#i have so much more to say about this rip mail for getting the brunt of my insane ramblings on dc IM SORRY AHJGKVJHAGDF

[pineappical]

so that finale huh.

[kittinoir]

Echoes of You Ch. 20

Read on Ao3

Adrien had screwed up.

He’d screwed up all of it. He’d never been more sure of anything in his life, but the hardest part had been staying away instead of running back to her with flowers and apologies. He’d put of patrolling two nights in a row for that reason. He was painfully aware of just how much he’d hurt her, but his words had been as much for himself as they’d been for her. He’d needed to hear the truth. They both had.

He’d known it had been a mistake to lean on her, but he was hurting, and she was so kind, and…and it was all an excuse. Fear had driven him to her balcony and fear had driven him away. It was better to put the wall back in place. He couldn’t stand to lose her, too, not after…

And that had always been the case, probably half the reason for his feelings for his Lady. Who he was, what he did, would come between him and any person he had feelings for, except for the one person who could understand it.

Adrien raised a picture he’d been holding in his right hand back over his face. It was one of the riskiest things he owned: a never-before seen by anyone picture of his Lady, a shot no one but Chat Noir would have been able to take from a patrol a few months ago. After all, who else could  get to the top of the Arc d’Triomphe? He’d insisted it was nothing more than a photo of the beautiful sunset, but he’d angled it so that his Lady was in the frame. The reds and purples and golds in the backgrounds were stunning, but what was a sunset compared to her face?

And what was a little heartache compared to Marinette’s safety?

Groaning, Adrien let his hand flop back down to the mattress. How had he ended up here?

“You know, I think you were on the right track,” Plagg said, drifting over Adrien’s face. “You should go apologize to that girl. Take her some cheese - on me.”

“Very generous,” Adrien said, rolling his eyes as he twisted onto his side. “You just want things to be easy. That’s not how love works.”

“Are you saying you’re in love with that girl?” Plagg asked, dive-bombing the sheets. 

“Isn’t that what you keep insisting?” Adrien grumbled, rolling his eyes. 

“I still think I had a point,” Plagg said primly. 

“All I did was hurt her,” Adrien admitted, sitting up. “I don’t deserve to drag her into this. It’s safer for her if I don’t come around, and better for me. Marinette deserves someone who can give her their whole heart, and I…Chat Noir wouldn’t make a very good boyfriend anyway. Sooner or later the mask would come between us. It never would have worked.”

“And what if she needs saving?”

Adrien couldn’t help a small smile. “Marinette’s never needed saving.”

Plagg frowned. “Anymore thoughts on Trixx’s little message?”

Adrien groaned, throwing his hands over his eyes. “None. Could he have been anymore cryptic? ‘Look for what’s not there’? I mean, what does he think I’ve been doing this whole time? I feel like I have all the pieces, I just need to put them together.”

“You do,” Plagg said, swirling closer. “You can do it.”

“Can you tell me anything else?” Adrien asked. He’d asked before, but Plagg hadn’t been able to come up with anything new. 

“She’s always been just one step behind you,” Plagg said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You just never…you never saw her, Adrien.”

“One step behind…”

An alarm chimed on Adrien’s phone, and he instantly recognized the alert reserved for akuma’s. He snatched it up, opening Nadja’s live news feed. Once again, his Lady would have to wait.

Adrien frowned, devouring details. He could easily recognize the Louvré plaza in the background as Nadja huddled behind a tree.

“…ments ago an akuma appeared at the Louvré museum where preparations were being made to restore several historical paintings. The akuma - oh my!”

The camera panned over Nadja’s shoulder to the plaza where Adrien could see the monster had appeared. His heart stuttered at the sight of the truly wicked looking blade the thing was carrying. He was a good fencer, but the broad-sword was definitely designed for crushing; he doubted his slender baton could take the brunt of it. Hopefully Red’s lucky charm would be a little more durable. 

“Time to go,” Adrien said, standing. “Plagg - ”

“Um, Adrien?! It looks like you’re already there.”

Adrien froze, then snatched his phone back up. 

Sure enough, two superheroes had appeared in the plaza. They certainly looked like them, but if the past two months had taught him anything, it was that nothing was as it seemed. 

“Senti-monsters?” Adrien wondered out loud.

Plagg shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I guess. It’s happened before, but to what end?”

“Another mass akumatization?” Adrien suggested. 

“Possible,” Plagg said again, “But risky. It didn’t work the last time, and we have the Miracle Box. We could show up with a team to fight him, but maybe he’s counting on Ladybug’s inexperience to take you down.”

“So the best thing then would be to show up?”

“Maybe try calling Chloe first,” Plagg suggested. “If she picks up, you know this is probably a trap.”

“Good idea,” Adrien said, already dialling. Sure enough, it went straight to voice mail. “Looks like that’s really her out there,” he said. He slid his phone back into his pocket and dropped into his desk chair to pull up the live feed on his computer instead. 

The fight continued had continued on and he saw Ladybug call for her lucky charm. 

“I have a bad feeling,” Adrien said as he watched. A pit had formed in his stomach. “I think we should get out there. Even if that cat’s a fake, two is better than one.”

“Wait, look!”

Adrien looked back at the screen to see another familiar figure join the fray. “Felix?”

“I still don’t like that kid,” Plagg grumbled. 

But as they watched, it became apparent that Felix wasn’t fighting with Ladybug and ‘Chat Noir’ - he was fighting against them. Adrien’s eyes grew wider and wider as he took in the scene.

“And I was right!” Plagg exclaimed, squishing his face against the computer screen and beating it with his tiny paws. “I knew it! You can’t trust him! I’M GOING TO CATACLYSM HIS FACE OFF.”

“For once I think we’re on the same page!” Adrien stood so abruptly his chair toppled over. “Plagg, claws out!”

The transformation took seconds. When it was over, Chat Noir leaned into the computer screen to take one more look at the scene, but what he saw made him freeze.

The ‘Chat Noir’ on screen had fallen, his back to the camera, barely concealed by some rubble. The akuma was no where to be found. As he watched, Felix landed a blow that sent Ladybug flying. She fell hard and she, too, didn’t get up. Felix crossed the plaza and bent to the two heroes. Twin flashes of green and pink light briefly lit the afternoon, and when they faded, Felix was standing, his arm outstretched over the two figures, now in plain clothes - clothes that didn’t look like anything in Adrien’s closet. The dim light of the sun glinted off something in his cousins’ palm. 

The Miraculous. 

“Hawkmoth!” Felix shouted. “The Miraculous are mine now. If you want them, come and get them - tonight at the Eiffel Tower, midnght. If you’re not there, I’ll assume you’re not interested.”

“What the hell,” Chat Noir muttered. Enough. This had gone on long enough. He turned and made for the window, ripping his baton free as he went. As he did, he noticed the paw print softly flashing, indicating missed messages. “Oh, this should be good. ‘Hey Adrien, I hope you didn’t think I would just give you the Miracle Box; I think the Ladybug and Black Cat are a fair trade!’ He’s going to be real surprised when the black cat turns out to be…. to be… well, a fake of some sort.”

Scowling, he played the messages. The first one was from Red.

“Where have you been? Salem and I have been trying to get in touch with you all day. I know you’re still mopey about Ladybug and having to be saved by a civvy or whatever, but we seriously need you to pull it together! Get back to one of us; we can’t keep waiting for you.”

The next two were from Felix:

“I was hoping to intercept you on one of your patrols, but I haven’t been able to find you. I’ve come up with a plan. Actually, I kind of borrowed it. Hawkmoth is getting more volatile. It can’t wait anymore.”

And then:

“I’m sorry, Chat Noir, I waited as long as I could. Hopefully you get these messages before you come to kill me. You can yell at me after we beat Hawkmoth, and then you can have Trixx back. He’s eating me out of house and home. Tonight.  Eiffel Tower. Midnight. Don’t make me come get you.”

Chat Noir turned back to look at the footage on his computer. The Louvré plaza was completely empty. In fact, the rubble had disappeared as well, like smoke on the wind - or a mirage in a desert.

“And illusion,” he muttered, understanding dawning on him. “A fake take down to lure Hawkmoth out of hiding and into a false sense of security. Brilliant. Stupid, but somehow still brilliant. Plagg, claws in.”

Adrien had a piece of cheese ready for the kwami as he reappeared, a peace offering more than anything else. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe you cataclysmed him like we agreed,” Plagg pouted, devouring the cheese. 

“New plan,” Adrien explained. “Felix used Trixx to create the illusion of the fight to lure Hawkmoth out. Tonight’s the night. We’ve only got a few hours to prepare.”

Plagg frowned. “Prepare?”

“Hawkmoth won’t come alone,” Adrien said, flicking the switch that would bring up his piano. “We won’t either. We need the team.”

“But…they’re all compromised,” Plagg said. “Hawkmoth will - ”

“Will what?” Adrien said, opening the piano bench where no one ever cleaned. Inside, near the bottom and covered in sheet music, was the Miracle box. “After tonight, he won’t be a threat. If all goes well, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s risky, Adrien,” Plagg cautioned nervously. 

“It’s never been anything else,” Adrien said. “Besides, I’m the guardian now. We finally have the advantage. I won’t waste it.” He paused, staring at the lid of the box. “I haven’t gotten to make a lot of choices in the past few months, but this is one I can make. And Felix was right about one thing: taking down Hawkmoth is the only way it’ll be safe to find my Lady and set things back to right.”

“Well, we’ve got a lot of stops to make,” Plagg said. 

“Then we better get started. Plagg, claws out!”

Chat Noir picked up the Miracle box, stashing it in a satchel and slinging it around his shoulders. He’d have to be fast, but he paused on his way to the window and picked a single pink rose from the vase on his desk. 

Maybe the real mistake had been asking Marinette to be anything other than who she was. Maybe it had been not trusting himself enough. Maybe it had been allowing fear to cloud his judgement. Maybe it was all of those things.

Whatever the case, he hoped it wasn’t too late to set things to right. 

Maybe if he’d left a little sooner, it wouldn’t have been.

But while Chat Noir leapt into the night, the Miracle Box at his hip and hope in his heart, he had no way of knowing he was racing an akuma.

Or that he was going the wrong way.

[finalhxaven]

@inanisvitae​ Asked:  📚

Send 📚 and I’ll write a drabble of an event from my muse’s past

(It’s about five days after the Nibelheim Incident and Master Zangan leaves Tifa in a town nearby, rather than bring her to Midgar. Tifa’s left to fend for herself, and is trying out Fiend Hunting to get cash. at 15. From a short lived fic series I wrote for nanowrimo)

☆ Cowboy boots were stupid. She finally admitted about three miles out, and not a single fiend to be found. The terrain was smooth, grass went up to her ankles but luckily could be felt little by the strong brown leather of those boots. At the same time, though, they weren’t the best things to run in. She nearly tripped over her own feet by how numb her ankles had gotten. In hindsight, if Tifa could have a word with the people that thought it was a good idea to put girls in skirts and boots to bring in customers for tour guides, she’d give them more than they’d ever wanted to hear. Officially denied for adventuring sort of activity. And you would think these boots were made for these sorts of things. The original job was for going through a mountain! She shook her head and ran fingers over her arms, feeling the development of muscles and taut, sharp places about her body. Cuts had healed, sense of clarity in the fresh air gave her a moment to think. Nothing could beat the deep breath given, nothing could compare for the silence that reigned. Lovely reprieve to the slick heat of a town making her all the more home sick with each passing hour. Homesick for a place that was no longer. Each step she took left her feeling the emptiness at the eyes, dryness of the mouth, and tightness at her heart. What was she out here for again? To feel an overwhelming sense of space between what once was and now is. The immediacy of it all, the stiffness her body felt at being abandoned and the childish notion it had to be somebody’s fault. And make no mistake: it was someone’s fault. A single person to pass by her childhood and rip it asunder for his own selfish desires. The happiness and romantic dreams he had no right to take away. Suddenly, it was there. The heat and the pang, making a ticking noise like a bomb to her chest replacing her heart. Clenched teeth and hiss. What better opportunity to gain some experience than a battle against yourself, in the much more real sense of a creature rising from the ground. Appearing from the grass, unleashing minor attack as she stood her ground in a haze, unsure what was happening. It was a vision of green and brown. And it was long, fluid motion of a snake with fangs, narrow yellow eyes, and the poisonous venom dripping down unto the dirt. Just a snake? Tifa’s brow furrowed in confusion on whether this one might drop anything as the men had told her, but she bent her knees and dug the heels of her boots against the ground. It made impact, a soft setting on the dirt with footprints to remember her battle. Not that this was her first, on the contrary many a time had she spent defending herself and learning to fight on the mountains of Nibel. Where master Zangan’s sharp eyes focused the same as a snake’s, but the calm purse of his lips reminded her to breathe. How strange. Up till now, she hadn’t even thought about it. Breathing, the reminder that she was living, not just drowning in the sea of confusion. For her fists may barely hold with the red gloves on hand, but they could do something couldn’t they? “Huh… You know. Master Zangan says I’ve got a knack for it.” An e-mail to a once friend. The end of a relationship was drowned in her own tears and own harsh words. But if she were asked to take it back, would she? Too young to know, too rash to make any sort of decisions, how does a little girl face the world by herself? Those long dark tresses spreading out in the wind, her fingers curled and thumb set in place outside the grip. Carmine orbs gave an answer for a snake that did not understand the gravity of her silent conflict. She fights. A hiss and a shout. Where teeth gnash together and her knees scrape along the dirt, Tifa dove down onto the ground for a swift kick against a languid creature waiting for its doom. It erupted in the sky, a scene of spit and blood. But her fist unraveled and she took hold the snake by its neck--do snakes even have necks? Is the whole body really just one long neck with a tiny head at the top? She’d ask that one in time after an embarrassing amount of contemplation--just to snap it in two. It dropped nothing. All she gained was the momentum to go further into the fields and walk along the fences, feel the gloves hit at every splinter and slowly picked them out, waiting. Waiting. For the first strike that would not be hers, and the sound of a monster emerging from its supposed natural habitat. A thought. A quarrel in her mind. If this was where they lived, what right did she to disturb them for the sake of money inside a town for people just like her? These were the thoughts of those that had the luxury to contemplate it all. And in the times where she once spent in her room practicing the piano, she would think of everything her parents taught her and what she’d see on the mountain during tours. Mako. The world’s energy, found beneath the ground. It had been harvested by ShinRa with those reactors to help make things convenient for people. Despite it all, this convenience, this luxury, did it really make things better? Her concern for the glowing green and blue before her eyes during the tours closer to the mako reactor left her silent in stipulation. Were other things just as difficult? It sat in the back of her mind when she plucked the wood pieces from her gloves. Such a pity, if only she still had the luxury. An if only is a waste of time though. And timing was everything, wasn’t it? Tug at the brown vest nappy about the collar. Fingers through the tangled mess of black hair frazzled by the wind. And the gaze crestfallen to the lush green bushes she passed every so often. If needed, would this count as her journeying to the next town? Or just a second to venture forth and look at the area before returning to the town of fire? She didn’t know, indecisiveness had grown in the origin of tragedy. And before Tifa could properly think of it, that momentum had lost, there was a roar at the corner and the sharp turn of her head was too late. Crash. The taste of dirt was so bittersweet. What was worse lay in the ache of her muscles and shame of slashed cheek by a large bull-like figure a few feet away. With hooves digging into the dirt and horns at the helm, flashing green eyes caught her attention for a second too long before she rose up and dodged the next attack. Shoulder took the brunt of it, but in sheer force did she take stand and try to push back. An endearing attempt leaving her humbled by the power of a fiend in its territory, for a sharp cry matched the tear of skin along her arm. Tifa’s deep gasps pierced the sky, dirt lines revealing just how far she’d been pushed back. This hadn’t been a good idea. A child in the midst of her training being stopped short and left on her own. But deep breathing, it was so close to even breathing. A millisecond off, stabilizing heart rate that had skyrocketed up by the force of a bull mixed with the influence of its mako origins. Her shoulder tensed at the prospect of going against once more. Maybe a straightforward approach wasn’t what she needed. Quick thinking got her on her feet and running, a mad dash towards the fence before jumping it. There were cries of an animal in berserk mode, the red lust of battle adorning its forehead. There was a plan though. Concocted last minute and a foreign immediacy she hadn’t felt since the hazy memory of blade to chest. Wait. That was only yesterday, wasn’t it? Dry lips and broken cries. A fist with the force of a village long gone and the legs that slide to the side of a rampaging beast, to the side skidding her knees along the grass and dirt till she pushed with her arms beneath it and up. One had missed and left him dangling. Another nearly slipped from the sweat in the gloves. There was a screech and the distant sound of a vehicle caught her ear when knees collapsed and mako leaked from a beast so close she could smell the battle still going on. “Ugh…” How long was that? Five hours? Maybe a day? No. Probably closer to five minutes. No one should ever tell Tifa that though. And at least she was right about the truck. The men from the entrance had hauled out when they heard the commotion and wanted to know what was going on. Surprise to them, soon to be just another day in a teenage girl’s life where she’d sit on the ground and idly count the gil in her hands from scrapping with a fiend right outside town. Gil barely enough to make for a night at the Inn. But the pendant in her pocket? It might go for a fresh pair of shoes.

[fireloom]

A Scandal in High Wycombe - Chapter 1

Hello Adlock Darlings!! The first chapter of my newest fic is here! This is being written by myself and my fantastic co-author, @thank-you-for-being-with-me! A round of applause for her guys. she not only came up up with this idea but has written such great passages for it! I couldn't have done it without you dear <3

This is a multi-chaptered fic, and since there is two authors and no way to split posts between blogs, the next chapter will be posted by @thank-you-for-being-with-me. We will alternate chapter posts, one for one, until the whole fic is completed. We will include links in each chapter to the previous and next for easier navigation. We will also be posting this to AO3 and Fanfiction.net when we have our accounts sorted out. Those links will also be included in each chapter.  

Without further adieu, please enjoy!

The letter is peculiar... John takes it from the stack of mail Misses Hudson brought up to them this morning. He inspects the crisp, red paper of the envelope. On one side is his address and the recipient, “Sherlock Holmes”, written in large, cursive script. There’s no stamp, so it was hand delivered. John’s first guess is a client inquiry, but the scent that wafts over the letter suggests otherwise. He brings it close to get a better whiff. Perfume. Roses. Perhaps fanmail. In any case, the detective himself will be the best judge.

 “Sherlock,” John speaks. The man hums in acknowledgment, but doesn't turn to face John. He stands by the window as he plays a sweet melody on his fiddle. “You’ve got a letter.”

 “What of it? I get lots of letters,” Sherlock lilts in his musicians trance.

 “This one’s different... It’s red.” The music stops like fingernails on a chalkboard, the jarring screech of bow on string piercing John’s ears as Sherlock spins around. He frowns at John before his eyes attract to the item of interest. Sherlock strides up and snatches the letter from his hands. John watches as Sherlock flips it around, scours over the writing and sniffs it. John can see when Sherlock catches up to where he got with deducing the letter and watches him gather further information. Sherlock’s expression change, falling into a softer feature as he takes a bated breath and bites his lip. In light of Sherlock’s change in behaviour, a niggling thought grapples it way into John’s mind.

 Red envelope, similar to a certain shade of lipstick. Handwriting, flowing and elegant, like that of a woman's (Sherlock had taught him the difference). Perfume of roses, a scent John smelt lingering on Sherlock for days after a certain meeting... The sender is glaringly obvious in this light. The Woman.

 Sherlock delicately peels back the gum stick to not rip the paper. John guesses this is in Sherlock’s own respect, given the way he usually tears into unimportant letters without regard. Why would The Woman not send another text, though? Sure, communication between the dominatrix and detective has been thin over the last year but a letter is new territory completely. Whatever this is, it’s important.

Sherlock pulls the letter out. The paper inside is a light pink stain, and embossed with a laid finish. Expensive, too expensive to waste on letters. This really is a special occasion. Sherlock unfolds it and begins to read aloud in a tentative voice.

“Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

I had hoped to use this paper, a certain favourite of mine, to send you a letter detailing far marrier intentions, but I am saddened to say, this is not so and never will be. The purpose of this letter is instead, to call upon you to witness the wedding of one Godfrey Norton, and Nera Driele on the twentieth of March. Sherlock, I hope you attend to see me off as a lone woman for the final time. That is all I wish from you. 

More details below...

        -  Very truly yours, soon to be Nera Norton.”

 A chill settles over the room as Sherlock trails off when reading out further details of the wedding, printed below. John’s heart sinks for the man. The Woman, the only woman Sherlock ever felt anything for, is marrying another.

 “So...” John begins, breaking that terrible silence. “Nera Driele is Irene’s alias?”

 “Correct,” his companion replies absently as he reads over the letter. The tinge in Sherlock’s voice brings John to wince. He hides it well to most but John can still hear the devastation. With Sherlock not offering any follow up, they fall into silence again. John makes his way to his chair and flops down, a wave of exhaustion coming over him. He’s found after quite a few of Irene’s little tricks and games sent over text, that John feels the brunt of Sherlock’s repressed emotions as if they were his own.

“She’s getting married then,” John muses. his fingers find the point of his temple as a pain breaks there. Sherlock’s eyes drift shut as he takes a long, slow breath. He folds the pink stained letter again, slips it back into the envelope, and places it on the mantelpiece. The pocket knife he usually jabs through most items stays resting beside it.

“What are you going to do?” John asks with a tone soft and non-intrusive. Sherlock replies with a shake of his head as he walks away from the fireplace and sits in his chair. Taking up his usual thinking position with his fingers steepled in front of his chin, Sherlock offers nothing more, but John is dissatisfied.

 “You’re just going to let this happen?” He pushes, his voice still quiet but getting more insistent. Sherlock hums in the affirmative. John cannot understand Sherlock���s outlook. How can he let this girl go without a fuss? Sherlock can’t really just want to go about solving crimes while Irene Adler lives out a married life with another. Once this day is over, everything between the two of them will be pure history, a vague memory tucked away in the back of Sherlock’s mind. John firmly believes if Sherlock were to ever love someone, it would only be The Woman.

“Is that what you want for her?” John tries again.

“It is not my place to tangle myself in her marital affairs,” Sherlock deflects, hiding behind his reason. John holds off on rolling his eyes in exasperation. The route of least resistance, is what Sherlock’s going for. Leaving himself out of her life in sacrifice of his own state of sentiment, and for what? To keep up a façade of elegant power over his own feelings. To John, that sacrifice is too much to make. There must be something, a little inkling of injustice in this marriage, that will be enough to sway Sherlock into taking action... John runs the words of the letter over in his head again and again, looking at every sentence, every statement with a fine lens to find anything. To his relief, John does.

“It’s hardly her place to marry someone she doesn’t love either,” he mutters. Sherlock looks up at John, a stern glint in his eyes.

“We cannot assume her relation to this man,” he states adamantly. A small grin spreads on John's lips. Now, it’s his turn to be a show off.

“I can when I know that this man is no match for her.” Sherlock looks at John in question, urging him to continue.  “I’m surprised you didn't recognise his name, Sherlock! Godfrey Norton is the divorce lawyer you recommend to clients.” John pulls his laptop open and searches the name. He hands the computer over to Sherlock. The webpage John pulled up is Godfrey’s site, “The Norton Law Firm.” The homepage displays a short biography and a picture of the lawyer. That much would be enough for Sherlock. He is at least twice Irene’s age and to John holds no desirable qualities a woman like Irene Adler would be looking for. This is hardly a choice she would make out of love.

“This is him...” Sherlock states, more to himself than John.

“Do you think she’d marry him out of love?”

“No,” Sherlock admits after a moment, leaning back in his chair and placing the laptop aside.. “This must be one of her scandals,” he adds absently.

“Could she divorce him for gain?” John asks. Sherlock chuckles in a condescending manner that John scowls against.

“Of course not. He’s a divorce lawyer John,” He starts again, a fire ignited in the way Sherlock enunciates his words, cutting with a hint of fury buried underneath the words own meaning.  “-and a good one too, going by the officiality of his website and the fact that I, at least subconsciously, know this due to my recommending him to everyone. No, if she does wish to split, she will come out of the divorce with less than she came in.” He stops. Sherlock lights with realisation, a glassy air of sadness falling around him. He continues softly. “She has to stay with him. She’s setting herself up for life under his coat tails.”

The thought had crossed John's mind. If even Sherlock has come to that conclusion then there’s hardly a doubt to be had. This marriage is legitimate, the union to be honoured for the rest of their lives. He nods in comprehension. The stakes are higher than he realised.

“What do you think about that?” John asks.

“Well, it’s not very creative, especially for Irene, but it works,” Sherlock says, completely missing or ignoring the actual meaning of John’s question. Another red flag in the tally for Sherlock’s sense of betrayal.

“No, I mean, what do you -not the consulting detective-, the person who...” John falters, looking for a word that won't startle Sherlock into repression like he usually does. He has learnt to choose his words carefully when speaking about The Woman. “…who knows her? What does that person think about this?” John settles with. Sherlock goes silent for a long moment. John searches the detective’s expression carefully.

“You don’t like it, do you?” He speaks. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes.

“Not particularly,” He admits. John releases a breath. Finally, they’re getting somewhere. He puts up a jovial manner of speaking when he addresses him next, hoping to get them riled up enough to want to do something about this.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Sherlock doesn't react as John was hoping.

“She’s at the age to settle down now. It’s not my place to stand in the way of that plan,” he deflects again, regressing to the same place they were before. No. He’s not going to do that, not now. John has to work harder.

“Oh, I'm sure this wasn't her original plan,” he says with an undercut of bite in his tone and a deliberate ambiguity to his statement.     “What?”

“You, obviously being the idiot that you are, have made yourself unavailable to her. Do you really think she didn't dream it you up on that altar with her? She's not settling down, Sherlock, she’s settling for someone else.”

“So?”

“So...? This is your chance! Didn't you read between the lines?” Sherlock gives John a look of tethering confusion, the gears in his mind grinding arduously against each other as he tries to figure out what John’s getting at. He’s going in the right direction. if there’s one thing John knows gets to Sherlock, it’s confusion.

“She sent you a red letter, scented with roses, written in her own handwriting. Her last request as a free woman is to see you again! Not to mention “very truly yours,” that's a dead giveaway...” John chuffs at the situation. “And here I thought you were the smarter one of the two of us...”

“None of that matters. It's not my place to speak for what she wants!” Sherlock retaliates.

“When she’s begging you to crash the ceremony it is!” Sherlock goes to combat but instead takes a long pause.

“She wants that?”

“Yeah!” John says. His voice becoming jarringly out of place in lew of Sherlock’s smaller question. He softens his tone. “Yeah, of course she does... She loves you. That much is obvious. She wants you to go get her, give her that grand romantic gesture that everyone dreams of.” Sherlock bites his lip in thought, still mulling over his options. John tries a different tact

“She’ll slip through your fingers if you don't do this. Do you want to let that happen?” Sherlock averts his eyes for a second, his walls falling down.

“It’s not my place,” he repeats, his voice quieter.

“Tell me this, do you like her?”

“She... is a woman of her era. One I have never met before or since. So, yes. I like her.” The sentence seems almost hard for Sherlock to say, his voice fumbling over his words.

“Do you love her?” Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat.

“No.”

“Sherlock Holmes, do not lie to me, I can tell. I’ll ask again. Do you love her?”

“No. I... dont.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

“I really don’t.”

“Sherlock. I know what you say. I know you, for some weird reason, despise thinking of yourself as a human being with the capability of loving and being loved, but it’s not true. I saw you then, when you met her. Stars were dancing in your eyes, you had no control over your own tongue, you were looking for her when you woke up after she drugged you!”

“She was in my room!”“-I know it broke your heart when she died, and I know you were overjoyed when we found her again, so much so, you travelled halfway across the world to save her. I may not be a God in deduction like you but I know something you don't.”“And what's that?”“I know, without a shadow of a doubt, when someone is in love. You’re in love with her, and I can tell.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but John cuts him off. “And don’t even start denying it now, Sherlock. I’m not an idiot. For once, I’m proud to say that this is one area where I am better than you and you can’t trick me by lying so just don’t.”

Sherlock closes his mouth, averting his eyes.

Finally. John thinks. He really should do this more often, there’s huge surge of satisfaction in getting Sherlock Holmes to shut up for once.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, standing up. Even John is taken aback by the admission. Sherlock disappears into his bedroom and comes back fully dressed in a suit -his special suit, in fact, John notes as he eyes the groom-like appearance of the clothing. “The ceremony starts in thirty minutes,” Sherlock states, buttoning up his jacket.

“Where is the wedding?”

“High Wycombe,” Sherlock mutters.

John chuckles. “Is that coincidence or irony?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy...”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well... High Wycombe is a forty minute drive from here,” John says.

“Then we'd better be quick.” With steps brisk and full of intention, Sherlock starts toward the stairs. Smirking, John follows. 

[dapperandwoke-blog]

Dapper and Woke Spotlight: Benjamin Saccaggi, The Green Tailor

(Image: Benjamin Saccaggi in a navy blue blazer with a red scarf, a tailor’s measuring tape draped on his shoulders and scissors in his breast pocket)

One of the great things about both online style circles and online activist circles is the ability to see what’s going on in other countries, letting that inform and enrich your own experience so you don’t either get settled into provincial thinking or despair from a feeling of isolation. Thanks to a Facebook style group I frequent, I found Benjamin Saccaggi, a South African tailor who blogs about sustainability, fashion, and their intersection, styling himself The Green Tailor. Someone else blogging about how to make looking good an act of doing good? I had found a kindred spirit on another continent, so I had to find out more about him! Luckily, Benjamin was available for a little chat over e-mail and now you all will get to read it if you just keep scrolling!

A: First off, the basic biographical details: Name, business, base of operations?

B: Benjamin Saccaggi, The Green Tailor, Pretoria, South Africa.

A: Were you born/raised in South Africa?

B: Yes I'm born and bred in South Africa. I grew up on a farm in a very rural part of SA, and moved to a small town as a teenager. From there I moved to Johannesburg to study, and then to Pretoria to work.

A: How long have you been running your business?

B: The business has officially been going since 2014, though I started sewing when I was 6 and have been making money with fashion for as long as I can remember.

A: Which came first, your interest in environmental activism and sustainability, or your interest in style and clothing, or did they develop at about the same time? What was the inspiration to combine the two?

B: Before starting this business I was heavily involved in human rights activism. I studied law and worked for a time for the Legal Resources Center. Although I've always loved fashion and clothes, I believe my life's mission is in social activism. I’ve worked on so many projects in the past I can barely count them, but one thing that kept cropping up throughout was the issue of poverty. The world's a mess because people don't have enough money to sort out their own problems, and so they have to rely on the charity of others, and those others are thin on the ground, I can tell you.

In December 2013 I got fired from my job as an archaeologist at the University of Pretoria (that's a whole 'nother story) and had to make a very fast plan to earn a living. I turned to my skill of tailoring, and the rest is history. It set me thinking though... I managed to go from a great salary with an overseas trip a year to unemployed in 12 days, and didn't skip a beat because I have (if I say so myself) excellent sewing skills.

Of course there are other factors involved, and I owe everything to my network of family and friends, but surely (I believe) this skill can make a huge impact in people's lives. I could go on forever about what sewing can do for someone, but in short I'll say that no-one who can sew is ever without work! So my first priority is really to use the business to transfer tailoring skills to more and more people, giving them the tools to sort out their own lives so they needn't rely on charity. From there it was a simple knock-on effect to environmental consciousness, and I think the two (environment and social) are really two sides of the same coin when thinking about problems of the fashion industry.

(Image: Sewers at work in Benjamin’s shop in Pretoria)

A: Can you talk a little about how you've seen the two interact in your experience? One concept that's now starting to enter into the discussion in the United States is the concept of environmental racism, basically how non-white communities can really feel the brunt of bad environmental policies, for example the Dakota Access Oil Pipeline being re-routed through an are primarily populated by indigenous first-nations people. What have you seen and dealt with?

B: From an industry perspective, I think social and environmental problems stem from the same desire to produce as much as fast and as cheaply as possible. Polluting a river or employing children are part of the same strategy to cut down costs, and part of the same disregard for future consequences.

Locally, I'd say the most obvious interaction of social and environmental problems relates to the geographic programs of apartheid. Most sewers live on the outskirts of the city (in formerly coloured areas) and spend the majority of their wages on transport to and from work. With the little money that remains, we're using paraffin heaters, chopping down local bush to burn to keep warm, and buying the cheapest clothes available.

A: I think the environmental consequences to fashion aren’t on a lot of people’s minds. What were some environmentally harmful practices you observed in other businesses that you were hoping to target/combat in yours?

B: The biggest thing I notice is that people are unaware of how terrible their clothes are. Not just the environmental and social cost, but simply how badly they're put together. Today we focus heavily on mending clothes and alterations, since making the clothes you already have last as long as possible is definitely the most sustainable thing that can be done.

Internally, my pet hate of the industry is how poorly sewers are paid, and that there's little to no learning opportunities at work. I pay my people the highest rates of anyone I know, and we have dedicated times each week to learn new skills so that one doesn't get stuck in a rut.

(Image: One of Benjamin’s employees seated on a chair with a dark-grey striped blazer he’s sewing)

A: Tell us a little bit more about your employment practices versus trends you notice elsewhere in South Africa. Obviously the legacy of apartheid can still be felt in many segments of South African society, how do you think this might manifest in the fashion/clothing industry?

B: I'm still quite new and small in business, so a lot of this is at the moment just a dream… But a trend I find abhorrent is that sewers/tailors are considered, treated and paid as unskilled labourers, often even less than domestic workers and gardeners. They have little to no interaction with the rest of the business (marketing, design, even seeing the clients, let alone speaking to them) and are generally not expected to advance in any way. So you're employed at a certain skill level, you work at that level till your health gives out, and that's that, next person takes your place. There's no training, no advancement, and no benefits, since most of the contracts are 'casual labour' paid per day or 'independent contractors' paid per garment.

There's a lot more I could say but I'll leave it there. In my business, I'm paying the highest rate of anyone I know for sewers, we have dedicated times to practice and learn new skills, and I lend out my sewing manuals for them to study at home. Everyone is also welcome to use my studio over the weekends (which no-one has so far) or during lunch to complete their own projects (I have SUCH a pimp studio with such awesome machines so this one gets taken advantage of a lot).

A: Can you talk a little bit about how your focus on sustainability pervades your style choices and your work? I loved the posts on your blog about applying a Japanese wabi-sabi aesthetic to repairing clothes and also the wonder of thrift shopping (a lot of my clothes are thrift right now), but how else does your attention to sustainability influence your work?

I think you've already nailed down my response to this question pretty well. I encourage mending and especially making the mend beautifully visible to celebrate how old the garment is. Menswear (at least the more formal side) is also already well designed to alter over time. For example, bespoke jackets have around 20cm extra fabric hidden away in the seams that can be let out if someone gains weight. This again helps the garments last longer. Besides that, I'm always focusing on quality construction and fabrics to ensure the garments last as long as humanly possible.

(Image: Benjamin, in a tie-die blue and white blazer that looks VERY much like a button-up shirt I own, sitting next to one of his employees cutting fabric) 

A: What are some styles you particularly like in terms of design, shape, or accessorizing?

B: I fluctuate widely in what I wear. I'm an outdoors kind of guy, so ripped shorts and thread-bare tees are what I generally wear when I don't have to 'be presentable'. I feel fashion is all about expressing what you're feeling at the time, and mostly I just collect random vintage pieces and throw them together any which way I please. I suppose, in general, I'm a bit conservative and opt for classic suit styles, but it's really mood dependent.

A: Do you have any particular favorite designers right now?

B: I'll always love Gareth Pugh, and Jonathan Anderson is someone I can never take my eyes off of. Locally Amanda Laird Cherry is probably my favorite established designer. The new comers I love are Rogue and Floyd Avenue.

A: Do you ever notice any kind of racial stratification in style trends? I.E. Certain ways of dressing are characterized as more classy because they're associated with whiteness, or the other way around?

B: It's difficult to say really since I live my life behind the sewing machine and don't really know what's going on 'out there' all the time. I'd say there's a definite movement away from 'standard western styles' like the regular suits etc. and a push towards a more Afro-centric aesthetic. The best example of this is the proliferation of shweshwe and other African fabrics into the standard suits. I think this trend will continue as we grow our local industries and support our local designers.

A: To wrap things up, what’s something that gives you hope for the future?

B: I'm a generally optimistic person, so am on all fronts very excited about the future. I think my main energy comes from working with local talent, seeing just how much amazingness there is here in Africa that the rest of the world is yet to even conceive.

(Image: Benjamin in a dark gray suit, reclining over a pile of fashion magazines and books)

You can find Benjamin on instagram at @TheGreenTailor

[matteorossini]

A reprehensible witch hunt in academia: feminist philosopher equates the defenses of transgenderism and of transracialism—and gets crucified

Gender is widely agreed by the Left to be a social construct, not a biological reality. If that’s the case, why isn’t race? Why was someone like Rachel Dolezal, who was white but claimed to be black, vilified and fired from her job as the Spokane, Washington head of the NAACP, while a man who claims to be a woman (or vice versa) is defended and her courage lauded? The distinction has always baffled me, especially because race is also seen to be a social construct.

Those were the questions asked in an article recently published in the feminist philosophy journal Hypatia by Rebecca Tuvel, an assistant professor of philosophy at Rhodes College in Memphis, Tennessee. Her piece is called “In defense of transracialism“, and is free online (reference and link below).  I have only skimmed the full piece, but it’s dissected by Jesse Singal at New York Magazine’s “Intelligencer column” “This is what a modern-day witch hunt looks like.” And indeed, merely for pointing out that the arguments used to support transgender rights are similar to those that could be used to support transracial rights, Tuvel has been excoriated by academics, and the journal asked to retract the article. She has received a ton of hate mail. It is truly a Leftist witch hunt—a purity test that Tuvel apparently failed big time.

First, the abstract and first footnote in Tuvel’s paper:

And her concluding paragraph:

Haslanger writes, “rather than worrying, ‘what is gender, really?’ or ‘what is race, really?’ I think we should begin by asking (both in the theoretical and political sense) what, if anything, we want them to be” (Haslanger 2012, 246). I have taken it as my task in this article to argue that a just society should reconsider what we owe individuals who claim a strongly felt sense of identification with another race, and accordingly what we want race to be. I hope to have shown that, insofar as similar arguments that render transgenderism acceptable extend to transracialism, we have reason to allow racial self-identification, coupled with racial social treatment, to play a greater role in the determination of race than has previously been recognized. I conclude that society should accept such an individual’s decision to change race the same way it should accept an individual’s decision to change sex.

For this she is being crucified in public by her fellow academics, who accused her of not only being transphobic (not true at all), but perpetrating tangible harm and even violence on both the black and trans communities (another lie).

Part of Singal’s analysis:

Tuvel structures her argument more or less as follows: (1) We accept the following premises about trans people and the rights and dignity to which they are entitled; (2) we also accept the following premises about identities and identity change in general; (3) therefore, the common arguments against transracialism fail, and we should accept that there’s little apparent logically coherent reason to deny the possibility of genuine transracialism.

Anyone who has read an academic philosophy paper will be familiar with this sort of argument. The goal, often, is to provoke a little — to probe what we think and why we think it, and to highlight logical inconsistencies that might help us better understand our values and thought processes. This sort of article is abstract and laden with hypotheticals — the idea is to pull up one level from the real world and force people to grapple with principles and claims on their own merits, rather than — in the case of Dolezal — baser instincts like disgust and outrage. This is what many philosophers do.

Tuvel’s article rebuts a number of the arguments against transracialism, and it’s clear, throughout, that Tuvel herself is firmly in support of trans people and trans rights. Her argument is not that being transracial is the same as being transgender — rather, it’s “that similar arguments that support transgenderism support transracialism,” as she puts it in an important endnote we’ll return to. It’s clear, from the way Tuvel sets things up, that she’s prodding us to more carefully examine why we feel the way we do about Dolezal, not to question trans rights or trans identities.

Usually, an article like this, abstract and argumentatively complex as it is, wouldn’t attract all that much attention outside of its own academic subculture. But that isn’t what happened here — instead, Tuvel is now bearing the brunt of a massive internet witch-hunt, abetted in part by Hypatia’s refusal to stand up for her. The journal has already apologized for the article, despite the fact that it was approved through its normal editorial process, and Tuvel’s peers are busily wrecking her reputation by sharing all sorts of false claims about the article that don’t bear the scrutiny of even a single close read.

The biggest vehicle of misinformation about Tuvel’s articles comes from the “open letter to Hypatia” that has done a great deal to help spark the controversy. That letter has racked up hundreds of signatories within the academic community — the top names listed are Elise Springer of Wesleyan University, Alexis Shotwell of Carleton University (who is listed as the point of contact), Dilek Huseyinzadegan of Emory University, Lori Gruen of Wesleyan, and Shannon Winnubst of Ohio State University. (Update: As of the morning of May 3, all the names had been removed from the letter. A note at the top of it reads “We have now closed signatories for this letter in order to send it to the Editor and Associate Editors of Hypatia.”)

In the letter, the authors ask that the article be retracted on the grounds that its “continued availability causes further harm” to marginalized people. The authors then list five main reasons they think the article is so dangerously flawed it should be unpublished. . .

Singal goes on to point out that four five of those reasons are based on a total misreading of Tuvel’s article, whose main point is given above and by Singal in his second and third paragraph. (The other criticism is trivial.) He then rebuts each of the “reasons,” and goes on to show how Tuvel is being ripped to shreds, unjustly, by academics. She has even been accused of “perpetrating violence” and “enacting harm”

The letter’s authors, presumably Leftists, are doing all they can do demonize Tuvel for–what? None of the objections recognize that the transgenderism and transracialism are both based on people feeling that they’re different from how their external appearance has led society to categorize them. One is based on genitalia, the other skin color.  If a biological male feels that he is really a woman, why can’t a white person feel that they’re black? And regardless of which sex is “privileged,” people transition in both directions. But of course never underestimate Regressives’ tendency to reach a conclusion first (“white people have privilege and just can’t say they feel or are black”) and then find arguments to support it.

Singal concludes:

I could go on and on. This is a witch hunt. There has simply been an explosive amount of misinformation circulating online about what is and isn’t in Tuvel’s article, which few of her most vociferous critics appear to have even skimmed, based on their inability to accurately describe its contents. Because the right has seized on Rachel Dolezal as a target of gleeful ridicule, and as a means of making opportunistic arguments against the reality of the trans identity, a bunch of academics who really should know better are attributing to Tuvel arguments she never made, simply because she connected those two subjects in an academic article.

The Chronicle of Higher Education shows how the craven journal Hypatia apologized (you can see the journal’s reprehensible Facebook apology here, but I want to reproduce it because it so resembles the apologies of the accused during China’s Cultural Revolution:

From the Chronicle:

The article, ”In Defense of Transracialism,” by Rebecca Tuvel, an assistant professor of philosophy at Rhodes College, drew a significant backlash following its publication, in late March. The article discusses public perceptions of racial and gender transitions by comparing the former NAACP chapter head Rachel Dolezal’s desire to be seen as black with the celebrity Caitlyn Jenner’s public transition from male to female. [JAC: the article does far more than just draw a parallel!]

Since a backlash erupted on social media, more than 400 academics have signed an open letter to the editor of Hypatia calling for the article to be retracted. “Our concerns reach beyond mere scholarly disagreement; we can only conclude that there has been a failure in the review process, and one that painfully reflects a lack of engagement beyond white and cisgender privilege,” the letter says.

The journal’s Facebook apology responded to those concerns by saying that it would be looking closely at its editorial processes to make sure they are more inclusive of transfeminists and feminists of color, whom the journal said had been particularly harmed by the article. The journal also apologized for its initial response to the backlash, saying that an earlier Facebook post had “also caused harm, primarily by characterizing the outrage that met the article’s publication as mere ‘dialogue’ that the article was ‘sparking.’ We want to state clearly that we regret that the post was made.”

Tuvel has responded to the criticism (see here), apologizes for one or two items, like “deadnaming” Caitlyn Jenner (giving her pre-transition name), but ends in this way:

Calls for intellectual engagement are also being shut down because they “dignify” the article. If this is considered beyond the pale as a response to a controversial piece of writing, then critical thought is in danger. I have never been under the illusion that this article is immune from critique. But the last place one expects to find such calls for censorship rather than discussion is amongst philosophers.

Indeed. Philosopher Russell Blackford has been defending Tuvel on Twitter and criticizing the witch hunt in a series of tweets, calling attention to others’ defenses of Tuvel. I am proud to call him my friend. Read the following from bottom up, in chronological order:

And Yale’s Paul Bloom, Ceiling Cat bless him, has also defended Tuvel:

A bizarre and ugly attack by a group of philosophers directed toward a junior prof. https://t.co/gvbEr6rE2v

— Paul Bloom (@paulbloomatyale) May 2, 2017

Hypatia should be mocked and vilified for its cowardice, as should those academics who went after tuvel because her Gendankenartikel violated the Regressive Left’s norms of purity. These are not students attacking Tuvel—they are professional academics, and I have nothing but contempt for them. (Remember, today’s students are tomorrow’s professors.) I am appalled, but not surprised. I’ll end with Singal’s words:

. . . what’s disturbing here is how many hundreds of academics signed onto and helped spread utterly false claims about one of their colleagues, and the extent to which Hypatia, faced with such outrage, didn’t even bother trying to sift legitimate critiques from frankly made-up ones. A huge number of people who haven’t read Tuvel’s article now believe, on the basis of that trumped-up open letter and unfounded claims of “violence,” that it is so deeply transphobic it warranted an unusual apology from the journal that published it.

We should want academics to write about complicated, difficult, hot-button issues, including identity. Online pile-ons cannot, however righteous they feel, dictate journals’ publication policies and how they treat their authors and articles. It’s really disturbing to watch this sort of thing unfold in real time — there’s such a stark disconnect between what Tuvel wrote and what she is purported to have written. This whole episode should worry anybody who cares about academia’s ability to engage in difficult issues at a time when outrage can spread faster than ever before.

h/t: Grania

______

Tuvel. R. 2017. In defense of transracialism. Hypatia 32:263-278, DOI: 10.1111/hypa.12327

from Why Evolution Is True http://ift.tt/2qFHnTW via IFTTT

[kinderwrath]

"Well that was a bold face lie."

Hi! I’m Kinder. I am a avid Magic The Gathering player and a woman in her early mid-ish late 30’s. I am a graphic designer by day and a wannabe writer in my spare time, I have always been a fan of the stories and lore from the MtG multiverse. For some odd reason I have always felt Chandra Nalaar is my spirit animal. Maybe it’s my red hair or that my first ever Magic card was a revised edition Fireball, who knows. But I do know I’m the only one at my local game shop with a mono red Jaya and Chandra BFFs Commander deck. Seriously its hilarious, all burny fire and smart ass flavor text. But I digress, after reading some of the most recent lore stories I found myself intrigued by the “ahem” friendship between Chandra and Nissa. Of course this led to some fanfiction reading. Ok a lot of fanfiction reading and me being rather grumpy when there was nothing left to read. So……

–Let me preface this next bit by saying I told myself this story would never leave that dark corner of my documents folder. I am a liar. Re:See the posts title.–

So I decided to just write my own. Seems innocent enough. A nice little story, all romance with a sprinkle of smut. Yes. Smut. Hey don’t judge, a reader could use a little passion and heat now and again. Nut back to my thought, innocent right?  Nope, now my brain won’t stop inventing new bits and chapters and I’m running out of space to remember things like “Do I need laundry soap?” and “Did I eat today?” I figured as a way to make some space in my head I would leave the story out here for you fine people. 

~Ok the legal bits: Please understand I don’t own anything here it’s all WOTC. If this story were a movie it would have a NC17 rating, NSFW ok? You have been warned. I am also not a professional writer. I would love to be someday sure, who wouldn’t.

 Anywho! Here goes, if you love it great! If you don’t, also great! To each their own. This is just chapter 1, I’m at about 8 right now. I put the rest up on Wattpad http://my.w.tt/UiNb/MxMubtGLnB. But I will keep adding them here too.

So let me just leave this here…

Natures Flame By: KinderWrath

Chapter 1

The battle The Gatewatch endured was more exhausting then Chandra had expected. As she looked in the mirror in Nissa’s small bathroom she finally saw how destroyed she looked and understood the worry she had seen in Nissa’s eyes. She remembered hearing screaming and knowing it was her own voice. There were points where she didn’t know if it was from rage or pain. But it was when Nissa had fallen from the effort to control the leyline that Chandra had felt so helpless and afraid. Since the day they met Chandra had a deep desire to protect and care for Nissa. She was her best friend and closest confidant. She had been in love with Nissa from almost day one. There was just something captivating about the slender elf that made her feel completely at peace whenever she was with her. She had never gotten up the courage to tell Nissa how she felt. Nor did she know if Nissa was even interested in women. She had never seen her in a romantic relationship with anyone. Not that Chandra had a list of names herself. In fact she had no names. She had never been with anyone. She had projected a show of confidence and expertise in that department that was a front to hide her insecurities and self doubt. She had held Nissa so close after she collapsed desperate to protect her from the battle and selfishly because if anything happened she wanted to feel the elf in her arms at least one time before Nissa was gone from this world.

Gideon had offered to make sure Nissa would be safe while she fell back for cover. But Chandra would be damned if she would leave her side now. He came running back to the others, as the crowd of creatures pressed closer.

“I’ll watch over her until she wakes up. You two planeswalk back to safety.” He said.

Chandra, hands ablaze. “Not gonna happen. We’re all walking out of here together, or…” Her bravado faded with her trailing words.

“Or not at all,” Jace supplied. “Together or not at all?”

Chandra gave him a look that answered his question with finality.

Liliana had showed up just at the right time then to help, but just as they were about to shift planes Chandra had caught a unlucky energy ball to her back. She had seen the abomination in its death throes trying to get one last shot in at The Gatewatch. She had encircled Nissa the best she could to protect her but took the brunt of the blow to her back and shoulder as they shifted plains. With a resounding grunt she remembered hitting the ground sprawled on her back on the other side. She as still holding Nissa in her arms and thought ‘Worth. It.’ the pain ripped through her then and everything seemed to go dark around the edges. She heard Nissa’s voice as the elf yelled “She did what!” “She was protecting you” Jace explained his hands in the air as a gesture of peace. Then softer and so very close to her ear that Chandra could feel the heat of her breath. “I swear to Gaea if you don’t wake up ‘Spark’ I will kick your chain mail ass” She could hear the small smile in the animists voice, but also felt something hot and wet on her face as Nissa pressed her forehead to hers. Nissa was crying, she tried to say something back but the darkness claimed her then.

When I woke up I had been sleeping in Nissa’s small bed in the tree house she had created to live in while The Gatewatch had planned and trained. I could see Nissa across the room her eyes closed in meditation. She was ok and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Quietly I crossed the room not wanting to disturb Nissa. I new the place well and had no trouble finding the bathroom to asses the extent of the damage. I was stiff and sore and I could see the bruise across my shoulder under my tank top. The pain was bad enough I almost couldn’t move my arm. I decided I should try to check out the whole area and clumsily tried to take my tank top off over my head. I grumbled and let out a small quite embarrassing squeak of pain. I heard a crash and footsteps, just as I turned around I saw a very concerned Nissa in the doorway. “You gave me a heart attack Spark! I’m glad your up, but what are you doing?” She said as she walked closer. “I was just trying to survey the damage, but I’m a little creaky at the moment. I can’t get my shirt off to look.” I said. “Here let me” Nissa said as she came in closer behind me, and started to untuck my shirt from my leggings.“ I was suddenly flushed and embarrassed, I could feel the pink spreading across my face and to the tips of my ears. “Nis, I… it’s o, ok ah, I can look at it later, no worries” Nissa gently turned me so that I was facing her. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the both of us in profile in the mirror. I looked like complete garbage. My red hair was snarled and coming lose from the braid over my shoulder. There were fresh scratches across the right side of my nose and a purple green bruise on my chin. Nissa looked beautiful as always, her slender pointed ears held a perfect circlet of wild flowers. Her haunting green on green eyes always seemed to dance with energy. And her dark hair made her pale skin look almost luminescent. Today she did look tired though, like a large weight had been pressing down on her. Her normally perfect braid even looked a bit mussed although not nearly as much as mine…wait a minute I don’t braid my hair I thought as my mind wandered. I was suddenly brought back to reality when Nissa softly said my name. “Chandra?” It startled me a bit, I was so used to her calling me by the nickname she had given me ‘Spark’. “Maybe you should lie back down? Where did you go just now?” Nissa asked “You looked like you were in a different world just now.” “No, no I’m ok just a little foggy is all.” I replied with a too obvious fake laugh. Nissa smiled and then reached to finish untucking my tank top. When her hand met my waist again it was like someone had fired the blush cannons and I felt my self trembling a tiny bit under her touch. I silently prayed to the fates that Nissa couldn’t feel it. “Spark? Are you embarrassed to let me see you with your shirt off? Your shaking.” Well screw you too fates, you couldn’t let me have this one? I mentally chided them. “I, I, jussst…” I attempted to stammer a response. “You do know I have seen you completely naked before, right?” Nissa asked. Oh for the love of ale… I had thought I had blocked that night out and more over I didn’t realize Nissa had caught the show. Liliana and I had been matching each other stein for stein one night and when I was good and blurry she dared me to take a naked dip in the stream by camp. I didn’t take into account how much better at drinking the century old necromancer would be. It turned out that Liliana had not only wanted to see me naked that night but other plans for me as well. I couldn’t turn down a dare, my ego is unstoppable sometimes. She had kissed me as we stood in the water. It felt exciting and nice at first I almost gave in to it, but my head cleared a bit and I pulled away. In my heart she wasn’t who I wanted to be with. Liliana had guessed it, I hadn’t planned on telling her. But she understood and with a wink she mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. She had never brought it up again.

“You saw that!?” “Spark” Nissa replied. “Like all of it?” “Spark” Nissa tried again. “Just me naked? Did you…?” “Chandra!” Nissa raised her voice and grabbed my wildly gesturing hand in hers. I abruptly stopped my runaway mouth and tried to meet her eyes with mine. “I was coming back from meditating just over the hill by the stream. It wasn’t like I was stalking you or anything. I saw you and Liliana as you came up from under the water. The sound caught my attention. I saw you kiss and was going to leave to give you two privacy… but you rather quickly headed for shore. You were standing in the moon light, and it was a full moon that night so it was kinda hard to miss.” Nissa explained. Then it was Nissa’s turn to look a little embarrassed. “I, uh didn’t mean to stare or anything, but yes I have seen you naked”. Knowing that Nis had seen me naked and worse maybe had seen me kiss Liliana my voice got very quiet. “Ok, I ok” I said. I turned my back to her and she finished untucking my tank top. My skin felt like fire where her hands brushed my back as she the fabric up over my head and gingerly over my bruised shoulder. I reflexively covered my chest with my arms and gave a small yelp in pain when I moved my bad arm to quickly. “Chandra, breath ok?” I sucked in a shaky breath and let my arms fall to my sides. Nissa ran her fingers lightly over the battered part of my back and shoulder. I was so lost in the sensation I almost didn’t hear her start talking again. “I, this is a little worse then I thought. I couldn’t really see when you were out. I didn’t want you to wake up half naked, but I could only see so much with your shirt in the way.” Nissa explained. I could feel her slender fingers as they ran the length of my shoulder again. Was it my imagination or did it seem like Nis was trying to keep her hands on me as long as possible? When she touched where my shoulder met my arm I couldn’t ignore the pain. “Ow damn it!” I cursed. Nissa froze. “Nis no, not at you. It is just really tender there. Sorry” I apologized. “Spark, it’s ok. But I think it’s out of the socket. I’m not strong enough to put it back. I’m going to have to get Gideon.” She said. I reached for my shirt, I sure as hell didn’t need Gideon seeing me topless. She put her hand over mine to stop me.“But Nis I, I…” I said as I tried to find a gesture to explain my hesitation. “Hold on just a sec, I have something that will work” She said as she left the room. She came back in holding a deep green, very silky robe. I recognized it immediately. I had seen her in it a few times after bathing in the stream, her hair still damp. I had always wondered if it felt as soft as it looked. She placed it over my shoulders and I easily slid my injured arm in the flowing sleeve as she tied the front closed. “I’m not sure how easy it will be to get your shirt on or off after Gideon puts your shoulder right. This will make your injury easier to tend too.” She said. Nissa’s eyes met mine. “Thank you” I said. “It looks nice on you, fitting.” She smiled and then was gone to get Gideon’s help. What was that supposed to mean? I thought and then I shifted my weight and felt the fabric move against my skin. It felt amazing, like wearing water. But the best part was how Nissa’s smell enveloped me. It was like fresh wild flowers and that smell right after a spring rain all mixed together. It made me a little light headed and flush, I actually had to use my good arm to steady myself.

Gideon’s voice shook me out of my daydream. “Chan? You ok there?” He asked “Ya, ya. Just in a bit of pain here Gids.” I grimaced with my response. “Well Nissa said it looked dislocated. Turn around and let me take a look.” I did as Gideon instructed and loosened the tie on the robe so the fabric slid down my shoulders while keeping my modestly intact. Gideon let out a low whistle. “Ya, that’s a bad one. I’m not going to lie kid, this is really going to hurt. You may be out of commission for awhile.” I wanted to protest or complain, but I stopped myself. It didn’t matter, I would do this a hundred thousand times if it meant I had protected Nissa. So I just nodded yes. “Well let’s get to it then” Gideon said as he walked out of the bathroom and into Nissa’s small sitting room. Nissa helped me get the robe back over my shoulders and grabbed my hand in hers. Her eyes met mine again and I could see the worry there. “It’s going to be ok” she said softly. All I could do was nod, I was afraid I would start to cry if I did anything else. We followed Gideon out, but she didn’t let go of my hand. If anything she held it tighter. “Ok sit down here.” He said as he gestured to a chair that looked like it had grown up from Nissa’s vine woven floor. “So Chan your a little to strong for me to do this and hold you down. Nissa, if you wouldn’t mind?” He asked looking expectantly at her. Nissa smiled sheepishly and two green vines from the chair wrapped over my thighs holding me in place. “Well I’m sure that comes in handy with unruly guests, doesn’t it?” Nissa smiled at my sarcasm and I relaxed my arm the best I could. Nissa’s eyes never left mine, neither did her hand. “Ok on the count of three. One, two, three.” Then there was a audible pop and white hot pain flooded over me. I didn’t make a sound, I couldn’t. I saw the tears that filled Nissa’s eyes as she mouthed the words “I’m sorry.” I didn’t want her to know how much pain I was in. “Ok good, it looks like it went back in place perfectly. Ice, rest and try not to move it too much. That will help with the swelling. Nissa, she is going to need someone with her for at least the first few days. I trust I can count on you?” He asked. “Absolutely Gideon, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She answered him keeping her eyes on mine. “Ok I will check back in soon. You did good Kid and I don’t just mean this.” And with that he was gone. The vines around my thighs loosened and wove back into the chair. Nissa helped me up and back to the alcove where her small bed was.