#i have no energy to discuss about the particulars of how each route made me feel

[finnicksghost]

sometimes i think about how the blue lions route focuses on interpersonal relationships and communal healing. it still makes me emotional because i recognize the sheer effort of doing one’s responsibility in broken pieces. even the relationships with faith and religion and the significance of strength interwoven with a crumbling nation are compelling to think about.

[sandayuswife]

Hello! First i want to say im so happy to found your acc since you're discussing the mentality state of the Kirigakure siblings, Sandayu and Hanzo too! 🤧

Sec, can i request you write a psychoanalysis on Genya? Hehe😊

I wish your studies more success!

@nich-u Thank you so much! <3 I'm glad that the content pleases you:) Since psychoanalyses base on mental health alone, I've decided to write a broader analysis this time. This is going to be VERY long, and so fun to write!

Fujibayashi Genya: Mental health & Personality Analysis

So, we'll start by taking a deep look into his childhood and mental health, and lastly analyze his personality using the five factor model and a few additional criteria. Let's begin :)

At the beginning of his route, Genya is introduced as a laid-back, lazy shinobi with inscrutable motives. Gradually, we figure more and more of his demeanor being a mask, which he uses both as a coping mechanism as well as means to keep his feelings and motivations behind a veil.

Later on, we find out that it was his love for Sakuya and death of their mother that has forced Genya to change drastically – which is where we will start our digging.

Childhood & Mental health

Judging from the small pieces of chapters in which we see the Fujibayashi twins and MC interact in the past, as well as Genya’s statements, it is clear that the twins were neglected, yet unlikely emotionally abused. Adding to the stability of their psyche in the earliest years was their close relationship, and thus ability to replace the emotional care they sought from their parents.

Coming to the first event that forces Genya to change - At a still very young age, he witnesses his mother's death during an attack on the village. Not only did she fall while protecting him, but also, those following were her last words:

Assuming that it was most likely Genya’s first time openly receiving emotional care from his mother, and that the chief did not seem to care about her death (simply disposed of the body, apparently), the causes of the event resulted in PSTD, which became chronic for the rest of his life (as it is a common occurrence with children).

A short time after that, we are shown that Genya proceeds to focus all of his care and attention on Sakuya: Trains with him, renounces his own needs to let his twin have more options, and even motivates MC to grow closer to Sakuya, although it was somewhere implied that he himself was 'drawn to her sunny smile'.

Being able to do so and direct positive energy at someone he loves has helped Genya to cope with the incident, although he could not tell a soul about his mother’s last words - The knowledge would hurt his twin, In Genya’s opinion. Having to speculate about such outcomes, think many steps ahead, keep his feelings behind a lock, and due to possible symptoms of PSTD, Genya has matured quickly; and it was more than visible in his behavior.

Next, we know that the Mitsuba have betrayed Fujibayashi village as the twins were approximately 10 years old. A while after that, they had to accomplish a special, long-term mission in order to become fully-pledged shinobi. Beside the fact that he himself has suffered from his own (disposing of bodies ‘as if they were worthless’), he noticed how much suffering Sakuya’s mission has caused his twin. He understood that his brother will only be able to cope with the trauma if he was to run from his feelings.

Being Sakuya’s ‘childhood hero’, as Sakuya himself has stated, Genya knew that if he were to express negative opinions and feelings toward the village, his twin would break his own resolve and agree with him. Thinking their fate unvoidable, Genya has made a choice to break their connection by being the opposite of what a shinobi should be, but still protect and support Sakuya from the shadows.

Personality

Now let’s take a look at Genya’s personality in general, since until now, we have been only focusing on his family.

I will be using the five factor model, which has a scoring system, to do so, although we have to keep in mind that his trauma and personal experiences play big roles in these traits:

1. Openness to experience

Low score. Genya prefers routine, and is wary of uncertainty and the unknown. I have mentioned at the beginning that Genya uses his laid-back lifestyle as a coping mechanism - Independence and space give him an opportunity to breathe. However, he generally does not run from his feelings and is well aware of who and what he cares about.

2. Conscientiousness

High score. He is aware of his actions and their consequences, and has a sense of responsibility, regardless of how much he claims not to do so. Genya exhibits goal-oriented behavior every time it truly matters (grumbling aside). His missions are organized and practically executed.

3. Extroversion

Mid score. Genya is an ambivert (neither an introvert nor extravert). He enjoys being alone, thinking and reflecting, just as much as he enjoys socializing and meeting new people.

4. Agreeableness

High score. Genya is co-operative, and willing to help others in times of need. He respects hardworking individuals, dislikes being involved in arguments, seeks internal and external state of peace. Levels of agreeableness tend to increase with age.

5. Neuroticism

Low score. Genya is able to remain calm in response to stressful situations, and view problems in proportion to their importance. As a result, he tends to worry about such problems to a lesser extent. Of course, this excludes extreme situations, like losing a loved one (in regard to his frustration in the route endings).

Since the model does not cover all that can be interpreted, let’s add a few more criteria:

6. Behavior

Genya tries to cover up many of his positive traits with a mask of a lazy, money-grubbing and disrespectful shinobi, as we all well know. Doing so leaves him more freedom, forces others to lower their expectations, and allows him to expectantly sidestep minor duties in case of an emergency. This, of, course, serves his goals and routines very well.

7. Morality

Genya has a deep understanding and a broad view of the world. He understands the role of each person, that every individual is shaped by the environment, and while he naturally opposes to being a shinobi, he does not proceed to immediately judge or dislike someone of his own kind, although doing otherwise would be a much easier task.

This could be explained by his world-view as well. He mentions that he is ‘like a bird in a cage’, and the same could most likely be said of all shinobi, in his opinion. Because he views the shadows as a place of grief, there is a chance he is less consumed by guilt for killing those who share his origins.

So, I've written a ton, and could write a ton more. There truly is so much more I could address, but I can always write a second part in case particular questions rise, so let me know:) Also, feel free to comment your opinion or something you would add!

Have a great day<3

-A

[abbynx]

Encounter (Gelato and Sorbet X Reader)

Genre: Platonic, found family, fluff, wholesome

Warning: Harassment, stalking

You didn't found this coming, associating yourself with the Mafia in a way that one wouldn't thought of and can only fantasize about— if being practically adopted by a pair of couple from most heinous, most successful mafiosi syndicate Passione's hitmen team is someone's fantasy. It just happen to be that you found yourself in a bad situation, one thing lead to another and then all of the sudden you were like a child to Gelato and Sorbet without calling them your parents. And to be frank, so did the entirety of La Squadra, as they thought the couple were content with each others company but nope— they decided to pick up a random kid from the street... At least that's what they knew based in the info the couple has given them. To you, it was an entirely and distinctively different narrative. It all started after spending an over time in school tending to the Mount Everest tall school requirements, picking up numerous books and shoving all of it in your bag. If ever you were pushed in a river, you swore that the bag will simply weigh you down in it. It was in the middle of the evening, idly walking back to your home passing through crowds of strangers. Your home was quite the distant, but you decided to persevere and walk home, as you had to spare money for an extremely expensive fare at this time of the night. Naples' streets were still busy despite the time, but you couldn't blame them. All the sights and sounds visible during the night can be quite pretty and desirable than the day. And so there you were, minding your own business, walking... Walking... Walking... And musing about the possible dangers of the night may bring I mean come on— this is Naples for crying out loud. It was sadly the norm, but you were used to it. All you can do was to look down, and prayed that it wouldn't be your day to encounter these type of people. But of course, the universe operates in a way in which it will take any opportunity to fuck one up, one way or another. You take your usual route home, idly swaying along to tunes you've made and mumbled to yourself when you noticed a particular person who has been walking behind you ever since you've set foot outside of the school gates. At first you shrug, knowing you weren't the only one taking this route and so you ignored the stranger completely clad in dark colours, with no chance of identification. This was your first mistake. Finally, you noticed how much he took the same turns as you did, watching you intently through their dark tinted glasses. And so, you picked up the pace of your strides and so did he. Panic arose in your stomach, but you made no move to implicate your extreme anxiety pulsating through your nerves. It felt like drinking five cans of energy drink in the middle of the night in a span of two minutes after being dared by friends (oddly specific, I know.), except you were actually fearing for your life. You looked around you for a possible place of escape, gaze darting from structure to structure until it landed on people. It was a good idea to hide or perhaps blend yourself with groups of people and yet somehow, your first instinct upon laying eyes on people was latching yourself on the first civilian you can latch on. This, being the couple who had decided to take a breather from the suffocating environment of La Squadra headquarters. Sorbet was confused the moment someone clung to his arm, tight and showed no signs of letting go. He was pissed, but got a glimpse of your shaking hands and the fear in your eyes. Whilst Sorbet was busily analysing your intent, a wrathful blond was ready to shed some blood. Gelato was more than prepared and had no problem to discretely retrieve his revolver from his back pocket, pull the hammer and trigger, empty the whole damn barrel in your brain when you had the most brightest idea to cling on Sorbet's arm whilst they were having a peaceful walk. He was more than pissed at the fact that Sorbet hadn't shoved the bitch away the moment they clung to him. "Please help me..." Your voice low, small and desperately pleading

for help. This was then further solidified at your shaky hands clinging tightly onto Sorbet's arm. "A man... He's following me, sir... Please... He's walking behind us... Wearing all black. I don't know what to do, please help me." Well then, it turns out Gelato was plotting to empty the barrel of the gun on the wrong person! Well at first he was righteously indignant by your audacity to cling onto his husband so suddenly, and rage has further blinded him that he didn't notice the fact you were wearing a school uniform, smaller than they were. "Oi kid, your padre and I were worried about you! Why are you still out this late, hmmm?" Sorbet acts naturally, assuming into the position of a stern and protective father far too perfectly. Knowing his husband truly well, Gelato knew what to do and decided to play along. He lets go of Sorbet's hand, before going around to grab yours so they had you between them. "What were you doing in school anyways? Is it your damn teachers again?" For a moment you were taken aback, before realization dawned on you and cleared your throat to answer, "Well I was just finishing up some works school. I thought you wanted me to improve in school?" "It's flipping eight in the middle of the night! What if some sicko snatched you up?" Sorbet scolds, momentarily looking behind his shoulders before noticing the figure dressed in black still following. "We will discuss this back at home. Let's just get dinner for now." Gelato chimes in, as the three of you stopped in front of a restaurant. The couple had just gotten out to eat, but fuck it. Sorbet sighs, "Fine. Next time you won't do that again, alright? Your padre and I were just worried is all." "I'm sorry, Papá, it won't happen again." You entered the restaurant and reserved yourself a booth. You were more than relieved upon entering the restaurant and seeing the man following you scurry back. Letting out a sigh of relief, you look across the booth to give the couple your words of gratitude. "Thank you so much, I didn't knew what to do! I'm so sorry for disturbing you!" You profusely pouted out, picking your bag up from the foot of your seat, preparing to leave when the blond assassin gently got a hold of your wrist prompting you to stop. "Kid, it's late. I think it's best if we wait this out for a little bit, okay?" Gelato said, whilst Sorbet nodded beside him. "What's your name?" "It's Y/N... Signore." "My name is Gelato, this is my husband Sorbet." "It's great meeting you, Y/N. Would you care for some refreshments? Our treat." After getting to know each other, how they now knew you were an orphan residing in the local orphanage, they took the time and care to make sure you arrive home safe and sound. The couple had the mutual revelation and agreement they wanted a child of their own. The way you referred to Sorbet as Papá somehow awaken the remaining fondness he has for another human being other than his husband, Gelato. Time exploded like a bullet from a gun and after school you found yourself spotting the couple, waving hi to them and stopping for a quick chat before going your separate ways. To you, your encounters with them were purely coincidental, you only get to interact with them within occasions you can see them. The couple, on the other hand... They were settling some paperwork in the orphanage from where you resided your whole life. "And now I'm here, I guess." You shrugged, as Formaggio and Pesci seemed to have been frozen in time, taking the time to comprehend how distinctively different your telling was from their colleagues. "Now you know." "Heh, I knew it." Illuso proudly proclaims, crossing his arms to.his chest with a lopsided grin. "Y/N, it's late. Go to bed. Your fathers are going to kill us if they found out you're staying up late." Prosciutto says as he passes the couch you were seated on. "What? But it's the weekend tomorrow! There's no school tomorrow!" You whined, watching as Prosciutto disappear from the hallways. "Huh, I always knew the two weren't painting the whole picture." Melone

mutters out loud. "Painting the whole picture? What's that supposed to mean!?" Ghiaccio suddenly chimes in. "Y/N, it's pass your bed time. Please go to your room." You jumped upon the sudden intrusion of a new person speaks up behind you. Looking back from your shoulders, you see the Capo's lingering and towering figure over you. "Y-yes sir. Off I go to bed." You stepped away from the couch. "Goodnight everyone." A chorus of goodnight responded, before you entered your designated room. The whole La Squadra may not have seen this coming, nor do they thought it was practical but seeing the couple happy with this decision of theirs, then they'd brush it all aside. They're just happy that they're happy.

[wildlyglittering]

The Journey Begins with a Smile

So ages ago (and I do mean ages) I asked people to give me some Nessian prompts and I had four requests. Not many so that’s completely doable I thought. 

Since my request, things didn’t go so well for my personal life and then, on a global scale, a pandemic hit. Both those things meant I wasn’t writing or even reading much. 

BUT I was determined to fill those requests - even if the requesters had forgotten or no longer cared! Luckily I have managed to get my groove back so am trying to ride the writing train for as long as it will carry me!

@ekaterinakostrova requested something where Cassian made Nesta smile for the first time. I’ve taken some liberties to fill the prompt but here it is. Finally. 

I hope you enjoy!

***

The multi-level gardens of the Day Court stretched outwards like a labyrinth.

Unlike the Night Court, whose gardens were sensibly flat, Day’s held winding staircases which lead to a plethora of mezzanines, stacked one after another. Each offered a new delight; pools of water swimming with gold and white fish, pagodas draped with ever blossoming honeysuckle or fountains carved with the curved forms of caressing lovers.

Some paths appeared to lead to dead ends, but the experienced visitor long learnt appearances were deceiving. As long as the explorer had the foresight to move thickets of ivy and trailing roses aside, they would find smaller paths twisting towards secret grottos.

Aside from the romantic allure of mystery, the garden’s contained an energy which reverberated through Cassian’s bones. Although the deep calm of the Night Court lands was his preference, Cassian found staying in Day was never an unpleasant experience.

Wandering the gardens would have been its usual satisfying activity if not for the frustration simmering in Cassian’s veins. Not an hour before he’d bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the copper of his blood before storming from the bedroom suites, leaving the other occupant behind.

His anger, and hers, were twins to each other. When the subject matter at hand arose, rational discussion dissipated like smoke in a storm and, as they were both apt to lose their tempers, that’s exactly what they did. After those times, it was best they stayed apart.

Being away from the Night Court brought up the familiar argument.

Cassian scrubbed a hand over his face, they were in Day on Rhys’ orders otherwise they wouldn’t have been there at all.

The knowledge of who Lucien was to Helion, and who the Lady of Autumn had been, was now widely known. Now, the painful possibility of civil war loomed over the Courts, brought on by the betrayal of an unwritten code of conduct. Helion was thinking ahead, reaching out to all potential allies in the hopes if he gained enough, Autumn would be dissuaded to start conflict.

There was no question Rhys would pledge to Helion.

It didn’t hurt though, Rhys said, to pay Day a visit.

Rhys spoke about contingency planning and counter-measure tactics but Cassian had known Rhys long enough to understand the guise. Under everything lay the ripple of the question of Spring’s allegiance and the inevitable shift of power towards the next generation of High Lords, including those Rhys was unable to befriend.

Custom dictated High Lords, and now High Lady, were the only ones to be allowed in the sanctum to speak politics. However, Rhys requested the attendance of his Inner Circle - where Rhys went, his most trusted followed.

What was less clear was the rationale behind Rhys’ request that those connected to the Inner Circle also attend. It was, Cassian believed, Rhys’ attempt to keep his friends compliant and a way to curry favour from others - namely Lucien who always hungered for time with Elain.

This secondary request was the one which opened the festering wound close to the surface of Nesta’s skin.

In an effort to find some calm, Cassian took to walking the gardens, like he had many times before. Like those times before, his steps took him a familiar route. Maybe, in the depths of his subconscious mind, he sought out what would bring him solace no matter how measly a sliver.

He ventured down a staircase, overflowing with floating lilacs, and onto a terrace which was surprisingly spacious for such a narrow-arched entrance.

This particular mezzanine was paved with sand coloured stone and framed by apple trees, their branches reaching towards each other like fingers. The waist high balcony overlooked the next level down – the glass domed ceiling of the sunken library.

This terrace, tucked away in the constructed gardens, housed the collection of seven statues who all faced inwards, into their circle, for eternity.

Like all statues in Day, the figures had been carved from marble run through with thick veins of gold and silver. Unlike the other statues, Cassian held an interest for these and these alone.

Whichever sculptor Helion found, he found one with talent. Despite the fact they were rock the sculptures contained something so painfully real. They were motionless yet their bodies held motion, they were emotionless yet their faces held emotion. When Cassian reached out to touch them, he swore there was bone beneath their stone skin.

Day was never more glorious then how she was now, in the full swing of her namesake and the wide blue sky called to Cassian to dance. Though his muscles ached to obey and his wings quivered in anticipation, he wouldn’t fly. Day was filled with sharp, ornate spires and he’d navigated a similar path unsuccessfully before.

But being trapped on the ground did nothing to help his mood; his legs shook, his eyes stung. Cassian was tired of the burning sun, tired of being apart from his friends, tired of the endless political deliberations of the other High Lords.

When he was unable to fly, Cassian needed to find other ways to curb his energy. One of those ways often involved his willing mate.

Except, at this current time she was not quite so willing. The blush pink rooms they were guests in were uncomfortably close to the rooms of others so Nesta didn’t want to make love to him here. She was even less likely to be inclined towards Cassian’s persuasions following their argument.

This was a radical departure from how they were in the isolation of their mountain cabin, especially in those final days. Time had turned into hourglasses and the sand of their lives trickled through their fingers fast then they breathed.

They couldn’t move to each other quick enough then, couldn’t remove their clothes fast enough, couldn’t press their bodies close enough.

Since their return to Velaris it was as though Nesta was turning into stone as cold and hard as the material of the statues Cassian now stared at.

Cassian sighed, drawing a deep breath of the lilac scented air into his lungs and walked towards one statue in particular. The one he thought of as his twin.

The stone fae stood high on the ends of its toes, as if it couldn’t bear to have any part of itself touching the ground. The arms stretched over its head, fingers straining upwards, begging for the sky to claim it. The figure didn’t have wings but Cassian imagined them, stretched out behind, broad and strong.

Cassian’s own wings, tangible flesh and bone, twitched as a breeze drifted past.  

The circle existed for centuries but grew in number over the years. The first ones, the original ones, hadn’t changed but the way Cassian looked at them had. Once a carefree nature danced about them but, like all things weightless, that had floated away.

The invisible weight on them now was hard and heavy. Even the figure for the sky had something buried under the surface that hadn’t existed before.

Cassian was no fool – he recognised his own transference. What he saw; fatigue, anger, sorrow – these were his own burdens and in turn he projected them onto the poor stone creature in front of him willing it to absorb what he didn’t want.

Cassian ran his hand once more over his face. He wanted his effigy to take Nesta’s words which today were sharper than usual with insults flung towards his family with flippant ease. He reminded her that when she spoke with venom against them, she spoke venom against him.

Take your antidote then, she’d sneered, beg your friends to draw it all out if you think I’m such poison.

Nesta hadn’t been fully happy in the mountains but she’d been as close to peace as he’d ever seen. Finally, a part of Nesta was at rest, and the female Cassian loved was in a place he loved. All had been right for a time, their hearts in full growth, only to shrink into themselves when they were summoned back to Velaris.

Cassian would be misguided to think their arrival in Day was what agitated Nesta to begin the fight that morning. He could pretend she picked up on his restlessness or that she didn’t care much for the Court however the latter was a lie.

During her lengthy rehabilitation Nesta had visited Day on numerous occasions, sometimes with Cassian but often without. On the instances he visited her he was forced to choke down his jealousy at seeing Nesta and Hellion walking arm in arm, understanding that the High Lord of Day was playing a significant part in helping her heal.

Nesta would spend every minute in this place if Helion asked her to.

No, everything triggered from Rhys’ request that Nesta come to Day.

In Nesta’s eyes, Rhys’ request was a command; a command which served only to appease Rhys’ ego and prove he would always be able to demand the lives of those around him bend to his will.

Rhys wanted Cassian to be in Day and Rhys wanted Nesta to provide a pleasant distraction for Cassian’s restless nature. There was no other purpose.

The bitterness bled into Nesta at the fact Rhys demanded her attendance in a place she adored and would visit without complaint. Rhys had smirked it was the ‘without complaint’ he’d wanted from her for once.

She came only because Cassian had pleaded.

 The heavy honeysuckle cloyed at Cassian’s nose and he decided to leave the gardens before he drowned in the scent of flowers. He’d find Az, a permanently sympathetic ear, who would patiently listen to Cassian’s complaints about how suffocated he was in a place he longer wished to be.

As he turned, a flash of marble hidden in the trees caught his eye.

Cassian hadn’t noticed anything else on this mezzanine before but it was no surprise, the white figure among the deep green leaves was set apart from the circle and tucked out of sight.  

Drawing closer he saw the statue stood with its back to the rest, head titled downwards. The marble designed to be the hair splayed outwards as though caught in a tumultuous wind. Something about the statue, something about her, hollowed out Cassian’s chest.

“Why didn’t Helion put you with the others?���

“Because she doesn’t belong with the others.”

A voice, smoky and deep, carried across the space and Helion appeared from behind a wall of ivy onto the terrace next to him.

Cassian quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know about that secret passage.”

“That’s the whole point of it being a secret,” Helion said with a wistful sigh. “Now I’ll have to move it.”

“Don’t on my account.”

“And have you get here quicker to start your sulking? I don’t think so.”

Cassian opened his mouth to refute Helion’s words but the High Lord spoke over him.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said with a nod to the statue. “Out of all them, this one’s my favourite.” Helion turned to Cassian, dark skin glowing from the light within, mischief in his eyes.

Cassian bit his teeth together.

She was beautiful though, curves and angles, and the strength of stone. But who were they speaking of? The statue or Nesta herself?

“Why is she over here and not with the rest?”

The smugness slid from Helion’s face, his dark eyes scanning Cassian’s face, categorising every imperfection and scar as though he searched for something. Perhaps he wasn’t able to find what he wanted and a sad smile crept onto his face. “I told you – she doesn’t belong with the others. If I put her in the circle where would she gaze? At the ground? I won’t have that for her.”

Cassian’s mouth twisted, “She’s already looking at the ground.”

Helion cocked his head to the side, like one of the curious dogs in the mortal realm who sensed an invisible Cassian without truly perceiving him.

“Interesting how we can view something so differently. Tell me,” Helion said, “what are you seeing?”

They stood, arm length apart, one a High Lord and one a General. One draped in white and gold silks and the other clad in black leather. Winged and grounded.

Centuries existed between them with decades of Helion’s decadent parties where his fingertips would trail across the skin of Cassian’s muscled forearm, his mouth curled into a sensual smile. They’d not gone to bed with each other but shared at least one female over the years.

Here they stood in the sun; no lustful invitations, no pulling of rank. They were two males, competing in a game with stakes Cassian didn’t care for.

Still, he described her. Head downward, eyes downcast, eyelids. No sculptor would ever be able to create something so fine but Cassian swore there were delicate, long eyelashes casting a shadow against the sharp sculptured cheekbones. The graceful neck curved into a collarbone and clavicle with strands of stone hair caught in a storm of her own making.

Head and eyes down. This is what Cassian relayed to Helion. “Are you satisfied?” he growled, “I’m tired of playing.”

Cassian had jested over the years that Helion had a way of undressing him with his eyes, of looking beyond the armour and siphons to the male underneath. Helion had roared with delight and asked Cassian if he wanted to put that feeling into action.

Now, with the High Lord’s dark eyes on him, Cassian believed Helion was witnessing something deeper, that he was now staring beyond bone and blood.

“I know when you’re upset,” Helion said, glancing away, “and where you go when you are. You’ve walked this pathway numerous times and besides, these are my gardens, they tell me everything.” Helion’s eyes flickered back to Cassian, “You’re not as prone to idiocy as Rhys would have you be. Look again and try and do it properly.”

I have, Cassian wanted to tell him but he hadn’t.

Her stone feet were planted on solid ground, the stone hands down by her sides with the palms facing upwards. Her head was still down as were her eyes.

The figure seemed to change the longer he looked, one expression melting into another, completely different from before; disinterest, anger, peace. Cassian followed the line of her eyes to the gold domes roof of the sunken library glinting in the sunlight on the mezzanine below.

The statues full lips were tilted upwards into a smile, small but there.

“You don’t love Day,” Helion said to him, his deep voice breaking through the storm of Cassian’s thoughts.

“I enjoy it.”

“But Day will never be home.” Helion raised a robed arm towards the sky, long dark fingers stretching out, the light greedily swimming around his skin. “You seek freedom and you can’t find that here. So, my question to you oh miserable one, where do you find freedom?”

Cassian shrugged; this was an easy question and though Helion already had the answer, Cassian would play a little longer. “Velaris. The mountains.”

“And who are you free with?”

Helion’s tone was sly and conspiratorial as though he was inviting Cassian into a darkened room and asking him to share all his secrets, whispering across velvet pillows or through draped curtains. It was like honey dripped from Helion’s mouth.

Cassian’s fists clenched, tendons sliding over bones as he flexed his fingers.

Helion was skilled at drawing out confidences that most fae wanted to keep hidden. He emitted some strange magic which made Cassian want to dash to the nearest scribe and spill everything he had. Names and faces swam into Cassian’s mind, seemingly at Helion’s bidding, the most prominent being the one who spent her morning scowling at him.

Her name took shape at the end of Cassian’s tongue.

“You know who,” Cassian choked the words out in lieu of the ones that was forming, “don’t play your games.”

Helion stepped closer to the statue with a sigh and trailed a graceful finger across the carved lifeline on her upturned left palm. The line cut off not long after it started before beginning again, half a nail width away. It matched the real version perfectly.

Helion pouted and peered over the ledge. “It’s no fun if you don’t want to play but let’s not then, let me share with you a truth which your own truth speaker doesn’t care to bring to you. Nesta isn’t free in Velaris, but then you do know this.” Helion’s eyes glanced from the sun glinted library roof to Cassian’s face.

“She’s free here though. My statues, my darling beauties, represent the hearts of my most welcomed guests and while you are quick to immediately assume that Nesta spends her time staring at the ground, I see she is simply seeking her own peace.” Helion shrugged, gold and white silk sliding over smooth dark skin. “Freedom looks different for everyone.”

“I know that,” Cassian snarled, teeth bared, “I don’t need some heavy-handed lecture.”

The air began to pulse as an energy reverberated around the stone of the terrace. The tree branches shook and the leaves rustled. One growl of power to a disobeying dog. A warning; never bear your canines at a High Lord in the very Court his blood runs through.

Cassian uncurled his fists, splaying his fingers in Helion’s eyeline. Acquiescence. Cassian was guilty of foolish behaviour but he was no fool.

Helion’s tone had bite. “I’ll forgive your misjudgement on account of your poorly developed emotional response mechanism but only this once. You get away with burying your head when in the Night Court but I won’t have it here. Let me speak plain - this statue is an everlasting part of my garden but it’s rock, expensive rock, but rock. I would happily welcome the originator of its visage to become a permanent member of my Court. I think she’d accept, don’t you?”

Although the power of Helion still sang its presence, Cassian restrained the urge to turn feral. He didn’t, wouldn’t, because despite what others thought, Cassian was no animal. Besides, some part of Helion’s words wormed their way through Cassian’s brain.

Perhaps Helion discerned the calm Cassian was desperately trying to maintain because his voice was soft when he next spoke. “You have two options my handsome friend; go together to a place where you are both equally as free or find your freedom apart. Sacrifices have to be made and they shouldn’t all be hers.”

The sweet scent of roses and lilacs drifted through the mezzanine and Cassian looked down at the statue’s open palm.

 “You can spend your time out here staring at an exquisitely carved piece of stone or you can reach for something real,” Helion said. “Your choice.”

Cassian thought of the circle of statues at his back, most especially the one on its toes spending centuries reaching for something that never came.

The squeeze on Cassian’s shoulder was gentle. “You’ll find her in the library,” Helion told him, “but then, you already knew that.”

Cassian sighed and closed his eyes and when he’d opened them, Helion had gone. Only the hanging ivy swaying by the wall was any indication of where he’d gone. Cassian looked back at the statue’s calm and serene face before trailing a fingertip onto the other open palm, half expecting her hand to curl around his, finding that he wanted it to.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I knew.”

Cassian wanted everything; Nesta, the Inner Circle, Velaris. He wanted his freedom; long fought for and hard won. He could have all those things if he pushed hard enough - but only for a time. His desires co-existing side by side would have lasted as long as a breath in the span of his lifetime.

There will be cost and Cassian understood the price.

He left the mezzanine and its sculptured delights behind. They were just statues, fixed to stand forever. Living things were meant to move.

The library was cooler than outside, filled with white marble columns and an expansive white marble floor making the space larger and lighter. Ivy weaved its way up the columns while the golden domed roof provided a welcoming warmth, counterbalancing the coolness of the stone.

Nesta was exactly where Cassian knew to find her, tucked away in her favourite loveseat under an arch in the romance section.

In the mountains Nesta told him how she spent her days in the Day Court; meals with Helion, walks with Helion, talks with Helion.

They all made Cassian’s stomach twist.

Nesta also told him she learnt to be alone with her thoughts. In those moments she went to the library, one of the few places she found comforting. There hadn’t been many safe spaces on offer to her in Prythian.

Cassian stood a small distance away behind one of the larger columns, folding his wings in as tight as he was able.

Nesta would always be one of the most beautiful females he’d ever seen. As she was now, with her head bent to her pages, she matched the statue above their heads; watchful and waiting.

Her face, smooth and still, could have been carved from stone, a testament to how expressionless she could be. If Cassian hadn’t experienced the passion, the sadness and the rage which existed underneath he would have believed she felt nothing at all.

Her cool voice carried across to him.

“Are you going to spend all your time lurking in the shadows?”

“I don’t lurk.”

Nesta looked over briefly, a delicate eyebrow raised, her pink lips downturned. Those blue-grey bore into him. She wasn’t in the mood for playing.

Cassian sighed and walked toward her. At least, he thought, Nesta shifted on the loveseat to make room for him. After their argument he thought she would be more inclined to try and beat him with the book she’d turned back to read.

They sat in strained silence. Nesta’s soft breaths out of sync with Cassian’s. She inhaled on his exhale. Everything was out of sync with them, even down to the core.

Cassian let out another sigh. Maybe he could fix this, re-set where they were going wrong. He shifted, his leg brushing against hers, so he could see her while he spoke.

��I was speaking with Helion,” he said.

Nesta kept her face to her book but raised an eyebrow again, “Oh.”

“Yes, in the garden.”

“Hmm,” she murmured and turned a page.

“He found me through one of his secret passageways.”

Nesta’s lips quirked into a small smile, “Now he’ll have to change it, so you don’t find it.”

“Yes, that’s what he said.”

“He has many that he’s always changing. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’m not.”

The silence fell over them again like a fog. They’d reduced themselves to small talk between strangers, Cassian at a loss for what to say and Nesta with no desire to help him find his words.

“He found me in the statue circle.”

She was about to turn another page, although she hadn’t really been reading since he sat down, but her fingers stumbled and she dropped the book which landed with a thud.

Cassian picked it up, the gold embossed words on a cover of rich green telling a story of love. Nesta reached out and as she did, Cassian used his other hand to grasp her wrist, “Nes...”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Let me go.”

It was a weak command, her voice shaking as she spoke but Cassian would always obey her will and he released her wrist. Nesta snatched at her book.

She didn’t open the cover, abandoning her pretence of reading and instead placed the volume on her lap, staring upwards towards the ceiling.

“I hate those statues,” she said.

“I know.”

“You have to visit them every time you’re here.”

“Not every time,” he replied but she turned, looking him in the eye.

“Yes, every time. I’ve seen you and I’ve felt you through the bond.” She looked away and started to trail the lettering on the cover with a fingernail. “Besides, Helion tells me you visit them a lot.”

Well, Helion is a spy and a snitch, Cassian wanted to say but bit those words down. This was Helion’s court and those were his garden’s, his statue’s. He went where he pleased and talked to whomever he pleased, and that, unfortunately, included Nesta.

“After our argument this morning I knew you would go there instead of coming to see me,” Nesta continued, “you and that damned circle.” Her voice cracked and she bent forward, placing her face in her hands so Cassian couldn’t see. Strands of hair fell from her crown braid over her forehead.

“Nesta,” he said, and Cassian took her wrists in his hands, gently pulling them away from her face.

Her face had blanched a stark white and the rims of her eyes were tinged pink. Despite the sheen of tears in them, Cassian knew she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Nesta always found a way of shoving everything into a box in her soul.

“You all get to spend eternity gawping at each other in every Court in every form, don’t you?” She snatched her hands away, smoothing down the frayed hairs away from her face, wiping at her eyes.

“They’re just statues,” he said.

“I know,” she hissed, “Don’t be belligerent Cassian, we both know you’re too smart for that.”

“I’m not being-” but he stopped speaking and sat back against the marble wall, his wings hitting them with a bang.

Cassian closed his eyes, trying to think of what to say to make any of this better. He thought back to their argument in the bedroom, mere hours ago which felt like days, surrounded by excessive amounts of silk in various shades of pink.

“There’s a statue of you,” he said, envisaging it like some lost old memory and not something he had been staring at less than hour ago. The image was clear in his mind; the windswept hair, the upturned palms, that lovely but sad face with its hopeful, delicate smile.

“I know.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“It’s set apart from the others.”

Cassian heard the rustling of her dress as Nesta shifted. “Helion told me he wanted it separate from the rest because it didn’t suit the others.”

Cassian’s heart picked up its pace, “What do you think about that?”

“I agreed. The statue should be away from the rest. It doesn’t fit with the others.” Nesta let out a gentle sigh. “I don’t fit with the others.”

Cassian opened his eyes and stared into the distance.

The gardens were a labyrinth and the sunken library even more so, rows of white bookcases lined with vibrant colours, pastels or even shimmering golds stretched outwards until they stopped short of the central atrium, right underneath the top of the dome. The light shone through in beams and specks of dust danced amongst them.

They both sat rigid and unmoving with muscles locked into place and stared ahead, not at the rows of books but at the future in front of them, at decisions that would take them away or bring towards.

“Would that suit you?” Cassian asked, his voice thick. “Being apart from us? Elain? Amren? Me?”

Nesta’s fingers twitched on her lap, digging deep into the material of her skirts. “I don’t need to consider Amren in my plans and she knows this. Elain will understand in time; besides she has her own life now and gets to live the way she wishes so I don’t understand why I cannot.”

She paused. “Feyre will be irritated but she’ll come around in time. She’ll have to.”

“And me?”

The seconds of silence lasted longer than Cassian liked. There was no definitive answer, no immediate outpouring of emotion. His breath rasped in his ears and now he could hear Nesta’s, finally in time with his own. Her voice was quiet, travelling from a universe away.

“You can’t seem to understand why I don’t love the Night Court as much as you do so I don’t know whether you’ll come around in time.” Nesta picked at a loose thread on her dress. The more she pulled, the more it seemed she unravelled the sinews in his heart. “I don’t know how much longer I can wait until you do, if you do. I don’t heal in the Night Court; I can’t heal among those who hate me.”

Cassian wanted to reassure her; to say he would understand why she couldn’t love the Night Court, that eventually she would heal amongst the copper roof tops of Velaris and she was never amongst those who hated her. The words stuck in his throat and burned.

His love for the place he called home was built in his bones, constructed as part of him as he had wings on his back. Without his home he wouldn’t be Cassian of the Night Court, he wouldn’t be anyone.

“Helion has offered me a home here,” she continued.

Cassian nodded, his head bobbing on a neck that now felt too thin. Cassian understood Helion wanted to offer Nesta a home in Day, he wasn’t aware he already had. “Would you be happy here?”

“I think so.” Nesta let out a mirthless laugh, “Day is the opposite of Night and so the Court would suit me just fine.”

Something burnt inside his chest. His overworked, overwrought centuries old heart was now in flames and this was the beginning of it turning to ash.

“I can’t live in Day,” he said. “The Court is fine enough but this place would become to me what Night is to you. It wouldn’t sustain me.”

“We’re at an impasse then. The road ahead of us is splitting.” Nesta spoke the words with cold, impassive authority, the kind of tone she used for others which led them to assume she was a heartless creature.

But Cassian could feel her as he always had. A crack across her heart ran deeper than anything before. She’d been through hell and come out the other side carrying what pieces of herself remained within her clenched fists. This couldn’t be the event which broke her, he couldn’t be the fae that broke her.

Sacrifices, Helion told him less than an hour ago, needed to be made. But not all sacrifices needed to be a bad thing. Sacrificing something didn’t mean you would always lose; it may mean winning something more valuable.

“Yes,” he said, voice soft, “if you think the road only has two paths to choose from.”

Nesta took in his words, and Cassian could sense the moment they landed in her mind, how she sounded out their meanings. A strand of wavering hope rose between them.

“Oh,” she said but her voice held a tremor, the edge of anticipation she was clinging to and the thread wound itself tighter round her finger until her flesh turned white.

“I believe this morning an angry female hissed at me about retreating back to the mountains and staying in the cabin forever.”

Nesta pursed her lips. “Well, I believe the female had a right to be angry as I believe said female was being abandoned by her mate.”

“He would never.”

“Hmm.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I don’t want to leave them,” he said.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged and her hope dissipated from her like smoke. “I know,” she said, “I just-”

“However,” he interrupted, “that doesn’t mean I won’t leave them. At least on a semi-permanent basis.”

Nesta took a deep breath in.

“I can’t live here,” he gestured outwards to the marble pillars and trailing ivy and streams of violently bright light. “Day isn’t for me but Night isn’t for you. My life is in Velaris and I have responsibilities that I can’t leave and friends I want to see, but as long as I’m somewhere near, somewhere I can fly to them I think that will be fine.”

Nesta released her breath and Cassian carried on. “I can’t lose them Nesta but I won’t lose you. I’ve waited a long time for you even before I understood what I was waiting for. If Velaris will destroy you then at some point the city will destroy me too.”

He continued to stare ahead but Nesta’s arm brushed against his as she moved, her slight frame against his broad one. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pale face gazing at him and if he turned to her, he would see her hope anew.

“The cabin needs more work to make it habitable all year round and the winters are hard and isolating. I’ll need to fly to Velaris more often than you would want and you’re still going to have to visit your sisters. Honestly, I’d hate to make Elain angry.”

There was a soft sob next to him. “I’d hate to make Elain angry too,” but she smiled through her tears.

“We’ll have to think of a way to transport all your books. I’m not flying them to the cabin, not if you’re bringing that twelve book saga you’re into with the-”

Nesta grasped his chin in her slender fingers and turned his face to hers. Shining in those blue-grey eyes through the misty layer of tears was pure delight.

“Thank you,” she whispered and brought her mouth to his. The kiss was sweet on his lips, soft and slow and filled with the promise she would always love him. Cassian deepened the kiss, sliding his hands over her waist before trailing upwards on her back to tangle in her hair.

They stayed like that for a while, his tongue seeking out and sliding against hers; wet, luxurious kiss after kiss. Cassian groaned and gripped Nesta’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh beneath her dress and he swung her up and over onto his lap.

She pulled her mouth away and gasped, “No! Not here, not in front of the books!”

“The gardens then?” he joked and received a flick to his chin for his trouble.

“Helion will be disappointed.”

“That’s perverse.”

“No,” Nesta crinkled her nose, “that I won’t be making my home here.”

Cassian trailed his hands up Nesta’s back to her hair, tangling the strands around his fingers, looking forward to when he could make it took as disordered as her glorious statue’s. “Make this place your holiday destination. I’m sure you’ll frequent Day every time I’m in Velaris.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“And when we’re done appeasing the world we’ll be together again, at home.”

Nesta’s eyes scanned his face, the way Helion’s had done earlier, but instead of an assessment that had left Cassian found wanting, her eyes were soft and the blue-grey was the colour of the sky in the Night Court just after a storm.

“Yes,” she said, “at home.” She leaned in to kiss him again and before Cassian closed his eyes he soaked in the image, letting it burn forever into his mind. A perfect picture of Nesta in the flesh; her fluttering eyelashes, freckled nose and the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.  

[deborahdeshoftim5779]

Merlin & Arthur’s friendship: clichés versus reality (Part III)

Following on from Merlin & Arthur’s friendship: clichés versus reality Part I and Part II, here’s Part III.

CLAIM 5 #: Merlin thinks fighting is meaningless violence

Merlin certainly claimed it-- but his actions told a different story. 

It took me a long time to understand that Merlin was in fact very similar to Arthur. This realisation came while rewatching episodes 5x03 and 5x04 in particular; in the latter episode, Merlin admitted to Arthur that if someone had murdered his father, he would probably have sought vengeance. Yet we know that Merlin hated vengeance, and that he had physically intervened to stop Arthur from yielding to said vengeance. 

This led me to see how Arthur and Merlin’s friendship became a coping mechanism to deal with the loss of their respective family (literally and figuratively).  

One key way that Merlin is similar to Arthur is that he, too, pretends not to like something in public, while his actions speak differently. 

Hence why Merlin loved claiming that fighting was pointless, that it was just “sweaty men knocking the sense out of each other” (episode 4x09), and appeared not to enjoy training sessions. Episode 1x02 had a hilarious and undoubtedly genuine example of Merlin abhorring the art of war, as he struggled to hold his weaponry, tripped, tumbled, and probably ended up with tinnitus! “D’you you hear clanging?”

I used to think this change occurred much later, but episode 1x02 showed Merlin eagerly watching the tournament just one day after he complained about having to learn more fighting techniques and about being Arthur’s servant. 

Also, after being pilloried for being clumsy with Arthur’s armour, the first thing Merlin did was to seek Gwen’s assistance. Look how proud he was later, when he put everything on correctly. “That was much better,” Arthur said, to which Merlin responded, “I’m a fast learner.” 

This suggests that, being a resourceful person who lands on his feet, Merlin quickly realised that he would have to learn about warfare if he was to make his way in Camelot. 

I already have a lengthy post proving that Merlin had excellent capabilities in battle, and that Arthur had potentially trained him better than his knights. See the link below this post. 

However, the greatest evidence that Merlin respected the art of war was his insistence that Arthur stand up and fight to reclaim Camelot. This occurred chiefly in episode 3x13, when Arthur was discouraged by Morgana’s treachery, and in episode 4x13, when Arthur completely lost hope and abdicated the throne. 

In both episodes, Merlin helped take back Camelot not only using magic, but also with the sword. Notice that in episode 3x13, Sir Lancelot never questioned Merlin’s ability with a sword. Instead, he was impressed by its powers. As far as Lancelot was concerned, Merlin was “the one Arthur should knight. You’re the bravest of us all and he doesn’t even know it.” So Lancelot knew that Merlin was a capable fighter, and would embody the noble warrior so admired in Camelot. 

Ironically, Lancelot did not live to see Merlin dressed as a knight in 4x05 during the mission to trap King Caerleon. 

Of course, we have an example from Merlin’s own mouth: “You’re a great warrior,” he said to Arthur in episode 1x13. In episode 3x01, he was impressed by Arthur fighting blindfolded against two opponents, though he quickly tried pretending that he had “seen better”. In episode 3x04, he laughed at Dagr’s threats against Arthur: “I’d like to see you try!” Then he tried persuading Gwaine to stay in Camelot on the basis that, “You and Arthur: you fought well together.” During that episode, Merlin was impressed by Gwaine’s fighting before and during the mêlée. 

In episode 5x05, he watched Arthur duelling against Mordred unarmed, then stood up to applaud the king. We can safely assume this occurred many times, since Merlin attends all training sessions and is responsible for maintaining all of Arthur’s armour. Many scenes, such as in episodes 4x05, 4x09, and 5x03, show him either polishing or putting on Arthur’s armour. 

So why all of Merlin’s dismissive comments? For one thing, he didn’t like the braggadocio and arrogance of many knights-- or those who would wish to be knights. Hence why he called Valiant a “creep” in episode 1x02, much to Arthur’s amusement. Secondly, he did not see the point of certain tournaments, such as that of episode 3x11. It didn’t help that Arthur said, “The only rule is: there are no rules.” Thirdly, the death toll alarmed him. “Cause last time this tournament was held, three men died... That was just on the first day.” (Also episode 3x11.) 

Another reason that hit me while rereading this: Merlin wasn’t naturally good at fighting. Remember that Arthur said, “I’ve been trained to kill since birth.” (Episode 1x01) This suggests some natural talent on his part, though greatly improved with hard work. Meanwhile, Merlin not only fumbled with weaponry, but faced merciless teasing from Arthur about his lack of skill. To compensate for his feelings of incompetence, Merlin linked Arthur’s fighting prowess to his arrogance: “How long have you been training to be a prat?” (Episode 1x01) 

While he had a good point, it was also a way to dismiss his inexperience with fighting and other facts of life. We have to remember that he came from a tiny, poor village. Camelot could have been another planet. 

Despite all this, when it came to watching Arthur train, watching Arthur train his knights, and, most importantly, fighting to defend Camelot, Merlin had nothing but respect for the art of war. 

CLAIM #6: Arthur (mostly/always) needed Merlin to make big decisions

Untrue, as the following examples will demonstrate.

By the way, Merlin helped fuel this idea that his decisions were necessary for Arthur’s rule. In episode 4x11, he asked Gaius whether he should do anything to cause Arthur and Gwen’s reconciliation. Gaius rightly asked, “You don’t think that’s a little arrogant?” 

In episode 3x07, Arthur decided to rescue Gwen’s brother-- a complete stranger-- from the Castle of Fyrien. Just one episode later, he succeeded at the majority of his quest in the Perilous Lands despite being enchanted to lose his energy. Needless to say, the choice of retrieving the trident of the Fisher King was Arthur’s alone, made after a night of contemplation. 

Another great example comes from episode 4x05, where Arthur repented of his wrongdoing to Caerleon and his kingdom, and refused to make his men risk their lives on his account. He then took matters into his own hands, pleading with Queen Annis to invoke the right of single combat. 

In episode 4x06, Arthur only told a few people that he was riding through the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Merlin wasn’t one of those people, hence why he said, “Arthur. You are not serious...Nothing good ever happens in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Nobody in their right mind would go in there.” 

How come Merlin didn’t know? Arthur said, “The routes are secret, Merlin: that’s why *we* chose it.” Emphasis my own. Later, we discover that Arthur had discussed this with his council, a select number of knights, and Agravaine. 

My favourite example comes from episode 4x11. Arthur negotiated with a longstanding rival, Nemeth, over the status of the lands of Gedref. We cannot underestimate that achievement. Arthur said that the lands have “long been in dispute”, and when he announced the end of their negotiations, the knights looked extremely nervous. Arthur had to allay their fears by calling it a “fair and honourable agreement”. That may have been a polite way of saying that they had avoided humiliating sacrifices and war. 

On top of that, Arthur sealed the treaty by securing an engagement to the Princess of Nemeth-- exactly the kind of political savvy that his father had encouraged. “Your marriage should have been used to form an alliance with another kingdom…” (Episode 5x03.)

The first thing Merlin said was, “How come I didn’t know any of this? How come you didn’t say anything?” I will not go into why Merlin’s reaction here was presumptuous and arrogant, but we can see that Arthur deliberately kept this information from Merlin to avoid disagreement and argument. 

Of course, the great episodes 5x01 and 5x02 show Arthur risking everything to save his men “or die trying”, because to do otherwise would be to sacrifice his beliefs. In episode 5x04, Arthur decided to rescue King Rodor from King Odin, in spite of the immense danger and the holes in Princess Mithian’s story. In episode 5x05, he decided to beg the Disir for Mordred’s life, because he did not want another innocent man dying on his behalf. 

And so on. 

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART IV

More on Merlin’s fighting skills

[shihalyfie]

Out of curiosity, I’ve noticed you don’t touch on tri, any particular reason? I know a lot of fans myself included don’t care for it but I don’t wanna assume that’s the case

I had a feeling I was going to get this question eventually, and I tussled with myself for quite a while on whether I should answer it publicly or privately, since this is a blog I’d like to mostly dedicate to appreciating the nuances and themes within Adventure and 02 and how carefully they handled all of the topics within, and I’d like to hold back on negativity for the most part (just because I talk about there being a meaningful reason behind most creative decisions in Adventure and 02 doesn’t mean I necessarily like all of them, I just don’t feel like this is the place to be adding those kinds of personal sentiments, because this is meant to be an analysis blog, not a review blog). That said, my meta has been getting a lot of traction lately (thank you so much! I really appreciate it!) and I do feel like this question must have crossed people’s minds at some point since it is a bit of an elephant in the room, so I think people have the right to know the answer.

To those of you reading this who are fans of tri., I sincerely apologize, since some less than kind things are going to be in this answer (although I do hope that maybe the tag would have successfully caught in some blacklists for those trying to avoid this kind of negativity).

The short version of the answer is that “I couldn’t get it to work, and I don’t have the energy to do it.” The long version of the answer is that I did actually try to analyze and pick apart tri. in detail a year ago, but unlike with Adventure and 02, where looking at it deeply and trying to extract details out of it revealed that a lot of it did make sense or at least have a reason behind it, looking at tri. with this level of depth made it fall apart even more. The contradictions and things that don’t make sense aren’t just one or two things you could safely ignore like with, say, Armor Evolution to the Unknown or Tag Tamers or Hurricane Touchdown, but practically permeate the entire text of it (and this is especially the case when you bring 02 into play, but even if you were to isolate Adventure into a vacuum, there are too many things that still don’t make sense), and it’s on every level as well; not just plot and worldbuilding, but also meaningful theme.

In the end, I don’t think this is just something that can be chalked up to mere happenstance, and I think the core of the problem is something that can be accurately summarized in the story of the two tri. scriptwriters who were fans of the original series, but kept getting their scripts rejected because it wasn’t “mature” enough. It’s not limited to just this incident, and it permeates a lot of the sentiments behind what you hear in tri. staff testimony -- a constant sentiment that the original series was a “kids’ show” that didn’t go into any kind of meaningful depth, and that the new series was meant to be “mature” in comparison. This is very, very painful for me to read, as someone who adores the original series because it had a significant level of depth and nuance that so many kids’ shows at the time wouldn’t even dare (and sometimes even to its detriment, since I’ve often complained how the series was too subtle for its own good, or kept going into things that would go over its target audience’s heads) -- contrast the statement about 02 that they wanted it to be a lighter series at first, but felt that it would be wrong to shy away from important things they wanted to say.

The entire premise of the series doesn’t work if you take even a single Adventure episode into account (45, which singlehandedly dismantles most of how tri. is even supposed to work), and there’s this thread of acting like the morality of killing/the morality of friendly fire was somehow new to this series when it comprised a whole quarter of Adventure and nearly the entirety of 02, and with so many other sentiments like this, the only conclusion I can reach is that they cared so much about that “maturity” that actually paying any mind to the series it was meant to be a sequel to was that low on the priority list. For me, who's mainly here to pay respect to the level of detail and thought and depth that the original Adventure and 02 staff put into their series, it just feels unfair to expect me to bend over backwards and compromise the integrity of the analysis just to make it “comply” with a series that never intended to be consistent or make sense in the first place.

Even if you do selectively include tri. elements, the more you try to involve, the more all of the contradictory facts and themes between Adventure/02 and tri. come into conflict like two magnets with the wrong sides facing each other, and you are repeatedly going to come into crossroads where you will have to commit to one over the other. At that point, the sheer level of speculation and workarounds to make it happen, and the things you'd have to toss out or modify from what was originally meant to be a comprehensive analysis, make it into less of an analysis and more headcanon and fanfiction. Which is perfectly fine if you want to go that route, I mean -- it's just that this isn't what this blog is for, because I'm trying to analyze and inspect what (the very uniformly consistent) Adventure and 02 were trying to say before another series (one that clearly had zero fundamental interest in maintaining any of that) came around fifteen years later. I include Kizuna mainly because it is incredibly easy to fit in comparison, given that it not only had original staff, but also is clearly made with just as much attention to detail and focus on meaningful theme as the original series was, and so it’s fairly easy to integrate it into an Adventure/02 analysis without much trouble -- in fact, Kizuna additions conversely often enhance and further elaborate on things that were already in the original series, so the helpful additions it adds far outweigh the work it takes to include it -- but that’s not the case for tri. at all.

Nevertheless, as I said, this is not a blog meant to focus on negativity. There are people who found something in tri. that spoke to them, or don’t really put so much weight into what the staff said or thought, and would like to see it in a way that works for them. I personally encourage this sentiment; just because I happen to be someone who treasures Adventure and 02′s integrity so much that I refuse to compromise does not mean I should inflict these feelings on others who don’t see it the same way. Because of that, I personally felt it was better to simply not cover it, rather than derailing every single analysis to make an aside about everything about tri. that doesn’t make sense, because that’s also going to be hurtful to anyone who does like one or more of the series and wants to make it work. But, after all, this blog is my personal analysis and way of seeing the series, and I cannot see it in a way that makes it work (and especially don’t have the energy to make an attempt for something I do in my free time), and so I would rather just pass the baton to those who feel more up to it instead; in other words, I’m not trying to invalidate tri.’s existence for those who want to make it work, and rather my stance is “I can’t figure out a way to make it work myself, so I will leave the reasoning to you.” Moreover, I’ve implied this a few times, but a lot of the ideas on this blog or in any of my analyses are not things I came up with on my own, but from sharing ideas and having discussions with friends in my private time, and I feel like I would be doing them a disservice by weaponizing all of the insightful things they’ve given me to dunk on something else. I love 02 a lot, and one of its major themes was trying to make the most positively productive thing you can out of what you have, and advocating for people to maybe appreciate something they may not have thought about before feels like a better use of my time.

If you are interested in my analysis of tri. from last year, I still keep it on hand mainly because -- well, to be frank about it, nearly every tri. diehard fan I’ve had a personal encounter with has said some very nasty things to me about how I’m not “smart” enough to appreciate the series, or how I’m being “unfair” about it, or how I’m not a “real fan” for not singing its praises, and so I mainly put this together as a collected document and proof of how I (and the few others who helped me put it together) did actually make due diligence and put proper scrutiny into trying to make it work (and couldn’t). (If you happen to identify as a tri. diehard fan and have not said this kind of thing to people, I sincerely apologize and want to make clear that I don’t want to pin the entire tri. fanbase as this kind of person; this was just my personal experience.) I wrote it mainly as catharsis and for the sake of other people who were interested in a detailed analysis, and also for the sake of other people who might have gotten these kinds of dismissive insults and wanted confirmation that their feelings weren’t baseless, or for bridging the gap between people who did like the series but want to understand why there are people who don’t (this apparently was a testimony from a few people who read it). That’s also why I’m linking it right now, since I imagine that there might be people curious about said aforementioned analysis after I’d just brought it up. However, I do warn that there is a lot of frustrated negativity, and that there is a sense of bias in that I wrote this “going in with doubt” instead of the more positive attitude I have with Adventure or 02 in that I assume there was a good reason for everything, and, frankly, if you like tri., I don’t actually suggest reading it or bringing that kind of negativity about something you like into your view. I also ask that people understand that the linked document is where I dumped all of my feelings cathartically and I do not enjoy dwelling on it further, nor bringing up this document when it doesn’t feel necessary, so I apologize, and I hope the stance I just expressed won’t taint anyone’s opinion of me too much...^^

[purplesurveys]

1289

Have you and your current/last significant other discuss your sexual histories? Well no, because we were each other’s firsts.

Have your religious beliefs stayed the same since you were a child? No. I separated myself from the one I was raised in 13 years ago.

Are you named after someone? Part of the inspiration came from the Swedish singer, yes; but for the most part my name was purely my dad’s choice.

Who do you need to forgive? Nobody. I don’t go that route.

What is one thing you admire about each of your parents? My dad has sacrificed a lot - most especially time with us - precisely to give us what we need and want. My mom has never seen anything as a barrier and would go through anything to be able to do what she has to do.

Describe a time when you were touched by someone’s kindness or compassion. I was surrounded with so much kindness yesterday - Angela and Hans paid for lunch even though I tried handing over my money; Bea offered to treat me at the coffee shop we went to and made me pick whatever I wanted off the menu (I ultimately declined); and a warm stranger held open the elevator doors for me, made nice small talk during the ride and kindly said his goodbyes when we parted ways.

What do you consider a relationship dealbreaker? I honestly don’t know how to answer this because I tolerated so many red flags that would have been immediate dealbreakers for anyone else. I’m not really brave enough to leave relationships.

Who is someone who drains your energy? A particular client at work.

What are the top three goals you want to accomplish in the next 12 months? I want to go on a long roadtrip; I want to be even better at my job; I’d like to start doing more adult things, like apply for insurance.

Do you feel that your parents treated you and your siblings the same or was there favoritism? I think there were elements of favoritism for each of us - asking for things came easy to me because I had the best grades out of the three of us; my sister was and is super sensitive so they never scold her; and my brother, as the youngest, naturally gets away with low grades or misbehaving.

Is there anything you will never forgive your parents for? Yes, my mom going through my private journal. And all the painful words she said to me at a time when all I needed was stable family support.

When did you first realize you were attractive? I guess when I got into my first relationship.

What is the most petty reason you've ever ended a friendship or relationship? There was a post making fun of BTS on Facebook and I spotted a couple of friends under the Haha react, so I unfriended them. It’s exactly petty and I wouldn’t hesitate to do it more times if I see it happening again.

Have you ever had a significant other that you were not attracted to? No. I’m not sure I can do that; though I know it’s not everything, looks still kind of matter to me so I have to find them attractive to an extent.

What's the one thing you wish you could do for the first time again? Attend a concert.

What's the longest you've ever slept for? Oh not sure. Maybe 8, 9 hours? I’m not a heavy sleeper so the longest I’ve slept is just the standard for most people hahaha.

What are you currently saving up for to buy? OMG this cute reversible Pride bucket hat from adidas :/ I went to their newest store yesterday and I VERY NEARLY bought it - like I already snatched it from the shelves and everything - but I already bought yet another BTS album this week, bought tickets for their online concert on the 24th, and spent on unnecessary food delivery too...so discipline got the best of me in the end and I had to place it back. Which sucks BECAUSE IT IS SUCH A CUTE BUCKET HAT IamliterallycomingbackforitassoonasIgetmynextpay.

Is there anything an ex has "ruined" for you? Love, I guess. I have no desire to invest in relationships any time soon, seeing how my efforts with her went to waste in the worst way possible anyway.

What life lessons did you have to experience firsthand before you fully understood them? Financial problems. Nothing served as a slap in the face to me more than when my dad had to sell one of our cars last year.

What was the best small thing your parents did for you when you were a kid? Bringing us to this nearby water park every weekend, which felt like a grand vacation.

[spotsbis]

This Doesn’t Feel Like Love Anymore (Sprace)

@newsiestozier here it is, finally!!!!

Words: 3157 (sorry, I kinda went off lol)

Warnings: drinking, kissing, swearing, fighting

AO3 link

---

It had started during the strike. Spot led an army of angry Brooklyn boys across the bridge into Manhattan, and then, he sort of just stuck around to see how it would all pan out. It certainly had nothing to do with one particularly loud and annoying boy who lived there.

Spot knew Race, or more acurately, he knew of Race. Race frequently crossed into Brooklyn territory to sell papes at Sheepshead, and, initially, the only thing that held Spot back from soaking him was not wanting to cause a rift with Manhattan. Things were tense enough between the boroughs, and one kid wasn’t worth starting shit over. Besides, Spot kept his boys far away from Sheepshead, not wanting them to squander their earnings betting on horses, so Race wasn’t really stealing anyone’s customers. Spot told himself that Race earning and spending money at Sheepshead was good for the Brooklyn economy or something like that, so he let him get away with it, for the economy, not because he had cute face.

Spot had followed the ‘Hattan boys into Tibby’s to celebrate their newfound fame on the front page of the Sun. Now that they were face to face, singing and dancing together, he had to admit, Race was pretty. So pretty that Spot was zoning out just thinking about him as he sat at a table near the door, glass in hand.

“Seeya tomorrow, Spot,” Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Spot bristled, but refrained from swatting at him as he was shaken back to reality.

“G’night, Kelly.” Spot watched as the Manhattan boys filed out behind their leader.

Spot leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. It had been a long day and he really didn’t feel like walking all the way back to Brooklyn. He wasn’t normally one to shirk responsibility, but after such an exhausting day, he assumed his boys wouldn’t have any trouble getting to sleep.

Spot opened his eyes at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, and he shifted forward so all four of the chair legs were back on the ground. Race had pulled up the chair across from him.

“Hiya, Spot,” he said, grinning.

“Race.” Spot nodded.

“You movin’ to ‘Hatten, now?”

Spot chuckled, “I don’t know if I’m quite sold yet.”

“I could show you a few things that might change your mind.” Spot squinted his eyes and frowned, trying to decide if Race was flirting with him.

“I mean, not that Brooklyn’s bad,” Race continued, mistaking Spot’s confusion for anger, and quickly backtracking. “It’s a great place, you gots lots of nice things over there.”

“Yeah, you would know, you spend enough time over on my turf.” Spot joked.

“Hey, I’m not taking any ‘a your boys’ sellin’ spots!” Race was relieved that he hadn’t actually upset Spot.

“Never said you were, I was just makin’ an observation.”

“Oh, so you observe me?” Race’s tone crept back toward flirty.

“Yeah, I do.” Spot stood up and carried his empty glass up the counter, turning his back on Race to hide the blush forming on his cheeks. Race followed him, downing the rest of his drink and stacking his glass next to Spot’s.

“I’ve uhh, I’ve observed you, too.” Race followed Spot out the door as the bell jangled behind them cheerfully.

Spot laughed, “I bet you have.”

Spot walked ahead a few paces, then turned back to look at Race, who was leaning against the door and making a clear show of ‘observing’ Spot, looking him up and down. Spot rolled his eyes, more annoyed by the smirk that crept onto his face than by the boy who caused it, and started walking again.

Race caught up to walk beside Spot. “Manhattan at night,” he breathed. “This is the peak of living.” He ran ahead and spun in a circle with his arms outstretched. “You’d be a fool not to want to live here!

“What’s one good that Brooklyn’s got that we’se don’t?”

Spot smiled. “Me, apparently.”

Race fell in step beside Spot once again and elbowed him in the side. “Not yet we don’t.”

Race looked around the city as if seeing it for the first time. Manhattan at night really had that effect, a certain magic that made it seem as though anything could happen. Spot’s hand accidentally brushed against Race’s knuckles and he reflexively jerked it away and kept looking forward as they walked without a destination.

Race was whistling what sounded like ‘look at me, I’m the King of New York,’ and seemed not to notice the accidental contact.

“So, do you just wanna walk around, or…? I’m sure Jack’ll let you crash at the lodging house if you want.”

“I’m not really tired yet.” Spot stifled a yawn; he was dead tired but didn’t want to stop spending time with Race. “And you still haven’t convinced me to move to Manhattan.”

“Right, right, and how am I gonna do that?”

“Give me a reason why Manhattan is better.”

“Okay.” Race grabbed Spot’s hand. Apparently, he had felt it before.

Spot let out a surprised sound, “That’s a start.”

“Yeah?” Race jerked him into an alley between two buildings. Race backed up against the building and pulled Spot into a kiss that ended much too soon.

“Does this mean if we ever start sellin’ papes again I can come back to Brooklyn?” Race asked. It wasn’t that he wasn’t fazed by the kiss, he just responded to nervous energy with talking. A lot of talking. “Maybe I’ll move to Brooklyn instead of you coming to Manhattan.”

“Yeah, whatever you want,” Spot mumbled, kissing Race again.

“This is nice, we should do this more often.”

“No shit,” Spot bit at Race’s lip.

Race pulled back slightly, “Did you’se always like me and that’s why you let me—”

Spot cut him off again, pushing closer to keep him from pulling away to start talking again.

...

That first night in Manhattan was the start of something exciting, scary, and a little dangerous. And that wasn’t even considering the strike.

Each rare, spare moment over the next few days found Spot and Race making out in some dark alleyway or shadowy corner. They hadn’t talked about what their relationship meant, or what would happen once the strike was over, and Spot lost his excuse to spend so much time in Manhattan. As often as Race went to Brooklyn, it just wouldn’t be the same. Spot had more eyes on him, it would be harder to hide their relationship, if it was even a relationship.

After Jack was taken away from the rally, Spot sat on the stairs outside the Manhattan lodging house as Race paced in front of him and smoked his way through a cigar at an alarming speed that a cigar was not meant to be smoked.

He stopped suddenly, “Am I in charge, now?”

Spot shrugged and looked back at the door of the lodging house. It was almost 11pm and there wasn’t any noise coming from inside, meaning the boys must have all gone to bed.

“Shit, I can’t be in charge.”

“Race, it’s gonna be fine. I’m sure Jack will find a way to get out of this.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Well, I run a whole borough. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Race gave him a confused look, “But, you’re… you! I don’t gots ya reputation, an intimidating-ass pimp cane,” Spot reached out with his cane and poked Race in the side, causing him to laugh, “or your cute face!”

“You got a cuter face than me, and you gots all those other things too, ‘cause you gots me,” Spot stood up and took a step toward Race. Race had seemed to rise back into high spirits as quickly as he had sunk into worry.

Race tossed away the rest of his cigar and pulled Spot into a kiss. At the sound of footsteps, the two jumped about a mile apart. Davey came barreling toward the lodging house, and in that moment, Race really did have to help lead Manhattan. The boys went inside the lodging house and sat around Kloppman’s desk on the first floor to discuss the strike in hushed tones, Spot right by Race’s side, as promised.

...

The next few days were filled with ups and downs, as the strike seemed to be over as quickly as it had started. For Race, the excitement of standing up to Pulitzer was overshadowed by the sight of Spot being driven back to Brooklyn in Roosevelt’s carriage. He couldn’t help but feel as through things wouldn’t be able to stay the same between them. Spot had returned to Brooklyn without so much as setting up a time to see Race. It had been over a week since Spot had really paid much attention to his newsies in particular, but Race couldn’t help but selfishly wish he actually had been able to convince Spot to move to Manhattan.

Race still crossed the bridge nearly every day to go to Sheepshead to earn a little bit of money selling papes, and lose a lot more money making lousy bets. Before the strike, he had always hurried past the Brooklyn lodging house, sometimes even taking a longer route to avoid passing it, but now he slowed down, taking his time to look at the small window at the very peak of the roof that he knew led to Spot’s room. Spot was probably out selling, or just sitting around looking threatening and unapproachable, Race had never actually seen him sell a pape. But, it was nice to be a part of Spot’s world, to even know which window was his.

“What’re you’se doin’ in Brooklyn? You fixin’ to steal my customers?”

Race turned around and was somewhat embarrassed at how quickly his face broke into a blush and a grin at the sight of Spot. Tongue tied and unable to form a snarky comment, Race responded, “Nah, just coming to see you.”

“Hmm, guess I’ll allow it,” said Spot, rubbing his chin as if he actually had to think about it.

Race tucked his papes under an arm, lighting the cigar that he had been holding between his teeth. The wind coming off the river made it difficult to light and Spot moved to block the wind for him, rolling his eyes.

“You showed me Manhattan, I’ll show you ‘round Brooklyn, c’mon.”

Race was more familiar with Brooklyn than Spot had been with Manhattan, but he didn’t protest as Spot grabbed his hand and led him around the docks surrounding the lodging house. Spot pointed out the various places where he had gotten into (and won) fights, and Race tried to act like he was not both simultaneously very attracted and a little afraid of Spot. They made their way to one of the lowest platforms and sat down with their legs dangling over the edge of the dock. Spot grabbed the cigar out of Race’s mouth.

“Hey! That’s my cigar!”

Spot raised an eyebrow and brought it to his lips.

“I thought you didn’t even like cigars,” Race grumbled.

“I like them when they taste like you.”

The cigar was quickly pressed out onto the smooth wood of the dock and forgotten in favor of actually tasting Race’s lips.

...

There were more days like that. Days that just felt right, happy, and good, like everything was going to work out. Race sold his papes as quickly as possible, then went to find Spot and they spent their evenings together. But it was always like that. Race going to Brooklyn. Race finding Spot. Race putting in the effort. Sure, Spot had lots of responsibilities running Brooklyn, but he could have gone to see Race in Manhattan just once, right? Race didn’t mind going to see Spot, but he wished Spot would do something to show that he actually cared about their relationship. So Race confronted him.

“Why’d’ya never come to Manhattan?”

Spot and Race were sitting on the small section of roof that hung over the back door of the Brooklyn lodging house and sharing a bottle of some shitty, cheap alcohol.

“I gots a lot goin’ on here, Race. I gotta be here in case someone needs me.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Race’s voice faded out before he could say, ‘but I need you, too.’ “I just feel like you aren’t tryin’ to make this work.”

“I’m not trying?! Race, you were the one having a breakdown at the prospect of running a borough for a few days! This is my fucking life!”

Race swallowed.

“Do you even know how much shit I have to deal with?”

Race shook his head. He didn’t like being yelled at, and he definitely didn’t like being yelled at by Spot.

“Every day it’s something new, someone’s sick, someone got in a fight, someone’s hungry, Manhattan goes on strike over a goddamn tenth of a cent! And I’m the one who has to make all ‘a the decisions! I hardly have time—” Spot hesitated, and Race’s mind filled in the rest, ‘I hardly have time for you.’

“I’m sorry,” Race said in a small voice. He wasn’t normally one to back down from a fight, but Spot hadn’t said anything he could argue against. Spot was a leader, he was important, people counted on him, and Race was just a pretty face to him.

“Forget it.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Spot’s name was called from somewhere inside the lodging house. Spot let out a breath of air and stood to go inside, handing the bottle to Race. He paused at the open window.

“Hey, Spot,” Race started. “Do ya think you could, though?”

“Huh?”

“Come see me in ‘Hattan sometime?”

“I don’t know—”

“This Friday’s m’birthday.”

“Oh,” Spot’s tone softened slightly. “Yeah, I could probably be there at like 9pm?”

Spot crawled through the window without any further goodbye, and left Race sitting alone on the roof, which would have been a dangerous combination any time, but the addition of alcohol made it even more so. Race followed into the lodging house before he could fall and break his neck, and made his way back to Manhattan feeling empty.

...

On Friday night, Race sat on Kloppman’s desk and watched the clock on the wall, absently tapping his heel against the base of the desk in time with the ticking, and humming, ‘happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me.’ It was almost 10pm and Spot still hadn’t shown up. It was dark outside and even though Race trusted Spot to take care of himself, Race couldn’t help but worry. He waited another five minutes, then jumped off the desk and walked out onto the dark streets of Manhattan, heading toward the bridge. If Spot wouldn’t come to him, Race would go to him, and give him a piece of his mind. Race grew more and more frustrated with each step, and justified the anger in his mind, convincing himself that Spot never cared about him and refused to put in any effort and had just been leading him on. By the time Race made it to the bridge, he had made up his mind that he hated Spot and huffed out an irritated sigh before beginning to cross into Brooklyn.

It was dark over the water between the sparse streetlights on the bridge, and about halfway through his angry stomping across the bridge, Race smacked directly into another person. A fist flew into his jaw before he could even react, knocking him sideways toward the railing.

“The fuck d’ya think you’re goin’?” the assailant growled, stepping closer. A car drove by, illuminating the scene, and the tone changed entirely. “Shit, Race?!”

Spot, realizing it was his own dumb boyfriend who had run into him, quickly moved forward to grab Race more tenderly.

“What the fuck, Spot?” Race spit. He was more mad about Spot not coming over to Manhattan at 9, but the punch hadn’t helped his mood.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you! Happy birthday!”

“I didn’t mean the fuckin’ punch, where were you?!”

“I—” Race cut off Spot by punching him in the face. He hit Spot’s cheekbone and his knuckles throbbed.

“What’re you doing?” Spot yelled as Race connected another punch with the side of Spot’s face.

Spot grabbed at his arms and attempted to push him against the railing of the bridge. Race kicked him in the shin and Spot dropped his arms, taking a step back.

“What the fuck? Why are you hurting me? I love you!” Spot screamed, his voice cracking.

Race froze for a second, fist raised and poised to punch Spot in the mouth. He realized they were both crying. It was the first time Spot had said he loved him, but at this point, it just hurt Race even more. “This doesn’t feel like love anymore.” He finished the punch with significantly less gusto than he had planned, and Spot just stood there and took it. Spot kept his mouth clenched shut and breathed loudly through his nose as he watched Race walk back across the bridge to Manhattan.

Race disappeared into the dark night and a few minutes past as Spot stood on the bridge, staring at the lights of Manhattan in the distance. He leaned over the railing and screamed into the dark water below.

...

Race left an hour earlier than normal to go selling next day so he could walk a roundabout route to avoid crossing as many Brooklyn newsies as possible. The Brooklyn Bridge was an unavoidable evil though, even an hour earlier in the day, and Race hurried past the seething glares of countless angry Brooklyn boys. He didn’t see Spot, but he could feel him in every glare directed his way. Race hadn’t done anything wrong; it was Spot who hadn’t put any effort into their relationship, Spot who had ruined it. That’s what Race kept telling himself at least, though a part of him was still stuck on Spot screaming that he loved him the night before, wondering if maybe it was Race who had overreacted.

Race distracted himself with his work, pawning off bad news and betting on all the wrong horses. It took his mind off of Spot for a bit, but the return trip to Manhattan across the bridge loomed over him all day.

Sure enough, on his way back from the racetrack, Race saw him. Spot was standing at the end of the bridge, face peppered with bruises and arms crossed confrontationally as he talked to the small group of Brooklyn newsies gathered around him. He glanced up as Race neared, squaring his jaw and straightening his posture. Race looked Spot dead in the eye as he approached, and brushed past him.

[aster-aspera]

Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds

CW's for this chapter: minor character death, semi-graphic descriptions of injuries, parental death, unsympathetic Remus

Relationship: romantic logince

This prompt was suggested to me by the lovely MizzMarvel on ao3

Chapter title is from thistle and weeds by Mumford and sons

This is Logan’s backstory in my superhero AU. You can find the whole thing on ao3 here  or on the masterlist here

As Logan walked home that morning, he felt invincible, untouchable. All the grey days at school fell away, all the teasing and bullying and all the fear was suddenly gone.

He felt like he was soaring, floating somewhere high above his life. He was so much more than himself in that moment.

Maybe, he didn’t want this to end. However terrifying chasing after criminals was, that particular high almost made the danger worth it. He mourned the fact that it would be over soon. That they would put the gang away, file away the info they had collected and go back to school, alone in the knowledge of what they had done.

The ecstatic feeling faded when he entered his garden and noticed the front door was open. His blood ran cold.

Logan dropped his bag to the floor, frustration written in the lines of his posture.

“Hey sweetheart, how was your day?” His mother called from her office.

“It was uneventful as always and I am not in the mood to discuss it further.” He replied shortly.

His mother rounded the corner and took in his drawn face and the force with which he set his books down on the table.

She held out her arms invitingly and Logan let himself be wrapped up in her embrace, savouring the feeling of safety it gave him.

“Are the other kids giving you trouble again?” She asked.

The other kids were the least of his worries, currently. He could handle their childish taunting. His other problems were related to the more dangerous, night time aspect of his life. But he couldn’t exactly burden his mother with that.

She would worry too much and while he wouldn’t exactly blame her for that, he didn’t need her nagging atop all his worries about Roman and Remus.

So he just nodded and left it at that.

His mother didn’t pressure him to say more. She understood that he didn’t always feel like talking.

Once he was finished with his homework, he locked the door to his room and grabbed the locked box he kept hidden away at the back of his dresser. He opened it and carefully arranged the papers inside into orderly stacks.

The box contained a wealth of information, information that could likely get him in serious trouble if it got into the wrong hands. These files were the fruit of months of research and careful surveillance.

Supply routes, lists of buyers, lists of couriers, the entire ledger, even the names of the most elusive members.

This information could dismantle the entire gang and that was their goal. A few more weeks and they had all the evidence they needed.

Public scandals that would knock the leaders off their thrones, accounts of crimes and evidence so solid no judge would be able to refute it.

They would just have to drop it off at the police station and the gang’s fate would be sealed. It made Logan feel a little better whenever he looked at it. Despite the dangers, they were doing something good, something that would make this shithole of a city just a tiny bit more liveable. And hopefully, would help Remus.

Logan had to admit, he didn’t have that much faith in Roman’s plan. In theory, rolling up the drug rink so Remus lost his debts and could leave without fear of repercussions made sense.

But that theory was heavily relying on the fact that Remus even wanted to leave. He seemed way too comfortable in the criminal environment than Logan cared to see.

His phone started ringing and Logan picked it up without looking away from the supply route he was copying onto another paper.

“Hey erlenmeyer trash, you ready for tonight?”

Logan sighed at the nickname.

“Hello Roman, I told you at school I have everything prepared for tonight. I don’t see why you felt the need to call.”

“It’s just...something feels off. I’m scared something’s gonna go wrong.”

“Did something happen to make you feel like this?”

“No, not really. Well, I haven’t seen Remus in a while and he was acting weird the last time I called.”

“Remus dropping off the map or acting strange is not usually a cause for concern. He is prone to doing things like that.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…” Roman sounded uncharacteristically quiet. He must really be nervous.

“Is there anything else that caused this concern?”

“No…”

“Then we will be alright. We know what we do is dangerous, but there are no signs the gang is aware of what we are doing. We have gone undetected for months, it is improbable they would suddenly know now and not give us any sort of indication. But, if you really are worried, we can call tonight off.”

“No! No, the sooner we get this done, the better. And if you say we’ll be alright, I believe you.”

“So you’re listening to me for once. How novel.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, specs.”

Logan rolled his eyes.

“Just don’t forget the flashlights this time.”

“You’ll bring back up ones anyways. I don’t see why I bother.”

“It’s important to be prepared, definitely if you’re trying to fight crime with someone as scatterbrained as you.”

“You sound like Batman.”

“Good, that’s what I’m going for.”

“Well, caped crusader, I gotta go make dinner. See you tonight.”

“Yes. Don’t forget your scaly panties, robin.”

Roman signed off with a snort and Logan continued looking through the documents. But Roman’s words kept running through his head and his feeling of unease grew. Maybe it would be better to call it off for tonight.

No, Roman was right, they had to get this done as soon as possible. The longer they waited, the more time the gang had to discover what they were doing.

He decided to head downstairs. He had done all his prep work for tonight and sitting in his room feeling anxious wasn’t helping anyone.

Downstairs, music was playing and his mom and dad stood in the kitchen. They held each other close and were sloppily slowing along to the music, horribly off beat.

His dad noticed him standing in the door opening and beckoned him over.

They took him up in their embrace and his dad kept trying to dance, even though Logan was tripping over his own feet and his mother was laughing too much to follow along.

“Logan! Don’t tell me you don’t know how to slow.” His dad exclaimed as Logan bumped awkwardly into his mother again.

“It’s not like I’ve ever done it before. Nobody slows anymore, dad.”

“What a disgrace. My son should at least know how to slow. What if a pretty boy asks you to dance?”

Logan rolled his eyes but his dad was not to be dissuaded and grabbed him.

“Just follow along to the music.” He instructed.

They ran through the steps slowly and after a while, Logan felt himself loosen up a little. His steps became less mechanical and more like an actual dance.

He smiled as he imagined himself dancing like this with Roman, the other boy was sure to enjoy it, always one for outdated romantic gestures.

His mom laughed and then grabbed his father.

“As important as teaching our son outdated school dances is, I still need your help with dinner.”

They finished making dinner together while Logan set the table.

“ Lettuce eat.” His dad called as he set a bowl of salad down on the table and Logan groaned and hid his head in his hands.

“That pun was souper bad.” His mom groaned.

“Stop.” Logan whined.

“What, don’t you loaf my jokes?” His dad asked.

“They’re terrible.”

“I think they’re sub lime. ” His mom laughed.

Logan lay in his bed, the light from his phone lighting up his face as he waited for his parents to go to bed.

Finally Logan deemed it safe enough to leave and he slunk out of the house.

He walked through the silent neighbourhood till he reached the busier, less ideal parts of town.

There, he found Roman leaning against a wall, in a red leather jacket and heavy black boots, blending in with the crowd of people out on a friday night. Logan felt his heart stutter at the careless way Roman was slumped against the wall, his face cast in stark shadows by the neon lights from a nearby club.

He reminded Logan of the devil, of the incarnation of pride, everything about him inviting yet dangerous.

Logan stopped staring and walked over to join him, trying to lean against the wall with the same graceful abandon but only managing to look like an awkward stick.

“Hello, my dark night.” Roman said.

“You forgot the panties.”

“Oh no, what a tragedy. Guess I can’t be your Robin tonight. Maybe I can be your batwoman?”

“Batwoman’s gay, you dolt.”

“I mean, same.”

“And they’re cousins.”

“Yeah, nevermind.”

“Come on, we have a job to do.” Logan reminded him.

They stayed out all night. Skulking in the shadows and trailing couriers all over the city. Logan felt a strange thrill every time he looked over at Roman. His eyes glinted with excitement and adrenaline.

During the day, they were just teenagers, being pushed and shoved and keeping their heads down as they walked to class.

But now, they were so much more. They became a part of the city, let her bustling energy envelop them. They slipped out of their skin under the streetlights and let themselves disappear into the hubbub and danger that prowled the city streets.

They were angels bringing her justice, they were devils tearing her apart.

They hid behind dumpsters in cold alleyways and walked along the busy promenades, holding each other and pretending to get lost in the others touch, all the while keeping their eyes trained on their mission.

Finally, when the sky was turning a murky gray and Logan’s eyes felt gritty with sleep, they ended up on a bench two streets from Logan’s home. In the suburban neighbourhood, nothing was stirring and, even in the city, it was too early for even the earliest risers.

Roman curled up on the bench and stared at him. Logan stared right back, too tired to care about being seen as weird.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Roman asked, his voice breaking the quiet of the park.

“The evidence we have collected is irrefutable, as long as we take care to deliver it to the right people, there is no reason it shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I know that. I meant Remus. You said he might not come back, even if he is relieved of his debts. What if he’s really just in it because, I don't know, he likes it? Or he just feels like he fits in there?”

“I don’t know your brother as well as you do. If you have faith in him, then I believe it will work.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know if I have faith in him. He’s just… So different nowadays. It’s like I don’t even know him anymore.”

“Roman, it will be alright. Your brother may have made some mistakes, but it doesn’t mean he is changed forever. Sometimes people just have trouble figuring themselves out. And either way, whether he makes the right choice or not, at least we did our best.”

Roman smiled at him, his mascara smudged and the glow of the street light lighting up his frizzy hair in a halo of golden light.

“You’re a great friend, you know that right?”

“I try my best.” Logan said with a soft smile.

Roman sat up and leant forward. He reached out and gently traced his thumb over Logan’s jaw. Logan looked up into his eyes, his breath stopping somewhere along the path from his lungs to his mouth. Roman’s thumb came to a stop on his lips.

“Is this alright?” He whispered.

Logan just nodded, his usual eloquence rendered mute.

Roman moved in closer and gently, ever so gently, slotted his lips onto Logan’s.

It was soft, and sweet and when he drew back, he pressed his forehead to Logan’s with a bubbly laugh. He threaded his fingers through Logan’s hair.

Finally, after a long moment of his brain incoherently looping the last moment over and over again, he managed to regain some mobility and placed his hand over the one Roman had cupped around his cheek. He turned his head and placed a kiss on Roman’s palm.

“We’re going to change the world.” Roman breathed, ecstatic with sleep deprivation and adrenaline.

“Together.” Logan whispered back.

As Logan walked home that morning, he felt invincible, untouchable. All the grey days at school fell away, all the teasing and bullying and all the fear was suddenly gone.

He felt like he was soaring, floating somewhere high above his life. He was so much more than himself in that moment.

Maybe, he didn’t want this to end. However terrifying chasing after criminals was, that particular high almost made the danger worth it. He mourned the fact that it would be over soon. That they would put the gang away, file away the info they had collected and go back to school, alone in the knowledge of what they had done.

The ecstatic feeling faded when he entered his garden and noticed the front door was open. His blood ran cold.

Had his parents noticed his absence? He had no idea how he would explain this to them.

He entered the house quietly, trepidation burning in his stomach. Should he call out? Maybe he had just left the door open?

But Logan distinctly remembered checking it was locked before leaving.

Downstairs, all was quiet. Everything looked as it should have been except that muddy footprints tracked in from the door to the stairs.

That was disconcerting, there was a very strict ‘no shoes upstairs’ policy in the house.

Logan’s unease grew. He crept upstairs.

“Mom? Dad?” He called out hesitantly.

The house stayed dead quiet.

With a deep breath, he kept moving. He looked in his room first, as it was right next to the stairs.

The door was pulled open. Strange, Logan could swear he had closed it.

His breath hitched when he saw his room. All his drawers were pulled open. His papers were strewn out over the floor.

The box!

Logan found it upturned and shoved in a corner of the room. All the papers were gone. All the evidence they had collected missing.

Ice cold terror clenched around his heart.

They knew.

Without a second thought, he tore out of his room and ran to his parent’s room.

“Mom! Dad!” He choked off when he entered the room.

No! No, no, no, no!

This wasn't real. This was just a nightmare. He would wake up any second. This just couldn't be real.

Blood painted the walls and bedsheets. It looked like a scene from a horror movie, almost comical in its goriness. If he had seen this in a movie he would have scoffed at the overuse of fake blood.

He hesitantly stepped closer and kneeled next to his mother, who was sprawled out on the floor, her entire back a mess of torn flesh and blood and glistening things Logan didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Mom?” His voice came out waveringly.

He reached out. A pulse, he should look for a pulse. He tried to take her arm but recoiled from the blood that covered it.

It was warm and sticky and already seeping through his pants.

“Mom, wake up.” He whispered.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I’m sorry I stayed out all night, just please, wake up.” He begged, like apologizing would fix anything.

She still wasn't moving and neither was his dad. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Logan was aware that begging wasn’t doing him any good. He needed to call for help.

But all that came out of his mouth were more pleas.

“Mom! Stop ignoring me! Just wake up!” He yelled and then he started crying, great gasping sobs that tore all the air from his lungs.

He needed them to wake up, he needed to feel their arms around him, needed their comfort. They couldn’t be gone. Not like this, not now, not when just an hour ago, Roman had kissed him, not when outside he could hear the trucks thundering by. This wasn’t real. It just couldn’t be.

He screamed, desperate and heartbroken.

Wake up .

His eyes got caught on a flash of green on the walls and he looked up.

On the wall, painted in a bright neon green, was the symbol he had been studying for months, the gang's symbol, a sword pointed downwards, and underneath it, like an artist’s tag, a sloppy R.

Remus.

Logan felt anger curl in his gut. After everything they had done to help him, this was his answer.

He would pay.

This wasn’t the end. If they thought they could stop him with this, they were wrong. He would get his revenge, he would burn that gang to the ground and he would destroy Remus.

This was personal now.

[olliepig]

Waiting in the Wings chapter 5

Thanks as always to the wonderful (and ever patient) @willow-salix for all her help in getting this beast out. 

As always, the whole thing is available on AO3 here

********************************

The cheers of the crowd bathing her in a glow of satisfaction that she’d never managed to find elsewhere, Cat stood on the stage of the Opera House after her performance of Swan Lake, savouring the moment. It was a marathon of a ballet that took every ounce of energy she had, and the appreciation shown by the audience at the end made the hard work and downright pain of her chosen career totally worth it.

She knew as well as everyone else on the stage that the post performance glow could be short lived and, with her long day nearly over, she was relieved that all she had left to do was receive her flowers, get changed and head home. Sensing a shift in focus from those around her, she looked over to the wings in time to see one of the Opera House staff staggering onto the stage with quite possibly the largest bouquet she had ever seen and heading straight for her.

Since her first performance of Giselle, larger and larger arrangements of flowers had started arriving at the Opera House to be presented onstage at the end of each show. There was never a name or message on the card hidden inside, just the initial S and two kisses. It was a fact that didn’t go unnoticed and became a source of debate and amusement within the company whenever she performed to see how many flowers she would receive and whether the mysterious sender would make themselves known.

Outwardly, Cat pretended to be exasperated by the constant influx of flowers but secretly she loved it and always thanked Scott profusely for his thoughtfulness. She had never expressly told him what her performance schedule was, so she supposed that he had looked it up and made arrangements accordingly. It had never been discussed aside from her giving her thanks but it was something that made her heart flutter dangerously every time and she cherished it.

With the curtain calls over, and with everyone having somehow managed to avoid tripping over the flowers as they laid on the stage, Cat headed back to her dressing room, barely able to see over the top of them. It wasn’t the only bouquet she had received that night and as she walked she thought that it was lucky that it was a route she had followed so often as she was relying almost entirely on memory to find her way.

As soon as she was safely in the dressing room, she carefully placed her flowers in the sink and pulled out her phone.

How the hell am I supposed to get these home on the tube?! They barely fit in the bloody dressing room! (Thank you very much for them btw. They’re beautiful!)

Smiling, she put her phone down and started to get on with the business of getting her costume undone when, almost instantly, her phone buzzed with a reply.

Good job I'm here tonight then, isn’t it? I’ll have the car at the front when you’re ready.

Cat smiled as her heart lurched with the unexpected excitement of seeing Scott again. It wasn’t the first time they had met up since their night at Penny’s and their friendship felt like it was blossoming. Multiple messages were exchanged daily and the more they learned about the others lives, the more comfortable they became.

What?! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Why don’t you come round to stage door and I’ll come down to meet you there? I need to grab a shower before I leave and I’ll be a while so you can wait in my dressing room.

Text sent, Cat raced through getting her tutu off and threw a tracksuit on. Checking her phone, she smiled again as she saw the reply,

I wanted to surprise you and yeah, that sounds much better than sitting out here by myself. See you soon!

Keen not to keep Scott waiting, she flew down the stairs, shoving down the nagging thought that she shouldn’t be this excited to see someone who was supposed to be just a friend. It was a decision that they had made together and she was determined to stick to it, regardless of the little voice in her head that kept pointing out that it had been her idea and that he had merely agreed to it.

Scott was already waiting for her when she arrived and her breath caught slightly as she took him in before he spotted her. He really was almost impossibly beautiful, she thought; the very epitome of tall, dark and handsome. His impeccably cut suit looked to be the same colour as his dress blues from his airforce days, a memory that stirred another flutter in her stomach.

“C’mon then you,” she greeted him fondly, enjoying the look of surprise on his face when he registered her next to him as she grabbed his hand and led him into the maze of corridors backstage.

“Well hello to you too,” he smiled, following behind and enjoying the touch of her hand much more than he thought he should.

Having never discussed the identity of her flower sender with anyone but her closest friends, bumping into two members of the corps de ballet on the stairs while escorting Scott Tracy back up to her dressing room was definitely not part of Cat’s plan to keep it a secret, especially as, she realised with a start, she was still holding his hand.

A hot flash of something akin to jealousy flared through her as she saw the appreciative glances they threw his way as they passed by and she mentally kicked herself for it as she hurried an oblivious Scott up to the relative privacy of her room. It wasn’t that she was trying to keep their friendship a secret; she just really didn’t want to be pressured into publicly defining something that was so far totally undefinable to her.

“You did great tonight,” Scott started with a smile that made Cat’s heart rate increase as the door closed behind them.

“Thank you very much,” she grinned, turning away quickly so he couldn’t see the effect he’d had on her. She watched in the mirror as he headed over and made himself comfortable on her window seat before starting the job of unpinning her headdress and letting her hair out of its tight bun. “When you said you were here I wondered if you’d seen it.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it, even if it did mean a ridiculously early start this morning. Sorry about the flowers by the way,” he added as he caught sight of them, the small sink making the arrangement look even bigger than it was. “I didn’t realise you’d have other bouquets as well and I genuinely didn’t expect mine to be quite that big.”

“That’s OK,” laughed Cat, moving on to removing the worst of her makeup. “It was hilarious watching them try to get them all onstage. I’m just glad you’re here to help me get them all home.”

“So, um, what would you like to do once you’re ready? I’d be very happy to take you for dinner if you'd like?” Scott knew full well that she wouldn’t have eaten since late afternoon and would likely be hungry after all the energy she had used in her performance. He had many happy memories of late meals after her shows and was keen to recapture those moments, even if they didn’t lead to the same end to the night as they used to.

“Not sure I really fancy dinner,” came the reply, throwing a bucket of ice water over the daydream he had somehow slipped into. “It’s been a long day and my feet really hurt. I was just planning on making some pasta and chilling out tonight if you’d like to join me?”

“That sounds wonderful,” smiled Scott, his initial disappointment at her rebuttal turning to enthusiasm for her counter offer, visions of cosying up on the sofa appearing in his head.

“Right, I’m going to jump in the shower, keep making yourself at home and I’ll be as quick as I can,” she finished, grabbing her clothes and disappearing without a backward glance, leaving Scott to his thoughts.

Scott looked around and wondered what to do. He'd been in the dressing room once before after Giselle but with Penny and Gordon there too he hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time. He was acutely aware that this was her private space in the theatre and he didn’t want to pry. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. He found her fascinating and wanted to find out everything he could about her life but he wasn’t prepared to violate her privacy, so he contented himself with settling down on the chair at her dressing table and looking at the pictures that she had stuck around her mirror.

He’d looked at nearly all of them when, to his surprise, he spotted a picture he had taken of Cat and some friends of hers whose names he had once known. Seeing it again transported him back to that day: waking up with her beside him before going for a lazy brunch, then heading out on a trail walk along the James River where they bumped into a group of her friends, joining them for a while on their walk and laughing with them as they took the pictures.

He wondered, with a pang of regret, if she still had the picture of the two of them that had been taken moments later, cuddled up to each other and smiling, cheeks rosy from the slight chill in the air. He’d not thought of that picture since the day it had been taken. At the time it hadn’t seemed like it was of any real importance, just a snapshot of another day together with the promise of countless more like it in their future, but now… Well, now it mattered somehow.

His musing was interrupted by Cat breezing out of the showerroom, now dressed and ready to go. As they chatted amicably while she gathered her belongings, to his delight he noticed with a start that she was wearing the same outfit that she had at Pennys, sending his thoughts spiralling back to the events of that night and making him wonder if there was a significance there that he was not yet aware of.  He was very relieved when she thrust a couple of her bouquets into his arms and led him out of the room, unwittingly breaking that particular train of thought before it could affect him too much.

Down at the stage door, Scott found himself hanging back while Cat signed autographs for the second time in as many months. Unlike the last time, however, he was now playing the role of a glorified vase and within the first 10 minutes he started to quite seriously regret his choice of bouquet as the foliage tickled his nose for what felt like the 100th time.

The number of people who turned out, and were prepared to wait in the unseasonably cool London night to speak to their favourite dancers, amazed him. When he thought about it properly, he wasn’t sure why; they were stars in their own right and their fans wanting to meet them made perfect sense. It was a world away from his experiences of waiting alone for Cat after her early performances in Richmond and his heart swelled with pride at her accomplishments since then as he watched her work her way through the crowd.

As he waited, he became uncomfortably aware of people watching him too and once he had realised that,  he became sure he could hear his name being whispered in conversation, making him quickly duck behind the flowers, using them as a shield. He was well aware of the attention his presence could attract and also very keen not to let the focus be taken away from those who deserved it so he started to maneuver himself away from the crowd.

On their way down from the dressing room, Scott had promised Cat that he would have the car waiting for her once she was finished and when he became certain that he had been spotted, he gratefully snuck away to fetch it, rifling through his pocket for the keys and trying not to drop the damn flowers that were quickly becoming the bane of his life.

Safely settled in the driver's seat, Scott allowed himself to slump for a moment and prepare for the evening ahead of him. He cherished his friendship with Cat but there was no doubt of how he still felt about her. As soon as they’d started talking again it was clear to him that they still had a connection and the night they’d spent at Penny’s had cemented that. Or at least he’d thought it had.

He understood why she had made the decision to be friends and nothing more, but that didn’t mean it hurt him any less. He had pushed that hurt down in order to keep her in his life and he’d been pleasantly surprised at how natural it had felt when they had met up a few weeks later. Where he’d expected awkwardness and long silences, he’d found laughter and flowing conversation which encouraged him to persevere further, truly hoping that one day his feelings would fade and he could be the friend she desired.

When they were apart, he almost managed to convince himself that friendship between them would be entirely possible, but as soon as they were together, he longed to reach out and bridge the gap between them. Being so close to her but unable to act on his feelings was like some kind of delicious torture that he hated and loved in equal measure. He was hopelessly addicted to her, and he had no idea what to do about it.

*****

Feeling unnaturally clumsy under Scott’s gaze, Cat muddled around her flat, finding light switches and vases while simultaneously urging him to make himself at home and apologising for the non existent  mess. She hadn’t been expecting a visitor when she had left that morning and she reddened as she spotted the underwear that she’d left over a radiator to dry, grabbing and stuffing them down the side of a cupboard, most likely never to be seen again.

If Scott saw her, he didn’t mention it and for that she thought she would be forever grateful. He followed her around, helping as much as he could as he looked around in interest at the place she called home.

“Hey,” she commented with a smile, finally coming to rest and surveying the veritable florists that had appeared in her kitchen, “remember when you used to just get me a single rose after a show?”

“What, like this one?” Scott grinned, holding out a blood red flower that he had produced from lord knows where.

Cat smiled slowly as she met his eyes, making his heart race. He kissed the flower and presented it to her with a deep bow, as he had seen her doing to her partner on stage earlier that night and was delighted when she received it with a curtsey.

“I…. Thank you,” Cat smiled, genuinely pleased with what she hoped would be her final floral gift for the night. The rose brought back so many memories of their time together and for that alone it meant more than all the other flowers combined.

“Right, shall we get dinner on, then? We're still making pasta?” Scott broke the moment and took charge. Seeing a kettle, he filled it and set it to boil before looking around the kitchen for any hints of where utensils and food might be kept.

“Bottom drawer, next to the fridge,” Cat instructed, following his line of thinking and directing him towards the saucepans. The pair of them bumped companionably around the kitchen as they made the  simple meal for themselves, falling easily back into old habits and divisions of labour.

“Ooh, wine,” Scott exclaimed, emerging from the fridge and holding a bottle triumphantly above his head. “Would you like a glass?”

“Yes, I think I would,” came the reply from somewhere deep within a cupboard as Cat rummaged through for the sauce she was looking for. “It always takes me ages to unwind properly after a show and I do like a nice glass or two now and again.”

“I remember,” Scott replied softly as he put the bottle down. Something  in his tone caused Cat to stop what she was doing and turn to look at him, finding his eyes mesmerising as they caught hers.

Cat was pinned by them, her breath quickened  as she drowned in their depths and she fought the sudden urge to take the few steps needed to close the gap between them. His lips looked so soft and inviting and she found herself wondering if they tasted the same as when she had last kissed them.

“Shit!” Cat’s attention was distracted by the unmistakable sound of a pan boiling over. She rushed to mop up the worst of the water, the moment lost.

By the time she looked back up, Scott had moved too and had busied himself by pouring two glasses of wine and getting the plates ready for when it was time to dish up their dinner.

It was probably for the best, she told herself. They were just friends. They’d both agreed. And friends didn’t look at each other like that, right?

Settling down after dinner, they flopped into well practised positions on the sofa, facing each other with their legs comfortably tangled together in the middle and her feet in his lap.

As he listened to Cat talking about her plans for her summer break and the ballets she had coming up in the new season, Scott had found his mind drifting back to the moment that they had shared in the kitchen, feeling once again the way his breath had seemed to catch every time her eyes met his.  

Lost in her, he absentmindedly rubbed her feet, feeling the tense muscles slowly loosen under pressure from his thumbs, the action soothing him and allowing him time to let his racing thoughts settle.

Ultimately, he had no idea what was going on. If they were to be friends, he’d make  his peace with that and would continue to hide his true feelings for her until they faded, but they continued to have  moments that were charged with such intensity that they were impossible to ignore or write off as something else.  

He realised that she had stopped talking and was watching him with an almost unreadable expression but for the  little smile creeping onto the corners of her mouth.

“Sorry,’ he apologised, feeling the heat creeping up his cheeks and snatched his hands away as if her feet were on fire.

“No, it’s OK. It felt good,” she reassured him. “You were always really good at that. It just brought back a lot of memories, that's all.”

Scott smiled gratefully and went back to working on getting the knots out of her feet, a comfortable silence coming over them. Listening to her talking had planted the seed of an idea, one which he was unaccountably nervous about broaching lest she think he was overstepping any boundaries. As he worked, the idea grew and coalesced into something more tangible, something that he thought might actually help cement their friendship.

“I’ve got something to ask you…” he started hesitantly, “You can absolutely say no but I wanted to ask anyway.”

“OK, fire away.” Cat fixed him with a look that excited and scared him in equal measure as she fiddled with her wine glass.

“I know you were saying you have some plans for your summer break, but if you have a bit of time would you like to come out to the island for a visit? Spend a bit of time in the sun?”

“Wow! That’s quite the suggestion,” she paused, taking a moment to consider the offer and nearly causing Scott’s heart to stop. “Yeah, that sounds lovely,” she decided, giving him a small nod and a beaming smile that lit up her face.

Scott let out the breath he realised he’d been holding since he’d let the question into the open and his smile matched hers, relief washing over him. “Really? You don’t have to agree to it if you’re not completely sure.”

“No, I really want to, it was just a surprise that’s all.” As the idea took hold, Cat could feel herself getting more excited. She’d not had a proper chance to relax since the previous summer, and even that had been marred by the tail end of her previous relationship, so the thought of a week on a tropical island with Scott was definitely something she could get on board with.

“Amazing! You’re going to love it,” Scott smiled, beyond delighted at the thought of being able to show her his home and introduce her to everyone who was important to him. “We can sort out the details another time though. You look exhausted and don’t think I’ve not seen you stifling yawns for the last 10 minutes.”

Cat couldn’t do anything but laugh. “Yeah, you got me, I think it might be my bedtime. It’s awkward question time now, though. Where were you planning on staying tonight?”

“Selene said I could use her place so I was just going to go there,” Scott responded at once, his answer taking her by surprise. “Um, who’s Selene?” Cat tried very hard to maintain an even tone and a neutral expression despite the flash of jealousy that surged through her for the second time that night, somehow catching her by surprise again.

“John’s fiancee and my best friend. Remember, I did tell you about her?” replied Scott, trying very hard not to grin at her obvious discomfort.

“Ah yeah, I just, um... forgot her name, that’s all…” Cat tried to explain, fooling nobody, least of all herself.

“You weren’t jealous there were you, Miss George?” Scott pressed, a glint appearing in his eyes and a wicked grin on his lips.

“Not at all,” Cat insisted, suddenly becoming very interested in her wine glass and trying to ignore the flush that had appeared on her cheeks. “Well, it’s very late, we've had a drink and I have a spare room so you’re welcome to stay here if that would be easier?”

“That does sound tempting. I’ll not be sleeping much though,” he couldn’t help but pause for effect and was gratified with the response when Cat’s eyes shot back up to meet his as she cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s 2 in the afternoon my time so I’m pretty wide awake I’m afraid. If you don’t mind me watching TV and having a quick nap so I’m good to fly back tomorrow, then I’d love to stay.”

“You’re a terrible tease, Mr Tracy,” Cat shook her head but her smile betrayed her true feelings. “Of course that’s OK.”

Having set Scott up with everything he could ever possibly need for the coming hours, Cat finally retired to bed but despite her exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily for her. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept returning to the man in her living room and how torn she felt about him. From the moment they had met again, something had been constantly there, telling her that she couldn’t let him go but to her it wasn’t as simple as that.

At an early age she had learned the pain of rejection by those who should have loved her and it had scarred her deeply. In Scott, she had found someone to whom she had given both her trust and her heart, and his sudden departure from her life had hurt her tremendously.

Once broken, trust wasn’t something she gave out again that easily and she had thought very carefully before letting him back into her life. Yet, despite everything, she wanted to give him her trust. She wasn’t prepared to risk loving him for a second time but friendship seemed to be a good compromise to make in order to be in his life but not stray too close.  

When they were apart it seemed perfectly easy. The messages and calls flowed constantly and there was no end to the things they could talk about. The problem arose when they were together. He seemed to have a magnetic pull on her that was getting increasingly difficult to deny. She had slipped up once and even though her body might be crying out for a repeat performance, her mind was made up.

Groaning quietly, she rolled over and buried her head in the pillow. It was going to be a long night.

*****

Whatever Scott had planned for their Sunday morning together, it was not the little cafe that he found himself sitting in a few blocks away from Cat’s flat. At the very least, he had imagined going someplace where there were proper tablecloths covering tables that didn’t wobble when you leaned on them, risking spilling drinks with every move. However, the food was excellent, the coffee plentiful and the company the best he could imagine so, all things considered, he was very happy with his situation.

Full of food and starting to feel tired from a day that had started almost 19 hours earlier on Tracy Island, he stretched back in his chair, inadvertently catching the attention of the waitress and flashing her a smile in response to her enquiring look.

Across from him, Cat felt a rush of annoyance fire through her as she sipped her coffee and tried to maintain a neutral expression. She’d been feeling on edge all morning, the fight between what she was prepared to give and what she really wanted, wearing her down and making her feel vulnerable and  irritable.

An idea sparked at that moment though, one that would both prove to herself that she was fine with their friendship being nothing more than that and take away any temptation to push things further.

“You should get her number,” she suggested, instantly surprised by how much that simple little sentence hurt.

“What? Why?” Scott stuttered, completely blindsided. He couldn’t think of anything in his behaviour that had suggested that he might have wanted a date and had no idea where this suggestion could possibly have come from.

“You were flirting with her. All those jokes and looks while we were ordering, and that smile right there? Don’t say you weren’t,” she continued, hating herself for every word but doubling down and pushing ahead anyway. The thought of Scott dating anyone hurt her more than she was willing to admit, but she had started down this path and she was committed now.

Scott sat back, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, not quite believing what was happening.  “I wasn’t flirting, I was being polite and friendly. There is a difference, you know.” He knew he was being defensive, but at that moment he just didn't care.

“You’ve got to admit it though, you are a flirt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not hit on someone, given half a chance.” Cat felt like she was watching herself from afar, not quite believing what she was saying. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt the cold rush of dread spread over her and picked up her coffee cup again in a bid to disguise her shaking hands.

“Listen, this conversation is starting to make me really uncomfortable. I don’t want to date the waitress and I’m not really sure where all of this has come from. Can we just drop it now please?”

“Sorry,” Cat looked down at the empty cup in her hands, desperately wishing that she could go back in time to before she’d ever thought of her wonderful ‘idea’. In retrospect, she wasn’t sure what she had expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t the reaction that she had gotten. She couldn’t remember a time that he’d ever spoken to her as sharply as that before and it had shaken her.

Scott nodded curtly and went back to his coffee, looking outwardly calm but his mind was whirling. He always flirted. It was part of who he was and he’d always thought she liked that, or at the very least accepted it about him. It had never been an issue when they had dated before so he couldn’t understand why him behaving totally normally to a waitress was now cause for comment.

Fine, he thought petulantly, if flirting means that I want to sleep with someone and we’re just going to be friends then I’d better stop flirting with her too. Don’t want her getting the wrong idea now, do we?

A pang of loss hit him as soon as he made the decision; he had come to crave the excitement that her looks and touches gave him and it would be hard to give that up. Not that he’d been the only one doing the flirting, he thought in annoyance. Not responding was going to be a tough but perhaps necessary evil given the circumstances.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked with the barest hint of a smile.

Cat nodded miserably. She knew he was angry, she could see it in the set of his jaw. The sparkle had gone from his eyes and he was avoiding looking at her but really she couldn’t blame him. She’d messed up and called him out on something that came to him as naturally as breathing, so he was perfectly entitled to be annoyed and she hated herself for being the cause of it.

Walking around the local park afterward, Cat did her best to act as if nothing had happened but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She knew from experience that Scott needed a bit of time to cool down when he was angry, but they had limited time together and she didn't want to waste it, even if he was clearly in a bad mood with her.

Slowly, the frosty atmosphere between them thawed slightly but there were still long, awkward silences that had never been there before and Cat had to work hard to initiate any conversation. The animosity that had radiated from Scott since they left the cafe abated but Cat found she still couldn’t relax as she started to notice a marked change in Scott’s behaviour towards her.

Since their argument, he hadn’t been cold exactly, but there was a reservation in his actions that hadn’t been there before. Where he had been open and playful, often touching her hand or holding a smile for fractionally longer than necessary, now he was barely making any contact at all and she felt the loss keenly.

Despite trying to act relaxed, Scott was trying desperately to squash down his natural urge to fix everything. He knew that a quick smile and a cheeky comment would make everything OKagain but he hadn't liked being called out for flirting so he was damned if he was going to use it to get back into her good books.

Her comment about asking out the waitress had confused him and nothing more but, when she started challenging him about flirting constantly, that had angered him. The more he thought about it the more angry he had become and the more he doubled down on his resolution not to flirt with her again.

Deep down, he knew he was being petty and probably overreacting but he’d gone to a lot of effort to pull together his trip to London He’d been so excited to see Cat and spend some quality time with her  and it felt like her actions at brunch had thrown all his efforts back in his face and ruined it. He stewed silently as they walked, his growing anger mixing with regret, knowing that he would need to apologise  at some point but not willing to back down and fix everything quite yet.

The longer it went on, the more her attempts to apologise and lighten the mood were rebuffed, the angrier Cat became. She knew she’d messed up but his treatment towards her was completely disproportionate. She’d apologised and in her experience of adult relationships that was the point at which people would talk  about it and move on. Scott treating her like she was barely even an acquaintance when she was giving him a chance to regain her trust was going too far and she wasn’t going to stand for it.

She’d had enough and took them on a shortcut back to her flat, keen to get the walk over so she could talk to him more privately. Her anger at his childish behavior was growing by the minute and by the time they reached her flat she was seriously considering whether it was worth even continuing their friendship at all.

Closing the door behind her, Cat was surprised to find that Scott had already grabbed his bag and was standing ready to go.

“I need to get back...” he tailed off, glancing down at his bag as he shifted uncomfortably.

Cat had always known he was going to need to leave after brunch. She would much rather have had a chance to sit down and talk properly but time was against them and she wasn’t going to let him run away on her when the going got tough again. “OK, but I’m going to ask you something before you go.”

“Of course,” Scott replied warily, not expecting the sharp tone of her voice or the way she straightened as if preparing herself for battle.

“Is everything OK with you today? You’ve seemed pretty distant since we went for brunch,” she challenged with a lot more confidence than she felt. It was not a question that she wanted the answer to, but she couldn’t let him go without asking him, she had to know.

“Yeah, I’ve told you I’m fine,” he answered shortly, keen not to get drawn into a discussion right now when emotions were clearly still running high for both of them.

“I just… I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to be friends or not?” she met his eyes, finding her strength and challenging him to be honest with her now that the question, and her deepest fear, was in the open.

“Of course I do. What gave you that impression?” Scott was growing frustrated by her questions, baffled as to how they could possibly even be having this discussion.

“Yesterday you surprised me for the night, bought me the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen and invited me to spend a week with you on your family's island, and this afternoon you’ve hardly even looked at me,” she argued, feeling more confident about making her point but not wholly convinced by his answer given his actions that day. “I get it, I messed up earlier and I’m sorry, but I feel like I have whiplash from how fast everything has changed.  So I’ll ask you again, and I want you to be honest with me - do you want to be friends or not?”

“No, I don’t,” Scott snapped, as anger surged through him, shocking her with his ferocity.

Everything he’d been doing to ensure he didn’t cross the line from friends to something more had been taking its toll on him, and that, combined with whatever the hell it was that had happened at brunch, had finally pushed him to his limit.

“I flew 13,000 miles to see you. I rearranged my time off so it fitted in with your performance and your schedule. And today you tell me I should be dating some waitress I’ve never spoken to before? You want to know what I want? You”

Cat was speechless. All she could do was stare at him, her mouth slightly agape, as he bared his soul.

“I want to date you, Cat, no one else. I was to kiss you and take care of you and love you like I used to.”

Suddenly realising what he’d said, Scott pushed past her without waiting for a reply and walked through the door, slamming it on his way out and leaving a bewildered Cat to wonder how on earth she was going to salvage this one.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 57 - The Ambush

Chapter Rating: Mature Content Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3 First chapter on AO3

--

Twenty-seventh day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

They left Rothsbridge early the next morning, in a slim-lined clinker vessel called Windcaller. Swollen with meltwater, the river took them quickly downstream, past eddies of dirty brown foam and dangerous jams of submerged trees that poked up into the middle of the current to shear off the keels of unsuspecting vessels, until by early afternoon the banks yawned and flattened on either side and the rushing, silt-heavy water churned against the rising, iron-grey tide. Rosslyn’s hands gripped white against the open tiller the entire way, her eyes pared on the waves parting before the bows. The ship’s design made it more flexible than the larger, sturdier vessels used to cross the Waking Sea, its keel like the spine of a cat under the stroke of a hand, so that it glided through the water instead of pitching against each wave. It made for less roll along the deck, but it brought the rail closer to the waterline, and every large wave that slapped spray against the hull made her flinch.

That night, when they finally hauled up on a sheltered beach to camp, her legs wobbled with the relief of being on dry land. Their berth until morning lay on the windward side of Barraigh, the southernmost of the island string that sheltered Highever’s northwest coast from the worst of its winter storms, and which would shelter them from the prying eyes of any Amaranthine patrols. The light faded quickly as the weather descended from a fine drizzle to freezing, soupy fog that made the fire hiss, and once all the tasks for setting camp had been completed, Rosslyn sat with the rest of the party huddled under one of the extra blankets with Cuno as they waited for the food to cook. In other circumstances, she would have insisted on a separation between the ranks, but here their resources were finite, and since she and Alistair were the only two with any standing of consequence, turning it into a point of contention would have undermined the formal distance they had agreed on at the inn.

She was content to watch him, in any case. He sat on the other side of the fire between Hobbs and Dan, regaling them all in between mouthfuls of stew with a story from his time as a soldier in Rainesfere. Every so often, his eyes met hers over the flickering light of the fire before darting away again, and every time his mouth curved just a fraction upwards before he moved on, framing his tale with expansive gestures of his hands. It was the same easy camaraderie she had seen in him so many months before, in the guard house when they were cleaning equipment on Teagan’s orders. Back then, she had envied his ability to set others at ease, to draw them in with conversation no matter their station, disguising any of his own discomfort with laughter. Even now, it was a talent she could not seem to cultivate.

“I’m going to turn in,” she announced once the meal was finished and the flames began to die down.  

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay up just a bit longer?”  

He offered a hopeful smile, but it didn’t reach the worry in his eyes, and her answer stalled on her tongue, if only for a moment. Her mind drifted to an image of the two of them alone, sharing the silence as they shared warmth, and she forced it away. Her own desires meant little in the face of what they were about to do.

“We’ll have to be boarded and away with the tide, so we’ll need to rise early,” she said. “And it’s been a long day. Good night.”

His reply followed her into her tent, and it took her a long time to get to sleep.

--

The weather stayed with them over the next few days, and their schedule remained constant. Rising with the dawn, they spent daylight hours sailing, until they found a suitable beach and hauled Windcaller ashore for the night’s camp. For the most part, they saw no other ships daring the contrary winds, and only for a brief moment on the third day were they noticed themselves. A Clayne cutter looming out of the mist turned for them, gained, and only veered away when Rosslyn ordered the crew to raise the string of signal flags that identified them as a hunting vessel. When it finally stopped shadowing them, she felt the sigh of relief ripple through her people and shared it, though seeing the way they all closed together ready for a fight gave her hope for the task that lay ahead. Leliana and Amell in particular had grown close, and in idle moments their shared laughter could be heard across the deck as they joked with the soldiers or cheated each other at cards.

At noon on the fifth day, they finally rounded the coast of Fiolan, the north island, and Castle Cousland came into view, a blurred dot perched on the highest point of the headland, sulking against the threat of lowering cloud. Rosslyn stiffened when she spotted it, the manner of a hawk that sees the movement of a mouse in the grass. The whole crew had been tense and quiet since that morning, knowing that it would be the last day before their assault, but with their goal so clearly in view, nervous energy grew among them like the first creeping spread of a fire in a barn. She steered them closer in to the shadow of the cliffs, where the currents ran stronger but they were less likely to draw suspicion, and the soldiers on deck put away the gear they were polishing and took out nets instead in order to keep up the charade of innocence for any interested eyes passing along the headland.

They had gone over the plan in full the night before, learned the hidden way into the castle through the maze of ancient tunnels carved into the bedrock, discussed how to take the keep level by level, and then the best route to the barbican to send the signal to Cailan’s forces. Her poorly sketched plans, the manifestation of all her family’s secrets, had been burnt once the discussion was over, and now all that remained was the waiting, and the slowly dwindling stretch of water that separated her from her vengeance. She would not let Howe slip the noise again; her duty as a Cousland forbade it.

“So that’s castle Cousland,” Alistair mused next to her.

She blinked and tore her gaze from the horizon. She had been so focussed, his approach had gone unnoticed. Less difficult to miss was the gentle concern in his eyes, a slight downturn of his mouth that for some reason made her bristle.

“Yes, it is,” she answered, turning her attention forward again. And then, when it seemed something else needed to fill the space between them, added, “It’s not as big as Redcliffe.”

His arms folded casually over his chest. “It’s what, four leagues away, five?”

“Seven. It was eight from Fiolan but we’ve a good wind.”

“So it might be a good time to take a break, then?” The suggestion came slowly, carefully, and he turned towards the stern to keep it between themselves.

She rolled her shoulders back and didn’t look at him. “I’m fine. Nobody here knows this stretch of coast as well as I do.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I don’t need your worry.”

A sigh. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you turn up at Highever exhausted.”

“And what’s the alternative?” she snapped. “Foundering here, where there’s nothing but cliffs and no hope of rescue? If we drown, no one else is going to help Cailan, no one will take the castle, and Howe wins. I’m not going to let that happen.”

For a long moment, he held her glare, a retort working on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it back and turned away. “Of course not.”

She almost called out to him as he stalked to the hatch. Regret churned in her stomach. They were all cold, drenched with spray and rain, in garments stiff with salt, flagging after long nights sleeping on coarse sand that itched into every crease of clothing. She was right that they needed to stay focussed, but though every nerve in her body urged towards the end of their voyage, to completing the mission, to being home again, he deserved better from her.

“Hobbs!” she called.

“Aye, Ma’am?”

“Take over here. Keep to the blue, the foam shows where the currents clash – and if you have to change course, make small adjustments.”

“Aye, Ma’am,” Hobbs replied. “And I’ll shout if you’re needed.”

Alistair was turned away from her as she came down the gangway, perched on the stowed bedrolls with his armour laid across his lap. Apart from the glow of a storm lantern, only a dim slant of daylight let him see what he was doing, but he didn’t look up when her shadow fell across the pauldron in his hands.

“Hey.”

He paused his work, but otherwise didn’t react, and she realised she had followed him without any idea of what to say. Excuses and explanations rang through her head, but they were nothing new and they rang hollow even as each one lined up on her tongue, unworthy of him.

“It wasn’t fair of me to snap at you,” she said eventually, defeated. “You were only trying to help.”

“And you keep shutting me out.” Sighing, he set aside the pauldron in his hands and raked his fingers through his hair.

She dropped her gaze. “I’m here now.”

“You’re so stubborn.” At last he rose, hunched over to keep from hitting his head on the low beams, the note of fondness in his voice holding her there as he reached for her. “I meant what I said the other morning. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The pitch of the ship brought them closer, the timbers creaking. Alistair kept one hand braced against the beam to steady them, but the other hugged tight around her shoulders. She moulded herself to him with barely a thought beyond a curse for the weather layers that kept his warmth from her.

“It isn’t just you and me here,” she murmured over the slosh of waves against the hull. “As much as I want to just… run away from it all, everyone out there is expecting me to lead them, and if I let my worries slip loose even for a moment, they’ll question, and in battle that instant of hesitation is what gets people killed.”

“I know.” A kiss brushed against her hair. “But working yourself to the bone isn’t a much better idea.”

“There’s no need to sound like it’s obvious.”

His tone turned playful. “But then I wouldn’t get to see that adorable pout.”

“I don’t pout.”

“You do,” he assured her. “You get this cute little line between your eyebrows when something annoys you – there, that’s the one!” He grinned as he winced from an imaginary blow. “Please don’t hurt me.”

A smirk tugged at her mouth. “You still think it’s cute when you’re the one that put it there?” she asked.

“Well, uh…” He blushed and caught her waist, peeking at her through his lashes with a hopeful pout of his own. “I don’t like putting it there, but once it is… it’s a pretty good excuse for me to kiss it better, wouldn’t you say?”

Warmth stirred in her chest. “You need an excuse to kiss me?”

“Never.”

But instead of leaning in, his gaze slid from hers, falling to her shoulder as his brows knotted on some new problem that had yet to fully form in his mind.

“Do you remember that morning?” he asked, when she brushed her thumb over his cheek. “Before we left Deerswall? And… what we did the night before?”

“Of course I do.” Worried, she traced the line of his jaw and tried for a smile. “It was less than a week ago – and it was rather memorable.”

“You do want to do it again, don’t you? I mean – I don’t want to sound, well, lecherous, and I’m not trying to push, but… that’s not the reason why we haven’t done it again, is it? Because you don’t want to? Because I was…”

“Alistair…” Sighing, she brought his forehead down to hers. “If I didn’t want to do it again, it wouldn’t be because of you. You –” She had to find her voice again. “I never thought it would be like that – that if I had to, I’d enjoy it like that. But where would you suggest we go? The nights outside are freezing, and pitch black, and it’s not like we have much privacy anywhere else.”

“I know, but –”

“I’ve missed you every morning,” she told him. “I keep telling myself that when we get to Highever, we won’t have to be apart, we can wake up together and spend as much time in bed as we want. And you are the only person who has ever made me feel anything close to that. I want to be with you because I love you. Although, for the record,” she added, taking his face between her hands, “You are good at it.”

“I am?”

“Did you think I was lying when I said it before?” she asked.

“No, but…” He cleared his throat, as if changing his mind. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

His arm snaked up her back, trapping her against his chest as his confidence returned. “I love you.”

“Good.”

“And… I want to do it again. I want, uh…” Bright colour bloomed across his cheeks as his voice trailed away, the dart of his tongue over his lips betraying the nature of the words left unsaid. With anyone else, even such a vague suggestion would have crawled across her skin, but now it only left her breathless, wishing for time, and space, and privacy enough to coax him out of his bashfulness and explore exactly what was on his mind.

“When we get to Highever,” she murmured, pushing herself onto her toes, closer to him. A wave rocked the ship and overbalanced them, so he ended up with his back pressed against a timber, and her body flush against his chest. The barest sliver of air lingered between them, given power by the knowledge that anyone might walk in on them, until the voice of warning faded completely and all that remained was the pound of her heart and the strength of the fingers at her waist.

“Highever,” he echoed. His eyes squeezed shut as he nodded, eased a long breath between his teeth. “When we reach Highever. Right. But that doesn’t mean I’m not kissing you right now.”

--

The final night of the voyage was spent on the shore of the mainland, a few hours’ ride from the castle. They pulled in at dusk and stayed quiet, posted guards and built the cookfire under the shelter of the cliff to hide it from enemy eyes. For ease, their armour was still stowed, but Rosslyn made sure each of them was armed.

After leaving Alistair in the hold, a knot of tension had quickly replaced the flutter his presence stirred in her stomach, and with each passing hour, it crept through the rest of her body, until her muscles ached from the strain and she forgot to even be afraid of drowning. This was her sand. She planted herself in it, a silent declaration as she kept watch that stoked the hot roar in her chest. She had been forced to run at Harrowhill; Howe would not be given the same opportunity here.

The beach itself was one she knew well. Difficult to access from above except by a narrow track, the sand was good for castles, and the rocks held deep pools at low tide where she and Fergus had once hunted for crabs with her mother. As insistent as her father had been that his children knew the land, the Seawolf had taught them about the water, and how to survive it. They had spent many nights here as a family, building driftwood fires, learning the constellations or hearing stories. Her father had never picked up more than a few words of Clayne, but he had listened as raptly as the rest of them whenever her mother spoke from the sagas of her people, used to hold her in his lap and whisper that she was missing the good bits when she squirmed.

She dashed at the unexpected wetness on her cheeks. Nostalgia had no place so close to a battle, when the only thing on the mind should be strategy, the resolve to achieve victory. And yet…

Making sure everyone was at their posts in sight of each other, she whistled for Cuno and picked her way over the shingle to a scattering of large boulders half hidden by the cliff. The bare rocks channelled the water into swift currents at high tide and made perfect hiding spot for the abundant hoof-mussels that grew all along Ferelden’s northern coast. Broken bits of shell crunched under her feet, her boots slipped on the seaweed, and as she rounded the corner away from the camp, the pervasive odour of rotten salt stung her nose.

“Wait for me!”

She halted and turned at the bright sound of Leliana’s voice. The older woman’s hair shone like a beacon in the last rays of sunlight, waving with her movement as she stepped as delicately as a deer across the most treacherous rocks.

“Have I been missed?” she asked.

Leliana’s blue eyes glinted. “There is someone in the company who always misses you, I think – but no. I merely came to enjoy an evening stroll with a friend.”

“You’re welcome to join me,” Rosslyn answered. “I was just letting Cuno stretch his legs.”

“And to think he had such green gills when we set off this morning.”

She chuckled. “He still does, he’s just forgotten about it because he’s hoping he can find a dead seal to roll in.” At her friend’s small moue of disgust, she waved her hand. “He won’t find one at this time of year, but he can tell something is going on.”

“Everything will change after tomorrow,” Leliana allowed. “One way or the other. It’s not unusual for us to seek the paths not travelled when the one before us is uncertain. We wonder what we could have done differently, and what will come after.”

For an instant, Rosslyn stiffened, but while following her lead, Leliana was only under her command as a technicality, and already knew her foils too well for her to hide them now. She decided to take the prompt for what it was, and scuffed an empty limpet shell into a pool.

“I just want to get through this,” she admitted. “After can come… after. I know there’ll be politics and more battles to fight, but…”

“Ah, I see.”

They had reached a short stretch of sand wide enough to walk two abreast, giving Leliana room to slip out from behind Rosslyn and link their arms together.

“More pleasant topics, then?”

Rosslyn watched a pair of seagulls startled into flight by Cuno’s antics. “If you like.”

“Good.” A dimpled smile turned on her. “I have been most curious to ask, how is His Highness…?”

Heat surged into her cheeks. “What do you mean, ‘how is he’?”

“Oh, you know, Alistair and you… these cold nights… he must be quite delightful. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been glowing so much when we left Deerswall, I think.”

“I – I wasn’t glowing,” she managed.

“As you say.” Leliana tilted her head, unperturbed. “But he’s athletic, that’s always nice. He is also good at following instructions, isn’t he?”

Without any true response, Rosslyn merely gaped at her. There was such casual suggestion in the remark, as if private moments would naturally be unfolded and left open for the whole world to examine at its leisure. It didn’t help that the words sparked a tumble of memories from that night, and from the morning after when waking up to Alistair’s arms around her felt like every morning she ever wanted to have again.  

“Do people always talk about their partners in such candid terms?” she asked at last, once her thoughts managed to scramble themselves back into some semblance of order.

“Sometimes, when asked,” came the easy reply.

A retort formed on her tongue, but she bit it back. After all, she had tried her best to erase the image of her friend and her captain from her mind completely. Leliana, however, seemed to track the line of her thoughts.

“You know, if you want details of Ada and I…”  

“I do not.”

She sighed. “You Fereldans. In any case, I think he must be good. You came up from the hold this afternoon looking much happier than when you went in. And rather… windswept.”

If anything, Rosslyn’s face heated further, a spark of anger seating itself amidst her embarrassment. “You think we –? We were only down there for – that is…”

A growl interrupted her. Cuno trotted stiff-legged from the patch of seaweed he had been investigating to the edge of the sand in the direction they had come, head up and every hair bristling along his back.

“What does he hear?” Leliana whispered.

Rosslyn’s hand went to her sword, taking in the lines of alarm in every inch of her dog’s stance. She was already walking forward when she caught a burst of light that fired against the dusk, and then the noise of shouting and clashing steel.

“The camp!” she cried.  

She barely glanced at Leliana before she was running, fumbling over the rocks as best she could until she reached higher, drier ground and was able to stretch into a full run, Cuno keeping pace beside her. His teeth flashed in the gloom, and as they rounded the headland she drew her sword to match, taking in the battlefield at a glance. Their forces were outnumbered. Somebody had set a tree on fire. Shadowy figures blazing the Bear on their surcoats, and a man wielding a staff. Three had broken loose from the main fight and were trying to push Windcaller back out to sea, to cut off any route of escape.

With a roar she charged them, rage surging through every sinew as she raised her sword. The first went down before he could overcome his shock. The second had his sword half-drawn when Cuno launched bodily at him and tore out his throat. She turned to meet the third, and in the flash of sparks as their blades met, she saw recognition widen in his eyes, saw his jowls pull back in a jagged grin over worn, yellowed teeth. He lunged – but his armour weighed him down, his footwork hampered by the surf, and in the same movement she used to parry his blow, she reversed her blade and stabbed it deep into his armpit. He sank beneath the water with surprise still slack upon his face, and his blood washing red over the image of the snarling Bear.

“What do we do?” Leliana’s bow was drawn. One corpse already lay with an arrow in its neck, and another had been wounded in the thigh.

“Get in the bows,” Rosslyn ordered. “Cover me – we’re getting out of here.”  

She whistled for Cuno and together they leapt up the beach. Individual skirmishes had broken out as her people bunched together to defend themselves, but already the Amaranthine soldiers’ armour and greater numbers were taking a toll. But they weren’t expecting her. She forged a path to Riley first, being beaten back inch by inch as he and two others defended Amell, who had her staff trained on the enemy mage. As the first of her defenders collapsed, screaming, she spoke a word in a harsh tongue and the air in front of her shimmered, seared in a direct arc towards her opponent who was thrown backwards off his feet as the boom of the spell echoed like a thunderclap.

Rosslyn staggered under the shockwave but drove forward nonetheless, teeth bared, and sliced deep into the ranks of the enemy disoriented by the blast, already screaming at Riley and his men to move.

“We can fight –” he started, but she rounded on him.

“We can’t hold them! Look at the enchanter – she can barely stand. No matter what happens, we have to make it to the castle with enough numbers to make it worthwhile. Now follow your orders and get to the ship!”

She had no thoughts to spare after that. She did what she could, darting from one fray to the next to bite deep with Talon and stall the enemy long enough to turn the advantage, but even with Leliana’s arrows thinning the pursuit it wasn’t enough to stop them being ground down. And she couldn’t find Alistair. Every knot of soldiers she pushed through bore no sign of him, no voice or face, even among the dead at her feet. Panic rose. There was nobody left to save, the enemy was retreating, and no matter how her heart screamed at her, she couldn’t justify keeping the rest of them in danger for the sake of one man.

There. Through a spray of blood, she spotted him. She was running, shouting. Cuno streaked ahead of her, through the sudden sea of people slowing her down. Her blade whirled, the only sound was the pulse in her ears, but he heard her, and turned, and in his distraction one of Howe’s soldiers caught him in the back of the head with the edge of a shield and he slumped to the ground.

“NO!”

They surrounded her. Alistair’s sword sprang into her left hand as she dodged and came up to put herself between him and them, and didn’t hesitate. They were better armoured than cabbages, sturdier than the slim wooden poles she used for training, but they were nothing more than an Orchard of targets, too slow for the surge in her blood. They couldn’t get near her. If they did, they went down. She felt the impacts dully, sliced tendons and spurting necks and grating bone as her two blades cut through them, all tiredness forgotten, all thought dashed from her mind by terror-driven instinct.  

And then an unseen force slammed into her, knocking her to the ground with the tingle of magic in her mouth. Her lungs wouldn’t work. A sword came down above her. She rolled away just far enough to feel the sting of sand thrown up where the blade impacted the earth and swiped blind with her arm, scrambling to get her feet back underneath her despite the shock creeping into her field of vision. No, not shock, a Sleep. She staggered as it took a firmer hold, robbed her of control of her own limbs, but there were still more to fight. She would fight.

“We’ve got her!” someone called. “Make sure the others don’t escape. His Lordship will be well pleased with –”

The rest of the words faded, the world went dark, the last thing in her awareness was the second impact of her body as it hit the ground.

[fadingcoast]

Death Of The Lie  ||  Chapter 26: Uncovered

AUTHORS: @fandom-and-feminism​ & @fadingcoast​

Summary: Odin and his daughter Hela are the perfect conquerors of the universe. The nine realms fall one after the other into their clutch. After Odin takes a second wife and has a son with her, he doesn’t need Hela anymore. Hela abandons her father and ends up marrying Laufey, a sworn enemy of the Aesir people. Not long after, she becomes pregnant with Laufey’s child. Odin cannot let that son be born, but against all odds, the boy survives. Odin is forced to bring him back to Asgard to be raised as his own until he could make further use of him. The half-Jotun-half-Aesir boy grows up to look and act a lot like his mother, which disturbs Odin, and makes him treat the boy horribly. Odin’s lies are deep and complex, but one day the boy will find out the truth about everything he is.

PAIRING: Multi RATING: Teen

MASTERLIST

Feedback is always appreciated and reblogs are encouraged!!

.-

Chapter 26: Uncovered

The chill humid air of the Alfheim lake filled Loki with the warmth of familiarity, giving him a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was only allowed to enjoy it for a second, however, before a pulse of magnetic energy emanated from where they had apparated.

“That was the alarm,” Loki warned Hela, his magic already weakened by the effect of the pulse. “The guards will be here in seconds.”

Hela nodded her understanding, and struggled to summon a long black cape to cover herself with, while Loki sent a small magical token Hela did not know where.

Several soldiers materialized in front of them, closing in like shadows coming from the trees. All escape routes were covered, their combined magic annulling any attempts of teleporting again. Instinctively Loki put himself between Hela and the soldiers, straightening his spine and taking a deep breath to draw the attention away from her.

“I am-”

“LOKI!?!”

The familiar voice brought a smile to Loki’s face. But he didn’t have time to speak before a plasma blast hit him full on the chest.

“I KNEW IT!!” Another blast knocked him backward. “I KNEW YOU WERE ALIVE!!” Loki tried to shield himself, but his seidr was barely recovering. “YOU MISERABLE LITTLE RAT!” Yet another blast. In all honesty, Loki didn’t mind much. He felt he deserved it. “HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME??!” Another blast that hit him right on his lower belly.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please stop!”

Loki was bent over himself, hand held up to make Sigyn stop. Between all the wincing and the burning, he still smiled at her. It only infuriated her more. She glared down at him, hands clenched in two tight fists. Loki straightened up slowly and walked closer, reaching for her hands.

“I am so terribly sorry, my queen-”

Sigyn kneed him right on the groin and he doubled down in pain again.

“I probably deserve that as well,” he admitted in a little voice.

“I hope, for your own sake, that you have an extremely good explanation for all this!”

“He does.”

Sigyn turned to face the cloaked figure that had stood behind Loki. Hela uncovered her head and held herself proudly. She hadn’t even opened her mouth when Sigyn bowed low to the ground.

“Your majesty,” she said with great reverence.

The Alfar guards, though clearly confused, lowered their weapons and took Sigyn’s lead. Each one knelt even lower than their Princess.

A glint of satisfaction sparkled in Hela’s eyes, though she still was perplexed. It had been centuries since anyone had treated her with the respect her position demanded. She eyed Sigyn, seeing familiar traits in her lovely features. 

“You are Iwaldis’ child, aren’t you?” Hela asked, eyeing Sigyn. “As bright as your mother, I see.” With a hand gesture, she allowed Sigyn, and the guards, to stand again.

Sigyn gasped with delight, taking a step closer to Hela. “You knew her?”

“Briefly. She taught me about Seidr, in secret.” Hela gave no more information about it, but Loki could tell there was much more to the story.

“I assume you found much more about me, about us, than whatever is left in Asgard.” Loki held Sigyn’s hands and squeezed.

“We must discuss this further at the palace.” She looked at Hela, and then at Loki, returning his gesture. “You are in for a very long history lesson.”

.-

Books piled up on every table in the small council room. Old tomes with ancient smells and yellow pages, kept from falling apart with magic. Loki wondered just how long Sigyn had been researching in his absence, and how much of it she had shared with her father. Sigyn searched for a particular volume and handed it to King Frèyr, pointing out a page to start reading. Loki and Hela listened.

It’s an ancient conflict between Asgard and Jotunheim, traced back to the times of Bor. The Frost Giants were one of the few who opposed Asgard’s rule, and sacrificed many lives to keep their freedom. Before his death, Bor had left instructions to assemble an army so powerful that the Jotunns would have no other option but surrender. When his son Odin ascended to the throne, the army was ready. The most skilled warriors of the Nine Realms came together as part of the Valkyrie Army. The conflict became even more savage and sanguinary.

When the time came for Odin to wed, there was only one woman he wanted: Rindr, General of the Valkyries and his most trusted war advisor.

“In Asgard,” Frèyr paused his reading and turned the book for Loki and Hela to see. “You will find many volumes written about the prowess and victories of the Valkyrie Armada. But there’s too little about how they came to an end.”

Loki looked at the book. On the page next to the one Frèyr was reading, there was a vivid drawing of the Valkyrie Army. It was very similar to the one Hela exposed in the throne room, but at the same time, different. There was nothing glorified about the blood dripping from the swords, or the bodies being trampled by horses. It was brutal in its honesty.

Hela traced her fingers over the drawing of her mother, and read the caption at the bottom.

The Jotnar king, Ymir, outsmarted King Odin’s strategy and led Queen Rindr and her army to a trap. The Valkyries were all slaughtered, and the Queen captured. It is said that King Ymir offered mercy.

“Mercy!” Hela scoffed. “She would not come home defeated and without her army. Asgard would not tolerate the indignity of defeat.”

“What happened then?” Loki asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Depends on who you ask.” Hela pursed her lips. “According to Odin, she was sacrificed in the middle of the plaza, her head on a spike for everyone to see.” She gulped and took a breath. “In truth, she commited suicide. Valkyries follow the King’s orders to either victory or death. There was no victory, so they died.”

“I have read of such a ritual, for fallen warriors to kill themselves honorably and still go to Valhalla,” Sigyn offered. Hela nodded.

“I was but a little girl, growing up listening to lies. Being fed nothing but rage and thirst for vengeance.” Hela flipped through the book, turning its pages to find images of Odin’s battle and the death of King Ymir. “Odin used to say that I would take my mother’s place by his side, and lay waste to those who oppose us.” Flicking through more pages, she stopped on a small drawing of Laufey ascending to the throne of Jotunheim. “For a while, I was exactly that. A weapon for him to use. I would come to regret it later.”

Loki’s mind wandered back to all the vandalized books, all the information that had been lost. 

“There is no way Odin could have gotten away with it. Someone must have known.”

“They were permanently silenced, I assure you,” Hela said, venom in her words.

Loki looked to Freyr. “And the other realms?”

“The war against Jotunheim was not our war. We were purposely left out, told to mind our own business.” Frèyr shrugged. “But the Alfar value one thing above all else, and that’s knowledge. They knew something was amiss. It took great effort to track down the truth, but they found it.”

Hela made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a growl. “And they had to keep Odin from knowing, or it would have ended up swept under the rug, with everything else, and everyone else.”

Loki knew this was true. If Odin had known Alfheim had that knowledge, he would have burned it to the ground. Hela stared at the drawing of Laufey, her breathing becoming more audible and rapid by the second.

Frèyr softened his voice when he spoke to Hela again. “There was no way we could have known about your marriage to Laufey, though, or your pregnancy.”

“The ceremony was done in secret, in Jotunheim,” Hela said with a small shake of her head. “Jotnar tradition is different. Their temple is their book, and holds their history. I had already been -” She paused to clear her throat. “Even after my banishment, I knew Odin was spying on me. It was only a matter of time before he would find out I was with child.”

Loki wished he could melt into the chair, but Sigyn held his hand. He was hanging desperately onto every word from Hela’s mouth and he had to remind himself to breathe. A lifetime of lies, finally leading to the truth, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“Do you…” Loki cleared his throat and forced himself to get the words out. “Do you know what happened the night I was taken to Asgard?”

Hela’s face paled, and she stared at her hands in her lap. A few moments passed before she could gather herself together.  When she looked back up at Loki her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

“That was the night you were born,” Hela managed to say. She took a deep breath and continued, her long fingers turning the pages of the book in front of her until she saw Laufey’s portrait again. “Odin had only just found out about you. You could say he was less than pleased. Less than two days later he came to Jotunheim with an army to drag me back to Asgard.” Finally she met Loki’s eyes. “I was in labor.

“Laufey ordered me to hide, so I did, for you. Once you were born Odin was close to discovering where I was, so I used what strength I had to teleport you to the temple. That’s all I know.” Shocked silence followed her last statement. It didn’t take much stretch of the imagination for Loki to figure out what happened after that.

The Casket wasn’t the only thing you took from Jotunheim that day, was it?

“One fact still remains, my queen.” Frèyr said very solemnly. “You are the rightful heir to the throne. Alfheim will pledge allegiance to you, and help you reclaim what is rightfully yours.”

“Why?” Hela said, her eyes narrow slits as she closed the book in her hand.

Frèyr said nothing, but looked at Loki and Sigyn holding hands, making it clear that Loki was the one they were helping. Hela nodded, her chest tightening at the sight of her son in such distress.

Frèyr gave a lighthearted smile, trying to lighten up the mood. He ordered his maids to arrange a room for Hela, and have dinner served, ignoring protests from both her and Loki. There was nothing either of them could do, he insisted. They needed to rest, gather their strength and plan for the next step. They all knew Asgard wasn’t going to bend so easily.

After supper, Loki walked Hela to his old room to find none other than Gwyn pulling fresh sheets onto the bed. The old maid smothered Loki with her powerful hugs and introduced herself to Hela. After some good-natured chastising, Loki let Gwyn take over and made his way to Sigyn’s chambers. He had a lot of explaining to do.

.-

Sigyn poured a glass of wine for herself and offered some to Loki, but he politely refused. The two of them had been catching up for over an hour, but they both knew they were getting to the most difficult part of their conversation. The part Loki was purposefully avoiding. So he directed the discussion to the exact point when all of Odin’s lies crumbled.

“…Odin is about to die, and he reveals you as heir to the throne of Asgard, rather than the golden boy.” Sigyn took a long sip of her wine and smiled over her glass at Loki. “How did Thor take it?”

“He didn’t have time to take it. He was flung from the Bifrost before we made it back.”

Sigyn coughed, spilling red liquid down the front of her dress. “How??”

“It’s a…” Loki didn’t want to get into details, but Sigyn’s stare made him continue. “I called for the Bifrost, we all got sucked into it, and Thor attacked her, so she retaliated. I’m not sure if he’s… well, let’s just say the odds are against him now.”

Placing her empty wine glass on her nightstand, Sigyn shook her head, reaching for Loki’s hand. “That had to have been hard for you, even after all you’d been through with him. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere, though, he’s a tough guy.”

“I suppose.” 

Sigyn gently ran her thumb over Loki’s palm in small circles. “You have yet to tell me what happened to you after you - after your fight with Thor, when you learned about Laufey. Before Thor brought you back to Asgard.”

A flash of cold shot down Loki’s spine, and he gulped hard against the lump in his throat. “I wish I could tell you, but-” 

“It’s okay.” Sigyn gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand. “I am an empath, Loki. It’s been clear to me for a long time, and with the growth of my powers I learned to control it. Master Indilwen said I would make a great healer, but alas, I’m a princess.” She scooted closer to him on the bed. “You don’t have to tell me. You can show me.”

Loki nearly sighed with relief. “What do I have to do?”

“Let me in.”

Loki turned to face Sigyn, legs crossed on her bed, and took both of her hands. He drew a deep breath and allowed his defenses to drop, letting Sigyn’s magic flow inside of him. Quickly he realized doing that meant he was also reliving everything he was showing her. His first instinct was to resist the memory, but Sigyn’s warm energy slowly began to soothe him.

Flashes of time appeared before his mind’s eye, and Loki felt Sigyn’s hands tremble more with each one. The cold metal floor of a prison cell, the fierce dry heat of the Sanctuary II’s engine reactor core shoving razor sharp tendrils of scorching pain down his throat and into his lungs. Days spent dangling by his throat so only the tips of his toes touched the red hot floor. Long, clammy fingers shoving needlelike spikes under his skin, the same creature laughing at his defiance and speaking in honeyed verses praising the Mad Titan. One voice ringing out over the rest, the voice of the one who wished to control him. 

How do you break a frost giant?

Loki could feel his skin turning cold. He wanted to pull away from Sigyn before he hurt her, but the harder he fought the more she held him. 

Endless days of training, fighting against the Titan’s children with no rest until he won. Words fed to him to condition his broken mind to Thanos’ cause. Glorious purpose… glad tidings… freedom is life’s great lie… you were made to be ruled…

No! Stop! That’s not me!

Sensing Loki’s distress Sigyn released his hands, wincing a bit from the frost that had formed between them. Loki’s arms faded back to his usual pale color, but his face was bright red, tears streaking down his face as he stared off at the wall behind Sigyn’s head.

“Loki…”

Loki shook his head, trying to compose himself. It had been too long since the last time he let himself show any emotions, and wanted to hide them back as soon as possible. Sigyn didn’t push, and gave him space, wiping her own tears in the meantime. It took them several minutes to calm down.

“I don’t know how or why I survived. But I did.” Loki spoke again, his voice still broken.

“The norns still have plans for you, it seems.”

“Can they be good plans? Or are they just toying with me to torture me ever further?”

Sigyn took his hand, and Loki saw the worn gold ring still on her finger. “I guess we’ll find out,” she assured him. “If your fears turn out to be true, we’ll fight back.”

“We?”

Loki was, to say the least, surprised to hear Sigyn say that. He was convinced that given the new information about his true parentage and what he really was, she would be disgusted, she would reject him, and obviously call off their engagement. Her assurance that her feelings had not waned was more than he could have ever expected from her.

“Don’t look at me like that! We are still going to be married!” She stated matter-of-factly, as if there had never been any question of it. “Just… after all this is over. Then you - we - can finally live in peace.”

Loki burst out laughing. “As you wish, my queen.”

.-

<< Chapter 25  –  Chapter 27 >>

.-

@nikkalia​ @xalgaliareptx​  @christy-winchester​ @silverhart93​ @honeybournehippy​ @unseelie1963​ @angryowlet​ @thelittlestlittlecutiepie​ @moonlightprime​ @velvetzybanshee​ @bengalaas​ @damalseer

[xcenj]

Critical Reflection

Throughout the last eight weeks, the Fashion Promotion Year 2 class have been given the opportunity to revamp PXL Agency. The class was divided into five groups: Branding, Research and Development, Website and PR, Editorial and Events. For this project, I was a part of the Website and PR Team. As a collective, we decided to divide our team into two separate groups; Website and Social Media, whilst as a whole agreeing on all final outcomes.

My role within Pixel Agency was to help create and design the new Pixel website as well as reach out to influential creative industry players and produce content/story ideas for Instagram. I put myself forward for the website sub-team, as I had never made a website before and was eager to further my knowledge and skill range. The beginning of the project was very daunting, as time was limited despite our huge responsibility. After listening to informative guest speakers week after week, I have learned that confidence and persistence are key in all creative professions. Unfortunately, I regret not taking the opportunity to ask guest speakers more questions and seek further insights. On the flip side, I’m really happy that this module allowed the whole class to work together, as I have made new bonds with class members I didn’t speak to before. Overall, this experience has taught me time management, networking, how to build a portfolio, teamwork skills, and consistency.

Eager and ready to learn I attended a private tutorial with Amy Bruce, in order to understand the basics of Squarespace. During Amy’s private tutorial, I had the pleasure of meeting Cyrus, the web designer for Pixel’s website last year and quickly exchanged contact information in case my team had questions about Squarespace along the way. Before we could start designing the website, I suggested to my team leader Karolina that a new Google Drive for PXL be created. In our drive, we had a clear folder for class members to upload their work. Despite having this folder we constantly had to nag the class to upload their work. As a group, we would use the work to create collages for our social media feed. I imputed to the process by drawing storyboards four at a time of what each page of the website should look like. In order to keep every aspect of the website on brand, a member from branding would oversee the drawing plans and adjust if need be. These drawings provided a clear structure and plan for the team to follow. As a group, we wanted everyone’s headshot to be uniform and continuous. To achieve this we successfully organised a time effective shoot, unfortunately some members of the class were unable to attend and didn’t feature on the website. This is a real shame as we all worked so hard. I took lead on the projects page by picking and uploading the strongest work generated by the whole class to show off Pixel at its best. With the help of others in my group, we were able to link the projects back to the individuals about us page. For part of my own page on PXL, I decided to turn my marketing reports into GIFs in order to show continuity within the design. As Pixel is a communications agency establishing connections between tastemakers, it was crucial for the PXL website to have a blog section. The blog section was available for all class members to feature. I wrote a blog post to inform creatives of the latest exhibitions around London with a brief description of what work and installations were featured.

Throughout the whole process, I am very impressed with how much our group conversated within our WhatsApp group chat. However, at times I felt as if our group had no clear structure. If I could change one thing about the whole process it would be the black background on the website. I was very vocal on the fact that the black background doesn’t bring out the best in everyone’s work and can be too dark, gloomy and contrasting. Another improvement would have been for our the social media sub-team to post more engaging stories with advice on how to better your CV and how to get an internship as we had all just come back from placement. As a group, we discussed taking inspiration from Instagram pages like ‘Find Your Intern’.

Leading up to the event, I noticed that the Social Media sub-team hadn’t invited many followers, influencers or industry moguls. During the week leading up to the event, I took it upon myself to send an invite to as many VIPs as possible. To try and attract the general public, I created a free open event post on Eventbrite for more traction. As a group, we could have improved our PR strategy and branched outside of just Instagram. I did suggest that we take advantage of Ravensbourne’s facility to use Fashion Monitor and email some press offices but received very low morale from my group that they wouldn’t come to our event. That being said some of the PXL invites I sent to Dazed via Instagram did receive positive feedback and a few RSVPs.

At the event, I wanted to be as hands-on as possible. During the first hour, I had learned that the flyers for the event hadn’t been delivered on time and weren’t going to arrive. However, I did not let the terrible news deflate my energy, I grabbed PXL stickers and headed to the streets to get the public through the doors. During my allocated leaflet time, I made my way to Shoreditch in attempts to draw in an artsy crowd, stopping everyone on my way. At the event, I met a lovely lady called Raquel Maillo who explained the importance of not giving up. I now feel better knowing that interning in several different places will eventually pay off. Nonetheless, I’m disappointed in myself as I should of networked with more industry figures.

At the start of this module, I began updating the aesthetics of my Curriculum Vitae and Cover Letter. Both are now sleek and modern, reflecting my style of design. As LinkedIn is such a vital tool to communicate with employers in regards to internships, it must be regularly updated (LinkedIn profile https://www.linkedin.com/in/cameo-johansson-706716151/). I constantly message people with job titles I would like to pursue to question what route they took to get where they are. Throughout this project, I have developed my online profile through the means of a visual blog. I use the blog as a sketchbook to post visuals that influence me. I have noticed an increase in my Tumblr followings and reposts, which inspires me to urge on. Offline I have made myself available to help out at industry events where possible, in particular a GQ styling masterclass workshop. After the masterclass, I networked with creatives such as Angelo Mitakos at London Fashion Week Men’s discussing the possible opportunities of interning. I would love to secure a placement over the summer with a company that will further push me out of my comfort zone.

I am still trying to discover my niche is in the fashion industry. As much as I loved learning how to create a website, I can happily say it’s not a career path I wish to further pursue. I believe that my personality and skill set would work better within a communication role for example Events or Editorial. Therefore if PXL was a real communications agency, I would be happy with a salary of 21k per year as an Events Co-ordinator.

Numerous triumphs left this experience: the Branding team executed a strong identity and dossier from the very beginning, the Research and Development team worked very hard to produce an informative on brand research pack all about Generation Z and X, the Website and PR team created a fabulous aesthetic website and Instagram, the Editorial team created unique campaign imagery for content and promotional banners and lastly the Events team pulled off a venue, a bar and two sponsors (MiiRO icecream and Press Juice London) Overall, I think the class has done a spectacular job, working to include everyone’s different aesthetic can be really challenging. However, in the end, we pulled off an amazing packed industry event with a website launch and clear synergy between all assets in the short space of time.

[darley1101]

September 4 Magic (better late than never!)

A/N Day 4 of the September prompt challenge being hosted by @i-dream-so-i-write. The theme for this one is magic. I am combining it with some requests previously made by my bestie @blackcatkita for the Bloodbound pairing of Adrian x Annabel /MC. The previous request is what was their first impression and how did they meet, what do they fight about how do they make up, and how much are they willing to sacrifice for each other any lines they won't cross. And for some resolution to Annabel's cancer diagnosis. I hope everyone enjoys. I did something different with this one. With the exception of the author's note, anything in itallics is a flashback. All flashbacks are from Adrian's POV, while all current time are from Annabel's.

Magic Is A 4 Letter Word ( L-O-V-E)

They say that at the end of a person's life the moments that defined them flash before their eyes.  Lying there, eyes glazed in pain and heart fighting the inevitable end that was coming sooner rather than later, Annabel's thoughts are consumed with Adrian. There are flashes of her childhood in Iowa in between the pivotal moments of their relationship, memories forced out of guilt because her parents should have meant more to her than the man sitting by her side, stroking the back of her hand in a slow, soothing motion. “Do you remember when we met,” she asked in a voice that sounded too dry and weak to be her own, yet she knew that it was.

“How could I forget?” Adrian mused. A gentle smile stretched across his full lips. Lips that pressed a soft kiss to the palm of her hand. Lips that murmured words about how right from the start he'd been enchanted by her.

Sitting with her back perfectly straight and her chin raised just a notch the newest candidate for Executive Assistant had an air of confidence that was both reassuring and, dare he say it, attractive. No matter how hard Nicole tried to fluster her or trick her into a questionable response, the young woman remained perfectly composed. In fact, the more Nicole pushed, the calmer their potential employee became. He could tell from Nicole's voice that she wasn't impressed, that there was something about the girl that she resented. Letting out a sigh, Adrian stepped into the conference room where the interview was being held. How many times had he told Nicole that she had to stop letting personal insecurities dictate who they hired? It was those insecurities that resulted in sub-par assistants that didn't know what they were doing or, worse, had no sense of loyalty. “Afternoon ladies,” he greeted, striding towards the file Nicole was drumming her fingers against. He snatched it from  her and flipped it open. Honor student with an Ivy League education. Charitable volunteer work that jived with their mission at Raines Corporation. The more Adrian read, the more impressed he became. “Annabel is it?”

“Yes,” the interviewee responded, her voice like a cool breeze on a hot day. Glancing up from the file, Adrian sucked in his breathe. Long, shiny dark hair. Intelligent hazel eyes that held his gaze. A slight body with just enough curves to stir something he'd thought long dead. There was something about her that set off sparks in his soul.

“You're hired,” he said softly, knowing it was the only way he could guarantee that he would see her again. There would be hell to pay with Nicole but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Besides, it was his company and the girl would be his assistant.

“I almost turned the job down,” Annabel chuckled then wheezed, a cough tickling the back of her throat before erupting from her lips. Her chest tightened, wrapped in invisible bands that she knew wouldn't stop constricting until there was no air left in her body. During moments like this, when the changes in her body were almost too painful to bear, she had to remind herself why she had chosen this route. It was for Adrian. She'd done it for Adrian. Another cough wracked her body, spittle bubbling up in the corners of her lips. “Sorry,” she gasped, closing her eyes.

“Don't be sorry, murmured Adrian. Through her lowered lashes, she could see a sad ghost of a smile haunting his lips. He reached up, gently brushing a lock of hair off the apple of her cheek, his finger tips lingering just to the left of her mouth. “So...why did you almost turn down the job?”

The answer was simple: Nicole. Right from the start the other woman had made it clear that Raines Corporation, Adrian in particular, was her territory and Annabel was trespassing. Annabel had taken the high round, keeping things as professional as a vampire's assistant could, and doing what she could to show Nicole there was no need for animosity. Nothing worked. The harder Annabel tried, the more professional she tried to be, the more difficult Nicole made things. Life at the office became almost unbearable once Nicole figured out Adrian was seeing Annabel on a less than professional level. The jabs about Annabel's 'duties' had escalated to a point where Annabel had point blank asked the other woman if she was jealous or just plain bitter. It made things worse. After that Nicole made it her personal mission to make sure everyone knew how little regard she held for Annabel, including Adrian. It put Adrian in a tough position. He'd spent years trusting Nicole, giving her full access to his business in both the human and vampire worlds. It had been a mistake, one that had almost cost them their lives. Annabel had had the last laugh though. She'd put an arrow straight through the bitch's heart.

“Sorry,” she murmured, realizing she'd lost herself in a memory instead of answering Adrian's question. Her mind seemed to drift lately, caught between two worlds. “I'd rather not talk about her.” Nicole had already stolen too much time and energy from her, she refused to waste what little she had dwelling on a woman who had been so full of hate she'd sold out to the devil.

“What would you rather talk about?” The tips of his fingers trailed up and down her jaw line, sparking an ill timed excitement they could do nothing about.

“My funeral.”

A hard grimace twisted Adrian's features. It was a topic he liked to avoid, one that always circled back to him refusing to accept the inevitable and her wanting something from him that he refused to give. She didn't want to fight with him, not again, not about this. Yet, there were things they needed to discuss. “Adrian, please.”

It had been close to two hundred years since Adrian Raines had set foot in a church. Ironically enough, it had been for the same reason he now stood outside the simple red brick and white clapboard chapel that loomed in front of him. Closing his eyes, he stood beneath his black umbrella, letting the gentle patter of rain and the strains of Somewhere Over The Rainbow wrap around him. It was perfect and so completely Annabel. A lump of emotion swelled in his throat as his eyes flew open. He'd fought her on this, even going so far as to say it was morbid to plan her own funeral and then ask him to attend. Didn't she understand how difficult all of this was for him? He still felt lingering traces of anger, resentment, and the urge to scream, but most of all he felt regret. Annabel asked for so few things and she had trusted him with this. He owed it to her to see it through. He lowered his umbrella, collapsing it. Adrian cleared his throat, then walked up the steps and into the church. There, front and center, was the platinum urn Annabel had picked out herself, surrounded by hundreds of floral arrangements. God, he felt like he couldn't breathe. He had nobody to blame but himself for the scene before him. It had been his choice that led to this.

Slowly, his handsome features softened, his hand squeezing hers, and adoration shining his beautiful eyes. “There were so many flowers. Mostly pink roses.” Pink roses. They had always been her favorite. It was probably cliché, everyone liked roses and pink in particular was popular, but something about the flower made Annabel smile. Knowing that others had remembered that about her and showered her funeral with them left a warm feeling in her rapidly declining heart. She could almost feel it slowing, dying. “Your cousin Chazz gave a really beautiful speech on how your smile filled  a room with sunshine.” Chazz. It had been years since Annabel seen her favorite cousin. Their last moments together had been  a tight hug and a promise to stay in touch before he drove out to California to start his new life working for Castle Talent Management. Had she told him how proud she as of him? She couldn't remember. The distance had done what it did best and they'd gotten lost in their own lives. “I think the hardest part was seeing your parents. They looked so broken, Annabel.” He squeezed her hand again, a little harder this time. “Your mother thanked me. She thanked me for being there for you. Do you know how hard that was?”

Almost as hard as the phone she'd forced him to make informing her parents that she had died in an automobile accident. It had seemed kinder than the truth: that cancer was ravaging her body once more. The 'accident' had also provided them a reason for having her 'body' cremated. “It was the only way,” she reminded him, gasping for air as her chest once again tightened. The end was near, she could feel it. The last of her mortal life was seeping away.

The ability to create a new life was something Adrian had never fully embraced. It seemed like too much power and there were too many things that could go wrong. Adrian had learned that the hard way. For every person he turned, there was the one who didn't. The one who, no matter how careful he was, turned feral and had to be destroyed. He'd already watched one woman he cared about fail to transition, he wasn't sure he could handle it if the same happened to Annabel. Annabel. Just her name filled him to the brim with love. Everything in him screamed that changing Annabel was a bad idea, it went against everything he believed in. Yet, he knew there was no choice. He'd been prepared to loose Annabel to old age but not to the disease eating her alive. They had been to specialist after specialist, the best the world had to offer. None of them had good news. The cancer was too aggressive and any treatments they did would only prolong the inevitable: Annabel was a ticking time bomb. His breaking point had been Annabel asking him to not forget her. It was the deciding factor. Life without Annabel wasn't life at all. And what was the point of having the magic to change a life if he didn't use it to save the only woman he'd ever really loved.

Death happened with a whisper of a breathe across her slightly parted lips. She'd been lying if she said her last mortal thought hadn't been about fear, but as quickly as the thoughts invaded her mind they were gone. There was a moment of stillness, of floating in a vast expanse of nothingness, before she let out a loud gasp and her eyes flew open. It was like magic. One moment she was dead, surrounded by a thick, black fog, and next she was alive again, ready to face eternity with the man she loved.

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[heykageyama-archive]

Hurt

Pairing: Hotch x Reader x Rossi

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: Requested by anonymous This may be unusual but could you do a Hotch x reader x Rossi with the guys taking care of the reader after they have been injured. Like Hotch is full of hugs away from the team and Rossi too full of hugs, massages, making food etc

Word Count: 1,628 (not sorry lol)

A/N: I am so so sorry anon but this is long overdue. I’m trying to catch up with my requests from now on and after I do, requests will be open again ! I hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated.

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, a lot of angst, just a tad bit of fluff

(gifs are not mine)

This particular case had been a pain. Especially when you and the team had finally cracked it after so many twists and dead ends. You all had just figured out the location of the unsub and you all rushed to leave. You wanted to catch this son of a bitch for putting women through the worst pain possible. While en route, you and the team had discussed what way would be best to catch him in. You all decided that the best way to catch him would be to catch him off guard and eventually get the latest victim out of there and alive. The screeching of tires made the SUV come to a halt as you all moved out of the vehicle and put on your vests. You gazed at the huge building in front of you, worrying that you may not be able to find the girl inside in time. You sighed as you folded the last strap onto the vest. Hotch turned around and spoke to all of you. He put you all in pairs along with the SWAT team before going inside. You and Rossi moved inside and immediately went right while the others went in different directions. He suggested that you both split up to cover more ground and you agreed. Rossi gestured the SWAT team member to follow him in another direction while you kept moving straight.

You turned at a corner and saw that it was yet another empty hallway. You sighed in frustration but slowly kept moving. You peered at the dark bloody walls beside you and grimaced. You couldn’t have imagined what had happened here and you didn’t want to know either. You re-tightened your grip on your gun as you continued down the hallway. Suddenly something grabbed hold of your shoulders and slammed you against the wall. Then your face was slung to the side as someone punched you. It took you a second to process what just happened but you grabbed the unsub by the collar and slammed your face into his, making him curse. He stumbled backwards and you took the opportunity to kick him in the stomach but he quickly dodged it. The unsub retaliated by kicking you in the leg, making you drop to one knee. You groaned in pain while he punched you again only this time you fell to the ground. He turned you over on your back and straddled you around your waist. One hit after another, the pain was excruciating. You tried to reach for your gun in your holster, but then the unsub had pulled out a knife. You felt a sting in your left arm then he stabbed again. You screamed out in pain as the unsub began to leave. You heard voices in the distance and you hoped it was your colleagues. Your vision was blurry because your face had swollen up and covered in blood. You weakly pulled out your gun and aimed at the unsub. You fired the shot and the bullet ended up going into his leg. The unsub fell to the ground as you heard a rampage of footsteps. Your breathing slowed as you struggled to even keep your eyes open. You saw a couple of SWAT members go arrest the unsub, then you looked up and saw Hotch and Rossi above you. Their voices echoed throughout you ears as they tried talked to you. You felt Rossi put pressure on your arm before everything faded into darkness.

“We need a medic!” Hotch yelled into the earpiece. Rossi saw that your eyes were closed and he lightly pat your face, carefully trying not hurt you more than it already does. You barely opened your eyes when he spoke.

“Hey kid, I need you to keep your eyes open and focused on me okay?” When you tried to reply, he shushed you. “Save your breath and your energy.”

By that time, the rest of the team was waiting outside for the medics to bring you out on the gurney. The ambulance’s blue and red lights flashed across the ground while everyone wore worried expressions. The medics rushed past them to get you into the ambulance. Rossi decided to ride with them to the hospital and notify them until the arrive. His hands were covered in blood and he was breathing heavily. The medics had brought over an oxygen mask to hopefully help you breathe. Rossi was nervously sat watching you, praying that you would be okay. 

“B/P is sixty over palp, resp is ten-” One of the medics started to say but the beeping of the monitor got everyone’s attention. Flat-line. Everyone stared in shock but then instantly got back to work. Tears started to form in his eyes, Rossi has seen many friends and agents of his pass in his line of work. You couldn’t die. Especially you were one of the younger agents, you had a full life ahead of you. If only he hadn’t mentioned splitting up. This was all his fault. 

When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, everyone raced to get you inside. One of the medics had managed to climb on top of you and started CPR.  When they reached the hallway towards the emergency room, they finally got you breathing again. They explained to the doctor what your stats and condition was. The doctor shined a light into your eyes.

“Her pupils are reactive, we need to get her into surgery immediately.”

Rossi stood at the door of the emergency room, him biting his lip to prevent the tears from crashing down. Rossi was always like a father figure to you and you appreciated it. Growing up with your father dying at a early age was difficult. Rossi went to go sit in the waiting room while he waited for the rest of the team to arrive. He held his head in his hands, lost in thought about what just happened in the last two hours. He wondered what would’ve happened if you hadn’t split up. Would he be in your position or would have you both successfully captured the unsub? He thought of what he could’ve done differently. The team appeared behind him and instantly bombarded him with worriedly questions. He gestured for them to calm down.

“She went into surgery about fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know anything yet but when I do, you all will be the first to know.” 

Hotch noticed the tears threatening to fall and suggested that they speak in private. He agreed and moved away from the tea as they sat down in different chairs around the waiting room. Hotch waited for Rossi to speak while he took a moment to regroup. 

“Aaron, it’s really bad. When-when we were in the ambulance, she stopped breathing. I mean they have her breathing now but, I thought we lost her. If she doesn’t make it out of surgery alive, I’ll never forgive myself. This is all my fault. If I had not-”

“Dave, all we can do is hope and pray that Y/N will be alright. This is not your fault, you couldn’t have known.”

Hotch gave Rossi a reassuring pat on the shoulder before Rossi left to go sit down. Hotch glanced to the side and stared at the emergency room door for a moment. He gulped while he sighed. He hoped he was right.

Hours and hours passed by while you all waited for the surgery to be finished. People from the waiting room had came and went. It was beginning to be around three am when the doctor finally came out and announced your name. Everyone turned their sleepy gazes towards the doctor as Hotch stood to his feet. He took a deep breath and hoped for the best before walking over.

“The wounds that were penetrated by the knife were very deep and she lost a ton of blood along with the injuries to her face. We gave her some stitches but she stable right now. You can see her now and she’ll be able to go home when you all are ready to leave.” 

Hotch smiled and thanked the doctor as she began to leave. Everybody looked up when Hotch walked back over. They all saw his relieved expression and smiled to each other. Each team member entered your room but frowned when they saw you. You had bruises all over your face with a couple of stitches. You arm had a huge bandage around it. You hadn’t woken up yet as they slowly walked over to you. They surrounded your bed as you heard little whispers around you. You opened your eyes to see your team around you but then felt a sharp sting in your face and arm. You winced and positioned yourself so you were sitting up. They looked at you with such happiness as they greeted you. Each of your colleagues took turns hugging you and saying that they were happy to see you alright. Rossi and Hotch were the last two and asked everyone if they could give them a minute. They pulled up two chairs on each side of you as you watched the door close.

“How are you feeling?” Rossi asked as he held your hand.

“Like hell.” You replied, earning a chuckle from both of the men.

“Listen, I thought I lost you back there. All because of my actions. I want to redeem myself by taking care of you until you are ready to get back to work. Aaron will make daily checkups to see how you’re doing. I won’t take no for an answer.”

You sighed at the both of them. “Thank you guys. I really appreciate it.”

“You ready to get out of here?”

“Hell yeah.”

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[inthenameofthebody]

Music, Meditation, Painting—and Dreaming

A conversation with Philip Glass and Fredericka Foster

Philip Glass

and

Fredericka Foster

FALL 2021

We are on the phone, freewheeling about our practices: music, art, and meditation. Another day, we are in Philip’s kitchen, sitting at a wooden table. Behind us are comfortable couches and a private outdoor space. Philip’s partner, the artist Saori Tsukada, is working with flowers in the urban garden surrounding the house.

—Fredericka Foster

Philip Glass (PG): I was talking once to Gelek Rimpoche [1938–2017] about meditation, and I asked him, “Isn’t it just paying attention?” Yes, he said, “that’s absolutely what it is.” Meditation is a nice fuzzy word that we all like to talk about—but paying attention is placing your mind and functioning in a different way.

During the few years I have practiced meditation, I have worked with a number of texts. Say I am reading texts I have read many times—I’m thinking of the first Panchen Lama’s book on guru devotion [Lama Chöpa: The Guru Puja], which is not well understood. It is not about the guru; it is about the devotion. When I decide to really pay attention, I go back in my memory and look at some of the initiations I have taken. I watch the language change from awareness to remembering. It is possible to train the mind to increase memory.

I once asked the [scholar-teacher] Demo Rinpoche how many books he had memorized, and he replied that he wasn’t doing much memorizing at all—he thought only about 19! I’m sure it is many more now, and Gelek Rimpoche had memorized a library. The Tibetan culture cultivated the idea of memorizing. The passing on of wisdom could have been very accurate, since this was their main way of sharing information. The Tibetan lamas would memorize entire books and then, looking at a particular page, include the footnotes from other books they had read to verify a particular idea or lineage in the book they were writing themselves.

Fredericka Foster (FF): And here I am, still working to memorize all the texts that I work with daily! Memorization is also a part of a visual artist’s training. When we learn to draw, we work from reality—say, at its simplest, a still life. First we draw a series of lines to establish a compositional placement on the page. Then we memorize a line, draw it, and go back to the source to check it. We keep doing that until we have trained our hand to accurately follow our eye. Another memory exercise involved going through a pile of one thousand prints in a day and then discussing what we had seen. Or we would spend hours in front of a single painting and then sketch it out later.

PG: Culture has often been passed from one generation to the other through the power of memorization. We know the Bible was written 200 years after the birth of Christianity, so we assume it was made up. But it is possible that a sharp mind could remember very clearly and pass it along to another sharp mind, so the passing along of wisdom could have actually been very accurate, maybe more accurate than you would find in books, which are subject to typographical error, bad editions, and missing pages.

FF: Tibetan Buddhism attracts a lot of visual artists, and I suspect it is because we take easily to the many visualization exercises available for practitioners. I remember your telling me that your father taught you to play mental chess, which would certainly serve to sharpen your memory.

PG: Yes, he began doing that with his brother to pass time while they were waiting for the papers to be delivered for their paper route. And he continued playing with me and my brother.

If you go back to the 15th and 16th centuries, people didn’t write down everything. Many people didn’t write at all! One memorizing trick was to visualize a bookshelf and to actually visualize the names of the books on the shelf. I tried this once to see if it would work with a dance company in Australia. There were 20 people in the company, and we worked with them for a few days. With each member, I visualized their name on a book cover and put it in a certain location on an imaginary shelf. The last day I was able to say goodbye to each one, correctly remembering their names while looking at the bookshelf I had created in my mind. And they said, “How did you do that?” Well, what I was doing was trying to see if that thing worked. It did work.

“When that intensity of attention is applied to creating, you can’t stand outside and watch it; you have to give up the witness.”

FF: And we both did a lot of memorization in school—of poetry, speeches, and so on. It’s helpful when we memorize sutras and prayers today.

PG: All that also serves to assist us with the flow of attention. I once heard someone say he didn’t understand meditation. I said, “Forget that word; just pay attention to what you are doing.” We had been talking about infinity, and my friend suggested it was the flow of eternity, and I said that is the whole idea, the process of the mind attending to what you are doing, one moment at a time.

I find that when that intensity of attention is applied to creating, you can’t stand outside and watch it; you have to give up the witness. People ask me all the time, “Where did that music come from?” I have no idea, because all my energy went into writing the music. Since I had no awareness of myself writing, I had extra energy to increase the depth of concentration. It left me without the awareness of doing the work. I discovered that being aware of myself creating was an indulgence I couldn’t afford.

FF. It sounds like you have somehow overcome dualism when you are writing music. It’s like the state we work to achieve in order to become one with the object of meditation.

PG: Actually, when I decided to explore where music lived, I found that music comes from dreaming. I noticed I would wake up with a piece of music very clear in my mind. I thought these were stray ideas, but then I became curious where these ideas came from—the dreaming function of the mind is not ordinarily available to us. So I decided to wake up and write it down.

Recently, I was considering working on King Lear, a play I don’t like very much, and I was thinking I don’t want to write music for this. I finished the play and went to sleep. Then, at 5:30 in the morning, I heard music playing, and realized it was King Lear music and that the play was all about Lear’s relationship with his daughter; everything else was distraction. I went to the piano without hesitation. I started to write words by hand to describe the idea, then I sketched the music—a few measures. I thought it was the beginning of Lear, but actually it was the end.

FF: I keep pen and paper at my bedside and write or draw ideas as they appear. I haven’t done much with these ideas, but you are inspiring me to pay closer attention to them.

PG: Dreaming is the most personal and unique function that we don’t normally share with others. In analysis, we paid a lot of attention to dreams, but I am not talking about Freudian analysis and projecting it onto everyone else. What I learned from analysis was to give up my interest in the uninteresting—all those family issues made me bored with myself, and I didn’t have to do that anymore. Maybe the analyst knows this is what is happening. I read that during the first two hours of sleep, the mind looks at the day just past and sorts out memories to be preserved and those to be put away. The mind acts as an archivist. The creative part comes close to morning, before you wake up. When I wake up, I ask myself What was I just thinking? It is probably what I was dreaming about.

FF: Are you talking about lucid dreaming?

PG: No, but I can stand at the door of my dream and look into the room, as it were. It’s not complete, but it’s enough. Before I write, I access that dreaming state. I may never understand the dream, but what is important is that the material of the dream has become available.

FF: You encouraged me once to see the Cocteau Orphic trilogy, which inspired you to write an opera triptych. Those three films explore dreams and myths and can be watched again and again. When I moved from doing paintings exploring the symbols of faith and myth to working with images of water, I felt that I moved into metaphor and closer to the dream state. I am so relaxed looking at water. It frees my mind to wander, and I get new ideas, or watch old ones come together.

PG: The challenge of any artist is to keep the fire of creativity alive. What we mostly do is, we get good at doing something, and we keep doing it and don’t change much at all. If I look at the work of Sol LeWitt [1928- 2007], it is extraordinary, but it doesn’t change much. [Josef] Albers did manage to work with a square in a square over and over, but while they might look the same, they are not the same at all because of the influence of color.

An artist like me wants radical change. I found that the engine of change was working with new people and the new ideas they brought to the conversation. It didn’t turn into a formula, but I often did this.

Bob Wilson and I did [the opera] Einstein on the Beach, and it was very successful. To avoid doing “The Son of Einstein on the Beach,” I next did the opera Satyagraha, which was completely different. That was counterintuitive. We all want to please people. Your gallery wants you to make more of the same kind of paintings because they were successful. Most people follow success with another similar one, but I wanted to keep creative thinking alive in the process.

Every time I made a big change, I would lose a lot of people, but I would get some new ones. I found 50 percent of people liked it and 50 percent didn’t.

FF: After the Fischbach Gallery [where I regularly showed] left New York and went online, I found my work changing. I’ve always had to solve a new problem with each painting, but now I feel free to change what I was doing in a more radical way.

PG: I’ve noticed your work is changing. I have turned this change idea into a mantra: I am never happier than when I don’t know what I am doing. Still, I have moments of panic. How is this going to work? It can be very stressful trying to do new things, and I am not always completely successful, but I change as much as I can.

I discovered it was impossible not to do something familiar to some degree. When working in theater, I had to have at least one person who would come with me into a new project. I had to find a compromise about what I was willing to know and not know. I found I had to take something with me. Parts of my language would have to be the same, or my task would become impossible.

FF: In your ninth symphony, I feel like you are communing with the cosmos; there seems to be a seamless interaction between art and meditative revelation.

“I have turned this change idea into a mantra: I am never happier than when I don’t know what I am doing. Still, I have moments of panic.”

PG: Our minds are working all the time, but we can’t drive thoughts into awareness. As an artist, you are distilling your thoughts all the time, or listening to music, or paying attention to images. You are probably painting very differently now than you did when you were young, and some of that will be due to the fact that you have learned how to master your attention.

Once when I was in the mountains of Mexico with friends, we had to cross a valley to where we left our car. It looked to me like we didn’t have time to get there. If it got dark and we were in the desert, we would be in trouble. We started walking in a focused-intention kind of way—they called it a walk of attention. A walk that would have normally taken 40 minutes took 10. I had that experience of being able to pay attention to my attention, to actually cross a valley in a much shorter period of time so that we got to where we needed to in the light. We’re talking about pretty hardcore reality. The only way to do it was to command my attention to the point where I was able to make that happen. You can say “Well, you just made that up.” Of course I just made it up; how else could it have happened if I hadn’t made it up? But the fact of the matter is, I got across the valley before the sun went down. I know you’ve experienced something like that in painting.

FF: Yes, and at those times it seems that the painting paints itself. Later, I think, How did I do that? I’ve also experienced the sensation of entering the consciousness of animals, or even fish, when I have been watching water; suddenly feeling the sense of hunger and of being prey at the same moment—imagination becoming compassion. Music, art, and meditation are all means of accomplishing deep mental targeting of our feelings of interdependence and compassion.

PG: Bravo!