#if I didn’t have anxiety so bad I’d report them but instead we suffer

[chloe12801]

Whoever in my apartment building is having what sounds like a rager at 5:18am on a Thursday, you are both insane and annoying <3

[sasha-on-the-side]

Some thoughts on RTAH, its community, and myself

I used to have a friend back when I just started being active in the RTAH community. A 20-something white guy who I'd talk to every day and, in particular, discuss the videos with. It was during that time that Off Topic #27 came out. The one where Mica spoke out about about her struggles as a black bisexual woman. It was one of the most sincere and heartbreaking things I've heard in content I'd usually turn to for entertainment. Part of it was relatable. Part of it was eye-opening. I was very grateful that it took place and I went to share that sentiment with my friend, and he replied with a "yeah, but..." I told him to shut up. I told him that being privileged in a certain way doesn't negate one's struggles. I told him to stop questioning someone's life experience because he can't relate to them. I wish I didn't stop at that. I have lifelong issues with confrontation. The anxiety it causes has kept me from speaking up many times, be it online or in real life. It's easy to dismiss things as "I'm not going to change their opinion so I'm gonna save my braincells instead" or "their comment already has a lot of likes/upvotes, going against it wouldn't change that." And that is buying yourself comfort at the cost of someone else's suffering. I'm disappointed in myself for doing that. And I'm still learning to do better. But I am learning. Mica has now spoken of not getting support when she most needed it and my disappointment extends, from myself, to the whole community, to the company itself. We should have done better. They should have done better. We should have demanded it from them. They should have led by example. And it's not all in the past tense. These issues, the harassment, the hurtful comments, about race, sexuality, gender or lack thereof, disabilities, many other aspects of human life, are still present within both the company and the community. They're not always direct or intentional. They're often (not so) cleverly disguised as opinions and criticism. I see a lot of people throwing their hands up, asking "well it's gonna keep happening anyway, what do you expect them to do about it?" The thing is, it's only gonna happen if you let it. "Just ignore it" is not a valid option anymore - never has been, honestly - because ignoring harassment and abuse without taking any measures against it is enabling it. I shared what I expect of RT on reddit, and I'll say it here too: Be EXPLICIT in your support. Do not limit it to social media. Ingrain it in your daily content, have it reach as much of your audience as you can. Make it clear that people's abhorrent behaviour will not be tolerated, that it will be reported/blocked/removed on strike one. That their views aren't wanted, that their money isn't wanted. You need to actively alienate those people to purge your community of them. And if you're afraid to do that because it's "a bad look on you" and "hurts your numbers", you will only end up driving away people actually worth keeping. You can do better. So do it. Same goes for the community. It's not enough to not be part of the problem. We need to be proactive. We need to keep each other accountable. Call out and educate fellow community members, friends, personalities. Voice your concerns to community managers and chat or site mods. Downvote and report abuse. Amplify support and encouragement. Don't just complain how "toxic" this community is without doing a single thing to change that.

[misssophiachase]

Prompt: Caroline and klaus as rival lawyers

Thanks anon, this is inspired! Hope you like it : )

Bad Reputation

California Superior Court, Beverly Hills CA - Tuesday, 11 July

“Objection, Your Honor! Opposing Counsel is badgering the witness.”

“Since when did asking a perfectly normal question constitute badgering?” She could feel his blue eyes boring into her, almost like he was trying to remember her naked.

Ass.

“Overruled, Ms Forbes,” the judge replied, not before casting an unimpressed glance in the defense attorney’s direction. “But if I was you, I’d stop talking back, Mr Mikaelson.”

“Apologies, Your Honor,” he said, sending her his signature smirk. “It won’t happen again.”

Ass.

Caroline Forbes thrived on competition which was why she was known as one of the best defamation lawyers in California. Celebrities far and wide flocked to Caroline for her services and winning track record.

Unfortunately, she could see her unblemished run slipping away and it was all thanks to him.

LA Times Offices, El Segundo, CA - Friday 9 April (3 months earlier)

Caroline consulted her appearance in the reflection of the elevator, straightening her black, suit jacket as the floor numbers ascended.  

The opposing counsel in her current case had requested a pre-trial meeting. As much as she loved the adversarial thrill of the courtroom, she wasn’t going to complain if the Los Angeles Times decided to write a big, fat cheque to her client.

Skylar Lopez was a well known Hollywood actress who’d suffered significant financial loss after the Los Angeles Times ran an article asserting she was unprofessional and difficult on set. Caroline had her fair share of questionable clients but she knew Skylar had been unfairly treated.

Caroline had dealt with the Times on a number of occasions and was confident she’d walk out of the meeting triumphant.

Until the tables were turned.    

Walking towards the boardroom, Caroline was already imagining what would transpire. They’d offer a settlement that was too low but would ultimately meet her client’s demand. 

She was just that good. However, upon entering the room, everything changed when she saw him.

His back was turned but, after all these years, she couldn’t mistake those broad shoulders even housed in a grey, suit jacket. Those dark, blonde curls were still slightly unruly like she remembered and she could still recall just how good it felt combing her fingers through them.

Caroline liked to be in control and suddenly she felt like she was in freefall. He turned to face her, almost like he could sense her anxiety.

Between the slight stubble and crimson lips, Caroline knew she was in trouble. The guy could also wear a suit and it should have been illegal given how well it moulded to his toned physique.

“Hello, love.” It was a greeting she knew all too well and immediately transported her back in time to college.

“What are you doing here?” Caroline hoped it didn’t sound as shaky as it felt.

“Is this how you greet all your opposing counsels?” With his left eyebrow cocked, Caroline was trying to pretend it didn’t look sexy.  

“You are not my opposing counsel.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” he replied, sliding a manila folder towards her. “I’m acting for the defense.”

“But how? I thought you were in DC acting for all those questionable politicians.” It came out before she could stop it.

Yes, maybe she’d followed him over the years since law school graduation but this wasn’t the way she saw their reunion going.

“Sounds like someone has been stalking me.”

“You wish,” she growled, placing her briefcase on the table and consulting the folder he’d provided. “And, as a lawyer, I’m well aware of the fact that stalking is an illegal offence in all fifty states.” She couldn’t miss the way his left dimple made an unwelcome appearance at that point.

“Fine. I guess you could say I felt like a change and, between you and me, those DC winters are a real killer without someone to keep you warm.”

Ass. 

“Why don’t I believe you, Mikaelson?”

“I suppose that’s your problem, not mine, Forbes.” Their gazes lingered, Caroline attempting to look away but failing miserably.

Ass.

“My client is willing to offer a generous settlement,” he said, breaking their trance and handing her another piece of paper, his hand grazing hers teasingly in the process.

“I’ll bet,” she shot back, finally regaining her composure. She looked at the page and was immediately insulted by the supposedly ‘generous’ offer. “This is a joke, right?”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“This is insulting and you can pass that onto your client,” she offered. “Unless you’d like to meet my client’s demands here and now and save us all some time and money.”

“That’s the final offer, take it or leave it,” he uttered, his jaw clenched. Caroline knew enough of Klaus to realise he meant it.  

“Right, so, if we’re finished here, I suppose I’ll see you at trial?”  

“Yes you will,” he promised. “You know during all those mock trials at Harvard, I always hoped that we’d meet up again and settle this for good.”

Caroline stilled, knowing just how those mock trials ended after dark. In her dorm room between the sheets, all the pent up energy leading to one hell of a crescendo.

“Unlike those mock trials when I was young and naive, I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“That’s a real shame, love.”

Ass.

“See you in court.” She left, albeit on shaky legs, before the creeping blush threatened to reveal itself and her true feelings.

She loved the idiot but she didn’t want him to know that. Ever.

Honor Bar, Beverly Hills CA - Monday 27 July (2 weeks later)

Turns out Caroline’s fears were premature and unfounded.

She won the case, like many before it, and Skylar received full damages from the Los Angeles Times for defamation.  

Instead of gloating over her unexpected win, she was currently drowning her sorrows in vodka. Or maybe it was her coping mechanism to block out the fun they could be having in a bed further uptown.

“I was a little upset you didn’t invite me to the party.” She turned, knowing that familiar voice all too well.

“Do you have a tracking device on me or something?”

“Your personal assistant thought I should know your whereabouts to provide the final paperwork,” he said, gesturing to the barwoman for a drink. Caroline couldn’t miss the flutter of her eyelashes knowing the effect he had on women.

She hated that she felt it too.

“Of course she did,” she growled, knowing he’d sweet talked Lexi too. “You’re such an ass.” Caroline was proud of the fact she finally verbalised it after all these months of control.

“Says the defamation warrior,” he whistled, taking a sip of his drink. He’d shed his suit since their last meeting and she couldn’t miss just how good he looked in that navy henley and jeans. It was almost like they’d gone back in time to Boston.

“It’s true and, quite frankly, you deserved it.”

“Last time I checked you left me, sweetheart.”  

“We were both heading in different directions after graduation and excuse me if your reputation didn’t fill me with much confidence.”

“Wow,” he murmured, his gaze downcast. “I’ve followed your career too and what you’ve done is nothing short of phenomenal, not that I was expecting any less given your intelligence, dogged determination and ambition. But it seems as if you’ve not learned the biggest lesson.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“Not to judge a book by its cover,” he responded sincerely, his eyes now aligned with hers. “I love you, always have, but it seemed like what we had didn’t mean enough for you to try.”

“Well then, you’re mistaken,” Caroline replied gruffly, turning to face him. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since college.”

“You better hope I don’t report you to the police for all of that stalking, love.”

“Just shut up and kiss me, Mikaelson,” she insisted, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and pulling him closer. 

His lips felt familiar, like nothing had changed and Caroline didn’t mind that one bit. He promised to beat her in court next time and she relished in the impending challenge.

It was what they did after all. 

[prorevenge]

Horrible teacher fails to do his job ... so we got him fired

Quick note the majority of this took place when I was around 16. Also this is a looooong story, just a fair warning.

When I was in secondary school I had a teacher (Mr Geller for the sake of this post) who absolutely hated me. He was pretty popular with the "cool" kids at school. He'd stop teaching to talk to them, joke around and generally act like one of the kids in the class rather than the teacher. Which is fine, I guess, apart from the fact that he was so busy joking around with the popular kids that he'd fail to actually teach his class properly and our work would suffer because of it. over half his class failed their exams and the other half (bar a handful of students who were really good at the subject) managed to just barely pass after going to a bunch of tutoring classes in the weeks running up to the exam. I genuinely don't know how he managed to keep his job for so long.

I had (and still somewhat have) some pretty severe anxiety issues to the point where I'd sometimes not go to school due to the panic attacks. I was never bullied by any of the students but just the thought of being surrounded by a bunch of loud, hyperactive students was enough to make me physically ill. As a result of this I would often be allowed to work in one of the "pupil support bases". Essentially a small room that I could work in by myself and would receive support from one of the learning support teachers if needed. This also allowed me to leave a class (with permission from the teacher of course) if I was having a particularly bad day and go to the base to calm down and complete my work. Mr Geller was not a fan of this.

Whenever I would ask him if I could go to the learning support base he'd always tell me no and then mock me in front of everyone about how this was the reason I was failing his class, I was just barely scraping passing his class. However, most of his class were in the same boat as me and, again like me, the majority of them were doing pretty well in their other subjects. This was clearly down to his teaching ability, nothing else.

My boyfriend, Alex, and a handful of other seniors would be in my class once or twice a week and would often help explain things to myself and some other students if we were struggling. Essentially doing Mr Geller's job. This wasn't fair as they had to neglect some of their own work to act like a teacher. Mr Geller would again use this to mock me in front of the class, saying things along the lines of "now you boys make sure you keep your hands to yourselves" or "we can continue with the lesson when the lovebirds decide to stop their flirting and pay attention". I know it seems trivial now but at the time it was humiliating as he never called anyone out other than me and having the whole class essentially point and laugh at me and Alex (though they probably didn't mean any harm) was enough to make my anxiety skyrocket.

I dealt with his behaviour for months. The snide comments, mocking me in front of everyone, standing behind me when I was trying to work and scoffing about how awful my work was, stopping in the middle of a lesson to lecture me if I wasn't taking enough notes for his liking, I dealt with it all. My mental health was a wreck.

The thing that finally broke me and made me decide to finally do something about it was when he failed me in one of my tests because I apparently cheated off Alex, who might I add was doing an advanced higher class, not the National 5 course we were doing. He was on a completely different topic from me so there was no way I could cheat by looking at his page and he was sitting five tables away from me. I physically couldn't cheat off him if I wanted to.

At this point I was pissed. An emotional wreck, yes, but pissed. Alex and I decided to get back at this disgrace of a teacher.

Now, for the revenge.

I wasn't entirely sure how to go about this at first. Alex suggested reporting him to the head teacher but if that happened then everyone would know it was me. I didn't want to be the one that reported a popular teacher. Kids can be cruel.

So Alex and I, and a couple of Alex's friends, came up with a plan. Alex and his friends were not pleased with having to do a bunch of extra work to keep on top of their work as they were to busy being ignored by Mr Geller and teaching his class for him. Plus they were leaving at the end of the year so if it fell back on them, then there really wasn't a whole lot anyone could do about it.

Alex and his friends started recording all of their lessons on their phones. Mr Geller joking around with his favourite students instead of teaching, telling Alex and his friends to help each other when they needed something explained to them, and having them essentially taking the place of teacher in his class. They also managed to record a couple of instances where Mr Geller accused me of "attention seeking" when I asked to go to the student support base (after finishing all of the work he'd set in that class).

This went on for weeks. We all met up and sorted through the recordings, made sure that we'd collected enough evidence. It was a long, gruelling few weeks but we managed, we'd been dealing with it for months anyways, we could last a few more weeks. One of Alex's friends suggested that I try and do my work elsewhere as much as possible, so that I couldn't be blamed for the recordings. So I did. There was a few raised eyebrows but I was still getting my work for the class done (I had to do extra work at home to keep on top of it but I had to do that anyways).

Whilst I had some time to myself both in the base and at home, I essentially stalked Mr Geller's social media. It wasn't too hard to find. I couldn't find a whole lot on his social media. The only thing worth noting was his friends list. He had all his favourite students on his social media. I couldn't find a whole lot of stuff that he'd been tagged in or anything though I did scan through the students profiles and found that he'd commented on a lot of their posts. Most of it was harmless banter but there was a few comment thread that I found he was talking crap about some other students. He made fun of a boy whose mother was a recovering alcoholic, a girl with dyslexia and a girl who had reported a couple of the popular kids for bullying her (this is just to name a few). I was in the list of students he liked to make fun of when he thought no one would notice. It did a number on my anxiety seeing my classmates and teacher saying these things but I pushed through and read them all. I decided to screenshot whatever I could find and sent it to Alex. I also took the screenshots of all the disgusting things he was saying about the other students and emailed them to their parents (or whatever parents I could get the email addresses of). Needless to say they were not happy.

After we'd gathered enough evidence, we sent an email to the head teacher with everything attached. We never got all the details on what happened to Mr Geller but we do know that the head teacher got some higher ups involved. We're still not 100% sure if he decided to resign or if he was fired, all we know is that after the summer holidays, we had a new teacher. And surprise, surprise, she actually knew how to teach a class.

I heard through a friend that Mr Geller managed to get a job at another school a couple hours away but that job didn't last very long, he either quit or was fired. He hasn't worked as a teacher since. According to his Facebook profile, he no longer has a wife. Rumour is that his marriage fell apart after he lost his job though I'm not sure how true that is. Hopefully he's a better person now (I highly doubt it though).

So that's my story of revenge. I'm not sure if it counts as pro revenge but my friend suggested I post it here so I'm just doing what she says. Hope you guys are having a good day and staying safe. Bye :)

TLDR - Teacher would mock me in front of class, make the seniors essentially do his job while he joked around with his favourite students and spoke shit about kids he didn't like online. We recorded him being a shitty teacher and took screenshots of the crappy things he wrote online. Which led to him either quitting or being fired. No longer a teacher.

(source) story by (/u/colossal_screwup)

[librinaut]

I think the pandemic has been the last straw for me. I didn't do well before but I kept my head over the water and slowly pushed myself back up in 2019. But now the pandemic and the isolation have pushed me so deep under water again that I truly don't know if I'll be able to get back up the next years. I live alone, my social anxiety went through the roof, so I was completely isolated for all this time and now I know I need to meet at least a few people again as soon as I'm vaccinated but my energy is so low and my anxiety is so high.

And people get angry at me for saying this. "the isolation of the pandemic harmed me in a fundamental way and I don't know if I can recover" makes so many people truly aggressive. Because they think I'm saying that social distancing was wrong, or that I'm one of those covid deniers, or that I'm one of those people who say "mental health is more important than immune compromised people! Let everyone meet and party so they don't get suicidal!", or that I'm saying my mental health is more important than safety measures.

But I'm not saying any of those things. What I'm saying doesn't have a meaning beyond what I'm saying. It doesn't have a punchline or a conclusion. There is nobody to blame. Nobody to point to. So I'm not pointing at anyone. I support the rules, the social distancing, everything. In fact I'm even more cautious because of my anxiety. But it still wouldn't be right to pretend that this time didn't harm me.

It's as if there are only two sides: Either you hate the rules, you deny that covid exists and you see that people are suffering mentally so you want the safety measures to end RIGHT NOW. Or you approve of the rules and measures and people who say they suffer mentally are just propaganda by the covid deniers. Everyone is fine, don't be so sensitive, take a walk.

So if you say "yes the measures were good and 100% right (even too mild) but I also suffered greatly because of them" peoples brains explode. I know that nuance is dead but this topic confronted me with the reality that many friends and family are not at all capable of critical thought. They follow a set of morals, a moral package deal. And if something isn't included in there their brains go error.

And this is incredibly harmful. I've seen friends of mine, grown adults, scoff at reports of kids and teenager suicide/depression rates rising. "MY (suburban rich white) kids were completely fine (in our big garden and with an excellent internet connection)! So this can only be fake". I've seen people just being dead silent regarding domestic abuse numbers against women going up and up and up while womens shelters are closing down everywhere.

I think people love easy opinions. Having an opinion that has a bit of nuance to it seems impossible for the twitter generation that needs every opinion neatly packed into a few sentences. "The pandemic rules are correct and that's proven by how nobody is suffering" is easier than "the pandemic rules are correct and necessary but they do harm some people and we need to draw attention to these issues instead of ignoring them."

It's also difficult because it reveals a lot of issues that were already there but which are just worse now. Poor kids, bad internet connection despite internet being needed for school, kids with learning disabilities, domestic abuse, the lack of funding and support for womens shelters or womens issues in general etc. But these things are complicated AND they require direct action and real activism. They aren't solved by proving to your set of internet friends that you have the same opinion and set of morals as they have.

I don't know if there is a real conclusion for this. I just know there isn't a plan for people like me. If I was still in school I'd probably have dropped out now. As an adult I've dropped out of life and reality. The politicians in my country are too busy with the coming election so nobody really wants to talk or think about those who will be left behind.

I guess I am somehow angry but at no one in particular. This is after all a natural desaster. The entire world was hit, not just me and I'm in an incredibly privileged position in my rich western country that could actually provide me with a vaccine. But I still feel the need to talk about all of this. Because it fundamentally changed my life and I know I'm not alone and I don't even have it worst. By far.

I just wish people would think with more nuance and more consideration. With more empathy and less buzzwords. I don't know. Maybe your social bubble is entirely different and this doesn't fit at all with your experiences. But mine makes me feel even more isolated like this

[aristephes]

Part Eight

Living in a small town on an island sounds idyllic, but the reality is, when you have mental health issues, it’s hell. There is little support and the doctors are either jaded or come from outside cultures that do not understand a lot of things that people from Western cultures experience. This was my personal hell. I had to deal with these quacks who, in my opinion, after seeing many of them, left me feeling depleted and discarded. They couldn’t have cared for a sick kitten. These people put me through the wringer, one doctor in particular, put me on all kinds of medication as he misdiagnosed me and figured I would just come good. That was not the case at all.

The last medication he put me on, Lithium, was by far the worst thing he could have done. After being on all kinds of nasty stuff, he figured why not? At that stage I had put on weight, I was up to around 120kgs. This lithium experiment would add another five and see me slip into the darkest, deepest depression I had ever had the misfortune of suffering.

I spent the next five years in a drug-induced haze; filled with brain fog, massive bipolar mania explosions and a complete personality change. I took up smoking, which I have despised all my life - albeit for a couple of weeks - and drinking; something I am not prone to doing unless on a special occasion. No. This was not right and it was not helping my poor wife, who by this point in time was struggling to make sense of it all.

Five years.

Have you ever spent a few days in bed feeling ill?

Ever felt like a worthless sack of shit, and just curl up and wait for the inevitable moment you fall asleep?

Just think about how bad I was... I couldn’t shower, I didn’t want to eat, I slept most of my days away or spent them on eBay buying shit that I didn’t need because my bipolar was out of control.

The doctor’s response? Nothing. He shortly thereafter left for the big city on the mainland and left me high and dry. Five long, dreary, depressing, draining years of brain fog, mania and pent up rage. Problem was, I had no way of releasing that rage because I simply did not have the energy, so it became crippling anxiety instead.

My wife had to try two more times to get me admission to hospital, but both times she was sent away, with me in tow and a little bag of meds to help me through the night. Pathetic. They didn’t have room at the hospital because too many of the beds were taken up by drug users having psychotic breaks and smashing the place up. So people with real issues had to be shunted back to wherever and their carers and loved ones had to pray to God that they didn’t wake up to a suicide.

It was frustrating. I felt like a burden and a failure.

Just when my wife needed me the most, I wasn’t there for her. I was a mess. I was beyond useless and I started to have issues with staying upright. My blood pressure was playing up, my heart was racing all the time, the weight gain had put pressure on my back and knees, resulting in constant pain beyond what I already suffered. I would be standing up and the next minute I’d be on the floor, with the room spinning around me.

It was time to take action... oh, yeah and let’s not forget that I looked like Homer Simpson because my liver was being affected by the lithium and my skin was turning yellow.

So yes, my life was fucked over royally by the very professionals that were meant to help me.

I had a carer come in and take me out once a week... just out to town, out on drives, just out... to get me some sunshine and fresh air. It was the little boost I needed... I figured that life could get better... but first, I had to make one big change.

At this point I asked for a new doctor and hoped beyond all hope that he or she would be able to assist me in some kind of recovery. It’s a miracle that I found one. He was brilliant. He was the first family centred psychiatrist that I had met. He involved my wife in my consults, spoke to her with respect and listened intently to her reports. Something my previous psychiatrist refused to do.

We asked for a medication review. He looked at the very long list of medications I had been taking and quickly ascertained that they were wrong for me. He put me onto just two meds. An anti-psychotic and an anti-depressant. Then, he made sure to follow up with me by making me regular appointments to see him. It was a miracle! Not only did my wife and soulmate stand by me, no matter how dark the times got, she made sure that I got the help I needed by persevering. We found a couple of places over those five years that could help us out, even with little things like respite care for the children and my wife... and myself.

It was a slow process as I had to change my meds over slowly.

Recovery was something I had heard about, but hadn’t really researched. I had been to ill... but, there was a light at the end of this tunnel. A light that would lead to a fresh, new lease on life and a different path for me - one that I had never contemplated before...

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #341

“anger, misery, you’ll suffer unto me”

Would you risk your life to save a total stranger? I don't think so. Have you ever trashed your ex’s car after an argument? No, and I never would. Grow up. Have you ever done something because of peer pressure you are ashamed of? I don't believe so, no. Have you ever been embarrassed to introduce your parents to anyone? No. Would you leave a note on a car claiming responsibility if you damaged it? Yeah; guilt would eat me alive otherwise. Have you ever used someone's handicapped parking pass to get a parking spot? Fucking ew, no. Have you ever held back a well-deserved compliment because you were jealous? No. Do you guilt people into giving you what you want? Ugh, no. Would most people consider you better than average looking? Ha, no. For yourself, would you rather have a perfect body or high IQ? Give me the perfect body, living in my horrible one has affected my mental health badly enough. I'm fine with having a moderate IQ. I just want to feel happy in my own skin. Have you ever embarrassed some intentionally in public? Wow, no. Have you ever used a false ID? Also no. Are you embarrassed to tell people your job? I'm embarrassed to tell people I don't HAVE a job. Do you remember the first conversation you had with the person you have feelings for? I don't. I'm sure it was RP-related and not friendly, but I don't remember the exact convo. Have you ever got a D or F on your report card? I want to say no; I think the lowest I ever got was a C. If you had twins, would you give them rhyming names? Ugh, no. I'm sorry if you're into it, but I'm just not. I would want to ensure they knew their uniqueness and individuality was seen. Is there anyone that you wish was IN your life who used to be? There's a large number of those kinds of people. What brings out the worst in you? Probably when I'm building up towards a PTSD meltdown. I get VERY short and snappy and am convinced everyone hates and wants to leave me. My mouth also has NO fucking leash, and I know I can say very mean things that I'll regret later. What do you prefer, Skittles or Starbursts? Skittles. Mike & Ikes or Jolly Ranchers? Jolly Ranchers for sure. What is your favorite thing to eat with peanut butter? Waffles (with syrup). Don't knock it 'til you try it, I'm telling you. What are some wild animals commonly found where you live? Besides birds obviously, there's squirrels, deer, opossums, raccoons... Have you ever had a lucid dream? I think I've had just one. What's your biggest problem at the moment? Probably my anxiety having stunted my growth in so many areas. Have you ever turned down a job offer? I don't think so, no. What's the longest hospital stay you've had? For what? I think my longest was almost two months for suicidal thoughts. Two months might sound long, but it was like... my third or so psych hospital stay for that same reason. What's something really basic that you're terrible at? Even the most simple math. I don't even know the majority of my elementary multiplication tables. Have you ever hugged someone for over a minute? Yeah. Would you ever get a tattoo on your collar bone? I have one there already, but I plan on getting it covered because it was an impulse tattoo that I feel no connection towards. Have you ever searched for your house on Google Earth? My old house, yeah. Are you a beach, country, or city person? Country. Living in the suburbs has definitely reminded me of that... Are you faster at text messaging or typing on the computer? Typing, by a long shot. I make typos texting too much. Have you ever kissed anybody who had a mustache? Yeah. Who is the last person that you said "I love you" to, besides family members? Sara. When was your first real relationship? Sophomore year of high school to early college. Have you ever cried over an ex? I've cried the entire mass of water on Earth over an ex lmao. Have you ever kissed someone of the same sex? Yes. Is there something really bad that you’ve done, that only YOU know about? No. Have you ever copied someone else’s homework? I think I have once or twice, but obviously with consent. What’s a hobby you would like to try out? If my legs worked like actual legs and I didn't sweat like an absolute pig, I would like to try out herping, but without actually interacting with the animal like picking it up and scaring the daylights out of it. I'd just be happy enough looking for reptiles, amphibians, and inverts to photograph instead. Does that still even count as herping? What was the last event you attended? My youngest niece's birthday party. How about the last event you organized? I've never organized an event. What’s something you get excited about doing and want to do it right away? Whenever I take nature pictures, I'm immediately keen to get them into Lightroom and do the postproduction. Is there anything you feel you’re better at than anybody else? Definitely not. What’s the biggest insect you’ve ever seen? If you exclude places like the zoo, that would probably be a rhinoceros beetle or something. Oh no, actually some kind of local moth I don't know the name of. They're beautiful big white boiz. How about the biggest spider? I might be mis-remembering, but I believe at a reptile convention I went to with Sara, one of the vendors had a goliath bird eater tarantula in one of the cups. I do know it was some tarantula species for sure, though. Who was the first person to break your heart? My dad. Obviously not romantically, but him just splitting on the family with no proper communication absolutely broke my heart for years. First person to give you flowers or candy on Valentine’s day? I'm sure that would be my parents. If you exclude them 'cuz that's kinda obvious, I believe it was Aaron, my first boyfriend. I'm pretty sure we were together on Valentine's Day, because I remember getting him a giant Hershey's Kiss. First band you obsessed about? I wasn't truly obsessed with any band 'til Ozzy in middle school. Can you do a backflip? No; I've never tried and never will. I was and still am too afraid of breaking my neck. Like I have a MASSIVE fear of paralysis, particularly from the neck down; that fear is actually the biggest one that keeps me from driving, fun fact. Are you an optimist or a pessimist? Of the two, definitely a pessimist, but I at least think I align most with being a realist. What’s the biggest lie you’ve told someone? I'm unsure. Have you ever been hit on by someone of the same sex? Yeah. How many doors are in the room you’re in? Just one. Have you ever been engaged and broke it off? No. Has anyone ever drawn a picture of you? Tyler once drew a picture of him and me. It was cute. That guy still dove in WAY too fast. Have you ever dated a redhead? I haven't, but I love redheads. Natural red hair is just gorgeous. What are your thoughts on facial hair on guys? Historically, I seem to generally like some, but it really depends on the guy's general appearance. I can like none at all or a full beard and mustache, it doesn't really matter to me. Did you go anywhere today? No; my mom is in Florida with her brothers totally cleaning out Grammy's house, so she's not here to take me anywhere. Do you have any nieces or nephews? Oh yikes, I have a lot. I honestly can't count because I've lost track of how many boys and girls Katie has. You have a choice to shoot your father or die, what would you do? Jesus. I'd rather die; some things just aren't worth living after, and I'd have no desire to keep going if I killed my father. Did you ever cry at the end of King Kong? I've never watched it, actually, but I. LOVED. The video game. I haven't played it in years and only faintly remember how it ends, but I don't remember crying. Are you in any amount of pain at the moment? Quite a lot, actually. It's kinda a TMI subject so I won't delve into it, just know I'm hurting like a bitch. What was the last sugary thing you ate? I snacked on some chocolate chips earlier today... which I really shouldn't have done, but I think I had reasonable restraint and didn't totally binge. When was the last time you did something extremely stupid? Who knows, that's not a rare occurrence, it feels like. Have you been to any parties lately? Only my niece's bday party in February. Thankfully it was kept pretty small, given Covid; not that anyone in that family besides my sister gives a flying fuck about precautions, though... Can you touch your pinky to your thumb around your wrist? Ugh, no. Close, but not enough. I still have thin wrists and hands, but yeah, yay for being overweight. If you were to start a charity, what would you call it? I'd hve to put more thought than I'm willing for one survey question. I'd have to decide what KIND of charity I want to start first, which I'm unsure of. Probably something related to animal wellfare and conservation or something similar to the Trevor Project. Maybe LBGTQ+ youth disowned by their families... I dunno. There's so much good I wish I could do. Are you comfortable with your body? Holy fuck no. It's only gotten worse since I started gaining weight again and almost entirely erased all weight loss progress I'd made. What is your recent inside joke? Most recently made? Idk, man. I don't make those often. Would you rather be a human, vampire, or a werewolf? Er, I'm good with being a human. If I was a vampire or werewolf, I wouldn't exactly be very welcomed, I'm sure, and both have seemingly painful traits to cope with. Are you good at giving directions? It is absolutely impossible for me. I have NO sense of direction, like, at all. I don't know highway names, local exits, etc. etc. etc. etc. Why did you last curse? Pain when readjusting myself due to aforementioned issue I'm having. What is your purpose in life? I hope it involves animals and spreading words of peace and an appreciation for art. What is one of your weak points? I'm very, very, very dependent on others. I'm really working on trying to correct that. I can barely do shit on my own as is. Who was the last person you heard snoring? My cat, haha. Would you rather shower by yourself or with another person? 100% by myself. Another person would just get in the way and make me VERY self-conscious of my body, even if it was my romantic partner. Just please leave me alone to hate myself for 10 minutes. :^) What was your last addiction? You could say my current one is John Wolfe, a really funny let's player I've gotten into. Been bingeing some of my favorite games he has playlists of for a few weeks now. You are in a tank full of spiders, what do you do? Well one, I'd like to know what kind they are. Venomous? Harmless? You gotta give me the details. If I don't have any, then I'm admittedly freaking the fuck out, even though I know I should stay very calm when trying to get out. Fear would win, though. If killing yourself meant saving the world, would you? Saving the world from what? But odds are, yeah. I don't cherish my pretty damn mediocre life more than I do the lives of what, 8 billion people? Have you ever stayed up all night just to talk to someone? Yeah. When was the last time you eavesdropped someone? I kinda do that sometimes when Mom's on the phone and I can hear her from my room, and if they're on speaker. Particularly if the subject is me. When was the last time you went to a club? I've never been to one. How have you been sleeping? Poorly. Are you adopted? No, I'm not. Do you like scrapbooking? Not really, no. Do you collect anything valuable? "Valuable to me." <<<< This. Nothing of great monetary worth, though. Have you ever been beaten up? No, thankfully. Do you know anyone with an eating disorder? I don't think so, in my personal life. What was the last thing you killed? An ant. Have you ever used someone for money? I never could, no. When was the last time you went to the zoo? Sigh, it's been many many years. I'm so ready to get my goddamn legs back in shape so I can go again, this time with a REAL camera, too. Last time I went was when I still only had a Kodak EasyShare; I have a professional Canon camera now with much more education on photography too, so I would be in absolute heaven with at least twenty memory cards in need, haha. Maybe next fall... Is there a teacher you hate more than anything? I actually never had a teacher I hated in my entire school career. It really, really is as simple as just being a respectful student. In most cases, I should emphasize, because I do understand some educators just suck. Now I had some teachers I wasn't very fond of, but most certainly none that I hated. Do you own colored eyeliner? No. Do you have manners? I honestly think I'm very mannerly. When was the last time that you had a pet that died? We last had to put my dog Teddy down; he had cancer and was literally withering away. I knew in my very core that even if we didn't bring him to the vet to euthanize him, he would've died naturally in a very short period of time; I doubt he would've survived another night. Now I'd like to move on. What is your favorite medication that you take, and why? The combination of Vraylar and Lamictal is the reason I'm alive. It keeps my bipolarity and depression under control. Do you decorate Mason jars? No, but those are some of my favorite crafts visually. They're very pretty and cute. Can you see the mountains from where you live? Oh hunny, I wish. Did you ever play pranks on April Fool’s Day? As a kid, yeah. I don't anymore. I'm not really even a fan of April Fool's Day as an adult because of how cruel some jokes assholes play are. Which instrument would you play if you could learn to play one? Maybe violin. Do you part your hair on the left side, right side, or in the middle? The left. What are some names you like that start with the first letter of your name? Uhhhh Bianca, Braelynn (look I know it's so stereotypically Southern but it's pretty)... and idk from there, those are the two that come to mind first.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 98

98

   It was weird to have slow weeks again with all the excitement Keith had brought into his life. Keith had called to update him on things in Platt which weren’t exactly good. A scuffle had broken out between three vampire clans, so Lotor, and his generals, were now calling VOLTRON home for the foreseeable future. Asking far too much over Lance for Keith’s comfort. Keith and Shiro were both back in with Blades after the failure of a mission, though Keith was two weeks out of loop, so he’d had to work extra time to catch up on everything he’d missed. Then the last two weeks August had seemed to disappear into thin air, without seeing Keith. Lance honestly didn’t know where they’d gone, only that they were wankers for leaving him without Keith for so long.

  Filled in far too much, Sendak seemed to be the cause of the recent vampire fighting. The four clans suffering heavy casualties, which meant pretty much every night hunters and Blades were on the look out of for potential vampires turning humans to bolster their numbers. Plus they had to deal with werewolves getting all uppity with their mangy noses out of joint. Two murders had made their way into the news, the reports on the details varied differently with between each printed news report. Someone had brought up the question of it being related to the theft he and Keith committed, with that particular story disappearing within 6 hours of making it to socials. The Blades could make anything disappear, maybe even him if they got sick of all these vampire drama. Lance didn’t envy Keith at all. He knew his boyfriend was working hard, even harder as he tried to avoid his approaching birthday weekend... despite how freakin’ long it was until their holiday. The broody anger loaf as as bad at him over birthdays. He could have easily pushed it to the back of his mind, but instead he wanted all the information and considered hiking it ahead of time so they wouldn’t get lost.

  Lance was working in his own way. Pidge found them a “case” a few towns over. Lance didn’t want to go. He felt wiped from his heat. Pidge had no pity for him after a “romantic week away”, Lance ending up going. Matt coming along for the night and succeeding in pissing off Pidge by explaining away phenomenons with science. He was kind of right. There wasn’t the feeling of death in the building despite its age, nor any annoying shadows to ignore. Hunk saved them all from Pidge’s bad mood by suggesting the turn the video into a “debunk” video for the watchers. It was nice to have part of his old life back. He felt as if things were finally settling down for the Garrison Trio, and that they’d worked past his whole “vampire” issue. A new video landed him a couple of new clients seeking advice, giving him a chance to feel helpful in a different way from tagging along because Lotor wanted it.

  Vegged out on the sofa, their new family member mooed loudly from outside. Yeah. They’d kept the damn cow. Three weeks seemed too long to now be going out and finding the owner seeing she hadn’t been reported missing. They’d even named her Kaltenecker. Blue wasn’t fond of her. Her Royal Highness was sulking as it was. She and Kosmo had gotten pretty close, Lance feeling she missed the hyperactive pup as much as he missed Keith. She’d tried to be friendly with Kaltenecker, but was out the moment Kalternecker’s long slobbery tongue passed over her head. He didn’t like to admit that he slept with one of Keith’s shirts over his pillow these days, because it felt kind of stalkerish and really rather lame. He couldn’t help that he slept better with Keith’s scent close to him, despite the fact he felt a 45 year old man should probably have grown out of nightmares long ago.

  Matt and Rieva both tried to help with his nightmares. Lance appreciated the thought, but his dreams had been so weird lately that he had no idea what to make of them. Sometimes they were about him being turned. Sometimes he’d turned Keith in them and they were having the weirdest adventures. He’d had one dream where he was pregnant and Keith was on a quest to find him shorts... though, the worst dream he’d had was when Nyma and Rolo had kidnapped Keith and he’d come home to find his boyfriend dead. It took calling Keith to calm him down from that one.

  There was also one big change in the house that made Lance happy. Curtis had moved back in. When he’d come to check on him at the hotel, they’d talked, entertaining the idea of finding an apartment in Platt, only to decide that it was more practical if Curtis lived there. It was nice to have him back. Curtis felt as lost as he did over not being able to be in the field with Keith and Shiro. Having found a home outside VOLTRON, where his curse wasn’t such a big deal, Lance fully supported Curtis moving in and having fresh air and freedom. Plus, it helped to have someone get as emotional over soap operas as he did. Matt forced to watch the pair of them make fools of themselves as they’d yell at the TV over the script.

  With Rieva at her waitressing job, Lance having cleaned through the house, and nothing much to do, Lance was curled up against Curtis, Christmas shopping for their friends group, and trying to ignore the feelings of anxiety that came with waiting for Keith to check in with him. Seeing he was giving Keith a twin set of blades for his birthday, Lance was facing he dilemma of “Did he buy Keith another blade” or “Should be he buy him camera equipment without knowing anything about cameras”. His boyfriend really did get excited at the idea of stabbing things... Maybe too excited so he shouldn’t give him a potential murder weapon?

  He could always gift Keith a voucher to a camera equipment store, but he didn’t want to spend too much on the voucher and have Keith feel guilty over the cost of the gift. He could probably pick up a vintage camera as a gift...

  Then again, he’d seen some amazing antique blades. As well as custom jobs that seemed to scream Keith’s name at him. It was hard containing himself. Huge gifts would be nice, he’d spoil Keith rotten for every single bad birthday memory he had, yet a heartfelt gift was worth more than spending thousands. That’s why he loved that he had a small selection of Keith’s photos. His photography so super personal that the vampire felt kind of honoured. He adored it. He adored the photos of them all, the photos of the caves, but his favourite was of Keith and Kosmo cuddled up together, even more so of the ones where he was kissing Keith’s cheek. Now he was missing his boyfriend again. God. Okay. No more swords. Time to move on to Shiro and who better to ask than his boyfriend?

  “Hey, Curtis. What are you getting Shiro for Christmas?”

“I’m not going through this again”

Tilting his head back, Lance frowned up at Curtis

“What does that mean?”

Curtis sighed at him

“It means Keith nearly had a mental breakdown trying to decide on your gift. I will not go through that again”

Lance blinked at him, a warm feeling in his belly that his boyfriend cared that much. He didn’t blame Curtis for not wanting to go through that again, a stressed Keith could be very bossy and uncooperative

“No, I’m being literal here. I don’t want to get him the same thing as you. I’m tossing up between getting Keith another blade, or some camera equipment. I thought I’d move onto Shiro”

“Oh. I was sure you were edging into asking what you should purchase for Keith. He was quite the wreck the morning of your birthday. 5 cups of coffee, all in different cups. Pacing nonstop. Freaking out because he hadn’t purchased a present and it had to be just right and in no way lame”

  Lance huffed at Curtis. He really wanted to call Keith now... Their camping trip seemed so long away... 52 days. Every day counting down was being marked off on his office calendar and his friend calendar

“I am trying not to think about how much I miss my boyfriend. What should I get Shiro?”

Shiro was filled with “Dad” vibes. Sometimes it felt he was the only mature one around them

“You could get us matching T-shirts. I’m with stupid pointing to him, and his saying “I am stupid””

“Dude, that seems more like something you should give him. Maybe I’ll skip him for now”

“You could get him an ugly sweater?”

Lance hummed. Shiro was a closet nerd. He’d seen the bobble head collection... and the movie collection...

“That could work. Maybe some socks to make it feel like a dad present. Thanks for the idea. What are you getting him?”

“I’m thinking I should get him an ugly sweater now”

Lance rolled his eyes

“That’s what you told me to get him”

“But it’s such a good idea. Why don’t we all get him ugly sweaters?”

“Because you’re the one who’s going to have to live with the consequences”

“I don’t mind”

“Fiiiiine. But you better gift him something else to make up for it, or he’s really going to think we don’t like him”

“I think I’ll manage. Why are you shopping now?”

“So it’s all out the way. Postage gets hectic around Christmas and if there’s going to be delays than I want the extra time”

  He was letting his age show. But with two months to go before everyone started going mental for Chris, he wanted things all organised so he didn’t have the last minute rush to deal with. He had his eye on a nice outdoor setting as his birthday gift to himself, a little late, but if he timed it right he couldn’t always say it was an early Christmas present. He wanted something bigger to fit them all comfortably, once he’d extended the brickwork... maybe built a pen for Kaltenecker... ohhh... Kaltenecker could have her own stall near the house. They could build a doggy training course for Kosmo... and Matt...

“Curtis, do you know anything about construction”

“Not particularly. Dismantling measures... Explosives. Survival measures”

“Do you want to try building a cow pen with me?”

“No. And you will not be building one either. Go back to your Christmas shopping”

  Lance pouted. Not liking being told not to do something. It wasn’t an ego thing. It was something he’d heard so many times in his life. No matter how good he’d been, he wasn’t good enough

“I did all the repairs on the house for like the most part, and things are still standing”

“So you did the electrics, the plumbing, reroofing...?”

Well... no. The walls had to come down to tackle the mould and... his ego didn’t like what Curtis was saying

“I pulled down the walls and replaced them once I got rid of the mould”

“Great. You broke stuff. Speaking of broken stuff, Matt and Rieva broke the bed again”

“I heard. Maybe it’s time to get them another bed for that room? Instead of two singles pushed together?”

“Weren’t they planning on moving out once their probation ended?”

“That’s beside the point...”

  He really liked having them there. Not just because he’d become friends with them, but for the added security of having two werewolves in the off chance of things going south

“You’re acting delusional. Maybe it’s the stress of Christmas shopping?”

“I’m not stressed. And before you ask, I’ve already ordered your present”

“I know. I’ve been on your laptop”

“Dude! Privacy! I’ve got confidential client... you’re an arsehole”

Curtis started laughing as he snapped at him

“You should have seen your face”

“You should see what I’m going to do to yours”

Curtis brushed his hair back from his horn

“It’s because I’m horny, isn’t it? You wouldn’t hit a horny man”

Lance choked on air. Curtis laughing at him as he spluttered. Part of Curtis’s Christmas present might have to go missing in revenge. Sulkily, Lance snapped his laptop closed. His friend was a dick. He was a raisin cookie pretending to be filled with chocolate goodness

“I’m going to go make lunch while you think about your actions”

And check in on Matt who was doing “Top Secret Research”

“Oh, good. Food and free entertainment. This really is the life”

[completelypeccable]

Unfortunately, I thought of a real plot

Can I Have This Dance? (new title)

          There’s drama in the Batfam, with a song about dancing somehow worked into each chapter.  Something is wrong again, and the family is falling apart.  Now, they have to put the pieces back together.  But the thing about puzzles is you can only figure out the full picture by coming together.

Chp. 2    We don’t have to dance

The phone was ringing.

Tim was awake, of course. The pale yellow dawn had begun to creep into the apartment, the cozy glow illuminating last night’s exploits. Twin controllers on the floor. Styrofoam takeout boxes that should be in the trash, not on his already messy table. And, his favorite part, his brothers snuggled together on his couch.

He had been perfectly happy to take the chair.

Tim looked at the caller ID. Bruce. His fingers found the power button, sending it to voicemail.

It was the first call since he carried Damian hyperventilating out of the gala seven hours earlier.

If he cares so much about where Damian is, Tim thought bitterly, let him figure it out. Use those big boy detective skills.

Tim turned back to his laptop screen, where he had been editing his report on the recent Teen Titan mission.  The past few weeks or so had been a blur. The team foiled a plot to blow up half of São Paulo, culminating in a chase by air which Tim, as a non-super, had probably no business participating in, but inserting himself where he had no business was pretty much his mode of operation. Then, with that finished and the criminals entering international custody, Tim had been planning on a night of video games and report writing when he got the call from Dick.

Tim glanced at the couch and realized he probably would never quite get used to this sight. He spent about an hour staring between the hours of 3 and 4 alone. Curse Dick and his bleeding heart, his was getting infected, too. It was just so cute.

Jason was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other hooked all the way around Damian’s little body. His eyebrows were knit together, so he looked concerned and vaguely grumpy- a sleep softened version of Red Hood’s ‘don’t even try it’ look. He was protecting precious cargo.

Damian had wiggled his face into the skin of Jason’s neck and chest, his mouth just open, face completely relaxed in the deep sleep of an exhausted child. An extended panic attack will do that to you, Tim thought. Jason’s hand rested on the skin of the pushed out belly peeking out of his t-shirt. The kid always seemed to gravitate towards skin-to-skin contact, as if he was finally going through the infant stages of emotional development. Which was entirely possible, considering they were the first people he was truly safe around. The thought twisted in Tim’s gut.  Convincing Damian the league’s actions were wrong was about as difficult as convincing him they would never be like them: slow going but definitely rewarding. Tim could barely believe there was a time he would have punted the kid out an open window if given the chance. He felt a bit guilty, but he knew they had both changed since then.

Damian was completely pressed up against Jason, but his feet barely reached his mid-thigh.  Even though Jason was a big guy, the size comparison was still nothing short of completely adorable, and Dick, Duke, and the girls had been sent multiple pictures already. The baby curls of his soft, short hair poofed up like they did every morning before he tried to gel them into spikes. One hand twisted into the front of Jason’s shirt.

The weighted Robin-themed blanket had fallen off the couch in the middle of the night, and Tim slipped it back up to his brothers’ shoulders gently on his way to the kitchen.

Coffee was the order of the morning. He’d make a pot: four cups for him, one for Jason. If he had to deal with Bruce, he wanted to do it with some semblance of control.

By the time he walked back into the room, Jason was awake, staring at the ceiling as he ran his hand up-down along Damian’s spine.

“Morning,” Tim whispered, sitting next to him in the chair.

“Nerd,” Jason scoffed, smirking.

He choked and spit out his coffee. “Dude!”

“What? You sound like an old man.”

“Why did I let you stay at my place, again?”

“It’s because you love me.”

“I’d love to hit you.”

Jason was entirely too satisfied. “Can’t hit me when I’m holding a baby.”

Tim scowled into his cup. He couldn’t argue, though. Last night, they realized they didn’t have any of Damian’s clothes at the apartment, so Jason gave him an old t-shirt and Tim got him a pair of boxers with ties around the waist. The t shirt alone went to his knees.

He was tiny.

The phone started buzzing again.

“Tell me it’s not-“

“I wish I could.” He declined the call.

Jason shifted up, swearing.

“Hey! Be-“

“He’s sound asleep,” he grumbled, arranging the kid so he was leaning against his chest, blanket curled around him. “Look at this sleepy burrito boy.”

They gazed softly as Damian sucked in a shaky breath, whined, and cuddled in further, gripping Jason’s shirt tighter.

The phone buzzed.

“Mother- Does he not get that we’re ignoring him?”

Tim hit decline call. “He will eventually.”

Damian’s feet twitched, and Jason held him just a bit tighter, one hand at the base of his neck, the other smoothing a circle into his back. His lips and brows ran in parallel lines across his worried face.

“I don’t think he’s going to wake up any time soon,” Tim said, noting the brood session.

Jason grumbled.

“I’m going to text the girls, tell them to postpone their plans.”

“Mm.”

“Let’s do the zoo trip tomorrow. It looks like Damian is wiped out.”

“Mm.”

“Take today to deal with Bruce.”

“Mm.”

“Give zombie boy here time to develop organized speech.”

“M- wait,” Jason broke out of his thousand yard stare. “What did you say you little crap stain?”

Tim cackled, but held the phone steady.

“Do not send that snap, Tim, I swear I’m gonna-“

“Can’t hit me when you’re holding the baby,” Tim sang, scooting backwards, already hitting the contacts for Steph and Cass.

Jason swore.

…

They laid around the apartment for a few more hours, Tim working on his laptop and Jason reading The Outsiders while Damian slept. Jason kept a shelf of old novels at Tim’s place; it wasn’t uncommon for one to spend the night at the other’s. They kept an eye on each other like that, knowing too much time alone tended to do more harm than good.

The silence itself wasn’t uncomfortable, but Tim could have used a distraction from his own thoughts.

This was a big deal. He and Jason were trying to downplay it, keep it together for the kid, but they knew.

They were essentially disowning their dad.

And it wasn’t like this was a sudden decision either, it had been something on the horizon for months, a serious topic of discussion among the older kids for three weeks now. These past few days may have forced their hand, but the hurt was still the same.

Bruce had never been the ideal parent. He was gruff, he usually didn’t have the words, and he literally had a t-shirt that said “Emotions are my enemy”. But he had loved them. At least, Tim hoped. He had made Bruce his life, let his business become his work, held his mission in his hands like a guiding light. He had been so lonely, left neglected in an old, empty house. Bruce got him out, introduced him to a world that never stopped expanding, and gave him access to the tools he needed to change it.

But lately, Bruce seemed… different. Tim thought when he brought him back, everything would be okay. Everything would be understandable and solid again. Tim had felt so sad and confused without his dad. His grief was overwhelming. But Bruce came back, and Tim was so glad, he was sure that would fix it.

Instead, he was even more confused. His dad was unrecognizable in and out of the cowl. Bruce yelled at him over everything, cut off communication and left. Batman… Batman hit him. Tim touched his jaw, trying to control his anxiety.

Dick had found something, videos deleted off the bat computer. He hadn’t recovered all of it, but what he found was evidence enough. Tim wasn’t the only one Batman was getting more violent with.

There were three videos. The Batman beating thugs within an inch of their life. Screaming at Robin. In one, right after throwing a man off the roof, Batman turned with his armed raised and Robin flinched so hard he fell over.

That was bad enough. But there was missing information, hours of footage gone. And that scared them even more. Tim couldn’t stop his mind from running through every single possibility. He could never shut it off.

A stomach growled, and Tim looked up to his brother trying to flip the page with his nose.

Finally, an external stimulus.

“If you’re hungry, Jason, I can get you something to eat.”

Jason scoffed, finding his nose a bit too large to be useful. “What do you have, pickles and mustard?”

“Ha, ha,” Tim closed his laptop. “You only get the mayonnaise now.”

“Good thing that wasn’t my stomach.”

Another gurgle, and Damian’s face scrunched up.

Tim paused on his way to the fridge and blinked for a minute, not sure if they should let him sleep or wake him up, but by the time he made a decision, the kid’s eyelashes fluttered apart on their own.

His green eyes crossed and uncrossed in narrow slits. When they focused, they found Jason’s chin, and he scrambled to sit up.

“Woah there, squirt,” Jason tugged him back down, going back to rubbing his back. Damian grumbled and frowned, but let his head fall back down.

“Just take a minute, remember where you are and all that fun stuff.”

Tim cleared some room to sit, moving aside paperwork on the table next to the couch.  

Damian’s face twisted for a beat before he pushed himself up again with a huff. Tim had to hand it to him for not immediately falling down.

“Alright, Todd. I remember now. Unhand me and I’ll return to Father’s soon.”

“Ha! Nope.” Jason sat up and yanked him onto his lap.

Damian scowled and threw his head back dramatically.

“Do not suffer me this injustice, Todd.”

Tim smirked. Damian was very clearly not yet awake, what with the slightly unfocused eyes and leaning into Jason’s chest. “Suffer”, he said.

“Sorry, baby bat. You’re not going back to the manor.”

That seemed to wake him up more. He jerked around to look at Jason’s nose, then his eyes.

“What?”

“You’re not going back to the manor.”

“Oh,” he said, a blank look on his face. “I am staying here today?”

“Mm.”

“Zombie boy.”

“Shut UP, Tim!”

Tim laughed. Damian still hadn’t gotten off Jason’s lap, hadn’t leaned away from the hand on his back.

“Is Father away again?” He asked instead, clearly confused. Tim would bet his last jar of peanut butter that Damian was still fuzzy on why exactly he woke up on Jason in this apartment.

“Something like that.”

“Father has left me home many times, Todd. Pennyworth is usually around, unless he is with Father.”

Jason didn’t react, but looked at Tim over the kid’s head.

“What do you mean by that?”

Damian fiddled with the blanket, pinching it up and poking it back down.

“It’s just that, he is busy. He’s home when he can be.”

Tim didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the sound of his voice, the hollow loneliness. He suddenly felt pissed.

“Damian,” Tim said evenly. “When was the last time you talked to Bruce.”

“Batman and I-“

Jason tapped his nose, and he crossed his eyes to follow it. “No, Damian. Just Bruce.”

Damian looked at one brother, then the other. They could see the way he was reaching back in his still foggy memory, trying to figure out the answer they wanted to hear.

“No bullshit, kid,” Jason warned.

Damian looked to the side, schooled his face into a blank expression, and looked Tim in the eyes.

“It has been a while. Father is often… upset with Robin.”

Jason rubbed his back again.

“Alright,” Tim said. He was going to kill Bruce. “You’re staying with me this week, anyways.”

“What?”

“You,” Tim shifted to poke Damian’s nose. His eyes crossed, and Jason grinned. “You are gonna stay with me.”

“For an entire week?”

“Yup.”

“And I am not going back to Father’s?”

“Nope.”

“I… do not have clothes.”

“I grabbed a bag when I visited yesterday.”

“You probably missed-“

“Alfred packed it.”

“Oh,” he blinked, glancing back and forth at them. “And Todd?”

“Does what he wants, thank you,” Jason tickled his side. Damian swatted at his face, falling off his lap. Tim caught him by the armpits and helped him back on the couch.

“Don’t make him hit his head.  I really don’t want to make an ER visit outside the mask.”

Jason rolled his eyes, then turned, trapping Damian with his legs.

“Get off me, you massive troll!”

“Just when I thought you loved me.”

“Careful, Jason, he’s hangry, remember?”

“I am not!” Damian’s stomach protested the statement, and he looked down betrayed.  

Laughing hard enough to rock forward, Tim hit his head on Jason’s knee.

“Now who needs an ER visit?”

“Ugh, you two are the worst.”

“We did not cause you to become an uncoordinated hyena.”

“Harsh words from a chipmunk.”

“Hey!”

“Children, please,” Jason smiled. “We have to feed the wildlife. It pisses off the government.”

Tim stared at Jason for a good long while.

“Okay, I’m not gonna… Who wants breakfast?”

Jason made to stand up, but fell back on Damian, who yelped before being squashed.

“Todd! What are you-“

“Damian,” he whined. “I am so hurt. You called this weirdo over here Timothy last night. Timothy!”

“What?!”

“And you only call me Todd.”

“Get off-“

“Not until you call me Jason!” He met Tim’s incredulous look and raised his eyebrows convincingly.

“Todd, I will stab your kidneys.”

“Will you call me Jason after?”

“Not likely.”

“Boo!”

Damian began to squirm, but Jason leaned more of his weight on him and he growled in frustration.

Tim sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “Jason, it’s too early for-“

“Shush.”

“No,” Damian grunted. “Listen to Timothy!”

Jason leaned his face directly into his field of vision. “Bruh.”

“No.”

“Jason”

“No.”

“Jay?”

“No.”

“Big Jay?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Dames,” he whined. “I wanna be your favorite.”

“That’s Richard,” he smirked.

Jason grinned at Tim, who started to back away waving his hands.

“Oh, no. I don’t want any part in this, whatever this is.”

The wicked look in Jason’s eye grew worse. He flipped off the kid, just to jab his fingers into his armpit.

Damian immediately began to thrash.

“No!” He kicked the man’s stomach. “Stop!”

“Call me Jason!”

“No,” he choked, “never!”

“I can do this all day, kid!”

Damian fell off the couch, and Jason trapped him between his knees on the floor. He would have hit him again if his arms weren’t trying to protect himself from the attack.

“You have,” he gasped, “no-“ a squeal. “Mercy!”

Jason laughed then. “All you gotta do is say my name!”

“Todd!”

“Nope,” Jason moved on to his belly.

“No!” He giggled, “Stop, I!”

Jason made a goofy face and tickled harder.

“Jason!” He gasped, belly laughing.“ Jason, I yield!”

Jason opened his legs, and he shot out, scrambling onto the arm of the couch.

Jason whooped and held up his arms in victory.

Damian glared at Tim.

“Traitor,” he grumbled.

Tim laughed and held up three spoons and a jar of peanut butter.

“If you losers are done, I have peanut butter and pretzels for breakfast.”

“It’s nearly noon.”

“And we are breaking the fast. Ergo breakfast.”

“Fine,” Damian flopped onto the cushions, hiding his smile. “I will extract my vengeance at a later time for this injustice.”

“Oh, Timmy, the chipmunk just chirped at me!”

“Aw, Jay Jay, he’s so cute!”

“I can kill you eight different ways with that spoon.”

“Do you want us to feed you? With the choo choo train?”

Jason caught the pillow before it hit his face.

“I can and will use lethal force, Todd!”

“Jason.”

“Jason Todd.”

“Baby steps,” he chuckled.

Tim smiled as he scooped his own portion of peanut butter. The sirens in his head were easier to ignore. He watched Jason wiggle his fingers menacingly, then take a pillow to the face

He plopped the bag of pretzels on the table, inserting himself between the two. “Eat your shut up peanut butter.”

Jason stuck out his tongue, but grabbed a spoon.

“And after this, we’re cleaning my apartment.”

Jason looked horrified.

Tim felt no remorse. “If you guys are going to be staying here, we need to clean it. I’ve barely been here the last two months, and I do not trust my own cleanliness.”

Damian raised his eyebrow, “If the pizza under your bed has gained sentience again, I am not touching it.”

“Eat,” Tim glared, “your shut up pretzels, veggie boy.”

“Gladly.”

…

Damian stood and joined his hands together behind his back in a fair imitation of Alfred, if Alfred wore a Gotham Knight’s muumuu.

“I shall put on music, so that the arduous task of tidying this hovel is mildly less gruesome.”

“If you think,” Jason closed one eye and pointed his spoon, “that I’m gonna let you put on a classical music playlist, you are crazier than a bag full of cats.”

“A bag of cats sounds quite enjoyable, actually.”

“Metaphor, Dames.”

“I am aware.”

“And it means?”

“… I am very crazy?”

Jason held up his hand, and Damian returned the high five.

“Alright, ladies. Cleaning time.” Tim stood and took the spoons on his way to the kitchen.

Jason made a show of selecting his playlist titled ‘I Wanna Commit A Crime’ (we’re vigilantes Tim, it’s in our job description). Apparently, emo rock music was the ideal cleaning soundtrack.

Tim laughed at Damian’s concerned frown over Jason’s head banging as he washed the dishes.

He was just finishing up when Jason came in, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,” he grinned.  

He turned around, planning on flicking water at him, but stopped at the serious look on Jason’s face.  

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you want a list?”

“Jason, don’t do this to me. I have anxiety.”

Jason shrugged, chewing on the inside of his lip.

“I just want to make sure you’re doing okay with all this.”

Tim really didn’t want to deal with this conversation yet.  He didn’t want to deal with any conversation.  

“I’m fine.”

Jason’s brows became a shelf again. He scuffed his foot.

“You keep doing the finger thing.”

“The finger thing.”

“You know,” Jason huffed.  “The thing you do when you twitch your fingers and start tapping out random- I don’t know how to use words, okay? English wasn’t my first language, you butt.  Just- You’re upset.”

Tim leaned against the sink.  “I mean, I think we all are.”

An ambulance passed by the window, and they watched the lights pass by several floors below.

“I’m glad you came by,” Tim finally said.  “You really helped Damian last night.”

Jason pushed off the wall and pulled him into a one armed hug.  “I came for you both, you know.”

Tim closed his eyes, leaning his head against his brother’s shoulder.  The buzz in his chest felt a little less overwhelming.

A car honked, and a thud came from the other room.  Muffled complaining followed. Jason laughed, ruffling Tim’s hair as he made his way to the door.  

No rest for the weary, Tim smiled and tied off the garbage. It was starting to really smell.

“Be right back!” He yelled as he stepped out the door, locking it behind him.

He did feel better, knowing that Jason was there. Once Dick came, they could really talk everything over, and Tim would relax then.  But he was content at the moment. He would just ignore it for now. He was content. It was fine. It was-

He sent the bag down the chute.

Actually, this whole situation was garbage.

Who did Bruce think he was? When did he ever become the type to hit his own kids? It was wrong, it was so wrong. Red Robin wanted to punch him in the face, especially when he heard him over the comms from countries away scolding Damian for things he told him to do.

And he didn’t care what was going to happen. He didn’t care if he got screamed at, or fired, or- or- he didn’t know! He didn’t care! Tim was not giving Damian back to anyone. Bruce didn’t deserve that kid. He was stubborn sometimes, and prickly, but he didn’t deserve to be treated like that.  He had been through more than any of them knew, and he needed someone that loved him unconditionally. Bruce wasn’t that. Bruce was acting like a huge jerk-

He slammed open the door to his floor to be confronted with a man’s back, hand raised to knock.

Speak of the damned devil.

“What do you want,” Tim spat.

Calm down.

He clenched his jaw, because as much as he wanted to fly off the handle, that would probably make things worse.

Bruce turned around slowly. He looked him up and down before putting his hands in his pockets. His smile was easy and so Brucie stupid.

Tim wanted to hit him back.

“You took Damian home last night.”

“Yep.”

“I came to take him home.”

“Yeah,” Tim glared. “No.”

Bruce quirked one brow. He let the silence hang for a beat.

His thumb tapped frantically against his fist. If he doesn’t leave, I am going to do something I’m gonna regret.

“You’re angry.”

“Great job, detective.”

“That’s… fair.”

Bruce shrugged, still smug and unaffected. Tim just glared. He didn’t want to do this.

“I’m-“

“You should go, Bruce.”

Surprise flashed briefly through his eyes before it was replaced by annoyance.

“Look, Tim, you know how Damian gets-“

“Kay.”

“I’m just here to-”

“Nope.”

An exhale.

“I’m just here to take him back home and talk to him.”

“Oh,” the cold in his tone hurt him as he spoke, but it was too late to stop. “Now you’re going to talk to your own kid?”

Bruce stared. Tim stepped forward, the picture of casual.

“Not last night. Not last week apparently. Maybe all month. You’ve been too busy to deal with your own kid, but you’re ready now.”

“Tim, I-“

“No, just shut up, actually. How long did it take you to realize he wasn’t even in the same building as you anymore? Did you even care?”

“Of course I-“

“Shut- Ugh! I’m not doing this for you, B. This wasn’t a babysitting job. I don’t care what you think. You’re not taking Damian back. Me and Dick and the rest of them talked it over. You don’t deserve that kid.”

The flip switched, and Bruce was angry.  His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.

Tim widened his stance.

“And you do, of course.”

“I care about him more than you do.”

“I do care!”

“Could have fooled me!”

Bruce was tense from his shoulder to his fist.  Tim belatedly notice he had gotten in his face.

“You don’t-“

Tim threw up his hands and walked past. “Have to talk to you.”

“What? Listen-“

“I don’t have to talk to you. I’m keeping the kid, so-“

Bruce grabbed his shoulder hard, “Actually, Timothy, I have custody, so-“

Huh. Tim turned and smiled, cold and clinical. Just like Janet, they liked to say. Bruce looked unnerved for one satisfying moment and dropped his hand.

Tim stepped close, his nose inches from Bruce’s chin, devastatingly sharp.

“But you don’t, actually.”

“What the hell are you-”

“You supposedly died, remember?” Tim rolled his eyes. “Everyone thought so. Did you think we could just leave Damian in the custody of a dead man?���

“But I-“

“Came back, obviously. But we didn’t change the paperwork. Just in case.”

Bruce looked wonderfully, furiously constipated.

Tim turned his back on him and slowly pulled his keys from his pocket. “So, no, I don’t have to do this with you. You’ve changed, Bruce. And who you are now, you don’t belong raising a kid as emotionally fragile as Damian. I don’t have to pretend to be okay with it, and I don’t even have to like you. Because you have no right to be here.”

“I am his father, Tim.”

“And sometimes fathers are neglectful and abusive.”

The space behind him stayed silent.  Bruce didn’t even move. Tim flicked through the key ring.

“And as far as the state and the press is concerned, Damian is adopted. Showed up at age 10, clearly not white. You had adoption papers filed, Bruce.”

“Tim, you can’t be-“

“I am, and you should go.”

“Tim-“

“It’s been so nice to see you Bruce. Let’s not talk again soon.”

Bruce stood a moment longer before turning sharply and storming down the hall. The doors slammed shut, but Tim stood there gripping the keys and shaking. He wanted to scream.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, feeling the cool air travel into his nostrils, down his throat, past his vocal cords, trachea, bronchi, bronchioles, and down to his alveoli. Left lung, right lung, into the blood stream the oxygen diffuses. He thought of Jason tickling Damian, and the kid calling him Timothy as he held him against his chest. He breathed out the waste.

He looked down at his shaking hands, where his grip on the keys drew blood, and wiped them on his pants before turning the lock and opening the door to-

“Timothy!” Damian ran forward, “Timothy you love this song!”

Tim really looked at him, the way his hair stuck up in three different places, the dust streak on his cheek. His eyes danced just like they always did when he was trying so hard to make one of them happy. His hands were out to the side, and that grin. He really was Timothy now. Huh.

He was worth it.  This kid was worth it.

Jason danced out of the bathroom just as the chorus hit, singing loudly and mildly off key.

We don’t have to talk

We don’t have to dance

Damian grabbed his arm, dragging away from Jason.

We don’t have to smile

We don’t have to make friends

Jason chased them, sing-screaming along.

It’s so nice to meet you,

Let’s never meet again!

We don’t have to talk

We don’t have to dance!

We don’t have to dance

The song was at least an understandable statement, Tim thought. It was kind of a dance, or a stand off. He knew as soon as he took Dick’s side that he was cutting the last of the ties between him and the man who adopted him.

He was fatherless again.

He watched as Jason tried to get Damian to do the Macarena, only to get a towel to the butt.

He would make it through this.

Jason chased Damian around the kitchen, insisting he try the snorkel, the shopping cart, no the sprinkler!

Tim laughed, even knowing all that he did. That his nighttime gig would definitely change, that he would have to quit his day job.

It will be okay, he thought, when Damian rolled his eyes and tisked at Jason long enough for him to be swung over his shoulders as he jumped around the kitchen.

It might be better than okay, he thought as he opened up his laptop to hit send on one more application, which he had written as Damian slept.

Jason called for help, and Tim let the tension leave his body, exhaled it out in one breath, and joined them. He grabbed Damian from Jason’s arms and was spinning him around the living room by the next chorus.

[scripttorture]

I’m an Anastasia fanfic and I wanted it to be more realistic. In terms of Russian revolution and being held captive and (almost) killed, would what Anastasia went through have qualified as torture since the people doing it were now in power? My thinking is the torturers (abusers?) have a lot of anger that is motivated by politics and personal ambition and hate for the family. They are incompetent enough that Anastasia escapes, but how can I portray incompetence as a result of torture and not

(Anastasia 2) not simply them being ‘new’ and inexperienced considering the revolutionists haven’t been in power for years like the Romanovs. I was also considering memory problems as a symptom to echo the amnesia she had in the film. I am also considering anxiety, insomnia, an aversion to touch, and perhaps one more traditional symptom from the masterpost. If you have a suggestion for it, or any other aspect of the story, that would be appreciated.

-

I’m not familiar with this fandom but I’m assuming it’s not some kind of niche history fandom? I had to ask round the Fam to get an explanation for this, so I think we can safely say I’m unfamiliar with the canon.

 For the sake of stating my biases I find the idea of a children’s movie centred on Anastasia Romanov a little… macabre. But hey I watched sausage smugglers growing up and played games centred around police brutality, so who am I to judge? I might ot ‘get’ the story but think I can help. :)

 I’m going into this with a little bit of background knowledge about this historical incident (ie the death of the last members of the Romanov line) but I don’t know much Russian history to put it into context.

 I’ll start with the first question: yes I think legally speaking you could make an argument that any abuse the Romanovs suffered was torture. Whether the people who held them were technically in power or not they were an armed group powerful enough to control territory. It doesn’t matter whether they were recognised rulers, they were in de-facto control of a significant area and number of people. They were organised. They had a command structure.

 This is a sufficient level of control, power and organisation that, yes, I think you could class them as torturers. It’s certainly not the action of a lone individual doing something horrible on a whim. Abuse in these circumstances would be either ordered or tacitly condoned.

 That makes it torture.

 I think your characterisation of the torturers’ motivations seems sound. This is something that can happen.

 I would add a note of caution here that perhaps applies more to history then the canon you’re working from. A lot of people had a lot of legitimate grievances with the Romanovs. Russia had just come out of a disastrous war, flu had killed a lot of people and I think there was also a major problem with food supplies throughout the country.

 Tsar Nicholas was at best incompetent in a way that lead to the deaths of millions of his subjects. He presided over disastrous wars, economic collapse and widespread attacks on Jewish people. He is widely reported to have refused to take advice or change his mind with changing circumstances.

 Russian losses in Nicholas’s war with Japan are estimated at between 43,000-120,000 people. The organised attacks on Jews during his reign claimed an estimated 4,500 lives. The ‘Bloody Sunday’ of 1905 led to an estimated 1,000 dead or wounded. And then there was the First World War, to which Russia lost an estimated 2 million soldiers and almost half a million civilians. For context the high estimates say Russia lost 2% of their population.

 There were a lot of poor, sick, starving people who had lost loved ones over issues that seemed trivial and far away. While the royal family was incredibly rich and not doing much to help their people.

 This by no means justifies their abuse and murder. But be careful about trivialising the anger these people felt. They had cause. And while the Grand Duchesses didn’t have much real power the Tsar and Tsarina certainly did.

 By directing their anger at the monarchs they were targetting someone who had caused many of their problems. Having lived in an absolute monarchy, I can understand their frustration and the urge to lash out at an easy target rather then settle down to the harder work of solving the problems absolute monarchs cause.

 I don’t know what this cartoon shows of the Romanov’s treatment and deaths.

 My impression from what I’ve read is that the rumours surrounding the survival of one of the younger daughters came from the lack of bodies. There was also a report that the girls (this was apparently true of some of servants too) had sewed jewels into their corsets, in order to hide them from the guards and that bullets had ricochetted off the diamonds, acting like armour.

 Several of the girls were stabbed to death after the shooting stopped. An account claims one of them survived this and was clubbed to death at the mass grave.

 Survival in the sort of scenario the Romanovs actually went through is unlikely because it isn’t the torture that killed them. This was an execution. Of a large number of people yes, but the executors wanted to ensure every single one of them was dead. So after the bullets stopped and the smoke cleared they stabbed the bodies, they cut throats.

 This is not unusual in these circumstances. It is pretty rare for someone to survive these kinds of mass shootings of prisoners in a confined space.

 Honestly the closest I can think of to a survivors account is this. The victim is a child describing one of the worst attacks on a school in the modern era.

 My instinct is that for someone to survive the kind of attack that the Romanovs and their servants were subjected to, she’d have had to be both very lucky and very obviously wounded in a way many people would assume was fatal.

 I’d suggest using that. Have medical professionals comment on how unlikely, or lucky, the story is. Have the executioners notice this one is alive and then shrug and say well she won’t be for much longer go ahead and throw her in the pit.

 My instinct is that this is separate to torture.

 The Romanovs changed hands several times over the course of their imprisonment. As I understand it conditions for them gradually worsened but were not originally torturous.

 Later prisons cut their contact with the outside world completely, discouraged talking amongst themselves and banned talking to the guards. Some of them had no natural light and there are accounts of both the children and the Tsarina being threatened with guns or shot at for being too close to windows or trying to look outside.

 I’m finding it difficult to definitively say what they went through because the accounts I’m finding don’t seem to understand clean torture. So I’m seeing a lot of possible abusive actions here, but I’m unsure how to label them all because they’re being described inconsistently.

 They weren’t in solitary confinement, but there are definite attempts at isolation here. There are accounts of the daughters being sexually harassed (no accounts I could find of assault, this was all verbal or crude graffiti). I am unsure if the rations constituted a starvation diet or not. The son was deprived of medical care. The prison conditions certainly seem torturous towards the end, but I feel like I’m missing a lot of details that would let me describe precise physical effects.

 I don’t think you need to go into detail about any of this if you don’t want to but you could use this period of imprisonment to establish the incompetence of the guards.

 I would do it by writing two distinct groups of guards. One group that threatens and harasses and potentially tortures the family, and a second group who don’t do these things, concentrating on guard work instead.

 Having established the two groups I’d show that while the first group is on duty the family or their servants can actually get away with more things. So- if the first group is harassing older sister Olga, they may not notice that the Tsarina was too close to the window again.

 If the idea is that Anastasia escapes before the family is executed then I’d show that happening while the first group of guards in on duty. If she’s there when the family are executed then I’d have members of the first group displaying the ‘well she’s mostly dead’ attitude that allows her to survive.

 Essentially it’s about showing that if a guard is concentrating on making their prisoner feel bad, they are not concentrating on where all the prisoners are and what they’re doing. If a guard treats making the prisoner feel bad as their primary task then that guards has stopped doing their job.

 If you’re using an escape then a way to do this would be to have one member of the family ‘provoke’ the torturers, creating the opportunity for some of the children to escape.

 Amnesia, in the way it’s traditionally used in fiction, is not how memory problems due to trauma typically work. I get the impression you’re aware of that.

 I prefer using accurate memory problems but I understand that the canon has probably left you in a difficult position here.

 Typically torture/trauma survivors don’t forget their identity or older, childhood memories. They also don’t typically forget the abuse they suffered. In fact it’s more common for them to remember it in awful (but not necessarily accurate) detail.

 There is an exception: young children, under the age of about 7, can sometimes forget large chunks of their identity after trauma if they are then raised by people who can’t/don’t reinforce that identity.

 The real Anastasia was 17 when she died. That’s too old to forget who she was.

 So how do we square this?

 My instinct that mixing several memory problems rather than relying on memory loss alone is the better bet.

 Anastasia is the name of a saint who was apparently very popular in European Orthodox churches. A lot of girls Anastasia Romanov’s age probably shared that name. And a lot of them probably changed it to something less associated with the church when the Bolsheviks took power. Making something old and essential like her name a decision rather than a result of trauma would help.

 But I think the main piece of advice I have would be use inaccurate memories rather then memory loss alone, as the major memory problem.

 Because if this child is aware that most of her normal day-to-day memories are inaccurate, then she could remember vast chunks of her childhood and dismiss them as false.

 At the height of their power the Romanovs had a lot of servants. Anastasia could remember the palaces, the royal family, the wealth she was surrounded by, and assume she saw this as a servant rather than as a member of the family.

 If her memory is patchy anyway then that seems like a reasonable conclusion. She could also remember being arrested and imprisoned, being harassed by guards, being cold and hungry. And this would fit with her earlier conclusion because many of the Romanov’s servants were treated badly by the new regime (some of them died with the family).

 Insomnia would feed into this and make it worse.

 Partly because insomnia in and of itself causes memory problems (it interferes with our ability to form longer term memories) and partly because of some of the other effects serious insomnia can have: microsleeps and hallucinations. Microsleeps are short periods of unconsciousness that occur when someone is very very tired. People can dream vividly during these short periods of sleep. And the result can be a blurring of reality and dream as they sleep in short bursts and then wake again, unaware that they slept at all.

 Combined with the occasional hallucination and inaccurate memories this sort of scenario could very easily make a child doubt her own memories. It could result in a situation where she does remember big chunks of her life and childhood but convinces herself they were not real or interprets them differently.

 She might end up remembering her father and The Tsar as two separate people. She might convince herself she was a servant in the palace because that seems the more likely explanation. She might mix up memories of servants she knew from infancy with memories of family members.

 Combined with anxiety and avoidance of these memories (or anything that brings them up-) I think you could quite plausibly build up a character who hasn’t so much forgotten her past but is really confused about it. When memories are this muddled and painful it’s often easier for a character to just claim they don’t remember. Especially if there’s a lot of discrimination against mentally ill people in the setting. Because- well explaining that your memory is a mess and you hallucinate tends to convince people you’re ‘crazy’, whereas telling people you ‘don’t remember’ and you were badly injured often leads to a more sympathetic response.

 I’ll finish this up with the question of any additional symptoms.

 I think that if you’re using two types of memory problems (memory loss and inaccurate memories) with anxiety and insomnia then you’ve already got a reasonable number of symptoms.

 If you wanted to include more I think panic attacks and social isolation could both fit very well with the symptom set you have and the setting/character. Social isolation does seem like a particularly likely outcome for a child who was imprisoned for part of her development, lost her family and is suffering from severe mental health problems.

 There aren’t really bad picks, it’s more a case of thinking about what fits with the character you want to establish and the story you want to tell. If you want a story that’s got a more optimistic bent then suicidal feelings and addiction in a teenager may not be good picks.

 Personality change might be a good pick but I think that depends on how much of your story deals with Anastasia before her family are killed. For personality change to work well in a story I think you need to be able to establish the character’s personality before and after the traumatic event. That might not work with the plot you have planned.

 I have a post on sleep deprivation here that you might find helpful.

 Beyond that, I think you’ve got a good starting point here and a reasonable, realistic concept.

 I hope that helps. :)

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[taevvas]

Wilds

Ships: Taevas Sinine [F!Guardian]/Suraya Hawthorne, Background Cayde-6/Zavala, Background Devrim Kay/Marc, Mentioned Amanda Holliday/Sloane

Characters: Cayde-6, Zavala, Taevas Sinine, Devrim Kay, Marc, Ikora Rey, Amanda Holliday, Suraya Hawthorne, Louis [...]

Other tags: Through the Red War, Developing Relationship, Selectively Mute Guardian, Long-fic [...]

Description: Suraya has never liked the Guardians, or any of the upper city-folk for that matter. Too pretentious, too conceited. Too ignorant of people's suffering. But maybe this one can be an exception.

i;

          Hawthorne watches the scene before her with an unusual sense of detachment. Louis had flown off a while back, and his vacancy is a nagging thought in the back of her brain – any time when they are separated brings plenty of anxiety. Supplies are being loaded onto a variety of mismatched ships, the only ones she’d managed to scrounge up at such short notice, by some of her out-of-City contacts (and in-City ones, too).

          Her reverie is broken out of by Louis’ loud, shrill call. He circles overhead, landing on her gauntlet and looking up at her expectantly, before taking off again.

          She slings her rifle over her shoulder, looking over at Dev and gesturing towards Louis, and he nods, understanding her thoughts. Heading off towards the mountains she follows his occasional call, to a figure collapsed on the floor under a cliff. They’re dressed in black, light armour, a cape over their shoulder and a pistol on their hip, all damaged and burnt. A small robot that she recognises as one of those Guardian Ghosts flickers around them, scanning them and occasionally making them glow.

            A Guardian, she realises.

            They come to as she reaches them, and looks up at her. “Things must be really bad if someone’s leaving a perfectly good Guardian around”. She says with a criticising, appraising stare, and holds out her hand.

          They take it and she gets a closer look at them. Through the cracks in their helmet Hawthorne can see their – her – face; light blue skin, orange eyes and thin black markings. “You fly-worthy?” She nods, and Suraya gestures behind her with a move of her head. “Then let’s get these people somewhere safe.”

            Walking away, the Guardian follows, and her Ghost speaks up after a few moments. “Erhm, what’s your name?” Another appraising look is sent towards the little robot.

            “Hawthorne. Suraya Hawthorne.” Her gaze turns to the Guardian. “And you?”

            Instead, the Ghost speaks. “She’s Taevas Sinine. And I’m Unelema, her Ghost. It’s – err – nice to meet you?”

            She’d question why the Guardian – Sinine, whatever – didn’t respond herself, but there are more pressing matters. “Follow me.” She replies. “We need to get out of here before the Legion spreads properly. I suppose you can make yourself useful.”

            When she returns to the group, plus one Guardian, Dev sends her a questioning glance which she answers with a shrug, and she assigns the mystery-Guardian to a ship and three personnel.

          The Guardian takes easily to the task, hauling crates of supplies to various cargo holds while her Ghost flutters nervously over her shoulders, murmuring about unhealed damage and advising her against straining her injuries. From what she overhears, the Guardian apparently sustained significant injuries in the City-Fall, and Suraya notices them herself – the occasional wince, the way she avoids putting weight on her left leg, the giant tear in her armour across her stomach where torn-open flesh is revealed.

          Suraya finds herself at least admitting that the Guardian is honourable, to be straining herself so hard against what is obviously very major injuries, but she’s held back from warming up to the soldier by her past experiences with her ilk. In the very least, she thinks, it’ll be useful to have someone with actual combat experience where they’re going.

ii;

           The Guardian, she finds, is incredibly quiet. Silent, even.

           When they arrive at the Farm, as she’s already decided to name it, it’s the Guardian’s Ghost that does all the talking for his partner. It’s him that notices the Shard and tells the Guardian, him that insists to Hawthorne that they must go to the Shard, and it’s him that argues with her when she discourages him.

           “The Shard is a place of death.” She warns him, and it’s true. Years back, when Dev had finally accepted that she was truly leaving the City, he’d warned her that the Shard of the Traveler is the one place that she must not go. And she’s heeded that advice. After all, it’s been poisoning the area around it for centuries, turning the place into the aptly named Dark Forest.

            “You don’t understand –“ He tells her, shell whirring when she affixes him with a look of ‘try me’. “We’re being led there like we were led to you. There’s something there that the Traveler wants us to find, and it’s never led us astray before.”

           She almost makes a remark about the state of Humanity and the City, but holds back when she notices the Guardian watching them from across the Farm. As the Guardian starts approaching, the Ghost heads off towards her, nudging tiredly against the side of his partner’s helmet.

           “So,” she starts, turning to face them. “your Ghost told me that you’re thinking of going to visit the Shard.” The Ghost and Guardian share a look and the latter nods. “I’d advise you against it, but I presume you won’t listen, considering your Ghost doesn’t. Oh well,” She shrugs. “I know a lot about following your gut, same as Louis.”

           Louis shifts at the mention of his name, and she smiles a little. “Take the Wanderwing, the ship you came here on… Least it’ll get you back quick.”

           The Guardian turns to leave, and Hawthorne feels the need to speak her mind for some stupid reason. “I haven’t lost anyone yet. Don’t you be my first.” She turns out to watch the Wilds and she can feel the eyes focused on the back of her head for a few moments before they’re gone.

           She watches as the Guardian heads towards the ship, and soon her Ghost’s voice kicks through on the comms. She does her best to dissuade them still, but her continued warnings fall on deaf ears as they head towards possibly the one place in the Dead Zone that she hasn’t explored.

Suddenly, the comms cut out to static, and she curses. Whatever’s happening out there, she won’t know until the Guardian returns – if she returns.

--

           The evening gives way into the night, and the usual hustle of the Farm quietens down to the Zone’s background ambience and the occasional rustle of a tarp or quiet murmuring of a conversation. Louis butts his head against her palm as she absent-mindedly pets him, her brain still actively focusing on Sinine’s absence.

           She knows she shouldn’t worry over the Guardian. Even Lightless as she knows her to be, she can still hold her ground, years of combat training and experience likely still effective in these less than ideal conditions. However, she hadn’t lied when she’d told the Guardian to not be her first loss. While she’d never claim a duty of care over a Guardian, essentially an immortal space warrior, Sinine is still a Farm citizen now. She’s one of Hawthorne’s people now. And if there’s one thing she can do well, it’s worry over the safety of her people.

           Biting her lip, she gathers up the various reports and documents scattered across the table in front of her and leaves them in a slightly more organised pile, before leaving the barn temporarily acting as a command centre. She scales the outer walls to the broken roof and flattens herself against the uneven surface until she feels at least a little secure.

           Suraya turns to the dark star-filled sky and sighs, eyes closing as a cold breeze carries the edges of her poncho into the air. All the anxieties she manages to suppress under her daytime responsibilities come to the surface of her mind now, and she finds herself unable to do much to get them away.

           It isn’t just Sinine’s radio silence that has her on edge: the past day has been nothing but a whirlwind of surprises, and she’s still not sure whether any of those surprises are positive. She had gone from a regular drop of stolen supplies to suddenly leading what can only be described as a resistance – the last survival effort that’s been made as far as they know, and this sudden and unexpected escalation isn’t exactly great for her mental state.

           She’s almost always avoided people after her “self-imposed” exile, and to an extent before then, for what she believes to be a good reason. Most people were good-natured, knowing that communal strength and prosperity drastically outweighs what one can achieve on their own, but her distrust mainly stems from her experiences with the upper echelons of civilised society.

           Her history with Hideo is probably the most glaring of examples, but her disgust at the disconnect of the elite - of their greed and damage and subjacatory nature – was built up over years and years of her childhood. Even the arrival of Dev and Marc in her life and the unconditional love and support they provided her with did little to offset the horrors she’d seen.

           So here, surrounded by people, she’s justifiably on edge. Not that she doesn’t feel the need to protect these people – none of them are Hideo or any of the Factionites for one, and next to none of them would be able to survive out there in the dead-zone, her heartland, but the constant presence of anything other than Louis, her rifle and the Wilds is something that will probably take some time to adjust to.

           Her thoughts are once again interrupted by the loud whirring of a ship’s engine. She’s not expecting any new arrivals, especially not at this late hour, but she glances up regardless, expecting to see a typical freighter or cargo ship.

           Instead, it’s the Wanderwing, the ship she gave to the Guardian for her stint out to the Shard. She tries to tell herself it’s instinct, or perhaps surprise that she actually survived, that forces her body upright so quickly that she almost topples off the roof entirely. She scales down the barn’s walls to reach the Guardian, and she seems different when Suraya reaches her.

           She’s as silent as ever, sure, but Hawthorne swears that there’s an ever-so-slight glow to her body, and the slump of fatigue she’d worn like a cloak since they met is entirely gone. Her Ghost flies excitedly around her shoulders, chatting endlessly and with increasing speed about how ‘alive he feels’, and how ‘amazing this is’, and Suraya comes to a sudden realisation when the Guardian notices her and lifts her helmet off for the first time.

           “You got your Light back.”

iii;

           Hawthorne had never truly intended to involve the Guardian – Sinine – in the Farm’s management, but in retrospect, it would be difficult to exclude her. The transition of Sinine only running missions to being one of the leading figures at the Farm was a rather organic and inevitable process, more so than Suraya had expected, though it was obvious that her presence inspired, and continues to inspire, hope in the people of the Farm.

           However natural the process has been, Suraya still hates it.

           It took her weeks to earn the level of respect that Sinine had acquired almost instantly, through various leadership challenges, questions about her ability and biting comments about her character, while the Guardian just rolled up and people instantly respected her, despite her and her kind’s monumental failure at City-fall. The refugees look to the Guardian with a sort of inherent respect and deference, trusting her with their lives.

           Suraya doesn’t blame Sinine, really – she’s made no move to claim more power or responsibility than she is given and seems perfectly happy to take orders from both her and Devrim, yet she can’t help but be angry. And as the logical part of her brain absolves Sinine from any wrongdoing, Suraya aims her anger inward.

           After all, who can fault the people of the City for not wanting her as a leader? She’s an outcast, criminal, exile. She’s the opposite of Sinine – hero, protector, saviour. Guardians, and the Guardian, in particular, represent hope and protection for the people, and in comparison, she sees herself to be nothing more than a child wearing shoes far too big for her.

           Before she can stew on her insecurities for too long, however, the source of her anxieties transmatts into the Farm’s main plaza below. Suraya watches with tired eyes as various civilians smile at her, praise her, borderline hero-worship her. A young child even runs up to her for a hug and to show her the gun-shaped stick she’d found. The Guardian never responds, but even from here Suraya can see the small smiles she offers instead.

           Something sinks in her stomach. The distinct feeling of dread wells up within her.

           Sinine notices her watching and slowly peels away from the main crowds (and how strange, she thinks, that the Farm is now populous enough to have crowds) and climbs the stairs to Suraya’s perch. She presumes that the Guardian simply wants to report the status of her last mission, or have her Ghost report it for her, but instead there’s just an awkward moment of silence.

           Finally, Suraya speaks up. “So, what’d you want to talk about?” The Guardian opens her mouth to speak, before making a frustrated face and summoning Unelema, making some strange hand gestures to her Ghost. These must mean something to the two of them, as he starts speaking.

           “Devrim told her that you’re probably worried about us taking control of the Farm from you.”

           Suraya cocks her head to the side, questioningly – did he now? – before making a sort of undignified snorting sound. This startles the Guardian a little, apparently. “You already are. People see you as more of a leader than they do me, but you can’t be faulted for that. It’s to be expected I guess.”

           Sinine sidles closer a little and makes more gestures to her companion, who translates them once again. “We’re just fighters. Soldiers. Cannon fodder, in some people’s eyes. You’re the spirit behind this place, and people see that.” Hawthorne rolls her eyes and goes to retort, but the Ghost apparently isn’t done. “To be truly honest, we’re not really sure what we’re doing. We just follow the Traveler’s guidance, and, well, the Traveler led us to you.”

           She laughs bitterly. How can they not understand? It’s a pretty simple and provable concept. “Louis led you to me and me to you, not some cosmic force.”

           The Ghost’s eye rolls in what she can only read as frustration, but the Guardian cuts him off with a little shushing gesture. She makes a peculiar noise like something is stuck in her throat, before pulling out a datapad and typing out a message.

           “I represent war. You represent humanity.”

           Suraya pauses for a moment, avoiding eye contact, and all but admitting defeat in her body language. “You’re still a better leader. A natural leader.”

           Sinine huffs, one of the first distinct sounds she’s heard from the Guardian, as she’s pulled by her hand to the railing. The Awoken gestures to the camp around them then gestures back to Hawthorne. “Yeah, but-“ She starts but is cut off by the Guardian’s almost violent head shake, and another message is furiously and hurriedly typed out for her on the datapad.

           “You saved these people, not me. I fight Ghaul, the darkness, whatever needs killing. But you protect and defend and sustain. It’s easy to be a soldier, but not easy to be a leader. And you’re the only leader here.”

--

           As a few more days pass, Suraya becomes convinced that Sinine is deliberately acting more deferent to her than usual, at least in public. While the management of the Farm has been split pretty clean between the two of them for almost a week now, there’s also an unstated agreement between them that Hawthorne is presented as the ultimate authority at the Farm, though it’s not a position that she particularly enjoys.

           Suraya finds herself not minding passing on some of the responsibilities of managing the Farm to Sinine. There’s finally some trust between the two of them, though it remains tentative, and actually having someone to depend upon and share her burdens with is a welcome break from carrying the weight of thousands of lives on only her shoulders.

           Sure, there’s an instinctual alarm going off almost continuously in her brain, warning her to get away, don’t get too attached, you’re only going to get hurt – but she does her best to ignore it. She needs this – the companionship (dare she call it friendship?), the sense of trust and the alleviation of some of her anxieties.

           She may never truly be at ease around people, but the Guardian seems to be doing her damndest to break her way through (or perhaps dig underneath, circumvent entirely) Hawthorne’s walls.

           And it’s not exactly unwelcome, she’s scared to realise.

iv;

           Suraya just has to smile slightly, a tiny, small smile, as Sinine takes her hand and leads her across the Farm and she desperately tries to not read too much into the contact.

           A day ago the Guardian had requested a small tub of black paint and small simple brush, and though Suraya had found the request strange she had approved it. Sinine must’ve caught wind of her confusion at the time, for her Ghost had offered for Suraya to come to their room the night after and see what use she would put it to.

           So here they are now, the Guardian lightly pushing open the rusted door to the room she’d requisitioned as her own and leading her inside. It’s small, dark in the evening-light until Unelema kickstarts a couple of solar lanterns with a burst of energy. There’s a tarp covering a hole in the wall and the one window is blown out, but nobody has the luxury of choice in these times, and the Guardian hadn’t complained.

           Sinine sheds her cloak carefully, folding it on the small cot, and Unelema transmatts her armour away. She doesn’t shed any of her outdoor clothing herself, but she allows herself to relax enough to tug down the hood of her poncho and loosen the braid that keeps her unruly mess of a hairstyle out of the way.

           The situation feels very intimate, all things considered. The Awoken carefully sits, legs crossed, on the cold floor, a lantern by her side, her knife on her lap and the paint before her. When Suraya inelegantly plops to the floor beside her, she can see in the lantern-light more of the Guardian’s history than she’d ever imagined seeing.

           Her cerulean skin is decorated with scars – crisscrossing incisions and miscoloured patches alongside bullet wounds and the occasional spread of light freckles. Her slightly toned arms are dotted with small black markings, most heavily decorating the skin of her forearms but also sparsely placed along the back of her hands and upper arms.

           In a different situation, Suraya would’ve asked her for the meanings and history behind them all, but the anticipation hovering in the air holds her back.

           With an almost practised ease, Sinine takes the dagger and digs it into her forearm.

           The shout of concern that passes Suraya’s lips is instinctual, her mind instantly jumping to danger, blood, death- but the Guardian doesn’t so much as flinch, and though Hawthorne’s chest heaves in fear she slowly calms and watches what Sinine is doing.

           She’s being incredibly careful – precise, even- in how she marrs her flesh, twisting the tip of the blade as if concerned by the outcome but unconcerned by the method. Sinine lifts the blade from what must be a finished cut before moving to another area on her arm and repeating the process until her arm is marked with about five new shapes.

           The Guardian then leans forward and takes the small brush, dipping it carefully in the black paint and slowly, precisely, fills the incisions with the inky liquid. When this process is repeated on each marking she offers her arm to her Ghost, who heals the damage to her skin easily.

           Suraya shuffles over to Sinine, who holds out her arm for inspection. The new markings now seem to be properly set into her skin somehow, but she can easily identify them from the older ones due to their vibrancy. There’s six she can distinguish, all strange little shapes.

           Firstly, a marking she guesses is a simplified tree, made from two upward-pointing Vs and a vertical line through them. When she runs her fingers over it and gives the other woman a curious look, she gestures out the window to the Farm and the Wilds.

Then there’s a circle intersected with an X and vertical line, and Sinine nudges her Ghost with her unoccupied hand. Unelema then starts explaining what they mean, and apparently, this one is Ghaul, the leader of the Red Legion, and his apparent caging of the Traveler. Suraya frowns a little, and moves on.

           Another circle, with a diagonal line slicing through it, which represents losing her Light. The same symbol, but one half decorated with little lines outward, like how a child might draw the sun – getting her Light back. A small X within a turned square represents finding her Ghost again.

           And finally, three V shapes, simplified birds in flight, she presumes. Sinine points at her, and Hawthorne looks back at her, confused. “Me?”

           The Guardian nods, and Suraya has to smile a little. “What do the others mean?” She asks, curious, and Unelema floats closer from where he was hovering over his partner’s shoulder.

           “You want me to tell her?” He asks Sinine, and she nods, shuffling closer herself. The Ghost then starts cautiously explaining the meaning behind what appears to be a snow-topped mountain

           Once he’s done explaining the meanings of the many tattoos Suraya feels far more respect for Sinine – no, Taevas. She’d never even heard of most of the things Unelema had mentioned, from Oryx to Crota to SIVA or the Black Garden, yet from his descriptions she starts to understand the scale of the Guardian’s achievements. She had defeated multiple gods, stared into the eyes of the Darkness and died thousands of times over, all without even knowing her original name.

           Suraya is about to speak up when Taevas gestures her over, and she shuffles closer until they’re almost touching. The Guardian gestures at her to cup her palms together, and then nudges Unelema closer to come to rest on her offered hands. The Ghost is surprisingly light, his shell warm as he settles against her skin.

           Taevas carefully takes up the paint and brush, and slowly paints over the various scratches, cracks and marrs in his shell, while Suraya carefully shifts him around to allow the Guardian easier access. Eventually she seems to be done, and Hawthorne expects the Ghost to instantly take off from her palm to where she presumes he’d be more comfortable by his partner’s side. Instead he remains in her palm, and doesn’t object when Suraya carefully brushes the already dried paint along one of his spines.

           The Guardian closes the gap between them and Suraya happily settles against her shoulder, eyes already drifting shut as Taevas cautiously sets an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in closer.

           “’m I fine to sleep here?” She mumbles into the other woman’s shoulder, and Suraya becomes visibly happier when she hears a small laugh from above her, another of Taevas’ sounds that she’s lucky enough to hear. A blanket pulled from the bed and draped around her is enough confirmation, so she lets herself drift off, safe in the Hunter’s arms.

v;

           Suraya frowns as Dev’s voice comes through on the comms again, offering her a brief glimpse into the conversation he and Taevas are having across the Dead-Zone in the church tower he’s holed up in.

           “Yes, well Suraya has always been a bit of a problem child” He starts, and she protests into her comm because while that’s true she doesn’t want Taevas to get the wrong impression about her. Also, she has a sinking feeling about where this conversation is headed.

           “Don’t you dare.” She warns, keeping an eye on her surroundings from atop the Mines. The last thing she needs right now are some Fallen getting the drop on her. Despite her borderline murderous tone, she can practically hear Dev’s grin through the comms.

           “I presume she hasn’t regaled you with the… Pigeon story, has she?” In her head she grumbles, but she knows better than to try to stop him at this point. At least if she acts indifferent, he might stop at just one embarrassing childhood story.

           “So, way back – she must’ve been ten or so –“ He starts, “she’d been feeding some of the City pigeons that hung around our flat-block. Crumbs, really, but it was obviously enough for them to view her as their new leader or something, because one day-“ He pauses to laugh, and she rolls her eyes.

            “Me and Marc had taken her out to get lunch, and we’re walking home when this little girl, one of her classmates, approaches us in the street. And let’s just say Suraya never got on well with this girl, so I’m preparing to break up a fight, when one of her pigeons’ lands nearby. And then another, and another, till there’s twenty or so birds all flanking her, staring down this poor ten-year-old girl. I don’t think I’ve seen someone turn tail and run so quickly before, or since.”

            She’s about to protest that the other girl was a total bitch who always pulled her hair, when she hears it again – Tae’s laugh, echoing quietly through the comms.

            “Exactly.” He says, sounding triumphant, and she decides to interject now before he decides on another story to tell and embarrass her with.

            “You do have a mission to give her.” She reminds him, and the diversion seems to work.

            “Ah yes. The Cabal are being nasty buggers again and are jamming our conn…” She zones out a little, as much as she can while in highly hostile territory. She’s aware of the details that Devrim is relaying in their entirety, so instead she takes this rare moment of peace to reflect on the past few days.

            Thankfully, things are starting to calm down at the Farm. The flow of refugees has slowed to about twenty new arrivals a day, yet the problems they bring seems to be growing exponentially every minute. They’re running low on everything – food, medical supplies, ammo, shelter – but she knows that no matter how bad the situation gets at the Farm, it’ll always be safer than the City or Wilds.

            And that’s why this mission’s objectives are so imperative. They need to reach every person out there who needs aid and they won’t get very far with a jammed broadcast. That said –

            “I’m still sitting up here with this broken comm relay.” She reminds them, only half-joking.

            “You’ll get it,” He chastises, followed by the familiar sound of a sip of tea. “Unfortunately, I don’t think our Guardian friend can teleport.”

--

           Taevas eventually reaches her, booster in one hand and a flask in the other. “You made it.” She jokes, hoping the undercurrent of genuine worry isn’t too apparent. “I presume the Fallen didn’t give you too much trouble?”

           The Hunter passes her the relay and props herself up on a crate, legs swinging to and fro as she pours herself a cup of tea from the flask. Too buried in setting up the relay, she startles a little when the other woman holds out the cup. “Nah, you have it.” Something twinges in Suraya’s chest when she notices hurt flit across Taevas’ face. “I’ve had enough of Dev’s tea for a lifetime” She explains.

           Regardless, the Guardian nudges the cup into her hand. “She’s had some already.” Her Ghost explains, and she acquiesces, accepting the beverage. There’s a few moments where neither of them move their hands from where they both hold the cup, and Suraya can feel the slightest crackle of residual Arc energy against her fingers. It’s a beautiful feeling, she thinks, like the air just before a thunderstorm, and her fingers move of their own accord to press closer to Taevas’.

A ping sounds from the relay.

           Frowning as the nice moment they were having is broken, she sets the cup aside and checks the screen, Taevas dropping to the floor to follow her. “There’s an incoming beacon.” She mutters, confused, and the other woman watches the monitor over her shoulder as she connects to the transmission.

           Her frown only grows as she listens to the Vanguard leader – “Commander” Zavala, he calls himself – give orders to rally on Titan, especially at the final words of his speech. “Be brave.” Like the bravery he and the Guardians – Taevas excluded – had shown when the City fell to pieces, when thousands of innocent, helpless civilians had died, all due to their failure?

           She scoffs, turning to Taevas, fully intending to rant with her about the Guardian’s apparent leadership, but falters at the sight of her facial expression. She’s turned to her Ghost, an expression of wonder and happiness across her face. “Zavala’s alive.” Her Ghost murmurs to her, and Suraya swallows down the lump congealing in her throat.

           “You are not going to Titan.” She puts the full force of an order behind it, happy when her voice doesn’t waver like she’d feared it would. At the Ghost’s protests – “We need you here. Between the Cabal and the Fallen we can barely hold the Farm even with your help, and if this Commander of yours wants to help he can come here on his own two feet.”

           “We need to, Hawthorne.” The Ghost replies, his tone probably meant to be soothing but just sounding patronizing to her in her agitated state, which irritates her further. “It’s our duty.”

           “Funny that.” She scoffs. “I thought your “duty” was to protect the few people that your failure didn’t kill.” She glares at the Guardian, before shouldering her rifle and turning as Louis reluctantly hops up onto her shoulder.

           “Hawthorne, please listen-“ The Ghost starts, but she ignores him. When the Guardian goes to grab her arm she tugs it from her grip and stalks off.

           “You’ll know where to find me.”

--

           Suraya huffs, watching the bonfire before her with far more intensity than would be considered normal. She’s perched up on a log by the makeshift fire, knees pulled to her chest like a moody teenager, and a stick for poking the fire held loosely in her limp left hand.

           She hasn’t seen the Guardian all day, not since their discussion up on the Mines, but she’s heard the rumours. Apparently, she’s getting ready to leave tonight, off to Titan she presumes, and everyone seems to have said their goodbyes except from her.

           Not that she wants to say goodbye to the Guardian. She’s abandoning everything they’ve built, everything they’ve built together, to go chasing ghosts.

           But she has to admit that it hurts that the Guardian hasn’t come to find her. Suraya might not have sought the other out, but she hadn’t made much of an issue to hide either. And even if the Guardian couldn’t care less about her on a personal level, in the very least a professional departure was expected.

           But hey, if she wants to leave them all behind, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time for Suraya, and certainly won’t be the last.

           She ignores the sound of someone cautiously taking a seat beside her, presuming it to be someone Dev had sent to talk to her. That is until a flask-cup of tea is quietly nudged into her free hand. She pulls it from the Guardian with a bit more force than necessary, spilling a bit of the scalding liquid on her ungloved hands, but she’s too tired and angry to care at this point.

           She keeps her eyes away from the Guardian, choosing to stare bitterly down at the ground the opposite side of her legs instead. Minutes pass in this awkward silence, only broken when Suraya occasionally takes petulantly forceful swigs of tea, until she chances a glance up at the Guardian. Something in her aches when she registers the upset expression on Taevas’ face, the tiny tremble of her lips as she traces shaky circles into the sleek black armour covering her knee.

           A petulant, vengeful part of her is happy. Good. Let her suffer like you have. She pushes past the nasty thoughts and silently sets down the empty cup, nudging the hand closer to Taevas’ until her pinky just brushes the Awoken’s ungloved hand.

           The Guardian flinches, pulling her hand away and holding it as if Suraya’s hand was a blue-hot flame rather than barely-lukewarm skin. Fine then. She mutters to herself. Suit yourself. The hand she’d offered the other curls into a fist on her lap, and she goes back to staring into the fire.

           Taevas, however, seems to have other plans. The Guardian carefully reaches out to place her hand atop her curled fist, and she can feel the tension tight across her body slowly dissipate for the first time in a week.

           Her fist uncurls and turns to touch palm-to-palm. She glances down at their hands just as Taevas links their fingers together, and a small sad smile flits across her face. At this point her anger has disappeared, leaving her tired and sad and lonely in it’s stead. She subconsciously shuffles closer to the Guardian, but before she can come to her senses and back off again Taevas is pulling her closer to rest against her armoured shoulder.

           “Come back.” She whispers, voice strained with the effort of holding back tears. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

           She frowns when Taevas pulls away from her, but pauses when the Guardian unholsters a gun from her waist and offers it to her. It’s a hand-cannon with sharp edges, white and black, decorated with sharp red lines akin to Fallen laser-tripmines. Taevas pushes the gun into her hands until Suraya accepts it, holding it close, a thumb subconsciously tracing one of it’s vertices.

           A gagging sound has her whipping her head up to look at Taevas, concerned by the nasty sound. She seems to have something stuck in her throat, as she grits her teeth with effort. Suraya is about to put the extensive first aid training she has to use when the Guardian gasps, taking in heaves of air and waving of Suraya’s attempts at helping.

           The realisation that Taevas was trying to speak comes to her when she transmatts in a datapad instead, typing Suraya out a message.

           “I’ll be back. I promise.”

           “I’ll hold you to that.” She replies sadly, and Taevas pulls her closer again. This time Suraya takes it a step further, lying down across the log to rest her head on the Guardian’s legs. “You leaving tonight?” She mumbles, glancing up to receive another datapad message.

           “Not anymore. I’ll be here when you wake.”

           Deciding to trust her once again she hums, letting the hand carding through her hair lull her to sleep.

vi;

           It’s been a week now since Taevas left for Titan, and Suraya doesn’t want to admit how much her absence is affecting her. She constantly thinks back to that night by the fire and the following morning, the words she could’ve said to get Taevas to stay replaying through her brain the moment she gets some downtime.

           By the time she’d woken up that morning, the sun was well into the sky, air bright with a light breeze in the late morning sun. She’d wiped at her eyes groggily, annoyed at herself for sleeping in so long. She’s been exhausted, sure, but that had taken a backseat compared to the other issues they were facing at that moment (and that they still are facing).

               It took her a moment to fully register where she was, coming to the realisation that she was still lying by the now-extinguished fire, her head still resting on Taevas’ lap. The other woman obviously noticed that she was waking, and Unelema transmatted in over her shoulder.

               “Good morning!”, he greeted her, surprisingly chipper.

               All she could manage for a reply was a grunt as she rubbed more sleep-dust out of her eyes. “What time is it?” She had mumbled, blinking her eyes up at Taevas who had a hand carding through her hair in what was a surprisingly intimate gesture.

               “11hrs” he replied, and she’d startled awake.

               “You shouldn’t have let me sleep in that long! How much have I missed?”

               “Nothing much, really” The Ghost replied. “Taea’s been keeping an eye on things all night.” She glanced up at the Awoken, who was pointedly not looking at her, instead scrolling through the datapad in her hands.

               “Thanks” she’d murmured, then sat upright next to the Guardian.

               “It’s alright” the Ghost replied, “nothing that major has come up, anyway.”

               She paused – “I thought you would’ve left by now.”

               Taevas shrugged, and Unelema replied for her “We’re going to head off soon, anyway. Just didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

               She waved him away “I’m sure you have far more important things to worry about that babysitting me all night.” Then she’d looked up at Taevas, confused at the quiet humming noise the Guardian had made.

               The Awoken stood and offered her a hand up. She took it, obviously, as Unelema floated around them before he settled above his Guardian’s shoulder.

               “One thing did come up, but we’ve dealt with it already.” The Ghost hesitated, and looked over at his Guardian. When she nodded, he continued. “Lord Shaxx, our Crucible Handler –“ He paused to explain “Crucible is where Guardians fight each other to train” - He continued “got into contact with us this morning. He’s on his way to the Farm now.”

               “What’s he look like?”

               “You’ll know him when you see him. White and orange armour, yells a lot. He’s nice though.” Unelema cautiously floated over to her. She dipped her head and he lightly bumped into her forehead in a small affectionate gesture. “We’ll be back soon, I promise.”

               She glanced up at the Guardian, who seemed sad and reached out to link her hand with Suraya’s own. “I’ll hold you to that.” She replied, as she drew Taevas in for a hug.

           Her recollection is broken by the whirring of a ship’s engine at the periphery of her hearing. When she checks the date-time on her ‘pad she realises that it matches up with the approximate arrival time for the Crucible handler. Hopping down from her perch, Louis swoops down to land on her shoulder, and she approaches the group disembarking from the ship.

           “You must be Hawthorne!” A loud voice rings out, a booming voice rings out. The source is a large man in obnoxious white and orange armour, a rifle slung over his back. He’s surrounded by a group of people – Guardians, she realises – and she nods.

           “That’d be me. Lord Shaxx, I presume?”

           “Ah, I see you’ve been forewarned of my visit.” He laughs, and gestures to the group behind him. “We’re ready to help in any way we can.”

           She nods and turns, gesturing for them to follow her. The Hunters will be good scouts, she presumes, the Titans well equipped to defend the Farm’s borders, and the Warlocks adept at managing the large amount of dataflow they receive. The additional help certainly isn’t unwelcome.

--

           She’s passing through the Farm late at night a few days later, when she overhears an interesting snippet from a conversation between two of the new Guardians. There’s a Titan and a Warlock – the Titan an exo with an all-black frame and red optics, Escupir, she thinks her name is, and the Warlock a human with tanned skin and dark hair - Mudra, both women. The Warlock leans heavily against the Titan’s armoured shoulder, and sniffles to the other; “D’ya think Tae is still alive?”

           Suraya pauses at what she presumes is a nickname for Taevas, trying to not make it obvious that she’s listening in on their conversation.

           “I’m sure she is,” The Titan reassures her, “after everything she’s survived, I wouldn’t put it past her to just show up one day, Light and all.”

           “I jus-“ The Warlock starts, and the Titan draws her closer. “She’s never gone radio silent before.”

           “Except after Him”

           The Warlock lets out a shaky breath – “She was forced to stay at the Tower after Ory- Him. In her apartment. And El would answer us, even if she wouldn’t herself.” She huffs, and continues. “It just seems so improbable that she survived.”

           Suraya decides that this is probably the best time to reveal herself, so she steps forward. “She seems to make a habit out of breaking the odds.” She comments idly, and the pair swivel round.

           “Are- are you-“ The Warlock starts, but the Titan interjects.

           “She’s alive.” It’s a statement, really, but she can feel the question underneath it.

           “Mhm. Got her Light back too, didn’t know you knew her.”

           “Where is she?” The Titan asks, as the Warlock stares wide-eyed at her.

           “Titan, running off after your Vanguard. Missed her by a couple days, unfortunately.” She moves over to sit opposite them. “How’d you know her?”

           The Warlock shuffles closer to the Titan again, resting her head on the Titan’s shoulder. “We’re her Fireteam – the people she runs missions with. Mudra and I go way back, and it was just the two of us until one day we hear gossip around the Tower that there’s a new Guardian, a Hunter, that’s already showing the rest of us up. Killed an Archon when she was only a couple days Risen.”

           She pauses – “When she came back to the Tower she was already a stereotypical mysterious Hunter, full black armour already. We ended up playing a round of Crucible with her and she fit our team quite well, and the next time she went out to wrangle the Fallen she invited us along, and we just ended up inseparable I guess.”

           Mudra, the Warlock shifts upwards and finally speaks, in her quiet, almost timid, voice. “We presumed her dead after the Fall.”

           Escupir makes a confirming noise. “But if she’s alive, especially with the Light, it – well, it changes everything.”

vii;

           Not even a week later, she’s met with another new arrival to the Farm.

           She’s with Shaxx when they arrive, pouring over the set of outstanding scout missions they need to assemble teams for. The Titan has said, by his own admission, that scouting isn’t exactly his strong suit, but he has decades of military experience on her, and he’d offered to help.

           A whirring sound from outside the Barn interrupts their discussion, and they share a look. Shaxx offers her a hand which she accepts, pulling herself to her feet and following the Titan out the ajar doors.

           When they arrive outside, she finds that her initial suspicions about the identity of the new arrival were correct – there stands Commander Zavala, leader of the Vanguard, with a young woman by his side. The Commander appears exactly the same as she’s heard him described, from whispers in both the City and Farm – intimidating, with a strong face, imposing, heavily armoured, the lot. He stands tensely, body rigid and jaw set, while the woman next to him (young, with light skin and obnoxiously bright blonde hair) is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

The pair of Titans exchange simple terse pleasantries, while the other woman smiles at her.

            “Hawthorne, right?” She nods an affirmation. “I’ve heard a lot ‘bout you. Taea and I shared a few drinks ‘fore she set off again, and the chat kept coming back to you.”

           “All good things I hope?” She replies, unsure of how to process this new information, but glad to hear a mention of Taevas.

            “Yeah, she seems to really like ‘ya, and I can see why. Not many non-Guardians get to lead stuff.” A laugh, then she continues. “Amanda Holliday, by the way.” She holds out her hand, and Suraya shakes it. “Tower Shipwright, back when that was still a thing. Chief Shipwright in general now, I guess. Can fix anything you hand me.”

            It’s only then that the Titans seem to remember Hawthorne, and Commander Zavala approaches her with an unusual sort of humility for someone of his rank. He offers her an apologetic half-smile, strange Awoken eyes studying her carefully. “Suraya Hawthorne?” He asks, and all she gives in return is a nod, curious to see where he’d lead the conversation.

           “Thank you for keeping everyone safe in our stead.” He starts, softly. “Taevas told me you’ve been running this place since the Fall.”

           “Somebody had to pick up your slack.” She studies the Awoken harshly. “But if you’re here to help now, it’s a start, I suppose.”

           Shaxx’s loud ringing laugh breaks the tension. “Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I could do with a drink.”

--

           Shaxx really needs to revaluate what ‘a drink’ usually means.

           Suraya somehow ends up the most sober of them all, with the Commander a close second, while Shaxx and Amanda are absolutely plastered. The latter has been giggling away for the past five minutes, slumped on Hawthorne’s shoulder.

           She’s just finished telling the story of the time Cayde – the Hunter Vanguard, she remembers Tae telling her – drove a Sparrow off a cliff in a freak “accident”, and is now moving onto a time when Taevas and Mudra made flower crowns for all the Tower’s cleaning Frames. A heavy blush settles across her face which she internally blames on the alcohol but she still hopes that nobody notices.

           But, of course, Amanda has to.

           “Why ‘ya blushing?” She coos, reaching up to poke Suraya’s cheek. “If I ain’t know better I’d say you have a crush or somethin’.” She pauses, seemingly to reorient herself as she comes to a realisation. “Ohhhhhhh, you do.” She slurs slightly and smiles knowingly up at her. She presumes Shaxx is grinning at them while Zavala seems downright confused.

           “I think you’re reading too far into things.” She finally replies, and Amanda huffs.

           “Aight so that’s just wrong.” She scrambles up to her knees – “If there’s one thing I’m great at its matchmaking, especially when I’m off my face.” Suraya rolls her eyes, and Amanda continues. “Like he” – She points at Zavala – “has the biggest fucking crush on Cayde.”

           The Awoken splutters and Amanda grins, leaning back on her knees. “And you wanna smooch Tae.”

           Lying to her seems pointless now, so she tries negotiation. After a pause, she replies. “So what if I do?”

           Amanda’s grin only grows as she prepares to impart more of her wisdom. “You tell her how you feel, course!” Suraya shakes her head but the Shipwright isn’t deterred, and decides to start rambling. “I like Titans more, but I can see the appeal. Big fancy hero ‘nd all.” At Hawthorne’s puzzled expression – “Sloane. Fuck I love her. Anyway, when she gets her ass back here from Nessus or whatever you’re gonna tell her. Ain’t need to be a big confession, just hold her hand or somethin’. No escaping it though, I’ll know if you haven’t.”

           “That’s not how this wor-“ She starts, but is quickly interrupted.

           “How it works now. No moping, no arguing, no overthinking.”

           Amanda looks far too pleased with herself and promptly falls asleep on Hawthorne’s shoulder, her head refusing to settle anywhere else despite multiple half-hearted attempts on Suraya’s part. Shaxx eventually lumbers away, back to whatever space he’s requisitioned as his own, leaving the two sober people in an awkward tense silence.

           Zavala is the first to break it. “When Taevas arrived at the Tower from the Cosmodrome, I presumed that she was just another Hunter. Cayde saw her as someone special, but I didn’t really appreciate his opinions back then, and wrote it off as him overestimating her potential. But then she made contact with the Reef, defeated Oryx, avenged the Iron Lords…” He trails off and offers her a timid smile.

           “Throughout it all, I must admit that I remained… cautious of her. She was professional, yes, but retained much of the typical Hunter mysticism and cryptic-ness. It took a long while, but I found myself eventually considering her a … friend. We presumed her dead when the City fell until she arrived on Titan like a gift from the Traveler itself.”

          Zavala shifts uncomfortably, avoiding meeting her eyes. “I never felt more useless, powerless, than I did on Titan. People were dying around me, colleagues I’ve known for centuries, war veterans and civilians. We didn’t have long until the Hive would reach us, and we were counting down the days, really.” Zavala meets her eyes, again. “She saved us, told me to come here to help hold back the Fallen. If I’m honest, I wasn’t expecting much, but she seemed to trust you, and that was enough for me.”

            “So, am I what you expected, Commander?”

            “No.” He replies honestly. “But you’re what humanity needs.”

--

            Zavala helps her to get Amanda back to the Shipwright’s room, and she waits in the doorway while he sets Amanda down and attempts to get her comfortably situated. They’re back to silence when Zavala closes the door behind him, though this time the silence is more comfortable. When they arrive at Hawthorne’s door Zavala turns to face her, taking an envelope from one of his pockets and handing it to her.

            “Taevas asked that I give this to you.” There’s a knowing smile on his face, and Hawthorne is stuck between elation and wanting to die of embarrassment. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

viii;

          That night, on the roof of the Barn, with the night sky draped above her, she retrieves the letter. The envelope is typical, standard-issue sturdy white card, smooth against her fingers. Neat black cursive script spells out her name.

           She carefully breaks the seal, and a tidal wave of emotions come over her. The paper is thick and soft and rough, a single page filled almost in its entirety with tight cursive, the contents as following;

           “Dear Suraya,

               I hope this letter has found its way to you with little disruption, for the first thing I’d like to do is apologise. I’m aware that we didn’t depart on the best of terms, and the responsibility for that lays entirely on me. It was wrong of me to leave with little in the way of explanation as to why I had to leave, and with little consideration for your own feelings on the matter, but I hope you may forgive me, for in Zavala’s broadcast I saw a path at last – a lead, a way forward.

               My time on Titan has been awakening, to say the least. In the time since my battle against Oryx, I must confess that I had forgotten about the severity of threat that the Hive present, and I loathe to think of what may have transpired had I not arrived by the time I did. I’m sure you’ve already met Amanda and Zavala, and if you take my advice on any subject please let it be this – don’t be too harsh on Zavala. I understand that in your eyes he failed you, the City, all of us, and while that’s debatable, he’s struggling. Nobody blames him from the Fall more than he blames himself. I know it’s tempting to try him, to push against him at every opportunity, but please just work with him as much as you can. And please don’t judge Amanda for being super hyper - it’s her way of coping with everything falling apart.

               By the time you receive this letter, I likely will have already left for Nessus – a Centaur, planetoid, on which we think Cayde, the Hunter Vanguard, might be stranded. I loathe to stay away from the Farm longer than I’d originally planned, but by hopefully reconnecting the entire Vanguard we can gain a significant boost in morale, and more widely, the entire war effort.

               It shouldn’t be a significant amount of time before we meet one another once again, but in the meantime, I’d like to inform you that, well, to be frank, I miss you. I’ll admit, it’s not a feeling I’m truly used to – in general, I’m not familiar with expressing my emotions in any capacity, really. I’m usually considered not much more than a vessel, a way of expressing the Traveler’s will. All us Guardians are similar in that way, but my roles before the Fall ensured that I was never really seen as more than The Guardian or any of the myriad of other names people saw fit to call me by. In others I have found friends, but around no one but you have I truly felt like a whole, independent person again. We may have only known each other for little over two weeks, but in that time I must confess that I feel we bonded.

               I hope we will meet again soon,

               Taevas

                               P.S: 1924:2ac4:72b2:0000:1329:72d8:2488:1099”

               Suraya’s breath hitches at that last line, catching in her throat as she recognizes the string of characters as a comm ID. Reaching blindly for her own comm she subconsciously commits it to memory and plugs the string into her own. She hesitates with her finger over the call button, but after a deep shaky breath she musters up the courage to press it.

           For a few heart-stopping moments it rings, before it finally connects.

           “Suraya?” It’s Unelema’s voice, clear but hesitant as she lets out a sign of relief. “Zavala reached you, then?”

           “Yeah-“ She replies, mind running a blank from the millions of things she wants to say. “Is- is Tae there?”

           “Mhmm” the Ghost hums in affirmation. “She can write through the channel, one second.”

           “How are things at the Farm?” appears a moment later.

           “Getting better –“ she replies, desperately trying to keep the emotion – relief, hope, lov- from coming through in her voice. “Still not 100% sure that your Commander won’t try and take over.”

           “He won’t, else he’ll have to answer to me.” Suraya stifles a laugh, and Tae continues. “I’m glad things are getting better over there.” – A pause – “I really didn’t want to leave, you know.”

           Suraya sighs – she can’t deny that she’s upset by Tae’s absence, but her anger at the situation has long since dissipated into something more… longing. “I know, just – come back soon, yeah? I… - I miss you too.”

           The moment hangs between them before it’s interrupted by a frankly grating laugh and an exasperated sigh from Tae.

           “Cayde.” Unelema mutters, annoyed, before Cayde – the Hunter Vanguard, that’s it – laughs again.

           “Oh sorry, am I interrupting something?” Its not a serious question, she can tell, and it apparently ticks off Tae’s Ghost.

           “Yes.” He bites, but this Cayde character is obviously undeterred.

           “Ohhhh.” She can practically hear the grin in his voice. “Your girlfriend finally called!”

           “Cayde I swear to th-.” He’s interrupted again.

           “Hey, hey, I get it, no need to get stressy.” He laughs as El sighs again, before apparently turning his focus to the still open comms. “So, I’m Cayde, professional idiot and loot hoarder, at your service.”

           “Tae, please don’t tell me you’re making this thing my responsibility.”

--

            It takes another couple of days for him to actually arrive, but when he does, it’s with a bit less showmanship than she’d expected.

            She’s in a meeting of sorts with Zavala – informal gathering, really, to discuss the distribution of key resources throughout the Farm – when she notices a figure creeping up behind the Commander. She’s about to say something when the figure properly comes into view, and gestures for her to be quiet. A moment later, the Hunter Vanguard leaps onto the back of the Commander, having to hoist himself up a bit to reach the Awoken’s shoulders. His laughter is loud and raucous but quietens down when the Titan grabs onto him in a crushing hug.

            It’s obviously not the response Cayde was expecting, optics wide. “Hey Blue, you okay there?” Zavala shakes his head and holds him closer, before the moment ends quickly and they part, Zavala looking at the other Vanguard with a strange mix of concern and anger.

            “What were you thinking, running off to Nessus alone?”

            “Ow Zav, that hurts,” Cayde replies, far too jokingly. “I knew what I was doing, see?” He gestures to his Ghost, who transmatts a circular object into his hand. Suraya isn’t sure what it is, but Zavala seems to know.

            “A Vex teleporter?”

            “Yeah, limited range, but we can still probably use it to get up to Ghaul and sock ‘im in the face.”

            “How limited?”

            The pair of Vanguards turn to face her, and Cayde’s expression shifts. “You must be Hawthorne.” He’s wearing a rough approximation of a grin, “Blue 2 told me alllll about you.”

            “Blue 2?” She asks in response.

            “Blue,” He gestures at Zavala, “And Blue 2 is Tae. I’m unoriginal in my naming.” He laughs, approaching her. “And she told me ‘Don’t call her a Hunter, don’t insult her falcon, don’t insult her poncho.’”

            “Sound advice. How close will we have to get for the teleporter to work?”

            “In the City, somewhere. Better than nothing, though I don’t think it was worth getting stuck in a teleportation loop for… Might be able to tweak the range if you give me some time.”

            Zavala coughs pointedly, drawing their attention. “What part of any logical plan involves teleporting to Ghaul and punching him?”

            “My plan does, Blue. Taevas can get up to the Almighty, take out its weapon and then beat that ugly slug-looking-thing back into whatever pit he crawled out of. All we need to do is get her close.” He slings an arm around the Titan’s waist. “Have some faith.”

            And Suraya doesn’t miss the way Zavala smiles down at him, nor the way he gives Cayde’s wrist a reassuring squeeze.

ix;

            Hawthorne is moving through the farm late one evening when she spots Cayde, perched on the edge of a roof with the chicken he’s taken a liking to (Colonel, she thinks he’s named it), eyes set on the Traveler’s shard. He must be pretty out of it, as he doesn’t notice her approaching until she plops down next to him, making him jump.

            “Hey Poncho.” He greets her, but his voice sounds more tired than she expected. They sit in silence, Suraya eventually taking the hand cannon Tae had given her out of its holster and absent-mindedly running her thumb up and down its barrel. Cayde notices the gun, and an expression of shock flits across his features.

            “Can I see that?” He asks, and she nods, passing him the gun. Cayde makes an appreciative noise, studying the weapon, and eventually handing it back. “Taevas gave you that, right? Only seen a couple of Sunshots, ‘nd only one with that paint job.”

            She nods, grip on the gun tightening, voice quiet. “Gave it to me before she left.” She says simply, not willing to acknowledge the gravity of the gesture lest she get stuck in a self-dug pit of overthinking again.

           Cayde stares at her, shocked. “Do you not realise how massive that is?”

           “Obviously not.” She replies, dryly.

           He turns his body to face her, sitting on his knees and leaning forward. “To us Hunters, a gun like that is- well, it’s everything.” He laughs a little. “I’ve seen people kill for less. And yeah, Tae favours rifles and that Prometheus she still won’t let me try out, but by giving you a gun like that-.” He trails off a little. “It’s a big gesture, to say the least.”

           Silence draws out between the two of them again, and, after a while, she speaks up. “You mentioned it being a Hunter thing, right?” At his small nod – “I- I don’t really understand any of the Hunter stuff, if I’m honest. I know that you have a lot of traditions, but they’re lost on me.”

           “Anything you want to know in particular?”

            “What’s the deal with the cloaks?”

            Cayde exhales deeply, brow furrowing, and fingers knitting together. “Well, mine… my cape was once Andal’s. Andal Brask’s. He was the Hunter Vanguard before me, and a close friend. When we lost him, I took up his cloak, as a vow. Most Hunters are the same – our cloaks have stories to tell.”

            “What about Taevas’?”

            “Hers was standard issue, basic Hunter armour, I believe. Been with her since she first came to the Tower. Pretty sure it was an off-white colour originally, but she dyed it black and painted that symbol on the back. Do you know what it means? The sun with a slash through it?” She nods.

            “Her light, she’s got a tattoo of it on the back of her hand too.”

            “Damn, she showed you her tattoos too? Not like her to trust so openly.”

            “Maybe I’m an exception.”

            “Maybe you are.” Cayde laughs, noticing Hawthorne’s expression, and letting out a knowing sound.

            “Not you too.” She gripes when she realises Cayde knows. “Amanda was enough.”

            “Hey, I’m not saying anything.” He laughs again. “You’ll be good for her though, you know. She struggles with her identity and relationships, and it seems to be mutual, from the way she spoke of you.” He claps her on her back.

            Hawthorne shakes her head, confused at Cayde’s enthusiasm. “There’s nothing between us, she hardly even likes me. We just work together.”

            “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

            She lets out a sigh. “Either way… I can’t even communicate with her, I know nothing about her, and.” Another huff – “It won’t work out.”

            “I might not be able to convince you to get off your ass and tell her, but I think I can help with the communication thing, presuming you mean that you can’t understand what’s she’s saying.”

            “Well, she doesn’t speak.”

            “Not verbally, no. But have you never seen her sign?”

            “Sign?” She asks, confused.

            Cayde makes a series of hand gestures that she swears she recognises before she realises – they’re the gestures Taevas makes at her ghost. “Standard Sign Language. There were versions before the collapse, Hunters picked it up as a way of communicating in shorthand, then an official version was developed. Taught her it myself. If you want, I have some datapads with common words and phrases, it ain’t that difficult to pick up.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Hell yeah, least I can do.” His Ghost transmatts a datapad onto her lap and she turns it on, a series of hand gestures and movements representing letters and words greeting her. Her eyes skim the page before Cayde speaks up again.

            “It was only after Oryx that she stopped speaking entirely. I don’t know what she went through there, but I can’t imagine that it was good. So please, keep her safe. She’s earnt it.” He gives her a genuine smile. “You both have.”

--

           Two nights later, Ikora, the Warlock Vanguard, arrives.

           Suraya doesn’t know what to expect of her by the time she steps down from her ship, hands folded behind her back and sharp eyes surveying the Farm. When Suraya approaches her there’s distrust and contempt in the Warlock’s gaze, but the Wilds-woman pushes past it for now.

           For Tae’s sake, she reminds herself.

           According to the Vanguard, said Hunter is still occupied on Io, helping one ‘Asher Mir’ access the Warmind Vault there. Suraya doesn’t question the synthesized retching sound Cayde makes at that name, nor does she ask for expansion on her admittedly very limited knowledge of the Warminds (they weren’t exactly covered in primary school).

           She’s just happy that Tae is coming home.

x;

            It’s the next morning, just after the sun has broken over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber, that she arrives. The Wanderwing touches down, Taevas transmatting to the ground while Unelema lands the ship elsewhere then reappears by her shoulder. The Vanguard approach her almost instantly, Cayde first as he slings an arm over her shoulder, then Zavala and Ikora, the former clapping her on the shoulder and the latter giving her a small smile. She looks away when Tae looks up at her post, studying the sky, the horizon, and anything other than the woman who’s been on her mind for weeks.

            She watches the Guardian make her way towards her post, greeting people with nods and handshakes as she goes, Shaxx’s laughter loud as he congratulates her and Amanda yelling out a greeting. By the time Taevas reaches her, she’s managed to control her emotions enough to appear unaffected when she turns to appraise the Hunter.

Most of Tae’s gear is new, she notes, armour sleeker and less mismatched, but the cape and sword mounted to her back remain the same. They stand in uncomfortable silence for a few moments, before Suraya breaks the tension with a simple “Welcome back.” The Guardian nods in return, making an uncomfortable noise in the back of her throat and walking away.

            When she’s out of sight Suraya releases the tension in her shoulders with a loud, drawn-out sigh. It’s going to be a long day.

--

            By midday, news of Taevas’ arrival has spread through most of the Farm, Suraya watching from her perch as the guardian is greeted by the majority of the Farm’s inhabitants, Guardian and civilian alike. She glances down at the time on her datapad, biting her lip as she watches the horizon. A team of Guardians are due back from a supply run any minute now, including Escupir and Mudra, and she’s unsure of how they’ll react. Taevas catches her eye from down below, and Suraya gives her an awkward nod. She’s not sure how exactly to deal with this hole she’s dug herself into by keeping Tae at a distance since she returned, but it won’t be too bad. At least that’s what she hopes.

            A few minutes later, they arrive.

            Mudra is the first to notice Tae, sprinting towards her, arms outstretched, and almost crashing into the Hunter. They embrace closely, while Escupir approaches, Taevas inviting her into the hug by setting her arm across the Titan’s shoulder. The civilians around them discreetly watch, while the Guardians do their best to ignore the scene, and Hawthorne finds herself unable to break her gaze for a few, long, seconds.

           She can’t afford to distract herself with this. There’s work to be done.

--

            It’s well into the night by the time she realises that she hasn’t seen Taevas all evening. The night air is cool against the exposed skin of her face and neck, sky devoid of clouds, and stars sparkling above her, as she heads to Taevas’ room. She knocks on the door - a formality, really, a gust of wind could pull it off its rusty hinges – and it nudges open, Unelema promptly blinking away when it’s ajar. She can’t spot Taevas anywhere, until her Ghost blinks back into reality by the open window, shell gesturing upwards.

            After climbing out the window and up the remaining wall, to the flat roof above, there stands Taevas. She’s forgone most of her armour, left only in black civilian clothes and her cloak, braced forward on the half-wall, a stylus shaped object in her grip tracing lightly across the page of a book. The Guardian is obviously zoned out and jumps a fair bit when Suraya greets her with a quiet “Hey”.

            She visibly relaxes when she identifies her, offering her a tentative smile, while Hawthorne sidles closer, looking down onto the page she’d been drawing on. A series of familiar objects greet her – the shard of the Traveler, peeking out from rooftops and the surrounding forest. Sets of hands, Unelema, the moon, a leaf with curled edges, strange small symbols. And Suraya herself, a small frown on her face as she studies the horizon, Louis just visible over her shoulder.

             “I didn’t know you drew.” She inquires softly, her own brown eyes meeting the Guardian’s burning amber. She doesn’t catch the small upwards tick of Taevas’ lips, but does notice when her hands move up, then retreat back to their careful hold on the book. Unelema blinks into existence again, transmatting up the Hunter’s tools and watching as she starts to gesture.

            Hands cross each other before sliding outwards – not ­– hands in front, over each other, moving apart – many – curled into fists, knocked against each other – do.

            Orange eyes widen when she laughs and replies: “I’d imagine it doesn’t inspire much fear into the enemy.”

            The Hunter’s expression is a saddening mix of desperate hope and astonishment when she signs back. She points to Suraya, followed by a finger pulled down her face, curled across her forehead then a point to herself. “You can understand me?”

            “Cayde taught me. Thought it was about time you stopped having to use your Ghost as a fancy interpreter.”

            The Guardian laughs, a beautiful, rich sound, before signing back. “There’s a lot I have to tell you.” She reaches out to take Suraya’s hand in her own, knitting their fingers together, and she swears time itself stops for a moment.

            Especially when Tae takes their hands to her face, pressing a simple kiss against the skin of Suraya’s knuckles.

            A beat of silence passes between them, before Hawthorne pulls Taevas forward into a long-overdue kiss. They part a moment later, and she doesn’t miss the look of complete relief and happiness that flits across the Hunter’s features. “I’ve wanted to do that for far too long” she signs, and Suraya can’t help but laugh in agreement. And then they’re kissing again, and Tae tastes like home and all the things she’d never dared to hope for.

            They pull away from eachother, Taevas’ fingers already tangled in Suraya’s mess of curls, and they share a relieved smile.

           “I missed you.” Suraya reveals, and Tae pulls her against her chest, drawing her cloak around the Wilds-woman’s back as protection from the cold wind. “Leave me again and I’ll set Louis on you.”

           The Awoken’s chest shakes with quiet laughter, and she signs a response. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

xi;

            It’s another few days later when she has to face the truth of the situation – Tae is going to have to fight Ghaul.

            She’s stood against the wall of the barn while the Vanguard discusses the plan once again, fingers picking nervously at the skin of her forearms as Taevas setting a comforting hand on hers. Her amber eyes are focused clearly on the trio of Guardians before them, but her fingers continue to trace reassuring shapes across the back of Hawthorne’s hand, the motion soothing despite the nature of the conversation.

            The plan to get Tae up to Ghaul is solid enough – a multi-layer attack on some of the Legion’s forces in the City, enough to safely push through to a suitable point for the teleporter to be set up. It’s risky, yes – any direct attack on the Legion while most Guardians are Lightless is bound to be – but there’s not much more they can do to improve it. They can’t hold out against the Legion for long, not with the sheer number of refugees they have to protect, and taking out Ghaul is their best hope for destabilising the Legion and taking back the City.

            Still, a horrible, gnawing feeling of pure anxiety plagues her mind, stirred up by the rapidly approaching assault. This has to happen, she knows that, but her mind refuses to accept the situation. They’ll be going in effectively blind, running only on educated guesses, and they’ll be no second chances – for most of them anyway.

            But they don’t have any other choices left.

--

            It’s the night before the City assault when they find time to be together again, relaxed against each other on the uncomfortable expanse of Tae’s bed. The Awoken’s hands are combing through her dark curls, while her own fingers trace over the soft texture of her cloak. Taevas’ fingers eventually retreat from her hair and instead slip between their bodies to sign a message.

           “It’s going to be okay.”

            She sighs, setting her head against Taevas’ chest. “I know, but I can’t help but worry.” At that the Hunter pulls away, getting off the bed with a strange expression on her face. Suraya watches as she removes her cloak and lays it flat on the floor, Unelema transmatting a knife into her hand. Pulling the fabric taught she carves off a section about the length of her forearm and two fingers thick that tapers off at the end with a clean edge, then approaches Hawthorne with a smile, kneeling on the bed in front of her.

Catching on, she holds out her wrist. Tae loops the fabric around her wrist once, twice, and ties it neatly, meeting Suraya’s eyes with more emotion and love than anyone has ever shown in regards to her. Hawthorne stands up herself, snatching up her poncho from where she discarded it and taking up the knife that had been left a moment ago. The white fabric is a tad dirty, inevitable in the Wilds, but it’ll have to do. Her hands shake as she trims off a section of fabric similar in size from the bottom of the garment.

            When she stands again, Tae pulls her into a hug, Hawthorne’s hands slipping up in the almost non-existent gap between them. Tae offers her wrist, and she loops the fabric around once, twice and ties it tightly. Suraya rests her head against the other’s shoulder, the Awoken’s hands set on her waist, just letting the world pass them by, if only for a moment. One of Tae’s hands comes up to caress her cheek, and a beat later words are murmured against her lips.

            Tae’s voice is rich, almost powerful by itself, warm against her skin. And the words she gives Suraya are simple, but fill her heart with hope and joy.

            “I love you.”

            Her eyes shoot up to study the Awoken’s, the small smile on Tae’s lips almost hiding the small tell of her anxiety in the twitch of her face, the way her amber eyes refuse to meet Hawthorne’s own for a moment.

            Suraya lets out a shaky breath, one of her hands coming up to rest over Tae’s. “I love you too.” A few moments pass in silence until Hawthorne feels a strange sensation run over the cheek that the Hunter’s palm is cupped against. The feeling is almost imperceptible, at first, until it spreads against her skin again, and she can identify the sensation. Its electricity – not unpleasant as she’d expect, but instead cool and comforting as pulses of energy grace her cheek. Tae pulls her hand away, keeping her fingers linked with Suraya’s as small fractals of pale blue light run along her tattoos and branch off over her cerulean skin.

            “Promise me we’ll both make it out.” Hawthorne whispers, trying to savour the sensation of Taevas’ Light against their joined hands. Their fingers separate, except their pinkies, which remain tied around each other, and the message is clear – I promise.

            Remnants of armour are shed as the pair crawl under the covers together, Suraya’s head tucked closely against the Hunter’s chest to allow both of them to fit on the narrow bed. Unelema transmatts in, the Ghost settling into the space next to Tae’s head, his frame nudging comfortingly against the couple. It’s a reminder to them all that they’re here, alive, entirely whole and hopeful.

            When the sun dawns across the Farm they’ll have to part with quiet promises and intertwined fingers but, for now, it feels as if they have all the time in the world.

xii;

            Hawthorne shifts minutely in her crouch, hidden behind the broken remains of a wall. They’re waiting for Taevas’ signal, already in position around the path they’ll need to clear and hold, and her fingers instinctively check the holster at her hip for Sunshot (it’s still there, of course, as it has been the last ten times she’s checked). Her comm is turned almost all the way down, but Unelema’s voice still startles her when he yells out the signal a few moments later.

            “Zavala, the weapon is destroyed! Start the attack!”

            The connection cuts a moment later, but she swears she can hear the loud hissing of pure heat over the comm, and she refuses to think of it. She looks over to Cayde who grins, releasing Colonel out onto the street. A passing Centurion stares down at the animal, growling in its language and aiming it’s Bronto Cannon. A beat passes, before Cayde launches out from behind the Cabal and leaps onto its back, jamming a knife into the lighter armour protecting its neck. It falls quickly, like all the others he’s dispatched with this unconventional method, and they scan the area before moving on.

Through the comms the Vanguard confirm their positions, before a series of explosions echoes through, the view on her scope showing that Ikora has started her section of the attack, and they push forward.

            She watches as Zavala, Commander Zavala, whatever, is pushed to the ground by a Legionary, shotgun coming down to point at the Titan’s head. He struggles to shift the Cabal’s weight, and time seems to slow for a moment. Her sniper is in her hands before she knows it.

Click.

            She turns off the safety.

Click.

            Her eyes focus on the scope, fingers twitching over the trigger.

Click.

            She pulls the trigger.

            The Legionary’s head explodes in a mass of smoke, crumbling to the ground as time resumes its regular pace. She fires again, heading towards the Titan, helping him up and huffing with the effort. “What’s it with you Guardians and falling down all the time?” She jokes, hoping to disperse some of the tension.

            “Where’s Cayde?” He asks in response, and Hawthorne easily identifies the tinge of worry in his tone.

            “Well, if he’s sticking to the plan…” She peers through her sniper’s scope, then nods. “He’s right where he needs to be. Now we just need to get you and Ikora up there with him.” An energy barrier flickers to life before them, and she huffs in frustration. “I’ll handle this, you need to get moving.” Their eyes meet, and they share a tense smile.

            “Good luck, Guardian.”

            He’s off immediately, and Suraya shakes her head minutely, trying to ignore how accepted she feels. There’ll be time to sort out this weird kind-of-family she seems to have acquired later on. For now, there’s a barrier network for her to hack.

--

            It feels like an age later when Unelema’s voice cuts through on the comms again.

Hawthorne’s fingers stall for a moment over the terminal keyboard, before the Ghost’s voice is cut off by what sounds like a rocket blast, and she instinctually tenses, gripping tightly onto the edge of the device. A beat of silence passes, in which Suraya swears she can hear her blood pulsing in her ears and her heart beating in her chest.

            “Taevas! Are you still with us?” It’s Zavala’s voice, and thankfully a reply is almost immediate.

            “We’re fine, but – the Traveler…” The Ghost’s voice is worried, and his words come out far quicker than he’d probably intended.

            “That’s why we’re here. To stop this madness.” She thinks a line like that calls for a dramatic pause of some kind, but Zavala presses on. “Ikora and I are converging on the rally point, Cayde’s already there.”

            “We’ll use the Vex teleporter to jump to the Traveler,” Ikora adds, voice strangely contemplative. “If we make it there alive.” Unelema comforts her, and she takes over the comms.

            Her tone is familiar, but entirely professional, keeping her message succinct. “Red Legion’s using these energy barriers to funnel us into kill boxes. I can hack into the grid and knock it down for short stretches. Standby.” She pauses, almost losing her nerve and clicking off her comm, but finally adding; “Love you, Moon.”

            The voice that replies is quiet, but warm, and undoubtedly alive. “I love you too, Sura.”

            It’s then that the Cabal interrupts their comm system, effectively cutting every group off from the others. She bites down the awful feeling in her gut that those three words might be the last thing she ever tells Tae, and instead focuses on keeping her team alive. There’s not much more she can do, now.

--

            Her team are passing through a system of alleyways, later, when the toes of her boot connect with something small and metal on the rubble-covered road. Against her better judgement, she looks down, expecting to find a corpse of some description, but instead finding… a Ghost.

Its shell is white and blue, covered in ash and dirt, and Suraya drops down to scoop up the robot. It feels cold and heavy in her hands, unlike Unelema in every way, and she tucks it away in one of her poncho’s pockets. There’s probably a Ghost burial ritual or something they can do later, but right now she has more pressing problems.

---

            Something’s not right.

            She’s been on edge for the past ten minutes, some instinct-driven part of her brain screaming at her as a loud sound she can only describe as a compressed rush of air echoes through the sky, drawing her eyes upward. Against the black and red shape of the Traveler she can see a figure, seemingly made of light, wings spreading out behind it. She closes her eyes in resignation, all but accepting their fates now, as a booming voice carries across the sky.

            “Traveler! Do you see me now? I am immortal. A god! You have failed! Witness the dawning of a new age!”

            Then there’s a sound that’s almost ethereal, a hummed melody that reverberates through her body, and she opens her eyes to see pinpricks of light chip away at the dark shell covering the Traveler.

            “You.. do.. see me.”

            The same powerful voice screams in agony as a crack pierces the air, then- the Traveler explodes.

            There’s the same rushing of blood in her ears and heartbeat in her brain, pure heat rushing through her veins in a strangely calming fashion. A gasp escapes her lips as her vision is overcome by white, ears ringing and flesh erupting in goosebumps before she’s jolted back into reality, breathing heavily as one of the civilians on her team hovers over her crouched form in concern.

            A presence draws her eyes upwards, to meet a very alive Ghost, white and blue shell marking the one she’d found earlier, single eye somehow displaying its shock well. “You’re… my Guardian.” She can’t reply, for her throat feels scorched and her breathing refuses to calm, but she soon finds that she doesn’t need to, for everyone around her – tired civilians and over-energized Guardians alike, turn to face the Traveler, in a mix of joyous wonder and clear trepidation.

            The Vanguard step up first, their silhouettes clear against the bright light, all three of them standing tall on the rooftop of a nearby building. And then, above them - dropping down from the ship above, framed by the Traveler – stands Taevas, glowing in the darkness as she raises a fist into the air as a clear sign of victory.

            She’s okay.

            They’re okay.

xiii;

            Her body still feels racked with flames by the time she reaches Tae, weaving through crowds until they notice each other and sprint together, Suraya burying her head against the Awoken’s chest. She’s only partly aware of the tears she’s staining the other’s shoulder with and tries her best to ignore the spots of wetness she can feel drip onto the top of her head.

            After a few moments, they part, Suraya blinking up at Taevas. They share a genuine, relieved smile, before the moment promptly ends when the Awoken notices the Ghost hovering over Hawthorne’s shoulder. Her amber eyes flicker between the robot and the other woman, confusion visible on her face. “Oh yeah I-“ She coughs out a bit more of the imaginary smoke from her lungs, and Taevas sets a comforting hand on her forearm. “I found a Ghost.”

            The robot speaks up, voice feminine and surprisingly warm. “I’m Flüchtige- I’m- supposed to be her Ghost.”

            Unelema blinks into existence and whirrs up to greet her, and the two women smile tiredly at each other.

            This is going to take some time to figure out.

--

            Hawthorne sighs, pulling the material of her poncho tighter around her cold arms. She’d only had the foresight to grab the garment and pull it over her sleep clothes (alongside her boots, of course) before escaping to yet another roof, and while it does help to keep away some of the chills, she wishes that she’d layered more.

            Not that it really matters, considering the heat surging through her veins.

            Tae had insisted to her, earlier, that it was normal to be weirded out by the Light at first. That she’d get used to the power thrumming beneath her skin and pooling at her fingertips, the buzz of energy in her head, but she’s not convinced. As far as anyone is aware, Suraya is the first and only Guardian (damn, it’s weird to label herself that) to be reborn while already alive with intact memories, so nobody is really sure how long it’ll take her to adjust.

            She doesn’t attempt to warm herself with her newfound powers, nor does she try to calm them like Tae had suggested, not wanting to risk setting half of the Farm on fire. So instead she stares up at the night sky, letting the silence calm her nerves. After a while she feels a tug on her mind, Flüchtige (her Ghost, she corrects) appearing beside her. The Ghost hovers over Suraya’s lap, shell tilted down, voice tinged with sadness when she speaks. “You don’t like me.”

            At that statement Hawthorne’s head jerks down, refusal on the tip of her tongue when her brain catches up to her and she relaxes slightly, letting out a deep breath. “No, I do, I just-.” She chews on her lower lip, fingers knitting together. “I like you, Tige. I’m just really not used to this whole Guardian thing, as you can probably tell. I need a while to get to grips with it.”

            Flüchtige floats onto her open palm at her confession, the metal of her shell surprisingly warm against her skin. “I like you too, I can see why the Traveler chose you. We can figure this out.” Suraya smiles down at her, running a thumb against the Ghost.

            “I suppose we have all the time in the world, now.”

            The robot looks up at her, optic blinking. The tint of sadness is gone from her voice when she speaks, voice warm and hopeful instead. “Tell me about you.”

            Hawthorne laughs – “I’m not that interesting, I’m afraid.”

            “I haven’t known you for that long, but I can already tell that that’s not true.” Her Ghost replies. “What was your early life like?”

            “I can’t remember much that far back, but somehow I ended up in a City orphanage as one of the unadoptable kids. Anger issues, misbehaved, no friends, the usual. Statistics said I shouldn’t have ever been adopted, but one day, when I was eight or so, two men came to the orphanage. Didn’t pay them much mind at first, but then they approached me.” She’s aware that there’s a stupidly wide grin on her face, but she can’t bring herself to care. “I didn’t believe that they were there for me, at first. Thought there must’ve been some mistake. But then they took me home, and-“ A frown flits across her features. “Things were good. For a while.”

            Tige nudges against her palm as a gesture of comfort. “I started redistributing resources, let’s say. Stealing from the Factions to help the people who really needed it. Got caught by Executor Hideo one day, the leader of New Monarchy, and he starts rattling off some nonsense about hierarchy and societal order, so I responded in the only way I knew how.” She stifles a laugh. “Socked him in his dumbass face. After that, he started threatening Dev and Marc, my dads, so I had to leave. To protect them, y’know. Ended up outside the City for most of my adult life, and here I am today.”

            She jumps when Tae announces her presence by setting a hand on her shoulder, and she responds by smiling at the Awoken. “Why’re you up?”

            “Bed felt empty; I could ask you the same thing.”

            “Can’t sleep, my brain doesn’t wanna shut up.”

            “I suppose that’s to be expected.”

            They sit in silence for a while, simply content in each other’s presence, before she speaks up again. “How do you channel your light?”

          Tae smiles softly, and offers her partner her palms, facing upwards. Cautiously, she lays her hands atop the Awoken’s and closes her eyes as she feels a soft tugging at her mind.

          And then there’s a voice.

          “Can you hear me?”  It asks, and after a moment she recognises it as Tae’s voice, rich and powerful while somehow soft and breathy.

          “Yeah- how in the hells do you do this stuff Taea?” She replies, somehow.

          There’s a little laugh in response, both in this strange bond-talk and in the physical realm. “I’m not really sure myself, Ikora has all but given up on trying to explain it. Regardless, do you have any weapon you think you could channel your Light through? It’s far easier to start that way, rather than jumping into form creation.”

          Suraya pauses- “I have my knives, I suppose?” Tige transmatts them into her hands, sandwiched between their palms.

          “Now focus only on the knives. Let everything else fade away. Visualise flames along the blade edge, picture the heat against your palms, dancing across your skin.”

          Her hands feel warm, a somehow pleasant sensation, and when she opens her eyes there’s flames dancing along the sharp edge.

            “I – can’t believe it.” The flames withdraw and Suraya leans against the other Guardian, who pulls her closer with one arm. Blue lips smile at her when their eyes meet, and she can feel sleep finally claiming her. “You’re a good teacher… y’know.” Tired fingers reach up to poke the Awoken’s cheek, and Tae catches her hand, pressing a kiss against tanned fingers.

            “Sleep, Sura.” 

xiv;

            It’s the next morning, after the sun has started its ascent into the sky, when she wakes again. She’s back in Tae’s bed, somehow (she’s pretty sure she fell asleep on the roof last night), while the Awoken busies herself with brewing a kettle of tea across the room. The warm light of early morning shines through the one functional window, casting the space in hues of orange and amber, and Tige bumps against her side when she stirs properly. Tae wanders over and she props herself up, taking the offered cup of tea and letting her eyes close in contentment.

            “What time is it?” She asks, watching as the other Guardian has her armour transmatted in, obviously ready to get going.

            “Six.” Is the signed response, and Suraya groans slightly, startling Tae. “There’s a lot we have to sort out today.”

            “Yeah I know, my body just doesn’t want to wake up.” At the look the Awoken gives her – “Give me a moment.”

            Tae smiles, sitting down at the end of the bed and laying her cloak on her lap, taking out a needle and thread. Unelema transmatts in a long, thick strip of silky red fabric and she positions it to the left of her cape, the width of crimson hanging lower than the cut-off of the black fabric. She starts to stitch on the accent while Suraya slowly rouses properly, finishing off the tea and grimacing through the odd sensation of Tige switching her clothing to her regular attire through transmat.

            “What’s that red mean?” She asks curiously, hopping off the bed just as Taevas finishes her work, holding up the expanse of fabric as if to study it.

            Unelema chimes in – “It’s from Ghaul. He had these weird ribbon things, like an unfinished cape or something, and what’s a better way to scare off the Legion than wearing something taken from their leaders’ corpse?”

            Tae laughs and sets the cape into place around her shoulders, signing; “Way to make this sound morbid, El.”

            “Well, it kind of is.” The Ghost makes a sound close to a snort, before bumping affectionately into the Awoken’s forehead. “I wouldn’t take you any other way.”

            Suraya sheaths her knives at her waist, offering her hand to Taevas. “Where are we needed?”

            “Zavala’s called a meeting for seven in the Barn, and Devrim is coming over from Trostland this afternoon. Thought you’d want to get some breakfast first.” She nods and leans against Tae, making a content sound in her throat.

            “We best get going then.”

--

            It’s an hour later that the Vanguard starts to filter into the Barn. Ikora is first, then Cayde and Zavala (at the same time, together, suspiciously), the three women in the room sharing knowing looks. The Commander clears his throat, redirecting their focus towards whatever it is he wishes to talk about. Tae’s hand is solid against Suraya’s own as Zavala thanks them for their efforts the night before, running through the bare bones plan they have for the future.

            Maintaining the Farm, both as a temporary refugee camp and a long-term human centre, is their top priority. It will take time to reclaim the City from the remnant Cabal forces, even longer to repair the devastation, and, in the meantime, the Farm is the best bet to keep humanity safe. City reconstruction will focus on major population structures and vital infrastructure, and the inference is clear – make sure the people have a safe, secure and fulfilling place to live.

            “Establishing contact with the factions is also a pressing matter.” Suraya raises an eyebrow, and she can feel Tae give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “They have access to large quantities of resources that will greatly aid our efforts, and I have already managed to contact Executor Hideo of New Monarchy. Which reminds me..” Zavala turns to face her, and she shifts upwards, correcting her posture. “I understand that the two of you have some.. history.”

            Suraya separates her hand from her partners with a final squeeze, before leaning forward and bracing her arms on the central table. “I’d presume it’s all in my file.”

            “It is.” The Commander acknowledges. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”

            She shrugs, just as Louis flies in and settles on her outstretched arm. “You need to understand, Zavala, that the factions do nothing for the people of the City. People in the Lower City have nothing more than the clothes on their back, and sometimes not even that. I’ve seen it all first hand.” Louis hops onto her shoulder, watching the Vanguard before them with careful eyes. “Most of those assault charges were protecting people. You ever seen a mob of Monarchy lackeys swarm a civilian?” The silence gives her an answer. “Once saw a young boy, 8 or so, shot before I could reach him. His crime? Stealing a book from a Monarchy officer. He wanted to learn how to read, and he was murdered for it. I was 15 when I carried his body back to his parents and baby sister.”

            She pulls down the fabric of her poncho around her neck, revealing a perfectly symmetrical, circular scar. “Future War Cult shot – got caught stealing supplies to help the starving parents of five down the street. I’ve had multiple broken bones from the Factions, including when I had to ‘assault’ Hideo.” She rubs her right fist with the fingers of her other hand, the inferred meaning clear. “I guess it isn’t on file that he was threatening me?”

            The room is silent when she leans against the table once again. “I was never technically allowed to leave the City, but I had no choice. There was a very clear implication that, if I were to remain, things would start ‘going wrong’ for my parents. The factions controlled the City. If you went against them, you started having issues. Or worse, you’d disappear.”

            Taevas approaches behind her, setting a comforting hand on Suraya’s shoulder. “Does that address your concerns, Commander?”

            Zavala chuckles – a deep, baritone sound. “Indeed it does.” Louis hops over onto Taevas’ shoulder, and the Awoken busies herself with petting him, the falcon leaning into her gentle touch. “I presume you aren’t too keen on returning, then.”

            She shrugs, earning a look from Tae. “Depends.” Honestly, she’s been struggling with her future plans ever since her relationship with Tae developed. At first, she saw her role as temporary, until the refugees were safe and someone else could take over. And, after all, she doesn’t particularly want to confine herself to the City, but the thought of leaving her w- whatever they are- behind tenses up her chest and sends a pang of hurt through her heart. And then there’s Tige, and questions about what she is now, Guardian or not. “The City hasn’t been my home for a long time.”

            “Could it be your home now?”

            She crosses her arms – “Why, do you want it to be?”

            “The civilians look up to you. You’re a natural leader to them, and we’ll need that connection in the coming months.” She raises an eyebrow, questioningly.

            “What would my role be?”

            “Clan steward? Liaison for humanity? We’ll need to work out the exact details.”

            Suraya pauses for a moment, until Tae sets an arm around her back, and she returns the unspoken words by wrapping an arm around the Awoken’s waist. “I imagine we can work something out.”

xv;

            It’s around noon when Devrim finally arrives. Taevas and Hawthorne are leaning against each other on the latter’s usual perch, with a sandwich each, simply allowing themselves to relax in the daytime warmth. Suraya smiles, passing a piece of crust to Louis who crows out quietly in thanks. They haven’t made any official announcements about their relationship yet, but there’s an agreement between the two of them that it isn’t a secret. The teasing from Cayde and Amanda, plus the warm looks and questioning glances sent their way confirms to them that most people already know, or at least have some suspicions.

            It’s nice to be this openly affectionate with someone, she thinks, as her partner taps her shoulder and nods to an incoming ship. She finishes off her meal and jumps to the ground, Tae following her, and their hands find each other’s once again, tan and cerulean fingers linking together as they walk. By the time they reach the ship a familiar head of greying hair pokes up from behind the hull, offering her a grin when she jogs over, pulling him into a tight hug. “’m glad you’re okay.”

            He laughs, patting her on the head as he used to when she was younger. “Why wouldn’t I be? You wouldn’t let me go into the field.”

            “Yeah ‘cause I needed you here if everything went to shit, you know that. Thought you’d be glad. You’re getting too old for proper combat.”

            “Too old!” Is the mock-offended response. She can feel Tige transmat in by her shoulder, and Tae approaches behind her with Unelema, a beat of silence passing between them. “Whose ghost is that?” She bites her lower lip, trying to figure out how to explain. “Suraya…”

            “She’s mine. Look, I think we need to find somewhere to talk, properly.”

--

            They find the privacy they need near the Farm’s borders, propped up on an old fence with a panning view of the EDZ before them. “So you’re telling me you’re a Guardian now.”

            “Yeah, kinda?” She replies, unsure. “We’re still really trying to figure it out ourselves.”

            “Well, at least I was right about one thing.” He chuckles – “You’ve always been a Hunter.”

            “Who said I’m a Hunter?”

            “What other class would you be? You’re certainly no Warlock.” Taevas sets her hand over Suraya’s where it rests on the fence, and she leans against the Awoken’s shoulder. Devrim grins over at her – “You finally figured it out.”

            Hawthorne shrugs – “Tae was the one to get of her ass and do something ‘bout it.”

            Tae smiles over at her, bringing Suraya’s hand to her lips and pressing a kiss against her fingers - Devrim’s grin only grows. “Marc is going to be hurt if you don’t let him plan your wedding, y’know.”

--

            It’s many hours later, with the full moon shining above the Farm, that Suraya and Tige are finally alone again.

            The day has been long – through organising teams to start clearing the City, to casualty reports and everything in between – and by now she’s almost ready to fall asleep. But Tae had insisted in going off to the Dark Forest, alone, pressing a large box into Hawthorne’s arms with a knowing smile and promising to be back by dawn-break. The box – currently sat in front of her, on her (their?) bedroom floor, is beautiful, really. It’s dark wood, intricately carved, slightly worn but still obviously very well cared for.

            She carefully undos the lock system and opens the lid, frowning as it’s contents are revealed. It’s rows upon rows of little bottles, with a couple of smaller boxes nested inside. Lifting up one of the pots, she realises what they are – paints. The one she’d picked up – a deep, slightly dulled blue colour – is labelled Prussian Blue in the tight neat script she identifies as Tae’s, and she slots it back into place, studying the bottles before her by the swatches of colour on their lids.

            A small piece of folded parchment is tucked into a space at the edge of the box and she unfurls it, revealing more of the same black cursive;

            “Dear Suraya,

            It’s a tradition for Guardians to paint their ghost’s shell after a few days together, and I thought you’d like to use some of my paints for it. Tige should be able to help you set her pattern, so just pick a colour or two that you think matches her.

            Love you, Taevas.”

            She shakes her head in mock exasperation as Tige floats over and lightly bumps into her shoulder (they’re still adjusting to being affectionate with each-other) then floats down onto her Guardian’s lap.

            “I have one I think you’ll like.” Her Ghost says softly, and Suraya looks down to see the pattern on her shell shift, still in the same tones of white and blue. She scoops up her companion, finding the new design to be some kind of an outline of a wilderness scene – the bottom ridges are decorated with snow-topped mountains, simplified trees slotted into place below them. There’s a sky too – sun and clouds, little birds in flight.

            She smiles down at her Ghost. “It’s perfect, thank you Tige.” Leaning over to look at the selection of paints, she picks out a few colours – a light, steel blue for the sky, grey for the mountains and a soft orange for the sun. Then a white – a strange, slightly chrome white with tiny hints of pink and gold – for the outlines. Rummaging through the smaller boxes, she finds a set of soft brushes, and she picks out a couple, before turning back to her Ghost. “How do I-“

            Tige seems to understand her unspoken question, nudging Hawthorne’s palm slightly with a spine. “Just take whatever paint you want to use and dip the brush in there.” Following her instruction, she unscrews the cap from the blue – Sky, it’s label aptly reads – and dips the brush in, as she’s seen Taevas do before. “And then just paint where you want it, you’ll see.” She does just that – cautiously brushing the tone across the metal of Tige’s shell and watching in awe as it spreads by itself, evenly covering the surface in a perfect layer.

            “How?”

            Tige shrugs as well as she can, considering her lack of shoulders. “Nobody really questions it. We can change our shaders ourselves, but most of the time our Guardians paint us. As a show of friendship.”

            Hawthorne is still awed as she finishes her work, and by the end Tige floats up above her palm, spines of her shell twirling about as she seemingly inspects it. “I love it, thank you Suraya!” She chirps, and the Hunter smiles upon hearing her Ghost say her name for the first time.

            That night she doesn’t sleep very well, watching the Shard and it’s Forest as she flicks through reports, waiting for Taevas to come home while Tige rests by her side.

            But, she thinks, it’s going to be okay.

xvi;

            It’s been a little while since the Assault when Suraya gets a call from Devrim.

            He’d gone into the City the other day, intent on bringing Marc back to the Farm as soon as possible, and, according to the report she’d read probably five times over, had found him in one of the inner City emergency bunkers. It’d been a moment of pure relief when she’d initially got the report soon, but now dread wells up within her. Not only has she not spoken to Marc in years, but she’s also going to have to deal with hundreds of questions about her and Tae’s relationship. Her dad is far too romantic, and there’s no way Dev hasn’t told him yet.

            When her comm rings she takes a deep, steadying breath, and answers. “Dad?”

            “Suraya! It’s so good to hear from you.” Its Marc’s voice – joyful and overexcited, as always. “I hear you have a lot of stories to tell me.”

            She laughs – nervously – fingers picking at the skin of her arm. “That’s.. uh. One way of putting it.”

            Marc carries on, undeterred. “I hope I’m going to meet this girlfriend of yours soon, I’ve heard so much about her! Of course, you of all people would properly find someone the one time I can’t interrogate them.”

            “Please don’t interrogate her.”

            “Oh but I have to. Especially with your track record of partners.”

            “Dad, please.”

            Dev takes over the call again – “Sorry about that, you know how he gets.”

            “Too well.”

            “He does have a point though, and you know he won’t give up till he meets her.”

            She sighs in defeat. “Send me a time.”

--

            It’s a wonder that a restaurant is even open in the City at this point, Suraya thinks, but it’s good for the purposes of this meeting, at least. They arrive first, before her dads, taking a table next to the big, old-style windows. She doesn’t particularly like being exposed to a major security vulnerability like a traditional window, but she knows Tae is comforted by the view of open space.

            And right now Tae needs any comfort Suraya can provide her with. She sees the other Hunter’s eyes occasionally flicker around, feels her fingers flex against Suraya’s own where their hands are linked. Taevas might not allow herself to display her emotions that much, but as soon as you spend enough time around her to learn her tells, the little movements start to make sense.

            “Relax,” she murmurs. “He’ll love you. He has to.”

            Tae makes a non-committal sound and instead goes back to watching the room, Suraya continuing to offer silent comfort by rubbing circles into cerulean knuckles.

            The sound of the entrance doors opening has them both turning their heads, and Suraya stands to return the hug offered to her by Marc. “Look at you! You’re all grown up!” He exclaims, and she wrinkles her nose in disgust.

            When he notices Taevas, his attention shifts. “You must be Taevas.” Tae tenses a little, offering him a curt nod and her hand to shake. He laughs heartily – “There’s no need for any of that unless you already have something to apologise for.”

            Tae seems startled by the idea, simultaneously twitching and shaking her head vigorously as if offended by the very suggestion.

           “Dad, please. You’re already creeping her out.”

            When they take a seat and order, Suraya keeps her hand linked with Tae’s. Marc quickly takes to asking the Awoken simpler questions that she can answer with a nod or head shake, or by signing and getting her to translate. It really isn’t an ideal arrangement, but Marc seems satisfied that Tae isn’t a prick like most of her past partners.

            “So what’s the plan for the future?” He asks her, and she shrugs.

            “City restoration, obviously. Transferring those who want to leave the Farm back over.”

            “You know that’s not what I meant. What're the future plans for both of you?”

            “Zavala’s offered me a position as leader of the Clans, so we’re probably going to settle in the City, the new Tower if there’s going to be one. And from there… we’ll figure it out as we go along, I suppose.”

            “Still hate plans?”

            “More… an improviser. Besides, it’s worked pretty well for me so far.” She smiles over at Tae, her meaning clear.

--

          That night, under a canopy of a thousand stars, the topic comes up again.

            She’s leant against Tae’s shoulder as the Awoken creates messy braids in her curls when her mind drifts back to the conversation from earlier.

            “What are we going to do when the City is rebuilt?”

            Tae frowns down at her, before signing – “We’ll figure it out as we go along as you said.”

            “Yeah but-“ She makes a frustrated sound. “I’m probably gonna have to stay at the Tower a lot, or at least I presume so, and I don’t wanna hold you back. I don’t want you to end up staying in the City just to please me.”

            “I’ve seen the System. I’ve seen the stars. I never found meaning out there, no matter how many planets I visited, enemies I killed. I never felt home.”

            The Awoken’s hand comes up to rest on her cheek. “I’m done playing the hero. I’ve found my home.”

xvii;

            It’s been approaching half a year since the War’s end when the new Tower is finally completed.

            The construction had been put behind other, more essential reconstruction efforts – of key infrastructure, housing for personnel, the reestablishment of water and electricity grids – but even Suraya understands the symbolism of the Tower. It’s a beacon, a representation of the Guardians and the guidance they provide.

            When the new Tower is finally opened, it’s a day of celebration. Guardians come in from across the System, Lightbearers and civilians alike sharing in the warmth of this new age, of the security it provides. Of finally being home.

            She finds Tae in the midst of a group of civilians, all awed by the presence of the great Hero of the War. Suraya can tell she’s being asked a flurry of questions, Unelema fluttering over her shoulder and doing her best to answer them all. It’s comforting to see Taevas like this – safe, at ease. Comfortable with her environment and most importantly herself.

            She sneaks up behind the other Hunter, carefully placing one of the decorative flower crowns being passed round atop her head. Tae smiles over at her, intertwining their hands as the remaining civilians wander off, aside from a small gaggle of still-awed children.

            “Are you a Guardian too?” One of them asks, pushing forward to the front of the group. When she nods, the child grins. “Can we see your robot?”

            Prompted, Tige pops into existence above her shoulder and drifts down to greet the children. “I’m Tige!” She chirps happily, dropping down to allow them to get a better look. “It’s nice to meet you!” The child who’d spoken up earlier carefully reaches out to brush Tige’s frame, grin growing when the Ghost accepts the contact.

            Another of the children turns to the pair of Guardians who watch them. “Do you have magic?”

            Suraya isn’t sure how to respond to that, still not confident enough with channelling her Light to use it around vulnerable children. Instead, she looks over at Tae, who crouches down as the remaining children push forward to crowd around her.

            Familiar lightning spreads in fractals against her skin, pulsing Light crackling against the natural glow of her Awoken complexion. The Light gathers in her palm, forming an ethereal sphere of blue-white energy.

            The children’s eyes grow ‘til they’re the size of saucers, watching in awe as the Light coalesces into the form of the Traveler, then transforming into a Ghost, then a heavenly bird. Suraya smiles as she watches them interact, slightly awed alongside the children.

--

            Tae nudges her slightly when her brain autopilots the route to their ship, tugging on her hand to direct her attention.

            Instead of following the familiar route to the Wanderwing, Tae leads her to what Suraya knows are the new barracks, her brain stuttering slightly at the realisation. “Taea…” She trails off as they stop in front of a door, the Awoken turning to her and gesturing for her to close her eyes. She does so, and after a moment she can hear the whoosh of an opening door and a tap on her shoulder.

            She opens her eyes.

            The first thing she sees is Taevas, standing slightly nervously. Then she takes in the rest of the room.

            Directly in front of her is a small living area, soft brown and blue chairs and a sofa gathered around a tv with large windows draped in curtains providing a beautiful view of the City. She turns to Tae, still shocked, the other Hunter retaking her hand reassuringly. She’s lead through an archway to a kitchen/diner, dark wood and light tile against soft grey walls that frame the small kitchen and well-sized dining table. A small bathroom, next, then back into the hallway.

            It’s only then that Suraya notices some more of the decoration – plants grace nearly every surface, while a sideboard is topped with a couple unpacked boxes and small mementos. A bookshelf fills a nook in the passage, already stacked with ancient-looking tomes and newer datapads. It feels like home already, she realises.

            A spare bedroom, still spartan in its decoration. A small study. And finally, their room.

            She’d describe it as huge, but it’s not, really. Large windows line the two outer facing walls, including a door out to a balcony. An expansive bed is tucked into one corner, low to the ground and already piled with Tae’s favoured soft blankets and pillows. A television is set into place above a dark-wood dresser, while a plush armchair faces out the curtained windows. Soft grey walls are already mounted with paintings, which she realises happily are Tae’s own works. The carpet beneath her feet is soft, dark grey, beautifully warm.

            Through the windows she can watch as the sun sets over the City, framing the Traveler in rings of familiar amber and gold.

            Tae comes to stand by her side, the Awoken shifting nervously. “Do you like it?” She asks in a quiet tone, and Suraya grins.

            “It’s perfect, Taea.” The other Hunter’s hands come to rest around her waist, and she twists in the embrace to face up at Tae. “We’re finally home.”

            Tae leans forward to connect their lips, and they part after a moment. The Awoken relinquishes her hold on Suraya’s waist to sign, but Hawthorne remains pressed against the other. “Home is wherever you are.”

            Suraya snorts – unladylike, she knows, but that never concerned her before – and wraps her arms around the other Guardian’s neck. “Of all the people in the cosmos to make you cheesy, it had to be me, didn’t it?”

            Tae smiles down at her – a beautiful radiant thing, filled to the brim with pure emotion. “Who else?”

xviii;

            Suraya carefully shifts in bed, careful not to jostle Tae too much from where their limbs are intertwined, nor where the Awoken’s arms wrapped protectively around her. Once detangled from her lover, she slips out from under the thick layers of blankets and quilts, she quietly pads out of the room.

            She lets out a quiet sign of relief at seeing Louis on his perch, napping contently after his hunt. The transition from the Wilds to the City has been hard on them both – it’s their home, after all – but he seems to be adjusting. Slowly, at least.

            Herself, on the other hand?

            She’s not sure – the increased safety is welcome, in the very least, but at what expense? Never before has she felt so confined, so trapped. And while her opinions of the City have improved recently, she still stands by some of her older beliefs.

            You know what also has walls, that you can’t leave?

            She properly comes to when she feels a fat droplet of water hit her cheek, and she looks up. She’s somehow made her way to the balcony that annexes their room, letting the harsh winds and stormy weather calm her.

            Out here she can pretend, at least – pretend that the smell of rain and the reddening of her cheeks against the biting winds is enough of a substitute for the burn of the Wilds. She sighs deeply, before heading back inside to get dressed properly, slinging her poncho over her shoulders, holstering sunshot at her waist and pressing a kiss to Taevas’ forehead.

            Once she takes the elevator down the Tower and the apartments lining its floors, she steps out into the City. While a lot of it is still in ruin, most of the central areas surrounding the Tower are fully reconstructed now.

            There aren’t many people out – a combination of the late timing and the bad weather – but she doesn’t mind. She traces streets outwards, past partially reconstructed buildings and out into the proper ruins, before she reaches the Wall.

            The FotC stationed at the top of the Wall pay her no mind once Tige shimmers into existence to trail her over the shoulder. She pauses at the railing, leaning heavily on it as she watches the rain drench the Wilds.

            “Wanna talk about it?” A voice asks – Tige’s – as her Ghost hovers, the flicker of her shell somehow portraying her worry.

            “’s nothing.”

            Tige’s shell manoeuvres in an obvious show of that’s bullshit before nudging against her wet cheek. “You feel trapped.”

            She huffs – “… yeah.”

            “Why’d you agree to stay here?”

            “I dunno.” She shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t wanna risk being separated from Tae.”

            “She would’ve followed you anywhere.”

            “Yeah, but.. This is where she feels safest. And above anything I want her to feel safe, be safe. Does that make sense?”

            Her Ghost chirps happily, bumping against her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re happy. I always worried that my Guardian would be lonely – and, well, my first one was.”

            “You never told me about the one you had before..”

            Her shell droops sadly, and Suraya reaches over to gently poke the tip of a spine affectionately. “I failed him.”

            “If you were anywhere near as good to him as you are to me, then no, you didn’t.”

            A sound comes through Tige’s speaker that sounds almost like a sniffle, and Hawthorne holds out her palm to let the little robot nest her shell there. “His name was Beverick. Beverick-9. I found him in the depths of the EDZ, after a lifetime of searching.”

            Suraya keeps focused on the Ghost in her hands, rubbing little reassuring circles into coloured metal as Tige continues. “He was a Hunter, too. Had issues with other people, so we kept to ourselves. Carved out a place for ourselves away from the other Guardians, tried our best to find meaning.”

            “How’d you end up in the City, then?”

            “When the invasion happened and we got the emergency broadcast, he rushed to help. We were in the City within the hour. Then we lost the Light…”

            Tige trails off, and Hawthorne holds her Light to her chest, in a hopefully comforting gesture. “You didn’t fail him.”

            “But..”

            “Ah, ah, no. Listen. A lot of people died that day, a lot of innocent people, a lot of people I once knew. I used to blame the Guardians for it, back in the early War. Magical space powers for what? Didn’t save anybody… But that was wrong of me.”

            She holds up Tige, affixing her with a look to prove to her Ghost that she’s serious. “The only things at fault for the Fall were the Legion. And they’ve paid for it and will continue to pay for it. His death was as much your fault as mine, or Zavala’s, or any of the people in this City.”

            Tige’s voice sounds strained like if she could be she’d be on the edge of tears, or perhaps crying already. “I don’t want to fail you.”

            “You won’t.” She promises.

--

            She nudges open the door to her apartment, careful not to make to much noise. Not that it matters, considering Tae is already up.

            The Awoken sits crosslegged on the sofa with a view of the City, the golden rays of dawn washing over her skin matching the tone of her eyes. Those eyes flicker to meet her when she shrugs off her poncho and discards it on the back of a chair.

            “You’re back late.”

            Suraya makes a non-committal sound, wrapping her arms around the other Hunter’s shoulders as she leans over the back of the sofa. “Didn’t mean to worry you, sorry. Just needed a bit of space to think.”

            “I know.” At the look Hawthorne gives her – “Tige sent a message. Figured you’d be back when you felt comfortable.”

            “Mhmm, love you.”

            “I’d hope so. Your tea’s on the side.”

xix;

            Suraya hates the idea of this Restoration ball.

            It sounds stupid, quite frankly. A waste of money just so people who hate each other and had no role in the War can make idle conversation and wear fancy clothes. Unfortunately for her, however, her role in the War and afterwards, plus Taevas’ rank, means that she pretty much has to attend.

            Before the full-length mirror in Ikora’s apartment, she can hardly recognise herself. Her outfit is over the top, yes, but still beautiful and somehow still her (as much as a formal dress can be).

            Eva made it herself, and it shows – a deep purple dress tied tightly around her waist and draping over her legs, soft golden constellations sewed into the lower skirt. A cape wraps around one exposed shoulder, beautiful white, purple and gold layers that drift to the floor in a hem the shape of flower petals.

            The headpiece was commissioned elsewhere, but it’s just as stunning – a gold tiara of sorts, handcrafted flowers set into place near the back. And wrapped carefully in intricate gold branches are an identical pair of antlers – genuine, she knows from experience. It’s gaudy, yeah, especially when combined with the simple gold jewellery around her neck and wrists, but the effect is still stunning. Especially with her hair worn in its natural curls around her shoulders, a touch of glitter highlighting her face.

            Like this, she looks like some kind of forest fae, like the ones in the pre-Golden Age books Tae has scrounged up for some of the City kids. Maybe that’s thinking too much of herself, but hey, she never really gets the chance to be vain, and if she’s going to have to parade around in fancy dress she might as well embrace it.

            There’s a knock at the door which Ikora answers with a knowing smile, and Suraya’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of Tae.

            The base of the Awoken’s outfit is rather simple – a white dress shirt and black trousers, but the details are exquisite. The shirt is obviously tailored, fitting perfectly against her frame, arms and the top panel of the torso slightly transparent and patterned with thin golden lines. The cape set over her shoulders isn’t her usual – instead, it’s an expanse of purple that matches the hue of Suraya’s dress, decorated with golden constellations and stars orbiting around her sigil – the sun with a slash across it, this time in shimmering pseudo-metal rather than white.

            Taevas looks like a different person, like this. Part of the Awoken royalty, perhaps, or some kind of deity. Though she supposes as they drift together, that is the intended effect. She’ll probably be the centre of attention tonight, though whether that attention is wanted or not is a different matter entirely.

--

            The ballroom stretches out before them from their position on the balcony. The size of the room is a frivolity, really, unnecessary in the wake of the War or even after the Collapse, but even Suraya can admit that the effect is stunning.

            An outer wall is lined entirely with large windows that provide an expansive view of the City against the darkened night sky, while the room is lit up with lanterns that hang from the ceiling. Most of the space is cleared as a dance area, with most of the remnant crowds lining the walls.

            One of Taevas’ hand's links with her own, and they begin their descent down to the main space.

--

            Hideo, surprisingly, takes his time in approaching them.

            They’ve staked out a small section of wall as their own, aware that many people will want to speak to Tae, to congratulate her, thank her, or get into her good graces and build up a political alliance. No matter the reason, their well-visited for about half an hour, and as Hideo approaches they silently agree that this is the last courtier they’ll entertain. What’s the point of all these fancy outfits if they can’t share a dance, after all.

            Suraya tries to mask her displeasure at the man before them with a simple shift to correct her posture, Tae’s hand on her arm tightening reassuringly. Taevas acknowledges him with a nod, prompting him to come forward.

            “I must say, Guardian, I’m surprised to see you in attendance. I didn’t pin you as a social attendee type.” He starts, a smug lilt to his voice. “Nor your partner.”

He stares, rather pointedly, straight at Suraya.

            The hand on her arm tenses again as a warning to not react, as Taevas braces herself, obviously about to speak.

            “Don’t push yourself.” She whispers over at the Awoken.

            “Suraya is a Guardian now, Executor, and it would be appropriate for you to treat her as such.”

            “As is the rumour. But forgive me for doubting the sense of putting someone so volatile in a position of power.”

            Suraya decides then that that’s enough, formulating a response in her mind. “The issues we have should remain between us Hideo. Don’t burn bridges for your pride.”

            “Hmph.”

--

            The Awoken’s hand rests warm on the small of her back, heating her up as they press closer together to the melody of a beautiful Golden Age song. Suraya smiles up at her partner, grinning at the expression of pure love there.

            “For all the people to look at me that way…” She trails off as Taevas pulls her closer and she pushes herself up on her toes to reach the Awoken’s lips. “It had to be you.” Is whispered into Tae’s lips as they part.

            “Forever,” Tae responds quietly.

            Suraya nods in assent, smiling softly. “Forever.”

xx;

            They’re sat against each other in bed, Tae’s wrapped around her back with fingers carding through her hair until the hand in her curls withdraws and comes into her sight.

            “You know what Marc said..”

            “He says a lot of things.”

            “About… that.” Suraya can hear a huff of frustration against her neck, feels the tickling of soft breath. “Would you ever… want to get married? Properly?”

            Her breath catches in her throat, and she shuffles in Tae’s hold until she’s facing the Awoken. “Are you serious?” At the tiny nod of Tae’s head – “Of fucking course!”

            She practically barrels against her partner’s chest, resulting in them both falling back on the bed, Suraya held against Tae’s chest as they hold onto each other as if their lives depend on it.

            “I love you, Moon.” She mumbles into the Awoken’s chest.

            “I love you too, Sura.”

--

            Suraya takes a deep breath, eyeing the screen before her with equal parts excitement and trepidation. Tae nudges against her, the taller woman’s chin perched atop Hawthorne’s head.  “Go on” is signed just within her view, and she reaches out to key in the frequency for her parents.

            It rings for a few minutes, which they occupy with Tae messily braiding the back of Suraya’s curls and Hawthorne not admitting how much she loves the feeling.

            “You should grow your hair out.” She admits, reaching up to run her fingers over the slight fuzz of her partner’s shaved head just as the call finally connects. They jump apart like guilty teenagers, and Marc’s laughter rings loudly through the connection.

            “We can go if you want.” He laughs, and Suraya scowls, though it lifts a little when Tae shifts a cerulean arm to wrap around her waist.

            The silence stretches out for a few moments as neither of them is sure what to say, until Taevas signs in front of her. “You want to tell them?”

            “What’s going on?” It’s Dev this time, and he sounds concerned, worried, even. Suraya grins, knowing what their reactions will be.

            “You know what you said about a wedding, dad?”

            Dev only raises an eyebrow, but Marc’s eyes are wide with shock. “You’re serious?”

            Suraya grins knowingly. “Don’t get too excited, we haven’t planned anything yet.”

            “Hell yes, I’m going to be excited, holy- !”

            Dev just watches Marc with an expression of exasperation. “Now you’ve set him off.”

--

            It takes two weeks for them to announce it to anyone else.

            Taevas is away on a mission, so Cayde is over in their apartment, the Exo sat on the island counter in the kitchen with his legs swinging to and fro. She smacks the metal hand that’s been sneaking closer to the saucepan with the back of a spoon and he attempts a pout, rubbing the affected area as if it’s sore.

            She grimaces as he sniffs the sauce on the back of his hand and grins. “Gotta give it to ‘ya Poncho, you can cook.”

            “Well someone has to teach you that there’s more to life than ramen.”

            “Ah, ah! Ramen is and will always be my first love, don’t make me fight you.”

            “I’m telling Zavala that you love pasta more than him.” She points the spoon at him, mock-threateningly.

            “You say that like he doesn’t already know.” He laughs, but seemingly deflates a little.

            Suraya notices and frowns, distracting herself with dividing up the pasta, meatballs and sauce into two bowls and a larger container. She places Cayde’s bowl beside him on the island and nudges it closer, before propping herself up on the counter.

            “For a robot, you sure are bad at hiding your emotions.”

            He makes a discontented noise and starts picking at his food, obviously distracted.

            “You know, I didn’t cook that just for you to pick at it while angsting away.” She gives him a serious look. “Either eat up or tell me what’s going on with you and Zavala.”

            “Nothing… I just.” He grunts, frustrated. “I don’t know.” She raises an eyebrow at him, and he goes back to picking at his food. “I just don’t know if we’re on the same page when it comes to our relationship,” His shoulders sag a little. “You get what I mean?”

            “You spoken to him about it?”

            He gives her a bewildered look. “That’s your suggestion?”

            “Well have you?” He’s silent, which she takes as a no. “Believe me, you’ll never be able to work through any issues you have if you can’t discuss them with him.”

            “He’ll think I’m being stupid though. All the problems we have right now, a city in ruins and our ranks pretty much empty, and the thing I’m concerned about is a tiny discrepancy in a relationship?”

            “Hey.” She pokes him to get his attention. “Let's be real here, what can you do, at this moment, to fix any of the big issues we’re facing? Nothing. But when you go home you can walk through those doors and walk into your boyfriend’s arms and tell him ‘I love you’ and ask him ‘where do you want this relationship to go’ and I promise you it’ll be fine.”

            She pats Cayde on the head and laughs at his thoughtful expression. “Damn I’m getting good at this advice thing.”

            The other Hunter offers her a small smile. “Yeah, you’ll be giving even Tae a run for her money soon.”

            “Where do you think I get it from? Hell, the only reason I can go off on a spiel about communication is because of what happened the other week.”

            Cayde raises a pseudo-eyebrow. “What happened the other week, Poncho?”

            She grins, and Cayde leans forward a little. “Tae proposed, Chicken Man.”

            “Hey!” He exclaims, Suraya jumping down as he discards his bowl and barrels down to try to grab her. “Her name is Colonel!”

xxi;

          Suraya sighs, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm and blinking rapidly to clear the spots on her vision. Something had forced her awake, a nagging feeling of something being wrong that had nudged her out of unconsciousness and into the dark room.

          It’s Tae, she realises.

          The Awoken is sat across the room from her, turning out to stare out the window with her eyes closed, up at the form of the Traveler where it floats above the City. In the moonlight and Traveler-light Suraya can just about see an object in Taevas’ hands – it’s black, a kind of concave shape and about the size of her face.

          She stands, carefully, shifting off the layers of blankets that were atop her and pads over to where her wife sits. Now she’s closer, she can properly identify the object. It’s a mask, she realises (with equal parts fear and relief), smooth with sharp edges and shining black in the moonlight. Cerulean fingers trace lightly over the edge of the surface, shaking slightly before stilling as Tae opens her eyes.

          For a moment Suraya swears that they glowed pure white, but she’s not sure if it was a trick of the various light sources or not. Regardless, the Awoken now looks down at the mask in her hands, holding it upwards and tilting it this way and that to study it against the light flowing in from the window. Suraya coughs lightly, and Tae turns to face her, a small frown on her face.

          “Where did that… come from?” She asks cautiously, and the Awoken glances down at the mask in her hands, before placing it back down onto her lap and raising her hands to sign –

          “It was just… Here.” She turns the mask in her hands, fingers tapping against the rim. “It’s mine, I know it is.”

          Suraya leans over, carefully lifting the object from Tae’s hands and pushing it upwards to fit against the Awoken’s face. It slots into place perfectly, requiring no other mechanisms to secure it, and she smiles up at the surface. “It is.”

          The realisation comes to her far later than it should have – after all, there’s only really been one prolific Guardian that wore a very similar mask, and as far as anyone knows he’s dead, or at least missing.

          “You’re the new Speaker.”

--

           They approach Zavala about it the next morning and he insists on calling a Consensus meeting for that afternoon, so here they stand, before the small chamber. It’s at near-full occupancy today, an uncommon occurrence, with the leaders of the three Factions, the full Vanguard and Lord Shaxx all in attendance.

           Zavala, as acting head of the Consensus, introduces the session and outlines the basic agenda, before explaining why exactly Tae stands before them, silent as ever. The proposition that she takes over the Speaker’s old duties goes over surprisingly well – most of them know her as the Hero of the War, if not by any of her previous achievements – and those that know her more personally are aware that she wouldn’t deceive them on something this important.

           The only objection is Hideo, who’d done his best to make his displeasure at the proposal clear throughout, stammering to interject and making disgusted facial expressions that had Suraya mentally rolling her eyes in response. His complaints are all but ignored, however, as when it comes time to vote he doesn’t formally raise an objection (likely too afraid of going against the majority, how typical), and Tae takes her place at the head of the Consensus.

--

           That night they sit together up on the roof of the Tower, tucked away in one of the out-of-sight spots that the veteran Hunters all know of, content to simply lie against each-other and watch the stars glimmer above them, just out of reach. Almost half an hour passes in the pleasant quiet, until Tae speaks up.

           Her voice wavers slightly, but not from fear or upset she knows – instead it’s the lack of pretence, no false bravado to intimidate or make herself seem powerful. Still, Suraya is a little concerned, her fear only assuaged by the small smile on Tae’s face.

           “I’m surprised I’ve survived this long, fighting as I was with both eyes closed.” Suraya blinks over at her in confusion, and Tae turns to stare at the form of the Traveler. “I’ve always been single-minded – a one-track mind, you could say, but I’ve had my mind opened to the blinders I’ve been wearing since I Awoke.”

           The Awoken’s hand comes to rest over her own, and Suraya turns it in her hold, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “That was why I was drawn to you, perhaps – you had- have, she corrects herself – truly seen the horrors of the System, and have emerged all the stronger for it.”

           “When you watched the safe façade of our City fall away, you didn’t freeze like I did – instead, you expected it almost, perhaps only unconsciously. You emerged from the fire, the ashes of everything I once had, and like a phoenix you rose and rose, till there was nothing left above you, nothing left that could harm you.”

           Suraya frowns slightly at the implied degradation of Tae, and interrupts – “Who was it that killed Ghaul again?”

           Tae laughs quietly, though there’s a hurt edge to it. “The Traveler.” When she goes to interrupt again – “It chose me. I’m still not sure why, but I simply followed it’s Will.”

           “So what you’re saying is it was you that killed Ghaul.” She waggles a finger at the Awoken in an imitation of one of her old aunt’s strange gesticulations. “Whatever reason it chose you for, it obviously chose well.”

           Tae pulls her in for a hug, and Suraya can hear the deep breaths against her shoulder when an idea comes to her. “You say you don’t know why it chose you, right?” At the nod she gets in response.

           “You tried asking it?”

xxii;

          Suraya huffs, slinging her sniper across her back as she hops down the cliffface to rejoin her fireteam. Fieldwork is rare for her, but Cayde had apparently decided that she needed some time out in the Wilds, and hey, she’s not one to turn down a chance to leave the Tower.

          So she’s out in the depths of the EDZ with Escupir and Mudra, constantly having to remind herself that she doesn’t need food, so there’s no need to be tuned into the background sound of a far-off stags strides, or that she can jump far higher now, no need to pick her way up a cliff, that-

          She pauses, and so do the others.

          “You feel that too, right?” She asks, voice hushed, and Escupir nods.

          It’s a pinprick of Light, a beacon in the otherwise stillness of the dead-zone. They carefully track it across the ruins of a pre-Collapse town, to a tiny store-room in one of the decaying buildings. And there-

          There’s a child.

          They’re tiny, no older than four at most. Their dark skin is dulled with dirt, short blonde hair messy, and bright blue eyes wide with fear, but otherwise they seem miraculously unharmed. As Suraya approaches her – crouched down, slowly, waiting for her to bolt, all in the manner in which you might approach a wild animal – the child relaxes, inching her way closer to the Hunter.

          “Hey there little one.” She says quietly, trying not to scare the child. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, yeah?”

          Surprisingly the child nods, clinging to Suraya’s neck as she’s lifted into the air and out of the store-room. The sight of the kid makes both Escupir and Mudra pause, before Escupir just shakes her head, exasperated.

          “At this point I don’t even question this stuff.”

--

           By the time she arrives back at the Wanderwing, the child has fallen asleep in her arms.

           From what Suraya can tell she’s female, and her initial guess of four years old seems pretty accurate. She hasn’t given up her tight hold of the Hunter’s poncho since she dozed off, so when Hawthorne transfers her to one of the seats aboard the ship she has to pry the child’s fingers off the garment.

           This, of course, wakes the child up.

           Surprisingly she doesn’t start crying, or anything of the sort. Suraya doesn’t have much experience with kids, but from what she can tell they tend to be loud, and she’s not sure whether this one’s calmness is concerning or a relief.

           What she is sure of is that she needs to get the kid back to the City as quickly as possible.

           She hurries around the ship, prepping systems for flight as Tige alternates between helping her and watching the strange child huddled up in the co-pilot seat. “Hey Sura?” Tige murmurs over their bond, optic still on the young one. “I think she’s cold.”

           Suraya pauses to watch the child for a few moments, and sure enough her arms tremor slightly with the force of a shiver, the basic cotton trousers and short-sleeved top she’s wearing not enough to protect her from the cold of the ship’s climate-controlled air. “Ah, fuc-.” She mutters to herself, before turning to Tige. “Can you pull a cloak from my Vault from here?”

           “I should be able to, give me a moment.”

           In the meantime, Suraya drifts over to the dashboard, where the little plush Louis Tae had made for her rests. “Kids like toys, right?” She mutters to herself, when Tige trills triumphantly, transmatting one of Eva’s famously soft Dawning cloaks into her arms.

           She approaches the child with the cloak-turned-blanket and plush in hand, carefully arranging the cloak around the kid’s shoulders and offering her the mini-Louis. The child blinks up at her in what she chooses to interpret as gratitude, taking the plush and cradling it against her chest.

--

           They arrive at the Tower an hour later, and the moment they touch down in the hangar the child is slowly pulling herself out of the seat. Suraya watches carefully, ready to intervene if she shows signs of falling, but instead, once on her feet, she just clings to the armrest and looks up at Suraya.

           “Right little one.” She murmurs, psyching herself up for the barrage of questions she’s inevitably going to face once she steps off the gangplank with a child in her arms. “Would you like me to carry you?” At her nod, Suraya reaches down and lifts the child up by her armpits, bringing her to rest on her hip. She still hasn’t let go of her grip on the plush or the cloak, and huddles close to the Hunter’s side.

           “Time to face the music I suppose.” She mutters, taking the first step down the gangplank.

--

           After a quick medical, in which the child is declared to be in surprisingly good health, it’s decided that she should stay with Suraya and Tae for the time being, until they can figure out the situation.

           Tae’s still on duty so Suraya takes the child back to their apartment to get settled in. They have a spare room, but it’s far too spartan to be comfortable for such a young child, so instead she gets her settled in the lounge, piling up the sofa with spare cushions and duvets alongside the Dawning cape.

           Despite her earlier sleepiness the child doesn’t seem tired, so she follows Suraya around silently as she makes spaghetti for dinner, and she happily accepts the cooled-down portion the Guardian offers her. She seems to be slowly coming out of her shell – she hasn’t spoken yet, but she’d asked for yoghurt for dessert and helped to clean up after dinner, as best as she could.

           “Do you have a name?” Suraya asks her carefully, and her head rises from where it’d been nestled along Suraya’s side. The response is simple – a head shake, no pause needed – and Suraya frowns. “Would you like one? Just for now, I mean.” This time the child nods and the Hunter pulls her closer.

           “What about… Eyas?”

[thinkyoureholy]

A Woman Scorned [6]

.

.

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Pairing :Kim Jongin / Reader

Genre : Angst, Mature Language, Fluff, Smut

Words : 2.2k

Pt 1. Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt 4. Pt 5. Pt 6. Pt 7. Pt 8. Pt 9. Pt 10. Pt 11. Pt 12. Pt 13. Epilogue.

-Y/N’s P.O.V-

"Wait what do you mean by buying stocks?" Minseok asked from his seat in the back. "I don't know what's so hard to understand. I'm buying the part of the company Jongin has let slip through his fingers after his grandfather passed away." I said through gritted teeth. As soon as I said that Junmyeon pulled over, turning to me, "I thought you didn't want anything to do with the money your father gave you? If you're gonna use it for revenge then forget about it, I'm not gonna let you go through with it. I'd rather that money stay in the bank unused then for you-" "Just who do you think you are telling me I can't use the money my father left me? And so what if I want to use it for revenge? That money is mine to use however the fuck I please and if I want to use it like this-" "Dammit Y/N you don't understand!" Minseok shouted, cutting me off, "If you do this you'll lose yourself." I looked down at my hands at his words, feeling the tears that I had been holding gather in my eyes, "I just--I can't stand the fact that they get to go on with their lives as if nothing happened. It's not fair. Why am I the only one that has to suffer, huh? Who's gonna give me back the past two years of my life? The things I've been through-- the shit I had to do while in that hellhole...I'm not the same person I was when I went in. The me you knew Minseok is hardly even there anymore. I lost myself the moment they put those handcuffs on me," I said with a broken voice, the tears slipping out and sliding down my cheeks. I took a shaky breath, my heart constricting in my chest, "It's not fair that I'm the only one that's suffered because of their greed." I heard Minseok sigh heavily before I felt him reach over and wipe my tears away gently with his fingers, "Fine." "Hyung-" "I am tired of seeing her cry over that fucking bastard when he couldn't give two shits about her. When did he ever make time to visit her? Where was he when all this shit happened? He just sat back and let his grandfather and bitch do all the dirty work while Y/N suffered. I've had it. I know life isn't fair but fuck, those two deserve everything Y/N has planned for them." Minseok said to Junmyeon, shutting up his protest and all other future protests. Minseok then turned back to me, placing his fingers under my chin and gently making me look up at him, "Okay. We'll go with whatever you have planned. Let's show them how badly they fucked up by messing with you.

-

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Junmyeon asked, still a bit skeptical about everything and making sure I was a hundred percent sure about doing this.

“As my financial advisor, lawyer, and friend you should've done a better job at convincing me not to go through with this but here we are.” I said, keeping my eyes on the elevator doors.

I hear Minseok on my right sigh heavily before coming over to stand in front of me. Without a word he straightened out my the blazer, fixing the collar. He went to button up the blazer before he finally spoke.

“You’ve spent all this money already, might as well make it worthwhile.”

“Don't encourage her.’

Minseok let a smirk cross his lips as he raised his head to look at me as he spoke, his words still directed at Junmyeon, “I say that punk deserves to suffer a little, the bitch too,” He paused for a second before directing his next words to me, “Give them hell.”

……

No one really noticed us when we walked into the hall, everyone minding their own business well everyone besides Bora. As soon as I walked in her eyes met mine, her hold on the glass in her hand tightening a fire was lit behind her eyes. I had to control myself and not burst out laughing at the look, instead I settled on smirking. I knew this would rile her up more than she already was. I mean I would be furious as well if someone ruined my engagement party but she deserved it. Junmyeon, Minseok and I had just gotten to our assigned cocktail table when she marched over to us. With the way she was holding the glass in her hand I could tell she was ready to throw it in my face. Minseok must've noticed this as well as he got in front of me, taking the alcohol in the face instead. She went to grab another glass when Junmyeon grabbed her wrist in his hand tightly.

“I suggest you don't do that.”

“And I suggest you remove your hand.” Jongin's said, appearing a few feet away from us behind Bora.

I didn't bother looking at him, instead focusing on drying Minseok's shirt and hair with the napkins that were provided on the table. I didn't have to do much talking as Bora took the initiative.

“What the hell do you think you're doing here? This event is for invited guests only. What you didn't have your fill by ruining my engagement party so now you want to ruin a business party too? Why the hell did you even think it was a good idea to show your face around us?” She said, trying to keep her voice low so the other people attending wouldn't hear her, “It's been two fucking years Y/N couldn't you have stayed out of our lives for good?”

I set my jaw at her words, putting down the napkins I had in my hand and looking over at Jongin instead of Bora, “Is this how your employees speak to their employer?”

The two stared at me in shock at my words, their eyes wide, Jongin speaking up, “E-Employer?”

I smirked at getting the reaction I wanted, “Who do you think bought the shares and stocks last week? You even decided to throw this nice little party for me, it really wasn't necessary.”

“That's--That's impossible…”

I turned to Bora now, the smirk on my face turning into a grin, “You never knew who my father was. Sure I never wanted anything to do with him and his money but when I heard Lotto Enterprises was doing so bad...I couldn't help but use some of the money my dear father left me.”

I chuckled at the way her face paled, hearing them call for the new co-owner to step up to the podium. The smile on my face immediately fell, a dark look making its way into my eyes as I went to walk passed them but stopped just before passing Jongin.

“I hope the old man is rolling over in his grave at seeing me take over his company. Don't think I won't stop until this entire company is in my hands...before I destroy it completely.”

"Y/N, you don't have to do all of this." Jongin said under his breath. I set my jaw, balling my hands into fists at my sides at his words. I said nothing as I walked over to the podium. Everyone went quiet as soon as they noticed me walking towards it, their eyes on me. Once up there I felt my nerves want to get the better of me, my hands beginning to shake at having their eyes on me. Logically I knew this wasn't the same situation but I couldn't help be reminded of the time I was arrested. Lotto Enterprises was a big company and something like my arrest caught the media's attention. Though they never released my information or showed my face they didn't have a problem bombarding me with questions every time they saw me during the trial. Since then I've developed a bit of anxiety over things like this, hating having so many people looking at me. I took a deep breath to try and calm myself, looking around the room. My eyes found Jongin's, seeing the hurt in them. Seeing that look in his eyes had anger surge through my veins. What does he have to feel hurt over? Was he locked up for two years? Falsely accused over a crime he swore on his life he didn't commit? Was he subjected to abuse or was his life threatened while he was in jail? He had gone through nothing that compare to what I had gone through for two whole years, hell he even got engaged. I ground my teeth, clutching onto the sides of the podium tightly as I tore my gaze away from him, "Good evening everyone. As the gentleman earlier said I'm the new co-owner of Lotto Enterprises, Y/N Y/L/N," I paused before continuing, "I look forward to working with all of you and I'll have a full report on Monday morning sent to each and every one of your emails to further explain what I plan to do with the company. Thank you." I finished and stepped back bowing deeply before heading back over to Minseok and Junmyeon. As soon as I reached them I grabbed them both by the shoulder, turning them around. I clutched their arms tightly, leading them out of there, I had to get out and I had to do it now. As soon as we made it to the elevator I leaned against Junmyeon, letting out a heavy sigh. "I hate things like this." "Well you're gonna have to get used to it." I gave Minseok a grin, "It's one way to get over my fear that's for sure." I felt Junmyeon's shoulder shake before hearing the chuckle that left his lips. I turned to him, hugging his frame and pinning his arms to his sides, "You know I'm gonna need a real financial advisor to make sure I don't waste the rest of my money." He let out another chuckle, a crooked smile making its way onto his face, "I'm a lawyer not an accountant." "I thought you were all the same." At that he gave me a deadpanned look, a scoff falling from his lips, "I don't know if I should be hurt or annoyed but I am offended." "Oh no I think you hurt his feelings." Minseok said with a smug grin on his face. "Aw no did I really hurt the poor baby's feelings?" Junmyeon scoffed once more, his tongue poking at his cheek as he tried to keep a smile from spreading across his face, "Okay now I really think I'm annoyed." "I think he's angry." I said with a shit eating grin, Minseok mirroring my smile. Minseok and I let out a laugh, Junmyeon joining in. But when the doors to the elevator opened on the first floor the smiles on our faces fell at seeing the person. It was Jongin. He was panting heavily as beads of sweat began rolling down the sides of his face. His eyes found me as soon as the doors opened but his eyes soon traveled to my arms that were still wrapped tightly around Junmyeon. I let my arms fall to my sides, Minseok and Junmyeon immediately turning hostile. Before anyone could say anything I felt Minseok grab hold of my arm, Junmyeon being the first to walk out of the elevator as he shoved Jongin aside. Minseok led me out, completely ignoring Jongin. "Y/N wait." I stopped at hearing his voice, my hand clutching onto the fabric of Minseok's suit jacket. I shook my head before walking over to the car, stopping once more at hearing what he said next. "Y/N please I just want to apologize." I broke free of Minseok's grip, turning on my heel and marching over to him, my blood boiling, "You want to apologize? Now? After all this time now you feel the need to apologize? You didn't visit me while I was locked up, not once. You suspected me even when I swore to you that I had nothing to do with the robbery." I paused as I heard my voice begin to break, tears welling up in my eyes, "When I needed you the most...you weren't there Jongin. But now you want to apologize? Why even waste your time?" "I know--I know I fucked up Y/N. I know I don't have the right but I can't just stand by anymore. You have no idea how many times I wanted to go to you but I-I couldn't." "Bullshit," I spat out angrily, "You didn't visit me because you still had a shadow of a doubt that I was guilty. Your grandfather died six months before I was released so what else held you back? Was it Bora?" At hearing her name he looked away from me, diverting his gaze. I couldn't help but scoff at how pathetic he was. I wiped away the tears that had managed to escape, combing my fingers through my hair. "My own boyfriend abandoned me and left me to rot in prison while a complete stranger believed with all his heart that I truly was innocent...that is the cruel reality I live in," I took a breath to reel in my emotions, "I don't want or need your apology so just keep it. You and Bora turned my life upside down, now it's my turn to do the same to the two of you."

[alexafaie-asd]

PIP Assessment Tomorrow and AAAAAAAAHHHHH!

I’m feeling all kinds of feels. Mostly anxiety because of how the last one went.

I hate how I have to have another in person assessment for what is a life long condition as if its just magically going to have gone away.

I hate that the in person assessment is done by someone who used to be some kind of medical professional, but usually no higher than a nurse with no specialism (because ATOS are a shit company) and that their one hour assessment is weighted higher than all of the evidence provided by my GP and Psychiatrist and Psychologist and the Autism Specialist and the Multi-disciplinary team that diagnosed me and actually understand how my conditions affect me.

I hate how last time, I felt like it went well (and my boyfriend did too) because the lady seemed to be really understanding. But then I got my copy of her report through and for every single section of the report she had used the same copy and pasted bit of text saying that I had turned up to the appointment looking “well kempt and smartly dressed” as if that was evidence enough that I couldn’t possibly have difficulties in any area the form covers (it was even used as evidence against me saying I struggle socially and need help cooking especially when in a mixed episode as I’ll try to use the knives to self harm despite neither of those having anything to do with being dressed smartly).

I’m scared that they will do the same to me again because they are notorious for turning down people with invisible and variable conditions of which all of mine are. If you google PIP assessments or PIP appeals along with either bipolar disorder or autism (I have both) you’ll see tons of links where people are asking for advice because their claim renewals were rejected even after they had been given PIP previously and have life long conditions where their circumstances haven’t changed (or have only got worse). So its unfortunately not an irrational fear that I can just wave away with positive thinking. It happens far too often.

The system is broken. They care more about weeding out “fakers” than in providing the help to disabled people. And who suffers? Us disabled people. We have to repeatedly jump through hoops to prove how we are suffering and they frequently use our ability to succeed in jumping through said hoops to deny that we even have a problem. They are known to have made people with physical disabilities walk down a very long corridor when they were told they’d be seen in the closest room, and then when they finally made it (with breaks holding themselves against the wall to take breaks from the pain and difficulty) used that against them because the distance was deemed long enough that they had no mobility problems at all. Of course when said person went to the appeals - which happens in a courtroom with 3 judges with medical specialties - they said the person did indeed qualify and was unfairly treated at their appointment.

But does that behaviour change? No. ATOS do it time and time again. They made the news once for decreeing that someone with full body paralysis who relies on a feeding tube and round the clock care was fit for work because they didn’t turn up for their appointment. Which was meant to be in their own house (due to not being able to leave the bed), but which ATOS decided should happen in their offices instead. Again, obviously the appeals process found in the disabled person’s favour, but the whole system is designed to scare disabled people away from claiming the money they are entitled to to help them live a bit more independently.

So yeah, I’m really scared its going to go badly and require going to appeals again. Last time I was semi-lucky in that they “found” my “lost in the post” doctor’s note (we had sent it tracked so knew they had received it months before & even who had signed for it) so decided that actually I was entitled after all. But they told me it on the phone, telling me I was just two points off the higher tier which I could try to get if I carried on with the appeals process. BUT I had to remember that if I went to court and they didn’t feel I deserved it, I wouldn’t get any PIP at all. So I had the “choice” of accepting the lower tier right then whilst on the phone (whilst crying because I am anxious talking on the phone) and no I couldn’t think about it and let them know. I had to decide right that moment. And I knew that because of how depressed I’d got going through the whole process that far I couldn’t deal with having to stand up in court on my own to argue my case. I can’t cope giving presentations in front of groups of people and it would have been like that. So I went with the lower tier even though by our scoring of my condition I scored at least 8 points into the higher tier and probably would have been awarded it at court if I could have coped with going.

The reason I knew I couldn’t cope with it was because they used the same kind of language my dad used when I said I was going to call childline as a kid because of the abuse. He said that if I phoned childline and they didn’t believe me that I was being abused, I would be sent to prison. Not the one for children - adult prison - because it was that serious an offense to lie to childline. And I believed him and was too scared to ever phone. So when they said I could try and go to court but if they didn’t believe me I’d get nothing at all, I flashbacked to what happened as a kid. Why would they believe me? I was just a little kid who must be lying.

And so yeah. I’m sat here typing this long tumblr post because I’m fucking scared and can’t get any of this out of my head. I need to go to sleep but I have no idea how I’m going to manage to get to sleep when I’m feeling like this. I’m trying super hard to keep in control because its making me feel like self harming and that’s not really what I need right now.

Oh yeah and my circumstances have changed since my last assessment - I now have my autism diagnosis. So that’s a new thing for them to use against me. I’m hyperverbal (could you guess? I bet you couldn’t from how succinct and to the point my posts are) and so I would not be surprised if they use that against me because all autistic people are non-verbal right? So if I can talk well then I must be faking and all my diagnoses must be wrong. I only have an hour to prove to them that I’m telling the truth. And I’ve been conditioned growing up to believe that I’m a terrible person, a liar about how I experience the world and at fault for anything bad that has ever happened to myself, my family and even the entire world. Soooo..... yeah. That’s fun.

And I’m really trying to fight my brain because its trying to work out whether I should repeatedly bang my head against the wall or cut myself. And neither of those are good ideas. I know that. That part of my brain keeps saying they are good ideas though. How do I know who to trust? Myself or myself?

[islandpcosjourney]

Day 27 – May ’22 challenge

4th June 2022

Gosh I almost forgot to write today’s blog post! I’ve been so busy doing not-very-much that I got wrapped up in all of that instead 😂

I woke up early with the dog pacing in the room, so had to let her out, but came back to bed as it was still sleepy time (within the 6hrs required to get an average temp reading from the OvuCore). I was super stiff from all the work I did with my muscles yesterday – clearly so good for me! It’s a great feeling to know I’d been using all of those muscles while having so much fun! Definitely want to go paddle-boarding again! Got invited out to do some more water activities this afternoon but I had to decline because essentially I don’t want to increase the pain I have already AND increase my time in the sun, further making me look like I’m turning into the beetroot juice I was drinking yesterday!

Today has been quiet time for me. Time to have space with my thoughts and deal with the aftermath of a busy, overwhelming day yesterday. While I didn’t feel overwhelmed at the time, it’s only when my mind replays everything that I realise how much I tackled, handled, AND enjoyed, while I reported a very positive day last night, handling my anxieties, letting go and getting swept up in the momentum of it all, it then hits me afterwards that I actually managed it! I don’t do proud, but I was pleased with myself that I’d been outgoing enough to try new things, go back to old things I used to enjoy and even taking compliments is something I find hard too. Processing all of that is then exhausting 😂 Living life is about knowing your limits isn’t it? Well I usually underestimate mine.

I can’t take compliments, even from Kevin so I find it very hard to accept them from others. Of course it’s nice to hear that I’m looking slim, that my skin is radiant, that I look healthy; somebody I haven’t seen an awful lot of lately barely recognised me – of course that’s nice to see because when the changes are happening slowly to ourselves, we don’t recognise the dramatic changes that losing 5 stone can look like. However, I never respond in the way I would like to. I just do a nervous smile, get all embarrassed and agree with an “aww thank you”. I mean, really it’s like somebody commenting “oh you’ve got your hair cut” – which is essentially only stating a fact but is a way for someone to start a conversation involving a nice compliment. Most people don’t comment on my physical changes and that just normalises it but when it is pointed out to me, it always surprises me 🥴 I’m not saying this to discourage anyone from mentioning it to me in future, I’m just trying to make sense of why I can’t seem to react properly to it when it is 🤦🏻‍♀️

Since this afternoon I’ve been suffering from occasional abdominal cramping on my right side. Quite bad sometimes it made me double over, so it was noticeable – enough to warrant lying down in bed. It could be a welcome sign of ovulation and being on CD16, it should be, but I am still getting to know my own body in each cycle, and it will take time to recognise the patterns and appreciate what they are so that I can recognise any changes.

I’ve been so up and down over the last 20yrs with it, no such thing as a pattern, so I really find it hard to know who I am CURRENTLY when I haven’t stayed consistent in my health, weight or even work routines. Being self-employed, that part will never be consistent, except that it involves music of some sort, but I’m so looking forward to being consistent with my health & weight ONE day – that’s the goal! Maybe then I could invest in a wet suit 🤷🏻‍♀️ It was never even a consideration before as I was always fluctuating weight-wise and was bad enough having to buy entire new sets of clothes when I changed sizing “yet again”. Now I’m overwhelmed with clothing options, and I love it! Having only ever had 5 days’ worth of outfits, for years and years, I’ve now gone 3 weeks without wearing a single item twice. I challenged myself to always go for something new each day. Being different, challenging myself to find new combinations. There’s something very invigorating in that.

My cat Priscilla, displaying how I’ve felt all day 😂😂😂😂

[mazurah]

Journal of a Buoyant Armiger in Valenwood

First - Previous - Next

21st of Sun’s Height

Oh sweet Lord… Blessed Almsivi, Mercy, Mastery, Mystery… hear the prayer of your supplicant. I fear this trial may yet prove to be too much for me.

I delivered the book of Bosmeri stories to the storyteller at the carnival today. He was absolutely delighted, despite--or possibly because of--the language in which it was written. My mind had only just begun to form the first wisps of thought regarding what I should do with the rest of my day, when a sound like a deafening foghorn the likes of which will haunt my nightmares resounded throughout the firmament. When the reverberations faded somewhat, and I regained full employment of my hearing, I heard a sound halfway between a thunderclap the likes of which I have never before heard and a tonne of metal falling onto solid bedrock from a great height, swiftly followed by the sound of gargantuan chains clanking taut over the solid surface of the largest windlass Nirn has ever accomodated. My gaze snapped to the tree canopy in the direction of the sound only to witness what was unmistakably a Dark Anchor portal hovering over the landscape to the southwest, spiked metal chains already straining to drawn Nirn into its hungry maw. Clouds darker and more menacing than those producing the slow drizzle of rain around us crept toward the gaping hole in the sky as though it was sucking the life out of even the air of that vibrant jungle.

I nearly succumbed to panic in that moment, but the pandemonium in the carnival around me drew my focus out of the intrusive memories of Coldharbour and the knowledge of everything that Anchor represented. I swiftly located the carnival mistress and told her to take the entirety of her troupe to Elden Root while I scouted the Anchor. I told her to send someone to alert the Fighters Guild as well.

I made my way through the underbrush toward the Dark Anchor. It took me what must have been over half an hour to get there from the carnival grounds. I had overestimated its closeness because of the sheer enormity of the thing. When I arrived I clung to the side of an embankment, hidden in the foliage, and observed from above as I witnessed Daedra crash to the ground beside a small group of cultists. I made note of the variety; first, Dremora, as expected; next a trio of Clannfear plunged to earth beside the self-condemned cultists that had summoned them and began ripping them to bloody shreds; and finally a hulking Ogrim descended with a bellow and an explosion of smoke and dust.

I did not stay to watch their forces accumulate. I had ascertained the Anchor’s exact location and enough information about the invading force to flee back toward Elden Root. After a very long, three hour trek in which I was constantly glancing over my shoulder for pursuers, I made it to the Fighters Guild with a breathless report. They had already mustered over a half dozen people into full gear by the time I had arrived, and my account sent their already hurried activity into a frenzy.

I made a mad dash back to the Den to try to recruit Fayrl’s assistance, and, after failing to find him in the entirety of the Den, I finally discovered him in his room. Honestly, I should have checked there first, but I was not thinking as clearly as I should have, fighting as I was the panic that clutched at the tail of every rational thought. I don’t know why my emotions spiraled so out of control. I have training almost my entire life for how to conduct myself in an emergency. I’ve been in worse situations before, situations with more immediacy and tension to them, and never had this kind of all-consuming fear inhibit my thinking. It must have something to do with my previous encounter with Coldharbour. Perhaps I am not coping as well as I thought. I wish I could talk to my captain about it. She would know what was wrong with me. She always has the answers.

Upon hearing Fayrl’s answering call through the door, I opened it without thinking, only to discover him stark naked, cock in hand.

I closed the door immediately of course, but didn’t let my respect for his modesty prevent me from relaying the necessary information. I told him I would get my armor on and meet him by the front door in five minutes.

Of course, he had to go and take what seemed like a quarter of an hour instead, and nearly made us miss the Fighters Guild heading out toward the Anchor’s location.

It was nearly dark as we began the long hike to the Anchor, and the Fighters Guild handed me and Fayrl a lantern and a handful of night vision potions for use once we got to the site. The day’s rain had slowed, and finally stopped by the time we got there, for which I was grateful. It was not a clear night, but at least the sky wasn’t drenching us.

The fight was…. Actually, I’d rather not talk too much about the fight. It went better than it could have, but you never get used to losing comrades in arms, even ones you only just met. May the Three, or whatever gods they worship shelter their souls. Fayrl and I were the only people who could use any kind of offensive magicka in the entire group, and I stayed back and hit the Daedra with mostly ranged attacks. When it was over, three of the nine Fighters Guild members were dead, and I didn’t have a scratch on me.

There were injuries, but I was fortunate that the Fighters Guild was so well prepared that I didn’t need to offer my healing abilities. The battle fatigue hit me like a charging Ogrim as soon as the Fighters Guild successfully unmoored the Anchor and we were no longer in danger of attack. I felt nearly dazed as they informed us that they were going to leave a pair of guards at the Anchor base, take their dead back to Elden Root, and send for stonemasons and volunteers to begin dismantling the stone of the ritual circle so that Molag Bal could not send the Anchor down again. I desperately needed rest, so I told them I would return in the morning to assist them. Fayrl was already urging me back to the city.

I walked the long, tense road back for the fourth time that day in full darkness. The Fighters Guild lent me a lantern, for which I was grateful, because I easily imagined Dremora jumping out of the blackness to capture me and Fayrl again, despite the fact that we had only just finished closing their doorway to Nirn. The pool of lantern light was an island of safety in that dark jungle, and my fatigued mind conjured all kinds of fantasms, mostly from Oblivion, to pursue us just out of sight in the shadows of the trees. I was grateful too that Fayrl agreed not to touch me, because I would have probably jumped out of my skin, or pissed myself, or broken down crying, or something equally embarrassing had he tried.

This is not the conduct of a Buoyant Armiger! What is wrong with me that makes this emergency so much more difficult to cope with than any other emergency I have previously encountered? Rationally, I knew that the likelihood of Daedra popping out of the underbrush to take me and Fayrl captive was very slim, but the possibility tormented my mind. I prayed to my Lord under my breath for comfort almost the entire way home.

“The fire is mine: let it consume thee, And make a secret door At the altar of Padhome, In the House of Boet-hi-Ah Where we become safe And looked after.”

When I got back to the Den I requested a bath in my room, and let myself soak away the stench of sweat and panic. The silence was finally too much for me and I broke down in tears in the bath, sobbing to my Lord for forgiveness for my weakness. It is not weakness, I know. I did everything right; I did not abandon my training. I did not let my fear prevent me from performing the tasks I needed to perform, but it feels like such weakness to return from a battle and cry about everything that might have happened, both good and bad, had I done even the slightest thing different.

Could I have saved those three that died at the hands of the Daedra today if I had entered the fray instead of relying on my ranged abilities to fight? I don’t know. I am better at ranged fighting, so probably not, but the possibility torments me. What is worse, I am plagued with the troubled thought that I have destroyed yet another pathway to reclaiming my soul. What should I have done though? Was I supposed to climb up the chain? Leaving the portal open would have been an act of supreme selfishness. I engrave upon mine eyes the image of injustice; I cannot suffer it to stand. Besides, what would I even do once there? I could not predict what I would find, and thus I had no plan. Nothing good could have come of it. I know better than to gather seeds in the fields of hell.

I spent over nine hours today in a state of abject terror, not to mention the time spent in full-scale battle, and my body was so exhausted that I nearly thought I couldn’t lift myself from the bath. Tomorrow I am returning to the Anchor base to assist the Fighters Guild in its dismantling. I don’t know how well I will cope. Hopefully, better than I did today. I suspect the anxiety will not diminish until I have completely wiped that accursed artifact from the face of Nirn. I have never been more fully aware that the slave labor of the senses is as selfish as polar ice. I have often heard the concept preached as an admonition against excess, but it works the other way as well, with feelings we don’t want, and can’t get rid of.

I know what I must do. I shall let faith be my only law. I shall forge my faith most keen in the crucible of suffering. It is not something I enjoy, but it is something that I need. Faith conquers all. I shall yield to faith.

That is not to say I shouldn’t take care of myself. Fayrl has kindly left me a plate of food outside my door. I should avail myself of it.

Fayrl’s Corresponding Entry Qau-dar’s Corresponding Entry

[mermaidsirennikita]

April 2018 Book Roundup

In April, I read silly books and I read books that were deadly (literally) serious.  It’s possible that the most well-written book I read was Madeline Miller’s Circe, which I loved and found much more satisfying than Song of Achilles.  But the most enjoyable book?  It was Laura Thalassa’s Pestilence, the romance novel about a girl, an apocalypse, and a sexy horseman who spreads disease.  What more could you want?

Pestilence by Laura Thalassa.  4/5.  When the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse show up, all technology fails, sending the world into chaos.  Then they disappear.  Five years later, Pestilence has reappeared, and wherever he goes a plague kills everyone in his path.  Sara, an ex-firefighter, has been sent to kill him.  When that fails?  She becomes his prisoner--with Pestilence claiming that he’s keeping her alive to make her suffer.  Of course, that’s not what’s really going on, and yes, this is a full-blown romance novel.  It’s also one of the most enjoyable books I’ve read all year thus far.  Sara and Pestilence’s romance is ridiculous, engrossing, hilarious, and yes, pretty sexy.  One thing I loved about this book is that while Pestilence is in his very nature a conqueror and pretty much a living plague--he’s also very boyish and inexperienced and the book makes that inexperience very sexy.  Because Sara’s experienced.  Sara is sarcastic, foul-mouthed, and pretty sexual; and very rarely do you come across a romance novel that lacks a serious alpha male.  Like, yes, Pestilence has his dominant moments, but overall he’s more like... sorta hapless.  I mean, spoiler alert, they have sex, what a shocker, and when Sara is annoyed that he’s not being more chill about it he’s like “I GAVE YOU MY ESSENCE SARA~~~~”.  It’s one of those books.  I loved it.

I Was Anastasia by Ariel Lawhon.  3/5.  Anna Anderson was famous for pretending to be famous--after an attempted suicide, she claimed to be Anastasia Romanov, and was so convincing that people who met and were related to the grand duchess backed her.  “I Was Anastasia” explores Anna’s life--backwards.  Meanwhile, the story of Anastasia Romanov is told moving forward.  Somewhere, they meet in the middle, as does the truth.  In a basic way, this is a good historical fiction novel.  It doesn’t reinvent the wheel.  The thing is that if you know anything about Anastasia, you know about Anna; there aren’t any twists to be had.  What kept this from being a four-star read, aside from the fact that it was a bit expected, was one thing concerning the grand duchesses that is pretty debatable from what I understand, and--I’m not sure it was necessary.  But if you’re into the Romanovs, you may want to check this out.

Lady Killers: Deadly Women Throughout History by Tori Telfer.  4/5.  A collection of write-ups on female serial killers.  What sets this book apart is that, aside from Erszebet Bathory and Nannie Doss (as well as the Benders, vaguely) I really hadn’t heard about most of these women.  Telfer steered clear of discussing extremely obvious women like Aileen Wuornos, instead focusing on cases that largely took place before the second half of the twentieth century, with one murderess dating back to the thirteenth century.  Of course, this means that there was often more speculation and less hard evidence, but for most of these women I think there was a pretty good case to be made that SOMETHING was going on, even if it wasn’t as salacious as some might believe.  And Telfer doesn’t just stick to typical American and European women, either--she touches about the Egyptian sisters Raya and Sakina, famous for killing a remarkable number of women, and Oum El-Hassen, a Moroccan murderess whose motives remain a mystery to this day.  More than a profiling of these individuals, however, I’d call this book an analysis of how we interpret female serial killers culturally.  Why don’t we take them as seriously as we do male serial killers?  Why do paint them, often, as more sexual than truly frightening?  Telfer doesn’t shy away from the gory details and while you might feel some empathy for these women, she doesn’t hesitate to report that some were very likely psychopaths, with no remorse--but then, that doesn’t take away from the fact that some were poor, some were abused, and some didn’t really see any better options for themselves.  The Angel Makers of Nagyrev--not one murderess but a group of Hungarian village women who, over fifteen years, killed around 300 people for a variety of reasons--were particularly interesting and kind of heartbreaking.  Highly recommend.

Tangerine by Christine Mangan.  2/5.  In 1956, Alice goes to Tangiers with her new husband--a man she barely knows--John.  Haunted by an event that happened while she was at school--an event she barely remembers--Alice struggles with anxiety and paranoia, and can’t adjust to the strange world of Morocco.  However, her past catches up to her in the form of Lucy, her old school friend.  This is essentially a 40s/50s film noir/psychological thriller movie a la Hitchcock in book form. Unfortunately, while I feel it would have worked as a movie of that style and era, the writing wasn’t attention-grabbing.  Pretty, but a bit dull.  I couldn’t tell much of a difference between the voices of Lucy and Alice, though they alternated, and the “twist”...  I don’t need a twist in my thrillers--a real one, that is--but if there is going to be one it should be decent.  This was fairly pedestrian.  A missed opportunity, especially painful because the authorb describes Morocco so well.

Indecent by Corrine Sullivan.  3/5.  Imogene has always envied the rich kids who went to elite boarding schools.  Now a grown woman, she becomes a teacher’s assistant of sorts at a fancy prep school for boys--only to find herself attracted to one of the students.  This is not an easy read.  If anyone reads it and believes that Imogene’s victim--because horny seventeen year old boy or not, he is that--was the bad person here, nah.  I don’t think Sullivan intends it that way at all.  Imogene is a study of a predator who became that way through insecurity and arrested development.  She thinks like a teenager.  She constantly critiques herself--her body, her relative lack of sexual experience.  She compares herself to teenage girls, for God’s sake, and is all impressed by a seventeen year old boy’s “experience” and “charisma”.  By being in Imogene’s mind...  You get how a predator becomes a predator.  Some aren’t born that way, and the line between a woman in her early twenties and a boy in his late teens COULD conceivably get blurred--but it’s always the adult’s fault, and this book doesn’t shy away from that.  I wouldn’t say it was a fun read, but it was interesting.

The Day of the Duchess by Sarah MacLean.  3/5.  Malcolm, the Duke of Haven (yes) has a problem.  He needs an heir--but to have an heir, he first needs a wife.  Actually, he has one; but Seraphina, the title-chaser who “trapped” him into marriage left nearly three years ago.  Now she’s shown up asking for a divorce, which isn’t all that easy to get.  Malcolm makes her a deal: if she helps choose his next wife, he’ll grant her the divorce.  Of course, Malcolm would far rather keep Seraphina around than have her select her replacement...  so his real plan is to woo her into staying with him.  This was a pleasant, enjoyable read that varied from the typical romance novel in that the hero has done a genuinely bad thing--not just a mildly upsetting thing--and there are very strong problems in the marriage.  Malcolm and Sera are both pretty wounded by what they’ve done to each other and one major thing neither one of them could have really helped.  The angst was real.  And the sex scenes were good--lots of emphasis on female gratification in this one.  But parts of the story were kind of like... too much comic relief for a novel with the kind of backstory this one has.  I’m not saying it had to be a serious story AT ALL, but Sera has this chorus of sisters and I liked them at first but it become... too much.  However, I’d still call it a solid historical romance.

Circe by Madeline Miller.  5/5.  Known as the witch who turned Odysseus’s men into pigs before capitulating to his charms and will, Circe is a character who was present for or linked to some of the most interesting parts of Greek mythology.  Here she gets her own epic, beginning with her birth as the nymph-goddess daughter of Helios.  Eventually exiled to an island, far from the other gods, Circe encounters everything from sailors to fellow witches and kings, and even monsters.  This is a literary fantasy, the writing as beautiful as it was in Song of Achilles, but dealing with a story much more dynamic and interesting.  Circe is a character who is at times deeply caring while not losing her selfish and destructive streaks.  She has reasons for her behavior, but she isn’t declawed in the least.  Miller tells the more horrifying parts of her story with taste, and at times, humor; but you never lose the sense of the epic in this novel.

The Queens of Innis Lear by Tessa Gratton.  4/5.  As the king of Innis Lear ages, his obsession with the stars and prophecy leave his kingdom in a perilous position.  Drawing together his three daughters--the warlike Gaela, manipulative and child-starved Regan, and the favorite, Elia--Lear promises that he will name his heir.  But no matter who he chooses, the sisters are prepared to go to war for the crown, and for the fate of Innis Lear.  Obviously, this is a retelling of King Lear--Gratton evidently found the initial portrayal of Lear’s daughters lacking, and really takes that to task here.  And to be sure, Gaela, Regan, and Elia have far more depths than the women in the original play.  But the fact is that I could have done with more of them, and less of the perspective of others.  When the story is with the sisters, it’s enthralling.  But often, there’s the perspective of Ban, a pivotal character--an embittered bastard with remarkable power--but perhaps not the most compelling voice.  Then there’s the fool’s daughter Aefa, Ban’s mother Brona, the sisters’ uncle, and more.  Gratton also often delves into the past, revealing plot points but more than that developing the characters.  Which is good.  None of what is in this book is bad, really, but it’s held back from being as good as it could be by too much of the less important stuff.  For example--Gaela and Regan have a very compelling, codependent relationship.  Gaela is driven to be king, and Regan has sworn to support her no matter what and have children that will be Gaela’s heirs.  The problem being, of course, that despite the fact that she’s the only one of the sisters in a loving relationship, Regan seems incapable of bearing a living child.  The differing struggles of Gaela and Regan are amazing, and deserved more pagetime.  With that being said, this is a super compelling story, and worth checking out.

I’ll Be Gone in the Dark by Michelle McNamara.  4/5.  Michelle McNamara, as many know, died in the middle of writing her exhaustive book on the Golden State Killer--a title she coined.  Obviously, the killer has since been caught, but he wasn’t when Michelle was researching.  The result is a gripping, incredibly well-done book on a monster.  It reminds me somewhat of In Cold Blood, but without the closeness to the killer--less sympathy, more drive to find and punish him.  McNamara was up front about her own flaws, with the book itself highlighting her obsessive nature.  But ultimately, the only thing I can really critique about her work is beyond her control; it is somewhat disjointed, as friends had to piece the book together after she died.  However, it’s a remarkable example of true crime lit.