#however as soon as you break up the threat of adoption will hover over you again

[currant-owo]

Bruce Wayne will not be able to adopt you if you adopt him first.

[lustbile-archive]

Don’t Make Me Tie You Down

JoshuaxReader

Word Count: 3.2k

Request: Can I request Joshua smut? When you had one of your hand tied up with his hand and he make you orgasm several times before he fuck you hard lol

When Joshua first brought up bringing restrains into your sex life, it was more of a joke.

“If you don’t shut up I swear I’ll..,” he trailed off, teasingly shaking his head at the playful mood you had adopted that day.

“You’ll what Josh?” you had asked, leaning over to crowd his personal space. You genuinely weren’t looking to start anything, you were just feeling more hyper than usual and you wanted to see him get exhausted by you, “ya gonna spank me or somethin’?”

“Maybe,” the quick response made you break out in laughter from the way his eyes widened in seriousness, “maybe even tie your wild ass down.”

You only grinned and brushed him off, he hadn’t sounded incredibly serious so you didn’t think much of it, but the next time, he got more specific.

——

You were in another mood. Nothing serious was going on, it was just he was kind of tired, and realistically so were you. You had spent a whole day out running errands, ending your day by just hanging out and doing your own things, when he decided he just wanted to give you a hug and lean on you for a minute.

Unfortunately for him, your sleepiness had made you a little mischievous. So every time he’d go to rest his chin on your shoulder, or press his face into your neck, you’d duck away, and move to another spot in the room under the guise that you had thought of something new that needed to be done that exact second.

The first few times he huffed. Rolled his eyes, shaking his head. This wasn’t the first time you had gotten like this, and he was fully aware it wouldn’t be the last, so he let it slide. After a few minutes, he’d find you again, and deal with the same motions of you moving away with a mean grin dancing on your lips.

By the fifth time he had had it.

You were standing in front of the couch, fiddling with your phone and your eyebrows drawn together as you held the electronic far too close to your face. Regardless of you not feeling any particular way in the moment, Joshua thought your little scrunched up face made you look cute and grumpy, and despite the denial he had gotten previously, he moved once again to pull you back against his chest.

You almost immediately started squirming, trying to break your arms free from where he held them against your body with his own. You whined out something about needing to look something up on your laptop, before he was pulling you down until you were both sitting on the couch, you sitting still wiggling in his lap.

“Let me cuddle you before I tie you to me,” as soon as the words left his mouth, he was holding you tighter, with his nose digging into the side of your neck.

You couldn’t help but wonder why your stomach started turning and your skin buzzing at the idea of being locked to him, and unable to get away.

And it went on like that another few times. Hollow threats whenever you two were being playful of how he’d tie you down, or lock you to him in some form of fashion. And unfortunately for you, he had yet to follow through.

Maybe it was just becoming a weird subconscious habit of his to use binding you in some way as a threat. Something he wasn’t even aware that he was saying. You two would get playful a lot, and he always liked to playfully scold you, but the threats were so new and very specific, you couldn’t help but find yourself thinking what it would be like to be bound by him.

It was getting to the point where you had to admit they were just empty threats. He’d grow out of his new found threat eventually, and revert to however he would try to put you in line in the past. While you definitely wouldn’t mind him following through, it just felt like he never would.

That was until you were bouncing while hyped up on adrenaline.

——

You weren’t sure what had happened, you just woke up more hyper than usual with a rebellious little streak running up your spine. Joshua, at first seemed to be nothing but amused at your antics, and would even encourage you until you started to wear yourself down.

You’d been bouncing off the walls all day, it was inevitable that you’d start to crash eventually, you just never expected him to take that moment as his time to strike.

Music still pumped against the walls of your apartment from where you were dancing wildly in only a large shirt and a pair of underwear earlier, but instead of spinning like a top in front of your boyfriend while he watched on like a mother watching her child make poor decisions at the local park, you had finally started to dwindle down. Now, instead, you found yourself sinking into one of the chairs placed at the kitchen

counter, your face tucked into your arms as you hummed and enjoyed the dark you had surrounded yourself in.

You were sure you had jumped a few feet in the air when it first touched the skin of your wrist. The cool metal locking around your wrist makes you sit up quickly, but the hold he has on the other end stops you from pulling too far.

“Josh?” the confusion that ran through your still vibrating form making his name the only thing you can form with words. The gleam that bounces in his eyes when you make eye contact and the metal of a handcuff holding you in place only confuses you further.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he starts as he moves the other cuff to lock around his own wrist as you blink at him in curiosity, “but I can’t stop thinking about having you locked to me. Under my control.”

Once the metal is secure around his skin, he tugs gently to see if it would stay. The bite of the metal into your skin makes you shiver and your mind begins running wild at being physically unable to move away from him, away from what he wanted to do. Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth and your head is bouncing with a nod before you can even form the thought of making the motion. Your eager agreement making you two adopt matching grins.

“If at any time,” he starts to assure as he helps you stand and begins leading you out of the kitchen and down the hall towards your room, “you need to stop, say red like normal.”

“Yes sir,” you say playfully, saluting once he turns to look at you after opening your bedroom door.

“Good,” he nods, pulling you into the room and closing the door behind him. He follows, hovering over you as you move to lay down with your head pressing into the pillows. He moves his hands to hold himself inches above you, and when your trapped hands press against each other, he intertwines your fingers together.

There’s a moment of silence where his eyes run across the expanse of your face, and you can feel your skin warm at the undivided attention. The intensity in his look makes you start squirming against the sheets until a quiet whimper falls from your lips.

At the sound hitting his ears, he smiles down at you lovingly before he’s moving to press the tip of his nose into yours. His heated breath hits the skin of your mouth as your breaths mix together, before his eyes slide shut and he slots his lips with yours. There’s no pause before his tongue presses to pull your lips apart and allows the warm muscle to lick into your mouth.

You can’t help the quiet whimper you let into his mouth, when his fingers brush the skin of your neck and travel down towards the hem of the loose shirt you wear. You can feel your legs moving in impatience, tangling the sheets below them, and he only happily hums back in response.

His mouth continues to press and mold against yours, as he shoves the fabric up to bunch up above your chest, the cool air of the room hitting you like bricks. Your hips jump into the air, knocking into his, when the tips of his fingers bush gently over your nipples. Your breath becomes labored as he brings the sensitive skin between his rough fingers, and you feel your nails dig into the back of his hand that you hold when he delivers relentless pulls. He only moves a few moments later to move to the other and give it the same amount of attention.

You can feel your heart rate pick up when he lets go and begins traveling his greedy hand down your stomach. His mouth moving away only a few inches, to allow him to start to taunt you.

“Is there something you need me to do?” he rhetorically asks, picking at the band of your underwear, pulling gently down but not enough to expose you to the room, “you seem pretty eager about something, is there a way you want me to help?”

“Josh please,” you try to move your hips up to push his fingers deeper inside the fabric, “please touch me, I promise I’ll be good.”

“You promise huh?” His eyebrows dart up as he asks with a light mocking tone, “well since you promised,”

He trails off, as his fingers move to slide through the arousal that drips from you, a quiet groan rumbling his chest at the amount he finds. He dips his fingers in you quickly to collect the mess you’ve created on his fingers, before moving back up to move his four fingers in slow circles on your clit.

“How about this,” his pace only picks up a bit, but enough to have you writhing with your face screwing up in pleasure, “you come nice and pretty on my fingers and you’ll get a really nice reward. How does that sound?”

Your eyes dart down to look at where his hand is stuffed in your underwear, the fabric of your shirt blocking your view slightly. The sight of his arm flexing and tensing with his efforts is enough to send you reeling with your hand squeezing roughly onto his. His movements only pick up, pushing you closer and closer to your orgasm, making your mind fill with fog. The only response you can offer to his question, is another desperate ‘please’ that fills the air of your room.

“Don’t please me baby,” he shakes his head softly with faux disappointment, “whether you get your reward or not is on you, so hurry up and come.”

The quiet, but demanding way he says the words pushes you full force off the edge. The only thing holding you back on earth is the way he squeezes your hand in reassurance, as you shiver and clamp your thighs tightly around his still moving hand.

He pulls his hand away, quietly laughing to himself as you slowly calm down. Your mind is too fuzzy as you try to even your breathing, you don’t feel the way he moves down your body, nor the way your trapped hand obediently follows. You only come to your senses when you feel you joined hands tickling your stomach and his teeth tugging at your underwear.

You can only offer a quiet whimper of his name, before his free hand is dragging the fabric down your legs. He throws them carelessly behind him, a muffled noise of them hitting your floor is the only sound other than your breathing that you can hear, before he begins taunting you again.

“You wanted your reward right? Think you can handle it,” all coherent thought leaves your mind and you only babble in response. He grins happily at the way he’s gotten you to lose yourself with only one orgasm, admiring the way you pant and whine, before he flattens his tongue against your still sensitive skin.

He laughs against you, the vibrations rattling up your spine. Your wrap holds tightly onto his in an iron grip as your free hand moves to fist at his hair. The pain that shoots through his scalp changes his laughter into a deep groan, and his free hand moves to grip your thigh and pull you tight against his mouth.

His chapped lips wrap around your buzzing clit, sucking harshly as your back arches as high as your intertwined hands will allow as they dig into the flesh of your lower stomach. You moans and whines only grow in volume when you feel his drool slip out of his hungry mouth, the air circulating through the room cooling it against your skin.

Your toes curl painfully as your heels dig into his back, and you can already feel yourself being pushed to a second orgasm, when he lets go of your thigh to shove his fingers as deep as they can reach inside you. He thrusts them relentlessly inside you, making your thighs clamp around his skull, and with the combination of the way his fingers curl inside you and his heated tongue abusing your clit you can feel yourself being forced into a blinding orgasm for a second time.

You feel yourself curling into yourself as your body tries desperately to pull itself into the fetal position. Though, even with your shaking and crying, Joshua shows no interest in detaching from your core, and he only moves with you as you fall to your side.

The way your arm gets trapped under you while still trapped in his hold is painful, but the biting pleasure coming from his refusal to allow you a break distracts you from anything else that happens around you.

Regardless of the tearful and incoherent pleads you let out, he only continues to lick against you, as if you were spilling the only thing that would keep him alive. And it's when you feel your nails digging into his scalp and your body trying to crawl up the bed and away from him, you’re forced into your third orgasm of the night.

Your breathing is erratic as you shake in his hold. You’re only partially aware of him moving away from you and the tears steadily running down your face as you try to relax your breathing. Your body melts into the mattress below you as he turns you to lay on your back, every muscle in your body had been turned to liquid from the way he’d managed to pull you apart.

He moves his face back in front of yours as he lays to press your chests together. His lower face glitters slightly from the evidence of your orgasms that you had left behind and you can’t help the dazed smile you give him when he’s gone back to being your sweet boyfriend instead of the demon that was tucked between your thighs only moments before. `

His damp fingers move softly against your stomach as he uses the other hand to squeeze yours gently in hopes to calm you a bit, “you okay?” he asks, the relaxed smile he wears puts you slightly on edge, but the warmth that surrounds you from him being pressed against you makes you smile in return.

“Yeah,” you nod, leaning up to press your lips against his, the action making his smile grow when you move away.

“Good,” he nods in response, and you feel your heart rate pick up, when you lose the feeling of his fingers against your stomach and you hear the shuffling noise of him tugging at his lounge pants, “cause I’m not done with you just yet.”

That’s the only amount of warning you get before his pushing inside you. You feel yourself clench weakly around him, but with the amount of arousal and saliva that still covers your skin, he pushes in with almost no resistance.

He coos at you lovingly as he pushes fully inside you, your hands once again squeezing weakly at his. Your breathing comes out loudly from your nose, as you clench your teeth at the overstimulating pleasure.

He takes advantage of the way your head tilts back at the feeling of him stretching you out, to latch his mouth to the skin of your neck. He licks and sucks softly at the tingling skin as you adjust to him being fully inside you, but when your free hand goes to hold at the back of his neck he takes this as your sign of being ready.

In the same moment, his teeth bite harshly at the skin of your jaw and he starts to thrust sharply inside of you. The rough pace of his hips is overwhelming to your already spent body. Your mind is unable to form thoughts or words as he stuffs you full, your eyes rolling back as you feel yourself lose control on your own form.

Your shoved up the expanse of the bed with each of his thrusts, his tongue and teeth ruining the skin of your neck. You try to wrap your legs around his hips, but his rough rhythm and the weakness of your muscles makes them immediately fall back into the sheets.

He finally pull his mouth from your skin, using a thrust to push his mouth to move against your ear, “give me one more baby,” his fingers return to your clit as he speaks and you feel your body shiver and squirm in response, “come for me, and i'll come for you. Just one more for me yeah?”

The nod you give him is a subconscious act as the thought process behind it never moves through your foggy mind. The pace of his fingers match the pace of his thrusts, and it's only moments after his command, that his teeth bite down on the lobe of your ear and your coming for the final time.

Though not as strong as the ones before, the orgasm that runs through you makes all of the muscles in your body tense and shake. And as tired and slurred moans fall out of your mouth with no control, you can feel the way that your clenching walls pull him along with you and into an orgasm of his own.

Your lower belly warms as he fills you with his come, his low groans putting enough energy into you that you find the strength to wrap your legs and free arm tightly around his body. He’s pressed fully into you as his orgasm subsides and he curls around your body in return.

You’re not sure how long you lay there wrapped up in each other’s arms, his clammy hand unmoving from yours. It could have been only moments or hours that you lay there, but it's not long before your eyes start to fall close in exhaustion.

“You’re always so good for me,” there’s a lapse in your mind in registering his words, but once the words string together, you happily purr in response, “always let me play with you any way I want hm?”

“Mhm,” you respond, afraid that any other noise would come out completely disjointed.

“We can lay here for a little longer,” his fingers running up and down your spine as he speaks, “but we gotta get out of these handcuffs and get you cleaned up before you pass out on me.”

[imagine-darksiders]

I’m in the mood for angst so how bout a scenario where Karn takes Deaths human charge (Death has feelings for but hasn’t confessed) to explore since Reader used to hike and something happens to make Reader get hurt badly and get knocked out cold, Karn breaks down and picks them up and runs back to the forge and cries and yells for someone to help. Death sees his hurt and unconscious charge and completely looses it on Karn and when Reader wakes up, they tell Karn it’s not his fault?

Thundering footfalls resound off the walls of Tristone, each embellished by a wet splash as a young maker staggers through steadily pouring rain, his breath escaping in short, ragged gasps that send clouds of condensation billowing from his parted lips like smoke. 

There’s an unmistakable urgency to his gait and a wild-eyed look about him that bears a close resemblance to one beset by hysteria, or mania. 

Such a volatile state doesn’t come without reason however, as the Horseman - Death - soon discovers upon emerging from the makers’ forge. The old Reaper’s mood perfectly reflects the gloomy skies overhead, his dourness due in no small part to the absence of one, irrepressible human.

It isn’t your absence itself that has him irked, rather, it’s the fact that you’ve once again disappeared from TriStone without a word or a trace as has been a habit, of late. One that you seemed to have adopted after meeting your newfound friend, Karn.

Grumbling, Death shakes his head and allows the door of the forge to slam shut at his back, wondering where in the nine realms you and the maker could have scurried off to this time.

The Horseman is so preoccupied with his own thoughts, he barely takes notice of the rain that begins cascading down his spine, only glancing up when something utterly enormous barrels down the stone steps towards him and in the blink of an eye, he finds himself nearly run over by a panic-stricken youngling.

“Pup,” the Horseman drawls, a raised brow the only indication of surprise at the sight of the giant careening to a halt just in front of him, with arms cradled against a broad chest as though there’s something immeasurably delicate that he’s trying to hide behind his hefty biceps, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen that blasted human, have you?”

The youngling doesn’t respond at first, merely stares down at the Horseman with the same, fraught stare that’s so uncharacteristic of Karn, Death is instantly suspicious. 

“Pup…”He drops his voice to something low and dangerous, eyeing the flash of hair that pokes out above the maker’s arm. “Where is Y/n.”

At last, Karn’s eyes stop darting and settle properly on the Horseman, his pale pupils slowly coming into focus.“It… it was an accident,” he stammers miserable, bending down onto one knee and, with more care than the Horseman has ever seen him exert, unfurls his arms.

What he reveals ignites an icy rage in Death’s chest, born from an uncomfortable pang of alarm that he’d rather not acknowledge.

In the maker’s arms lays the very human Death had once pulled from the ruined Earth, the same human who has been his unorthodox companion over the last few weeks and who has been so, unwaveringly determined to make a friend out of him, the Horseman begrudgingly let his guard down and allowed a friendship to be cultivated, against his better judgement.

“Y/n?” he breathes, reaching a hand over Karn’s forearm and hovering the appendage warily above your head, from which rivulets of glistening blood trickle down into the creases around your eyes, each screwed tightly shut. The youngling’s broad chest is keeping you shielded from the rain, butDeath almost wishes it would fall on you just to wash away the crimson liquid running down from your hairline.

The Horseman almost succumbs to the immediate, knee-jerk reaction to find out how this happened, yet he reminds himself that standing in the rain and grilling a rattled maker for answers won’t get you the help you so clearly need.

So, swallowing down the urge to tear Karn’s head from his shoulders for allowing you to get hurt, Death grits histeeth and growls, “Eideard. Now.”

Then, as less of an afterthought and more of an instinct, he leans over Karn’s arm and slides his cold, raw-boned hands underneath your fragile, little body scooping you gently out of the maker’s hold and never once taking his eyes off your face.

Although Karn bridles a little at having you taken from him, he doesn’t argue, instead staggering to his feet and once more uttering, “It was an accident…”

Death, at least for the time being, ignores him to spin on a heel and march back towards the forge, his grip on you growing firmer as you roll your head floppily into his chest.

————————

A concussion, Eideard had eventually deduced after a brief minute of chaos ensued once Valus and Alya caught sight of you laying unresponsive and bleeding in Death’s arms.

The village elder had ushered the twins out fairly promptly with much protest and reluctance on their part, and then he’d had Death place you on the anvil where he set about trying to determine the cause of your injury. In the meantime, Karn had remained as close as he could get to the anvil, wringing his hands over one another and chewing a deep welt into his bottom lip.

With steady hands and softly murmured words, Eideard wove together a few healing spells, watered down to their most basic level of power to accommodate for your delicate, human frame. Every now and again, you would try to crack your eyes open and speak, but your words made no sense and blended together into an incomprehensible noise that Eideard would gently shush, reminding you to keep your eyes closed, lest the light cause you any more pain.

Finally, after far too long, in Death’s opinion, the wound on top of your head stops oozing blood as ancient magics stitch your skin back together and Eideard raises his eyes to give the Horseman a reassuring nod, his own relief palpable in the sagging of his titanic shoulders.

It’s only then that Death feels the immediate danger has passed.

Slowly, with the threatening glare of a predator, he turns his gaze to the youngling.

Death barely hears Eideard’s sharp warning not to take his frustrations out on Karn, he’s too sunken into his own fury and desperation. 

It’s with a primal kind of ferocity that he rounds on the young maker, his Reaper form rippling underneath the surface of his pale skin like a brewing storm, just moments away from exploding outwards into a full-blown tempest.

Karn feels a raw pulse of sickening energy hit him square in the chest and he’s forced back a step, tearing his gaze off you with a dull sort of resignation painted across his features as he turns to face the bristling Horseman.

“What. Did. You. DO!?” Death roars, each word pervaded with tremulous power and preceded by a rattling hiss, every neuron in him firing off impulses that tell him to protect the human on the anvil behind him. Yet without an immediate threat present, his rage redirects its attention to the next best thing; the one who’d let this happen to you.

Karn however, even in the face of what could well be a dangerous situation, doesn’t even flinch. He merely stands there as the Horseman bears down on him, his ears drooped and arms dangling limply at his sides.

The decidedly non combative stance doesn’t deterDeath though, who continues to stalk right up to the youngling’s boot and once again shouts, “WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

If Karn hadn’t been feeling so guilty about yourinjury, he might have noted how unusual it is for the Nephilim toexpress this level of concern for another.

Dropping his gaze ashamedly to the stoneunderfoot, the maker heaves an unsteady sigh. “We were only inBaneswood,” he murmurs, more to himself than the room, as though hestill hasn’t quite come to terms with the events, “I was on thelookout for demons, not the damn trees!” Peeling his lipsback with a despairing whine, he scrapes a hand over his sparsedusting of hair.

“What?” Death hisses when he doesn’t elaborate, momentarily thrown bythe notion that now, apparently, even the trees can pose a risk toyour safety.

Karn’s eyes drift down to the ground and theHorseman can’t help but notice that they’ve clouded over, stuckbehind a memory of whatever had occurred in those dreadful woods.

Death doesn’t have to wait for long however beforethe maker reveals what he’s seeing with his mind’s eye.

“Was a branch that did it,” he mutters,“must’ve already been barely hangin’ on, what with the wind andrain. When we passed under it, it – it just…. fell..”Shuddering back into himself, he blinks and glances sorrowfully overtowards you, quietly adding, “By the time I heard it snap, Y/nwas… was….” Karn’s unsteady voice peters out and hesubconsciously rubs at the spot on his own head that mirrors theplace where your wound is.

Unfortunately for him, his explanation does littleto soothe the ire roiling in the Horseman’s chest.

“Why did you take a human out of Tri Stone inthe first place!?” Death barks, “You know it isn’t safe!”

Karn’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly, wettinghis lips. “I… I thought I could keep ‘er safe…” he utterssoftly, ducking his head when Death brusquely snaps, “Well, youthought wrong. Y/n was hurt on your watch. The lasthuman in the Universe could have died, all because of you!”

Chest heaving with barely restrained contempt, theNephilim ignores a disapproving hum that warbles out of Eideard’sthroat and lowers his voice to a much darker, somehow far morefrightening pitch, holding Karn prisoner beneath his poisonous glare.The youngling looks as though Death might as well have torn his heartasunder right then and there. “Might I make a suggestion, Pup, thatso long as you value your life, you’ll keep Y/n out of it.”

He isn’t sure what he expected the youngling tooffer in response. Perhaps a meagre protest, perhaps a flat outrefusal to stay away from you, as Death had just not so subtlysuggested. However, what he certainly doesn’t expect is for Karn tooffer up nothing more than a resigned nod of his head before turningabout and trailing slowly towards the doors at the far end of theforge, dragging his feet with each, heavy step.

Death waits until the stone entrance slides shutin the youngling’s wake, then, heaving a weary sigh, he twists aboutand focuses his attention on the anvil, or more importantly, thehuman laying quiet and still at its centre.

“That,” Eideard grumbles, furrowing his bushybrows until they almost form an uninterrupted line across hisforehead, “was an unjustly cruel thing to say…”

“I notice you didn’t interject.”

The Old One’s chest rises and falls around anindignant puff of breath. “Mark me, I would have, had Ithought you posed any real threat.”

Death can only give a humourless huff, feigning disinterest and wondering when he’d grown so soft that the maker wouldn’t see him as a constant source of danger.

Apparently, Eideard has him all worked out.

——-

The dark blanket of night gradually begins torecede with encroaching rays of sunlight that emit their faint,orange glow from behind the far-off mountain peaks, chasing the starsback into darker corners of the sky.

Almost immediately after leaving the forge, Alyahad accosted Karn and bullied a confession from his lips, after whichshe’d subjected him to an admonishing that had been strikinglysimilar to Death’s, although hers was accompanied by a swift cliparound the ear, doubtless the very least she wanted to do tohim.

After that, she’d left him to sulk, alone in thedead of night where he could torture himself by imagining all theways he should have protected you from that falling branch.

Now, he sits slumped upon the east-facing wallthat looks out over the distant peaks, his mind far from the goingson of the world around him. Rain still falls from the fat, blackclouds overhead and serves to dampen both the ground and Karn’salready dreary mood.

How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? Yes,he knows the dangers of the Forge Lands, perhaps better than most.It’s a wild and unpredictable place. But… he’s Karn.

If anyone was going to be able to protect you, itwould be him….

… Wouldn’t it?  

Raindrops cling to the youngling’s eyelashes, buthe can’t even bring himself to blink them away.

Sagging further into himself, Karn drops his chinonto his knuckles with a grunt, expelling all the air in his lungsand focusing on the burning sensation it brings rather than the stingbehind his eyelids.

He’d been so sure he was doing the right thing.

You were sad. You’d been sad ever since you firstarrived in Tri Stone. Then, one evening spent sat amongst the giantsin Muria’s garden, you had made a comment, something throwaway andforgettable to the others, but not to him. Karn had vowed never toforget a word you said from the day he met you.

You told him how much you loved exploring.

“I used to go and hike the local trails all thetime back home,” you’d murmured as a wistful smile tugged atyour lips, “Just me, my music and the open road. It was so muchfun, even if I was doing it on my own...”

Hearing this, Karn had leapt at the opportunity tocheer you up, inviting you to explore Baneswood with him in the hopesthat it would take your mind off the fate of your home world. And ithad…

…At least for a little while.

Groaning, Karn buries his face in a pair of gloved hands, pressing harshly against his eyelids until specks of colourbegin to invade the darkness.

Even with the best of intentions, he still managedto mess it all up. Death was right, after all. You very well couldhave died back there. The first, real friend Karn had ever had, andhe almost got you killed.

The youngling’s ear twitches at the sudden soundof approaching footsteps, almost imperceptible among the drumming ofrain on hard, grey stone. Too light to be a fellow maker, too heavyto be the Horseman’s….

The maker’s heart lurches and he keeps his facecovered stubbornly when a small voice calls his name.

“Karn? There you are!”

Ashamed as he is to admit it, his first impulse isto leap off the wall and put a safe amount of distance betweenhimself and you.

What are you doing out here? Not that he isn’tdelighted to see you conscious again, but surely neither Death norEideard would have allowed you to be up and about so soon after thatkind of injury.

The footsteps trail to a stop at the wall besidehim where a brief pause ensues before he hears a grunt and the soundof hands and feet scrabbling for purchase on the slippery stone.Seconds later, a tiny, shivering body presses up against his leg andstartles a sigh out of the maker. You’ve climbed up to sit next tohim, evidently.

“Karn?” Your voice is so soft and mellow, asthough speaking too loudly causes you pain. “You okay?”

He doesn’t reply, but the rain cascading down fromabove coupled with the tremors he feels through the thick leather ofhis trousers is enough to make him pull a hand away from his face andlower it slowly towards you, cupping his colossal palm around yourfragile frame as closely as he dare. Karn’s spare hand slides downhis stubble until it drops heavily into his lap whilst he stares outinto the distance with a glum expression ageing his otherwiseyouthful features.

It must have perturbed you that Karn – of allmakers – isn’t trying to fill the silence, because you promptlytake it upon yourself to answer at least one of his unspokenquestions. “Death doesn’t like that I’m out here talking to you,”you mutter gently, noticing how the maker tenses against your side,“I don’t think Eideard likes it either, but he wasn’tactively trying to stop me.”

Chewing pensively on your lip, you lean furtherinto the maker’s palm, feeling the minutest twitch of his thumb as heresists the urge to brush it over your head. After a few seconds oflistening to the rain patter off his shoulder pauldrons, you openyour mouth and carefully say, “When I woke up, Death wouldn’t tellme where you were, but… I wanted to make sure you’re all right….

Something about that tugs at the maker’sheartstrings and his eyes dart down to you before snapping away againonce they spy the faint traces of blood still clinging to your scalp.

Dimly, you watch his fingers curl towards you inchby painfully gradual inch. “Eideard said I could go and find you,provided you were still in the village, and under thecondition that I rested for a couple of hours first, which I did.”You throw a smile up at the side of his downturned head, hoping thathe’ll catch your attempt to lighten the mood. “So, you know, theykind of had to let me go. That’s not to say Death didn’t throwa temper-tantrum about it beforehand though, the drama queen…”

It is both disquieting and frustrating to see themaker’s ear flick down at the mention of the Horseman’s name, yet, toyour surprise, he finally, finally opens his mouth to speak. “Youcould have died,” he utters, sounding far older than hisyears suggest, “He’s not bein’ dramatic.”

“I’m afraid he is,” you retort, “Andfrankly, you sitting out here by yourself in the rain is prettydramatic as well, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Karn scowls at that and for the first time, aspark of ire ignites in his chest and turns its burning gaze ontoyou, frustration growing like mould around his ribcage. You seem fartoo nonchalant about the situation, in direct contrast to his own,tumultuous flurry of emotions. “I – I thought I damn well killedyou!” he chokes out, at last twisting his head around to glare atyou, rain pouring down his cheeks in much the same manner as tearsmight, “So… So I do mind you sayin’ that, thanks.”With a huff, he tears his eyes off you and fixes them straight aheadonce more.

With a demeanour that’s so typically laid-back andfriendly, his clear burst of agitation doesn’t seem to suit the youngmaker in the slightest. Even more worrying though, is that he seemsto be under the impression that somehow, in some way, your injury washis fault.  

Reeling back a little until your spine knocksagainst the heel of his palm, you spare him an incredulous huff oflaughter and blurt out, “Karn, you… you understand that it wasn’tyour fault, right? Why would you say you nearly killed me? Youdidn’t do anything!”

“Exactly!” he snaps, “I didn’t doanything to stop that branch fallin’ on your head! If I’d 'ave beenfaster, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt!”

“If you’d’ve been - Karn! That is themost ridiculous thing you’ve said yet! Of all the dangers in thisrealm, who could predict a branch would be the thing to watchout for? Nobody! Because it was just a freak accident!” As if inwarning, your head suddenly gives a painful throb and you let out agroan, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment and breathing deeplyuntil it passes. Getting worked up is helping no one, least of allyou. So, inhaling through your nose and releasing it slowly, you leanforwards to try and catch Karn’s eye again, finding that hestubbornly twists his head away, hand balling into a fist in his lap.“Karn. Will you look at me, please?”

Perhaps it’s the unexpected gentleness that’scrept into your tone, or the fact that he would do almost anythingyou asked of him, but reluctantly, the youngling moves his gaze downtowards you again, where it lingers briefly on the slight welt lefton top of your skull. With the rain weighing down your hair, he cansee far more of the wound than he’d like to, although you’re quick todivert his attention by ducking until his eyes lock with yours andthere, you hold him, a stern frown on your face when you firmlystate, “It was notyour fault.”

For a few seconds, you manage to hold hisbewildered stare before his face suddenly falls and he shakes hishead, a retort on its way out of his mouth. But before it can reachthe open air, you put a halt to it. “I mean it, Karn. Stop blamingyourself for what happened. It could have happened if I was out withDeath, or Eideard or Alya – anyone! It was just…. bad luck.”

The heat radiating off Karn’s palm keeps most ofthe rain’s chill at bay, yet for the sake of a friendship, you dareto venture outside of the meagre cover and stand up on the wall,curling your fingers around the top of his belt to hold yourselfsteady. All the while, he carefully watches your every move lest youslip and take a tumble off the side. In fact, he’s so preoccupiedwith making sure your feet are firmly on solid stone that he nearlymisses the moment when you press yourself against his side, your armsspread as wide as they’ll go to encompass even just a fraction of theyoungling’s girth.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for things youcan’t help,” you mumble, your voice nearly lost against the fabricof his tunic, “And besides, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

At long last, the maker’s lips give the smallesttwitch, indicative of a smile. “Huh… Aye,” he breathes, liftinghis hand until it lands against your back, pinning you against himwith the barest amount of pressure and you have to roll your eyes,realising that he’s still filled with trepidation at the prospect ofaccidentally injuring you further. 

So lost in the ethereal peace that the rainfallbrings to Tri Stone, neither you nor the maker notice a figurestanding at the Forge’s entrance, cloaked in shadow and indifferentto the icy water making tracks down pale skin pulled taut aroundsinew and muscle and bone.

An old, long-buried part of the Horseman is urginghim to lose his temper, to march over to you and rip you away fromKarn, who likely has no idea how fervidly Death has longed tohave your arms wrapped around him in the same way you havethem slung around the maker’s bulky torso.

But… what would separating you possibly achieve?He had already tried that once, and now it appears that you and theyoungling are closer than ever…

Casting his luminous eyes to the glistening stoneunderfoot, the Nephilim shoves his childish fantasy down and grindsit viciously into dust, hoping that it’ll never raise its ugly headagain. For a bitter-sweet moment, it had been… rather nice topretend that he might be given the chance to feel the warmth of asmall, compassionate human pressed against his side.

Wrenching himself away from the scene, Deathbegrudgingly pushes open the door to the maker forge and, aftercasting a last, lingering glance over his shoulder at you, he slinksinside once more, resigned to a night spent reevaluating everything he thought he knew about humanity.

[aweebwrites]

Papa Wu

(For you anon!)

_________________

Wu kept a hand folded behind his back, walking along the path to his long time friends' home. It had been years since his last visit and he had the urge to visit them. Ray and Maya have always been great people and it grieved him that he waited so long. But he had recently acquired a small boy he was now raising, Morro. He was a very spirited and gifted boy indeed. A smile lifted his face as he throught of the child he now called son. Said son who got distracted by a dragon fly hovering near by.

"Don't run off son." He called after him and Morro who was no more than 7 years old nodded at his new father.

"I won't!" He called back, watching the insect fly around.

Wu smiled then stopped in front of the shop and frowned once he saw no-one there. Most of the armor and weapons Ray had made was gone as well. There was hardly anything left.

Wu frowned, alarm bells going off. He looked around keenly, making sure there was no threats outside before making his way to the back of the shop where their home was. He stopped by the door and placed his hand by the lock, his golden power sparking and creating a key. He turned it, opening the door slowly and peering into the room. It appeared to be in a sort of order.

There were pieces of metal stuck away in a corner and clothes peaking out from between the cushions of their couch. He walked in, Nin-Jō held defensively as he scanned the room he heard footsteps in the next and made his way there. Once he was in the room- prepared for an attack, he discovered that there was no-one there to attack him.

"Who 're you?" The young boy with spiky hair asked Wu, his eyes narrowed at him as who appears to be his sister ate the last of what appears to be dried apricots.

"I..." Wu found himself at a loss for words.

These children. They looked so much like Maya and Ray. There was no doubt in his mind.

"Papa?" Wu turned around to see Morro walk up to him. "What are you doing?" He asked him, holding onto his hand like he always does when he felt unsure or frightened.

"Who's he?" The young girl asked, tilting her head at Morro.

"He is my son." Wu explained to her. "Your mother and father were friends of mine. Have you seen them?" He asked both children quietly, having a strong feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

The young girl's eyes filled with tears that quickly fell down her cheeks and so did the boy's. He however tried to keep a brave face.

"Mom n' dad left with people 'long time ago. They aren't coming back." He says as tears rolled down his freckled cheeks despite his fighting it.

Wu's heart shattered. What has happened to his friends? More importantly, how long have these two been on their own?

"Papa... Are you going to take them in too?" Morro asked, looking up at him with large deep green eyes.

"Yes." Wu says then walked over to the two and knelt before them. "I will do my best to find your parents but until then, would you like to live with me and my son? We would take care of you from now on." He offered the small children.

"My papa can teach you how to fight!" Morro added, excited to have company his age.

Both siblings looked at each other before nodding. He was friends with their father after all and he said he would try and find them. They walked over into Wu's opened arms while Morro bounced on his heels excitedly. He had friends!

_________

Morro decided having friends wasn't as fun when his papa made him take naps with them. He was a big kid! He didn't need naps or sippy cups (even though he asked for it) or bedtimes! They were lucky they were fun to play with! Right now, he and Kai were sword fighting with the wooden canes, grinning as they ran around the training yard.

"Be careful not to hurt your brother Morro." Wu says as Nya napped on his shoulder.

He's only had them for a year but he knew he would do anything for them. Sadly, he hasn't been able to find out what happened to their parents or who took them but in their honour, he would take care of their children.

"Ok papa!" Morro called out, as he chased down Kai who was laughing madly as he ran away.

"I am the master samurai! You cannot defeat me!" Kai yelled, running still.

"I can't if you keep running so fast!" Morro panted out, getting tired.

"That's the point!" Kai laughed and Morro growled, growing frustrated.

"Stop!" He yelled at Kai, reaching out for him.

There was a moment of shock when a strong gust of wind, swept Kai off his feet and up in the air. He fell with a thud, face first and Wu felt his heart leap out of his chest as he tugged over to the now crying boy, waking Nya on the way.

"Kai." He says, lifting him up with one hand and his eyes widened at the blood starting to run down the right side of his eye.

"Wha- wha happen to Kai?" Nay asked, her eyes welling up with tears.

"I'm sorry Papa! I didn't mean to!" Morro hiccuped and Wu took calming breaths as all three of them cried.

"Don't worry. Kai will be ok. Let's go inside to clean him up." Wu says as Morro walked in behind him, rubbing his eyes as he sobbed still.

_____________

After that day, Kai had a scar cut into his eyebrow that Morro felt guilty about every time. He also discovered he had control over the wind and while Kai and Nya found it infinitely cool, Morro was always wary of it. He could hurt someone again. He was happy to train his papa to control it better but only when Nya and Kai were safely out of range. He wouldn't use it when they trained together too.

"Where're you going pops?" Kai asked as he watched Morro and Nya spar, waiting for one of them to lose so he could spar with them.

They were all teenagers now with Morro being the eldest at 16, Kai being 15 and Nya at 13.

"I'm going to find allies. New friends even. Then a new chapter to your training will begin." He told them, slipping his rice hat on.

"Does this have to do with the prophecy of your brother papa?" Nya asked as they all turned to him.

"Yes. I fear my brother is taking action." Wu spoke quietly and they all shared a worried look. "Worry not. We won't let him succeed." He says and all three siblings grinned.

"Heck no we won't!" Kai whooped and Wu chuckled.

"I will be back soon. Nya, you're in charge." Wu says, heading towards the gate.

"Nya?" Both Kai and Morro sputtered as Nya smirked.

"Do not deny it. She's the most levelheaded of all of you." He says, opening the gates and they made to protest then pause.

"Don't worry papa! I'll keep this place in one piece!" She called out and Wu smiled back at them before closing the gates behind himself.

"I don't know about you two but I've been eyeing the cookie jar all day." Nya says, running inside and Kai and Morro looked at each other.

"Well if you're taking I want one too!" Kai yelled, running after her.

"I'm the oldest so I should get two!" Morro yelled, following behind.

___________

"You guys know your dad is crazy to think I can get through this entire course while he drinks that itty bitty cup of tea... Right?" Cole says after Sensei Wu went inside.

"Pops wouldn't give us a task he didn't think we could handle." Kai says as he cracked his knuckles, about to give it a shot.

He, Nya and Morro were used to the course but not at the speed that their father was requesting.

"You can do it bro!" Nya cheered and Kai grinned at her and a smirking Morro before darting ahead.

He jumped, kicked, flipped and twisted his way through but knew once he made it to the end that he was too slow.

"Dammit. Too slow." Kai sighed, walking past Cole who was watching him in shock.

"All you need is practise brother." Morro says, patting his shoulder.

'There's no hope for me.' Cole thought, looking at the course miserably.

____________

"You are all well versed in the course." Zane complimented, watching Nya run through next. "How long have you a been living with Sensei Wu?" He asked them.

"10 years. Nya and Kai have been with him for 9." Morro told him, watching Nya almost trip tersely.

"So you truly are adopted?" He questions.

"Yes. We were." Morro says, distractedly.

He relaxed once she cleared the course.

"Faster!" She yelled in outrage and Morro chuckled.

Zane watched them curiously.

They may as well be blood siblings.

___________

"Um- hi..." Jay says nervously as Nya drank some water after struggling through the training course.

"No." Morro says flatly and Jay yelped once he was blown back, rolling to a stop at Zane and Cole's feet.

"Try anything with our sister and I'll break your face." Kai says with a growl, standing before her protectively.

"Guys, please." Nya says and Jay looked hopeful as he stood. "I can break his face on my own if I need to thank you very much." She huffed and Jay's smile fell and broke.

"You're right sis." Morro smirked, wrapping an arm around her neck.

__________________

"Kai, master of fire. It burns bright in you." He says, tapping his son, the red ninja on his shoulder with his staff. "Jay is blue, master of lightning." He says, doing the same for the blue ninja.

"That's not all I'm the master of." Jay says from behind his mask. "I do a little inventing, dabble in model building, a touch of cooking, a little poetry-"

"More like mouth of lightning." Cole says with an exasperated sigh.

"Black ninja is Cole who summons rock, master of Earth." Wu says, tapping his shoulder with his staff. "White ninja is Zane, master of ice." Master Wu says, tapping his shoulder with the staff as well. "And seer with sixth sense." He added and Zane bows.

"You 4 are the chosen ones who will protect the five weapons of spinjitzu from Lord Garmadon." Wu says and while Zane, Cole and Jay seemed happy about that, Kai couldn't imagine being some chosen one without his brother and sister by his side.

Wu turned to a disappointed Morro and Nya before using hus Spinjitzu again to change their clothes.

"Emerald ninja is Morro, master of wind. A trickster but loyal, an ally." He says and Morro bowed with a smirk on his face, a glaive in hand.

"Maroon ninja is Nya, master of water. You will be able to control as small as a single drop to as large as the sea." He told her and she grinned proudly, twirling her sais.

She hadn't unlocked her powers like Morro did but she was getting there.

"They will be your support but no less apart of the team. Each and every one of you are intune with elemental properties." He told them all, awing them. "Come! It is time! We must find the first weapon." Wu says then tapped his staff against the ground.

"Woah, hold on a minute. You said you were going to teach us spinjitzu." Cole says, stepping forward.

"Yeah pops, I'm certainly not doing any spinjitzu over here." Kai says with a frown.

"Spinjitzu is already inside each and every one of you. The door will only be unlocked when the key is ready to be found." Wu says and they all looked at him. "Come! My feet are tired. We will take the horse carriage." He says, turning back into the monastery.

_________________

"I won't lie, I'm a little jealous you guys get epic golden weapons and we don't." Nya says, lifting an orb of soda from her bottle without taking her hands off of the controls.

"Eh, they're pretty cool." Kai shrugged, keeping his eyes on the screen.

"What I'm jealous about is that they get dragons. Dragons!" Morro emphasized then stole the orb of soda, using his wind and slurped it down.

"We're the ones who should be jealous. You guys actually have powers." Cole huffed, grabbing a slice of pizza.

"If we have em, I bet you guys do too." Morro shrugged, decimating all the enemy players.

"Huh?" "What?" "Aw man!" "Papa!" "Pops!" All 6 ninja exclaimed once the television was suddenly turned off.

"Just because Lord Garmadon escaped through a vortex doesn't mean that he won't return one day for the Golden Weapons of Spinjitzu!" He snapped at them, irritated as they lazed around- even his three children who knew better!

"But Sensei-"

"No buts Zane. I did not come to argue. Lord Garmadon has returned and was spotted approaching Jamanakai Village." He told them and they all flared up in panic.

Just like that, the six of them struggled to prepare for the mission, their weapons spread all over as they fell over each other. They managed to grab them then rush out to the dragon stables to mount their dragons. Nya rode with Kai while Morro rode with Jay for the sole purpose of intimidating him not to flirt with his sister. Jay gave a nervous yet terrified laugh before they all took air after some fumbling.

Despite it all, they were all eager to fight Garmadon again.

____________

They didn't get Lord Garmadon, rather Lloyd Garmadon, his son. Kai, Nya and Morro would blame how they treated Lloyd on both their irritation and their inability to look past their personal feelings. But when Lloyd began releasing the serpentine, they all agreed on one thing: it was their fault. So when they finally cornered Lloyd on the roof of Darkly's, the first thing they did was apologize, confusing the poor boy.

He did eventually warm up to them since anytime the other ninja tried to call him a brat or a variant of such, they were met by three powerful forces of protection. Lloyd wasn't used to being defended- or even protected- but he grew used to it quickly.

Especially when they snuck him candy and comics.

Kai was the one who showed him cool ninja moves, Nya eas the one making sure he was always fed (and always had some form of sweets to offer, even if it's the healthier kind when he's had too much) and Morro would always read comics and play video games with him.

To Nya, Morro and Kai, he was the little brother they didn't know they needed.

"Guess who's dropping in on Mega Monster Amusement Park today?" Nya says on she popped her head in to see Lloyd busy playing a video game against Kai while Morro tutored him on how to defeat Kai.

"Papa wouldn't let us just drop in out of nowhere with Serpentine causing a menace." Morro pointed out as Kai let Lloyd win.

"No. Not unless there's serpentine on the loose." Nya grinned then placed her hand on her hip. "We should have enough time for a ride or two after we kick serpentine butt..." She pointed out and Lloyd beamed.

"Can we?! Can we please?!" He asked eagerly.

"I don't see why not." Kai says with a smirk, setting his controller aside.

"To the mechs?" Morro questioned Nya.

"To the mechs." She grinned.

________________

Part 2

________________

(So! First things first: Nya and Morro automatically believe that one of the og4 will be the green ninja so thry don't even get their hopes up. Also, there is zero hesitation from Kai to save Lloyd in the volcano. Whole everyone else is fighting over thr title, Nya and Morro are building mechs since they don't have fancy golden weapons that double as vehicles. Nya is way better at it than he is though. He specialises in vehicles. I swear these fics feel so short and it's maddening. I hope you guys like it anyway!)

[npc-says]

Petyr Cliffside: Mistakes in Allyship

After receiving a less-than-ideal update, Petyr Cliffside dismisses the Orange Battalion soldier who had the misfortune of bringing the news. Cliffside thought himself above public displays of anger at the soldier’s expense; this was war, and losses were to be expected. It was only incompetence that drew Cliffside’s ire (mostly). Whatever incompetence resulted in this loss was not this particular soldier’s fault. 

With a sigh, Cliffside hovers over the war room map and frowns. As per the soldier’s updates, he moves a few markers and tokens on the map to reflect the most recent changes on the ground. 

Sixth Terrace has been reclaimed by the rebels. 

Cliffside can’t say that he’s particularly surprised at this development, which perhaps helps soften the blow of the loss. The city had been prematurely and haphazardly taken, or so the reports claimed. 

The trouble was that Stefan Miller was a curious mix of both the old nobility and the new Kunt worshippers. Dangerously, he was younger and he adopted and implemented more controversial changes that aligned more with Kunt’s radical ideas. Miller still had the air and poise of the old nobility and carried out these controversial changes with that same composure. 

For better or worse, his tactic of sneaking through radical policies in a calm, steady vessel was very hit-or-miss. The paralyzing shock of the brazenness of these policies bought the government time to act quickly; after all, Kunt’s policies by way of Miller were initially met with widespread disbelief that anyone in the government would so plainly take a strong stance against nonhumans. But after that initial shock had faded, however deep into implementation of those policies the government was, the uproar in response may not have been worth it in Cliffside’s eyes. Cliffside himself preferred the old way, of enacting much subtler changes over a long period of time; he was not a fan of Miller’s boldness and would have dressed the policy up as something a little more diluted. 

Such a difference in strategy and execution was apparent in how Sixth Terrace was captured. Cliffside had assigned Miller as Ambassador to the city, to act as his surrogate and agent while slowly taking control from Sixth Terrace’s local government. With that same even demeanor, Miller had carried out his orders. But Miller’s underlying methods were worthy of Cliffside’s reservations. To take the city once and for all, Miller said, he had allegedly bought his way into an alliance with a trio of dragons who could help contain the city. It was an expensive investment, but Miller stood by it, despite Cliffside’s insistence that such an alliance could prove to be dangerous and unpredictable. Cliffside was unfortunately proven right, as he was informed that the dragons had attacked the city prematurely when Orange Battalion soldiers were still working on stamping out the last of the dissenters. The victory that followed was very brief; as per the most recent update, the dragons and Miller were killed by rebel forces that came in from the south, and the Orange Battalion was driven out of the city. 

Cliffside surveys the large map as he muses about such a loss. It’s fine. We still have Lossan. We will take Wells Pier, Southport, and Broadison soon enough. As long as the rebels within those cities could be subdued, as long as his other Ambassadors didn’t have any crazy ideas to effectuate those orders, all would go according to plan. 

Still, the Resistance is peculiarly organized. For weeks, Cliffside has been trying to make sense of their plans. Before, banks, debt records, and debtor’s prisons were targeted and subject to complete destruction. Those particular commonalities did not yield much of a pattern. It made sense, after all; the rebel leader had proclaimed an all-our war on the country’s financial institutions. But after their destruction? There didn’t seem to be much else happening there. The murder of Kunt himself seemed like mere collateral damage in the course of the rebels trying to rescue their leader. Cliffside had expected an attempt on his life soon after, waits for it everyday now, but there has not even been an attempt on his life to be foiled. What was the point of it all? And now that martial law had overtaken the most restless cities, other than liberating cities that the Orange Battalion occupied, the rebels don’t seem to have a discernible plan. 

But somehow that felt...intentional? It didn’t feel sloppy or careless as Cliffside had originally thought. No, there was a method to the madness. And it was maddening to Cliffside to not be able to make sense of it. 

Worse, what the rebels lack in numbers, they make up for in efficacy, it seems. They seem to operate in packs. Very effective packs that struck swiftly and left destruction in their wake. If there were more of these rebels and they carried on like this, Cliffside would have been worried. But as it is, martial law and locking down movement in and out of cities helped reduce the threat of the rebel groups. Their numbers were scattered and their most powerful were injured. 

The arrival of Amwill Flintstone breaks into Cliffside’s thoughts. Cliffside could not say that he particularly liked the man. He was a stocky figure of Cliffside’s caliber, of the same age, upbringing, and pedigree. But there was a devious hunger that no manners or noble breeding could mask; that much became apparent when he was willing to abandon the old ways and dive off the deep end to do Kunt’s bidding. That he still holds a significant post after Kunt’s death seems to be a continuation of Kunt’s dark, chaotic legacy. 

The mixture of dwarven and orcish blood slogging through Flintstone’s veins was only apparent behind closed doors, when he allowed the veneer of magic to drop among his peers. Cliffside wondered what he had done to earn himself the absolute pleasure of seeing Flintstone all but unmasked on this particular day. 

“I see we lost one,” Flintstone observes, looking at the altered markers on Sixth Terrace. 

“We are holding the cities and taking more by the day,” Cliffside says. “The rebellion will wane soon enough.”

“Ah, then how do you explain what happened in Sixth Terrace?”

“A mistake in allyship,” Cliffside grumbles, staring warningly at Flintstone. Again, reports from the city stated that the dragons, in spite of the generous offerings from the administration for their loyalty, had acted much too quickly. That careless alliance was the problem. 

“Don’t forget the rebel invasion from the south.” 

“An unfortunate and unexpected occurrence,” Cliffside says curtly, “one that would not have been effective if the city had been taken properly.” Flintstone does not say anything but looks on knowingly. Cliffside finds the amusement in his doubt infuriating, though he does his best not to show it. He is not accustomed to being undermined with such thinly-veiled mockery. 

“The rebels are giving you a little more trouble than you bargained for, Chancellor,” Flintstone comments with a sneer. 

“We are handling it, I assure you.” 

“I’m not sure your methods are quite cutting it.” Flintstone circles around the table slowly, dragging a finger along the edge of the map. “I do recall, Chancellor, that many under your influence sought to constrain some of Kunt’s directives.”

“I can recall no such thing,” Cliffside says, lips pursed. 

“Oh sure, I’m sure you only made some suggestions to your people, but they took the hints pretty clearly. They took steps to prevent some of Dunghill Kunt’s...plans.”

“To let those plans come to fruition too early in the administration  would have only confirmed the Resistance’s suspicions about our leadership. War would have erupted much sooner if we had been so bold so quickly. We have crept slowly into their cities to gain the upper hand, and they have let us because we have moved carefully.”

“Kunt is dead now.” Flintstone finds some stray, unused tokens at the margins of the map and places them southward, around the Golden Trident. “And perhaps if not for the constraint imposed upon him, he would still be alive and this war would look very different.”

“What are you saying?”

“You need our help. It’s about time you let us.” Flintstone moves the tokens from the Golden Trident to the newly-liberated Sixth Terrace. “Let us help in ways we deem most effective. This is war, Chancellor. Your old way is not always effective in war.” He brings a heavy hand onto the pieces he just moved with a thud. “War is quick. Unpredictable. Chaotic.”

“Go on.”

“My spies have gathered information regarding a rebel group that was seen fleeing the Golden Trident around the time that communications with King Sunry were cut off,” Flintstone says. 

“And?”

“Subsequent sources reported seeing an influx of rebels coming to the aid of Sixth Terrace from the waters. Over 100 of them, apparently. I do not think that is a coincidence, and I highly doubt they are the only group moving between the cities we’ve captured.”

“Perhaps not,” Cliffside grudgingly agrees, on both accounts. 

“It would be in all of our best interests to...reduce those threats.”

“Hm.” Cliffside knows that Flintstone is right, as far as positioning the Orange Battalion is concerned. It simply isn’t feasible to both hold the cities while also sending scouts out to squash those groups. The Battalions were by no means skilled trackers, nor were they able to move swiftly and subtly. 

And it was true, it seems to be the numbers moving between the cities that are becoming problematic. Those are harder to pin down. And as was obvious with Sixth Terrace, it is the groups on the run that could liberate captured cities. 

It stood to reason, then, that a few extra sets of hands would be needed.

Flintstone sneers, knowing he has Cliffside right where he wants him. Cliffside lets himself be had, but only grudgingly, knowing that the alternative could be repeats of Sixth Terrace and a humiliating defeat that he had ensured the other nobles would never happen. 

“You worry about holding the cities, boss,” Flintstone says, clapping a hand on Cliffside’s shoulder in a gesture that the latter man finds several levels of unwelcome. Flintstone seems to relish in Cliffside’s recoiling. “I’ll take care of the rebels on the run. Just give me the go-ahead and it’ll be done.”

“Dare I ask what you have in mind for them?” Cliffside asks as he reluctantly scrawls a quick note on some parchment before handing it to Flintstone.

“Better not to ask, no,” Flintstone says with a dark grin.

[douxreviews]

Supergirl - ‘Stand and Deliver' Review

Alex: "How can I, with a clear conscience, protect a man who is causing so much pain in the world?"

An episode in which many of our favorite characters stand up for their consciences, and in which the writers find a way out of the apparent impasse.

Ben Lockwood, as the president's new director of the Bureau of Alien Affairs, gets attacked by the Elite very early on in the episode. Because of the attack, Lockwood is assigned a new security detail, with Alex Danvers in charge - another move made by the president. As Alex loathes the man, this does not please her, but both her boss, Colonel Haley, and her adopted sister, Kara, give her the same advice: that by doing her job she will protect lives. (Supergirl, of course, has rescued many humans who she dislikes. I bet Colonel Haley has as well.)

As soon as Lockwood can speak without getting attacked, he announces his intention to repeal the Alien Amnesty Act, which, fortunately he cannot do by fiat, as this was apparently an act approved by Congress and Lockwood, a director in the executive branch, cannot unmake a law. However, Lockwood is in a position of influence, and by lobbying could get the act repealed. The announcement sends a chill through aliens and their friends, and they have to do something about it.

And the core of the show is when several of the characters take stands and deliver. The first to take a stand is Brainy, who, despite working at the DEO decides to organize a counter rally to the one being done by Lockwood (we all knew Brainy was behind it). The second is when James decides to go out – not as Guardian – but as a photographer to help the press show to the people what is really going on. The third is when Kara, originally hovering over the rally as Supergirl in order to protect everyone, staying above the fray, drapes herself in a Kryptonian robe (or perhaps just a blue blanket) and joins the pro-alien rally. The fourth is my favorite. Lockwood is getting the humans to shout, “Us or Them! Us or Them!” He’s egging on an attack. And then we have the wonderful:

Alex: You need to get off the stage now. Lockwood: Where’s the threat? Alex: You are the threat.

She hustles him off the stage. Pandemonium still breaks out, but the conflict would have been much worse if he had remained, and because she took him away, the brawling dies down, and people start helping one another (and her action even wins praise from Colonel Haley).

Olsen proves he deserves the position of photographer by taking a great shot of a human helping an alien, and that becomes the moment, the picture worth a thousand words, which defuses the anger being felt by so many. I was very impressed by this turn in the series, because I have been wondering how the writers could get them out of this jam – and they found a way that was fairly credible. Lockwood (pressured by President Baker, who we know cares a lot about the polls) says that they will hold Congressional hearings, which is a huge step forward.

Of course, the factions are not vanquished. Lockwood’s celebrity is based on hating aliens, so he’s got reason to try to come back. Some of the Elite are locked up. The writers can choose to return to this arc or not, but I am happy where it is for the moment.

For what I assume is a future part of the story: James is worried about the black budget at L-Corp and because he and Lena are on the outs, he can't really ask her. Instead he pumps Eve Tessmacher, his former employee, for information. Tessmacher actually has scenes that Lena would usually have more of a say in. Lena’s scenes are short and she appears overworked, which make me wonder if the actress was tired and overworked during the filming.

The episode ends with a great teaser: Who shot J.O.? (For those who are too young to know the phrase, “Who shot JR?” was the CBS hook for the show Dallas in the 1980s. Even though I never watched Dallas, I recall the phrase.) James Olsen, fresh from delivering the hearts-and-minds-changing photograph, is working late at CatCo, just the way a good boss should. Just as he is finally leaving the office, a gun is seen and a shot is fired. The last shot (camera shot) is of James Olsen lying on the floor, bleeding out. Will Olsen die? I hope not, even when they don’t give Mehcad Brooks enough to do, he is so easy on the eyes – besides, they cannot kill James Olsen, who is such a big part of the Supercousin world. So, who shot him? One of the Children of Liberty, out of resentment for that photograph? Or someone who doesn’t want him doing an expose on L-Corp finances?

Title musings: “Stand and Deliver” is the title of a 1988 documentary about a high school teacher who inspired his drop-out-prone students to master calculus. The word stand also evokes the “stand your ground” laws in various states, which have been used for the shoot first ask questions later and let Trayvon Martin’s murderer go unpunished. But it also serves the actions of at least four characters in this episode, and so I think the title works really well. All four of them made a difference by standing up when needed, and their actions together - even though not by design - had a great impact.

Bits and pieces

The Elite has a group of four, but as one of them is invisible most of the time, that’s good for the budget.

Some actual conversation for Eve Tessmacher!

Finally giving Nia Nal a more individualistic personality, and she seems to be into the meta awareness of the series, saying that’s a superhero speech or a classic bad guy move. Maybe this is a characteristic of a Dreamer. Or perhaps it is a characteristic of a superhero in training (which is rather cute).

I don’t recall Manchester Black having purple hair before this, but that’s in line with the comics. Very nice.

Loved the scrimmage between Brainy and Hat. Very artistic; they must have worked hard on the choreography.

Loved the super-heavy key for getting into the Fortress of Solitude and how the Elite looked under the mat for it.

Quotes

Lockwood: I know you think I’m a monster. But half of England said the same thing about Winston Churchill before World War II.

Nia Nal: Returning to the scene of the crime is a classic bad guy move.

Brainy: Well, whoever this American Alien is, their website superbly protected. He or she must be a highly intelligent cryptophile. Translating. This may take some time. Editor translation: You’re asking me to research myself. Haley: Just do it, Dox.

Hat: We’re supposed to be changing the world. Not acting suicidal to settle old scores.

James: You fight injustice with your fists, you can help one, maybe a dozen people. But good journalism – that can impact millions.

Brainy: Supergirl may be a symbol, but more importantly, she’s a citizen of Earth. Just like the rest of us.

Nia Nal: It always amazes me how much one photo can change the conversation.

Haley: Lockwood is a bureaucrat with power he doesn’t understand. Not only does that make things dangerous it makes our job difficult. Note that I disagree; I think Lockwood understands the power very well. Still, it's an interesting perspective.

Overall Rating

I can tell that I really enjoyed this episode, as I am still writing about it something like 1300+ words later (the word count may shrink when I edit). Three and a half out of four superheavy Fortress of Solitude keys.

Victoria Grossack loves math, Greek mythology, Jane Austen and great storytelling in many forms.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

By the Dim and Flaring Lamps: Part Four, Chapter Four

Part One: One | Two | Three | Four Part Two: One | Two | Three | Four | Five Part Three: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six Part Four: One | Two | Three 

DECEMBER 1863 CULPEPER, VIRGINIA

Scully goes from drowsy to fully awake in less than a second. Mulder, spooned up behind her with an arm wrapped firmly around her waist, is still snoring obliviously away, blissfully unaware.

One indignant shout from his little sister changes that rather quickly.

"Fox, what on earth is this?" Samantha screeches, hands in fists at her sides. Behind Scully, Mulder wakes with a jerk, sitting up so quickly that Scully is nearly knocked out of the bed. She snatches at the sheets just in time to keep them pulled up over her chest. Samantha, however, isn't even looking at her; she's staring in horror at her brother, who is sitting up bare-chested in bed, sheets pooled around his waist, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he struggles to think of something to say.

"Sam," he finally manages. "What are you doing here?" The question seems to upset his sister further.

"What am I doing here?" Her face reddens. "What are you doing here, Fox? What are you doing home, what are you doing in my room...." She looks to Scully, as though imploring her to make this make sense. "What are you doing in bed- my bed- with your lieutenant?!"

"Samantha, it's not the way it looks, I promise," says Mulder, scrabbling around in the bedding, trying to find his nightshirt (which, Scully remembers with dismay, is out of reach on the floor- right next to her own).

"I'm struggling to see how it could be anything other than what it looks like, Fox, and I'm failing," says Samantha. "In a moment, Father is going to be upstairs and he's going to see you, in bed with another man, naked, so please, explain to me how this isn't what I think it is."

"Scully's not-" But Mulder cuts himself off, looking to Scully nervously, and she knows exactly what he's thinking and loves him for it: it's not his secret to tell, not even to save face in front of his little sister. She decides, with a sigh, that she can't leave him stranded out on that branch by himself.

"I'm not what you think I am, Samantha," she says heavily, and now Sam's confusion is turned on her.

"What are you talking about?" Samantha asks... and Scully can see the moment that it dawns on the younger girl, the moment that she notices how Scully is clutching the bedsheets against her chest, unlike Mulder, who isn't bothering to cover up anything above the waist at all. "You're... you're a-"

"Yes, I'm a woman," Scully says. "And if you could hand me one of the nightshirts that I believe are on the floor by your feet, I would be very grateful."

"Mine should be down there, too," mumbles Mulder, his face in his hands. Samantha seems to suddenly become aware that she's staring at both of them, and she bends, grabs the nightshirts, and places them on the bed before turning away, giving them privacy to get covered back up.

"So you're a woman," Samantha continues, still facing away from them. "That still doesn't explain what you're doing here."

"I think what we were doing ought to be perfectly obvious," grumbles Mulder, pulling his nightshirt over his head, and Scully swats at him as Samantha makes a noise of disgust.

"At the house, Fox, at the house," she clarifies. "I'm plenty curious about why you're in my room, of all places, but we'll get to that later. Why are you both here, and not with your regiment?"

"Scully got shot," says Mulder. Samantha gasps and starts to turn back to them, but seems to think better of it and stays facing away. "You can turn back, Sam, we're covered." When she faces them, her earlier shock is replaced by genuine concern.

"Are you all right?" she asks Scully. "Was it bad?"

"It was fairly serious," says Scully, "but I'm all right now. I'll be fully recovered soon."

"The battle where Scully was wounded happened not far from here," says Mulder. "The surgeon who saved her life said that she shouldn't go to a military hospital to convalesce, that she'd either get sick or be discovered immediately."

"And I couldn't go home," Scully interjects. "My mother would never let me leave again."

"So I brought her here," says Mulder. "I put her in your room because it's the most comfortable, and... well, I didn't think that you would mind. You and Scully seemed to get on so well when you met in Fredericksburg."

"I don't mind Lieutenant Scully staying in my room," says Samantha. "What I do mind is the two of you doing...." Her face reddens. "Whatever it is you've been doing in my bed, when there are seven other beds in this house."

"You're absolutely right," says Scully, mentally berating herself for not having thought of this before. "I'm sorry, Samantha. Whatever's going on between your brother and myself, it doesn't belong in your bedroom." Mulder raises his eyebrows at her.

"'Whatever's going on?'" he quotes back at her. "You mean the fact that I intend to marry you, the moment the war has ended?" Samantha's eyes go round with shock.

"You're going to marry her?" she asks. Scully narrows her eyes at Mulder.

"This isn't exactly how I had envisioned breaking the news," she says, "but yes, that's the eventual plan."

"But Sam, no one else can know yet," says Mulder quickly. "Not Mother or Father, not Diana, not anyone. Scully risks prison if someone finds out, and at the very least, she'll be sent home." Samantha looks at her brother like he's lost his mind.

"Do you really think I want that?" she asks. "When I know full well that she's probably the only thing keeping you alive out there?" She and Scully share a smile, and Mulder rolls his eyes. "It's just... this means you're not marrying Diana!"

"Keep your voice down, would you?" says Mulder. "The last thing we need right now is for Father to overhear you and start asking questions." He kicks back the covers and stands up, crossing to the door and opening it, poking his head out into the hallway. In the distance, Scully can hear William Mulder speaking loudly, though she can't make out what he's saying. Mulder closes the door and comes back across the room, sinking down into the armchair he's occupied for days. "What are you doing back here, anyway?"

"Father got a letter," says Samantha, sitting on the edge of the bed as Scully pulls the covers back up over her legs. "From someone here in town. I don't know who, exactly, but whoever it was, they told him that a strange woman and a Union soldier were seen riding up the road to our plantation."

"That would have been my sister," says Scully. "Your brother wrote to her to come down here and take care of me." Mulder nods.

"It was the middle of the night when I brought Scully out here, and she was passed out in the back of a wagon, wearing her uniform," he says. "So it's unlikely anyone would have seen her." He leans back, sighing. "That's lucky, I suppose. Otherwise the gossips in this town would probably have written Father that an entire company of Union soldiers had taken over his plantation, and he would have come back here with a regiment of his own." He looks over at Scully. "I'm sorry about this," he tells her. "I worry that you're not going to get quite as much rest as you need with my parents hovering around." He glances at Samantha. "I assume you're here through Christmas, at least?" Samantha nods.

"Father thinks that it's safe, while both armies have gone into winter quarters," she says. "So he says we'll be here until at least February, maybe March." Mulder groans. "But it could be worse, you know," she continues. "Mr. Spender and Diana didn't come back to Culpeper with us. They're staying in Fredericksburg, at least for now." She can't seem to stop the gleeful smile the blooms across her face. "So you won't have to tell her that you won't be marrying her, at least not yet."

"You're entirely too excited about this," Mulder tells her sternly. "Diana may well be heartbroken. I know that nothing was official, but still... she had hopes for the future, and I'm not exactly looking forward to telling her that none of it is going to happen."

"It will still happen, Fox," says Samantha dismissively. "Just not with you, that's all. She's the adopted daughter of a prominent politician, the only heir to his rather large fortune. She'll have no trouble finding someone else to take her on, even if she is impossible, stuck-up, and rude."

"Enough, Samantha," says Mulder firmly, and she obeys, though she continues to look smug. Scully, for her part, would like to hug her soon-to-be sister-in-law, but settles for shooting her a private grin, which Sam readily returns.

"I'm assuming that it's James that Father is having strong words with downstairs?" Mulder asks Samantha, and she nods.

"He wasn't pleased that James didn't write him the moment you brought Lieutenant Scully here," she says. "And I think he's annoyed to have traveled back here, only to find he's rushed home for nothing because there's no threat, no danger." Mulder snorts in exasperation.

"Would he honestly rather have arrived back here to find the place overrun with Union soldiers?" He shakes his head. "And Mother?" Samantha shrugs, unconcerned.

"Probably making sure that all of the slaves know that she's back and ready to take command of her army of domiciles once more," she says. Heaving another sigh, Mulder stands.

"I should go and get dressed," he says. "Make myself presentable before Father takes me to task for daring to set foot in my own childhood home without his permission." Scully bites her lip, suddenly nervous at the prospect of being discovered in Mr. and Mrs. Mulder's home without their permission.

"Should I get out of bed?" she asks. "I have no idea where my uniform is, and it's probably covered in blood and ruined."

"It is," Mulder confirms. "You'll need a new one when we return to the regiment." He thinks for a moment. "Stay in bed for now," he says. "I know you're not going to like not being able to walk around, but there aren't any clothes here that would fit you, and the ruse is more believable when you're dressed the part."

"I could tailor some of your clothes to fit her," volunteers Samantha. "I'll do it up here, so that Mother and Father don't see me doing it and ask questions." Scully feels a rush of gratitude and affection for the girl.

"Thank you so much, Samantha," she says. Mulder comes back to the bedside and leans over, kissing Scully. He tries to draw it out, and though it breaks her heart to do it, she stops him, pushing him away as gently as she can.

"Best not get in the habit of doing that just now," she advises him. "You can explain away my presence here, but you'd be much harder pressed to explain that, if anyone else catches you at it." Mulder sighs.

"It was nice while it lasted, though, wasn't it?" he asks, and Scully smiles warmly.

"The nicest," she says, and Samantha groans.

"May I remind you two that I'm still right here?" she chastises them sharply. "Fox, go get dressed. I'll stay with Lieutenant Scully." Mulder affectionately ruffles his sister's hair in passing, though she tries in vain to duck. He gathers up his discarded uniform from the armchair where he'd thrown it the night before and leaves.

As soon as he's closed the door behind him, Samantha turns to Scully, smiling shyly. "I feel a bit strange, calling you Lieutenant Scully now," she admits. Scully laughs.

"I meant it before, in Fredericksburg, that you can call me Daniel," she says.

"That's not your real name, though, of course," Samantha says.

"No, it's not," Scully agrees. "And when the war is over, you're more than welcome to call me Dana... but I think that would raise a few eyebrows right now, don't you?"

"I suppose so," says Samantha. A wide, gleeful smile breaks out across her face. "You realize you're saving my life, don't you?" she asks. "Or, at least, saving me from a lifetime of having to deal with Diana Fowley as a sister-in-law?" Scully knows that it's petty, and that Mulder wouldn't approve, but still, she can't help but laugh.

"I promise you, Samantha," she says, "I never intended for any of this to happen. I joined the army with no plans to ever reveal my secret to anyone, not even to your brother. It was pure chance that he found out."

"How did he?" asks Samantha, and Scully feels her cheeks flush slightly. Odd, that she should feel embarrassment over something as small as that night, when Samantha has just caught them in a much more delicate situation.

"He came looking for me one night, when most of the men were washing off in a lake after marching all day on a particularly muddy stretch of road. I had gone further away to try and get myself clean, out of sight of the rest of the regiment, and Mulder... well, he came upon me as I was getting out of the water." Samantha's eyes are big as saucers.

"Like David seeing Bathsheba bathing on the roof," she sighs, and Scully laughs.

"Good Lord, let me never get you together with my older sister," she says. "Melissa was going on and on about how romantic the whole thing is." She shakes her head. "And if I recall correctly, things didn't turn out all that well for King David. I'm hoping for a happier ending for us."

The bedroom door is thrown open, and Mulder strides back in, dressed in his uniform again. He tosses a bundle of clothing to Samantha, who catches it.

"Tuck those away somewhere," he tells her. "We'll have Scully try them on tonight, after Mother and Father have gone to bed, and you can pin them up." Samantha nods and crosses to her wardrobe, placing the clothing inside. Seeing the rows of feminine clothing hanging inside, Scully is reminded, again, that this is Samantha's room, not a guest room, and Sam would probably like to have it back.

"Mulder," she says, "is there a different room where I could sleep? I think that we've probably trespassed on your sister's hospitality long enough." Mulder nods his agreement.

"The house has plenty of bedrooms," he says. "I'll have the one next to mine made up for you." He glances at his sister. "And, uh... I'll have fresh sheets put on your bed, as well." Samantha covers her face and groans.

"Please, Fox, I'm quite fond of my bedroom, and I would hate to be put off from sleeping in it ever again." She shakes her head. "Why you had to choose here, of all places, I have no-"

"Shhh," says Mulder suddenly, holding up a hand for quiet. In the silence, Scully hears footsteps on the landing, and a moment later, there's a sharp rap at Samantha's bedroom door. Scully hunches over to keep her nightshirt from following the curve of her chest and pulls the blankets up further, mentally berating herself for not re-binding her breasts while Mulder had been dressing. At least, she reflects, she's lost weight during her recovery, and things are even less noticeable than they had been before.

"Come in," calls Samantha, and the door opens to admit both of Mulder's parents. He stands the moment they enter the room.

"Mother, Father," he says, "It's good to see you both again." Bill Mulder looks from Mulder to Scully, his expression unreadable.

"Lieutenant Scully," he says, finally, "I'm sorry to hear that you've been wounded."

"I'm nearly recovered, Mr. Mulder," Scully says. "And I'm very sorry to have imposed on you like this."

"My understanding," Mr. Mulder says, turning his stern gaze to his son, "is that you were not in any fit shape to dictate your destination when you were brought here, so I don't believe the fault lies with you."

"Bill," says Teena timidly, "I really don't think there's any fault to be found here. This is Fox's home and he's welcome-"

"It was his home, yes," Bill interrupts her. "But I was under the impression, when he left to play soldier for the wrong side, that he's chosen to turn his back on it- and on us. And that impression was soundly reinforced, this summer, when he stormed out of Charles's house in Fredericksburg."

"Father, I had nowhere else to bring him," Mulder pleads. "The battlefield surgeon who treated his wounds said that he was likely to fall prey to disease if he was sent to one of the army hospitals. We were only ten miles from Culpeper when it happened, and I thought-"

"And does he not have family?" Mr. Mulder asks. "Could he not have been sent home on the train? West Chester isn't so far away as to make that an impossibility, is it?" Scully can see the panic in Mulder's eyes from across the room.

"My mother is recovering from a serious illness, Mr. Mulder," she lies quickly, hoping to God that Mulder doesn't look surprised and give her away. "It's why I had to leave so suddenly this summer. I had to go home and arrange for her care, since my father and brothers are still at sea." Mr. Mulder's countenance softens somewhat.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says. "But still, I ask you, Fox, why did you not send word to me? Why not write to let me know that you and Lieutenant Scully would be here? Why did I have to find out from someone in town, instead of from you?"

"Because letters can be intercepted, Father, and I didn't want any Confederate patrols to find out that a wounded Union officer was here, and take it into their heads to come and take him prisoner." Bill Mulder doesn't seem to have any response to this, and contents himself with simply glowering at his son.

"Bill," says Teena, laying her hand on her husband's arm, "no real harm has been done. Certainly we can be hospitable to Lieutenant Scully while he recovers? It seems the least we can do, after the way that he saved Fox's life last summer." Bill Mulder grunts, but his expression softens the tiniest bit.

"Get him his own room, Fox," he says, finally. "He doesn't need to be in Samantha's room."

"Yes, Sir," Mulder says, and Scully can see his shoulders sag with relief. Bill turns back to Scully.

"Lieutenant Scully," he says, "you're welcome to remain here while you recover, but I must ask that you return to your regiment as soon as you're able. My family and I will not be staying here long, and I do not wish to leave anyone behind when we go." Mulder frowns.

"Why would you leave again so soon?" he asks. "Both armies have gone into winter quarters; there's not going to be a battle raging through the fields anytime soon." Mr. Mulder regards his son in silence for a moment; then, taking his wife's arm, he turns to go.

"Lunch will be served shortly, Fox," is all he says. "I'll have food brought up for Lieutenant Scully, but I expect you to join us." And with that, he and Teena leave.

Mulder, Scully, and Samantha all let out an enormous breath, looking around at each other in relief.

"What's Father talking about?" Mulder asks Samantha. "Why aren't you staying the winter here? Are you going back to Fredericksburg?" Samantha shrugs.

"I've no idea," she says. "It's the first I've heard of it. I thought that we would be here until March, at least." She scrunches up her nose in displeasure. "I hope we're not going back to Fredericksburg. The last thing I want is to spend more time cooped up in a house with Diana when it's too cold and wet outside to even escape for a walk." Mulder rolls his eyes.

"You're the queen of exaggeration, Sam," he says affectionately. He stands, stretching his limbs. "I'm going to go and have your room made up, Scully," he tells her. "And then, apparently, I'm required to eat my lunch in what I'm sure will be a perfectly warm and welcoming atmosphere downstairs in the dining room." Scully smiles in sympathy.

"Eat quickly," she suggests. "Then you can come back upstairs so I can beat you at cards again." He narrows his eyes at her, but he's smiling.

"You're on," he says, and looks to his sister. "How about it, Sam? Want us to teach you how to play poker?" Samantha considers this.

"Well... Mother and Father would be absolutely scandalized at the very notion, so...." She grins at them. "It seems like a perfect idea to me."      

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Okay you must know after that fic that we all need Cyrus to meet Darren’s family... Prickly needs to be formerly adopted into the Sunshine Clan as he deserves

HOMECOMING (approx 3800 words)

Alternate title: Darren and Friends Return to the Sunshine Farm

“Don’t worry, kid. It’ll be fine.” Ralon grinned, wrappinghis good arm around Darren’s shoulders and pulling him in close. “We askedaround already, remember? No bad news from Glendess.”

“I know, I know.” Darren mustered a faint smile as he slid out of Ralon’s embrace. “It’s just… y’know… it’s been a while.”

“But they’re your family,”Lyrene pointed out fondly, shaking her head. “Trust me. That hasn’t changed justbecause you were away for a few years.”

“Yeah… I suppose.” He sniffed, stood a little straighter,and glanced about the group. “Thank you, though. For coming with me.”

Ralon raised a brow. “And risk you getting lost on your own?Forget it! We’re invested. It washard work keeping you alive.”

Whatever Ralon’s intention had been, he had clearly missed themark. Darren’s confidence faltered as his gaze dropped. 

“I know…”

Cyrus, who had thus far been watching in silence, reached outto ruffle the kid’s hair. “He’s joking,pipsqueak.” Gently, he turned Darren’s head in the direction of a distantfarmhouse. “Now come on. I want to meet your dog.”

There was always something special about reunions, butwatching Darren walk up the path to his childhood home left a strange knot inCyrus throat that no amount of swallowing seemed able to shift. He, Ralon, and Lyrenehung back, not wanting to get in the way for the time being. They all knew howmuch this moment meant to Darren, after all. None of them had forgotten thosefirst few months sharing a barracks. How many times they’d heard quietsniffling from his cot, a piece of paper clutched tight in his hands. He’d cherishedthose letters the way most people cherished an heirloom. Now, well…

They got to the top of the hill by the farmhouse, thewindows finally visible over the curve of the land. It was homely, asCyrus had expected. No lavish gardens or fountains. Well, unless a troughcounted as a water feature. He smiled faintly, drinking in the wandering bushes and tall, untrimmed trees. It was wild and tamed all at once. Everythingwas in its proper place, just by nature’s design instead of man’s.

The squeak of hinges signalled Darren opening the gate tothe property. He latched it clumsily, hands shaking as he tried to workthe metal hook through the loop. It gave the rest of them time to catch up, butRalon rested a comforting hand on Darren’s shoulder and nodded towards thehouse.

“Go on,” he said warmly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Darren made a short, nervous sound, but nodded anyway. He rubbedhis palms against his trousers as he walked towards the porch, climbing thesqueaky steps, boots echoing on the wood. Lyrene sighed, leaning against thefence, head cocked slightly. “It’s like watching a baby bird leave the nest,”she mused. Ralon just chuckled.

“More like watching it go back.”

Darren raised a knuckle and rapped three times on the door,shifting anxiously from foot to foot as he waited. A part of Cyrus understoodthe kid’s nervousness. Seeing anyone again after years spent away would be harrowing. They liked to joke and tease that Darren was still a kid,and sure, to them he’d always be the littlest duckling, but he’d grown up a lotover the course of the war. Maybe he was worried that his parents wouldn’tfind who they expected. That they wouldn’t like who they saw.

All those worries were dashed the second his mother openedthe door.

There was silence, at first, so thorough that they couldhave heard a twig snap in the distant trees. The woman in the doorway was evenshorter than Darren with achingly familiar eyes, bright blue and wide assaucers. Her hand slowly abandoned the doorknob, shaking as it rose to hermouth.

“Hey, ma…” Darren pursed his lips as they started to quiver.“I’m home.”

The nodding started small; tiny bobs of her head as shestared up at her son; but it grew more and more vigorous as tears welled up andspilled down her cheeks. She threw herself forward, arms wrapping aroundDarren’s neck, dragging him down into a crushing embrace, burying her face inhis shoulder.

“My boy,” she sobbed, hands curling into the back ofDarren’s shirt as he leaned into the hug. “My sweet, sweet boy…!”

She pulled back suddenly, surprising everyone as she smiledwide through the tears and cupped Darren’s face. A laugh followed, bright andfull and warm, before she turned her head towards the open doorway. “Jorah!Claire! Darren’s home!”

As predicted, Darren was in tears the moment his motherhugged him. He was still crying as two more figures burst through the doorway,almost getting stuck side-by-side in the narrow frame. The smaller of the twowriggled free first and launched herself at Darren, colliding hard, almostsending him toppling down the porch steps as he struggled to catch her. But he did catch her, and she shrieked indelight as he spun her around, laughing through a veil of blond curls.

“I missed you I missed you I missed you!” she chanted, grinning wide, seemingly less prone to breaking down than her olderbrother. But what she lacked in tears she made up for in sheer enthusiasm asshe giggled, wrapped her arms and legs around him like a spider, and refused tolet go. Darren didn’t seem to mind at all, holding her up effortlessly, cheeks wet but mouth smiling as he regarded the little girl.

“Maker’s breath, Claire, you’ve grown so much!” He grinnedas she puffed up, raising her chin proudly. “You’ll be taller than me, soon!”

“I hope so! You’re short.”

Laughing and shaking his head, Darren leaned down andmanaged to detach his little sister after a brief tickle-fight. Straightening,he met his father’s gaze, pale and steady as the older man hovered just past the doorway.Darren stood a bit taller, then, and Cyrus saw the result of countless hours of paraderest in the posture. Back straight, shoulders back, chin high. A faint smilecurled his lips as Ralon nudged him, and he nodded.

“Captain would be proud,” Cyrus murmured. Ralon justsmiled.

“He was always proud.”

On the porch, Darren hesitated, then extended his hand tohis father. The man seemed genuinely surprised by the gesture, raising hisbrows, glancing at his wife. The moment stretched until it bordereduncomfortable.

Then, Darren’s father clasped the extended hand and pulled hisson in for a hug.

“You may be a soldier now, son,” he said, holding tight, voice hoarse.“But you don’t have to be. Not here.”

The next thing any of them knew, they were sitting around alarge wooden table, crates pulled over as makeshift chairs, hand-sewn napkinsdraped over their laps. The words my friendshad barely left Darren’s lips before his mother had materialised by the fence andushered them all inside like a hurricane of rustic hospitality. They’d laughed andhelplessly gone along with it until they found themselves at the table, a welcoming firecrackling in the corner of the room, the small space warm and more invitingthan any inn or tavern. Shit, Cyrusthought, glancing at the timber walls and handmade curtains. This place is nicer than my father’s ever was.

“You must all be famished,” Ma declared as she trundled outof the kitchen with a large pot in her hands. She had insistedthey all call her ‘Ma’. “Well, good thing I made soup today, and lots of it!”

Claire giggled, legs swinging beneath the table, already riding high from getting to sit on a crate. “Ma has a nose for this sort of thing,” shedeclared proudly, grinning as her mother set the pot down on the table. “Whenever we get guests, she’s always already cooked for them!”

Pa, who had not insisted on the name but had responded without complaint whenRalon used it earlier, chuckled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell youthe truth, she’s been making big batches for weeks now.” He reached a hand outand clasped Darren’s shoulder. “Mother’s intuition, maybe… but I think sheknew you’d be home soon.”

“Aw, ma…” Darrensniffed and mustered a wavering smile as his mother tsked, stooping to press a kiss to his head as she expertly ladledsoup.

“No tears at the table,” she chided, and then immediatelysuccumbed to a watery smile of her own, voice quavering. “M-Maker… haven’t hadto say that for a while…”

Pa chuckled warmly and stood, ushering Ma to his seat,taking over soup-duty as she settled beside Darren and wrapped his hand inhers. Ralon grinned, leaning back in his chair as he regarded the pair.

“Well… I see where he gets it from, now.”

Laughter sprang up around the table as both Ma and Pa nodded,one with a kind of fond acceptance, the other blinking rapidly against thethreat of tears. Neither offered an ounce of shame, however, which Cyrus foundoddly endearing. Ma eventually cleared her throat, voice husky.

“Yes, well, it’s like I always say…”

“… keeping it indoesn’t make you stronger,” all three Miller’s chorused in reply, thenbroke into knowing grins. Ma puffed up proudly as she patted Darren’s hand andreleasing him, turning her gaze to their guests.

“Now, I’ve heard dribs and drabs about the three of you, butletters can only say so much.” She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffing softly, mustering a smile. “Go on, dears. Tell us a bit about yourselves.”

Ralon laughed, letting go of his spoon to dab his mouth withthe napkin, his other arm still stuck in a sling for a few more weeks. “Oh wow,where to start…”

Taking their cues with grace, Ralon, Cyrus, and Lyreneintroduced themselves properly, Claire occasionally chiming in excitedly to askabout Antiva or archery when those details came to light. Ralon delighted thetable with stories of his exploits on the road – particularly the embarrassingones – before passing the conversation to Lyrene when Claire nearly choked onher soup. Lyrene didn’t speak about her clan, but she did talk about sneakingthrough towns and cities, meeting odd people, and how she’d won plenty of coinmaking bets with folks who underestimated her skill with the bow. Claireimmediately begged her for lessons, but Ma chimed in just in time with anoffering of a second helping of soup. Everyone accepted, and the plea was quickly forgotten.

When it came to Cyrus’ turn, the table fell to a politehush. A sea of blue eyes turned to regard him and he swallowed a mouthful ofsoup, feeling strangely nervous. “I, ah…” He cleared his throat, letting hisspoon rest inside his bowl. “I’m from Orlais. South Orlais, I mean. Sort of to the east. Not a bigcity or anything…”

Darren fidgeted, looking almost as uncomfortable as Cyrusfelt. That kid had too much empathy. It was one of the things Cyrus liked somuch about him. “Any family?” Pa prompted, reaching out to snag a heel of breadfrom the centre of the table, tearing it in half. The crust flaked down intohis bowl. Cyrus wet his suddenly dry lips.

“None worth mentioning.” He knew how dismissive it sounded.He hated himself for it. Darren’s family had shared so much with him; theirhome, their food, their table, their hand-made napkins; and he couldn’t evenanswer a simple question. But the truth was it hurt. Surrounded by a family as loving as the Millers just made thepain more acute. He didn’t want to think about Joustis, or the last meal he hadshared with the man. Maker knows it was nothing like the one he was having now.

“Ah.” Pa gave a short nod, seeming anything but offended ashe mopped up his soup. “Fair enough, son. We know plenty of folks who come by theseparts looking for work during harvest time. Not many of them want to talk abouthome either.”

Cyrus inhaled slowly, and then gave a grateful nod. At leastthey weren’t angry with him. Or disappointed. For whatever reason, that was thelast thing he wanted. “I didn’t spendmuch time travelling,” he continued, hoping to redeem himself somewhat. “I wenteast in a straight line, seeing as I was already close to Ferelden. Eventuallystumbled across the Conclave. Then it blew up and…” He shrugged, dipping hisspoon into the stew and leaving it submerged. “I just… went wherever my feettook me.”

A deep sigh brought Cyrus back to the present and he glancedacross at Claire, whose chin was resting on her palms. “That sounds like fun,” she said dreamily, then giggled.“My feet would take me to all sorts of great places! Up mountains. Across the sea…”

A faint smile twitched at the corner of Cyrus’ mouth. “I’msure they would.”

The meal finished, Claire scurried around dutifullycollecting bowls, hurrying them to the kitchen. Ma started washing while Pa andDarren went to fetch water from a nearby well. Lyrene, with Ma’s secretpermission, took Claire outside to give her a secret lesson on how to hold a bow. Ralon settled downby the fire, wincing as his arm started to ache. It tended to, by the end ofthe day, but the warmth would help.

Cyrus, feeling useless, found his traitorous feettaking him straight to the kitchen.

“Need any help?” he asked, and Ma jumped a little, water splashingup into her face. “Shit, sorry,” he said hurriedly, but she just laughed,swiping the water away with the corner of her sleeve.

“No, no, you’re fine! Not used to such quiet company, that’sall.” She turned and smiled, then nodded towards a stack of wet bowls. “But youcan dry, if you like. Won’t say no to a helping hand.”

Obediently, Cyrus took the small towel draped over Ma’s shoulderand began his duty, the pair working in silence for a time. Ma hummedoccasionally before catching herself, clearly not used to company in thekitchen. Or at least, not a stranger’s. Cyrus wished she’d keep going.

“Darren spoke highly you.”

Cyrus turned towards her, cocking a brow. “In those lettershe wrote?” He remembered Connors scribing them for him, the pair always speaking in hushedwhispers at the back of the barracks. The two acted more secretively than theNightingale herself on Letter Night. Ma hummed and nodded warmly, letting her hands rest in the sink for a moment, fingertips trailing in the cloudy water.

“Was a funny thing, really. He’d write about histraining. His Captain… yes, he certainly spoke about him a lot. Let’s see, what else… oh, where he’d travelled, the places he’dstayed…” She chuckled, glancing over to Cyrus. “And the squad, of course. Butyou more than anyone.”

A blush crept onto Cyrus cheeks and he looked away quicklyin an attempt to hide it. It was silly. Of course the kid wrote about him alot. He’d made Darren’s life hell at the start. 

But he spoke highly. 

“Yeah, well… Darren’s always been goodat seeing the best in people. Even when there’s not much to see.”

Cyrus set a bowl down and took up another as Ma continuedwashing, a thoughtful look on her face while she scrubbed. “I like to think,”she said eventually, “that Darren seeswhat he knows people can be. Deep down.” She smiled and pressed one damp fingerto the centre of Cyrus’ chest, tapping twice. “In here.”

Cyrus blinked, then snorted as Ma turned back to thesink. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it.”

“It isn’t about seeing the best in people, you know.” She continued asthough he hadn’t spoken, clearly caught up in her own thoughts. “No one can betheir best all the time, after all. Expecting that… well, it’s just silly. But my Darren…” Shepaused again, a half-washed bowl held loosely in her hands. “Well, he’s alwaysbeen curious. Always liked finding things out for himself. I suppose that’sjust how he is with people, too.”

“It’s good,” Cyrus agreed quietly, stacking a bowl andtaking another. “He was probably the first person who didn’t just… hate me.”

Ma’s brows rose at that and there was a muted clunk as she set down the bowl she had beenworking on. “Well… that’s certainly something.” She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, giving Cyrusher complete, undivided attention. It was a little unnerving. “What makes yousay something like that, dear?”

Cyrus shrugged, eyes fixed on the bowl, suddenly paranoidthat he would drop it. “I’m… look, I’m not the easiest person to get alongwith. I know it. Everyone else knew it. Darren was just the only one who didn’t seemto give a shit.”

Ma regarded Cyrus for a long, quiet moment. Then she reachedout, gently taking the bowl out of Cyrus’ hands and setting it on the table. Itwas still wet. He didn’t understand.

“You’ll find that’s something we have in common in thisfamily,” she said, smiling up at him. Maker, she was short. “We’re stubborn. Like to make our own mindsup about people.“ She tapped the side of her head for emphasis and Cyruschuckled, amused but not entirely sure what to make of the conversation. 

Macleared it up quickly, not one to dance around a subject.

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk aboutyour family…” Cyrus flinched, but suddenly found his hand in Ma’s, claspedcomfortingly between her rough palms. “Now, don’t fret, dear. I’m not asking you to.Like Pa said, we get all sorts coming through here. We know not to pry.”

“Thank you,” was all Cyrus managed in response, his throatfeeling strangely dry. Like he’d been shouting. He cleared it, but thesensation just wouldn’t go away.

Ma nodded. Her hands were nice. Warm. “I don’t know what you haveplanned. If you’re heading off with your friends or finding your own way. Butwhatever you decide…” She squeezed gently, meeting Cyrus’ eyes, her ownsurprisingly glassy. “You ever need anything. You ever run into trouble, or feellonely, or just want a place to stay… well, you come right here. Understand?”

Cyrus swore he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.His throat ached, too tight to form words, so he just nodded, the movementgrowing more rapid as Ma held his hand in hers and refused to let go until shewas certain he understood. Eventually, Cyrus managed to murmur a few hoarse words.

“What about…?”

“Pa?” Ma succumbed to a sniffling laugh as she patted his hand. “Itwas his idea, dear. Told me to bring it up tonight if I got the chance.”

Something in Cyrus gave out in that moment, like a knot that’sanchor thread had been found and unravelled in one sharp tug. His breathhitched but before he even had a chance to turn away, Ma pulled him down into asoft, warm hug, her arms wrapping around him, her hand cradling the back of hishead as she held him close.

And for once, Cyrus didn’t resist.

He buried his face in her shoulder, the occasional sobwracking his body as she made soothing sounds and stroked his hair. It waspathetic – a part of him was certain of that – but the shame of it was non-existentbecause Ma was crying too and that meant it must be okay.

“Shhh…” Ma hushed through her own shivering sobs as Cyrusmumbled half-formed apologies into her shirt. “It’s alright, dear. You’realright…”

He wasn’t sure how long it took for him to calm down, onlythat Ma held him patiently until he found the strength to pull away. Steppingback, he sagged against the bench, feeling utterly exhausted but at the sametime… lighter. Like he’d finally let go of something that had been weighing himdown for as long as he could remember. Ma fussed about, offering him a cloth towipe his face and filling a cup of water, using the corner of her apron to dabher own eyes as she held it out to Cyrus. He managed awavering smile, taking it with a murmur of thanks. After a few hesitant sips, hemanaged to find his voice.

“You know, I always wondered what made the kid so special.” He sniffedand gave a rough laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Coming here… shit, it makes a lot of sense.”

Ma immediately teared up again, and this time it was Cyruswho hurried forward with the cloth, pressing it into her hands as she laughed andcried all at once, fanning her face frantically as though that would somehow help. Both of them knew how ridiculous they must seem, but neither could bring themselves to care. Cyrus just fetched her a drink and theyboth eventually settled against the counter, the washing up abandoned for thetime, the tears and sniffling slowly subsiding as they sipped and stared outthe kitchen window. It was a still, quiet night. In the distance, they could make outthe shapes of Pa and Darren wandering back from the well. A dog trotted dutifully besidethem, fluffy tail wagging. That must be Minty.

“So…” Ma’s voice summoned Cyrus back to the kitchen. She waswatching him, a fond look on her face even though they’d only just met. “Have you decided?”

Cyrus frowned slightly, glancing at the cup in his hands. Heknew Ralon and Lyrene weren’t going to stay for long. That was fair,considering they’d all dropped by unannounced. While the Millers wouldnever admit it, feeding three extra people every night wouldn’t exactly be easy. Besides, they deserved some quality time with their son without having to worry about guests.

“I don’t know,” he confessed quietly. “Travelling… seeingmore of Thedas… it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but going alone just…”He shook his head. “It’s hard.”

Ma nodded understandingly, reaching out to pat his arm. “The world’s a scary place, sometimes. Even here, we get tastes of itevery now and then.” Her mouth curved into a reassuring smile. “But what about yourfriends, hmm? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the company.”

“I know. And they’ve offered. It’s just…” Cyrus chewed onhis bottom lip, not entirely sure how to say what he felt. “I feel like I’ve beenrunning. For a really long time. I’m just…”

“Scared this will feel like running, too?”

“Yeah.”

Ma’s expression was soft, but her voice was firm when shespoke. “Well, dear… there’s only one way to find out something like that. But—” Cyrus had opened his mouth toargue but Ma predicted it and raced ahead. —“If youfind it’s not what you need, or even just not what you’d hoped, you will alwaysbe welcome here. Doesn’t matter if it happens next week or five years from now.”

And just like that, Cyrus’ decision was made. Findinghimself completely out of words, he fixed Ma with a grateful look and she just smiled,reaching up to pat him gently on the cheek. Nothing more needed to be said onthe matter, so she let her hand drop and levered herself off the bench, returning to the sink.Cyrus moved silently into place beside her, towel already in hand, reaching for another bowl. He wanted tolaugh. To cry. To leap about then collapse in a giddy heap like the child he’dnever had a chance to be.

But there was one thing he knew for certain, standing there drying bowls beside Ma, listening to the sounds of Darren and his father returning andthe padding of paws on timber.

He would never have to run again.

[newstfionline]

Dangerous times for the press in Kashmir

By Annie Gowen, Columbia Journalism Review, October 3, 2018

On June 14, gunfire rang out in Kashmir, drawing startled journalists to their windows. A valley in the foothills of the Himalayas, Kashmir has for decades been the ground of a bloody feud between India and Pakistan; for most of that time, journalists have covered the conflict unfettered by government minders. Recently, however, that has been changing. In May, foreign journalists--including me, the outgoing India bureau chief of The Washington Post--received an official warning from the administration of Prime Minister Narendra Modi about traveling to “certain areas” without asking for permission; we all knew it was referring to Kashmir. Then a French documentary filmmaker was arrested and interrogated about his time there, as were two Kashmiris--a reporter and a photographer--each accused of having ties to militant groups; one is still in jail. In June, the United Nations released a damning report on human rights abuses in Kashmir. Hours later, gunmen who police claim had ties to the Lashkar-e-Taiba terror group fatally shot Shujaat Bukhari, a well-respected editor at Rising Kashmir newspaper who’d served as mentor to many. His two bodyguards were also killed.

The event was tragic. But to many reporters, it was not a total surprise. “My sense from Kashmiri journalists is that they’re under pretty significant pressure,” David Kaye, a law professor at the University of California, Irvine who is the United Nations Special Rapporteur on freedom of expression, says. “Fear of detention or being shut down seems to be hovering over a lot of the independent Kashmiri press.”

The feeling was shared throughout India, which, this year, fell two places in a global press freedom ranking compiled by Reporters Without Borders, to 138. (The country trails such autocracies as Myanmar, where two Reuters journalists were recently sentenced to seven years in prison for allegedly breaching a law on state secrets while reporting on the military’s abuse of the Rohingya people.) Daniel Bastard, the head of the Asia-Pacific desk for Reporters Without Borders, says that the climate for journalists in India has worsened since 2014, when Modi took power. “Editorial independence is really decreasing,” Bastard tells CJR.

Modi, like President Trump, shows contempt for the mainstream media--adopting the derogatory term “news traders” (i.e. trading money for information)--and prefers to address the nation on Twitter or do carefully controlled interviews with friendly media outlets. In more than four years in office, he has never given a press conference.

His administration has targeted journalists through the media companies for which they work--threatening business interests that require government cooperation, taking down negative stories, and even firing editors. “The government’s tactic is not to pressure the editor but the owner, and owners can decide to bury that hatchet in the editor’s expendable back,” Shekhar Gupta, the editor-in-chief of The Print, an online news site, and the president of the Editors Guild of India, tells CJR.

Last year, Bobby Ghosh, a prominent Indian-born American editor of one of India’s most-read daily newspapers, was ousted from his job after he created an online “Hate Tracker” monitoring the rise of hate crimes. (The site is now inactive.) In May, human rights experts from the UN called on India to protect Rana Ayyub, a reporter critical of Modi who received death threats in an online hate campaign that included a pornographic video. Critics believe that the anti-journalist trolls--who remain active--are part of an aggressive network supported, at least tacitly, by Modi’s party. (Modi follows some of India’s worst harassers on his Twitter account.)

In July, Punya Prasun Bajpai, a Hindi news channel anchor whose show, Master Stroke, attracted 10 million viewers a night, ran afoul of the government when he featured a farmer on his show who said that she had been coached by government officials to falsely claim that her income doubled in a year due to Modi’s programs. The Modi administration denounced the story, which the information minister called “despicable” and “#unfortunatejournalism.” Advertisers loyal to Modi pulled their ads. For days, during Bajpai’s timeslot, the transmission signal of his broadcaster, ABP News Network, went dark. In response, India’s Editors Guild condemned what it called the undermining of “the right to practice free and independent journalism” that has resulted in “some media owners’ inability to withstand political covert or overt pressures from the political establishment and frequent instances of blocking or interference in the transmission of television content that is seen to be critical of the government.” The Guild called the transmission blocking “almost Orwellian.”

Bajpai, unrepentant, tweeted, “You can black out the screen during Master Stroke, but we will convert it into a ‘blackboard’ and write the truth on it.” Nearly a month later, however, ABP’s chief executive officer called him to his office and made clear that he had to resign from his job, Bajpai tells CJR. He reluctantly complied; the managing editor left, too. The head of personnel for ABP News Network declined comment. “When the CEO tells you there is no other option, then you have to leave,” Bajpai says. But it sets a dangerous precedent. “News channels penetrate every Indian village,” he adds. “Now the government is trying to impose its agenda on the news.”

Indian officials and leaders of Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) dismiss such charges as griping from liberal media that enjoyed decades of cozy access to the previous government.

Prakash Javadekar, the former minister of state of information and broadcasting who is now Human Resource Minister, calls allegations that the Modi government is impinging on freedom of the press “baseless.”

When I received word that the government was reviving a long-dormant rule that could require foreign journalists to wait up to eight weeks for approval to enter Kashmir, I was concerned. As S. Venkat Narayan, the president of the Foreign Correspondents Club of South Asia, says, “When a story breaks out you can’t be sitting in Delhi waiting for the government of India. The media needs access.”

I also found myself a target of social media attacks, which escalated when I immersed myself in a project chronicling the rise of Hindu extremism under Modi. I ignored the nasty remarks about my appearance but reported death threats to Twitter--including one from a Hannibal Lecter-type who said I was so “plumpy” it made him want to cut me. Twitter eventually got better about suspending these accounts. Still, the extremism project took a toll. A BJP campaign volunteer I had interviewed texted me asking where I lived and whether I lived alone. “I can’t tell if he wants to hit on me or put a hit on me,” I quipped to friends, but the alarm was real.

In August, my tenure as bureau chief came to an end. I wanted to visit Kashmir one last time, but I didn’t receive the official permit. Using a friend’s wedding as an excuse, I flew up for a brief trip to say goodbye to Ishfaq Naseem, who for many years has been the Post’s stringer in Kashmir. At the airport, I registered at the foreign visitor desk as a tourist, but that did not stop the police from dogging my every move. Tariq, my longtime driver, bore the brunt of it, his cellphone ringing at frequent intervals. Where is Madam now? police wanted to know. What is she doing? Where is the wedding? What is the groom’s name? What is his father’s name? Tariq brushed them off politely.

I was looking forward to catching up with Naseem, who had been my unflappable companion for years in Kashmir. But when we met, over a plate of fried snacks at a local teahouse, I found him despondent about the state of journalism. As waiters brushed by carrying steaming copper samovars of Kashmiri fruit tea, he told me that authorities were arresting journalists and pressing them to become informers. Those who interviewed rebellious Kashmiri youth who threw stones at security forces--known as “stone pelters”--suddenly found themselves in the crosshairs of the National Investigation Agency, the country’s counterterrorism agency. “There’s nothing which works in Kashmir,” Naseem said. Of the government, he added, “They always want their version to be written about. There’s no press freedom in Kashmir valley.”

Naseem had been working as an editor at Rising Kashmir newspaper on the day Bukhari was shot and killed. To protect his own security, Naseem didn’t want to talk publicly about what happened. He has since left the newspaper and returned to freelancing, and started working on a novel.

At the end of our visit, we said goodbye in a parking lot. It was early evening; the sky over the mountains was a pearly pink. Soon, the evening call to prayer from dozens of mosques would echo over Dal Lake. I promised Naseem that I would come back and visit soon. But my permit was never granted.