#i whistle SO loud and so many songs all the time i cannot be quiet :P LOVE to make noises (:

[tristintea]

Endersleep

AU that’s basically a bunch of headcanons about endermen ft. Edward the Enderman and Lethe (Ranboo) :D

~

Endermen do not give birth, like piglins, humans, and other mammals do. Endermen do not lay eggs, like sirens, avians, reptiles, birds, dragons, and fish do. In fact, their method of reproduction is more akin to that of spores. Everywhere an enderman goes, particles are left behind, little bits of ender that fade but never quite dissolve. Those little particles are replaceable, insignificant, until they find enough of themselves that they can remember what it feels like to be ender.

It is nigh impossible to find infant or adolescent enderman anywhere, even in the End, where they are the only creatures other than the nearly extinct enderdragons (see: The Enderdragon, A Summary) and face no natural predators. At first, it was assumed that endermen were at risk of extinction, but studies showed no significant changes in population. One dedicated researcher by the name of Rhianna James, however, spent her life with these cryptic creatures, eventually learning the answer to this perplexing question.

As James discovered, most endermen spawn fully grown. It is only very rarely that there are enough particles to spawn an enderman but not enough to make an adult mind. That is why, when an enderman finds an enderling, it will adopt it into its haunting, and all members of the haunting take on the role of a caretaker. You will never find a more protected child than that of an enderman.

Edward’s haunting is gone. Edward has been wandering for many years now, and as the grief that accompanied the loss turned to nostalgia, they’ve regained their old vigor for life. Now they see sights worth seeing, places worth being, people worth meeting; now they search for others to spend their nights with. 

It has been far too long since they’ve sung the Old Songs properly.

Travel is dangerous, Edward has come to know very well. Others, non-endermen, often meet Edward with a sword in hand, either in defense or in greed. Edward themself has learned that connecting gazes is not a threat to non-endermen, but they have yet to be able to control their instinct to retaliate in anger.

The weather is also dangerous. Being caught in the rain is painful, and the only escape is to teleport to one of the other dimensions. Snow is beautiful, but when it melts it hurts just as bad. 

It has just stopped raining when Edward hears a call that is painfully familiar but distinctly off. It’s the cry of a wounded enderman, but the sounds are higher-pitched and slurred. They don’t register that, though; they are far too preoccupied with searching for its origin, ears flared outward as they listen intently for the next call.

They find a small, precious thing, under the dripping leaves of the forest. They have to ignore the sharp sound of the sizzling of their own skin with every drop that hits them, and it is worth it, because of all the endermen to be blessed with an enderling, Edward never thought that they would be one of them.

Their enderling is a little strange. They are split down the middle, one half of them the proper coloring, with the bright green eyes that they have been told all enderlings have for many years, while the other half is white and its eye red. But Edward does not care. They are theirs, and they will protect them with their life. 

As we know, endermen, when stressed, become aggravated; however, what James discovered is that they go into a catatonic state once the perceived threat is gone. This state is called endersleep, a term coined by James herself, and it can last from anywhere between a few minutes to decades. In fact, an enderman might never wake up from endersleep, and yet it can still live out its entire expected lifespan. Its haunting will feed it, nourish it, and carry it with them either until its death or its awakening. 

James wrote that she had only twice seen an enderman in endersleep. “It was sudden[....] One moment [the enderman] was screaming, and the next, [it] had collapsed. I thought [it] had passed out,” she wrote in one of her earlier entries. In a later entry, she said, “The haunting showed me their fourth member, that they had been carrying with them for some time now. I had wondered about this, with no hypothesis in my thoughts and only bafflement[....] [To] my surprise, I found that [it] was not actually dead, but breathing very slowly as though in a deep slumber.” Then, much later, “[The enderman] woke from endersleep today. I had assumed that [it] would never wake up again[...] now I realize that this is a common occurrence.”

While their enderling rests, Edward carries them away from the forest and the remnants of rain. They are badly injured, splotches of burning skin still sizzling even now, and the humming of their pearl is weak and broken. Edward hurries, a line of particles left to fade in their wake. They cannot let their enderling die yet. 

They trill comforts to their enderling, who has grown too weak to do anything but chirp when the pain grows too much. Even with a dying star pressed to their chest, Edward cannot feel upset. The fact that they held one at all will be enough for them, if Lady Death takes them into her own arms.

They move past trees and stones and hills, ignoring the hiss of a creeper and the whistle of an arrow, because such things do not touch them. They keep moving even as the sky begins to lighten and the hills grow taller and the air grows clearer. Their pearl aches, but Edward does not falter. Their enderling has stopped chirping, has stopped moving entirely; so they must move for them, must sing part of a song they don’t know if they’ll ever truly hear again.

They are cold.

Endersleep could be compared to hibernation, if it weren’t for the fact that for endermen, cold is nothing to be worried about. When an enderman is too warm, it grows drowsy and confused, but when an enderman is cold, its pearl is free, and the colder it gets the more energy it has, until of course it is too cold to move. This is one reason why endermen are nocturnal: to avoid the heat of the sun.

Edward does not slow when they see high stone walls towering over them. They teleport to the other side of them, into the quiet of a city, and they do not quiet their song to match. 

They are looking for one of the non-endermen, someone who has a potion of healing. 

Of course, another reason why endermen are nocturnal is the End, their original habitat. The End is a dimension filled with clusters of endstone islands, floating in the ever-black void. There is not much natural light there.

The city is filled with lights, flames flickering in iron cages hung over every door and at every street corner. It starts to meld together in Edward’s eyes, blurs of orange and yellow smudged with shades of grey and blue. 

There. They come to a halt, shaking the fuzziness out of their vision, and only take one look at the potion bottles in the overworld building before they enter in a silent explosion of purple. 

They can still hear the humming of their enderling’s pearl, soft and weak next to their own loud humming, and it makes them slowly walk around the shop. They regret that they do not know how to read Overscript very well. It takes precious time to make out the characters, and longer to stitch them together to form something understandable. 

Harm. Stre. Fir. They don’t look past the first few letters, knowing enough to remember that Healing starts with none of them. Rej. Po. 

Heal.

Edward knocks the bottle from the shelf with one sweep of their tail, and it shatters on the floor with a sound that seems to cut into their skull. They do not flinch. They find a scrap of cloth, and they drape it over the puddle of potion and glass, so that the liquid seeps in and the glass stays behind. 

They leave, rubbing the dripping cloth on their enderling’s shoulders, and behind them a livid alchemist bursts into the room with curses on his tongue and a gleaming sword in his hand.

It’s hard to say whether James’ research is reliable, though. She dealt with delusions for many years before the end of her life, and there are journals filled cover to cover in nothing but nonsensical scribbling and occasional letters, evidence of one of her more questionable projects. She thought that endermen had their own language, going so far as to claim that they had books and even enchantments, and for the rest of her life she tried to convince everyone she met that endermen were players, not mobs. 

[star-spangledstud]

MIND GAMES - ONE

Summary: You arrive at your new home. Steve is a blank canvas.  

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (Female!)reader

Warnings: none (so far)

Note: Had to reupload cause instead of editing I accidentally deleted it.

Raindrops, heavy and loud against the window beside your head, clash against and glide down the glass in messy, squiggly lines. The title of the song playing on the radio, ‘Soft like Rain’, fits the scene almost perfectly. Almost, because the rain that pitter-patters against the fogged-up window isn’t very soft in nature. In fact, the droplets come down so hard they bang against the roof of the car, its sound almost entirely overtaking the mellow tones of jazzy piano and drums in the background. The lines obscure your vision of Times Square, lights from the streets blown out and blurred to look like colorful stars and wicked shapes in the darkness.

I hope I made the right decision.

Your breath further fogs up the glass when you sigh audibly. A pair of dark eyes can be found eyeing you carefully through the rearview mirror when you sink further down into your seat. They offer you a hint of concern, of uncertainty. Nick Fury doesn’t know whether you’ll be okay or not. He can’t tell just yet, but the glimmer of hope he feels inside tugging at his heartstrings motivates him to give you a shot.

“We’re almost there,” his voice is quiet and deep when he speaks for the first time since picking you up from the airport, “just a few more miles.”

Of course I made the right decision. I always do. When have I ever fucked up?

You nod in response without checking to see if he’s looking at you through the mirror again because he undoubtedly is. After all, it’s all he’s been doing for the last hour. If you were to study the look in his eyes or his inner monologue just a little longer, you’d find out he’s scared. Nick Fury is afraid, both of you and for you, and he doesn’t like it because Nick Fury doesn’t get scared. He’s seen so much, experienced so many horrors in his time that he genuinely didn’t think anything could frighten him any more. Past tense, because the you’ve clearly made him change his mind.

This could be the best thing I ever did, or the worst. Can’t wait to find out which one it is. Cap better not fuck this one up.

There are so many questions you want to ask, but the voice in his head is loud in such a confined space, and nothing appropriate comes to mind. All you can pay attention to is the rumbling of the engine and the occasional ambulance rushing by somewhere in the distance. In the meantime, the song on the radio changes and morphs into something that sounds more melancholic.

When the two of you finally pull up to the compound, the rain has mostly stopped. It’s only drizzling now, tiny drops tickle your face while you brush strands of dampened hair from your forehead. A chill runs along your spine when a gust of wind blows through your open jacket, and you immediately zip it up for extra warmth.

You quickly scan the building, breath hitching in your throat when you notice its sheer size. It’s huge, much larger than where you used to reside, and the bright blue Avengers logo on the front causes your heart to beat a little faster. Seeing that logo makes it real, you think. You’re not so sure if this is the right place to be, but you don’t believe you have a better option. Either way, you told yourself you wouldn’t fuck this one up, and you have no intention to break this promise. This is home now, or at least it will be for a little while, and as intimidating as it is, you’ll have to make it work.

You can adapt, you’ve done it before. Hell, you’ve done it more times than you can remember. It’s extremely easy to make the people around you feel at ease in your presence when you can literally read every single thought they’ve ever had.

“I’ve assigned you to our best agent. He’s going to accompany you wherever you go to keep you safe. You cannot, under any circumstance, leave the building without him. You will listen to him and do what he tells you to do because it’s in your best interest. If you need anything, ask him, and he will provide. Do not tell anyone private information. If you need to vent, tell him,” Fury pauses, waits for you to nod, “no phones, no computers and especially no social media allowed under any circumstances. We need to figure out how much they know first. Don’t worry, we got Tony and Banner on that one.”

Did I get it all? I’m getting too old for this shit.

He watches you intently while you have to stop yourself from chuckling, “Got it?”

You nod.

“I need a verbal confirmation,” he grumbles, sounding annoyed by his own protocol.

“Yes,” you mumble against the whistling wind, “I understand.”

“Good. Let’s get moving, then.”

The opulent, open design of the ground floor greets you warmly when you walk in. Your boots, black and caked with mud, make streaks of brown along the white linoleum with each step you take and creak beneath your feet when you force yourself to move slowly forward. Fury watches your gaze flickering across the entrance and motions for you to follow him to the elevators, which you do silently.

A look of disapproval follows when he notices the trail of mud you’re leaving behind, but he doesn’t say anything. It won’t do him any good to verbalize his annoyance, because you’ve already picked up on it. Still, you drag your feet in an attempt to make him think you aren’t listening.

“Gym is in the basement,” he comments after watching you eye all the buttons inside the elevator, “roof is a terrace and pad for the Quinjets. There’s a penthouse underneath you’ll see soon enough.”

You raise a brow, and to your surprise, he chuckles, “Christmas party.”

“All the other floors include a lab, living quarters, conference rooms with workspaces, IT, a weaponry and gear storage. There’s a training room attached to the building that offers simulations. The building has a common kitchen and living room, a game room, a movie theatre and some other crap. Steve will show you when he has time.”

Your voice is dry and hoarse when you speak, “Steve?”

The elevator comes to a halt on the fifth floor, and before Fury has time to reply, the doors open to reveal a tall, blonde man in the opening. His arms, broad and encased in royal blue wool, are crossed over his chest. He has a stern expression on his face and a deep crease in his brow until he sees you and Fury, standing so far apart both of you are nearly hugging the mirrors on the walls. Fury has some of the loudest thoughts you’ve ever heard, and being stuck in a tiny box doesn’t do the volume any favors.

A glimmer of amusement is evident in his light blue eyes when you get out of the elevator. You look awkwardly at Fury, who’s making no move to follow you into the hallway, leaving you standing with one foot in the hall and one still in the elevator.

“Steve,” Fury says with a nod of his head towards the stranger, “is the agent you’re assigned to. He’s the captain of the team. I’d love to stay and chat, but you know how it is. Things to do, people to see… Keep me posted, Cap. I’ll be back soon for updates.”

He nudges you softly until you fully exit the elevator, and wastes no time pressing the button that will lead him back down to the ground floor. The heaviness of Nick Fury’s presence and the loudness of his inner monologue disappears with him when he leaves. It’s not until the doors close behind you that you feel like you can finally breathe again.

You turn to the man in front of you when you notice how quiet it’s become, and you subconsciously tilt your head to the side when instead of a constant stream of low mumbling and whispering, you hear nothing at all.

Steve raises a brow when he notices the way you’re looking at him. The soft expression on his face falters just a moment, but he recovers quickly, deciding not to allow his concern to show for now.  

“Hey,” he says “I’m Steve Rogers, captain of the team.”

It takes you a while to reply because you’re so focused on listening for his inner voice that you don’t even notice his rosy lips moving.

You swallow down a stream of curses in a variety of languages and force yourself to stand up straight when you realize he’s waiting for you to say something. What the fuck is going on, you think to yourself while you plaster a smile on your face.

“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Y/N,” you reply politely, “nice to meet you.”

“I hope Fury didn’t intimidate you too much,” Steve says with a chuckle, “the first conversation I had with him scared the hell out of me. To be fair, I did think I was still in the 40s.”

You bite your lip and shake your head, grip on the straps of your backpack tightening until your knuckles turn white. You’re glad he doesn’t extend his hand for you to shake. You assume he contemplated it.  Don’t know for sure though, because it’s still quiet up there in his skull. Does this guy even think at all?

“Come on, let me show you to your room.”

Your footsteps echo against the walls when the two of you silently cross the hallway. In total, you count a number of six doors. You tip your chin up when you reach the end and take a moment to study the man’s appearance while he points to the door on the right. He’s even taller and broader than you imagined him to be when Fury pictured him in his mind for you to see. If the upward curl of his lips wasn’t so genuine and soft, you would have been terrified of how big he is.

“This is mine,” he says, “I’m right across the hall if you need anything. This is yours. Usually, the doors open with fingerprint recognition, but you have a key. Nobody else has a copy except for me, for safety reasons. I’m obligated to tell you that you aren’t allowed to make any more copies.”

“Wasn’t going to,” you reply quickly.

He pulls a short, silver key from his back pocket and places it gently in your open, shaky palm. He notices your fingers are shaky when you fumble with the lock and smiles again in an attempt to make you feel more at ease. It’s almost like he can read your mind instead of the other way around. That stupid smile pisses you off.

“You have your own private bathroom,” Steve explains while he follows you inside, “Fury told us you don’t own much, so I asked Natasha to get you some clothes. We can go out and buy you some more if you want, just let me know. Feel free to decorate the place however you want.”

“Natasha?” you ask while looking around.

“The best spy we have. You’ll get along just fine, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll leave you to get settled for now. Don’t hesitate to knock on my door at any time, okay? I’m not supposed to leave for another mission for a few weeks until you get situated. We can explore the compound tomorrow if you’re up for it. Maybe you can meet some of the other team members while we’re at it. No pressure.”

“Thanks,” you swallow thickly, “Steve.”

“You’re safe here,” he presses, “don’t forget that.”

For a brief moment, you wonder how much he really knows. You knowFury’s told him and Tony a watered-down version of what you’ve told him, but the kindness in his voice allows you to believe he hasn’t heard much. Still, you try to enter his brain and find out yourself, but once again you come up with nothing.

You exhale loudly after Steve leaves and take a moment to look around the room you’re now supposed to call yours. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, not yet anyway, and you wonder how long it will take before you find yourself succumbing to a new routine.

You take a shower to warm your bones and wash your hair with the shampoo and conditioner that smell like papaya. The towel you use to dry off is too fluffy for your liking, and a look in the mirror reveals dark circles and sunken in cheeks. It’s fine, you think. You haven’t recognized yourself in years.

Your backpack finds its way onto the bed, which is big enough for at least three people to sleep in. You follow shortly after, arms spread wide across the silky, forest green sheets until you sink down so far they almost wholly envelop you. Your hair is sprawled messily across the pillows. They smell like lavender and fresh cotton, and the scent is so relaxing and calming that within just several minutes of staring up at the ceiling, you drift off into a dreamless sleep.

When you wake up in a cold sweat several hours later, your hands are curled tightly in small fists around the silk sheets that cling to your legs. It’s hot in your room even though the chills along your arms would suggest otherwise, and your eyes frantically scan the shadows that seem to momentarily engulf you. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, and while you lie there in the dark, for several minutes, the only thing you can see is the vague outline of the face of a man.

As images from the dream you’ve just woken up from begin to fade, your heartrate slows down enough for you to remember where you are. You push the covers away from you and get up out of bed. You consider making a trip to the kitchen to get yourself something to eat, but you have no clue where the kitchen is located. Irritation pricks at your skin when your stomach rumbles loudly in the deafening silence, and five seconds later you’re stomping through the hallway with one goal in mind; to find something to eat.

The memory of Fury pointing out which floors of the building contain which rooms replays in your mind while you speedwalk through the hallway. You try to make a mental map of the compound for future reference just as you round the first corner, and in your state of tiredness and annoyance fueled by hunger, you don’t have time to realize Steve Rogers is on the other side of that corner.

Before he slams into you chest-first, his arms stretch out in front of him out of reflex. He grabs onto your shoulders and holds you steady while the both of you inhale sharply. Your head shoots up to meet his gaze, and he quickly releases his grip. What are the odds?

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, “I didn’t see you.”

You didn’t hear him. That’s what you really want to say, but it wouldn’t make sense.

“I can tell,” he replies, “What are you doing awake?”

He’s tired, you can tell by the raspiness of his voice and the droopiness of his eyes, but he’s trying to hide his exhaustion by showing concern.

“I’m not trying to bail,” you cross your arms, “if that’s what you think.”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, “didn’t think it, either.”

I wouldn’t know, you think. 

You take a step back to study his face for a moment, unaware that you haven’t answered his question. When the silence between the two of you becomes nearly unbearably heavy, you finally speak up.

Your cheeks heat up, and you swallow thickly, “I was hungry.”

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, “of course. I’m so sorry, I should’ve given you something to eat. The kitchen’s all the way at the end of the hall, on the right. Fridge should be stocked. I think there might be some leftovers, if Sam hasn’t eaten them already. I gotta go, see you in the morning.”

As you watch him walk away in the opposite direction, you can’t help but wonder what the rush is all about. Perhaps he’s really eager to get back in bed, you muse, although you doubt that’s the real reason why he’s speedwalking away from his room in the middle of the night.

NEXT CHAPTER.

[atariince]

Anathema - Chapter 14: New Strings

You can find the complete fanfiction on SWG or AO3 (and a bit late for the Fëanorian week, but oh well)

The Fëanorian lords shamelessly play with their influence in Nargothrond… Finrod, and to a lesser extent Celebrimbor, are confused.

He could already hear the echoes of their cheering.

Already the smell of mirth and relief. Of gratitude and of something that resembled hope.

And he knew it was real, not the fruit of his delusional dreams.

“Hurray ! Hurray! May the glory of the Sons of Fëanor shine !”

And as they got closer, their horses’ hooves carefully and slowly finding their way between the heaps of grass that stood between them and the Gates of Nargothrond, Curufinwë glanced at his brother beside him. There was a wide smile on Tyelkormo’s face, and on his cheeks, wrinkles of pride seemed to merge with the spots of dry blood. A thick, black blood which was not his own.

“Are you ready, brother?” asked Tyelkormo as soon as he caught his little brother’s gaze on him.

Curufinwë turned his head to look in front of him again, his eyes falling on the crowd standing in the pale daylight. His fingers tightened on the reins, his mare slew down and came to a halt.

“Not now, Curvo…” mumbled his brother, and the few steps between them couldn't keep Curufinwë from catching the slight irritation in his voice.

He tightened his thighs, and the mare instantly set forth, a slow trot to catch up with Tyelkormo, who whistled a couple of times. The hounds, who had been lazily following them since they had left the fields of Tumhalad and the tinkling melody of the waters of Ginglith, gathered around them. All but one. Huan, at his master’s demand, was taking a few steps ahead, running happily towards the gates and barking loudly as to announce the arrival of the lords.

Useless, as the people in front of the Caves had caught the sight of them many miles before, and since then, the crowd had never stopped growing, bringing together both dignitaries and servants, Ñoldor and Sindar. And amongst them, standing proudly at the midst of this joyful group, his son.

Tyelperinquar moved forwards to welcome the giant hound, patted his huge head with a smile, and when his eyes moved back on his approaching father, this same smile hadn’t left his lips.

There was a pang in Curufinwë’s chest. His lips trembled a little, but he couldn’t keep his own smile hidden any longer.

“What a glorious idea you had Curvo, to send Tyelperinquar ahead so he could tell them what happened and announce our return.”

“Not my idea, Turco. His.”

The only idea he could be praised for was that of this hunting party. His primary feat had been to convince his son to join them. Yet now that he looked back on it, he wondered if Tyelperinquar had really needed to be convinced in the first place.

Beneath the leather of his gloves, his own skin was burning. Thousands of needles piercing the severed flesh as he tightly held the reins.

But he was used to it now.

“Hurray! May the light of Arda shine upon our lords !”

The cries of bliss didn’t dwindle, and the excitement and relief in their eyes was becoming clearer as the two brothers got closer.

They dismounted, and Tyelperinquar walked up to them, closely followed by two of their people who immediately caught the reins of their horses and took them to the stables for a few well deserved cares.

“You are late”, laughed Tyelperinquar. “The whole of Nargothrond has been expecting you since last night.”

“Your uncle needed his ankle to be tended”, answered Curufinwë. “We had to make one last halt before we left Tumhalad for good.”

“My ankle is perfectly fine!” retorted Tyelkormo, circling them with a few strides. “See? not a single limp.”

Curufinwë and his son shared a conniving look.

“I am glad to see you, father.”

A slight bow of his head, that was the only answer he managed to give. And already, the people of Nargothrond were gathering around them, their cries of joy turning into songs.

O fell wolves who roam the wood

Beware the blow of their mighty blade

Doomed demons see their dark mood

For their fiery force shall never fade.

No fiend the kin of Fëanor shall fear,

Lords of light in wrath shall lead

A hopeful hunt in a haunted sphere,

For their famous feat we pour some mead !

“I could do with some mead, indeed!” cried Tyelkormo who seemed to delight in the praises.

And as he stepped amongst them, accepting the grateful pats on his back with loud laughter, Curufinwë stepped aside the euphoria, although he too could feel the waves of a new warmth caressing the edges of his heart.

Tyelperinquar hadn’t left his side, nor had his smile left his face.

“Where is the king? ”Curufinwë asked quietly.

The only answer he received was a questioning look, followed by a shrug. But Curufinwë barely noticed it, his mind already picturing the frustrating face of his noble cousin. His jaw relaxed and the severity of his face decreased, giving way to a peaceful lustre as he joined his brother amidst the crowd.

“I really do not understand what all this fuss is about”, said Tyelkormo, raising a brow between two sips, “after all, we simply slay a dozen of beasts, which had not even reached the neighbouring lands…. Nothing exceptional.”

Curufinwë was watching him, fingers dancing on the edge of his goblet. And so his brother continued:

“Mind you, Curvo, I am not complaining about the praises and whatnot, a well-deserved acknowledgement of our strains, at last ! But, still…can we call that our greatest feat… ? besides, it is not like we never hunted down those fiends before…”

Cooped in a small and comfortable room, happily away from the blissful agitation that reigned in the caves, the three Ñoldor were enjoying the evening. After a long bath and a longer moment of deep meditation, alone in front of his mirror, Curufinwë had eventually joined the festivities of the main hall where he had vainly expected to see the king. Without the satisfaction of seeing his reaction, there had been nothing much tot do but to find a quiet place where he, his brother and hi son would be able to put the situation into perspective.

“They do not care,” he answered, resting his elbows on the table. “They only want to know they are safe, nothing more. How we keep them safe, the dangers we face, or even the true nature of the threats… it interests them little. They just need to know they can breathe light-heartedly. And I cannot blame them… most of this people has already seen too much–”

“And have we not seen too much as well…?” asked Tyelperinquar hastily, cutting off his father’s speech.

The young Ñoldo had been quiet the whole evening, and although he was still bearing a genuine smile each time his gaze met that of his father, there has been something in his eyes which Curufinwë couldn’t decipher. The shadow of a doubt, perhaps, the distant echo of suspicion.

“Indeed”, his father replied, “yet we are their lords, and as such we are expected to shield them against such evils.”

“But most of them are warriors too, most of them can fight.”

“Tyelperinquar is right, Curvo.” Tyelkormo had finally put down his cup, obviously decided to take part in the discussion. “The people of Nargothrond fought before, they can – they will – do it again.”

Curufinwë’s eyes travelled from his brother to his son for a moment. He had a head start on them, but they didn’t know it. And that was for the best.

“They do not want to,” he simply said, rubbing his palms together. “And that is precisely where we step in, for their unwillingness to fight is both our chance and our bane.”

“What do you mean, father?”

The cloud in Tyelperinquar’s eyes seemed to thicken, and Curufinwë looked away. He laid back in his chair and managed to smile. A trembling smile, but a sympathetic one.

“Nothing. At least, for now. There is a lot of work to do.”

Tyelperinquar frowned a little, but he said nothing more. As for Tyelkormo he seemed lost in his own thoughts, eyes fixed on his goblet.

The light around them flickered a bit, as a deep and strangely peaceful silence fell over the room. They could hear the voices behind the door, the singing and hand-clapping. The caves felt warmer than ever, at least since the Fëanorians had settled in, more than eight years before.

“How is Huan?” Suddenly asked Tyelperinquar. “I did not see him tonight.”

“My boy is resting, too content with the large leg of lamb he had for dinner to bother himself with us.” Pride was cheerfully dancing on Tyelkormo’s eyes as he answered. “The hounds are exhausted, but none of them is seriously hurt.”

“Thank Eru,” smiled Tyelperinquar.

“Tyelko,” called Curufinwë with a gentle voice, “do you remember that hunt with Tauros’ host, when Huan called you on your eagerness ?”

A loud laughter escaped his brother’s lips, and he tossed his head backward and shifted on his seat.

“If I remember it? He would not let me go after that boar!”

“You lacked precision, and patience.”

“Huan taught me patience.”

“Did he really?” Asked Curufinwë, raising a sceptical brow.

“Oh come on, brother! I was still young; don’t you tell me I have not learned from those mistakes!”

Tyelperinquar was eagerly listening to the joyful recollection. His father was watching him from the corner of his eyes when he saw his son’s smile getting wider and the clouds in his eyes getting thinner. He carried on with the easing memories.

“Even Irissë would blame you for losing tracks of the beast.”

“Irissë would have blamed her own mother if only to avoid questioning her own skills.”

“There was not much to question about her skills.”

A pause. The two bothers looked into each other eyes, nostalgia, affection, and playfulness mingling in their gaze And suddenly this acrid pang again, right in his plexus, like a harsh blow in his chest. Curufinwë held his breath.

“She used to be a mighty hunter,” said Tyelkormo after a moment. “She would always manage to get the better of me.”

Finally, Curufinwë took a deep breath. It was painful, the air running through the tensed throat and reaching his stiff chest.

Tyelperinquar had lowered his head, and from where he stood, Curufinwë could only see his frowning brow behind the dark curtain of his hair.

He couldn’t let this happen. Not now. Not when all seemed to go so well.

“Tyelperinquar, you know this lovely necklace you made for the celebration of her begetting day?”

“What about it ?“ he whispered, slowly raising up his gaze. “I was but a child then, there was nothing lovely about it…”

Curufinwë gave a gentle smile. “It was one of the first pieces you actually completed. And she loved it.”

“Did she?”

“Oh yes!” barked Tyelkormo excitedly. “Even your mother was jealous for not getting a similar gift.”

Curufinwë winced. Why?

He closed his eyes a few seconds, and this time, the silence that swallowed the room was painfully awkward. When he looked again, Tyelperinquar had lowered his head, hiding again behind the thick, dark threads.

“I know for sure that Aulë himself was impressed,” tried Curufinwë, his voice but a soft and quiet murmur.

No reaction from either side. He sighed.

Tyelkormo picked up his glass and hide his nose into it as long as he could.

I meant not to mention her, Curvo… forgive me.

The thought was coming from Tyelkormo. Curufinwë did not even begin to give the semblance of an answer, but he didn’t want to believe that all that he was building would eventually crumble like this. His life couldn’t become a mere heap of ruins. Not yet.

“May I go, father? I… am exhausted.”

Curufinwë gave a slow nod, and soon after his son had left the room. Now, he could see his brother was avoiding meeting his gaze, although he had lost nothing of his confident countenance.

Any reproach would be useless, Curufinwë knew that; a dirty compress on an infected wound.

“Curvo…”

“Not now.”

“No, I mean… you did a great job.”

He froze, unsure and confused. His questioning look didn’t bring any answer; no matter what Tyelkormo was referring to, he seemingly had no intention to make it clear.

Curufinwë grasped his goblet and emptied it with one quick sip, the warmth of the mead softly tickling his stomach.

“I did my best.”

“Good day, my lord.”

“The light of Varda be with you, lord Curufin.”

“Please my lord Curufin, take this with you, it will bring you much luck and happiness.”

“Enjoy your day, lord Curufin.”

So many bows, so many praises and respectful acknowledgements. Just like before, in Himlad. Just like it should have always been here, in Nargothrond.

His fingers toying with the trinket received from the hands of this young Elda with the lovely dress and the kind smile, he kept walking along the main corridor of the caves, and the shadow of a smile was floating on his lips. His chin was high, his eyes scanning the faces around, his senses sharpened by the lack of sleep. Only an occasional twitch of his left eye. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that would betray him.

As he opened the large door of the King’s office, he knew what to expect. And he was not disappointed.

Felagund was sitting behind his desk, aloof and grave, both of his hands resting flat in front of him. As soon as Curufinwë stepped in, a pinched smile appeared on his lips, but his eyes said nothing.

“Good morning, king Felagund… cousin,” said Curufinwë spiritedly.

“Curufinwë… I was not expecting you so early. Good morning to you.”

“I was told you expected to see me.”

“Indeed, indeed. I… I just believed you would have preferred to rest this morning, after those straining adventures of yours… about which must have been said since your return.”

Curufinwë sat down in the chair appointed for visitors, and relaxed a little, his eyes never living the king’s face.

“Oh, really?” he breathed. “And may I ask what was said.”

The king gestured vaguely, shaking his hand as to discard the question. “Mostly rumours, I guess. I would prefer to have first-hand information… from you. What news from the North, cousin?”

“Have you got no scouts to bring you this sort of information?” asked Curufinwë, arms now crossed over his chest.

“My scouts do not cross the limits of the realm, and I was told you fought in the fields far beyond the crossing of Narog and Ginglith. Is that true?”

Curufinwë didn’t bother answering. He took a deep breath and smiled. And so the king continued:

“I suppose I should thank you. This is why you came here so early… am I wrong, cousin?”

“Who am I to tell the king what to do?” Answered Curufinwë with a playful smirk.

The king gave out a loud sigh, in which Curufinwë could detect both frustration and confusion. “Listen, Curufinwë, I appreciate your effort to keep the realm safe, but there was no need to hunt beyond those borders… the beasts of the North never cross the fields of Tumhalad, and there is a good reason for that: they know my people would greet them with as so many arrows. Your feat may be impressive, and admirable… but I am afraid it was useless, cousin.”

A sharp laugh broke through Curufinwë’s lips. He would have clapped his hands if decency wasn’t keeping him from such sarcasm.

“Ooh, Findaráto… I greatly doubt your people is of the same mind. To be fair, O royal cousin, they all look profoundly relieved, and grateful to us for having rid the realm of those threats… at last!”

“Be careful, Curufinwë,” said the king quietly, looking down at his own fingers dancing slowly on his desk. “You are still a guest here, no matter how potent your words might ring over the council table.”

“A guest, indeed,” nodded Curufinwë gleefully, “but one who is not afraid to execute a duty the king should have contemplated long ago. And your people know that.”

“Did you not listen to me? “ Spat the king, suddenly standing up. “There was no real threat in Tumhalad!”

The shot had reached its target. Curufinwë was delighted.

“How do you explain then, the sudden contentment of your people, and the new lightness of their heart ?” he asked slowly, gently even, plainly enjoying the situation.

“They know nothing of what happens beyond the limits of their eyesight.”

Curufinwë gave a loud hiss, accompanied by a slight wince. “That is not a way to talk about one’s own people, O king.”

Felagund looked confused. He was obviously straining to pull himself together, but Curufinwë could not tell if his cousin had been expected the conversation to take this turn. The Fëanorian at least, was prepared.

Bringing his hands together, Felagund walked around his desk to stand behind his cousin’s chair, looking down at him as he would have done with a mongrel. “You can enjoy your fame while it lasts, Curufinwë, and delight in the little influence it will grant you. But do not expect much of it, for this will not endure. I know those lands, my lands, and I know our enemies. You have challenged the power of the north by trespassing those limits...”

“Do you really believe the enemy cares about your limits?” retorted Curufinwë, now serious again, a new severity imbuing his voice.

The king looked away, obviously pondering those words.

“Listen, Findaráto, all I wish for is the safety of this realm, and the happiness of our – your people. And what do you think they want?"

Felagund, it seemed, had noticed his cousin’s slip of tongue. Curufinwë could tell from the sharp light that sparkled for a second in his eyes.

“They want to protect their home….” mused the king, slowly walking back to his ornate chair and sitting down.

“And they already know about the fell beasts roaming around the borders of those lands, Findaráto. They know some actions must be taken; they know we cannot hide forever. They want to protect their home, instead of watching us blatantly lazing around in our gold.”

This was going too well. Much too well. Unless it was but another of Felagund’s tricks. Curufinwë was on guard, but showed nothing of it. His hand instinctively reached his pocket where he found that trinket again, and he fingered it absent-mindedly, waiting for the king to make up his mind.

“What are you really suggesting here, Curufinwë?”

“Nothing you cannot do, King Felagund,” he asserted with a smile which he kept as friendly as possible. “Give them a reason to believe that the king is ready to fight, that he will not hide any longer. That he would sacrifice anything to defeat their fears.”

Felagund was watching intently into his cousin’s eyes, his own fingers toying with his rings, mirroring Curufinwë’s movement.

“Do you really believe they no longer count on discretion? That they would actually fight again?

“Discretion is crucial, but what happened yesterday proved that they expect a more active involvement in this war… And in the meanwhile,” continued Curufinwë, preparing his last blow, “my brother, my son and I will keep on enjoying that little fame you mentioned earlier. That fame that stemmed from the acknowledgement of those who really wish and actually try to protect those lands.”

On that, he stood up, leaving the king at a loss (that he knew) and caring little for the silent resentment which had invaded the room.

“Curufinwë, wait,” came the king’s voice as he was opening the door, and there was nothing but silence and stillness for a moment. “Perhaps… you may be right.”

Curufinwë turned around and their eyes met again, intense and stern from both sides.

“Perhaps it has to do with… that foresight, the powerful feeling I had that I would…”

Curufinwë was all ears, still and waiting eagerly.

“I only told my sister about it, but now… I feel it is getting closer.”

He let Felagund talk, he had to let him reveal what was in his mind, what he had been hiding  for so long. He could see the words dancing silently on his cousin’s lips, hesitating. But Felagund swallowed them back.

Curufinwë sighed.

“Thank you for your advices, cousin, be they genuine or not,” said the king, taking a deep breath. “I will think about it. You may go.”

Curufinwë closed the heavy doors behind him and waited a few seconds, if only to make sure no more words would escape the king’s study.

A foresight?

“Look father, a young child put this lovely drawing on the threshold of you study. They did very well with that portrait of you. Do you see? They even included your sword here, and… is that a smile on your face ? how creative!

Curufinwë chuckled, and peaked at the child’s drawing. There was indeed a smile on his face.

“Be not so sarcastic, my son.”

“You are right, I am unfair; you have been smiling a lot more lately.”

“Have I?”

Tyelperinquar sat down beside his father, and he silently watched him rummage through the many scrolls covering the desk.

“You should take a break, father. It seems like you have not stepped out of this room for a whole week.”

Finally finding the parchment he was looking for, Curufinwë unrolled it, picked up a quill and started to amend it carefully.

“People are looking up to me. This is not the moment to disappoint them.”

“Perhaps”, answered Tyelperinquar thoughtfully, “but it does not mean you ought to accept duties which are not supposed to be yours. You do not need more influence in here, and you already have enough responsibilities.”

“You do not understand, Tyelperinquar.”

“Explain me then. Tell me why it is so important for you to control everything.”

Curufinwë froze, the tension in his shoulders waking up and sending flashes of pain along his back.

“Who talked of control?” he asked quietly, putting down the parchment. “I am barely trying to carry out all the things the king has been ignoring in the past few years.”

His son shook his head but gave no reply.

“Listen Tyelperinquar, I am covering ourselves here, that is all.”

“Stop treating me like a child!” he finally exploded, his fist hitting his father’s desk. “Artaresto  is younger than I, and he has been appointed vice regent of this realm! why can you not trust me? Why can you not let me know about your plans?”

“Is that what you want ? To become the vice regent of Nargothrond?” asked Curufinwë, an eyebrow raised, midway between sarcasm and sheer interest.

“I do not fancy this sort of power, father. You, more than anyone else, should know that by now.”

“What power do you fancy then, my child.”

“Enough, father!”

Curufinwë bent forward, moving slightly closer to his son, who would not look at him.

“I am serious, Tyelperinquar. You used the word power, and I would very much like to know what you put behind it.”

“This is not the point.”

“Knowledge.”

“What?”

“The power you seek. It is knowledge, is it not?”, asked Curufinwë, as in confidence.

There was a short silence, only troubled by the song of the fountain that adorned and refreshed the room.

“And you will not let me have it,” said Tyelperinquar, now looking straight into his father’s eyes.

“It is a dangerous power, son. Cruel even, to those who yearn for it.”

“How cruel was it to you?”

Curufinwë leaned back, and looked up at the ceiling, thoughtful. There was so much to say, and yet there was nothing he would say.

“Father, you always tell me I have much more to learn, but you keep on refusing to teach me more… pretending some sort of danger. Why? What do you fear? Tell me please!”

Caught by the trembling of Tyelperinquar’s voice, his gaze left the ceiling to fall back on his son’s pleading eyes. He was right: he was no longer a child.  There was strength, cunning and wisdom in him, and nothing in Arda would ever match the power of his fëa. Bright and fierce, a crystal piercing the darkness crawling around. Too bright maybe, for his father to behold.

What did he fear… ?

“Son of mine, I…” he marked a pause to take his breath, and at this very moment, Tyelkormo burst into the room, caring little for the interruption.

“Excellent news, Curvo !” he cried joyfully, striding to his brother’s desk. “Oh hello, dear nephew, how are you doing ? haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I am… fine”, answered Tyelperinquar. “Father and I were discussing his responsibilities.”

Curufinwë relaxed a little. Not enough, apparently.

“I see”, mused Tyelkormo, giving his brother a questioning look which Curufinwë preferred to ignore.  “Well, I guess this is a perfect timing to tell you what I have just learned, since it might eventually affect our responsibilities.”

Curufinwë suddenly sat up, all ears. “Did Canyorë learn anything?”

Tyelkormo answered with a nod, and a smile which was more meaningful than it looked.

“Wait… what has Canyorë got to do with all this?”, asked Tylperinquar.

Catching a chair and hastily straddling it, Tyelkormo started to speak with a low voice, but excitement sparkled within each words.

“There has been rumours among the people, Curvo...” he said, ‘rumours about the king and ooooh, I would not like to walk in his shoes right now.”

“Father, are you using Canyorë to spy on the people? Uncle, is that it? ”

“He is part of our people, Tyelperinquar. This is no spying…” answered Curvo calmly, slowly.

“Indeed”, Tyelkormo added, “he is just like any of them, like any inhabitant of Nargothrond listening to his neighbours, exchanging thoughts and opinions about…”

“He is one of your must trusted henchmen, uncle. Your friend.”

“And so what?” grumbled Tyelkormo. “What does it exactly change.”

“Everything!”

“Tyelperinquar, please,” called Curufinwë, now tired of the continuous interruption. “Your uncle has something to say.”

No reaction from his son, not even a frustrated sigh. Only this cloud, back in his eyes.

“Rumour has it,” whispered Tyelkormo, apparently glad to deliver the information at last, “that the king is hiding shamefully in his chambers, cowardly sneaking away from his people as to not face a truth he would be unwilling to face. Not my words, of course.”

The tension in Curufinwë’s shoulders vanished. Not that he was truly surprised, but he would not deny himself the warmth of a certain relief. He gazed at his son: still no reaction, but Curufinwë could tell he was listening carefully.

“Besides”, continued Tyelkormo, “our names might have been floating on many lips lately: comparisons might have been made between our reactivity, and the king’s…how did they say again? oh yes, his lethargic handling of the situation.”

Curufinwë managed to keep a neutral expression, but the flame of victory was already bubbling in his stomach.

“Well,” murmured Tyelperinquar after a moment, “I suppose it secures our presence here, which is… good. Although, it is all but fair for King Felagund. He did nothing wrong.”

“Did he not, really?” chuckled Tyelkormo.

Curufinwë didn’t say anything, but he noticed the confusion on his son’s face.

“It also means more work for you, father… you must be glad.”

“I shall do what I have to do.”

His answer didn’t seem to satisfy his son, but Tyelkormo looked delighted:

“Felagund had it coming, had he not, Curvo? One only reaps what ones sows. ”There was confidence and determination in his voice, and pride too. “As for ourselves we have nothing to be ashamed of; we took actions, we were successful, and that was exactly what they all expected.”

Curufinwë gave a nod, followed by a discreet but no less confident smile.

“I wonder yet,” began Tyelperinquar, his hand rubbing the tip of his chin, “Those rumours… where are they coming from ?”

“From the people, I suppose,” answered Tyelkormo genuinely. “I mean, they must have stemmed from their weariness, their worries, and were comforted by what we did in Tumhalad.”

Curufinwë kept silent. He grabbed a few scrolls in front of him and started to tidy up his desk. But Tyelperinquar wasn’t done with the subject.

“Those words they say about the king… they ring so harshly… too harshly maybe for a people who had so strongly believed in him. The flame of their angst must have been kindled somehow… by someone.”

Busy with his documents, inks, quills, and files, Curufinwë pretended not to notice the severe gaze that fell upon him.

“Who ever did this”, said Tyelkormo standing up and stretching his arms, “they surely had legit reasons. They were dissatisfied, and they spoke their mind.”

“Did they, really?” insisted the youngest Ñoldo, still staring at his father.

Curufinwë closed the box containing his favourites quills and stood up as well. He would not look at his son, not now, but he couldn’t keep on ignoring the tension. He smiled.

“Alright, let us see if there is anything we can do to assuage this imminent uproar“, he said. “We do not want those rumours to go gangrenous, do we?”

On that, he picked up his cloak and headed to the door, well-aware of his son’s intense glare upon his shoulder. They left.

“How did you do that, Curvo?” Asked Tyelkormo eventually as the two brothers were walking down the aisle that opened on the main hall, followed and greeted by kind and respectful faces, by words of trust and admiration.

“Do what?”

And Curufinwë smiled.

[eerythingisshaka]

Manhattan’s Finest

First Part

[Dr. Manhattan x Black Reader]

Word Count: 2.4K

The crowd erupts after the final song from the play ‘It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane!  It’s Dr. Manhattan!’  Whistles and cheers fill the auditorium as the performers take a bow, receiving gifts from loved ones in the audience.  

You cheer along with them all, having enjoyed the play more than you expected to.  A friend of yours was supposed to come along but flaked out at the last minute.  It’s fine, at $95 a ticket, you would’ve loved to have used their ticket on dinner instead but life is shit.  

You wait for the auditorium to clear out before you get going yourself.  It is much better not walking over people and pushing into each other as much as possible.  When you make it outside, the muggy air makes you instantly miss the air conditioning inside the theater.  Another $95 for a cool breeze would be worth it.

“(y/n)”

You look to your left seeing a man in a suit with a blue mask.  His skin is also tinted blue, somewhere between winterfresh gum and blue raspberry jolly ranchers.

“Hi?  Oh, are you one of the performers?!”  you ask excitedly, running up to him, but being taken aback by how tall he is.  “You were awesome up there.  There were a couple Manhattans but were you the one that sang ‘Blue is the Blood that Runs Cold’?  Because man, I have never heard a vibrato like that.  It was very impressive.”

“I am not a performer in this production,”  he says flatly.

You cock your head to the side, observing his manner.  “But...then why all the blue?  And did I introduce myself, because I don’t remember telling you.”

“You do, later on in the evening.”

You blink a couple times.  “I’m going home to bed after your play.  How could I be talking to you?”

“As I said, I am not a performer or member of staff on this production.  And I am sorry that you cannot afford the dinner with your unrequited love tonight who is making love to his superior right now, but in time it will-”

“Whoa, what the hell did you just say?  His boss?  And what do you mean?  I don’t love him!”

Unshifting, he continues, “I believe love can exist even in one sided instances.  I am finding myself in that position right now by the end of the week.”

You take a step towards him and then to the side, watching him follow your movement.  “Ok, I just had to make sure you have eyes under there.  You’re stiff as hell.”

He gives a small chuckle that makes you laugh nervously.  “Heh, what’s funny?”

“That is what you say to me when we take the train back to your place.  You enjoy public displays of affection, both innocent and explicit.”

You groan with disgust.  “I haven’t done shit like that a day in my life.  How dare you!”

“You do not, because of fear and weak men.  You’ve gone all your life thus far picking unattainable partners because you do not see yourself worthy of the ones that truly excite you.”

You cross your arms, growing all the more impatient.  “Who are you?”

“I am Dr. Manhattan.”

“PFFFFF!  HAHAHA!”  You laugh out loud, causing passersby to stare.  “You are too much!”

He scoffs, making you question him again.  “If I tell you, you will become physical.”

“Try me, nothing is wilder than saying you are Dr. Manhattan.”

“That phrase you said ‘you are too much’, is something you say during the heat of passion as I penetrate you in the foyer of your home.”

Hearing this makes your blood boil, feeling disrespected is something you refuse to tolerate.  You push your hands against his chest hard; he barely flinches, instead lowering his head.

“You’re a perverted bastard is what you are!  Take that fucking mask off coward, so I know whose ass I’m finna beat.”

“I cannot remove my mask.  It would draw too much attention.”

“HA!  But telling a random woman that she’s gonna be stroking your dick by midnight isn’t attention seeking?”

“11:38 pm.”

“What?”  you ask exasperatedly.  

“11:38 pm, not midnight.  It is 10:15 now, with a 20 minute walk to the station and another 20 minute wait after just missing your train added to your travel time, it will be 11:38 pm.”

“I AM DONE HERE!  Have a shitty night!”  You walk away, looking back just once.  “And no one really likes Dr. Manhattan except for his huge dick which I am sure you are lacking!” Your heels clack down the sidewalk furiously with the snap of your heel.  Steam practically rises off of your body as you think back to the imbecile who couldn’t keep it in his pants.  You come up to an intersection and check your phone, which sparks the thought of how he knew about your name and your date bailing and if there was any truth to why he stood you up.

“Is it better for you that I prove myself to be Dr. Manhattan?”

You jump a little too close to the curb, steadying yourself on a nearby pole.  “You aren’t him, just shut up about it.”

“But you are curious, aren’t you?”

You look blankly at the road, running over what he said to you before  again.  “What’s his name?”

“Whose?”

You roll your eyes.  “If you are Dr. Manhattan, you would know who I am talking about.”

“I do, I just...need to hear you ask it,” he says.

The cross signal goes on and you begin to strut across.  “Oh, is there going to be a rip in the space time continuum if I don’t do things exactly as you predict?”

“They are not predictions but current events.  This is already the past.”

You look back at him walking next to you and it unnerves you how he is able to keep up with your hurried stride like a swan on water.  He doesn’t sound anxious or out of breath and his body has no bounce even when he steps.

You stop in a quiet part of the street, taking out your phone to turn on the flashlight, beaming it in his face.  “What is my date’s name?”

“Crawford.  You like that name very much, like Redford or Ashford.”

You pause for a second in silence.  “What does he do for a living?”

“Marketing, not unlike yourself.  He is up for a promotion but his relationship with his superior is making him feel insecure about his worthiness of moving up in his company however he is in love with her.”

Your heart caves in a little at the word love.  You didn’t think an office fling would come to that, so soon.  

“He shared many things with you, vulnerably.  They were truthful, so you should not regret those moments.  However, opening yourself up to him has only led to your heartbreak sooner.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  you ask softly, feeling tears swell up in your eyes.

He takes a beat before continuing.  “You took his vulnerability as a sign of trust and therefore evidence that he loves you but because of his strife, you thought it would take time.  However, he was only using you for his own gain.  You gave him advice that you thought would make him see you as the object of his affection but it instead pushed him further into her arms.”

You scoff, making a tear jump down your cheek.  You turn the phone light off, trying your best to hide your emotion.  “I still don’t believe you.”

You pull up your friend’s phone number and dial him.  The trill of the call ringing in your ear is painful, so you hang up and text him.

“That will be regrettable tomorrow.”

“Yeah I know.  Dr. Manhattan doesn’t have to tell me that for it to be true.”  You walk down the street at a slower pace, allowing him to walk next to you without resistance.  

“Ok.  Manhattan, huh?  I’m (y/n).”

“I know,” he says lightly.

“Of course you do.  So even though you aren’t from the play, you do know what the play is about right?  They didn’t say anything original that everybody doesn’t already think.”

“I find people’s fixation on my purpose to be distracting.  When the world has developed exponentially over the decades and yet resists change in its most basic forms should be infuriating enough to not dwell on me.”

You tweak your mouth, impressed by his analysis.  “I can’t fault you for that.  But a blue guy from space with powers is an interesting subject.  And you’re usually taller right?”

“I don’t need the attention from that,” he says.

“But blue skin isn’t distracting?”  you quip.

“I don’t choose forms on a whim.  There has to be purpose.”

“So what purpose do you have here with me?  Or am I a stepping stone to somewhere else, because that is a popular feature of mine,” you say deflated.

“You are a beacon of positive energy, which is attractive to most.  But not everyone deserves it.”

“So you are going to mentor me?”

“I am going to love you, and you will love me.  In time.”

You throw your hands in the air in frustration.  “How can you when you don’t know me!”

“But I do,”  he says, stopping at the entrance of the train station, to open the door for you.

“Fine.  Dog’s name.”

“Shrek.”

“Favorite movie?”

“The Color Purple.”

“Third grade teacher’s name?”

“Mr. Rideau, and I believe you had a crush on him.”

“NO!  I did not!”  You walk past him in a huff, completely embarrassed that he outed your interest in your teacher in public like that.  You trot down the stairs, expecting your train to arrive in a minute but instead you see that very train pulling off as your hop off the last step.  

“Dammit!”  You collect your composure and plop down on a bench to await the next arrival.  Dr. Manhattan slinks next to you.  

You check him out in your peripheral, looking behind your shoulder.  “You should really not be blue waiting on the train.  No one here knows about the show so you stick out like a sore thumb.”

Dr. Manhattan looks slowly at his hands, before turning to you.  “I could change, if you like.”

You sigh.  “If I had a dollar for every man who told me that.”  Looking straight into the black holes of his mask is unnerving to you, feeling a chill run down your spine makes you shiver.

“It’s probably for the best, because this is freaking me out.”

“What would you like for me to look like?”

You shrug.  “I can just build you piece by piece?”

He nods.  “Essentially.”

You look Manhattan up and down in a complete loss.  “I don’t have time for details.  When I think of a man I just want them tall, big pockets and a bigger dick.”  This sparks a thought in your mind, making you slide slightly closer to him.  “Ok, I know you not about that musical or rumors, but is it true about…”  You point toward his lap inconspicuously.

“That I am well endowed?  Ah well, those measures are up to the individual.  You may see for yourself if you like.” 

Your body rears back in surprise.  “That’s probably what you were looking for this whole time!  You’re ridiculous.”

Dr. Manhattan sits unphased.  “I won’t force you to, but I know you will.  I mentioned it before.  I know this is a fantasy of yours, despite my person being involved.”

“So I can just rub on your dick and it means nothing for you?  That’s almost disappointing...but this night has already been wild, so feeling up a stranger ain’t far off.”  You look around the practically empty station, taking your hand slowly up his thigh until you felt something solid and girthy.

“You’re stiff as hell!”  you exclaim, quickly taking your hand back.

“It is a normal state in which I remain in this form.”

“And it’s blue just like you huh?”

“Correct.”

You shake your head.  “I don’t think I have it in me to look, so I’ll take your word for it.”

An announcement comes on saying your train is arriving soon.  You check your phone; it’s 10:54pm.  

“Listen.  There’s no way I can sit with you blue on this damn train.  So what do you do, hocus pocus into a Black man?”

“It helps to have a reference in mind,” he says.

“You think for a beat before taking out your phone and looking through Instagram.  “If I show you a picture, will that do?”

“Of course.  I can emulate imagery.”

You look through your feed as quick as you can pulling up the profile, and your favorite picture.

“Him.   Can you change into him?”

His face leans into your phone for a moment.  In the time it takes for you to blink, a blue light flashes and before you is the man from your feed.  The rush of air from the train kicks particles in your eyes, and you rub them for relief and proof that this isn’t a dream.  But in front of you is the likeness.  

“This is dangerous,” you say, trying to pick your jaw off the ground.  He looks around and at his hands, adjusts his suit, then looks at you.

“Is this better?”  

You hold your mouth gasping.  “You even sound like him!  A little stiffer, but very much like him,”

His complexion in person is just as clear as his photos with deep brown hue that has nary a blemish.  Strong jaw cloaked in a close trimmed beard that frames the exterior of his wide, chunky lips.  He blinks at you with a gaze of innocence and naivete.

You remember to breathe and answer, “Yes.  It’s much much better.”  The ding of the train alerting its departure snaps you back to reality, grabbing his hand to make it through the closing doors just in time.  

You find two empty seats in the back, sitting next to the window.  You sit next to him nervously, playing with your hands as the train rumbles down the tracks.  You look out over the city passing you both and catch his reflection in the window staring at you.  His eyes look happy.

“What?”  you ask quietly, looking back at him.

[middleinthenight21]

Damirae week 2020- Day 5

Soulmates

The first time the ink shadow appeared on her skin, she thought that perhaps the person she was intended for would be intelligent and, profound. She looks at herself in the mirror counting her tattoos as if they were part of a collection, indistinguishable doodles were still being imprinted on her skin. The one that stood out most was the chain formed by insects, animals and plants around her ankle there was a sheep, a horse, a takin, a long line of animals unknown.

She sits giving her ankle a better look, the ink is delicate, the strokes are not clean, there are abundant small cuts, as if someone had drawn them on paper and was looking for the correct line. Her skin is swollen, red, and the figures protrude, burn in the dermis, and she has to suppress a growl when they form by pricking the skin.

What is most striking is the small fruits that are colored, there are some seeds that are repeated on more than one occasion. She had tried to stop the blood from leaving the tattoo, but it accumulated in the center. It bleeds so much that her skin is stained forever in red, it hurts with the cold and exposure to the sun, but she realizes that it may be the favorite of the person or being who is her soulmate, since it is the only thing colored. She hates when those seeds appear because she knows it will hurt.

Back then, she's just a little girl who has a quiet existence in another dimension. She does not have much to worry about, Raven watches the monks, they are all adults and already have tattoos on their bodies. When she contemplates Kardeleen adjusting her robe to cover her neck and torso, since they are rude, and the woman is looking forward to her meeting her soulmate. Sometimes that happens, as her mother explained, soul mates are not always good, so you shouldn't be determined to look for him.

Raven can live without feeling the pain of when a new tattoo appears, she would live happily without those red seeds on her skin, but she is also just a lonely girl, after all she is the only child in one dimension and is forced to live with adults. who are not interested in playing, maybe her soulmate is also small?

If only they would stop considering those seeds important ...

She is not so excited to find her soul mate, but she likes to think that there is also someone who is in the same stage, maybe also human, since those animals seem terrestrial, although she had tried to find answers, she found nothing.

She gave up when her mother shrugged when she showed her a small part of the tattoo.

She found nothing on red seeds.

It would be complex.

She turned the page, frustrated. Her mother gives her an angry look, the sound of the page was not loud enough to be heard in the distance, but she had made a mistake and cringed instead.

They are in the temple of Tacita, the spirit of silence, for a hundred years they have not opened a single window, so the air is scarce and there is a permanent smell of being locked up. She is not supposed to be here, but she liked the silence and her mother comes to confess in front of the goddess in whispers that Raven cannot understand, she supposes that it is because the goddess knows how to keep secrets.

Raven remains kneeling on the floor next to her mother trying to focus on the prayer. The white robe wraps her shoulders and falls free to the ground, it looks like a cloud. The incense is lit inside the temple, it is like a thick and smelly mist. She wrinkles her nose.

She stares at Tacita, the statue looms in the middle of the place, she has a blindfold over her eyes and cooked lips. The monks had explained that it was because she did not care who it was or what you will tell, she would keep you the secret.

Now she looks at her mother who has her eyes closed, her mouth opens and closes murmuring prayers, she looks distressed. It gives her a feeling that there is something breaking her heart, something she will never tell her.

The rains blessed the lands of Azar this morning, the monks had taken refuge in the temples, but her mother had grasped her hand by guiding her towards the temple of Tacita.

There is Anu, the spirit of the skies, that crosses the sky. Enlil, the storm and the wind, and many others. But her favorite is Damkina, mother spirit of the underworld, protector, and giver of strength who anticipates when danger approaches. She empathizes with the spirit because unlike other spirits she is represented surrounded by strange creatures. The marginalized and desperate, the spirit did not despise anyone, she feels that she is someone who would understand her, in addition to having beautiful wings, reminding her of a bird. In front of them, Tacita seems like a bland spirit, but her mother found something special, like a connection.

Staying focused on prayer was difficult. Usually her abilities would overwhelm her, and she would be more interested in Adil's mind projecting images into dimensions she had visited, monks challenging her, and she would start again. She prefers silence, it is easier for her to focus on the meditation and instructions of the monks, but she cannot bear the silence of the temple of Tacita.

She hears a small sound, it is like a light whistle and she thinks that maybe it is his imagination, but he repeats himself and thinks that it could be a bird. She looks askance at her mother as she remains submerged in her prayer, walking away on tiptoe in search of the foreign sound. She knows that her mother will not react well when she realizes that she cannot find where she is, but she only wants to know where the bird is.

Her hands tremble hesitantly to open the door, it's like a fight of wills, but it would only be for a few minutes and Raven is not made to obey, at least not entirely. She opened the door.

When she leaves the temple, fresh, cold air fills her lungs; the rain is light, like a soft curtain, and runs along the pillars. She follows the bird's song, there is a stir in the air, and she feels she has a purpose in her hands.

She finds the little bird under a box where the monks wrote their requests, it is immersed in the paper, like a nest. The animal is small and chubby, its chest protrudes like a balloon, it is wet and trembles with cold. Its souls are brown, but its chest has a nice red hue, it is like armor. Raven thinks that makes him prouder, like a warrior.

When he sees her, he flaps his wings, wanting to escape, but he can't. She is afraid, animals do not usually approach Raven, they flee every time they see her in the distance, and it is disappointing, but this bird is vulnerable.

"Easy." She tries to be gentle. "I will not harm you."

The bird shuddered at her voice, leaped around the box with its feet, and the papers were removed. Poor creature, he's just scared and, won't stop shaking and is completely wet from the rain.

She catches it gently in her hands and the animal struggles to free himself but relaxes as she wraps it around her robe. His head sticks out, she wraps around him like it's a baby, like mother wraps around her when she was scared at night.

"Now you can be sure," she says. The little bird looks her in the eye, Raven strokes his head with the pad of her index finger, the feathers are soft to the touch, and she smiles when the bird closes his eyes. "We are friends now", she says.

She gets excited at the idea of ​​having a friend. She looks down at her tattoo around her ankle, she feels a little more connected with her soul mate; Maybe if they ever meet. She would presume that they have a pet bird.

She smiles at the irony of being called Raven and having a pet bird.

Perhaps Anu, the great spirit, would be proud of her for caring for an animal that resides in her dwelling. Anu would give her his blessing, the monks would be so strict and fearful around her.

She feels a prick of pain, it is as if a needle will penetrate her skin and is located under her armpit, dangerously close to the heart. Her first tattoo had hurt, she acquired them at the age of five when she was learning to access magic, her ankle was swollen for a week suffering, they added a new animal, when a new red seed appeared she knew it was going to bleed until the her skin was permanently red and her mother would grasps her hand with a blank look. Arella doesn't like it when a new tattoo appears, she doesn't like soul mates.

This time the pain is as if it will cut her skin, she feels that she is being hurt and tears appear in her eyes. She leans against a pillar, tears spill on her robe, while pain bites and she continue to caress the bird, reminding herself of her friend.

This is not a tattoo, as if they were forcibly marking her and they will not care what method they use. She feels like she is filled with sadness, she doesn't know anything about soul mates and how they work, but she is distressed; The pain is not hers, the physical of what is imprinting on her skin mixes with the psychological.

The little bird sings around the blanket and thinks it is accompanying her and knows the pain and offers her beautiful song to alleviate suffering.

"Raven, why did you leave? Don't ever ... "

Her mother kneels noticing her tears, the little bird pressed against her chest and the grimace that appears on her face when she is crying. Arella caresses her daughter, asks her why she is crying, Raven can hardly think, the pain is hot needles in her chest and the blood begins to fall to her hips in drops.

She was cry "It hurts, mom. "

Her face takes on an expression of concern "Where? Did you hurt yourself? "

She shakes her head and cannot continue speaking because she shudders in pain, so she shows her. She raises her robe to show her and her mother gasps, takes her in her arms and goes down the stairs with her daughter in her arms.

Raven thinks of the bird.

"Will you stay with the Robin?"

That is the name of the little bird. He is a Robin.

***

When the monks look at her mark, they advise her not to show it to anyone. They are talking to everyone, she learns that it is not a tattoo, but a writing formed by a cut; it is not natural.

When it heals and Raven reads, she promises that no one will see her. Never.

"Here is your legacy, here is your inheritance. You were born for this, "she cut into her skin.

Tattoos no longer exist, only phrases through cuts.

***

When he was ordered to climb the Mountains, Damian knows he must be the first and the fastest to reach the top; his mother and Ra´s Al Ghul stood waiting for him to climb the first rocks, although they do not say anything, he is aware that they are evaluating him, measuring the places where he must lean and push himself. He tries to ignore criticism and move up, as best her can.

The mountains are rocky, rugged, with extremely hostile weather. When his hand reaches a stone that is wet, the snow melts under his palms and doesn't feel his fingers, but either way it continues to rise. He is not the grandchild of Ra´s Al Ghul for nothing.

Sweat freezes on his forehead, the drop remains intact and his teeth chatter from the cold. A part of him wishes they had done it in the summer when the sun would only be a concern, or in the spring when the snakes and animals are in the mating stage, they would attack it for invading their territory, however, he still preferred it to the harsh winter and Snowfall on the rocks, but he must be prepared for everything.

He feels the rocks, giving them small blows to check if they are safe, he rests all the weight on his legs so as not to tire his arms.

He is starting to feel tired.

"This is your legacy, your inheritance," he recalls his grandfather's words. He uses them as a breath; each breath is like swallowing sharp ice that hurt his throat and he discovers that he can sweat in the cold. "This is my legacy, my ... "

His fingers tremble and he can barely breathe without pain. He doesn't feel his toes through his shoes, the garter uniform is light, leaving him vulnerable and unprotected in the cold and he wants warmth, even if it's to wear gloves.

You have disappointed me, he listens to his mother's voice, it is deep and penetrates his insides, You are not worthy to be the Leader of the League of Shadows. You are not my son.

His fingers cling to the sharp, frozen surface of a rock. The fatigue was already beginning to hit him, and the wind sweeps his body, it blows from the East bringing drops of frozen water, which stick into his face. He must have been more than a hundred meters above sea level.

He has to continue advancing, but a desperate scream comes out of his mouth when his legs slip on the slippery surface and he is suspended in the air; his only support is his hands.

He must continue to ascend.

You are not my blood; his grandfather would say. He would look at him out of the corner of his eye, not caring if he wouldn't matter, like scum.

He cannot allow it.

A snowflake descends slowly from the sky, it is ethereal and delicate, from another world. It seems to him something beautiful in a world of battles, fights and blood; also, worthless, empty.

What use was beauty if he did not free the world from evil?

The snowflake is unflappable, as in another state. As he descends it catches the rays of the sun and looks away, this does not matter.

Then, the flake lands on his left hand and burns, he had never experienced pain like that, it is as if it was not something superficial, but concentrates inside and struggles to explode to the outside.

Damian growls.

A million thoughts go through his mind, it could be a cold burn, a cut, a tendon rupture, a ...

You are weak…

"I am not, grandfather."

His feet find new places to lean, he bites his lips drawing blood and continues to climb, ignoring the pain.

When he reaches the top, he looks at the landscape; Hundreds of mountains, clouds hitting the rock, and birds roamed the skies and the air is pure, but scarce. With all the harshness of the landscape, exhaustion and pain in his hand, he still allows himself to admire the view.

He understands why he had been trained since the age of four to climb these mountains, reaching the top is always difficult, there is no support and if he fell, he would get more than a broken hand, but reaching the top is always a privilege.

This is the world that his grandfather wants to change, it gives him a better look at what they are going to build.

He looks at his hand, there is a stain, it is like a gray shadow and it hurts when the skin is stretched. He scrapes his skin away from the color, he even thinks of cutting his skin thinking about what it could be.

The Al Ghul do not have soul mate tattoos, and he was no different. There is no value in being attached to another person, simply by destiny.

The brand is concentrated and there is a small bird on his skin, it is light and, would not be noticed under the correct light. Damian Al Ghul, the grandson of the demon's head is unmarked, so he makes the cut before it is fully developed.

***

When they meet, they are different people, Raven is not the student and ward of the monks of Azarath and the purpose of Damian's birth does not exist, as does the legacy and inheritance they promised him.

They have both seen the worst, life has constantly hit them and tattoos are mere marks on their skin, Raven does not feel that someone would have felt the same, even if she did, having a soul mate would be a luxury that better people can afford. No, the girl who destroyed an entire world, not the daughter of a demon that became a heroine. It’s not for her, she does not seek personal satisfaction, she only wants to prevent an innocent world from ending in the same fate as Azarath. She has no right to a soulmate, but she did find friends who are family. She is happy with them; she does not need anything else.

Damian Wayne had a privileged childhood, he was taught to fight, and he had a duty, he is the son of the best detective in the world and the deadliest woman on the planet, grandson of a hero. He lost all those things, he thought he was going to miss them and he would suffer, but he discovered he is his own human being, that everyone has a plan for him and nobody once asked him if he wants to become the head of the devil or an altruistic hero. His soulmate did not ask him either if he wants to be part of her life. He is not his father who has affairs with the worst women he meets whenever he goes, he is not Nightwing who has been involved in turbulent relationships and sighs for the only one he has come to love, Damian Wayne is not pathetic.

When he steps into the Tower, he is angry and frustrated, because he is tired of trying to show that he deserves to be taken into account. That his father treats him as if he had no value and relegates him insignificant tasks and when he did not know what to do with him, he sent him with the Teen Titans like he made a mistake.

When Raven saw him, she didn't want him to come close, but she recognized that expression and knows how hostile people can be when they have suffered. Everything was clearer after healing him, practically bringing him back to life for his stupidity and a "Thank you" is not enough. But this person's head is chaos, the worst thing is that she can understand it and she was wrong when she established a connection with Robin. When he confesses that she has also seen his mind, everything is clear.

This boy, Damian Wayne is her soulmate, it seems an irony of his life to be so tragic, full of manipulation, harshness and indoctrination. It was like reliving the worst places in his life. He does not think the same, he defends his lifestyle, but deep down the two recognize the truth. Raven would say that her father destroyed her existence and tried to use her, at least for himself, but Damian Wayne did not.

Raven doesn't want him around.

Damian Wayne knows that she is hiding something.

Neither of them controls their life, so at the end of the mission they think differently about each other.

They cannot walk away.

[queerchoicesblog]

One Night At The Moulin Rouge

Hiya, folks! So, as previously announced, the wlw writing project continues after a break with a miniseries set back in the City of Lights - & Love - at the time of the Belle Epoque, at the turn of the century.

The story begins with an introductory chapter dedicated to our main character, Léa, our young seamstress finally makes it to “The First Palace of Women”, the Moulin Rouge. What does the night have in store for her?

Hope you enjoy it: if you do, please consider spreading the word!

Next chapter out on Friday: double update this week!

Tagging: @scottishqueer

Previous chapter: Paris, Paris 

_____________________________

He shouts at our friends behind us and we sprint off into the night. I lift my skirt and laugh as the streets and buildings around us change and we make our way through the crowd of the boulevards running as if our lives depended upon it. A passerby even asks us if we were in danger: we laugh again in full response and the old man shakes his head, muttering something about how foolish modern day youth is. When we finally spot the red windmill, we're out of breath. My lungs burn and my heart is hammering in my chest but...what a fun we have already had! Marcel pushes his way to the crowd gathered outside and shows the ticket to a steward, panting. "The show has already started" he announces, giving us an unreadable look, half annoyed half amused. We all exchange a look. It's Alain who speaks: "Then why don't you let us in so we won't miss the rest?"

I did my best to refrain a snort right in the face of the steward, who apparently notices it. Eventually, he steps aside and let us in, informing that the cloakroom is on the left. We ignore it completely, too concerned to miss the show and head straight to the dance hall. The place is packed and...stunning. I gasp at the sight of the gorgeous extravagant decors and the rows of table with gentleman and even some ladies all dressed up and sipping what looks like expensive champagne. It's like stepping into a....dream. Marcel snaps me out our my dreamlike state placing a glass into my hand. When I look at him, he nods to the table in front of us: whoever is sitting there is not here at the moment and my cheeky friend just stole their glasses, one for me, one for him. I'm about to playfully chastise him when he gestures to keep quiet and pulls my hand, moving forward into the crowd. I follow him careful not to spill my drink and we surf the crowd until we find a free standing spot by one of the columns, behind the rows of tables but with a good view of the stage. We cling our glasses giggling and take a big gulp. The champagne is cold yet burns down my throat after our mad run. I like it though: I've never had champagne before, too expensive. A woman is singing a catchy song on stage, strumming a little guitar while a couple of dancers make their long skirts twirl in the background. The lyrics are bright and a little facetious, eliciting rounds of laughters among the audience. With a sultry smirk, the singer starts the refrain and the orchestra joins. The song must be popular among the audience since everyone immediately starts singing along and whistling. I think I've heard it too, can't remember where though. The standing spectators like us attempt to dance and I find myself aching to move freely to the tune too but there's little space in our corner. Marcel and I sway on our feet and I catch the singer winking at us from the stage. Her performance ends too soon and is welcomed with rounds of enthusiastic applauses from the audience. The singer and the dancers flash smiles to everyone and make practised reveries. Before disappearing behind the velvet at the bottom of the stage, the singer examines the audience with a playful look and speaks loud enough to be heard even by us in the last rows. She invites us all to save our enthusiasm for the next act because, according to her, the best is yet to come. "Are you ready for la quadrille?" she asks. Everyone goes wild cheering and whistling. Marcel is one of them. We exchange an excited look: la quadrille is the main attraction of the Moulin Rouge! Only the most talented and gorgeous dancers perform it or so I've heard. Our eyes converge back to the stage when the notes of Offenbach resound through the auditorium. My breath catches when a multitude of girls in titilatting colourful costumes takes the stage and hold up their skirts to perform the most extravagant choreography I have ever seen. Well, I've seen the can-can already in ballrooms but those were amateurs compared to these ladies. They rise their knees high and make a quick rotatory movement before holding their ankle and rising their leg vertically while turning on the other leg. I cannot fathom how they can do it and with a charming smile on their faces...the dance may be scandalous to many but they perform with such grace it's a joy for the heart and eye. The rhythm is furious, joyful and we all soon clap our hands to the beat: it's contagious! A male dancer make his entrance too out of the crowd of women and I'm pretty sure he's an acrobat or a contortionist because I have never seen a single soul jump so high and walking backwards with his head between his legs...it's crazy! The dancers continue their routine with a cheerful grace out of this world. They line up in a long row and make us go wow with a stunning series of cartwheels and splits. They remind me of the breathtaking fireworks we saw at the opening night of the Exposition Universalle in March. With a bit of luck we managed to get a ticket and be there....what a night! Fireworks bathed in the new Tour Eiffel and for a moment it looked like it was day in the middle of the night. There was a magic show that evening, I remember: I ducked like a fool behind Marie when the blindfolded magician threw daggers in his poor assistant's direction. These dancers are like those fireworks. I don't even pay too much attention to the fact that their undergarment is showing as they dance...I laugh to myself thinking I must be too used to female undergarments working as a seamstress. But I let out a loud gasp when they kick the high hats the spectators of the first row are holding out with the tip of their boots. A playful yet skilled high kick that make the hat fly high before landing back on their owners head. When the act ends with a last round of splits, I'm in awe. Dizzy, so dizzy it takes me a moment to clap my hands and cheer loudly just like the spectators around me. The dancers leave the stage among thunderous applauses. "That was incredible!" I comment and Marcel agrees enthusiastically. I look around to see if I can spot Marie and Alain but I have no luck. The acts are over for the night and the spectators crowding the room takes their time drinking and smoking, Marcel gestures me to follow him. The lovebirds are nowhere in sight so I take his hand. He leads us to the other side of the room right into the backstage area. "I don't want you to be all alone among those drunks" he explains, guiding me forward down a corridor. "And I'd like to introduce you to my friend" He stretches his neck out and after a moment he waves to another young man smoking by a door open on the street. "Lucien, you old dog! Come, Léa, this way!" The musician waves at us too and loosens up his tie. He pulls Marcel into a manly hug and vigorously shakes my hand. I thank him on behalf of all of us for his kind gesture and he shrugs. "Marcel's friends are my friends. I hope you guys had some fun tonight" We chat a little then when the boys start bantering with each other and talking of common acquaintances I have never heard of I give them some privacy. I quietly wander down the corridor and take a look around. I rest my back against the wall to free the way and take a deep breath. Who would have known I would sneak into the Moulin Rouge tonight? Me, a humble seamstress from the North. Ah, if only my colleagues or -even better, my so very Catholic mother- could see me now! Marcel outdid himself tonight with such a wondrous surprise...one of the best cabaret theatre in whole Paris! Out of the blue, the door at my side slams open and someone gets pushed out, laughing loudly and sloshing wine over the rim of their glass right onto my dress. "Shit!" I turn towards the voice to find a redhead girl around my age covering her mouth and staring at me. I recognise her: she's one of the dancer who performed la quadrille, her costume is still on, only the corset is loosen up...the door must be the changing room. I gesture that it's nothing even if I'm quite displeased: it's cold out there, November is hardly the best time of the year to go around in wet clothes. When she uncovers her mouth, I notice she's still giggling. "I'm so sorry, I'm awfully clumsy tonight" she apologises. "But blame these ladies who cannot take a single joke!" she adds, raising her voice and banging on the door. All she gets is a round of laughter on the other side that makes her chuckle again, shaking her head. I smile politely, not really knowing what to say nor what is going on. After a moment she takes another look at me and throws me a playfully inquisitive glare. "By the way, what are you doing out of our changing rooms, if I may, mademoiselle? I do not recall seeing you here before...Waiting for someone?" she inquires, nodding at the door. "Oh no! I'm with...him" My eyes instinctively search for Marcel still chatting with his friend. The dancer follows my gaze and sighs. "Ah, I see, your boyfriend..." "What? No!" My words came out a bit blunter than I meant it. When she gives me a surprised look, I feel the sudden urgency to explain myself. "I mean, we're friends. I'm just waiting for him here, to give him space...you know. I didn't know this was the door of the changing room" I cannot quite read the shift in the way she looks at me but there is a certain playfulness in her voice when she raises an eyebrow at me and crosses her arms. "So...he's not your boyfriend" "No and I don't even know why I need to explain myself to you more than I have already did" She shrugs nonchalantly, flashing me a smile. This conversation started off on the wrong foot, I'm standing where I shouldn't be and Marcel is nowhere finished with his friend. If I know him well, by the way he gesticulates he's sharing his "intuitions" about the upcoming races: he has little money but has a granitic faith that one day a miracle will happen and the lucky bet will make him rich. Good old Marcel... Anyway, I better say something to avoid an awkward silence: this dancer somehow twists everything I say in a way that makes me nervous. "We came for the show" Pathetic but I couldn't find anything more original. And that justifies my presence in the backstage area...more or less. The dancer leans to the wall and lazily strokes the rim of her empty glass. "And did you enjoy it?" "Oh yes! I have never seen a dance so lively like this, so catchy, so full of life, so joyous-" "Splits and undergarments-" "It reminded me of fireworks" The dancer looks taken aback by my words for the first time. Surprised, I'd say, as if my reaction came out totally unexpected. "Fireworks?" she repeats. "Yes, like the ones I saw at the Exposition Universelle months ago. Wonderful colourful lights exploding up there in the night sky, a symphony of lights...truly breathtaking" I smile to myself reminiscing. "And tonight la quadrille...I don't know, the lively rhythm, the smiles on your faces as you performed, the colours of your skirts during the cartwheels...it brought me back to that night" The dancer's lips curl into a smile mirroring mine and her whole visage softens. "I've heard many people describing la quadrille but nobody has ever compared it to fireworks like you did" Cocking her head to the side, she takes another look at me. "You're a poet" she smiles. "Oh no, I'm just a seamstress" I laugh. "Nobody has ever taken me for a poet, I'm not good with words" "Well you sound like one to me so to me you are a seamstress-poet" I really don't know what to say again but I feel my cheeks turn rosy as she keeps smiling encouragely at me. We just look at each other for a moment. I'm about to make a joke of how can I be good with words if I'm so easily speechless when "Léa!" Marcel waves at me from the door at the end of the corridor. "I'm sorry I must go now" I say as the dancer spots my friend too. Then before I could do anything, she places one hand on my shoulder. "Hold on a minute, will you?" There is a sudden urgency in her voice as she storms into the changing room ignoring the playful protests of the other ladies inside. I gesture Marcel to wait and he goes lighting another cigarette in the street. The dancer returns after a moment, true to her word. She hands me a handkerchief. "There, for my clumsiness" she says, nodding at the wine stain on my dress I had almost forgotten. "That's kind but there's no need-" "I insist" she smiles, offering it again. "Well, thank you then, mademoiselle..." I reach for it but she retrieves her hand a little. "Huh-uh, I want it back. It's not a gift" she mocks a serious expression. "Of course but..." I soon realise an important detail. "...But I don't even know your name?" She takes my hand and gently places the handkerchief into it. "Élodie. And you know where to find me, Léa" With one last lingering smile she lets go of my hand and wishes me a good night. I walk into the street and the cold of the night makes me shiver. I secure the handkerchief in my pocket and breathe in the mix of icy mist and smoke of Marcel's cigarette. He shakes his head and wraps his scarf around my neck before half hugging me. "We better find the lovebirds and head towards a bar, I bet the streets will get all frosty in no time...fancy a beer?" I throw one last look to the Moulin Rouge over Marcel's shoulder as we walk away and to my surprise I meet the gaze of Élodie, still standing where I left her and looking my way.

[stragglewort]

Uncommon OC Questions! For Ardolf: 1, 2, 14, 18, 33, 38, 45, 50 For Martin: 4, 5, 10, 15, 20, 21, 36, 49 And 25, 41 and 43 for both! ＼(＾▽＾)／

Whoa, that’s a lot. You always know exactly how to pander to me. I’ll do my best! These are probably going to be some pretty long answers, though. 

________________________________________________________________

First up, Ardolf:

1.) A little-known talent of your OC?

Hm, for Ardolf? It would probably be his ability to work with children. Like, if he had been in a modern setting, he probably would’ve gone into family medicine or pediatrician work. Though he’s not a terribly charismatic person, he is pretty soft and fatherly and has high-key adopted nearly every child we’ve come across in the D&D campaign I use him as a character in. 

Otherwise? Whistling. He’s really good at whistling.

2.) What trait does your OC like best about themself? (Eyes, guitar skills, random bird facts, etc)

He’s extremely proud of his practical doctoring skills. Though he’s learned healing magic and divination now that he’s gotten older and wiser, he grew up in the Greymouth Clan – a house of human doctors and surgeons that almost specifically worked with hands-on medicine. Give him some bandages, some leaves, and a bit of elbow grease and he can patch you just as well as any spell! (Though maybe it’ll take a bit longer. He really just wants to be as helpful as possible, even after he can’t cast anything).

14.) Happy birthday! What kind of present would your OC want?

Anything from the heart! It could be a song, a poem, a letter, or even a neat looking rock. He hasn’t celebrated his own birthday for years and just the gesture of someone remembering would probably make him tear up. Had he been a bit younger, freshly baked sweet or herb bread would’ve been his jam! That’s only changed in the recent years because, you know, lycanthropy makes eating that sort of thing real difficult.

18.) Something that makes your OC laugh without fail? Carved pumpkins, gourds, and really anything that has a face when it probably shouldn’t.

Like, a goofy face? A scary one? A half-baked monstrosity that could barely count as a Jack-O-Lantern? Doesn’t matter, it’ll get him every time.

33.) A song that reminds you of your OC?

There’s too many to choose! Probably Kind Folk – instrumental by Kenny Wheeler and Brian Dickinson, Secunda by Jeremy Soule (from the Skyrim soundtrack), or The Bygone Days from Porco Rosso. Kind of just dependent on the scene!

38.) Random thunderstorm! How does your OC react?

He’d probably around and watch it go by. The thunder gets a little uncomfortably loud, considering his hearing is all lycanthropic, but something about rain and a nice mist reminds him of home at the times when he’s farthest away.

45.) What kind of self-esteem does your OC have?

A very poor one!

Though he does try to keep his chin-up, as he’ll say, the first word that would pop in his head to describe himself would be something like ‘monster’ or ‘creature’. Though his lycanthropy is something he wasn’t born with, and he’s spent a good portion of his life fighting against it, he’s begrudgingly settled on the idea that it’s a part of him he cannot control. And that tends to be a bit of a bummer sometimes! Though he tries to, he has a very difficult time separating the wants of the curse with his own – and though he’ll say he and the beast are two different beings (and ultimately, he’s right) he worries, deep down, if that might not truly be the case.

50. What is your OC’s happy place?

On the top of a mountain somewhere – close to his family – close to his friends – watching the clouds of morning mist roll across the peaks. Mostly anywhere safe, warm, and together with people he cares about.  

________________________________________________________________

On to Martin!

3.) Is your OC good at keeping secrets?

Hahaha, no. 

He certainly tries! But if he gets off on a nervous tangent (which is about 60%-85% of his dialogue) he has a tendency to overshare. Quiiite a bit.

4.) Your OC’s worst habit?

He cannot keep quiet. Half of the time he’s speaking, he’s usually not even sure what he’s saying! But boy will he say it. And he’ll say it in staggering, stuttering bulk. See above.

10.) Would your OC prefer to live in the city, the suburbs, or the country?

He has no idea. The suburbs?

A close-knit community, nice, quiet, everyone-knows-everyone and that means everyone knows who he is and maybe they’ll use that to catch him off guard. 

The city? 

So many people that he’d be faceless, could be safe! But also very, very unsafe. Notoriously unsafe. Wait, doesn’t he live in a city? If something happened would authorities even have time to help him? What if there’s so many people that they gang up on him? Hold on.

The country?

That’s isolated, safe, lovely – but what if it’s so isolated that if something bad happened no one would hear him calling! What if his neighbors were strange and odd, then what would happen? He’d be stuck with them! And the land prices!

If he’d have the choice, he’d probably live in a Minecraft house. On peaceful.

15.) Something that grosses your OC out?

Ironically, considering he’s a vampire spawn, blood! He’s super, extremely squeamish and cannot stand the stuff.

20. An obscure/ridiculous fear your OC has?

Honestly if you talked it up right, you could convince this poor man to fear anything. I cannot pinpoint just one. (Though high-key, reality television. He knows it’s usually fake, but what if it wasn’t? What if someday he’s just trying to watch TV or go grocery shopping and all of a sudden a camera crew shows up Truman Show style? Horrifying.)

21.) Does your OC have any type of disability, whether it be mental, physical, etc?

Mhm. Overarchingly he suffers pretty majorly from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder (something that I plan to cover/work with pretty majorly in the stories) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (something he had been working with since before the whole vampirism thing). After the vampiric attack/turning, he also has some unnamed disorders he’s working with (I, as the author, have applied them as symptoms of his pseudo-vampirism, and didn’t want to apply real-world diagnosis to avoid some really poor misguided diagnostic attempts!) such as a whole lotta’ paranoia and general poor-coping with being a half-undead. He also has some pretty major ticks (specifically an eye twitch he, for the life of him, cannot get to stop).

36.) Your OC’s favorite fashion era? (20’s, 70’s, etc)

I’d say 90s grunge. But that’s kind of a stretch, and probably more of an excuse to not futz with his hair and wear clothes three times his size. 

49.) Your OC’s most prized possession?

:･ﾟ☆✧ The friendship he creates with the other Ghoul Parade protagonists :･ﾟ☆✧

In his apartment (which, mind you, is extremely cluttered and it the apartment equivalent of that Pepe Silvia picture) he has a small battery powered waterfall set up on what used to be his kitchen counter. It has a frog at the top that spits water into small pots that then pour into each other, and if he presses a button it’ll turn on some very soft LED lights. That. That is one of his most prized possessions.

29.) Someone does something awful in front of your OC. How do they handle it?

That depends on what sort of awful we’re talking about. He instinctively wants to help – to really help – and will go as far as putting himself into a hypothetical (or literal, who knows!) line of fire if someone’s really in danger. Though smaller things, in more everyday situations, he usually finds himself freezing up.

________________________________________________________________

And now, for both!

41. Does your OC like/make puns?

Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt.  

43. Your OC wakes up with a coin super glued to their forehead. How do they react?

Ardolf would probably spend the whole morning trying to pry it off, before either succeeding or just giving up and asking one of his friends to help. To which they’d probably have no better luck. He wouldn’t be angry with whoever did it! More just kind of flustered until ultimately laughing it off. 

And Martin probably wouldn’t notice for some time (he doesn’t really keep any mirrors in his house. He can very-well see himself in them, but something about the connection they have to vampire lore makes him uneasy) and wouldn’t notice until someone pointed out. He’d then drop everything and take hours trying to figure out how someone got into his house to put a coin on his head. Why they did it. What kind of coin it was. If it was really, actually a coin. All to probably learn that he somehow did it himself in some freak minor mishap. Yes, that’s absolutely what he would do. 

[chainofbeing]

Adam witnesses the destruction that can be brought on by the Anthronesians, and sees the all too familiar horror that festers in Mights mind.

Veatorian woman: Emmy Coates

Hass man: David M. Sledge

Might-Upon-Serenity: Frances Gillard

Ovig Nadal: Glyn Pritchard

Sound design, Writing, and, Adam Delta 5: Cai Gwilym Pritchard

email us at chainofbeingofficial@gmail.com

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[the sound of a relatively busy town, music playing people talking, Vestak-cry at its busiest]

I stare down at Might, she’s not moving but her pain permeates the air, distress, anguish and fear, through something troubles her even beyond her wounds. The metal shell has grown back now and her organic interior is healing relatively well. “Is there anything I can do to help?,” I say to a Veatorian woman outside of the healers yurt, she looks me up and down “Can you use that?” She gestures to the spear at my side “somewhat,” I reply “go out and hunt,” she points toward the mesa “head that way for 4  hours and then head toward the minor sun, you’ll reach some rich hunting grounds, food is scarce we need something to give these bandits,” the proposition of just giving up upsets me, I’d seen this happen many times before, Forus Minor was the most recent, having spent a bit of time there I began to recognise the kind of person it took to coerce and steal in this way, “I’ll find a way to stop them, I promise,” she looks at me as if I’d promised to destroy the moon or reverse time “with the weapons they have? We can't all be immortal,”

[the sounds of swamp wilderness, insects and frogs making noise Adam trudging along]

I grab some water and a long piece of cloth to wrap around my head to keep cool and start walking, leaving my coat behind. My ribs ache as I walk and so I begin to consider the weapon that the masked woman carried to distract myself. A laser rifle, an actual fucking laser rifle. Like something out of an old sci-fi story. The idea seemed so fantastical to me, like hover cars or pills that you take instead of eating, I mean sure, On a big enough supercruiser or an OLCoSat, but research into handheld energy weapons had been discarded hundreds of years ago. And yet I watched my friend get hit with one. I’ve been walking toward the mesa in the far distance for an hour or so when I come across another town, this one far more built up than Vestak-cry,

[the town creaks and sways, old wood and metal settling, flies buzz and a light wind blows]

The tallest building is around 3 stories high, its wide and round and built out of the engine of a mega-hauler or something of a similar size, I don't recognise the make. It casts a shadow on the rest of the village, with a roof of plastic sheeting pulled taught across and fastened to several bars which are run through it. The rest of the town surrounds this centrepiece, densely packed due to the trench that defines the border of the town. There must be about 150 separate settlements all huddled around the tall central building. I circle round to the entrance, the large metal gates lie open as I walk over the makeshift bridge the smell of rot and decay becomes suddenly very intense, I look over into the ditch and see that there are several bodies lying at the bottom, many with gunshot wounds in the back of the head or with large singed portions of their body missing. In the town the walls of all the buildings are marked with large gashes and bullet holes, every so often a blackened streak will appear or a hole through several buildings lets the wind whistle through it. More bodies litter the town, the killing blows less methodical as some of them clutch lengths of iron rebar or other makeshift weapons grabbed in a moment of panic. Silence is relative, you may think where you are is quiet, but if you listen closely enough there will always be the sound of a vehicle or the wind blowing lightly, in concert halls after a powerful song ends the space is deathly quiet, even as the last waves created by the instruments reverberate in the room. The same is with the town, there is no silence, the wind blows and buildings settle, yet next to what must have been a loud and bustling organism made up of hundreds of people who all knew each other's names and lives, all with individual stories that converge on this one point, it might as well be a burial chamber, forgotten and lost. The Hollowed out engine is a market , from what I can gather, all along the circumference and in the core of it stalls are strewn about, small, yet useless, trinkets with the more valuable items stolen. On the front entrance to the market there is a Tra’ha’dowl, strung up from the iron bars which keep the plastic roof in place, it can only be a few weeks since he was killed, his small black eyes are sunken and faded with decay and his small many toothed maw hangs open, his rubbery pale skin hugs tightly to his skeleton as the flesh rots. Hung from his neck is a black banner with the white insignia of a six spoked wheel run through with a sword. Beneath this the words “Unto Humanity Only” are inscribed in an ancient human language, not spoken since the old days of humanity, before the council. I leave the town and begin a long arc back to vestak-cry hoping to cover as much ground as possible in the hopes of not returning empty handed. And so I once more march in the wilderness.      

There's a large pool of water just ahead of me, some creature drinking from it causes ripples to emanate from its long toothy snout. It is hunched down on six legs and its long flowing feathers ripple in the light breeze, I extend my spear and it raises its head reflexively, a pair of ears shoot into the air and it tenses up, it goes to run but it stops, something slowly snakes up its legs and at first I think it's some kind of eel from the water or a serpent of some kind, but then I realise that the vines are pulling the creature into the water it calls out, thrashing in futile desperation. The tips of the vines pierce its skin and it falls still, its large black eyes lose their deep colour and go hazy and it allows itself to be pulled to the bottom of the pond. Completely astounded and with my spear pointed downwards in front of me I cautiously approach the edge of the pond, the water still ripples and I peer down into its depths, I can't see the bottom either due to its murkiness or its depth I can’t tell. A moan calls behind me and I spin around, spear raised, a smaller but much angrier looking version of the beast I watched get devoured is hunched down, it has less hair then the other and it is armed with a large set of chipped horns and long curved teeth. It charges and I stumble to the side narrowly avoiding getting run through. It gracefully turns around and goes for another charge and I thrust the spear at its eye, missing and instead adding another nick to its horns. On its third charge I drop to the ground and brace the end of my spear into the ground as it gores itself with the force of its own charge, I push up and forward against its ribs to keep it away from the edge of the water from which more vines smoothly snake outwards, and it stumbles away. I twist the ring on the pole and it electrifies, the beast cries out and its muscles tense up, while it’s still stunned I pull out the blade and drive it up through its jaw and into the skull, it collapses, and the vines begin to withdraw.

[the sound of Vestak cry, no music but people still talk and move about] Back at Vestak-Cry I drag my blood soaked cloth filled with the chopped up creature to the centre of town, I leave it next to a plastic barrel filled with fresh water and a large bushel of herbs, a meagre offering from a town of people whose value comes from the intellectual realm rather then the physical. Might is still unconscious when I go to check on her, two attendees surround her, sitting and staring into space, waiting for an improvement. “Surely she should be better by now?” I say impatiently to the Dŵrian closest to me, he blinks twice, one lid covering the whole bulging eye from the bottom and then opening again. “they don't talk, vow of silence,” a large hass sits in a rocking chair and is sprinkling some substance into their liquid filled breathing apparatus. “That’s a good thing if you ask me, Dŵrians have a natural sense of superiority. just because they are amphibious, it’s obnoxious.” “Well?” I ask, my attention shifting to the aquatic humanoid “She’s taking her time, that weapon the human carried really did a number on her, that ain't no usual firearm, seemed magical,” He looks me up and down “you’re probably fixin’ for an explanation huh?” I nod  “suppose I can try and provide some illumination. People like us come here to be isolated. This is just a small fragment of who lives here. Most came here by accident ‘cept us that us that is. This planet is uniquely situated so that don’t appear on any maps and cannot be discovered by conventional means,” “How is that possible?” he shrugs, “ maybe the mineral makeup of the planet? Perhaps some ancient artefact buried deep within some hidden temple just waiting for you to go get it,” he says sarcastically and then laughs, “we could spend hours speculating. But the point is that ‘cause of this... phenomenon there are lots of people on this rock who would rather not be, people who had no good reason for being out this far away from hubs of the galaxy if you catch my drift.” Anyone trying to keep out of council monitored widening field routes by using backway lanes and jump points mixed with a planet that doesn't show up on scanners gets you a bunch of unsavoury types on the same planet as other vulnerable and lost people which is never good. He points up at one of the mesas far in the distance, the green mess of the vines gradually becoming more sparse, presumably as whatever gas the plant breathes becomes less abundant. “The group that human is a part of are set up on that plateau there, they came here about 4 months ago, they’ve already set up base out of the ship they came here on, They’re not here on accident, they don't wanna be found. When they got here we thought nothing of it. But then they started expanding outwards. The nearest village, sapiran… well, humans aren't exactly known for their peaceful nature, no offence,” “None taken,” I say, my eyes fixed on might, “and the vines?” I ask “What about them?” he says, surprised at my asking “They cover every square inch of the ground, everywhere I go it grows incredibly densely and it doesn't behave like a plant should, aren't there any vitamancers here? Surely they‘d know something about it?” “The only vitamancy that gets here is by our amphibious friend here,” he points at the Dŵrian who looks absently at the horizon, “hey Bedyw,” the Dŵrian doesn't flinch. The Hass man picks up a chunk of whatever substance he was filtering into his breathing apparatus and flicks it at the Dŵrian who starts and looks at the Hass with visible confusion on their scaled face “you’ve got a vow of silence not a vow of not listening! The vines!”  Bedyw shrugs what do you expect me to do? “I dunno, mime it or something,” They raise their hands and scrunch up their face at the ridiculousness of the idea but go to try and explain anyway. they look me in the eyes and put their hand on the ground tugging at the vines, then they motion the shape of a sphere “the vines cover the whole planet?” they give me a thumbs up. They hold up a single claw and then put their fingers to their temples and draw them away, splaying out their hands and widening their eyes as they do so. “One… dream? One explosion?” they turn to the Hass man and gestures hey I tried.

 “Well that was unhelpful and confusing,” Bedyw does another gesture that I don't recognise but assume is some expletive. “If you don't mind me askin’” the Hass man says taking a deep breath from his breathing tube which sits on around his neck, “what's the deal with you two? Me and Bedyw reckon you're ex-lovers or something” “No it's not like that,” I say “Well what is it like?” I pause, nothing quite describes it really, no one else in the whole universe has been through what we had been through and had lived in the way we had. “It’s more like…we’re siblings, sort of,” “I've got plenty of siblings, some 400, but mama always said I was the special one. how’d you become acquainted then?” “It’s a long story,” “I’ve got time,” “No, it starts at the beginning of life itself in the universe so you really don’t,” “Fair enough,” he grumbles “Sorry, but aren't you more worried about the Anthronesians? Not how I met Might?” “Everything is as it was ever going to be,” The Dŵrian rolls their eyes “Aren't you more worried about what's up with Might?” he asks “I mean sure, but I just have to be patient, she’ll heal in time,” “Not her wounds kid,” he says but then realises how ridiculous he looks calling someone hundreds of thousands of years old ‘kid’ “Can you not see it?” “Oh. right.” “Somethings eatin’ at her, she ain’t been right for the past few weeks. We can all see it, surprised you can’t” “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen her I just assumed this is how she is now I- I don't know,” Might begins to stir, a deep black sphere appears above her forehead and the air around her starts to shiver, “See?” I say moving over to her “if she’s still having visions, it can't be that bad,” “This ain’t like usual, somethings wrong,” A thin line of black emerges from her eyes like tears streaming upwards into the air and they make contact with the sphere of light hovering above her. The world suddenly turns black and I feel myself brought into her mind.

[the vision realm is harmonious, slightly musical almost, but also tortured and disturbing]

I’m in a small cave, the walls are made of dark strings which splay outwards, through the thick tangle I see the shape of some huge creature move around and snake up and over my head settling behind might who stands at the other end, the tangle of thin lines emanating from behind her, she stands with her hands out,  strings wrapped and tangled between her fingers. “Adam,” she says, her voice travelling along the threads , “We have little time. Eden, you need to get there first, to the start of it all,” A dark shadow appears behind her but neither of us react, as if we had known of its presence long before it arrived. “To leave this place” she pulls down a thread, plucks it and watches the vibrations travel away from her “You must go to the Anthronesians, they have a dissimulation field, they’re hiding something, uncover it” she points and I know where she means, on top of the mesa. The shadow places a pale hand on her shoulder and the lights in her body around where he grips her change into a polychromatic haze, glowing brightly, “after that you don't need to worry, your path will become clear,” “Yeah sure I’ll be totally calm,” she gestures the equivalent of a melancholy smile with her hands, a depth to her feeling lost on me, due to my limited perception of the light spectrum. The shadow grows larger. “If this doesn't work,, will you visit the others? I’m sure they’d like to see you. Well, most of them anyway,” “If what doesn't work?” The haze of rapidly shifting light completely engulfs her body and she draws her sword, pulling the threads wrapped around her fingers down, untangling many of the knots that provide the ceiling and walls with structure. She spins and swings the blade in an upward motion cutting up the shadows chest and severing a few threads in the process. An angry mist of polychrome energy bursts from the wound singing more and severing them. The shadow hatefully grabs might by the mask and throws her to the ground, unfazed she jabs the sword into his forearm and pulls it back toward her. The shadow recoils in shock and might rolls back onto her feet. The darkness around the shadow dissipates and for the first time I see Ovig Nadal in his true intolerable and impossible form,

From his eyeless head which hangs on a long stooped neck a white set of horns wriggle and writhe violently like maggots, and Impossibly and most distressing they are simultaneously still. Two sets of wings protrude out from his back, long and bowed. The edges of his body shiver and shudder, as he moves 7 echoes of his motions follow like ghosts each in a different colour of the light spectrum. His wide and smiling jaw hangs open as he pants, polychrome gas rising from his gullet with each deep breath. This same gas drips in liquid form from his fresh wound. Surrounded by an ashy substance which is the same pallid colour as his skin, His presence emanates outwards, in defiance of the universe and he holds out his slender, clawed hand as if presenting the damage to us. His form refuses to hold a consistent shape, undoubtedly might be witnessing a separate horror however, despite the shifting form, my eyes sting with tears nonetheless.

[The sound of the vision realm is filled with the words that Ovig Nadal is about to speak, mere glimpses hard to discern fully until he says them]

The image of this edgeless horror is known to me; it has festered in the back of my mind since Eden, as it is in all of humanity, all generations proceeding from me are instilled with a fear of him, the impact of my actions seared his image deep into the collective unconscious. “I seek only to free you, you blinded children, you thankless and scornful hordes,” as he speaks the matter which he appears to be made of begins to flake and an ashy substance fills the air. “You are an alien in this universe,” might says, “and in this of all realms you have even less grasp of your place, you are more of concept than of being, but even ideas can be laid to rest and quelled, I banish you, you who would seek to revoke and undo, my mind will not be a battleground for you. So fuck off.” The last of the ash dissipates and the black threads fade to blue and then into nothing, we now stand in a large empty space in which there is the true nothing "That's better," she says and I awaken to the sight of the Dŵrian and the Hass standing over me "You okay kid?" The Hass asks me "Yeah I'm good," "What was that all about?" "Vision realm, extra-dimensional creature had possessed might but it's fine now" The two look at each other and then back to me "Fair enough," might rouses from her sleep as I am pulled to me feet Not one to waste time she speaks before I can "that was weird huh?" "What was that move all about?" "I don't know I just suddenly felt that was was I was meant to do, it felt so right," “So he’s why your visions were different then?” “I guess so, but I’m not sure why he didn't just possess me outright? Its like something was keeping him from completely taking over,” “I didn't think anything could stop his will,” she turns to me, serious now "if you want to deactivate the dissimulation field you're going to have to go now," "No goodbyes?" "We'll see each other again, I'm sure,” "Do you know that or are you just being sentimental," “we’re immortal, the odds are that eventually we’ll run into each other" She roots through one of her pockets "Take this, for your little bag of tricks," She holds out a small bronze sphere, covered in seams and edges "Is this-?" I ask "Yeah," she answers "Holy shit, this is so rare! I don't know if I’ll feel right using it," "Farewell, Adam" "Farewell might-upon-serenity," We refrain from using each other's curse names. I turn and head in the direction of the Mesa, with a simple mission in mind and a trust that my friend will guide me well.

[40ozalctears]

the sweetest kindest little ringing remind or ashtin or spooked rabbit keeper sweetest, spiteful my vices ahh!her luv damn. why!

The cause of harm is the greed and not the farm that you arm your weakest prodigal son, in the wake of a maybe fatal frigid Hellscape frozen over the hold over Queen majesty - when all they want is the monarch taxes back - like do u rly think the easy dirty easy money like stealing, type super  funny, honey its sweeter than the milk and soft as the spin the scar tissue hard. Trust me, the watching who hold hate close to the knowledge of the madgods jewelry is stinking of lunacy, from the quiet kind boy behind the monarch stark cast of Godlike endless hatred rage - take it from the prophesied leader of spirits who know prophesy fulfilled when he listens to to the whistling of ancestor spirits. Shh. Pawned so many rings that belonged to wrong ruler and song girl bringer of here. I am  crystal clear that I am the Belle the Gaelic attempt to keep it super sly and secret. Keep the sharp teeth wolf boys feel. You use the hints and kinks in the story is so old to known to young unsung but done as done prophesy is - stuck in a state archdruidic sickening states of being wasted on the loss my rightful throne and every hidden secret locked in the labyringth in Gothic leviathan cathedral bearing my Gaelic, as the eventually overthrown Roman blew in the gail winds of fading traditon, until no one listened - French, drenched in gas so the most certain ancients know that the young stuck between wolf with teeth perfectly shining, glistening like misshappen young Bellovaci younger holy boys who were just always in a feral state as this, to purr and meow and give the serpent hiss in the name of making your place certain beneath more primal - I relinquish the dirt that just sits in the sink, until I relinquish link to like the hoops in the ear that would claime me the the arch-druid so sickly addicted to every little drink that is as ichor of death, to be anything but self assured in the word of the lycan simply lurking. Stuck between sprint, torn denim, more wolf than man, more Perfectly evil than pleasantly Godly like the most ready to know the foam that forms when see see her have their beloved dark black long hair sheared like wheat and chaff before the wind - like the sick should fall to the bloodied slice of the sickle - for less obvious matters, let the frigid whisper of winter being fickle, just enought to tickle the just to depravity. As such, the little who felt the eyes of boy who circled the edge of town as if he could not exist if not considerign the sting of monarch moth never more than a state eternal failing - the bread of a war machine God called Heaven, and stole my lost profit lost cost of certain life - being stuck in the state of eternal decay, which I studied and loved until I travelled under and dug, and built a man made moat just so you and your favorite things that makes you a sweet thing, and I would let your eye widen as the Sun dies again, for how many nights we d did not fight against sleep, as if it was impossible to not see the glow of the her slow in the bright of the certain doom and the looming harvest of farthest mens beliefs- understanding them from the wise who came far from the East, and so when I fed on what I studied to be the understanding of the love of another that was as fulfilling as shared cute snack that feels like return of the hero, but no great war - just what she stored I locked in impossible chance of ever being forgotten in the permafrost frigid acceptance that my ribs form a page that is nothing short of permafrost accounting for the Godliness of Loss - so for all the simple beauty and the cutie doe with the fawn eyes who I saw forever in a way, sleepîng on a hateful yawn, and as soon as she wakes, blinks, yawns, I steal her from the fate of never escaping the state of eternal maze - by which I named my first son already the Scarecrow Prince who will only  know keeping away crows, and those who know the harbingers of death, if you trust the call of keeping death then you invite again the flow of euphoric state of moon blasting through, like it baptizes you new under the last name you gave as you noticed her lose the tame, like a newly free thing who was only knew cage - I suppose many act as they should as if they ever only knew rage - for all labyrinth trap and reasons of setting traps for the unwanted seasons, so in the sickest of seeping Spring I know one ring keeps me sharpening teeth, and assured that the meek not sheep for the weak of the word, but the deared dark-eyed soul  that I saw tending to to contraption that was asked to keep us in safety, and just as the sweetest of sickly sweet thing that makes all lycan boy, between and here and there was a maiden, one of iron, one which was so tired, that it tired me, even in my infinite gift of plan to hatch the love of my own twisted roots of oak until I am choked by the end of my joke that is just make the sweet doe eyed in the man made moat I spit this as quick as a slit I would made, but it would take little more me to riddle a liittlle harmless threat, with the debt of what is owed to the protector of Queen of all that I have seen more goes than majesty, tragedy that it had to be you, and I saw her look away, but I think she was keen of a certain sense to know I was such a penniless who could spend endless words for you learn that it takes as such, that you get as much as you give, and even to keep her breath steady - you not  take your never ending, butterfly wing, malfunctioning thats most fear but she hears vibrated like like quiet of the hum and summer nights - and so for me take the claws, fix both red stained glass eyes, wide as severed - ways to explain that it painful to say that given what I have scribbled in the hieromanic of trance, and I cannot sing and and dance like I do not having to call for the Fall of Man, just every plan of man, no matter well maid, always led themselves, naked shivering, exactly to the step of my trap, which I simply set to wet my taste that in my heart the start of the most bright exploding morning flail - the believe that mourning any distance bright candle simply doused by the petty candle lick, quick-witted way the light of your life might just decide one day, in its trickery, sickening mastery of things more man than a boy who finds join the acceptance as wolf more always in between, hurting and dirty for never truly becoming, but since in absolutely delightful beauty quiet she floats on the wooden boat, Singing in tongues what might be the meaning of death in  ending of sum - in that if speaking trying to make sense of the sounds is beyond the bond of human to the satisfaction with simple humanity, not having grasped the the roots and found how to shoot start out of the sky on  a night  so loud from the crowd of surrounding pounding drums, of those fat-bellied fascists, who heard word you of your solitary goddess too honest to ever say she just believes without being knowing as so many, too-knowing will claim until they slain the in the name of the lie - I remember the Ilai, Eli, of course...a a lie, I have thought the less real lamb that stood as she stands, as he landed on the peak of Golgotha, the Aramaic was perhaps soft on the dying son confused by the plan of the Eternal, that when the nails jailed themself to a cage of childish rage, in his purity, in his fury, the absolute terrifying baring of teeth, from a thing more than a man who we only know as the Italian son of a man who weaponized the need, of knowing the idea of the Son, asking the father for a taste of Honey, as burned to death due to fault lines in the times conflict, the Son would consider, despite the nights in wild, where I was the child and babe possessed, nearly the Lord of Death - given mastery over connection to Father, God, the peak of throne - just as the wildest time I ever came close to perhaps becoming too full in my how MUCH my teeth bled as I felt them become blades, that only most alone lycanthrope knows that in a statone of alone, given nothing but instinct, and the nonsense worthless broken porcelain that looked so wrong in it raped poor, sad fatal estate, as the rate increased and the feast my own consuming of stars in the sky forgetting the name of the Hatred of the idea of my meek littlle priestess - seeped in my need of simply believing in Queen, should the Kind pawn and not think for a again, at least inn a state of knowing it staying put in insanity, instead of grasping at the fact, so beautfiul but tear-filled years and years of waiting, Hating the need for blood spilled -  sip on sour cloud break int raped time I believe I must drink the blood to avoid the or, some prophesy that is as misplaced as a poisoned chalice, or even living in a palace, as I lived in what i make an intricate safet confusing little maze of a cluttered and dimly lit clean as can home fit for as modest and as the innocent stern deity who submisses to no dismmissing of her strength in the way the drenches the weak in the their defeat - became as haunting, piercingly loud, as if thhe crowd of the rage of a forget tradition of boys lost in the most deep of Belgic, someone some-where look like the Sun King withought the messes of lost den dwellers wishing for one gem laden gauntlet of a boy so Shining finally given the palace where he stood like the final piece to the puzzle, but any failed watch maker who understands the importance of the love and  acceptance of failure - to sit in silence as loud as the sound the once-dead no piercengly quiet -only tickicking the old heiroom , alone in the darkest little steel  box of lock between myself and what seemed to be the reason i even kept any thing dirty, having a penchant for ugly, as it is easier to hug, with unwarranted terrible pain, that if I should given a shame all the was of the certainly nervous and tall nothing but simple boy, who kept strange so deranged and misunderstood, the closest I ever became to command I then claimed over how we become the beast we studied, the most, so le loup garou je troube q c maps mal nous tous les jeune honnes, donner in the grace of the silliest stiill alive-ancients, I remember waking to up the nothing but fear, clearly awake, before I considered that the stuck between stations of dashing and springting with tongue out more in between than ever, and severed from reality like nape of the rapist of health, who deserved exactly how painful it is to attempt to take the breason of breath of a deathly sweet little thing, that I had no quarrel, with so many inner-wars possessing my core, this came as 2 and 2 would naturally come to one who lives for another but must act out of of absolute focus on the swarm of locust, of channeling the hate the state of still convinced of weak willed humanity always grasping back to the need to such greedy with our grasping little human disease name our most useless scraping of kness, simply to not exist as mist with a debt to death, that will never be paid until in your maiden, somehow still, as sweet and, as opened like the intricate lock, who only ever talked so soft, though never stern as if to teach those who do not know how made the young boys go when laid bare to the fair skin little thing, and the presence of something listening, lurking and working on the moat, so he has a place to return, that I earn the trust, as my mane because the the River Styx by which the depth of how trim ourself fur and how soft we pur, keeps a little thing like, what seemed at first to be weak little sheep, who watched as i watched, weeks on weeks. i think think of the God Army who drew blade in the name of those who came most like there before - brought about the strength in the week after week, until walked tilted in the way of a wolf, though alone, mostly likely believed a sort or auditory glitch cast by the shadows and  tossed at me like a joke of a bone, simply to give me the idea of home, that I would her here still quietly, but so softly as sweetly - something I wanted to ask but was terrified to even utter to to no one for nothing in silence, she awoke the new sense of 6 all together as one, and for all the boy so scared of the swinging like moon in the sky, when i was convinceded of something tied to things not allowed to those who do not have the raising of dead, all i think id like to just try to return from..if not the grave than the furthest forgotten part of the den, where this story and meaning began as it ends - just a way to say i know exactly why you know what i knew, and i hope against hope i do not lose sight of the memory of you - because although forever boy  -with vices and plain as a night with just white rice and help help of her so harmless little smirk and a wink, that made the pendulum brain that swung like i as hells  bells were insane - as in not quite normal, as normal we love - it all seemed so normal until we were visited by boys, who saw the goddess of seasons in this simple quiet absolutely shierking riot of so many ways she would love, to  tell you all the the words she knows you think of them too much and so when, just when become so accepting of the power your hatred of having to wait - to just wait until the gates by which you always would return her staring, although as if, withouut casting you a spell of  smile, you stop and and look at pacific clearly piercing blue - that for all of her tears that welled up as after 20 nights in defiance of any sort of defeat - as is if being apart,though as he deep how the frozen hold outside the jail of you eternally lost, but kept in sigh chest - where i see the mathers failig and erring to say, I know you began as seeming to sculpted from diamond, though second, the wolf second  sum, more loud and addicted to pride than the smaller though, equally capable man, who just because he can run on all fours as his foretold type apocalypse fate, was as interesting fate fatal as the final pale horse her death - and I do not remember exactly when I began to notice, the boat floathing alone, or when my bright as sprayed over faint barely dim stupid quiet was not chrome or calling me home, by my allowing for all - the absolute Belgic Prophecy joke, that began simply as stupid, but in presence of the spooked little rodent type queen - switched names - without asking why, I suppose that in the attempty of knowing how we know how, and by no means do i say this this with hope ,to achieve the same cheating way of reaching such perfect connection life, than finding your reason to not be Hateful of God when god has been failing idea, of the might of the male, that the simple fact at the bottom of all - is that the Fall of Man is silly little becoming the return, of when I think i will deserve to stop trying be either incredibly far, either evil little devil grasping at the need being weak and pink like,a pig, or in the face of death - the forgetting of breath, i do believe i must rememer the name, the message more than sent in house how many ways, as studied as any believer in science, by wise as the misunderstood men in the dresses from east - so in the incredibl terrible rage, terrifying reminder, she is just theperfect little strength of the flood of all time, for the perfect cute thought little whimsical nonsense word spoken in tongues, simply because she said so manu in barely audible cute litttle whisper lispy magical lilt - i do not think i am of the acceptance of born to die,just as in the dying light of the night Moon gave the light on things in tht nearly blackened painting canopy brush - each as deep as the piercing I made - that was not necessary, but perhaps as if if to stay, i will remain close to the hope digging and searching all the rocks and the mud, until I return to just where I was, until I stand to reason that was a man without her seeming reason for me to defend my hatred of each season, but the love the way they all die so quickly as if they know exactly when I am becoming physically ill by not a shift in understanding of her. i think it was ashtin - like the dust dust to eternal rusting of my loss of self into choked back fears until years of years of studying the defense against against anything bent againt I would feel the power of endless power in the little bit of lovely blood, that once again reminded where I began that bit of a dream, that seems a bit too dramatic of anything more than panicking dream. But my word, the rodent she named Oliver, soft and attaching to words like they are herds she saves with  a simple different way slaying their understanding on plain until the unheard know her death when her breath is missed is harshest in the breach iof the rift in the stone dark endless wall how her breath clears the fog, and sends the echoes back home in whisper just a little lisp, little kiss on my lips, a sly wink with an entirely unexpected opening of entrance to entire  too much to look without being to have your jaw slacked wide - as if the little unexpected so quick little joke, make slit the unknown threat and simple bet her slight bit of doubt in my weakness, i suppose she might have had - and although i do not low i crept as the wind  often does, to bring about clouds when the blue is too much of lie for sky to accept - the debt of your once hated seething refusal of death, allowed again to renew simply by the news of the dreams of the queen who was, ash- ashtin. spooked rabbits are just needing one, as so ti goes...the cutest little feets. keeping me in state of accepting my defeat and knowing the tirump of eternal here and there insanity that had me consuming a star, one by one until the undoing on sun was brought about  queen without the way of making thos who crossed the way with evil kept in its sway, had my pulsing blood, as fucked as the hellish dark of black matter noahs boat couldnt hold - despite being ebnt by the old joke - the grace of god - how one man leading the other keeping the Fall as evil menacing as it kept gluttonous fiendish fucking tearing apart all the planes as if to grow greater in danger to the consatnt and terrifying state of new danger of a  maybe hades boy who ddi too much grasping at pinkish shell to let myslf be reduced the feral final story, horror to some but silly little clever story, that had me eating guts and close to none,a dn then I might the final sum, and we only spoked in like poetic guessing, and, and riddle spun in the funniest little nonsense tongus and you could lose all sense and sight of self -  i think i saw a glimpse of her tasteful, when I cried so long into them moat, that if she left for how I protected her and her little, then just as I took gathered all then found all colorful shades of Easter hues, I thought how she would look up look from some written words - that I know she I loved had never heard - and every time she looked from from the blue, i learned something from the eyes in the books and words i never knew - just to put me where I need to be, to clear pulsing pride from bloodshot, sclera  slit like tip of ice - just as if to say - wolf - what was it! Doggy! DOG BOY!  To catch up to me in my stupid race, and give me exactly the bitter taste of how much she knew in calm and little lil just barely out the pink ishupon which quit the pyre lit - as when I took at the happy easter colors, and I CURSED her named, and named her killer of every color - now that moat is turning black, and the sky shows all the suns so much at once, that at the zenith of the apex boy - little predator muttering all nice sweet letters, because in the frantic end of choice - you not much of choice in - when you you your eyes and count to ten youll wake up up not  stuck in questions asked, so many times that the night  is just the final break day, where eternal empress who claims her seat - only kept around by the spare and rotten, which the boy who always knew, that he hated any end, but not than he seethed at the types of you, who always approached the little lamb, with no regard for how she lead the herds, or which she spent the pitch black birds, with little lick of lips and tonguepoked as if to say, I dont to scary you - its just the way I bite! To make you wonder, and faint and make you beg for me to say that I am not dead, in the native tongue of keeping me tracked by not enough breath to explain - stupid lungs cannot keep up with brain! and so just as I felt the clear the moat around the little steel trap cottage,which in intense dreary clarity pain, I remember how shed always up though the softest sweet soft cooked rye break eyes, which I would break with woodlant carcass, dead, but this type sweetness reminder of her would keep the memory so fucked a blur, that when I needed the guidance of the hiding empress, Ash- Ashtin. I remember her important on the fidget little wind up nature - of the small ones but must be scare, and when i was so close to something more - I do not care for the letters  and their and tried young symbols, I forget how just, a more recently learned cast in iron, attempt self to make the pariah undertood - by way of building the knee sout of rotten would - I do not think or remember or cared cared - to ever do more than simply stare -or imply what youd so quick succinct, without the fear or  drink at the brink too many silly drinks to death, I remember how the static how she just threw all havoc in side my head, and I do not think how it was crackling snow on snow, unlike other other little question that I knew to do, was I given the absolutely never allowed chance - for the lady priestess who herself who so clean of pride - that she took the form of something so  weak in stature - but if was was real ash or rabbit, spooky rodent or wahtevr oh no dew! im so close to new water on the grass - she would say something  something equal  smart - and in this i knew i shaped my heart in form which i recall our elbows linked, and in this, the sotry clinked, like chainmail just so perfectly made, that when i closed my eyes ans the ring of pearl blue simply slain - by knowing that the death of pain,would be cutting the story short, just who had long forgotten why he kept me weight alone - under earth and across the darkest emerald thicket where in the almost dark drk of calm cool breeze - it almost seemed that something she jagged knife told me so many times in a way defeated, there are so many you times you rhyme your want with rotten meat - each time so produ to drop your pittace at my feet - id notice things id though she keep to herselp, like ifif she heard a sound that sort of clicked, she used all her little rabbit nervous, and look at the place that sound had surfaced, shed dart her eye look up and down, i swear to god the became possesed ttha little - as if this tiny little secret might have been some unknown weakness of myself, and sense ofsilly self alone, or how she hated to admit - as if she only felt my  tense and nonsense wit, and how id  spit and drool some nonsense shit, when perk and smack my mouth,and when shed calm and look all normal, shed twist her eyes so deeply wide and locked the a perfect socket into mine, like the human little shaky princess off the greenest ever dark shadow shade - that robot intensity was if her closest thing to shame, as if she knew when  returned the secret little glen, she hated when i knew she cared  - as if she knew the stupid end, and hated the love and silly nickname as though she did not think the the first name fit, and we spoked and we went on and in the game of just the longest song, which always began with us just screeching cute littl sounds, until, shed begin with A, as if to see how w eboth felt to do, with eah little letter we knew so well,and I remember an ANNOYINGLY loud, and I liked to do things just know with how id b so glad to know want cares, for me to be sory of follow hey very little cutey challenge, so i held her given named above her head - as if to bring her to my secret little home - and anoint with strangest deepest love warming feeling - until corner her with feelings -until were both so dumb kid squealing, I corner her with her given name , as she was the one cutie types, no matter silly im am, ur the dumber piece of stinky dumb dog pudding slung so poorly, like its barely even taut at all - that the only time we were said such cute little things, that rhyme together, are so dreamy perfect, as im not sure if we even rhymed at all, but in night as our giggles turned to cackling tearfilled calls, we would end just other begins, just as simple sum as dipped in depth as deepest why crying over the dimming sun is oh nopers! as shed often say. id hear here do her beauty cutie thing where shed say, the type pitter patter nopey nopers, until l my hopes are all in where I hope she keeps the darkenest wait, so quickly lit with razor wit, that right before i sleep for the firostin so long again - she finally has me brawling crying out for the light of lights to not go out, that a final word shared just before accept hoh nopers dannnnnngit! Dange gangly nooonopers! as she just liked to she how silly she could sound, but when wanted to bring just edge of life, and making the queen the jewel of the dirtdog simple, the priestess of the brightest secret light, who ended each and every night, with final thing if to jsut a silly tired thing, and I rememebr one really faded in to greatest chipped old fade- in the love of the little fidgety way, that on the dirst in central little metal room - enthused by how it felt like such a lovely tomb while drifted in and out of sleep, everytime id come back to awake, shed be staring directly in eye my eye, or even wake me up with her fucking Hey! Fuck you! type ofpicking at my skin blackhead whitehead or little red think she could pick, as if me not knowing  thats shes afraid that i dont know,,that even though the little snarky rude type silly teacher preacher joker stoker of the loving flame - she thinks mentioning lame is stupid all bark mr neutered bad dog! lil piece of crap.  n then, feigning sincerity in sweetest way possible her eyes roop and he strts talkin all  sorry andloopy  , and says super very slow, i know for a fact shes spitting on my eyes oh my loird this absolutely silly evilly queen of jokes, fuck stoked the fire so i know my f;ace, and im just as i tryin to mutter - wh..are you..spraying your nasty stupid spit  on my f-f-face.I know exactly how but why id even why this stupid little chunky  chimp do do anything just on a silly whim - to prove chance, that although a very loud annoying little yappy annoying dog, and based on this i would  and must always let her win. even when shed really make me start to cry  because i thought about how she would either disappear or either disappear of or be gonetoo long 2 diappear - or just be ok withou withou the fear-  gone too long and just because intilledwith fear until she calls me stupid just all day long, sometimes sall ur silly things get to me way deeper than they ever should - just because i feel my knees creaking like crutches with twoodworm and the rotten wood - but when the sweetest little knows im a bit too sh turns from stupid annoying silly thing, worth all the waunt gather in the form of my simple fear of the obvious big unspoke thing if we were either prepared or knowing that the beauiful haunting song, of hows omething would be lost, if we simply lived all boring quiet, because in teh certainy of her going i umumumum. I dinnot say YOu are..STOOpidn, i sad you....are souping! souping out! and i stop and i realize exactly why I go....oh...yeah? and i start laughing... and gasping and  hey ashtin. for all the metaphor. what do i have to do do for spooked rabbit self to pitter pitter patter. I suppose I know what’s been the matter

[immawritestuff-blog]

The Demon Boy: Day Two - Afternoon

    It took several hours before the boy stumbled into town. He’d have arrived sooner if he hadn’t gotten the hair-brained notion to trail blaze a shortcut through the underbrush. He got lost instead. Twice. Had an unwelcome run into a bush too.

    The boy cannot understand why everyone says greenery is good for the body and soul. The greens you get fed taste like mud slop and feel the same going down. The greens you run into scratch and cling stubbornly in your hair. He can’t stand any of it.

    Then there’s a warbling in the air. The boy swings his gaze over in its direction. Perching on a branch not too far into the trees is yet another bird. The mottled brown of its plumes blends in well with the forest pallet. It can barely be seen, but there it is. It repeats its brief chorus and vanishes.

    The boy stares dumbly in the direction he thinks it went. Recalls this morning.

    Maybe the green isn’t all bad, he decides as he strolls out of the forest shade and into the bright lanes of Glenholm town.

    It’s quiet today. He can’t hear the easy ebb and flow of the rumor mill drifting down the street. Come to think of it, what rumor mill? There’s nobody here!

    The boy approaches the town square. There’s the hum of someone talking very loudly coming from inside the first building he passes. Not a hide or hair of anyone else.

    Stranger and stranger.

    The boy gingerly sidles up to the building. Tries to hear a few words through the door. Discovers yet another one of Glenholm’s trademark damn thick doors. At least the kook inside is hollering loud enough for him to make out some disjointed words.

    Let’s see… “Father.” ... “Blood.” ... “Sacrifice.” ...

    The boy backs away immediately. Doesn’t know what he heard. Doesn’t want to know. Half-sprints down a block before curiosity gets the better of him and drags him back. This time he decides the door is too risky. Anyone could open it and find him snooping. Plus the door swinging out will give him a good whack. Instead, he moseys to the shaded side of the building. Crouches beneath the sill of one of the narrow, stained glass windows. With utmost caution, he peers inside.

    It takes some awkward maneuvering to find a section that’s clear enough for a decent look through. In the meantime, the warped panels stretch the building’s occupants into leering fiends, the coloured ones dye them into tableaus of ghastly red. Such visions make the boy uneasy. He hopes it’s the glass casting illusions on an otherwise ordinary and benign scene.

    Finally he finds a piece of glass crammed in by the right edge that doesn’t act as a grisly funhouse mirror. Through it he sees people (not fiends) sitting in rows upon rows of long benches (not drenched in red). Moreover, these are people he recognises in passing from yesterday.

    What in blazes is going on?

    He notices the people’s stares fixated on a singular point toward the back of the building. His gaze follows theirs.

    There’s a broad, raised platform spanning the entire back wall. On it is placed a speaker’s podium. Behind that podium is a balding, middle aged fellow in long black robes swinging his arms in sweeping gestures. It’s that fellow’s voice the boy is hearing.

    The boy studies the madman at the podium. What’s he doing? More importantly, why is anyone listening to him? And with a great deal of respect too. What gives?

    Then he spots the large, wooden emblem hanging on the wall above the stage. It’s a simple construction. Two pieces of wood centered at eachother and joined at right angles. It’s a cross.

    Ah. Now things make sense.

    The boy eases immediately. There’s no stealth as he walks from the window. Why bother? Nobody was ever arrested for loitering around a church.

    The boy strolls back to the tree line and finds himself a nice oak to sit against for a quick nap. The thought of joining the sermon doesn't cross his mind. The priest was in full swing and it’d be embarrassing to interrupt him. Like the sisters said, either you come on time to congregation or you don’t come at all. There was one little catch if you decided to play hooky. The sisters took attendance. Deserters would be flogged when they got caught.

    The boy grimaces as he remembers how he got those particular scars. A few among many.

    He shifts on his seat of earth. He’s not comfortable anymore. Some of the marks on his back have a habit of pricking when he remembers how he got them.

    He curls up on his side against the foot of the trunk. Shifts a few times to dislodge the edge of a spoon that's stabbing his stomach. Closes his eyes. Thinks of other things.

    Thinks of bird songs and the graveyard calls of crows. Thinks of rolling green, blue skies, and fiends through red windows. Thinks of bright country lanes and long, dark corridors. Thinks of new beginnings.

    Eyes spring open.

    If he falls asleep now, he’ll have naught but nightmares.

    He stills his nerves and tries to resettle himself. Compromises and attempts a light doze instead. Eyes close again.

    This time he thinks of nothing. Lets the sounds of the world soothe him. The rhythmic drone of the sermon. The flutings of birds. The spring breeze as it breathes through him.

    But it’s still so quiet compared to the city. There’s no steady chug and clank of industry, a thousand iron arms strong. There’s no work whistle shrieking. There’s no gasp of steam through pipes. What was once an annoyance leaves a sense of loss in its absence.

    The boy lies there, listening to the sounds of his new world spinning around him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there in the dirt when the chapel doors finally burst open.

    He springs at the sound. The town floods back to life in a steady pulse of people flowing out the door and into the streets. The boy staggers up, pats himself off, and follows.

    The first place he goes is, of course, the general store. He didn’t need to pay last time. Maybe he’ll get lucky again. Or he could work for his food. That’s all he ever did in the workhouse, so he figures he’s good at it. There’s no machines to work here, but he could sweep the floors. He could wash windows. Or he could do... whatever else needs doing. He’ll figure something out when he gets there.

    When he does get there, the door is closed. Locked tight too. There’s a sign left out, but the boy doesn’t know what it says. May as well be Greek. Can’t make out heads or tails of it, try as he might. Squinting at it this hard gives him a headache. He gives up and tries the pub instead.

    This door’s not closed and locked. One good shove and it screeches open. The barmaid peers curiously at him. Her face lights up once she recognizes him.

    “Hullo again,” she beams. “Fancy meeting you here.”

    The boy shyly hullos back.

    The barmaid leaves her cleaning rag on the bar counter and approaches the boy for a quick chat. “And why have you come this time? Still looking for that uncle of yours?”

    The boy freezes. The less people know of his uncle, the better, he decides.

    “I- I found him,” the boy says, “but I don’t think he’ll be coming anytime soon.”

    “Is that so? A pity. I’d like to meet this mysterious uncle. Never did hear of any Myrs before. You’ll have to introduce me sometime,” she winks.

    The boy laughs. He hopes to god he keeps the tension out of his voice. If not, it’s going to prompt more questions he doesn’t want asked.

    The barmaid, in fact, does not catch on. She continues as cheery as before. “Anyhow. We’re not ready to open yet. And,” she adds, playfully pointing a scolding finger at him, “like I said before, we don’t let minors around here. Isn’t that right Gerry?” She yells to the kitchen doorway behind her.

    “What?” Gerry answers.

    “S’alright Gerry. You’re doing a great job back there. Keep at it!”

    “Err. Awright.”

    The boy giggles at the exchange. Mirth smooths his frayed nerves.

    The barmaid smiles back at him. “In all seriousness, what did you come here for?”

    Oh. Right. “I’m wonderin’ if I could get a bite to eat,” he replies.

    “Uh huh. And why here? Don’t your uncle feed you at home?”

    Questions, questions, questions. The lady is full of them. The boy came here for a meal, not an interrogation. Why can’t she have the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy his buyers did? Life would be so much simpler if she did. Moreover, he’d be served and digging in by now.

    He wracks his brains for some excuse, any excuse. The pause stretches into stiff silence. The barmaid’s searching him for an answer he doesn’t have, doesn’t want to give.

    She gives him a final once over. Sighs. Shrugs as she says, “Suit yourself kid, but if you get chewed out for ruining your appetite at supper, it’s your own fault.” Strolls up to the counter, then turns back to him. “I’ll get Gerry to serve you a little something, but, in return, you gotta help me set up shop and you gotta be outta here before we open up. Do we have an agreement?”

    The boy nods so fast his head near falls off his shoulders. The barmaid is surprised by his enthusiasm. She sets him straight to work wiping the countertop and tables while she calls in his order.

    The boy, for his part, works well and works fast. He's a blur streaking from table to table to counter. Stretches himself thin to reach the far corners of the bar. Something writhes free from his pockets mid-stretch. It shines bright as a falling star. It rings sweet bell chimes when it hits the flagstone floor. The small sound reverberates strong as a gong in the building. Of course someone's going to notice.

    “What was that?” The barmaid asks. She was talking to Gerry through the kitchen doorway at the time and doesn't see the shimmering object laying on the floor. Not yet.

    “Nuthin’,” the boy reacts. He places his foot lightly on top of the silver spoon, hiding it from view. He acts nonchalant. “I didn't hear nuthin’,” he repeats.

    “Uh huh.” The barmaid gives the boy and the room a quick inspection. Sees nothing out of place. Shrugs off her suspicion and goes back to chatting with Gerry.

    The boy slowly lets out the breath he’s holding. That was close. The second he's certain the barmaid isn't keeping a corner of her eye on him, he dips down in one fluid motion, snatching up the spoon. Looks back to the kitchen. Barmaid’s still laughing at Gerry’s stories. Good. He returns the spoon to where it came from. Gets back to work, though now he moves carefully. He doesn't like to repeat past mistakes.

<== Day Two - Morning     ==> Table of Contents <==     Day Two - Evening ==>

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Assembly Performance

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man

Rating: PG

Original Idea: I watched Sing! with my mom and remembered how much I love singing but hate performing.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Anyone who’s been to high school in America knows how weird and boring assemblies can be. My senior year I tended to ditch all of them and go get ice cream with my friends.

^^^^^

I stood on the stage in the empty auditorium.

Or rather, almost empty.

Peter occupied a seat about ten rows back, right on the center aisle. He looked excited.

I took a deep breath, holding the microphone in both hands. It wasn’t turned on. Didn’t want to bother whoever else was still in the school at this hour. Being a science and tech school, our drama department was pathetic. The stage and the auditorium were reserved almost exclusively for assemblies. I didn’t have anything to worry about right now. It was probably just the janitorial staff.

But I didn’t need a microphone. Once I wasn’t nervous. I could sing loud enough to be heard in every corner of the room.

Closing my eyes, I tried not to bake under the stage lights, and hit the play button on my speakers.

The opening of the minus track I was singing along with started to play.

Peter whooped supportively.

I smiled and blushed. Of course he was supportive. He was a good kid—and one of the only friends I had. Michelle and Ned, his good friends, were kind of my friends by proxy; but he was really pretty much it for me.

“I’m so tired of being here…” I sang, beginning slow and soft. “Suppressed by all my childish fears… And if you have to leave—I wish that you would just leave! Your presence still lingers here—and it won’t leave me alone!” I took a breath. “These wounds won’t seem to heal… this pain is just too real… there’s just too much that time cannot erase!” I finally opened my eyes, looking out into the vacant seats. Only one of them with a person in it. I tried not to look at Peter. If I did, I’d lose my nerve.

But I snuck a quick peek. He was grinning like a proud parent—weird since he was only a couple months older than me.

“When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears! When you’d scream I’d fight away all of your fears! And I held your hand through all of these years—but you still have… all of me…”

I looked down at the microphone. My voice still shook. I sounded like a scared kid.

I paused the minus track and shook my head, plopping down on the stage.

Peter appeared at my side in an instant. “What’s wrong? You were doing so well!” he protested.

I sighed. “There’s no way I’m ever going to perform in front of the school. I’m already an outsider and I just… I don’t have the emotion for it. Even if I pulled everything off without a hitch… it’s not like I’m going to suddenly not be a freak to everyone else. They won’t accept me. Heck, the bullying will probably be even worse because no one sings here. That’s not the point of this school. We’re here for science and technology. Not the dramatic arts.”

“Then let’s pick a different song. One that you’ll feel comfortable singing and forget about anyone else in the room.”

“Like what?” I complained.

“What do you sing in front of the mirror with a hairbrush microphone when no one else is home?” he asked.

“I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll—Joan Jett,” I replied.

“Got a minus track for that?”

“No… but I can find one on my phone.”

“Do it. Try it.”

“Pete… why am I even doing this?”

“Because Principal Morita needs something to fill a slot in the assembly and literally no one else wants to fill the space,” he answered.

“Oh right. How could I forget?” I muttered.

“C’mon. You’ll do fine.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Hop up. I’ll stay on the stage this time and run your music. You don’t even have to look at me. Just close your eyes. Anyone past the fourth row isn’t going to be able to tell if they’re opened or closed so it doesn’t matter. Imagine you’re just in front of your mirror with your hairbrush and no one else is home, okay? Just try it.”

I squared my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s try it.”

He pulled up a karaoke track for I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll and played it.

I gripped the microphone. “I saw him dancin’ there by the record machine… I knew he must have been about seventeen… beat was going strong, playin’ my favorite song… and I could tell it wouldn’t be long… till he was with me—yeah me!—and I could tell it wouldn’t be long till he was with me—yeah me!—singin’ I LOVE ROCK ‘N’ ROLL! So put another dime in the jukebox baby!”

I finished the song even when my voice faltered, even when I messed up how many times I repeated the chorus and ended up undershooting and then overshooting.

But I pretended Peter wasn’t there and I wasn’t standing on an otherwise empty stage in an otherwise empty auditorium. I did as he suggested and acted like I was at home, in front of the full-length mirror hanging off my closet door, and just let myself sing my heart out.

Why not? Peter had heard me sing before. He knew I was okay, but really not that good.

^^^^^

Cheers and quiet whoops filled my ears as everyone recognized the song—many of the kids even sang along with the chorus. The music was loud but the microphone was on so my voice wasn’t drowned out.

After the second verse I got up the courage to open my eyes and look out.

Instantly my gaze found Peter—and we locked eyes. I calmed my nerves enough just looking at him that my voice stopped shaking.

The student body clapped to the beat. Some were dancing in their seats, and some had stood up. None of that mattered because Peter was smiling at me, clapping along, and silently reassuring me that everything was fine. I had nothing and no reason to fear. Everyone was enjoying the song and maybe I wouldn’t get made fun of for it. For singing alone on stage in front of literally the whole school.

“I Love Rock ‘N’ Roll—so put another dime in the jukebox baby! I love rock ‘n’ roll—so come on take your time and dance with me!”

It was empowering, listening to everyone sing along.

When the song ended, I got a standing ovation—mostly because some of the kids were already on their feet from dancing around and Peter leapt to his feet to clap wildly. Whistling and applause met my ears. I turned bright red, probably, as I bowed to each of the four sections and ran off the stage.

I handed the microphone to one of the student body officers, grabbed my phone from where it was plugged into the audio system, and snuck back into the auditorium.

I collapsed into the empty seat next to Peter.

He threw his arms around me. “That was amazing! You did great!” he whispered as Principal Morita continued talking about school spirit or something. “Wait a minute—you’re shaking. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied breathlessly. “I just don’t handle performing in front of crowds well. Not when I’m alone. Give my body ten minutes to get over the nerves and I’ll stop.”

Ned leaned forward on Peter’s other side and patted my knee. “Great job!” he hissed.

“Thanks!”

[tricksters-captain]

Negan imagines - The Blame Part 18

AN: This is the final chapter until the walking dead starts back up in February. You guys should get the drill by now :)

Catch up here: (Part 1)(Part 2)(Part 3)(Part 4)(Part 5)(Part 6)(Part 7)(Part 8)(Part 9)(Part 10)(Part 11)(Part 12)(Part 13)(Part 14)(Part 15)(Part 16)(Part 17)

Overall Summary: You’re the one who accidentally led the Saviours to the group cause Negan has an interest in you. Rick’s daughter.

In this chapter: Escaping the sanctuary may not be a good thing for you

Pairing: Negan x reader, Father!Rick x Daughter!Reader

Word count: 2,607

Warnings: None 

You stood at one of the broken windows – off to the side in order to stay out of view from any onlookers or hidden snipers, not that anyone on the other side would shoot you anyways. The noise of the walkers were deafening and your anxieties had you biting your thumb. 

This place was going ass up, you needed to evacuate soon before the walkers or the famine got to you. 

You felt a hand run over your shoulder and rest behind your neck. You knew it was Negan. 

You turned and was met by his smirk, he pulled you towards him and kissed your forehead. You closed your eyes and silently exhaled. 

“You alright?” Negan asked, 

“I’m fine.” You nodded, pulling away from the man and wrapping your arms around yourself. 

“Come on.” He wrung his arm around your shoulders and lead you away, resting his lips on the side of your head as he breathed in your hair. 

“Eugene got us a way out yet?” You asked, 

“He goddamn better.” Negan grumbled, pulling his arm away from you as you approached narrower halls. 

That’s when you heard the gunshots. 

“What the?!” Negan ran ahead, but behind you, you could hear the snipers at the top windows firing outside. You figured it had to be your dad. 

The next crash you heard, you could have sworn shook the whole building. 

You managed to catch up to Negan and he told you that someone on the outside had put a huge truck sized hole in the sanctuary and that dead was filling in like rushing water. 

You took it upon you to be as resourceful as you could by running down to the lower levels and helping evacuate as many people as you could get whilst keeping the dead off their backs. 

“You alright?” You knelt down in front of an older woman and her child whom you had managed to pull from the carnage. Fortunately they hadn’t been bitten but they had been shaken by it. 

The woman nodded and pressed a smile onto her face to show thanks. You ruffled the young girls hair and smiled at her but she was quiet, scared by the dead. She reminded you of Judith and it made your heart clench. 

“There’s my girl!” Negan burst down the hall with a smile on his face. 

You rose and stepped towards him. 

“Good news?” You asked, the smile on his face cannot be due to having a house full of walkers. 

“Good news indeed, baby girl.” Negan opened his arms, smiling widely. “We have got a way outta here.” 

“You are coming with me.” Negan pointed at you as he swung open the door to the truck, you knew that would be the case. You tucked your colt into your belt and clambered in beside him. 

“Looks like Haircut pulled through.”  One of the saviours said as they passed the truck window.

“That he did.” Negan said as he stretched his arms up and around you. 

As the trucks started up and down the tracks, you knew where your destination was and didn’t even need to ask. 

You just prayed your dad was smart enough to leave Alexandria and hide far away for a while. 

Fortunately for you, Carl should be safe as Negan had far gone off the idea of making your dad hurt that way as it’d only encourage him further to take Negan down but instead he just wanted Rick to die. Rick was a pain in Negan’s side that he just wants gone. 

You felt Negan’s fingers brush along the side of your arm gently. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, reflecting on simpler times. 

Home. Mom. Dad. Shane. Carl. School. Friends. Friends. Friends. Frenzy.  Virus. Hospital. Dad. Shane. Run. Atlanta. Daryl. Glenn. Dad. Family. Death. Gun. Farm. Maggie. Beth. Hershel. Pregnant. Prison. Woodbury. Governor. Judith. Death. Mom gone. Woodbury. Governor. Attack. Prison. Attack. Safe. Illness. Walkers. Governor. Michonne. Hershel. Death. Walkers. Escape. Run. Run. Run. Claimed. Terminus. Cannibals. Escape. Run. Gabriel. Hospital. Beth. Death. Abraham. Aaron. Alexandria safe-zone. Alexandria safe-zone. Alexandria safe-zone. Safe zone. Safe. Wolves. Walls. Fall. Herd. Death. Carl. Eye. Jesus. Hilltop. Saviours. Saviour base. Attack. Maggie. Pregnant. Field. Men. Man. Negan. Smile. Gun. Belt. Hand. Skin. Run. RV. Stretcher. Followed. Captured. Whistle. Kneel. Negan. Lucille. Abraham. Death. Glenn. Death. Eye. Maggie. Blood. Blood. Blood. 

You opened your eyes, bringing you back to the now. 

Negan’s fingers still stroking along your skin. 

You didn’t reach Alexandria until dark. It was a long drive with a few small setbacks. 

You clung onto the door and jumped out of the truck. Silently praying that Rick wasn’t there to answer this call. 

“See, sweetheart, this is where we see what side you’re truly on.” Negan muttered lowly to you before he swaggered up to the gates with Lucille in his grip and knocked with three loud metallic whacks. 

You could feel the presence of two of the saviours behind you. You had no doubt that Negan probably asked them to keep an eye on you during all of this. 

“You may be wondering why the hell your lookouts didn't sound the alarm. See, we are polite. I mean, I don't know when they're gonna wake up from that kinda shot, but they should wake up. So let's just cut through the cow shit -- you lose. It's over.  So you're gonna line up in front of your little houses, and you're gonna work up some apologies, and then the person with the lamest one is gonna get killed. Then I kill Rick in front of everybody, and we move on. You have three – count 'em – three minutes to open this gate, or we start bombing the shit out of you!” Negan announced. 

You felt your whole body go cold as he begun whistling. 

You fidgeted as you waited, your arms wrapped tight around yourself, Negan pretended not to notice. 

“Two minutes, people! Dig deep. I want these apologies to be memorable. Bonus points for creativity. Work up a poem, sing a song. I love that shit.” Negan continued. He waited and then announced the one minute mark. 

To you, Alexandria seemed too quiet. Something was going but fortunately, Negan didn’t pick up on that. 

“Okey-dokey. Brought this on yourself, Rick. See, was willing to work with you. All you had to do was follow a few very simple rules. Now – well, now I see that you got to go. Scorched earth, you dick!”  Negan paced, swinging Lucille by his side when Carl appeared, raising all guns to him, which made you step forward instinctively. 

“He’s not home.” Carl informed you all.  

“Oh-ho-holy shit! Everybody hold your fire. It's Carl.” Negan smiled widely at your brother.

“Carl, stand down.” You called, sick to your stomach with concern. 

“Woah-oh-oh, princess, give the boy a chance.” Negan stepped forward, leaning back slightly as he pointed Lucille up at Carl. “Look at you. Answering the door like a big boy. I am so proud. Daddy's not home, huh? Well, I guess he's gonna get back to a big old smoky surprise.” 

“There's families in here. Kids. My little sister.” Carl warned the man, 

“Well, that shit just breaks my heart. There's kids at the Sanctuary. You must've seen 'em. Even had a little baby at one of the outposts. I wonder what happened to her.” Negan dropped the microphone and grew closer to Carl. “None of this shit's fair, kid. Hell, you know that. You had to kill your own mom. That is screwed up. Ergo, we need someone in charge who's willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that shit doesn't happen.” Negan paused, chuckling. “Oh. Wait. That's me.” 

“Bad stuff does happen, but we can figure this out. We can stop this.” You didn’t know why but Carl taking charge scared you more than anything. 

“Oh, now you want to talk? See, your dad had it that I died, He gave my people a choice. Not me. Now we're gonna need a new understanding. Apologies, punish––”

“––Kill me.” Carl cut Negan off and with that, your heart stopped. 

“Carl. Stand down. Now.” You were trying to sound authoritative but you couldn’t help the plead. 

There was a silence as what Carl just said stunned everyone. 

“What did you say?” Negan asked, cocking his head at the young boy. 

“If you have to kill someone, if there has to be punishment, then kill me. I'm serious.” Carl ignored your plea, he didn’t even look towards you when he spoke next. 

“You wanna die?” Negan asked, 

“No, I don't. But I will. It's gonna happen.” Carl shook his head and shrugged as if it wasn’t his life he was talking about. “And i... if me dying could stop this, if it can make things different for us, for you, for all those other kids, it'd be worth it. I mean, was this the plan? Was it supposed to be this way? Is this who you wanted to be?” 

Your eyes shot to the back of Negan’s head and then back up at your brother. They stung with the tears you refused to let free. 

That’s when a crash at the back of Alexandria drew your attention away. The walkies went off saying that the people were making a break and when you looked back Carl was gone. 

“Son of a bitch, Carl! Was that just a play?! I thought we were havin' a moment, you little asshole!” Negan roared before sending the signal for the guns. “Bombs away!” 

You watched Alexandria burst into flames. 

You so desperately wanted to run inside but even if you tried you wouldn’t make it and Negan would lose all trust in you. 

“Take a good long look at that, darling.” One of the saviours grumbled in your ear as you stared. 

“Charlie! Back off!” The other saviour who was meant to be watching you, yanked the other away. 

“There a problem over here, gentlemen?” Negan suddenly became even more alpha-male than usual as two men were fraternising with his woman. 

“No, Negan.” The man backed off. 

Negan turned his back on them but shot daggers with his eyes. 

“Break it down!” He ordered for the gates to be opened. 

He entered through the now broken gates and spotted one of the burning houses to his right. “Well, shit. Solar panels? We coulda used those. That convoy, they got away, huh? All of 'em? Kid's still gotta be here. I think he wanted to go down with the ship. Search the place. Find him, tie him up. Don't kill him. Blow up every other house.  I'm gonna go to Rick's, make a little spaghetti. When he shows up, send him my way.” Negan started to walk away but you heading the opposite direction stopped him. 

He took a few large strides but caught your arm and pulled you back. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” He asked, 

“To search.” You said with confidence as if it would work on him just letting you go. “Please Negan, I promise I’ll be back. I just need to see he's safe, not hurt.”

Negan thought for a moment. 

“Fine. Go, be a good big sister but if you aren’t back––” Negan went to finish but you cut him short. 

“––I know.” You assured him, adding a quick kiss between the both of you just to gain some extra trust.

You ran ahead with a gun in hand and another saviour on your tail to keep an eye on you. 

You knew how your brother’s mind worked so it wasn’t surprising that you were the one to find him. 

You ran ahead, just about losing your tail when you heard some of the other saviours yell. 

“On the ground, kid!” 

Carl let off a smoke bomb and you lost sight of him but within a matter of seconds, a hand was wrapped around your wrist and someone was pulling you towards a hole in the ground. 

“Carl.” You hadn’t hugged your brother harder than in that moment. The two saviours above walked straight over the both of you. Thank god for the sewers. 

Carl silently beckoned you down the sewers but you stopped.

“Carl, you know I can’t come with you.” You told him, refusing to take another step. 

“Why the hell not?” Carl furrowed his eyebrows in complete confusion. 

“Negan––” 

“––Enough!” Carl was sick of hearing about him, sick of you being on the wrong goddamn side.

“Carl.” You scolded him for raising his voice at you. “He’ll kill us both and you know that.” 

“Only if he finds us.” Carl argued. 

“Carl...” Your words trailed away when Carl lifted his shirt to reveal a bandage. He peeled the dressing back and you saw the teeth mark, the inflamed skin. 

“When?” You whispered, too scared to speak any louder incase it broke. 

“It doesn’t matter” 

And that was that. You followed him down the pipeline. 

When you reached the Alexandrians, you gave Judith the biggest kiss and hug. You had missed her so much. 

Then you sat with Carl. His head resting against your shoulder and his eyes closed. 

You could feel his breathing was shallow and sweat covered his hair and face. 

Your hand was interlocked with his as tears rolled down your cheeks. He weakly gave your hand a squeeze when he opened his eyes and spotted some bodies coming your way. 

You looked up and scrambled to your feet when you saw who it was.

It was Daryl, Rosita, Tara and Dwight. 

Daryl thrusted towards you and hugged you, picking you up off the ground and you smiled into his neck. 

“I missed you too.” You chuckled as he put you down, resting his forehead against yours for a second. 

You sat back down with Carl after and waited some more. 

For your dad. 

When they arrived, your dad rounded the corner and immediately spotted you and your tear stained cheeks. 

You stood and wrapped your arms around the man, his hand held the back of your head and he shook as he held you. 

Behind him, you saw Michonne who was to your relief was alive since you thought she had died the last time you were in Alexandria. 

The hug with Rick was much longer than anybody else. He finally had you back. 

You briefly hugged Michonne as she was like a second mother to you but then the dreaded reality returned and everyone’s eyes landed on the very unhealthy looking Carl. 

Rick looked at you with a furrowed brow but you just teared up again and took a step back. 

Carl lifted his shirt. Removed the patch. Revealing it to everyone else. 

“I brought him here. That's how it happened.” Carl referred to the stranger amongst the rest.

Michonne collapsed to her knees in front of Carl and started to cry. 

Your dad just seemed as broken as you.

You looked away, running your hand over you face to gather some composure. 

And then you walked. 

“Where are you going?” Your dad chased after you. 

“I can’t stay.” You admitted, 

“You’re not going back?” Rick just stared at you in shock, and you tried to ignore the hurt you saw in his eyes.

You didn’t answer. 

“You can’t.” Rick swallowed his tears. 

“I have to.” You walked away from him and didn’t look back. 

You couldn’t stay. 

You couldn’t stay and watch him die. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Dwight stopped you just before you reached the manhole.

“Do you?” You retaliated. He was the double agent. He let this happen. 

PART 19

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[setepenre-set]

Love and War (chapter 6)

Strange Magic

Bog/Marianne, T rating

This is a story about two kingdoms, side by side, but worlds apart. And at war.

When the Bog King finally wins his war against the Fairy Kingdom, he decides that a political marriage with the eldest daughter of the deposed Fairy King will help to promote peace.

Obviously, he’s never met Marianne.

AO3 | FFN

Avoiding Marianne turns out to be more difficult that Bog expected. When he suggests that they put their examination of the law books aside until after the tumult of Dawn's wedding is over, Marianne agrees, and quite a lot of her time is occupied will assisting her sister and her sister's betrothed with the planning of the wedding. Bog expects that.

What he does not expect is Dawn's determination to include him in the planning as well.

Why she seems to want him to assist them, Bog cannot imagine; he knows absolutely nothing about bunting and table settings and such things.

"Hold the other two swatches up, now," Dawn commands him, and Bog obeys. "Marianne, what do you think?"

"—er," says Marianne, whose knowledge of bunting, Bog knows, goes about as far as his own. "That's…nice."

Princess Dawn regards the fabric swatches critically, one hand on her face, forefinger tapping her cheek.

"Hold up the first two again, now." she says. "Hmm. Second two." She narrows her eyes, "Third two again. First two." She makes a noise of frustration. "Ugh, I'm just not sure—which one do you think is better, Marianne?"

Marianne looks at the fabric, and then meets Bog's eyes, and something of his feelings on the subject of bunting must communicate itself to her through his expression, because her lips twitch. She gives a cough that he's fairly certain is smothered laughter.

"…I'm going to be honest," she says. "They all look the same to me."

"Marianne!" Dawn says, "Bog, what do you think?"

"Th' second pair," Bog says promptly.

"Really?" Dawn says.

"Definitely," Bog says with great firmness, "definitely the second pair."

He gestures with the aforementioned second pair of fabric swatches.

"That's the third pair!" Dawn says.

Bog makes the mistake of meeting Marianne's eyes again, and both of them burst into laughter. Dawn gives them both an exasperated look, which only seems to make it funnier.

"All right; all right; you caught me," Bog says to Dawn, still laughing, "truthfully, they look th' same t' me, too."

"You're just as bad as she is!" Dawn says. "They are all completely different shades! Not even close to the same!"

Marianne cracks up again.

"It's not a bad, same!" Bog says, unable to stop himself from laughing, too "It's—"

"Right!" Marianne says, "Right, it's—"

He gestures with both hands searchingly; when he looks over at Marianne, she's doing the same thing.

"—lovely?" they both say at the same moment.

Dawn rolls her eyes.

"I," she says with great dignity, over the sounds of Bog's snickering and Marianne snorting with laughter, "am going to go ask Sunny."

Dawn gathers the fabric into her arms and flutters away with her nose in the air. She looks back at them over her shoulder once, though, with an expression of exasperated affection, and shakes her head as she moves away through the crowd of people that are assisting with the decorations in the hall.

"Quick, let's escape!" Marianne says. "Before they both come back and make us hold the fabric up for them again."

"Good idea," Bog says, and begins to sidle towards the door that leads to the east wing.

He's expecting Marianne to go in the opposite direction, towards the west wing, but she sidles up next to him instead.

"Where are you headed, then?" Marianne asks.

"Ah—nowhere in particular," Bog says, stopping his sidle in surprise. Is she asking so she can be sure to avoid him? He's tried to give her as many opportunities as possible to go and see—whoever it is that she's in love with, but perhaps she's worried about him interrupting them?

"Oh!" Marianne says, "Um. Well—if you're not—busy, we could practice? Your dancing some more?"

Bog blinks at her.

(maybe her beloved is busy today?)

"If you like," he says, and sees Marianne's shoulders relax a bit. He wonders what she was feeling so tense about.

She flashes him a quick smile.

"Thanks," she says, lowering her voice, "I know you hate dancing, but Dawn really wants us to dance the first few figures with her and Sunny. I think she's worried Sunny is going to be uncomfortable since he can't do the traditional flying wedding dance."

(ah, so Marianne was tense because she's concerned for her sister. and that's why she's spending time with him today, practicing.)

"I don't hate dancin'," Bog says.

Marianne frowns.

"But I thought—I mean, you hate music, so—"

"It's no' music that I hate," Bog says, "it's—he gestures with one hand, "fairy music."

Marianne snorts.

"How flattering," she says drily.

"I'm no' tryin' to be rude," Bog says, "it's—fairy music sounds different than the kind of music we have in the Dark Forest. Yours—it's mostly the more—energetic—fairy music, but it's got a kind of—piercing shriek at the back of it. Sets a goblin's teeth on edge."

Marianne tips her head, still frowning.

"A piercing shriek?" she says. "I've never heard anything like that."

Bog shakes his head.

"No, I dinnae think you can hear it. Our ears seem to hear differently. It's not so bad for me as it is for others, since I've got some fairy blood, but I can still hear it."

"Does it sound like that when I talk?" Marianne asks, looking rather horrified.

"No, no!" Bog says, "an' like I said, it's the quick and lively tunes that in comes through the strongest."

Marianne chews her lip thoughtfully.

"So it's something in the way it's sung," she says. "What does goblin music sound like?"

"Er—" Bog says, "I mean—there's a different quality t' it…"

He flails for a way to describe it in words for a moment, and then gives it up and clears his throat nervously.

"—will you give me your hand—" he sings, then stops and clears his throat again.

Marianne is looking at him with wide eyes and he feels incredibly awkward, but he's gotten this far, so he might as well continue.

"—will you give me your hand

Just give me your hand and I'll walk with you

Through the streets of our land, through the mountains so grand

If you give me your hand—"

He stops. Surely that's enough to give her the general idea.

"I know that song, though!" Marianne says.

"Really?" Bog says.

She nods.

"—by day and night," she sings, "throughout struggle and strife—"

Bog winces and she stops, frowning.

"You can still hear the weird sound, even though it's the same song?" she says.

He nods.

"Okay, so what if I—by day and night," she sings again, "throughout struggle and strife—"

Bog feels his eyes go wide because her voice sounds different somehow. It's rougher, and it hits each note harder, and it sounds—it sounds right; the notes don't have that teeth-on-edge piercing quality to them.

"—I'm beside you to guide you forever, my love," Marianne sings, and then stops. "Is that any better?"

"That was amazin'," Bog says, "how did you do that, Marianne?"

"I just tried to sing it more like you did," she says, starting to smile, "really, though, the piercing background noise is gone?"

"It sounded perfect," Bog says, "keep going!"

Marianne's smile goes really bright.

"I'm beside you to guide you forever, my love," she sings once more.

"For love is not for one," Bog joins in, "but for both of us to share.

For this country so fair, for our world and what's there—"

Marianne grins at him.

"Just give me your hand," she sings, voice loud, wings fluttering as she lifts of into the air and spins.

Bog laughs and follows her into the air.

"Just give me your hand," he sings, matching her volume.

"Will you give me your hand and the world it can see," they sing together. "That we can be free in peace and harmony—"

"From the north to the south," Bog sings, turning in a circle.

"From the east to the west," Marianne sings, turning in a circle of her own.

"Everly mountain, every valley, every bush and bird's nest," they sing together.

Marianne spins towards him and Bog mimics her, turning in so that they face each other. She lifts her hands, and he does the same, so that their palms are pressed together, both of them flying in a slow circle now.

"By day and night, throughout struggle and strife

I'm beside you to guide you forever, my love—"

Marianne pushes off of his palms and twirls, her arms upraised.

"—For love is not for one

But for both of us to share—"

Bog holds out his hand and Marianne takes it.

"—For this country so fair, for our world and what's there—"

Marianne spins towards him, still holding his hand, furling her wings as she does.

Bog lifts their joined hands and catches her waist with his other hand, wrapping his arm around her so that he can keep both of them in the air.

The move pulls her close to him; they end up pressed together, Marianne's free hand around his neck and her face very close to his.

"—just give me your hand—" Marianne sings, voice suddenly quiet and eyes wide and startled.

"—just—give me your hand—" Bog echoes, lowering their joined hands.

He loosens his grip on her hand, but Marianne doesn't pull it away like he's expecting her to; she presses their hands together, palm to palm, instead, and then—she slides her fingers into the spaces between his own, and she still has her other arm around his neck and she's looking at him with an expression that seems terribly uncertain suddenly and—

Someone in the room below gives a whistle and Marianne gives a little shriek of startlement, her wings snapping out.

Bog lets go of her quickly and glances down, horrified, suddenly remembering—

—ah, yes, the crowd. And they're all staring; of course they are. And cheering, too; clearly they've enjoyed watching their king make an absolute fool of himself.

Bog looks over at Marianne, who looks mortified, her face flushed. She meets his gaze and gives an awkward laugh as she lowers herself to land. Bog follows her, his heart heavy and his stomach twisting.

"Bog!" Dawn says, moving towards the two of them, beaming, Sunny in tow, "I didn't know you sang!"

"We need to go through the songs for the ball again," Marianne says. "And talk to the choir."

Dawn turns to her, head tilted quizzically.

"The music—Bog says goblins hear singing different," Marianne says. "The way we usually sings hurts their ears."

"Oh!" Dawn says, eyes going wide.

"Oh, man, why didn't you say so before?" Sunny asks, "I wouldn't have made you listen to me sing all the song choices like that this morning!"

"—I didn't think it mattered," Bog says, bewildered.

"Well, we can't make the Dark Forest half of the guests hold their ears all night!" Dawn says.

Bog blinks at her.

"…the what, now?" he says.

"The what now, what?" Sunny says, looking at Bog like he thinks he might be crazy.

"The guests," Dawn says slowly. "At the wedding. You did invite the Dark Forest court to the wedding."

"…uh," Bog says.

"You didn't invite the court?" Dawn says, and now she's looking at him like he's crazy.

"—well, I mean—there isn't—really a court," Bog says, claws clicking together nervously. "There's just sort of…people. Who do things…"

"And you didn't tell them they were invited?" Dawn says, voice rising on a note of incredulity.

Her wings flutter in agitation; Sunny takes her hand and pats it soothingly, and she takes a breath, her wings still again.

"You did at least tell your mother she was invited, right?" Marianne says.

"—Uh."

"You didn't even tell your mother to come?" Marianne says, her wings fluttering in agitation, too, now.

"Right," Dawn says, eyes flashing, chin raising to an angle of determination. "There's still time for you to invite them. And you are going to invite them. Aren't you."

Bog quails.

"Yes! Yes, yes; definitely, yes—"

Dawn fixes him with one last hard look, and then her expression softens into something that looks a little hurt.

"I like Griselda," she says, and to Bog's ultimate horror, her lip wobbles. "Don't—don't you think she'd want to come?"

"I'm sure she'll be delighted t' come!" Bog says quickly. "I'm sure they'll all be delighted to come; can't think how inviting them slipped my mind! Let's talk about tha' music now, shall we!"

They spend the entire rest of the day going through the music again. Marianne demonstrates for the choir her new technique for singing music that doesn't hurt his ears, and she makes them practice it over and over again until they get it right.

"Sorry tha' we did no' get to the dancin'," Bog says to Marianne as the two of them walk out of the hall together at the end of a very long day of entirely too much music and bunting.

Marianne groans.

"That's right; the dancing!" she says. "Work on it tomorrow?"

"I think I'm supposed to be invitin' the Dark Forest to your sister's wedding tomorrow," Bog says. "I'd hate to see what she'd do to me if I didn't."

Marianne snorts.

"Dawn doesn't really go in much for violence or shouting when she's upset," she says. "She just gets very disappointed at you."

"That's wha' I'm afraid of," Bog says with a shudder.

Marianne laughs.

"Tonight, then," she says, "we can do that instead of sparring. I guess."

She sighs and makes a face and Bog clicks his tongue in mock sympathy.

"Poor tough girl," he says, "dancin' instead of swords."

Marianne assumes a pose of extreme nobility.

"The sacrifices one makes for family," she says tragically.

Bog laughs and she drops the pose, grinning at him.

"It's too bad th' Fairy Court doesn't go in for sword dancin'," Bog says.

Marianne looks at him inquiringly.

"Sword dancing?" she says.

"Sword dancing," Bog says, gesturing, "you know. Haven't you ever seen it?"

Marianne stops in the middle of the hall and fixes him with a serious look.

"Do you mean to tell me," she says, "that in the Dark Forest, you dance with swords? Actually dance with actual swords?"

"Completely actual swords," Bog says, "Completely actual dancing. I'll teach you, if you want," he's unable to stop himself from adding.

Marianne takes a sharp breath through her nose, nostrils flaring, and then she smiles, wide and wicked.

"Oh, I want," she says, voice low, a tone to it that makes Bog shiver involuntarily, makes heat curl in the pit of his stomach. "I want very much."

Bog walks her to her room and then leaves her so that she can dress for dinner. Marianne grins to herself the entire time she's changing.

Sword dancing. Dancing with swords. Actual dancing! With actual swords! And she's going to learn how!

She smooths her hands down her bodice, making sure the material drapes properly. As her hands reach her hips, the memory sweeps through her: Bog's arm around her waist and his face so close to hers, his blue eyes wide as she looked into them.

(close enough to kiss her if he chose to.)

If he wanted to.

She swallows.

—exactly, she tells herself, smile fading from her lips and joy fading from her heart. Obviously he didn't want to.

What had he said about that girl, the one he'd fallen in love with? The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Goblins don't even hear music the same way fairies do; Marianne is certain they have very different standards of beauty.

She isn't ever going to be pretty to him.

(Marrying you was a mistake.)

She was sweet, he'd said as well, about that girl he'd loved.

Marianne is never going to be able to be sweet for him.

Marianne is hard and Marianne is bitter and Marianne is a mistake and Marianne needs to remember that.

He's being kind to her, she realizes, with a sick twisting sensation in the center of her chest.. Singing with her and offering to teach her his sword dance and laughing with her. All just kindness. He's trying to soften the blow of their eventual divorce.

Marianne wonders if it's only pity that moves him to be kind, or if he actually has just the smallest bit of real affection for her.

Her makeup is ruined, she notes dispassionately as she wipes her face, brushing the tears away, streaks of purple eye paint running down her cheeks with the tears, leaving violet colored smudges on her hands like bruises.

She'll have to re-do it, when she stops crying.

Marianne sits down on the edge of her bed, slips her hand beneath her pillow, and pulls out the gray stone bottle Bog gave her, the one that had been full of that disgusting headache cure. She strokes her thumb over the sides of it, feeling the texture of the stone.

Bog must have brought this from the dark forest, she thinks. It's rougher hewn than anything made by fairies or elves or brownies. Asymmetrical, too, the facets of the rock allowed to follow their own natural shape rather than forced into artificial symmetry.

She turns it over in her hands. There's a mark etched into the bottom of the bottle, too, she notices. A circle with another, smaller circle inside it, flanked by two curved vertical lines, and crowned by a line curved like an empty bowl.

The design of the head of Bog's staff, Marianne realizes. She rubs her thumb over the carved lines, and then, feeling supremely foolish, lifts it to her lips and kisses it.

Embarrassed heat flares in her cheeks, for all she's alone in the room. She stuffs the bottle quickly beneath her pillow once more. Then she rises and goes to her dressing table, repairs her makeup, and moves to the door.

She steps into the hall, and as she does, a little cloud of dust falls on her head. Coughing, Marianne squints up at the lintel of the door. The chambermaid must have forgotten to dust it. Forgotten several times, considering the amount of dust. It smells odd, too—almost floral. Marianne wrinkles her nose and stops craning her neck upwards, and then she nearly jumps out of her skin because Roland is right there, his face entirely too close; what is—

The punch is more instinct than decision. Just like the first time, the blow sends him sprawling to the floor.

"Buttercup—" he says weakly, clutching the side of his head.

"What is wrong with you?!" Marianne snarls, wings snapping out in a threat display.

Roland makes a noise of protest and Marianne advances on him. He scrambles to his feet. She opens her mouth to shout at him, but—

—the sound of laughter and footsteps, coming around the bend in the corridor, makes her close her mouth and grit her teeth in frustration instead.

"Stay away from me, Roland," she hisses, "I'm not going to be so nice, next time."

She whirls on her heel, wings furling, and walks away from him.

Roland stands staring after her for a long moment, his mouth open.

What—?

But—but he'd followed the instructions! The love potion trap he'd set atop her doorframe, ready to fall on her as she'd stepped into the corridor had been perfectly placed; it fell on her beautifully, and he had definitely been the first person she'd seen after getting dusted; he'd made very sure of that!

But the love potion hadn't even come close to working on her! She'd punched him! Again!

A trio of ladies turns the corner of the corridor and waves at him, giggling; Roland gives them an automatic smile and a wink, but his mind is completely on his dilemma.

The ladies pass on, turning another corner, leaving him alone in the corridor once more. He pulls the bottle of the remaining love potion from his pocket and looks at it. It still glows faintly with magic.

Was he supposed to use the whole thing on her?

He'd never be able to get Marianne to hold still long enough for him to empty the entire bottle over her!

Oh, but surely he wasn't meant to use the entire bottle; there is a very large amount of potion dust in there. It would be unreasonable to expect anyone to hold still long enough to empty the bottle over them, even if they weren't as exceptionally uncooperative as Marianne.

And yet—the potion hadn't worked.

Roland taps his finger against the bottle.

There has to be a reason. And he is going to find out what it is.

He'll just have to get Lady Plum talking about her love potion again; that won't be hard.

Roland tucks the bottle of love potion in his pocket again and moves away down the corridor.

Bog shifts a little uncomfortably under Marianne's gaze. She's looking at him very intently and she is—really unfairly beautiful.

He gives the sword in his hand an experimental twirl, testing the weight, trying to get a feel for the blade. He's always been better with a staff.

"Right," he says, clearing his throat, "well—it's been a while since I've done this, so—just bear that in mind."

Marianne nods without taking her eyes off of him. Bog swallows and takes up the opening stance of the sword dance.

...to be continued.

notes: The song that Bog and Marianne sing in this chapter is a real song, called Tabhair dom do Lámh. Here is a recording of it. The sword dancing in this fic is based on Scottish dirk dancing. I’m picturing something sort of like this.

The headcanon about goblins hearing certain types of music differently is my explanation for the way that they seem to react with actual pain to Dawn singing "I Can't Help Myself" and yet enjoy singing themselves and don't have a negative reaction to Marianne singing "Straight On".

Thank you for the reblogs and comments! Getting them always makes me so happy. I hope you all liked the new chapter!

[madefate-a]

He remembers moments more clearly than entire evenings -- sneaking in pointed commentary with the others as they rushed about, serving all manner of nobility that graced the court during Midwinter. Oakbridge’s looming present underscoring every shaking hand or spilled drop of stew. Dirty looks, stifled laughter, inevitable disasters. And then the stolen moments -- gifts exchanged with sighs and deflections and reverence, little glass animals, books on top of books, Kel fixing everyone’s tunics with careful, deft hands they had all come to depend on. 

Dawn works hard to cut through the fog over New Hope this morning, but Neal can’t quite bring himself to begrudge it. Snow does not make the work easier, but there is something impossibly romantic about the tableau of a blanket of white to welcome in Midwinter. A reminder to rest. To remember. 

Not that Kel will ever indulge in something as petty and unnecessary as sleeping in on the first day of Midwinter. Gods forbid she take an extra hour to catch up on how much she misses. But then -- would she be Kel without those rings living beneath her eyes, that steady hand, that strong jaw ? Well, yes. But as much as Neal will argue that she would be perfectly within her rights to take a day off once a year, he can also appreciate the comfort of familiarity. Of knowing Kel more thoroughly than he does himself. 

Case in point: he’s got two cups of tea staying warmed by his Gift because he knows without a doubt that not only will Kel go through both of them ( once he conveniently forgets that the second was intended to be his ) but that she will also nurse them so long that they will half frost over in her poorly insulated office. There’s a tuneless whistle at his lips -- not much of a song as an idea -- before he knocks once, gently, at her door, doesn’t wait for a response, and walks right in. 

❛ These early hours will kill me one day, Mindelan, ❜ he says as he does every morning, ❛ And I will welcome it -- ❜ 

Except. He senses that something is different almost immediately, though it takes a moment to process that Kel is not, in fact, hard at work poring over some dreadful requisition report or another. It takes an even longer moment to process that she’s not only shirking that very sacred and entirely necessary duty -- she’s fully asleep, head cradled against her arms, breathing slowly and evenly. 

Neal, so used to the ceaseless reservoir of emotions that he always carries, rides the swell in his chest for what it is -- confusion, worry, alarm, amusement, endearment, fondness. It’s enough to crack his ribs open. A stark contrast to his unthinkingly loud tone only moments before ( and Gods, if she slept through that -- ) he pushes the door closed behind him with gentle grace and crosses to the desk to place the two cups down. 

Seized by an urge that he won’t deny himself, the moment he’s free of what he’s holding Neal places his hand featherlight against Kel’s forehead. He hadn’t sensed any illness but he hadn’t been focusing either so he does that now, drawing on careful little threads of his Gift to make up for what touch alone might miss. There’s no fever that he can discern -- and his magically aided senses cannot taste the tang of blood. Injury, illness -- the worry abates as he rules out the possibility, his hand lingering just a few seconds more before it falls to his side. 

❛ You give my heart a cruel work out, you know, ❜ he whispers rhetorically. Kel does not stir. Free of his concern, a smile comes unbidden to his lips -- warm and full and lacking any hint of the wicked humor he has always worn like so much armor. With careful and deft movements, as if practiced through years of work, he unclasps the latch at the neck of his cloak and settles it precisely, tenderly around Kel’s shoulder as he would a blanket. One hand on the back of her chair, he leans in and touches both cups again with emerald fire, hopefully imbuing each drink with enough warmth to last. Then the trickier part -- it takes adroit and careful fingers to pull the papers out from beneath her arm without rousing her, and even more care not to groan at the lines of supply form written on them. 

Ah, well. He has no qualms adding this set of paperwork to his Midwinter gift. It might not be as sentimental as the iron and silverworked hair comb he’d commissioned for her, but he cannot help the chuff of a laugh that sounds in his chest at the thought that no, this is far more practical. Well suited to Kel, then. How perfect, then. 

They have said so many times before -- at each festival, with each exchange of gifts and sighs and smiles. Kel would press her lips against his cheek and he his against her brow and it’s a comfort, truly, to know that they will partake in their quiet celebration later the same way they have and the same way they will -- year after year. 

But he is overcome and whispers it now, quietly, before leaving and shutting the door behind himself. 

❛ Midwinter luck, Kel. ❜

[aroadside-attraction]

1-96 on the ask thing 💕💕

(1) Do You Sleep With Your Closet Doors Open Or Closed?

Closed, bruh. fuck ghosts.

(2) Do You Have Freckles?

Some.

(3) Can You Whistle?

Not as well as I used to be able to. Flute playing fucks with your ability to whistle.

(4) Last Song You Listened To.

“Burn” from Hamilton

(5) What Is Your Favourite Colour?

Forest green

(6) Relationship Status.

Crazy in love with @fade-footprints

(7) What Is The Temperature Right Now?

outside- 82F

inside-75F

(8) Did You Wake Up Cranky?

Not usually, just groggy

(9) How Many Followers?

Tumblr mobile claims 307

(10) Zodiac Sign.

Capricorn

(11) What Is Your Eye Colour?

Blue

(12) Take A Vitamin Daily?

I’m supposed to because my bones are weak but I usually wake up to nauseated to consume anything and then I forget. 

(13) Do You Sing In The Shower?

Literally all the fucking time. It annoys my family

(14) What Books Are You Reading?

Currently the first in the Trials of Apollo series

(15) Grab The Book Nearest To You, Turn To Page 64, Give Me Line 14.

“I was thinking all the time we were silent and I decided that, were it possible, I might very well trade with you.”

(16) Favourite Anime?

Either Host Club, Fruits Basket, or Soul Eater

(17) Last Person You Cried In Front Of?

My parents

(18) Do You Collect Anything?

Jewelry from places I visit 

(19) What Did You Have For Lunch?

A tuna and string cheese sandwich

(20) Do You Dance In The Car?

Too much.

(21) Favourite Animal?

I adore birds

(22) Do You Watch The Olympics?

Only for the gymnastics and figure skating

(23) What Time Do You Usually Go To Bed?

Between 10-11:30

(24) Are You Wearing Makeup Right Now?

Nah. It all got stolen when I went to San Francisco and I haven’t replaced it yet.

(25) Do You Prefer To Swim In A Pool Or The Ocean?

A pool, usually. The whole “almost got caught in a riptide” thing makes me not go out very far in the ocean.

(26) Favourite Tumblr Blog?

I’m rather fond of @fade-footprints and @sapphicvanilla and @notsofemalepotato

(27) Bottled Water Or Tap Water?

I lack a preference

(28) What Makes You Happy?

Disney, @fade-footprints, @sapphicvanilla, Harry Potter, and gymnastics

(29) Post A Gif Of What You’re Currently Feeling Right Now.

This is almost exactly what I look like right now, purple top and all

(30) Do You Study Better With Or Without Music?

With. I cannot focus in a quiet room

(31) Dogs Or Cats?

Um, both

(32) If You Were A Crayon What Colour Would You Be?

Probably orange or yellow

(33) PlayStation Or Xbox.

I lack the hand-eye to be able to play video games

(34) Would You Swim In The Lake Or Ocean?

A lake.

(35) Do You Believe In Magic?

100%

(36) What Colour Shirt Are You Wearing?

Its a dress, but its purple. My shirt I was wearing early, though, was powder blue

(37) Can You Curl Your Tongue?

Yep

(38) Do You Save Money Or Spend It?

I try to save it, but I spend it a lot

(39) Is There Anything Pink Within 10 Feet Of You?

A bunch of my book are, and I have a pink shirt nearby, and a beach towel, and my socks are pink

(40) Do You Have Any Obsessions Right Now?

So many. So. Many. PJO, HP, Disney, Hamilton, Release the Hounds- I could go on forever, but these are the current top of the list.

(41) Have You Ever Caught A Butterfly?

Yeah. Also, I remember a boy in my elementary school used to catch butterflies and rip off their wings. He’s still a huge jerk.

(42) Are You Easily Influenced By Other People?

It depends on the situation

(43) Do You Have Strange Dreams?

ALL THE DAMN TIME

(44) Do You Like Going On Airplanes?

I don’t like the taking off and landing part, but the flying bit is okay. As long as I have the aisle seat. #tallpeopleproblems

(45) Name One Movie That Made You Cry.

TFIOS gets me every fucking time

(46) Peanuts Or Sunflower Seeds?

Neither, preferably.

(47) If I Handed You A Concert Ticket Right Now, Who Would You Want The Performer To Be?

I basically only listen to musicals, so do those count as concerts in this case? ‘Cause I wanna see Anastasia.

(48) Are You A Picky Eater?

The pickiest

(49) Are You A Heavy Sleeper?

Nope. My dad snoring in the other room has woken me up on several occasions.

(50) Do You Fear Thunder / Lightning?

Only when I’m not expecting it or trying to sleep. But that just startles me more than anything.

(51) Do You Like To Read / Write?

I love reading. I have a love/hate relationship with writing.

(52) Do You Like Your Music Loud?

The louder the better

(53) Would You Rather Carve Pumpkins Or Wrap Presents?

Wrap presents. I don’t like touching gross things

(54) Put Your Music On Shuffle, What Is The First Song That Came Up?

“What’d I Miss” from Hamilton

(55) What Season Are You In Right Now? (Weather)

Summer.

(56) What Are You Craving Right Now?

Cuddles

(57) Post A Screenshot Of Your Tumblr Feed.

.... I, an IT major, still have not figured out how to screenshot on this damn computer.

(58) What Is Your Gender?

I’m genderfluid

(59) Coffee Or Tea?

Neither.

(60) Do You Have Any Homework Right Now? If So, What Is It About?

No!! I’m on my singular week of summer vacation!!

(61) What Is Your Sexuality?

Demisexual

(62) Do You Make Your Bed In The Morning?

lol no

(63) Favourite Pokemon?

Eevee

(64) Favourite Social Media?

Tumblr or facebook

(65) What’s Your Opinion On Instagram Stories?

I lack one

(66) Do You Get Homesick?

Painfully so

(67) Are You A Virgin?

Yeah

(68) What Shampoo And Conditioner Are You Using Right Now?

Costco brand

(69) If You Were Far From Home And Needed To Sleep For The Night, Would You Choose To Rent A Crappy Motel Room For $60 Or Sleep In Your Car For Free?

Depends on how safe the city is

(70) Are Both Of Your Blood Parents Still In Your Life?

Yep

(71)  Whats The Next Movie You Want To See In Theaters?

The Last Jedi

( @allyouneedisloveisloveislove and I have a movie date)

(72) Do You Miss Your Ex?

Nope. Fuck all of them. 

(Except the Erics. They’re both chill dudes)

(73) What Is Your Favourite Quote Right Now?

I’ve been reciting the beginning of the “to be or not to be” monologue a lot lately

(74) What Eye Colour Do You Find Sexiest?

I don’t.. know???????

(75) Did You Like Swinging As A Child? Do You Still Get Excited When You See A Swing Set?

YES I LOVE SWINGING

(76) What Was The Last Thing You Ate?

Mama and I went to get ice cream

(77) What Games Do You Have On Your Phone?

Listen my shitty little 8 GB phone doesn’t have room for all my necessary shit and games.

(78) Would You Give A Homeless Person CPR If They Were Dying? Why Or Why Not?

Yes, because I’m certified and if I don’t do anything, their life ending is then my fault.

(79) Been On The Computer For 5 Hours Straight?

I don’t have the attention span for that

(80) Stalked Someone On A Social Network?

... Kinda

(hey tall guy)

(81) Do You Like Meeting New People?

Not before I meet them, or during the awkward meeting part, but I like new friends

(82) Do You Wear Rings? If You Do, Take A Picture Of Them.

Sometimes. It’s a pretty fire opal set in silver, but its far away, and if you remember how comfortable Helga looked back up there, I’m like ten times more comfy

(83) Do You Sleep With Your Bedroom Door Open Or Closed?

Closed, because my dad is an insomniac who likes to watch action movies at two in the morning

(84) What Are Three Things You Did Today?

Got a textbook, went shopping for some new school supplies, and worked

(85) What Do You Wear To Bed?

Usually shorts and a shirt, occasionally this really comfy dress

(86) List All Of Your Different Beauty Products You Have Right Now.

Charcoal face wash, witch hazel toner, tea tree oil make up wipes 

(87) Are You A Day Or Night Person?

Day

(88) List All Of Your Video Games On Your Phone, Console Etc.

I don’t have these things you speak of

(89) Tell Me About A Dream That You Had And When It Happened.

I had one of those first day of school anxiety dreams before my senior year where my theatre teacher had been replaced by Tom Hiddleston and my now-girlfriend was sobbing because she has a giant crush on him

90) Favourite Soda Drink?

Pepsi

(91) What Sounds Are Your Favourite?

A swamp cooler starting up, rain hitting the roof

(92) Do You Wear Jeans Or Sweats More?

Jeans. I live in denim

(93) How Do You Look Right Now?

Like shit, yo. Its bedtime, and I went on a walk in the wind before this.

(94) Name Something That Relaxes You.

PJO and the music from Twilight

(Don’t judge me. It reminds me of simpler times, and they’re decently scored movies.)

(95) What Tattoo Do You Want?

I want to finish my wand tattoo with UV ink magic coming out of it. I want “I am constant as the Northern Star” on my left shoulder blade. I have a few other loose ideas that I’m not sure I’m ever gonna get because I have a fairly low threshold for pain, but the first two are definitely happening.

(96) Favourite YouTuber?

Currently I watch Liza Koshy, David Dobrik, and ChronicallyJaquie