#i don't think he was a good king either. he wasn't a tyrant for sure but also what kinda king puts the fate of his entire kingdom

[agentplutonium]

Hear me out:

Arranged marriage au David & Sweetheart who are absolutely distraught at the idea of marrying a stranger but willing to do it out of duty but then become friends when they realize they don’t actually have to kiss and also… the other’s personal guard is pretty cute (Milo is David’s guard and Angel is Sweetheart’s vv)

I'm finally getting around to this, be grateful (/j)

No, but seriously, I've been thinking about this strand of AU for so long (as Max can attest because he lives with me and therefore is subject to the horrors of my rambling) and I will take this AU to my grave. Moving on, a small snippet based off of this (with the whispers of this being updated in the future/made into a series).

(small note: Sweetheart will be referred to as Culver for the most part, and David will call them Dear/my Heart for appearances. Angel will be referred to as Red for the most part. Of course, the pairings will use the canon nicknames but I have to stretch a few things.)

Pairing: David & Sweetheart, David/Angel, Milo/Sweetheart (technically, they just aren't prominent atm)

WC: 1355

Rating: Gen.

max is talking about this post.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

"I cannot believe this is happening," Culver said, stretching out their back. The horse ride wasn't that far, but they hadn't taken a break yet and it's already been a few hours.

"Cheer up, Culver," Red chirped. "I hear that this king-to-be is very handsome."

"You know I've never been one for looks, Red," Culver said, rolling their eyes.

"I also hear that he's a great leader. In nearly every circumstance you two will be perfect for each other," Red said.

"Or, we'll be at each other's throats because we have different opinions," Culver muttered. "Besides, I don't know him! He could be a complete tyrant for all I know," they continued, back at their normal volume.

"Do you really think your parents would do that to you?" Red asked.

"They would send me to someone they thought that I could "fix"," Culver defended. "You know how they are."

"Aye, I do know how they are," Red caved. "I'm sure it will be fine, either way. You're a lovable person. It'll be easy for him to fall in love."

"I don't want him to fall in love after we're married," Culver said, barely keeping the whine out of their tone. "That's cheating. It isn't genuine, it's a forced proximity thing."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you," Red sighed. "But I will always be here to support you, your grace, you know that."

Culver relaxed, a small huff escaping their lips, "And I thank you for that, Red. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Red gave them a wink, turning back to the trail in front of them. As they came up to a bend, Red trotted ahead of Culver to ensure that the coast was clear.

Culver still wasn't looking forward to any of this, though.

~~~

"I can't believe this is happening," David muttered, tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was hot outside, too hot to be wearing his full regalia.

"I hear that your betrothed is very good at governing," Milo offered, trying to cheer David up.

"Really?"

Milo shrugged, "It's all I have left. You shot down the fact that they're the handsomest person in their kingdom. You shot down the fact that they were beloved by their people. You shooting down this. I don't know what to tell you that will get you excited for this new chapter in your life," Milo said.

"You're not going to. They're a stranger. The only reason I'm going along with it is because it would be stupid to turn down such a powerful alliance."

"Well, the good news is, once the wedding is over, you don't have to interact with them outside of publicity events," Milo offered. "Or, you fall in love with them after the wedding."

"That's superficial," David grumbled. "How do I know if I really love them or if it's just because they're here?"

Milo shrugged. "Only so much I can do, boss," he said.

A guard signalled the arrival of someone at the gate, and before David knew it, two horses were trotting down the path. David took a deep breath.

"Here we go," he muttered.

One thing is for sure, the rumours about their beauty weren't a lie. The royal was very attractive. It didn't make David feel any better about this arrangement. They slipped off the back of their horse, assisted by their knight. They approached, smile on their face. once they were a few feet away, they bowed.

"Your Majesty," they said. David approached as they straightened. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," David said, bending to kiss their hand. "Please, come inside, my dad will be pleased to meet you."

Culver accepted, taking David's outstretched arm, interlinking them. David led them into the castle, followed by the two knights. Culver kept their eyes dutifully forward. David half wondered to himself what their intentions were. Were they excited for this? Did they have any plans? What did they know? How much power were they looking for?

Gabe was in the study, as he knew he would be. He always was here when they were expecting guests. He said that it made people feel more comfortable, and he got better arrangments out of it. It was in this room that it was decided he was to marry this stranger. David wondered just how much good luck it actually brought.

The conversation with his dad went off without a hitch. Culver was a hit with him, making him laugh and smile. His parents loved them. They seemed to know exactly what to say, and knew how to correct their mistakes (which were few and far between). David had no doubt they were a beast in political settings, getting what they wanted in the most efficient way possible.

Eventually, his dad excused himself.

"I should leave you two alone to get to know each other," his father said. "I should check up on your welcome dinner, anyway. Only the best for my son's spouse."

"Dad," David muttered.

"I'll see you two later," Gabe cut him off before leaving.

Culver seemed to deflate the second that the knights closed the door behind him. David was surprised, to say the least.

"Listen," they started, rubbing at their eyes, "I'm sure you're a nice guy, but you have to know."

"Know what?" David asked, shifting in his chair.

Culver took a deep breath. "I don't want to marry you. I never had any interest in marrying you, I just know that this will help my people. That's the only reason I'm here."

David felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Thank god," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" Culver asked.

"I'm so glad we're on the same page about this," David said. "I admire you being upfront about this."

"What else was I going to do? Lie? I only lie if I need to," Culver said. "It wouldn't benefit me to lie to you now. Especially since I was under the impression you wanted this."

"No, not at all," David said. "I was told that you were the one with the idea, actually."

"You're kidding," Culver said. "Is that what my parents said? No surprise, I guess, but still. Lord, cannot believe they would lie like that."

"So you don't want to get married to me?" David asked.

"Not at all," Sweetheart assured. "I'd much rather be running my own kingdom right about now, but this was the best thing to happen to my kingdom since I was young. This contract will be promising to my people."

David felt a smile creeping across his face. "That's how I feel, as well."

"That... was surprisingly easy," Culver said. "You're really okay with me having no interest in you whatsoever?"

"Absolutely," David said. "So long as you agree to keep up appearances and not fuck over me or my kingdom."

Culver chuckled, and it didn't sound at all like how they laughed before. Was David close to hearing what their real laugh sounded like? "Well, I definitely don't have plans for fucking you over. I'll keep up appearances if it means that I'll have my parents off my back, among other things."

"Well, good," David said, nodding.

There was a knock at the door, and then Milo was poking his head in. "Sir, you're being summoned by your father."

"I'll be right out," David said. "In the meantime, show Culver and their knight to their rooms, please?"

"Right away, sir."

David stood up, holding his hand out to Culver. They took it, standing up themselves. "I will see you at dinner," David said.

"Yes you will," Culver smiled. They were ushered out of the room by their knight.

David followed after a moment, Milo holding the door open. Once he was out, Milo shot him a look before leading the other two down the hall. Culver turned slightly to wave at him, that smile still there.

Perhaps this could work out, David thought, since they were already so in sync. Maybe they could be friends after all of this.

Only time would tell, he guessed.

[aesolerin]

guess what heartwrenching Leper/Jester implications I found out about today!

So, you know how in both DD1 and DD2, various lineups have a chance to have an associated/relevant nickname attached to them? Well, check out this one:

YEP. For Jester, apparently just being in a lineup with the Leper brings up memories so bitter that they are equivalent to the memories brought to Junia when she's put into lineup with the man who tortured her.

Which like, understandable, insofar as Sarmenti's years in court were legitimately torture and abuse, but Baldwin's connection to those times is a whole lot more tenuous than the connection Vestal has to bitter memories with Flagellant. Leper was a king of his own kingdom, yes, but: 1) it wasn't the kingdom Sarmenti was the court jester for, 2) Baldwin was legitimately a good king unlike the Jester's Tyrant, and 3) Other than the gold and perhaps his bearing, there's nothing about Leper that really screams 'king' and should bring that association to mind for him. And from what little we know, The Tyrant's bearing was likely a whole lot regal. (Unlike Damian's memory association for Junia, as he's still identically batshit compared to how he used to be- he just looks like a corpse now and is afraid of death.)

So, I like to think of this in two potential ways: 1) either it's like Dreams and they met before, and that's what tints it bitter, or 2) it's like how someone once put as a (now paraphrased) caption for a (really good) fancomic about the two (that you should look up, as i can't think enough to find it atm); the bitterness doesn't come from the fact that Baldwin was a king. It's that he wasn't Sarmenti's king, as Baldwin is sure to have been a lot kinder and more appreciative of his skill if only he was at that court instead.

Of course, I may be reading way too much into it, but you know me well enough by now to know that overanalysis is basically my main hobby. xD

You got any thoughts on all this, yourself? If not, no biggie!

oh good heavens that is delicious and painful.

side note, i love a lot of the party combos in DD1 and DD2. where else are you gonna get Clown Car (vestal-jester-jester-jester), Tank 'N Spank (occultist-vestal-crusader-leper), Chain The Beast (plague doctor-bounty hunter-abomination-maa), Fire And Steel (vestal-duelist-runaway-crusader), Insane Clown Posse (grave robber-hwm-maa-jester) and Ballroom Blitz (grave robber-jester-duelist-crusader)?

even though characters don't have special barks for each other (save for Dismas' Lost Crusade barks when looking for his boyfriend Reynauld)- which is understandable as i imagine it would be a massive pain in the ass- this one single party name says a lot about what might be going on in Sarmenti's head. he's fine, don't worry about it. don't worry about the way he stares at Baldwin every free moment. He's Fine.

the 'wishes he was his king' idea is the more likely one, honestly. what kickstarted Dreams for me was the thought that maybe they'd crossed paths at least once, and it still doesn't seem to be a widespread idea from my corner of the fandom. as you pointed out, Baldwin is very much not like the Tyrant Sarmenti knew. a king but not a tyrant. bitter memories indeed.

this is probably how it's meant to be read!! and i love analyzing things, it's fun and painful at the same time

[nayvwriter]

What other trickary may I ask hmmmm Nexomon Character: ..hm Ziegler, why not?

my immediate reaction to this ask was a shocked and interested oh! so you're probably doing fine with the trickery.

(nexomon 1 and 2 spoilers and also discussion of mortality)

Ziegler. Can't say I was expecting that.

I mostly write him as an antagonistic force, but really I think he's just got blue-and-orange morality, fae morality. He's the King of the Dead, after all. He does his job. Good is the dead staying dead, the natural order being maintained. Living beings are born, they live, they die and they pass into Ziegler's realm.

And then people start reviving the dead and Ziegler's existence gets a whole lot more complicated.

Suddenly the natural order is breaking. He has to actually interfere with the living world. He tries to figure out how to do that. Just showing up with an aura of death doesn't seem to make them give his people back, so he has to figure out how to interact with people. He tries to extrapolate a semblance of normality.

This is about when he starts getting his tendency to hold a grudge. He doesn't like Metta, because Metta has been stealing souls from his realm. That is a bad thing. So surely the person who did it is also a bad thing. Definitely a threat.

He probably doesn't like Nara either, because she's a potential threat. We don't know if she's actually been doing any revivals, but it's highly possible given her title of Tyrant of Life. So Ziegler probably doesn't like her.

And then Blue, N1 protagonist, invades his realm and destroys one of his souls. Forever. He can't get it back. Ziegler is used to all souls coming to him eventually, but first the Children of Omnicron refuse to stay there and then Omnicron is just... gone.

Ziegler does not like this.

The shockwave from Omnicron's destruction impacts the mortal world, breaking the natural order and starting the Tyrant Wars. Ziegler doesn't really have an opinion on this - he thinks it's natural. The natural order breaks, consequences are had. This is a fact.

Maybe Ziegler decides the best way to stop anyone from trying anything like that again is to send his wardens to hunt Blue. Or maybe he's just decided that a normal person would try and get revenge on the person who broke his world. Point is - I don't think Ziegler is actually as angry as he's pretending to be. I don't think he was built for anger.

But he is quietly awaiting the day when Blue will pass into his realm.

There are more revivals. The more the mortals mess with Ziegler's realm, the more Ziegler has to interface with theirs, and the more he takes on human traits. (Human, because everyone he's been talking to is either human or pretending to be.)

Ziegler was hoping it was over, when Nara passed. It wasn't. He tries to be courteous to Solus, but he is not willing to compromise. Or this will simply go on and on and on.

Time means nothing to the King of the Dead. He does not get bored. He has as much patience as he needs. But when he gets a soul, he would like it to stay there. These beings break the natural order of this world. Solus in particular is making rather a habit of it. Ziegler has to figure out some way to get them to stop.

Death is natural. Mortals cannot live forever. They cannot be revived again and again. Solus does not seem to understand this. Ziegler does not know how to get Solus to understand this.

Time means nothing to Ziegler, but it means something to Solus, and each moment they steal is a victory for them. Ziegler cannot allow this. Perhaps if he removes that time, Solus will give in.

The King of the Dead and the Monarch of Monsters. Both inhuman, but one with far more human traits than the other. Neither understand each other, and so they clash, unable to reach a compromise. And when two titans clash, the world is caught in the war. Neither of them want to escalate this too far, but neither is willing to back down.

...I don't really know why I started trying to make Ziegler and Solus narrative foils. They're both trying to break a cycle - but Solus is trying to break the cycle and bring peace by reviving Vados, and Ziegler is trying to break the cycle of revivals themselves.

The point is - they both find the other's morals alien and strange. Solus will not return Ziegler his souls, because Solus will not kill those they have just revived. Ziegler does not understand this, as they will die anyway. Solus does not understand how Ziegler can not care.

Ziegler's not evil. He just has a different standard of good.

[peoplcshope]

unprompted / always accepting / @acoldsovereign

"Oh, SPOUSE of mine." (She's taunting him). "It seems as if my legs are not working. Why don't you slave yourself for me and carry me around. . .? If you do a satisfactory job of it, I may kiss you." She expertly "wobbled" on one leg for emphasis, her hands grasping her right thigh-- exposed to the weather and elements due to the black knee-length dress she wore. (She seemed to have an aversion to pants, but upon closer notice, that may simply just be because her thick and muscular thighs and wide, curvy hips don't exactly allow them to FIT, hence her custom made Battle Armor and bodysuits that resembled Earthly leotards). Despite his small and occasional acts of kindness towards her, she remained a prickly and demanding woman, or more accurately, hell in white and yellow heels-- adorned with a complex close to that of a Goddess's, but not quite. Perhaps it was the fact she was an actual Queen, an Empress of twelve planets-- but if he was capable of reading past this, he'd see her true intentions: she was asking him to show his devotion to her. She had nothing but audacity. (If he was smart and observant of her, Trunks would see her leg wasn't hurt or broken. She just wanted to trigger his protective instincts only to see what would happen. To see what he would do for HER. WHAT A SICK, SICK WOMAN. . . and yet here he was, entertaining it). When she 'hobbled' over to him, she made a show of leaning on his STRONG frame, one of her hands gliding over his surprisingly smooth and soft skin. Her palm found his right shoulder and stopped there. Her tail swayed back and forth and then found the base of his spine, going under his shirt without permission, just feeling the muscles of his lower back. A slight movement of her upper body earned the woman the feel of hardened rock that was his left shoulder against her soft, round chest-- as well as decreased space between him and his left ear, "Won't you help your so-called wife?" (With how she planned to use his good-natured against him, she was the CRUELEST SAIYAN, indeed... possibly in the entire universe, if not multiverse).

‘Spouse’..huh, he’d never thought he would have taken his proposal serious, however, he found it rather difficult to marry a woman such as herself. This bond of marriage was solely made because he refuses to be the type of man that would bed a woman for simple carnal desires, not to mention whilst he wouldn’t admit it there was a part of him that saw something others wouldn’t. Trunks saw a ‘lonely woman’. Maybe this was something he’d pick up from his own mother, the way she saw something in his father than no one else saw.

Ugh..either way, thinking about it would only make him red in the face so he shuts his mind and then took a look at her, one long and hard look. There was definitely something up..she wouldn’t allow herself to look this ‘weak’ in front of him. To ADMIT she had an injury? Didn’t she think he would use that in an attempt to finish her off? Perhaps not. Trunks could also admit that he was not the cold individual that she had met two years prior from today. 

Trunks unlike his father had no ‘pride’ or ‘code of honor’ when it came to his enemies. He’s lived in a world that faced threats that were given the time to linger so his tactics were to always neutralize under any means necessary..but now? He’s gotten soft..the vixen found a way to hypnotize him with not just her body but her voice as well. However, Trunks had the faith that maybe some day he can change her…or at least make her less of a tyrant and more like a queen. After all, there was a reason why his father never hunted down the dragon balls himself and wished the revival of his race.

Sad to say, that even without King Cold’s interference his father’s people were cold, they were ruthless. They simply had done what they’ve always done under ‘new management’. BUT maybe through her can start something new..or whatever. He was sure his mind was thinking too much over the situation soo without even questioning her or mentioning the fact she could simply fly Trunks approaches her and scoops her into his arms. “Don’t strain yourself then, I’ll put you to bed and then I’ll heal you.” The boy was too trusting whenever someone needed ‘aid’.

[randomsnakesimp]

Okay. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna take the leap and say: Phobos is the victim (sorta).

Quick disclaimer: I am going to abuse plot holes and cartoon logic for my cause in a very nitpicky way. If you dislike that, I can completely understand, and I hope this warning will save you a lot of reading.

Also, this won't go into just headcanon territory, I'll put those in a separate post. Everything here I'll try to keep based on actual information from the comics and what I made of them.

That said...

Let's take a look at this scene:

(for a quick translation of the important part, the mother says: "No, Phobos, Meridian is meant for your sister. That's the law. The crown is hers.)

What we can see here are a few very important things:

1. Phobos is at most 5 years older than Elyon.

2. The name "Phobos" is not an edgy nickname he gave himself. Five-year-olds don't go around calling themselves Phobos. So his parents, for some reason, gave him that name.

3. His mother is very adamant about him not even touching the crown and reminding him of his sisters' birthright.

So, after establishing what I would call more or less facts, what else can, relatively savely, be deduced here?

- Since Elyon never noticed anything weird about herself, she can't have aged slower than earth children. So neither can Phobos. This would mean that, as she was kidnapped after her mothers death as a baby, he would have been five. So, he either tried his best to rule at age five, or the council we see as Elyon rules stepped in for him for a while

- this would then mean two things: we need an explanation as to why Miriadel, Alborn and Galgheita fled explicitly from Phobos (I'll give my explanation a bit further down) and second, Phobos' reign of terror wasn't even thirteen years, and a lot of that time he was a child/teen and could not even have been mature enough to rule.

- This also means that Kandrakar pulled up the veil when Phobos was at most five, likely younger, and that the so called "Seal of Phobos" also existed at that time, as both the veil and the seal are seen in the flashback depicting Elyons abduction. For Kandrakar, this, too, I will try to explain soon, but as for the seal, I find it most plausible that the theory @ror-witch used in their fanfiction, of the seal being a royal heirloom and named after each ruler, is true.

- His and his mother's relationship was neither as bad as some assumptions go, but neither was it that good, probably, or at least it wasn't in his perception. See how his memory is of her cradling the baby the entire time and talking more about his sisters birthright than about what he has/can do? Yes, it's only a short memory, but I think it's clear that it's a summary of what he remembers of his mother.

- Phobos desire to rule Meridian does not stem from something deeply sinister, but rather from a childish spite. Five year old Phobos probably just wanted the crown cause it looked nice and shiny, and he was fabulous even back then, but after his mothers words, he sulked and decided to show her. That's his motivation.

So, now let's go a bit further and look at some other things we can deduce from the rest of the comics:

- Phobos has a huge dungeon, a wall of roses that turn people into more roses if they touch it and his plan for the annihilation of Meridian is "Well, Cedric and I hide in the castle and...we'll see". He hates the people of Meridian, but he doesn't seem to have it in him to directly attack anyone until Elyon is there and even here, when he has her knocked out in their duel or locked up as Endarno, he isn't unnecessarily cruel. He's not evil in nature, he's more of a very dangerous child throwing tantrums. ( Cedric is kinda similar, and they both start losing it toward the coronation, but I sincerely believe that before that, there would have been a chance for them to come around )

- The only person he ever tortures or even hurts directly is Cedric. Because one, he likes Cedric and so gets more extreme emotions around him, and two, Cedric never says anything, and just plays it of afterwards, so I don't know if he even fully realizes what he's doing, like a child hitting someone. If Cedric ever just said "Stop it, you're hurting me", Phobos would probably need an entire week to process that input.

- Phobos is VERY reclusive, and he doesn't want anyone to have even pictures of him, and while that could be a God complex, I get some highly insecure vibes out of it, in a vulnerable narcissist kinda way, in that he is massively overcompensating. I gotta admit, though, that I cannot put my finger on why, so maybe take this with a grain of salt and decide for yourself if you agree.

- Kandrakar never orders the guardians to help Meridian in any way, just to make sure nothing oozes out. They likely pulled up the veil for their own protection, so Phobos wouldn't be able to spread far enough to become a real danger, rather than to protect innocent people, as clearly the Meridian people mean shit to them

- while the guards are widely feared in Meridian, Cedric seems to be viewed as... not very frightening or important, as some random merchant feels comfortable clinging to his cape (and rightfully so, apparently, as Cedric just tells him to piss off and doesn't care any further). This further leads me to believe that Cedric is rather unhealthy devoted to Phobos and his tantrums while their shitty ass reign leaves a lot of free space for unsuited people to become guards and tyranize the people.

- the King and Queen seem to have died in rapid succession, and shortly after the scene shown above, yet she looks perfectly healthy in that scene.

Now, what do I make of all this?

I believe the line of events to be as follows:

I don't think Phobos traveling back in time is a viable theory for mainly two reasons: I think his mother would be less chill around him if she saw/heard about his reign herself, and I believe that it would have been mentioned somewhere along the way if that were the case. Instead, what I believe happened is that the oracle had a vague vision of Phobos nearly taking over Kandrakar. Deciding in their random mood swings that today was a day of action, they had the people of Meridian informed that the next male born to a queen would become a dangerous tyrant, pulled up a veil and set their guardians to make sure nothing oozed out.

The veil, of course, made the people of Meridian feel trapped and a horror of the unborn prince who would ruin their lives spread.

So, when Weira gave birth to that prince, a full blown panic spread, so much so that she, in a fit of hysterical emotion, named him after that boust of panic. Of course, people tried to kill the prince basically from the moment he was born, and he was met with barely concealed resentment.

Soon after, Weira and her husband died - whether they were killed, or fell ill, or died in an accident, I have no idea, but I wouldn't completely rule out an assassination either aimed at Phobos and accidentally hitting them or the strain making at least one of them fall terminally ill.

Either the people rioted and Phobos' magic panic reaction or the leftover loyal guard was enough to fight them back, or the people succumbed to their fate at this point, slumping into the state of despair seen throughout the comics. But in the end, five year old Phobos had to be handed the throne. I assume the council still had some say at this point, but he did manage to get all pictures of him destroyed - this order was likely due to the fact that they were mostly caricatures.

So he grew up with the very volatile combination of a shitton of power and no one able to tell him if he was being stupid on one hand, and feeling unloved and unwanted on the other. He withdrew, likely also due to countless assassination attempts or things he perceived as such, and went into a negative feedback loop of being unable to mature and take responsibility, therefore being a shit ruler, therefore being hated, therefore having no one to help him, therefore being unable to face and grow from his mistakes, rinse and repeat.

So, Meridian was plunged into chaos, yet he seemed fine more or less just sitting in the new playroom he made for himself in the gardens, sporadically giving out an order or two and having generally no idea about anything that didn't directly concern him.

Enter Elyon. Now, she send him of the rails, as she was a danger to his lifestyle AND a reminder of all the sentiments he'd be drowning in alcohol if he wasn't too much of a recluse and education denier to know of that option. He doesn't even try. He just lets Cedric, the one person he trusts, handle her, like everything else, and somewhat plays along sometimes, when he feels like it. This is where he passes the point of no return and starts actually trying to kill people, culminating in him creating an army to wipe out Meridian. I still believe that even at this point, in his head, what he's doing is just throwing a nice toy out the window just so his sister won't have it.

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter Five - Consolation

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Mentions of murder, grief, the aftermath of that death...all that Jazz! Plus a lil moment I’ve been fucking itching to include.

Chibs's breath was stuck in the middle of his throat, jutting thickly the more he thought about Opie cradling Donna's sallow cheeks as she bled out onto the gravel.

It'd cut deep, this one.

So many bodies he had bared witness to over the years. So many lives lost and souls snatched and whatever else right before his undaunted eyes--but nothing really hurt as much as that.

Because he knew what it was like. How it maimed a man. How it felt like his world was hurtling toward the chasms of hell during the moments after arriving at the scene and seeing his wife there. Dead.

Cold and dead and lonely. And completely gone.

Guilt resided, too. It was true tangible remorse for the simple proficiency of; that should've been me.

It happened with Diane--it happened to Chibs's wife, the mother of his kid, and the one true light in his life right after Isla. And it should've been him.

It was brutal, the way it happened tonight. It was fierce and heartless and Chibs knew in a flash that those bullets struck the wrong skull.

He couldn't bear the reverberation anymore, the gutturals from Piney's son who'd just lost his wife for no good reason during a drive-by in their quaint little town. The town that'd swelled wickedly with corruption these last few weeks.

Stahl was at the scene before he left. Looking pensive, actually. She looked guilty.

Chibs's basic instinct had landed the blame at her door--put the blood on her hands--but he kept his mouth shut for fear of what'd happen next. He didn't think that SAMCRO could handle this.

Because this wasn't a product of Mayan or Niner rivalry. He wasn't stupid--he knew that his President had something to do with this.

This was cultivated from the seeds sown by June Stahl, the pips planted so very deeply into the mind of Clay Morrow which forced him to believe that Opie Winston was a rat.

And he wasn't. He'd never sell his club out--no matter the damage, the pain inflicted upon him--and he'd never dream of pinning the fault on his brothers.

But he had to look a little bit closer to home if he wanted those answers. If he wanted to know just who sniped Donna--a completely innocent woman caught in the most ferocious of crossfires--he had to turn to someone that he knew was culpable of such activity.

Chibs's heart ached. It impaired him so very deeply that the only thing he could visualize on the ride back to Jax's house was her face.

Her face that dripped blood. Saturated crimson plagued his thoughts and forced his stomach to churn vociferously. He felt sick now.

He felt sick because Opie had lost his wife, Piney had lost a crucial member of his small family, and her kids had lost their mother. The woman that had worked so tirelessly to provide a life for them, to love and care for them unconditionally no matter what.

Opie was strong, he knew that--but he didn't know if he was strong enough to handle this. This crippling weight, this hurt and the idea of what could've been done differently.

Because so much could've happened to prevent this.

His tongue had become inoculated with bile, acrimonious ire for whoever the fuck was to blame for such unnecessary brutality--and, really, Chibs knew that he didn't have to look much further than Isla's favorite blue-eyed heathen this time.

And that broke his heart because of the pedestal she held that man upon. The pedestal she'd always held him atop, so fucking highly, too.

She knew that he was bad--an inherently bad human being--but he was just Tig. Her buddy. Clay's right hand that, really, he'd always count on. No matter what. And he'd always deliver the king's request, too.

Tig was the one that Isla called when her car broke down on the freeway and she needed to get home in time for Gemma's dinner.

The one she turned to for cheering up because he always knew how to crack a smile and get through to her.

The one that she strangely respected the most. Nobody really recognized what it was about that man that had Isla overjoyed when in his presence, she just was. And that was part of his charm.

But her father was anxious, now. Worried that she would take this news--if it came to light--badly. Because it was going to break her heart, regardless.

It was how she would handle it, which was the true hardship.

"Christ." Chibs's voice struggled to materialize, gesturing to his daughter passed out on Jax's couch. "How long's she been sleepin'?"

Mascara and eyeliner and whatever the fuck else she'd painted onto her face had started to melt away, trails of black and grey faintly running her cheeks.

"'Bout an hour." Gemma responded, sniffling back the putrid emotion she'd so obviously let flood the moments leading up to their arrival.

Jax's stomach was doing backflips at the thought of Isla crying herself to sleep in his living room--after everything that he'd put her through, too.

He feared that this was going to be the tip of the iceberg. That this was going to pulverize her sanity and compromise everything she had sought to fight off these last few days.

And he couldn't help but harbor those same suspicions as her father, either. Jax wanted to keep his mouth shut until he was certain that this was an inside job, but he was teetering toward that conclusion regardless.

It was the only viable explanation.

He, too, worried about what this would do to her. That finding out Tig was the potential culprit and reason why Opie's children were officially motherless.

"How's Ope?" She continued, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. Jax's head shook. "Oh."

"Not good, ma. But he's home now."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Yeah--I followed him back to make sure he got there in one piece. He wanted to leave the second the fuckin' ATF stormed in."

"Oh." Gem repeated herself, running her fingers through Isla's hair as she rested in her lap. "What about Clay? Where'd he get to?"

Chibs took a seat at one of the wooden chairs that'd been positioned around the coffee table, and Jax sank into the couch opposite the girls.

It was pitiful. Darkness enveloped them as Isla slept, innocently resting as the world shattered around her.

She wasn't oblivious to the happenings. She hadn't slept through it all, but she was done. Isla had been distant for days, had been fretting over the unimaginable and Gemma was worried that she was going to make herself sick if she continued the way that she was.

So she twisted her fingers and nails through the flowing waves of golden blonde, and soothed her the same way that she always did.

The same way that she found comfort as a kid.

He sighed. Exhausted. "Dunno. Last I saw he was with Tig."

"Aye." The Scot agreed with a nod, too. Hating the thought of Trager being responsible for something like this.

But it was merely a suspicion that Chibs hoped and prayed would get debunked sooner or later.

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. He talked a little to Unser--seems to think it was a hit on Ope gone wrong--so, I guess they're gonna be lookin' into the Niners."

"Aye." Chibs spoke again, gesturing to Isla. "Did she say much when we left?"

"Not really--she just busied herself and cleaned up with Wendy. Seems like they're getting along now."

Jax smiled a bit, happy that his best friend and the mother of his child were starting to accept the presence of one another in Abel's life.

Truly, that's all he really wanted. That and his mother finally being able to turn the other cheek, and quit castigating his kid's mom.

"Did Clay leave before you?" Gemma asked, antsy. She was itching to get home, itching to see and comfort her husband because she knew that he was going to be fretting over this.

"I told you, the last I saw, he was with Tig. Dunno if he left after us, or if he's still there."

She looked away, smoothing her thumb over Isla's cheek.

"He'll be home soon--I should take off."

"Not on your own." Jax upheld, simply terrified of what could've happened to his mother had she left alone.

As far as Jax wanted her to know, this was bad blood between clubs. This was a hit put out on an innocent bystander because they knew it'd jolt SAMCRO--and it did.

It shook them to the very fucking core, jutting them repeatedly--mere moments away from crumbling and completely disintegrating into Harley Davidson dust.

And he really didn't want to admit that this was the work of his step-father and Alexander Trager. But he feared that was the only viable explanation.

"I'll--eh--I'll take her back." Chibs offered, getting up to ghost a hand over Isla's blushed cheek. "I was gonna take her home with me tonight, but I think she's better off stayin' put."

Jax agreed with a nod, smiling weakly at his mother. Though, she knew it was a coverup. A not-so-brilliant facade and attempt at showing that he was okay during this barbarous time.

"I don't wanna wake her." She mused, pushing strands of hair from her face. "She looks so damn peaceful."

Gemma hadn't a cozy moment with Isla for a while--not since she was recovering from a broken heart four summers ago.

The last time that she turned to Gemma--the same way she would as a child--for that motherly comfort.

"I know." The older man crouched to the ground, tracing faintly along her arm. Isla grumbled, slowly rousing. "C'mon petal, it's gettin' late."

He kept a hand against her, running this thumb over the freckled skin softly. Diane's crucifix caught his eye as she shifted, impairing him that little bit more tonight.

"What time is it?" She asked roughly, feeling a sting in her throat. Isla lifted herself off of Gemma's lap, rubbing at her eyes. "Is it late?"

"It's about one o'clock."

"Shit." Her hiss was sharp, galled that she'd been allowed to rest for so long whilst there was a literal wildfire sweeping its way through the club. "Ope--oh my god--Opie. Is he okay?"

Isla knew the answer. She knew what Jax was about to say before he even opened his mouth, and so tears ensued. Crystalline hues weeped and watered, and he was unsettled.

Unsettled because she was so strong in the face of such tragedy, rarely shedding any tears before an audience.

Unsettled because, up until the Kohn incident, Jax hadn't seen her cry since she was shot in the knee after three Mayans decidedly stormed the T M lot and strived to gun down each and every person on the premises.

He never forgave himself for that, actually. Because those bullets--though completely un-fatal and leaving a simple mark that, really, Isla referred to as her battle scars--should've been for him.

"He went home. To be with the kids." Jax cleared his throat, kneeling in front of her when Chibs got to his feet and gestured for Gemma. "He's--uh--he's in a bad way."

"Understandably." She mumbled. "Any ideas on who did this?"

Your favorite son.

"No. Clay thinks it might've been the Niners--shits been off since they decided to pull their fucking guns on us after the warehouse was raided."

"That was their rationale?"

"I guess so." He added. "It'd make sense. We lost their guns, so we lost a life--"

"But Donna." Isla argued, sitting upright. "Donna was innocent."

"We know that, love, but Laroy was probably under the impression that Ope was the one behind the wheel." Her father spoke over Jax, heeding his uncertainty. "It wasn't meant to be her."

Chibs had to blow his theory out of the water, firstly.

"A life is a life. To them, so long as they've got one of ours--someone close to us--they've succeeded with somethin'--"

"All they've succeeded with is leaving two kids without a fucking mother." Isla spat, throwing away the small blanket that Gemma had draped over her as she stood up. "And you've gotta stop being so fucking insensitive."

Jax stumbled backwards, watching her storm out of the room in her pretty little summer dress. He couldn't surmise whether following behind or leaving the woman to simmer alone, was the best idea.

It was a touchy subject, the loss of a parent. It was prickly and raw and it never ceased to strike Isla's heart. Because she understood.

She understood how much it hurt. The uncertainty of it all. Not knowing what to do next. How life changes more than what anyone ever prepares you for and, really, how nothing is ever the same again.

Isla knew it all too well. She'd been there, done that, and refused to go back. But with Chibs's life, his line of work, she was never granted that security.

And it wasn't particularly the security that she wanted, more so the knowledge of what--god forbid anything--would happen to her father. Because that's what bothered her the most about Diane.

She never knew anything about her mother's passing.

Jax got a pretty tight grip on the concept, too. But it was different with Isla--it was something she never quite grasped.

"A life is a life," Gemma mocked the insensitivity from the baffled Scotsman, shaking her head. "That wasn't just any life, Chibs. That was Opie's woman, the mother of his children, and one of Isla's oldest friends--she was family. She wasn't just a life."

His lips twitched before he exhaled sharply, knowing that she was right.

Knowing that his response was much too unsympathetic and heartless and, really, he was an idiot to forget how upset she got whenever something that pertained to the death of her mother was brought up.

"Your kid is grieving. She's grieving for Ope, for Piney, for Kenny and Ellie--for herself because this--" she gestured to nothing in particular, but he understood, "--is something she knows all too well, ain't it? Diane?"

"I know." Tersely, he responded. He pulled a hand through his hair. "I fuckin' know how she feels, but I didn't think she'd storm out when I said it!"

"Well, she's always been unpredictable."

"I know." His riposte was braided with anger, pure fury.

"Then why'd you say it?" Gemma jabbed. "Isla has been about six thousand miles away from us these last few days, and you thought that saying such a stupid thing wouldn't tip her over the edge?"

She was defensive of the blonde--always had been.

And Jax was sick of it.

Sick of the back-and-forth between the two. Sick of that holier than thou bullshit from Gemma--pretending that she wasn't thinking the same fucking thing--and sick of the way Chibs cared more to argue than to go after his daughter.

"Make sure Wendy stays if you two leave--I'm going."

"Where?" Chibs demanded.

But Jax just glared at him, stuffed his hands in both pockets, and walked straight out of the house.

It was cooler, now. The breeze had hit him square in the face the second he stepped over the threshold, and it was nice. To feel a little breeze that'd inevitably take the edge off of the lament sizzling away inside of him, was nice.

It was short lived, though. The second he realized that he couldn't see Isla--that she was completely out of sight--dragged him straight back down to earth, and the panic had set in.

He trusted her, of course he knew that she wasn't going to do anything stupid because she valued her life too much, and she wanted to do great things. So many great things.

But Jax also knew her too well. Well enough to know that the first place she would've thought about storming toward was the Clubhouse--the place that she'd find Tig.

And under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have rushed to get to her before she had a chance to get to T M. But the possibility of walking in and discerning Trager's inconsolable fury--his resentment and self-loathing--was much too great a risk for Jax to take.

He had to intercept.

He had to save her before she got the chance to set foot onto the property.

But, realistically, Jax was more than aware that Isla was probably already halfway there by now, and weaving through the unusual bustle of traffic in his small town just wasn't worth it.

"Shit." He growled, hopping onto his bike regardless. Saving a sliver of hope that he'd find her tonight.

He wasn't exactly optimistic, though. Because she'd already stormed four blocks.

Isla wrapped her cardigan tightly around her body--feeling the cold a bit more than what Jax had earlier--and hastily made her way downtown.

Surprisingly enough, she didn't fear the short walk toward the garage, but it was chilling. The thought of Donna's killer roaming freely, parading around that neighborhood, was daunting.

But she wasn't scared.

Or, at least, Isla wasn't scared until she heeded the red and blue flashing lights right in the middle of the intersection. The apparent murder scene.

Her heart sank, actually. The organ dropped to her stomach, pulsating slowly--barely--at the sight of Charming PD, CSI, and her. The group scattered, conversing, and speculating.

It was horrible. Sick.

She'd seen this before. She'd seen deaths and murders, and whatever came during the moments following. But she hasn't felt this way before.

The incapacitating throb. The discomfort and grief for such a horrendous--albeit freak--accident. And she wasn't stupid. She was as cognizant as her father and as empathetic as Jax, and she knew just as well as those two that this was not a purposeful attack.

Whether it was a consequence of Mayan or Niner misconduct, it was a wrongful onslaught that was about to cull an entire family. An entire charter.

If it hadn't already, that was.

She choked around the swell in her throat, padding along the sidewalk. She took her time, but she wasn't slow by any means. She had a place to be, and a specific person that she had to see--to talk to because she didn't know how to cope with this.

And it wasn't exactly her place to mourn for Donna. She hadn't been involved with her for some five years and she felt bad about the pair unable to rekindle their friendship. She felt bad about grieving the loss of Opie's wife--about taking the focus away from him.

But it hurt. It hurt so much--it sliced deeply, through flesh and tendon and bone--and she knew that Tig wouldn't judge her for this inveterate sorrow. He wouldn't see her as selfish or stupid for wanting to project her sincerities, her emotions.

Her heels clicked across the yard and she smiled a little bit when she passed Juice and Tig's bikes beside one another, letting her know that she wasn't going to be alone in there.

She was scared now, though. Because she hadn't talked about this yet. Hadn't talked about how she felt and how she was going to approach Opie the next time she saw him.

"Juice?" Isla squeaked from the doorway, waiting for him to turn around and run to her, or something. But he didn't move, didn't lift his head.

It was dreary inside. The lights had been dimmed, the men surrounding the tables and bar were downtrodden, and Isla felt as though she'd just walked through the gates of hell.

The vibrancy and boisterous nature of SAMCRO had come to a complete standstill, and she was actually yearning for the sleaze that usually enveloped the space.

Her sigh was defeated, forlorn. She sniffed as her nose ran, making her way to the bathroom to go and clean herself up--because she knew that she looked dreadful, and didn't want anybody to really see her that way.

"Is anyone in here?" She asked softly against the locked door, knowing that the answer was yes and that Tig was the occupant--but she persisted, anyway.

The mellifluous rhythm bled through the oak, jolting him still as blood poured from the gash in his head, and shattered glass surrounded his frame and the sink.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, glaring monotonously at himself in front of the mirror. Glaring at the fucking monster that was about to welcome Isla into open arms, comforting her because he knew that she'd need it.

"Yeah," He opened up, smiling down at her. "But I'm done, if you wanna--"

"What happened to you?" She put a hand against his chest, pushing him back into the room. Her brow furrowed when he didn't respond. "Tiggy?"

His entire body winced at Isla's soft touch. At the way her pink nails traced over the patch of skin on his chest, uncovered by his shirt--the shirt he was going to burn after tonight.

She gently gripped at his chin, turning his face to the right to get a better look at the incision on his left. Her eyes filled again, lips turned downward.

"Let me clean you up."

"You don't gotta--"

"I do." Isla cut him off, blinking away her tears. "If it doesn't get treated, it might get infected."

Like father, like daughter--always the first person to tend to an injury. She was so loving, so benevolent. Nothing like him, he thought.

Tig watched her maneuver around the tiny bathroom, admiring her desire to patch him up. To care for him and help make him feel better.

Not much would've helped at that moment, but she was trying her best.

"How'd you get over here?" He asked, leaning against the sink.

"I walked--"

"You walked?" Pissed, Tig spat. "Jesus fuck, Isla, you can't walk these parts alone, anymore."

She looked up at him from the spot she was crouched at, sifting through a small first-aid kit in the cabinet. "Who said I was alone?"

"Were you?" His eyes narrowed. She got to her feet, putting the small plastic box beside him, looking his face over a few times.

Her head shook. "Nope. Never alone with these thoughts."

Tig couldn't not chuckle at her response, but he was still worried about her. He didn't worry often--he was too selfish for that--but anything to do with his favorite blonde saw him panic like a madman.

"And the voices, too." She mused, breaking out into a genuine smile the first time all evening. "They always keep me real good company."

"Yeah?" Isla's head bobbed, cupping his chin again. "Me too--me 'n you don't seem to be too different after all, baby."

"Never said that we weren't." She poked her tongue out a little bit, surveying the damage. "Never said that we were the same, either."

"We're not the same." He confirmed, curling his hand around her wrist as she held an alcohol pad above his cut. "We are not the same, Isla."

Her head tilted, trying to discern what he meant. But she couldn't, and it caused an uncomfortable shiver to flicker down her spine.

"This might hurt." She whispered in an attempt to dissipate the small tension, gently running her thumb over his chin.

The other was--alongside her pointer finger--tapping the small antiseptic against the wound. She frowned the more he winced, though Tig's smile and hold on her wrist was still present.

"I like the pain."

"I know you do, Tiger." Isla joked. But she couldn't help wondering how the fuck he managed to do this to himself tonight.

Why he would do this to himself tonight.

"I don't wanna have to stitch your pretty face up," she pursed her lips and got him to hold the cotton in place.

"You think I got a pretty face?"

"The prettiest." Her retort was instantaneous, missing that usual glint of something resembling a joke.

She was serious--she wasn't engaging in that usual banter with him today. She was too run down for it, actually.

"Gonna have to give you a couple of butterfly stitches, if that's okay?" Isla looked up at him, holding out the small bandages with a smile. "It won't hurt. And they'll probably dissolve in, like, a week or so."

"Go for it. I love when you play nurse."

She lightly whacked at his chest, laughing as she got him to sit on the closed toilet lid to get a better reach. He wasn't tall, but neither was she. Isla needed him to lower his height if she wanted to successfully repair him.

The comfort, the aid and assistance had him forgetting about tonight--had her forgetting the real reason for her impromptu arrival to the clubhouse--but not forgetting about the newfound misery that encircled SAMCRO.

"You alright?" He asked when she hadn't made a movement, when her eyes seemed to focus on the shelves above the tank of the toilet. "I can do it myself, if you don't wanna--"

"I wanna." The smile she produced was fake--uncomfortable as tears rolled down perfectly blushed cheeks.

It broke his heart. Everything she was doing and saying--and even feeling because her pain was palpable--was breaking his heart and Tig felt like hell for doing this.

"I'm sorry," she stuck the first stitch to his forehead carefully, getting him to rip off the back of the second because her fingers were too shaky to get a solid grip.

"Don't be." He handed it to her. "It's been a tough night."

Her laugh was humorless, dull. "You can say that again, Tiggy."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." She sent him an apologetic look, but he got it.

Isla trusted him with her life--for some reason--but she found it hard to open up sometimes. In regards to something this serious, she struggled to get a solid handle on her emotions and how to express them.

He understood her, though. Understood her well enough, her mannerisms and thought processes, and he just wondered if she felt like divulging her pain tonight.

She didn't, though. And Tig didn't particularly mind that. He didn't want to feel that twisted pang of regret, the vehement churn of his stomach whenever she said Donna's name--which she was yet to do, and she probably wouldn't at this point, either.

"I just wanna cry." She stated plainly, not even reluctantly anymore.

Like Gemma, he hadn't seen her cry for a long time. And it wasn't a nice visual, actually.

But he was supportive, and just wanted her to do anything that'd make her feel somewhat better--so he encouraged it.

Isla put everything down, gave his face the once over for the last time, and set herself on the tile with her back to the door.

"You wanna cry? Do it, baby. If it'll help, just do it." He assured, getting to the ground beside her. "I know you don't like doin' it in front of me, but I won't tell anyone, if that's what you want."

"You make me seem like a battle ax." Isla quipped, sniffling. "I don't care if anyone sees me cry--everyone knows that I do. It's just..."

"Showing vulnerability ain't a nice thought. I know."

God. She hated how well he understood her. How he knew what she was going to fucking say. All the time.

Tig wound an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Instinctively, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"I get it." He stated mindlessly, pushing tousled blonde strands from her forehead. "But y'know you can always trust me, kid. I'll never tell anyone that you feel emotions--"

"I'm literally the most emotional person you all know." Isla protested weakly, hoping he didn't mind the feeling of her tears bleeding through his shirt.

He didn't.

"I just don't really like crying. It's not a true testament to my character--I'm supposed to be the happy one around these parts. The sickeningly optimistic Irish girl--"

"You can still be a crier, too."

"I know." She finally wrapped her arms around his middle as they sat together. "But people just don't take girls seriously when they cry. And I don't want my position here to be compromised, I guess. I don't want my dad, or Gemma, or Clay to think I can't handle being around the club anymore--because I can. And I always will."

"They wouldn't think different of you for that." He promised, rubbing circles over her shoulder the more he felt the navy cotton dampen. "This is a real tough thing, Isla, nobody is gonna chastise you for shedding a tear. They'd probably think different of you if you didn't cry."

"You think?"

He nodded.

"Crying shows that you got empathy and a heart. We all know your heart is bigger than..." Thick eyebrows crumpled together before he let out a little chuckle. "Bigger than Clay's ego. It's huge, your heart."

"Well, it's gotta be. If I wanna love all of you--warts 'n all--my heart has gotta be huge."

"Exactly," he drew out his response, earning a laugh and something reminiscent of an optimistic smile from her.

Trager never saw himself as the kind of man to make a girl smile or laugh after a little pep talk--after or before incredible sex, perhaps, but never as a result of his unusually comforting nature.

But he just had that effect on Isla--something she wasn't able to extrapolate verbally. Something she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to comprehend, either.

"You've just gotta try not to make yourself too vulnerable, that's all, 'cuz people will get used to coddling you. And I know that's now what you want."

"That's what I mean." She frowned, pulling herself away a bit. "I don't wanna be seen as inferior for being able to cry about the things that you, or Gem, or dad, are able to keep a poker face over. I'm just...I'm just thin-skinned sometimes, and I'm yet to be desensitized to this stuff, I guess."

"You're not thin-skinned for crying tonight." He scolded, knowing that she didn't want to elucidate her thoughts about the happening, but he just couldn't help himself.

"Desensitization don't mean shit when you've lost someone you care about--it's always gonna hurt, sweetheart. Always. And there ain't nothing you can do to stop that."

He was the one with misty eyes, now. He was the one trying to bite back tears, trying to conceal the spread of his sadness--the uncomfortable soreness in his chest. In his heart that wasn't anywhere near as big and full as hers.

"You're never gonna grow immune to grief--I promise you'll always feel that. Whether you show it--how you show it--is another thing, though."

"You feel it?"

"Tonight?"

"In general."

She couldn't seem to recall the last time that she saw him cry--if she'd ever seen it, actually. Aside from this moment, of course.

Tears fell to the apples of his cheeks and she, without any reluctance, used the pad of her thumb to brush them away.

And he got it, now. The idea of showing vulnerability being a fucking liability. Because the pity washing over her soft, beautiful features made him feel fragile.

"All the time. All the fuckin' time."

"It really never goes away?"

"No." Tig sniffed harshly, forcing a smile. "But you learn to cope. You learn that it ain't the end of the world and that life just goes on after death."

"Profound." She chuckled once again. "That's some deep, deep shit, Tigger. Almost made me forget about how much I wanna hysterically break down."

"Do it. That'll make me feel better about my injury."

"Your self-inflicted injury." Isla stated knowingly, but she didn't clarify just what she meant.

Because it could've been an array of things, but he liked to think that she was just referring to his little forehead aperture.

"I like it. It makes you look badass." Isla held a hand out to Tig when he pulled himself upward, and she wanted to follow suit.

"Does it make me look hot, too?"

"Absolutely." Again, it wasn't laced in a tease. It was honest, and the small smile she produced was sincere. "Be careful with it, though. Try not to get it wet or anything, because it'll dissolve too soon--"

"I've had them before, y'know?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Isla rolled her eyes. "You're a super scary, malicious, calculating guy when you've gotta be. But I know that you're accident prone."

He curled his eyebrow upward. "Scary?"

"Totally. I've seen you hold a gun to a guy's head." A chill impaired her, frightening her. "Shits terrifying, Tig. Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

"You think?" Her qualm was unexpected, almost challenging him as she unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. "I think I could."

What's she playing at? She was sobbing two minutes ago.

Oh, I get it. This is her facade--actin' all care free, and shit.

Tig followed behind--every step--as she clicked along the wooden floor of the clubhouse.

"You couldn't. Trust me." He stated lowly, reaching for her hand when she stuttered a little.

Isla noticed her father next time Juice, drinking at the bar with their backs to the duo. She didn't want to see him, right now.

Talking to Chibs would've ignited whatever fucking fire inside of her that'd started to blaze out of control earlier tonight, and she'd worked hard to contain this inferno.

"What you can do, though, is turn your pretty little ass back around, and go get some rest in the dorm. It's been a long night."

She didn't refute, she didn't try to get out of it because she didn't want to. Isla couldn't bear the thought of waltzing past her father, talking to him about her tiny outburst, and resuming as normal.

Because she couldn't do that. Not tonight, anyway.

"Tig?"

"Uh huh." He responded, his eyes glued to the back of Juice's cut as he slammed yet another shot back.

Probably wondering what the fuck had gone down tonight.

"Can you stay with me?" Her retort forced his focus to land on her, and the defenselessness--sheer exposure--in her attitude.

It wasn't the simple fact of wanting to be alone.

She couldn't be alone. Not anymore.

Ringed fingers squeezed her hand reassuringly, guiding her into the back room, holding her close. Because that's what she really, truly wanted.

"'Course I can. Anything for you, Isla."

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

This whole thing bugs me as well considering they CLAIM the game had inspiration from FE4. Like... where? The bloodlines and the mole people and that's it? Bloodlines are in other FE games but not in terms of special abilities for the most part, so that's where the inspiration feels strongest, but even then, that's part of the problem with this game.

The reason Naga stopped getting involved with humans was because they got power from dragon blood but used that power to wage war on each other again and again. While I'd argue her lack of interference was forced and imposed upon all dragons (i.e. she tried to control them all and basically didn't allow, by law iirc, dragons to interact with humans, which plenty dragons said fuck you to), Rhea... didn't do this. She didn't force others of her tribe to stop interacting with humans and continued to herself, but Naga's way of doing things wasn't a choice. When Seteth chose to stop interacting with humans for as long as he did, it was a choice that Rhea left him alone to make.

Then when it comes to humans waging war on each other again and again, Rhea didn't just abandon the good humans who weren't doing anything wrong. She didn't see a few bad apples and go "wow all of humanity sucks, I'm going to leave them for dead, one and all". Some people who have followed me long enough know I have a Big Fat Grudge against Naga and hate her pre-Marth time (i.e. Jugdral's time), and it's because she ultimately decided all humans weren't worth saving because some sucked.

Rhea on the other hand fears extinction of her kind, rightfully so, and yet still can't find it in her to abandon humans. She helps with taking down bad humans (I'm sorry buddy (not really though lol) but if you think someone looting a church isn't bad, you are bad). She only gets involved, however, when the issue is either directed at the Church she lives in (i.e. her people are put in any kind of danger), or her help is directly requested (ex. the Kingdom needing help, or even Edelgard in SB asking for her assistance to deal with Thales).

The game writes Rhea out to be this horrendous person who is a "world" controlling tyrant (because ah yes, she's forcing Morfis to do her bidding. Were you not aware?! Poor Brigid has her will imposed upon them at all times! Sreng is forced to comply with the Church!!! Sure can't believe Rhea has such an influence on the whole world, huh Edelgard?). They let the narrative write her off as having a hand in all the politics, even though like... the Alliance doesn't even really know her. Or care to. She doesn't interfere with them and they don't interfere with her. She went to visit Goneril once that we know of, probably saw that they were taking in child slaves, was disgusted, took the one she saw, and noped right out of there and never wanted to come back.

Then with Faerghus' politics, even though she's got the best relationship with Faerghus, she's not even involved in those politics. If she was, guess what? Dimitri would've been crowned king at her request. He could have gone to her and they could've both said well fuck the idea that you have to be of legal age to take the throne. Yes, I believe she cares for Faerghus' people enough that she's willing to help if asked, but Faerghus deals with its own politics. Rhea doesn't assist unless asked. Have they asked her for help with Sreng? Nope. Did Lambert ask for her help in his plans with Duscur and Sreng? Nope.

And of course, if you say the people of Faerghus were suffering because of Rufus' lack of proper reign and Rhea didn't help, she's demonized for that... but if she did help, she'd be accused of trying to control Faerghus, so either way, she can't win... and the narrative does do this to her and the fandom already hated her for being of a church, so it just took over the majority's perception of her. She's damned if she does or doesn't and her very existence is basically a crime to the fandom and the narrative both.

Adrestia has a slew of political issues, and Rhea had no hand in it. Yeah, the whole Crests thing is a problem in Adrestia (and only Adrestia, don't even get me started on that topic), but Rhea doesn't control what the power structure is like there (or anywhere). If they fight over that shit, it's not because she did anything to make them. She leaves them to deal with their own political strife unless asked for help (again, SB), just like she does with the other Fodlan lands.

We know Crests aren't even her fault so I'm not gonna even bother getting into that.

The sad part is that the narrative paints Rhea as being at fault for the Agarthans slaughtering her brethren and using their blood and bones for power. It then uses her trauma to label her a monster. All Rhea has ever done with humanity is help them if they asked her for help, and what did her help entail? The help of, wouldn't you know it, other humans. People like Catherine and Gilbert were her go-to people for support when asked for it. She would send her personal knights, humans, to help other humans.

Humanity (including Thales and co) are shown to do horrific things, but Rhea is blamed for everything? All the woes of Fodlan? Rhea is at fault for Metodey being a scumbag? For Erwin getting Claude's uncle killed? For Gregoire using his daughter to be a trophy wife while evidently being such a terrible person to her that she's terrified of him? For Rufus refusing to even actually rule and letting Faerghus nearly fall to ruin, leaving the capital in a terrible state? And if you count Hopes' background information, he tried to have Dimitri assassinated multiple times, and it wasn't so subtle that it went unnoticed. But well, I guess that's Rhea's fault too.

Anyway, point being, humans do human things and Rhea magically gets blamed for it. Yet, the game they took inspiration from had humans doing the exact same bullshit, fighting each other thing and trying to decide who should have this that and the other thing in regard to power, and it was... a dragon who helped the good humans get through it and survive. Who had to help them because the other humans got so out of control and barbaric on their own, with dragons not involved in their lives at all.

He helps them, doesn't tell them his identity, is only found out by the main character, and takes his leave at the end of the game. He helped them and left them to it and is portrayed in the game in a positive light overall for having helped the good people survive against the humans who were warring against them.

Again, that is the game Houses took inspiration from. Hence why, again, I can only see the bloodline thing being their sole inspiration overall, because the way they wrote Rhea would make me think they looked at FE4 and went "hmmm humans bad in both games... but how about in this game, we blame everything humanity does literally ever on the dragon!", even though like... humans would war with or without dragon power. If... you know... our own reality is... any... indicator...

One thing that grinds my gears a little regarding Rhea and the FE3H lore is that people assume that she's the only one who has built Fodlan's society the way it is post War of Heroes

As if humans had no agency at all and just blindly followed her every words

As if humanity hasn't shown that it is willing to do a lot for power, again and again, and turning against itself if needs be for it, and against others too

As if everything falls on her shoulders

(as if the Agarthans aren't also running interferences but also why the fuck did the dlc make Pan an Agarthan that part is still baffling to me what was the PLAN here)

[bestfrownsforever]

Heartache Arcade

Sorry for not having a proper cover again...hopefully these will do.

Also 1. my friend CLG is my co-editor now! Per's a master at finding grammar mistakes even I miss (ex. if you want the re-edited Dawn of a New Era then it's on Amino) so per'll be helping me from now on!

And 2. I'm hoping to keep a consistent schedule so expect a new Best Frowns Forever story every Tueaday! Starting with this story...

After having some brief fun as a Frown Lord, Puppycorn already hit a massive roadblock.

"Anyone else think this job doesn't make a whole lot of sense?" he asked while meeting with his co-workers around his bedroom table, "I mean yeah, it's fun to hurt people and stuff, but if we're so good at our jobs, then won't everyone be too scared to go outside anymore? Or maybe they'll leave the kingdom!? And if they do, should we want them to because it'd be bad if they did!? What should we DO!?!?"

Unikitty wrapped an arm around him from across the table. "Calm down, little bro," she assured him, "They're not going anywhere when the rest of the world sucks too."

"The solution's easy," Grandmaster Frown added, "Try luring them in with something fun and cutesy and make them almost want to suffer!"

"Oh come on," Hawkodile objected, "Something big pops up in the kingdom out of nowhere with us openly running it? They'll know it's a trap."

"Unless they're so desperate for a break that they'll take anything that looks happy and shiny," Dr. Fox suggested, "And Master Pain was the king of cringe before Frown's birthday."

"Hey!"

"I'm saying that as a compliment! You probably still like all that kiddie junk the citizens miss anyway, so why are you complaining about no ideas?"

Unikitty flew over to her brother. "I think she's trying to say that instead of using the things you like to try being cool, you can use them to actually prove your coolness as a Frown Lord!"

"Okay," Puppycorn considered, "But I already did accident-prone skateboards and roller skates...and that spiky ballpit."

"You mean I did them and you STOLE MY CREDIT!?" Dr. Fox reminded him before Brock pushed her away.

"Okay, someone needs a timeout...and if it helps, I've had the idea for a haunted arcade for a while now. But you're not wrong about the whole obvious trap thing, so from one gamer to another; how would you make it work?"

Puppycorn thought long and hard about the possibility until it hit him like his past self running into a brick wall.

"WAIT, I've been thinking into this job too hard! Grandmaster Frown did all this to be himself again, right? So maybe instead of haunted, the games can just be really hard to beat!?"

Everyone seemed interested except for the pouting Dr. Fox.

"But if they manage to win those games, wouldn't that be the best feeling ever?"

Puppycorn hummed until he lit up again like the lightbulb popping out of his head.

"They'll only get a few tickets and we'll make the prizes super expensive!!"

"Good enough."

Grandmaster Frown rose. "Then let's get to work, people! These games will need some Frown Lord-flare, and they sure aren't gonna make themselves!"

Puppycorn and Brock were the first to follow him to Dr. Fox's lab, dedicate many long days to porting the most difficult games they could find, and even more to making their own until after countless attempts at giving up, Puppycorn finally saw all his hard work pay off and open for business.

No one saw exactly when the new building appeared in the middle of town. It was just another rainy afternoon with nothing going on until people looked at their windows to see a massive, pale gray block of an exterior with a burgandy arching roof and neon colors everywhere from behind the windows. A tall sign next to it read "Heartache Arcade" with "& Casino" under it in smaller letters, both in some of the same bright neon colors.

Most closeby citizens came to the conclusion that their tyrants set it up, but some of them approached the arcade anyway, as if to say "How are they gonna break us this time?"

When they stepped in, they were greeted by giant rooms with arcade machines, gambling tables, and brighter lights everywhere, with a large prize counter and shelves for toys and other kinds of trinkets in one corner. They couldn't believe how everything seemed so...innocent.

They split up, each walking over to a different game or observing more of the retrospective dream around them, while Frown and Puppycorn spied on them from behind an "Employees Only" door.

"C'mon..." Puppycorn whispered, "Just play the games already!"

"Give 'em a bit more time," Grandmaster Frown replied, "They'll rip themselves in half before you know it."

Puppycorn turned to the nearest citizen, Theodore, stepping up to a slot machine, which hated having them there, but the others convinced him that gambling would make things all the more entertaining to watch.

"Supreme Slots, huh?" Theodore wondered before shrugging, "Well, guess it's worth a shot."

Puppycorn wasn't too surprised when Theodore bet the little money he had and won on his first try, only to get too cocky and lose it all too fast. Grandmaster Frown had a good laugh while Puppycorn looked the other way to spot Bim-Bom wrapping a hand around the joystick for the game he was most proud of; Furious Fetch.

Bim-Bom seemed happy at first, but just when Puppycorn worried even more, she got a a little confused as to what she was playing. Did she get to the lava pits yet?, he thought, Or the bugs? She's gotta know how hard running and jumping is by now though, right?

Then he heard the Game Over music.

"What!? There's no more lives!?"

Finally, a good reaction. Puppycorn was already holding back laughs and wagging his tail watching Bim-Bom pull out another token to play again. And then another. And another until she almost reached the end of the first level.

"WAIT, jumping on them doesn't kill them either!? What gives!?"

"That's the point!" Puppycorn snickered. She clearly wanted to give up but pulled out another out coin anyway. Maybe even keep going until she didn't have any left. But as if his silent prayers were answered, Bim-Bom slipped the token into the slot and lost almost as soon as the level started that time. Screaming, she stormed off to try something else as Puppycorn lost it.

"Cut it out!" Grandmaster Frown ordered, covering a hand over Puppycorn's mouth, "The evil laughing can wait, just don't blow this for us."

Puppycorn nodded, prompting his boss let go. They continued to look around, realizing more and more citizens were getting frustrated over what they were playing. And switching to other games or slots didn't help, it only strengthened the chorus of the most mixed reactions they'd ever heard in their lives.

"These games SUCK!"

"This was all the money I haaaaaaad!!"

"I can do this, I just need ONE more coin...anyone got some?"

"At least this isn't the other stuff we've had to put up with, calm down guys!"

"Are you nuts!? This is WAY WORSE!"

Puppycorn was too proud of himself to keep the door open. He shut it to chant and dance without a care until Grandmaster Frown laid a hand where his shoulder would be.

"Huh?"

"Not bad, Pain. Consider this your first

independent accomplishment."

"Really!? Aweso-"

They jumped at the sound of a sudden crash from the back room.

"Yeah," Frown ordered, "now take care of this place before the ragequitters can."

Puppycorn proudly nodded and saluted. "I'll do my best, boss sir!"

[lurking-latinist]

Here are some of the best bits:

Turlough / Macbeth: I might have known. Here we are again, stars of stage, screen and Story Time.

Adric / Banquo: Tell me about it. [He turns away from Macbeth.] Do I by any chance have a target painted on the back of my tunic?

Turlough / Macbeth: Not a visible one.

---

Frobisher enters, in penguin form, carrying a silver salver and trying to look like a butler. 

---

Turlough / Macbeth: I still think this whole murder thing is a terrible idea, but if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done competently. 

---

Turlough : Are you still there? I don't see why I should be sneaking around murdering people all the time— aargh!

[Jamie has appeared before him, semi-transparent, in a swirl of tartan-patterned video effects, robed in black and with a raven on his head.]

Jamie : Can ye no' jist get on wi'it?

Turlough : Whatever do you think you're doing?

Jamie : I'm telling the little children an exciting and historical tale. And you're going tae murder the King.

---

Ninth Doctor / Macduff : Sorry, lass, but I don't know how to break it to you. You might scream or anything.

[Enter Banquo.]

Ninth Doctor / Macduff : Oh, there you are, Banquo. The King's been murdered!

Tegan / Lady Macbeth : You realise I'm still here? You could just have told me, you know. See, I'm taking it quite calmly. [Flatly] Woe.  Alas. What, in our house?

---

Turlough / Macbeth : Look! The King's been murdered! I wasn't exactly calm and rational! Of course I killed the obvious suspects on the spot without a trial! Why are you all looking at me like that?

Tegan / Lady Macbeth [flatly] : Help me hence. Ho.

[She feigns a swoon, very badly.]

---

Tegan / Lady Macbeth :   Where's my idiot husband got to? It's very annoying. I can't turn my back on him for five minutes.

[Enter Macbeth, looking twitchy.]

---

Jackie :   Cool it with a baboon's blood,   Then the charm is thick and good. [She looks puzzled.] Is my character meant to be from Yorkshire? 

---

"To whom it may concern, the musical numbers in 'Macbeth' were written by Thomas Middleton and you can leave them out for all I care.  Signed, Will Shakespeare." 

---

Little girl / Second Apparition :   Be bloody, bold and resolute. Laugh to scorn   The power of man, for none of woman born   Shall harm Macbeth.

[Apparition descends.]

Turlough / Macbeth :   Right, so that just leaves evil balloons, the Daleks, the Sontarans, the   Rutans, sentient seaweed, all sorts of robots, the Nestene Consciousness...

---

Fifth Doctor [to Martha] :   I think you'd better forget this. You have known what you should not.

Martha / Gentlewoman :   She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that.

Tegan [suddenly fully compos mentis] :   I'll have you know I'm following the script to the letter.

Martha / Gentlewoman :   Look, I didn't mean it like that...

---

Fifth Doctor :   Anyway, there's nothing much I can do for her.

Turlough / Macbeth :   Not much of a doctor, are you?

Fifth Doctor :   To be frank, Turlough, you don't entirely convince me as the Tyrant of Scotland either.

---

Turlough / Macbeth :   "No man of woman born." Let me guess.

Ninth Doctor / Macduff [nodding] :   Looms.

Turlough / Macbeth :   Go on, then, get it over with.

Ninth Doctor / Macduff :   Everyone deserves a chance. There's been so much bloodshed already. Why don't you just surrender?

I would like to see the Doctor Who characters put on Macbeth please

short answer: Storytime: Macbeth by @john-amend-all

long answer, some of which you (animate-mush) probably already know, but which will provide essential context without which most people seeing this will be completely lost:

This is going to involve a lot of me explaining memes from corners of fandom I was never in, that happened long before I was reading fic, much less active in fandom. But I have backread every archive I can find so hopefully I won't get anything glaringly wrong. If I do... well, I've tagged some people who were there!

As I understand it, back in the days of Usenet, when fic writers used to hang out on alt.drwho.creative, they, as fic writers do, liked to go meta. The particular means of going meta fashionable at the time was to have a shared 'outside-universe' setting where all the characters hang out when they're not 'on assignment' in a story. In the case of adwc this was a pub called This Time Round, which eventually sprouted a town (imaginatively called Nameless) and various associated institutions.

One of these was a daycare in which child versions of all the characters (which, since people write fic where everybody gets turned into babies, have to exist somewhere) were looked after by, for some reason, Izzy Sinclair from the comics; I don't know why Izzy, particularly, but there she was.

(Sidebar: my favorite part of the TTR stories is actually the school stories--there have to be high-school-aged versions of the characters, because people write high school AUs--which were invented by @heroofthreefaces, who will probably see this, hello!)

Then somebody (I see it was BK Willis, who I don't know if they're still active or not) came up with the idea of 'Storytime.' Various characters--often, though not always, the Master--make Izzy's life harder by reading the children exciting tales. Unfortunately the creche is equipped with a magic Storybook that forces various Doctor Who characters (sometimes random, sometimes quite pointed selections) to act out the events of the story--while retaining full meta awareness and the ability to make snarky commentary. (I particularly recommend the Sherlock Holmes stories to get an idea of how Storytime works, and Gereint and Enid because it's adorable and hilarious.)

Murder at Mill Cottage by @thisbluespirit isn't Storytime but it's also a good 'in' to the TTR world, I think, but you can also read it as just a regular AU, and it's very fun (and cute Sarah/Harry shipping as well), although sort of more upsetting if you read it as just a regular AU, because people get murdered.

I have added all of this context because I tried to make @januarydivide read Storytime: Macbeth without it and she was just like, what is happening here, do the characters know what they're doing or not, if they can make snarky remarks how come they have to play along, I am so confused. (The best I can explain is that, for the characters acting out the story, it's like one of those dreams where you're in a play you've never rehearsed but somehow you keep going anyways. Jan does that help?)

Oh, I forgot to mention that one of the running jokes of TTR is that Nyssa has snapped (from the trauma, presumably) and now spends all her time trying to kill Adric. It's less funny when you just say it like that, I think. Anyway that comes up several times in Macbeth so you should know.

Anyway. So. Why should you care? In Storytime: Macbeth, everyone's favorite time-traveling Scot, Jamie MacCrimmon, and the girls of the Second Doctor era team up to read Shakespeare to the children, and the Storybook does its fell work. Turlough is a reluctant Macbeth, the murderous pawn of supernatural forces--again. Tegan is his Lady Macbeth, grimly determined to chivvy him through the story as fast as possible and get it all over with. The narrator has to fight the witches (as well as toddler!Zoe) for control of the story. It's wonderfully meta, and in the end I think it's a comic meditation on the nature of tragedy. Macbeth is a pawn of supernatural forces; Lady M does see it all coming (Tegan knows the play), and there really is no other way out for them but mouthing the words Shakespeare wrote for them. It's like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, but with Turlough in it. Oh, and King Yrcanos, did I mention Duncan is King Yrcanos? He doesn't take kindly to being murdered by a red-headed whippersnapper. He takes some killing....

Somehow none of the horror of the story goes away even in what is essentially a story about a horrifically ill-judged production of the Scottish Play. But it is, essentially and mainly, hilarious--I feel I need to emphasize that, because I'm being serious about it--it's a comedy piece and it is side-splittingly funny; but that's harder to explain in a post.

Also Macbeth is funny.

Anyway you should all read this, and I promise it doesn't really need all that orientation if you're willing to accept some random weirdness and kind of skim the 'Interludes' that don't have any Macbeth in them.

I said in the comment I left when I read it, and I stand by it: "Completely seriously, Turlough is my favorite Macbeth. And I own the Ian McKellen one on DVD."