#i hope he dies. like genuinely i hope he dies in the most horrible agonizing way possible.

[valentinoappreciator]

FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP FUCK TRUMP

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

What if Bella and Rosalie swapped places

As usual, before we even answer this, I imagine this will go dark places.

Bella Swan is Rosalie

Bella is an attractive girl, there’s no doubt about that. The day she arrives in Forks she is immediately sought after by pretty much every guy she meets until her relationship with Edward (and then Jacob) becomes established. Bella doesn’t realize as much, actively thinks of herself as plain, and this is warped self-perception is a very large part of her character.

However, she’s not hands down the most beautiful woman in a city, not the way Rosalie was. (Not helping Bella with this is her introvert personality, which in American culture will make her stand out less and generally be less noticed, vs. Rosalie who very much sounded every inch the perfect socialite and life of the party.)

My point being, Bella will not have the same reputation in Rochester that Rosalie did, not appreciate the same level of attention even if she’s running in the same social circles, and likely will not attract Royce’s notice in terms of picking her out to be his bride.

I imagine Bella, while pretty, is very awkward at parties and has a very difficult time forming social connections with anyone. I imagine this causes significant angst for her family, who want her to go out there and be, well, Rosalie Hale.

She’s probably crushing hard on Edward Cullen, the doctor’s younger brother (or whatever Edward was posing as at the time, I forget if he’d drifted into Son mode yet).

And this is where we hit a cross roads.

Bella is Still Edward’s Singer

If Bella is still Edward’s singer, then we get Twilight, the period piece. Edward becomes obsessed, can’t read her mind, agonizes over her scent, and even without Alice’s help likely eventually decides he must be in love.

So he probably sneaks through her window but also does things like pretend to court her properly like a gentleman. Carlisle’s extreme frowny face about this but doesn’t have the heart to tell Edward what he already knows: you can’t marry this girl. Esme, of course, is fully supportive and tells Edward he can eat and or marry this girl, whichever floats his boat and will make him happiest.

Without the wolves, while Bella suspects there’s something not human about Edward, she will likely not stumble on “vampire” unless she has a precognitive dream (which is entirely possible). Regardless, like canon, she won’t care. She’s in love and has found the perfect man who will love her for who she is rather than who she isn’t. She dreams of marrying Edward like he’s an ordinary man and is more than down to be a vampire.

Likely, some incident happens, Esme probably loses control and tries to eat Bella. Edward demands they abruptly leave town, never mind that he’s been in the middle of courting Bella, THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT.

Bella is devastated and utterly destroyed, as she was in canon, but now there’s no Jake to help pick her back up, no wolves to divert her focus, but also no danger of other vampires.

There is a danger called Royce though. Probably, in search for Hallucination Edward, Bella walks the streets at night in a zombie like daze. She gets gang raped by Royce and pals and dies in agony.

Edward is too busy in Rio being miserable to find out. He breaks six months later, finds out she was brutally raped to death, and travels to Volterra where he gives Aro an aneurysm. He eventually forces their hand and they execute him for breaking the law.

If there’s no catalyst to make Edward nobly leave Bella’s side, then they might very well get married. Bella is probably able to pressure him into a wedding night, and then the Renesmee debacle happens. Only, without advanced medical equipment they’re resorting to Carlisle shoving dead animals at her. This probably doesn’t work and Bella likely dies in childbirth. 

We end up in a similar timeline to this with probably similar results (Carlisle ends up in Volterra with a baby, Esme and Edward are god knows where).

Bella is Not Edward’s Singer

Then, as in canon, Edward likely finds Bella rather plain and overrated. Oh, she’s not as gossippy as some of the other women but she’s still a little girl and hardly worth his notice. Her mind is a bit of a mystery, but he likely eventually decides she must be simple, as he did with Charlie Swan.

If he notices her attraction to him, then it amuses and disgusts him, this girl has no taste.

She never really gets a chance to talk to him, and if she does, he’s a complete dick. Bella’s attraction likely cools severely (as it threatened to in canon after the Biology incident where he was utterly horrible to her).

Bella likely marries young. Probably to someone of notable wealth and social class, but not Royce. The marriage is probably all but arranged and she and her husband don’t get on or quite understand each other. Perhaps this changes in time but this requires significant character development for Bella.

Though, that said, Bella could be unfortunate and gang raped by Royce and pals. In which case, Carlisle might very well save her, and then Bella becomes the new almost Rosalie.

Edward doesn’t find her as vain, but he does likely find her vapid and made dumb decisions like walking down the street at night without an escort, what a fool. Like Rosalie, Bella intrudes on the thing he has going on with Carlisle and Esme, which he does not appreciate. Bella having the miraculous control she does, barely feeling the thirst and genuinely appreciating being a vampire and all the doors it opens for her (she gets to pursue education, is not tied down by marriage, gets to leave the worst of societal norms behind, etc.) likely only aggravates this for Edward. I imagine Bella becomes and remains his least favorite sibling.

Bella desperately tries to get along with Edward but quickly realizes any hopes of romantic attention from him are delusional and the best she can hope for is quiet tolerance in front of Carlisle and Esme. If even that. Bella still tries and all her attempts fall on their face.

Rosalie Hale is Bella

I imagine that Rosalie in the modern era, in a lower middle class family, will be a significantly different person. She’s probably a tomboy and I imagine an avid athlete and 4.0 all-honors student. Her favorite activities are probably fishing and hiking with her dad and she loves the Forks/Washington area. She’s still very pretty and usually ranked the most beautiful girl in X, but it’s not quite as important to her.

I imagine her vanity from canon instead translates to a perfectionist strive to be the best at everything she does. Rosalie’s aiming for the top.

That said, given Renee, I imagine Rosalie’s home life is complicated. Like Bella, it’ll be up to her to take care of most of the adult responsibilities with Renee from a very young age. Rosalie probably vastly prefers Charlie, but she can’t abandon her mother, at least not until Phil comes along to take care of her.

I also imagine Renee gets weird about Rosalie’s looks. Bella a pretty girl, but Bella notes that her mother is prettier and at the very least more outgoing. I think this suits Renee, it makes her the center of attention. With a child like Rosalie, she’d be overshadowed, and I don’t think she’d handle that well. And there would be these subtle, not-quite, jabs to remind Rosalie of her place and that Renee is important and beautiful.

This probably leaves significant marks on Rosalie, making her relationship with both her appearance and her mother very complicated.

Regardless, Rosalie ends up in Forks for probably similar reasons to Bella. Phil shows up, she sees she’s not needed anymore/in the way, she catches the first plane to Washington.

But, of course, nothing good comes from coming to Forks.

Rosalie’s looks will immediately capture Edward’s notice. Edward noted in canon that he did/does find Rosalie very attractive, he just hates her attitude about it. I imagine it will be similar here. He and everyone else will notice Rosalie immediately, but he’ll hate her because of it as well as because of her general personality. Rosalie is not his kind of woman.

Then we get to Biology. Edward may persevere as he did in canon but a) Rosalie’s not going to be into him at all ever after that b) he can read Rosalie’s thoughts. Neither of these things will be conducive to keeping her alive.

This will more than likely lead to Rosalie’s death.

[cucumberkale]

A Guest for Mister Bouchard (AO3)

"Now, tell me Jon, what are you most afraid of?”

The Magnus Institute is now hiring for its researcher's position and Jonathan Sims really wants the position. But to get that job, he has to first survive a job interview with Mister Bouchard.

"Name?" the woman asked, not looking up at Jon from her computer screen. She was an older woman, maybe in her early sixties, if her gray hair, wrinkled skin, and curved shoulders were anything to go by. She had dark circles beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. She was typing quickly, chewing absentmindedly on her bottom lip. The nameplate on her desk read: “MISS ROSIE ZAMPANO – EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT.” Jon thought her glasses were a garish shade of red, far too bright and young-looking for a woman who appeared so old.

"Mr. Bouchard," he said, automatically. He had been practicing the pronunciation all morning, terrified of embarrassing himself by stumbling over his words. Her forehead creased slightly as she narrowed her eyes, frowning at something on her screen. "Mis-Mister Elias Bouchard," he repeated, slightly louder, afraid she hadn’t heard him.

She sighed, loudly hitting one of the keys a few times, before finally looking up from the screen to meet Jon's gaze. "Your name, honey."

“Oh, Jon. Jonathan Sims. I’m…I’m Jonathan Sims.”

The woman nodded, adjusting her glasses. As she looked back at her computer screen, moving her mouse and making a few clicks. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Jon said, quickly, trying to regain his composure. “I have an interview with Mr. Bouchard for eleven-fifteen.”

The woman nodded, leaning forward in her chair to get a better look at her computer. “There you are,” she said, finally smiling at Jon, though it didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “I’m Rosie Zampano, I’m Mr. Bouchard’s assistant. Mr. Bouchard may say that he’s the beating heart of The Institute, but I’m it’s eyes.” She laughed, small and breathy. “I’ll let him know that you’re here and waiting for him. Please, have a seat.” She gestured to the row of empty armchairs beside her desk.

“Th-thank you,” Jon said, taking a seat in the chair farthest from Rosie’s desk. He waited until he could hear the click-clack of Rosie typing before he relaxed, letting out a breath. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his flashcards. He had spent the past few days creating them with common interview questions and answers as a practice. It had been a while since Jon had been in a proper job interview, but he had never wanted one of those jobs as much as he wanted this one. As much as he needed this job.

He was lost in thought, reading over his own notes and questions, and jumped when he felt something brush his arm. He looked up quickly to see Rosie looking down at him, that same fake-looking smile on her face. “Mr. Bouchard is ready to see you now,” she said. “You’ll do fine, sweety, but don’t lie. He can always tell when someone is lying. He doesn’t like it.” And with that, Rosie opened the door.

Jon stepped through and into the office of the Head of the Magnus Institute. It was a larger office than Jon had expected. The walls were covered in bookshelves, filled with books and knick-knacks. There were painted portraits of the previous Heads of the Institute, beginning with the image of Jonah Magnus. Against the far wall, behind a great oak desk, were tall, arching windows. At the top of the window was a stained-glass image of a stylized eye with a pair of owl’s wings framing it. Sat at the ancient desk was Elias Bouchard, his hands folding neatly in front of him on the desk.

He stood as Jon approached, walking around the desk to greet him. “Mr. Sims,” he said, extending a hand for Jon to shake. Distantly, Jon hoped his hand wasn’t sweaty. Mr. Bouchard gave him a toothy grin, “I’m Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute. Please, take a seat.” Jon nodded, allowing Mr. Bouchard to guide him into his seat.

Mr. Bouchard moved back to his side of the desk, sitting down gently, and shuffling a few papers out of the way on his desk. “Now, Mr. Sims,” he began, steepling his hands in front, “I know that you’re interested in joining our team.”

“Yes,” Jon said, “I’m very interested in the research position that’s opened up.”

“Good, good,” Mr. Bouchard said, nodding. “I want this interview to be casual. Think of it as a conversation between friends, and not as a formal interview.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please, call me Elias. Now, tell me Jon, what are you most afraid of?”

Jon faltered. “Ex-excuse me?” he asked.

Mr. Bouchard smiled again, that same toothy grin. “What are you most afraid of?”

The back of Jon’s head tingled, and he felt a pressure building in his chest, like he had been holding his breath for too long. “Spiders,” Jon blurted out. “I’m scared of spiders.”

Mr. Bouchard nodded. “Yes, of course. Arachnophobia is a very common fear. It isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Of course, with the existence of deadly spider species, it is also a warranted–”

“No,” he said, cutting Mr. Bouchard off. “No, it’s…it’s more than that.” Jon froze. He couldn’t believe he had just interrupted his potential boss during a job interview. He would never have done it. But what job interview started with a question like that? Jon’s heartrate had picked up and he could feel it begin to pound in his chest.

“Oh,” Mr. Bouchard said, leaning forward in his seat. “Do tell me.”

"It-" Jon started, faltering for a moment. He had never told anyone about Mister Spider before, but now, here he was, sitting in an old, hardback chair in a job interview of all things, about to spill his childhood trauma to a complete stranger. Mr. Bouchard's eyebrows raised just slightly at Jon's hesitancy.

"Go on," Mr. Bouchard said again, softer. "What was it about this spider that scared you so much?"

Jon sucked in a quick breath, lost for a moment in Mr. Bouchard's soft voice, his grey eyes, his warm office. And Jon wanted to tell him everything; he wanted to tell Elias Bouchard every horrible, agonizing moment that had happened from the second he picked up that damned book. He wanted to open his mouth and talk and talk and talk until he had been completely unspooled. But Jon also wanted this job. He wanted to know. He wanted to know why it happened. That was why he was here, at The Magnus Institute.

Jon shut his mouth hard enough to hear his teeth clack. He felt like he was going to be sick, that if he opened his mouth he would vomit all his fears and anxieties over Mr. Bouchard's polished desk, if not also his breakfast.

He took a few deep breaths through his nose, the way he always did when he was trying to bring himself down from a panic. Mr. Bouchard said nothing, still simply watching Jon, his face impassive. Jon didn't know what he was thinking. But he didn't ask Jon again.

Eventually, the feeling of nausea passed enough that Jon felt brave enough to open his mouth again. "It couldn't-" Jon's voice cracked. He stopped again, feeling his face heat up, and cleared his throat. "It couldn't be...it, it couldn't exist," Jon said, waving a hand emphatically. "Terrestrial arthropods, that is spiders, have a limit to how large they can grow. Spiders don’t have what people consider to be ‘traditional lungs,’ they don’t breathe like us. Instead, they have book lungs, which are folds in their exoskeletons, well, the folds, they’re actually called spiracles, filled with hemolymph, on the underside of their abdomens. The air passes into the spiracles, from the spiracles and into the hemolymph, and then the hemolymph is circulated back to the heart where it is pumped through the rest of the body. Spiders are dependent on passive diffusion to breathe. The size of a spider is regulated by the concentration of oxygen in the air: a higher oxygen concentration allows for more diffusion and the spider can be larger. It’s all about how well the oxygen can be taken in and processed by the spider. It’s why we don’t see the giant insects and arthropods from millions of years ago: the oxygen levels are too low today. But this spider...it was so...it was large. It was too large. It physically could not exist! It would suffocate under its own mass!

“I know how this sounds, but…it…it was a spider. A giant spider,” Jon stopped, looking up to gauge Mr. Bouchard’s reaction. Mr. Bouchard’s face was impassive, his eyes never leaving Jon’s own. “It…it was in a house, this old house,” Jon said, his voice falling to a whisper. “I was eight years old when my grandmother gave me the book…”  

“I know how it sounds…” Jon trailed off, falling into silence. No one knew, he had never told anyone the full story of that book and Mister Spider since his grandmother had first told him not to tell lies. Everyone he had ever told the true, full story to had died. It was only Jon left.

“I believe you,” Elias said. Jon’s head shot up, staring wide-eyed.

“You do?”

“Of course,” he said, reaching across the desk to enfold one of Jon’s hands in his own. His smile was warm and genuine, reaching up to his grey eyes. “Of course I believe you. You’ll find in our line of work, there are dozens of stories which cannot be explained.

“Now,” Elias said, sitting back in his chair and pulling out a notepad, “tell me, how did you find out that we were hiring?”

[akumageist]

I would die for Hitori Uzune. RIP to Kazuaki, but I’m different.

The Hatoful fandom consists of 13 people and a paperclip. It always has. Unfortunately, it probably always will. Where this is cause for some perks, it’s also some of its faults. In example, it’s still an anime game, made by a Japanese woman, and attracts weebs. Weebs tend to like to think of characters 2-Dimensionally, breaking the character down to what they think is their core personality traits. Hitori is no stranger to this, and is beaten down into this heartless, manipulative, selfish bastard. But I believe Moa is saying “anyone, even the best of us, is capable of becoming a monster if driven to it.” Let’s roll.

2162. Hitori was born into a world of war and hate, plopped into an orphanage at just 2 years old. This can be found in Moa’s canon spin-off manga, where Hitori at about ten years old is caring for the other war orphans along with the other older birds. Luckily for him, he was a genius. He was able to go out and get jobs tutoring birds and support his rag-tag family at his young age.

With that, we know Hitori was not originally cold and heartless, despite how the world may have birthed him. Especially when Nageki arrived frail and sickly. Hitori and the other birds were happy to put in overtime in an attempt to pay for the poor dove’s medications, even in his protest.

Then, 2180 happened. Imagine what sort of toll that would take on Hitori. he was absent. He was at work, unaware of the jeopardy that befell his family. What kind of horrible, mind-rattling survivors guilt must rack this bird’s brain, knowing he wasn’t there as his family was massacred one by one?

“What did we do? We had nothing. Our parents and homes had already been stolen by the humans. All we had left were each other.”

We can gather from this same scene Hitori blames himself for not being there. For not being able to protect his family, or even Nageki. Even though had he been there, he would have died alongside everybirdie else, and left Nageki to succumb to his illness alone. Something of this magnitude would create anxieties and trauma unfathomable to those who did not deal with it.

In Hitori, this manifested as full-blown helicopter mom. He can’t help but think of every little nit-pick detail over Nageki, terrified one feather out of place will kill him. The fandom is good about this side of his character! And of course, so is Moa. This may be the Summer Vacation Drama CD: Hitori The Worrywart (which takes place in MIRROR AU), but I love it’s portrayal of the anxious quail.

Hitori continued to care and ache over Nageki’s declining health. He was desperate. Begging doctors, even though deep in his little quail brain he knew Nageki was a lost cause, and that he was dying. But he couldn’t think of a life without Nageki, and did all in his power to try and keep the bird as well as he could. We can see a great example of this love in words you might not think of.

“How about this? From now on, ‘I’m fine’ is not allowed.”

I’ve always imagined Hitori getting mildly heated at Nageki in this conversation.The quail is on his last strands of stability, and the dove he cares endlessly for is trying to hide the very thing he ails himself over. The genuinity in his words shines through- telling Nageki he’d rather hear he’s bad and hurting.

So, in this desperation, Hitori carted Nageki off to some strange doctor in some strange prestigious school. And how couldn’t he? A doctor who claimed to know of the virus eating away at Nageki’s life, and how to cure it. Hitori’s beacon of hope in a sea of darkness. The only bird in the entire universe he had left to love, the one he had arguably always favored and adored, was dying. He would do anything in his power to keep the one thing he loved alive, no matter the irrationality or cost. No matter the very dying bird’s own lips saying “I… don’t want to go.”

Whether or not you ship these birds, I firmly believe Hitori is in love with Nageki in a romantic sense.

“I can no longer love another creature // I think we meant more to each other than anybirdie else in the world... // The love I felt soured into resentment // I should remember the beautiful face I knew, not… a photo covered in scribbles”

Not to mention admitting he can’t bear to live without the dove in BBL. And, in his route, Hiyoko goes as far as to refer to this bird as a female, which means he’s speaking so fondly she’s assuming it was a lover, and therefore a woman. Hitori’s stopped any sort of love at the idea he can only love Nageki post-mortem. That is canon. And well… that’s not very brotherly, no matter how good of a relationship you may have with your sibling (I speak from experience).

Okay, okay, this persuasive essay is NOT for convincing you of this ship, that is another essay for another time. I’ve only mentioned this opinion because I need you to understand his irrationality for the one thing he has left, and the fragility of it. And why it might drive anybirdie to… Hitori-level madness. Moving on.

2183. A mere 3 years after Hitori had lost the majority of his family to human terrorists. Nageki sends a coded letter, and… we can see Hitori’s anxieties outright.

“It’s happening again. Nageki needs me, and I’m not there.”

This is… a very powerful line in the game. We’re seeing just how vulnerable Hitori truly is. This is a traumatized individual in a panic attack- realizing the love of his goddamn life is once again faced with something horrible, and Hitori is once again absent from the scene.

And just like that, he’s gone.

The only thing. The only one Hitori had left in life to love. To live for. Taken from him without so much as a second chance. This is painful to write. This part of Hatoful is, without a doubt, the most agonizing. I know how it is to lose something so dear and feel as though maybe it’s not worth going on without them.

This is the peak of Moa’s tragedy writing ability (and yes, I’m including Holiday Star). But this is my point, is it not? Though his kanji may be “sun bird”, the actual word for his name “Hitori” quite literally means one, alone, solitary. He is now all alone in the universe, no family left. How can anybirdie even remotely remain in charge of their faculties (as Sakuya would put it) by now? You wouldn’t.

Hitori is now a husk of his former self. Anything he’s ever cared for is gone, he has nothing left to live for. He goes- my favorite coined term for him- absolutely batshit. He gets what we call “trauma-induced psychosis”, and begins to hallucinate very vividly, a form that he refers to as “Nageki”. We all know him of course, as Shadow. Shadow, from the little information we’re able to gather from BBL, is tormenting Hitori ruthlessly.

Shadow is easily misunderstood, because Moa made him fathomable, so the reader was able to understand exactly what was happening. What had become of Hitori Uzune. Shadow in all his simplicity- is Hitori. It is an introjection of Nageki, manifested to validate Hitori in his self-hatred. Don’t you get it? He hates himself just as much as you hate him!

Anything Hitori thinks of himself, Shadow is there to back up. He’s taunting him day in and day out, reminding him that he killed Nageki, and every ounce of Nageki’s suffering life was the fruit of Hitori’s inability to protect him. But again, it’s his own brain, telling him exactly what he wants to hear. What he truly believes. Telling himself what he’s done, and how he deserves this. ...And to seek revenge.

Hitori lost his mind. He had nothing else to lose, after all. He became obsessed with Nageki even moreso than he was in life, because there was no level-headed dove to calm him and tell him to stop worrying so much, or keep him at least reasonably held together by simply being there.

He listened to his psychosis, and when he made a friend (Moa gives evidence Hitori and Kazuaki were friends prior to Hitori’s ill-intentions), his psychosis got in the way of that, too. As he travelled down this relationship (which Moa herself says is pretty much romantic), we can assume he realized just how unable to love he was. He had Kazuaki around because, let’s face it. He wanted someone like Nageki who was incompetent so he could nurture and care for them. And for a while, it worked. But it didn’t. Hitori didn’t love Kazuaki. He couldn’t. He was too busy looking for Nageki.

So, you’re reading this in english. You speak english. At least a little, right? So maybe you played the english (and localized) version of the game. Well then you may not know the following. Please pay attention! This gets a bit rocky, and a bit more “Hitori...!”.

In the English version, Hitori disguised as Kazuaki is “tired”. In the Japanese version, he’s “sleepy” or “dreamy”. I’d describe him as ditsy, for sure. He kind of acts like an airhead who knows absolutely nothing, and his students don’t take him seriously. In the Hatomame Sweet Blend Drama CD, there is a track that follows Kazuaki on a little adventure of his narcolepsy, and going to Shuu for help.

In and out of comatose, Hitori, as himself, is there in his dreams as a separate bird.

“This bird with a face I had never seen spoke to me in a voice I had never heard, and this is what he said.”

“Nanaki-sensei” is clearly denying his own identity.

“I’ll sleep, just a little, and then leave… good… night…”

“But sleeping is my job… You still have a little longer. Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that…”

This is dream Hitori telling himself that he has to continue his alias until his revenge is fulfilled. The quail that was once Hitori must remain dormant until he is reunited with Nageki again, and can be happy again. As a metaphor for depression… don’t you feel like you’re a shell of your former self?

So, going off this information… I believe Hitori has repressed himself. This is due to my own knowledge on psychology but-- Hitori doesn’t want to be Hitori anymore. It’s too hard. Hitori the war orphan. Hitori the lone survivor. Hitori the murderer and identity thief. It’s him not wanting to deal with his trauma in a healthy way, and instead locking it up and becoming somebirdie new and undamaged.

He killed Hitori.

This falls into the other delusion- that Nageki is somehow not completely dead and gone and ash- but still trapped, somehow, somewhere, and Hitori needs to find and get him. To kill Isa and the researchers who “killed” Nageki, and bring “Nageki” home. Whatever he believes Nageki is. In BBL, we see this quite literally varies! He tried to cut Ryouta open and steal his liver!

“Sir, Nageki would have never wanted this…!”

There is no difference between a serial killer and someone in a court room screaming for the serial killer to be murdered in turn. That mourning mother is then one in the same with that killer, is she not? She sees him, and wants him to die. She wants him to die and suffer. She believes that will bring her a sense of justice. Even though she knows it will not return her son to her. Hitori, is that mourning mother. He sees Isa, and all he can see is the man who murdered his dove.

I know the biggest aspect as to why the fandom hates Hitori is the sole factor that Kazuaki is #relatable. He’s a depressed college student who thinks he’s better off dead. Then, Hitori tricks him. But you’re not reading Kazuaki right. It’s okay, he’s easy to misread from Holiday Star’s plotline. 

Holiday Star was written with Kazuaki as the villain, do you forget? A grey villain as well, but a villain nonetheless. He told his tragic sob story death in such a way, you can’t help but to cry. He’s the victim! I’m not saying he’s not. But he was written specifically to be pitied in Holiday Star, and as you continue on, you begin to see he’s actually just anti-self help. He doesn’t want to face his fears. He doesn’t want to leave his safe egg and take the risk he should have.

Kazuaki is meant to be pitied, yes,  but just on the brink of annoying with his helplessness and self-deprecation. He’s, forgive me, a “sad sack of shit” who does nothing to help himself. Don’t come after me for being “ableist” or whatever- Moa literally wrote him this way.

This is also depicted in “Kazuaki-kun’s Book”. Now, this book takes place in the MIRROR AU, but it tells of how Kazuaki met Hitori. Moa starts the manga off by explaining Kazuaki had a great chickhood, a healthy life, and an easy, happy time. But then, he flunked his college exams and didn’t even get into his safety school. He lazed around, grew depressed, and let his apartment rot. He played video games until his online friends got jobs, and wasted any money he had on them as well. The only thing that scared him out of it is when his next door neighbor was found dead, having rotted into his own futon.

So imagine Hitori, who has worked so hard and lost everything he had done so for. Tirelessly, through his horrible, fucked up existence. Nageki, who had his short and miserable life robbed from him, had to die. Had to kill himself. And this random quail has the audacity to bitch and moan, thinking he’s got it bad? He’s a waste of space that could have been filled with Nageki. This is what Hitori’s brain is thinking. Hitori’s only ~20 years old when Nageki dies, after all.

I’m not saying this is cause for murder and identity theft. Don’t you dare misread me on this. But as I’ve stated prior- Hitori’s completely lost it.  But you ship him with the chukar that literally ruined his life. Hitori’s a grey villain but holy fuck why would you want him to fuck the partridge that tortured and drove his only loved one to suicide?

It was wrong to trick Kazuaki. It was wrong to insult him as he died. It was wrong to steal his identity. That’s obvious and a given. But you all seem to look at that factoid alone, chalking it up to ‘preying on a poor mentally ill man” but not taking into consideration Hitori is mentally ill himself. ...Just not #relatable enough for you.

Hitori is suicidal as well. He’s been suicidal presumably since Nageki died. Don’t you dare say Hitori isn’t at least a little in the same boat. I don’t care if he’s not as soft and uwu and cuddly as Kazuaki. Mental illness is not rainbows and butterflies and emo hair (though Kazuaki is not portrayed this way).

Holiday star bears all the answers. I raise you important points, so pay close attention. The first key component is Hitori, found upside down in the pudding. He’s crying. Why is he crying? Because he’s lost his name? Oh, but think deeper.

“I’m Nemo”.

“Nemo” is latin for nothing, and his name translates to “nothing” in every language of HoliStar. The King has vomited him up in his kingdom, and robbed him back of what he stole from him. His identity.

But it goes even deeper than that.

“I’ve lost something, and so, I think I might cry.”

From this phrase alone, it’s painful to play this game. Nageki is right in front of his beak. But what did he do? He ate his own eyes. Hitori, in his refusal to identify with himself, has robbed himself of quite literally seeing the very bird he adores and sought after. Then, he is renamed his own identity by that bird (the only identity he accepts). How surreally real.

The second key component is when everybirdie is being rescued, but Leone warns Yuuya the quail is clearly falling more rapidly into a coma, and may not be able to awake. Why is this? Because Hitori wants to die. He’s fine with it, and Kazuaki is more than happy to keep him. When Yuuya finds him, Hitori is not at all alarmed as he should be. He seems passive, and simply wants to fall back to sleep. He’s to the point of trying to strangle Yuuya in attempt to let himself fall into eternal slumber (even if he thinks Yuuya is… Kazuaki..?).

Heed these next words carefully. When Yuuya asks if The King did something to him, Hitori replies-

“...No, all The King did was close the door.”

I am a firm believer this is Hitori indirectly saying “Kazuaki did nothing wrong, and I do not resent him for hating me.” Especially since Hitori shows signs of knowing it’s Kazuaki, and repenting.

“He said I need to be punished. Apparently I did something bad… and I think I know what it was.”

This is confirmed in my next point, so bear with me.

Hitori, in this same conversation, is admitting he wants to die. The only thing that stops him- as morbid as it may be, is remembering this takes place before the events of BBL. He hasn’t fulfilled what he believes is his “something I need to do”. Which is seek revenge, and bring Nageki home, as per Shadow’s orders.

Lastly, at the bitter end of Holiday Star when everybirdie is plummeting through the air from the false star, Hitori is still blind and confused. Suddenly, The King erupts from behind Hitori, and appears to be talking to him.

--

“Oh, is that right?”

--

“...I know, I know. ...but it’s still too soon. That’s right, I’ll be along soon. I’ll catch up with you. Someday…”

This is arguably my most prominent point in the entire essay. This is Hitori, admitting not only does he still plan to kill himself, but that he intends to keep his promise and reunite with Kazuaki in the afterlife. These are not the words of a heartless quail. These are the words of somebirdie who knows they’ve taken advantage of a friend, but is continuing to do their best to keep their promises and make amends. This is Hitori telling Kazuaki he still cares for him.

Hitori is the result of trauma and hardship beyond compare, and his inability to cope. He is not meant to be hated. He is meant to have shock value, yes. What he has done his disgusting, but you want to love him. Because he raised the sweetest bird in the entire game who would rather kill himself than hurt others.

Grey-villains are difficult, and because you can’t love them for being purely evil, you end up hating them for being a good person who’s done bad things. Hitori is a cracked window. Not quite shattered, but no longer whole, with a faulty image. Hitori is not just some heartless, manipulative, selfish bastard. He’s quite literally a bird with a broken wing (or entire ribcage more like), trying to… well, Live, and be happy.

[sisislair]

Be me: swole half-orc bard. Party also includes a conflicted human fighter, and for a brief period of time, a human paladin.

Me and Fighter are hired by a resistance group (we are mercenaries) to take down their local tyrant. Our first job is to take out some marauding goblins that the King has set loose. (My mentality is very much mine vs not mine, and Fighter's is deeper and about furthering the connection between races.) We are ambushed, and we both kill many. The two elves that where previously part of the group sacrifice themselves for Fighter. The goblin who hired us, Balrog, kills the last one. Fighter is upset because we could have used him for information, but Balrog waves it off.

We loot the bodies, I make some goblin meat, and we head on to their encampment. It is in a church basement, and we meet another party member briefly as we are fully inducted and given our rooms. They require complicated passcodes. We both fail to remember how to get out the next morning (my intelligence is not great, practical and people skills, yes, memory + reasoning? No) We are then asked with our new party member, paladin, to go sabatoge one of the barracks. We go in through the stables, I free the horses while they set it on fire. I then cast thunder shock to blow in the wall. Fighter goes into a room, is briefly turned into a goblin because magic, and proceeds to massacre everyone. I finish freeing the horses, and then help him clear out the base by sneaking around, burning food storage, not stealing their very pitiful armory, and just slaughtering them in general. We leave, and count it a mission well done.

We then go back to base, rest up, heal, and prepare for our next mission. We are going to be infiltrating the castle to pose as new staff members and assassinate the tyrant. Me as the new head cook, and Fighter as the new court Jester. Upon introduction I am allowed to drop off my stuff, and then put to work making lunch. I immediately start building up a rapport with the guard in charge of me and the kitchen staff, made all the easier by the fact that I genuinely like people and wish to help them. I whip out an amazing stew which pleases the tyrant very much, and stay to clean up and practice my cooking skills.

Switch to Fighter, who is allowed to rest before being taken before the tyrant. His entrance is mediocre, but he turns into a goblin for his trick, he can do that, and starts juggling. He then fumbles the knife and slices his arm with it. He gets a surprised laugh out of the tyrant, who sends him back to his room to be bandaged up and rest.

Switch to me, who makes an awesome fish dinner, and once again chats away and cleans up. Radiating all the mom vibes. The staff are warming up to me, but still seem hesitant about something. I stress bake that night and make pot brownie equivalents, placing a plate outside my room and inviting the guards and staff to have some if they like. My rapport is pretty good by this point.

Fighter is taken back, bandaged himself, and fails to figure out the guard patterns because he remembers the guard who kicked him upon welcoming and punches a wall. He is checked on then yells fuck very loudly when they leave. (It is only at this point that one of us finally thinks to ask if we where ever told what exactly the King has been done to be labeled a tyrant. Cue DM being exasperated that we only chose to use our critical thinking skills on the last day.)

Cue me in the morning, who tells the other staff that they can take a break the first couple of minutes while I get things started. They seem surprised and hesitant about this. I assume that it's because they haven't been treated this nicely before. One of the servant girls stays behind to clean with me, a new occurance, and seems to want to talk to me. But she keeps glancing towards the door, and I invite her to come bake some non edible pastries that night. We finish, and upon return to the servant quarters I pull out my drum and begin practicing, I draw out an audience, and achieve yet more familiarity.

I make lunch, and we cue Fighter again. He is called upon to entertain, and purposefully stumbles when bowing to see if he is entertained by pain. However, instead of laughing, the King seems concerned. Fighter is intrigued, and when prompted to tell a story tells an incredibly well done tale about his past as a mercenary. The King is not amused, in fact he seems very solemn and contemplative, Fighter is sent away, and now the moral crises begin.

When baking with the servant girl, she tells me that the King has been beating her almost every night after taking her to his rooms, because she won't give him what he wants. I stop kneeding and then start agressively kneeding the dough. I then proceed to hug her when she is done, comfort her, and send her on her way with simmering rage and a growing conviction. I ponder the immediate expidaition of our plans.

Meanwhile, Fighter is approached that night by the King in his rooms. The King knocks, and upon entering, says that Fighter's story greatly reminded him of his youth. He tells Fighter about how his father was a mercenary, and that after being hired to liberate this kingdom they ended up in charge of it. The people, where.... Not pleased, to put it mildly. His father ended up being driven out by them, and he was left in charge. He now fears for his life and kingdom, because there is a group, several of their members being in his staff, who have been spreading horrible rumors about him. Just this last week the barracks for their new recruits where brutally pillaged and massacred. (At this point we have gone into oh fuck territory, and are looking at each other in horror.) He then continues on to say that he trusts Fighter and hopes that if he is assassinated Fighter will be able to find a new job. And that he is a good confidant. He leaves, there are no guards put around Fighter's room, and he is having a full on moral crisis. He can't kill an innocent man, and may in fact have been hired to kill several innocent men during the barracks mission. He had been suspicious of Balrog since day one, and this is all that he needed to confirm it. (Our DM has apparently been leading us up to this the whole time, and is now playing us against each other. It's glorious story building, and simultaneously agonizing. We are very, very invested by this point.)

The next morning I am not woken by the guard, and smell something cooking already. The staff has been given the day off by the King, who has locked himself away and is in a funk. Everyone came together to make breakfast for me for all that I have done for then. This cements my love for these, my people, and my conviction is strong. I am doing this.

But this conviction is about to be challenged when me and Fighter meet up to discuss things. I let him go first, and am initially sceptical. Sounds like a sob story to me. I tell him about the servant girl. He tries to reason with me.

Fighter: Only one girl came to you?

Me: I can't take that risk that he's doing that.

Fighter: Fine, but do you have to kill him? Balrog is very suspicious, and I can't take the chance that this man is innocent.

I grudgingly relent, and tell him to investigate more while I ask who wants to leave with me. Upon coming near the kitchens I hear murmering, I can tell that it is the servant girl and someone else with a familiar voice. I knock, and the voices stop. She tells me to come in. Only she is in there, and when questioned she initially denies. I press her more, and she eventually reveals that it's the guard. Why would she lie about that? She tells me that he was telling her about the horrible things the King has been doing, and I am newly suspicious of this. I ask her if she wants to leave with me, or if she wants the King dead. With no hesitation, she says that she wants him dead, now. I have a big brain moment, and ask to see the bruises so I can apply a healing paste to them. She is shifty about it, saying they are in sensitive places. I smile gently, and counter with me being a woman as well, having healing knowledge, and if so that this makes it even more important they they are taken care of. She says she needs looser clothes for me to tend to them, leaves, and returns. She has marks around her breasts and her legs, and my rage is reborn. There is no changing my mind now. My character is not smart enough to think that she might have faked them, and I cannot let this stand. I finish treating her, and allow my anger to possess me. I charge towards the throne room, rage clouding my judgement, getting faster and faster until I am barreling through the halls. Fighter sees me pass by, and knows what is happening. He cannot let this happen. He tries to stop me, and runs after me. I burst through the throne room doors and head straight for the King while pulling out my dagger. He is terrified. He sees Fighter behind me, and then gets sad. Fighter is at the mental breaking point by now, and tries to physically tackle me. I shrug him off, and he fails to hit me with his axes. I impale the King, and he dies in terror, tears in his eyes. I have just killed an innocent man.

Fighter screams you bastard at me, and tries to go for me. At that moment, Balrog enters the room along with the guard and the servant girl. They restrain and cuff Fighter all while he screams and cries. It has finally just hit my character that Fighter was right. But it is too late. Fighter is dragged away, and the King's body is disposed of. I am thanked by the staff for their freedom, but I only feel numb. What have I done?

That night at the base, I stare sleeplessly at the ceiling while tortured screams eminent from the room, now cell, that Fighter is kept in. The end.

This campaign emotionally and psychologically destroyed us, but it is also the most satisfying campaign I have ever been apart of. Never have I been so in character or emotionally invested in the story. In the space of 5 sessions, our dm built up all of the foreshadowing that we mostly missed for this, and then brought it to a whirlwind horrifying end. There where two possible endings, and we chose the bad one. I was left in awe by his skill, and in tears and anger over how the story ended for us. It was, and might always be, the best campaign I have ever done to this date.

[rivalsforlife]

I DIDNT KNOW YOU WERE DOING COMMENTARY hope it's not too late to ask for The Scene at the end of chapter 5 of the catch up game?? if no one else has asked?

It is never too late to ask!! Genuinely you could probably ask me six months from now and I’ll ramble on about all this, I’m generally down to talk about my writing all the time. (And I’m actually a little surprised nobody asked about The Scene yet... oh well haha)

First though: have you seen this art yet? If you haven’t you should. It was going around twitter again lately and I love it a lot so I wanted to advertise it while I had the chance.

Anyways, keeping under a “keep reading” here:

So. The Scene. First I’ll present my notes from the outline when I was trying to figure out this fic:

Miles lets his feelings slip, Phoenix doesn’t take it too well, they part on a kind of awkward note.

Somehow “kind of an awkward note” ended up being uhhh that!

Anyways before we get into this I want to say that I really did not think it would have that much of an emotional impact? I got a much bigger reaction than I thought and that’s around when people really started talking about it on the narumitsu discord and stuff, so I ended up for the rest of the week soooo stressed out that I’d accidentally gone in a completely different direction than I’d planned and set people’s expectations too high and they would be COMPLETELY DISAPPOINTED IN THE REST OF THE FIC but uh luckily that didn’t happen! I think. At least if anyone was super disappointed they didn’t tell me about it!

And it was probably partially that I am not very uhh good with emotions and also probably that I got pretty desensitized to my work but I genuinely did not think it was that bad until I saw Ro’s art and then went “ohhh suddenly I am consumed with so much guilt...” (and also doubted how in character this scene was. how can ANYONE say no to that face --)

Most critically though, this scene distracted everyone from whatever the hell was going on with the casefic earlier in the chapter, so overall I think it’s a success.

Sorry it’s taking a while to get to the actual scene, but I wrote a few drafts of this thing beforehand and modified it a lot trying to get it right. I needed it to be sufficiently dramatic but I didn’t want it to seem like... I was just adding it in there for extra conflict? Like you know sometimes you read stuff and you’re like “where the hell did this sudden argument come from” yeah. I wanted to avoid that if I could, so partially this was supported by the weight of chapter 4 to explain Phoenix’s reasons for the rejection and then chapter 6 is supposed to elaborate more, but I still needed this to stand fairly well on its own.

The overall theme of this chapter was “Opposites”, and again, here’s what I had in my fic notes:

I want to contrast how Phoenix sees Miles and how Miles sees Phoenix. Because they both kind of see each other as an amazing person while seeing themselves as failures. Maybe at the end Phoenix is kind of putting himself down and Miles argues about it and then they have a slight argument. Miles lets his feelings slip, Phoenix doesn’t take it too well, they part on a kind of awkward note.

I couldn’t really find a way to integrate this conversation in naturally, so I could only get Phoenix’s perspective in there a little bit. Originally Miles’ confession wasn’t supposed to be planned, just a spur of the moment in the middle of an argument where Phoenix kind of goes “I don’t understand why you keep hanging out with me, why are you spending so much time with me, I’m not struggling, I don’t need you worrying about me” and Miles interrupts with a “Because I love you, you idiot!” ... But I couldn’t get that to work because the buildup into the argument felt too abrupt. 

Last little bit of something just before the argument (some of the dialogue here went into the chapter 4 dinner conversation instead):

Miles: (quietly) I’ve spent most of my life trying to climb higher in my career, in order to fight corruption as best I could. And I have, and every day my mission is growing closer to completion, or at least as much as it can. But after that… (staring at some kids’ toy) what’s left for me? I’ve taken a rather unconventional path through life. I’m starting to wonder about opportunities I’ve missed.

Phoenix: (jokingly) Is that some long-winded way of telling me you’re planning on settling down?

Miles: I’d never settle. But in some sense, I suppose so.

Phoenix: (stopping in his tracks) You’re kidding. L-Like, what, in a year or so I’m gonna walk in to your office one day and find you with a wife and kids?

Miles: (rolling his eyes) You do know that I’m gay, don’t you? And why would I keep them in my office? There’s no need to be so melodramatic, Wright.

Again couldn’t fit it in I just found it funny. ANYWAYS FINALLY MOVING AWAY FROM THE DRAFTS AND TO THE ACTUAL THING, I’ll skip ahead a bit to just before the confession:

“How long has it been since I came here?” 

“I dunno… since before I got my badge back, probably.”

“That sounds about right.” Edgeworth sighed and leaned against Phoenix’s desk. “I’ve barely gotten the chance to see you, since you got your badge back and I took my new position. I’ve missed going up against you in court.”

“I don’t,” Phoenix teased, slipping his case notes into his desk drawer. “You’re a nightmare.”

“You’re one to talk.” The corners of Edgeworth’s eyes crinkled as he looked over at him. “You can be so infuriating, but I do like working with you. I had fun today.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “Fun? You?”

“I suppose age has softened me up.”

“I didn’t think anything could soften you up.”

“You’d be surprised. I often have fun when I’m with you. I always…” He trailed off, averting his eyes and gripping his elbow. “I’ve been… thinking, a bit. On our earlier conversation.”

So basically... Miles got preeetty close to confessing during their dinner in chapter 4, but kinda backed out at the last moment, and he’s been agonizing over this ever since. Because the way he interpreted their conversation was sort of “We both want to move forward into a relationship but don’t know how to take the steps to do so”, whereas Phoenix interpreted more as a consensus that “We could probably start a relationship and there are feelings there but it wouldn’t really work out so we just won’t ever talk about it”.

And Miles throughout this fic assumed that Phoenix has been in love with him for a while and only holding back for Miles’ own sake, and waiting for Miles to signal that he’s actually ready to move into a romantic relationship. ... Which is very much not the case. What makes today different though is that Miles got to watch Phoenix solve mysteries, and I’m of the opinion that Miles considers Phoenix at his most attractive when he is uncovering the truth!! so Miles pretty much just saw him solve this case and go “I must kiss this man on the lips Right Now” but thought he should clear some things up before he did that.

which is good because if he just walked up to Phoenix and kissed him without preamble I’m pretty sure Phoenix would have died, so.

Something imperceptibly changed in the atmosphere. It made Phoenix’s heart race faster in anticipation. “Oh? Which one?”

“The one we had during the last dinner we shared.”

“O-Oh.” That had been weeks ago. Surely Phoenix had forgotten something.

“Everything has changed so much, over the course of my career, between us.” Edgeworth’s eyes flickered up to him briefly before settling back down on the desk. “I’ve never been afraid of moving forward, but this, I want…” He exhaled, shakily. “Give me a minute. This is… difficult.”

Phoenix kind of... knows, subconsciously, where this is going, but he’s trying to deny it until the last minute because he’s very unprepared and has no idea how to deal with this... which will become very clear by the end of the scene.

Miles is tricky to write in a confession scene because he can be kind of weird with emotions? Sometimes he’ll give these Grand Speeches about how much That Man means to him but at the same time he struggled a lot with talking about his feelings during the trilogy and I think he’d still struggle with it now. Especially something as raw and vulnerable as a love confession.

And Miles is also someone who is, at least by the Investigations duology, determined to pursue what is Right and what is the Truth without any sort of hesitation. However pursuing Wright is different. (insert horrible forced laugh track)

“W-Well, don’t strain yourself,” Phoenix insisted. “We can talk another day. I-It’s getting late, after all, we should —”

“We should stop dancing around the issue.” Edgeworth’s eyes snapped up and locked with Phoenix’s, pinning him in place. “Don’t go easy on me now, of all times.”

oh man I have to admit I got really into Persona 5 Royal for like a few weeks around the time I was writing this and that “don’t go easy on me now of all times” is looosely inspired by a similar line in there that’s like “do you think I’d be happy with being shown mercy now, of all times?” because although it’s a different dynamic than narumitsu I was uh. intrigued.

... sorry it’s so vague I wanted to avoid spoilers anyways, moving on,

Phoenix’s mouth ran dry. Edgeworth couldn’t possibly be planning to —

“Everything has changed between us,” continued Edgeworth. “I want things to — to continue to change, I-I want to be closer, is—” He sucked a breath in through his teeth “— is it not obvious?”

Hadn’t they agreed, in that way they could agree without saying a word, that they were never going to talk about this?

Phoenix broke his gaze. “No. It’s not. I— I don’t want to argue with you. It’s late.”

Pretty much same as previous notes: Phoenix in extreme denial that this is actually happening whereas Miles is just trying to force it all out.

Phoenix is kind of trying to talk Miles down from confessing; Miles is sort of interpreting it as “Wright isn’t going to let me get away with not actually saying this so I need to be more direct.” 

I’m sure that later when Miles is curled up on his bed wondering where he went wrong he’ll think of that :)

“Phoenix.”

The use of his first name forced Phoenix to look up again.

Edgeworth stared at him for a long time. There was something impossible swimming just under the surface of his grey eyes.

“Phoenix Wright,” he said. “I am in love with you.”

HE DID IT!! He’s so brave I’m sure that nothing can go wrong!!

Gossip was one thing. Lingering touches and stolen glances, Phoenix could deal with those. The knowledge that Edgeworth was interested in him in a not-so-platonic way… that was more than enough.

This, hearing Edgeworth say the words out loud, was another thing entirely. Even if Phoenix already knew. Nothing could have prepared him for — for whatever this was, for Edgeworth, looking at him all open and vulnerable, and — and saying —

“Wh… What…?”

Edgeworth tilted his head slightly to the side, causing his bangs to fall into his face. “Surely you’ve figured it out already?”

“I-I don’t understand…”

At first there was a line right after “Even if Phoenix already knew” that was “Even if he felt the same”, but then I decided to make it so Phoenix can’t even admit his feelings to himself, so I cut that one out.

Anyways this is shocking to Phoenix partially because of Denial but also because he didn’t expect Miles to actually come out and say something like this. He’s used to Miles being closed off with his emotions and doesn’t think him the type to ever directly acknowledge them, so it’s got him totally off guard, too. It’s unpredictable for someone who is supposed to know Miles so well so it’s very unnerving for him.

“I… I think you are incredible,” said Edgeworth. “Your single-minded dedication to truth and justice. Your compassion. Your mercy. The way you… brought light, brought life, back into my world. You can be so frustrating, and stubborn, but that’s part of why I have always admired you so much.” The corners of his eyes softened. “You saved me a thousand times over, and I want to spend the rest of my life by your side… however you want me.”

Miles generally people go on at least one date before proposing marriage but okay.

One thing I find interesting about Miles as a character is that he’s very much an all-or-nothing kind of person... he doesn’t ever really half-ass things and he doesn’t know how to do things gradually haha. He won’t allow the truth to be covered in darkness for even a moment even if it makes things easier for him in the long run. Saying “I think you’re great, maybe we should go on a few dates and see how things end up?” is probably the SENSIBLE thing to say, but Miles puts 100% of himself into everything that he does post-character development; and he’s secure enough in his relationship with Phoenix that he doesn’t really feel the need to test the waters. Plus Miles is allergic to uncertainty, so by the time he confesses he’d need to be absolutely certain that he loved Phoenix Wright and was prepared to pretty much go all in with him.

after all Phoenix feels the same way right!!

Phoenix stared. His heartbeat was reverberating in his ears. “I don’t know what to say. … Me.”

“Who else?”

“Who — a-anyone else. God, Edgeworth, what even is that shit, about me being i-intelligent, and dedicated, and compassionate, and — and — incredible, geez, I’m a wreck! I—” His voice wavered into a fit of near hysteria. “The only reason I’ve gotten this far is ‘cause I’ve always had amazing people by my side, and — and once they’re gone I’m back to whatever I usually am, I-I only have this one suit, I still haven’t got my freaking driver’s license, I don’t think I’ve eaten anything but instant meals in a month—”

(And he looked to Edgeworth, desperately, but Edgeworth was still gazing at him, expression gentle, gentle yet unyielding, not taking back his words or expressing an ounce of regret — why wasn’t he changing his mind —)

“You’re describing yourself more than me,” said Phoenix weakly. “Really, I’m not — I’m not like that, okay, I’m not…” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

This is the one part that stayed consistent throughout all drafts of this scene haha. Some of it is echoes from what Godot told him back in Bridge to the Turnabout about him always needing someone to swoop in at the last minute to the rescue; others are sort of a loose refence to his behaviour during the beginning of RFTA and Reunion and Turnabout where he couldn’t really function without Maya there to look after.

This part sort of ties more into that objective I had with this chapter of contrasting how they see themselves; they both see each other as incredible people, because they don’t really get to see inside each other and see how much of a wreck they feel.

Also the very first sort of script of this confession had Phoenix saying “I thought you knew me better than this!” but that just seemed way too cruel for this haha.

“I know that I… that I have difficulty with these things,” said Edgeworth, fingers gripping the edge of the desk. “I’ve never been the most open of people and we’ve — we’ve always been so distant, for so long. I wasn’t there for you when I should have been, and I want that to change. Because, ever since we met… you’ve been such a major part of my life. I never thought I would live to be older than my father. I never thought I would be happy with myself. But you, you came into my life, and you changed all that.”

(That wasn’t you,) a voice in Phoenix’s heart whispered. (You only started it. The rest was all him.)

“But I don’t want to be satisfied with what I have right now. I still want more. There’s still a part of life I want to explore, and… I want to do it with you.”

(He’s always been fine without you. One day he’s going to realize it too, and then…)

“I’m tired of hiding my emotions and being too afraid to upset the status quo when it comes to relationships. I refuse to be scared of that anymore.”

(Why isn’t he scared, too?)

ugh this was the hardest part to write I think...? Trying to figure out a way to get Phoenix’s internal feelings across where it doesn’t come out of nowhere. I settled with a lot of internal thoughts that are just like... self-loathing, pretty much.

Meanwhile Miles has prepared this whole emotional monologue that Phoenix is only half listening to, basically about what a huge impact Phoenix has had in his life and how he’s sort of... now that he’s presumably made large steps to fixing the justice system he’s turning to more personal goals in life, and one of those goals is spending his life with Phoenix, if he can be brave enough to do it.

Phoenix isn’t paying attention though because he’s too busy panicking...

“Most of all, I… I couldn’t hide anything from you for long. I’d trust you with the world. You’re my equal, and my opposite.” Something resembling a shaky smile crossed Edgeworth’s face. “And I love you.”

me shoving the “theme of the day” in there awkwardly

But he smiles!! This is one of the rare occasions where Miles kind of does smile... there’s a lot of “almost-smile”s or brief smiles and Miles is scared out of his wits here but he’s happy. he finally got that off his chest. he was brave and he told Phoenix how he felt and they’ll be so, so happy together, nothing can possibly go wrong,

The words knocked out any breath Phoenix had managed to regain. His skin suddenly felt cold and clammy, and he was faced with vertigo more intense than standing on rooftops. What was happening to him?

There was something he was supposed to say to this. He should react to this normally. His mouth was drier than a desert. His tongue felt unsightly and awkward in his mouth.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you that if I have somehow misinterpreted, I won’t mention this again.” Unease and uncertainty flickered behind Edgeworth’s eyes. “And I would never be upset, as long as you tell me the truth. I want to take the next steps of my life with you. … Do you feel the same way?”

oh yeah this part was a little tricky too. Pretty much Phoenix is on the verge of a full-blown panic attack and cannot think of a response, even a nice polite rejection... and finally Miles starts realizing that something’s off, because before he was just running on adrenaline to try and get his feelings out that he didn’t stop to examine Phoenix’s reactions, otherwise he would’ve started overthinking and psyched himself out. But now that he got it out and seeing Phoenix pretty much in shock he’s starting to worry he’d made a mistake.

Also “unease and uncertainty” is definitely an “unnecessary feelings” reference because I’m shameless.

Yes, Phoenix wanted to say, yes, I do, and say what he felt, what he wanted. But the words wouldn’t come.

Why couldn’t he say it? It should be easy. If he truly wanted this, it should be as easy as breathing.

His vision swam with pink butterflies, he ran his tongue over the scars in his mouth, his breath caught jagged on the edges of chains —

Aaaand if either one of them had the magatama right now there would be the psyche-locks! I was gonna elaborate on this a lot but this is so far waaay longer than I intended so I’ll spare you and give a brief summary.

Essentially there are three locks. I wrote them as sort of representing each issue that Phoenix needs to acknowledge for them to break -- not necessarily fix, because that would be a super tricky thing, but acknowledging they’re there is a start. They’re pretty much “Trust”, “Abandonment”, and “Vulnerability”. Later I realized those issues are pretty much tied up in each other so instead I just made it so that each one is set by a traumatic event, and then acknowledging those events is what breaks them.

The first is an obvious “Dahlia and Iris really screwed up Phoenix’s ability to trust a partner romantically”. I love Iris but she really did mess him up as well. Phoenix kind of convinced himself he’s over this issue now since Iris was a good person! but really he’s still messed up about it. (And that’s where the butterflies + scars in his mouth sort of come from). Talking to Iris and acknowledging that he’s still hurting over it is what breaks this one.

The second is more directly related to all the times Miles himself has abandoned him particularly throughout the series. Some of the hurt when Miles prosecuted him in Turnabout Sisters, and definitely a lot regarding “Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death”, it’s pretty much him being scared to get /too/ attached to Miles because he fears Miles might abandon him again. This one breaks in chapter 7 when he has the whole realization that Miles might die and leave him regardless, and acknowledges how afraid he is of Miles leaving again.

And the last is more of acknowledging his need to be needed by people and help people but they move on without him and not don’t really him in their lives. This built up more gradually... with littler things like Apollo leaving the Agency and Maya not being around as much and Trucy moving out. Neither of these are Big Bad Traumatic Events like the other two but it’s still an issue Phoenix has that he needs to acknowledge. Trucy’s letter breaks this one by telling him he’s never going to be alone and they all love him and are there for him. And that’s why right after reading the letter he can tell Miles that he loves him.

So that’s that. Moving back to the actual story now...

“Phoenix?”

Edgeworth still stood so close, too close, and when Phoenix breathed his senses were assaulted by the scent of his cologne and — and he was too close, and his words were too much, Edgeworth couldn’t be in love with him. Attracted, sure, but love — how could he so easily say love?

This wasn’t like Edgeworth. This wasn’t how things were before, this wasn’t how things had always been, every time things changed too fast something would go wrong, every time things changed too fast Edgeworth would leave again —

(— and right now Edgeworth’s body was coiled tight with tension, like a spring, ready to take off at any sudden movement —)

— and Phoenix couldn’t say a word.

Fairly self-explanatory I think: basically acknowledging that fear that Miles is going to leave again.

Phoenix was standing on the edge of a turnabout. Somewhere he’d have to take the plunge for victory, for the truth. He’d never shied from them before. He’d always accepted the risks. And they’d (almost always) paid off.

But something had Phoenix in a vice. Dark chains that wrapped around his chest and constricted his lungs. Something that would drown him if he took the plunge. Something that whispered that he could not risk this, his heart and his life in one. There was too much to lose. It was all too much.

That little (almost always) there is referencing that one time he presented the critical case-changing evidence and got disbarred for it; his disbarment messed him up pretty bad too, I guess it’d fit in the category of the third psyche-lock.

And of course the second paragraph references the psyche-locks more directly before they actually show up.

The words came. They weren’t the ones he wanted.

“No,” said Phoenix. “No, I don’t.”

The rattling in Phoenix’s head cut out. Silence fell over the room.

Pretty much once Phoenix stops pressing the issue the psyche-locks stop shaking. I imagine they’re a pretty terrible thing to break directly; he can’t do it on his own like this.

“... I see,” said Edgeworth, and something snapped shut, drew tight, rigid, back to a statue. “I thought… nevermind.”

Miles kind of draws back into himself all tightly-controlled, less open than before, because that really hurt him a lot. He’d probably prefer it than Phoenix being all evasive and sort of reassuring because he prefers people just cut straight to the facts, but that was direct even for him.

And of course he thought that Phoenix did feel that way about him. He was certain of it. So hearing Phoenix didn’t and he was completely wrong is... not good.

He’d gone so still. At the sight of it, whatever spell was holding Phoenix in its grasp broke, and he came back to reality — this wasn’t right, this wasn’t good, he had to fix this, somehow, bring things back to the way they were, “Edgeworth—”

And the sight of Miles completely freezing up and closing himself off is enough to break Phoenix free of the initial panic, because he does care a lot about Miles, and seeing him withdraw worries him.

“It’s getting late,” said Edgeworth, and only someone as experienced as Phoenix could detect the waver in his voice. “Thank you for being honest with me, Wright. I’ll talk to you later.”

The remark stung worse than a knife would, he couldn’t let it end like this. “I—”

The office door shut, none too gently. Phoenix was alone.

“... I’m sorry.”

That “thank you for being honest with me” wasn’t SUPPOSED to be a jab, of course, because Miles would prefer that Phoenix was honest than lie to him. But Phoenix did lie and that’s what bothers Phoenix the most throughout the next couple of chapters; they both value the truth so highly that lying to each other is inconceivable.

And Miles probably should have stuck around for a bit and heard Phoenix out and maybe Phoenix could have managed a half-decent explanation of “okay I don’t know what that was but this was very sudden and I’m panicking, can you give me time to process?” but if Miles stayed for much longer he probably would have started breaking down and that’s the last thing he wants to do right now, especially in front of Phoenix, so he left as soon as possible.

I think he managed to repress enough that he could get home safely, but the moment he crossed the threshold into privacy he probably had himself a good cry... curled up on the couch and watched some Steel Samurai with a tub of ice cream... but he was pretty emotionally devastated by this. It took a lot of effort for him to open up and be honest about his feelings so just being shut down like that... hurt a lot. He’d never admit it though.

anyways I also have this short bit of writing I posted a while back about Miles actually getting a hug after all this, because he really needs one.

And that’s the scene!! I think I said more than enough so I’ll end it here haha.

[whumpsideblog]

Previous Parts

tag list: @im-not-rare-im-rarr @constellationwhump @justwhumpitwhumpitgood @maybeawhumpblog @lumpofwhump @whumpity--whump--whump @inky-whump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @ihaventwritteninsolong @stxckfxck

 Again, I wouldn’t say this is the end since I do have at least one more part planned!

 ***

 Alastair was dead. He had killed him, come morning he would be nothing more than ash. They were free, he’d never have to even think of this horrible place again. Why was he crying? Dahlia managed to pull him off of Alastair- off his body, that is, but he stayed on his knees next to him.

 “Silas… it’s over, you’re okay…” She said softly.

 “I- I know, I know, he’s dead, he’s finally dead… oh god he’s dead.” He choked back a sob, screwing his eyes shut. Dahlia hesitated for a moment, before standing up straight.

 “I’m going to find Elise, tell her and the rest of the staff what happened… do you… need a moment…?” She asked softly. He simply nodded in response, listening to her footsteps retreating, the door closing softly behind her. He finally opened his eyes, looking back to the body in front of him. Why was he crying? He angrily wiped at his eyes, trying to make the tears go away, but they just wouldn’t stop.

 He should’ve been relieved, he should’ve been celebrating, grinning from ear to ear and rushing out of there. Instead he sat at the vampire’s side, and he sobbed, bent forward so his head rested on his chest.

 “You fucking b-bastard!” He cried, still clutching the blade in his hand. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me anymore, you did nothing but hurt me, why the fuck am I crying over you?!” He felt sick, he couldn’t believe he felt so strongly about his death. “After all you did to me, after all you stole from me, you don’t deserve somebody crying over you, least of all me!” He sobbed loudly, unable to stop himself. 

 This man had tormented him, had ended his life as he knew it, and yet he felt a heart wrenching pain knowing he was dead. 

 ***

 Dahlia gave him his space, let him cry and yell and sob, and when his sobbing finally seemed to quiet down she told him it was time to leave.

 He felt like he had cried out every other feeling along with his tears. He almost felt numb as they left the mansion, he couldn’t believe he was actually leaving. He should’ve been relieved, the cool night air should’ve been refreshing, but with each step he took away from the mansion, his sense of dread seemed to grow.

 Reasonably, he knew the only choice was to leave. That had been the plan all along, get in, kill the vampire, get out. Yet, there was a voice in the back of his mind telling him he was wrong. He shouldn’t have left, he didn’t belong out here. He belonged in that mansion, with his master. He wasn’t allowed to leave, he would be punished, he deserved to be punished. Alastair would be so angry with him for leaving, he would be beaten, he wouldn’t be allowed in his bed that day, he would make him regret ever leaving- he was dead. He reminded himself, Alastair was dead, for good this time. He killed him, he didn’t have to fear him anymore, despite what the voice in his head kept telling him.

 The walk home was almost a blur to him, trapped inside his head with his agonizing thoughts over the vampire’s death. Dahlia seemed to think he needed his space, she never pushed him, and he genuinely appreciated that. Before he knew it he was standing in front of his house, he was home.

 He was almost surprised that the little cottage looked exactly how he remembered it. His memories all felt distant and far away, he had accepted he’d never return here and yet here he was, walking up the path to the front door. Dahlia led him inside, and he numbly followed her directions to go to their room and get some rest. It didn’t feel real to him, finally being home. As he made his way back to their room, as he pulled his shoes off and let his hair out of the braid he’d put it in when he got up that evening, he felt like all of this would disappear at any moment. 

 He collapsed on his bed, closing his eyes. He heard Dahlia come into the room and get ready for bed herself, but he was already half asleep. He could hardly remember the last time he felt safe in his own bed, no one to hug him or kiss him or bite him or touch him at all. For the first time since leaving that mansion he felt like maybe he was finally safe, as he drifted off to sleep.

 ***

 He slept through the night and most of the next day, waking up late in the afternoon. He was almost surprised when he woke up to his own room, his own bed, his own house. He was sure it was all a wonderful dream, and he’d wake up back in that mansion in Alastair’s arms. Alastair was dead, he reminded himself. He laid there staring blankly at the ceiling, replaying the events of the previous night in his head. 

 He had killed him. He had stabbed him, over and over again. Silas was known to be a “one stab only” kind of hunter, he didn’t get any sadistic pleasure out of the job like some hunters did, his goal was to kill the vampire, not make them suffer. He’d never prolonged a death like that before, never dragged it out. It turned his stomach to think he could be so sadistic, no better than Alastair and his tendency to find joy in the pain he caused. 

 He thought about how Alastair had tried to beg him to spare his life. Alastair liked to be in control, he knew that much, he liked putting people beneath him. He had broken Silas down completely and yet he still begged for mercy at the end. That voice in the back of his head was telling him he was a monster for killing him anyway. He shouldn’t have felt bad though, when he begged Alastair to spare him he ended up damning him to a fate worse than death, Alastair was lucky that Silas killed him. 

 He had done this for Dahlia, he reminded himself. Alastair was going to kill her, there was no way around it, and if he killed Dahlia then he might as well have killed Silas too. He loved Dahlia with all his heart, he’d always known he’d do anything to protect her, and when he thought about it, he hadn’t done enough. She was still hurt, she was still held captive. Knowing her all of this was weighing on her greatly, but she was forcing herself to be strong for him. He knew he needed to tell her that she didn’t need to.

 Killing Alastair was the right thing to do. He had mentally and physically beaten him into submission, stripped him of his angry and defiant personality. He had taken his sense of security, even curled up in his own bed in his own home he felt like any moment now the vampire would grab him, harm him in someway. He had destroyed everything about Silas and made him into his perfect pet and Silas would never forgive him for that. So why was he still crying? He buried his face in his pillow to muffle his crying, which soon escalated into full on sobbing. 

 He was faced with the same pain he felt the night before, an aching in his chest that just wouldn’t go away. Alastair was dead. There was nothing to fear, no reason to hurt, he should’ve been happy. How was he supposed to forget what he went through if he couldn’t even stop crying?

 Eventually Dahlia came to check on him, and of course she immediately knew something was wrong. He knew she was there the moment she entered the room, and she came and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

 “Silas…? What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare…?” She asked, gently placing a hand on his arm. 

 “N-no… I’m fine…” He murmured, voice muffled by the pillow. She sighed, pulling him onto his back so she could look at him. He glanced away from her, eyes red and burning from crying, his face streaked with tears, and she looked so concerned to see him that way.

 “Here… sit up, please?” She asked softly, and he obediently did as she said. She held her arms open as she always did when offering a hug, and for once he immediately accepted, latching on to her and hugging her tightly. She seemed surprised, and he didn’t blame her given how often he refused hugs, but she hugged him back, running a hand through his tangled hair. He shuddered, remembering how Alastair would constantly do the same. “What’s wrong…?” She asked.

 He wasn’t even sure if he should tell her. It sounded stupid to him, to cry over the vampire who ruined his life. Still, this was Dahlia, and he could tell her anything. He hoped he could anyway.

 “I… I think I’m sad… over mas- Alastair.” He quickly corrected himself, though it only upset him more how ingrained in him the vampire’s training was. “I don’t… know why… I shouldn’t be sad, right…? I hate him, he… he was horrible but I just… can’t… stop crying.” He was getting choked up all over again, despite his best efforts. Dahlia was silent for some time, which just made him anxious. He knew it was stupid, he knew he shouldn’t have said anything. 

 “I think… you’re grieving…” She said slowly. 

 “Over him?!” He cried. “After everything he did to me, how could I possibly fucking grieve him?!”

 “Silas… he made himself a big part of your life for some time… I mean honestly, I was scared that you had just become complacent with living like that… he made himself everything to you, when and where you slept, what you ate and if you could eat at all, how you dressed, what you did that day, he controlled all of it... you must’ve felt something towards him, not necessarily something good but… something strong…”

 He knew she was right. Alastair had become his entire life, his entire world. Everything he did revolved around Alastair, he had been made to respect him. No, it wasn’t respect, it was fear. He feared him at every moment of every day, even now he feared what he would do to him, having to remind himself there was nothing he could do.

 “I told him he couldn’t hurt me anymore, I made sure he knew that before he died. I shouldn’t mourn him, and I shouldn’t be having these awful fucking thoughts that I’m wrong for killing him!” He was getting more and more frustrated as he went on. “He took everything from me, he hurt me, so much, and yet here I am crying over him! He doesn’t deserve my tears, he doesn’t deserve my fucking grief!” He cried. 

 “He doesn’t deserve it, Silas, but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it…” She sighed, hugging him tightly. “It’s okay that you’re upset, and you can’t just ignore it like you tend to do… if you need to cry over him then go ahead… you don’t have to sit here and do it alone though, Okay?”

 He nodded, only because he knew his voice would crack if he tried to speak. He hated Alastair, more than he’d hated anyone before. He made his life a continuous living hell, he had made him into the one thing he hated most. Here he was though, sobbing, mourning the death of the man who ruined him.

[saltine-kakyoin]

🎶 and jotaro and also kakyoin AND another character..whoever u want ;)

oho… you’ve sent me another message? you know what comes next bro, u brought this upon yourself….this is us now man

anyhow, AH. thos boys…god this one is gonna be so difficult because I have So Many Songs that are tied to them. as for the other character, i think i will do my boy sergio because i really need to share my brainstorming songs for him before i explode! :0 thank you again for sending these in, bro!! have a good night, ily! c:

this will be long bc i always ramble..i will be tagging this as long post for mobile gang!

Jotaro:

thom- i hate to start this off with a jotakak-themed song because i know some people Despise jk. i’m sorry for y’all who do, but ahh this song has been stuck in my head for days now! :’( In terms of the SDA, i always think of this song as like…jotaro’s bittersweet journey w his feelings for kak. it’s something about the like, ghostly windchimes in the beginning, the phone buzzing in the bg, and the “please don’t run away”s man, ahhh. I listen to this song a lot when brainstorming him coming to accept that friendship is as far as he and kak go. However,“ The pitter patter gave a rather rinse and lather feeling/ As opposed to shitty attitudes that made me bitter after laughter/ And I dearly regretted it” really makes me think of pt. 4 jotaro in any context. We only see the end result of his development from SDC, but like hhh… do you think he regrets being so gruff? I think of that 1 fanart where he’s looking at the group picture + hoping they knew he wasn’t annoyed by them (or something along those lines, i forget the exact line…ahh)

something’s missing- So, ofc not all parts of this song apply.. and truthfully, I listen to this song while thinking of the immediate period after the crusade in the SDA and how the crusaders are all left with this hole in them (..@kakyoin literally.. i’m sorry i had to. also, abdul is the hole). Out of all of them, though, I always think of Jotaro the most w this song- “My dad asks, ‘Were you okay out where you were stranded?’ How do I tell him that I wasn’t just okay… I was so much better?” LIKE DAMN THAT IS ONE (1) KUJO JOTARO… :( i think he comes back from the crusade and just feels.. severely misplaced. Going back to Japan and the girls following him to school every morning feels so alien to him.

tempest rhapsody- this song is just… *chef kiss* It makes me think of like. star platinum’s first manifestation, and of the emotions one would feel during a 50-day crusade to a place you’ve never been before, where you run the risk of death at least once a week…how would it feel to know if you got seriously injured in a fight, there would be a very real possibility that your *cough* dearly beloved *cough* mother could die? this song is my answer to that question

only in sleep- another choir song! i cannot help myself. This one is more for canon Jotaro. I’ve read a few fics about the universe reset where he’s reunited with the other crusaders one last time before everything becomes nil, and…..augh. “The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces, I met their eyes and found them mild — Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder, And for them am I too a child?“ is imo such a jotaro 4 am deliberation

softly- THIS. this was the Original jotakak song, no offense thom. i used to listen to this song on REPEAT while reading nessun dorma, ahhh. so much of the sda jotakak dynamic is shaped from that fic and this song, hghshg. Anyhow, now that I’ve worked on the development of their relationship in the sda, this song is most definitely a song for the jotaro who unknowingly pines in 3rd year and then comes to realize that ah…these are Emotions during uni. during their third year, jotaro and kakyoin do a ton of self-exploration, and spend more than one night floating in the pitch black void of the ocean talking about what they’re going to do after graduation with only the stars to accompany them. they lose this when jotaro goes to florida for uni + kakyoin paris, but they make up for it by calling each other all the time, so “Touch you softly I call you up late at night” made this song an instant hit in my book ghshghw. I adore this song, through and through. ;u;

post-published honorable mention bc i rediscovered him while i was workin on polnareff’s playlist!! DOLLY ZOOM is another really good song for pining jotaro. in the sda, he feels really Horrible about having a crush on kakyoin for a long time because he and his family (that is phrased weird, i am sorry) are the entire reason kakyoin got a hole punched right through his abdomen and spine. they’re the entire reason kakyoin spent months learning how to walk and use his legs again. he doesn’t do anything except bury his feelings because, to him, it’d be Really selfish to do otherwise. i listened to dolly zoom nonstop when i started writing Jotaro’s Decade-Long Yearn because it captures the guilt really well, ahh.

Kakyoin (it is 1:24 am as i’m starting this… let’s see how long i agonize over this part lmao)

ultraviolence- ahh, ze Mindworm Song. I really despise diokak and the fact that he had to spend like…3-4 months with the mindworm just chilling in his brain, but I can’t ignore the fact that he latched onto dio’s friendship and was initially elated to have that whole thing happen. It haunts Kakyoin in canon, and it Most Definitely haunts him in the SDA, and i think he and jotaro have a lot of conversations about how and why and what that whole experience was like. I always end up coming back to this song when brainstorming this year in the au. The beginning just sounds so lonely, and the background choir/ voices really give me the heebie jeebies. Then, there’s the build-up to the beat drop, which really make me think of like. what being mindwormed could feel like? And how it must feel to be so lost in that sauce that you become a passenger in your own mind, lost to the whim of one super manipulative vampire, augh. “You give me love, you know you give me love with your ultraviolet rays” ties into a few of FKA Twigs’ other songs where she sings about not being enough and really obsessively deriving love from someone whose attention is ultimately really harmful and unhealthy, and I think about that and Kakyoin a lot. :(

sound and color- so truthfully, this is my go-to song for any character that dies/almost dies and comes back, or goes through a Huge Life Change. kakyoin fits both of these bills to a T! this song makes me think of getting used to being around such a rowdy but tight-knit group of people who genuinely care about you All Day Long after spending your entire life in isolation. I always think of like, a happiness montage when the second half of this song comes around, and the montage i daydream about for kak during that section is *chef kiss* Sound + Color is like one of the best songs ever, and it’d be a crime to not have a kak setting for it. 

first love/late spring- fellas, here’s the kakyoin equivalent to jotaro’s softly. this song was IT, back when the sergio-divergent au and the “All the Crusaders Live” au were two separate things. back then, kakyoin and jotaro’s realization that oh, fuck, they really meant the entire world to each other happened much earlier in the plot. Looking back on that now makes me squint, but I do think that this song is still really fitting for kakyoin exploring those feelings- friendship is one thing, but romance is something entirely different and a lot more intimate. i think it’s a tug-of-war for him, between wanting to jump in to those feelings and wanting to run far far away from them because he doesn’t want to be wrong and ruin their friendship. good times in the kak hole

last words of a shooting star- I really love the bastard fucker side of kakyoin that is explored and celebrated in our fanon, but I can never shake the fact that some of his last thoughts were of his parents (and i think he was sorry for making them worry? which… baby…) and that his polite, “outwardly anxious” presentation was this big facade for like.. the Deep and Soul-Wrenching loneliness he felt because he was a stand user? The first stanza and “They’ll never know how I’d stared at the dark in that room/ With no thoughts” make me think of kakyoin deeply- if his family had never gone to egypt and he’d never met dio or jotaro, what would have happened to him? Who would he be? i’ve always been super attached to that part of kak bc fundamentally… I Relate. but also i am just fond of it because it makes me sob- he deserved so much better than to get murdered by the same man who manipulated his entire identity right at the climax of his character arc….some crimes can never be forgiven, hirohiko….

vertigo- i don’t listen to this song for kak often, but it is a Quintessential Kakyoin song. according to khalid’s twitter, vertigo is a song about “Overcoming overthinking. After every dark days, there’s a brighter outcome. Being at a super low place in your life and realizing that, there’s other people going through that same path you’re walking down. There’s always light at the end of the tunnel. It’s also a story about fear of abandonment.” which….Big Kakyoin Energies. The “Are we alive?Or are we dreaming?” part also ties back into the Kakyoin Parties in a Coma for a Month arc- your mind has a wild wild time when you’re in a medically induced coma, theoretically because it’s trying to fill in the blanks for all of the stuff you’re sensing? And coming out of a medically induced coma is a bizarre experience, where it’s hard to tell if you’re still in the coma and just imagining things or if you’re actually awake. Kakyoin has a mad time in the month immediately after SDC, one that i’m sure he doesn’t enjoy too much after the death 13 fight.

honorable mention goes to i am not yours- this has been a kak song to me for a long time as well. the context of the song is way different from my interpretation for this setting, but AH. I just think kakyoin really struggles to differentiate and understand romantic feelings. This song really reminds me of that struggle, and I think also touches nicely on like. the identity issue of it all too.. “yet i am i, who long to be” yanno? ; J ; it’s hard for me to explain

another honorable mention, my statue sinking. in the sda, after the events in egpyt, kakyoin is thrown into a coma for like an entire month while his body gets operated back together, and then he spends months in physical therapy learning how to walk w a prosthetic spine (kudos to cyborg speedwagon being a reverse engineering madman :D). i like to imagine that there’s also some degree of therapy going on this whole time, also. you don’t just get donuted + thrown into a coma for a month without some counseling to get you back on your feet..i think the lasting effects of dio’s influence are addressed here, but only briefly because it’s not something kakyoin is eager to explore. however, I think that this song captures the like... distress? i guess? of knowing that your life has been irreparably thrown off course because of dio. like yes, you met some really wonderful people that helped you learn how deeply healing friendship could be! but also.. you lost months of your life to mind control, and then another month to a coma, and then additional months to training your body to function again....there’s some psychological stress there. While I think that Jotaro and Polnareff are affected the most by the crusade, I think they all emerge from it with some degree of ptsd. Being targeted by complete strangers at all times of day cannot be good for your mental health, you know? Anyhow, I think My Statue Sinking captures that aftermath feeling really well. Everyone survives and recovers from the crusade, but there’s a part in all of them that is lost to Egypt. 

on to sergio!! (it is now 2:04 am lmaooooooo) sergio will be easy because I only ever listen to the same handful of songs when I’m writing him hdhgh

i will come to you- this is THE sergio song. i think of this song every time i write about him, whether it’s the “believe in me…” “also believe in me” lyric exchange that i imagine he has with both tomoko and holly; the “and i will pray to my father…my father…and he will abide” part being about him reaching out to joseph with his final breaths and spilling all of the beans about dio and begging him to finish things so that Tomoko and Josuke, the Kujos, and he and Suzi can be safe; the “foreeever……foreee-eever.. forever..” part being where he dies and his soul passes into the next realm.. “even the spirit of truth [golden prophet] whom the world [..yeah..] cannot receive, because it seeth him not [bc suad defects and buries sergio instead of bringing his dead body to dio]. Neither knoweth him, but you know him…for he dwelleth in you and he shall be in you [literally the entire joestar/kujo/higashikata family being so near and dear to him + his spirit being with them even after death]” and then, like.. george i, jonathan, and george ii coming to retrieve his soul during the “heeeee shallll beee in youuu” part… “i will not leave you comfortless. i Will Not leave.. You Comfortless… iiii wiiiill come…. to you.. to You” part being about his soul mingling within star platinum and crazy diamond because he has a Need, even in death, to protect them. UGH (also his essence being especially prevalent in crazy diamond, which is partially why its power is to repair things!! bc hamon! ; O ;) literally I have an Entire music video with sergio’s death set to this music. i’ve listened to it way too many times.

when david heard- so to be frank this is actually more of a joseph song, but it’s only a joseph song when sergio exists + gets murdered. :o i cried the first time i listened to this, and then months later i listened to it while thinking of sergio + like. sobbed fr fr. Joseph is asleep when Sergio calls him, so he gets sergio’s final message as a voicemail on his answering machine hours after the fact. the message itself is chilling because Joseph had no clue his son had gone on this huge mission by himself to kill Dio, and now he’s dead! however, it’s made even worse because Joseph wasn’t there to pick the call up and comfort his son in his dying breaths or do Anything. it’s just like Caesar, which is. god awful. it’s such a horrible realization because sergio, whom joseph named after what caesar wanted to name his own son, has been condemned to the same fate as his namesake. Thus this song- i’ve yet to come across a song that captures the feeling of hearing that kind of news so well. (also when i tag things as my sOOOOON or *cries my son in 8-part harmony a la whitacre*, this is the song i’m referencing :D)

zombies / terrified- ahhh, these songs capture the HORROR sergio feels upon sensing dio’s presence in Japan really well. (also “I’m going to eat you alive/please don’t find me rude, but i don’t eat fast food/ so don’t run too fast” is SUCH a dio mood…) Sergio maintains his composure about the Dio Dilemma for a good year before he flies off the handle, and his entire proto-crusade against the vampire is just. Laced with paranoia, even if he is learning a ton of useful skills. These two songs capture that feeling of something constantly watching/creeping up on you so well, and ever since i discovered them, I’ve listened to them for Sergio inspo.

the prophet- This is the only song I’ve done so far that the characters would actually listen to lmao. Sergio is a Huge fan of The Temptations, and his stand is actually named after this song! (+ the esoteric title for the hermit, which was really amazing luck on my end ; J ;) it also had a huge hand in figuring out what his stand power would be, the lyric that decided it was “God doesn’t listen to the words you pray; he hears what your heart has got to say.” However, the entire last stanza of the song ties really well into his character arc fhshgh. Also, this song just feels like it could Be the child of Bloody Stream, if that makes any sense. it’s so groovy and funky, but the lyrics are like big ominous lmao. I was super ecstatic to find this song- if sergio were to ever get an animation, this song would be the OP, yanno?

armageddon- This is another “this song would be on their personal playlist” song. Sergio’s got a lot of love for all styles of music in his heart, but jazz is his home base and always what he comes back to. I like to imagine that Lisa Lisa’s husband introduces Sergio to Wayne Shorter’s music at the age of like 8 or 9, and Sergio’s just. obsessed with the man’s music for the rest of his life. I really love Shorter’s explanation for the meaning of this song and its album as a whole: “What I’m trying to express here is a sense of judgment approaching - judgment for everything alive from the smallest ant to man. I know that the accepted meaning of ‘Armageddon’ is the last battle between good and evil - whatever it is. But my definition of the judgment to come is a period of total enlightenment in which we will discover what we are and why we’re here.” Like… wig.. I feel like that’s such big sergio energy. Armageddon itself also feels like a really nice ED- it’s lively, but in a good episode-ending kind of way. Do i dream of animating Sergio’s adventure one day? Mayhaps.

honorable mention goes to just my imagination/ my girl- We’ve covered that Sergio adores The Temptations, so it’s no secret that he would listen to these songs ceaselessly. however, i really like the broadway harmonies + instrumentals that they did for Ain’t Too Proud, so that’s what’s goin in here. these songs are THE tomoko/sergio songs…He loves Tomoko and the way she quips + teases + gets up to nonsense with him So Much. There’s a huge part of him that has No Idea what Tomoko sees in a music geek like him, but ughh he is so grateful that she likes him because she is a Goddess. he’s blessed yo..

[elssiie]

Walk through the fire

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

You can also find the story in fanfiction.net 

Strategist and priestess Lucy Heartfilia gets caught up in the turmoil of war. Torn between duty and love she must decide whether to follow her heart or mind because the destiny of two nations rests on her shoulders.

Chapter 5: Instinct 

There is no instinct like that of the heart

  Natsu was moving through the trees as fast as the forest let him. His men were far behind him but right now he couldn’t afford to wait for them. Fucking hell! That little witch had been giving him a massive headache for a while now. He seriously hadn’t needed Romeo to magically show up in the middle of the battle camp and put himself in danger like that. What was even going through the kid’s brain? Hey, I see a suspicious person walking into one of the most dangerous places in the empire. I’ll mention this to the nearest soldier and then indulge myself in an epic adventure following said suspicious person in the woods. Brilliant, Romeo. Just fucking brilliant.

Natsu stopped for a moment to sniff the air. The witch’s scent was anything but witch-like. Soft and clean, the smell of spring. It was too vivid, too strong. She and Romeo were close. He sprinted following their trails. There. Just behind those bushes. He could distinguish their voices now with his ultra-hearing. They sounded frightened. Then he felt the presence of other creatures. Shit! He quickly moved through the bushes and found them.

Just in time to see the deadly spear flying in the air straight towards Romeo. For one terrifying second Natsu froze, unable to say or do something. His eyes widened as he watched the strategist’s body blocking the spear’s path. A horrible, blood-chilling scream tore from her mouth as she crashed on the ground. He registered in the distance of his mind that the forest people were turning their attention to him, ready to take him down as well. He didn’t care. His vision was pure red. The usually calm and quiet fire in his chest was now blazing furiously. Red markings covered both his arms, neck and cheeks. His skin glowered in a faint gold color and he knew what his eyes looked like, what kind of effect they had on the enemies. The forest people screeched in despair, trying to quickly get away from him. He wouldn’t let them. The white hot fire covered his hands. Burn, motherfuckers.

The first thing Lucy noticed when she woke was that it was nice and warm. She strained her muscles in order to move but every single nerve in her back screamed in pain. Holy gods! What in the world was this pain?! She had been laying on her stomach probably for hours if she had to judge from the missing sensitivity in her arms and legs. She realized with horror that she was back in the tower. She was a prisoner again. Then she remembered the forest people and the hit she took. Ah. That’s why her shoulder hurt so much.

She had to get up. Lucy clenched her teeth and slowly, so very slowly pushed her body up. Gods, someone was tearing her skin apart! Piece by piece! Her arms trembled, too weak to do this kind of physical activity. She groaned as the pain became unbearable.

“No. no. Stop.” Big, warm palms dropped on her lower back and gently pushed her to the bed. “Stop.”

“I want to get up.” Her voice was rusty. It sounded too exhausted like she’d been screaming for a long time. Maybe she had but she couldn’t remember a single thing since she got unconscious in the forest.

“You need to lay down.” The male voice was coming somewhere above her head. The palm moved slightly up her spine, leaving behind a nice hot feeling.

“Please.” Lucy whispered. She didn’t really have the energy to explain how awful her limbs were feeling or how she wanted to at least see what was happening around her and not have her head on one side, leaving her defenseless.

For a moment he didn’t say anything so she thought he was ignoring her request but then strong arms wrapped around her stomach, his head briefly touched hers and he softly breathed out in her ear, “This is gonna hurt.”

She nodded.

He carefully started lifting her body while she desperately tried not to cry out. He helped her turn herself over and after another five agonizing minutes Lucy was finally sitting in her bed. She was panting, her eyes full of tears and her shoulder burning in agony but she was at least seeing the room.

She couldn’t believe it.

It was Dragneel who helped her. There was something different in his stare. A newfound spark she hadn’t seen before.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The forest people hit your shoulder with a wooden spear. You’re lucky they didn’t manage to hit your lungs or you’d be dead by now.”

“The boy… Romeo, is he okay?” The fear was evident in her voice.

He was contemplating her, sizing her up with his stare. “He’s fine. Just shaken up.”

Lucy exhaled shakily and closed her eyes.

“Pretty good idea, by the way.”

Her nose wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

“Saving a kid from my camp in hopes of getting away from torture.”

“What?” She asked flatly. Surely he wasn’t implying that…

He shrugged.

“I’m just saying it’s a good strategy. You knew I was going to find you so you decided to put the boy in harm, then getting injured while saving him. We both know I can’t afford to torture you right now cause there’s I high chance you’ll die in the process. It was reckless but in the end a pretty good idea that actually worked.”

She gaped. Was this guy for real? Oh, gods, he was. He was for real! Her anger bottled up in her throat. She wanted to smash his thick pink head with a table so hard!

“Wow. Are you that amazed that I figured you out?”

He laughed but there was a certain stillness to it. His whole body was tense. His eyes didn’t sparkle with their usual humor.

“How could you be so… aggh!” The sharp pain from her wound stopped her from punching him in the face.

“Hey, be careful.”

His hands flew towards her, probably to help her, but she was so done with him. Lucy smacked his palms and he blinked caught in surprise. Good. Let him be surprised.

“I had no idea where that bloody spear would hit me! I could have died on the spot! Yes, I would have done almost anything to get away from here, I did not want to betray my country but I would never -”, she was panting now. Her shoulder was killing her and she was pretty sure her wound opened up but she was so angry. “I would never bet the life of an innocent person just to save my own! For you to think I would do that to a little kid is beyond me! Making up that kind of twisted story truly tells terrible things but not about me. It’s about you! Don’t you dare say such bullshit like that to my face again!”

And she was even swearing now. She hadn’t done that in years. He really pissed her off.

Warm streaks of blood fell down her back. Suddenly her head felt too heavy and dizzy. Dragneel, who’d been in total shock until now, quickly shook off his mixed feelings and called for the doctor. Seconds later a middle aged man came in, saw her condition and heavily scolded the General. While the doctor started changing the bandage he asked why the wound opened up again. For the first time since Lucy knew him Natsu Dragneel kept his mouth shut and didn’t fire with a smartass comment. Well, then she’ll answer it.

“He was being a jerk.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Natsu’s body cringe. Dull, unpleasant pain hit her head and she groaned. Her forehead and neck were sweaty. She couldn’t even keep her eyelids open any longer. She was just so, so tired. Everything hurt.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Did she imagine it or Dragneel sounded genuinely concerned?  

Ah, never mind. She just wanted to sleep.

“A fever, I believe.” The doctor almost growled. “Her body is weakened not only because of the blood loss but also because of the intense pain she feels. Opening up her wound isn’t helping her either, General! I will give her some strong herbs but they will keep her dizzy. General, with all due respect, I will ask you to leave the girl alone for some time, at least until she recovers from the fever.”

Natsu nodded. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her tormented expression. He thought about her stubbornness and wills to fight, how brave and strong she’d been. Now she was laying completely powerless and shaken up by the pain. Something sickening curled up in his chest. It was awful, this feeling, whatever it was. His eyes traced the sensual shape of her eyebrows down to her feverish cheeks and stopped at the sight of her slightly opened lips, out of which painful sounds were coming. Her shoulder and half her back were completely exposed to him, revealing soft milky skin, delicate curves. She was so small, so fragile. Why the hell would he think about torturing this creature which was about to break any moment?

“General! You are only making my job harder! Please, leave immediately!”

The shout broke the strange trance Natsu had fallen into. He sharply turned and flew out of the room before he did something. Before he did what exactly?! Godsdammit, he was such a mess. That woman was truly a witch. What had she done to him?

“Why are you frowning at the air?”

Natsu almost jumped. Almost. Gajeel always showed up at the best of moments. He hadn’t heard him approach which was kind of strange. But this whole day was just fucking over the scale of strangeness.

“How is the strategist?” He just had to ask about her, didn’t he.

“She is…” Natsu clenched his fists, then deeply exhaled. Hot gray smoke came out of his nostrils and that glowing, heavy feeling in his chest started fading. His rhythm slowed down until only the familiar quiet but tense fire in his heart was left.

“That thing with the smoke is still as freaky as I remember it.”

Gajeel was giving him one of his worried stares again. He knew something was off. But Natsu would never admit to anyone how thrown off he felt. Instead he asked, “Where’s Romeo?”

“With Sting and Rogue. You know, that whole lecture you gave really upset him.”

“Yeah, well, he deserved it. That brat isn’t going to pull a stunt like this again in the near future. I almost had a heart attack because of him.”

“Natsu Dragneel and his lectures on responsibility. I’d never even thought you had that word in your limited vocabulary.”

“Very funny. I’m dying from laughter here.”

Gajeel was waiting for Natsu to spill the beans. But Natsu had a dignity to keep. He just passed by him and said in a nonchalant voice, “The strategist has a fever so I left her with my personal doctor to look after her. We’ll have to wait for her to get better.”

Yeah, Gajeel was seeing right through his bullshit but thank the gods, he wasn’t feeling asshol-ish enough to mention it. Natsu would take what he could get. He needed some time, to cool his head and heart down. So he forced himself to smirk lazily at his cousin and walked away.

[clonerightsenthusiast]

The Minister of Crocaganda

(this is all the fault of the campaign discord, who suggested blue wearing these. this is both the best and worst thing ive ever written)

(read on ao3)

It all started with those stupid, no-good, absurd novelty shoes, and frankly Zero regretted ever buying them to begin with.

But how could he resist? They were just… so awful, so unspeakably hideous, he couldn’t possibly not buy them, just to see the look on everyone’s face when he came sliding into the conference room wearing electric blue crocs with high heels.

He never expected the chaos that would ensue.

Sure, it was funny when he sauntered in, followed by the ridiculous squeaking of the rubber shoes, and he got a laugh and rolled eyes out of Aava and a (carefully, but not totally masked) horrified look from Synox, but Blue.

Blue wasn’t paying attention at first, reading what looked like four scripts at once, but looked up at Aava’s laugh and turned to give Zero a quizzical look.

Zero posed, shooting Blue finger guns as he stuck one leg out comedically far.

“What do you think?”

Blue looked… confused. “Why in the world are you wearing those?”

“The real question, Blue, is why aren’t you wearing them? They’re all the rage these days. All the cool kids are wearing them,” Zero said in the most over-the-top prima-donna voice he could muster. He pulled up a hair-flip emoji on his faceplate just for added effect.

Blue just blinked, went, “Huh,” in a considering voice, then went back to his scripts.

Zero plopped down in his chair, put his feet up on the table, and shot Aava a winky face. She rolled her eyes and snickered behind her hand.

After a few minutes Blue spontaneously dropped the scripts and got around to telling them why they were all there in the first place, and Zero thought the moment had passed.

--

Everything had seemed normal for the next few days, until Zero wandered into the kitchen one morning to see Blue dressed impeccably in his usual uniform, with the sole exception of a pair of blue crocs sporting the image of a bright yellow cartoon character.

Zero stopped dead in his tracks.

There were only a few explanations for this:

One, Blue had decided to get in on the joke a few days too late, which was a little embarrassing but also sort of endearing, and the two would laugh about it over breakfast and then Blue would throw those abominations in the incinerator where they belong and they could never speak of them again.

Two, Blue’s fashion sense is just that bad and he genuinely likes the shoes, in which case Zero can never be seen near him again.

Three, Blue didn’t realize Zero was joking the other day and has decided to wear them because he’s under the impression they are a legitimate fashion craze and he wants to stay on top of it.

Four, and the worst of all, Blue didn’t realize Zero was joking the other day, and he likes the shoes. In this case Zero could never be seen near him again, and he might just drop dead of secondhand embarrassment.

Zero remembered the jeaster, and shuddered.

“Heeey, Blue,” he said finally, casually sauntering over to lean against the counter beside the caf machine Blue was standing over. “Nice, uh… nice shoes you got there.”

Blue looked up and beamed at him, with that just-caffeinated wide-eyed edge that Blue always got first thing in the morning. “Thanks, I had someone requisition a pair for me after what you said the other day--they’re actually quite comfortable, and I was surprised by the broad range of colors they had available! Mine aren’t as fancy as yours, but I like them a lot actually, they’re very cute, don’t you think?”

Zero didn’t answer for the several long seconds it took for him to process that this was actual real life, and then he let out a strangled, “Uh-huh. Gotta go!”, turned on his (sensible boot) heel, and speed-walked out of the room as fast as physically possible.

--

Minutes later he found himself pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of Aava, reclining on her bed in a robe with a faintly annoyed look on her face.

“You don’t understand, Aava, he doesn’t get it. He’s not being ironic at all. He’s wearing them because he likes them. He’s going to keep wearing them unless someone tells him and if I go in there and tell him I was joking and crocs are the greatest fashion sin this galaxy has ever seen I will die. Do you hear me, Aava? I will die if I have to tell him.”

Aava rolled her eyes. “I don’t see the big deal, Zero. Personally, I think it’s hilarious. Let the boy embarrass himself for a few days until he realizes he’s being an idiot. It’ll be good for his ego.”

Zero rounded on her, gesticulating wildly with both arms. “I have to be seen with him! In public! Every day! While he’s wearing them!”

Aava cocked her head and considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Then tell him.”

Zero groaned and dragged his hands down his helmet.

“And get out of my room, I was getting dressed,” Aava added, irritation coloring her voice.

Zero flipped her off as he stormed out, wondering desperately how he could salvage this situation.

--

He didn't do anything at first, hoping that maybe the situation would sort itself out. Luckily, Blue had mostly sequestered himself in his office while he worked on the scripts for the next batch of Synox and Friends episodes, but every time he left to get more caf or yell at the editors Zero died a little more at the sight of the obnoxious blue-and-yellow rubber abominations on his feet.

He tried dropping hints, at first.

“Hey, Blue, aren’t you a little tired of those shoes?” he asked, painfully casually.

Blue shrugged. “No, actually, I think they go well with my uniform, and they’re more comfortable than regular work shoes.”

The next day he tried, over dinner, “Y’know the real fashion trend? Combat boots. It really gets the teen demographic.”

Blue looked at him disdainfully over his holo-display. “Aava told you to say that.”

Zero gaped at him and stammered out, “Wha--she did--she did not!”

Blue rolled his eyes with a, “Sure, Zero,” and went back to what he was doing.

Zero cornered him on the walk back to their quarters after a long day of watching Blue edit propo footage, asking him, “Don’t your feet feel weird after a while walking in rubber shoes?”

Blue laughed and waved him off with, “Don’t be silly, Zero. Of course I’m wearing socks with them.”

Zero practically choked and forced himself to keep walking like nothing happened.

--

He gave up in despair after that.

He was about ready to resign himself to a life of humiliation via Minister Blue’s horrendous fashion sense when it somehow managed to get even worse.

Zero had to actually stop and make sure he wasn’t in a some kind of horrible fever dream when he walked into a room and spotted Synox talking to some stormtroopers while wearing a pair of crocs as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Zero marched right over to him and stood glowering a foot away while Synox finished talking and dismissed the troopers, then slowly turned to look at him.

“Good morning, Agent Zero,” he says in that stiffly cheerful way of his, eyeing him uncomfortably as Zero leaned closer.

“Yeah, hey, Sy,” Zero said briskly. “Hey, uh, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Synox said, tilting his head not unlike a curious dog. “What would you like to know?”

“Where the hell did you get those shoes and why are you wearing them?” Zero asked urgently.

Synox blinked and looked down at his shoes. “Minister Blue gave them to me. He said they would attract the young adult demographic that Synox and Friends and the Junior Trooper program are not reaching,” he said like he’s reciting something.

Zero let out an agonized groan.

Synox frowned. “Are you alright, Agent Zero?”

Zero jabbed a finger in his face. “No, Sy, I am not okay. He has gone too far.”

“Er--”

“I have to fix this. I’m going to fix this. Later, Sy.”

Zero about-faced and strode off in the opposite direction, muttering to himself and leaving Synox to stare after him before shaking his head and leaving to attend to his own duties, squeaking faintly.

--

He found Blue in his office, and when Zero burst in, Blue looked up and broke into a grin.

“Zero! Just the man I wanted to see!” he exclaimed, pushing back from his desk to rise to his feet.

Zero stopped short, caught off guard. “Uh, hey, Blue,” he said awkwardly. “And why is that?”

Blue walked over, slinging an arm around Zero’s neck and pulling him with him as he left the room, gesturing with his other arm. Zero reluctantly allowed it, still rather taken aback.

“I’ve had a great idea, Zero, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“Okay…” Zero said, suddenly filled with dread.

“You know who’s the most likely to be discontented with the Empire, Zero? Do you?” Blue continued on without waiting for a response, which is good because Zero was too busy being horrified as he realized where this is headed. “It’s young adults. Young people just coming into their own, filled with rebellion and seeing the Empire as their enemy. They need to see the Empire as a friendly face, relatable and approachable.”

“Isn’t that why they hired you?” Zero asked, gesturing to his… everything. If anyone in the Empire looked approachable it was Blue, for a certain measure of approachable that probably also included “punchable”.

Blue waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, of course, but the formula could be improved upon. And that’s where your idea comes in, Zero.” Blue pressed his other palm into Zero’s chest intently and grinned at him. “Fashion is the answer, Zero. I can reach them through their trends, show that I understand them.”

Zero’s stomach sunk as his worst fears came to fruition. “Blue, I don’t--”

“No, no, not another word, Zero,” Blue said, shaking his head. “You’ve done enough. I need to thank you. You’ve ushered in a new era of imperial propaganda.”

Zero had never been more grateful for his faceplate as he forces himself to project a smiley face to hide his true horror.

At the first opening, he slipped Blue’s grasp and ran off with a weak excuse of having to check on something in his room and went to find Aava.

--

Aava wasn’t anymore sympathetic (and in fact found the entire situation even more hilarious than before, which Zero did not appreciate), but she did let him sulk in her room for the rest of the afternoon.

“I have to stop this,” he moaned, laying face-down on her bed, his voice muffled by her comforter.

“Tell Blue it was a joke,” Aava said, bored after saying the same thing at least ten times in the past hour.

Zero groaned and flopped over onto his back. “You didn’t see him, Aava. He’s so thrilled by these kriffing shoes. I can’t do that to him. It’s too late.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to let him go on film wearing crocs.”

“Unless…” Zero bolted upright, turning to Aava. “I have an idea.”

Aava gave him a wary look. “Zero, don’t do something stupid.”

“No, it’s a great idea. Thanks for listening, Aava, I gotta go!” Zero clambered to his feet and raced out of the room, waving to her over his shoulder.

--

The first step was to track down Blue’s favorite requisition flunky. It wasn’t hard, considering Blue puts in some request to her at least three times a week and sometimes Zero has to intercept the ones he makes thirty-two hours into an editing session with nothing sustaining him but caf.

He cornered her just as she was filing the last handful of papers on her desk at the end of the day, dropping one hand on her desk and the other on the back of her chair, looming over her.

“Agent Zero!” she squeaked, jumping and leaning away from him. “Er, wh-what can I do for you? Does Minister Blue need something?”

“No, actually,” Zero said. “But he’s going to tell you that he needs something, and you’re going to tell him it’s impossible.”

The poor girl blanched. “I--I suppose if you say so,” she stuttered, grabbing the edge of her desk to avoid falling out of her chair as she leaned even farther away from him. Her eyes flicked to the hilt of his vibrosword over his shoulder. “W-what is he going to ask for?”

Zero stared her down long enough for her to be utterly aware of the severity of what he asked, before finally saying, “... Crocs.”

She blinked. “C-crocs? Like, the shoes?”

Zero raised one hand to wave it. “Yes, the shoes! He’s already asked for a few pairs, right?” He paused long enough for her to nod before going on, “Make sure he doesn’t get anymore. Understand?”

She nodded again and when Zero didn’t move, blurted out, “I understand! No more crocs for Minister Blue, got it!”

Zero finally straightened up, satisfied. “Good. And make sure nobody else gets them for him, either, or I’ll be back for another talk.”

She squeaked and nodded frantically, and Zero retreated, leaving her to hyperventilate in peace.

Step one complete. Now for the important part.

--

It’s easy enough to get into Blue’s room when he’s asleep. Zero has had to do it plenty of times in the past, to make sure he actually crashed when he was supposed to and also for the occasional prank. He never bothered to actually ask for the lock code because he could slice into the lock practically in his sleep at this point.

With the excuse of some nonsense question ready at hand in case Blue was awake, Zero slipped inside his room in the predawn hours of the next day. Blue, fortunately, was snoring away in his bed, tangled in his sheets and blissfully ignorant to the intruder. The dark was no obstacle to Zero, and he made short work of getting into Blue’s extensive closet, snatching the offending accessories, and stealing out of the room with barely a sound.

He stowed them in his room, under his mattress where nobody would think to look, until he had a free moment to incinerate the damn things. Then he went to bed, satisfied that he was off to a good start.

--

The next morning, Zero was in an excellent mood as he strolled into the kitchen to find Blue pouting into a cup of caf.

“Morning,” he said brightly, getting his own cup and plopping down beside him, popping out his straw to cheerfully slurp at it.

“Hi, Zero,” Blue said, sounding distracted. He looked up from his caf and Zero offered a question mark on his faceplate.

“What’s up, pal?” he asked, kicking his feet up on the table.

“My shoes are missing,” Blue said, frowning. “I don’t know what happened to them--have you seen them?”

“What, your crocs?” Zero asked, feigning concern. “Where did you see them last?”

“Yeah, my crocs,” Blue said with painful sincerity. “I put them in my closet last night and they weren’t there this morning. Do you have any idea where they could’ve gone?”

Zero pretended to think about it for a bit before shrugging and shaking his head. “No, sorry. I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually--but even if they aren’t, it’s not that big a deal, right? I mean, they’re not that great.”

“Of course they are,” Blue said morosely. “But I appreciate you trying to cheer me up. You’re a good friend, Zero.”

Zero gritted his teeth and showed Blue a smiley face as he got up and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “No problem, Blue. I got something I gotta take care of, but I’ll see you later.”

Blue looked up, wide-eyed, grabbing his wrist. “Wait, what, where are you going? We need to film that propo later today, I need you to find my shoes!”

Zero took a deep breath and held up his hands appeasingly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. If I see your shoes, I’ll bring them to you, okay?”

Blue still didn’t look pleased, but he sighed and let go. “All right, all right. See you later.”

Zero shot him finger guns and walked off, speeding up as he turned the corner and headed back to his room to grab Blue’s crocs and make for the nearest trash chute.

--

On his way back, he turned a corner and walked smack into Synox going the other way. He stepped back, blinking, and automatically looked down to see that, yep, Synox was wearing his crocs.

God, those kriffing eyesores, he needed to get rid of them once and for all.

“Agent Zero, I wasn’t expecting to see you here, what are you doing in this area? Where’s Minister Blue?” Synox asked, looking over Zero’s shoulder as if he expected to see Blue appear out of midair.

Zero stopped short. “Oh, um… nothing and nowhere. I’m not up to anything, Sy, why would you think that?”

Synox frowned, looking suspicious. “Is something going on, Zer--”

Zero cut him off, pointing over Synox’s shoulder and yelling, “Whoa, Sy, what’s that over there!”

“What’s what?” Synox asked, turning to look.

Zero punched him hard in the back of the head, and as Synox doubles over, he shoved him over, grabbed the shoes off his feet, and sprinted off in the other direction.

When he came face to face with a pair of alarmed cadets, he jabbed a threatening finger at them, growling, “You saw nothing,” before turning the corner and racing off.

--

“Zero, I love you, but if you burst into my room one more time--”

“I knocked Synox out and stole his shoes.”

Aava stops short and stares at him, then sighs and delicately facepalms. “I thought I told you not to do something stupid.”

“I panicked!”

“Zero!”

“Look, just--I got rid of Blue’s shoes, but on my way back I ran into Sy, and he was suspicious, and I--I panicked, okay!” Zero gesticulated widely, Synox’s shoes still in hand.

Aava groaned. “Why did you have to drag me into this?”

“You’re the only sane person in this entire compound,” Zero pleaded. “Aava, what am I gonna say when Synox asks me why I attacked him?”

Aava shook her head, shrugging. “I don’t know, maybe you thought he was someone else?”

“I called him by name, Aava, come on, I need something real!”

“Zero!” Aava reached up to clamp her hands on his shoulders. She is really deceptively strong, and Zero stopped to look down at her. “This has gone far enough. You need to just tell Blue that the crocs were a joke, and they’re embarrassing, and he shouldn’t wear them on air.”

Zero whined. “But I don’t wanna.”

Aava gave him a flat, unamused look.

Zero let out a blustery sigh and lifted his arms helplessly. “Fine! I’ll tell him. But for the record, my plan would have worked.”

“If you hadn’t attacked Synox.”

“I feel strongly about fashion, all right?”

Aava rolled her eyes and let him go with a final pat on the shoulder. “Go talk to your boy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zero grumped, turning to leave. “Thanks, Aava.”

“Mmhmm. Never step foot in my room without an invitation again.”

--

“Zero!” Blue cried out the moment Zero turned the corner, sheepishly holding Synox’s crocs. “I was looking for--what’ve you got there?”

Zero held up the crocs, trying to figure out how to breach the topic of conversation.

“Are those Synox’s? How did you get those? Did you find mine?”

“Blue,” Zero says, holding up a hand to stop him as Blue strode over to inspect the shoes. “There’s something you need to know.”

Blue cocked his head curiously.

Zero took a deep breath. “Okay, so, you remember that day when I came in wearing crocs? And I told you that they were a hot new craze?”

Blue frowned, gesturing impatiently. “Yes, of course I remember, what’s your point?”

Zero made a frustrated sound, gesturing sharply with one hand. “Just, listen to me. Blue.” He put his hands on Blue’s shoulders, staring him in the face. Blue’s eyes found his behind the faceplate with not much difficulty after years of practice. “I was making a joke. Crocs aren’t actually cool. They are in fact the worst thing a human being--or anyone else, for that matter--can ever wear on their body. They are a sin in the eyes of fashion god. The only people that wear them are doing it as a joke or are terribly out of touch.”

Zero took a long breath as Blue just gaped at him, uncomprehending. “I’m sorry, Blue, but letting you go on air wearing crocs would be a betrayal of our relationship. I couldn’t do it. I broke into your room last night and threw them out. I also may have just punched out Synox and stole them. And threatened the requisition girl so she wouldn’t give you any more.”

He shrugged sheepishly. “I was just trying to look out for you, Blue.”

Blue looked at him in silence for a long time as Zero resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze, then squinted suspiciously. “... Are you playing a prank on me right now, Zero?”

Zero threw his hands up in the air with an explosive groan, whirling around and walking a few steps away. “I can’t believe you. I cannot believe you. Do you seriously, unironically think crocs are cool shoes?” He turned back around to face Blue, hands on his hips.

Blue looked at him, offended. “They were cute.”

Zero raised one hand to rest over his faceplate. “Blue, I will buy you a stuffed animal. Okay? I’ll get you something cute. But you can never wear crocs again, or I will die. Can you promise to never, ever put those insults to good taste on your feet again? For me?” He dropped his hand from his helmet and held it out to Blue entreatingly.

Blue gave him a long look, clearly still suspicious, then sighed. “Fine, I won’t wear them again.”

Zero sagged in relief, throwing an arm around Blue’s shoulders and squeezing him. “Good! Great! That’s great news. Thank you, Blue.”

“I don’t know why you decided to steal my shoes,” he said, still pouting slightly. “You could have just told me you weren’t being serious.”

Zero sighed, shaking his head. “What can I say? You were so excited. I didn’t have the heart to burst your bubble. I tried dropping hints.”

Blue snorted. “Sure, hints. No wonder we don’t rely on you to talk to people.”

Zero projected rolling eyes on his faceplate to make sure Blue got the point, then stops and frowns to himself. “I’m gonna have to apologize to Sy for hitting him, aren’t I?”

“Yes, probably,” Blue said easily. “And for stealing his shoes.”

“No, I’m not apologizing for that, I was doing him a favor,” Zero said dismissively, tossing the crocs into the trash can beside the caf machine. “But I’ll tell him I’m sorry next time I see him.”

“You can worry about that later,” Blue said, ducking out of Zero’s arm. “Right now I have film to shoot, and you’re coming with me.”

“Sure,” Zero said. “Whatever you want, Blue. As long as there are no more crocs.”

Blue laughed. “Sure, Zero. No more crocs.”

As Zero followed Blue out of the room, he sent Aava a thumbs-up over holo-chat and rolled his eyes at her smug response.

Whatever. It all worked out.

And he never had to see a pair of crocs again.

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white chapter one

Prologue

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter one so wilts the red rose

It is the coldest Christmas Madge can remember.

It's everything she'd dreamed of and more, yet Madge cannot find any cheer. She is too young to truly understand what happened, but there is a black hole inside of her filled with fear, a fear that eats away at any joy she manages to discover. She should feel like a princess as she walks around the suite of rooms her family has been gifted, but instead she feels skittish and scared of shadows. Madge takes hesitant steps on the fur carpeting the stone floors to keep her feet warm and wants to sink her toes into it, wants to rejoice in the splendor around her but there's a prickle at the back of her neck, a tingle of something awful.

Her bed is large enough for her and several friends, covered in more pillows than she'll ever know what to do with. Delicate roses are etched into the wooden frame and she runs her fingers over them, traces the patterns with her nails. Red velvet curtains hang about the bed and the walls are adorned with finely threaded tapestries depicting battle scenes, the Virgin Mary and heroic deeds.

(Madge stares at those heroes each night before she climbs into bed, promises herself they're keeping her safe)

Her garments hang in a well carved wardrobe, a merry fire crackles in the hearth but it never fights away her chill and each item of dark wood furniture is glossy to the touch. She wishes she had flowers to put on every surface, to make the room feel bright and alive, but winter cold has killed them all.

(Madge almost believes they'd have withered anyway)

(there is something in the air at Westminster, something toxic)

Madge climbs into her great big bed and drowns in it, memories blending with nightmares to cling to her even in her waking hours. She stares at the panneled ceiling of her room, painted with roses, crowned wolves and King Coriolanus, and feels sick and lightheaded. The mesmerizing magic Madge had seen on her first foray into London has disappeared, replaced by the harsh light of day.

I just want to go home

Let us just go home

Fires blaze in every room, garlands are strewn across doorframes and banisters, and talented minstrels play music all day long but Madge does not feel the warmth or recognize the tunes, feels as horrible as her mother looks. Lady Bedford is pale and drawn, barely eats and speaks so quietly her words sound more like breaths. She withers and wastes under the King's dark eyes, but still attends every festivity, the hunts and feasts and masques, the performances and concerts and recitals. Her husband begins to lose his colour, rounded cheeks starting to thin, but the King doesn't seem to notice, greets them with oily smiles, offers them the best seats and the choicest foods and Madge's curiosity would usually ask why, but she is too dazed with horror to wonder.

The palace smells of holly and rich food, an army of cooks slaving in the kitchen for every hour of the day and each meal is a feast, course after course after course. Madge can barely stomach it all, would feel like a glutton if she even tried but King Coriolanus' court is one of extravagance and excess, always loud and full of people. The celebration never seems to end but Madge is listless and quiet, can't muster any excitement at magnificent decorations or beautifully dressed lords and ladies. Her father points them out to her, trying to rise her to emotion, to life.

"That is Lord Brutus, Duke of Somerset. He is a favourite of the King and Queen."

(hard and mean with angry eyes, Madge is not surprised)

"Over there is the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Boggs. The King's half-brother."

(younger and darker, he looks nothing like his brother. Madge cannot help but find that comforting)

"Beside him is his nephew, Finnick, Earl of Richmond."

(slightly older than her and already handsome, Madge would have swooned if she didn't see blood every time she closed her eyes)

"Ah yes, and that is the Earl of Richmond's mother, the Lady Alma and her new husband, Lord Heavensbee."

(she is grey and stern, he is colourful and laughing. What an odd combination)

(the Duke of York is nowhere to be seen)

None of her observations are enough to dislodge the monster taken root in her mind. The King fills every corner of her, dark eyed and cackling as heads roll. He looms over the festivities from his raised throne, dressed always in exquisite garments trimmed with fur. His bony fingers are weighed down by rings studded with every jewel she can name and even some she can't, and a glittering crown sits on his head, bright gold with dazzling gems. It presses down on him and makes him hunch, his neck bending under the weight.

He orders performances every night, but instead of Saint George and the Dragon or Noah's Arc, these players act out scenes all about the glory of His Majesty, King Coriolanus of England. Shimmering plates of solid gold piled with sugared deserts are laid before them as poets rhapsodize about the King and Madge finds herself unable to eat, the sweets appearing almost grotesque.

Madge counts the days as they pass, looks out snowy windows and prays they will soon return home.

(if anyone ever bothered to ask, Madge would say Westminster is more a prison than a palace)

Their last night in London finally comes, capped by the most opulent ball.

Madge is determined to enjoy herself, refuses to wallow in the same hole of misery she's been trapped in since they arrived here. She is tired of nightmares and fear and sadness, wants to have one night where everything is bright and lovely and wonderful. A fool's hope perhaps, but Madge promises herself she will be happy tonight, that she will greet this new year of 1463 with nothing but smiles. This will be a year of joy.

Not even a king shall take that from me she vows as her maids help her dress. They lace her into a white kirtle threaded through with silver and then her new periwinkle houppelande, the fabric decorated with delicate fleur-de-lis made of pearls and a collar of white velvet. They accent it with a white girdle jeweled with sapphires, then weave blue ribbons and pearls into her hair and Madge runs hands over the silk of her dress, enthusiasm flagging in her heart. One of the maids hangs a pretty string of diamonds and pearls around her neck and Madge looks at her reflection, tries to muster up some excitement. This should be a dream come true, after all, how often does she get to wear such finery?

Stop it, be happy

Madge pinches colour into her cheeks, puts on her rings, a ruby one from a grandmother who'd died before she was born, a sapphire one received as a gift from her father and affixes a silver and turquoise brooch from her mother to the front of her kirtle.

"You look beautiful, my lady," one of the maids tells her and Madge forces herself to preen like she usually would.

This shouldn't be so hard.

Just tonight, just be happy tonight.

They dab her with rosewater and then she steps outside her chamber to greet her parents, both of them in their very best garments. They walk down together but don't share a word, Westminster's forbidding walls leeching the life right out of them. Elegantly dressed lords and ladies crowd the halls and Madge feels a small thrill at the sight and focuses on it, tries to force that spark into an inferno. Her eyes drink in everything they pass and she desperately wants this night to be one worth remembering, wants to preserve just one happy memory from this trip.

The great gilded doors to the banqueting hall are already thrown open and Madge enters behind her parents, a tiny, tiny part of her managing to marvel at the golden festivities. She inhales deeply, the whole room hung with sweet smelling wreaths and garlands. Minstrels play lively music and the floor is scrubbed so clean it almost shines. Thousands of candles burn while roaring fires keep the room warm and silver bells jangle from the wrists and ankles of dancing girls dressed in floaty, nearly transparent costumes. A tiny sigh flutters in Madge's chest, in awe at the splendor and she looks up at the King's table, raised higher than all the rest. The royal family will be the last to arrive and the room feels brighter without them, the holidays slightly more merry.

Madge sits at the long banqueting table assigned to the various children and younger nobles, each one dressed in glittering finery. The wood shimmers in the candlelight and the handsome Earl of Richmond, thirteen year old Finnick Odair, sits at the head of the table, resplendent in emerald green. He talks excitedly, too far away for Madge to hear, but his very green eyes light up, his golden smile stretched wide. Heads turn in his direction, girls tittering excitedly and Madge guesses Prince Cato must be seething with jealousy.

(she feels the start of a genuine smile at the thought)

Madge looks around the table and tries to remember everyone's names but they blur in her head, her misery these past weeks having foiled her memory. A dark haired girl in purple sits to her left, but doesn't speak, her gaze lingering on Finnick of Richmond and Madge looks at her from the corner of her eye. She wracks her brain but honestly has no idea if they've been introduced before, an utter blank filling up her mind.

Do I introduce myself and hope for the best? But what if we've already met? What if I insult her?

After too many minutes spent agonizing, she decides not to say anything, not wanting to risk it but then she remembers her promise to herself, that she will be happy tonight, will enjoy herself. She plasters on a smile and hopes she looks sincere.

"Hello, I'm Madge of Bedford. My father's the Duke," she greets and the girl turns abruptly, lovely ocean eyes wide. She continues to stare at Madge in surpise, as if someone speaking to her is the most baffling possibility and Madge feels her smile start to wilt. Perhaps she'd have been better off remaining quiet. The girl ducks her head.

"My apologies, my lady. I'm Annie. Anne! Of Oxford. My father's the Earl."

Madge can see Anne's cheeks flush pink and wishes she would look up, but she supposes the daughter of a duke outranks that of an earl. Madge smiles as warmly as she can manage.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Lady Anne."

"And you Lady Madge."

A herald blares on his horn before they can say anymore and a deep hush falls over the room, every head turned to the doors. Madge feels her chest tighten.

"His Majesty, King Coriolanus!" the herald bellows and everyone stands. The men doff their hats and bow, the women all curtsy and the King sweeps in with an amused smirk, his lips smeared over with blood. Madge focuses in on that, that one disturbing detail and cannot help but wonder why his lips are always painted and dripping with blood. Is he diseased? Is it contagious?

He does not look sickly though, instead he glows, dressed in his finest houppelande of cloth of gold crusted with precious gems and a long ermine lined mantle that trails across the floor behind him. His hands twinkle with rings, his crown sparkles and the Queen beside him dazzles in a ruby red gown studded with diamonds, tourmalines and garnets. Prince Cato swaggers in behind them, his boots black and glossy, his doublet silvery and delicate. A golden coronet rests on his head and blends well with his sunny hair and Madge thinks he could be handsome if only he didn't make her so uneasy.

The royal family take their seats at the high table but the King waits for a few moments before commanding them all to sit. He enjoys this, Madge thinks, enjoys flaunting his authority.

"Be seated," he finally allows and they all sit as the music begins again. All eyes stay on the King, waiting for his instruction and Madge starts to feel an itch at the base of her spine, a bubble of discontent starting to grow inside her. The King roves lazy eyes over them, lingering over the dancers with his lips curled and then claps his hands. Silver angels enter with jugs of spiced wine and mead while golden ones bring trays laden with figs, dates, pears, apples and strawberries. Madge wants to be enchanted, she really does, but that bubble keeps growing larger, filling her up with no room left for anything else.

Don't do this

Be happy, please

Madge pinches her palm to clear her misgivings and focuses on the food in front of her. She knows it isn't ladylike, but she piles up her plate with strawberries, is always craving her favourite fruit.

(and maybe she hopes to pop that bubble inside of her with something she loves)

Lady Anne nibbles on a single pear and Madge feels a bit like a pig, her mountain of fruit looking monstrous in comparison. She peeks up at the King, juices running down his chin and catching in his beard, and feels decidedly better.

(though she supposes while someone might lecture her on her manners, no one would dare do so to the King)

The fruit is exquisite, the best she's ever had but that bubble stays inside of her, not even dented and Madge feels like a sinking ship. She's never been depressed a day in her life, and now, surrounded by more splendor than she could conjure in her wildest dreams, a smile feels impossible. Happiness has never been such a chore and Madge cannot help but blame the King. His wicked deeds have poisoned her.

(that's treason, comes a voice in her head)

(I know, she whispers back)

Servers come with basins for them to wash their hands before the second course and Madge shakes her head, stubbornly refuses to give up. She will enjoy herself tonight, she will. Angelic servers arrive with a variety of pies, filled with meat, eggs, vegetables and fruit, mountains and mountains of them, enough for an entire village. Madge takes in their delicately feathered wings and wishes real angels were here, children of light to fight off the shadows in every corner.

Stop thinking like that, stop it

Madge closes her eyes, digs nails into her wrists and inhales deeply. She opens her eyes, resolved again to banish unhappiness from tonight. She turns to the pie platters before her and knows it's silly after eating an entire plate full, but takes a strawberry pie from the pile anyway.

(gluttony some might say, but this is the only comfort she can find)

Her nurse would be utterly appalled, so Madge turns to Lady Anne beside her.

"Would you care to share? I think a whole pie might be too much for me."

(this is a lie)

(Madge could definitely eat a whole pie)

Lady Anne blinks at her but then smiles sweetly, eyes bright with pleasure. "I would love to."

Madge is surprised to feel a smile on her own face, that bubble in her stomach suddenly leaking air and cuts the pie carefully in half, sliding Lady Anne's portion onto her plate.

(maybe there is comfort to be found in other places too)

"Bon appetit," Madge says and Anne dips her head.

"And to you."

They giggle a bit and Madge wonders if this is what it feels like to have a friend, one who isn't a poppet or your parents. Not that Madge would be so presumptuous as to call Lady Anne her friend, but deep down, she feels a little better already. They dig in and the pie is delicious, though not quite as good as their cook's back home, and Madge is craving a hundred others. She wants more but knows she shouldn't, shoulders lighter after her exchange with Lady Anne.

(maybe because now she's not alone)

Thankfully the servers arrive to clear the dishes and Madge is saved from any decisions. Washing basins come around again and the pies are replaced with oysters, mussels, scallops and more fish than Madge could ever name. Anne takes dainty bites of a scallop and Madge knows it is a sin, but she cannot help but be envious of how birdlike she is, will never look quite so graceful as she eats.

Washing basins come to signal the end of the course and Madge washes her hands even though she didn't eat anything, would hate for people to think her unhygienic. Next comes meat, with beef, chicken, pork, mutton, lamb, venison, partridge, quail, goose and duck. Even more impressive, a staple of royalty, are the swans and peacocks, painstakingly re-feathered after they were cooked. Anne frowns.

"Is the scallop not agreeing with you?" Madge asks worriedly, having had her own bad experiences with fish and queasy stomachs.

Anne blushes down to her neck.

"Oh no, no of course not. I just...I don't like when it still looks like a real animal, like it might fly off any moment," she admits, embarrassed, but Madge takes a long look at the swans and peacocks and realizes she may be right.

"It is somewhat unnerving," she agrees and Anne sinks in her seat in relief. They share a smile and Madge helps herself to some quail while Anne takes a miniature amount of pork. Madge ladles a thick sauce onto her meat and everything is luxuriously spiced and seasoned, the heady aroma floating into her brain and making her hazy. Her eyes drift around the room and find Prince Cato, who has clearly inherited his father's table manners. He gorges himself on roasted swan and peacock, stuffing it in his face like a wild animal and Madge grimaces in disgust. Anne follows her line of sight and takes him in with wide eyes.

"Not quite so princely, is he?" she whispers and Madge giggles into her sleeve.

(he doesn't seem so frightening now)

They wash their hands again and then dine on doughnuts, biscuits and turnovers. Each one is scrumptious, but Madge makes sure not to eat too much, wants to be able to savor dessert.

"Is this your first time at court?" Anne asks her and she nods. "I thought so. How old are you, Lady Madge?"

"I shall be ten in March," she declares proudly and Anne smiles.

"I turned eleven in August," she says and Madge pouts even though she knows she shouldn't.

"Have you been to court before?" she questions, hoping she won't be beat in this too, but Anne nods slowly, eyes turned down to her plate.

"I have been coming ever since I was very young," she murmurs and there is something in her tone that makes Madge bite her lip. She grabs Anne's hand beneath the table, the fingers cold and trembling. Anne looks up with wet eyes and Madge smiles at her, wants to sweep away her sadness like Anne did hers. Anne sucks in her bottom lip and then smiles back, a cloud seemingly lifted and they keep their hands together until the servers come with more washing basins.

(what could make her so unhappy?)

(Madge is fairly certain she knows the answer)

Melancholy thoughts start to recede at the magnificent spread of subtleties laid out before them, decorated with the petals of roses, violets and elder flowers. They are presented with fritters, sweet custard, darioles, crepes with sugar, strawberry tarts, plum tarts, cherry tarts, mulled wine, aged cheese, fruit paste and fruits covered in sugar, honey or syrup. Several servers come out carrying a great replica of Westminster made of marchpane and people applaud as it is set on the head table.

Madge takes a few spoonfuls of custard, several syrupy strawberries and splits a crepe with Anne. She smiles, finally truly enjoying herself, and this is nice, is what she wanted all those months she dreamed at home. Prince Cato takes everything he can get his hands on, stuffing his face with darioles, honeyed pears, crepes and marchpane. Madge purses her lips, wonders if he's ever learned any manners, and her eyes slide to his father beside him, her blood suddenly running cold. There is a red smear left behind on the King's wine goblet, like a kiss of death and it terrifies her for reasons she can't explain, all the warmth and joy she'd began to feel draining away, the horrors of Westminster returning with a fresh virulence. She abandons the rest of her dessert, her stomach shriveled and small.

They wash their hands for the final time and the King claps his again, the music becoming more raucous. The dancers spill between the tables, spinning and whirling and performers stream into the hall, some juggling and others flipping through the air. People ooh and ahh as acrobats fly and a man breathes fire, a knife thrower earning gasps and applause. Madge yearns to enjoy herself as well, but she wants to retire, her excitement replaced with the claustrophobic dread she'd been feeling since that terrible day in the square. She squeezes her eyes shut as the memories flood back and this isn't what she wanted. Can she not have just one night?

(no)

The performances seem to carry on forever and Madge feels so tired, like she hasn't slept in months. I just want to go home. She needs her parents but can't find them in the sea of faces and finally the King stands, everyone hurrying to do the same, their benches scraping loudly over the stone floors. He steps down from the dais, Queen Enobaria and Prince Cato following after him and Madge prays this means the night is coming to it's end.

The bell wearing dancers begin to twirl from the room, the royal family falling in behind them. Soon, everyone in the hall is moving out as a procession, the musicians bringing up the rear. Madge wonders if she could just slip away and crawl up into her oversized bed, desperately wishes this night was over. Instead, they are led into a great hall, the dancers spinning around in the center of the room. The King and Queen sit on gilded thrones at the far end of the hall and everyone else fills in around the edges, the musicians setting up in the corner. Madge takes a look around the large, empty room and knows they've been brought here for after dinner dancing. Will this night never end?

(never ever)

No one moves, waits for the King to decide what happens next. He surveys them with smirking malice and then makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The dancers cease their movements, the echo of their bells tinkling around the hall. They drape themselves around his throne and Madge wonders if she's imagining the uneasiness in their eyes.

(she doubts it)

"Let the youngest among us begin tonight," the King commands and Madge feels like her feet are made of stone. A serving boy hurries to bring the King more wine and the children around her begin buzzing excitedly, each one searching for a partner. Even though she'd practised for so long, even though she'd be so looking forward to it, she prays no one will ask her to dance.

Various pairs form but the girls around her hold their breath and Madge realizes it's because Finnick of Richmond is looking around, eyes skipping over each girl they land on. Every girl seems to vibrate, desperate to dance with him but his gaze stops on Anne, her eyes sparkly as she takes in the dancefloor. He lights up and smiles, easy and slow as it stretches across his face. Lord Finnick walks over, girls deflating like old wine sacks when he passes them. He stops in front of Anne and smiles, bowing low.

"Lady Anne, may I have this dance?"

Her cheeks turn a deep, dark pink and she won't meet his eyes, but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hand in his. They step out onto the dancefloor, followed by venomous glares and Madge feels a little warm for a reason she can't explain. It vanishes quickly though, replaced with frigid unhappiness when she catches sight of Prince Cato. He sneers at her, but is definitely walking right towards her. She peeks around him and sees the King watching them, his eyes narrowed and his smirk bloody as always. Her stomach sinks and though she has no idea why, she knows he must have ordered the Prince to dance with her. Cato half-bows before her, eyes hard.

"Would you like to dance, Lady Madge?"

No, she wants to shout, no! She knows better though and dips into a curtsy.

"I would be most honoured, your Highness."

He takes her hand with sticky fingers and tugs her into the centre of the room. The music picks up in intensity and everyone stumbles through the appropriate steps, Madge's own legs weighed down with lead. Cato jerks her around the floor, her movements stiff and Madge counts each and every second of the dance until it is over. Cato takes issue with her inattention and stomps on her foot, pain screaming up from her crushed toes. She bites her lip to stop from crying out and knows he did it on purpose, his eyes mean and dark. She exhales sharply and does not glare at him no matter how much she wants to, chooses to peer over his shoulder and take comfort in Anne and Finnick, making such a pretty pair as they dance.

The song mercifully comes to an end and Cato releases her like he's been burned. He scowls, the edges of his teeth visible between his lips.

"You're not very good, are you?" he asks, voice harsh and loud enough for everyone around them to hear. Madge does not bristle even as lightning crackles beneath her skin, drops into a curtsy instead.

"My most sincere apologies, your Highness," she demures and he snorts, stomping off. She rises and people are staring at her, whispers passing behind their hands. She wants to run and hide, humiliation heavy on her shoulders but she doesn't, retreats instead to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster. This night was supposed to be her one perfect memory of this trip to court, but tonight she is as miserable as she's always been.

Perhaps there is no such thing as happiness here.

"Idiot!" the King's voice booms and Madge flinches, heart suddenly racing. There is a terrible sound of a hand striking flesh and Madge turns in time to see the King's serving boy crash to the floor, the force of the King's backhand sending him reeling. The wine jug he'd been carrying cracks as it lands on the stone, a dark puddle spreading out in every direction.

"Useless cur!" the King continues, the pointed toe of his shoe digging into the boy's back as he kicks him. Madge clamps her hands over her mouth, the urge to retch seizing hold of her. The King kicks the boy again, ignores his whimpers and then looks up, his face feverish.

"Did I say you were allowed to stop?" he barks at the minstrels and they hurriedly start playing again, their pace frenzied. Madge hadn't even realized they'd stopped, her whole world narrowed in on the bleeding boy on the floor. How could the King be so cruel?

"Remove this filth from my hall!" he snaps to a pair of guards and they haul the boy off, dragging him from the room.

"Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with," the King orders and the Duke of Somerset steps forward with an eager grin.

"As you command, my King."

The boy thrashes suddenly in the guards arms and begs for mercy, garbles out apologies, tears leaking onto his face. Madge wonders why he looks so terrified, wonders what awful punishment the King and Lord Brutus have in store.

(she's better off not knowing)

Everyone hurries to return to their dancing as the King sinks back into his throne but Madge cannot move, rooted to the floor with horror. This place is cursed she wants to wail but never would.

Even at nine, she knows she will receive no mercy.

Madge wakes early on their day of departure, a thick, sickly anticipation coursing through her veins. There is only the faintest hint of dawn light creeping through the window and Madge stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the outline of King Coriolanus' portrait. She can't make him out, but she knows he's there, looming over her and the thought makes her stomach turn. She yanks the covers up over her head to block him out, like the shields brave knights wear into battle.

"We'll be home soon," she whispers in the gloom, "home and safe."

(except there is no safe, not in King Coriolanus' England)

The maids help her dress for traveling and she vibrates with an eager intensity to flee this castle of terror. All her things are already packed, ready to be lugged into a litter and Madge waits impatiently for her parents, can't understand why they're taking so long. She paces along the length of her room, fingertips brushing extravagant furniture and oh, how she wishes she could be as enamored of it as she wants to be.

(but her eyes are open now, and beauty can't hide the hideous things that lie beneath it)

She thinks it must have been hours she's been pacing when a knock sounds at the door, a page of her father's bringing summons. She practically bounces out of the room, her nurse hurrying after her and already, it's like she's shed so many weights and pounds.

"Good morning," she chirps as she greets her parents, livelier than she's been in all the weeks they've been here. Her father smiles as he pulls on his travelling gloves and a lady's maid fastens a cloak over Madge's shoulders, tugs the hood up over her head. His grin is wider, like it always used to be and Madge puts on her own gloves with a sense of contentment she's been missing. Her mother still looks frail under her heavy winter wear but the colour is returning to her cheeks and Madge feels hope fluttering like a bird in her chest.

We're going to be okay

She clambers up into their carriage, her mother settling in beside her. Maids rush about, draping them in thick furs and placing hot bricks underneath their feet while Madge leans against the window edge, takes in Westminster Palace for what she hopes will be the very last time. Her father swings up onto his horse and winks at her. Madge bites her lip around a grin and their long train of horses, litters and men starts off, trundling down London's cold streets.

"Come away from the window, sweetheart," her mother says but Madge doesn't listen, drinks in the chilly air and the wan faces of the people they pass. Everyone averts their eyes as they roll by, all of their movements shifty and nervous. The air here is tense and she can feel it trying to leech away her glee at going home. Madge sucks in her bottom lip as she loses count of all the soldiers and guards sprinkled throughout the city, each one sporting a livery badge of the King, a silver wolf crowned in gold.

Why are there so many? Is London really so dangerous?

(the answer is yes, of course)

(the real question, is who in London is so dangerous)

They turn a corner and Madge inhales sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. Standing in the slushy road is a line of men bound together with chains, their clothes thin and ratty. The carriage lurches to a stop, the road blocked and her father's squire rides forward to speak with the man in charge of these men, his uniform a bloody red and emblazoned with the King's wolf. Each man is sallow and ill-fed, eyes sunken and cheek bones jutting out. Madge cannot take her eyes off of them even as her stomach rolls over and over and she leans forward, nearly hanging out of the window.

"Madge," her mother reprimands but she barely hears it over the crack of a whip, like thunder loud in her ears. Madge flinches as the men are hurried to the side of the street and one stumbles, his knobbly knees sinking into the grey snow. He hunches over and Madge watches in horror as the snow starts to redden, her throat burning with bile.

"Madge," her mother starts again and Madge closes her eyes, nails digging into the wood of the carriage. A wave of sickness crashes inside of her as the carriage starts again and she keeps her eyes closed until they turn another corner. She breathes deeply and blinks them open, the very top of Westminster still visible. It towers over London and Madge does not need to wonder about the fear she sees in the eyes of the people they pass. There is a shadow over London, a fear permeating the streets.

No one here is happy.

(except the King)

They reach the city gates and Madge says a last farewell to London, offering silent prayers that she never has to return. Her mother pulls her against her side and Madge snuggles into her arms, relieved to be on her way home.

The King can't touch them there.

(if only if only if only)

Bedford Castle is the most welcome sight Madge has ever seen and she throws herself out of the carriage almost before it's stopped.

She nearly trips over her skirts but her father swoops down from his horse and grabs her, swinging her up into his arms. Her mother climbs down from the carriage in a much more careful fashion and comes to stand beside them, her arm fitting snugly around her husband's waist.

"It is good to be back," her father says and Madge nods.

"It is good to be home," her mother corrects and they all seem to exhale together, expelling the toxins bleeding from Westminster's walls. Whatever happened in London is over, Madge assures herself, we are safe now, home and safe.

(how naive she is)

Only months later, before Madge has even turned ten, news comes of another revolt in London, followed by a mass execution.

(fifty four dead)

(fifty four)

Madge wraps her blankets around herself at night and knows she won't sleep a wink. The dead crawl like ghosts through the shadows of her room and she wonders if it will ever end, the rebellions and riots and death.

Why is it that so many people are willing to commit treason, to rise against their sovereign lord? Was he not ordained by God? Are they not compelled to show him fealty?

But he is wrong wails a voice in Madge's heart as she remembers the fear that hung heavy in London's streets, the terror in the eyes of its citizens. There had been a dark whisper then in the halls of Westminster, a promise of bloodshed to come.

Perhaps the time has finally come.

(not yet, but soon)

(here is a secret Madge learns at nine)

(the King is evil)

"It appears I've won again," the Duke of Bedford says with a grin, setting down his cards on the table. Madge pouts.

"Ladies do not pout, my love," her mother admonishes gently while her graceful fingers put the finishing touches on a purse for her husband. Madge tries to squish down her pout and fails, tossing her own cards onto the table. Her father laughs.

"Fear not, my sweet. Practice does make perfect. I'm sure you'll be beating me in no time."

Madge huffs softly. She'd like to be beating him now. Her mother examines the purse with a critical eye and then offers it to her husband.

"What think you, my lord?" she asks and the Duke takes it with careful hands.

"Magnificent," he declares and his wife rolls her eyes, "I shall wear it proudly."

Margaret of Bedford shakes her head fondly at him and he leans in for a kiss. Madge watches them and the smiles present on both their lips and feels her frustration ebb away.

"Try and keep better care of it this time, I would prefer to do more with my time than embroider purses," the Duchess teases and her husband grins, fastening the purse to his belt.

"I shall endeavor to do my best," he promises and the room feels pleasantly warm to Madge, everything bright and rosy. It's been months since they'd left London, she's ten and all grown up now, and she could almost imagine it was all a bad dream, a nightmare half-remembered.

"Alright," her father says, standing up, "I think it's time our little lady went off to bed."

Madge frowns.

"I'm not tired!" she insists and her father smiles and scoops her up into his arms.

"Perhaps not now, but you will be tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep tonight."

"But fatheeeeerrrrr," she whines and her mother frowns.

"Madge, remember your manners."

Proper ladies do not whine and they always obey their lord father, she recounts in her head and why must manners always be so bothersome?

"Indeed, what great lord will want such a whiner as a wife?" her father asks and tickles her side. Madge squirms in his arms.

"Oh Papa, stop, stop Papa!" she giggles and her mother shakes her head.

"You are both terrible," she pronounces but she smiles prettily at them all the same.

"I was merely punishing a disobedient daughter," her father insists and Madge giggles into his shoulder.

"If I believed that, I would have to have wool for brains," her mother retorts, voice bubbly with laughter. The Duke gasps.

"Is that any way to talk to your Lord Husband? All the women here are so impudent," he says in mock-disappointment and then looks down at Madge with a secret smile.

"Shall we teach this lady a lesson?" he asks and Madge nods eagerly. He reaches out and takes her mother by the hand, tugging her gently over to them. Her mother's arms go around them both and Madge likes this, being warm and safe in her parents' embrace.

"I know exactly what you are planning and you would not dare," her mother tells them and the Duke catches Madge's eye and winks. Tiny fingers attack Lady Bedford, tickling wherever they can reach.

"Madge-stop this-at once," her mother gets out between peals of laughter but Madge ignores this, her own laughter mingling with her mother's.

"Stop-stop!" her mother begs and all three of them are laughing, together and happy and untouched by all the horrors to come.

(and that's how Madge will remember this, one perfect golden moment where everything was wonderful and bright)

A knock sounds at the door and interrupts their mirth, both of her parents furrowing their brows. Her father sets her down and turns to the door with a frown.

"You may enter," he calls and Sir Thomas Cartwright, her father's Marshal, steps inside. His face is drawn and Madge feels the temperature drop. Sir Thomas is in charge of all their defenses and military matters, does this mean they are under attack?

"I apologize, my lord," Sir Thomas says as he bows, "but you have received urgent summons from the King."

All the air seems to have left the room, Madge's whole body left breathless.

"Why?' her father questions, a quaver in the back of his voice. Sir Thomas looks at Madge and her mother, clearly uncertain if he should say whatever it is in front of them.

"Go ahead," he father urges and Sir Thomas bows his head.

"There is armed rebellion in Kent. The King commands you to raise men and head there immediately to help stamp it out."

Madge feels her mouth drop open and her mother gasps, covering her mouth with trembling hands.

"I see," her father whispers, voice suddenly rough. "We will leave as soon as possible. See that everything is prepared."

Sir Thomas bows again. "Immediately, your Grace." He turns and sweeps from the room, Madge staring unseeingly after him.

"Joseph," her mother says and snags her husband's sleeve between shaking fingers. He turns to look at her with sad eyes and neither of them says a word, so much more conveyed in silence. He covers her hand with his, their eyes trained on each other and the sudden urge to cry bubbles up in Madge's gut.

Don't go Papa, please don't go

Her mother grabs her husband's face, fingers on his cheeks and kisses him with a fierceness Madge has never seen before, her skin flushing red.

"Be careful," the Duchess commands him, their foreheads touching.

"I will."

"You'll be back soon, won't you Father?" Madge asks, fear like poison in her veins. He turns to her with a smile, reaching one hand out to stroke her hair.

"As soon as I'm able," he promises and then kisses her forehead. Madge closes her eyes, tears stinging under her eyelids.

"We will come and see you off," her mother murmurs, voice faint and afraid. There is a pause, heavy with unsaid things and Madge hugs herself, dread welling up and spilling through her body.

Even here, so far away from London, the King has reached into their home and stolen away their happiness.

The entire household gathers in the courtyard to say goodbye and Madge tries her best to play the prim and proper lady, her heart weeping inside her chest. The Duke kneels before his Duchess to receive her wife's blessing and Madge tells herself everything will be okay. There is a special magic in a wife's blessing, a power that will surely keep her father safe. He stands when it's done and Madge's mother presses a delicately embroidered handkerchief into his hand, a token to carry with him through the fight to come. He holds it briefly against his heart and then kisses her hand, eyes staring deeply into hers.

Madge sees tears in her mother's eyes but they do not fall and Madge swears she will be just as strong. Her father turns to her and as much as she wants to throw herself on him in a hug, she knows she can't. That isn't how a lady is meant to behave herself.

"I will pray for your victory and speedy return," Madge vows and he smiles, eyes wet.

"I will be grateful for it," he replies and Madge knows the time has come. He shares one last look with both her and her mother and then he swings up onto his horse. A squire hands him his helmet and he looks just like a fairy tail knight. Those men always triumph and so will he. Madge believes that, she has to.

"Godspeed," her mother says in a trembling voice and then they ride off, a long line of horses pouring out of the castle grounds. They are not off to slay a dragon, but other English men and Madge is not sure she understands that, is not sure she ever will. She grabs onto her mother's skirt and already, she is praying.

Come home soon, Papa.

Come back safe.

Madge cannot sleep that night, her head filled with terrible thoughts so she creeps past her sleeping nurse and out into the hall. Everything seems sharper, harsher tonight, every item of furniture and brazier on the wall. There is unseasonal ice in the air and Madge tiptoes to her parents' bedchamber, heart hammering in her throat. She sneaks inside, past sleeping ladies and stops by her parents' huge bed and finds her mother awake, her eyes luminous in the dark.

"Come here, sunshine," she whispers and Madge clambers up into the big bed and under the covers. Her mother pulls her close and rests her chin on the top of Madge's head.

"Papa will be home soon. You must believe that."

Madge nods. "I do, Mama, I promise."

She wraps her own arms around her mother, breathes in her comforting scent.

Papa will be home soon she repeats as she drifts off to sleep.

Soon

Three weeks later, a guard posted on lookout duty hollers into the courtyard.

"Our Lord of Bedford is returning!"

Madge hears him through a window and drops the book she's meant to be reading, happiness bursting inside her.

"My lady!" her tutor tries to scold but Madge is already running from the room. She tears down corridors and up stairs and crashes through a door out onto the guard wall. She clutches the stone and peeks through the parapets, standing up on her tip toes. There, out beyond the castle walls, she can see them, a train of men and horses, waving a white banner above their heads, one blazoned with the silver Bedford Bell.

Her father is home.

The household gathers outside to welcome their victorious lord home, relief making them giddy.

Great cheers rise up as the knights and soldiers ride into the courtyard, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, and ladies wave handkerchiefs and scraps of lace at them, white ribbons tied in their hair to match their lord's banner. The men toss up their hats in joy and Madge stands with her mother, her own hair filled with ribbons and a solid silver Bedford Bell pinned to her kirtle. There are less men returning than left, but at the head of them is the Duke of Bedford, weary but whole. Madge feels her knees wobble and can barely keep her face straight, a smile dangerously close to breaking through.

Her father pulls off his helmet and hands it to a squire, his dismount slower than usual. There is a heaviness in his bones that gives Madge pause, scratching at the back of her mind. Something isn't right. He walks towards them and they curtsy, Madge's a bit clumsy with glee and apprehension. She looks up at his eyes as she stands and her excitement is stomped down by what lingers there, something foreboding and melancholy.

"Congratulations on your triumph, my lord husband. We will have a great feast to celebrate," her mother says and the tired soldiers give a hearty cheer. Her father smiles but it doesn't light up his face like it's supposed to, looks more strained than it should. Madge bites her lip, worry eating away at her happiness and her mother clearly senses something is wrong too, her eyes narrowing as she looks at her husband.

"I will have a bath drawn for you," she tells him and he nods gratefully. Madge wonders why she doesn't ask what's wrong, but perhaps proper ladies aren't meant to do that either. Her father offers his arm and her mother takes it, the two of them leading the household back inside.

Servants rush about to prepare and Madge tracks her parents with her eyes as they move farther away, up to the privacy of their bedchamber. There is something going on here. Madge knows she should head to her chamber to get ready, but instead she ducks away from her nurse and follows discreetly behind her parents. She is quiet and their posture is tense, confirming her suspicions. There is a secret her father is keeping, a terrible, awful one.

But what could it be?

(are you sure you want to know?)

They enter their bedchamber and Madge presses her ear to the door, their words slightly muffled but still understandable.

"So you suppressed the rebellion, then?"

"Yes, but something was very clear as we rode across the country. This isn't over. There will be others, many others. I fear we will soon be at war."

Madge gasps and pulls away from the door. There is a clatter from the other side, someone having dropped something but Madge barely hears it, heart tumbling over itsef in her chest.

Will they never be allowed to live in peace? Will the King's shadow haunt them forever?

(yes, yes, yes)

(Madge wonders if it is a sin to hate her king)

(but perhaps it was not God who set him on the throne, perhaps it was the Devil himself)

When Madge is eleven, she learns of her own claim to the throne.

King Coriolanus is her great uncle, they share a common ancestor in King Henry IV. She falls in the line of succession after the King's son Cato (her cousin once removed) and her own mother (the King's niece).

(this then, explains why the King knows her mother, why he showered honours on them)

(her stomach does queasy somersaults at the thought)

Madge does not have any expectations of being Queen, knows that Prince Cato will surely marry and have children, will push her farther and farther away from the throne. It will, on the other hand, improve her options of marriage, this blood tie to kings. And that is all Madge thinks she can do for her family, marry well.

(she is wrong)

(but why, Madge can't help but ask herself, why did her parents keep this monumental relation a secret for so long?)

(but then she remembers rolling heads and puddles of blood and maybe she knows the answer)

"You are growing into quite the young woman, Lady Madge," her nurse tells her as the tailor fits her for a new gown. Madge beams.

"I wager suitors will be lining up outside the castle walls any day now," her nurse continues and Madge blushes at the thought. She thinks she would like a husband, one who was brave and handsome and would love her forever and ever. They would live near her parents and have a very large family and always be happy, until the very day they died. He would wear her favor into battle and fight every tournament in her name. She swoons just at the fanciful imagining of it, like a fairytale come to life. Her nurse chuckles softly.

"It won't be for some years, dear, so don't get too excited."

"Why not? I'm almost old enough," she points out and her nurse nods.

"Indeed, but your lord father and lady mother aren't so keen to see you packed off and wedded until you're still a bit older. In fact, they told the Duke of Exeter just that."

Madge doesn't actually want to get married just yet, would much rather stay with her parents, but her nurse's tidbit of gossip puts hooks into her imagination.

"The Duke of Exeter wishes to marry me?"

Her nurse snorts.

"Goodness, no! He already has a wife. He wanted you for his son and heir, Henry, the Earl of Huntingdon."

Madge bites her lip and ponders this new information.

"And what is this Henry like?" she asks and her nurse turns thoughtful.

"I reckon he's about fourteen and quite tall from what I've heard. They say his father is rather handsome, so he might be as well."

Madge drifts off into thought. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon and future Duke of Exeter. Tall, fourteen and potentially quite handsome. In her eleven year old mind, he sounds perfect.

"Now don't go getting any ideas, the Duke and Duchess have already said you're too young to wed him," her nurse reminds her and Madge nods.

"It is no matter, he will wait for me," she decides, because of course he will. The charming boy in her mind would wait a lifetime for his lady love. Her nurse shakes her head but Madge pays her no mind.

Lady Madge Holland, Duchess of Exeter.

It sounds lovely.

Riots rise up again, just as her father predicted, but this time in Devonshire.

Madge watches her father ride away and waves her handkerchief after him, praying for his safe return. Her mother stands by her side and squeezes her shoulder, tears glittering on her cheeks in the golden sunlight.

They do not ride out with her father, but they do fight battles, against despair, waiting, the agony of not knowing.

At least her father has a sword to beat back his enemies.

Madge has only herself.

Madge takes to practising her letter writing skills, imagines beautiful love notes passed between herself and her future husband, the ever enchanting Henry Holland. It does not matter that she has never met him, because her imagination has long ago run away from her, caught up in pretty, romantic dreams.

As their parents hammer out all the boring legal details of their marriage, Henry and she will spend their courtship taking long walks in the garden, writing letters and playing cards by the fire. His lips will linger against her hand when he kisses it, his eyes will seek her out across the room and they will dance every dance together. He will whisper sweet words into her ear, promises of a lifetime of joy and love.

She blushes, skin heating up and buries her face in her pillow in embarrassment. How silly he would think her if he knew! But still, girlish hopes of love and marital bliss keep her mind from drifting to her father in battle, to his bloody body strewn out across some war torn field. She must have hope for tomorrow, it is what her father would want.

One day, all these rebellions and riots will be over.

One day, her father will give her to Henry in marriage and they will all live happily ever after.

One day.

She and her mother are breaking their fast when a messenger arrives bearing news from her father.

Madge stops eating immediately, stomach too excited for food, and eagerly looks over what he's brought. There is a crate, a small box tied with a cord and two letters sealed with her father's crest. The messenger bows to her mother and presents her with the letters, his hair swept back by the wind.

"From His Grace the Duke of Bedford, milady," he says and her mother takes the two letters with a smile.

"My thanks, good sir," she tells him and offers him a few coins as a tip. "You are welcome to stop by the kitchens for food and drink and I will have my Constable tend to your horse."

He bows again, cap clutched to his chest and their Steward shows him out. Madge leans over the table to get a better look at the letters, both addressed in her father's hand. On the first is written To My Dear Duchess and Sweet Daughter and Madge thrills at the sight. The second says For My Most Beloved Margaret and Madge imagines it must be a love note, filled with romance and she can't help but dream of the days she'll receive one from her own husband. Her mother breaks the seal on the first and pulls out the letter, Madge vibrating with anticipation.

"To my Dear Duchess Margaret and Sweet Daughter Madge,

We have stopped to sup at the Duke of Exeter's castle and we are joined as well by the Earl of Oxford (Anne's father! Madge thinks with a jolt). I think you would both like it here very much, for they have the grandest gardens I have seen outside of Windsor. Exeter says his son Henry spends most of his time exploring the grounds and climbing trees, to the eternal vexation of his lady mother.

Exeter also bid me take a crate of spirits he has been sent from France, claiming, of course, that he merely thinks we might enjoy them. I would guess his constant talk of Henry and the spirits have an ulterior motive, though it would be rude to say so, or to refuse such a generous gift (her mother interrupts her reading to laugh, shaking her head). As such, I have taken the liberty of accepting them and have sent them along with the messenger. Perhaps we may use them to toast my return (her mother laughs again and Madge can imagine her father's tone as if he were speaking the words himself and the smile that would grace his lips)?

Speaking of gifts and young Henry, he has sent something along for you, my Madge. It is in the other package and I swear I have no idea what it might be (Madge's heart does back flips, a silly, overjoyed smile breaking out over her face).

We are planning to spend the night here and ride out on the morrow, which is why I have the time to write. Oxford has spent the evening challenging me to cards, but he is nowhere near your level, Madge dear, and so I have been beating him handily. Exeter's wife, Lady Anne, is much admiring of your needlework, Margaret darling, and has made me swear a hundred times to relay her compliments to you as she has spent the night gushing over the purse and handkerchief you made me. Of course, this may also have to do with those ulterior motives mentioned earlier.

It is late and I should rest, but I confess I would much rather stay up writing. I won't though, I know how you would scold, sweetheart. I will be rested for tomorrow, as you would insist.

I wish most heartily that all this was over and I was with you both, but know that I think of you often and pray you are well.

With all my love, your most devoted husband and father,

Joseph, Duke of Bedford

written this day may eighth of the year fourteen sixty four in the Duke of Exeter's castle of Rougemont."

Madge's heart is warm from her father's words but there is also a knot of shivering excitement in her chest at the thought of what Henry Holland might have sent her. She looks to her mother for permission and the Duchess frowns but nods, clearly not pleased at boys sending Madge gifts.

Madge eagerly pulls the package towards her, barely even registering her mother's watchful gaze. She carefully unties the cord around it and lifts the lid, her heart pounding as loud as a giant's footsteps. Inside the box is a folded note and she takes it with shaking hands, romantic dreams swirling in her blood. She unfolds it and her eyes take in the the hastily scrawled message, the first tangible part of Henry she's ever encountered. She doesn't read it aloud as her mother did the letter from her father, wants this to belong just to her and Henry.

Lady Madge,

Your father has come to stay with us and I hope he will give this to you. My lord father says we might one day be married, and so I would like you to have this token of my esteem. I bought it from a traveling merchant, who promises it once adorned the hand of a foreign princess.

I liked it because it reminded me of outside, which is where I spend most of my time. If I had a choice, I think I would spend all my days and nights outdoors. Would you marry a man who lived in the woods?

I hope you like my gift and fare thee well,

Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon

It is not gushingly romantic and yet it might as well be, Madge feeling like she's skipped right over the moon. She holds it against her chest and sighs, her mother watching her with a fondly exasperated smile.

"You look feverish, love, and you have not even seen his present," she points out and Madge startles back to the moment. Again, bright hot excitement courses through her and she peers into the box, gasping aloud at what she finds. It is a ring made of gold with a silver flower on the band, the center set with a tiny pearl. Madge cradles it in her hands and is fairly certain she has never seen anything more lovely. She slips in onto her finger and swears right then that she will never take it off, not as long as she lives.

Thank you Henry, she thinks, heart on fire.

I will treasure it always

That night her dreams are filled with Henry, dashing, charming Henry who sweeps her right off her feet. But better than any dream is the thought that one day it will all be real, Henry loving her in life and not just fantasy.

She hugs the hand bearing his ring to her heart and plans out her return note in her head, cannot wait to put it all to paper.

Oh Henry, Henry, Henry, how lucky I am to have you.

Her father returns a victor, but he looks exhausted, the beginnings of an ugly red scar visible at the edge of his collar.

"Mercy, Joseph, what happened?" her mother fusses as squires help him remove all his armor. They peel back the layers and Madge hisses in shock at the twisting injury on her father's chest, long, deep and startlingly crimson. Her mother presses her fingertips to it in worry, her face awash in terrifying what-could-have-beens.

"I am alright," her husband assures her and takes hold of her hand, pressing it against his beating heart. "We were caught off guard, we were not expecting so many."

Madge clasps her hands and closes her eyes, the thought of losing her father making her head swim and her stomach roll.

"They almost got the better of us."

Her mother inhales sharply and her father's face turns dark and stormy, sorrow drawing heavy lines on his face.

"It was terrible," he murmurs, lost in some awful memory, "the Duke of Exeter's young son, Henry, snuck after us, eager to follow his father into battle. The rebels cut him down right before his father's eyes."

Madge does not hear anything else her father says, her head connecting with the stone floor as she collapses.

Madge spends a whole day laid up in bed, but it is not her head that ails her, not nearly as much as her heart does.

The physician tends to her, her parents hovering worriedly nearby but Madge barely takes note of any of them, sobbing as she mourns the boy she never met but could have loved. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon who would now never be Duke of Exeter. Her dreams all fall to shambles, victims of the cruelty of King Coriolanus' England.

There is no childhood here, no innocence.

Just death and blood and ruin.

(poor, sweet Henry)

(even in all the decades to come, Madge will never forget this boy who never grew up)

(in the wars of Kings, the innocent are often forgotten. Madge vows to keep their names alive)

The halls are filled with whispers now, of the treachery of the rebels, the unrestrained violence of these riotous citizens. Maids and cooks pass words behind their hands, say this is the Devil's work, that God will lay a curse down on their wretched souls.

Madge cannot deny they are evil, horrid people, young Henry Holland rising like a specter in the back of her mind. What kind of monster would someone have to be to cut down a young boy, still so bright and full of life?

But if the rebels are doing the Devil's work and the King is the demon haunting her nightmares, what does that mean for England?

Are all of them cursed? Has their Heavenly Father abandoned them?

(one look at the atrocities committed here and the answer is obvious)

(yes)

Madge wanders garden paths and plucks spring blossoms from their stems.

She carries them to the top of the grassy hill at the edge of the grounds, the one her nurse used to whisper belonged to fairy kings. The world still glistens from the morning's rainfall and her boots sink into the soft earth, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. She kneels down and doesn't feel the cool wetness of the ground as it seeps through her layers of skirt, her mind focused entirely on her task.

She ties sweet smelling flowers into wreaths and drapes them over a large, mossy boulder, one too large for any man to move. Her hand reaches into the pouch hanging from her girdle and pulls out the diamond she'd smuggled from her mother's coffer of jewels, running her thumb over it's smooth edges. She remembers being told diamonds are harder than stone and so she takes her stolen gem and carves into the boulder, her hand cramping from clutching the diamond so tight. It takes longer than she'd thought it would, dusk starting to kiss the clouds by the time she's done, but Madge looks at her work and though she is too raw to smile, she still feels proud. Carved in this boulder, forever and ever and ever, is just one name, shaky and squiggly but legible.

Henry.

She is sure his family has buried him with full pomp in a magnificent tomb, but Madge remembers his letter and wants him to be outside forever, just like he'd wished.

Let his spirit rest here on this fairy hill, chasing endless adventures.

Let him be young and carefree and laughing for eternity.

Madge twists his ring off her finger and holds it in the palm of her hand, a soft breeze blowing petals off the wreaths she'd left for him. They swirl through the air and down the hill, bright and colourful, just like she imagines Henry would have been.

She digs a hole with her free hand, dirt clumping under her nails and sullying her sleeve. She places his letter inside, gently covers it with earth and pats it down, safely burying it below the ground. She says a final prayer, his ring held between her hands and looks up at the sky, the sun meeting the stars against a pink and purple canvas.

"Rest well, Henry," she whispers and hopes her words float up to the heavens themselves.

(she knows it is just her imagination, but for one brief moment, she could swear she hears a voice, young and full of boyish cheer)

(i will)

The only sound in the schoolroom is the scratching of Madge's quill as she works on her Latin. Her tutor sits at the front of the room, reading quietly to himself and Madge works diligently, will broker no mistakes. Latin is the only one of her languages that she struggles with and she is determined to get this translation right, wants to surprise her parents at dinner tonight with how far she's come.

Her concentration is broken by a clatter of hooves outside and even though she knows she'll receive a scolding for it, Madge hurries over to the window. A messenger rides through the courtyard and just as she dreaded, he sports the King's badge, a crowned wolf she has learned to despise.

"Lady Madge," her tutor says sternly, demanding she return to her seat.

"It is a messenger from the King," she whispers. "It is rebellion again, isn't it?"

Her tutor doesn't answer but that's alright, he doesn't need to.

Dinner is a somber, hurried affair, the castle filled with urgent preparations for her father's ride to help crush yet another revolt against the King. He shovels down his food and Madge's eyes bounce anxiously between her parents. Her mother's skin is ashy, her face drawn and her lips pressed into a tight line. She does not touch her supper and Madge feels as if her own appetite has run off, her throat far too dry to swallow anything at all. Her father takes a last gulp of wine and sets down his goblet with a thunk.

"I need to get going, we want to rendezvous with Pembroke before tomorrow night," he tells them and pushes out his chair. Madge feels pulled tight all over, stretched so thin she might snap. Every goodbye is worse than the last and she wants to beg him not to go, would get down on her knees and clutch at his legs if she thought it would do any good.

"I cannot take this anymore," her mother moans, swaying in her seat. Her husband hurries over to her in alarm and Madge is too frightened to move, the world crumbling around her ears.

"Shall I send for the physician?" her father asks, voice distressed and Madge tries to swallow around a lump in her throat.

"What is the point? A physician cannot cure me."

The Duke looks at his wife in confusion. "Whyever not? What ails you, my love?"

"These rebellions! You, running off to keep the King on his throne!"

Madge watches her father recoil in shock and she cannot help but feel it too, has never heard her parents exchange even one harsh word in all her life.

"He is our sovereign lord, I have no choice but to obey his commands," her father says, tone still lilted through with confusion.

"You've said it yourself, these riots won't end, not until the entire country is at war! The people hate him! How long will you fight his battles, beating back his enemies while he sits safe in his palaces?"

The Duchess' face is red and flushed, her breathing heavy and she looks so winded and out of breath from so little conversation it makes Madge want to weep.

"He is my King, and your uncle!" her father snaps back, voice raised in a way Madge has never heard, a kernel of fear rooting in her stomach.

"Exactly! I have grown up haunted by his shadow! We both know what sort of man he is better than anyone! Would you die for him, leave us forever, just to keep him on his throne?"

Madge wants to close her ears from the shouting, hates the King all over again for tearing apart her family.

"What would you have me do, Margaret?" her father demands, anger turning his neck and ears bright red. "Abandon my oaths? Fall in with the rebels? Loose everything we have and have my head put on a spike on Tower Hill?"

Her mother doesn't answer, eyes narrowed into slits and chest heaving.

"That is treason, Margaret," the Duke pronounces, voice so grave Madge feels like she's climbed into a bath of ice. Her mother holds his gaze for a few moments more and then collapses in her chair like a popped soap bubble.

"You're right of course," she whispers and the anger seems to drain out of her husband, "he is God's anointed King, we owe him our loyalty."

Madge watches her father nod and return to his wife's side, taking her limp hand between both of his.

"And we are bound to him by blood, no one will ever forget that."

Her parents share a look, one steeped in hopelessness and it's what they aren't saying, the undercurrent in their words that scares Madge worse than anything they have said.

If the King loses, they shall all be condemned right alongside him.

The physician decides her mother must be conveyed straight to bed despite her protests and so her husband carries her upstairs to their bedchamber, Madge trailing after them.

"I am well enough to see you off, Joseph," Margaret insists as he lays her down gently on their great bed.

"There is no shame in being ill, darling. Rest and be well again," he murmurs, fingers stroking her hair. Her mother struggles up onto her elbows and her dress slips slightly, exposing a frightfully thin shoulder. Madge flinches in shock. How had she not noticed how thin her mother was becoming, what a toll her bouts of sickness were taking?

"I have been ailing since the day I was born, Joseph, we both know I shall never be well. But I am not an invalid, I am the mistress of this house and I will see you and the men off." She tries to fill her voice with steel but it is threaded though with weakness instead. Outside these castle walls or within them, it seems there are always threats to ravage Madge's happiness.

"Don't go, Mama," she begs, dropping to her knees at her mother's bedside with fear in her heart. She clutches her mother's hand and she can see the surrender in her eyes. The Duchess lies back against her pillows and folds into them, looks so much older and frailer than her thirty one years.

"I shall be back soon. I love you," her father says and kisses her mother's forehead. Margaret nods tiredly and Madge bites her lip to fight back tears. Her father smiles at her and lifts her chin with his hand.

"Be brave, sweet Madge. All will be well again soon."

Madge squeezes closed her eyes and nods. "I will be, Papa, I promise," she says, sobs catching in her throat.

"I know you will."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then he's gone, tears slithering out from beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks. Her mother squeezes her hand and Madge holds her father warm in her heart.

I shall be brave Papa, the very bravest

Madge's favourite story has always been that of King Arthur, the brave, good king who will rise again to save them in their darkest hour.

Whenever times get rough, she has always comforted herself with the thought that he hasn't returned yet, that whatever she thinks is so terrible, isn't truly so horrid. If it really were, King Arthur would've come to save them.

(of course, if he hasn't come yet, if this isn't bad enough to call him back, that means something even worse is in store)

(even her heroes conjure nightmares now)

Her father returns victorious, the King's forces once again triumphant.

How long, Madge wonders, how long will this continue?

(forever and ever and ever)

(Madge is twelve when she learns of the other claim to the throne, the one no one speaks of)

(at least not out loud)

(He is Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, but the word bastard haunts his name, on either side of his family tree.

His mother is a descendant of Edward III, just like Madge, just like King Coriolanus himself. John of Gaunt, son of Edward III and father to Madge's great grandfather Henry IV, had several children by his mistress Katherine Swynford, all born out of wedlock, but legitimized once John and Katherine married. From these once bastard children comes the line that leads to Lord Finnick's mother, the Lady Alma.

Lord Finnick's father, meanwhile, is the half brother of King Coriolanus, born of the same mother but different fathers. The stain of illegitimacy lies in the dispute over whether King Coriolanus' mother, the Dowager Queen, ever actually married the servant man to whom she bore so many children, including Lord Finnick's father)

(this boy, a handful of years older than Madge, is never openly acknowledged as a potential heir, even with royal blood flowing through his veins)

(it does not matter though, because he will never see the throne. Prince Cato would have to die without heir, as would Madge and her mother before Finnick Odair of Richmond could call himself King)

(and Madge is sure there is little chance of that)

Madge is safe in Bedford Castle but she is no longer ignorant of the upheaval in England.

Messengers bring evil tidings every day, a list of dead men and burned cities. The kingdom is fracturing, splintering and the King's idea of order is to continue the killing, to put down the riots with as much brutality as he can manage. He could build fortresses from the bones of his victims and rage sweeps through England, bright and hot, setting the entire country aflame.

The people of England hate their King.

(Madge cannot blame them)

There is only one way to douse this inferno and it is a crime no one would ever be brave enough to say, not even in a whisper.

(regicide)

Madge lays flowers by her makeshift memorial for Henry and no longer fools herself into believing she'd loved him. She might have, in another life, but in this one he was just a name, not even a face. She does not love him, but still she mourns him, his life snuffed out far too quickly.

Fourteen year old boys should never die, but certainly not by the sword. Was he frightened? Did he suffer? She closes her eyes and prays that his soul is at rest, that he has found peace in the hereafter.

Poor Henry, she thinks, to be remembered as nothing but a victim, a child murdered in cold blood. If history will recall his name, it will be as a footnote, just one of many tragedies blooming across England in these tempestuous years. He deserves better in death as he did in life, but he will not get it. No one will.

If life has taught her anything, it is that nothing is fair and no one receives what they deserve. Perhaps the Lord is testing them or perhaps the Devil has wrested England away from him and torments them for sport.

It matters little.

Madge cannot change it, she must merely try and survive it.

(here is another secret she learns, this time at thirteen.

The Duke of York is a distant cousin of King Coriolanus and thus of her as well. They all descend from King Edward III and there are whispers and echoes that maybe, just maybe, the Duke of York is the rightful King of England.

King Coriolanus' father, King Henry IV, usurped the throne from his cousin Richard II. His reasons, of course, were that Richard was a tyrant, a monster, unfit to rule.

True or not, he has set a precedent.

Even God's anointed King is not safe, is not untouchable.

Worse, some believe the Duke of York has a better claim to the throne than King Coriolanus, as he is descended from Edward III's second son, while the King is descended from his third son.

Madge tries to tell herself it doesn't matter, after all, no one would ever depose a king)

(then again, that's how all this started)

The world around her always feels like walking over eggshells, fragile and delicate, about to fall to pieces any moment. Everyone's nerves are rubbed raw and her mother is always ill with migraines, skin ashy and body weak. Her father loses weight, his clothes hanging off his frame and his hair starts to thin, dark circles blooming under his eyes. No one sleeps right, pressure and worry building on their shoulders, ready to explode.

Madge feels like rats have taken residence in her stomach, clawed feet scrabbling along her insides. She prays for respite, for her parents' health but still the days seem to grow darker, the menace of rebellion stalking every man, woman and child in England.

They cannot go on this way, something must be done.

(and here it comes)

Madge wears the loveliest gown of violet silk, dripping in gold and amethysts, pearls and diamonds. Fragile lace veils cascade down from her hennin and all eyes are on her in the middle of the dancefloor, the handsomest man in all of England bent over and kissing her hand. His lips are warm and soft, butterflies fluttering deliciously in her stomach.

He stands and Madge looks down at her hand, a smear of blood left behind from his mouth. She frowns, something cold and horrible settling inside of her. She raises her head and screams.

Screams and screams and screams.

Henry Holland stands before her, throat slit and body broken, head and limbs bent at odd angles.

She stumbles away in horror and arms catch her, her back landing against someone's chest. She twists around and cannot even scream, terror clogging her throat.

It is her father, his eyes plucked out and the skin of his face pecked away by crows. He smells fetid and rotting, glistening bones visible and Madge scrambles away from him, heart stampeding as she tries to escape.

She sprints down the hall but her feet trip over her skirts and she falls, the ground catching her and swallowing her up. She starts to sink into it and when she looks up, desperate for help, she finds only the King, dripping with blood and cackling wildly.

The Duke of York comes up behind him, swinging a heavy ax and Madge closes her eyes, feels something hot splash across her cheeks. She opens her eyes and looks right into her King's, open and lifeless.

Madge screams, no sound leaving her throat and no one comes to save her.

No one at all.

Madge is fourteen when war erupts across England.

It's a mild morning in September of 1467 and she is working on her embroidery, is determined to successfully capture a bird in thread. Her mother reads beside her, the other household ladies gossiping quietly. Their peaceful scene is interrupted by one of her father's squires barging into the room, the same one who used to dance with Madge so long ago.

The door crashes against the stone wall, the ladies gasp in scandalized shock and Madge pricks herself with her needle, scarlet blood dripping onto the pale lavender of her dress. She hisses in pain and looks up at Bristel in reproach but the frenzied look in his eyes makes her rebuke dry up in her throat.

"My lady," he pants, red faced and Madge's mother looks at him with feverish eyes.

"What is it?" she whispers, colour sliding out of her face.

"War, your grace, England is at war."

England has erupted, split down the middle by two powerful men.

The Duke of York has declared the King a tyrant, has deemed him oppressive, cruel, unfit to lead England and her people. Nobles flock to his rebellion, including his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury and his nephew the Earl of Warwick. They seek to remove King Coriolanus from power and place the Duke of York there instead, backed by his own claim to the throne, Edward III's royal blood pumping through his veins.

King Coriolanus retaliates, his own army rising to meet this would-be-usurper.

The clash, when it comes, will be devastating.

For so many, for so long.

(for Madge)

The Duke of Bedford is called to arms, summoned to prove his loyalty to his King.

Madge and her family are Lancastrians, as the King's supporters are called, not by choice but by blood, and Madge's father gathers as many men as he can to ride out and meet his king. Madge watches him as he prepares to leave, looking small in his gleaming silver armor and hates the Duke of York. She does not know him, has barely met him but he has brought war to England, has dragged her loved ones into bloody conflict.

(there is a small voice though, one that whispers of the fear in London, the chill in Westminster)

(perhaps the Duke of York is on to something)

Her mother is too ill to see the men off, so Madge stands in the courtyard as lady of the house, keeps her back as straight as she can. She wants to grab hold of her father's reins, refuse to let go until he agrees to stay behind but she doesn't, has been raised with Bedford bravery in her heart, will make her father proud.

His eyes are wet as she ties her mother's handkerchief to his gauntlet, a wife's token to keep him safe. He kisses her cheek as the wind picks up, the cold cutting through her skin.

"Take care, my Madge," he whispers.

"And you father," she replies, voice shaking.

He mounts his horse and he looks so pale in the watery sunlight. The ground shivers as the men take off, a thunder of hooves and Madge stays in the courtyard long after they've gone, holds herself tight as tears stain her cheeks.

Come back father, please come back.

Life continues in Bedford Castle, news few and far between.

Madge stares out the windows as the weather grows colder, tries to catch a glimpse of a rider bearing some sort of message, some update on the state of England, but always, there is no one.

Madge's fingers are clumsy at her needlework, her eyes blurry as she tries to read her books, her hands limp as she attempts to play her instruments. She cannot concentrate, lives in a state of frigid fear. The world outside is a mystery, one she is desperate to unravel.

How goes the war? Who is winning? Losing? And what of my father?

Madge needs to know, just as she dreads finding out.

"There must be something we can do," Madge says for the thousandth time and her mother sighs, setting down her embroidery.

"I have told you darling, there is nothing we can do but pray. Pray for your father and the King, that they will be safe and victorious. We must trust in the Lord."

It is the same speech she has given every time Madge has asked and just like always, it does little to soothe Madge's nerves. Her mother's ladies-in-waiting share looks of pity and Madge bristles, determines right then that she will find something useful to do.

"May I be excused?" she asks and her mother blinks before sighing again.

"Yes, Madge, you may."

Madge curtsies and turns in a whirl of skirts, desperate to be out of this stifling room, desperate to be doing something. She slips from her mother's solar and leans back against the closed door, at a loss for what that something might be. Think, she tells herself, there must be something...

She pushes off from the door and moves across the hall to the window. She leans against it and looks out at the castle grounds, but it is the same view as always, empty and without a rider bearing news. The wind picks up and Madge's eyes catch on a pennant at the top of one of the turrets as it whips in the breeze. It is a fraying white with her father's badge, the silver Bedford Bell, upon it and Madge feels inspiration burn into her fingertips.

She gathers up her skirts and runs down the hall, dodging scandalized chamber maids and shocked page boys as she goes. Her satin slippers nearly flap off but Madge doesn't slow, feels excitement thrusting her forward. She careens through an oak door and arrives in a store room piled high with silks and velvets, brocade and cloth of gold. Reams and reams of fabric, yards and yards of material and Madge falls upon them like a starving man on a fresh pile of vegetables. She picks through crates and boxes, desperate to find the perfect piece.

Yes!

She drags out a roll of white silk, cool and soft to the touch. Perfect! She will need thread, red for Lancaster Roses and silver for a Bedford Bell. She will make a banner, with a border of red roses and a great big bell in the middle. She will proclaim her loyalties to the world, show them all the proof of her faith. She will hang it up on the castle walls so everyone will know who they are, who she prays for, who she sends her every ounce of courage to.

This will be a banner to welcome her victorious father home, one to hold all her hopes. Madge hugs the roll of fabric to her chest.

No more idle hands, I'll be useful.

You will have the very best homecoming Father, I swear.

Madge is diligent in her work, measuring and cutting and designing.

There is still no word from the front but she no longer yearns for it with the same intensity, her mind focused and her hands busy. Her banner comes along and she plans out the celebration they will have when her father returns home. What food they'll eat, what decorations they'll hang and what needs to be cleaned, polished and refurbished.

The Yorkists can fight and even win as many battles as they want. They cannot take Madge's hope and it will never falter or fade. The Duke of Bedford will return.

Madge will never let go of that.

In December, news finally arrives.

It is the worst winter Madge can remember, bitterly cold and heavily coated in snow. The courier who brings word is nearly blue and half dead when he collapses on their doorstep, the words quivering as they leave his bleeding lips.

The Duke of York is dead.

He and his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury have been slain at the Battle of Wakefield, the snow stained red with the blood of countless dead. The routed army has fled, the King is victorious.

Madge sighs in relief. It is over.

(if only)

But then a whisper.

A whisper goes out that the war is not over, that the Yorkists still intend to fight.

The Earl of Warwick is still standing, a new Earl of Salisbury, Gale, only sixteen, has risen to take his father's place and most shocking of all, the Duke of York's eldest child has taken up his claim.

Not a son, for he had none, but a daughter, Lady Katniss of York.

People shake their heads, scoff, for that cannot be true. These whispers must be wrong.

(they aren't)

Madge embroiders with vehemence, her needle like a sword and this banner her war. She cannot fight by her father's side, has no idea how to use a sword. She is not Lady Katniss of York (if she even exists), but Madge is still brave, will fight in the only way she knows how.

Every day and night, she and the entire household get down on their knees and pray, for the safety of their lord and victory for their cause. Madge stitches and stitches, will boldly show her colours to the world. She is a Bedford, they are Lancastrians and she will not hide, will pour every ounce of love and courage she has into this banner. Let this be a testament to her belief, to her faith in God and her father. Let any strength she possesses carry to him and make him mighty. Madge cannot fight with spear and shield, cannot ride out into battle for those she loves, but that does not mean she is helpless.

She will keep the home fires burning, she will pray, she will believe.

Let the Yorkists come, she thinks, let them come. I will not yield or bend or break. I may have no sword or shield, so I shall become them myself.

Come Yorkists, and have a taste of Bedford steel.

1467 becomes 1468 and in February fortune turns over, shattering Madge's fragile hope that this war is over, that her father will soon return to them.

Lady Katniss of York, real and bent on vengeance, and her cousin the Earl of Salisbury lead their armies in the Battle of Mortimer's Cross and win a decisive victory, prove themselves deadly and capable. The Lancastrian army is devastated and the King's half-brother, Lord Boggs, Earl of Pembroke, is forced to flee for his life.

The tides have turned.

(but Madge's hope is not shattered for long)

(she picks up every shard and piece and puts it back together again)

(she cannot command an army)

(instead, she shall destroy the Yorkists with the force of her convictions)

(the good shall triumph, her father will return)

(that is a promise)

Madge lies awake at night and thinks of Katniss of York.

This girl, only a few years older than Madge, has done the impossible. She rides to war in full armor, rallies troops behind her. She keeps the cause of York alive, no, she does more, she turns York into an unstoppable force, takes them to victory and victory and victory.

It is unnatural, some of her mother's ladies say but Madge wonders if that is really quite as true as everyone believes. There is a fire in her chest, one that burns hotter than any hearth and if Madge knew how, she would charge to war, vanquish enemies, bring her father home safe.

She and Katniss of York are both warriors, just of a different kind.

(even still, they are enemies too)

February continues, dreary and darker with every passing day.

There is a somber air in Bedford Castle and joy flees from their long faces and terror of defeat. Katniss of York is a chilling specter, far more effective than her father ever was, bolstered by the Earl of Warwick and the new, young Earl of Salisbury.

Isolated and trapped in this castle as they are, the Bedford household knows only that Katniss of York inspires loyalty wherever she goes, crushes Lancastrian forces like they might an ant. Hope is a delicate thing and Madge can tell by the faces around her that most here have had theirs broken, shattered and destroyed. It is only a matter of time they think but don't say. Soon, the Yorkists will kills us all.

Madge won't surrender so easily.

She puts the finishing touches on her banner, ties off the last silver thread. She instructs some men to hang it above the castle gate and dares the Yorkists to try and take this keep.

Let them come, she thinks, we will not fall.

We are Bedfords and proud.

We are Lancastrians.

We are ready.

It is not the Yorkists who come, but Bristel the squire.

Madge has some grooms carry her mother outside, hopes the fresh air with do her well. They set up in the garden, the Duchess wrapped snugly in layers and layers of blankets and furs. They won't stay long, the winter cold, but being cooped all day cannot be helping her mother strengthen. Madge reads aloud to her mother from Chaucer while the other ladies take to their needlework, each one pretending everything is fine and fear does not haunt their every hour.

(but oh, it does)

They have only been out for a handful of minutes when loud shouts come from the direction of the gate, the clamor soon drowning out Madge's voice. She closes the book and rests it in her lap, nails digging into the soft leather cover. Is it news? Or the Yorkists come to burn us to the ground? The ladies stop their stitching, faces turning white and Madge knows they are thinking as she is, wondering if death has come to find them.

They do not have to wonder for long.

Bristel comes galloping into the garden, grooms and guards streaming after him. His horse leaps over a low hedge to crash into their midst, hooves trampling all over the Duchess' flowerbeds. The ladies shriek in terror and Madge jumps up and knocks her chair back, the book clutched tight against her chest. Her mother lifts her head to look at him as he tumbles off his horse, haste evident in every move of his muscles and he hurries into a bow.

"Are you mad?" bellows Sir Thomas as he and a contingent of guards come running towards them, his cheeks puffed up and red. Bristel ignores him and addresses her mother instead.

"My Lady, I come bearing urgent news from the Duke."

Madge almost swoons with relief. News from the Duke means her father is still alive.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Thomas thunders. "Have you lost your mind? You cannot-"

"It is fine, Sir Thomas," her mother interrupts gently. "Tell us your news."

Sir Thomas clamps his mouth shut and Bristel nods, his armor spattered with mud.

"The Yorkist army is moving this way, they shall reach the castle in a matter of days."

The ladies around her whimper, Sir Thomas blanches and Madge feels a fire kindle in her belly. Let them come.

"I rode as fast as I could, but Lady Katniss moves them at a punishing rate. The Duke bid me tell you that you must all leave, as quickly as you can."

"No," Madge finds herself saying without thinking, the word torn from her throat. Everyone turns to look at her, their eyes poking at her like daggers. "We will hold the castle against any Yorkist siege," she continues, a hysterical conviction mounting in her bones. Bedford Castle must stand, must be ready to welcome her father home when he wins, just as he has done every time before.

"We cannot, Lady Madge. His Grace the Duke of Beford wishes every man not needed to guard you on your way to join him at the front. Times are desperate and we cannot spare enough men to withstand a siege, and certainly not one from Lady Katniss' entire army. We must run."

Bristel's eyes are hard and Madge feels like the ground is sinking beneath her feet. She cannot leave, will not.

"Sir Thomas, ready the men to join the Duke," her mother orders and Madge is sure she might vomit. We cannot do this, cannot leave. The Yorkists cannot chase us from our home. Sir Thomas bows in assent and hurries off, the Duchess turning to Bristel.

"Fetch the Lord Steward, have him ready the household for departure. We will leave for Berkhampstead immediately."

Madge shakes her head, cannot allow this. Her father has many castles, more than anyone but the King, and Madge has been to most of them. But unlike most nobles, Madge and her family have always preferred a more settled life, have always called Bedford Castle their home. She cannot abandon it now. Bristel frowns.

"My apologies, my lady, but the Duke insisted you go to Westminster and join the King."

The temperature seems to plummet, horror settling over them like a cloak.

no

please no

"My husband is both the Duke of Bedford and of Clarence, he has more castles and palaces than anyone in England save the King. Any one of them will be suitable to wait out this war," her mother retorts, voice steely even as her skin turns a frightening grey.

"The Duke was adamant, your Grace. Westminster will be the most heavily guarded place in England, there will be nowhere safer. The men that will escort you there will not be enough to defend a castle, no matter which you choose. You are the King's niece and the Duke is one of the King's staunchest allies, the Yorkists will make a point of burning down your castle and seizing you and the Lady Madge," Bristel says and he is being so very bold for a squire. The Duchess shakes her head and Madge knows she will refuse, would never countenance them going back to that devil's den.

They have to stay here.

"Very well, inform the Steward."

Madge gapes at her mother, disbelief tingling in every part of her body.

"Mother, no! We cannot go back there! We cann-"

"Enough, Madge. Your lord father is correct, we will be safest there. He would not suggest it unless it was the only option."

Madge shakes her head, furious tears building in her eyes.

"This is not right! I will not go, I will wait here fo-"

"Madge, stop this. We have no choice. We are going to Westminster as your father wishes. Be brave," her mother says, voice softening, "we must have courage and see this through."

Be brave, her father had always told her as he left, be brave.

Oh father, I'm not sure I can

They pack up everything they cannot bear to part with, know full well that the Yorkists will plunder anything that remains. Madge ransacks her chambers, her favourite gowns, jewels, books and trinkets stuffed hurriedly into chests to be packed up in litters. She forces herself not to cry as she bundles it all together, will be strong and resolute.

This is not forever. When this all over, we will be back.

Madge orders them to leave her banner hanging, will not be ashamed of her colours. Even if the Yorkists win, Madge will not renounce her family.

We are Bedfords and proud. We are Lancastrians born and raised.

"Your Grace, the Lord Steward would like to know who is to remain here and who shall travel to Westminster with you," a harried clerk tells them as Madge helps her mother pack up her things.

"No one is to remain here," her mother says immediately and the clerk steps back in surprise.

"No one?"

"No. Abandon the castle. I will not leave men and women behind to be slaughtered or imprisoned by the Yorkists. Tell them to return to their families and give an address to the Steward so I may send them excellent recommendations when I reach London. Take this," she says gesturing to one of her chests full of gold, silver and jewels, "and have the Steward divide it amongst them so they may pay their way until they have found new employment. Tell them also that they are welcome to anything we do not take with us. It is not enough, but it is all I can offer in repayment for their years of loyal service."

The clerk gapes and Madge feels a pang in her heart. Abandon the castle. Who knew three words could ache so much?

"As to those who will accompany us...only those who wish to. I will not yoke anyone to a ship that may soon sink. Everyone has my blessing to leave and seek their own safety, I will not hold them to us."

The clerk is speechless and Madge clutches tight to the rosary beads she'd wrapped around her wrist before leaving her room, praying that God can hear her.

Deliver us from harm

Keep us safe

Please

Madge carries a coffer of her mother's things out into the courtyard and stops in surprise at what she finds.

A full complement of guards stands at attention, Sir Thomas at their head; Bristel and several grooms ready the carriages and horses under the direction of their Constable, Sir Richard Keene; maids pack up the last of the things, guided by the Steward, Sir George Costmary and all her mother's ladies are waiting and dressed for travel.

So many have stayed when they could have fled, have chosen to stand with them, even faced with the coming storm. Madge feels like they have reached into her chest and touched her heart, tears building in her eyes. Sir George notices her and comes over.

"I made the Duchess' offer, but none would take it. Those you do not see here, I had to force to leave. We cannot afford to take everyone if we are to make any haste."

"Thank you," Madge chokes out and Sir George's face turns fierce.

"You needn't thank us, my lady. Each one of us is proud to wear the Bedford Badge."

Madge looks at those silver bells embroidered on their clothes and cannot hold back her tears. They drip down onto the coffer in her arms and see Father? They all love you, you must come home. No matter what the Yorkists do, we are with you.

Always.

Madge, her mother and all of her ladies squeeze into the carriage, sacks and chests piled beneath their feet and under their skirts. It is a tight fit but they have no room to spare, every litter they own filled to the brim. Those maids, cooks, clerks, grooms and other household staff they cannot bring with them cluster in the courtyard to see them off, even Madge's elderly tutor, his stern face melted into tears. Sir George has chosen who will come with them and who cannot, ordering those remaining behind to flee immediately. There is no telling when the Yorkists will arrive. They stand beneath Madge's great banner, waving scraps of fabric bearing the Bedford Bell and Madge fears her heart might burst.

"If there were but room, we would ride anywhere with you!" calls a groom, only a year or two older than Madge.

"God keep you, Lady Margaret!" shouts a ruddy faced cook.

"We shall pray for you, Lady Madge!" promises a teary maid.

"You will be in our hearts!" "May the Lord bless the House of Bedford!" "Keep safe and ride swiftly!" "It has been an honour!"

Madge covers her mouth to stifle her sobs and does not take her eyes off of them as their carriage pulls away, will imprint this scene onto her heart. There are no words she could say that will express her gratitude for such devotion and loyalty, no actions she could take that would ever be enough. Her mother has left them that chest of jewels and coins and given them leave to take anything that remains, but even all those gold plates and silver goblets, those gem encrusted gowns, the carefully carved furniture and store rooms full of food, drink, fabric and wood are not enough, could never repay the kindness they have shown.

"God keep and bless you all!" she shouts out the window and she will pray for just that each and every night. The silver thread of her banner catches in the sunlight and Madge vows that the house of Bedford will survive, for her parents' sake and for all those who have shown them such limitless loyalty.

This is not the end.

The ride to London is torturous, a fear of ambush staying all their tongues.

Will the Yorkists catch them?

Will they make it to London unharmed?

Will it even matter if they do?

Madge keeps her eyes fixed on the window and when she sees London looming before them, she cannot say she is relieved.

Which is the greater of two evils, she wonders.

Rebels who would burn me for my blood?

Or my King?

They stop before the city's gates, Sir Thomas riding out ahead of them.

"Who goes there?" a guard calls from the gatehouse, his shout tinged with fear.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Bedford and Clarence, niece to his Majesty, King Coriolanus of England! We request entrance!" Sir Thomas answers and there is a pause, one Madge cannot understand. Why do they not open the gates?

"Prove it!" one of the guards yells down at them. Madge can see Sir Thomas bristle.

"How dare you refuse to open your gates to the King's blood kin! Our lord the Duke of Bedford fights for his King and you would deny his wife and daughter safe passage?"

Madge is distracted from the guard's reply by her mother moving beside her. The dismal weather and long ride have only worsened her condition and she looks too weak even to stand.

"I must go out," her mother says feebly and Madge shakes her head.

"Mother, you can't!"

"They want proof, I shall give it to them."

Madge wants to argue but it is clear her mother will not listen. She struggles out of the carriage, her ladies helping to support her and Madge prays she will not collapse right there in the street.

"My lady!" Sir George squawks when he notices her mother leaning against the side of the carriage, her breathing laboured. He scrambles down from his horse and takes hold of her arm to keep her steady. She leans into him and looks up at the guard wall, her face dangerously pale, all the veins visible beneath her skin.

"I am Lady Margaret, daughter of Prince Henry, Duke of Clarence, granddaughter of King Henry IV of England, wife of Lord Joseph, Duke of Bedford and niece to your King, Coriolanus of England. I demand you open these gates and allow us to pass so I may see my uncle."

There is strength in her mother's voice, an authority and iron Madge would never have guessed her frail mother capable of.

It takes only moments for the guards to order the gates opened. Sir George helps her mother back inside and she collapses in her seat, chest rattling as she tries to breathe. Madge takes her hand and squeezes it tight.

"We shall be there soon, Mother. We shall be safe."

(Madge wishes she could believe that)

There is a servant of the King's waiting for them when they reach Westminster, the badge on his uniform curdling Madge's stomach. He bows as she dismounts the carriage.

"The King bids you welcome, my Lady, and wishes you and the Duchess to follow me to his Majesty's audience chamber."

Madge expected such a request, but even still, it leaves her cold all over.

"My mother is too ill to see anyone, she must be conveyed straight to bed. I will see his Majesty," she offers, gathering courage around herself like armor. The man looks unconvinced and Madge hardens her voice.

"The King will not take kindly to the Duchess being so poorly treated. She needs rest, please show her to her rooms."

The threat of the King's displeasure is enough to make up his mind.

"Of course, my lady, right away. But will you not need someone to show you to the King's audience chamber?"

Madge shakes her head and turns to look down the hall, feeling like she's about to walk to her own execution.

"I know the way."

Madge waits outside the doors as she is announced and tries to fortify her heart. Better me than mother. She cannot take this torment, sick as she is. The doors swing open and Madge squares her shoulder, marching in with all her dignity. I am a Bedford. I have royal blood in my veins. I am not afraid.

The King sits in his throne but he looks older by decades since last Madge has seen him. He is dressed in dark maroon, lines carved deep in his skin. The Queen beside him is not the bejeweled woman of ice Madge remembers, but hunched and suspicious in her throne, with hostile eyes and a dress of somber blue. Prince Cato has a savage look on his face, his hand clamped firmly on the hilt of his dagger. He must be at least sixteen now and Madge can see the itch to be out fighting painted clearly across his face.

(is it wrong that she wishes he were out there, rather than here?)

Pale, dying sunlight flitters through the windows and the luster of Westminster has clearly faded. She curtsies low and waits for the King to order her to rise.

"Lady Madge," he begins, rolling her name around on his tongue, "wherever is your mother?"

"The Duchess has regretfully fallen ill, your Majesty. She has been brought to bed."

Madge waits, eyes staring at the dusty floor and wonders if he will ever allow her to stand.

"Why have you come?" he demands, a cruel edge to his voice. Madge swallows, throat dry.

"We had received word from my lord father that the Yorkists were coming. We hoped-"

"You hoped to hide here," he interrupts, cutting across her like a knife. "Five years you have not deigned to visit and now you wish to hide behind our walls," he accuses and Madge clenches her hands in the fabric of her dress.

"My most sincere apologies if we have offended you, your Majesty, but we have not come to court because of the danger of the roads and the instability plaguing the kingdom."

A scoff comes from Prince Cato and Madge continues, feels the weight of her and her mother's lives pressing down on her shoulders.

"My lady mother and I have prayed for your victory every day and night while my lord father fights even now to defend your crown. I have hung a banner on our castle walls to show the world that the Bedfords stand side by side with their king. We are your Majesty's most loyal and humble servants."

She closes her eyes and waits for his judgement, their fates resting in his hands.

"Many have renounced their allegiance to us," he murmurs and Madge breathes in deeply.

"We have never your forsaken you, your Majesty," she replies, "you are our King and our blood, placed upon the throne by God himself."

"Indeed. You may rise."

She does, the entire royal family scrutinizing her closely.

"One of the Queen's ladies was not so loyal," the King tells her almost casually, a glint in his dark eyes. "She has since lost her head."

He smirks and Madge bites down hard on her tongue, forces her expression to remain neutral.

"As such, there is a vacancy in the Queen's household. Seeing as you are a noble daughter of loyal stock and possessing of royal blood, we think you would make a good replacement."

He narrows his eyes, watching closely for her reaction. She curtsies again, bowing her head.

"I would be most honoured, your Majesty."

"Good, you shall begin tomorrow. Tonight, see to your mother. We will send the royal physician to tend to her."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are too kind."

He smirks again, tongue darting out to lick the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.

"We do hope she will be well enough to break her fast with us tomorrow," he says and even though the words are innocent enough, Madge recognizes the command behind them.

"I am sure she will be."

"Good. You may go now, the physician will soon join you."

Madge holds in her sigh of relief at being dismissed and curtsies again. She leaves the room as quickly as she can without running and clutches her rosary to her heart.

Let this war be over soon

Let us leave this place

Let this not be our tomb

Her mother does not recover but soldiers on valiantly anyway, attending on the King whenever he wishes.

"It has been too long, Margaret," he croons and leads her to the seat beside him, seems not to care that the life in her eyes is flickering and fading with every passing day.

"Indeed it has been," her mother always agrees, voice the faintest breath of sound.

She is wasting away here, but she is not the only one, the entire court wilted and lifeless. These once splendid halls are drab and dingy, no longer echoing with music and laughter. The dark cloud that has lingered for so long over England has finally reached the palace that conjured it, the King suffering as his people have done for decades.

Madge waits on the Queen and it is clear that the royal family are terrified, can feel Lady Katniss' net tightening around them. Their eyes dart about at every sound, every scrap of news devoured. They jump at shadows, punish any who even look at them crosswise and they are irritable and snappish, suspicious of everyone and everything. They cannot survive like this for much longer, no one can.

(they won't have to)

As February begins to die, Madge spends her nights on her knees in prayer, hands clasped and head bowed.

I beg you Lord, please keep my father safe.

Please, bring him home to us

(but does the Lord answer prayers that come from a house of evil?)

(Madge is afraid to find out)

March rises over London in a blanket of fog and with it comes Madge's fifthteenth birthday, but she does not tell anyone and is glad of the lack of celebration.

She does not think she and the King share the same taste in entertainment.

(her mother presses a gift into her palm and when Madge opens it, she almost sobs.

It is a set of miniatures, one of each of her parents, held together with hinges.

"To remember us by," her mother whispers and Madge almost chokes on her tone of defeat)

(Madge does not want to remember them)

(remembering them means all she has left are memories)

A handful of days later, Madge is helping the Queen dress when a knock sounds at the door.

"Answer it!" Queen Enobaria orders, voice cracking like a whip and Madge curtsies, an angry spring coiled in her chest. She hurries over to the door and opens it to find a frightened looking page waiting on the other side. His face softens in relief when he sees it is her and not the Queen.

"I bring summons from the his Majesty the King. He wishes the Queen to join him in the hall immediately."

Madge nods, thanks him and watches him sprint away while she has to turn back to her mistress, the Queen's expression poisoned and sour.

"What did he want?" she demands and Madge reigns in her frustration. Everyday is a constant stream of belligerent bullying and she is beginning to think she might be better off losing her head as the Queen's previous lady did.

"The King requests your presence, your Grace."

"Then hurry up and get back to work, we mustn't keep him waiting," she snaps as if Madge had been slacking off. Madge bites her tongue and does as she is bidden, lacing the Queen into her gown as quickly as she can. The other ladies fuss about with her hair and hennin and Madge wonders what news of the King's could be so urgent.

Victory perhaps?

Or is it defeat?

The King does not waste time with plesantries.

"We are riding out," he announces and people around her gasp in shock. Madge furrows her brow.

"My ministers think it will do the men good to see their King, so we will go and meet them on the battlefield. With God's grace, this will put a swift end to this cursed war and see our kingdom righted once again," he continues and Madge feels like a ray of sunshine is beaming down directly on her head. The King will be gone, they will be free of him, at least for a time. She sends a silent thanks to God for His mercy.

"Let me come with you, Father," Prince Cato begs, bloodlust thick in his voice.

"That will do more harm than good," the King says, brushing him off. "It would be foolish to risk both King and heir on one battlefield."

Cato stiffens, eyes burning.

"I am old enough to fight! I should not be left cooped up here with the women!" he growls and the King turns sharply to look at him, eyes colder than ice.

"You will do as we tell you or you shall suffer as all others that disobey us. Is that clear?"

Prince Cato stares in shock a moment before wilting and Madge frowns.

What kind of man threatens his own son?

(a wicked, wicked, wicked one)

"Yes, Father."

"Good. We must now be off. We shall expect you all to pray for us and keep Westminster ready for our return."

Madge curtsies as he passes and cannot wait to tell her mother of this blessing.

She finds her mother lying in bed, her food barely touched. Madge sits by her side and takes her hand.

"The King is going off to battle, to inspire his men."

"So we have lost then," her mother breathes and Madge cocks her head in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"In all the years, with all the battles, when has the King ever gone out to see his men?"

Madge opens her mouth to reply and realizes the answer is never.

"If he is leaving now, it is because he is running away."

"He wouldn't abandon his son, or the Queen, would he?" Madge asks, cannot believe she actually wishes he were still here. Her mother looks at her with pitying eyes.

"Wouldn't he?"

Yes, she admits, yes he would.

The King's departure has left a ragged wound in Westminster, his unflinching arrogance no longer present to stem the flow of desolation flooding London. It is obvious now, without his overpowering menace, to see just how dire their situation is.

The House of Lancaster is losing.

Katniss of York, her followers emblazoned with her badge of a white rose, so vividly contrasting with the King's bloody red, marches through England like a storm, churning Lancastrian armies into corpses and convincing others to turn their coats. Her ranks swell everyday and there is nothing the King's flagging support can do to stop her. Sooner or later they will all be caught up in her current, swept away by the House of York and it's vengeful lady.

The only question is when.

Madge relishes the moments she can be alone, away from the Queen and her brittle temper and caustic words. She sneaks away to wander Westminster's long halls and could almost believe there was no war, if only her heart didn't ache so for her father. The palace is so quiet now, entirely unlike the one she remembers from childhood and there's peace in that, however fragile. The only sound is the echo of her boots and Madge wishes she knew what happened beyond these walls, but news has been sluggish since the King left, trickling slowly like water from a tiny crack in the wall.

They heard, over a week after the fact, of the Earl of Warwick and William Herbert smashing the King's reinforcements from Wales, leaving them unable to meet up with the main body of the King's army, gearing up for one great, last battle. This will be the one that determines the outcome of the war, the victor claiming the throne of England.

(Madge tries not to think about what will be left to the loser)

Agonizingly slow reports come in that young Gale of Salisbury inspires many to flock to the Yorkist banner, his words stirring loyalty into their hearts. Madge stops by a window with slightly warped glass and tries to guess at what he might be saying, what spurs them on to treason. The grass outside is sodden with late season snow and Madge hopes her father keeps warm, hopes he crushes Gale of Salisbury to dust, hopes he routs Haymitch of Warwick and leaves Katniss of York destitute and friendless.

Madge may not bear the King any love, but the curse of her blood means she is a Lancaster, her life depending on a Yorkist defeat. More importantly, she knows what tragedies will await her parents if the Yorkists prove triumphant and Madge cannot bear to see them suffer. They have only done what they had no choice to, for had not every great noble man sworn an oath to serve his King? Was he not anointed by the Lord himself?

(in a different world, Madge may have chosen to be a Yorkist, would have seen the injustices committed by King Coriolanus and wanted him condemned to Hell for it)

(but this is not a different world and Madge has no luxury to choose)

(and even if she did, she would always choose her family, over anything, over everything)

Her musings are interrupted by a throaty giggle, followed soon after by enthusiastic grunts. Madge frowns in confusion but it soon vanishes when heavy panting drifts towards her from down the hall. Her face stains red and she may still be a virginal maid, but she is no idiot. Servants talk and Madge has heard enough to guess what is happening nearby, a low, ecstatic moan making it all the clearer.

(as horrified as she is, this is almost a blessing, her mind entirely distracted from the terror that awaits her loved ones)

(all she can think about now is how utterly, utterly mortified she is)

Madge, perhaps childishly, covers her ears and means to rush past the not-entirely-closed door a few feet down the hall, but just as she is passing the doorway, her eyes catch on silver thread shining in watery sunlight. She pauses and the scene comes into focus before her, worse than she would have guessed.

She is facing Prince Cato's black and silver clad back, his fair head almost glowing in March sunbeams, as he grunts and thrusts up under the skirts of one of the Queen's ladies, one Madge never has the interest to remember the name of. Her legs are tied around his waist and her head thrown back, her long black hair flowing freely.

Madge takes a step back and then a few more, determined to be as quiet as possible. She cannot imagine the prince would be pleased at her witnessing this event and would rather not take any chances. She whirls then and hitches up her skirts, flying down the hall at an unladylike pace, and plans to purge this moment from her memories. Even still, she cannot stop her mind from wandering just a bit, curiosity slinking up her spine. How long have they been doing this? she wonders, and are there others, or is Prince Cato dallying with only her (the lady Madge cannot for the life of her put a name to)? Is this lust? Or is Prince Cato actually capable of something as human as love?

In any other circumstance, Madge might ask, but Prince Cato would probably slit her throat if she tried. And if that lady is his sweetheart, she'd probably be just as likely to as well.

Madge shudders.

Less than a week later, her mother's grave pronouncement is proven true.

Madge sits beside the Queen, embroidering a gift for her father and surreptitiously attempting to puzzle out Prince Cato's lover, Lady Clove (Madge has finally remembered her name), when a messenger arrives, his expression grim. Madge inhales sharply and sets down her needlework, heart nearly racing out of her chest.

Please be alright Father, please please be alright

"What is it?" the Queen asks, the tremor in her voice making it clear she has already guessed.

"I have just come from Towton," the messenger begins and there are nightmares playing over in his eyes. Madge squeezes her hands together and wishes her mother was beside her, rather than laid up in bed.

"It was the bloodiest battle I have ever seen. I would wager there were more dead there than in any other battle on English soil," he continues, voice haunted.

"Enough of that, what news?" the Queen huffs impatiently but Madge is not sure she wants to know, would rather have a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. The messenger swallows.

"The King's forces were utterly destroyed. Lady Katniss of York and her cousins, Haymitch of Warwick and Gale of Salisbury, slaughtered them all...it was a massacre. Only a handful escaped, including his Majesty, who has fled to Scotland. They are marching here now, to take London and declare a new sovereign."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Father, you must be alright, you must have escaped.

You must.

"We will bar the gates and push back the Yorkist scum!" Prince Cato declares, voice hot and angry. The messenger shakes his head.

"The mayor has already said he will not," he informs them and the women around the Queen start weeping, their embroidery tumbling to the floor. Madge feels like the world around her has gone dark, every candle snuffed out. We are doomed.

"They would abandon their King?" Cato spits, knuckles white on his dagger and Madge wants to laugh and sob all at the same time. He has already abandoned them! she wants to scream but instead she picks up her needle and thread with numb fingers.

"We must get to sanctuary," she whispers and Cato whirls on her, face burnt red with his fury.

"I will not hide like some coward!" he bellows in her face, spittle showering her cheeks but Madge does not flinch, feels almost like she has been hollowed out, all her emotions scraped clean.

"Then you will die, struck down by the Yorkists."

"You filthy whore, shut up!" he screeches and his knuckles are violent as they collide with her face, knocking her to the floor. Her knees shriek as they collide with the stone and the ladies near her scream in shock. The skin is scraped from her hands and Madge feels dazed, her cheekbone aching. Cato grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her head back, his nostrils flaring and tears spring to her eyes with the pain, a gasp spilling from her lips.

"How dare you speak to me like that, how dare you! I will be your King!"

"Enough," the Queen states, voice slicing through his fog of rage.

"You heard what she said?" Cato demands and Madge feels lightheaded, the world blinking white and bright.

"It is of no consequence, we must prepare. Come now," she orders and Cato throws Madge to the floor, her chin slamming down painfully. She bites her tongue and tastes her own hot blood, the world swimming in her eyes. The Queen and Cato rush off, followed by all their attendants and Madge is left alone in a sticky, red puddle, pain sparking across her body.

So this is how it ends, then.

The House of Lancaster has fallen.

Now rises the House of York.

Madge eventually finds the strength to heave herself up and back to her chambers, every part of her throbbing.

What now? she thinks, spitting blood into a bowl.

What now?

She awakes the next morning to find the Queen and Prince Cato have disappeared in the night, have abandoned them to the mercies of the approaching Yorkists.

Madge wanders the deserted halls of Westminster with a chill in her heart, her footsteps echoing in ancient halls as she hugs herself. Her King, her Queen, her Prince, they've all forsaken her and she knows she has no choice but to stay and await her conquerors, cannot run or hide. Lady Bedford cannot be moved and Madge cannot leave her, will not, so she does the only thing she can.

She clutches her rosary and kneels in the chapel, stays on cold, hard floors all day and night. No one is coming to rescue her, no ally or white knight, so Madge prays, for her father, for her mother, for Lady Katniss' mercy. It may not be enough, but Madge has no sword, no shield, no quiver full of arrows.

At fifteen, Madge of Bedford learns she has only herself.

[wingsofmelete]

Burning Food for the Gods

Esme watched in quiet fascination as her house burned down.

Oh, she thought, looking as flames engulfed the wood that had kept her safe for the past thirteen years: Oh, oh, oh��

Her mother sat somewhere else, crying her eyes out. Esme couldn’t dredge up the energy to go and find her; she was feeling the after-effects of a bit of shock herself, and couldn’t be bothered to be the comforter.

I’m the child, she thought, a little mutinously, as ash brushed past her face, I should be the one comforted.

Still, her mother was – at best – eccentric, and – at worse – utterly incapable of logical reasoning. She had once walked onto a busy street because she had forgotten to check the lights. She had contracted a nasty rash across her arm when she had forgotten she was allergic to dogs.

She had almost starved to death after she had forgotten to eat for a month.

Yes, Esme thought, She needs a keeper.

The fire continued to burn, bright against the darkening sky, despite the firemen’s best efforts. Esme clutched at her blanket tighter and tried not to cry. Somewhere in there, her lovely china-doll collection was melting; somewhere beneath the blanket of fire, her bedframe was cracking and her posters were curling against the heat. Her stuffed rabbit, which she had treasured dearly for all her life, was turning to little more than ash. Her computer would be exploding.

“Hey, kid,” a hand pressed down on her shoulder, and Esme looked up. The boy who looked down at her was lovely, with dark eyes and hair the same colour as the flames that were destroying her world. His face was delicate and fine, but not the least babyish, and Esme found that she wanted to reach out and poke him to make sure that someone who looked like that really existed.

“What do you want?” she asked, subconsciously straightening her shoulders in response to his perfect posture. He was wearing strange clothes; everything was black, a sharp contrast to his snow-pale skin.

“You should be dead.”

Esme felt herself freeze up. Oh, oh dear…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, defiantly sticking out her chin at him. He couldn’t prove anything…

“I saw you. You walked out the back of that building without a scorch-mark on you.”

Esme clutched the blanket tighter. “I didn’t.”

“You were in the middle of that. You should have burnt to death,” he smiled, then – and it wasn’t a nice smile. He still looked lovely, but Esme suddenly found that she didn’t want to poke him anymore. “At least, you shouldn’t be able to sit here and talk to me.”

“It’s very hot,” Esme said. “I barely got out before it really caught on.”

“No,” he said. “You should have burnt to death.”

Esme felt tears start to sting. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

“Is it?” he looked startled for a second. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“How was I supposed to take it?” the tears started to spill over her cheeks, and Esme quickly tried to wipe them away in horror. She didn’t cry – she hadn’t cried in a very, very long time. “You think I should be dead!” her voice rose to a wail.

“Shh!” the boy suddenly looked panicked, glancing around. “They’ll hear you!”

“Who?” Esme started up at him, sniffing rather pathetically.

“The humans! If you draw attention to me, I’m going to have to leave.”

“Stay,” Esme urged, though she couldn’t have said why. “No one wants to talk to me.”

“They’re trying to put the fire out,” the boy said. “They won’t have much luck. It’s going to burn itself out.”

“I hope it doesn’t spread,” Esme said anxiously, glancing to her neighbours houses. Though she had never been particularly fond of Mr. Blake and his enormous family (they always seemed to insist on bringing around badly-cooked meatloaf, for one thing, and trying to set her mother up with Mrs. Blake’s brother, for another), she had developed quite an attachment to little Faith Brandt on the other side of the hedge.

“It won’t,” the boy said.

“How can you know?”

“I know,” he said, like she was stupid not to take his word. Esme scowled, but just couldn’t be bothered to argue with him, so she let it go.

They settled into a comfortable sort of silence; her sitting, him standing next to her. His had had yet to move from her shoulder, but Esme found that she didn’t mind the contact as much as she did with most people. The heat from the house-turned-bonfire singed at her cheeks and made her sweat, while her back felt uncomfortably chilly.

“I should go find my Mum,” she finally said reluctantly. She didn’t want to move; she wanted to stay here and watch her world burn, because she was never going to able to see this again. Her house was gone. Her paintings – the ones she had spent hours agonizing over – were gone. Her computer, her desk, her bed…

Gone, gone, gone…

“Stay,” he said.

“I really should go…” Esme bit her lip, but made no move to leave. Her mother would be fine, for the moment; there were so many people, someone would notice if she ‘forgot’ not to run into the burning wreck of their home.

“Stay,” the boy repeated, tightening his grip on her shoulder.

“Ow!” Esme tried to jerk away from his grip, but it was too strong. A tendril of unease began to worm its way into her belly. “Jeez!”

“Sorry!” he said, quickly releasing her. “I’m sorry!”

He sounded genuinely apologetic, but Esme hesitated to forgive him. She had never been a particularly tolerant person – unless it came to little Faith, but she seemed to be the only exception – and her shoulder really ached. There were probably going to be bruises.

“It’s okay,” she finally said, grudgingly, when it became obvious that he was waiting for her to say something.

“Good,” the boy exhaled, running his now-free hand through his burning-red hair. “I’m glad,” he added at her scornful look.

“I’m going, now,” Esme said, scowling. “I need to make sure Mum’s okay.”

“Is that what you want?” the boy moved in front of her, kneeling so that his face was just below hers. He looked older than her, maybe sixteen, and Esme suddenly felt very uneasy. “Really?”

“Yes,” she snapped, leaning backwards. “Really.”

He stepped backward and straightened up, giving her an almost mocking bow in the process. Esme’s scowl deepened.

“You died,” he said, still bent at the waist. His left arm was twisted behind his back, while his right was clenched over his heart. He should have looked silly; somehow, Esme found that he didn’t. “In the fire. It covered you from head to toe and tickled at your skin like an old friend.”

Esme stared at him, frozen.

“It lapped at your face,” he continued, not blinking. “And you screamed and you screamed when you realised that you were going to die.”

“I didn’t die,” Esme whispered.

“No,” the boy agreed, finally straightening up fully to tower above her. “And don’t you find that at all strange?”

Esme hugged herself tight.

“There have been an awful lot of explosions recently, don’t you think?” the boy smiled at her. He meant it to be nice, but Esme found herself shrinking further back. She looked around, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to them. “Three down in Penshurst. Five up in King’s Cross.”

“You did it,” Esme breathed, body trembling.

The boy smiled again. “I like you,” he said. “I don’t like many people. I’m glad you’re one of us.”

“One of us?” Esme repeated.

“My baby!” someone wailed. “Where’s my baby? Where’s Esme? Esme! Esme!”

Esme felt her eyes widen as though she was a million miles away. Her head whipped around, desperately searching for where her mother was. “Mum!”

She felt lips brush against her cheek. “I’m Fox,” the boy said quietly into her ear, before pulling away.

Esme watched him with wide eyes.

“This isn’t the last time we’re going to meet,” the boy – Fox – gave her a quick, informal salute with his right hand, and then scampered back. “You’d better hurry. Your Mum sounds worried.”

“Y – you!” Esme lurched to her feet and tried to grab onto his jacket, but he was too quick.

“See you, Esme!” he called cheerfully, and then melted almost abruptly into the crowd. Esme tried desperately to follow him with her eyes, but it was as enough he had simply disappeared.

“Esme! Esme!” her mother cried again, voice raw and low and desperate.

“Mum!” Esme whirled around. At the moment, it didn’t matter who that boy was. It didn’t matter, because her mother was worried, and Esme was frightened, and she wanted nothing more than to run into her mother’s arms and hug her. “Mum!”

All in all, Esme concluded, it was the worst birthday ever.