insecurities and she finds her reflection judging herself.

she wishes she was poised and elegant and proper and beautiful and enough— enough to where harry could be seen as fitting with her.

but she has dirt under her nails and messy wild hair and it hurts her every time he leaves or every time he smiles at her from his balcony while she’s helping her father tend the garden. seeing him so high up only reminds her of the distance and the difference of who they are.

she wishes his parents could be proud of him and of who he loves.

she also knows that that will never happen.

“love?” he murmurs, his hand finding hers, “upset with me, are you?”

she shakes her head and meets his eyes. “just wish it was different.” she shrugs.

he nods, “yeah.”

“wish i was born into royalty or something—” she takes her hand away from his and tears spring to her eyes. “then i’d get to have you.”

“hey.” he frowns, “you do have me.”

her laugh is mixed with a small sob as she doesn’t meet his eyes.

harry reaches for her touch again, cupping her cheek and turning her face.

“all of me.”

he’s looking at her intently but it’s silent and his heart twitches because there’s something there. she’s holding something— holding something back and away from him and he can tell.

he furrows his eyebrows. “what is it?”

she shakes her head, eyes fluttering around her room and her face falling away from his touch— she’s studying the size of her room, how everything is cramped and small and how everything isn’t as grand as he is.

“i know when you aren’t telling me something.”

she looks at him, chin trembling and he falters at the sheer emotion she’s showing.

“it’s nothing, harry.” she whispers.

“love.”

her lip trembles. you have to tell him.

“what’s going on?”

she meets his eyes.

they’re piercing and confused and she hates that this may be the last time she’ll be able to see them like this.

“they’re marrying you off.” she whispers.

and it’s silent.

she sighs and a sob forces its way out and he’s quiet.

he doesn’t look mad or upset— she doesn’t know what he’s thinking or feeling and so she has to look away. there’s a sudden coldness in the room.

“what d’you mean.” he doesn’t ask, he states, his voice monotone.

she wipes her cheek.

“dad overheard. they... your parents know.”

“...they know..?”

“they know you’re in love with someone they wouldn’t approve of.” she smiles sadly at her ceiling, wishing her tears would soak back into her. she sniffles, “just didn’t say that it is me. said a guard caught you leaving and they found some of your poems.”

he’s shaking. harry’s hands are shaking and he fumbles to hold hers.

“dad told me last night after you fell asleep.”

he swallows.

and then she speaks quieter than he’s ever heard. “i have to leave.”

his heart drops.

“...l-leave?”

she meets his eyes and there’s tears welled at his waterline and she hates that she’s put them there.

“your parents want me dead.” her hand squeezes his. “they’ve.. started investigating who you’ve been seeing all this time. want her dead o-or.. gone before they marry you off to the princess a few kingdoms over.”

and then her lips tremble.

“... i think they intentionally said it so casually—outwardly—in the garden because.. they knew dad would be there. t-they—”

he’s shaking his head because he knows what she’s going to say.

“i think they know it’s me, harry.”

“n-no.. but they can’t do that—”

“you know they can.”

“i-i.. i won’t let anyone hurt you. especially not them.” he swallows. “you… you know that.”

“i know. but that’s not...—” she shrugs.

it’s not enough.

his tears have started to fall.

“you can’t leave.”

she knows he’s not talking about the kingdom.

her hand touches his cheek.

“i was never enough for you anyways.” she cries.

“don’t say that—”

“i’m not who you should be with.”

“that’s not true—”

“you deserve to be happy a-and… this is who you are. you’re meant to be ruling a kingdom and not with some commoner girl who—”

“stop.” he sobs, and he’s leaning into her touch and grasping at her hands and any other part of her he can. he’s losing her through his own hands.

he’s shaking and crying into her open palm and she’s holding everything back because it really is just not enough. she wants to wrap him in her arms but she knows that that will make this so much harder.

“i’m happy with you and not in my role. you know that.” he’s saying it around a bite of frustration.

he stutters for a moment but can only sob, and he holds her wrist and starts desperately kissing at her fingers and her palm and her wrist and her arm, and she’s sobbing into her own lap. he’s hiccuping and muttering pleas into her skin and it’s undeniably pathetic of him.

“don’t leave me. please don’t i-i—...” he’s begging.

but he knows his own father would have her executed without blinking.

“harry.” she says his name like a mantra and his forehead is pressed to her knuckles. “you know i’d die for you. you know that but— i can’t have you dying for me.”

“that isn’t fair.”

“i know, i-i.. i know.”

harry’s throat is burning and he’s trying so hard to think. his head is swirling and hot and he can’t find a way out of this fog that’s trapping him in this fucking nightmare.

he can’t do this— god he really can’t.

this is worse than a knife to his chest and this is more troubling than the thoughts that contemplated his own existence and this is all blinding him— cutting off his senses. he can’t lose her. he wants to bring her in front of his father and mother and give them an ultimatum— but he knows that wouldn’t work— either way she is endangered because of him and—

“i’m sorry.”

he meets her eyes, his two hands holding her one.

then he lets it fall to her bedding, and his eyes follow in shame.

“this is all my fault.”

“h...”

“who i am is the fault of this all.” his tone is stoic and unwavering.

“you know that’s extreme, harry.”

“is it?”

his love swallows.

“where will you go? will you be safe?” he’s asking her without looking at her, a wave of desperation coaxing through the monotony of his voice.

she nods, “i’ll be a few kingdoms over.”

harry pauses. he bites on the inner part of his lip and shakes his head. “what if… what if i talk to them, huh? get them to-to.. to see and.. understand and—” she’s shaking her head and he swallows and he wishes he never lifted his gaze. “i-i was going to talk to them eventually, love, i-i…” harry sighs. “planned on marrying you soon, anyways.”

her eyes lift to his slowly and her lips part, “really?”

“i told you that you have all of me.” he looks down on her ring finger, “just wanted to make it official.”

her mouth is dry and coated in shock and she doesn’t know what to do. she looks at him desperately.

“love.” he then says seriously, and she nods slowly. “i-... there’s a small cottage in Pratetus. you know where that is, yes?”

she nods again, confused and trembling and her eyebrows are hovering over her eyes.

“used to belong to one of my nurses before she passed. told me it was mine when she died. i want you to go there.”

“harry—”

“listen.”

she does.

“it will take a few days travel. i will give the directions to your father so he can take you safely. go there. nobody will find you there.”

she swallows.

“okay?”

“i- okay.”

“promise me.”

“...i promise.” she whispers.

his authoritative voice fades into a softer one. “i will return to the palace to pack my things and then i will meet you there.”

she jumps. “meet me there?! what?..—”

“i’ll grab riches and jewels and we will live there, together.”

she’s staring at him incredulously.

“harry—”

“we-..we will sell the riches and live off the land.” and he’s smiling now. it’s sad, and cracking and watery but he’s finally looking at her again. “can get married. properly. change m’name or something. a-and we can have kids, like you’ve always said. and animals and—...” his eyes are shining. “we’ll live happily, yeah? together and happily, and we’ll be safe.”

“harry, no.” she breathes. “i will not let you give up your life for me.”

“you know my life is one i’ve never wanted.”

“i—”

“you know that better than anyone. i am not leaving anything behind. i will not be leaving behind a life of happiness, and i am not leaving you behind to pursue my title.” he says it sternly. “i am not going to lose you. i cannot and will not lose you.”

she’s hesitant. her eyes drift away and suddenly his shirt on her body is making her hot. she stands up and off the bed, pacing a few steps as her hands come to rub her face.

it’s quiet.

harry panics.

“do you not wish the same?” he whispers, deducing her hesitancy to to an answer that will break him. “it.. it’s okay if you...— do you not want that?”

“of course i want that— you, harry!” she says it incredulously, her hands falling from her face. he’s staring at her from his place on her bed, crestfallen and desperate and she’s never seen him this small.

“i..i couldn’t ask that of you— couldn’t live that life knowing you gave up your other one.”

“but i’d finally get to have you.” he says it sadly and quietly. “you’ve had all of me, but i’ve been... trapped in this all. i don’t have all of you and not because you won’t give yourself to me.” he murmurs. “it’s because i have failed to commit to sacrificing privileges for what i truly want— and out of fear. i am a coward, and have always been.” he shakes his head at her and she feels a tear fall down her chin.

“but i am no longer afraid. i will give up anything i have if it means that i would be free and with you and i’d get to live with you in the way i’ve always wanted. we could live and.. and build our own garden.”

she can see his eyes longing for her.

“let’s live what we’ve talked endlessly about. i’ll beg you if i must.”

she sniffs and her chin trembles.

“please. i know it’s selfish. i know. b-but...”

another tear escapes and falls to her jaw as it clenches. she moves forward and sits back down on her bed, and takes his hands.

“i want you, too. we’re both selfish.” she whispers. “just me and you?”

his smile is watery and happy, “you and me.” he affirms.

and harry’s love nods slowly.

“yes?”

she sobs in mix with her emotional laugh, nodding faster before launching herself at him and wrapping her arms around his neck. her face lands on his shoulder and her tears splat against his bare skin as she squeezes him tight.

“yes.”

—

“what do you mean you’re leaving? what is this nonsense, harry.”

he looks his father in the eyes. “you’re in my way,” is all he says, brushing past him and grasping for his paints that he was standing in front of.

“harry! i’ve asked you a question.”

“and i believe you know the answer.”

harry’s eyes match his father’s with the malice they carry. harry is challenging him in his expression, looking at him with disgust and carelessness. he was always told he carries a resemblance to his father.

“should’ve done this a long time ago. saved the family from some embarrassment, no?” harry quips at him with sarcasm and his father has nothing to do but glare. “you really don’t know what love is, in any capacity. do you?” he asks, laughing in incredulousness. “you didn’t marry mother out of love, nor were gemma and i conceived out of love. and you still never loved any of us in life, especially me.” harry’s laughing at this sick joke of his father and the older man steps closer to him.

“you really haven’t matured at all, son.”

“oh, really?” he’s fake pouting, finding this all too amusing.

“knew you would never be a man; i guess my lessons didn’t teach you enough.”

“maybe you’re just a prick.”

“excuse me?”

“i said it quite clearly. you were the one who did teach me to stop mumbling.” harry walks to the other side of the room to continue packing.

“you’re making a fool of yourself.” his father speaks again after a long pause.

“learnt from the best!”

“harry—”

“guess your ‘lessons’ weren’t all too bad, hm?”

harry’s heart is pounding with adrenaline and freedom. all the quick wit and i’m-sick-of-your-shit feelings are pouring out of him, having flooded his insides for far too long.

“why am i a fool, father? because i’ve put up with you for this long?... or—”

“you are a disgrace to the royal name.”

“guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“enough!”

harry did shut up at his father’s yell, but not without a sick grin plastered on his face.

the tension in the room pulses.

“father.” he speaks again, half-laughing. “i’m happy and in love, and i can’t live the rest of my life not being with her.”

the king’s face reddens. “you have a duty to this kingdom.”

harry throws his bag to his feet and points a finger towards his father. “as if you would ever let me rule. we all know the crown will go to gemma.”

“maybe it’s because you’re weak. weak as a son, a prince, a man. have you ever thought of that?”

“how could i forget with you telling me since i wasn’t even a man!?” he laughs.

his father falls silent because he truly doesn’t know what to say. so instead, harry speaks again.

“i know you hate me.” he says, “and i’ve long accepted that. but..” he looks at him intensely, “you hate me so much that.. that you won’t let me be happy? you genuinely wish for me to live miserably? i am still your family.”

the king breathes out. “it is not that—...”

“then what is it?”

silence again. because the king still doesn’t have an answer.

harry bends down and grabs his bag again, and then stands tall. “you’ve made my life hell, for fun?”

“i was making you into a man who could hold authority.”

“just like you, i bet.”

his father grins evilly. “yes.”

“well look at me now” harry grins. “i’m leaving, and nobody can tell me otherwise, especially you.”

harry starts to walk towards and out the door where his father is standing in front of, but the king’s gruff hand hits harry’s chest with a thud. harry looks down, unimpressed. and his father’s eyes narrow.

“and you think you’ll make it out of here?”

harry’s eyebrows lift as he brushes his hand off. “is that a challenge?”

the king’s face hardens.

harry grins.

“guards!”

and that’s when harry’s smile cracks.

—

he’s taking a day longer than he said it would.

she’s worried.

the sun has long set and the fire has been roaring with heat for hours, and is now only charcoal and ashes. the crickets have began to sing, and she can’t help but decide that it sounds incredibly solemn.

it doesn’t help her nerves one bit.

she’s been pacing for hours across the floor of the cottage, giving up on trying to distract herself by putting things away or cooking dinner for her and her father and harry, as she had hoped.

and yet, despite her hopes, the third plate at the table was untouched and cold and none of this is helping her nerves.

“honey, he’ll be here.” her father has been trying to soothe her for the hours he’s been late. internally, he’s just as worried— harry was like another son to him and he’s concerned that something terrible is keeping him from being here— not that he’d ever voice that.

“dad, i—...” she chews her lip and turns towards him, “what if he’s hurt? we’re so far away and..” her mind starts to wander dangerously. “what if he’s been imprisoned? you know how cruel the king can be!..—”

“he wouldn’t want you to stress in this way. he’ll be here. something is just holding him up.”

“yes! maybe chains at this point!”

her father sighs and leans back in his chair. he needs to get back to the kingdom soon, or people will grow suspicious. but he won’t leave his daughter when she is distraught.

“it took us three days to get here and he planned to leave a day after we have and it is now creeping into the fifth day and—”

“it’s late. you should rest.”

“i will not until he arrives. i need to know he is safe and—” she trails off, biting her lip. “if he isn’t here in one more day i am going back.”

“you can never show your face in that kingdom again.”

“i don’t care. i need to find him—”

“you’ll be killed for treason if you go back!”

“better me than him!’

the door creaks.

the tension and volume in the room drop to silence, and her eyes lift to the door, as do her father’s.

boots hit the entrance’s floor with a soft thud and the door is pushed open more.

and he’s there. and she can breathe.

he’s bruised and bloodied and there’s sword cuts littering his body, but he’s grinning.

“oh.. oh god, harry,” she rushes to him and holds his face, and he’s smirking in glory and pride.

“y’still love me if i’ve hurt people?” he laughs. “he surrendered after i defeated fourteen of his guards. even helped me load my things.”

she laughs sadly, and her eyes are watery as they scan the wounds on his figure.

“harry.. i— let’s get you fed a-and.. and cleaned up—”

“one thing first.”

harry’s eyes shift and fall to her father’s face, who is just as relieved to see him as she is. harry’s hand falls to her stomach, silently telling her it’s okay, and he stumbles towards him grinning, the older man placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“sir,” he grins mischievously, “my name is harry.”

her father quirks an eyebrow but is smiling simultaneously. “...yes?”

“i come from days away and am exhausted from my journey,” harry says softly, his smile creeping towards his eyes, “i’ve come because i am so in love with your daughter, as she is my light and makes me so incredibly happy.”

her tears drip to the cottage floor but she rolls her eyes fondly.

“do i have your blessing to offer her my hand in marriage? will you let her marry a lowly man like myself?”

timothy chuckles loudly, laughing with his belly and throat and with his eyes shining he nods towards his daughter. “gonna take care of her?”

“with my whole being, sir.”

“eh, a low-life like yourself? hm... think she may be able to do better--”

“you both are idiots.”

and harry’s laugh get mixed into her kiss.

#iTS DONE #im sorry it took so long #im sorry its so bad #harry #harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles au #prince harry styles

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gusu-emilu · 4 years ago

Text

Cantatio: Chapter Seven

Ship: Lan Zhan / Wei Ying (POV Lan Zhan)

Summary: No matter whether they're in the library or their dorm room or anywhere else—Wei Ying can't keep his nose out of Lan Zhan's business.

Cloud Recesses Academy AU, Rated T - read on AO3

< Ch. 6 | Ch. 8 > | chapter list

Lan Wangji clutched his robes with trembling hands and gaped down at the image in disbelief. The elegant black lines that depicted his long hair, flowing robes, and serene face might as well have been the Gates of the Heavenly Court themselves for the magnitude of awe they inspired in him. The portrait had been crafted with careful, doting attention. Even thin lines for his eyelashes had been caressed into the parchment: soft, tender, and downcast.

Wei Ying had been drawing him.

The thought of Wei Wuxian surreptitiously glancing at Lan Wangji—or perhaps even outright staring at him—as he painted his likeness made Lan Wangji’s stomach churn with a bizarre emotion. It sloshed around inside him, bouncing off the walls of his chest with a tingle, like butterflies flapping their ticklish wings against his heart. He did not understand what this feeling was.

Lan Wangji wanted to repay his artistic admirer, but all he could manage was to blink at him in bewilderment.

“Ah, so you like it, Lan Zhan? You can hang this up in our dorm if you want. Look, I made you much handsomer than you are in real life! You’re welcome!”

Oh, yes. What emotion did he feel?

He felt creeped out.

That’s what it was.

“Boring.”

He shoved the paper back into Wei Wuxian’s arms and returned to his writing. Wei Wuxian pouted and scuffed his feet as he lumbered back to his seat, leaving the drawing on the floor at the foot of Lan Wangji’s desk.

Another several minutes of silence passed. Although it wasn’t that silent, because Wei Wuxian kept shifting in his seat, rubbing his face, and sighing during his frequent breaks from copying the Gusu Lan Clan rules. Lan Wangji was definitely not paying more attention to the portrait on the floor than he was to his own handwriting.

A delicate shadow appeared in the doorway. It was Wen Qing.

She carried a journal under the fold of her left arm and scanned the room with astute eyes. At the sight of Wei Wuxian, she furrowed her brow, then grazed over him with an air of indifference and strode toward the platform where Lan Wangji sat.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

Lan Wangji twinged his lips with a pang of embarrassment. “I have not looked.”

She scoffed. “Weren’t you the one who said you would research it? Now you expect me to do all the work to prove your crazy story?”

“What crazy story?” Wei Wuxian piped in.

Lan Wangji ignored him. “I have been occupied.”

“With what?”

Wen Qing leaned over and squinted at the copied list of rules on Lan Wangji’s desk. Then her eyes wandered down the leg of the table and landed upon the portrait that still lay on the floor. She raised her eyebrows.

“Are you leading an art class for Young Master Wei? A little vain to use yourself as the model, don’t you think?”

Lan Wangji’s cheeks began to burn. He glared at the piece of paper with dark malice, like it was a traitor to the entire Gusu Lan Clan.

“Can you at least point me to the right section of the library so we can get to the bottom of this? I have Alchemy homework to do, you know.”

“What crazy story?” Wei Wuxian repeated.

“Speaking is prohibited in the library,” Lan Wangji said. He turned to Wen Qing and pointed at the east corner of the room. “Third shelf from the top, left side.”

“Thanks.”

“Why is it okay for you two to talk?!”

Lan Wangji silenced him with a sharp look. Wei Wuxian grumbled and picked up his brush, but he followed Wen Qing suspiciously with his eyes.

After half a minute of the soft thud of book covers upon wood, Wen Qing waltzed back over to Lan Wangji and laid a thick maroon volume at the edge of his desk.

“Take a look at this one. I think this author is quite reputable. I’ll read the one written by his rival.”

Lan Wangji sized up the hefty book in his sight, then surveyed the pages of writing he still needed to finish for his self-punishment.

“I am occupied.”

Wen Qing slouched an inch, and the olive-green book in her hand swung at her side. “Why are you doing that?” she said with a resigned sigh, as if she already knew the answer and was very disappointed about it.

“Isn’t it ridiculous? It’s like the executioner cutting off his own head! There’s something weird about him, I’ve gotta warn you, Lady Wen. Poor Lan Zhan.”

They continued to ignore him.

Lan Wangji answered her question. “To atone for intruding in your dormitory.”

“You were just trying to prove your innocence to me, now you’re sulking like a guilty child? I thought you wanted to know how you got into my room.”

Wei Wuxian perked up at this new information. He leaned to the side to get a better view and watched with curiosity.

Lan Wangji bit the inside of his mouth. He shot Wen Qing a pleading look that said, I do not want him to know about this.

Wen Qing sniffed and gave a sly smile. She sat down on the edge of the platform and opened the yellow pages of the book on her lap.

“Stop sulking and read.”

Lan Wangji contemplated for a full minute. Maybe two. Then he grabbed the book that was balanced over the corner of his desk.

It was better to atone for his infractions against Wen Qing by following her wishes, wasn’t it?

He looked up at Wei Wuxian, who was whistling as he scrawled characters into the paper with quick flicks of his brush, unaware of Lan Wangji’s scrutinizing gaze. The outline of his features was backlit by soft blue from the window behind him, and painted in warm tones everywhere else from the mellow hues of the library.

If Lan Wangji had the passion to draw, Wei Ying in this delicate lighting could have been his muse.

If Lan Wangji were held at swordpoint, that is.

* * *

Wen Qing and Lan Wangji had not been successful in finding any leads about portals, and they hadn’t yet discovered a connection to qiankun pouches. They did find detailed passages about Transportation Talismans and Transportation Arrays, but both of these required a tremendous input of spiritual energy, as well as a clear casting for the intended location—neither of which matched Lan Wangji’s experience.

Could it be that there was another person operating the closet? If so, what was their agenda?

They decided to give it a rest for the day and read more tomorrow.

While in the library, Lan Wangji had waited for Wei Wuxian to tell him how he animated the pixiu like he promised, but Wei Wuxian did not mention it.

So Lan Wangji had waited more hopefully during dinner. But all Wei Wuxian did was babble about chili peppers, chickens, and Lan Qiren. It seemed that making fun of Lan family members over food was a new habit of his.

Dinner had been served in the large hall where carved tables stretched down its length, hosting disciples who filled themselves with food after a tiring day. They were so eager to replenish their energy that it had been difficult to follow the rules of Cloud Recesses dining decorum with such a sumptuous meal before them. Jiang Cheng had scarfed down his meal the most greedily of all. Wei Wuxian was a close second.

“Eating more than three bowls of rice is prohibited,” Lan Wangji said.

“MFFNE MMH MMM MUUMMFMFMF!” had been the answer.

Afterward, every disciple was too full to go out and play like they did the previous night. Now Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian sat at the tea table in the center of their dorm. The portrait Wei Wuxian had drawn was plastered on the wall like a trophy. Wei Wuxian’s idea, of course.

The hot tea wafted through the dormitory with a mellow grassy scent and mingled with the stillness that clouded the two boys’ secluded new home. It was surprising that Lan Wangji’s roommate chose to spend a quiet evening in their duplex, patiently questioning Lan Wangji about the Cloud Recesses and classes, rather than seeking out the company of his friends in the main dormitory courtyard.

But Wei Wuxian had ways of finding entertainment anywhere.

“Laaaaan Zhaaaaaan,” he sang.

Lan Wangji exhaled, then slowly turned to face the dark-robed figure at his side who was furiously wriggling his eyebrows.

Wei Wuxian placed his elbows on the sleek wooden table and leaned sideways toward Lan Wangji. He smirked. Sparkles of glee danced in his eyes. As he sprawled himself closer to Lan Wangji, their arms touched, sending an uncomfortable rush through Lan Wangji’s skin.

“I know what’s going on,” Wei Wuxian said. His expression was handsome, mischievous.

Not feeling panicked at all, Lan Wangji turned away to face the door and took an unassuming sip from his cup, trying to douse the hot flames that were rising up in his chest from being so close to the young man.

“You have a crush on Wen Qing, don’t you?”

He nearly choked.

The steamy green tea spattered around his mouth and down his throat, coating it with nasty bitterness that Lan Wangji wouldn’t have had to taste had it not been for Wei Wuxian’s crassness.

The nerve!

He had no interest in Wen Qing!

Was he blind?!

Lan Wangji swirled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to sop up the lingering drops of bitter tea and coughed-up stomach acid that clung to his gums, hoping to extinguish the unpleasant suggestion.

“You were pretending that you didn’t know how you got into Wen Qing’s room so I wouldn’t suspect what’s going on between you two!” He continued the deranged fantasy as he patted Lan Wangji on the back to quell his coughing. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you wily bastard. I had heard that you didn’t care about what other people thought of you, but it’s really too bold to be pursuing a Wen. That’ll turn some heads around here for sure. I give you my respect. But don’t worry! If you don’t want anyone to know, I’ll keep your secret safe!”

Many words spun through Lan Wangji’s mind, but he selected the simplest and least offensive one in response.

“No.”

“You do want me to tell people?”

“No.”

Despite his attempts to restrain the muscles in his face, Lan Wangji’s mouth was drawn into a mystified grimace.

Was Wei Ying really this clueless?

Couldn’t he tell that…

Tell what? There was nothing to tell. In all his life, Lan Wangji never once had a crush, and he certainly did not have one now. He did not even know what it felt like. Nor was he interested in finding out.

But something about Wei Wuxian’s assumption made him very, very frustrated.

“I feel nothing for Lady Wen.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head like a cat about to swat at a toy. “If not her, then who do you have a crush on?”

Lan Wangji stammered out a reply that was supposed to be, “No one,” but it sounded mangled and not at all like his usual firm, clear voice. He wondered if it had even been intelligible.

“Alright, alright, I won’t ask you about that anymore. But I’m still suspicious. Why were you in Wen Qing’s room? What is your ‘crazy story?’ I want to hear about what scandalous things Lan Er-Gege does when we aren’t looking.”

Wei Wuxian leaned back and stretched his arms behind him to prop himself up, studying Lan Wangji with patience. Woven through his visage was that disarming look of sincerity.

Lan Wangji had learned not to trust it.

“I do not know.”

As honor was integral to his identity, Lan Wangji could not lie, but he could conceal the secret that lay behind the closet door a few paces away from where they sat. If Wei Wuxian found out about the portal, the entire Cloud Recesses was sure to learn within minutes. He did not want to make the gamble.

“You don’t know? Aiya, Lan Zhan, you sound like Nie Huaisang. How about this. If you don’t tell me what’s going on with Wen Qing, then I won’t tell you how I animated the pixiu in class today.”

Unfortunately, Wei Wuxian had bargaining chips.

Lan Wangji thought back to Beings & Creatures and how Song Lan had reacted to his question. Did Wei Wuxian know some forbidden technique for summoning guardian spirits? It seemed that one existed since Song Lan had alluded to it. What was it? How would a teenage disciple from the righteous Yunmeng Jiang Clan know it?

The emotions in Lan Wangji’s mind swirled with more than just curiosity. A spark of competitiveness nipped at his tongue. If his robust spiritual energy was being bested by someone, he wanted to know how.

Concern also gripped him. What if Wei Wuxian was wandering down a dark path of wayward cultivation?

But these thoughts were baseless. He did not care. He would not tell him about the closet.

Having reached a stalemate, the two young cultivators finished their tea without tasting it and parted ways for the night. Lan Wangji retired to his bed to read his Alchemy & Medicine homework. Wei Wuxian headed outside to prowl the grounds with Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang for the hour remaining until curfew.

Sleep soon cradled Lan Wangji as his heavy eyelids closed.

He awoke to a soft thud at his right.

Lan Wangji squinted his eyes. It was still nighttime, although the starlight pouring in through his window made it an unusually bright night.

He strained his ears to listen for any other sounds next to him, but it was silent.

And then—

Footsteps.

* * *

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, you can be a supportive sibling like Jiang Yanli by liking, reblogging, and visiting me on AO3! New chapters posted every Monday on AO3 and Tuesday on Tumblr.

Ch. 8 > | chapter list

#mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfiction #wangxian fanfiction #mdzs fanfic #the untamed fanfic #wangxian fanfic #mdzs #the untamed #cql #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #wen qing #cantatio #emilu fics #emilu creations

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astrarche-x · 4 years ago

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Six of Crows (+ Crooked Kingdom)

If somebody gave a penny for my thoughts on books, I’d have zero pennies, but here are my thoughts anyway!

It’s not a very spoiler-heavy note.

I know I’m super late to the party, but it’s only a month left to read the book before the show is released and that was a motivation to finally read it. (That and the fact that I have 3 written assignments due the end of the week).

- I haven’t read the Grisha trilogy, but Six of Crows was perfectly understandable without it, so that’s an asset. I wouldn’t mind knowing more about the war in Ravka, but generally it was ok.

- Found family in a juvenile delinquents gang is one of my favorite tropes in fiction and this book is all about that, so I was absolutely delighted. I liked how it wasn’t very obviously sugar-coated - obviously it wasn’t horribly realistic (I guess), but it avoided the Robin Hood or “criminal with a heart of gold” trope and that was nice, because it would reek of moralism.

- I liked the descriptions of the architecture etc. and could almost feel myself walking through the streets of Ketterdam. But the descriptions of Fjerda were very inconsistent to me in regard to the rest of the novel - I kinda felt like I was thrown from historical fiction to sci-fi (all that laboratory stuff) and that was weird.

- The action was very well-paced - without unneccessary delays and plot detours, but at the same time giving the characters and the reader time to breathe and bond. The only aspect I wasn’t satisfied with was the ending - it was too easy to predict the plot twist and it drained away the suspense and the sense of high stakes. And while some could say that it means that the writer set it up well, I think it would be better if it was unexpected, especially given that it’s not the kind of plot twist that changes the reader’s perception of the whole book, it just marked the turn in the action.

- post-CK addition: in Crooked Kingdom I felt that the action was moving a lot faster and left me quite exhausted at times. The moments to catch a breath were a bit too rare, but at least exuisite every time.

- While I’m rather glad that the “multiple POV” trend is dying, it was pulled off well in “Six of Crows”, because the narrative was in 3rd person. That allowed readers to switch rather effortlessly between the chapters while still directing their focus to a particular character.

- the characters, aka the best thing in this book: they are all lovable in their own ways and honestly I can’t decide who’s my favourite (jk jk it’s Matthias and Inej). I think that the number of characters is just right, not too big and confusing, but allowing for diversity in narratives. I only had an impression that characterization of Wylan was dropped halfway through the book and he’s been a plot device for solving technical problems most of the time, which is kinda sad. Also his change in personality was a bit unexpected.

- post-CK addition: ok, Wylan got his POV & his development, but I still feel like 75% of his character are family problems. I hope that maybe a reread in a few months will make me appreciate him more.

- Nina and Matthias: my absolutely favourite subplot (and ship in this book). It’s been a while since I’ve read so well executed enemies to lovers. The emotional and sexual tension between them! The desire to love vs the memory of past wrongdoings! The wish to trust and be vulnerable again vs the fear of betrayal! Them disagreeing on fundamental issues but finding points of mutual understanding nevertheless! Them caring for each other more than they care about their causes, even though the causes are everything! The banter! I just... can’t. Their story is such a good blend of cuteness and dark themes. I found it extremely interesting when the first chapter from Matthias’ POV showed how he was kinda deranged by his stay in prison and his desire for revenge and for love that were knit together so thight. Whereas he more or less regained his sanity as the book progressed (I wish it was more developed) he was still very much not in the best mental state and that made him a wild card, so the plot twists involving him were convincing. I also think that his disillusionment with his religious militia was quite well-written (as for an adventure novel, that is, where it was not the main plot). I liked how Matthias was trying to play 4D chess with the rest of the crew with his schemes and Nina joined him in part. Also the scene when the Crows try to get back to their ship in Fjerda and Nina gets shot, but heals herself so fast... Damn, that was some king shit. I love their dynamic, even though it’s the epitome of problematic(tm) by tumblr, but oh well, I’m all in for eros/thanatos motives and some good chemistry. One thing I feel their relationship lacked were the sex scenes - this is probably due to the book being technically YA (and that’s another reason why writing it for a bit older audiences would be ok), but both Nina and Matthias are so horny for each other that I find it impossible that they’ve never had sex.

- post-CK addition: my heart is broken but Matthias’ character arc? Pure gold. I was so proud when he started questioning his religious beliefs and tried to reconcile them with his love for Nina. Love one redempted magic fascist. Also poor Nina... I still kinda don’t understand why their subplot had to end like this - and it’s really tempting me to read King of Scars.

- Inej’s moral/religious dilemmas were so good and I identified with them a lot (not that I’ve killed someone, but still). Also I found her characterization to be top notch, because she clearly isn’t an extrovert, but is not reduced to “i have no social skills” stereotype. I love her.

- Kaz was a briliant character and his plans were so well written... But I have one issue with them: especially in Crooked Kingdom, when there’s a plot twist, it’s usually revealed to be just another layer of Kaz’s plan. When does he have the time to set it all up? I know he barely sleeps, but still, it feels like it kinda gets out of nowhere. But generally I’m all for scheming, ass-kicking gang boss. I also like the fact that he was still a very skilled fighter despite his disability, which allowed the author to escape the “disabled body means he can only use his mind” trope (which is justified sometimes, but still). And his trauma was so well-written... Honestly, the first full flashback with Kaz clutching to Jordie’s decaying body was one of the two most disturbing scenes in the novel (the other being Kaz ripping Oomen’s eye off) and I kinda wasn’t prepared for this. On the other hand, the bathroom scene in Crooked Kingdom with Inej? It was so beautiful, so well-crafted, so intimate; I felt the world stand still for a while.

- me looking at Jesper: adhd

I found him very relatable in terms of escaping his problems and felt sorry for his gambling addiction. But I wish his struggle over his powers was more expanded - he is shown being in two minds about this, but we as readers don’t really get full insight into the pros & cons of both option. But maybe it’s just the character’s specific way of going more by gut feeling and I’m being picky.

- a pet peeve of mine: if the author was really going so hard for the tzarist Russia vibe for Ravka, why did she name her character “Zoya Nazyalensky” and not “Zoya NazyalenskA” or, even better, “NazyalenskAYA” as it should be? C’mon, names ending in -sky have their female counterparts and it’s not hard to understand.

- what was a bit of obstacle to immerse myself fully in the Six of Crows was the fact that the whole novel was so well-planned and logical that I sometimes felt like watching the author’s creative process unveil - and while it would be helpful if I was looking for writing tips, I was there to have good fun and forget about my assignments, so it kinda got in the way. It was like “ok, I want them to get inside the prison... but how they’re going to do it? Ha, I know: the jailers’ carriage. Next: what happens next in prisons? Oh right, they will be searched and... probably put in new clothes. So no clothing and no weapons means it’s time for Jesper’s big reveal. This is where I pepper in his crush on Kaz. I can cross this off the list of his character development now”. The Crooked Kingdom was better in this aspect - as the characters’ subplots were more separated and the chronology was going in loops (character A’s POV ends with all people parting ways --> character B’s chapter describes their mission --> character C’s chapter starts again at the end of character A’s POV), it was more natural and captivating read.

- Kuwei was... very forgettable. I actually for most of the time totally forgot he was a character. I know he wasn’t a main character, but I feel like I know more about Specht and Rotty, some totally secondary gang members, than him.

#six of crows #crooked kingdom #book ramblings #generally 8/10 would read again

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gal-liveblogs · 5 years ago

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A parting gift from an old flame, it was given to one of my splinters in a distant timeline before ending up in my posession via lots of complicated shit that I don't wanna get into.

O.K. So someone gave some version of Dirk Hussie painting of a quarterback fighting a horse. I have an intense desire to know who.

"Dear Dirk, In memory of our precious time together. When you look at it, think of me, and be reminded that while we breathe, we Hope." -B.O

Oh fuck me, it was Obama. Jesus Christ, I can’t.

O.K., I had been wondering what this stuff in the corner was, but didn’t comment as I couldn’t think of how to describe them. Now, though, we have a bigger picture and that’s a cherub paint set and an old troll horn headband. Probably Calliope’s stuff.

This set of paints and the charred remains of my HORNED HEADBAND are the only surviving relics of the first and last WORLDWIDE INTERSPECIES ROLEPLAYING SESSION we ever attempted on Earth C.

Oh. Not Calliope’s. They are, in fact, Dirk’s. The Interspecies Roleplaying Session was probably orchestrated by Calliope, though.

Calliope got it into their head that dressing up in cosplay would be a fun community activity.

Right on the money!

In other news Dirk’s trollsona has a unicorn horn. So it’s not that the headband was tilted and the other horn was hidden behind the paint set like I thought. Also Dave’s trollsona has dick horns. I am not surprised. Weird how Dirk, Dave, and Rose didn’t bother to give themselves black hair. Rose gave herself yellow scleras, but couldn’t commit to the black hair it seems.

Vantas had some very uncharitable things to say about the idea, and for once in his life I think he was right.

I mean, it’s like when white people dress as Native Americans for Halloween. I can understand his anger. Though even if he didn’t have a good reason Karkat would have still been angry, I’m sure.

Plants are basically the ideal friends. They don't constantly question your decisions, or try and undermine your authority, or suggest that perhaps you should try talking about your feelings every once in a while.

I think Dirk’s issue with Homestuck getting too feelings-y was that he doesn’t like talking about his own feelings.

Wait. Does Terezi have some form of narrative control? She made it clear in one of the Epilogues that she was aware of Dirk’s narration. I’m going to assume that while Terezi herself can’t narrate, she can submit commands.

DIRK: I see you've found the command terminal.

Oh. So she can submit commands not through her own power, but because there’s one of those exile command terminals things on this ship. O.K. They have everything else on this ship, might as well have one of those too.

TEREZI: 1T S33MS TO M3 L1K3 L3TT1NG M3 BOSS YOU 4ROUND FOR 4 F3W M1NUT3S 1S TH3 L34ST YOU COULD DO TO M4K3 UP FOR WH4T PROB4BLY 4MOUNTS TO TH3 MOST BOR1NG 1NT3RG4L4CT1C VOY4G3 1N TH3 H1STORY OF SP4C3 TR4V3L

I don’t know, I think Jade’s voyage after Davesprite and John blew up might be a good contender for that title. Then again Jade had practice not having anyone with a degree of intelligence around to talk to. Then again she still had the internet on her island and could talk to her friends, unlike on the Prospit ship.

TEREZI: 4ND CONS1D3R1NG TH4T ON3 OF MY TWO PR1OR 3XP3R13NC3S 1NVOLV3D SCOUR1NG TH3 FR4CTUR3D, D1S1NT3GR4TING CORPS3 OF P4R4DOX SP4C3 FOR... WH4T F3LT L1K3 4N 3T3RN1TY,

Oh yeah, I guess that would also be a contender too.

DIRK: What, Heart and Mind?

TEREZI: M1ND 4ND H34RT, Y3S

I have a feeling Terezi purposefully switched them around to make her aspect first and to just be a tiny annoyance to Dirk.

Dirk, how dare you use Complacency of the Learned to even out a chair! Does Rose know you’re using her book like that?

> L1B3R4T3 L4LOND14N L1BR4RY

Thank you, Terezi.

TEREZI: DO3S ROS3 KNOW YOUV3 B33N US1NG ON3 OF H3R NOV3LS TO PROP UP TH4T DISGUST1NGLY T4CKY CH41R?

Terezi and I are one.

DIRK: (I captchalogue the book into my MSPA MODUS. Forget HASH MAPS, PICTIONARY, or any of that shit. This thing is where it's at.)

What the FUCK does MSPA Modus entail???

TEREZI: 4W WH4T TH3 H3LL

TEREZI: TH3 CH41R W4S SUPPOS3D TO F4LL OV3R

DIRK: I'm not sure I understand. Why would it? The four legs are all touching the floor.

TEREZI: ...

DIRK: Try not to think about it too hard.

Ha!

TEREZI: FOR SOM3ON3 WHO CL41MS TO KNOW 4 LOT 4BOUT JOK3S YOU SUR3 H4V3 CONT1NU3D TO S4Y B4S1C4LLY NOTH1NG FUNNY 3V3R

Oooh, burn! When I get around to doing my fourth read of Homestuck I’ll have to tally any instances of Dirk telling a funny joke just to see if this holds up.

For a second there I was really confused over what fractal nonsense was happening here, but then I remembered Dirk is controlling the narrative. That includes the pictures, not just the text.

DIRK: Not many really understand that when pleasure is taken seriously enough, it can easily mimic the appearance of business, just as when irony is practiced with enough passion, it becomes indistinguishable from sincerity.

So Dirk’s idea of loosening up and having fun, whether for the irony or sincerity of it, is drawing himself in romantic situations with Jake. Yeah, that pans out.

(Seriously, why is Jake such a heartthrob? John is described as dorky looking and he and Jake are practically carbon copies.)

TEREZI: DO YOU... W4NT TO T4LK 4BOUT 1T...?

DIRK: Absolutely the fuck not.

Terezi, did you seriously expect him to answer with anything else?

This feels like a meme image.

TEREZI: TH4TS TH3 ON3 TH1NG 1 4LW4YS FOUND D1FF1CULT 4BOUT M4K1NG COM1CS W1TH D4V3

TEREZI: YOU H4V3 TO DR4W 333333V3RYTH1NG >:[

God, hard agree. This is why I could never have a comic. As much as I’d like to I just get burnt out with all that tedious drawing.

DIRK: Exactly. But sometimes, visuals are just a more effective way of doing things.

DIRK: So finding the right combination of words and pictures to communicate an idea efficiently is where the artistry lies.

DIRK: And sometimes that means dispensing with one or the other entirely when appropriate.

See, this is why the Homestuck style comic is so interesting. I don’t think other comics combined panels and text like Homestuck did, and now there are so many copies of the style out there!

Woah, I feel like I just got whiplash with the disappearance of the panels!

For the sake of precedent, I'm saying that we can cloak the visuals entirely and continue with narration alone, replacing the panel with a block of text like this, which we can call a “prattle” from now on.

Right, so when we go into a more book-like format it’s a prattle. Got it. Good name, since it’s just Dirk droning on to himself.

So then Dirk narrates Terezi using the command terminal to get him to do a slew of bizarre actions. He says it’s to show how much can be done in a short amount of time (a single block of text as opposed to 50 panels), but I have a feeling the real reason is so that we, the readers, don’t actually get to see him doing any of this stuff. He doesn;t get an audience to such an embarrassing display and he gets to rub our faces in it.

She has me undertake the most intense workout routine paradox space has ever seen, all while whistling the entire discography of the Swedish pop group ABBA, which she's taken a liking to recently for some god forsaken reason.

Terezi likes ABBA? That’s amazing. I need a video of Terezi singing and dancing along with Dancing Queen now.

(... And which coincidentally was a favorite cultural weapon of Her Imperious Condescension back on Earth, centuries ago. Mamma Mia in particular was repurposed as a sugar-coated propagandist piece, calling for worldwide submission to the Batterwitch's dictatorship. "My my, how can I resist ya," as the old saying goes.)

HOLY SHIT. Now I just had a headcanon that all trolls love ABBA.

DIRK: I told you I could have fun.

TEREZI: Y34H YOU SUR3 SHOW3ED M3 1 GU3SS

Dirk, are you saying Terezi purposefully trying to torture you was actually fun? ... Are you secretly a masochist? Do you... Do you like being bossed around and forced to do ridiculous stunts? I am learning so many things about Dirk I never expected.

TEREZI: WH4TS TH1S TH1NG OV3R 1N TH3 CORN3R

TEREZI: UND3RN34TH TH1S B1G SH33T TH1NG

DIRK: Don't look in there.

TEREZI: OH SHHHH 1M ONLY T4K1NG 4 P33K

DIRK: Terezi.

DIRK: Listen to me.

TEREZI: 1M JUST L1FT1NG UP TH3 COV3R 4 L1TTL3 W4YS!!!!

DIRK: Terezi please stop talking right now.

TEREZI: D1RK HOLY SH1T

TEREZI: W

Well that sounds sinister. With Dirk I would think ti was a robot of some kind, but given his new hobby of collecting things from various timelines and his skill in building it could literally be anything.

At first I was confused at the three panels that follow, showing Dirk’s room in disarray, but then I rememebered that Dirk did a whole bunch of shit we didn’t get to see because we were in Book Time.

ROSEBOT: So, I guess today is finally the day everything's been heading towards.

I honestly thought she was going to say “today is finally the day we fuck everything up”. Not sure if the actual line counts as a callback or not now.

ROSEBOT: Instead, it feels like the very notion of fortune is simply out of the question as a means of describing the potential outcome.

ROSEBOT: As though in this moment, luck isn't either strictly real or not real, or somewhere inbetween, but absent of meaning completely.

ROSEBOT: Luck took one look at our itinerary from here on out and said you'll just have to go on without me.

So it’s Schrödinger's Luck of Who Gives a Shit? Been reading so much Dirk I tried to channel my inner Strider there. Moving on I feel like this is a very bad situation for Rose to be in. Her Aspect is luck, so what does it mean for her when she’s in a position like this?

ROSEBOT: You aren't going to believe this, but it turns out that the deranged horny ramblings of a spurned anime-obsessive have essentially no therapeutic properties whatsoever.

Rose is a gift.

I wish I could copy and paste Dirk’s whole spiel about the ocean, both literal and metaphorical, but since it’s Dirk it’s just way too long. Suffice to say I thought it was some lovely writing and really got the the meat of who Dirk is as a character. His loneliness, his fear, his eventual peace, what it means to be an ascended Prince of Heart. Good stuff.

DIRK: What's that noise I'm hearing.

DIRK: It sounds a little bit like a cat being caught in a ventilation fan. A sort of...

DIRK: Inhuman screeching, combined with the grinding of metal.

DIRK: Are we even going to make it to the ground?

ROSEBOT: Oh, no,

ROSEBOT: The ship's fine as far as I can tell.

ROSEBOT: That's just Terezi laughing.

Terezi is also a gift.

Then we end with a rather pretty image of the ship coming in for a crash landing on an Earth-like planet. I would share it, but it’s a tall panel and this post is long enough as it is. Very curious what this planet is. I would guess it might be a Earth, but the landmasses don’t look like any on Earth. Could be artistic license, but I feel like we have too many Earths as it is. Let’s get some new planets up in here!

#homestuck 2 #homestuck 2 liveblog #liveblog #gal liveblogs

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seraphicwiing · 4 years ago

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THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme.

fill out & repost ♥ This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm.

My muse is: canon / oc / au (I have one AU which can be read here!) / canon-divergent / fandomless /

Is your character popular in the fandom? YES / NO.

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom? YES / NO / IDK.

Is your character considered strong in the fandom? YES / NO / IDK.

Are they underrated? YES / NO.

Were they relevant to the main story? YES / NO.

Were they relevant to the main character? YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG.

Are they widely known in their world? YES / NO. (He’s a damn HERO!)

How’s their reputation? GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL. (ALL OF THE ABOVE >:D)

How strictly do you follow canon?

For me it’s a little weird since I originally intended this blog to be just about Sephiroth from Crisis Core to FF7 and Remake. But as I grew around the blog and began writing with more people, I felt the need to just fill in all of the blank canvas that was Sephiroth’s past. So I guess you could say I do follow canon to a certain extent? But 55% of my stuff is not considered canon and are just things I’ve added to add a little spice to my son! But yeah, canon wise I follow Remake as my main verse which considering the theories may just be the same Sephiroth we’ve known for the last 20 years.

(Placing under a cut from here on out, I don’t want to make your dash messy)

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutual.

Okay, I don’t know how long this is gonna be but I hope I can get through all of the topics I wanna talk about without looking like I’m waffling. Firstly, a lot of people seem to forget that Sephiroth wasn’t just a monster, Messiah Complex psycho. Before his downfall, he is shown to be a kind hearted and gentle warrior, he had a heart and had support from his friends throughout the entirety of his military career. He was genuinely happy.

If you’ve seen the clips of him in Crisis Core, I want you to pay close attention to Sephiroth’s facial expressions before Nibelheim. He has a natural smile, he’s calmer and more relaxed, his face is clean and no bags at all underneath his eyes and his hair is more well kept and tidy compared to his more deranged and haggard look in Remake. He tells Zack to take care and genuinely treats him as if he’s known him for years once they get close. Sephiroth clings onto his allies as if they were his own family.

There are so many factors to consider when it comes to Sephiroth’s eventual descent into madness, it wasn’t just the books and reports underneath ShinRa Manor that drove him insane. While it played the biggest major factor in it all, other events still have to be considered.

Genesis who became an actual IDIOT of a person tells Sephiroth that he was a monster. A man that he saw as his older brother, a close friend and comrade swooping in with the intention of using Sephiroth just to heal his degrading body asks for his help but not before legitimately TEARING into Sephiroth’s birth. It was insulting and incredibly disrespectful seeming as at that point Seph had already seen the failed experiements and JENOVA’s chamber. It all came in a huge wave all at once, and the ShinRa Manor discovery only served to be the final nail in the coffin. His entire life, a mere lie.

When he goes insane, he’s ruthless. He’s scathing. What remains of the old Sephiroth can only be seen from his brute strength and his skills with a blade. He will end you if you even so thought about trying to stop or question his ideals but not before toying with you mentally. He will break you, one way or another and he won’t stop until you are either.

It is honestly one of the most heartbreaking things watching a good man who appeared to be fine physically, but mentally was so incredibly fragile. Deep down, he always felt detached from people even with the friends that he made. He tried so hard, but his mind was weaker than his body. He was consumed by Rage and an eldritch monstrosity whispering things in his ear.

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?).

Maybe the tragic villain is something that’s played out too often? It’s definitely a trope that’s used quite a lot in media and Final Fantasy is no stranger in using it a lot in most of the main line games. Maybe people wanted more from Sephiroth that he just didn’t have character wise.

I don’t know, I just feel as if some people might not like his motivations. I put it down as his mental state being so damaged from all the wars, the loss of his friends, and the cold hearted reality of his origins drove him insane but surely his rage could’ve been diverted to the true culprits which was just ShinRa? For someone so strong why did he succumb so easily? Did Nibelheim really have to be burnt down? Could he have been sensible about it? Probably. But his mental psyche was utterly destroyed.

What inspired you to rp your muse?

My inspiration to play this muse honestly stems from my love for roleplaying villains. Sephiroth in this case was quite a unique specimen because of how many paths you could take your portrayal in. This character is easily one of the most complex I’ve written mainly because he’s two characters in one and both Sephiroth’s before and after Nibelheim are completely different. I honestly love the contrast. Like I’ve always wanted to muse him, but anxiety and worry that I wouldn’t be good at portraying him really took a dampener on my wish. Until now.

I love Sephiroth so much, everything about him just gels well with me. I get to write a hero and a villain. A kind hearted man and a psychopath. I get the best of both worlds. He’s such a flawed and tragic character and I just love exploring his psyche.

What keeps your inspiration going?

I have a playlist dedicated to Sephiroth that I smetimes listen too when I’m writing, I always try to rewatch particular scenes from specific games that he’s involved in to get into the muse. For example, pre Nibelheim I watch the Genesis vs Sephiroth vs Angeal fight and post Nibelheim I watch scenes from Remake. I also like to look up art and musings for Sephiroth, it definitely keeps the muse chuggin’!

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you give your character justice? YES / NO. (According to my mutuals and friends ;u;)

Do you frequently write headcanons? YES / NO.

Do you sometimes write drabbles? YES / NO.

Do you think a lot about your Muse during the day? YES / NO.

Are you confident in your portrayal? YES / NO. (Sometimes I doubt myself, it honestly depends. These feelings can be pretty sporadic)

Are you confident in your writing? YES / NO. (Same reason as above)

Are you a sensitive person? YES / NO.

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal?

I always accept criticism if it’s constructive, I will always ask for it when needed because I really do want to improve and make sure that my portrayal is as perfect as possible, but if you come to me spouting hate about the way I portay the character please don’t. Respect my portrayal, critique where applicable.

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character?

100% yes. Send development questions at me, I love them.

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why?

You are entitled to your opinion. I don’t care if you disagree with my headcanons, I don’t care if you disagree with my ships. I am here to have fun, and my intentions are for you to have fun with me. But if said person disagrees, why bother following me or reading my stuff? The door is open for you to leave, you can find another Sephiroth that appeases you.

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it?

A similar answer to the one above. My portrayal is my own, and I am proud of what I have achieved so far and the interactions I’ve had, and the ships that I have planned out on here. I love it so much and if they disagree with that, then they can unfollow me. Hell, if they want too, block me. They’re entitled to their opinion as long as they don’t flaunt it around. Just don’t be a dick about it tbh?

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it

More power to them, hate Sephiroth all you want I won’t indulge these petty arguments about how Kefka was a better villain. I’m just gonna slurp on the salty tears and relax while writing about my favourite heartless boy.

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors?

I am always okay. I have a habit of never proof reading my stuff before I send it so my grammar is all wnky and over the place. I always want to improve as a writer and continue to grow as one, we can do this together should you wish <3

Do you think you are easy going as a mun?

I like to think I’m very easy going, I’m quite a shitlord when talking OOC. If you don’t mind me thirsting over my muse than we’ll get along just fine. I’m perfectly open for chats and whatnot, I’m a good listener. Sometimes I do end up being pretty clingy though, soooo... Let me give you hugs all the time.

That’s about it, congrats for filling out!

#;— WITHIN THE LIFESTREAM (ooc)#(im tired now after this)#(i rewrote this multiple times to make sure it looked good but idk)#(i feel like i've poorly conveyed myself in this hahaha!)

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thewalkingterrorcons · 8 years ago

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Transformers Prime: Zombie world:Shattered Glass

(Shattered Glass is an alternate universe where the Cons are the Good guys and The Autobots are the bad guys.)

word of warning this is probably going to be my goriest chapter yet! Hilary is basically a female Negan.

0-0--00--0-0-0-

"Whoa... is that?" Temperance said stopping her caravan in middle of the road. her three friends stopped too, as they got out to examined what she was looking at "what is it?" Olivia smith asked as they approached a large metal structure

"It's a friend of mine's ship..." the blond said as the brick trowel she replaced her left hand with curiously tapped at the outside of making little *tink, *tink, noise.When suddenly the ship hummed to live causing the humans to back up as giant metal door opened and giant white robot step rubbing his head.

"Urg...that must have some crash...is everyone all right?"

"Still Online and Kicking big M!"

"That's good to hear Soundwave check on the others and give me a damage report."

"Will do boss Man!

Temperance smiled hearing Megatron's voice while Olivia gasped and backed up at the sight of the giant robots, then looked at the ash blond fearfully as she began walking towards them! "Temperance! are you out of you mind they're-"Decepticons." The gray eyed woman said getting Megatron's attention"Miss Monroe? what are..."

he froze noting her haggard appearance and bloodied clothes, he picked her up gently as he could as she tucked her left hand into her hoodie pocket "What happened to you? are you injured?" she sighed a nodded the rebel leader wasn't buying it.

"But, there's blood-"

"Not mine E-type remember? I bleed energon."

"If it isn't yours then whose blood is it?"

"look, a lot has happened since you decided to go hermit on us..."

Megatron's blue optics narrowed and went to comm Knock-out only for, spark stopping scream the pierce the silence causing Temperance and the con to jump he put her down and before he could even order her to stay put. The blond girl had already took off like a bullet where the screams were coming from.

When the rebel leader and the rest of his crew rushed after her the only thing they could describe the sight before them as carnage, as what appeared to be sick and mutated humans attacking a convoy,

Temperance over a teenage girl who was struggling to get an infected man off her, the blonde grabbed him by his hair and stabbed in the back of his head with her trowel as one snuck up on her only for Olivia to slice head off they watched as the man head flew off his body stopped at their peds.

they watched in morbid amazement as it kept moving and growling at them "what the hell...?" Sideswipe said as he and Knock-out leaned in to get a closer look at it. only for the girl Temperance saved to shoot it in the eye with her crossbow, "God damn fucking stiffs..."

she growled as the cons finally snapped out of their stupor and helped the humans, Megatron was confused and actually tried to reason with a few of the infected he even went as far as to knock them off their feet till.

Knock-Out spoke "Megatron I just scanned them there's no pulse! They're already dead!"

"Wha- preposterous! then why are they?"

"We just saw a severed head move around, that one child you trying to hold back has been offline for 6 days..."

"...*It's mercy*...Forgive me."

With a heavy spark Megatron shot into the hoard of the undead leaving piles of seared flesh and ash as Temperance and her convoy sat down to catch their breaths, "Crap I hope She won't take points off for running late." the teen said as the ash blond sighed then looked around "where's that guy she sent to watch us?" The teen looked around fearfully ,when an odd noise caused Olivia to look under the truck, "Oh no...Temperance?"

Temperance looked under the truck and froze when she saw a zombified man with the mark of the Outcasts tattooed to his arm, he turned hearing them gasp to showing the his ripped out throat; as he gorged himself on what looked like a squirrel,

The gray eyed woman cussed under her breath as Starscream. lifted the truck from the ground to allow Temperance to stab the guy through his ear putting him down for good. she frowned as the SiC Put the truck back down "Fuck...damn it!"

Temperance punched the side truck causing Olivia to put her hands up "It's Okay maybe..maybe she'll understand when we tell her we were attacked." the black haired woman said and the distraught blond let out an hollow laugh, as the decepticons watched "Oh yeah she'll fucking understand..." She turned her anger onto the black haired woman.

"Just like how she Understood, that we had nothing to do with Kendra running away and joining our group," she pointed her good hand into Olivia chest who backed up a bit "and look what happened! she had Gates and Ratchet blind your daughter and cut off my fucking HAND!"

Temperance face suddenly felt sore as she looked in front of her and saw Olivia with her hand up as she glared at the ash blond "Look, I understand! alright we are in a very dire situation, But, don't you ever mention Piper in this again!" the shorter woman hissed as a familiar voice broke the tension

"What do you mean blinded? What did those Autobots do to my Femmeling!?" Olivia froze she knew that voice she looked around "Shawn?" she heard her daughter's birth fathers voice. but ,couldn't see the blond haired hippie anywhere, before a large green and blue visor invaded her space "Answer me squishy! where's my daughter?!" Soundwave growled,

"Soundwave Stand down!" Megatron pulled him away from the human. he was upset too, that was his niece they were talking about but, he'd seen enough death for today as his eyes stayed glued to Temperance who tucked her bloodied trowel hand back into her hoodie, as Olivia gawked up at the Green bandanna wearing mech.

"S-Shawn? is that....how?"

"My real name in Soundwave, sorry I never told you now where's my daughter?"

"But, she can't be your- Piper is human!"

"No, she's a type of Cybertronian called pretender, that scan and assume the form of that planets dominate life form; then integrate into that species society for recon purposes."

Olivia was stupefied all these years her baby girl was one of these metal beings? possibly millions of years older then her? but, if that was true and if this whole zombie thing didn't happen? what then were they planning on leaving? and taking Piper with them and what of Piper's true form? was she as big as these giants? she didn't want to believe it.

a snapping noise brought Olivia out of her thoughts. she was met with her reflection staring back at her as Sh-Soundwave played a fingers snap sound as he stared at her "Well? Are you going to tell me where Pinknoise is?" the black haired woman looked at him confused "Piper, her real name is Pinknoise." he said not missing the cringe and hurt in the tiny femme's eyes as she swallowed her emotions "She's at our camp."

Olivia said Soundwave stared at her for a few moments guilt and pity started gnawing at him "Sorry you had to find out this way." he said before standing up and silently helping Breakdown, Knock-out and Sideswipe depose of the bodies in the road, As Olivia silently go into the truck and rested her head against the dash and cried while Temperance watched over her.

Meanwhile at Quarry 47...

Hilary was enjoying her little tour with Optimus he was in his holo-form as the both wondered around Kendra's house with Billie who was pointing a gun at her younger Twin's head as the deranged couple looked through the hostage girl's comic book collection and cds.

"Read it, heard it, this one’s crap, oh cards I might call the neighbors up, for game of poker, what do you think darling?~" she purred at Optimus who smirked while holding a copy of the secret garden, when a jingling sound caught the three intruders off guard "What was that?" the Brown haired woman demanded as Kendra swallowed

"the house settl-..!" Optimus suddenly slammed her head into the kitchen counter and pinned her "Tsk tsk I don't like liars little Girl~" he hissed as he, Hilary and Billie dragged her up stairs, they looked around and found a black door with those crappy glow-in the dark stars stuck to it, "House settling my aft open it." Optimus ordered Billie as her sister protested.

"Billie do-"

"Uh-ah I don't think my Oppy gave you permission to talk~"

*punches her in the stomach*

"urg" *cough cough*

"Do it."

Billie opened the door and stood stunned for a moment before moving aside to let her leaders see, both Hilary and Optimus smirked at each other "aw well look at this handsome little sweetheart~" Hilary cooed before walking into the room which turned to be a nursery,

handing Billie her mace Hilary picked up a baby boy who stared at three strangers curiously, while Optimus kept Kendra in a firm grip watching the woman's reaction along with his femme and hey weren't disappointed "Now, I wonder where this little guy could've come from." the psycho said looking between the twins, while Hilary happily tossed the kid around and played with him

Billie seemed angry while glaring at her sister, While Kendra just kept silent "oh, Think I know, he looks somebody i killed a while back what was his name?" He pressed as Kendra tried her hardest not to attack them as the mech yanked her straight up to face him "I said what was his name?"

Optimus glared as Kendra winced in his grip "m-My bro-brother, s-Sam." was all she said as Hilary happily cheered "yay! was that so hard?~" the browned haired woman looked at the baby "Your aunt's a slow one isn't she?~ I should just kill her now and take you with me? hm~" she said booping the baby on his nose he giggled oblivious to what was happening.

before someone knocked on the front door, the couple and their guard frowned and Hilary put the baby back in his crib as Optimus dropped the younger twin who coughed holding her neck as sister silently walked passed not even sparring a glance at her.

as Hilary opened the door to find a man, if she recalled his name was Gavin, she and Optimus walked "What? I was busy in there." she huffed pointing back at Kendra's house,

the man fidgeted earning some attention from the outcast leader. "You wan't something from from me, don't you?" she purred making the guy blush at her tone "well it can't be me, I belong to someone else." she smirked at Optimus who smirk and blew her a little kiss, then gave the guy a predatory look, Gavin swallowed hard as he found his voice.

"I want Temperance gone."

"Come again? I don't think i heard you right?"

"I said I want Temperance gone we don't need her here, she's too outta line."

"Hm she's outta line, huh?"

Hilary suddenly wrapped an arm around his neck and lead down the road Optimus followed as he awkwardly, explained how his brother was the original leader of Q47 and how he was better then Temperance, "and you think you can do a better job?" she said with mock interest the blond man shook his head "no, I know who is in charge now...but, I know one day she'll snap and everything my brother built will fall apart"

Gav said looking at the short woman who seemed to think it "And what are you proposing I do about it?' she asked pulling away from the guy as the other Outcasts and Autobots watched from their posts curiously, "I am just like my brother I can lead like him, That's what we need, that's what you need." Hilary and Optimus both looked at each other

"So she should put you in charge hm?~" Optimus mused Gavin jumped as the holoform snuck up behind him, putting a hand on the lesser males shoulder who stuttered "S-she'll be much better off." he insisted the autobot leader gave him a toothy grin as The Outcast leader though over what Gavin was selling and she wasn't buying;

"Y'know Gabbie I've been thinkin' about how Temperance promised to kill me and she clearly despises me.~" Gavin looked at her with an arrogant smirk as Optimus grin got wider as his femme got that look in her eye the one that gets his energon flowing as she looked at the wimpy male before her, "But, here's the thing doll~, she's swallowing that anger and pride to gather MY supplies so my group and Oppy's boys don't slaughter the lot of you. she out there getting shit done, now that takes balls, and then there's you."

Gavin's brows furrowed as Hilary started to advance on him "The coward who waited for Tempy to leave so you could sneak over here a try to convince me to take her out like a conniving little bitch, and just take over?" the her brown eyes locked on to his blue ones as he tried to avert. but, Optimus grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her "N-no I didn't,..!" she silenced him as she leaned in to his face wrapped her arms around his neck

"Y'know what I think? I think you can't kill Temperance because you don't have the balls!" Gavin screamed fell forwards as sharp pain shot through his groin he looked down saw blood falling down his legs as Hilary's knee dug into him a few more times, before pulling away to revealing the blade protruding from the knee cap before retracting back into her metal leg.

She pulled away as he fell to the ground clutching what was left of his mutilated crotch, as the Outcast leader used her boot to tilt him chin to look up at her "Or maybe you did, guess we'll never know.~" she teased as Optimus's holometer brought her mace down on the male's back breaking it "no backbone neither." the autobot leader joked before the sound of an engine caught everyone attention "ah, speak of the devil, they're here.~" Hilary squealed as a truck came through the gates, but, something was missing her brown eyes narrowed as Temperance climbed out of the truck.

"where the hell is Issac?"

"Dead."

"Excuse me? what do you mean he's dead?"

"We ran into a roadblock, a rotten one."

Hilary tsk'd as Temperance noticed two dead bodies, laying in front of her "we had a deal you said you wouldn't hurt anyone!" the blond hissed as Hilary sneered at her "Oh, yeah we sure did, but. You see while you were gone that bitch" She pointed at a gate guard "took out two of my people. and this ball-less loser tried get me to kill you." Temperance gaze turned cold as she locked onto Gavin's body as Hilary came up to her wrap an arm around her.

"But with Isaac gone I think some retribution, is in order...kill that old bat." before any of the Quarry residents could Register what the Outcast leader said Billie already had her gun out and "No!" Temperance shouted as Kendra's older twin fired on an old woman hitting her right between the eyes dropped scaring everyone gathered in the courtyard,

"What's the big deal? she was old I was doing her a favor.~" the brunette reasoned, when suddenly Sunstreaker came drive towards them opening his door for Billie as Prowl yelled "The Avenger is heading this way! sir!" Optimus looked at his SIC "what how did they get that ship back in the air?!"

the prime growled before turning to Hilary "Let's go Sweetspark!" he growled his holometer disappeared as he attached the trailer from Temperance's truck and drove off with his bots and the Outcasts "See ya around Tempy!~" Hilary screamed from the window as Optimus honk at them.

As Temperance stood there in stunned silence as the Avenger slowly docked over the quarry landing on one of the limestone cliffs over looking the settlement as Megatron came down from the ship "Temperance? why were the autobots here?" she couldn't hear him it was all just static to her,

he watched her silently stand up and walk over to Gavin's corpse as it began to reanimate in front them "you hated me, you always did...but, your brother knew that you wouldn't survive in this world, you were too weak Gav, so he made me leader...and you hated me for it and look where it got you." she said before stabbing Gavin in the head putting him down "look where it got me." Megatron stayed silent activated he Holo-meter and hugged her from behind.

#maccadam #transformers shattered glass #zombie apocalypse #sg optimus #sg megatron #Transformers Prime #sg autobots #sg decepticons #fanfic #harvey writes #my post

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ripplestitchskein · 8 years ago

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How to Become a Witch in Ten Easy Lessons - (5/5)-A CS Modern Fantasy AU - COMPLETE!

Rating: T for Teen

Word Count: Approx 7K

Summary: Emma Swan leads a quiet, solitary life, that is until a tragedy temporarily saddles her with three recently displaced orphans. Three recently displaced orphans who make quick work of discovering one of the reasons for her solitude and threaten to confirm the rumors swirling around town about her, unless she can do something to help them, something that will require the assistance of a mysterious Professor who isn’t quite what he seems either.

Read Part One Here!

Read Part Two Here!

Read Part Three Here!

Read Part Four Here!

On AO3 Here

______

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Emma called down to him from the deck of the ship, the children twined around the railing looking down at him excitedly. He stood knee deep in the water, his long coat floating on the surface, moving with the waves.

“You haven’t known me long,” he called back up to her. “I can assure you it’s not.”

“I really, really don’t like this plan,” she reminded him.

“I’m more than aware, but we have limited time and limited options, so can we please stop yelling and letting the whole bloody realm know what we’re up to?”

Emma sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm her rapidly firing nerves, ignore the twisting in her stomach that screamed that this was a terrible, terrible idea.

He smiled up at her reassuringly, giving her a small nod. From his hook dangled the unused oil lamp from the hold below, glinting gold in the sun, looking as if a genie would issue forth from it at any moment. It would honestly be the least weird thing that had happened to them lately.

Emma took another deep steadying breath, holding out her hands, closing her eyes for the words of the spell, holding the picture of what she wanted in her mind. She tried to push all thoughts of him drowning, dying, being eaten by a terrifying sea creature aside and focus on what she needed, the animal she had in mind, no better choice for the man before her.

The sharp spark of power roared through her blood, so much more potent and just more in this realm of magic. It emboldened her slightly, this could really work. No this would work, the alternative wasn’t an option.

Below her Killian closed his eyes, wincing slightly in trepidation as she began to speak the words aloud. An electric shock of energy issued forth, a billowing cloud of white blue smoke enveloping him, and when she blinked down at him again, Killian was no longer there, a huge navy shadow in the water instead, longer than Killian had ever been tall.

A huge, shimmering swordfish, its dorsal fin protruding from the water like a shark, swam in a large arcing circle by the ship where Killian had stood, building up momentum, and then it burst from the water in a shimmering spray, the lamp gleaming as bright as the droplets running down its flank, arcing in a smooth crescent before disappearing back into the bay.

He was telling her he was okay. He was letting her know it had worked. She could feel it, as she watched the massive shape pivot and swim away, out into the sea towards The Sands and The Kraken.

She let out a breath, her hands shaking, feeling sick and anxious as she watched him go. Roland reached up taking her hand in his own.

“He’ll be fine, swordfishes are awesome,” the boy said wisely.

“He’s very brave,” Grace observed, hiding a hand over her eyes to block the sun so she could see the fish better, growing smaller and smaller as the distance increased.

“Yes,” Emma whispered, almost breathless, heart soaring. Doing those gymnastics again. “Very brave.”

“Dead, is a word I would use,” said a clipped accented voice from behind them.

Emma whirled, shoving the children behind her as Arthur landed with a dull thud of boots on the deck. He was dressed bizarrely, a sickly yellow orange jumpsuit, covered in straps and copper rivets, obscured his form, a heavy helmet under one arm, a vicious looking harpoon gun under the other.

Behind him heavily armored soldiers began fanning out, swords drawn, surrounding them in a half moon formation that left them no option of escape except to leap over the rail into the sea.

Arthur grinned at her, all charm and white teeth, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Emma swallowed, clutching tightly at Roland’s trembling hand, her other going desperately to her waist, but her sword was in the cabin below, her gun a realm away.

“Take the children,” Arthur ordered, waving his hand almost boredly, still holding the helmet and gun under his arms. The guards moved forward en masse, a wall of plate armor and expressionless faces. Emma braced herself, putting her body between them and the children, ready to fight. But there were far too many, her fists ringing painfully which each blow against the metal, the force vibrating up her leg as she kicked at them.

Grace screamed as one of them grabbed her around the waist, hauling her up bodily, her legs bicycling in terror as she thrashed, trying to get free. Henry threw his book at the face of one of the guards, spinning it like a frisbee and ducked low under a reaching arm, trying to squirm away. There were still more waiting though, and they grabbed him by the ankle, dragging him painfully across the wooden deck back to the mass of soldiers.

One of the guards wrenched her to the side, an iron grip on her arm, and Roland leapt forward pulling away from her clutching hand. Emma tried to drag him back but her arms were yanked painfully behind her, her shoulders screaming in protest.

The tiny boy lurched fiercely forward, his teeth sinking into the flesh and fabric of a nearby leg, hanging on for a moment like a small feral dog. The man howled, trying to simultaneously grab the boy and shake him off. Roland let go, nimbly avoiding the grasping hands, until Arthur reached out, snagging the child by his borrowed vest, the tip of the harpoon dangerously close to his face, and shoved him forcefully into the chest of a waiting soldier. The man clamped his arms around the squirming boy with ease, locking him in place.

“Please, don’t,” Emma could barely breathe terror had seized her so tightly, she pulled against the tight grip of the men holding her, uselessly stamping her foot down on heavy metal clad boots.

“Take them to the beach,” Arthur said impassively. “Await my instructions.” They obeyed, obedient little lapdogs, dragging the children away, hissing and screeching, their feet scraping across the deck. They disappeared over the side with their captors, one after another. Her heart gave a painful snapping lurch with each one.

“Emma!” Henry cried out, his voice breaking with fear.

Emma’s eyes burned, rage and frustration twisting her face as she yanked, pulled and kicked, trying whatever she could to get back to them. There were too many, at least four large men, rock solid and immovable staying behind to hold her down. Arthur stared at her from across the deck, eyes wide and deranged, his lips tilted in an amused smile at her struggles. She wanted to rip his face off, tear him limb from limb, break each of his tooth straight white teeth one by one.

“Now, witch,” Arthur said lowly, slinking closer. “You are going to do everything I say, or one word from me and I’ll shut those little brats up forever.” He had leaned down her level, unfortunately just out of reach of her head, his breath hot and sickly sweet on her face.

“Please,” Emma tried again, a different tact this time, her voice desperate and broken. “Please, don’t hurt them.”

“That depends entirely on your cooperation,” Arthur warned reasonably. He looked speculatively up at the sails, surveying the ship with distaste.

“What do you want?” Emma could still hear the shrieking cries of the children on the beach as they struggled, growing fainter as they were taken further and further away. Panic swelled in her chest.

“Not much,” Arthur said. “I want this ship.”

“You can have it,” Emma said quickly, knowing in her heart Killian wouldn’t object, not really, not if it meant the children were safe. She may not know him well, but she knew that to her very bones, he would readily give up his home to save their lives.

“I’m not finished yet,” Arthur snapped. “And you. I need you to do whatever you did to move it before.”

Emma swallowed.

“Where do you want to go?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

“Why the same direction as your leather clad lover,” he motioned out into the bay with the harpoon. “I want to see The Beast.”

“But you said,” Emma swallowed some of the terror, straightening up, shoulders back. “You said it couldn’t be defeated.”

“And it can’t,” Arthur said cheerfully. He held up the odd helmet under his arm, a diving bell, the kind in old movies and museums. “But it can be distracted, and destroying this ship should serve well enough for that I think.”

“But why?” Emma shook her head confused. “Killian is getting the Sands right now. He’ll give them to you, I know he will.”

“You expect me to believe that? ‘We can’t let Arthur get his hands on them, no matter what’, “ Arthur echoed, his voice high pitched and mocking.

Emma reeled back at Henry’s words coming verbatim out of his mouth.

“How-?” She let the question trail off. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out, grabbing the seashell necklace around her throat, and pulling down with a hard snap. Her neck burned as it broke, the cord scraping her skin, and she stifled a cry, gritting her teeth.

“A little bit of mermaid magic,” his teeth flashed white as he looked at it. “Very useful, a reluctant gift from some visitors awhile back. Much like this suit. Pity their ship didn’t survive the trip, it would have been quite useful.” He glared at her, his eyes icy. “I heard every word.”

He leaned back into her face, sneering.

“And I know that you know who I am, and I also know that you know what the Sands can do, and I won’t give that thieving pirate scum the opportunity to use them against me.” He spat the words, his face ugly with disdain. Emma reared back trying to put some distance between them.

“But you have hostages,” Emma argued. “You have us right where you want us. He’ll negotiate.”

“And I should what, let you go? Let you turn the rest of my village against me?” He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” He pointed up at the sails, all business. “Move the ship.”

“No,” Emma glared at him defiantly, nostrils flaring.

“Move the ship or I will kill your children one by one, right in front of you. I was going to spare them, use the sands to ensure their silence, but if you insist” he said cheerfully and grinned. “We’ll start with the smallest I think, less mess if you change your mind.” He turned, half raising a hand to signal the waiting men on the beach.

“No! Wait!” Emma sagged. “Okay, okay I just need a second.”

“Tick, tock witch. No use stalling for time. I know you expect the pirate to return any moment,” he held up the harpoon gun, the tip glinting dangerously. “I have a little gift for him if he does. So if you want him to live you’ll be quick about it.”

She thought of Killian, vulnerable in his current form, unaware that anything was amiss, believing they had the upper hand, that they still held the element of surprise. The wicked edges of the spear would slice through him with no issue, unprotected and unaware, human or not. She let out a little noise of frustration.

“Fine. Let me go,” she barked at her captors. They looked to the king who nodded his assent and then she was free, four swords pointed squarely at her.

“Get on with it,” he gestured impatiently.

Emma raised a trembling hand, her fingers clenching. She could still hear the kids yelling for her from the beach, broken cries of her name and desperate angry pleas to let them go. She closed her eyes, one tear streaking down her cheek, and began to speak the words.

_____ )

It was less intense this time, her heart not in it, but the golden glow flew from her fingertips regardless, enveloping the ship from top to bottom in a trickle of magic, everything glowing and shimmering. The guards gasped, stepping back a bit in awe and Arthur grinned a manic grin.

The ship creaked and groaned as it slid across the sand, tilting sharply to the side, water crashing around the hull as it plunged from the beach back into the sea. Emma took a breath still chanting, fingers warm and prickling from the intensity of her magic, the ship turning as she willed, pointing out into the ocean once again. Ropes twisted of their own accord, and the sails filled with air, snapping backwards as the wind picked up. The ship moved faster.

One by one the guards leapt from the sides, faces fearful, splashing into the sea with fearful cries, a pre-planned abandon ship before they got to close to the monster. She hoped they drowned.

It was just her and Arthur then, her eyes burning with hate, his with glee as he pointed the harpoon squarely at her chest. She moved to turn her focus, turn her magic on him, the ropes lifting to her command, but he tutted.

“If I do not return my men are under strict orders to kill them,” Arthur yelled casually over the the whipping wind. “Make one move against me Emma and they’re as good as dead.”

He motioned back up to the sails, and Emma kept going, closing her eyes as they came closer and closer to where the crystal clear water became darker, a thin line of gradient blue marking the point of no return.

“Stop! Stop!” Arthur commanded. She lowered her hands, trembling with effort and unchecked anger. She clenched her fists. The sails dropped, hanging limp and useless, the ropes landing with dull thuds on the deck.

The ship rocked and swayed in ominous silence, creaking and groaning on the sea.

Arthur peered over the railing into the black waters below.

They were silent, and still.

Emma’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, marking the seconds of silence, stretching out tense and cold as they bobbed uselessly along.

“Perhaps The Beast is busy enjoying a pirate sized meal,” Arthur speculated cheerfully, donning his helmet, checking the thick rubber tubes from the metal tanks in his back, his eyes never leaving her, the harpoon pointed at her with deadly intent.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the ship gave a massive lurch, pitching them both to the deck. Emma’s hands slapped painfully on the wood. Arthur rolled, barely catching himself, and staggered to his feet.

“Right on time,” she heard him declare in a hollow echo from inside the helmet just as the monster gave a deafening shriek. The sound tore through the air, her stomach jolting in fear, a thousand tiny hairs rising on her neck and arms.

“This is where I leave you, Emma,” Arthur nodded to her as the ship lurched again, his rubber gloved hand grabbing onto the rail just in time to keep him from pitching into the deck. A slick dark tentacle rose into the air, towering above them, at least a hundred feet high. Arthur cried out as it slammed into the deck, just inches from him, wood splintering and spraying.

Emma fell backwards onto her ass, scrambling away as it whipped and probed, writhinglike a giant python. She looked frantically to Arthur. She couldn’t let him escape.

The shipped rocked again as Arthur climbed to his feet, readying himself to climb the rail but Emma was faster, the words coming easily, leaving her lips in a rush, adrenaline shooting through her as she chanted. The ship glowed gold again, tried to move, but the monster was stronger, four more humongous tentacles hugging it close, the wood cracking and snapping under the force of its grip.

A golden hued rope snaked out, lashing itself around Arthur’s leg, holding him in place. He cursed and kicked at it, trying to reach the railing. Emma moved her hand again, another rope surging down, grabbing him by the arm. The harpoon dropped uselessly onto the deck, skittering close. She couldn’t afford to grab it though, she had to keep trying to free the ship, had to stop Arthur. She kept chanting, her teeth chattering as cold sea water rained down on them from above. Another rope lashed him to the rail, holding him in place, yet another coming forward to twine with the first. The ship just knew what to do, even as it broke apart it helped her. Arthur screamed at her, voice muffled and distorted by the metal helmet, red faced and enraged in the small grated window of the dome.

The Beast shrieked again, that unnatural cry that set her teeth on edge, twisting tentacles swinging wildly. One struck the mast and to her horror it snapped cleanly in two, as easy as breaking a twig. Emma barely got out of the way as the massive column crashed onto the deck, the planks buckling and breaking under the force. Her concentration shattered, the golden glow fading as she stumbled over the words, trying to remain upright, her magic petering out.

She was going to die.

The noise and roar of the breaking ship, the shrieks of the beast, and the raining water was deafening as she tried to reach the rail, if she could get herself overboard, get into the water perhaps she could make it to shore.

It was a long shot but it was her only shot.

She reached out as the world tilted, the deck caving in the middle, a smooth slide straight into the creature’s gaping mouth. She looked down in horror at several rings of teeth and slime rotating below her. She shrieked, her feet scrambling against the deck and braced herself against gravity, her fingers barely grasping a rung of the rail as the ship crumbled and fell apart around her.

Across the deck she could see Arthur’s orange yellow form struggling against the knotted ropes, helmet lost, hair matted to his reddened, terrified face. Emma turned away, pulling herself up with all the strength she possessed, the wood slick, her feet dangling as the deck rose higher and higher, the ship sinking lower and lower as the demon consumed, wood and sail and rope disappearing into its maw, folding the ship in half.

She closed her eyes again, her voice lost in the din as she desperately chanted, focusing her magic inward, her fingers too busy holding on for dear life to focus the spell. She had no idea if it would work, but she tried anyway, speaking faster and faster, stumbling over the syllables as her voice shook with terror, the sharp gnashing teeth getting closer and closer as the deck disappeared one gnash at a time.

She heard Arthur’s desperate terrified screams even over the noise, and blocked it out, speaking faster.

It started slowly, a buzzing in her limbs, a warm glow like trickling water moving over her body. She glowed gold, feeling weightless as she rose, her hands releasing the deck as her body lifted into the air.

It was working. She wanted to scream in delight.

Emma chanted faster, desperately, her body hanging suspended in the air, the ship a mass of unidentifiable blue and yellow boards now, Arthur gone. She closed her eyes and willed herself higher, willed herself closer to shore.

A whipping tentacle lashed out, flying through the air. It struck her squarely in the back, pain lancing through her and Emma fell like a rock, down, down into the water below.

_____

The sea was icy cold, a million needles jabbing at her skin as she swirled and tumbled in the churn. Her lungs burned, eyes wide in terror as she kicked her legs, trying to find which way was up. Everything was black fog, no light broke through here, and debris swirled in the water around her.

She stretched herself upwards, hands reaching, saying a silent prayer that this was up, that she was just a few moments away from breaking the surface. Red rimmed her eyes, her vision growing narrower and blacker as her mouth opened, body straining against the need to suck in air, knowing she’d only fill her lungs with sea water instead if she did. She made small desperate whimpers, kicking fiercely, fighting against the swirling water.

Something flashed in her periphery and she cried out, her scream nothing more than muted noise and bubbles as something dark and silvery streaked by her. The kraken.

She screamed again desperately, a gurgling cry, her legs working harder, arms flailing, trying to get away as her vision narrowed further, red and black taking over as her oxygen ran out, as her consciousness fled.

Something large and hard struck her side, sharp burning pain glancing across her ribs, but she barely registered it over the pain of not breathing, her senses dulling with each second that passed, and then she was rising, lifting, her arm draped across rough cold flesh and scales.

She surged through the water, the mass propelling her upwards, and then they broke the surface with a spray of salty water, and the shriek of her gasping air back into her burning lungs. She panted, and gulped in more and more precious oxygen, wrenching sobs of terror joining the tears streaking down her cheeks. Her side burned, cloudy muted red blood filling the water.

The shape circled again, pressing into her, gentler this time, still too hard but familiar and beautiful.

“Killian,” she sobbed out, recognizing him.

Across the water the monster shrieked.

The fish that was Killian swam away, turning in a wide arc, and gracelessly rammed into her side again, her arm reaching around to clutch a spiny fin, the scales cutting into her fingers and arm as he pulled her quick as he could through the water.

The monster shrieked, a surge of water as it moved pushing them faster forward, but the land grew closer and closer with every passing second. She glanced behind her, massive tentacles waved in the sky, a giant bulbous head sinking beneath the waves, nothing left of the beautiful ship but debris.

She wanted to apologize, to tell him she was sorry, but she was unsure if he would hear her, unsure if he would even understand as he swam them closer and closer to the shore.

The form under her shifted, seemed to melt away, rough scales shrinking, morphing, becoming warm flesh and leather. She released the fin, kicking herself away in the water, watching fascinated as pale sky blue smoke enveloped the creature, a man breaking the surface of the water with a gasp an instant later.

He clutched the golden lamp to his chest with his hook, legs kicking, his arm treading the water. He looked disoriented and afraid for an instant, hair plastered to his beautiful human face. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and sob, but there was no time. They had to get to shore, get away from the creature and back to the children.

“Emma?” He looked at her bewildered for a second, reaching out automatically.

“The kids,” she gasped out, straining to keep afloat, her legs moving constantly, treading the icy water. He nodded, teeth chattering and reached out, looping her arm over his shoulder. She wasn’t a weak swimmer, but Killian was better, a life at sea giving him an edge as he helped move them agonizingly slowly to shore.

The bay was silent behind them as they swam, the monster sated for now.

____

They skulked along the shore line, staying close to the line of the brush. Killian’s sword was out, the lamp safely in the pocket of his coat. Emma limped along beside him, a large rock in her hand, the only weapon she could find on such short notice, her other hand pressed to her burning side.

Killian cut his eyes to her, frowning, air hissing between his teeth.

“I’m so sorry love,” he whispered and reached out, his sword hand hovering over the wound. “I couldn’t gauge….” he trailed off, face pinched in anguish that he had hurt her. Emma forced a smile.

“It’s not your fault, you were trying to help me,” she said softly and grabbed his wrist, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You saved me. It’s not very deep, just a scratch.”

He didn’t seem comforted by that, but there was no time to press further.

“There’s at least six of them,” Emma hissed as they crept closer. “Big guys, armor, swords. The whole deal.”

“Won’t be a problem,” his voice was low with murderous rage, teeth clenched. He was seething mad, his eyes glancing every so often to the wound at her side, her limping gait, her body one big bruise. “I’m going to kill him.” He breathed out.

“I think you’re a bit late,” Emma said. “The squid thing kind of ate him.” She thankfully hadn’t seen said eating, but she doubted she would forget the agonized screams over splintering wood any time soon.

“Good.” That pretty much summed up her feelings as well. They moved quickly along the shore, rounding the curve of the island, back to the same shore where the ship had been.

What awaited them was not at all what Emma was expecting. Instead of half a dozen guards and three terrified captive children she was met with the rapidly moving forms of Henry, Grace, and a struggling Roland, running towards them across the sand.

Behind them four men clanked and clanged, giving chase, their heavy armor slowing them down, their faces enraged.

“Emma!” Roland cried desperately, spotting her. He almost tripped and stumbled but Henry and Grace had firm holds on his arms, pulling him along.

Killian roared forward, his sword and hook out, veering around the children to come head on at the approaching guards.

Emma stopped briefly, running her free hand along their hair and faces, resolving to ask what happened later, and then followed him into the fray.

He moved like liquid lightning, his sodden coat billlowing out behind him, his face twisted in rage. His sword clanged, a booted foot kicking one guard into another, firmly planted in the plate armor of his chest. They fell in a tangle of bodies, another guard swinging wide to avenge them. He caught the sword with his hook, twisting his wrist. The sword flew, landing in the sand and Emma grabbed it, holding it before her.

Further up the beach two more guards limped in their direction. She swung the sword wide like a baseball bat, the flat connecting solidly with the metal chest of the fourth, pain vibrating up her arm from the force, her side burned but she pushed it away, focusing on the men before her.

Killian sent the pommel of his sword straight into a waiting guard’s temple, the man’s helmet buried in the sand where he had fallen, ducking just in time to avoid the swinging sword of the other. It was pretty amazing to watch, all grace and speed and confidence, her heart pounded, but there was no time to admire his form, she swung out again, wild uneducated strokes, one of the guards backing away at her crazy unpredictability.

“Emma, your magic!” Henry screamed from behind her.

“My magic,” she breathed, suddenly remembering, her arms feeling weak and rubbery. “Right. I have that.”

She closed her eyes briefly, metal clanging in her ear, panting breaths and angry grunts. Killian roared again. She opened her eyes, the words there again and spoke them in a rush, electricity zipping down her arm.

There was another whirl of smoke, first one than the other, one by one, pinkish red clouds filling the air.

In an instant six chittering chattering monkeys appeared on the sand, one barely dodging the swing of Killian’s sword. He overbalanced at the unexpected change in his assailant, his sword dropping into the sand. He looked at them baffled for a moment as they scrambled away, shrieking down the beach in terror.

He turned to Emma, that ridiculous cheeky expression on his face again.

“Oh, were they cute too?”

Emma smiled weakly at him, rolling her eyes as she tried to keep herself upright.

It felt like all the energy had drained from her body, her side throbbed.

“I just like monkeys, I told you,” she said. Killian’s face dropped into concern, barely getting to her in time to catch her before she fell into the sand. She leaned against him, warm and solid, smelling of sweat and sea water, and breathed him in, not caring for a moment if she should.

“You were amazing,” Killian said softly, shifting to help her stand again, taking on more of her weight.

“So were you,” she smiled up at him, a bit breathlessly, his blue eyes shining. He glanced briefly at her lips, his face flickering with indecision when the kids’ exuberant cries carried up along the beach.

“Emma!”

“Killian!”

“Did you get it!”

“Did it work?”

“That was so cool! They just ran away.” One of them made mocking monkey noises and they skidded to a halt in front of the adults. Emma reluctantly pulled away from the warmth of his arms, steadying herself as the kids crowded around.

Killian shuffled to the side, awkward and unsure in the face of such an exuberant reunion, busying himself scanning for more guards.

One by one they circled them, Roland’s hands clutching her soaked dress, Grace and Henry bouncing around her excitedly.

“Did you get it?” Henry repeated, looking at him expectantly. Killian paused for a moment silent. Henry’s face fell a fraction before Killian withdrew the shining gold lamp from his coat, his face breaking into a grin.

“‘Course I did. Was there ever any doubt?” Before he could say another word three yelling and cheering children were upon him, tackling him bodily to the ground.

“This again,” he grunted from the sand, the lamp held aloft, smiling up at them despite himself.

“You did it, you did it!” Killian laughed, gently batting the children away, rising awkwardly to his feet.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Grace whispered to Emma, her eyes shining. The day was catching up to her Emma could see it on her face. Emma smiled.

“You too, I was so worried,”’she looked at the three of them her heart swelling, threatening to burst.

The rushed towards her, wrapping tiny arms around her waist, careful to avoid her burning ribs, Roland clutching at her leg. She pulled away slightly, looking down at them with a confused frown. “How did you guys get away, anyway?”

“The daggers!” Henry exclaimed. “We still had the daggers Killian gave us!”

“Roland hit one of them in the shin with the telescope,” Grace declared proudly.

“I poked one of them in the leg,” Henry said. “And Grace hit her guy in the face with hers.”

“I couldn’t get it out of the thing,” the girl blushed.

“You did great,” Emma said, resting a gentle hand on her head. She hugged them back to her again, three warm bodies filling her chest with something undefinable. When she opened her eyes Killian was grinning at her over their heads.

“Where’s the ship?” Roland asked, looking behind them, searching for it. Emma’s face fell, and she looked to Killian, the delighted smile fading as he remembered. Her heart broke at the expression on his face, pure unadulterated anguish for a brief instant, his eyes shining in the sun. He looked away, his jaw clenching, a muscle fluttering in his cheek.

“Killian,” she untangled herself from the kids, all of them deflating when they realized the implication.

He turned back to her, his face stretched in an unnatural grin, his teeth straining his lips. His eyes were unnaturally wide, red rimmed and unable to completely hide his emotions.

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” he said finally after a moment, the sincerity outweighing everything else.

“But your ship,” she said helplessly.

“Is just a ship,” he said firmly.

“But it was your home,” she wanted to bury herself in the sand. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and let him weep against her neck. She wanted to press her hand along his brow, stroke down his jaw, and let him mourn. But he waved it off, turning away again, his back ramrod straight and tense, his eyes stuck hard on the sea.

“We should go,” he said finally, his voice steady but hoarse. “Before more of them come.”

Emma let out a breath and nodded, wanting to cry.

“Henry?” She looked at the boy. “The bean.”

Henry’s face fell further, his eyes going wide with fear.

“Henry?” She tried again. Dread filled her chest.

“It was in my pants,” he motioned down to his borrowed clothes. “My pants were on the ship. I forgot it when I changed.” He looked like he might cry. “Killian told me to keep my dagger but I forgot about the bean.”

“Well we had more,” Emma said. “A whole bag.”

Henry sucked in a breath looking like he was going to cry.

“I hid them in a trunk in the hold,” he whispered. Emma’s stomach sank.

“We can’t get back,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Without the beans we’re stuck here.”

“No. We’re not.”

Killian reached into his pocket, pulling out a small black pouch, his finger probing inside it for a moment, and then he dropped it into the sand, holding up one shimmering clear bean between his fingers.

“What? How?” Emma’s jaw dropped.

“When I gave you the dagger,” he looked at Henry apologetically. “I took it from your pocket. Pirate.” He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed.

Henry patted his leg as if the bean should still be there, bewildered.

“You had that the whole time?” Emma accused. His face morphed to shame and he nodded, casting his eyes down.

“Aye.”

“You could have left all this time?” She said incredulous. “You didn’t have to do any of this?”

He looked up in shock at her words but Emma was already moving, crossing the beach in quick running strides, ignoring the pain in her back and her side to crash into him. He grunted on impact, his clenched fist going around her waist automatically to steady her, the flat of his hook at her hip as she grabbed into the thick leather lapels of his coat and yanked him into her space, pressing her lips to his.

He gasped into her mouth, shocked and frozen for a brief moment before he was kissing her back, his mouth hot, his arms clutching. She kissed him with all she had, everything that she had pushed below the surface, her fingers moving, snaking around his neck, tangling into damp hair, tongue teasing his bottom lip. He hoisted her up a bit, leaning her back, gathering her to him just as desperately, pressed together from chest to toes. A small moan into her mouth vibrated against her lips, tugged at a place behind her bellybutton, heat trailing down her spine, all that fear and adrenaline surging between them.

“Gross,” Roland said from behind them.

Emma broke the kiss off with a laugh, pressing her face, flushed red with embarrassment into his neck, shaking.

“You could have gone home,” she whispered into his neck, mouth pressing up along his jaw, stubble rough on her lips as she spoke the words. His arms squeezed her tighter.

“No. I couldn’t,” he whispered back, his cheek pressing against her temple, closed fist moving to her hair.

Emma pulled back, looking into his face, his blue eyes blown black, raw and open, barely rimmed in blue.

“Come with us,” she said softly. “Back to Storybrooke.”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” he laughed nervously, leaning back to show her the single bean.

“Stay with us,” she amended, her hand finally getting its chance to smooth along the plane of his jaw, all the sincerity in the world in her eyes. “All of us.”

He swallowed, disbelieving, blinking away the shock, the lust in his eyes replaced with a spark of hope at her words. When he spoke again it was choked and strained with emotion.

“Aye.”

_____

“Are we ready?” Emma looked at gathered children. All of them nodded with excitement, their faces dirt smudged and exhausted, but happy. She smiled down at them, and looked behind her to the man still kneeling by the shoreline. She frowned, worried.

“Killian?” She motioned for the children to wait, and turned, walking down to join him. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, love.” He forced a smile, and stood up. She looked down to his hand, a wooden disc, roughly the size of a silver dollar flipped between his fingers. A piece of his ship. Several more bits of debris were coming in with the tide, left behind as the waves rolled back out to the sea.

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Do you…need a minute? To say goodbye to her?”

He shook his head, smiling sadly down at the sand.

“No,” he said, his voice hitched a bit and he gulped. He shoved the little disc into his pocket, sucking in a steadying breath. Emma reached out, awkwardly taking his hand in her own, lacing their fingers together.

“She was a beautiful ship,” she said.

“Aye. Best ship in all the realms,” he repeated his description from earlier, looking out over the water.

“I’m so sorry Killian,” Emma whispered.

“Don’t be,” he cast the sad smile to her, his hand squeezing. “Come on, love.” He turned them, swinging their arms slightly as they began the journey back to the waiting children.

“Let’s go home.”

Her heart stuttered at the simple word, so much more now than it had been before.

“Okay.” She took out the bean, looking at the three eager faces, at the man beside her, and smiled as she tossed it onto the sand.

_____

The New Storybrooke Orphanage was the fastest building erected in the history of the state. Possibly the country, no one could be sure. An anonymous donor swept in and closed the site on a Friday, construction cones and orange and white striped barricades keeping the town far away from grounds.

Permits miraculously were found in files no one had touched, drawn up, approved and signed in record time. An unknown construction crew had descended on the site and completed in days what would have taken weeks or months. It was a town wide miracle. One no one could seem to figure out.

The town buzzed with the news, wondering who the mysterious donor could be, the only new face in town the dashing Professor Jones of postal service infamy, the name from so many odd little packages, here now in the flesh, the rumored long distance boyfriend of the reclusive Sheriff’s deputy, the boyfriend who now inhabited her house though no moving vans had ever been seen.

He certainly didn’t look like any professor they had seen before, dark, brooding and favoring black leather. The timing of his arrival was suspect though, his financial status unknown, so assumptions were made, and Granny refused to take his money in the diner despite his bewildered protests.

The displaced orphans moved into the building on a Thursday, everything new and gleaming. There were mountains of presents on each of their beds, Christmas in July, new clothes in their bureaus, and a celebration in their honor. Mayor Mills cut the ribbon, still unsure how any of it had happened without her office knowing about it, but the paperwork was all in order and she was unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. New orphanages were good for re-elections.

All of the children returned to their brand new beautiful home, save three, who seemed to be placed in the temporary custody of the same reclusive Sheriff’s Deputy ridiculously easily, no questions asked.

The little blue house with the tower, once so empty and lonely was suddenly filled with noise and life, with love and laughter and cuddles in the morning, scruff on her neck, and warm lips pressed against her hair. Emma Swan was almost as happy as she could ever be.

Almost.

Killian kept the little brown disc in his sock drawer, now filled with brand new socks. He looked at it every morning as he dressed, taking it out, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Every morning she watched him, heart in her throat, apologetic kisses on his cheek, and every morning he closed the drawer, smiled at her, sometimes tugging her back into bed, and went about his day.

Until one day the little brown disc was missing, four mischievous pairs of eyes looking up at his inquiry at the breakfast table, eights pairs of hands in various sizes pushing and pulling him through the streets of town down to the harbor, one pair wrapped around his eyes.

A kiss pressed to his neck, a small hand tugged on his hook, and when the hands were taken away his ship greeted him, large as life, gleaming and new, bobbing in its brand new slip at the dock. No one in the town thought to wonder where it had come from. Mysteries were commonplace these days.

Everyday Emma placed the same pair of calls.

One to the social worker to update her on the status of the children. The other to a lawyer.

Everyday she smiled at her three charges, her heart aching as the voices on the other end told her the same thing.

Single. Unwed. Criminal record. Mysterious, foreign live-in boyfriend.

“It doesn’t look good Ms. Swan.”

“Three children of those ages is a lot of responsibility Ms. Swan.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing approved before Ms. Swan.”

She had them send the applications anyway.

As she signed her name, the ink still wet she sprinkled a tiny bit of fine red sand into the black scrawl, blowing to make it dry, smiling as she handed the thick packet to gossipy Happy at the post office.

It was the fastest adoption proceedings in the history of the state. Possibly the country, no one could be sure.

FIN

Notes:

I had such a blast writing this fun little fairy tale. I wanted to both honor @phiralovesloki ‘s dream because I love and adore her and also play with a Bedknobs and Broomsticks esque story that didn’t copy the original but took the concept: Three orphaned children on an adventure with a reclusive wanna be witch and the charlatan that sold her magic and put an OUAT spin on it. If you haven’t watched the film I highly recommend it and you might see the nods to the story within.

Thanks to @scapeartist and @kat2609 for the support that got me writing again.

All my love and thanks to Liz @caprelloidea who flailed and beta’d and made me feel like this was the greatest story in the world, and HUGE HEAPS OF LOVE to Phira. Like all I have to give. I hope you liked your present, you mean a lot to me and you’ve supported me since my very first little story in this fandom and it has always meant the world.

I finished a multi-chapter fic ya’ll! Now to finish the rest of them…

#cs ff #cs au #cs mc #captain swan #cs fanfic #how to become a witch in ten easy lessons #my writing #my fanfic

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topmixtrends · 6 years ago

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“SOUNDS GREAT on paper.” That’s a phrase I heard a lot as a kid in the late ’70s, usually when my parents and their friends were talking about communism. Certainly an earthly paradise as depicted in the writings of Trotsky or Lenin, but — shame, isn’t it? — communism did not seem to actually work in real life.

The notion that something could sound smart in theory and not work out in practice applies just as well to another product of early 20th-century Russian thought: the individual-over-the-masses, market-worshipping libertarianism philosophy that comes from Ayn Rand. It’s been carried on, after Rand’s 1982 passing, by American acolytes including Alan Greenspan, Ron Paul, House Speaker Paul Ryan, and, probably, someone you went to high school with.

The fact that the libertarian wonderland of absolute sexual and economic freedom only ever worked in Rand’s melodramatic novels and helium-voiced Rush songs — that her philosophy of “Objectivism” has never been successfully applied to actual governance — does not seem to cross the minds of libertarian true-believers. And to many of them, it seems not to matter: a fealty to Rand, to heroic ideas of intellectual superiority and capitalism’s grandeur, is more important than what puny mortals consider political or intellectual reality. If you try arguing sense with them, you’ll quickly wish you hadn’t.

Why should we care, then, about a discredited goofball ideology from deep within the last century? Because Ayn Rand–style libertarianism has probably never been more assertive in American politics than it is today.

What once seemed like the golden age of Rand turned out only to be a warm-up. In the 1950s, you could go to Objectivist salons in New York, where sycophants like Greenspan and future self-esteem guru Nathaniel Branden would gather round the goddess to luxuriate in every word (in some cases, the connection was more than purely intellectual: Branden was one of the polyamorous Rand’s numerous younger boyfriends). In the ’60s and ’70s, you could attend vaguely countercultural conventions across the nation where men would shout conspiracy theories and women would emulate their heroine by wearing broaches shaped like dollar signs. For a while, the Christianity-and-Cold-War strand of the American right headed by William F. Buckley Jr. marginalized the libertarians for their atheism and noninterventionist stance. From the evidence of 1971’s inside-the-whale memoir, Jerome Tuccille’s It Usually Begins With Ayn Rand, this movement was hardly built on solid intellectual ground. The abundance of selfish children driving the ship, part–Veruca Salt, part–Mike Teavee, made this seem like the kind of cult sure to wither of its own ridiculousness.

But with the Reagan Revolution, libertarianism was brought indoors, and the direct-mail New Right that accompanied the movement relied heavily on anti-government dogma. In many parts of the United States — the Sun Belt, the boys’ club of billionaires who fancy themselves self-made heroes, and various enclaves in the capital — Rand’s vision established its second beachhead.

And gradually, the discredited movement that tended to attract nerds and know-it-alls became part of the political mainstream.

“I give out Atlas Shrugged as Christmas presents,” outgoing House Speaker Paul Ryan told the Weekly Standard, “and I make all my interns read it.” He only backed away from Rand when her atheism caused him image problems with God-fearing Republicans, who, if they looked closely, would see that Objectivism is almost exactly the opposite of what’s preached by the Biblical Jesus.

In fact, several of the key Republican young guns are Fountainhead-adjacent. Senator Rand Paul is not only the son of longtime libertarian crank and Texas Congressman Ron Paul (he of the racist newsletters). The younger Paul is such an Atlas Shrugged–pounder that a rumor flourished for years that his first name came from the family’s favorite author.

In Silicon Valley, billionaires are working to put the “liberal” back into libertarian — at least, the 18th-century “classical liberalism” cooked up before industrialization, widespread racial tension, and modern finance capitalism. For all their quoting of Adam Smith and John Stuart Mill, it makes their retro version of Objectivism about as useful for 21st-century life as an 18th-century telescope. The Randed-out Peter Thiel, whose commitment to free speech did not keep him from suing a major media company into oblivion, is perhaps the most prominent Valley libertarian. But he’s hardly alone: if you wondered why Elon Musk was selling flamethrowers, just remember he’s another guy who loves freedom.

Besides the true-believers, reactionary wackjobs often stop over at Galt’s Gulch on their way to even scarier neighborhoods. Mike Enoch — born Mike Peinovich — is a racist and anti-Semite beloved on the alt-right for his The Right Stuff blog and the popular podcast The Daily Shoah. On his journey from leftist extremism to far-right derangement, he was energized by the work of Rand, Murray Rothbard, and economist Ludwig von Mises; his libertarian blog sported posts like “Socialist is Selfish” and “Taxation is Theft.”

Similarly, the polite Midwestern Nazi profiled by The New York Times, Tony Hovater, was a vaguely leftish heavy-metal drummer until he discovered libertarianism. He was, in fact, radicalized by what he considers the Republican Party’s perfidious treatment of libertarian hero Ron Paul; today he reads numerous Rand-y academics for intellectual guidance.

Then there’s Robert Mercer, one of the invisible rich people who has more influence on world affairs than just about everyone you know put together. Mercer, who helped fund Brexit and Donald Trump’s presidential race, and, for years, Breitbart News, is also the father of Rebekah Mercer. A toxic rich girl par excellence, Rebekah is known to Politico as “the most powerful woman in GOP politics” and to others as the first lady of the alt-right. (She recently sowed a rift on the right by cutting off Steve Bannon’s paychecks following his tussle with President Trump.)

Even in this charmless crowd, Robert Mercer’s obnoxiousness stands out. The Citizens United decision has unleashed people like Mercer — secretive gazillionaires whose expenditures are often untraceable despite the way they remake our shared reality. “In my view, Trump wouldn’t be President if not for Bob,” an old colleague of Mercer’s told The New Yorker’s Jane Mayer.

Oh, and then there are Charles and David Koch. “Suddenly, a random billionaire can change politics and public policy,” election watchdog and registered Republican Trevor Potter told Mayer, “to sweep everything else off the table — even if they don’t speak publicly, and even if there’s almost no public awareness of his or her views.” And, as of this fall, the Kochs now effectively own Time magazine as well as a bunch of other publications ranging from Sports Illustrated to the retro British rock magazine Uncut.

And Charles Koch’s foundation has given something like $200 million to colleges and universities, in many cases to appoint pro-business, anti-government scholars to institutions like Chapman University.

The Kochs’ defenders talk about libertarians as some kind of oppressed minority. But unlike most other right-of-center subcultures, libertarians are woven into the nation’s intellectual and cultural mainstream. If you went to a liberal arts college, live in a big city and read The New York Times or Washington Post, follow indie-rock bands and watch trendy shows on HBO, you probably don’t know many evangelical Christians. You could very well spend your days with very little contact with war-mongering neoconservatives. The rural/working-class/NRA side of Caucasian conservatism is likely something you experience mostly through Hillbilly Elegy or reruns of the now-cancelled Roseanne. Libertarians, by contrast, are everywhere. Go on Facebook, and some former friend from childhood is lecturing you about the free market.

We are now, many decades after the germination of Rand’s cult of personality, in a world where a Library of Congress survey deems Atlas Shrugged the most influential book next to the Bible. As the GOP, Wall Street, the intellectual plutocracy of think tanks and foundations, and Silicon Valley grow in coming years, expect to see the influence of this group and its ideas grow and stretch.

Despite numerous parallels with Scientology, Objectivism is not just sitting still, getting weirder while remaining confined to a few thousand worshippers. We have not yet reached Peak Libertarian. So where do these goofy ideas come from, and what effect might they have?

A partial answer — both rigorously told and incomplete — comes from a recent book, How Bad Writing Destroyed the World, by Wellesley College comp-lit professor Adam Weiner.

Weiner’s key insight is connecting Rand’s ideas — and the Russian literary intellectual lineage she emerged from — with the 2008 financial collapse. “By programming Alan Greenspan with objectivism and, literally, walking him into the highest circles of government, Rand had effectively chucked a ticking time bomb into the boiler room of the US economy,” he writes in the book’s introduction. “I am choosing my metaphor deliberately: as I will show, infiltration and bomb-throwing were revolutionary methods that shaped the tradition on which Rand was consciously or unconsciously drawing.”

Most historical changes have some kind of intellectual root, for better and worse; kudos to Weiner for tracing how a series of bad ideas and clumsy prose led the nation to the Great Recession. But Weiner, a scholar of Russian literature, appears to be far more interested in one of Rand’s antecedents than Rand herself. Nikolai Chernyshevsky, the revolutionary socialist best known for his 1863 novel What Is To Be Done?, written while its author was imprisoned in a St. Petersburg fortress, is his true subject. The book famously inspired Lenin’s world-shaking pamphlet of the same name.

There’s one small problem with this premise, and one large one. Weiner shrewdly anticipates the first: how could a man of the extreme left — who helped inspire the terrorists who coalesced around the Russian Revolution — simultaneously provide the intellectual foundation for the godmother of the market-worshipping right? He finds the common denominator in Chernyshevsky’s notion of “rational egoism,” which Weiner describes as the idea that “the rational pursuit of selfish gain on the part of each individual must give rise to the ideal form of society.”

Sound familiar? This chimes almost exactly with Rand’s “virtue of selfishness” — the bedrock of her pseudo-philosophy of unchecked capitalism, minimalist government, and rugged individualism pursued by übermensch heroes. “The main heirs of Chernyshevsky’s bumbling, illogical aesthetic,” Weiner writes, “were the Soviet-mandated novels of socialist realism and the ‘capitalist realism’ of Ayn Rand.”

Weiner deftly handled the contradiction here: a bad novel could not only become ideologically potent, but it could also inspire people who would not recognize each other as fellow travelers.

Yet Weiner’s book lives up to neither its title nor its subtitle, “Ayn Rand and the Literary Origins of the Financial Crisis.” Weiner’s final chapter, “In the graveyard of bad ideas,” returns to Rand’s biography — she grew up in St. Petersburg and watched as the Bolsheviks looted her family’s possessions — and intellectual roots. But it feels like an addendum, however skillfully told, to a reasonably lucid and well-researched book about an influential but not very good 19th-century Russian novelist.

In connecting Rand — and contemporary American libertarianism — to an extremist strain of pre-revolutionary Russian thought, Weiner does help clarify this bizarre lineage, its combination of heartland America Firstism with something clearly alien to our Constitution and its mostly British political origins. Ayn Rand is not just Adam Smith in a screenwriter’s bungalow — she’s coming from somewhere different from classical liberalism.

The book Weiner seemed to be delivering — offering the intellectual history of either kook libertarianism, or the 2008 crash, or both — still needs to be written. Until then, the second edition of Corey Robin’s The Reactionary Mind — released in November, this time under the subtitle “Conservatism from Edmund Burke to Donald Trump” — does a skillful job connecting philosophers, historians, and economists of the past with our recent rightward turn. His chapter on Ayn Rand and libertarianism, in specific, offers much of what Weiner’s volume promises and fails to provide.

“Saint Petersburg in revolt gave us Vladimir Nabobov, Isaiah Berlin, and Ayn Rand,” Robin begins. “The first was a novelist, the second a philosopher. The third was neither but thought she was both.” Robin, a political professor at Brooklyn College and the CUNY Graduate Center, starts with pre-revolutionary Russia, but considers Rand’s real birthplace to be Hollywood, where she landed in 1926 and was quickly recruited by Cecil B. DeMille. “For where else but in the dream factory could Rand have learned how to make dreams — about America, capitalism, and herself?”

And Rand’s us-versus-them formulation of the stalwart genius against the “moochers” and “looters” — revived by Mitt Romney in his “makers” versus “takers” speech — is textbook vulgar Nietzscheanism. It also helps explain the appeal of Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead to misunderstood adolescents who dream themselves the übermensch.

Rand’s novels heroize — in the same campy way she learned from Russian operettas and Hollywood movies — defiant, comically masculine builders like architect Howard Roark and engineer/inventor John Galt. It feels somehow inevitable that the recent libertarian, anti-government, pro-business strain on the American right would lead us to a man who seems right out of her pages: the defiant, comically masculine real estate developer Donald Trump.

The real history of Ayn Rand’s bad ideas — their roots, their trajectory, their collateral damage — can’t be contained in any book, however good or bad. It’s all unfolding around us, as her zombie devours the Republican Party and soon, the rest of us, with no sign of abating.

Scott Timberg is the editor of The Misread City: New Literary Los Angeles and author of Culture Crash: The Killing of the Creative Class.

Banner image by Erik Fitzpatrick.

The post The Bad Idea That Keeps on Giving appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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toddlazarski · 6 years ago

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On Anthony Bourdain, Istanbul, and the Art of Looking at the World

Shepherd Express

In every writer there exists a towering, ever-struggling duality: the desire to be left alone, to your words, books, thoughts, hidden quiet corners of libraries; and the wish to be celebrated, toasted by everyone as the smartest person in the room. From a staggering array of novels, non-fiction, and cookbooks, to a series of popular and acclaimed travel TV shows, Anthony Bourdain achieved both. In grand fashion. And he did so with such an easy grace and badass authenticity, strident but unposturing, always walking through some faraway airport in sunglasses and jeans, a knowing swagger married to selfless curiosity, a seen-it-all, snobby curmudgeon with the the air of - yes, as it’s been said before, appropriately - your coolest uncle. The one with the tats and back porch stories and faraway look in his eye while describing some distant bar, some endless night in Hanoi, another day’s chilli dog. Which is all why you’ll read one million of just this sort of personal tomes. As is the practice of the day, when someone dies, something big happens, one can almost hear the collective laptops the coffeeshopped world over, softly plodding with hastily penned takes. It is an epoch of “let me tell you what this means to me.” So maybe there needn’t be any more Bourdain tributes like there needn’t be any more gun control facebook posts. But there’s a reason chefs, foodies, fans, all of us, really, can’t help themselves with Bourdain. And the desire feels even deeper still with writers.

Simply, he was living our dream: widely published, successful, adored, pervasive, respected, still cool, on the road while the rest of us squirmed stuck in the quicksand of digital glow, all while seemingly never needing to sell out. He made himself a rock star in an era where nobody cares about writers. While Tom Wolfe and Philip Roth can pass to the next world like a ship in the night, with Bourdain co-workers that had never even read him approached my desk on the day of the news with tears. “I’m sorry”’s passed in text message form like a family member had died, like I had known the man, simply because I idolized him.

It was easy to feel familiarity - you could go along, exploring, discovering, scoffing, smoking, looking, feeling like you were figuring something out about the world with a poet’s removed involvement. I followed, time and again, through countless joints and ventures, not knowing there was another place to even consider starting travel research. I ended up in a multitude of places like Tadich Grill in San Francisco, Eisenbergs in New York, a cacio e pepe spot in Rome, some chicken joint in Brazil. In a pre-smartphone, pre-Uber era, I wandered for hours through uptown New Orleans, backtracking, circling Audubon park, hailing cabs just to futilely beg directions, assisted only by a known street name - Bellecastle - and a vivid memory of his enjoyment of Domilise’s off-the-menu fried shrimp, cheese, and gravy po’ boy.

There has always been a validation in going to the places he’d been, a way of feeling you were doing things right, appropriately appreciating culture, a place. You’d see him at a dive in Chicago and feel smug with satisfaction over your own life’s pursuits. It was an easy extension to think you knew him off camera too. Everyone knew about his reformed bad boy antics, penchant for drunkenness, graceful entry to fatherhood, budding relationship with Asia Argento. “He doesn’t smoke anymore.” We all knew that. “He loves KFC.” And so I feel no need for shame in occasionally blasting an eight piece with mac n’ cheese and biscuits, sitting solo in my car, in a parking lot on Layton, cranking classic rock radio. “He wears Clark’s.” I have three pairs. I could never remember the name of his new show. And it didn’t matter, there he was, in my living room, showing me someplace in Africa I’ll surely never go, illuminating what I did wrong, misunderstood about Detroit.

Practically, this is why suicide seemed so wrong. He had it all, but mostly he had perspective. Realistically, it is a reminder: You have no idea what’s going on in another human being. You don’t understand your own brain, let alone somebody else’s. By now we all at least know the “selfish” trope is hooey. But if you’ve been through it, close to it, if the suicide of my best friend, at the age of 25, taught me anything, it’s that you can devote your personal life to pondering the matter, study the professionals that have given their careers to the issue, and never get any closer to an answer of Camus’ “one truly serious philosophical problem.” Really, we all have so little understanding of the world.

Which was actually so much the point of Bourdain’s body of life work.

Years ago, in a random episode of No Reservations, I found myself finding Bourdain perched outside a tiny corner Istanbul kebab shop. He was eating, rapping with a local, mostly always smart enough to balance, to know when to let himself be guided. In my mind, he seemed to go from liking his sandwich to a string-swelling discovery of love moment, just within a few bites. A subtle kind of euphoria played across a thanks-for-showing-me-this type smile, him wrapping up the kebab in typical lyrical summation, “torpedo of joy.” There was something in the combination: the dripping meat package, the contentment, the all-is-well realization amidst a cobblestoned old world setting of winding, shambly, timeless streets, a feel of fearlessness yielding intense hedonist pleasure in the heart of a mysterious world. It was an unscrubbable moment of enlightenment, he had decided for me: Turkey was suddenly the place of my heart.

Through no coincidence, years later, my wife and I found ourselves closing our honeymoon in Istanbul. On our last night, post dinner of endless mezzes, our breaths heavy with smoked eggplant, sumac, parsley, our bodies already sluggish with lamb meat, it was nonetheless the last checkmark I needed, desperately, on my first trip to Europe. At midnight it would be my 32nd birthday. At noon tomorrow we would be on a flight home. But for now, I was after something. Down snaking back alley’s, a stream of dark loud bars pouring boozers onto the street side tables, fish shops still open and stinky and neon-lit, the distinction between patrons and pedestrians blurring, a propulsive cacophony of raised foreign tongues jibing with tinkling glasses, everyone young and hungry and dressed in black and close together, the streets too narrow for anything but whizzing mopeds. By the time we got there - me realizing the ultimate consummation of fresh marriage is when a new bride will follow you into questionable neighborhoods in strange lands for midnight snacks - a man, a brother or cousin of the proprietor it seemed, on my side of the counter with a drugged big-pupil look, upsold me on extra meat. I obliged, forking over Lira, salivating, breathing deep hand-stoked charcoal fumes, noting the coating of the bread with meat fat, noticing everything, stoically, or so I thought, chasing that Bourdain vibe. Bold. At least bold enough to hit a rough-edged corner store on the way home, for a six-pack of bad but frigid Turkish beer, a pack of locally-flavored Camels.

Twenty minutes later I was on our hotel room’s balcony, delaying my meal, swallowing a Bond movie scenescape, mosques doting the horizon, minarets standing rigid like menacing fingers, the Bosphorous River flowing behind me, the hotel where Agatha Christie penned “Murder on the Orient Express” just around the corner. In a grand gesture of chivalry, I eventually tried to wake my wife for a bite. She shrugged me off, opting for some sleep after 2 weeks of trekking around Italy and Turkey, eating endlessly of my deranged itinerary, now facing a 12-hour flight home. Instead I stood alone outside, I let the spice-addled cucumber sauce run down my arm as the rotisserie-ed beef and lamb combo danced, delivered on the wings of crisped lavash bread, popped up by red onion and juicy tomato. Solitary on a balcony, framed in smoke and late night buzz, I ate and drank, Istanbul spread endlessly around me. It was now my birthday. It was also my poetry moment. And Bourdain had brought me here. It was the apex of everything his books and bevy of heavy-hearted shows had taught me, the joy within being an active, discerning participant in life’s sorrows. His was the art of looking at the world. And showing how much better is the view when sided by a cold beer and really good sandwich.

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