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mechawaka · 5 months ago

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To Reach for the Sun, Part 2

A commission for @golden-feline. This is an original series set in their world and depicting their characters, and all names have been changed per request for public posting.

Genre: High Fantasy / Romance

Rating: T

Words: 16k

Summary: A deadly illness spreads across the lands; a pragmatic huntress shelters an eccentric doctor who seeks its cure. Can they overcome the anchors of tradition, the flames of conflict, and the whims of the heart in order to find it?

[ Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 ]

(Above concept art credit to Tin Trung on Artstation)

Part 1: Galaran

The clans of Gaia were as innumerable as its trees and they grew much the same; many never flourished, choked as saplings by their neighbors; some occupied the undergrowth, fighting constantly for meager sunlight; some formed the canopy and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with towering peers.

But there were a few that achieved even greater heights, breaching the canopy and shadowing vast stretches of it with their ancient arms. These trees were rare and not easily felled; likewise, there were a few tenacious clans that had occupied their lands for generations beyond memory, rebuking all challengers.

The Ran were one such clan. They maintained their status through adaptability; a smaller than average population and a larger than average territory meant that they could easily relocate within their borders and range for food in times of strife. This kept their fighters consistently strong - and thus the Ran had famously never ceded a single inch of land.

But such a shining history had its share of downsides. Galaran was looking at one right now: her father, Varran, the latest of a venerable bloodline tasked with safeguarding the clan’s legacy. This solemn duty weighed on its successors, or at least she imagined so; her great-grandmother and her grandfather, the two previous clan heads, had looked more and more like overburdened boughs as they’d aged, bending ever toward their breaking points.

Even Varran, though his ashen hair had just begun to dull, wore more frowns than smiles these days, and the lines around his mouth were deepening in accordance. His decisions were harsher, his thinking less flexible; he still held the imposing warrior’s posture that Galaran had aimed to emulate since her childhood, but it seemed to sag just a little every time she saw it.

Past his prime, some of her kin murmured.

She was sure that he thought this, as well, and that it had only heightened his rigidity - and the tension between the two of them.

“- and if you thought even for a moment that it might have been humans,” Varran was admonishing, “you should have reported back to me instead of rushing in on your own. What if they’d wielded firearms? What if they’d been mages?”

Galaran sat cross-legged before him in the meeting house; it was a place of honor reserved for the clan head’s family, but still subordinate to her father’s dais. She hated looking up at him like this, subjected to his imperious speeches without recourse. He wasn’t even right - she’d prevailed against the humans’ magic and black powder many times before.

She inclined her head to acknowledge his words, glaring down at the woven rush flooring for want of an acceptable target.

Varran exhaled a long-suffering sigh. After all this time, he knew that her nonverbal responses indicated disagreement; in the meeting house, the seat of the clan head’s power where no dissent could be uttered, it was her only option for defiance.

“Daughter,” he said wearily, “you acted bravely, but a strong leader must show wisdom as well as bravery. Weigh your actions more carefully next time.”

Her right eye twitched. Until the moment he’d started speaking, Galaran thought she’d weighed her actions quite well - but, as always, her father found fault in them. In fact, if she had a fish for every time he’d reprimanded her over something trivial, she’d never have to hunt again.

“Yes, Father,” she said coolly.

Behind her and off to one side - in the place reserved for outsiders - the rushes crackled with movement. She looked over in time to see Zakiriel lift his head from its deferential bow, his brows knitted in annoyance.

Galaran stiffened. He wasn’t about to speak, was he? She’d cautioned him very strongly against speaking out of turn, but she’d also learned that Haven observed a lax hierarchy; perhaps he was used to more tolerant leadership.

She discreetly tucked a hand behind her back, out of her father’s sight, and made the quick slicing motion for silence. Zakiriel had seen her use it many times on their trek to the village, and he obeyed it as readily now as he had then.

Wise.

She let out a relieved breath and resolved to describe the clan’s rules to him in greater detail.

“Good,” her father proclaimed from his dais, and Galaran spent a frantic moment worrying that he’d noticed the illicit exchange. “Now, to the matter of the outsider.”

He set his golden eyes - so similar to her own, but hardened - on Zakiriel. “Ranse your head, Featherling, and tell me your name. What do you bring to the Ran?”

Zakiriel responded properly this time, sitting up straight and meeting his interrogator’s gaze. His wings, which had been folded close to his back, flared ever so slightly.

“I am Zakiriel, primary doctor to the people of the Floating Isle,” he said, polite but firm. “I have spent my life studying the medicinal arts. In your clan’s words, I am a ‘healer.’”

Galaran nodded her approval; not many had the spine to face her father directly on their first meeting, and he usually favored those bold enough to dare.

“If you allow me to stay, sir, I can work alongside your own healers to earn my place. I understand that your people and mine are contending with the same disease.”

At this, Varran’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward and glanced at Galaran in annoyance, as if asking why she’d left that detail out of her report.

She tilted her head in response, mirroring his expression with a level of mockery that stopped just short of unacceptable. You didn’t ask.

“You will call me Elder,” he commanded, turning back to his original target. “Prove your skill. Describe this disease.”

Zakiriel smiled obligingly. “Of course. We call it ‘the Withering,’ since it drains vitality from its host. It superficially resembles other respiratory ailments, but doesn’t respond to normal curatives. I believe that it spreads through fluid transfer - sharing a drink, contamination via sweat or cough, and the like - but I haven’t been able to unequivocally prove it yet, given the mortality rate and variable onset of -”

Galaran thumped her tail against the floor to get his attention, then subtly jerked her chin toward the dais. Her father had crossed his arms, having always been uncomfortable with ignorance, and covered a bewildered frown with a displeased one.

“Ah,” Zakiriel realized. He - again, wisely - dipped his head in apology. “Please excuse my misunderstanding. You probably wanted a description of the symptoms - how the disease affects the sick - yes?”

Thus allowed to save face, Varran waved him on with an air of magnanimity.

Zakiriel started over, this time in a more serious manner. “The Withering first presents as a mild cough and intermittent fatigue. It is easy for the afflicted person to believe themselves merely overworked, but the lethargy does not ease with rest.”

“Next,” he continued, “the afflicted finds normal tasks exhausting. They cannot walk far, or carry much weight, without losing their breath. This is normally the point that they seek a doctor - a healer. They have already spread the disease to the other members of their household by now, if no precautions were taken, and those new afflicted will show their first symptoms within two weeks.”

This detached tone was so different from the impassioned frustration he’d shown in the cave. Galaran wondered whether he was putting on an act to impress her father, or if the subject affected him so deeply that he could only engage with this part of it from an arm’s length.

She’d known warriors who spoke of their more dire experiences that way - cold, factual, devoid of emotion. They’d had the same haunted glaze to their eyes, too.

“Finally, the afflicted loses all mobility and has trouble even drawing breath. Their skin loses its color and, very quickly following this, they expire. There exists no cure; I can only keep them comfortable.”

Varran listened with a stony expression. The deaths in their own clan troubled him deeply, she knew, and he felt partially responsible for each one. A tense silence fell over the meeting house while he considered the answer.

“This is indeed the same disease,” he finally confirmed, scrutinizing Zakiriel with renewed interest. “You say you can give comfort to the sick? How?”

The clan’s healers could numb most physical pains - those that arose from cuts, aches, fractures - but they’d been helpless against the Withering’s final agonies. Sufferers described a burning deep inside their lungs that no smoke could soothe; a weight on their chests that no herbal broth could ease.

Zakiriel drew a long, grounding breath, and the shadows cleared from his face.

“There are ointments and inhalants that can open the airways,” he said, sounding relieved to have left the previous topic. “I also prescribe a daily regimen of high-energy meals and simple exercises to combat lethargy.”

“When a patient is completely immobilized, I administer ether - that is, ah, a medicine that dulls the senses. It greatly reduces pain.”

Her father scratched thoughtfully at his chin; Galaran didn’t like the calculating glint in his eyes. “So you know how to stop this ‘Withering’ from spreading, and how to treat it.”

“That’s correct,” Zakiriel said, seemingly unaware that he was being appraised like a fine pelt. “I also seek the cure.”

Varran’s mouth split into a pleased trader’s grin.

“You are valuable, Zu-rai-el,” he stated, elongating the foreign syllables. “You may live among us. You will teach your ‘doctor’ ways to my healers.”

Though he didn’t speak it aloud, Galaran knew what her father truly valued about Zakiriel. The Withering had affected many clans; when it came time for a trade-meet, the Ran could demand a steep price for his knowledge.

It felt wrong to use another clan’s desperation that way, but Galaran couldn’t deny the potential benefits. It would be one more callous mark on her father’s legacy - a pattern he expected her to continue. But she wasn’t sure she could ever look another clan leader in the eye and request recompense for the health of their kin.

Varran’s easy acceptance seemed to throw Zakiriel off balance. Perhaps, Galaran thought, she’d gone a bit overboard with her warnings; in her defense, she hadn’t known how quickly her father would acknowledge an outsider’s value, if at all.

“I - I accept,” Zakiriel stammered, bright with elation. “That’s - thank you, Elder. I’ll gladly take your healers on as students of chemistry.”

“Good!” Varran boomed, blowing again past an obvious ignorance of his guest’s vocabulary. He swung his head back toward Galaran. “Daughter, your Featherling is worthy, but you must speak for him. Do you?”

Galaran, having anticipated this possibility, widened her cross-legged sitting position and rested a closed fist on each knee. Outsiders were normally taken in by the clan head themselves, but this was probably another test for her.

“I will speak for Zakiriel of Haven,” she intoned. “His actions are mine to bear. His safety is mine to ensure.”

In her peripheral vision, Zakiriel looked taken aback. Did he find it so odd to safeguard a newcomer? She briefly wondered how they welcomed guests in Haven, but then remembered that the Featherlings never had guests.

Her father nodded firmly in satisfaction. “Then it is done. Go and make a place for him,” he ordered, and then to Zakiriel, “Stay. Tell me more of your strange medicines.”

Galaran hesitated in a half-standing pose, reluctant to leave Zakiriel alone with the old cudgel, but ultimately bowed her head and departed. If he was going to live with the Ran, he’d have to learn how to deal with obstinate personalities eventually.

Still, she shot an uncertain look back over her shoulder at the threshold of the meeting house; the elevation difference provided by her father’s dais, from this angle, reminded her of an ocelot about to pounce on a hen.

Just as she was reconsidering her decision to leave, movement from the far end of the entrance veranda perked up her ears.

“Gala,” came a sweet, lilting voice. Sairan, her older sister, sidled up to her faster than a snake could strike, pale rose-hued hair bouncing in her exuberance.

“Sister,” Galaran greeted her warily. It was nearly impossible to predict the woman’s behavior, and while Galaran loved all of her family equally, Sairan was by far the most erratic of the bunch.

It was unusual to see her lurking around the meeting house, though - ever since she’d relinquished her rights as Varran’s heir, Sai hadn’t dipped a single claw into clan politics.

“Is it true?” she asked, straining her neck to try to peek through the slight gap between the meeting house’s doors. “Did you capture an odd little bird on your patrol?”

Galaran snorted. Of course. Her sister was peerlessly motivated by gossip; with all the strange looks and hanging jaws they’d seen on the way into the village, she really should have expected something like this.

“I did not capture him,” she explained, angling her body to block any ill-conceived attempts at infiltrating the meeting house. “I found him. Father granted him shelter.”

Sai folded her arms on the veranda’s siding and leaned on them, her tail curling with intrigue. “Oh? And this upsets you? Why?”

She cast a shrewd eye over her sister, who instinctually stiffened in response. “Could it be,” she guessed with a smirk, “that Father took issue with your creative problem solving again?”

Despite Sairan’s penchant for avoidance, she really did have a talent for reading others. A wasted talent, perhaps, but a keen one; in another life, she could’ve been a masterful negotiator for the clan.

Galaran relented - there was little point in resisting a determined Sairan - and joined her sister, taking up a similar pose on the siding. “He wasn’t there. He can’t judge my methods without seeing what happened.” “When will you learn?” Sai lamented, her pitying tone belied by a grin. “His expectations won’t ever change, but your words can. When the wind meets a stone, does it stop or go around?”

It took a guileful mind, indeed, to twist a saying that encouraged adaptability into one that urged deception.

Among the Ran bloodline’s current generation, Sai had always been different from her two younger siblings; she spurned the family duties and much preferred to spend her time in idleness, catering to none but her own whims. As such, and especially since she’d given up her inheritance, Varran treated her with a resigned indifference that visibly stung.

Galaran felt sorry for her, to be sure, but couldn’t halt the bitter thoughts that arose in response to Sai’s common glibness.

If you had just done your job, I wouldn’t have this burden. If I don’t bear this burden, it will only pass to our brother.

“Someone must stand upright,” Galaran replied carefully, but not carefully enough; her sister’s eyes became suspicious slits, ill-matched to her smile.

“Because Father doesn’t,” Sai said slowly, “or because I don’t?”

“Sairan -” Galaran began, but it was too late. She’d blundered into the trap and snapped its taut vine.

“You’re correct, Sister, as always.” Sai’s smile persisted, but her ears flattened sharply against her hair. “In this family, someone must sacrifice themself for the sake of the clan. Someone must become an emotionless boulder, because the Ran need that.”

She scoffed. “It shouldn’t happen, Gala. Our leaders should want to lead.”

“I do want to lead,” Galaran threw back defensively, but the words rang hollow.

Sai regarded her with a mix of sympathy and disappointment. “Yes, I’m sure you’re very excited to become a prize figurehead. Avderren can admire your pretty white fur while you’re birthing his cubs instead of fighting nobly as a warrior.”

The Ran clan was known for its pale fur coloration, but sometimes produced a coat of pure white. Tradition held that this was a blessing from Gaia herself, and Galaran alone had inherited the trait from her mother.

Five seasons prior, the Av clan head proposed an alliance with the Ran, specifically through mating with its scion, the rare white tigress; Varran, after much conflicted deliberation, had agreed.

It wasn’t like Galaran couldn’t see the wisdom in such an alliance. The Av were a newer clan, but large - they wanted the prestige of the Ran and could offer many valuable resources in exchange. She only wished, like so many things, that she’d had more of a choice in the matter; that less of her life felt predetermined by others.

Sai knew all of that and had weaponized it anyway.

“The clan’s needs come before mine,” Galaran said coldly. “Fewer sacrifices would be necessary if more people chose to make them.”

Her sister barked a mirthless laugh and opened her mouth to retort, but then both women’s ears twitched; behind them, the veranda’s wooden slats creaked.

Galaran turned to see a sheepish Zakiriel at the meeting house’s entrance, mostly hidden behind one of the doors as if it were a shield.

“Oh! Uh, hello. Please don’t mind me,” he said, awkwardly side-stepping the sisters to reach the plank stairs. “I’m just going to -”

Sairan slunk around him, planting herself between him and the veranda’s only exit. Her demeanor had shifted back to carefree curiosity, all traces of anger having manifested and vanished like a sudden rainstorm.

As she so often did, Galaran chose to disregard her sister’s barbs. Sai’s moods, her interests, her attention - they were all as fickle as the wind, and just as impossible to grasp. By tomorrow, she’d forget that she was ever angry, or why.

“Well, aren’t you something?” Sai practically purred, managing a full orbit around Zakiriel before he could reach out and establish personal space. She touched his hair, lifted the hems of his sleeves to watch them fall, felt the texture of his feathers; she only stopped when Galaran, reading his discomfort, pulled her bodily away.

“I’ll thank you not to do that,” he requested, adjusting the drape of his robes with one hand and keeping the other outstretched.

So there were limits to his boundaries, Galaran thought. It only took the most invasive person in the clan to find them.

Zakiriel cleared his throat and greeted Sai properly, “I am Zakiriel of Haven, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m afraid I had you at a disadvantage, Miss Sairan, as the walls of this building are quite thin.”

This time, Sai’s laughter was genuine. She slapped her sister’s arm companionably and managed in between giggles, “Gala, he sounds just like a human! Are you sure he came from the Floating Isle?”

Galaran nodded. She’d seen him fly down personally that morning, descending weightless into the forest like a cotton seedling.

“Though...” Sai’s smile turned mischievous. Too late, Galaran realized she’d identified a new subject for her incessant teasing. “Father accepted you so quickly. Has my sister already taken you as a mate?”

She clicked her tongue. “Avderren won’t be pleased.”

Zakiriel’s fair skin, from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, flushed a bright apple-red. He spluttered something that might have been a refusal, forever marking himself in Sai’s eyes as an easy target.

For her part, Galaran pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I speak for him. Nothing more,” she said plainly. One couldn’t give Sairan even a hint of the reaction she sought. “Father commanded a place for him in our home. You may ask your questions later.”

In front of the whole family, where your nonsense won’t be tolerated, she further communicated with a stern glare.

Sai’s conspiratorial smirk widened, but she nonetheless backed off. “All right, all right, go fulfill your duties.”

To Zakiriel, she winked and said, “Welcome to the clan. It gets worse,” and then vaulted over the veranda’s siding before he could reply.

When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to return, Zakiriel held a hand over his heart, still flushed and breathing heavily like he’d run a lap around the village. He fanned himself gently with one wing.

“Is everyone in your family this intense?” he asked with barely concealed exasperation.

There was only one left for him to meet: Jaerran, her younger brother, who was even more committed to responsibility than she was.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Galaran led him down the plank stairs and back to the forest floor. The meeting house, set on stilts like all the other buildings, was purposely built at the village’s exact center, ringed by a packed dirt path that split off into smaller ones. Whenever the Ran relocated, they made sure that any path one treaded could eventually lead to the meeting house; it was the literal and metaphorical heart of their community.

As such, she chose a winding route back to her family home, both to provide him a comprehensive tour and to start acclimating the rest of the clan to his presence. Indeed, the stares they received this time were more confused than shocked, and a few younglings even chanced a passing swipe at his wings (which Galaran promptly dissuaded).

Zakiriel absorbed her descriptions studiously and without comment; he was content, it seemed, to follow her around in silence. Normally, and certainly during their short acquaintance, Galaran would have been eminently grateful for this - but right now she was eminently curious.

When they reached an empty stretch of path, she pounced on the opportunity.

“What did my father say after I left?”

He jumped as if she’d shouted, eyes wide as an owl’s, seemingly returned from some inner dialogue. He did that a lot, she’d noticed - retreated into his thoughts and lost all awareness of the world around him.

“Apologies,” he said, inclining his head as if he thought he’d offended her.

Maybe this habit of his was considered rude among Featherlings? Galaran couldn’t fathom why; her only concern was for his safety, as vigilance was crucial for surviving in the forest.

“He wanted me to explain ‘ointments’ and ‘inhalants’ to him. I think he was quite intrigued by their potential.” Zakiriel smiled faintly. “He truly does seem to have your people’s best interests at heart. But, ah…”

He folded his hands inside his sleeves and looked down at her. “I asked if he knew anything about ‘Liquid Gold,’ and he pretended not to hear me.”

Galaran raised an eyebrow. Her father could be juvenile in his stubbornness, yes, but never to that extent. “Did you speak out of turn? I told you not to do that.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, averting his eyes momentarily. “But I did apologize afterward! Alas, he wouldn’t hear any more of it.”

She hummed a low, I-told-you-so note. “Respect is important to us and the elders are prideful. Listen better next time.”

To soften the admonishment, she added, “He liked you; I can tell.”

“That was his way of showing approval?”

“Yes.” Galaran stared hard to emphasize her point. “Trust me - if you had displeased him, you would know.”

They passed a copse of fruit trees and their caretakers, who predictably gawked at Zakiriel the entire time. He waved back uncomfortably.

“They will grow used to you,” Galaran offered when they passed out of sight.

“And I to them,” he muttered, then looked down at himself. “Though I suppose I must seem very strange.”

She followed his gaze to his flowing ivory garment, to the blotches and tears in its weave so ill-suited to Gaia’s climate; then to his wings, which from some angles seemed an extension of his clothing, hulking over his shoulders and impossible to hide even when folded. When she got to his hands, she paused.

“Why didn’t you say anything about your magic?”

Zakiriel blinked at the sudden question. “I - hm. On the way here, you told me your people were warlike.”

She nodded.

“Well…mine aren’t.” He turned his eyes upward, though the thick canopy spared only hints of the sky beyond. “Humans practice the arcane arts as well, but they use it to destroy. We of the Isle vowed to never wield it as a weapon.”

The children had mentioned that, too. Since inhabiting Haven, they’d said, the Featherlings had committed earnestly to pacifism and there had been no significant conflicts among them. Galaran had thought it simple youthful hyperbole - what group could pass so many moons in absolute peace? - but apparently not.

Quietly she intuited, “You thought my father would ask you to break your vow.”

Zakiriel flashed her a pained smile. “I wouldn’t have begrudged him the request itself, mind you - leaders use the tools at their disposal. But I thought it best to avoid the possibility all together.”

“Mm,” she agreed, uncertain what Varran would do with that information; he was never one to miss an opportunity to expand their territory by whatever means he deemed necessary.

“I’ll keep your secret.” She tapped two fingers twice against her clavicle to indicate a binding promise. He didn’t know that, of course, but he seemed to understand the sentiment; relief smoothed the lines around his eyes.

“Thank you.”

Part 2: Zakiriel

By his own estimation, he was doing quite well. It had been two weeks - or a half-moon, as he’d been delighted to learn - since his arrival to the Ran village, and he’d already acclimated to their meat-based diet, learned how to protect himself from the stinging monsters they called insects, and introduced his new students to the fundamentals of alchemy.

That one was admittedly easier than the others. The five Ran healers had come to him with existing foundations in herbalism and basic first aid practices, and that made it simple for him to build on those concepts. They lacked any knowledge of finer alchemical manipulation, however; when he’d asked about distillation and titration, they’d looked at him like he’d grown another wing.

Zakiriel felt he could attribute this to a deficiency not of intellect, but of material. The Ran had no access to glass or metal, nor to the means of producing them; he’d fashioned makeshift equipment out of fired clay and shaped leather, but it was unreliable at best. The precision that higher alchemy required was very difficult to achieve, he discovered, without transparent vessels and watertight tubing.

That said, he’d made it work. Measuring was the hardest part. He could control for volume loss, but there were few ways to see inside an opaque container without sticking one’s face directly above its opening - and that, he’d impressed upon his students, was often inadvisable.

But, as it turned out, the Ran had the answer. A clan on the far side of the forest made mirrors from disks of polished black stone, Galaran had told him, and regularly traded them with the rest of the clans. Their efficacy was a far cry from silvered glass, but he could still rig one up to reflect the markings inside a clay vessel.

He held one of those delicate black ovals now, wrapping it slowly in a web of hempen rope over a cushioned desk. The healers had been kind enough to lend him their - apparently rather hard to obtain - resources; the very least he could do was care for them properly.

And so, when someone knocked on the door to his work chamber in the healers’ stilt house - it had taken under a week, he was proud to say, to communicate the courteous practice of knocking - Zakiriel moved not an inch from his position.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he called out, tying off the final set of knots that would hold the mirror in place. Such was his focus that he barely registered the door swinging open, or the whisper of footsteps, or the soft laughter growing nearer.

The leather pouch dangling in front of his face, though - that he noticed, violently, and only a concentrated force of will stopped him from flinging his precious mirror across the room. As it was, he had to unfurl his wings to keep balance, and by a stroke of luck avoided toppling his clay vessels.

“Galaran,” he complained, quickly setting the wobbling jars to rights. His scrambling only made her laugh harder; he tried to remain stern, but a smile was already creeping onto his own face.

“That could have gone horribly wrong,” he mock-chided, holding up his mirror to showcase her potential victim.

His sudden wing beats had tousled Galaran’s hair, for which he felt partially avenged; she pushed the loose flaxen strands out of her face and joined him at his sitting desk.

“I would have caught it,” she replied airily.

Zakiriel snatched the pouch out of her hand with an entirely disingenuous huff.

In reality, he enjoyed the antics; he’d only seen her behave in this light-hearted manner with her siblings so far, and even then only when her father wasn’t present. So, to his mind, it meant that he’d finally gained her trust - which was immensely gratifying after many, many days of effort on his part.

“Seeds?” he inquired, pulling a few out of the pouch. They were dry, dark brown, and smelled faintly of woodsmoke - but he didn’t recall asking for a reagent like this.

As if reading his thoughts, she snorted and popped one into her mouth. “Food. How long has it been since you last ate?”

Zakiriel frowned up at the ceiling. He’d definitely grabbed a fruit on the way to the healers’ house that morning, but after that…

His eyes drifted to the far window, where the outside world was tinged late afternoon amber. Unhelpfully, his stomach chose that very moment to voice its neglect.

“As I suspected,” Galaran said flatly. “Eat. What still needs to be done?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do anything,” he protested, but then saw the traces of anger in her tight jaw and a brief, resentful glare aimed at the meeting house, and understood. She hadn’t come for a mere check-in.

He shoved an obedient handful of seeds into his mouth and pointed to a nearby basket of flowers, knowing she wouldn’t need any further explanation. As expected, she retrieved a mortar and pestle from his supply shelf and began crushing the flowers with quite a bit more force than she needed.

Galaran really made the best reagent pastes, though, especially post-argument. The occasional cracked mortar was an acceptable cost.

When he’d made his way through a reasonable amount of the seeds, he set aside the pouch and gently prompted her, “Again?”

She grunted out a confirmation in time with a savage grind of the pestle.

“What happened?”

For a while, he thought she wouldn’t answer - sometimes, oddly, she didn’t wish to share her troubles - but then she sighed and met his eyes.

“Soon there will be a trade-meet, and Father wants me to speak for the Ran. Preparation,” she drawled, unenthused. “But he doesn’t like what I want to say. Why force me to speak if I must use his words?”

Zakiriel sympathized with a hum. She’d previously explained to him the various ways in which the Gaia clans interacted, and these large-scale trading events seemed to be among the more pleasant ones.

“Must you use his words?” he asked. If he’d understood correctly, then by virtue of asking her to speak for the clan - an act that was very significant in their hierarchy, indicating some sort of stewardship - Varran would be giving up his own right to do so.

She shot him a wry smile. “You’re listening well. That’s right - I couldn’t be punished for saying what I want. But it’s more like…”

Her tail swished restlessly across the rushes while she concentrated. Zakiriel didn’t think she was even aware of its alignment to her moods, but he found it indescribably endearing all the same; the mighty tigress, the hunter in the dark, could have her stoicism betrayed by an errant limb - and often did.

“Tradition,” she decided. “Since I have not yet succeeded him, it is expected that I speak his wishes.”

Seeing the mild confusion on his face, she continued, “Trade-meets are not only for material things. We trade knowledge, territory - kin, when they wish; the leaders announce what their clans are seeking and what they can offer.”

“Ah.” Zakiriel could relate, partially. Haven operated on a loose bartering system similar to what she’d described, but - being a single island with a single community - his experience was contained to market days in the town square.

“So, then, why doesn’t he like your words?”

Galaran paused her crushing and let the mortar rest on her knee. “Tradition,” she said again, more bitterly this time. “I think the clans should meet more often and share information instead of hoarding it for trade. For all of our benefit.”

She leaned forward, speaking with such conviction that Zakiriel suspected this was the very argument she’d presented to her father. “Our patrols are effective. We see what happens within Ran territory. But what if we could see our neighbors’ territories, too, and they could see ours? Our vision, together, could go so much farther. We could warn each other of dangers.”

Long-distance communication. The Floating Isle’s relatively flat geography allowed Haven to utilize towers and beacon fires, the same as the humans did, but he didn’t think that would ever work in the forest. Visibility issues aside, the concept required everyone in a signal chain to be unified in purpose.

“But Elder Varran doesn’t put much stock in cooperation,” he guessed, and Galaran agreed with a rudely illustrative gesture.

“That is not how things are done. The clans have always lived apart,” she quoted, exaggerating her father’s severity to an unflattering degree. “He told me to be content with our alliance with the Av; that it should be ‘enough for me.’”

She made a sour face, wordlessly conveying her stance on the matter.

“I told him that the humans are such a threat to us because they’re always making new things. Why shouldn’t the clans do the same? But he had already decided, so nothing I said swayed him.”

Zakiriel nodded grimly. “Indeed. He refused me again this morning.”

That made five meetings, now, in which Varran had avoided any discussion of ‘Liquid Gold.’ At first, he’d thought the clan leader might be hiding something, but lately he wondered if it was just some sort of odd principle - that since Zakiriel had asked disrespectfully the first time, Varran was determined not to reply, even if the answer was benign.

With a loud groan, Galaran fell back onto the rushes. He hastily retrieved the mortar before it could spill.

“You’re just trying to help!” she proclaimed to the ceiling. “We’re just trying to help! Why can’t he stop being stubborn for just one day?”

Despite his identical exasperation on the subject, Zakiriel couldn’t stop the tiny, amused exhale that escaped him. Galaran possessed an uncommonly resilient will and one of the most level temperaments he’d ever seen; that was to say, the apple had not fallen very far at all from the tree.

He thought it prudent to keep that to himself, however.

“If it helps at all,” he said instead, “my people are also resistant to progress. Haven’s council is infamous for its six-month deliberations.”

This, as he’d hoped, earned him a surprised laugh. Galaran lifted her head from the floor to ask incredulously, “Six moons?”

Zakiriel thought back to the most recent example, in which the council of eight supposedly qualified representatives had worked themselves into knots deciding whether or not to designate new sheep grazing fields.

“It is truly incredible the lengths some will go to avoid any change whatsoever,” he deadpanned, then proceeded to describe the tedious process by which he and the other like-minded townsfolk had explained to the council that a higher number of sheep would directly equate to a higher number of Featherlings, an outcome that both factions had desired from the start.

Galaran listened attentively to the story, her frame wracked in turns by laughter and indignation at the - in hindsight, ridiculous - circumstances. When she finally sat up, he was relieved to see no remaining hints of tension in her features.

“It does help,” she said, wiping mirthful tears from the corners of her eyes. “To know that, elsewhere, others also fight to move forward…it’s comforting. I feel less alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he insisted. “There are surely others in the forest who think like you do - who can clearly see a path to something greater.”

At this, she gave him a warm, secret smile and said, “There is at least one.” Any reply Zakiriel might have given died in his throat, so constricted had it unexpectedly become. The afternoon light had tinged her hair with fire and set her eyes glittering, just like when he’d first met her - but back then, he never could have imagined her capable of an expression so soft, or of a voice so fond.

While he was casting about for any sort of coherent response before she judged him dull-witted, a high whine and a brief fizzling issued from one of the clay vessels on his desk.

All eyes snapped instantly toward the sound; Zakiriel could scarcely believe that, in the whirlwind of Galaran’s arrival, he’d actually forgotten to monitor this batch of solutions. What if he’d missed a stage of the reaction? What if, in their unusual jostling, the reagents had combined improperly?

He quickly strung up his mirror, hoisting it onto a wooden hook he’d set into the ceiling, and angled it to reflect the inside of the vessel. Galaran leaned in to gauge the results just as intently as he did - this could, after all, finally be the color they sought.

The mirror showed a dark green surface, uneven and oily, with a froth of bubbles ringing the outside. Zakiriel let out a disappointed breath; like all the others so far, this combination of reagents hadn’t produced ‘Liquid Gold,’ nor anything remotely similar.

“Again,” Galaran said, dismayed.

He shrugged and lowered the mirror to the desktop. “Such is the nature of experimentation. I think this one bears repeating, though.”

The other two solutions hadn’t produced any audible reactions, but that didn’t mean much; anything could have happened inside the vessels while unobserved. Resigned, he began scraping new reagents onto a glossy leaf for transfer.

“Zakiriel.”

Galaran covered the top of the leaf with her hand, gently prying it from his grasp. “You have walked with the sun; rest with it now.”

He relinquished it with little complaint. The constant failure itched under his skin, yes - he could feel the answer to this riddle so close, yet unattainable - but she was right. Exhaustion would only beget more mistakes.

“I will repeat it in the morning,” he acquiesced with a weary smile.

---

His days in the village thus passed in perseverant routine; he methodically tested his way through the healers’ storehouse, whittling down the monstrous list of possible combinations one at a time.

None had yet created a color that could be described as ‘golden’ - though he had stumbled upon a potent numbing agent derived from a common type of bark, almost as powerful as the ones he could make in Haven, and now had finer control over pain management for victims of the Withering.

Zakiriel had extensive experience with this kind of research. It could take months or it could take years, and the longer one sustained a demanding work schedule, the higher a toll it exacted on one’s body and mind. Aches, fatigue, doubt, insomnia; while he could treat some symptoms locally, many of the medicinal plants he was familiar with simply didn’t grow in the forest.

He could spend time hunting down similar effects, like the happy accident with the tree bark, but that would take time from his hunt for ‘Liquid Gold’ - time he wasn’t willing to lose.

In lieu of novel chemical solutions, he’d turned to more traditional ones. Warm water was his first choice, as it could ease both tension and stress, but the village had no easy access to it. Its main water supply was a river that wound around its eastern edge, hauled up in buckets throughout the day; small containers, like cooking pots and his own alchemical vessels, were heated with individual fires, but he’d never seen any larger bathing tubs like the ones back home.

Granted, the Floating Isle was flat compared to Gaia, and the stone cottages in Haven sat directly on the ground rather than raised up on posts. It would be quite the task just hauling enough water for a bath up a stilt house’s plank stairs, not to mention the inherent flammability of wood construction.

Some of the villagers had suggested repurposing a giant stew pot and utilizing one of the public cooking fires, but that was obviously out of the question. The Ran were much less modest than his own people - to call it shocking was, he felt, a criminal understatement, and he’d only recently become comfortable enough to traverse the village during its common washing hours.

Luckily his doctor’s sensibilities protected him from the worst of the shock, but suffice it to say that, in Haven, being seen without one’s full dressing ensemble by non-family could be considered a scandal. Here, as far as he could tell, any clothing outside the loosest possible definition of ‘undergarments’ was not just optional, but often foregone entirely.

He had staunchly resisted all suggestions that he adopt their lighter style of dress, even under constant threat of heat stroke. Galaran - the main source of these suggestions - found his opposition pointless, and had said as much, but nevertheless helped him find alternate solutions.

In fact, it was her idea to visit a particular bend in the village’s river that was warmer than the others; it wasn’t fire-hot, she’d explained, but its curve was wide enough that the outer waters flowed much slower, retaining more of the sun’s heat.

That was good enough for Zakiriel. He’d chosen to visit in the late afternoon when the water would hopefully be warmest, and it did not disappoint. Its calm, sluggish current let him float without a care; before long, its restful embrace had unwound the knots in his shoulders, and the low, persistent pounding behind his eyes faded out.

There was really nothing like full submersion. He’d grown accustomed to the village’s cloth-and-bucket washing method, and it did the job just fine, but that element of relaxation was always missing. Besides, now he could thoroughly clean his wings without worrying about wasting water or someone else’s time; it was surprisingly difficult, he’d found, to explain the requirements of feather maintenance to one without them.

When he’d soaked long enough, he waded back to waist-height water and scooped up a handful of sand, humming idly while he scrubbed it up his arms and into the crook of his neck. The late day sun - what was becoming his favorite time here - reflected off the river’s surface like shards of glass; the bubbling rush of water nearly drowned out far-off songbirds and insects, relegating them to a rhythmic buzz beneath the current.

It was so strange; if anyone had asked him, before, if the great forest could be peaceful, he would have responded unequivocally in the negative. As it was, with shafts of warm light peppering his torso and clear waters running through his fingers, he couldn’t even imagine that viewpoint anymore.

“Why did you come out here alone?”

Galaran spoke quietly, but it still jarred Zakiriel like a snapped harp string - and the undignified, dissonant shout that tore out his throat was much the same.

“Be calm, Zakiriel. Have you forgotten what I told you of Gaia’s dangers?”

She was standing behind him in the river, having somehow snuck up on him through the water; a quick peek told him that she’d even placed her clothing and gear next to his on the bank, neatly folded to match.

He pressed a hand over his heart and took a few deep breaths.

I’d notice anything dangerous, he’d wanted to say, but the recent gains he’d perceived in his situational awareness seemed suddenly inadequate. Or was it that the villagers had been announcing their presences for his benefit?

Proficiency in doubt, Zakiriel chose not to answer her and instead pivoted to his second greatest immediate concern.

“Have you forgotten what I said about boundaries?” he retorted, holding onto at least enough decorum to keep his voice from cracking. Not that it mattered; she could surely see the dark blush that stained his face and entire upper torso.

It was the tiniest solace to know that she thought nothing of his nudity - that she considered it normal, even casual, for friends to bathe together. The tiniest solace.

“Of course,” Galaran replied simply, like her motivations were obvious. “That is why I’m behind you.”

Ah.

So the fault had been in the delivery, not the reception. Zakiriel had indeed put much emphasis on the seeing part of modesty - but perhaps not enough on the being.

“Since we are both here,” she chirped, seemingly taking his silence for acceptance, “let me clean your wings for you. How is it done?”

A second string on his mental harp broke away with a discordant twang.

“No, I - that, ah -” In Haven society, a state of light undress was reserved for one’s extended family and friends, and a breach of this magnitude was embarrassing at worst. Caring for another’s wings, however, was a deeply intimate custom practiced only between lovers and immediate family members; not even a cousin or a lifelong friend would ask.

He stuttered out this explanation - or at least something close - in choked intervals. Even more surprising than her suggestion, though, was that he wanted to allow it.

Zakiriel had always been comfortable with light affection, as were most Featherlings. Hugging, hand-holding, emotional and verbal openness - these were all easy for him, but closer intimacy didn’t come naturally. His father and brother had fled the Isle early on, only the latter to occasionally reappear, and his mother kept her thoughts tightly guarded; it hadn’t provided the best environment for social development beyond cultural expectation.

This had never bothered him growing up - everyone bore peculiarities from their childhoods, after all - but now…now he stood before that locked gate and, for the first time, wished it open.

“Mm, I understand,” Galaran said, presumably having pieced together his ramblings. “This is something for only your closest ones?”

Distrusting the strength and quality of his voice, Zakiriel merely nodded.

“Well!” She laughed and slapped his shoulder, just as he’d seen her do with her siblings countless times. “It is good, then, that you’re part of our Ran family now!”

The air fled his lungs in a wheeze.

“Did I not tell you this on your first day?” Galaran reached up to put a hand on top of his head; she must have been stretching due to their height difference, he realized, because the act brought her right up to his back.

“I spoke for you,” she said, her breath tickling along his neck. “And so you are with me, and I am with you, for as long as you remain.”

While he still didn’t completely understand the distinction, he felt that her presence between his wings, holding her warm shape close to his skin, probably exemplified it.

“O-oh,” he stammered. Eloquent.

He coughed into his fist, subtly shuffling forward until he couldn’t feel her body heat so acutely, and tried again, “I mean, ah, you can wash my wings. If you’d like.”

Trying not to turn around too far, Zakiriel flared one of his wings and separated the flight feathers, scrubbing between them so she could see the process. He was careful to show the delicacy required to clean both the feathers and the thin skin beneath without damaging them.

After the short demonstration, he faced forward again and - hesitantly, self-consciously - spread both his wings to their full extent. Not being able to see her reactions was absolutely maddening so far, but if he turned and was forced to confront their bare proximity, it would be magnitudes worse.

Galaran must have sensed his anxiety, because her first touch was whisper-light against the center of his back - like a leaf meeting water, rippling shivers across his skin from its tiny point of contact. She flattened her palm against him by degrees, moving at the same gradual speed his tense muscles loosened.

Acclimation, he realized; she was slowly acclimating him to her touch, as if she knew, somehow, that no one had ever done this for him before. It wasn’t the hardest conclusion to reach given his behavior, but her consideration still brought a private, lopsided smile to his face.

He’d expected her to start the cleaning process after he was totally relaxed, but she didn’t; her hand remained still, fluctuating slightly in pressure like she was reluctant to move it.

Could she be nervous, too? Zakiriel tried to recall the rules of group bathing among the Ran - he thought he’d heard someone mention a caveat concerning unbonded pairs, but he might have just conflated that with his own people’s customs.

“Beautiful,” Galaran murmured, and his thoughts screeched to a halt.

In a subconscious bid to determine her intention, Zakiriel glanced over his shoulder. Only at the very last second did he remember the nuances of their situation and snap his head to the front - but in that brief second, he caught a flash of reddened cheeks and startled eyes, as if she hadn’t expected herself to say that, either.

“Your - your wings,” she clarified, stepping backward so quickly that the water churned around them. “Up close like this, they are…beautiful.”

Zakiriel swallowed a lump in his throat and faintly replied, “Thank you.”

Neither spoke again for several moments, their heavy silence punctuated only by the occasional drop of water falling from their bodies to rejoin the river.

He was painfully aware that his heated flush had returned, darkening his skin from forehead to sternum; not only that, but he had unfurled his wings, so - along with the flush - she had an uninterrupted view of his entire backside that the clear water’s surface distorted only slightly below his waist.

Just as this mortifying thought arose, Galaran abruptly stated, “I will start cleaning now.”

“Please,” he concurred.

At first her movements were stilted and imprecise, hindered by the renewed tension in his back; but as the minutes passed, distancing them from the sting of social awkwardness, so too did their hands and muscles, respectively, relax.

Galaran emulated his instructions to the letter, treating his wings so gently that he barely felt it at times. She left each section pristine and aligned before moving to the next, seemingly unconcerned with how long the task might take, cradling every feather like it was precious to her.

Meanwhile, Zakiriel busied himself by scrubbing the rest of his torso with sand, and then by working all of the oil from his hair; and then, when he finally ran out of places to wash, he just stared blankly ahead, feeling as formless as the river itself.

His experience on the subject was woefully limited in every regard save the academic, but racing heartbeats, short breaths, and obsessive thoughts were not symptoms one would classically associate with friendship, were they?

No, he answered himself. No, they were not.

And that meant -

He was in -

It was so supremely difficult to even think about it while she stood behind him, naked, presently caressing his feathers like they were married. Heavens above, why had he judged this a good idea?

“That’s - that’s enough.” His throat felt packed with river sand, grinding his voice down to coarse grains. “You did well.”

In response, Galaran snatched her hands away like she’d burned them - like she’d only just noticed, after a long while, that they were too close to an open flame.

He wasn’t so frayed that he missed her uncharacteristic silence and harsh breathing, but when he started to turn, to ask what was wrong, she stopped him with a firm, “Don’t.”

She delivered the command with finality, but below it he heard the thickness of emotion - that, and the unmistakable tremble of fear.

This jerked him fully back to the present. “Galaran -”

She cut him off, speaking in a colorless monotone, “It is nearly dark. We should return to the village.” Zakiriel, at a complete loss for words, remained locked in a half-turn as he tried to determine what was happening. She was clearly upset, but he couldn’t fathom why. Had he said something wrong? Had he overstepped somehow?

Propriety compelled him to apologize for whatever transgression had occurred, but when he finally gathered the courage to look behind him, the river was empty. Not a single ripple, other than the ones he’d just created, disturbed its surface.

---

Zakiriel had never subscribed to the human vision of hell, a place where wicked souls languished in agony after death for, he assumed, the rest of measurable time.

From his vantage point, the whole idea looked like a transparent attempt to divest oneself of guilt - to shirk the moral responsibilities of the present off to some nebulous future point that the living could barely conceptualize.

As a coping tool, he supposed it made sense - humans had a lot of collective shirking to do - but his rational mind found the whole thing simplistic and self-indulgent.

His irrational mind, though…

If there was ever an idea that could encompass ceaseless, eternal suffering, it must be hell - and hell could unquestionably define this.

Galaran hadn’t spoken to him in over a week. They’d certainly exchanged words in that time, and their relationship probably looked unchanged to an outsider - she’d even taken it upon herself to teach him self-defense - but she hadn’t really spoken with him since the river. Any attempts on his part to address it were soundly rebuffed, no matter how gentle his initiation.

From this, he’d eventually gathered that what she wanted was not an apology, but a reset of sorts. She wished to forget that evening all together.

It didn’t take any great deductive power to figure out why, either; her upcoming bond with the leader of another clan had been the talk of the village since he’d arrived. The Ran were set to formally ally with the Av through this bond, which meant the two clans would then freely share resources and aid one another in conflicts.

Once he’d overcome the sour bile of rejection, he could see why someone who was essentially engaged might have acted the way she did; why, out of fidelity, she might not want to dwell on an unexpectedly intimate moment with a friend.

But the thing was, despite its ubiquity in the clan’s gossip and its apparent imminence, her bond to Avderren had never felt real to Zakiriel - or rather, it had never felt significant, even though it should have. In hindsight, after much reflection, that was probably because Galaran hadn’t ever said it to him personally. Not once. Not in all their hours and hours of discussion on everything else under the sun, or even in their mutual pursuit of ‘Liquid Gold,’ had she mentioned her betrothal.

That was the part that bothered him, the part that he spent his nights restlessly contemplating - he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t more excited about such a happy event in her life. In his culture, a union of marriage meant a new beginning with one’s chosen partner, and the Gaian practice of ‘bonding’ sounded very similar.

The only conclusion that made sense to him was that it might not be a happy event; that it might simply be another ill-fitting mold into which she was desperately squeezing herself for the sake of the clan. And if that was true, then - like all of the other molds - it was likely crafted by her father’s hand.

It was with these smoldering coals of injustice in his chest that he sought out Sairan. She might have been the most vexing person on the planet, managing to dethrone even Kazach in impishness, but she was also the only Ran he’d met who dared to buck tradition. Not only would she know more, she’d care.

Zakiriel found her just outside the village, sunbathing on a boulder beneath an open patch of canopy. She’d taken her tiger form for the nap, which was, he theorized, the only reason he could approach in silence instead of a rain of heckling.

She opened one slitted golden eye - which managed to evoke amusement despite its bestial shape - and waited for him to speak, budging not an inch from her luxurious pose on the heated rock.

“I need to ask you something,” he said without preamble, adding curtly when she still didn’t move, “something that requires a response.”

A sound like far-off thunder rumbled from the tiger’s throat, warping and coalescing into a woman’s laughter as Sairan resumed her humanoid shape. She now sat on the edge of the boulder, one leg crossed over the other, looking down at him with those same mocking eyes.

“So mean, little bird. Where’s all that respect you shower on everyone else?”

Honestly, he didn’t know, either. At some point, he’d stopped feeling the need to try; out of all the frustrating people he’d known - and he had met plenty - it had been her who’d found the limit of his courtesy. A master irritant among journeymen, perhaps.

Or perhaps it had been around the point she’d started calling him little bird. Who could really know?

“I give it to those who show it,” he said flatly.

Sairan hummed and kicked her heel against the side of the boulder. “Well, I suppose that’s fair, then,” she lilted, tossing the grievance aside as easily as a gnawed bone. “So, what problem do you have that even Gala can’t solve? Are you lost, perchance? Homesick? Lovesick?”

Each consecutive suggestion grew more flippant, and Zakiriel put up a determined fight not to flinch at the last one - but it seemed tight-lipped avoidance was just as much of a confirmation, if not more.

“No way,” she whispered, gripping the boulder’s edge in suspense. “Really?”

He held out as long as he could against her focused suspicion, hoping she’d change her mind and move on, but in the end accepted this as wishful thinking. Much like a snapping turtle, Sairan didn’t ever release a bite.

“Yes,” he groaned, shoulders slumping.

Her entire demeanor sharpened from apathy to enthrallment; she eagerly patted the spot next to her on the boulder and, with a drawn-out sigh of resignation, Zakiriel flew up to occupy it.

“How long? Does she know? Tell me she knows,” Sairan gushed in a rapid deluge of interest. “No? That’s fine. What’s your plan, then? I can help -”

“Stop,” he interjected, both arms outstretched like he could physically dam the flood. Somehow, it worked.

“She doesn’t know,” he continued more quietly, “and I don’t intend to tell her.”

Sairan just stared hard at him for a few moments, eyes narrow, lips downturned and slightly parted like he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

Finally she heaved a perplexed, “Why not?”

“Why n - what do you mean, ‘why not’?” he challenged with utmost indignation, dimly aware that she had somehow, again, lured him into her juvenile arena. “She’s getting married - bonded - ugh, same thing!”

Zakiriel threw up his hands helplessly. “She has promised herself to someone else. What point is there in burdening her?”

“Burdening!” Sairan chortled, enjoying the punchline to a joke he hadn’t told. “My sister loves nothing more than a good burden.”

“But, no, you’re right,” she continued lightly, “Gala would never walk away from her promises to the Av. That wouldn’t be very dutiful, or loyal, or whatever.”

Drawing one leg up to the boulder’s edge, Sairan rested her cheek on her bent knee and peered over at Zakiriel. “Is that what you wanted to ask me about?”

He returned her gaze dubiously, wondering if his confidence in her support had been misplaced. But, well, he’d already come this far, right? In for a penny, as the humans said.

“Yes, it is.” He laced his fingers together in his lap to keep from fidgeting. “This bonding - how was it decided?”

She smirked, eyes flicking from his face to his hands and back again. “By Avderren and my father, in the meeting house, with no others present. Probably with a lot of smoke and chest pounding - you know, typical clan leader stuff.”

Her head tilted a few more mischievous degrees to the side. “But if you’re asking whether or not Gala wanted it…”

Zakiriel, thanks to his brother, had many years of practice in enduring dramatic pauses, but this one really pushed the limit.

“Nope,” Sairan said with a self-satisfied grin. “Avderren is a blowhard and everyone knows it. He likes her because of what she represents: the glory of the legendary Ran clan. She’d like him to jump off a cliff.”

“But he also has a lot of land and kin, so.” She ended her thought with a shrug.

“So Galaran feels she needs to keep this promise,” Zakiriel guessed, and Sairan smiled in agreement. He pursed his lips.

He’d already known, for a long time now, that she struggled to maintain the balance between her responsibilities and her individuality. It was a line they both walked - a hardship on which they often commiserated. But he hadn’t realized just how far her duty had asked her to surpass the bounds of her comfort.

“She doesn’t want to head the clan, either, just so you know,” Sairan added.

He lifted his head.

“Yeah. Gala only stepped up because I abdicated.” She made a rude gesture that, unbeknownst to her, her sister often mimicked in reference to their father. “But she never wanted to be a leader. You know who does?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, stating vigorously, “Jae! He’s been a perfect fit since he could talk, but he and Gala are so damn proper -” she ground the words out between her teeth, “- that they never thought to switch places! It would go against tradition. We can’t have that.”

“Wait,” Zakiriel said, frowning. “If there’s such an easy solution, why haven’t you proposed it?”

Sairan looked back at him like he was an idiot; she did it often enough that he recognized the minute changes in her expression. “Who says I haven’t? I’m the rebel, remember? Anything I say is the opposite of what’s right.”

So deep was his familiarity with her various styles of derision, he noticed the slightest twitch in her cheek as she spoke. Perhaps she wasn’t as comfortable in her outcast role as she’d have everyone believe.

“Listen, little bird.”

She averted her eyes - a first, if he recalled correctly - and her voice took on a quality that could almost be described as honest. “You have this life, and then you return to the mother.”

This referenced the Ran clan’s beliefs on the afterlife; that the creatures of Gaia lived, died, and then their bodies nourished the living, perpetuating an endless cycle of regrowth.

“But it can only be called yours if you live as you wish. Otherwise, you have given it away.”

The emotions weighing down her words were complicated, layered; before he could ask after it, she folded back into her tiger’s body and leapt into the brush.

Like sister, like sister, he thought dryly. Both preferred to deliver their vulnerability in packets, then disappear before any consequence could set in.

Still, she’d given him what he came for. His theory was correct; Galaran didn’t want to go through with this engagement, and her actions spoke what her words could not.

But…

Was it right for him to intervene? She was acting on social compulsions older than memory itself. The drive to prosper in adverse conditions; the preservative urge to provide for one’s group - were these not the very instincts which had led the humans to force the Featherlings from terrestrial lands?

Who was he, an outsider with an incomplete picture of their customs, to advise her to forsake them?

The midday sun warmed his wings, and what radiance it had imbued in the boulder warmed his legs; he laid back against the flat stone and closed his eyes, thinking that perhaps Sairan had been on to something here, after all.

---

Each day, he rose well before dawn. Previously he’d gone straight to the healer’s house, but now he headed first to the village outskirts, to the ring of packed earth that Ran youths used for combat training.

For two hours hence, Galaran beat the principles of self-defense into his flesh, giving the increased human sightings in the forest as her motivation. Zakiriel suspected there was more to it, though, because the diligence she showed in the training ring went far beyond a conscientious guardian’s precaution.

“No,” she said, throwing him down into the dirt from a shoulder hold. “This is not the interception I taught you. Again.”

He pushed himself up onto an elbow, wincing at the strain it put on the limb. Earlier in this pursuit, young Ran fighters would be shouting jeers and encouragement from the sidelines at this point; he guessed that, after a whole week of watching him hit the ground in every imaginable fashion, the novelty had worn off.

Now it was usually just the two of them here, dancing around one another in the heavy morning mist. At the center of the ring, the fog gathered so densely around its perimeter that the far-off village turned to dark, blurry shapes; all noise arrived muffled and dim, as if filtered through a quilt that thickened with distance.

“Surely that one was closer, though?” Zakiriel suggested hopefully, standing and dusting off his knees. He’d have to wash his clothes again - the loose pants and simple tunic he wore beneath his outer robe - but he’d long resigned himself to frequent laundering in this cloth-hostile forest.

Galaran watched him rise with an unreadable expression. “There is no ‘closer’ in battle. You catch your opponent or they catch you.”

Her mask of stoicism was harder than ever these days, but he thought he saw a spark of mirth in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, though, and its absence made his heart ache; before the river, this was something they could have indeed laughed about.

“Again,” she repeated.

Zakiriel once more took the defensive posture she’d taught him for disabling an opponent at close range. He squared his shoulders, planted his feet firmly apart, and angled his body to better redirect her momentum - but when it came time to announce his readiness, he let the stance drop with a dispirited sigh.

“What is it?” she asked, easing up on her own aggressive bearing. “An injury?”

He clenched his fists at his sides. They still had almost two hours before the morning mist cleared and they’d be visible from the village; if he was going to choose bravery, it was now or never.

“Galaran,” he began, taking a step toward her.

She took an equidistant step back, glancing in alarm at the indistinct gray blotches of stilt houses. “Zakiriel - don’t.”

“No one can hear us. No one can see us.”

He put his hands up in surrender and proceeded another step. “Please, just talk to me. Do you truly wish to be bonded?”

Fog swirled around their feet as they moved at a slow pace toward the outer edge of the ring, the one farthest from the village. She looked wildly to either side and for a moment he thought, having failed to dissuade him this time, she might simply run.

But instead Galaran stood her ground, bracing herself as if for real combat.

“You have lived with us for three moons,” she said, frustration simmering in her measured tone. She recited the words like a script, like she’d anticipated this conversation might happen.

“I know all you have seen and learned, Zakiriel. You know our rules now, our history, but there is still so much about us you don’t understand -”

“I spoke with your sister,” Zakiriel interrupted forcefully. “She said you have never wanted this. Any of it.”

Galaran froze as if struck by lightning, her perfect mask shattered in a booming instant, exposing the fear, rage, and sorrow which pulsed underneath. There was even a hint of betrayal, as if Sairan had broken some sort of accord in her abnormal honesty.

“So, no, I don’t understand.” He couldn’t keep the fervor back anymore; not when she looked so wretchedly broken. “What could possibly be worth submitting yourself to a life of unwanted, undeserved despair? How could anyone ask that of you? How could you ask it of yourself?”

He stopped his advance at the end of his speech, leaving the two of them scarcely an arm’s length apart, displacing the fog between with heavy breaths.

“You and Sai both, you -”

Galaran shook her head in utter disbelief, asserting hoarsely, “This is not about want! It is not about what I deserve!”

She thumped the center of her chest with an open hand. “I take this mantle because I can carry it. They -” she jabbed the index finger of that same hand toward the village’s vague outline, “- they are the ones who deserve, who want, and I can provide. I am capable. Nothing else matters.”

With more defiance than he thought he could muster, he threw back, “Not even your own voice?”

“This is my duty!” Her anguished snarl echoed off the nearby trees; she’d closed the little space remaining between them to grab his tunic and tug him sharply down to her level.

Those furious, shimmering golden eyes filled his vision; shock numbed the bite of his collar digging into his neck. For a single breath, he bore witness to every excruciating detail of her internal conflict as it played on her face - in the quiver of a lip, in the iron set of her jaw, in the trail of an angry tear that burned out before it could fall.

He saw it all; and when she noticed this, her expression changed.

Zakiriel thought she’d go for a push when she tightened her grip - to propel him backward, away from her innermost truths - but instead she pulled him farther down, not relenting until he was on his back in the dirt and she crouched above.

It happened in an instant, faster than his eye could track; and before he could even protest the manhandling, he felt a thrumming whoosh of air zip past them overhead.

Galaran followed the movement with her fangs bared, her ears flat, her legs coiled to launch at a moment’s notice - from her protective position, he realized. She was covering his body with her own.

The flat yellow eyes of a predator stared at them from the treeline. Fog and brush obscured most of its shape, revealing only glimpses of a sleek black coat and the glint of dark claws as it stalked back and forth, evaluating.

But Zakiriel wasn’t concerned with their attacker. He’d seen enough of the forest by now; this was just an opportunist drawn to their raised voices. As expected, the creature slunk off into darkness the second it judged its prey too bothersome for another attempt.

No, he was watching her, mutely astonished at how quickly she’d detected the ambush, put aside her emotions - personally, he was still struggling to escape the tail end of a righteous pique - and acted to protect him. If the beast’s arc had skewed just a bit lower, she would have taken the heavy blow it had meant for him.

But…that was just her, though, wasn’t it? That was Galaran. She’d always be the shield that took the sword, interposed between danger and her loved ones, even if some of herself chipped away in the strike.

Zakiriel - flat on his back, covered in dirt, sweat, and his savior - chuckled at his own foolishness. He could no more challenge her ideals than he could alter a hurricane’s course; forces of nature simply could not be halted by mortal hands, and to try was to embrace futility.

Illustrious heavens, this must be what it’s like for Kazach, he realized with more than a little ironic self-deprecation.

“Why do you laugh?” Galaran demanded, shifting her intense scrutiny from the treeline to him. “This was not comedic. You have the awareness of a slug.”

Not comedic, so she claimed, but a tentative smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps she’d also noticed how patently ridiculous they both looked at the moment, all stern and soiled and drained of zeal.

He pounced on that bit of levity, replying with dramatic inflection, “Well, then, I must thank you for rescuing this lowly slug.”

She fought a silent war to keep hold of her anger, her brows slanting to an absurd degree, but that persistent smile wobbled her lips the whole time. When a tiny puff of air escaped them, it was enough to crack the dam. Zakiriel’s answering grin seemed to destroy it entirely.

Her head slumped forward and she belted out wave after wave of incredulous laughter so genuine that he couldn’t help but join in; their bodies shook with it - with a pervasive, ice-melting relief that cleared the tension in the air.

When the infectious fit had subsided, Galaran climbed to her feet and offered him a hand up. She did it casually, but he recognized it for what it was: reconciliation, the first friendly contact she’d initiated since the river.

He took it with a depth of gratitude that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out when they were both upright. “I’m sorry, Galaran. I shouldn’t have pushed so far.”

She briefly shut her eyes, exhaling a long breath. “No. You only wished for my happiness, and I was hurtful in return.”

“We each walk our own paths, Zakiriel,” she intoned, and he could hear now that her sorrow was tempered with acceptance, her longing with discipline. Perhaps it had always been so.

“We do indeed,” he said, sealing the unspoken pact between them. If she wanted his understanding, he couldn’t give it; but empathy he could, in droves. If it meant she could live in peace, he’d grant her all the grace she needed.

And if that meant a mutual non-acknowledgement of the ache he saw deep within her - the very same she must see in him - then so be it.

She’d turned her face upward after her hidden plea. Whether it was to give him space to think or because she dreaded the outcome, he couldn’t tell.

“There is still time before the fog lifts,” she said. “Will you take me to the skies?”

Baffled by the sudden diversion, Zakiriel could only echo, “You’d like me to…take you flying?”

She let out a single, breathless laugh that was neither gleeful nor bitter.

“I want to see the world as you see it. Your ‘freedom’ of a different kind.”

While I still can, said the tight creasing at the corners of her eyes.

Slow realization broke over him like dawnlight. Freedom; it was how he’d described the act of flight to her, and how she’d likewise defined her own transformations. She wanted to drink it in as long and as deeply as she could, before…

Before.

“Then I will show it to you,” he softly agreed.

Part 3: Galaran

Neither spoke a word as she led him down a well-worn trail; the thick fog still surrounded them on all sides, filling the spaces between the trees, muffling the skitter and peal of forest creatures.

Galaran’s heart sat heavy in her chest. Her lifetime of cultivated restraint, the protective wall she’d thought unbreakable, had finally fallen - and to him, no less; the one person, above all others, that she’d fervently hoped would never see this weakness.

Zakiriel was too pure for Gaia. She’d known it from her first glimpse of that bright smile and those trusting eyes; reaffirmed it each time he stood tirelessly against bias and prejudice, even at the cost of his own health, even if he had no chance of success.

But there was no fairness in the forest; none expected it and none could guarantee it. There was only survival, the fickle flame which both nourished and charred those who grasped for it.

Trying to impose a scale of justice on that chaos…it would never balance.

Hopefully he understood that, now.

The trees opened to a rocky hill face, out of which roared the village river’s mighty headwaters. Since the hill itself bore little vegetation other than moss, the mist was much thinner here, gathering mostly in the waterfall’s basin and providing an unobstructed view of the lightening sky.

Galaran stopped at the edge of the basin, drawn to its far side where birds of paradise flowers bloomed vivid reds and blues. Her best memories had occurred here, under the falls - adventure, discovery, the fond embrace of her mother - and now she intended to make another one; a memory she could keep hidden and treasured, and that couldn’t be taken.

She turned to gauge Zakiriel’s reaction, pleased to find him sufficiently awed.

“I’m not sure I can fly through a waterfall,” he said, flashing her a coy smirk.

Good to know he was comfortable enough to display his strange humor, at least. With a put-upon smile, she pointed upward.

It was easy to miss because of the break in the canopy, but one of the trees overlooking the basin was much, much taller than the others, with a trunk that, once distinguished from its fellows, soundly dwarfed the hill in width.

“This is Our Grandfather,” she explained, craning her neck to view its full height. “He has always watched the clan. We grow together.”

At his questioning stare, she squinted back. “Obviously he isn’t really my ancestor, Zakiriel.” “Oh. Yes. Obviously.” Chagrined, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Is that where you wish to fly? To see your…grandfather?”

“Yes. None have seen his upper boughs; we will be the first.”

Zakiriel seemed intrigued by this; rather than the achievement, though, Galaran would bet anything he was considering all the unknown plant species that might live up there.

She snickered at the thought. Relentlessly endearing, this man.

“I’ll have to, ah…”

He mimicked the act of holding someone in his arms, adding an apologetic shrug at the end.

“That’s fine,” she said, then positioned herself so he could pick her up. The Featherlings’ code of conduct put the oddest barriers around touching others; he should know by now that her clan held no such taboos.

Taboos of that kind, anyway.

Her mouth compressed into an uneven line as she remembered their evening at the river, where she’d consciously disobeyed a rule for the first time; all were free to bathe together, true, but she’d left out the part where unbonded, unrelated youths weren’t supposed to do so alone.

But when she’d seen him there, a lithe white heron in the shallows, his azure hair unbound…well, rules hadn’t meant much to her in that moment.

Absorbed in memory, she didn’t notice the hands behind her knees and lower back - and when they lifted her off the ground, she made a shrill, ragged sound closer to a squeal than a shriek.

Zakiriel stumbled but didn’t drop her, fanning his wings out for balance.

“Are you all right?” he asked, bewildered, checking her over for injury.

“Yes,” she spat defensively.

Galaran didn’t even remember the last time someone had carried her; it must have been her mother, surely, but she couldn’t call up a single instance. She’d imagined a scenario akin to standing beside another person, but a bit closer - not much different from her usual perspective.

She was wrong.

Zakiriel’s arms cradled her more delicately than a bed of furs; he had to hold her close to his chest to keep a secure grip, and so his strong heartbeat thundered right next to her ear. She could even hear him breathing.

“Galaran,” he prodded, and the reverberations of her own name shivered down her spine. “Are you completely sure you want to do this?”

She tilted her head up at him, disgruntled by how very tall and sturdy he seemed, and how slight she felt in comparison. Was he really so much larger than her? When had that happened? Had it always been so?

“Are you sure you can carry me?” she grumbled more petulantly than intended.

But Zakiriel just smiled back at her, not affronted in the least. “Don’t worry. I may not be a fighter, but I’ve hauled my fair share of crops and livestock.”

He winked. “Hold on tight, now.”

In her periphery, his wings spread and started beating in a slow, shallow rhythm that increased gradually in speed and strength. It sounded different from here, though - the wingbeats were heftier, denser, and she could feel the air changing beneath the arches they created.

Then, with a powerful thrust, he was airborne. They were airborne.

It felt like her stomach dropped out through her feet, left behind on the ground as they bolted upward - yet somehow, from there, it continued to perform nauseating flips. Sound dulled in her ears, thickened, and then released with a startling popping sensation; at some point, she’d clung to the front of his tunic like a cub in its first thunderstorm.

When Zakiriel cleared the main canopy, he leveled off his ascent and kept his wings spread nearly flat. It seemed to her that he was riding the air currents, now, instead of creating his own.

He looked down at her, exhilaration plain in his face, his long braid whipping in the wind. The morning was still dim, barely tinting the black sky gray; it was like his blue eyes held the true sky, the entire azure vista, and this pretender they hurtled through could only steal it back at midday.

Through her novel distress and her many, many physical discomforts, the thought consumed her that this was how he was supposed to look.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he enthused, gliding in smooth circles over the treetops - oblivious, apparently, to the gauntlet she’d just endured.

But, so compelling was his joy, she simply nodded. It even made her stomach feel a little better.

“Are you ready to go higher?”

Galaran swallowed hard. Grandfather’s trunk still extended farther than she could take in without getting dizzy, but she nevertheless replied, “Yes.”

He squeezed lightly with the hand that supported her back, prompting her to meet his eyes. “Don’t push yourself, all right? We can return.”

“I’m fine!” she insisted, to which he glanced at the front of his tunic, where all ten of her claws remained pierced through the fabric.

She retracted them one by one, grimacing at the tiny holes they left behind, and held onto him in a more normal, less destructive way.

“I’ll be fine,” she amended. “We’re already so close.”

Zakiriel peered up the massive trunk as if measuring it. “So we are. Make sure to breathe slowly, then, and tell me if you need to stop.”

“Oh, and don’t look down,” he tacked on as an afterthought. “I’ve read that it makes terrestrial creatures sick sometimes.”

Galaran’s eyes went as wide as full moons.

She locked her neck in place so that she could only see ahead, across his torso and left shoulder, into empty gray-black void - and nowhere else.

Zakiriel began a gentle, steady climb around Grandfather’s trunk, pausing to check on her with every full revolution. She was really, honestly fine now, having shaken the nausea, but privately enjoyed his undivided concern nonetheless.

The trunk grew lighter in hue as they ascended, from a deep, saturated brown near its base to a washed out reddish tan. Wind erosion, Zakiriel told her, along with regular sun bleaching. Such things happened to every tree that breached the canopy, he said, and to most of the ones on the Floating Isle.

He alighted on an upper branch just as the sun added its first warm tones to an increasingly blue sky, setting Galaran gently down near the point where it joined with the trunk.

“Are you all right?” she wondered.

The last leg of their flight hadn’t been easy on him; the wind was stronger - not unbearably so, but taxing for an already strained endurance - and she’d noticed a slight tremble in his arms toward the end.

Zakiriel stood with one arm braced against the trunk, resting his forehead on it and sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

“I’m fine!” he wheezed, clearly mocking her, and fell to a fit of laughter at his own jest. Galaran hummed smugly as it devolved into coughing.

When he’d paid enough for his crimes, she reached over to deliver a hearty thump to his back that loosened the knots in his chest.

“All right, perhaps that - perhaps I underestimated this task,” he admitted, voice still somewhat rough, and came to sit beside her. “Featherlings carry one another on occasion, if one is ill or otherwise can’t fly. I didn’t think it would be so different.”

She sniffed, rather satisfied that her dense musculature had at least given him more trouble than a Featherling would. “Maybe you should haul heavier crops.”

Another hoarse laugh escaped him, trailing off in a groan.

“Still, we made it,” he said, brightening. “Look.”

Galaran followed his gaze out over the canopy, to the pale mist and morning birds that crowned it, to the burgeoning golden sunrise at its distant horizon.

The sheer immensity stole her breath. She had only ever measured the forest in landmark stones, thinking the span between them vast, but what few she could see from here were as pebbles in a field of grass; and those great winding rivers she had once called endless were nothing but lengths of branching twine, swallowed whole by the totality that was Gaia -

“Breathe,” Zakiriel reminded her.

She squeezed shut her eyes and did just that; in its secure, finite container, her mind gathered by fractions to a state of equilibrium.

“I must apologize,” he said. “I was so eager to show you the sky, but neglected to consider that it might be…overwhelming.”

“How do you live here? It’s too big,” she proclaimed, exasperated, and heard him quietly chuckle.

The wind changed direction, blowing his scent her way; it was mundane to her now, part of her mental repository of safe things, but it hit her more strongly than usual with her eyes closed.

Sitting in the open, speaking of home, laughing together…

Hadn’t this…happened before?

There it was again - that vague memory tied to this scent, but once more it dissipated when she tried to grab hold of it.

She opened her eyes as if that might help her see it better, but no trace of the phantom memory remained; she saw only Zakiriel, framed by Grandfather’s ancient, flaring boughs.

No - not only Zakiriel.

She saw the one person who’d ever seen her back; the man who’d cared enough to tug her from the moorings of fate; the one who’d eagerly remained after she resisted.

And yet you turn him away.

Was this really the correct path?

“Feeling better?” he prompted, shifting to face her on the branch.

If you had only been born to the forest, she thought miserably.

“Yes,” she said, but - just like in the training ring - he saw through her like her skin was woven reeds, catching every unintended drop of feeling that welled out between the stalks.

Still he chose to push himself closer.

“Well, then,” he began. By those words alone she knew he was about to say something meant to cheer her up. “What did you think of the skies?”

Zakiriel held his arms out to his sides as if showcasing the whole thing, the entire sky, his domain, and she didn’t even try to fight the charmed smile that overtook her.

How did he always know exactly what would catch her off guard?

Her heart throbbed raw at the confluence of grief and ardor, each force vying to be the one that would burst it; and then one did.

“I want to see them again.”

The words tumbled from her mouth in a helpless, urgent confession. Her hands shook as she pushed herself closer to him, as she swept her eyes meaningfully up to his face; if he was so good at reading her, then let him read this.

Where before he’d hesitated, it now took him just a single stuttered breath to reach for her across the gap -

“I see your righteous quest is proceeding apace,” came a ruthlessly scathing voice from elsewhere in the canopy.

Zakiriel’s seeking hand stopped dead in the air.

Galaran spun to face the source, alarmed that she hadn’t heard anyone approaching, enraged that someone had trespassed on their private moment. Her skin was already half-fur when her eyes fell upon the human - no, the Featherling? - who had spoken.

A pair of wings adorned his back, but they didn’t have any feathers; they were membranous and black as night, a bat’s wings, translucent against the sky. Dark hair hung loosely down his back and around a pale, drawn face.

A winged creature. She’d hunt him like a bird in these branches.

The man grinned wickedly like she’d spoken the thought aloud.

“Kazach.”

Zakiriel’s voice sounded as bloodless as his skin looked; so many warring emotions tugged at his mouth that it merely quivered. From her point of view, this did not seem to be a welcome visitation.

But she recognized the name - Kazach, Zakiriel’s estranged older brother whom he spoke of in hushed, regretful tones - and so remained in her two-legged form. The man didn’t seem to be a threat, for now, but she’d chew through his neck if he tried to harm them.

She made sure to think that last part as loudly as she could, earning a narrow glare from his red eyes.

“How did you find me?” Zakiriel asked quietly.

Kazach flapped closer to them, perching just a short distance away from and above his brother. “I looked,” he drawled. “Your wings are hard to miss, you know, in all this green.”

“I’ve been looking for days, though. Poking my head into these little holes in the forest.” He rolled his eyes toward the clearing below. “I had so many theories on what happened to you, dear brother.”

“Eaten by beasts, captured by humans, impaled on a tree branch -” he raised one finger for each item glibly listed, then his brow for the finale, “- but never did I think to see you cavorting with a beastman while Haven burns.”

“Burns?” Zakiriel stood in an instant. “What do you mean? Was there a fire?”

Kazach grinned - having received the response he’d sought, Galaran would guess. The man reminded her of Sai, but colder; he was like the faceless ones, delighting in the confusion and fear they sowed.

I will show you a beast, darkling, she directed his way. This time he contained his reaction to a brief, irritated glance.

“Several!” he replied. “Humans set most of them while capturing your friends and neighbors. Though some, I imagine, could be accidental; such unfortunate mishaps occur while one is fleeing for one’s life.”

The taunting quality of his voice alone made her bristle - but Zakiriel looked to be in shock. She could spit at this scrawny little bat later.

“How could humans reach the Floating Isle?” she demanded, taking up the slack.

Kazach turned his amused gaze to her. “Oh? You don’t believe me.”

Swinging one long arm toward Haven, he invited, “Why don’t you see for yourself, then?”

This woke Zakiriel from his stupor. He gave Galaran a firm nod, which she returned, and then propelled himself in the direction his brother had indicated; she followed at once, climbing nimbly up through Grandfather’s branches to gain the very top of his canopy.

The Floating Isle looked much the same as it always did when her head and shoulders broke through the leaves. It hovered a set distance above Gaia, partially obscured by the cloud-like formations that perpetually surrounded it, its near edge just beginning to glitter in the emerging sunlight.

She could see no invading armies, no ominous columns of smoke - though, off its flattest side, she did spot a small ovular shape that was darker than the geography around it.

“They call it an airship,” Kazach said, landing lightly beside her. “It can carry humans through the skies just as well as wings could. Maybe even better.”

Zakiriel took up her other side, hovering above the treetop and covering his mouth in mute horror.

“But why?” Galaran pressed. “Featherlings are peaceful. Why would the humans try so hard to reach them?”

“Why?” Kazach echoed derisively. “Think about it, girl. They’ve been crawling all over your precious forest, too; what could they possibly seek in both places that warrants such a show of force?”

Zakiriel turned his head sharply toward them.

“A cure,” he said hollowly. “They suffer from the Withering.”

Kazach smirked, looking far too pleased for the dire circumstance. “Exactly right.”

“We must go to Haven’s aid, Brother.”

She knew Zakiriel would say it before he’d even opened his mouth - there was no possible future where he didn’t try everything he could to avert this crisis, especially if it involved the Withering - but it still drove a needle of ice through her chest. The Isle was much farther away than Grandfather was tall, and Zakiriel’s shoulders still sagged from the exhaustion of their flight.

He could not take her with him.

Zakiriel met her eyes with the same bleak knowledge, pleading wordlessly for her blessing; and how could she not give it? If her own people were under attack, she’d do the same without a second thought.

Bitter acid coated her tongue, but still she told him, “Go.”

Zakiriel let out the breath he’d held - but whether it was in relief or regret, she didn’t know. He exchanged a hard look with Kazach, who retreated a surprisingly respectful distance away, and approached her.

At an arm’s length, he paused, then finished the motion which tragedy had earlier severed; he reached just a hand across the gap, waiting for her to choose the manner of its reception.

Without hesitating, she grasped his forearm tightly. If they could not part as lovers, they would part as fellow warriors - comrades bound by strife.

He returned the gesture, showing with his reverent motion that he knew its significance.

“Be brave, Zakiriel.” She intoned the words she’d bestowed on other Ran warriors in countless battles, but this time they lacked their customary intent. She did not wish for him to seek glory or honorable death on the battlefield - far from it.

His eyes softened. In a break from tradition, he covered her hand with his unused one and replied, “Be safe, Galaran.”

Instant, hot tears blurred her sight; she blinked them away, heartened that he seemed to be doing the same.

In a voice thickened with emotion, with more personal concern than he had any right to bear, he murmured, “Can you descend without my aid?”

For some reason, this was what broke the seal on her tears. Humans threatened his home, his people were facing unknowable agonies - and yet he selflessly worried not for himself, but for her.

She nodded, incapable of coherent speech, vigorously scrubbing at her eyes with her free hand. When they were finally clear, she sought his again to complete the ritual.

“We will meet again,” she barely choked out.

Zakiriel’s fingers clenched around her hand.

“We will meet again,” he declared.

Before she could change her mind, Galaran let go and thrust him away, releasing him like a songbird into open air - their entwined arms separated, and with a final, remorseful look, Zakiriel turned his back.

#this part ended up SO much longer than i thought it would be #i need to .... be more realistic about word count costing lmao #it was still fun to develop all that romantic tension though!#mega writes

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kaoticshiba · 10 months ago

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Hi Vincent! I hope you're having a good day. I love your art so much! <3 I saw your recent post with Karlach, Gale, and Astarion (Astarion with a "No Bite???" xD) -- I was wondering if you had these up for sale somewhere as discord icons? I would love to purchase them for my roleplay server if they are available. Thank you so much!

Hello ! I am sorry for late reply , I haven't been much active on tumblr.

I'm very glad you like these! Unfortunately they are not for sale, especially as I use them on cons as prints and stickers. (At least not in a digital sense as the art itself belongs to me).

Now I'm not a fan of people reposting my art but you can use them privately (without distribution or monetary profit) as pfp or things like that with proper credit of course.

On the other hand I am open to make custom pics like that in a commission sense and could do it by a certian date in the same style if you're interested in your own piece that you can use wherever without worrying ( price same as for a chibi commission below). You can dm me about that here or on [email protected] if you want.

I again appreciate the interest and I hope you can understand. Do let me know what you decide on !

Hope that helps !!!

#kaos #my art #kaoticshiba #ask #dnd #bg3 #art credit #answer

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artsyalice137 · 2 years ago

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On AI Art: a perspective from computer engineer/artist

With all the discourse about AI art going on right now, I thought I’d add my perspective to the mix. But the TL:DR is that some AI art hurts artists who provided - albeit unknowingly and/or unwillingly - the datasets that allow the AI to generate “art”.

I’ll try to keep this untechnical so that I get the point across well enough.

In my senior year of college, I took a class called Sensor Processing for Autonomous Vehicles in which we discussed some of the AI learning that allows autonomous vehicles (also called self-driving cars) to identify and respond to what they “see” via a number of sensors - including radar, video cameras, and infrared. They could be seeing the lines in the road, road signs, people, or any number of things. AI or machine learning allows the brains behind the car to determine what the object is and respond accordingly. The brains being a computer hosted either in the car or remotely on a super computer.

Now you might be wondering, “How does the car know what a person looks like?” The answer is that some of these AI learn the same way that babies do. When you’re a baby, someone points to a cat and says “This is a cat. This is what a cat looks like.” Then they point to other slightly different looking cats and repeat, “Those are also cats.” Certain machine learning algorithms learn similarly using what is called a dataset. This dataset can consist of millions of images that are then initially labeled by humans. This allows the machine to start off with the correct data to then learn from these images what a cat or human or stop sign looks like. After this initial processing of the dataset, the AI can recognize, with some level of accuracy, a cat.

Without this dataset, the algorithm is basically useless because a computer is not going to inherently know what a cat looks like. Similarly, how can an AI art program know what its art should look like without taking “inspiration” from artists on the internet?

In relation to AI art, this dataset is any artist’s Instagram or Tumblr or TikTok or whatever is readily available online. And here is where the first ethical dilemma arises. Typically, using an artist’s work without permission is something that can get you banned from social media. In this way, unless the programmers behind the AI art applications have asked for permission to use artists’ art as their dataset, this can be viewed as art theft. Based on the discourse online, permission was neither requested nor given.

To be cynical for a moment, putting any art on the internet opens the possibility for that art to be stolen. The void claims as it sees fit. Big corporations like Disney can monitor and rectify such thefts since they have the time, money, and manpower. Most, if not all, artists online do not. Putting anything out there without a watermark absolutely marring the piece is some acceptance of risk. For the artists who depend on likes, views, commissions, and the ilk for their income, that’s not an option. They spend hours upon hours creating art to post so they can generate income. (Or if you’re small time like me, you just generate some likes but that’s still quite nice too.)

As an artist (or at least someone who likes and does art), I never want to see someone claiming my work as their own. It’s a terrible feeling. In relation to one’s pride as an artist, it is also infuriating to see AI “artists” not saying that their art is computer generated. Here I’m talking about the people who use apps made by programmers to generate their images. I think the person who coded and trained an AI to generate images should be credited. That’s no small feat. However, I’m entirely unimpressed by the people who added an image to an app or website and clicked a generate button. Anyone can do that. In my personal opinion, art is made, not generated. And that is the second ethnical issue - misrepresentation on the internet. *sarcasm* How shocking. How unprecedented. *sarcasm* Same story, different narrator.

Even with all this said, I don’t consider AI art inherently evil. In some ways its intriguing from a technical and artistic perspective. However, its the ethics around how these programs acquired their datasets and how people are using it that causes it to be controversial. Surprise, surprise. People are the problem more so than the machines. Machines don’t know right or wrong. They know only what we tell them. And what have we learned here?

For some more info on AI:

https://www.ted.com/talks/yann_lecun_deep_learning_neural_networks_and_the_future_of_ai

https://www.ted.com/talks/briana_brownell_how_does_artificial_intelligence_learn?language=en

AI Art specific video:

https://www.ted.com/talks/blaise_aguera_y_arcas_how_computers_are_learning_to_be_creative?language=en

#ai art discourse #ted talks #opinion #just my 2 cents #ai art is not art #say no to ai art #neural networks #machine learning #ai art #ai art generation #computer engineering #artists on tumblr #artist struggles

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nelofairc · 5 months ago

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there’s a special kind of liberation which comes from blogging under a pseudonym, without the aim of creating a following (or the income/influencer ‘status’ which has become so pervasive). it reminds me of the early days of the net, when all of the weirdos starting coming out from underneath their sofas, freely sharing whatever was on their minds, without caring what - or who - it was FOR. it was for THEM. they had shit to say and they simply needed to feel free enough to say it (lol, like that’s ‘simple’). these days it all feels so hideously transactional, and there’s enough of that everywhere else. i don’t want to be part of that noise, so i’ve struggled to find my place within the chaos.

i was too scared/shy/awkward to share whatever was on my mind back then. i didn’t think anything i thought was interesting, certainly not unless it ‘served’ someone else’s needs. i fell into a professional role of servicing the needs of creative souls, because that’s how i’d been conditioned as a kid. i didn’t have needs, or so i thought. only my mum had needs. i wasn’t talented, with the kind of creative flair which merited attention in its own right (at least, not to me). and attention had historically only ever resulted in even more bullying… why would i want to encourage that?

instead i ‘helped’. and i was good at it. in later years i would take my company around the world talking about my emerging profession and the opportunities we were carving in our weird-assed newly evolving, early creative digital culture space. i was called ‘a pioneer’ more times than i could count. but i didn’t blog. i later regretted that when seeing other people blogging my words and ideologies, gaining the credit for my ideas. but i was generous enough to understand - or believe, perhaps naively - that we were cocreating a better world together, and therefore ‘my’ ideas were ‘our’ ideas anyway… right? i mean, isn’t it better that those ideas were out in the world and not just stuck in my own head, or the heads of limited audiences at the conferences and festivals i presented at? far too often those established bloggers were building on top of other people’s foundations, without raising them up in turn. sharks, users, people with no inherent creativity who simply pounced on whatever was trending at the time, discarding them as each new trend arose. their words felt shallow, because their intentions were shallow, and that made me feel… diluted, and used.

when i first started blogging in earnest, after i closed down my own company, i wrote about things which would help the community, for employers who paid me to help those communities. essentially, i blogged because i was asked to, not because i wanted to hold court. sure i shared aspects of myself via those words, and via the social media posts i’d been writing (i was ironically pretty late to the social media space, considering my career’s context). but i wrote them FOR others. just like when i’d stood on stages around the world and presented MY creations, i could only do so because i wasn’t talking about MY work or myself: i was talking about the work of the other creative souls whose work we supported, commissioned, and platformed. i created innovative spaces where other people made the content… was how i thought about it (despite having also made plenty of that content myself). but what i now realise i was doing was deferring my own part in that - not ‘look at me’, but ‘look at the amazing work that people have created’, somehow skipping over the part which said ‘…within the universes which i created for them’. i removed myself from the equation, not because i chose to but because i was conditioned to do so.

when i took yet another deviation in my career and returned to freelancing, i blogged to keep people updated about the project i had run a crowdfunder for. again, i blogged for THEM. but it was a different kind of blogging, with me at its centre. for the first time my project was about me, my life, my journey, not about calls for contributions or promotion of other people’s content. and with the vast attention that a successful crowdfunder brings (one which went viral because famous people tweeted about it), the pressure and vulnerability was horrendous. i didn’t know i was neurodivergent at the time, and looking back at that period in my life feels extra raw accordingly. my othered self was starting to peek out from behind the masks it didn’t even know it had been wearing, and i was completely oblivious to everything aside from how exposed i felt. i’d turned ME into a service, and that felt wrong, uncomfortable, dangerous (and not in an exciting way)… because i didn’t understand why.

in recent years, while i’ve been trying to untangle what’s autism, what’s adhd, what’s trauma, what’s social conditioning, what were the masks i’d unwittingly created for myself as protection and compliance, i have felt this enormous surge of ‘shit i’d like to say’, and failed each time to say it. i kept trying to fit myself into what other people might want, lacking the self-esteem to trust that i could simply write FOR ME. several support coaches and therapists have attempted to nudge me in the right direction over the last few years, telling me that i don’t need ‘an audience to write for’, and that trying to do so would only keep me tangled. and they were right, but i still didn’t have the sense of self worth to dare.

what was perhaps weirdest of all within that struggle, was that i didn’t want to write under a pseudonym. i didn’t want to hide. perhaps because i feel like i’ve already hidden for 50 years. perhaps because my words and ideas had been appropriated, stolen, so many times before, i didn’t want to not claim them for myself. and also i have a kind of style, anyone who’s read me elsewhere is highly likely to recognise me behind the avatar. but that’s all part of the same tangles, right?

i want to feel free to speak and write as myself in the exact same way that i want to feel free to be myself out in the world in every other way. and while i lack all self esteem (DESPITE what i’ve made happen for myself and others): i am the only person holding me back. so i didn’t want to use a pseudonym, i wanted to write as me. but i don’t -yet- feel safe enough in myself to do so. and THAT’s the work. that’s the momentous mountain of recovery work i need to focus on. so if writing under a psuedonym is what might help me get there, that’s what i’m gonna do.

it doesn’t matter if no one reads these words, it matters that i am building new internal practices of Having Things to Say And Then Saying Them Out Loud. that’s it. that’s the work, here.

#building self esteem #Having Things to Say And Then Saying Them Out Loud #masking #appropriation #honest vulnerability

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regenderate-fic · 2 years ago

Text

When I Run Away (You're Who I Run To): Chapter 29

main post read on ao3

Word Count (Chapter): 3,396

NOTES: cw for misgendering (just once at the start) and general abuse/bad vibes. but you know in a hurt/comfort kind of way

They walked down to the bakery together: Rose and Yaz on either side of Penny, who managed to keep her head held high as the three of them stepped through the door.

Penny’s mum was at one of the tables by the back, wearing the same sun hat as always (despite the cold and cloudy weather) and writing in a notebook. She didn't look up when the door opened, but as Penny came closer, she glanced up.

Penny sat down across from her.

“Mother.”

There was the ghost of satisfaction on her mum’s face. “John.”

“I don't know anybody by that name.” Penny’s voice was perfectly calm.

Her mum sighed. “Very well, then. Penelope.”

Yaz was still hovering somewhere behind Penny; she couldn't see her face. But she could see the tilt to Penny’s chin and the tension in the back of her neck.

Rose tapped at Yaz's elbow. When Yaz turned her head, Rose nodded towards a nearby table— close enough to see and hear what was going on without looming over the conversation. As quietly as they could, Yaz and Rose sat down.

“It’s been a long time,” Penny’s mum was saying. “That’s not an accident, I gather.” From where Yaz was sitting, she couldn’t really see Penny’s mum, but she was sure that, even after such a short time in her presence, she could envision the arched eyebrow, the tilted head.

Penny didn’t respond.

A to-go cup appeared on the table just next to Yaz. She looked up to see Ace sliding into the seat next to Rose.

“I'm on my break,” she whispered. “Did I miss anything?”

Yaz shook her head. “Only the misgendering.”

Ace pulled a face. “Oh, that’s all right, then.”

The next table over, Penny and her mum were staring at each other, seemingly oblivious to their audience.

“You've been avoiding me,” her mum said. There was something about her voice that gave Yaz chills: a perfect calmness. “I thought you’d at least have the decency to say hello.”

Penny managed a close mimicry of her mother’s tone, but Yaz could hear the tight tension that ran underneath it. “Hello.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yaz saw Rose suppress a laugh.

“Hello.” Yaz could hear the smug smile in Penny’s mum’s voice. It was excruciating. She couldn’t imagine how Penny felt.

“It’s been a long time,” Penny said. “Why did you come here? And why now?”

“Penelope,” her mum began. “Surely I don’t need a reason to come visit my daughter.”

“You never came before,” Penny insisted.

Her mum sighed. “I was busy. I had to pick up the pieces after you left. And then I was… out of commission… for such a long time.”

Yaz and Rose exchanged a confused look. Penny hadn’t said anything about her mum being “out of commission”—what did that mean? Yaz pulled out her phone, ready to Google for it—if Penny’s mum really had been a prominent researcher, surely something would come up—and then she realized she didn’t know who to Google. Penny had never shared her mum’s name.

Yaz thought for a second, and then she texted Donna.

Yaz Khan: Hey, do you know Penny’s mum’s name?

Yaz Khan: I want to look her up

“What do you mean, out of commission?” Penny asked, her eyebrows drawn together. Yaz’s phone buzzed.

Donna Noble: Tecteun Smith

Donna Noble: Everything all right out there?

Yaz Khan: Yep

Penny’s mum sighed again. “Let’s not get too bogged down in what’s past.”

Donna Noble: I’ll be out soon. Just making sure everything makes it out of the oven.

Yaz Khan: 👍

Yaz closed her messaging app and opened a browser window. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she typed the name “Tecteun Smith” into the search bar and hit “enter.”

The results appeared immediately: headline after headline filling Yaz’s screen. Yorkshire Doctor Imprisoned for Medical Malpractice. Doctor Credited with Medical Miracles Sentenced to 15 Years in Prison. Tecteun Smith, the Woman Who Claimed She Would Cure Us All. The articles went back a good few years.

She glanced up. Rose was giving her a curious look. Yaz took a screenshot of the results and attached it to a text— seconds later, she heard Rose’s phone buzz. She turned her own phone off and cast her attention back to Penny and her mum. She'd missed some of the conversation— now Penny’s mum was saying, “You know I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?” Penny’s head was tilted to the side, a practiced casualty in her tone, but Yaz could hear the hard edge running underneath. She was holding herself stiffly, too, like she had when Yaz had tattooed her, and her smile was just on the edge of dangerous. “All the good times we had?”

“We did have good times.” Penny’s mum sounded perfectly serene. “Didn’t we? Remember how we used to go on those hikes?”

Penny scoffed. “Sorry. Not ringing a bell.”

“Oh, Penelope,” her mum said, shaking her head. “I’d thought you might've changed. You always were so angry.”

“Wonder why.” Penny's distress was visible in the tension at her neck, the set of her jaw. But she held herself upright, her chin lifted in stubborn defiance.

Her mum sniffed. “It's a good thing you haven't got more family,” she said, “if this is how you treat me.”

Yaz tensed. It was all she could do to stop herself from getting up and launching herself at Penny’s mum. But this was Penny's fight—Yaz would respond to Penny’s cues.

“I treat my family fine, thank you,” Penny said. She looked around. “Hang on.” And then she leaned back, lifting her chair’s front legs off the ground, and called towards the kitchen. “Donna?”

Donna appeared immediately, her eyebrows raised at Penny’s mum. “Yeah?”

“D’you think I treat you badly?”

Donna's answer came quick. “Definitely not.”

Penny turned to the table where Yaz, Rose, and Ace were sitting. “You three—any complaints?”

“None from me.” Rose hit Penny with a grin.

“Me either,” Ace said.

“Nor me,” Yaz added.

Penny turned back to her mum. “Think that settles it, then, doesn't it?”

“This is your family, then?” her mum asked. “A few coworkers? A random child?”

“Oi!” Ace said. “I’m sixteen, I’ll have you know. Hardly a child.”

“Not exactly random, either,” Rose muttered.

“Oh, dear.” Penny's mum fanned herself with one hand. “She's not… yours, is she?”

Penny opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Ace jumped to her feet, sticking out a hand to shake. “That's right,” she said, an innocent but exuberant grin on her face. “Ace McShane-Smith, at your service.”

Next to Yaz, Rose snorted.

“Interesting.” Tecteun’s eye skated across Ace’s face, hair, jacket. “You would be Penelope’s experiment, then, would you?”

Ace frowned. “Her what?”

“I don't do experiments.” Penny pushed the words out through gritted teeth.

“Nonsense,” her mum said. “Every child is an experiment. You were—particularly successful—”

“So successful you wound up in prison?” Yaz asked.

Everyone's heads turned towards her. Yaz swallowed.

“It's all there online,” she said. “Medical malpractice. Prison sentence. Did you only just get out?”

“Last year.” Tecteun had maintained her composure thus far, but Yaz could see her hands shaking as she lifted her cup. “I wanted to see you right away, of course, but it was a while until I was ready. I'm not so young anymore, you know. Prison wasn't easy on me.”

“As if you were ever easy on me.” Penny's voice was dangerously low. She was leaning forward, with a glint in her eyes Yaz was sure she hadn't seen before. “D’you know, I've spent the last twenty years dealing with all that? Not exactly keen on going back to it, if I’m being honest.”

“You had a roof over your head,” Tecteun said. “You had enough to eat. You have a mother who loves you.”

“If that’s what being loved feels like,” Penny said, “I’m not interested.”

Teceun opened her mouth again, but Donna was ready: she stepped forward, saying, “Yeah, I’ve had enough of you.”

Tecteun’s jaw dropped in extreme affront. “You can’t do that!”

“I own the place,” Donna replied. “I can refuse service to anyone.” She glanced at Penny. “That is, if my co-owner agrees.”

Penny nodded. Her eyes were fixed on her mum.

“Right,” Donna said. “In that case, I don’t think I want to see you here ever again.”

“Do I need to call the authorities?” Tecteun asked.

“Do you honestly think they'll be on your side?” Yaz countered.

“As if cops ever fix anything,” Ace muttered. She eyed Tecteun. “Say, if you are sticking around, are you interested in looking at my collection of homemade explosives? Promise I'm very good at keeping them stable. Most of the time.”

Tecteun’s eyes widened. “Is that a threat?”

Ace shook her head. “More of a hobby. I ask everyone. If you stay here, I can just go get them.”

Tecteun turned her head carefully away. “That won’t be necessary.” Her eyes landed on Penny. “Congratulations, Penelope. You’ve made yourself clear. Reconciliation is clearly not possible with one as obstinate as yourself.” She began to stand.

Penny wrinkled her nose. “Obstinate? Me? I don’t think I’m obstinate.”

Ace must have run off when Yaz wasn’t looking, because now she was back, holding what appeared to be a deodorant can.

“Penny, did you tell Ace she could bring the explosives to work?” Donna asked. “I thought we agreed no explosives at work.”

“Might’ve said she could store them in the back?” At Donna’s look, Penny raised her hands in protest. “I was curious! Wanted to see what she was doing. It’s very impressive.”

Tecteun, for her part, was inching closer and closer to the door.

“D’you know,” Ace said to her, “I don’t know if I want to show these to you. I actually don’t think any of us want to see you here again.” She looked around, her ponytail whipping in the air. “Right?”

“Yep,” Donna said.

“Do I get a say?” Rose asked.

“Only if you agree,” Ace said solemnly.

“All right, then, guess I’d better.” Rose was grinning, first at Ace, then at Penny. Penny gave her a small smile back.

“Same here,” Yaz added.

Tecteun stared at Penny for a long moment. “Penelope?”

Penny used her cane to push herself to her feet. She met Tecteun’s eyes with equal intensity. “Get out.”

Tecteun took a deep breath, her head still held high underneath her wide-brimmed hat. “Well, then. I suppose this is goodbye.” And without another word, she turned and marched out the door.

For a long moment, all was silent. The door swung shut, and everyone looked from it to each other, their collective breath still caught, tense, in their lungs.

“Did we do it?” Ace whispered.

“I—” Penny swayed. “Did we?”

Donna pulled her into a hug. Penny went ragdoll limp in her arms.

The door opened, and Yaz jumped, for a moment irrationally but completely convinced it was Tecteun back again. But no, it was just a regular customer, a woman in a business suit who made her way directly to the counter.

“Oh!” Ace exclaimed, darting over to the counter and setting down her cans of explosive very gently at her feet. “Can I help you?”

Penny peeled herself away from Donna. Her eyes were wide and rimmed with red.

“Right,” she breathed. “We've got customers.”

“Nope,” Donna said. “You're going right back upstairs, if I've got anything to do with it.”

“Oh.” Penny wavered, looking lost.

Rose stepped forward. “Oh, come here, you.” She wrapped an arm around Penny's waist, and Penny fell against her. “What do you think? Can we get Yaz and her arms of steel to carry you up the stairs again?”

Yaz scoffed. “Only if you promise to never say ‘arms of steel’ about me ever again.”

Rose shot her a grin. “You've got a deal.”

“It's more like ‘back of steel,’ anyway,” Yaz added, crouching down in front of Penny. “And legs.” Penny climbed onto her back and wrapped her arms around Yaz's neck. Her head settled softly against Yaz's hair, and Yaz took a moment to adjust to Penny’s warm body against hers before she started walking.

They made it easily to the flat, Tecteun nowhere in sight as they entered the stairwell. Yaz didn't put Penny down until she'd gotten all the way down the hall to Penny's room. Penny let go of her shoulders and fell onto the bed just as Rose came in, dropping Penny’s cane by the door.

“I'm going to put the kettle on,” she said.

Yaz resisted the urge to tell her she sounded like her mum. Instead, she sat at the edge of the bed, reaching an arm out to rest her hand on Penny's shoulder. Penny didn't move.

Rose came back in a few minutes later, juggling three hot mugs in her hands. Penny pushed herself slowly into a sitting position, and Yaz scrambled up to sit next to her. Rose handed a mug to Yaz and nudged at Penny until she moved over, making room for Rose to sit.

“All right?” she asked quietly.

Penny shrugged. She took her mug from Rose and held it in both her hands in front of her.

“Yeah.” Rose rested her head on Penny's shoulder. “You did good in there.”

Penny nodded, now frowning at her tea. It was a long time before she said anything, and when she did, it was with tremendous effort behind each word. “How did you know?”

“Know what?” Yaz asked.

“Prison?”

“Oh.” Yaz shrugged. “I just googled her. Texted Donna for her name ‘cause I thought there was something fishy about the whole ‘been away for a while’ thing.”

Penny nodded, still staring at her tea. She swallowed, her throat rising and falling painfully. “I don't like it,” she said, her voice barely audible. “The prison thing.”

“Why not?” Rose asked. “She got caught, didn't she?”

Penny shook her head. “Didn't do much good. It's not like she's changed or anything. Besides—” She cut off.

“Yeah?” Rose prodded.

“I don’t know why it took so long,” Penny said. “I was in there for years. Loads of people saw. Techs. Assistants. Students. Other doctors. No one said anything.”

“Might’ve been scared to,” Yaz said. “If she was their boss.”

“And I bet she was lying her arse off besides,” Rose muttered.

Yaz nodded. “Yeah, that too.”

“Maybe.” Penny let out a breath. “I don't know. Feels weird, for her to get caught because of somebody else. It's like… I don’t know.”

“Like what?” Rose asked.

“It’s just…” Penny’s next words came out almost too quiet to be heard. “Why did no one care when it was me?”

Without thinking, Yaz wrapped her arms around Penny. Rose pried the tea out of Penny’s hands just in time to prevent a spill as Penny collapsed into Yaz's side, clutching at her shirt. A moment later, Rose set the tea down so she could join the hug properly.

It was hard to say how long the three of them sat like that, with Penny sniffling into Yaz's shoulder and Rose’s arms around them both. The tea had certainly gotten cold, by the time Penny lifted her head and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “For being here.”

“Wouldn't miss it,” Yaz quipped.

Penny managed a laugh. There was a long silence as she breathed, in and out, and then scrambled to sit up. “Actually, I was meaning to ask. Do you do this sort of thing with all your friends?” she asked, her voice suddenly returning to its usual brightness.

“What, help them through hard times?” Rose laughed. “Nah, it's just you. We’re cold as ice to everyone else, promise.”

“No, not that.” Penny hesitated. “Not just that, anyway.” She disentangled a hand from Yaz's shirt so she could gesture at the three of them. “This. I—” She swallowed. “Seems a bit much, for the shopowner across the street.”

“Pretty sure you stopped being ‘the shopowner across the street’ by the second time you crashed our waiting room,” Yaz teased.

“It’s not crashing if it’s open to the public.”

“It’s open to our clients,” Yaz corrected.

Penny nudged her. “Oi, I got a tattoo, didn’t I?”

“One tattoo.” Rose leaned back and grinned. “You’re lucky we didn’t kick you out all the other times.”

“You wouldn’t do that!” Penny looked so comically shocked that Yaz had to laugh.

“No,” she said. “We wouldn’t.” She glanced at Rose, who met her eyes with a nod. “Don’t know if you realized, but I don’t usually sleep three to a bed, either.”

“Didn’t think so.” Penny frowned. “So that’s—not normal friendship?”

“I don’t know,” Rose said. “Might be, for some people. Suppose it's not far off from how me and my mates used to sleep after a night out.”

“Yeah, but only ‘cause you were drunk,” Yaz put in. She'd shepherded Rose home herself a good few times, and once or twice the rest of the group had been there too, sprawling across the bed and the floor in Rose’s room while Yaz, invariably the only one sober, sat at the head of the bed with her back against the wall, laughing when Rose fell across her lap. It was a happy memory—but not, all things considered, related to the matter at hand. “Anyway, I think you're evading the question,” she said to Rose.

“Well, what if it's the wrong question?” Rose asked. She turned to Penny. “Doesn’t matter how other people are with their friends. The right question, I think, is how you feel about it.”

“I feel…” Penny swallowed. Her eyes darted from Rose to Yaz. “I feel lucky.”

There was a shimmering potential in the air, thin like the wall of a bubble. Yaz couldn't speak for fear of popping it.

Penny kept talking. Each word came slow, halting. “I feel like—it's hard to find the words. I think I feel… confused. Not bad-confused, just…” She stared at her hands. “I don't get it. Why me? You spend so much time with me. And you have each other, and so many other friends—why me?”

“I don't know, I'm in it for the baked goods,” Rose quipped.

Penny managed a laugh.

“Honestly, though, is it that hard to believe we like you?” Rose added.

“I—” Penny swallowed. “I don't know. Most people seem to think I'm a bit much.”

“Nah,” Rose said. “You're just the right amount.”

“If you say so.” Penny paused for a moment. “The thing is,” she said, her voice suddenly sounding stronger than it had since she’d left the bakery, “I forget if I told you already, but I’m autistic. A bit socially awkward. Not great with social cues. And the cues I’ve been getting from you two have been confusing. Especially since I don’t really have much to go off of, in terms of personal experience. And especially ‘cause there’s a lot I would be reading as romantic, if you two weren’t together. And there was that thing about flirting—” Here she faltered. “I suppose I just wanted to know—am I making it up?”

Yaz let out a breath, and it turned into a laugh, a giddy laugh that Rose soon joined in on.

“You’re not,” Yaz said.

“We’ve sort of already talked about it,” Rose added. “Hope you don’t mind.” There was that teasing note to her voice that always seemed to diffuse a situation.

“Fill me in?” Penny asked, her eyes darting between the two of them.

“Well,” Rose began, lowering her voice until it became downright conspiratorial, “I think it's possible that Yaz has a crush.”

“Oi!” Yaz raised her eyebrows, trying her absolute hardest to ignore the heat in her cheeks. “I thought the point of the conversation was that we both have crushes.”

“Oh,” Penny breathed. Rose turned to her, suddenly shy.

“Is that—is that all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, it's—” Penny broke into a grin. “It's better than all right. It's brilliant. It's—” She paused. “It's exciting. But I don't know the rules.”

“Maybe we ought to figure that out tomorrow,” Yaz said. “Enough big talk for today. We can get by without rules until tomorrow, can’t we?”

“You'll still be here?” Penny whispered. “Tomorrow?”

Yaz pulled Penny closer. “Of course we will.”

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jazzajazzjazz · 2 years ago

Text

Okay, rant time.

I'm not an unreasonable gal. Really, I'm not. If you want to use my art in a non-commercial way (avatar, tattoo design, thumbnail, tumblr banner, etc) you can absolutely do so. But generally it's accepted that one should ask for permission from the artist before doing so. Chances are I will say yes. It is not a difficult concept.

Except it apparently is?

A little while ago a kind follower of mine alerted me to a youtuber named FranklyGaming using my Panam Palmer art in their thumbnail without my permission:

I basically left a comment on this video telling the guy to give me the appropriate credit. He did. Problem solved, yeah?

Then this appeared:

The same youtuber once again using my art (this time of Judy) WITHOUT MY PERMISSION, as though getting permission for one piece of my art suddenly means he has permission to use everything without asking.

----

THIS IS NOT A CALL OUT POST. If you take it upon yourself to harass this youtuber then you're a nasty dipshit.

All I want is for people to ask for permission to use my art. That's it. A simple email or dm on instagram. My information is not difficult to find. It's the least you can do while your videos are making money and I make fuck all in terms of art-based income.

Am I being unreasonable here?

--------------------------------------------

ETA: SITUATION RESOLVED

I contacted FranklyGaming and made my point as politely as I could and I hope he understands now. I really do think it was just a misunderstanding. That being said this post will remain as a sort of educational example?

Please remember to ask for an artist's permission before using their work. A lot of the time they will say yes! If they don't, consider commissioning them instead. :)

✌️

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk judy #cyberpunk 2077 judy #panam palmer #cyberpunk panam #cyberpunk 2077 panam palmer #artist problems

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silvermoon424 · 3 years ago

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Idk what anon is talking about, being a minor and not speaking English does NOT give someone a free pass to post others art without permission. It’s better to gently let people know WHILE they are young that what their doing is wrong, instead of letting them grow up doing it so they know they can get away with it. It’s not malicious to tell them either, most of the time when it’s a kid they don’t know what their doing until you explain how harmful it can be

I have a lot of friends who get their art reposted a lot, and it’s not something to be chill about. Randos spreading it around Pinterest and Instagram with no regard for the artist causes it to be sold on places like redbubble and Amazon. When an artist is making most of their money off commissions and your directly contributing to their art being used by big companies to make money, you should be told what your doing is harmful

I know, when I got that message telling me I needed to chill I was like "???" Like yeah, I guess I could have sugarcoated what I said more, but I think I did a good job of being polite yet firm. Not to mention I explained how to reverse image search to find the original artwork source. I could have been way ruder, especially considering that this isn't a couple of offenses but rather an entire blog full of stolen artwork. But I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt and not be rude.

Art theft really is a huge issue that impacts artists not only in terms of lost recognition and attention, but also straight-up monetary theft. Like you said, Amazon and Redbubble have huge problems with people profiting off stolen artwork slapped onto t-shirts and other items.

I'm not an artist myself, but I have gotten my manga colorings reposted (and even sold in a book!) without credit and it really sucks. At least I watermark my stuff.

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number5theboy · 4 years ago

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Please elaborate on how Five could've turned into the most insufferable character to watch

Thanks for asking me to elaborate on this text post:

@tessapercygranger, @waywardd1 and @margarita-umbrella also wanted to see a more detailed version of it, and I ended up writing an essay that’s longer than some of my actual academic essays. So buckle up.

WHY NUMBER FIVE SHOULD BE THE MOST OBNOXIOUS CHARACTER IN TV HISTORY, AND HOW HE MANAGES NOT TO BE

Number Five: The Concept That Could Go Horribly Wrong

Alright, let’s first look at Five in theory in an overarching way, without taking into account the execution of the show. The basic set-up of the character, of course, is being a 58-year-old consciousness in a teenager’s body, due to a miscalculation in time travel. Right off the bat, Five is bar none the most overpowered of the siblings; by the end of Season 2, no one has yet been able to defeat him in a fight. He is a master assassin – and not just any master assassin, but the best one there is – and a survival expert, able to do complex maths and physics without the aid of a calculator, shown to have knowledge of half a dozen languages, has very developed observational skills and, to top that all off, he can manipulate time and space to the point where he can literally erase events that happened and change the course of history. And Five knows how skilled he is; he is arrogant, self-assured and sarcastic, and his streak of goodness is buried deep inside. David Castañeda once described Five in an interview as 90% chocolate with a cherry in the middle, meaning that you have to get through a lot of darkness and bitterness before knowing there is a good core, and I think it’s an excellent metaphor. However, Five is also incredibly, fundamentally terrible at communicating with anyone, and, because he is the only one with time travel abilities, the character a lot of the actual plot - and the moving forward of it - centres around. Also he’s earnestly in love with a mannequin, who is pretty much a projection of his own consciousness that functions as a coping mechanism for all the trauma he has endured. All in all, this gives you a character who looks like a teenager, but with the smug superiority of a fifty-something, who a) is extremely skilled in many different things, b) has a superiority complex, is arrogant and vocal about it, and most of the superiority is expressed through cutting sarcasm, c) has one very hidden ounce of goodness that he is literally the worst at communicating to other human beings, d) is what moves the plot along but is also bad at talking to anyone else, meaning that the plot largely remains with him, and e) his love interest is essentially a projection of himself. Tell me that’s not a character who is destined to be just…obnoxious, annoying, egocentric, a necessary evil that one has to put up with to get through this show. There are so many elements of this characterisation that can and should easily make Five beyond insufferable, but the show manages to avoid it, and I’m putting this down to three aspects.

That Trick of Age and Appearance

Bluntly put, Five as a character would not work if he was anything else than an old man in a 13-year-old body. Imagine this character and all his skills and knowledge, but actually just…a teenager. Immediately insufferable. Same goes for him being around 30, like his siblings, all of which are stunted and traumatised by their father’s abuse. If Five, being comparatively unscathed by Reginald to the point where he explicitly does not want to be defined by his association with his father, were 30 like his siblings, it would just take the bite out of that plot point and also give him a lot less time in the apocalypse, reducing the impact it had on him as a person. And making Five his actual 58-year-old self would make him very similar to Reginald, at least on surface level, with the appearance and attitude. Five and Reginald are two fundamentally different people, but having one of the siblings being a senior citizen that’s dressed to the nines and bosses his siblings around in a relatively self-centred way does open up that parallel, and would take away from Five’s charm as a character. Because pairing the life experience of a 58-year-old with the appearance of a teenager gives you the best of both worlds. You get the other siblings (and a lot of the audience, from a glance in the tags of my gifsets) feeling protective and paternal about Five, but his age and experience also give the justifications for his many skills, his arrogance, in a way, and his ability to decimate a room full of people. It’s the very interesting and not new concept of someone dangerous with the appearance of something harmless, a child. This is also where Five’s singular outfit comes in. I know we like to clown on Five to get a new outfit, but I think what gets forgotten often is how effective this outfit is at making the viewer take him seriously. The preppy school uniform is the perfect encapsulation of the tension between old man in spirit and young teenager in appearance. The blazer, vest and especially the shirt and tie are quite formal, relatively grown up. They’re not something we, the audience, usually associate with a teenage boy wearing; it makes Five just a little bit more grown up. But there is also a reason characters in this show keep bringing up Five’s shorts and his socks, because those are not things that we associate with grown men wearing; they’re the unmistakably childish part of his school uniform. Take a moment and imagine Five wearing a hoodie or a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers; would that outfit work for him as well as the uniform does? Would he be able to command the same kind of respect or seriousness as a character? I don’t think so; the outfit is a lot more pivotal in making Five believable than a lot of people give it credit for.

Writing Nuance

The other big building block in not making Five incredibly insufferable is the writing. Objectively speaking, I think Five is the most well-written, and, more importantly, most coherently written character on the show (which does have to do with the fact that the show’s events are all sequential for him), and his arc and personality remain relatively intact over the course of the two seasons. More to the point, a giant part of what makes Five bearable as a character is that he is allowed to fail. He is written to have high highs and low lows, big victories through his skills and his intelligence, but also catastrophic failures and the freedom to be wrong. His superior intellect and skillset are not the be-all end-all of the plot or his character, just something that influences both. His inability for communication has not (yet) been used to fabricate a contrived misunderstanding that derails the plot and left all of us seething; instead, it’s a characteristic that makes him fail to reconnect with the people he loves. This is a bit simplified, as he does find common ground with Luther, for example, but in general, a lot of the rift between Five and his siblings is that they can’t relate to his traumas and he does not understand the depth of Reginald’s abuse, which is an interesting conflict worth exploring. Another thing that really works in Five’s favour is that he is definitely written to be mean and sarcastic, but it is never driven to the point of complete unlikability, and a lot of the time, the context makes it understandable why he reacts the way he does. Most of the sarcastic lines he gets are actually funny, that certainly helps, but in general, Five is a good example of a bearable character whose default personality is sharp and relatively cold, because it is balanced out with many moments of vulnerability. Delores is incredibly important for this in the first season, she is the main focus of Five’s humanising moments, and well-written as she totes the line between clearly being a coping mechanism for an extremely traumatised man and still coming across to the viewer as the human contact Five needs her to be. In the second season, the vulnerability is about his guilt for his siblings, it’s about Five connecting a little bit better to them. There’s also his relationship with the Commission and the Handler specifically – which honestly could be an essay on its own – that deserves a mention, because the Handler is why Five became the man he is, and this dynamic between creator and creation is explored in a very interesting way – their scenes are some of the most well-written in the entire show. And TUA never falls into the trap of making Five a hero, he is always morally ambiguous at best, and it just makes for an interesting, multi-faceted character, well-written character, and none of the characteristics that should make him unlikeable are allowed to take centre-stage for long enough to be defining on their own. I know a lot of people especially champion the scenes where Five goes apeshit, but without his more nuanced characterisation, if he was like that all the time, those scenes would not hit as hard.

Aidan Gallagher’s Performance is Underrated

But honestly, none of the above would matter that much if the Umbrella Academy didn’t luck out hard with the casting of Aidan Gallagher. I think what he achieves as an actor in this show is genuinely underappreciated. Like, the first season set out to cast six adults having to deal with various ramifications of childhood trauma, and a literal child that had to be able to act smart and wise beyond his years, seamlessly integrate into a family of adults while seeming like an adult, traumatised by the literal end of the world, AND had to be able to create the romantic chemistry of a thirty-year-long marriage with a lifeless department store doll. The only role I could think of to compare is Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire, where she plays a vampire child who, because she is undead, doesn’t age physically, but does mentally, so she’s 400 in a child’s body. And Kirsten Dunst had to do that for a two-hour movie. Five is a main character in a show that spans 20 episodes now. That’s insane, and it’s a risk. Five is a character that can’t be allowed to go wrong; if you don’t buy Five as a character, the entire first season loses believability. And they found someone who could do that not only convincingly, but also likeably. As I said, he is incredibly helped by the costuming department and the script, but Aidan Gallager’s Five has so much personality, he’s threatening and funny and charming and arrogant and heartbreaking. He has the range to be convincing in the quiet moments where Five’s humanity comes to show and in the moments where Five goes completely off the rails. Most child actors act with other children, but he is the only child in the main cast, and holds his own in scenes with adults not as a child, but as an adult on equal footing with the other adult characters. That’s not something to be taken for granted. But even apart from the fact that it’s a child actor who carries a lot of the plot and the drama of a series for adults, Aidan Gallagher’s portrayal of Five is also just so much fun. The comedic timing is on point, he has the dramatic chops for the serious scenes, the mannerisms and visual ticks add to the character rather than distract from him, and his line deliveries, paired with his physical acting, make Five arrogant and smug but never outright malicious and unlikeable. It’s just some terrific acting that really does justice to the character as he is written, but the writing would not be as strong if it wasn’t delivered and acted out the way Aidan Gallagher does. He is an incredible asset for this show.

Alright, onto concluding this rambling. If you made it this far, I commend you, and thank you for it. The point of all of this is that Five, as a character, could have been an unmitigated disaster of a TV character. He is overpowered, arrogant, uncommunicative and could so easily have been either unconvincing or completely unlikeable, but he turned out to be neither. It’s a combination of choices in the costume department, decisions in the writing room, and Aidan Gallagher’s acting skills that make the things that should make him obnoxious and annoying incredibly entertaining, and I hope you liked my long-winded exploration of these. Some nuance was lost along the way, but if I had not stopped myself, this would’ve become a full-blown thesis.

#thanks for the ask again #TUA #The Umbrella Academy #Five Hargreeves #tua s2 spoilers #my meta #i guess #Replies #Anonymous

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justmypartner · 3 years ago

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Still Breathing: Chapter 4

Summary: AU | When a case goes sideways, Hailey wakes up in the hospital with a revelation that leaves her evaluating her life. While she recovers at Med, she meets Jay, an aloof, yet intriguing patient that catches her by surprise. The two get to know one another as they take on the task of rediscovering what it’s like to truly live, and eventually learn their lives intersect in more ways than one.

Writer’s Note: Hello all! I hope you are enjoying this story so far! I don't have much to say other than I so appreciate the kind comments I've gotten thus far! I really enjoy the feedback and discord after posting a chapter, so keep it coming - I love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!!

Read on AO3 or below

A glow of sunlight filtering in through her curtains pulled Hailey out of a deep sleep the next morning. As her eyes fluttered open, part of her was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For it to be just another dream that would morph into a nightmare and leave her waking with tacky, sweat-covered skin and an irregular pulse. It took her a moment, but she eventually realized it wasn’t another dream. She was awake, and she had just slept fully through the night, unobstructed by her haunting memories. A naive thought credited it to Jay’s text from the night before, but the cynic in her figured it was just her many nights of restlessness finally catching up with her. Whatever it was, she was glad for that one night of freedom. It wasn’t enough to convince her the nightmares were gone completely, but she was willing to take what she could get.

When she checked the clock on her bedside table, it read 15 minutes before her alarm was due to go off. She climbed out of bed then, figuring she could use the extra time with how much longer getting ready took with one arm still out of commission. Showering was a hassle, doing her hair was nearly impossible, and getting dressed required a specific strategy she hadn’t quite perfected yet. By the time she had gathered the last of her things to stuff into her duffle, it was time to go.

The final thing she did was pull her sidearm from the safe in her bedroom and secure it in the side of the bag. She found it strange to wear her star without her weapon. It left a misplaced feeling in the back of her mind like she was forgetting something, but it was a feeling she knew she’d have to get used to over the next few weeks.

As unexciting as desk duty sounded, she was glad in a way that she’d be able to ease back into things. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but after everything that happened, the thought of going into the field was unsettling. Physically she was feeling 100%, with exception of her arm still being in a sling, but mentally she wasn’t prepared for the field again. She was more than ready to be back at work. She hated being out, leaving the team short-handed after only two weeks of joining them to solve just that, so she was eager to get back to them. She was just glad that the shooting’s effects on her body provided a reason to disguise the mental ones that left her hesitant to get back on the streets.

When she finally made it to work, she took a deep breath before climbing the steps into the district. She wasn’t sure what to expect. She warned the team against any sort of welcome back. At her old district, it was a tradition to greet cops who were injured on the job with a grand welcoming, but she always hated the idea of it. The attention was bad enough, but she always thought it was strange to celebrate someone almost dying for simply doing their job. Immediately as she reached the top of the steps, her shoulders relaxed to see the lobby empty. Not even the ever so illustrious desk sergeant was at her post, so she took the opportunity to sneak upstairs.

She was surprised to be greeted with a vacant bullpen. She wasn’t sure who she was expecting, but she imagined at least someone would have beaten her there. As she moved through the space towards the locker room, a low wince behind the desks stopped her in her tracks. She then heard what sounded like someone falling over, followed by a murmur of suppressed laughter.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” she finally questioned, both amused and muddled by the unsourced noises.

“This is officially the last time I include Ruz in a surprise,” Kim said, shaking her head with an enlivened grin as she and the other two Intelligence members climbed out from behind the desks.

“You stepped on my foot, what’d you expect me to do?” Adam bridled, causing Hailey and the others to let out stifled snickers.

God, did she miss those idiots.

“Sorry, Upton. This was supposed to be a fun little welcome back, but I guess it’s a bit anticlimactic now so uh, here,” Kevin said, extending the cup of coffee in his hand out to her. “Welcome back,” he smiled, his contagious smile enough to get her grinning from ear to ear.

“Thanks, guys,” she said quietly. “You didn’t have to do anything, but I appreciate it, and I’m just glad to be back.”

“We’re glad you’re back,” Kim said, the two guys nodding in agreement. Hailey smiled, dipping her head sheepishly before cutting the sudden silence with a sigh.

“Well, I still need to hit the locker room, but I fully expect a rundown of what I’ve missed while I was gone when I come back,” she told them before turning on her heels and heading down the hall.

As she was putting the last of her things into her locker, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She sat on the bench behind her as she retrieved the phone, tapping the screen to read the message that had just come in. Her face instantly lit up when she saw who it was from.

Happy first day back! Kick ass!

Her fingers tapped out a response quickly.

Kinda hard to do that from a desk, but I’m sure I’ll find a way lol

She settled on it before pocketing the phone and making her way back into the bullpen. The team caught her up on what she’d missed, and she told them about how uneventful her recovery was, leaving out the part where she met a new friend. They dished out all of their details, work-related and non-work-related until Voight eventually showed. He took only a brief moment to check up on Hailey and welcome her back before they dove into the day’s case.

Hailey spent the rest of the day combing through pod footage, making phone calls, and digging up any other information she could to relay back to the team. It wasn’t the most glamorous part of the job, but it kept her busy and it helped her to find her groove again.

By the end of the day, they were unofficially able to close up the case. They still had batches of paperwork to fill out, but other than that it was pretty cut and dry, so Voight sent them home.

As they exited the district, her three fellow officers expressed how happy they were to have her back for the last time that day. It gave her the warmest feeling as she realized she got to work with some of the best people she’d ever met, but it also made her happy to have been so clearly missed by them. Walking out with them she took in every smile and every laugh. It was such a trivial moment, but it was the kind of memory her new outlook on life made her want to cherish.

When she pulled up outside of her place, a car she’d never seen along her street before caught her eye. It was a baby blue, vintage, convertible of some sort. She wasn’t much of a car person, but it was just one of those cars no person could refuse to appreciate. After one last glance at it, she hopped out of her own car and made her way up to her front door. She froze when she saw a friendly figure perched on her small stoop. A confused smile crept across her face as Jay stood, shoving his hands in his pockets as he sauntered towards her.

“Hi?” She greeted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hey, how was your day? Did you kick ass?” he asked casually, now standing only but a few feet in front of her.

“Good, and I guess as best as I could behind a desk… what are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes darting around in confusion.

“In honor of your first day back, we are going to cross something off my list,” he told her. His words coming out slowly, and she noted the way they came out as a statement rather than a question.

“It better not be the one where you jump in the Chicago River,” she challenged, pointing a finger out with her words. He let out a chuckle, his mouth twisting into a sinister smile.

“No…” she muttered, a sudden bout of fear rising in her.

“I’m kidding, come on,” he instructed, brushing past her as he nonchalantly headed out toward the street.

It was only when he stopped at the driver’s side of the car that she realized the connection.

“Wait, that’s yours?” she questioned, a look of disbelief on her face.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he replied, the rise in his voice’s pitch revealing to her that he was bluffing. All it took was one raised brow, and he immediately caved.

“Okay fine, it’s a loaner. I’ve got a lot of friends in high places,” he shrugged, steadying a hand against the top of the door as he jumped over it and into the driver’s seat.

Since they’d met, she’d tried to keep her thoughts about him purely platonic. For the most part, she’d been fairly successful, but there was something about the way he jumped into that seat so smoothly that was so damn hot. That, the green beanie he wore that brought out the forest color of his eyes, and the way he looked so confident in that car had her questioning her feelings for a moment. She stood on the sidewalk looking over at him, slightly lost in a lingering gaze as butterflies danced about in her stomach. It was only when he cleared his throat that she was snapped out of it.

“So, you coming or what?”

“Coming where?”

“It’s item number seven on my list, rent a convertible and drive down Lake Shore late at night,” he smirked, one arm propped against the headrest of the passenger seat and the other draped over the steering wheel.

“Okay, that actually does sound pretty fun. Let me put my bag up,” she told him, lightly jogging to her front door before haphazardly tossing the bag into the dark space and locking up again. As she approached the car, he leaned over and pushed the door open for her, and she slipped into the passenger seat.

“Ready?” he asked, and she confirmed the question with a nod.

When he started the car, the roar of the engine was loud enough to send a judder through her bones. When he sped off down the street, she found herself instinctively clutching at the sides of the car for stability. She was filled with equal parts fear and exhilaration as they raced up and down half-empty streets.

By the time they reached Lake Shore, the sun had already set, but twilight brought out a deep blue tinge that stood out against the city lights. It was like she was seeing the city for the first time. Like she was falling in love with it all over again. That view, with the roar of the engine, wind blowing through her hair, and the 70s roadtrip music he’d put on playing through the old stereo made her feel like she was in a movie. He drove the road until they reached just about the outskirts of the city. He pulled the car off somewhere near Montrose beach and got out, quickly running over to her side to open her door.

“And they say chivalry’s dead,” she teased, masking the way the simple act had her stomach doing flips. He rolled his eyes at her, a slightly embarrassed smile on his face as she stepped out and he pushed the door shut behind her.

“So what are we doing here?” she questioned as he led them closer to the shore of the lake.

“I don’t know. We ran out of road, the lake’s pretty in the moonlight, and after a boring day of desk duty, I feel like it’s not a half-bad way to end the night,” he said simply, sitting down on the ledge by the lake.

As she sat down with him, she quickly realized how much colder it was by the water. The brisk wind brushing against her skin through the open top of the car was one thing, but the coolness of the lakefront breeze was almost intolerable. She suddenly wished she’d thought to grab her jacket from her duffle before they left. As she settled down beside him, she clutched her arms tightly against her chest as shivers jumped through her body. Before she knew it, as if he had read her mind, he shimmied off his jacket and held it out to her. She thanked him, a tone of gratitude and hesitation in her voice as she pulled it on over her shoulders. When she did, she noticed him glancing over at her badge still displayed on her hip. His eyes lingered there before he realized she’d caught him looking and he quickly diverted his eyes, holding back whatever question the object had generated.

“What?” she asked in an attempt to pull it out of him.

“Hm? Nothing,” he shrugged off. She knew it wasn’t nothing, but she decided against pressing him for whatever it was. She knew the job was a touchy subject, and she figured it was best to leave it alone.

“So I’ve been meaning to tell you, and I may sound crazy for this, but part of me feels like your text last night actually worked,” she informed him, fidgeting with a loose pebble she found on the ground beside her.

“What text?” his face contorted as he seemed to comb through his memory from the night before. “Oh wait… no nightmares?”

She shook her head.

“First night without them after more than three straight. Maybe you’ve got some sort of magic touch,” she half-joked, her tight-lipped grin growing across her face.

“I don’t know if I can take credit for that, but that’s good. You deserve that peace,” his voice was soft and low, and she didn’t miss the way his cheek dimpled slightly when he flashed her a small smile.

“So what’d you get into today?” she asked him, tucking one of her legs in and twisting so that she could face him.

“Um let’s see, I had a doctor’s appointment this morning, went to the grocery store, had a therapy session this afternoon, you know, all very exciting things,” he said, counting out each activity on his fingers.

“You go to therapy?” she asked, instantly regretful of the almost judgmental tone she carried as the words left her mouth. She just couldn’t help but be surprised that someone like him, a cop, a veteran, a man would be so open about it. She realized the thought only played into the toxic mentalities surrounding mental health and masculinity that she despised so much, but part of her also wondered if it was her own reluctance to start therapy that made her so staggered by the idea.

“Yeah, for a few years now. Based on your reaction, I’m going to assume you don’t?”

“I’ve done the mandatory sessions with the department shrink after shootings before, but never anything consistent. How’d you get started?” she wasn’t even sure if it was an appropriate question to ask, but she was so intent on knowing more that she didn’t take time to second guess it. Though, she was relieved when his face read an expression of musing rather than one of annoyance.

“There’s a bad take we often absorb as cops — as people really, but even more so as cops. We get injured on the job, we do whatever we need to do to heal, and we jump through whatever hoops we gotta jump through just to get back out there. The problem is there’s such a focus on our physical healing that we neglect what needs to be addressed mentally. I went through my whole life doing that. You get to a point where after so many times of telling people you’re fine, you start to convince yourself that you are,” he inhaled deeply, staring out at the lake briefly before he brought his eyes back to her and continued.

“Thing is, you do that for too long and you start to lose sight of what’s real. I was so against getting help, so against the idea that there was anything wrong with me that I began to just accept the fact that I was suffering. Then one day, that sense of reality I’d lost came back and bit me… hard. After that, I started going to therapy, very reluctantly at first, but eventually, I realized it was saving me. Helping me get to a place where I was healing instead of dealing, and I haven’t turned back from it since,” he finished, tightening his lips together as he peered into her eyes with a look of confidence. Like he knew everything he’d said was exactly what she needed to hear.

“Damn,” she whispered, blankly staring out at the lake as she processed his words. She blinked rapidly to recede the tears that had emerged. She’d spent her entire life, best put in his words, dealing rather than healing. She was no stranger to trauma, in fact, she was far from it, but she was a stranger to properly addressing it. She wasn’t against therapy, she just figured she didn’t need it. That she was doing fine on her own, but that one conversation with him was making her think otherwise.

“Well, maybe I should add therapy to my still breathing list,” she quipped, her best attempt at lightening the mood.

“Not a bad thing to add,” he smirked, his face softening as he propped an arm behind him to lean back against.

“Well, my first thing was kinda lame, so I figure it can only go up from here,” she joked, a mischievous grin spouting across her face. He scoffed, clutching at his chest as he feigned hurt by her words.

They talked for maybe longer than they should’ve, falling into an easy rhythm back and forth as they talked about anything and everything that came to mind. Hailey was the type of person who could talk to any and everyone if she had to, but there was something about talking to him that felt like a routine. Like one that she’d memorized by heart and never wanted to go without. After a while, she realized the time, realized she still hadn’t eaten, and that she had work early the next morning.

“God I didn’t realize how late it was, we should probably head back,” she told him, pushing herself up to stand. He nodded, standing with her as he fumbled in his pocket for the keys.

“Now… I know this was for my list but do you wanna drive back?” he asked, rising to stand with her. He dangled the keys in front of her. Her face brightened immediately, and he couldn’t hold in the puff of laughter that came with it.

“I thought you were never going to ask,” she joked, pulling his jacket tight across her body with her free hand before snatching the keys and making her way over to the driver’s side. As he climbed into the passenger seat, she crossed her good arm around the steering wheel to turn the key, and the engine started with a roar. She revved it a few times, looking over at Jay whose fearful expression had laughter escaping her lips.

“Am I going to regret this?” he asked, but instead of answering she just swiveled the steering wheel to pull off the shoulder, gunning the engine down the presently empty street.

Before long they were back at her place, and she shifted the gear into park before turning off the engine. Driving with one arm was harder than she thought it would be, mainly for the fact that the ignition and gear shift were on the right side and her right arm was still in a sling. Yet, it didn’t stop her from having the time of her life driving such a car. She climbed out after she handed him back the keys, making her way around to lean against the back bumper.

“That was incredible,” she told him, digging in her pocket for her own keys.

“Anyone ever tell you that you drive like a maniac?” he jabbed, causing her to lightly kick at his leg.

“So what else is on that list of yours?” she inquired, noting the way he shadowed over her.

“Hm, I don’t know. I kind of liked surprising you tonight. If I tell you, it may take the fun away when we get around to the next one,” he admitted, a childlike softness in his voice that made it hard for her to be mad at his obscurity. She cut her eyes at him, and she noticed the way his brow furrowed back innocently.

“Are you always this aloof?”

“Only with you.”

She rolled her eyes at him dramatically, shaking her head at his goading.

“Well, thanks for tonight,” she said, pulling the jacket from her shoulders and offering it back to him.

“Next time we’ll do something from your list,” he told her as she pushed herself from the car and made her way up to her front door.

“Sounds like a plan,” she twirled around to tell him, her lips curling up at the thought of another night like that one.

“And Hailey,” he called out, just as she reached the top of the steps.

“Sleep well. No bad dreams,” he uttered, a small smile creeping across his face as his hands found way to his pockets.

It was the last time that night an action of his had caused an unexpected flutter in her stomach. She was embarrassed and somewhat fearful of the way those simple words had her feeling so dippy. Maybe it was the sentiment behind them, the way he’d said it, or the stupid smile on his face when he said it, but she wondered if the feeling that he’d erupted was more than just a fleeting one. She quickly pushed that thought down, dipping her head before hesitantly meeting his eyes once more.

“Goodnight, Jay,” she told him before making her way inside, shutting the door and locking it behind her as if it would somehow protect her from what had just happened.

She had to blame it on her exhaustion and the slight adrenaline rush she got from the night’s events. She’d also never had a friend like him. Someone who always had the perfect thing to say, whose company felt so natural and necessary, who seemed to relate so much to everything she was feeling. It was admiration more than anything, she told herself. He was just her friend, and he’d stay that way. Yet, as much as she tried to convince herself that all of those times that night that suggested differently were just flukes, she ended the night with a looming thought that wondered otherwise.

#upstead #jay x hailey #hailey x jay #jay halstead #hailey upton #chicago pd #upstead fic #justmypartner fics #collection of Em’s fics

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bushido-jack · 2 years ago

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Hello everyone! It’s been, uh, a while! Much longer than I initially said my hiatus would be! My god, SO much longer. A LOT of stuff has happened in the 9 months I’ve been away, and a few have been potentially life changing. Content warning, this post will talk about COVID and mention a death in the family. Don’t read if this is content that upsets you.

TLDR; I’ve had quite a few significant life complications that have taken precedence and prevented me from engaging in my hobbies, and maintaining this blog, and while I can’t promise consistent activity from now on, I am determined to break the hiatus and get back on here to write! After all, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy! (Of course, Jack could never be the dull one around here but Sharkie very much was. I know this joke isn’t funny just let me get it out) I’ve even commissioned a promo along with some fresh new icons that will be coming soon to kickstart my break from hiatus and into some semi-regular activity!

So first off, right around the time I made my last few posts, I got COVID a second time, and this time it really messed me up. It has left me even more disabled physically AND mentally, and my stamina in both is nothing short of abysmal. I got severe long COVID that I’m still battling with, and it made functioning in any way a monumental task. I’m almost positive I have some minor brain damage. My already bad lungs and chronic pain got worse, my mental health dipped extremely badly (I developed some new OCD rituals that have made typing a nightmare unfortunately) and I was trying to survive all of this while keeping a job that was extremely physically demanding. I’d already had to quit a previous one due to my disability and a lack of understanding that pushed me much too hard, and I really wanted to keep this one because I actually had training and a certificate in that line of work. Unfortunately I was forced to quit my second as well due to my stamina being severely reduced by COVID making it so that I could no longer handle a day of work without at least two days of recovery, as well as long term damage to my body from work itself that I was not comfortable with continuing to sacrifice for my paycheck. (most significant and the ones that have affected my return to writing have been significant tinnitus, carpal tunnel and tendinitis, lung damage, and even more brain fog, this time due to fatigue and constant sensory overload). Not long after I recovered from COVID the second time, my Uncle also got COVID and unfortunately passed away. It was sudden and traumatic and for a good while all of my emotional energy was spent with my family and trying to help my aunt who suffered a severe emotional break from the event. And during all of this, ever since the day I made my hiatus post, I have been struggling with some severe burnout in pretty much every category imaginable. I have been dealing with severe autistic burnout which has affected me since December and made recovery that much more difficult, as well as creative burnout that has prevented me from drawing or writing much since even before last December. That burnout plus the overwhelming exhaustion from overwork and physical and mental health issues has made it so I have barely drawn anything in over a year, and I haven’t written consistently for around a year. Along with those challenges, I haven’t had much time to engage in my hobbies as I’ve been working towards independent living, which as a disabled person is a nightmare of an obstacle coarse. In some ways this effort has necessitated my hiatus as well as the overwork I’ve done to myself in order to have enough credit and money to become independent legally. I’ve gotten pretty far, but until I’ve got everything in order I may still be struggling on finding a consistent and healthy work and hobby balance. But that’s where something came to help refresh my creativity a little bit. I got a new muse, funnily enough connected to Samurai Jack! I started checking out Lupin the Third while I was going down the rabbit hole of influences and references that appeared in the Samurai Jack show (and also trying to research the existence of the Japanese dub for Samurai Jack) and got hooked on the treasure trove of an animation history foundation block it is. As someone interested in pursuing a career in animation and loves old cartoons (shocking.) I was drawn into the old 60-70s originated show like a moth to a flame. Soon after watching a bit I found a great muse to help me recover from burnout without abandoning Jack, and in fact supporting him due to the fact that there are clear inspirations and references within Samurai Jack to Goemon Ishikawa XIII. While I allowed Jack’s muse to rest so as not to push him to the point where I didn’t enjoy it anymore, I decided to switch over to him for a while. By now I have reached a point where I’m in a place to bring back Jack and rp them both, and I may even do crossovers with them! Thankfully not everything personal has been gloomy: in a purely positive update, I dyed my hair pastel lavender like I’ve wanted to do since I was in middle school! This is something that’s helped lift my spirits a lot so I thought I’d share. If I ever do a mun day I may share, my entire face not included.

#//death tw//#『 out of robes 』#//no new banners yet :( those are up next!#//on my computer the spaces look irregular but when i check it its only one? weird #//anyway I've wanted to be back so bad! it may take me a bit to get back in the groove of writing Jack so feedback is SO appreciated!#//I want to keep writing this man like I did before The Happenings #//my laptop died RIGHT after posting this 😭 looks like the promo will be tomorrow #//also tumblr has decided it hates bushido-jack and has loaded my main w glitches! hate and war

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memeadonna · 4 years ago

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The Kingdom of Roses

You are the princess of Rusika, a kingdom neighbouring Novoselic. When one of your government’s high ranking officials is taken as a political prisoner, your kingdom retaliates by taking some of your own -- and they just might be more than you bargained for.

Hello Everybody! My name is Jess and I’ve been a longtime fan of Danganronpa, from around 2012 or 2013 when I first played the games. I wanted to try my hand at writing a reader insert for one of my favourite characters (and my first ever husbando), one Kazuichi Souda. This beautiful art really inspired me (I scoured high and low for an artist credit, but I couldn’t find one. If you know who drew it please let me know and I will give them the appropriate credit), and I wrote an x reader. I hope you all enjoy! Warnings: This work contains NSFW not suitable for readers under 18. Please do not interact with this post if you are under 18.

Monarchies were a dying form of government. Most countries had established parliaments by now, but the Kingdom of Rusika, where you were born, and a few neighbouring kingdoms held onto their royal families until the very end. Novoselic was one such kingdom, one that until a few days ago had been your ally. Your father – beloved king of Rusika – had sent one of his most trusted advisors to negotiate a trade deal with the Nevermind family, rulers of Novoselic.

That advisor had been captured and held at ransom for some unknown reason. The Novoselic Kingdom really had no idea what they were doing, did they?

Sonia Nevermind was someone you had grown up with. The two of you had never been friends, per se, but you understood one another. You were Princesses tasked with leading your kingdoms towards prosperity. Your countries were similar enough – they had once been one, but after a civil war in 926, the country had been divided in half. While Novoselic’s exports consisted of luxury goods – wine, chocolate, and cheese – Rusika’s were more practical. Your main exports were related to geothermal energy and associated technologies, or mining precious gems. Your country – the kingdom of roses – was building the future. Hers was stuck in the past, weighed down by stupid traditions.

Your father trusted you more than Sonia’s father trusted her, and so you had grown up with more responsibilities. You had learned early on the burdens of leadership, and eventually began to find her boring. You made sure she never caught on, always giving her your full attention whenever she rambled about her silly life and silly problems.

Both of your countries had hit economic booms, so what need was there to worry? Gah, her philosophy was so stupid.

Today you woke up to find that your father had arranged the kidnapping of two of Sonia’s closest friends. She had just graduated from the prestigious Hope’s Peak Academy, and had apparently invited her entire class to Novoselic to spend their last vacation celebrating.

It was strange of him to make such a decision without consulting you first. You were supposed to be queen of Rusika one day, and he always made sure you had a say in decisions. Today you were instructed to dress the part of a princess and come greet your guests. You were to show them hospitality and make them feel welcome. You might have kidnapped them, but you weren’t monsters. They would literally receive the royal treatment, and you were to be put in charge of them.

As your handmaidens helped you dress (corseting you, doing your hair and makeup, and fixing your jewelry could be a six-person job), you went over what you wanted to say to your prisoners. How the hell were you supposed to make them feel welcome?

You had never seen a person with two different coloured eyes before. You had also never seen a person with pink hair. Based on the way they looked at you, dripping in jewels and looking your part, you doubted they had seen Sonia in all of her glory yet. You smiled as you introduced yourself, trying your hardest not to look like you were studying them. You explained the situation to them, told them they were valuable political prisoners and would not be harmed or imprisoned as long as they behaved, and did not try to leave.

The man with two different coloured eyes called you a fiend, as well as many other dark names as he promised his Princess would come for him. The man with pink hair affirmed “Miss. Sonia will rescue me!” and shook his fist at you, trying his best not to look starstruck.

Eventually, you got their names out of them.

“How long will we be here?” Gundham asked you over dinner that night. “I wish to return home as soon as possible. I have responsibilities.”

Realistically, you knew it wouldn’t be a quick endeavour. You and Sonia had spent three months as prisoners in a neighbouring kingdom as Rusika and Novoselic had laid siege to the capitol. That was when you had learned she was boring. She kept to herself in her room, and almost seemed upset with you whenever you would negotiate with your captors, or walked the palace grounds like a free woman.

“As long as it takes” you answered coolly, glad that Japanese was one of the languages your family had forced you to learn. Members of the royal family having to speak thiry languages was one tradition that Rusika had kept from its time joined with Novoselic. It came in handy when negotiating with foreigners. “I cannot provide a clearer answer than that.”

“Don’t worry, Gundham,” Souda spoke up. “Sonia will come for us!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gundham spent most of his time observing the animals on your palace grounds. Your late mother had loved peacocks, so your father had taken up breeding them. She had loved many different animals when she had been alive, so the grounds weren’t exactly wanting. He enjoyed speaking with the vain birds, whistling and cooing until they would fan their elegant tails. His hamsters seemed to enjoy their accommodations too, with more seeds than they could have ever hoped to have eaten.

Souda, however, wanted to remain as unaffected as possible. He did his best to refuse any luxuries you offered him. It was only after you found out he had taken apart every electronic device in his room did you ask Gundham. The Ultimate Breeder had warmed up to you quickly, especially since you were the reason his hamsters were so well taken care of.

After Gundham cryptically told you about Souda, you gifted the Mechanic with a set of tools and new appliances to play with. Boredom could be so cruel, and the last thing you wanted was undue suffering.

Seeing him slip shyly into your study made your gift worth it. He was so awkward as he stumbled out a thanks, looking everywhere except your face. He was blushing and fiddling with a screwdriver as he spoke. “I still don’t trust you. You’re Miss. Sonia’s enemy,” he pointed his finger at you. “And any enemy of Miss. Sonia is an enemy of mine.”

“Would you like a workshop?” you asked him calmly. “I’m sure your room is a bit cluttered with all of those appliances. I just want to make your stay comfortable, I bear no ill will towards you, Mr. Souda.”

His cheeks flamed up and he stammered out a non-answer, shuffling out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Souda and Gundham had been with you a little over two weeks when the former finally cracked. He once more barged into your study, and looked you up and down. “I want somewhere to work,” he declared. He placed a crumpled piece of paper on your desk. “Here’s the list of everything I need.”

You saved the speech you were writing and logged off of your computer. “Come with me, Mr. Souda,” you stood gracefully, glad you no longer had to wear your ballgowns around him. It had always made you feel overdressed and obnoxious, especially considering he preferred to wear his jumpsuit rather than the clothes your country had provided him with. It had taken a lot to even convince him to let the servants wash the suit, let alone wear another while he waited.

In the end, you had commissioned seven identical jumpsuits for him, to match the one he already wore. At least he no longer reeked.

You paused at the door to the workshop you had set up for him. There was a guard stationed outside, but a nod from you dismissed him. Kazuichi’s eyes lit up as he observed all of the new-age tech he had to play with. He stammered out a bright-eyed thanks, and you gave him your brightest smile. You had done lots of research into what he would enjoy; he was your guest, not your prisoner. Right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a month, Novoselic struck up a deal with Rusika. A hostage for hostage trade: Gundham Tanaka for your father’s cherished advisor. Kazuichi had not been mentioned in the negotiations at all, something that did not sit right with you.

He tried to pretend that he wasn’t upset he had been forgotten, but it was obvious to anybody with half of a brain he was torn up. You made efforts to spend more time with him. You had him accompany you on walks around the castle’s garden, and even took him out of the palace for a few walks around town for a change of scenery. Nothing you said lifted his spirits. He barely even looked at you now.

You watched him tinkering with his toys, but even that seemed to have lost its shine for him. He looked so sad, so bored that it made you anxious.

“May I ask you something?” you questioned on one such walk. The two of you had been caught in the rain and had sought shelter underneath a quaint gazebo. He looked back at you with a curt nod. “How is your hair pink?”

He blinked at you for a moment before he burst out laughing. It was the first time since he had come to Rusika that he had laughed, and it made your cheeks flame up as he smiled at you.

“I dye it,” he told you after he calmed down. “I first bleach my hair to take the colour out, and then I use a dye to turn it pink.”

“Colour?” You blinked up at him. “What colour is your hair supposed to be?”

Instead of answering, he removed his beanie to reveal about an inch of jet-black hair growing in at his roots. Your eyes widened in wonder. “So, it must be bleached again on the new hair?” you asked.

“Yes,” he smiled at you dopily. “It has to be done every few months or the hair will grow in its natural colour.”

“Does it feel different?” you asked. “The pink and the black?” Instead of replying, he took your hand and placed it onto his hair. Your blush only deepened as you felt how soft it was, and noticed his cheeks were bright red too as you pulled away. “Do you wish to turn your hair pink again? I will send for my stylist.”

He smiled at you, soft but genuine. “I’d really like that. Then I’ll feel a bit more like me,”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What are you doing?” Souda peeked over your shoulder. You smiled tiredly up at him and you stretched as subtly as you could. You had been taking daily walks with him for several weeks now, and he would always drop by every few hours to see how you were doing, or to show off his latest invention.

“I’m looking at the schematics for a new geothermal energy plant,” you answered. “I’m trying to sort out how we can make our energy extraction more efficient.”

Kazuichi looked over the blueprints on your laptop screen. “I’d have to do the calculations, but if you merged these two pipes here-” he pointed. “-you would cut down significantly on the energy wasted.”

“Pull up a chair,” you told him. “Let’s take a look together, shall we?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kazuichi had been in your care for three months now, and he hardly acted like a prisoner. He called you “Miss” (probably because you called him Mr. Souda), and tended to barge in on you whenever he wanted. He had repaired the castle’s heating system, boosted your internet connection, and even helped you overhaul the design of your new energy plants. These plants would be 46% more efficient than the last schematic, something that amazed you. You told him repeatedly how marvellous he was, if only to see his face light up.

Lately, he had started wearing the jumpsuits your family had initially provided him with – similar to his old one but stamped with your country’s crest on the back – and had been a bit more… touchy than before. He would put a hand on the small of your back while you walked, or gently brush a lock of hair from your face as the two of you had tea.

You were not experienced in the slightest with intimacy or wanting to be in a relationship – you were certain you would learn that after you became queen – but now he was all you could think about. You knew the basics, knew what to expect from a man, but your heart was uncharted territory. You had never loved someone before, and some deep-seated fear in your heart was worried he would think you were taking advantage of him.

“I was in love with her, you know,” he told you one day while you were out for a walk. The two of you were once more caught in the rain and taking shelter in the same gazebo. “I loved Sonia.” Sonia. Not Miss. Sonia.

“Did it hurt?” you asked back, and immediately felt stupid for asking. It was none of your business, why did you want to know?

“I guess?” he shrugged. “I don’t – she never treated me like I mattered. She made me feel like I was nothing. Just a pest. Like I was disposable.”

“Sonia is a fool,” you told him. You meant it, of course you did, but at that moment you just wanted him to smile. “Your contributions will certainly leave their marks on this world. You are a remarkable person with a remarkable talent. Anybody who would overlook you is an utter fool.”

Kazuichi reached into his pocket and pulled out a small speaker. He set it on the railing, and it began to play a soft, slow song. “Will you dance with me?” he asked shyly.

“Of course,” you smiled at him, holding out your hand for him to take.

His steps were sloppy and uncoordinated, but the feeling of his warm body in your arms made you feel safe. You wanted him to love you. Love you the way he loved Sonia, and then even more. A legendary love that would eclipse all others.

When he leaned down to kiss you, you automatically tilted you head to the side. It felt like the first time and the thousandth time all at once – something new and exciting, yet undeniably right. He grinned at you like an idiot and kept swaying with you while the song ended.

“It all feels perfect with I’m with you,” he told you. “Like it all makes sense.”

“I understand,” you smiled up at him. “I feel the same way too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He barely left your side now. He would let you work, of course, but wanted to spend his every waking hour with you. He held your hand on your walks, kissed your knuckles like a gentleman whenever he greeted you, and kissed you passionately when you were alone with him. You loved watching him light up at your presence – it was like his world began and ended with you.

His greatest joy was when he got to work with you. To see you listening carefully to his advice, offering insights of your own based on your knowledge. You worked to improve both your geothermal energy plants and plan for new mines. The number of precious stones mined this year was astronomical, and it wasn’t over yet.

Your father was impressed with the improvements he had made to the schematics he had been provided with, so he was gradually given more and more responsibility (along with his freedom, of course). Eventually, he began to receive an “allowance” as payment for the work he was doing. He spent most of it on new gadgets to tinker with or gifts for you. You would often retire to your room to find a vase full of flowers or a box of chocolates, and every time you saw them you would break out into a grin you could not stop.

The two of you would text one another (he made himself a cellphone because he was “bored and wanted to try it”) until you fell asleep, and within those words he bared his soul. He told you about his horrific home life – about the man who had dared to harm him – and about the friends who had betrayed him. He told you how much you mattered to him, all of the things he would do for you. Give up for you.

When he told you about his father hitting him one too many times, you left your room and went to his. You just needed to hold him, make him feel safe the same way he made you feel safe.

You were glad you went when you did, because there was a woman dressed in black trying to drag him out of the window. You raised the security alarm, and she was apprehended. Mukuro Ikusaba – the Ultimate Soldier – was thrown into your actual prison, and you once more had trouble with Novoselic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You answered the door with bleary eyes, but seeing Souda’s tired smile as he mumbled about not sleeping was worth it. You used your new nickname for him – the word in your mother tongue that meant little pink rose – and he melted into your arms. You didn’t care that you were wearing your nightgown, or that it was early in the morning, you had your prince charming and he was safe, and he was yours. Yours.

“I had a nightmare,” he was curled up among your pillows, snuggled up under your blankets. “You forgot about me like she did.”

“I’m not her,” you reminded him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before resting your own against it. You could feel his warm breath ghosting over your lips, and as you let your eyes slip shut your hands found his. “I will never think of you as less than extraordinary, my darling.” You promised.

He kissed your cheek, slowly painting his way over your cheekbones and down to your lips. You responded wonderfully, one hand cupping his cheek as you kissed him slowly. You opened your eyes to see him staring at you with pure adoration. He wasn’t wearing his contacts, and his eyes were a light, rosy brown colour. Stunning.

“I love you,” the words slipped out of your mouth unbidden. You were speaking in your mother tongue now, but based on the smile he gave you and the whisper of “Ai shiteru” you got in return, he had understood. More than understood.

Your lips met his again, a strange kind of hunger filling you. He must have felt the change too, the atmosphere crackling with energy as you traced your fingers over his body. As he traced his fingers over yours.

You both stripped completely and held one another, clumsy and laughing and so in love. “Tell me if it hurts,” he had whispered to you as he stretched you open with his fingers. You had kissed him in response, a smiling sort of kiss that you hope conveyed more than a simple “I love you”.

Your lovemaking didn’t last long, but it didn’t have to to be perfect. It felt like it was right out of a fairy tale, and your prince charming was here to save you from everything bad in the world. You were here to save him, in reality, but you were more than happy to indulge him in his fantasies, so long as you could play a part in them.

When you were done, he wrapped you in his arms and placed a kiss to your temple. He hummed softly and played with your hair, whispering his love over and over again. You smiled up at him, tired but satisfied, and when you fell asleep your smile did not falter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since that night you had shared, Kazuichi had been coming to your bed every night. You would fall asleep together and wake up together and talk until you couldn’t anymore. When you weren’t talking, you were either cuddling or doing something less… innocent. Your mouth had mapped out every inch of his body, and you knew what to do to make him open like a flower. He liked letting you do what you wanted to him – liked giving over the power and control and letting you make him feel good.

He loved it when you spoke to him in your mother tongue – no matter what you said he would squirm and turn bright red.

“Do you like it when I play with your pretty cock?” you asked him lowly, and he let out a sweet moan as his legs fell open. He could tell from the sound of your voice if you were being sweet to him or not, and you could tell based on the noises he made if he wanted you to be sweet or not.

You wondered what fantasies swept him away as you mounted him. When you pinned his wrists and mouthed at his neck, you wondered why he was mewling so much. Did he even know what he was begging you for anymore, or did his mind just go blank every time you began to kiss his scars?

You learned every embarrassing detail about his body, and he learned every detail of yours. He loved to have you on him – worshipping him, taking pleasure from his body – but what he loved most were the quiet moments after.

The moments when you would roll off of him and kiss him slowly and tell him how good he was. When you would worship every scar again, tell him he was beautiful. When he’d lay his head in your lap so you could weave your fingers into his hair and hum him lullabies. He always fell asleep in your bed after you made love. It was one of the most perfect moments you ever shared, and you felt so, so lucky to have shared so many of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today you woke up alone. Novoselic had finally sent an envoy to negotiate Kazuichi’s release. Today was the day.

Last night, he had helped you pick out your gown. He had chosen a white one with ruffles designed to look like flowers – Rusika was the kingdom of roses, after all – and as your handmaidens helped you get ready, you felt powerful.

You went all out – you wore your crown jewels and covered yourself in diamonds. You did not want there to be any doubt that they were dealing with a princess and would negotiate on her terms. Your father had been surprised when you had asked for this responsibility but granted you the negotiation opportunity.

Mukuro Ikusaba was wearing several chains, including a rather nasty-looking pair of handcuffs. She was positioned in a chair facing towards your throne, and she glared at you as you took your seat.

Kazuichi arrived only a few minutes after you, and his jaw just about hit the floor as he took you in. You gave him a smile befitting a queen as your eyes roamed his body – he was wearing a finely tailored suit and a ring with your family’s crest on it. You realized then you wanted to cover him in jewels. He would look so good sparkling.

He bowed deeply before taking his place at your side, breaking you from your train of thought. It was an old Novoselic tradition for the ruler’s consort to kneel on a special stool while the monarch conducted business, but while Kazuichi did kneel on the plush cushion, he tugged it towards you so he could lie across your lap. The action startled you at first, but as he snuggled deeper into your skirts and looked up at you with a smile, your fingers came up to weave into his hair in the way he found comforting, and he closed his eyes.

That lasted for a blissful minute before the throne room’s doors burst open and Princess Sonia Nevermind was announced. Her entourage filed in with her, and Souda tilted his head to get a better view of them. You recognized Gundham, and vaguely recalled hearing about a few of the others from Kazuichi. Classmates, if you remembered correctly.

Sonia had brought the Yakuza boy and the Ultimate Swordswoman as backup. She had also brought a hulking man with matching scars over both of his eyes. This man was someone you had never heard of, yet he was flanked by the usual Novoselic military honour guard. You greeted her in your shared tongue before switching to Japanese. “Welcome. What brings you all to Rusika?” you asked.

The princess of Novoselic cleared her throat and began once more in your mother tongue. “Apologies for interrupting, Princess Nevermind, but not everybody here speaks our language. I would like to include our guests in the matters we will be discussing,” Souda shifted in your lap, and you continued playing with his hair, sitting with the elegance of a queen.

Sonia began again, in Japanese this time. “I demand you release your prisoners at once,” she pointed at you. “Keeping a soldier hired by my country to retrieve a prisoner does not reflect well on the alliance between our peoples. I would hate for a war to break out.”

You sighed. “As a show of good faith, I will release the prisoner Mukuro Ikusaba to you,” you made a gesture and a pair of guards removed her shackles. You could feel Souda playing with your ruffles. “Was that all?”

“We are here for the prisoner Kazuichi Souda,” she answered. “I demand you release him.”

“Kazuichi is not a prisoner,” you corrected. “He has full autonomy and can choose to leave anytime he would like.”

“You kidnapped him as a political prisoner!” Sonia snapped, eyes locked on him. “Do not tell me that he is doing… that of his own free will!”

You gave his shoulder a pat with the hand that had been in his hair and he blinked over at Sonia. “I have done nothing malicious towards him,” you answered. “I have not-”

“Liar!” Sonia cut in. “You must have brainwashed him with Stockholm. You truly are a woman with flexible legs!”

Kazuichi raised his head a bit. “Don’t talk to my Princess like that!” there was a certain bite to his words. You ran your fingers soothingly through his hair as he glared at Sonia. “Gundham knows as well as I do that we were never mistreated here. We were given free reign, and I just so happened to be appreciated. I’m not a second choice here. I’m not forgotten.”

Sonia looked visibly upset at his words. “We did not forget you!” she assured him.

“You rescued Gundham after a month? A few weeks?” Kazuichi was bristling. “I’ve been here for eight. Eight months and you didn’t even bother to see if I was okay.” Sonia watched Kazuichi lie back down. “Excuse me for being happy. I forgot you don’t like it when I’m too overbearing with my affection.” He shifted around for comfort, burying his face in the crook of his elbow before tilting it out to the crowd.

“Is he truly able to leave anytime he wants?” Gundham asked.

“I am,” Kazuichi bristled once again. “I’ve got a job and everything.”

Sonia said your name. No title, just your name. “I would like to speak with you in private, future monarch to future monarch,” she was clenching her hands into fists.

“I’ll allow it,” you gave Kazuichi a gentle pat on the shoulder and he reluctantly pulled away. You stood, and he stood with you. He followed you down from your throne, and as you escorted Sonia towards your study you noticed Kazuichi was making a beeline for Gundham.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you were alone again, the first thing Kazuichi did was help you out of your dress. He was careful as he unlaced your corset, and as he helped you step out of it. He even hung it up properly so it wouldn’t get damaged. Then he was kissing you like he was about to lose you, pulling your body close and pulling you into his arms. He carried you over to the bed and tossed you into it, discarding his own clothes haphazardly as he followed.

“I love you,” he told you assuredly. “And nothing is ever going to change that. Not a single thing they say will convince me otherwise.”

You smiled at his words. “And I love you too, my little pink rose,” you gave him a deep, longing kiss.

It didn’t matter what the others thought or said. It didn’t matter what they did. All that mattered was what you and Souda thought. Souda was here with you. Souda loved you.

And no matter who decided to challenge that, they couldn’t take him away from you.

#danganronpa #super danganronpa 2 #kazuichi souda #kazuichi soda #kazuichi souda x reader #kazuichi soda x reader #kazuichi x reader #sonia nevermind #gundham tanaka #reader insert #princess reader #memeadonna

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carewyncromwell · 3 years ago

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“Uptown girl -- You know I can't afford to buy her pearls, But maybe someday when my ship comes in, She'll understand what kind of guy I've been, And then I'll win!”

~“Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel

x~x~x~x

Bill Weasley had always had trouble relating to kids his age. As the oldest of seven kids, he’d pretty quickly slipped into the role of support for his mother Molly, parenting and looking after his younger siblings while his father Arthur was at work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office. Even when he was little, there wasn’t really anyone his age in his tiny hometown of Ottery St. Catchpole. All of the other magical families with kids in the area were much younger than Bill, and it was always a tricky proposition trying to play with the Muggle children who lived closest to the Burrow, with the Statute of Secrecy looming large. So when Bill got to Hogwarts, he found himself almost inevitably falling back on how he acted around his younger siblings, even with kids his own age...which, in turn, made Bill lose his footing, when those kids his age didn’t respond well to being coddled or “looked after.” And given Bill’s rather modest, people-pleasing personality, he wasn’t the type to force anyone to listen to him or do what he said...and so, almost inevitably, he found himself at a loss about how to interact with someone without looking after them in some way, on completely equal footing. And thus Bill Weasley, sweet and amiable as he was, actually found himself largely alone in those first two years he spent at Hogwarts -- and that solitude was something he found out pretty quickly he really didn’t like.

Bill was relieved when his younger brother Charlie started his first year at Hogwarts. Although Bill had trouble admitting to his family just how unhappy he’d been those last two years, the eldest Weasley was secretly relieved that he’d now have some family at school too. He had always been closest to Charlie out of all of his siblings, given their closeness in age, so it was comforting to know he’d at least have one friend to spend time with, when he wasn’t in class. Charlie’s year, however, also included a ginger-haired Slytherin girl called Cromwell -- the same surname as the infamous “delinquent” Jacob Cromwell, who’d been expelled from Hogwarts and disappeared mysteriously a few years ago.

Bill first heard about Jacob Cromwell’s sister Carewyn through Charlie, who’d heard that she’d stood up to another Slytherin in their year, Merula Snyde, for bullying Charlie’s timid dormmate Ben Copper and even defeated her in a duel with a Disarming Charm, a spell not taught until at least Bill’s year. Despite himself, Bill actually felt a bit relieved -- he hadn’t known Jacob Cromwell at all, but he figured it had to have been really difficult, for someone to lose their only sibling. Even if he didn’t know Carewyn Cromwell at all, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her...but at least if she was still confident enough to stand up for herself and others, then it probably meant she was doing okay, even with what had happened to her and her family. And his analysis seemed to be confirmed when Carewyn sought Bill out to get his help the following year with breaking the curse on the Ice Vault. From the moment they first met, Bill made up his mind -- Carewyn Cromwell needed someone to look after her, so he would, until she found her brother again. And so Bill and Carewyn became friends.

In Bill’s fifth year, he was named Gryffindor Prefect. It was a rather obvious choice for Minerva McGonagall, considering Bill’s predisposition to “look after” and mentor younger students, but it still filled Arthur and Molly Weasley with immense pride. It was also the first year that Bill and Charlie invited Carewyn home for the holidays, upon hearing that her mother Lane had been commissioned by the Ministry of Magic for an international assignment and wouldn’t be able to be home in time for Christmas. When he heard Merula Snyde also wouldn’t have anyone to spend the holidays with, Bill made the remarkably kind move to invite her to the Burrow as well, even with Charlie and Carewyn’s misgivings -- but that holiday ended up being one of the best all four of them had ever had. Merula and Carewyn were even able to mend fences enough to sing Christmas carols together, the first’s clear Soprano voice hovering ethereally over the second’s warm, emotional Alto harmonies. That Christmas was also the year Carewyn gave Bill his very first record -- an album called An Innocent Man, by an Muggle artist named Billy Joel. Arthur Weasley was almost more thrilled by the gift than his son was, and he immediately brought out the Muggle record player he’d...”been allowed to take home” from work so Carewyn could show the Weasleys how to play the record on it. And for the rest of the winter break, it wasn’t uncommon for one of the Weasleys to put the record on in the background while doing dishes or playing a game of Wizard’s Chess in front of the fire. The song from the record Bill found himself humming the most, even after returning to Hogwarts, was the first song on side two of the record. He’d liked the tune immediately just because it was fun...but it also reminded him of a girl in his year he’d been trying to muster up the courage to talk to -- a very pretty and daring Gryffindor named Emily Tyler.

“And when she's walking, she's looking so fine, And when she's talking, she'll say that she's mine... She'll say I'm not so tough, Just because I'm in love with an uptown girl!”

Emily Tyler was the most popular girl in Bill’s year, as well as one of the most popular in Gryffindor house overall. She’d made a name for herself at the Dueling Club, where she remained Gryffindor’s main champion -- it was likely only thanks to Hufflepuff’s own dueling prodigy, Diego Caplan, that Emily had any competition at all. She also was top of her class in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Bill’s favorite and best subject, even managing to Stun an entire flock of bats with one spell. And coupled with that talent was a lot of style, confidence, and ability to captivate and charm others. She never seemed uncomfortable in a crowd and never seemed to be at a loss for words around her peers -- something Bill himself still struggled with. She’d even expressed some interest in Cursebreaking post-Hogwarts, gushing about the acclaim and glamour of the profession. In short, in Bill’s eyes, Emily just seemed amazing -- a bit out of his league, sure...but maybe if he was brave and put himself out there, she might give him a chance!

So one day, right around spring break, Bill passed Emily a note in Defense Against the Dark Arts, asking her to meet him in the castle courtyard. The eldest Weasley was kind of an emotional wreck on the inside, absolutely beside himself with nerves, but he put on his bravest face anyway. He’d even brought a pink rose, which he tried to keep out of sight in his back pocket until Emily arrived. It was the flower that caught Carewyn’s eye, when she was passing through the castle courtyard.

The third-year Slytherin had been planning on meeting up with Ben and Rowan in the library so they could study up for an upcoming Charms test, but she put that on hold, seeing her friend Bill sitting alone in the courtyard, as if waiting for someone. Normally she would've gone over to say hello, but the pink rose in Bill’s pocket made her give pause -- a fortunate thing too, for not long later, Bill shot to his feet as Emily Tyler entered the courtyard. She was dressed head-to-toe in bright pink, with her dark hair tied up in a high ponytail and her makeup impeccably neat. She wasn’t alone -- several other boys and girls were with her, all talking to her animatedly. They reluctantly waited for her at the edge of the courtyard, their eyes locked on her as she approached Bill. The scrutiny from Emily’s cohorts clearly intimidated Bill, but he didn’t let it rattle him. He faced his crush with the best smile he could.

“Hi, Emily,” he greeted. “Thanks for coming -- I know you’re pretty busy with the Dueling Club...”

“I am,” assented Emily. Her voice was matter-of-fact.

Bill gave a weak, uncomfortable laugh. “Well, uh...I won’t take up too much of your time, then. I just wanted to...er...”

He took the pink rose out of his back pocket and offered it to her. Emily blinked down at it in surprise.

“I wanted to...give this to you,” said Bill with a modest smile. “Pink is your favorite color, I’ve heard. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping on you or anything,” he said very quickly, “I just heard you tell one of your friends that once, last month, and...”

Carewyn felt very uncomfortable, listening to this. Deciding at once that the whole thing really wasn’t her business and that Bill deserved his privacy, she turned to go. She probably would’ve walked away, were it not for how disdainful Emily's voice sounded, when she spoke.

“Is this...some sort of confession?”

Carewyn immediately stopped and turned back around. Emily was looking from her friends on the sidelines to Bill, her face twisted in a very critical, flabbergasted sort of look.

Bill, to his credit, somehow managed to keep a weak smile on, even as her brought up a hand to rub behind his neck uncomfortably.

“Well, uh...yes! I guess so. I...was sort of hoping we might be able to hang out sometime...maybe get some butterbeers in Hogsmeade or something -- ”

Emily’s eyes had widened little by little with every word out of Bill’s mouth until, finally, she brought them to an abrupt halt when she started to laugh.

“You -- you’re serious?” she said incredulously. She glanced over to her friends on the sidelines and then around the rest of the courtyard, as if expecting someone to jump out from behind a nearby pillar. “This is a joke, right? Tell me this is a joke.”

Her laugh and slightly louder voice had caught the attention of some other students close by. Her friends over by the entrance of the courtyard were exchanging disbelieving looks and whispers among themselves.

Bill’s smile faded.

“A joke?” he repeated blankly. “No -- it’s not a -- ”

Emily fixed Bill with a rather pitying, condescending look as she slipped the pink rose out of his hand.

“Look, Bill,” she said very coolly, “you’re cute and all -- but you really think you’re my type? You’re a Weasley. Prefect or no, you’re still a blood traitor in messy, second-hand clothes with younger students always tagging along after you like ducklings and a father who chases after Muggle airplanes and scooters rather than work a job that can pay the bills.”

She carelessly dropped the pink rose in the fountain and turned her back on him.

“Maybe actually make something of yourself, and then we can talk.”

Carewyn had been furious at the things Emily Tyler had said -- but it was the absolutely devastated, heartbroken look on Bill’s darkly flushing face that made her snap. In an instant, the third-year Slytherin had barreled right up to the pink-dressed Gryffindor as she rejoined her snickering friends at the side of the courtyard.

“How dare you!”

Emily’s friends all stopped laughing to look down at Carewyn.

“Excuse me?” said Emily, looking down at the much smaller girl with a very condescending eye.

“Bill bared his heart to you just now, and you don’t even care!” Carewyn said fiercely. “Talking about his family being poor and liking Muggle things as if it’s something to be ashamed of...clearly Bill couldn’t have liked you for your personality, because it’s disgusting!”

Emily’s nose wrinkled as she glanced around at her friends. “I don’t think anyone’s surprised you’d throw in your lot with a Weasley, Cursebreaker kid. Your family’s got even less reputation to be proud of -- not to mention your clothes are just as out-of-date as theirs are.”

The boys in the group all gave a low “ooh,” sniggering among themselves.

“Well, fortunately, unlike you, I could care less about my reputation,” Carewyn spat. “And I’m frankly glad of it! Bill is a kind, hardworking person who always puts others first and puts his whole heart into everything he does! If his family’s reputation makes it so you can’t appreciate any of that, then I’d say you’re the one who needs to ‘make something of yourself’ -- ”

“Carey.”

Carewyn felt a hand coming down on her shoulder, almost holding her back. She looked up, to see Bill standing over her. His gaze was locked on Carewyn rather than Emily and his face was very scarlet, but his voice was low and forcibly level.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.

Carewyn looked at him with concern. “Bill...”

“It’s okay,” said Bill. He forced a thoroughly unconvincing smile. “Let’s just go.”

Carewyn stared at Bill for a long moment, feeling very reluctant to let the issue go. Her eyes then fell away, drifting away -- it seemed they’d acquired an audience, in the rest of the students scattered around the courtyard.

Bill would probably be even more embarrassed, if I escalated things further, she thought guiltily.

Exhaling quietly, Carewyn shot one more very dirty look in Emily’s direction and walked off with Bill. As they walked off, some of Emily’s friends shouted taunts after them.

“‘Mother Duck’ Weasley strikes again!”

“Follow along after Mama, little duckling!”

Carewyn forced herself to keep walking and not turn around. She shot a furtive glance at Bill, and saw that he was doing the exact same thing, even with the ruby red flush in his cheeks and the slight shine to his eyes.

Carewyn followed Bill out of the courtyard, down the hall, through the large double doors, and out onto the castle grounds. The eldest Weasley seemed to be walking with no destination in mind, his gaze endless and his steps aimless. Carewyn could practically feel the misery, shame, hurt, and embarrassment coming off of her friend, and it made her heart hurt. Her gaze fell to her feet as they walked side-by-side together.

“...I guess...it was her, wasn’t it?”

Bill straightened up. He’d clearly forgotten for a moment that Carewyn was there.

“Huh?” he said, before uncomfortably adding, “...W-who?”

“Who you were thinking about, whenever ‘Uptown Girl’ came on.”

Bill flushed a dark red. “What? No, I...what makes you...think there was anyone I was...?”

“Oh, come on, Bill,” said Carewyn with a pitying look. “Your eyes were always so bright, whenever side two started up. I thought...well, there had to be something special you were thinking about, when you heard that one. Even if it wasn’t a specific person...it just felt like that song was something that spoke to you, I guess...”

She offered him a weak, sad smile.

“...It kind of reminded me of when I sing certain songs. Like even if the words are someone else’s, you can sing them like they’re all yours.”

Bill considered Carewyn for a minute. Then, his flush darkening further, he bowed his head.

“...Yeah. I suppose that’s true.”

He gave a low sigh.

“...What did I do wrong, Carewyn?” he asked. “Did I come on too strong? Should I have sent her a note, or asked to meet her somewhere more private?”

Carewyn whirled on Bill with an incredulous look. “What? Bill, you didn’t do anything wrong!"

“Sure feels like it,” mumbled Bill.

Carewyn stopped right in front of Bill, putting her hands on her hips and fixing him with a very reproachful look.

“You listen to me, William Weasley,” she said fiercely. “I may not know anything about that snobbish twit -- ”

“Emily Tyler.”

“ -- I may not know much of anything about her, but I know you, and I know you deserve so much better than how she treated you. Even if she doesn’t feel the same way about you as you do about her, there’s no excuse for how cruel she was to you...all clearly just to save face around those awful friends of hers...”

Bill blinked in surprise. “You reckon?”

“Yeah,” said Carewyn. “She kept glancing at her friends, the whole time. She rejected you that soundly because she thought they wouldn’t approve of you.”

Seeing the look on Bill’s face, she added, “But that shouldn’t matter, Bill! If Emily thinks impressing her friends is more important than being a decent human being, that’s her problem. And if her so-called ‘friends’ are the sort of people who look down their noses at good people like your family...well, clearly Emily Tyler’s a rotten judge of character.”

Bill looked a bit comforted by Carewyn’s words. He tried to smile again, but it still looked halfhearted at best.

“Thanks, Carey,” he said lowly. “It’s just...well, she’s just so amazing. Talented and pretty and perfectly brilliant -- you should see her in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I reckon she’s on the NEWT level already. She even said she might like being a Cursebreaker, when she graduates -- travel everywhere, and become world-famous...”

Carewyn brought a hand onto Bill’s shoulder and gave it a supportive squeeze. It felt a little odd: he hadn’t really talked to anyone about his feelings for Emily, and just talking his feelings out, rather than listening to someone else’s...it was something he could only really ever remember doing with his parents, and only occasionally. It was weird, but it felt...nice.

“I just...didn’t think she’d react like that,” Bill admitted. “Not that I expected I’d sweep her off her feet or anything, but...I’d sort of hoped that she’d give me a chance, and that when we went out, we’d get on, and maybe even hit it off...”

He sighed heavily.

“Guess I really don’t know much about love at all, do I?”

Carewyn frowned deeply. “That’s not true at all! You know plenty about love. You love your brothers and Ginny, and your parents...and you love your friends too!”

“That’s really not the same thing,” said Bill.

“It should be,” huffed Carewyn. “Love is love. If you love someone, you care about their happiness more than your own. Sure, maybe when you marry someone, there’s a lot more kissing and you want to have kids together and stuff like that...but well, the important part is that caring, right? Without that, what does the rest of that stuff matter?”

Bill’s face softened slightly.

“...I guess you’re right. And I guess...when I am looking for that person...I should find somebody who’ll care about my happiness just as much as I do theirs.”

Carewyn nodded with a smile. “Definitely.”

She took Bill’s hand.

“And maybe someday when your ship comes in,” she sang brightly, “she’ll understand what kind of guy you’ve been...”

Bill’s face flushed again, but this time it wasn’t out of embarrassment -- this time, it was accompanied by a bright, touched look in his brown eyes.

“And then I’ll win,” he finished, in a much less trained, gravelly singing voice than Carewyn’s.

Carewyn beamed. She walked on ahead, pulling lightly at Bill’s hand so as to coax him to walk next to her.

“And when she knows what she wants from her tiiiiime~...”

Bill gave a laugh, but followed Carewyn’s lead, recalling the words by heart.

“And when she wakes up and makes up her miiiiind~...”

Soon Carewyn and Bill were back toward the castle, swinging their linked hands idly back and forth as they sang the rest of the song together, getting louder and louder with each line.

“She'll see I'm not so tough, Just because I'm in love with an uptown girl! You know, I've seen her in her uptown world -- She's getting tired of her high-class toys And all her presents from her uptown boys.... She's got a choice! Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!”

Before long, all the two thought of while singing that song was hanging out together and being silly, while not caring what anyone else thought. Not a single word of the song brought Emily Tyler back to Bill’s mind -- and in the years to come, Bill would continue to enjoy the song with no negative connotations whatsoever, instead only remembering when Carewyn and he sang it at the top of their lungs to make him feel better. And that moment did indeed signal a shift in the dynamic between Carewyn and Bill. For Carewyn, it made her feel like she was walking home with Jacob again -- like she had an older brother who she could look after, the way she used to for Jacob. And for Bill, it made him feel like he’d acquired a second younger sister -- one who emotionally supported him the same way he did his real siblings.

One thing was for sure, though -- it was this moment, among many others to come, that cemented Bill and Carewyn as the very best of friends.

x~x~x~x

Tagging @the-al-chemist and @oneirataxia-girl for expressing interest in this prompt! 🤗

Carewyn’s dress is based on the design on the left 💗

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #bill weasley #carewyn cromwell #emily tyler #charlie weasley #my art #my writing #bill's secret #BILL MY BOY #I love you so much <33 #I went out of my way to try to write in some logic to how emily behaves that has links to her gryffindor placement #namely her desire for glory and to be well-regarded #it also would explain why bill didn't pick up on how terrible she was at first #she looks down on people who are below her specifically #around equals or people she wants to impress she'd be nicer #since bill has watched her from afar he wouldn't pick up on that :(#but yeah I felt like carey-bear just HAD to reclaim that song so that it didn't have to be something bill associated with emily forever #and yeah now it's something special between them as bffs!!#and bill does eventually find his own 'uptown girl' to marry <33 #(either carewyn's 'slytherin sister' jules farrier or fleur delacour depending on the canon >D)

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