#it appears to be about the nurse but i also heard speculation that all the other girls were alters and we're learning about the host

[blinkycravesviolence]

ok but refraction girl's page is so interesting to me cause like. with all the other pages we usually get a bit of insight on who the girl is but with RG this is literally all that's there

nothing about her interests, her blinkies are all rather depressing, we know what she listened to last, but her entry... again, usually the character goes on some sort of monologue, but her entry is just two sentences. and that fucks me up so hard.

anyways with the uquiz i got caliber girl/nora which Could Mean Anything. can't wait for the final song!!!!

[huntsvillegossip]

Hello lovelies!

You know since that tall, handsome man joined and has fully taken over the advice column, I can now focus on providing you with all the wonderful updates you all send in.

Starting with some most unfortunate news and a reminder to be ever vigilant over your doors. Emma Dunford was the unfortunate victim of a home invasion. Thankfully, she is making a full recovery with her partners at her side. I’m sure her son is grateful to have his mother back around. It has been reported the culprit was Jae-Sung, who was seen having a spat with one of our teachers during the art festival, but I don’t think anybody saw him as capable of such a horrendous act. 

The one to call it in after fatally wounding Jae-Sung was Kirby. Three cheers for our new young hero! However, I will say we had someone provide some interesting speculation when submitting this. It was very convenient that Kirby was there just in time, was it not? They claim that they simply saw something suspicious - but why not radio it in immediately then? Not to mention they have previously had trouble with the law in town. Now I’m not saying they were working with Jae-Sung and turned on each other, but well… That would be quite the story, wouldn’t it?

Now then, let’s move on to much happier news, shall we?

It seems Sammie’s Place truly is the place to find love in this day and age. Cassius Romero proposed to Lynx one of the bartenders, during one of their shifts this week. Considering all other Romeros seem to be in committed relationships, it seems only natural he would finally find someone to settle down with, no matter how out of the blue it may seem. Besides, with such a public and dramatic proposal fit for a stage, we can only expect the wedding will be just as much of an event. I will certainly be delightedly awaiting my invitation in the mail.

Bucky’s Diner is also known for never having a slow day. Connor Hastings and Isabel Lovejoy were seen having a heated argument in the middle of the establishment as described by eyewitnesses. What it was about is anyone’s best guess, although with the way things turned out, I don’t think it’s a stretch for me to say that it appears to have been a lover’s quarrel. Mr. Hastings was seen giving quite the passionate kiss to Miss Lovejoy at the end. Perhaps with her, his icy exterior might eventually crack.

Love, Auntie G ~

"Declan Sullivan was seen having what looked like a pretty cozy picnic with Stella Hendrix. I thought he was taken. Is he still girlfriend shopping, because like I'm available if he wants to meet up at Sammy's. I'm at the bar at 8." - AndTheseAreReal

“Bro what is with people fighting at the bar, I’m just trying to have a drink in peace. Least it was that Dorian guy, surprised it took this long for someone to finally deck em. Cheers to the Abernathy kid, sure his dad is super proud.” - Day Drinker

“I still don’t believe that nurse is guilty, come on she’s too pretty and sweet. She was always super nice to me at the clinic.” - Anon (17F)

“Damn, getting shot must have woken something up for Spencer. Heard them totally getting into it with their mom. On the one hand, good for 'em. On the other hand, thank god the Commune is getting more rooms, hoping things don’t get too awkward, ya know? They might have cried, but we're still proud of you, buddy!” - Full House Resident 

[theflowerofhumanity]

Green-Blooded Jealousy

Among the crew of the USS Enterprise, the Bridge officers saw a disproportionate amount of action. Those privileged few, orbiting the captain like so many moons, regularly had the kind of adventures that motivated exhausted but starry-eyed cadets in Starfleet Academy to study just a little harder and to stay up just a little later.

But those officers could also be somewhat isolated by the rarefied air of the Bridge. They were usually the last ones to hear the latest gossip, even the salacious, speculative kind that tore through the rest of the ship in just a few days. There were exceptions to this rule, of course: Lieutenant Uhura was a popular social butterfly, and as chief engineer, Scotty probably heard all kinds of talk but was wise enough not to repeat any of it while he was on duty. The ship’s first officer, though, might have been the very last to hear any of it. Spock tended to ignore all but the tallest tales even when he did hear them. In typical Vulcan fashion, he dismissed anything that lacked the potential to threaten the overall morale of the crew and fortunately, nothing had fit that description this early in the voyage.

The same privilege and separation from the lower decks that put the Bridge crew out of the loop made them a favorite subject of that same gossip. Half of the women on board carried a torch for one of the senior officers, with Captain Kirk’s boyish good looks and charm making him the clear front-runner. To some ordinary crewmen, the captain and his inner circle were more like celebrities than fellow members of Starfleet.

So when two crewmen working alongside him in the lab struck up a conversation about a relatively recent rumor, Spock took notice only when one of them remarked, “Chapel? The blonde with the great legs? Damn. Some guys have all the luck.”

His companion chuckled. “Well, I don’t see your epaulets, Sharma. Everyone knows she’s been sweet on a Bridge officer for months. You think she’s going to be interested in a lab rat?”

Spock frowned, his hands going still. Under the influence of an alien virus, Christine Chapel had confessed that she was in love with him not so long ago. He remembered the encounter with crystal clarity—and he knew that it had caused her a great deal of embarrassment. But how had that translated into this supposed common knowledge? Since neither man was paying any attention to him, however, it appeared that no one had correctly guessed for which Bridge officer the head nurse had eyes. In any case, their talk had already moved on to a different topic. Spock went back to his research, putting thoughts of Christine (and her great legs—the observation had been slightly crude but accurate nonetheless) in the back of his orderly mind.

It never occurred to him to wonder about the identity of the man.

A few days later, Spock laid claim to the empty corner of a rec room for dinner and a game of chess with Jim. The chatter from a table near the door washed over him like so much white noise as he began setting up the tridimensional board. Until—

“He was with her down there, after all. On Exo III, I mean.”

Exo III. The name was enough to pique Spock’s interest. They’d found Dr. Roger Korby—or whatever had remained of him—on that desolate planet. He lifted his eyes from the chess pieces he was arranging, unconsciously tilting his head with curiosity. The speaker was an ensign whose auburn hair was almost indistinguishable from her uniform.

“I guess chivalry’s not dead,” her dark-haired companion remarked, laughing.

“Not while Captain Kirk’s alive,” agreed the redhead. “I heard that they’ve been seeing each other for months already. If that’s true, it seems like a pretty quick rebound, but well…can you blame her?”

The brunette lifted one non-committal shoulder. “He’s not really my type.”

“Sure, you say that now, but if he turned that gigawatt smile on you—”

“It’s a megawatt smile at most.”

Both of them rose from the table and headed for the door, giggling as they continued to bicker over the order of magnitude that best described the power contained within Jim Kirk’s smile, not that either girl had probably ever seen that expression for themselves.

A deafening silence accompanied the ensigns’ departure. Spock didn’t recognize his own sudden, intense agitation until he swept the board he’d just assembled off the table. He stared with astonishment first at the mess of pieces strewn across the floor, then at his offending arm, which trembled beneath his gaze.

It is not logical to envy, he reminded himself even as he wondered if that was the sensation he was experiencing.

Christine Chapel was almost nothing to Spock—maybe not even a friend. When had they ever had a real conversation? He wasn’t available, in human parlance, even if he had the time or inclination to pursue an intimate relationship. If Christine wanted companionship and comfort in the wake of losing her own fiance, she had no reason to seek those things in him. Jim, on the other hand, was an obvious choice. Was it possible that their experience on Exo III had forged a bond between them that had grown into something more?

Even if such a thing had occurred completely unbeknownst to Spock, he wondered further: their mission was still young, had he ever seen Jim carry on a romance with a crew member? Not even with Miss Rand…

“Enough. Enough!” he muttered as he knelt down to collect the scattered chessmen. It was just some talk. There was no empirical evidence that the captain was spending time with Nurse Chapel in any capacity, and he had no reason to be jealous of such a relationship if it did exist. Such a reaction was utterly irrational. It was below him. Jim was his friend, Christine his colleague.

Ordering a cup of spice tea from the food synthesizer, Spock settled back into his seat to wait for Jim.

@multirptrash

[the-new-pokespe-futures]

Au 1: ???? ????? ?????? (Wally Au)

Note: This is is my first Au, so I hope things turn out ok

Wally may look like a normal innocent Pokémon Trainer, well, normal as he can be unless you’re friends with the dex holders. But there was one incident which nagged a few people till this day about him, you see, not only was Wally born with an unknown respiratory disease, he also had a weird condition which didn’t allow him to talk properly, so he has to wear a special device which around his neck which allowed him to talk. But people also often ‘reported’ saying that they felt ‘giddy’ or have an urge to sing against or with Wally whenever they are in close proximity. This cause Wally to have little to no friends as if any kid was too close to Wally for more than 5 minutes, the kid would faint and would’ve been sent to the nurse’s room.

So Wally had to be homeschooled for the majority of his life. However, 5 years before Green and Red became dex holders, Wally mysteriously disappeared leaving no trace behind, a small search party was held but they failed. One day, a week before Ruby moved to Littleroot town, Wally was seen again, his parents were more than happy to see him albeit, they noticed some changes, he seemed to be holding something in his right hand and both of his wrists have 3 different coloured rings engraved in it, one Ruby, one Sapphire and one Emerald, he also seemed to be more optimistic compared to before his disappearance. But what didn’t change in Wally is his appearance, he didn’t seem to age once despite being gone for almost a decade and that was a mystery. This caused many rumors and theories speculating that Wally isn’t human or that he’s older than he looks or something similar, even his birth certificate showed that he’s older than the first 3 dex holders yet looking no older than 12, however, most people dismissed the theory and that it became forgotten, until one day……

After the events in Sword and Shield:

All the dex holders (gen 1-8) were invited to a singing contest on the second day of the new year which they all gladly accepted, even Wally was invited (by Lisia apparently?) but he didn’t seem to be excited, rather being sad or disappointed of sorts. One day before the contest starts, Ruby noticed that Wally’s appearance didn’t change from their first appearance. He heard that only Wally’s parents knew his secret and why he was gone but refuses to tell others about it. When Ruby went to visit Wally, he found Wally…………sweating? He didn’t know what happened but Wally mentioned that he was just scared, probably about the murders which happened in 2 weeks. Although, Ruby had his doubts.

2/1/?? (You can decide the year),8:30 pm

The day of the contest arrived, everyone including the dex holders arrived and are hyped for it, even Cheren and Bianca took a break to watch the contest. When Ruby tried to look for Wally but he wasn’t found anyone, before Ruby could ask where Wally was, the contest started. Overall, it seemed relatively enjoyable, the nice songs, the loud cheering of the audience and the judges voting the score of the participants. But that all changed when the 3rd singer arrived on stage, as he was approaching the end of his song, a sickening splat sound was heard, the singer’s lifeless body fell to the ground, sliced in half, just like the murders. Everyone soon panicked and tried to rush for the exit, but the automatic doors just refused to open for no apparent reason, when the dex holders tried to release their pokémon to deal with the crowd, they realized that their Pokéballs are locked, if that wasn’t bad enough, communications have been completely shut off. As things couldn’t get any worse, a sinister yet familiar voice (at least to one person) sounded out: “There goes your queer little friend, I honestly don’t give a shit about him at all, while this is just a small oversight in your plans, the show must go on right? Until he arrives with the Green haired brat, let’s all wait shall we?” A sense of dread filled the air, a sense that no one has felt before………………

Sorry if this is a bit lengthy, I can’t write properly and this is sort of a rewrite from the last one, also, most of these Aus are crossovers so you can try and guess what series this Au is, here’s some examples: Cuphead Au, Undertale Au, BATIM Au, something like these. You can place your answer in the comments if you know or you can reply me your answer. Oh and before I go, I just want to say that if—*RING,RING,RING,RING,RING* sorry, that’s my phone let me take this call, just give me a couple of minutes. Hello? Yes, yes

That’s what I decided to start with

Alright then, catch ya later

Now where was I? Oh right, if you have any questions regarding these Aus as we dwell further and further into them, feel free to ask✌️

I’ll reveal what Au it is on Sunday

Alright then, guess that’s all I have for today, until then, I’ll see you around. This is the-new-pokespe-futures, signing out!

[mrsjadecurtiss]

Hey can I ask a question? I was rereading asoiaf and I noticed something that I didn’t see earlier…Lysa tells that she slept with Baelish when he was so drunk he passed out and when he was healing from Brandon’s wound (so he took milk of the poppy and his mind wasn’t clear)…so she raped him?

“No doubt a slow one,” Tyrion said. “My lord, you were fostered at Riverrun. I’ve heard it said that you grew close to the Tullys.”

“You might say so. The girls especially.”

“How close?”

“I had their maidenhoods. Is that close enough?”

The lie—Tyrion was fairly certain it was a lie—was delivered with such an air of nonchalance that one could almost believe it. - Tyrion IV, aCoK

In Lysa's and Petyr's backstory, we find out about two instances of them engaging in intercourse in their youth. The first one happens when Lords Bracken and Blackwood visit Riverrun. The second one happens when Petyr recovers from his duel with Brandon.

Lord Bracken's singer played for us, and Catelyn danced six dances with Petyr that night, six, I counted. When the lords began to argue my father took them up to his audience chamber, so there was no one to stop us drinking. Edmure got drunk, young as he was . . . and Petyr tried to kiss your mother, only she pushed him away. She laughed at him. He looked so wounded I thought my heart would burst, and afterward he drank until he passed out at the table. Uncle Brynden carried him up to bed before my father could find him like that. 

[...] That was the night I stole up to his bed to give him comfort. I bled, but it was the sweetest hurt. He told me he loved me then, but he called me Cat, just before he fell back to sleep. Even so, I stayed with him until the sky began to lighten. - Sansa VII, aSoS

In this first instance, Petyr definitely did not give consent to sleeping with Lysa, as he did not recognize her at all and was under the impression she was Catelyn (which he appears to think until this day). It seems Lysa was not acting with malicious intent as it appears she didn't know that he thought of her as Cat until the end when it was over; some might thus at first be inclined to show a benefit of doubt as we do not know how drunk Lysa was herself, so it could have been a mutual misunderstanding. However as Lysa appears to remember it in a more lucid way and retells it in an active manner as opposed to Petyr's more passive role and his seemingly much worse state of drunkness, the story's intent generally looks to be that she was of a clearer mind and abused his decreased ability to give consent, making it a rape even if she herself would not recognize it as such.

A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days. Edmure had called on him as well, but Petyr had sent him away. Her brother had acted as Brandon's squire at the duel, and Littlefinger would not forgive that. As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he'd been born. - Catelyn VII, aGoT

This second instance leaves a bit more room for speculation - Petyr appears to have been lucid enough to recognize and remember her as Lysa, and he reads of a clearer mind as well (making decisions such as sending Edmure away). Mind that while he would definitely be on a lot of milk of the poppy in the beginning, this would be due to a terrible wound that would also make it impossible for him to have s*x; once his healing progressed enough to have s*x with her he might not have been on as much milk of the poppy.

A favourable reading might compare Petyrs encounter with Lysa (grieving Cat's rejection and injured) with Robb's encounter with Jeyne (grieving Bran and Rickon and injured); resulting in a situation of "dubious consent". However, Petyr's injury was much worse, while Robb is implied to have healed from his wound by the time he gets the news of Bran and Rickon. Still it is possible that the encounter happened near the end of Petyr's stay at Riverrun and that he was healed enough to have the ability to consent; we have no ironclad knowledge of his medical details.

But given the history of their previous encounter, one can also be inclined to read it as another willfully ignorant abuse of Petyr's decreased state of mind similar to the first incident, which would make it another act of rape. General reader consensus appears to favour this option.

In any case it seems clear that young Lysa never lay with Petyr in a way where he was of a completely clear, happy and normal mindset and body; and his true affections always lay with Catelyn.

This is a very heavy and somewhat controversial subject, so i hope i could show it in a manner that sheds light on it in a respectful way. If you have disagreements or objections with anything, feel free to reply to this post or send another ask.

[whitherliliesbloom]

You follow the scent trail of sweet flowers...until you bump into a mysterious bijou girl with starspun hair and lustrous lavender eyes. Mysterious girl far from home: “O-oh- I’m sorry... The way you’re looking at me as if you want to d-duel... W-well, i-if you in-insist..”

@windupnamazu​‘s Pokemon!AU Illya headcanons under the cut! It’s very long, so hang tight! Note the headcanons may be subject to change or updates in the future ;w; Drawings and designs of Illya’s outfits by @rosepinkwol​.

Illya’s personality is about similar with her ffxiv canon verse. Shy, reserved, very sweet and gentle. But she’s considerably more cheerful in her pokemon au form and less emotionally volatile / depressed. She still does have some lingering emotional and mental health issues though, which will be covered later. 

She became a pokemon trainer primarily to explore the world and meet more pokemon. Dueling and beating others isn’t a real priority for her, though she still does it to earn money. 

While Illya bets pokemon dollars in normal battles with trainers she is unfamiliar with or in official tournaments, she doesn’t like gambling real money when battling with friends. Instead, she’d often suggest that the loser has to treat the winner to a meal.

Extremely good cook. You’ll never go hungry or be unsatisfied in the tummy if you go camping with her. Just don’t mention that you like spicy foods or she’ll almost always assume that you’d be able to handle the same level of spice as she does (pro-tip: you probably can’t). 

She smells like the most gorgeous mix of flowers - no thanks to her Comfey often playing with her hair and wrapping flowers around her. 

She takes pokemon welfare very seriously due to her upbringing and background. She thus has a habit of releasing pokemon she captured that she feels would either be happier out in the wild or are showing signs of stress in her care. That seldom happens though, due to how loving and caring she is towards all her pokemon - most of them end up becoming very attached and even protective of her.

In the same way, she never forces a pokemon to battle, evolve or do anything they don’t want to, even if they are strong. 

Illya knows a lot about pokemon care and the likes / dislikes / proper way to take care of different types of pokemon. Thus, she makes friends with pokemon a lot easier than she does humans.

The very definition of ‘gotta catch em all!’..... but only if the pokemon wants to be with her. She loves all pokemon, regardless of her personal tastes and will treat any pokemon she comes across with respect and care as long as they mean no harm to her. 

Knows basic first aid for both humans and pokemon. And much like in canon, her pain tolerance is incredibly high.

She’s very particular about money. Short-change her, and she’ll be very very cross. After all, less money means less treats she can buy for her pokemon. 

In general, she’s dainty and graceful... however she is a tad more clumsy in her pokemon au form compared to canon. 

Illya is the definition of gap moe: her sweet, cute and angelic demeanor causes a lot of people to underestimate her. When they challenge her to a battle, they are later shocked by just how ferocious and skilled she is as a trainer. 

Illya has become quite famous everywhere she travels - owing to her infectiously sweet, genuine and kind nature contrasting her ferocity and skill in pokemon battles. 

She’s extremely intelligent, observant and intuitive. She often stays on the defensive for long periods of time before she works out a strategy or her opponent pokemon’s weak points before going in for the (metaphorical) kill. Reckless trainers who don’t plan accordingly are the quickest to lose to her. 

She WILL order her pokemon to use stun debuffs on your pokemon (sleep, charm etc). And she won’t apologize for it.... until the battle is over. 

As stated, since Illya doesn’t especially care about dueling or becoming known as the best pokemon trainer, she often doesn’t see the need to challenge gym leaders to duels unless her friends urge her to, or if beating a gym leader is required for her to be able to advance in her journey. 

Illya’s an extremely good sport. She’ll congratulate you wholeheartedly if you defeat her, and will also wish you ‘good fight!’ if she beats you.

Gives the best hugs - especially to her pokemon. It’s not uncommon for people to see her giving group hugs to her pokemon after a particularly tough or difficult duel.  

Illya actually has a lot of pokemon, many captured but also many that she befriended and didn’t officially ‘catch’ until they decided to follow her home. She carries a fair bunch around with her, but also left a good number of her pokemon at home to live peacefull with her father. Of course, she only enters battle with 6 pokemon at maximum, as per usual pokemon battle rules. Relationships with her main pokemon team and other notable pokemon detailed below!

While Illya is generally not one to fuss too much about her appearance or fashion, she does care about making presentable. As such, she has a more colorful and varied self-made wardrobe in her pokemon au form than she does in canon. She does however, have a favorite outfit that has become trademark to her:

A loose cloak that is fastened either with a pin or buckle, and a long flowing scarf that sways freely in the wind as she walks. Underneath her cloak, she wears a knee-length dress with a sailor collar and elbow-length sleeves and black fingerless gloves. She often switches between various hair accessories such as flower corsages, ribbons and pins. However, her brightly colored hairbands are perhaps the most well remembered to those who meet her.

Some people speculate that her scarves were sewn from the fur that was shed from her Cinccino, hence how warm and fluffy that look. Her hip length pure white hair is wrapped against her neck when she wears her scarf. 

Illya’s trademark outfit in the pokemon au has two different versions: one that she wears in the spring and summer, while the other is worn in autumn and winter. 

Her spring / summer attire is lighter- both in color and fabric. Her baby pink cloak is fastened with a flower pin atop her pink and purple dress. Intricate flower patterns adorns her skirt, and she wears ankle-length socks and purple flats. She also wears flower earrings 

Her autumn / winter attire is made of thicker, warmer material - specifically her purple cloak which has a star print and is fastened with a buckle. Her dress is a darker blue in color, with constellation and star patterning around the edge of her skirt. There are rumors that the underside of her skirt shimmers like a starry night sky... but you’d have to be out of your mind to want to look up it to confirm said rumor. Instead of socks, she wears white tights and dark blue shoes. She also wears a star hairclip and earrings to go with her blue hairband. 

Illya does not like feeling cold, and thus usually travels around wearing her cloak and scarf... however, she will on occasion take them off indoors out of respect - such as when she’s eating a meal at somebody’s house as a guest. 

Illya was born to two loving parents - Cocona, a lalafellin woman who worked as a nurse at the nearest pokemon center to their home in a small, quaint town and Lachlan, an ex-pokemon trainer who retired shortly after having his name entered into the hall of fame, now settled down to live with his wife and daughter.

Cocona’s job as a nurse gave her a lot of knowledge on how to take care of pokemon, and together with her husband set up a daycare / nursery for both young and old pokemon alike, where they spent their days taking care of many different species of pokemom. 

Born under those circumstances, Illya was exposed to pokemon since a very young age, and began playing with and interacting with pokemon as a toddler. She also quickly learned to help around the daycare, learning more about each different type of pokemon and how to best take care of each of their needs. 

At age 9, her mother fell ill with a life-threatening disease, and in order to allow his wife to see the world before she passed on, Lachlan took Cocona away on a one year journey outside their hometown, leaving Illya alone with her aunt (Cocona’s younger sister) to take care of the pokemon daycare in their absence. Unfortunately, Illya’s aunt had a somewhat sour relationship with her sister, and was neglectful towards Illya, often leaving her unattended for extended periods of time.

Illya sought refuge and comfort from the pokemon she was tasked to take of, and for a long time, they were the only ones Illya talked to. She’d take the pokemon out flower picking, stargazing. She ate with them, slept with them and vowed to take care of them to the best of her abilities for the sake of her parents.

On a particularly terrible stormy night, the land surrounding her home became flooded with rainwater and seeped into her house. While Illya scrambled to keep the water out, her pokemon were thrown into a panic, and eventually one of the baby pidoves flew out and away from her home. Illya chased after the pidove into the woods despite the rain, the wind so strong that it caused her umbrella to be carried away into the wind. 

As she ran after the pidove, she slipped and tumbled down a hill, breaking her leg. Now injured, scared and alone in the middle of the forest, the young Illya cried for help, but her voice was drowned out by the sound of the pouring rain and thunder. With nothing but the darkness of the night staring back at her and fearing that a wild animal or hostile pokemon may be lurking about and attack her, Illya attempted to crawl her way back home, but the pain from attempting to stand up only causes her to collapse once more.

It felt like the entire world had abandoned her, and just as she heard a strange noise from the shadows and feared the worse, a mimikyu approaches her from the dark and sat by her, watching over her and shielding her with its appendages, as if to reassure her that it won’t let any harm come to her. 

She was found later in the morning by the people from the nearest town, who had gone over to her house to check on her only to find she wasn’t in, her pokemon panicking and gesturing towards the forest for the townspeople to look for her. The pidove was hold safely afterwards too, trembling as it took shelter in a tree. 

The incident left Illya well traumatized, and stemmed her own growing self-hatred and anxiety which would only grow worse as she grew to become a teenager. 

She doesn’t like talking much about what happened to her as a child, and she only ever mentions the incident to people she truly cares about and trusts. And if anybody were to ever upset her by being pushy and asking her about it when she doesn’t want to share, her Mimikyu would be the first to smack the offender in the head. 

Her main pokemon team underwent a few changes over the years, but for the most part now, it’s fixed and she rarely switches members of her party out for another pokemon unless she thinks it’s really necessary.

One of the first and oldest member of her current pokemon party. Illya and her Mimikyu are inseparable. 

Mimikyu had in truth been watching her since she was but a child, enviously admiring how happy her family and her pokemon in their daycare had been together. He had, on multiple occasions, attempted to show himself in order to be part of their family, but was always too cowardly to do so. He would always scurry away whenever Illya or her parents would approach, hiding in the shadows and only ever watching from a distance. He watched her even as she was left alone, and on the fateful night of that storm where Illya would find herself lost and injured in the forest, Mimikyu folllowed her.

Watching Illya cry alone in the rain, he felt a surge of protectiveness and compelled him to finally step out of the shadow to comfort and protect her through the night. Perhaps in that instance, he saw himself in Illya, someone who was scared, alone and just wanted to be loved. He could relate to Illya’s loneliness, and loved her for the way she would love and accept any pokemon, regardless of their appearance or strength.

Since that day, Mimikyu hasn’t left Illya’s side and is one of the most protective pokemon of her. 

Mimikyu can often be found sitting on Illya’s head when he’s out of his pokeball and traveling around with her. He will extend his appendage out to grab any food that she offers him, or even to swat away anyone who gets too close to Illya.

Compared to other Mimikyu, Illya’s Mimikyu isn’t at all aggressive towards Pikachu. It is however, very shy and embarrassed and will attempt to hide if it spots one. 

As Mimikyu only really cares about what Illya thinks, he won’t attack anyone who catches a glimpse of him under his disguise. But he will be very, very grouchy.

He gets along decently well with all her other pokemon, though it is sometimes jealous of how big and strong Corviknight is.

From a distance or as a shadow, Illya’s scarf often resembles the appendage Mimikyu extends out. Once, while the pair were out in the woods and Mimikyu was sitting on Illya’s head, it extended its appendage to grab hold of a treat Illya was offering it. A distant passerby who could not see clearly in the dark of the night mistook their silhouetted figure as being a monster - or a near and frightening mythical pokemon. The myth is still circulating to this day, and Illya has no idea that it had been caused by her and her Mimikyu.  

Mimikyu doesn’t like going inside his pokeball - not that Illya would force him to. He’d of course, prefer to spend time outside with Illya. He especially never leaves her sight while she sleeps, often snuggling up to her beneath the covers or otherwise making himself comfortable in her scarf that she set aside. 

He’s surprisingly, and scarily very physically strong - able to grab hold of other pokemon and even other people several hundred times larger than itself. He uses this to his advantage by grabbing people who get too close to Illya and shoving them away - and he’s not at all gentle about it. 

Comfey shares Illya’s love and passion for flowers and it’s not uncommon to see her Comfey drifting around her, weaving flowers into her hair as she walked. The scent of the flower crowns Comfey weaves makes people who wear them feel relaxed, so she often wraps Illya in flowers whenever the girl is feeling particularly stressed or uncomfortable. 

Comfey loves decorating hotel rooms and campsites with flowers she picks from the wild, and she seems to be particularly generous when it comes to giving out her flowers to others. Friendly, sweet and kind - it’s almost as if Comfey was an extension of Illya herself sometimes. 

Comfey is the resident healer of Illya’s pokemon roster, able to not only heal the ailments of humans but also the other pokemon. She is especially active when Illya is helping out at pokemon centers or giving first aid to others. When Illya is in pain, Comfey often goes into a tearful panic. 

Corviknight’s appearance almost always gives other people a heart attack. Nobody ever expects someone as small, cute and demure as Illya to have such an intimidating looking pokemon. But she does, and she is just as affectionate to him as she is with her other pokemon. Strangely, Corviknight seems to be very uncooperative to everyone except her.

Once lacking a flying type pokemon, Illya almost fell to her death after being pushed off a cliff. Corviknight caught her in midair and hid her under his wings after he landed, guarding her with a ferocious glare even as other humans attempted to check on her. Ever since, he’s ever a watchful guardian to her, glaring from behind her back even as she smiles sweetly at others. 

Corviknight also serves as Illya’s main mode of transportation when she isn’t able to walk herself. As Illya loves taking her time to explore on her own two feet, she tries to not overly rely on Corviknight... sometimes, it can’t be helped however - such as when she needs to cross large bodies of water.

Interestingly, Corviknight bears a striking resemblance in both his aesthetic and personality to a hyuran pokemon trainer of dark skin and black hair who has secret romantic feelings for Illya. 

Bellossom met Illya while the girl was traveling through a tropical area that has been haunted by rain clouds and dark skies for the past several days. Illya was first attracted to bellossom because of the flowers on her head, and had watched as the Bellossom danced and chanted, mesmerized when the rainclouds pulled apart and sunlight began to shine through.

The two quickly bonded, with Bellossom teaching Illya her sun summoning dance before finally, she decided to join Illya together on her journey.

She wasn’t exactly meant to be a part of Illya’s team, and for a while, she was but a mere travel companion. However, Illya noticed just how active and enthusiastic Bellossom was to battle - or perhaps she saw it as an opportunity to show off her dance to more people. Regardless, bellossom hence became a new member of Illya’s pokemon team replacing Cincinno. 

If it wasn’t obvious enough, Bellossom loves to dance. She is rarely ever seen not at least swaying to its own beat while she’s outside her pokeball, and she becomes very eager when other pokemon or humans show an interest in learning her dance. 

Evolved from an eevee that Illya had taken care of since she was a child, it alongside Mimikyu are the two most senior members of her current pokemon team and also the longest to have known her. 

Sylveon is a free spirit, much like he had been when he was still a baby eevee. He enjoys roaming about a fair bit, though he takes care to not stray too far from Illya. 

He’s very attached to Illya and much like other sylveons, understands his trainer’s emotional state well by wrapping his feelers around her hand while walking with her. Whenever Illya gets sad or upset, he often likes sitting in her lap, purring and nuzzling himself against her in an attempt to make her feel better. He also wraps his feelers around her in an attempt to soothe and calm her down whenever she cries.

Despite his adorable appearance, he’s actually very daring and fearless, never once backing down from a confrontation or fight with other pokemon even if they are multiple times his size or even if they are a type that holds an advantage against him. 

Illya’s Sylveon is also very attached to Alphinaud’s Espeon, nuzzling himself to espeon whenever Alphinaud has it out. 

Gardevoir was one of the latest pokemon to have joined Illya’s team. She is an extremely elegant, regal but also stoic member of the party. 

Like other Gardevoir, she is able to read the future - and it was through her prediction that she foresaw her meeting with Illya and prematurely approached her. She is also able to distort dimensions and create black holes, though she rarely ever does the latter. 

Much like Mimikyu and Corviknight, Gardevoir is extremely protective of Illya despite not having known her for as long as the others have and would not hesitate to expand her own psychic powers to her fullest if she feels like Illya may be in any sort of danger.

Though powerful, she doesn’t tend to like roaming about much and mostly stays within her pokeball unless Illya calls her out for food or battle. 

Gardevoir’s demeanor and headstrong personality reminds Illya a lot of her late mother, and perhaps there is some deeper reason for why Gardevoir herself feels such a strong need to protect Illya as if she were her own kin. 

Some of her pokemon are carried around with her as travel companions, only occasionally taking part in battles, while others are left at home to be cared for by her father.

TRAVEL COMPANIONS [to be updated as au is expanded on]

Vulpix: A male vulpix that Illya carries around and cuddles with during the winter or when she’s traveling through locations with colder climates. Out of all her pokemon who are not part of her main party of 6, vulpix is probably one of the most active and frequently called forth in battles that aren’t official tournament leagues or competitions. Illya also calls her vulpix out whenever fire is needed. He is brave and enthusiastic and hopes to one day evolve himself into Ninetales. 

Dragonair: A gentle male dragonair that Illya caught near a lake one day during clear skies. It had dragged her into the sky and allowed her to ride on his back, soaring high into the clouds before dipping back down towards the waters. However, Illya lost her balance and fell into the water. He still feels bad about it to this day. He likes to curl around her to sleep.

Cinccino: A playful female cinccino who evolved from one of Illya’s minccino that she has been caring for as a child. She was once an active member of Illya’s party, but now is more of a travel companion who rarely ever battles now. Some people believe that Illya used the fur shed from Cinccino’s scarf to sew her own trademark scarf that she’s seen traveling around with now. 

Rowlet: Though Illya gets along with many pokemon in general, birds in particular seem to be very fond of her. This male rowlet followed Illya as she was traveling through the woods and eventually became a part of travel party. He doesn’t see very many fights but he does love to cuddle and is very affectionate towards not just Illya but other pokemon and trainers.

Alcremie: A shy female Alcremie who offers sweets to new friends she meets. Illya often has reservations about eating the cream and berries secreted from her, but after being assured that it doesn’t at all hurt her Alcremie and that it’s offering of sweets is a sign of affection, Illya has started learning to indulge more in sweet foods more and more. Illya doesn’t have the heart to tell Alcremie she prefers spicy food, though. 

Trevenant: A female trevenant that attacked a woodcutter that Illya saved while traversing through the forest. Convinced at first that Illya intended on harming the forest, it proceeded to trap her in a cage of trees until she was finally convinced to release Illya after witnessing the way Illya refused to let her vulpix burn the trees down just to escape. She follows Illya around and holds a lot of respect for the way Illya cared for nature and the environment. 

Hatterene: A reclusive Hatterene Illya met during her travel. She once hated Illya, chasing her by emiting a strong psychic aura much like she does with other strangers. Upon sensing Illya’s lack of hostility and own gentle soul however, she eventually calmed down enough to allow Illya to approach. She is very moody and temperamental.

NOTABLE POKEMONS AT HOME [not including pokemon that belong to Lachlan or pokemon that belong to other people being taken care of]. List is NOT exhaustive!

Cleffa: A female cleffa born from Cocona’s retired Clefairy. As Cocona passed away shortly before cleffa was hatched, Illya became her owner / trainer instead. Though cleffa wishes to someday be a part of Illya’s team, grow stronger and evolve herself, Illya hasn’t quite allowed herself to let go of her mother’s death, and hence prefers to keep cleffa safe at home. It’s one of the rare instances where Illya has explicitly gone against a pokemon’s wishes, even if out of a genuine love and protectiveness of it.

Musharna: A female Musharna that eats the nightmares of Lachlan and any guests who come to stay over at their house. She sleeps a lot and frankly cannot care any less about battling. 

Chimecho: A male Chimecho that Illya caught and took along with her on her journey for a while, before leaving him at home with Lachlan. He likes hanging himself to the roof of the house and swinging in the breeze. Not hearing chimecho’s wind chimes tells Lachlan and Illya that something is wrong. 

Azurill: A male baby Azurill that Illya rescued. He is very timid and lacks a lot of confidence. He wants to get better at doing battle, but still has a lot of training to do before it can get to that point. 

Beedrill: A male beedrill that was evolved from a weedle - the very first pokemon Illya ever caught in the wild on her own. She’s trained him personally as she grew up, and he saw many of her clumsy behavior and less experienced days. He’s sort of retired now, spending his days keeping the more rowdy pokemon in the daycare in check. 

Theme songs

If pokemon au illya were to have a theme / ost track, it’d be this lovely re-orchestrated track of the Lacunosa Town Theme! It’s soft, peaceful and has a touch of melancholy which suits her perfectly. This, this and this remix also fits her and may double as her battle theme?

Illyanaud track mayyyybe? 

Legendaries / Mythicals??

I didn’t include any legendaries or mythical pokemons into her roster because lore regarding those are that they’re very very rare BUT if Illya were allowed to have a legendary and a mythical pokemon, she’d probably own a Cresselia and a Celebi! 

Cresselia, the Lunar Pokémon. Shiny particles are released from its wings like a veil. It is said to represent the crescent moon. On nights around the quarter moon, the aurora from its tail extends and undulates beautifully.

Celebi, the Time Travel Pokémon. This Pokémon wanders across time. Grass and trees flourish in the forests in which it has appeared. When Celebi disappears deep in a forest, it is said to leave behind an egg it brought from the future.

Shout out to Diancie, who is a close second choice solely based on the fact it’s design looks like what Illya would be if she herself were a pokemon. 

Relationships with other OCs / NPCs

To be added!

[amaya-chwan]

Therapy Game Restart Discussion: Who is Onodera?

Hello everyone! Hope you are all well~ ❤️💛💜 I've had a headscratcher of an ask/message regarding Onodera, so I figured I'll make it into one big post!

Before I begin this Q&A/discussion post (feel free to comment below if you have any thoughts), I have looked through past chapters to gather the information I will put into this post to support my predictions. Not all chapters are readily available for everyone at the moment as only one volume of TGR is out right now, so I shall put the chapter numbers for your future reference! ⚠️ Also, just a note! These opinions are my personal thoughts, conjectures, and opinions, so please don't think I am saying one idea or speculation is wrong--this is just how I see it, and of course I could very well be wrong! And I also am not fluent in Japanese, so I may have some translation errors!

⚠️ Also, a warning, this will be a long post! Keep reading if you're interested and please let me know your own thoughts!

First, in an earlier ask, I was directed to a translation group that said Onodera is a man. With the help of Google and Google Translate (because I don't understand/speak Spanish), I found that post (dated April this year) and the origin of the picture they used in that post. The image is from Hinohara-sensei's 13th August 2020 tweet here and is also below for reference:

Now, all I can remember from first seeing that image is "Woow, so pretty! A female character? A love rival? A threat? OH it's the infamous director they're all talking about???"

This image was released around the time chapter 8 was released, i.e. the first chapter we see Onodera in full.

Looking at the image again, I can see how Onodera could be seen as a female or a male. Onodera has long hair, yet no visible breasts. There is no evidence of an Adam's apple, but that could just be because of the turtleneck as part of their outfit. Furthermore, in chapter 13, we see a view of Onodera from behind. There are no "womanly curves" visible in this view of Onodera.

After searching some Japanese blogs, some fans also had the same thoughts: no breasts = possible male, the shape of the face etc. Here are the blogs I found: [1] [2] [3] but most of these are from around chapter 8.

Just about the breast argument: there are a lot of different shapes for breasts. I learnt that when working at a department store selling bras during university. It is possible that Onodera is really flat chested or just has very little breast tissue. Not sure if that's getting too technical now, ahah, but what I want to say is that the lack of breasts isn't a definite yes to Onodera being a man.

Hinohara-sensei also has not explicitly stated throughout TGR so far (ch1-13) that Onodera is male or female.

From chapters 8-12, Onodera is always referred to as 院長 (director) by Shizuma and the nurses at the clinic. No gender-specific pronouns have been used in the story nor by any characters to refer to Onodera when speaking so far (that I have read). So confirming Onodera's gender is just misleading at the present moment.

We do find out in chapter 9 that Onodera's first name is 昌 akira. Akira is a gender neutral name in Japan. It is often given to males, but it is not uncommon for females to have this name. Which, I think, is genius on Sensei's part. It leaves us all thinking!

Q: So Amaya-chwan, what do you think Onodera's gender is?

Just for me as I've been reading TGR the past 1.5 years, I see Onodera as a woman as I have been "encouraged" to see Onodera as one by the little subtleties in the story, and Minato sees Onodera as a female, so I probably am viewing Onodera in Minato's POV.

(Please keep reading on for more insights and answers to questions! Really, this post is long! 😅)

In chapter 9, Onodera's older brother, who is also Shizuma's university professor (and his last name is not Onodera), makes small talk with Shizuma regarding the staff at his placement:

Shizuma's professor says: By the way, Shizuma-kun, how've you been!? You haven't been bullied, have you!? // The female team here is scary, right~ You know, Nakajou-kun and I were in the same grade...

So here, I'm made to think Onodera's clinic is pretty much all female, including Onodera too.

Fun fact: His professor uses the suffix -kun for Nakajou-sensei, yet Nakajou-sensei is a female and -kun is commonly used for males these days. But, it is also used for females in very specific situations. I'm not too sure what the situations are, but I have heard them used for females before.

In the same chapter (9), while Shizuma is changing out of his scrubs in the men's locker (?) room, Onodera walks in. He is slightly flustered, and kindly reminds her that she's walked into the men's locker room. Her reaction is "Huh? Ahh..." So here, again, I am made to believe Onodera is female.

While no gender-specific pronouns have been used to address Onodera, Minato and Itsuki have referred to Onodera as a female in chapter 13.

The kanji for "female/woman" is 女. In these two images, Minato refers to Onodera as 上司の女 female superior, and from Minato's story, Itsuki hence calls her 職場の女の人 female from (Shizuma's) workplace. This is the only time Onodera has been referred to as a female.

⚠️ Just a note going forward in this discussion, I will now call Onodera "she/her" as that is what I believe Onodera's gender is at the present moment!

Now, I did get a second ask from an Anon! Here they are below with my responses:

This one is about what's behind Onodera. I think she's a pretty interesting character. I actually think she's a trans woman or a non-binary trans woman. Sensei has been dropping so many hints to that... The name her brother calls her might be her dead name. He complains about her hair and what their father would say. She's designed to have flat breasts, perhaps she's not under hormone therapy, perhaps her "trips" and "days off" have something to do with reassignment surgeries...

She most definitely is an interesting character. I wouldn't say Onodera being transgender is out of the realm of possibility because the story is still ongoing. But regarding her name, I don't know if I'd call it a dead name since it is gender neutral already. Perhaps the kanji for a male Akira name would be different to a female one though?

About the hair comment (ch10), I just thought it was unruly? I honestly didn't think too much of it! What I will add is that the kanji for hair (髪) is used, but the reading is あたま head. Not sure why just yet, so I'll just leave that here as some extra information for the moment.

Not sure what I really think about a) her flat-chestedness and b) her insanely long business trips yet! I figured a) might be a character design, and b) she really is a top-notch veterinarian so she's probably in high demand. But I could be completely off the mark!

Also, I don't know where to add this random bit in from the story, but in chapter 12, we find out that Onodera has been calling one of the staff the wrong name for more than 10 years now. Not sure if this new piece of info affects anything?

But again, that is a very interesting prediction/thought you have about Onodera, and I wouldn't say it's not possible!

She's kind of a female Minato, psychologicallly and in appearance, which brings some challenges. And one more thing that I think hints to that: "I'll make it so your body can never be satisfied by any woman", Minato says to Shizuma. As the last chapter leaves it at that, we don't know exactly what he is talking about. [spoiler?] I haven't seen the Japanese text yet to be sure if he's clear about topping Shizuma.

That was exactly my thought when she was first introduced! That's part of the reason why I think Minato sees her as a threat, especially when he saw her for the first time and was told she is a 美人beautiful person (both in chapter 12). She and Minato definitely share some characteristics, but I find she's a bit more socially-awkward than Minato given her background (Chapter 9 & 10).

For the dialogue, the Japanese lines and the most literal translations I can give are:

今から　静真くんを抱く From now, (I'll) hold/embrace you, Shizuma-kun.

どんな女に出会っても　絶対満足できない体にしてあげる No matter the women you encounter, I will make it so your body definitely cannot be satisfied (by any of them).

Hopefully we'll find out what Minato means by that exactly in the next chapter, which I hope comes to me this week!

But if that's what he's talking about, it's 1. poor Minato being transphobic (besides being biphobic towards his own boyfriend)* 2. poor Minato probably foreshadowing his own fall. If Onodera happens to be a woman with a d**k, she can do whatever Minato thinks a cis man only can do. That's not what will make Shizuma stay by his side. Shizuma will stay by his side because he loves Minato. And that's that. Debunks biphobic myths, debunks transphobic myths. *He's not a bad person, he's got issues

Okay, this is probably as straight-forward as I can say this, but I just want to say that I don't know enough about the issues faced by the LGBTQI+ community. My friends have kindly answered all my questions so far as I don't want to be ignorant or rude when learning more about my friends and the community. I don't want to give off the air that I'm assuming anything since I don't want any misunderstandings. And I am fully aware that I need to educate myself more regarding this!

So about Minato, I'm not completely sure what you mean by number 2. But he definitely has his share of trauma, insecurities, and fears regarding his relationship with Shizuma. Having Onodera as a threat in this story really helps drive Minato's growth. The story is titled Therapy Game Restart, so what I gather from the title is that Minato is going to face another fear/insecurity he has, something deeply-rooted in him, and it's going to get really heavy and complicated, but he will eventually get through it and it will help him heal and grow as a character, and hopefully strengthen his faith in his relationship with Shizuma.

So far, I believe this "fear" is carrying on from +Play More, that Shizuma can be whisked away by a female at any moment.

But yes, Minato has to realise for himself that his and Shizuma's love, relationship, and bond is strong enough for him to not worry about Shizuma leaving him so abruptly. He has to learn to trust in Shizuma more, and TGR is slowly revealing that, especially in chapter 13.

I'll stop here. I have already written long analyses on this series and I think about making them public at some point. But it would be nice to hear from you! Maybe I'm completely wrong in my interpretations! I'm really sorry for being so annoying and maybe using inappropriate language. I really didn't mean to bother you. But I never see anyone making these points. I just want to know if I'm thinking unreasonably...

I love reading different analyses, opinions, story predictions, the whole lot!! So please feel free to ask me or post your own ideas. It's always a welcome thing for me to discuss stories and learn new things! Don't be sorry that you're being a bother or annoying, because it's not a bother at all!

We're all allowed to have our own ideas and opinions about stories, and these ideas will change once something is canon in the story, and ultimately is something we will have to accept too.

So yeah, just my two cents. Thank you for being so patient with my response, dear Anon!

To anyone reading at this point, thank you for reading this far! ❤️💛💜

I shall see you in our next set of takeaways~ As always, stay safe and take care of yourselves and your loved ones! 💜

(2021-05-17: Speedy proofreading is done ahah! And yes, my brain is still so full of 山河令/Word of Honor right now, so I have been VERY distracted! Highly recommend this drama, guys! It's up for free on the official Youku Youtube page! Totally not an endorsement, but I love this drama! AHHHHH!! Gong Jun [Simon] be living on my mind rent free~)

[straight-outta-kaer-morhen]

Scars <Eskel Soulmate AU>

Request from AO3: "Could you so an Eskel/reader with a soulmate AU? Maybe where soulmates have the same scars. Pretty please?"

Sorry it took so long. This fic has been sitting finished for several months, but I couldn't decide if I liked it enough to post. I've never done a soulmate AU, so this was a fun challenge! Anyways, I hope you enjoy! :D

As always, requests are open

Her claws wracked the side of his face. He'd been trying to avoid this meeting, but fate seemed to always have it's way. He was a fool for invoking the law of surprise all those years ago, and an even bigger fool for running from fate.

Looking up at the young girl, he had nothing in his heart but hate. The way she glowered at him he had no doubts she returned his sentiments.

• •• • A cry escaped her as flesh tore. Her hands shot out to grab her cheek. Blood ran freely down her jaw covering her neck. Horrified at the sight of crimson she helplessly tried to staunch the blood flow. The mage in front of her had his back pressed against the wall. Nothing but horror filled his eyes. This was not how the negotiations with Kaedwen were supposed to go. By the look on his face he hadn't attacked her, or cursed her. He fled the room as the pain seared across her cheek.

At some point she recalled being taken to a nurse for treatment, who was only able to bandage the wound, and send the sorceress on her way.

None of the healers could speed up the process of healing. The wound seemed to be healing on its own time. When it finally did heal, she was left with several jagged scars that even ran down her lips. When she looked in the mirror she was horrified by what she saw.

She seeked out Yennefer of Vengerberg’s powers. If anyone could heal the scars it was her. Very few were close to equal with Yennefer’s abilities.

"I cannot fix this." Yennefer declared, her eyes filling with pity. "This is the mark of a soulmate...and nothing can change fate."

"You were so beautiful." Kiera Metz's voice came softly. Y/N could not fathom the pity filled look she received. Her reflection showed several claw mark's adorned her face. They were raised and red.

Beauty wasn't everything she tried to tell herself, but she knew finding a lover would be impossible. Even her so-called soulmate would want nothing to do with her.

Yennefer gripped her shoulder, "beauty isn't everything."

• •• • "What happened to her?" Geralt inquired, his cat eyes falling on the familiar scars that adorned her face.

"It's a sad story." Triss sighed. "She used to have a beautiful face." Triss began, "the kind of face that makes king's launch wars over."

"Prettier than Yen?"

Triss nodded, "she had a softness, a warmth that Yennefer lacked. It drove men absolutely mad." She mused. "One day during negotiations, her face just tore open. It was the damndest thing."

"When?" Geralt inquired, observing the (h/c).

Triss tapped her chin recounting the years, "it had to have been about 20 years ago...give or take a few years."

"Hmmm." Geralt said, catching the woman's (e/c) eyes. She offered him a soft smile from across the room. He gave her a nod, his eyes tracing the scars that lined her lip. They were uncanny to Eskel's.

"No mage or sorceress could heal her." Triss added. "Apparently soulmate scars work differently, it's a power we know little of."

"Soulmate scars? I thought that was an old wives tale." Geralt asked, startled.

"So did I, but the circumstances of how she acquired them...well there is no other explanation for it." She said with a shrug as she took a sip of wine. "I spoke with the mage that witnessed it. His account was hard to discredit."

"The amount of scars a Witcher acquires, well it's hard to put much stock in the idea." Geralt said, taking another drink of his ale.

Triss waved the woman over, "whatever man acquired those, it must have been hell for him from what Y/N described."

"Y/N, this is Geralt." Triss introduced, "he's taken an interest in your scars." She said leaving the two to get acquainted

Her hand immediately shot up to her face covering the scars. "Forgive me for prying," Geralt began, "I have a friend who has similar scars."

Y/N's eyebrows raised, "is he a Witcher too?"

Geralt nodded, "sounds like he got those scars around the time you did."

"That would explain the pain…" Y/N mumbled, sitting at the table. "I'm very sorry for your friend, I know how he feels." She began a small frown pulling at her face. "No matter how kind you are, people tend to avoid things they can't explain."

"Well, I have reason to believe he may be the answer to those scars."

She shook her head, "even so he wouldn't want to see me." (E/c) eyes flickered up at his feline gaze. "I know exactly how I look Geralt. Kings stopped requesting my presence as soon as they saw my face, the lodge will not send me out diplomatically in case another scar decides to show up." Her jaw was set, "I'm quite positive your Witcher friend would not care to see me."

Geralt nodded, "if you change your mind let me know."

• •• •

Winters were perfect for catching up with his brother in arms. Geralt had debated keeping the scarred woman's existence a secret, but ultimately he decided that it was Eskel who should decide.

He broke the news a few weeks into their stay. He'd made sure Vesemir was in the room. If anyone would have more knowledge on the subjects of soulmates it would be the old Witcher.

"I met a sorceress this past fall." Geralt began, soliciting a scoff from Vesemir.

"Did you bed her too?" The grey haired man asked. Soliciting a soft smile from Eskel as he turned the page of his book.

"No, but she had some interesting scars." Geralt commented.

Eskel's eyes shot up, his hand automatically scratching at the scars that lined his lips. "A sorceress who chose not to have them healed? That's unheard of. They tend to be a vain bunch." Vesemir said thoughtfully.

"They tried, but scars involving soulmates is another thing." Geralt peaked up at Eskel to gage his reaction. The Witcher had stiffened, listening intently.

"Soulmates," Vesemir mused. "That is a very rare phenomenon. I can't say I've ever heard of two soulmates actually finding each other."

"Hmm, I saw the scars with my own eyes. Three claw marks on the side of the jaw." Eskel dropped his book.

"Appeared out of nowhere about twenty years ago." Geralt added. "If I hadn't been mistaken by the pair of tits I would have thought it was Eskel."

Eskel's cleared his throat, "it's a coincidence."

"Maybe, but I don't think so."

"Perhaps it's fate forcing you to make things right?" Vesemir in his infinite wisdom had a point. Much to Eskel's dismay.

"If it's fate we'll run into each other." Eskel dismissed.

"Eskel, you can't outrun fate." Vesemir began, "look what happened to you last time."

Geralt sighed, "I didn't tell you this to feel trapped by fate. I thought you had a right to know, I also think you have a right to tell destiny to fuck off if you want."

Eskel seemed to relax a bit, "was she attractive?"

Geralt nodded, "scars and all. Triss says she was once prettier than Yen." He hesitated, "there is something else you should know…"

Eskel leaned forward curiosity getting the better of him.

"She doesn't think you'd wish to see her."

A frown pulled at the dark haired Witcher's lips. He knew all too well what it was like to carry those scars.

Eskel had once been considered a handsome man. He'd never had a hard time finding a lover, and people used to be friendlier. After he acquired the scars, brothels were the only place he could find pleasure, the contracts he took the people looked on him as if he were a feral beast.

"Go talk to her." Lambert's voice echoed through the hall.

"What have I told you about eavesdropping?" Vesemir asked, turning to the youngest Witcher.

"Ah, can it old man." Lambert said, waving him off. "You're always saying you want a lover. If she really is your soulmate, even she can't turn you down."

That was just like Lambert, to throw his opinion out there regardless if it was welcome or not. "I thought you opposed Geralt bringing visitors to Kaer Morhen. You really want me to bring someone too?"

"If it’ll get you laid, I’m willing to take one for the team."

Vesemir rubbed his temples, no one could get on his nerves like the younger Witcher. Bold and brash, Lambert had a tendency to speak without thinking things through. It seemed the mutations could not quell the passion for living that burned inside.

“You have time. Destiny can wait.” Geralt said downing the rest of his ale. “Think on it.” He said, patting Eskel’s shoulder before heading upstairs for the evening.

Vesemir and Lambert were quick to follow, leaving Eskel alone with his thoughts. He turned to the many shelves that lined the wall. The bookshelves had been moved years ago when the library had decayed enough that Vesemir didn't trust it to house his precious tomes. If anyone were to have a book on the subject of soulmates, it would be the old man.

The book was thin and covered in years of dust. Eskel brushed the cover off. The letters had worn off, but the faint engraving of the title could be seen, Love Potions, Relationships, and Soul Mates. Eskel flipped to the title page, how to tell if they're the one, potions to make them fall in love, and tips turning that crush into love.

A small chuckle escaped Eskel's lips. He wondered when the old Witcher had picked this up, and who he was trying to woo. The table of contents indicated the chapter on soulmates started on page 69.

"Soulmates were fated by the gods. The oldest known magic, but very little have studied it. Soulmates could be confirmed by matching scars. It has been speculated that when one soul receives the mark their kindred soul receives it as well.

It is unknown why the other soul experiences the same wound, and pain. Some scholars assume it is to bound the two souls in a mutual understanding.

Soulmate bonds used to be very common, but the emergence of alchemy, and sorcery has made the magic almost extinct.

Soulmate bonds typically occur during strange phenomenons such as blood moons, eclipses, solstices, etc.

There have been instances where soulmates have argued that they were fated to meet.”

Eskel flipped the page, but the next chapter was regarding a love potion. He took care placing the book back on the shelf.

He let his mind wander as he trudged up the stairs to his room. Having someone to hold on nights like this wouldn't be unwelcome.

The room was silent, the fire had turned to embers. He threw another log on coaxing it back to life with Igni. The only thing in the room that indicated someone lived in it were stacks of books, and his weapons laid on a long, narrow table.

He toed off his boots and sat on the edge of the low bed. He wanted to laugh at Geralt for suggesting such an idea. He wanted to tell Vesemir that destiny could go to hell. He wanted Lambert to realize that no one would ever want him, but most of all he wanted it to be true.

Of course he wanted someone to love him, but how the hell could he accept a love like that? If he couldn't love the scars on his face how could he expect someone else to? The questions raised in his mind, but Lambert's voice rang in the back of his mind if she is your soulmate, even she can't turn you down. Perhaps that was the ember that sparked hope in his heart.

• •• •

The lodge trusted her with an alchemy shop. It seemed even she couldn't fuck that up. The once brilliant negotiator was now grinding, mixing and drying herbs. The shop bell jingled indicating a customer. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Take your time."

She dried her hands on her apron, as she turned to face the deep voice. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. The scars that lined his lips were identical to hers.

"I'm sorry. This is my fault." He began as her hand shot up to cover the scars.

"I told Geralt you wouldn't want to see me." She said turning away from the dark haired Witcher.

He was quick to reach out to her, "no you're beautiful...no beautiful isn't the right word..it's not enough to describe you." Eskel breathed taking in her soft (e/c) eyes. "A choice I made hurt you." Eskel's voice was thick with shame, "and you've had to live with that."

She took him in, and her fingers traced the scars that lined his face. "Perhaps it's not all bad."

Eskel's heart fluttered at the prospect. She had yet to turn him away, and he dared to let his heart hope.

"These scars led me to you."

[glassworkspiderlilies]

voilà le portrait sans retouches

Genshin Impact | Albedo/Lumine | AO3 Summary:  “Sir Albedo,” she continues, and the quality of her voice changes to something more velvet, more compelling, “I’d like you to draw me like one of your Fontaine girls.” (Albedo receives a surprising commission. There's a little more than meets the eye.)  Notes: significantly less sexy than it sounds aha. my friend said the line on another fic of mine and it held me hostage until i wrote it!!!! i’m baseball pitching this 18k monstrosity of a hot mess out of my sight after this took 800 years!!!

There are not many things that can surprise Albedo so wholly, but nearly every aspect of the meeting with the Lord Viatoris does.

First, the letter—hand delivered by Jean herself. It is not that Albedo is unknown as a Knight of Favonius, but even as Chief Alchemist and head of the Investigation Team, he is not a figure that often appears in public. His work tends to be very internal and he is left to his own devices most of the time, so to receive a request from the outside is…highly unusual.

And that it comes from the Lord Viatoris, who was considered a hero for his contributions in the most recent war a few years back, is not something that can be ignored.

Additionally—the Knights owe him a debt, for his service in defending the city, and to arrange a private meeting with their Chief Alchemist is hardly an equal trade. Albedo had looked to Jean for some indication of what this request could entail, but the Acting Grand Master had merely shrugged her shoulders and offered to take back his reply.

The letter was politely written and had addressed him simply—Sir Albedo of the Favonian Knights—and had not used any of his loftier titles, which previous letters in the past had when many a noble had tried (and failed) to curry his favor. But, Albedo thinks, while he neatly pens back his acceptance, that it had arrived in the hands of Jean…there was still influence and favor being pulled, no matter how friendly the request.  

Second: the child that arrives at the Angel’s Share tavern where the meeting has been arranged at, a few moments before the lord himself. Albedo watches from the second floor when the door bursts open; she is a fairy-looking creature, with snow-white hair and dark eyes, and bounds right up to the bar and asks for three glasses of apple juice upfront, then rattles off an enormous list of dishes. Lord Ragnvindr—though he prefers Master Diluc when attending to the bar—seems to be familiar enough with her that he sighs and puts through her order without otherwise batting an eye, and fills up the empty glasses of juice as she drains them one-by-one.

Where’s your keeper? Diluc asks, his voice just barely audible from Albedo’s position.

Right behind me! The girl says, though with a pout at the word ‘keeper’. We have more of those dumb vials for you, too.

It is unusual enough that there is a child barging into such a place alone, but when said keeper arrives soon after her, Albedo has to wonder just who the girl is in relation to him. Surely not a sibling, with no resemblance at all between them, and likely not a noble child he is watching, with her manners and style of speech. Yet the girl is too richly dressed in her pink-and-white dress, matching boots, and dark navy cloak to be a mere servant. Why, then, cart around and cohort with a common child, of all people?

Third, Lord Viatoris himself is…a surprising man. Albedo had not made any particular assumptions about the young lord prior to this meeting, but due to the rumors, he had nonetheless developed some vague preconceived notions nonetheless. When Viatoris walks in, Albedo finds himself a little startled by his youth, and his manner of dress.

The young man is probably around the same age as Albedo himself, but the rumors had skewed his age to much older and Albedo had never sought to confirm them. The man’s suit is also not particularly striking—an average suit, for a not-at-all average noble, no matter how new to nobility he may be. His hair is also kept long, which is not strange in of itself, but it is braided neatly with a rather old-looking accessory tying the end, and a similarly battered-looking feather earring dangling from his left ear. It is those…antique (if one is being polite) to cheap-looking (if one is not) accessories that are so intriguingly out of place, so at odds with the status he bears. He wears them proudly, but it is clear that neither are worth anything, merely simple trinkets weathered by time.

What is particularly surprising, however, is the young man’s personality. Once the aforementioned vials are given to Diluc (who lets out a bark of laughter at the rather hefty pouch) and his guest’s arrival is pointed out, Lord Viatoris looks up to meet Albedo’s eyes and smiles a brilliant smile, as if Albedo were an old friend he had not seen in quite some time. It was the kind of smile that set one immediately at ease, and assured them that there was no one else he would rather be speaking with.

Oh, Albedo thinks, his elbow propped up and cheek in hand as he smiles slightly back, so, a dangerous man, in this way.

It’s the little girl that greets Albedo first when she bounds up, introducing herself as Paimon and Lord Viatoris as Aether, with the former being the latter’s assistant. There is a story here, what with the little girl addressing the lord not by his title and also extremely casually, and a certain amount of wry deference from the man to the girl, but Albedo cannot yet ask.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Aether says, holding out his hand to shake, while also gesturing with the other that Albedo should remain seated when he half-rises. “I appreciate it, truly.”

Albedo takes the man’s hand, curious at the apparently genuine feeling of gratitude the man exudes, and watches as the man and girl sit down.

“Please, Lord Viatoris. For the services that you have rendered Mondstadt and the Knights of Favonius, this can hardly repay you for what you’ve done.”

Aether smiles, and Albedo notices that he does not immediately deny it out of politeness.

A man who knows what his aid is worth.

“Ah, but you have not yet heard what it is I will ask of you,” he says, lacing his fingers together. “And please, call me Aether.”

Albedo inclines his head.

“Well, then, please let me know. Just what is it that I can do for you?”

Aether smiles again at his forthright attitude.

And so, the fourth surprise, and the most surprising of all: his request.

“A portrait,” Aether says, as a waitress sets down various plates of food on the table and his little assistant digs in without reserve. “I’d like you to paint a portrait.”

Albedo blinks, eyes wide. Of all the things he might have expected to hear, he confesses he did not think it would be this.

“A portrait?” he repeats, incredulous.

“Yes, or perhaps several. I do not know,” Aether shrugs. “It is not I who this is for.”

Albedo leans back, blinking some more.

“My artistry is merely a hobby, Lord Viatoris,” he says carefully, and Aether gives him a sharp look at the use of the title, “It is not…a knightly service that I quite…offer.”

“Yes, well, hence the reason for this meeting and this request, Sir Kreideprinz,” Aether says wryly, taking a sip from his glass. “It took quite a while to find you. I sent my letter through the Knights’ channels because it was the only option available to me. But the request is for you, and not as a Knight of Favonius.”

Albedo stares. The man had looked for him? How odd.

“Color me intrigued,” Albedo says, and Aether grins at the unintentional pun. “But I would have you tell me more. Of all the things I can do…my paintings are not the first thing one would bring up.”

Aether smiles, setting down his drink though he does not remove his hand from the top.

“How much do you know about me, Sir Albedo?”

Albedo raises a brow.

“Of you personally, not much. I know your aid in the last war turned the tides, and that you helped defend Mondstadt. Sometime just after the war you came into sudden fortune, and bought a title as well as a manse somewhere in Mondstadt—but out of the city—with some of that money, propelling yourself into newly minted nobility. While some may clamor at your origins, more accept this state of things, and are honored to make your acquaintance. But as for the type of man you are, not as much makes it into hearsay.”

Aether listens with amusement, drawing rings on the table with the condensation of his glass.

“You have a lovely voice,” he says, and Albedo blinks, but Aether merely continues, “You may judge the kind of man I am for yourself, but what did not seem to make it into half of the stories is this: I have a twin sister, and she fought alongside me, until we were separated during the war. There was…an explosion of some kind, during that decisive battle everyone sings about, and by the time I awoke, she was nowhere to be found, and no one could tell me if she was even still alive. I was bedridden for months; there were speculations of her being a spy, but quite frankly such talk infuriated me so much that after my first outburst that harshly set back my recovery, it was not brought up again. Perhaps that was why she did not make it into the tales.”

He pauses here to sip at his drink.

“I would not be deterred, however, despite no information being available. You must understand, my sister is all I have left, as is the same for her. Our separation left me devastated, especially in such circumstances. It was Paimon who brought me out of…near ruin.”

Paimon looks up at the sound of her name, her cheeks stuffed with meat, blinking once, clearly having not listened to any of the conversation before this. Aether ruffles her hair, and she grumbles but returns to her food.

“An orphan, who’d been assisting the nurses in the camps,” he supplies absently, watching her wolf down the plates in front of her with ease, “She’s a precocious thing, but I owe her my life, in some ways. But I digress—I searched high and low for my sister and did everything I could to obtain news that could be even tangentially related. In the end, it paid off, and we were reunited in Fontaine.”

It is an abrupt conclusion to a tragic tale, and Albedo waits for a continuation that does not come.

“I…I am glad you were able to find her,” he ventures hesitantly, and Aether smiles faintly.

“Oh, please do not misunderstand, I was overjoyed—am overjoyed, to have found her. But the separation was not kind to her, and I….worry for her. Which brings us to my request.”

Albedo raises an eyebrow, unsure of where this is going.

“I will confess that I do not entirely understand. But my sister had been reading a book—Legend of the Sword, I believe?—and said, ‘ah, the same artist.’ Upon questioning, she had mentioned that she had seen your drawings in Fontaine, and offhandedly mused that she should like to see herself reflected by your hand. She did not ask me to find you—I daresay she may not remember she uttered such a thing—but this was the first thing my sister has shown active interest in since our reunion. As such, I want to do everything in my power to give it to her.”

Aether leans forward, elbows on the table as he laces his fingers together and puts his chin atop them.

“I’m prepared to give you nearly everything I am able to,” he says, his tone still entirely amicable despite the sheer force of power behind that statement, “But I also know that you are not the type to be swayed by money or power. I have done what research I can, but you are a hard man to find information about, Sir Albedo. Which brings us here, with my request for a portrait or several on my sister’s whim, and the question of what I may offer you in return.”

There is a silence between them for a while, as Albedo gathers his thoughts, wholly taken aback by the story and the reasoning behind this meeting. At the moment, he has one of the most influential nobles in Teyvat at his mercy—though he does not miss the way Aether had stipulated nearly.

“Well,” he says, “Given that, the money may simply just be easier to take.”

Aether blinks, then throws his head back and laughs, drawing the attention from other patrons and causing them to smile before they turn back to their own business. He holds a hand to his stomach, slapping the table once before he gathers himself.

“Oh, I do like you,” he says, mirth brightening his eyes. “Well, in any case, if you accept, I’d like you to meet my sister, Lumine. We have a holding in Starfell; you’ll be welcome to stay for however long the portrait or portraits take, of course. Transportation will be made available to you if you prefer to commute. If you need any supplies, I’ll order it. Whatever you need taken care of, I will do.”

“Thank you,” Albedo says politely. “It would be far more efficient to take up temporary residence. But pardon—I also have someone I consider a sister; she is still quite young. She’s looked after by the Knights as well, of course, but it would be remiss of me to leave her for so long if this venture will take an indefinite amount of time. The work for the Knights I may leave to my own assistant, Sucrose, but…”

“Then bring her along,” Aether says easily, without hesitation, “It is a big enough place.”

Albedo coughs.

“I will confess she can be…ah…rambunctious,” he says cautiously.

Aether grins, patting Paimon’s head again. The girl still does not look up from her meal.

“Bring her along,” Aether repeats, emphatically. “So are we agreed, then? I’ll draw up a contract if you’d like, open to payment of your choosing.”

Albedo hums, considering his options.

“No need, for now,” he says, “Perhaps after I better understand what your sister would like from me. But I shall formally accept your request, Aether.”

The man smiles.

“Thank you, Albedo,” he says, and means it.

.

Regardless of the permission he is given, Albedo does not yet bring Klee with him. It is not that he mistrusts Aether, but…he knows nothing about the household, and will not take any risks with Klee.

The Viatoris mansion is…interesting, suffice to say. It is a more rustic house, and whoever had it built clearly had a taste for the style of the old world, given the large statues that adorn the expansive garden—Ruin Guards, they used to be called. But they are oddly charming, in a way, with vines and sprouts climbing over and through their stonework, the old giving life to the new.

It is perched in the palm of one such statue that Albedo meets the Lady Viatoris, who surprises him too—not due to her presence, like her brother, but rather the lack thereof. She is something almost transient; whereas her brother draws the eye due to the charm of his attitude, she draws the eye because one is not entirely sure of what they are seeing. She is a delicate thing, at least outwardly—pale and prim in her white and blue dress, but Albedo goes not forget that she fought a war with her brother.

Aether leads him towards her, tossing an apple procured from the kitchens up and down before throwing it towards his sister with a split-second warning.

“Lumi! Guess what!” he calls, and she looks just in time to catch the apple with one hand.

She peers down at him, frowning, blinking at Albedo.

“Brought you a present,” Aether grins, and Lumine squints.

“…The apple or this man?” she asks, as she slips a small knife out of the folds of her dress and cuts the apple in half.

Albedo blinks at the appearance of the blade. Lumine holds one half of the apple over the edge of her perch and drops it, forcing Aether to lunge forward to grab it, which he does, catching it with admirable deftness.

“Both,” Aether says smugly, biting into the fruit the same time his sister does, and Lumine narrows her eyes at him. Albedo coughs, but Aether holds up his hands placatingly, still grinning. “This is Albedo,” he introduces with no follow-up, clearly drawing out the situation.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Viatoris,” Albedo greets, with a polite bow.

Lumine dips her head in return, glancing back at her brother, knowing that there’s something more to this but unable to discern exactly what.

“Likewise. Welcome to the manor,” she says slowly, tilting her head a little as she scrutinizes Albedo. “…You have a lovely voice.”

Albedo blinks at the familiar line; Aether laughs.

“Doesn’t he? I said the same. But anyway—I thought he might be of service to you, and he agreed to come after hearing me out.”

Lumine narrows her eyes at him again, scooting closer to the edge of the statue’s palm so that her legs dangle over the side. She finishes up her half of the apple as Aether does his, and they both toss the partial cores into the dirt, which Aether scuffs over.

“Did he, now?” she says, frowning, and Aether puts his hands in his pockets casually, a picture of ease.

“I thought you might like your portrait done,” he says, and she furrows her eyebrows.

“My portrait?” she asks, still confused, “When did I ever give that indication?”

She looks to Albedo suspiciously, who coughs, giving her a sheepish look.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself more fully,” he says, and Aether lets out an awwww at the game being let up so soon, “My name is Albedo, of the Knights of Favonius. But perhaps you may better know me as the illustrator for Legend of the Sword.”

The change is immediate; Lumine solidifies, somehow, and it takes a moment for Albedo to realize that it is her eyes that are the crux of the change. She lights up, her posture straightening as she leans dangerously over the edge, and a delighted laugh escapes out of her.

“No,” she breathes, disbelievingly, as she looks to Aether, “You didn’t.”

“How rude, he’s right here, isn’t he?” he says, mocking affront.

Lumine laughs again, then slides off the statue’s palm, startling Albedo. But she lands gracefully, her skirts ballooning around her before she throws her arms around Aether’s neck, squeezing him tightly.

“Oof,” he wheezes at her strength, but she steps back and shakes him.

“You madman,” she grins back, “I can’t believe you. How did you find him? How did he find you?”

She turns to Albedo, taking his hands excitedly, and as she meets his eyes, Albedo can see how this girl too could take the world by storm if she could bear to stay in it.

“Started by tracing the book’s author, followed some trails, greased some palms at the Yae Publishing house—the usual,” Aether supplies, pleased by her reaction, “Just took a little time. You won’t turn him away, will you? I’ve got another business trip in a few days, I would hate for him to be uncomfortable here. I’ve rather grown to like him.”

Lumine laughs, tugging Albedo’s hand and waving at her brother as she heads back into the house.

“How dare you,” she says, eyes sparkling, “He’s more in danger of us not letting him leave, isn’t he?”

Aether sweeps a bow to Albedo as Lumine leads him away, and does not follow.

Albedo lets himself be led, bemused, into a solarium, with Lumine calling for food and drink along the way. She sinks down onto the couch, watching as he seats himself on the sofa across from her, thanking the servants as they lay down plates of little finger sandwiches, as well as a pot of tea and a bottle of whiskey with accompanying cups and glasses.

She pours herself of finger of liquor before offering the bottle to him, but he declines and opts for the tea instead. She drains her glass then pulls out a slim cigarette case, once more offering, and he once more declining. He watches as she affixes it to a beautiful enamel holder, balancing it between her teeth as she lights it up with a match.

She then blows the match out, placing it on the table, and takes a drag of her cigarette before turning her attention to him again.

“Hmmm,” she says, as she blows out the smoke, “I confess, now that I have you here, I’m not entirely sure how to proceed. I never expected my brother to go looking for you, let alone find you, so I just find it a marvel that you’re here at all.”

Albedo smiles a little and leans back, drinking from his teacup as he observes her. The cigarette and the whiskey—her movements are easy and practiced, but almost too much so, and he wonders at this sense of discrepancy, when he barely knows her.

“Well,” he says, placing his cup back on the saucer, “I myself am curious how you came to know of me completely outside of my work for the Knights of Favonius. According to your brother, it was in Fontaine first that you became aware of me.”

There is a silence as she puffs, and she seems to dim as she is caught up in her thoughts.

“Yes,” she murmurs absently, “Fontaine.”

But the separation was not kind to her, and I….worry for her, now, Aether had said, and Albedo can see why. She is a flickering lantern, with the approaching danger of flickering out.

“I was there briefly, when I was coming home from the war,” he supplies, setting his cup down on the table, “But I’m not sure how or where I made such an impression that would have stuck with you in that duration.”

Lumine blinks, focusing on him again. She doesn’t answer straight away, tapping the ashes into a crystal tray.

“How much do you know about me?” she asks, and Albedo’s lips twitch up again.

“…You really are similar sometimes, you and Aether,” he cannot help but say, and Lumine looks startled, and then deeply amused, but says nothing in response to that in particular. “Not much, I suppose. Aether said that you were separated during an explosion, and then he searched high and low for you. And…then he found you.”

She hums, leaning back as well, and turns her head to look out into the gardens.

“I shan’t bore you with the details,” she says, though he can tell it is more that she does not wish to speak of it. Aether too had avoided detailing the last part of his story. “I was prisoner for a time…and then I was released. But I was lost and penniless and so I…drifted. I was in Snezhnaya awhile. Then Natlan. And finally Fontaine. You did drawings for the common people around a certain café, do you remember? From the elderly to the youths to the children. From the administrators to the merchants to the working girls. The proprietor of the café was quite taken with some of them; had them framed and hung on the walls.”

“Oh,” Albedo says, truly surprised. “I had no idea.”

Lumine smiles, leaning forward, crossing her legs.

“Including the nude portraits,” she continues, perfectly at ease, “Fontaine had their artistic rebirth much quicker than Mondstadt did, no doubt due to you. They were beautiful, you know—all of them. Very honest.”

Albedo is quiet for a moment, thinking back. He does recall, now that she has brought it up; there had been a span of a few days where all the battle had finally winded down, and he was desperate for…something else. Businesses were opening again and celebrations were abound for the end of the war, and so he had simply chosen a café, sat, and drawn. He’d gained some attention, afterwards, when the sketches were left with the owner or given to the customers—especially from the women. He’d consented easily to the nude portraiture of the working girls, somewhat fascinated by the opportunity, whom in hindsight were also flirting with him. But he was much more intrigued by the way they held themselves, or the shape of her hands, or the curve of her nose to pay much attention to it at the time.

He had done many a portrait before he disappeared—in their eyes, at least, for he had been something of a stir before he decided to be on his way. No one had any detail of who he was.

“The war…” he begins, slowly, staring down at his hands, “Afterwards, I wanted to find normalcy in the ways that I could.”

He clenches his fist then relaxes it, flexing his fingers, and says nothing more. Silence stretches, before he remembers why he is here, and he lifts his head again.

The lady’s eyes are distant once more, her gaze turned elsewhere, her cigarette burning low.

“So, a portrait, or several,” Albedo says, reaching for his tea, and she turns to him, “Was what Aether said. Was he speaking your wishes true?”

Lumine blinks, then smiles slowly.

“Yes,” she says, and they stare at each other for a moment. “Sir Albedo,” she continues, and the quality of her voice changes to something more velvet, more compelling, “I’d like you to draw me like one of your Fontaine girls.”

A pause, his teacup halfway to his lips, and then he raises an eyebrow.

“Clothed, or unclothed?” he asks lightly, setting the cup back onto the saucer, and Lumine lets out an airy laugh.

“Whichever you think will capture me best,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “Or both, if you feel the need. I’m interested in what you see of me, Sir Albedo, because I’m finding it difficult to see anything at all.”

He stares, another silence enveloping them.

“I see,” he says.

She smiles faintly and pours another finger of whiskey.

“Good,” she says, and drinks.

The conversation ends thus.

He glances back once when he leaves, but Lumine is no longer there, already gone through one of the many glass doors.

.

They start with the standard—clothed—portraits, and he passes some days with Lumine in the solarium or out in the gardens, sketching her simply doing whatever she feels like. Aether joins them here and there to pass the time, but true to his word, he is gone again in a few days to Liyue for a business trip.

“Mr. Zhongli doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Aether says, on the day he is to leave, snapping his pocketwatch closed. “So I’d best be there early. Don’t let my sister get you into trouble. Look out for her, will you?”

Lumine snorts from the sofa, holding up a lazy hand in a goodbye wave.

“Give my regards to Mr. Zhongli,” she says, “And my thanks to Lady Ningguang, for the brocade and new cigarette holders.”

He promises he will, while Paimon promises to bring back local snacks.

The manor is quieter without them, and Lumine is even more prone to getting lost in her thoughts. She smokes more too, and he begins to see more reason behind Aether’s parting words.

His assignment is much more difficult than it seems; despite the days spent in her company, none of the sketches he’s done so far feel right. It is a very particular kind of portrait she is seeking, and even if he knows what she wants, it is another story to capture it properly. It is far, far more than simply drawing what he sees, even if his insight is, perhaps, a little keener than others.

He’d expected this to be a trial, however—welcomed it, even—and continues unperturbed, no matter how many pages he goes through. Lumine watches as he flips through page after page in his sketchbook and says nothing.

It takes him a little longer than he would have liked to realize at least part of the discrepancy between what he draws and what he sees.

Lumine is not…comfortable.

It’s not that she is uncomfortable around him; she likes him well enough and behaves more and more casually around him by the day. No, it’s a certain quality that she’s had since he met her, something that she’s had even around Aether. It creates a sense of distance, like a thin glass wall.

(One could break it, indeed. But the resulting shatter might cut both of their hands to ribbons.)

There’s something inhibiting her, somehow, and once again he thinks back to Aether saying the separation was not kind to her. Lumine had glossed over her history, and Albedo was in no place to push, but he thinks now, perhaps, that hearing it, or some of it, may be necessary in order to achieve what she wants from him.

But she does not want to speak of it, and he cannot nor wants to tear it out of her.

Still; she needs something else to shake her out of these doldrums, or they will remain at a permanent standstill. Now that he’s pinpointed an issue, he can start attempting solutions.

For something like this, however, he simply goes to the strongest thing in his arsenal.

He notifies Lumine of his plans, takes a short leave, and comes back with Klee bouncing excitedly up and down behind him. She spins around slowly as she walks, running a little to close the gap between her and her and Albedo when she realizes she’s gotten distracted trying to take in all the sights and unusual structures of the Viatoris mansion.

Lumine greets them with a bemused smile. Albedo notices that her dress for the day is…a little different than her standard. It is far simpler—almost rustic—with the red and white layers matching Klee’s own outfit. She has a fur stole draped over her shoulders as well, and though it is still a refined ensemble, she looks less…intimidating, somehow, more fairylike instead of ghostly. Klee sticks closer to Albedo’s back once she notices the lady waiting for them, peeking out with wide eyes as she grips her brother’s coat. But Albedo can tell that her fingers are just itching to touch the fur of Lumine’s stole.

As they near, Lumine’s eyes crinkle as she looks at Albedo and sinks down to meet Klee’s eyes, not minding her skirts touching the ground.

“Hello,” she greets with a smile, “You must be Klee. Welcome.”

Klee beams at her, instantly overcoming her brief shyness, stepping out from behind Albedo and coming a little closer.

“Hello, Lady Viatoris!” she says cheerfully, curtsying clumsily. “Thank you for having me.” She hesitates for a second, expression turning a little bashful. “May I please touch your fluffy scarf?”

Lumine laughs, removing it from her shoulders and wrapping it around Klee’s, enveloping her in its soft texture. The little girl gasps delightedly, stroking it once, then continues to do so, unable to stop.

“A present, then,” Lumine says, “For helping keep me company.”

Albedo startles a little, on both accounts, and Lumine gives him a wry smile. First, the fur must be worth a fortune, and second…he hadn’t thought she would catch on so immediately.

“Waaa…thank you!” Klee says, grinning widely, “And I’m excited to be here! I get to spend time with Albedo…and also make a new friend! So Klee is really happy!”

Her attitude is infectious, and both Albedo and Lumine smile at her.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Lumine chuckles softly, “Shall we get a snack first, before I show you around?”

“Yaaay! Yes, please!”

Klee runs ahead, with the aid of a maid to point the way to the kitchens, while Albedo and Lumine linger behind.

“You did not have to do that, but thank you,” he says, referring to the fur.

“I wanted to,” she replies, watching Klee go, “She’s an adorable thing.”

“As I warned Aether, she can be rambunctious. She often gets herself into some sort of trouble.”

“Ah, but did Aether not warn you the same about me? You may have simply created more work for yourself.”

He blinks, and she throws a cheeky grin over her shoulder before she makes her way to the kitchens too.

A spot of tea and a plate of Fontaine-style cookies called macarons later, they are roaming the mansion grounds, with Klee wide-eyed at everything she sees.

Not unexpectedly, she is fondest of the gardens, enamored with the statues that Lumine so loves to sit on.

“They used to ‘splode?” Klee squeals, when she spots the replicated mechanisms on the Ruin Guard’s back with wide eyes as she jumps up and down.

Lumine glances at Albedo, somewhat unsure if she should be telling a little girl this, but he merely gives her a wry smile. She does not yet know Klee’s history.

“Well…not quite. It’s said they would release missiles from their backs. They were meant to protect ruins, but…”

She trails off. The Ruin Guards have a more complicated history, with scholars debating hotly over the common discrepancy of the age of ruins they protect and the age of the Guards themselves. But thankfully Klee doesn’t notice, as she is far more taken with the idea of these big missile-shooting automata being things that actually existed once upon a time.

“Klee wants to make something like that, too!” she exclaims, “Like…a big Dodoco! Then she could help Klee blow up even more bad guys!”

Lumine blinks, confused on two accounts, glancing at Albedo.

“Dodoco is her stuffed friend hanging off of her bag—a handmade gift, from her mother, who took me in. And…despite her age, Klee is an expert on bombs,” Albedo explains lightly, “Her…education with her mother was…unconventional, due to unconventional times.”

Lumine blinks at him, then looks to Klee.

“Ah,” she says, sadly. “So she is a Knight, too.”

“Yes,” Albedo replies somberly. “Yes, she is.”

Lumine says nothing, and simply watches Klee circle the statue for a while before walking towards her and suggesting a game of tag. Albedo watches with some alarm as Lumine shucks off her delicate shoes and ties the up the excess fabric of her dress to the side, revealing a peek of her garters.

She looks surprised at his wide eyes, smiling as she straightens.

“Surely Sir Albedo is not embarrassed by a little flesh, when he has seen far more?” she asks, bemused, and he coughs lightly.

“The situation was more established then,” he returns, dragging his eyes from her leg to her face, “One does not expect a noble lady to hike up her skirts so brazenly.”

Lumine lets out a laugh—a bark, really, partly harsh and partly genuine, and Albedo wonders if he’s said something wrong. But she doesn’t respond, and simply goes to Klee to set the rules of the game before running off, the little girl chasing after her with enthusiasm.

In a few moments he will play a few rounds with them when Klee begs his participation, but right now, he simply watches Lumine flit about the hedges and trees, looking back occasionally to make sure Klee has not lost her entirely.

She meets his eyes, startling him, somehow, with the quality of her gaze. It is measuring, and distant, and also…doubtful, even as she mouths—

Come get me.

.

In the time that Klee stays within the mansion, they spend it simply entertaining her and ensuring her well-being. They play games, running around in the gardens or hosting hide-and-seek within the house, the halls filled with Klee’s laughter, softly echoed by Lumine’s own and accompanied by Albedo’s chuckles. Other times Klee sprawls on the ground of the solarium and draws with crayons as Lumine watches over her and Albedo continues with his portraiture.

Though the mansion staff largely takes care of their meals, Albedo sometimes takes over the kitchen. Klee has her favorites from him, and it’s not the same to have someone else cook them.  

So at present, in the kitchen, Klee stands on a box to reach the counter as she uses small cookie cutters to cut vegetables into fun shapes, while Albedo prepares everything else. The roles are familiar between them, and though he occasionally looks over at Klee to make sure she is still doing well, he trusts her to do so as he focuses on other aspects.

It takes a while before he realizes Lumine is leaning against the doorframe. She does not tend to eat meals with them—snacks and teatime, yes, but not usually meals—and so it is unusual that she is here at this time. But here she is, watching quietly, her expression unguarded.

There is an unfocused quality to her gaze as she takes in the whole scene and not just a single part of it, as though she is trying to seep herself into a daydream. But her eyes are also tender, and longing, and the emotion she bares is so palpable that it nearly takes his breath away.

Lumine shifts after a moment, as though she is going to slip away without a word, but Albedo does not let her.

“Good afternoon,” he says, making her jump a little, “Will you join us for lunch?”

Klee turns and spots her, a wide grin stretching across her face as she jumps up and down on her box.

“Lady Lumi! Please, will you? Albedo’s making Woodland Dream, it’s my very favorite! Klee wants it to be your favorite, too!”

Lumine hesitates by the door, her hand tightening into a fist by her side, and she tilts forward a little as if she’ll take a step before she stops herself. She presses her lips together, as though there is an insurmountable wall that she cannot pass even within her own home.

Albedo steps over the threshold, taking her hand without a word and leading her next to Klee.

“Come on, then,” he smiles, “I’ll make another portion. We could use an extra hand.”

“Yay! Look, Klee will show you how the carrots become flowers!”

Lumine doesn’t look at him, all of her attention turned onto Klee as she demonstrates how she uses the little cutters to punch the slices of carrot into shapes. Albedo turns away and lets them be, the kitchen full of Klee’s chatter and the occasional returning murmur from Lumine.

Later, as Albedo prepares to sear the fish, Klee brings over a bowl of vegetables to him, and he smiles down at her.

“Albedo, look! Lady Lumi cut some into Dodoco shapes!”

He peers at the carved carrot that his sister is holding up, impressed. He glances back, where Lumine has taken a seat by the counter, her chin in her hands as she continues to watch the two of them.

“That’s some workmanship,” he says curiously.

“I know my way around a knife,” she replies simply, and he’s not entirely sure what to make of that.

He remembers their first meeting, where she had a hidden knife for the apple that Aether had brought her. He remembers her telling him but I was lost and penniless and so I…drifted, across three countries entirely alone.

Nevertheless, there is lunch to finish up. He steams the vegetables with butter and sears the fish with herbs, quickly making a sauce of reduced balsamic vinaigrette and honey in the meantime. Klee watches with excitement with Lumine, as she sings the dish’s praises.

It’s the plating, really, that is the most impressive; he has timed everything perfectly, and all parts of the dish leave their respective pans within seconds of each other. He arranges the vegetables efficiently, adding a flourish with the sauce, and delivers two plates to the table piping hot.

Lumine’s eyes widen a little, and the corner of Albedo’s lips turn up. She notices, and her eyes crinkle.

“A man of many talents,” she says, and he chuckles a little.

“Only some,” he says, and turns to plate his own.

The three of them eat in the kitchen, not bothering with the more complicated place settings of the formal dining room even though Lumine is here. She doesn’t seem to mind—on the contrary, she seems more relaxed, even though she’s reverted back to not speaking much.

Klee tries to sneak her pearl onions onto Lumine’s plate, but Albedo notices and gives her a pointed look. She grins and lets out a sheepish hehehe before taking back her fork and putting it into her mouth, chewing the vegetable dutifully.

Lumine looks amused, and offers one of her Dodoco-shaped carrots. Albedo raises a brow, and Lumine smiles.

“A reward,” she protests, and Klee looks between her and Albedo before offering one of her cherry tomatoes, which Lumine seemed to particularly enjoy.

“Me too!” Klee says cheerfully, “Klee’s good at sharing!”

“She is,” Albedo smiles, his eyes just a touch mischievous, “Which is why she’ll share her fish too, won’t she?”

Klee wilts, her eyes growing big. She hesitates, looking back and forth.

“Noo…that’s Klee’s favorite part…”

Albedo smothers a laugh.

“Honesty is also a valuable trait,” he says somberly, and gives her a portion of his fish, instead. “It is important not to let others take what you don’t want to give.”

She perks up instantly, giving him some of her broccoli, digging into the rest of her meal happily.

“This is the best!” she says, swinging her legs, beaming at Lumine, but her eyes widen a little when she catches sight of the lady’s face. “Miss Lumi, what’s wrong?”

Lumine blinks, then smiles a little tremulously.

“I….think I just miss my brother,” she says, faltering a little.

It doesn’t sound like a lie, but there also seems to be more than that. But Klee doesn’t notice, nodding sagely.

“Klee understands! I’m also sad when I don’t get to see Albedo for a long time,” she says, “So…maybe it’s not the same, but…Klee will share Albedo with you!”

Albedo raises an amused brow, while Lumine looks startled.

“Oh!” she says, laughing a little. “Thank you, Klee.”

“If you’re in trouble, Albedo will help you!” the little girl continues, eager to share the merits of her brother, “He gets Klee out of all kinds of trouble! And he’ll never ever lie to you, so you can always trust his promises! Albedo is the best!”

Lumine blinks, her eyes growing thoughtful.

“I see,” she says, her voice a little absent again. “I’ll remember that.”

Klee beams again, turning back to her food with satisfaction.

Albedo glances at the lady before turning to his own plate, and pretends not to notice when her gaze eventually slides over to him and sears with her scrutiny.

.

It is Lumine who suggests a walk after lunch, guiding them to the famous old watchtower in the area. They do not climb the structure, but admire the view from the Stormbearer Point.

“No storms today!” Klee reports, shading her eyes with both hands and sweeping the horizon. “All clear!”

Lumine gazes into the distance for a little while longer.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Indeed.” She then turns to Klee with a slight smile. “Have you ever had valberries before? They only grow in these parts. They’re very sweet and refreshing.”

“Ooooh, Klee wants some!”

Despite the fact that they just ate not long ago, Lumine leads them to the berry bushes, plucking them from their vines and eating them directly. They are indeed delicious, and they make makeshift baskets with their clothes and bring as many back as they can.

Over the next few days, they continue to pick berries and spend time making them into jam, and use the jam in cookies and other desserts.

Klee stays for a little over a fortnight; though she’s enjoyed her time terribly, it is a lonely area without other children or otherwise much to do, and she misses the bustle of the city. On the day she returns, the carriage is loaded with various gifts—a huge basket of food (including fresh berries and their handmade jam), the fur stole, and other trinkets and games that she’d found an interest in during her stay. Albedo will escort her back to the city so he can check in on his affairs as well, and Lumine sees them off in the afternoon.

“Will you be alright?” he asks, and she gives him an amused look.

“You’re taking my brother too seriously,” she says, as she kneels down to speak to Klee. “Come back and play sometime, okay?”

“I will!” Klee says, hugging Lumine tightly, and the lady looks surprised before she hugs back.

When she rises, she tilts her head at Albedo.

“Safe travels, the both of you,” she says, and he nods back in acknowledgement.

Klee waves all the way until Lumine is out and sight, and Albedo watches until he cannot see her anymore.

In the distance, Lumine is still until the carriage disappears entirely.

.

It takes about four days for him to return; though the Knights of Favonius are not incapable, Albedo is simply too good at his job. Things are less efficient without him, and though it is not imperative that things move so quickly, it is not how Albedo runs the department when he is present. He is not displeased with how things have been during his absence, but now that he’s here, work is brought up to speed, tasks reassigned, assignments evaluated and new ones given.

No one asks much about how his own assignment is going or what the details are; the commonfolk know that he is on Lord Viatoris’ business, and do not pry. But the others—Jean, Kaeya, and Diluc especially—have a more knowing manner when he speaks to them, and on the day he is to return, load him up with various items. From Jean, a tin of tea, the nondescript container showing it is not bought from a shop. From Kaeya, a sealed envelope and a secretive smile. From Diluc, a bottle of what seems like particularly fine wine, but turns out to be grape juice. None of them say anything in particular when they hand over the items, and because they don’t, he’s aware that these are not for Aether, whom they must know is not currently in Mondstadt.  

So Albedo too takes them without a word.

There is some trouble on the road—a broken wheel, and then a group of bandits—so he arrives well into the night. The manse is nearly completely dark, and he frowns as he walks in; the few servants still on duty greet him with somewhat veiled relief.  

“Is everything alright?” he asks, concerned.

“Yes,” one of the maids says simply, “But it is better, now that you’ve returned. Lady Lumine called for whiskey and tea about an hour ago, on the balcony. If you are not too worn out…may we suggest you join her?”

Albedo blinks, but does not hesitate and nods.

“We’ll unload the carriage,” a butler smiles, “Perhaps you can take a fresh pot with you.”

And so Albedo is accompanied by another maid holding a tray as they go up the stairs, who leaves him by the door with the beverages.

It’s a chilly night, and the other door to the balcony has been left wide open so that the room too has turned cold, though the fireplace fights a losing battle for dominance of the temperature. Lumine has her chin propped up on her hand, but turns when she hears noise.

Her face brightens when she sees him; she smiles, leaning back in her seat.

“Albedo,” she says, his name warm and thick on her tongue. She is, perhaps, just the slightest bit tipsy. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” he says, setting the tray down. “May I join you?”

“Of course.”

She watches with interest as he prepares them both drinks—a mix of honey, whiskey, and lemon first, topped with hot tea, then stirred.  

“Are you drinking to humor me?” she asks, and he smiles, “You needn’t to.”

“I find myself wanting to,” he says, handing her one of the mugs as he sips, and she smiles back.

They are quiet for a while, enjoying the warmth of the liquid, before Albedo remembers that there are items he is meant to convey.

“I’ve some gifts for you, from Mondstadt,” he says, “From various well-wishers.”

“Oh?”

Her tone is deceptively mild.

“Yes. I was surprised; I was under the impression you were something of a secret.”

“Are you disappointed?” she asks teasingly, “But you are not wrong. Those who feel the need to know, do.”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement, keeping his eyes on her, measuring. She blinks back at him, the corners of her lips curling up a little. There is more to it; the gifts meant for her all have a personal touch. Especially from Diluc and Kaeya—neither give easily, no matter what it is.

“You have far more of a hand in your brother’s dealings than you seem, don’t you?”

She blinks at him in mild surprise, then chuckles.

“Are you asking because you believed me nothing more than a housepet?”

It startles a laugh out of him, how wrong that impression is, even though the time he has spent with her does often involve her lounging.

“No, I am merely seeking confirmation. Though I will admit…had I known nothing at all about you, I may have thought so.”

Her eyes are amused as she swirls the drink around in her mug, but as she continues to stare into her cup, the expression fades.

“Aether is…good at socializing and negotiating. He makes a good businessman; he would not have been able to buy our titles if he were not. But now that his ventures are bigger…he lets details slip through the cracks; he’s no good at bookkeeping. And he cannot be everywhere at once, although he tries. And even now, he’s still…”

She trails off, the pause long before she finishes her sentence.

“…Too kind.”  

Too soft, Albedo supplants, understanding what she does not say. It is not a failing. But it must be balanced, and that’s what she does—balances him, as he does her.

And yet…

“You’ve been uncomfortable,” Albedo says. “Haven’t you?”

It is too blunt, perhaps, but…with the chill of the clear night and the warmth provided by the alcohol, he thinks he can feel something…giving. A slight shift in the wind, a subtle turn of the currents.

Lumine’s eyes flick to his. There is a silence, and she reaches for the whiskey to pour a little more in her cup. She offers him the bottle—this time, he takes it, and she watches as he pours himself a rather generous amount with some surprise.

She frowns at herself, drinks, then leans back in her seat, tilting her head back to look up at the stars.

“Maybe,” she half-sighs, half-groans. “But he is around me, too.”

She props her head up with her arm just enough to see him, smiling a little when she sees that he looks mildly surprised.

“He doesn’t seem like it, does he? He’s good at smiling. But we’re twins. I can tell, and so can he.” She averts her gaze, staring out into the gardens. “I don’t fault him, though. As he doesn’t fault me. Too much happened in the years after we were separated. We were too dependent on each other…and then we learned to subsist…exist without. And now things are…too different. Too strange. So we just…are.”

Albedo stares, then drinks. She stares at his throat when she swallows, unfurling her other arm as though she were going to reach out for him, but she rests it on the table instead.

“Do you want what you had before?”

She blinks at him.

“You are asking a lot of questions tonight, Albedo.”

A warning? He’s not sure, but he can feel the glass wall’s spiderweb fracturing at his fingertips, and his desire to press forward itches. He’ll blame the alcohol for making him bold, even as he is ready to accept the consequences of what the results might be.

“Yes. You asked something of me. I cannot see if you do not let me.”

She blinks again. Her lip curls, at once sardonic and challenging.

Lumine leans forward, putting both arms on the table and leaning forward, as if she were going to tell him a secret—or spit in his face.

“We traveled together for some time, after he found me and I was stable enough to do so. Like we used to. It was all wrong. And it was everything I feared.”

Albedo stares at her, hard. There is a world unspoken in those words, and as he presses them into his brain to figure out what, past the alcohol and past what he already knows, a new thought filters into his mind. His eyes widen slightly; Lumine notices, and her lips thin as if anticipating a blow of some kind. But before she can pull back, his own hand clamps down on her wrist as he too leans forward.

“You didn’t look for him,” he realizes, and she breathes in sharply. “It never occurred to me until now. He spoke about searching for you, all that time. But it wasn’t the same for you. You didn’t look for him.”

There is a serrated silence; Albedo remembers when Aether recounted his story at the Angel’s Share. His deceptively easy folded hands, the restrained pain in his eyes, the curbed tightness of his voice—excellent bravado had covered it all, but that too was telling. The setback he had experienced when he was still recovering from the explosion, so angry was he at slander against his missing sister. The way he had needed saving from a small orphan in the nursing camps when no one could or would tell him of Lumine’s whereabouts.

How he had leaned forward at the tavern and offered just about anything as payment for Albedo to grant his sister’s wishes and whims.  

Albedo understands better now, that the stipulation of nearly everything in his power was because he would give up nothing that provided his sister comfort, no matter how small. What loyalty! But also, the fear of losing her once more—and the latter would be something Aether would truly give everything not to happen again.

All that, and the sister he searched for so desperately…

Did not feel the same.

Lumine’s eyes grow wet and despairing the more she watches understanding flit across his face, and he can feel her hand under his clench into a fist, but she doesn’t pull away from him.

“I did, in the beginning,” she whispers, trembling, “But not for long. You must have heard the songs and tales of Aether by now. Mondstadt’s Hero is just one title among many. His name was everywhere. At first it kept me going. And then—when I couldn’t find him, when I had nowhere to turn, when I was lost and destitute…it was only his name that I heard. It was not that I wanted to share the spotlight—far from it. But the more I heard about him, without me, the further away he seemed to get. Like I was no longer able to reach him. Like I was no longer enough.”

The words spill out of her, quick but heavy, every syllable a blow, her breath coming short as though she is panicking. She doesn’t look at him, staring down at their hands, her nails surely digging crescents into her palm.

“I stopped looking. I couldn’t—it was so much just trying to survive. We were named for the light and sky, do you know? But I wasn’t…bright enough to share the same…the same sky. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see anything at all.”

Her body is whipcord tense, so rigid that her muscles must scream for release. But she doesn’t notice, trapped in the despair of her own faults, biting her lip so hard blood pools to the surface.  

“Breathe,” Albedo says sharply, “Lumine, breathe.”

She tries to, for several minutes, shuddering as she inhales. She then puts a hand to her forehead and shades her eyes. Her voice cracks with nearly every other word when she speaks again, every sound a trial, but the tears have not yet fallen.

“He found me. He never stopped looking. But I—I had nothing to offer him when he did. Not memories, not even a shell. All he found was a great yawning abyss that he once called sister. He would have given everything for me, and I could give him nothing. What kind of monster does that make me?”

Albedo stands and gently cups her jaw, tilting her head up. She is haunted hollow, looking at him the way a woman stranded at sea for months might after finally seeing a beacon of rescue in the far distance.

But he is not at a distance.

“Breathe,” he says again, more firmly, and her gaze bores into his as she obeys. “One. Two. Three. Yes, that’s right. Again. And again.”

He sees the wildness begin to ebb as she listens to his voice, counting inhales and exhales at length, and he lets go of her face when she starts to settle. He removes his other hand from her wrist as well and she shivers at the sudden lack of warmth and contact.

Lumine flips her hand over, palm-up, studying the bloody red indents she’s made on her own skin. She frowns, pressing a napkin to the cuts. When she licks her lips she tastes the blood from earlier and dabs that away too, finally seeming to ground herself with its iron tang.

There is a weighted silence.

“I’ve had too much to drink,” she murmurs—though it’s not strictly true—when the pause has drawn out too long, “It’s late. I should retire for the night.”

Albedo simply inclines his head, hesitantly acquiescing to her wishes. There is more to be said—things he could say. But her confession is too raw, the air between them too delicate, and Lumine herself still so fragile at the moment the wind could scatter the particles of her.

Lumine rises from her seat first, languid and perhaps a little dazed; Albedo follows, closing the doors to the balcony behind him. He leans against the bedpost as Lumine sinks down onto the mattress, burying her face in her hands. After a moment, he takes a chance and walks back over to her, kneeling down and putting a hand on her knee.

She looks at him.

He says nothing. She gazes back, seeming as though she wants to say something, her lips parted. But she struggles with the words and decides against it; Albedo encourages her through his own gaze, but she gives a small shake of her head in the end.

Albedo makes to get up, but she puts her hand on top of his briefly before he fully rises, and he lowers himself back down.

“Thank you,” she says instead in a tiny, feeble voice, and he smiles a little.

“I haven’t anything to show for my presence here yet,” he says, a little jokingly, and she smiles back hesitantly.

“You’ve done much, already,” she says softly.

They are still for a moment, staring at each other. Albedo flips his own hand over so that their palms meet, and after a moment, he laces their fingers together. Lumine sighs, squeezing his hand weakly.

“Should I…stay until you fall asleep?” Albedo asks slowly.

It is an innocent offer. He says it simply, uncharged, and yet it comes out very differently than the times he’s asked this to Klee.

Lumine is silent, then reaches out with her other hand to trace the curve of his cheek, feather-light, gaze unreadable. Everything seems so still, and so quiet. The awareness that it is only the two of them in this room is keener, though that has never been so significant before.  

“…You should go,” she murmurs, so quietly. “I’ve have too much to drink, indeed.”

There’s—a warning in her words this time, but Albedo is not entirely sure he can discern the specifics of what it is for.

Nevertheless, he will follow her wishes. He stands, and Lumine does not watch as he makes his way to the door.

“Tomorrow,” she says, when his hand is on the knob, “Tomorrow…I will undress for you.”

Albedo turns back, but she is still not looking at him.

“Physically, or metaphorically?” he asks lightheartedly, echoing one of their first conversations.

She half-turns so that he can see the upward curve of her lips, but what he can see of her eyes is old, old and tired.

“Both,” she sighs, a little tremulously, “…Both.”

“…Alright.” He replies gently, as he turns the doorknob. “…Good night. I will see you tomorrow.”

On a whim, he turns back again as he steps of the room, and catches her eye as he does.

For a moment, he stands still, struck by the look in her eyes, almost longing.

You should go.

But he obeys her wishes, and returns to his own room for the night.

Still—he wonders, as he lays down on the cold bed.

And wonders and wonders and wonders.

.

The morning starts normally.

Albedo takes breakfast alone, and works on refining some sketches in the solarium. Lumine sleeps in, and meets him there by mid-morning. There is a certain amount of anticipation in the air, but things are so far as they always have been, and so Albedo carries on. He begins another sketch of her.

The only difference worth mentioning, perhaps, is that she is dressed a little more formally today. Lumine looks every inch the noblewoman in a blue gown with gold accents; she is wearing gloves, too, and floral hairpins with matching earrings. It is not so unusual, though she is often dressed more casually than this, and he wonders what this is meant to signify. She looks—doll-like, pristine, and like the day he first met her: a little intimidating, for she does not seem entirely present.

He draws. She reads a book.

They do not speak. It is only until the sun is just short of slipping that she closes her novel and straightens out before standing.

“Take a walk with me?” she asks, and he stands and offers his arm.  

She dismisses the staff for the rest of the day, and the two of them walk through the gardens in silence. She leads, and on the returning path back to the mansion, she sighs and begins to speak.

“Do you know,” she begins, “I’ve been saved by children four times?”

He glances at her, and she him, but they do not stop walking, and she faces forward again as she continues to talk.

“Klee said that you get her out of all sorts of trouble, and that you never lie. Can I trust you?”

“You can,” he says easily, “But you have to decide that for yourself.”

She smiles, and says nothing else on the subject.

“How much do you know about me, Albedo?” she asks conversationally, and he chuckles a little at the familiar question.

“Not much, even now,” he says, “I know that you and your brother Aether were caught in an explosion during the war, and you were taken prisoner afterwards. When you recovered, you wandered across Snezhnaya, and Natlan, and finally Fontaine. I know that is where your brother found you, and where you first heard of me. But…”

He tilts his head up for a moment, thinking.

“Hmmm…but, I know you prefer cold drinks instead of hot. You like desserts with fruit and prefer them more tart instead of saccharine. You like napping in the sun; you like the open air.”

Lumine’s pace slows, and he slows with her. She turns to him, blinks, but he still faces forward as he continues with his findings uninterrupted.

“I think…you drink because you are used to it and it provides a distraction, and not quite because you like it. The same with the smoking—it is a habit borne from necessity. Fontaine is big on both, is it not? And I think you were telling the truth that day in the kitchens when you said you missed your brother, but that you also miss who you used to be with him, before you fought a war. I think you are afraid that your brother thinks less of you now even though he does not seem to—which, in essence, perhaps makes it worse if he does not at least think differently of you, for you are not the same person you once were, and that would mean that the person you consider your other half does not…see you, either. But I think because you lost sight of yourself, you’ve become most afraid of seeing yourself because you no longer know what to expect, and you are used to knowing what to expect—or at the least, having your brother know if you do not. And yet, if he does manage to see…you also fear that the great yawning abyss you say you became will swallow him entirely, and you will drag him down with you, which may be worse even as it hurts to not share something with him. A vicious cycle.”

He feels her trembling a little before her fingers tighten around his arm to prevent it.

“How did I do?” he asks innocently, glancing at her, and she barks out a bitter half-laugh.

“Formidably,” she says primly.

They are silent for a brief moment again, slowing their pace to almost a standstill. Lumine takes a deep breath before she speaks.  

“In Snezhnaya, I met a little boy,” she starts, voice soft and distant, “His name was Teucer, and he was waiting for his brother, too, to come back from the war—but he didn’t know it was the war he was waiting for him to return from. He thought his brother was a traveling toy salesman; the elder ones lied to keep his sleep peaceful and his dreams alive. He was…so young, so innocent, and idolized his brother so dearly. And at the same time, I had never felt so far away from my own brother. But Teucer…did not let me forget that I cared about my brother still. That I still wanted to see him again…and that I wanted him to see me.”

A pause, as they halt to admire the flowers. Lumine reaches out to rub one of the petals between her fingers, catching the scent on her skin.

They continue to walk.

“It was Paimon who first spotted me in Fontaine. She ran up to me and stuck herself close and demanded that I not go anywhere, and then there was Aether following, chasing after her. The force of her words struck me even before I knew what she was doing. I was…tired of wandering, but hadn’t thought much about what it meant if I stopped.”

She looks up at the sky, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight.

“In Liyue, on our way back from Fontaine, I met a girl named Qiqi. She was a terribly forgetful thing—the result of an unfortunate accident. But for the things she found important…she tried hard to remember, even if others thought it futile.  And there were still things she wanted strongly to protect. Even if it was because she wasn’t able to look back…she still looked towards the future as much as she could. In the end, I promised that I would remember for her.”

Lumine looks back down.

“And then there was Klee. Who reminded me it was important to share.” She laughs a little at that, and finally turns to Albedo as they stop in front of the mansion’s front door. She puts a hand on the knob. “So I will admit to my fears. And I will subject myself to the ordeal of being vulnerable if it means that I can come to terms with what there is to know.”

Albedo smiles slightly and puts his hand over hers.

“Shall we go, then?” he asks, and pushes the door open with her.

They step inside. It is quiet and empty; the daylight is starting to soften, the curtains stir in the wind. The idyll is like a dream, the two of the suspended between consciousness and its opposite in their stillness, but the air smells of spring—of beginning, of rebirth. Even if they step back out through the door, there is no changing what is to come.    

Lumine takes a deep breath, then exhales, bringing lucidity.

She reaches up and removes her hairpins, laying them on the side table with a soft clink. She tugs on the fingers of her gloves as she walks towards the stairs, draping one over the bannister as she ascends, then the other.

“You know,” she says, as she reaches to unzip the back of her dress, “I’ve taken up quite a bit of your time. Even if this is a job…the investment is…considerable.”

Albedo slowly trails after her, not once taking his eyes off of her. There is almost something alchemical about the way she’s chosen to go about this, and anticipation begins to creep into him as though he is being led to the precipice of a cliff.

“I have my own rather vested interest in seeing it through,” he manages to say, and he feels rather than sees Lumine smile.

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“And what,” she says, as the silk of her dress cascades down her body and she steps out of the pool of fabric, continuing up the stairs in only a thin undershift, “Will you do when this is through?”

“That…remains to be seen.”

She pushes down one strap of the shift, then the other.

“Oh? I am glad that you did not say you would depart immediately and forget this ever happened.”

The second layer of fabric drops to the floor at the top of the staircase with a soft rustle, and there are only her undergarments left. But regardless, from here he can see the scars that litter her body—some thin, some large, some like red stars strewn across her back.

He did not forget she fought a war with her brother.

Nevertheless, seeing the proof is an entire experience altogether.

“I would never,” he says, a little belatedly, and she continues to lead the way back to her chambers. “How could I?”

Just before she reaches her door, she undoes her brassiere, drops it to the floor. She pushes the door open as she slides her last remaining garment off of her leg, and drops it as well.

She steps into her bedroom. The setting sun has bathed the room in gold and orange and just the barest hint of mauve; she stands in the light and stares out of the glass balcony doors. The glow clings to her, as though it wants to sink into her skin and return to where it belongs.

Albedo stands in the doorway.

“May I?” he asks, after a pause.

“If I say yes,” Lumine says, without moving, “How close will you come?”

“How close will you let me?”

She tilts her head, turning it just slightly.

“As close as you need, I suppose,” she murmurs.

Albedo takes one step forward.

“May I?” he asks again.

Lumine turns to face him, lacing her fingers behind her back as she arches, just a little.  

Silhouetted against the dying light, the shadows harshen her face. There is no dream in the truth of her body, no untouchable hero looking out from inside of her, no abyssal monster assuming her place. She looks at him, and she is simply herself, so terribly, unapologetically present for once, and he aches with the answer of her, so clear, so corporeal.  

“Come in,” she says.

Albedo takes another step forward and closes the door behind him.

.

Their sessions are quiet for the next few days, as he refines his sketches and transfers them onto canvas. Lumine is still bare under his scrutiny, remarkably composed and unaffected.

Some days later, as they are taking a brief break, he comments on her naturalness.  

“You’re used to this,” he states, as she reaches for the bowl of valberries resting on the side table.  

She glances at him before popping one into her mouth.

“I was penniless for most of my travels,” she answers, her eyes still on the bowl as she considers her next berry, “I found work however I could. And as I mentioned…Fontaine was experiencing their new art movement. It was…easy enough work.”

He looks at her.

“Was it?” he asks.

Her lip curls.

“…After a fashion. They were not…seeing me, anyway. So sometimes it was easy to forget that there was attention on you.”

He leans back.

“Sometimes?”

She looks at him, a berry halfway to her lips.

“Yes. Sometimes.” she repeats, then looks at the fruit in her hand. “…I will confess I did not enjoy it. The…paintings were fine. Many were well done, even if I felt nothing about them at all. But I would not want to return to a parlor of eyes again.”

“And now?” he asks, his tone mild. She returns her gaze to him. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

He does think not he does, at least not anymore, and he is only one set of eyes. But he also recognizes the gravity of her decision to allow him to see her like this.

It is significant, this trust, and within it there is another thing unfurling like the petals of isotoma.  

And there is also…something different in her manner—not quite shy, and yet somehow unsure. With the barrier broken between them, there is new ground to be navigated.

“Well,” Lumine says, as she walks nearer, “I do wonder.”

She has not yet put on her robe. He has seen her up close already—numerous times, to study her scars, to consider the colors he wants to use for her skin, to examine the lines of her joints and palms.

And yet it is only now that the air feels—a little warm, despite the slight breeze that comes through the open balcony doors.

“And what do you wonder?” he says after a pause.

“I wonder what your opinion of me is, after all this time,” she murmurs. “You have told me what you know, and what you think. I suppose I am curious about what you feel.”

She steps back, finally eating the berry in her hand and returning to the bowl to select another, and the air seems to cool again.

“I’ve fought a war. I’ve been accused of being a spy. I’ve been a vagabond. I’ve crawled through dirt and mud and I’ve stood in a room naked full of men for a handful of coins. I am a woman of scandal.”

Albedo watches, leaning forward a little to rest his arms on his knees, folding his hands.

“I feel,” he begins, “That you are very brave.”

She turns, and he catches the brief surprise on her face before she smooths out her expression.

“Do you?” she murmurs, walking back to him.

She offers him the berry. He reaches for it, only to realize that his hands are stained with paint, and he looks for something to wipe them with.

Before he can, however, Lumine moves first and gently presses the berry to his lips.

“I am not uncomfortable around you,” she says, answering his earlier question. “But are you uncomfortable around me?”

They stare at each other, gold and blue, the ocean meeting the shore.

In answer, Albedo parts his lips to accept the fruit.

“Tell me,” she says quietly, her fingers now resting against his lips, “How comfortable are you?”

She strokes her thumb across his lips, pressing lightly into the corner of his mouth, leaning closer.

“About the same as you,” he murmurs, their noses touching now.  

Lumine smiles. She traces the curve of his jaw and down his neck, over to his shoulder.

She leans her body forward, putting a knee between his legs as he leans back to accommodate her.

“Ah—mind the paint,” Albedo warns absently, tilting his head up to keep his eyes on her.

His hands hover over her waist, hesitating to mar her, but she leans into his touch, streaking color under her ribs.  

“No,” she says, amused. “I don’t think I will.”

She presses him into the cushions and he can think of nothing else but her.

.

Not much changes, afterwards, which is false, but Albedo has not gotten the proper chance to study the specifics of what has with the attention that such a thing needs.

The current painting is coming along wonderfully, but when his attention on this one flags he starts on another. And another. He does not need Lumine to sit for him for hours on end for reference anymore, though sometimes she lounges in his presence anyway to make the job easier (to some extent)—or simply because they both enjoy the other’s company. Some days he works on the details alone while Lumine goes into the study and pens her way through paperwork, or disappears into the garden for the day.

Time seems to move quicker—the…stimulation was…informative, in various ways, and there is a particular ease between them now, a perhaps surprising lack of awkwardness. They eat dinner together, and in bits and pieces Lumine will tell him more about her wandering days. The searing cold of Snezhnaya, the bitter heat of Natlan, the deceiving coolness of Fontaine…and the sometimes unbearable loneliness in between. Towards the end for her solitary journey, she made the acquaintance of a traveling musician. Sometimes she loaned him her not-expert-but-passable voice to accompany his lyre, and sometimes he spun the bits of her history she was willing to part with into tales that made her feel like she had a place in the world after all. It was he who recommended her the more respectable establishments to look for work in, and who recommended her Mondstadt if she could bear to settle down.

And so it was Mondstadt she chose, after Aether had found her, and put all the choices and all the power he had into her hands.

“Is it to your liking?” Albedo asks, as they finish with dessert. “Mondstadt?”

Lumine picks at her mille-feuille, the already flaky dessert falling further into pieces.  

“It is,” she says at length, “It is…peaceful, here. Idyllic.”

“And yet you do not set foot into the city.”

She smiles, a little dry, a little genuinely amused.

“Mondstadt is…gentle. It lives and breathes togetherness, regardless of any assumed disparate parts. I find it difficult to…incorporate myself into that. Sometimes, too much freedom is just as suffocating.”

Albedo finishes his own pastry and sets down his fork, folding her hands together.

“And yet a few of the leading personnel of Mondstadt send you gifts. The Acting Grandmaster sends you a personally blended tea. The Uncrowned King sends his favorite beverage. And I know not what the Cavalry Captain send you, but I will guess that it is information, which is what he deals best in.” he tilts his head a little. “So nor are you completely absent.”

Lumine’s smile is certainly more amused now as she puts her elbows on the table, laces her fingers, and rests her chin on top.

“What are you trying to say?” she asks, eyes bright.

Albedo smiles back.

“That you could do anything,” he replies, “And have anything, I presume.”

There is a pause, the both of them staring at each other from across the table. Lumine drops one hand and rests her chin on the other.

“Well,” she says, eyes crinkling, “There are only a few things I want.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.”

“I see.”

“Hmm…you won’t ask what they are?”

“No, I prefer to find things out for myself.”

Lumine laughs, and Albedo smiles at the rare sound.

“It’s a nice night for stargazing,” she says, as they wrap up their dinner. “Will you come with me?”

“I will,” he replies, and they rise from the table together.

They walk out side by side, their shoulders bumping, still smiling at each other as they go out into the night.

.

The next time they have drinks on her balcony during the night, it is only a tea service of chamomile and lavender. It is an impromptu meeting, suggested on a whim after Lumine has had her bath. Albedo comes soon after his own, his hair flatter and straighter due to the damp.

Lumine stares at Albedo over the rim of her cup, eyes lingering at where the ends of his hair is beginning to curl at his neck, so pointedly that Albedo eventually lets her bait him.  

“Have I still got paint on my face?” he queries, holding up a hand to his cheek.

“No, I’m just…” she tilts her head. “Considering how much I know about you.”

He smiles.

“And how much do you know about me?”

“Disappointingly little,” she says, almost with mild annoyance, “I’ve heard ‘calm, collected, and incredibly talented. He’s the type everybody likes, some more than others.’ Most are to that effect. You’re seen as a genius, and spend most of your time in your workshop…though you have your admirers nonetheless.” Her eyes crinkle. “Ah, and of course, you’re a very good big brother.”

Albedo pauses to look up at the sky, his teacup hovering at his lips before he takes a sip.

“I don’t think I’m any genius,” he says, finally, “And I’m not aware of any admirers. Of my work, certainly, however.”

Lumine blinks, then smiles.

“You don’t pay much attention to other people, do you?”

He gives her a rather rueful smile.

“I…confess I cannot say I do. Relationships are…quite troublesome. Once you establish a relation, you must maintain it…if you lose contact, you must reestablish it. It is a rather taxing cycle, and one that requires quite a bit of time that I find best focused on other things.” He pauses. “But I will admit that sometimes…well. It feels a little like being in the eye of a storm, perhaps. I watch various things change around me, while I remain the same.”

A pause.

“You have changed, you know.”

Her gaze is direct.  

“Have I?”

“Indeed. For instance, if you say that you did not pay attention to others…well, now, you are looking at me.”

He laughs, though her words are true.  

“Should I be looking harder, to change to a greater degree?”

“Well…it would depend on what you’re hoping to find, wouldn’t it?”

Another pause.

“The change in me would be because of none other than you, so…how should I go about finding the cause?”

Lumine pretends to think.

“Between the mind and the heart, which will you deign to probe for your study?”

He sips his tea with deceptive casualness.  

“Well, since I’ve already probed your mind…will you give me permission for the heart?”

She lets out a soft laugh.

“Sir Albedo…do you know what it is you’re doing?”

His expression is amused even as he smiles innocently.

“I can’t say I do.”

She gets up and rounds the table, reaching out to lay a hand on his chest, over his heart. They both feel his pulse quicken, just a little.

“Well, if you’re going to make a study of it…are you acquainted with your own?” she murmurs, perhaps a little fascinated with what she feels.

He takes her hand in his own.

“And if I say no…are you going to enlighten me?” he asks, meeting her eyes.

The stars are bright. The air is cool, but there is a warmth and languidness between them as a result of the tea and the herbs within it.

“You partook of the fruit the first time,” she says, tilting her head, “So do you think I can provide you with what you seek?”

“Some enlightenment was obtained,” he replies, “Though I haven’t the time to properly consider it.”

“And how will you consider it?”

He meets her eyes, the corners crinkling.

“Shall I count your heartbeats, to start with? They say the pulse is telling.”

Lumine laughs, turning her palms up and grasping his hand.

“Alright,” she says, conceding, “Pass the night with me, then, and tell me the results in the morning.”

He smiles.

“Ah, so the permission is obtained. Well then…don’t mind if I do.”

(In the morning, he wakes first. He watches her breathe, face unburdened and peaceful in sleep.  It is not long before she stirs and her eyelids flutter open; she is still groggy, but once she focuses on him, her lips curve into a dazed smile.  

“G’morning,” she mumbles, half a sigh.

There is a truth here within his grasp, in the striking roughness of her voice, the unhurried softness of her waking. He is still able to be surprised, and in that there too is a delight.

You have changed, you know. You are looking at me.

What are you hoping to find?

Do you know what it is you’re doing?

His heart beats steady, steady, a tenderness welling up inside him, so fond it hurts.

Albedo reaches out and takes her hand.)

.

The showcase of all of his work is done on a rainy day, the solarium illuminated by daylight dimmed by clouds and an array of candles. It is a vaguely haunting atmosphere, but it is, perhaps, a bit fitting for the occasion.

There’s no real ceremony or gravitas. It is not necessary.

Albedo sits on the sofa, relaxed with a pot of tea. Lumine stands, the covered canvases positioned in a semicircle, piles of sketches and smaller works on the table.

She starts where she pleases.

With a backwards glance as her hand hovers over one of the paintings, she unveils it with a simple tug. She stands in front of it for a moment, silent, then moves onto the next one.

Then the next.

And the next.

She goes through the sketches after. When she finally sets down the last one back onto the neat stack, she folds her hands and stares at them.

It is not that she was afraid, necessarily, when Albedo had already scoured her raw with his words alone. But she supposes there was still a bit of inherent fear mixed in with her anticipation anyway, in not knowing what to expect, in knowing Albedo could still squeeze out the dregs from some deep recess she didn’t know she had.  

Capturing what she was looking for in a single portrait was impossible. Albedo had known from the beginning, which was why he was so often sketching instead of painting full works as he considered which he wanted to put to canvas. And in the handful that he did, Lumine sees the fractures and fragments and facets of herself, supplemented by all the sketches.

Here, the fey, distant look in her eyes, the lifeless throw of her body, the dismissive lift of her head. There, the sharp, forbidding curl of her lips, the tense defensiveness of her posture, the deceptive delicacy in which she holds her whisky glass that she might drink from—or shatter to pieces.

She is a wreckage, in the early days, but she doesn’t remain so. In later paintings, the colors are warmer; in later sketches, the lines are more fluid. Here, her face serene and fond mid-sigh; there, her eyes bright as she grins, mischievous.

In one she is on full display, caught between light and shadow, both terrible and beautiful at once. She is almost ethereal there, if she did not recognize her own mannerisms reflected in such a grounding manner. In another she is half-curled amidst soft fabrics, the quirk of her lips both teasing and musing.  

It’s change, that he’s documented, a narrative with such startling clarity. It is almost difficult to believe that they are all of the same person, and yet they can be nothing but.

She hovers a hand over a sketch of herself laughing, so carefree. It is hard to see herself like this—or what is meant to be her, rather. She remembers being adrift in Snezhnaya, lost and cold in more ways than one, her mind swirling so black and bleak, so terrifyingly alone. Even in Natlan and Fontaine, even after she made certain acquaintances and perhaps-friends along the way, she could not imagine herself like the girl in the sketch. Even now it is difficult to come to terms with. Surely it must be an exaggeration.

Surely it is merely a pleasant lie.

But Albedo has been unsparing thus far, and…and—

And he’ll never, ever lie to you! Lumine remembers Klee saying. And she…she believes in the little girl; she cannot help but believe in Albedo.  

Perhaps—perhaps…perhaps, then, she can bear to admit that she is happy now, or happier; that she wants to root herself here in Mondstadt, that she is loved and can love, even after everything.

And…Albedo is not quite a sentimental man, but the latter paintings, the ones that make her feel like—dare she think so—something precious…

“Are you telling the truth?” Lumine asks quietly, without looking up.

“Would you like to see?”

Silence again. And then she finally lifts her eyes to his.

He is smiling gently, his eyes kind.

“Are you going to make a liar out of me?” he asks teasingly, and she lets out a wet laugh as the tears prick at her eyes.

She walks over to him, holding her hands out, and he opens his arms for her; she sinks into his lap, buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“No,” she says, voice muffled, “Of course not.”

He wraps his arms around her, and she cries quietly onto his shoulder for a long time.

.

They are under no delusions, and the reality is that with the showcase, their time together is coming to an end.

Albedo was commissioned for a job, and now that job is done, all that’s left is to receive his payment and leave.

The timing works out—they’d received a letter that Aether and Paimon were on their way back by ship, and should arrive as early as a few days, at latest another week. It is Aether who is his actual employer and therefore Aether who will render payment for his services, and it is this excuse that has Albedo stay at the mansion with Lumine to await his return.

(Neither of them bring up the point that Albedo could always collect payment later—it was not as though either of them were unreachable by any means.)

The few additional days are harmless, but both know that he cannot extend beyond that without proper reason—already he’s been away too long, and he has a whole city awaiting his return, nor is this where he truly thrives. Lumine can rule from the mansion but Albedo cannot, and it was always evident this day would come in due time.  

Still—Albedo finds his heart curiously heavy as he begins to pack up his things, cleaning out the solarium of his belongings, and Lumine watches him with unreadable eyes.

The final portraits have been moved to Lumine’s room for now, as she decides which ones will go up for display and which ones are for her gaze only. The sketches will be bound up in an album, though she might choose to collage some of them.

Lumine curls up on the sofa and leans her head against the arm as Albedo carefully packs away his brushes. Normally at this time he’d be sketching, and while he still could, there’s simply no need for it, now.

Strange, he thinks, to have this routine disrupted, even though coming here had initially been a disruption of routines established for far longer.  

“I could keep you here,” Lumine says idly, “I did say in the beginning that you’d be in more danger of us not letting you leave.”

Albedo quirks a smile, closing the case of his brushes.

“But you won’t,” he points out mildly.

“But I won’t,” she sighs in agreement.

It shouldn’t feel like such a final parting, but it has an air of it anyway. There is nothing strictly of forbidding obstacle preventing them from seeing each other again.

But there is still the sacrifice of time.  

Though they are not unwilling to invest it, it is a fickle thing. Albedo has his work, as does Lumine. Travel between the city and the Viatoris manor requires planning. Lumine does not enter the city, and Albedo is not hers to call upon her whims. All the while, time can slip and slip until the memories it used to wrap so tightly and prettily unravels and means nothing at all, even if they do not forget.  

And so Albedo and Lumine watch each other, weighing and considering.

For Albedo, he is not used to considering such things. Maintaining relationships has always been taxing, and most of those he does maintain at present began due to consistent exposure to proximity, and remain so. Rarely, if ever, has he sought out new relationships of his own accord, and if they wane, rarely if ever has he chased them.

And yet…

Lumine pats the space beside her as he finishes up gathering his things. He sits, and she raises her head and switches to her other side to lean against him. He reaches for her hand, and she flips her palm up so that they can interlock their fingers.

“You did not…and do not need an answer from me regarding this,” he begins, and she blinks up at him curiously. “But it felt remiss to not answer at all, that day. On the balcony.”

Lumine smiles faintly.

“Because you are a man of answers,” she says, a little teasingly. “Nothing is uncovered under your scrutiny, no hypothesis unconfirmed.”

He smiles faintly back.

“Just so.” He leans his cheek atop her head. “You are not a monster simply because you could not offer what you wanted to give.”

Lumine goes tense, though it bleeds out of her slowly, and she sighs. Albedo continues.

“It is not monstrous to give up what you had before to survive, to want to survive. Nor is it monstrous to change. It is…alchemy.”

She lets out a soft laugh at that, squeezing his hand.

“Transformation,” she acknowledges, her eyes distant.

Albedo inclines his head.

There is a brief pause before Lumine sighs again, more deeply.

“So?” she prompts, “The question. Even as Aether scoured the world for me, I stopped looking for him because I couldn’t bear even the imagined weight of his presence. And when he did find me, I was not the same sister he’d known since birth. What does that make me?”

“Human,” Albedo says simply.

Lumine blinks at him.

“Just like him,” Albedo adds.

Another pause.

“And you,” she murmurs, unclasping her hand from his to trace the lines on his palm. “And all the rest.”

“Indeed.”

A long silence.

“When Aether returns,” Lumine sighs, “I’ll talk to him.”

Albedo smiles a little, as does Lumine.

They continue to sit together in companionable silence as the sun slips from the sky.

.

Albedo senses a presence and peels open his eyes to see Aether’s face smiling down at him.

It is the early, early hours of the morning, the sky barely light. Aether has his arms resting on the back of the sofa, chin propped up by his hand, looking down at Albedo and his sister curled up on the cushions together.

Lumine is still sleeping, her legs tangled with Albedo’s, breathing peacefully against his chest. Albedo has her loosely wrapped in his arms, hand against the dip of her back. Both of them are still in their day clothes, having fallen asleep entirely by accident.

When Albedo registers what it is he’s seeing, he starts.

“No, don’t get up on my account,” Aether says, cheerfully but quietly. “We got in not too long ago. Paimon was dead on her feet so she went to bed immediately, but the light was still on here so I came to check it out.” He grins, holding up his fingers to make a frame as he peers through the center. “I regret that I never took up the visual arts myself. This would have made a pretty picture.”

Albedo blinks, and though he doesn’t know it, his cheeks dust with pink.

“Lord Viatoris,” he begins, and Aether waves his hand.

“Oh let’s not go back to that,” he says, looking vaguely annoyed. “Besides, you can’t call me that now.”

He looks pointedly to Lumine.

Albedo is unsure of what to say or do, and simply looks discomfited. Aether smothers a laugh, but sobers as he looks down at Lumine.

There is a long silence, but Albedo watches Aether watch Lumine. There is something bright in his eyes, and not just from amusement.

“Thank you,” Aether says after a while. “I’ll confess I didn’t entirely expect this in particular, but…I’ve nothing to protest, there. She looks…a lot better.”

Albedo raises a brow, but the two are twins, and so he supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that Aether can tell there is a difference in his sister in such a short amount of time, and with her not even awake. He goes to protest, but Aether shakes his head with a smile before he can say anything, and so Albedo closes his mouth.

“I…do not know what to do with…this, exactly,” Albedo confesses. “I have…not been afraid of the outcome of something, before.”

The corner of Aether’s mouth quirks up.

“Do whatever you want,” he says airily, but his next grin is sharp. “But remember she will do whatever she wants, too.”

Albedo smiles, and looks down at Lumine in his arms, cradled against his chest.

“I would expect no less,” he murmurs.

Aether smiles at him, and for a moment, all is quiet. And then—

“LUMI!” Aether shouts, violently startling Albedo too, “LUMI, WAKE UP! I’M BACK!”

Lumine groans, burying her face deeper into Albedo’s chest, mumbling something angrily.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Are you kidding me?” she says, turning her face just enough to snap clearly at him.

“Lumi, just because we think he has a nice voice doesn’t mean you were supposed to make him sing for you,” Aether purrs.

Albedo blinks, confused.

Lumine slowly realizes what position she’s in, then snaps her head up, looking into Albedo’s startled eyes first, then turning at her brother with rapidly reddening cheeks.

“Aether!” she yells, lunging off of the sofa to swat at him as he laughs loudly.

As he does, she freezes, staring at him in something like surprise. Aether stares back at her as he calms, giving her a wry smile.

“Welcome home,” he says.

Lumine hesitates.

“I should be saying that to you,” she says quietly. “Welcome home.”

Aether smiles, bright as sunlight.

“I’m home!” he says, holding open his arms.

She reaches over to hug him, tightening her grip as he hugs her back. A sob cracks the air.

The sun begins to rise.

.

Everyone sees Albedo off, including Paimon and the servants of the house. He’s loaded up with gifts—some for Klee and some for their mutual friends and acquaintances. He also has part of his payment—various ingredients and materials from Liyue or beyond, imported to Liyue’s famous ports. The mora will be wired to his bank; he had tried to decline, as he was given much during his stay at the manor and the work was pleasurable, but neither twin would hear of it.

“Do what you will with it,” Aether had shrugged, “Finance the city with it, or give it to Klee. At the very least, you could use it to procure more ingredients. But a service is a service; a contract is a contract.”

Albedo acquiesces.  

“Don’t be a stranger, you hear?” Aether grins, slapping him on the back, and Lumine takes Albedo’s hands with a smile.

“As he said,” she says, eyes crinkling.

There are still things to be said. But he cannot find the words, does not know what he wants to say at all. Lumine seems to understand, but she does not assist him by broaching it first.

They’re out of time, for now; he is already set to leave, all his things packed and his departure imminent.

“I will not,” is all he can say, and the twins smile at him.

He gets into the carriage, his head buzzing.

When he looks out the window, just once, he sees Lumine and Aether walking back into the mansion, the former shoving the latter after he says something.

Albedo leans back in his seat and tries not to feel like he’s leaving a dream behind.

.

Time does its thing.

Days pass, then weeks, and Albedo throws himself into his work both because he needs to and because he wants to. He had certainly lost track of time, both at the Viatoris mansion and also in catching up upon his return to the Knights of Favonius. Already the Windblume Festival is nearly upon them, and preparations must be made to secure the city for safety and festivities.

It is wrong to say that he didn’t spare a thought about Lumine during the frenzy, but it is true that by the time he has enough time to allow him to truly think about her, it is already Windblume. He should have sent a letter, an invitation. It is not technically too late, but…as he knows, Lumine does not step into the city, and he cannot leave the city now while he is so involved in the festival’s processes with all of the other knights.

(He should have sent letters beyond this, too, he realizes. People did that—more casual exchanges, speaking about their daily lives or thoughts. But most letters Albedo penned were of the business sort, any missives otherwise short and to the point; he had no practice in such things, and so it had not occurred to him so naturally to begin a regular correspondence. But then again—nothing had arrived for him either, had it? Though he supposes even if it had…he would have neglected to respond in a timely manner amidst all his work.)

Albedo sighs, rubbing his forehead. He cannot say why this bothers him so; previous Windblume Festivals have never meant so much. At most he and Klee would walk around for a bit and offer flowers as was custom, but while she went off with other friends, Albedo would simply return to his workshop to continue his projects.

As he grips the sides of his crafting table and stares down at its intricate patterns, it takes a while to realize someone is knocking at his door.

“Please, come in,” he calls hastily, and Jean promptly walks in.

She stops short when she sees his hunched posture and the slight frustration creasing his brow. How rare, for their Chief Alchemist to express his feelings so openly.

“Have you hit a particularly tough equation?” she questions politely, and Albedo looks faintly surprised.

“Does it seem that way?” he murmurs, then sighs. “Perhaps. But I digress…what may I do for you, Acting Grandmaster?”

Jean smiles a little.

“Lord Viatoris will be arriving for the opening ceremony soon,” she says, “I came to ask if you’d like to greet him. I was under the impression you two had become friends.”

A pause, just for a heartbeat too long.

“Of course,” Albedo says, straightening out, “I’ll come with you.”

“Let us go, then.”

He follows Jean, the two of them making polite conversation about the festival, inevitably straying towards work and going over details of the festival to make sure everything is in its proper place. Both are too diligent for their own good; any true break they took was always at the intervention of another.

There’s a slight commotion at the gates as they near. Many citizens have already gathered, news of the famous hero coming to Mondstadt having not exactly been kept a secret.  

But he does not come alone.

Albedo slows at the top of the stairs when he catches sight of the figures at the entrance.

Lord Aether Viatoris is impeccably dressed for the occasion is a well-tailored dark brown suit.

At his side is his sister, a bouquet of cecilias propped in the crook of her arm, resplendent in a dark blue gown.

Lumine looks up and meets Albedo’s eyes, the corners of her own crinkling.

“Welcome,” Jean greets, descending smoothly without hesitation, Albedo following with slightly jerky movements behind her, “Lord Viatoris, Lady Viatoris. Mondstadt is pleased to receive you.”

“Hello, Acting Grandmaster Jean,” Aether says with a polite bow. “We are pleased to come.”

“Will your sister be participating in the opening ceremony as well?” Jean asks, looking to Lumine and inclining her head in greeting, but Aether shakes his head.

“No, it is her first Windblume Festival and that would certainly overwhelm her; you must unfortunately make do with just me,” he grins, “But I’m sure she is looking forward to enjoying the festival itself.”

“Is that so? Well, then—the ceremony is not for a bit, perhaps Sir Albedo could offer her a tour?”

Oh, a conspiracy.

“I would be honored,” he says, just a touch belatedly, and Lumine smiles.

It turns out the flowers in her arms are two bouquets, and she hands one of them off to Aether—presumably for the ceremony—before taking Albedo’s offered arm. They walk away from the crowd into one of the lesser occupied streets, and finally Albedo gathers his wits and speaks.

“You’re in the city,” he marvels, and Lumine laughs.

“Such observational prowess.”  

“I thought you found the city suffocating.”

She smiles.

“There are spaces to breathe,” she says, leaning a little closer before she pulls back again, satisfied with his momentarily widened eyes. “And I thought it was about time I came to you.”

He smiles.

As promised, he wanders the streets with her a little, pointing out this and that. They do stick to the backroads mostly, as despite her bravado, he can tell that she is indeed a little overwhelmed at the noise and bustle.  

When she tires, he escorts her to his workshop, apologizing for the mess. She looks around with interest, fascinated at being in his space for once. It has a crisp floral scent, mixed with the more metallic air from synthesis, the culprit a batch of windwheel asters resting in an inelegant pail of water. Klee’s choice of Windblume, leftover from this morning’s gathering.

“I’m sorry,” Albedo says, clattering around to make tea, squinting and looking closer at mixtures in tins to see if they will make something palatable, “I should have sent word or…something, sooner.”

Lumine’s smile is genuinely amused.

“We knew this might happen,” she says amiably, “I was just faster at…not letting it. I’m impatient.”

Albedo turns to her, eyes crinkling.

“You are braver than I,” he says humbly, and Lumine laughs.

“You were the one who said I could do anything and have anything I wanted,” she says, “If I dared.”

“And I recall you saying there were only a few things you wanted.”

“Yes. And you didn’t ask what they were.”

She is still smiling, and his workshop feels too small to contain that expression.

“No,” he agrees, “I didn’t. But I think I’m about to find out one of them, aren’t I?”

Her smiles deepens, bright sunlight into molten gold.

“We’ll miss the opening ceremony,” Albedo says quietly, without any fight.

“I don’t think the God of Freedom would mind,” she whispers, “And anyway, it’s Windblume. Besides for Barbatos, it’s a festival for lovers, isn’t it?”

Albedo hums, his pulse jumping at the word, jumping even more when she finally hands him the bouquet of cecilias. How fresh they are is even more apparent in the smaller space; already their scent is heady. Albedo glances about for something to put them in, which is simply the same pail as the windwheel asters are in. He extracts an aster, trimming off its damp stalk before tucking it into Lumine’s hair.

She leans into his hand before it leaves her face.

“On the off chance he is a little miffed…well, I think I’d fight a god to have this moment,” Lumine whispers, and Albedo half-laughs at the declaration.  

“How terrifying,” he says, and she smiles.

“Are you afraid?”

“Should I be?”

She hums.

“Maybe. What do you do when you stare into the abyss?”

“I figure out its secrets.”

She laughs, unfettered and unburdened. He smiles, pleased.

“Is that what we are, by the way?” he asks, and she tilts her head in question. “Lovers?”

She puts a hand to his chest, over his heart.

“What do your deductions tell you?” she asks innocently.

“That I’d like it very much if we were,” he replies, without hesitation.

She laughs again.

Outside, fireworks light up the sky, and flower petals of all kinds whirl in the winds.

Lumine presses Albedo back against the window, lacing their fingers together as they kiss, and for the moment, there is nothing that can touch them—not pain or ceremony or even the gods, so bright are they, so present, so hopelessly, delightfully human.

[simshousewindsor]

Producer Chinai: Ok, we’re back in 60 seconds, people.

Shon Gableton: This live broadcast is either going to soar or tank.

Anderson Cooper: Social media is already trending with #TheKingSpeaks

Producer Chinai: We’re cutting right to the LIVE feed at Sandringham for His Majesty’s speech at the bottom of the hour.

Anderson: I can't wait to hear what he says! The palace has been mute for weeks!

Shon: Says? I can't wait to see what he looks like! I heard he looks even thinner. I just hope he’s better!

Chinai: We’re LIVE in 5, 4, 3, 2...

Anderson: Welcome back to Good Morning Windenburg. We have breaking news out of Henford-on-Bagley.

Shon: That’s right, Anderson. King George issued a LIVE broadcast alert; his first public appearance since undergoing massive heart surgery close to seven weeks ago.

Anderson: The palace initiated a Silver Orb and in December, for the first time in 73 years, The Kings Christmas message was cancelled. We’re two months into the New Year and will finally hear from and get a glimpse of His Majesty. Speculations on his health have only grown since the New Year.

Shon: Indeed. Let’s go to The Kings LIVE broadcast, already in progress.

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

(Orchestral conclusion of ‘The National Anthem - God Save The King’)

Announcer: “HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE I”

“As I speak to you today I’d like to wish to you, wherever you may be, a happy New Year. Though we live in hard times, the New Year brings about a time of renewal and of starting fresh. I, myself, have a deep regard for renewal. For not only by the grace of God but by the skill of my doctors, surgeons and nurses have I come through my illness. I have learned once again that in bad times we value most highly the support and sympathy of our family and friends.”

“From my people in these islands and in the Windenburg Commonwealth and Empire as well as the many other countries, this support and sympathy has reached me and I thank you now from my heart. I trust that you will also realize how much they have all helped me in my recovery.”

“It has been a great disappointment to The Queen and to myself that we have been compelled to give up the tour which we had planned for this Spring. We were looking forward to meeting my peoples in their own homes and we realize that they will share in our regret that this cannot be. I am very glad that our daughter, Princess Katherine, with her husband will be able to visit these countries. I know that their welcome there will be as warm as that which awaited us.”

“Of all the blessing we share today, we are a friendly people, each with our own ideas but we have come to learn a difference of opinions is not the same as qualms. I wonder if we realize how precious friendliness and kindness really is. As we go throughout this year, I send a special message to all those soldiers far from homes and families, you are loved by those here at home. The Queen and I wish you all, near and far, a prosperous and peaceful New Year!”

THIS CONCLUDES THE ROYAL BROADCAST

[route22ny]

Sky

Perhaps this will be hard to read. Laments often are. It may bring you comfort, or it may make you angry. It may make you think more of me, or less. It may offend you. Rest assured, it offends me. So be it. 

Once upon a time, there was a man who spoke of torture as a good in and of itself, to be pursued whether it was effective or not. Who promised to use the power of the state to enact violence upon scapegoated religious and ethnic minorities. Who insisted upon framing our struggle against Mideast terror groups in the same religious terms the terrorists themselves insist upon. Who praised himself for nursing petty grudges, for treating revenge as justice. Who threatened the free press with retaliation for reporting certain truths about him. Who bragged about sexual assault. Who mocked people more brave than himself and called their bravery weakness. Who lied seemingly without strategy, as if lies were good to tell only for the telling, who showed a shocking indifference to the very concept of truth. Who praised brutal dictators for their brutal methods. Who seemed (and seems) to be receiving shadowy support from a brutal dictator. Who claimed dictatorial power for himself.

This is fine.

He appeared entirely confused about the basic facts of geopolitical reality, or of how our government works, or even of the function within our government of the role he proposed to take on. He had a clear and obvious history of fraud and hucksterism, of enriching himself at the benefit of others with less leverage, and was even engaged throughout his campaign in a lawsuit for defrauding college students, since settled for $25 million dollars. He speculated with frightening casualness about destabilizing actions: proliferation and even use of nuclear weapons, defaulting on our debts and our treaties, backing out of our most long-standing alliances. He publicly called upon the intelligence apparatuses of foreign governments to intercede in our election on his behalf, and it seems increasingly likely they may have obliged. He whipped his crowds into frenzies, then directed their ire toward journalists reporting the event, many of whom he threatened to prosecute once in power. He offered to imprison his political adversary, to the delight of his chanting crowds, who wore t-shirts decorated with the flag celebrating the war to preserve American slavery, decorated with vulgar slogans of violence and rage. He promised to steer us directly into the deadly heart of the oncoming climate catastrophe; having claimed the work of men more intelligent and knowledgeable than he was nothing but a Chinese hoax, he sneered at the very idea of new energy sources.

This is fine.

That’s a short list. It’s a hell of a short list. But wait, listen: The people went for it.

Tens of millions of people voted to make him the most powerful man in the world. He will soon have the ability to blast the planet to an irradiated cinder, if he sees fit. He will continue to run his business, which appears to involve sitting in a golden throne and putting his names on things. He's given every indication, despite some laughably thin feints toward divestment, he will run that business from the Oval Office. Maybe he’ll even put his name on new things, like laws. Laws: a whole new product line for Trump International, and a potentially lucrative one. He owes the banks of foreign powers millions and millions of dollars. One wonders what laws they’ll want passed. Word is, his first foreign trip will be to visit Vladimir Putin. Heigh-ho. 

His party is in control, too. They don't seem bothered by any of this. They're a bit more focused on providing checks and balances upon ethics watchdogs who have pointed out their party leader's multifarious and historically unprecedented infractions. They'd rather ignore those, so they can immediately—immediately—get down to the serious business of divesting millions and millions of the most vulnerable people in our society from the only chance they have at affordable health coverage. They plan to replace this program with something...someday. Their speculation so far indicates they will be replacing it with the opportunity to save up hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay for medical bills if you need them someday, or, if you don't have hundreds of thousands of spare dollars, to maybe go screw yourself. So, a lot of people are going to die in coming years, that would otherwise have lived, and they're rushing to make it happen. My, look at them laugh. 

Republican lawmakers sign legislation to repeal ACA and defund women's health care access through Planned Parenthood, January 2016

Meanwhile, they're ignoring as peccadilloes the caricatured infractions of a man who intends to keep his own private security detail around him, who expounds upon provable lies, and then when exposed simply doubles down on the lie, who is considering throwing the press out of the White House, and other maneuvers straight out of the dictator handbook. It's really something to see. It's a new order, trumping the old. Isn't it great again?

Laura Ingraham, speaker at the Republican National Convention, 2016.

It’s hard to understand what people hoped for from him other than this. It’s hard not to assume they were responding to the shockingly frank bigotry, his promises to return to an earlier time, the knowing use of slogans used byracists and fascists of days past. These are certainly what seemed to generate all the most popular applause lines. But I don’t want to think that of my country or my fellow citizens. I really want it to be something else. Let us consider other possibilities. Many seem to think that a great thing about him was his frankness. They liked that he “tells it the way it is.” Then again, those same people seemed most likely to think that he didn’t really mean his more shocking proposals. It’s a bit confusing, then, parsing what is meant by ‘telling it like it is,' as it appears to rely on selective trust in insincerity. Many voters, excited by promises to “drain the swamp,” but now disappointed by the recent appointment of a Goldman Sachs foreclosure kingpin to Treasury, of a Putin-connected oil executive to State, and by other signals the new president has given about his eagerness to rob us all blind, have been admonished by a key advisor for taking his words so literally. The 'alt-right' Neo Nazis and the KKK are very excited, for what it’s worth, about the more shocking proposals, and they remain confident our new leader meant every word.

You're really going to want to go to video on this one.

Some people thought he would be less likely to make them pay more in taxes, I suppose. So perhaps at last now we know the answer to the old hypothetical about whether we’d be willing to travel through time and sacrifice our lives to prevent the rise of a self-professing tyrant. Answer: We wouldn’t even suffer a hypothetical increase in our income taxes. I'm told folks voted for Trump because they were tired of being called racist. I imagine that was hard for them—who wants to be considered racist? If this complaint is yours, I imagine reading this (if you're still reading) is also hard. I sympathize; it's not particularly easy to write. But then again, the response seems an odd retort to the complaint. If your persistent problem is people keep telling you there is spinach in your teeth, you might consider getting a mirror and taking a look, rather than voting for the Jolly Green Giant running on a platform of outlawing all floss. And, perhaps, if it is painful to be considered racist, consider this: it may be all the more painful to live under racist oppression.

KKK Newspaper, The Crusader, endorses Trump. 

Many seem to have mainly enjoyed that he wasn’t Hillary Clinton, and it’s certainly true to say many concerns and criticisms could be levied against her. But the man they voted for as an alternative already stood actualized as the cartoon parody of any potential danger she may have hypothetically posed. Bad judgment? Corruption? Fraud? A proclivity to violent retaliation? A worry about temperament? Untrustworthiness? Lack of transparency? It’s hard to believe this all had much to do with Hillary Clinton and her faults. Hard to believe this list of concerns would yours, but your acceptable alternative would be Donald Trump.

Or maybe they believed the more lurid stories, the debunked, the ridiculous. Hillary’s murdered 80 people close to her. She invented cancer and put it in your cell phone battery. She is secretly seven tiny demons all stacked up in a pantsuit and glued together with the blood of aborted fetuses. She controls the Yosemite supervolcano, along with a cabal comprised of George Soros and 17 other Jewish industrialists. I don’t know what all. I know there are people like this, who have seceded from objective reality into a dystopian alternate dimension, where they can perhaps supplement the powerlessness they feel in their lives with the comfort of false control, of being one of the few with the secret knowledge unavailable to the masses. I don’t know what to do with them, because they live in an alternate dimension. And, it must be said, I don’t think there are 63 million of them.

So here we are. In grave moral and physical danger. All of us. And for what? I’ve heard the same line again and again since the election: “America isn’t a different country today than it was before the election.” Jon Stewart trotted it out. I think I heard it from President Obama.

I fear I agree with the statement. I’m puzzled, though, because I think it is meant to be reassuring, to think we’ve always been the country capable of such a choice.

The statement doesn’t imply that we’re still great. It implies that we were never good.

It has to be admitted, people responded to Trump for what he is. Which means we are left with the statements and proposals by which he distinguished himself. And millions of us—tens of millions—preferred him specifically for his points of difference. Excited by his promises to return us to a time when our system existed only for certain people, and the preferences and needs of all others were beneath consideration, or at least willing to overlook that, in favor of some material or policy advantage somewhere. And ultimately, the reason is immaterial. A man ran for president promising to use the power of the state to bring violence to scapegoated religious and ethnic minorities, to make America torture again, to make it easier for an already-militarized police force to employ violence, who praised dictators, who bragged about sexual assault, who praised vengeance as good, who promoted as fact debunked conspiracy, who stated his determination to ignore as conspiracy what the data overwhelmingly indicates is an oncoming extinction-level event. There was some other reason to vote for him, that allowed you to overlook these facts? Save it, please. It really doesn't matter. It was a bad reason. We have seen this movie before. Historians have a word for Germans who joined the Nazi party, not because they hated Jews, but out of a hope for restored patriotism, or a sense of economic anxiety, or a hope to preserve their religious values, or dislike of their opponents, or raw political opportunism, or convenience, or ignorance, or greed. That word is "Nazi." Nobody cares about their motives anymore. They joined what they joined. They lent their support and their moral approval. And, in so doing, they bound themselves to everything that came after. Who cares any more what particular knot they used in the binding? What am I saying here? Am I saying we are Nazis? The answer, I suppose, has to be 'no.' Only Nazis are Nazis. We are Americans. But what that will mean in decades to come—'American'—has been thrown into hazard. We used to be the sort of place that doesn't allow Donald Trumps to happen. That's gone now, along with that specific sort of trust the world once had in us. In any case, what we seem to now be trying to redefine 'American' to mean seems like a rough beast, and omnivorous. Democracy reveals us by our choices and our actions, not our intentions. We are what we are. And Donald Trump will be president.

As a result, I’m bereft. Bereft of the country I thought I was living in. Bereft of the people I thought I lived among. Bereft of what I believed was a shared direction despite divergent opinions. Bereft of a belief in the possibility of a common dialogue or even a common reality. Bereft in confidence in basic decency and intelligence. Bereft of the spiritual heritage I was born into, because of course Trump’s most enthusiastic supporters were white Christians. Christians voting for a new Herod with the power of a Caesar is a pretty good joke for the universe to tell, I suppose. He’s even promised to go after the (anchor) babies.

My translation of the Bible is full of all this toff about loving your enemy, about how love of money is the root of evil, about showing hospitality to the widow and orphan and the immigrant, and admonishments against drawing the sword lest you die on it. My reading of the Bible doesn't ask "but who's going to pay for that?" My reading of the Bible suggests to me that if you wish to pretend to care about babies unborn, maybe you shouldn’t be so hostile to the idea of making sure they’re cared for once they are born and inconveniently and expensively needy, and perhaps you shouldn’t make so many of their mothers into the welfare-queen boogie-men of your whole realpolitik, and perhaps you shouldn't make weaponry a right more important than health and food. Maybe healing and wholeness and liberty is something that should be available to even the pagan. Maybe the door is open for the tax collector and the prostitute and the Samaritan. Maybe, unencumbered by the overweening need to be perceived as correct in every moral posture, they've even entered that door ahead of us as we do our best to hold it shut against unworthy access.

Maybe I got a trash translation. Maybe the other ones are all about the joys of using political power for your own aggrandizement instead of the call to self-sacrifice for the benefit of others, about the dangers of anchor babies and welfare mothers, about how paying tax money toward a shared life is tyranny, about how with terrorists you have to kill the families, folks, believe me, kill the women and children, you’ve got to go after the families, and we’re gonna torture again, folks, we’re gonna torture, believe me…

You know what? I believe him.

WWJD Check: White Evangelicals are the group most likely favor use of torture by a military superpower. 

* * * You wake up and the sky is gone. At times that’s how it seems. You wonder at it: how could there not be a sky? What will become of us now, in this world without a sky? Was it ever there, or did we just imagine it there, as an exercise of collective will?

And then you talk to other people who insist the sky is there. They say: It’s not gone, it’s just red now. Don’t be a sore loser, just because you didn’t want it red. Accept that we did want it red. It’ll be fine if it’s red. And anyway, the banks seem to like it red. Move on with your life. Suck it up. Hope that the red sky will be as good as the blue one. But the sky isn’t red. It’s not anything. It’s just … not. It is a not-ness. An un-sky. A nothing.

And then you start talking to people who laugh, not without compassion, that you ever fell for the idea there was a sky. They say: That big vast emptiness? Oh, yes. That’s always been there for us. Is it there for you now? How… interesting. We can tell you a thing or two about that emptiness, if you’d listen. We’ve been watching it an awful long time.

American Nazi Rally, Madison Square Garden, 1939 

Future Georgia Representative and Civil Rights pioneer John Lewis, beaten by a state trooper on "Bloody Sunday" in 1965.

Oh. Will he. Will he do that.

The sky is the future. Or it was the future. That’s how it seems, at times. How odd, to speak of the future in the past tense.

But the past tense presents us with further troubles. It seems the past is gone, too.

In 1965, everybody thought King was great, and nobody tried to dismiss him by tying him to violence.

Growing up, we were taught that we were a kind and good and just nation. The story we were given was of a nation born of a righteous cause, not quite made perfect by the godlike men who forged it, but honed to apotheosis over the decades that followed. The destruction of the native nations and their people, ah, tsk, a shame, we’d change it if we could, but unfortunately in the past and unrecoverable. Slavery, a dark stain, but by now expunged entirely. Jim Crow, its shameful cousin, absorbed by a saint named King, who led a boycott (a pleasant and polite and non-disruptive one, it seems, in our memories), then stood on some stairs to give a universally-admired speech about his dream of inclusion, and then, his work seemingly accomplished, having seemingly changed minds forever, ascended harmlessly into the clouds.

Somehow we are never culpable. It was always a long time ago. Mistakes were made, but we’d never make them ourselves. It was always somebody else holding the gun, the whip. We arrived here after that, you see, born blameless, without any afterbirth or shock, into the Greatest Country in the World. Our holocausts we absolved ourselves of, because they served to illustrate not the evil we’d done, but how far we’d come from it. We stood on the prow of the ship, looking forward as we cut new water, not aft looking back at whatever may have been churned up in the wake. Not big on the rear-view mirror, us, not fans of the over-the-shoulder glance. We’d tell ourselves stories of what lay behind. We’d imagine ourselves into those stories of darker times, making ourselves the protagonists. We would have been the ones to build false walls in our home to hide slaves. We would have marched with King. We would have spoken out against the Japanese camps. We would have stood at Stonewall.

Our moral arc bends ever toward justice; an inevitable thing. That was the story.

America was great, because it was good. All the old hits.

People still alive can remember this sort of thing very well. 

This kid is probably still alive. As are most of his classmates. As are the children with whom he refused to attend school. 

This also happened within living memory. 

It's amazing what people consider communism. I mean back then, of course.

Sometimes you’d hear stories about a random injustice or brutality. A policeman who had become a little too enthusiastic. A bad apple, and surely justice was served. If not, it’d have been in the papers You’d hear about it in the papers if it hadn’t been. A gay teen beaten to death in a cornfield. A car with the banner of the struggle to preserve human slavery on the bumper sticker. The KKK marching again, how quaint. Ah, you’d think, if you were like me. We still have some work to do. Cleanup on aisle seven.

Technology has changed that. We see with new eyes now, unless we choose not to. We see videos, dozens and dozens of them now, new ones each week it seems, of police shooting unarmed black people. Again and again and again and again. Can you remember all the names? I can't anymore. And I ask myself: why can't I?

We see the speed with which so many seem willing to seek and find the nearest handy reason the victim deserved his or her fate. We see the news organizations find a Sunday School photo for the shooter and a mugshot to represent the victim. We see acquittal and acquittal and acquittal. We see failure to prosecute.

And, perhaps, we begin to wonder.

We see the people protesting, unarmed, asking only that their lives be thought to matter as much as another’s, and we see the stormtroopers with their massive guns and their tanks, arrayed against a civilian population almost reflexively, like defenses in an organism’s bloodstream mustering against a disease. And we wondered, perhaps: why do they look so much—so exactly, if we’re honest—like an occupying force? 

We saw the white ranchers seize government land, pointing their guns directly at law enforcement officials, speaking openly of armed insurrection against the government, of revolution, of war. We saw them, later, seizing a government building. They weren’t protesting after centuries seeing their children and brothers and sisters killed without consequence by authority. Rather, they didn’t want to have to pay a grazing fee. Was it with surprise that we saw it: law enforcement seemed less frightened of these white men and their guns than they had an unarmed black woman in a sundress, or a 12 year old boy playing in a park? Were we surprised to see they seemed so level-headed in this situation, so much less likely to respond with immediate lethal force?

Why, those fellows with their arsenal didn’t even get convicted. They were less threatening to the system, apparently, than a man, arms up, lying on the ground next to his autistic ward begging not to be shot. (He was shot.) We might contrast to the treatment of the protesters at Standing Rock, and wonder…is the Holocaust against native people relegated only to the past? Would we change it, if we could?

We wonder: Are we seeing the system breaking down, unable to cope with new challenges? Or are we seeing a system working exactly as it’s always intended? Do we as a collective of 'white' people secretly want the police to control brown people by force? Are we secretly hoping that force will prove lethal, only occasionally enough to soothe our consciences, but frequently enough to promote an order less immediately costly, than the pain of culpability, than the justice of restitution?

If not, why are prosecutions so rare, and convictions even less so?

If not, why aren’t we protesting these killings? Why aren’t we in the streets?

Do all lives matter? If so, why wouldn’t we act like it?

White Christian America reveres Dr. King, it should be noted. You remember him—the peaceful guy who gave the speech that ended racism. If Facebook and newspaper op eds are any measure, we white Christians can’t stop bringing him up, almost as a cudgel, an admonishment to those today who would dare ask for their own human dignity, for not doing it as antiseptically as we remember it being done by him. And perhaps people begin to wonder: Why was King enshrined as 'the peaceful one' only once he was peacefully dead? Is King’s being safely dead our favorite thing about him? These days, we white Christians can claim to have brought his dream to reality (the white guy is usually the hero of the story in the movie), and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. will not protest—and we white Christians don’t like protest. Heavens, no—it’s so divisive. Dr. King, he wouldn’t approve of this protest, nor that one, and certainly not that one. His protests were so polite! Why, nobody had any problem with them at all! Dr. King agrees with all of us in white Christian America so much, these days. Oh my, he never stops agreeing with us. Just ask us; we’ll tell you. Yes, and what ever happened to Dr. King, anyway, after he gave that speech that ended all inequality forever?

But no matter, I told myself. That’s a dying strain, it's not who we are these days. That’s just a few bad apples. We’ve made so much progress. They’ll exhaust themselves in a final futile sputter. We’re just about to turn the corner. Sure there are racists, bigots, white supremacists, lost-causers, and they're loud, but they're dying out, and they know it. They'll eventually run somebody on an overtly racist platform, and they'll lose huge—I disagree with Republicans, but most of them won't stand for stark white supremacy, surely, and obviously Christians won't be able to align themselves with it — and we’ll show them it’s no use, and they’ll retreat, retrench to even positions even more compromised, less fortified, further back, smaller, diminished. We’re a better country than that.

But then Donald Trump, a half-rate and transparently obvious bullshit artist, a greasy reality TV star most skilled at demonstrating his manifest ignorance, promising mostly the goodness of violence and the strength of vengeance, offering to return America to an earlier time, railing against the inconvenience of practicing sensitivity toward the perspectives of others (he called it 'political correctness'), received 63 million geographically-convenient votes to become the most powerful person in the world. Perhaps, if you’re like me, you took a moment then to ponder that statement about bad apples and what they do to the whole barrel. The meaning of it. And, perhaps, another saying, about recognizing a tree by its fruit. And, it must be said, though we refuse to face it: In America, our trees have long borne a strange fruit.

  Here’s what we’ve lost, or at least what I’ve lost: The assumption of goodness’s inevitability. The assumption of goodness of those around me. The assumption of good intent in their hearts. The assumption that the future is still there. The assumption that most of us will die of old age. Here's what I've lost, the one favor Donald Trump may ever do for me: The wool from my eyes. An illusion, particularly a pretty and a convincing one, can be a painful thing to lose.

I’ve gained a vision of tens of millions of people desperate to bend history’s arc back toward an injustice that favored them, and willing to fight for that regression, willing even to risk species-wide extinction rather than suffer the pain of facing the consequences of their own mountainous indifference.

The moral arc of the universe may bend toward justice, but the gears of history grind the weak. There are people now who are giddy, almost with the air of a teenager behind the wheel of a sweet-sixteen hot rod, to test out their perceived new warrant to deliver retributive and violent indifference to the people they deem unlovely. A headscarf yanked off here. A slur shouted in public there. A swastika scrawled on a wall here. A Neo Nazi propagandist advising the President of the United States in the corridors of power there. A crowd of seig heils in a government building, in praise of our new leader here. A few million children stripped of health insurance with no serious attempt at a replacement there.

They think this is allowed now. Sixty-three million people, complacently or enthusiastically or ignorantly aligned with white supremacy, gave them the idea it is. It’s going to be our job to show them otherwise. We must show them otherwise. And. Even if you voted for Trump—especially if you voted for Trump—the door is wide open for you to join in that struggle. You show them otherwise, too. All you have to do to join...is join. Your intentions were good? Excellent. I believe you. I've badly misunderstood you? Excellent. I believe you. Now, show it. Show your good intention by your good actions. You, like all of us, possess tremendous moral authority. Don't lend it any longer to those who have promised to squander it on atrocity. They seem intent on doing as they say. If you wait too long, they will leave you with none left to withdraw. Use it to protect those different than you. Use it against your own advantage, for the advantage of those who have none. And. If you, like me, did not vote for Trump, there is the great danger of complicity. You will be offered, if you, like me are white and straight and employed and well-off and cis-gendered and able-bodied and healthy and property-owning, the opportunity to be indifferent. Resist that current.

If the universe bends toward justice, the engine it has chosen for this good work is the hard and sacrificial struggle of good people willing to acknowledge the basic humanity of all other people. People who don’t think profitability is the foundational metric of goodness. People who don't think life holds a value that begins at conception but ends the moment it enters poverty. People bold and willing to become peaceful pebbles in the gears. To give time and money. To link arms with a married gay couple. To take sides in a cafeteria skirmish with a transgendered teen. To take a truncheon in the head for a Muslim. To paraphrase Jesus (another favorite who those of us in white Christian America appear by our words and deeds to consider as safely dead as Dr. King): to live, first you must die.

Or, as another poet says, love’s the only engine of survival.

So, what’s next?

First, we lament. We acknowledge the un-sky, the void. We listen to those who’ve been staring at it far longer than us. We name the challenge with clear eyes. That, I suppose, is what this has been.

And then we get to work. Let us hope our leaders will prove other than than they say they will. Let us not be so naive to think it likely. Let us oppose in a fierce and broken love. Let us meet with friends, we eat good meals with them. Let us consider people before money, and notice where our society fails to do so. Let us make art, and we try to make it well. Let us refuse to allow a comfortable silence to enfold a hateful or ignorant statement. Let us stand up against hate, bodily if necessary. Let us learn our system, and work within it. Let us call our leaders, and advocate for those who suffer. Let us practice generosity without care for the merit of the beneficiary, but only for their need. Let us investigate before we publish. Let us loudly proclaim the humanity others try to diminish. Let loudly proclaim the humanity of those who do not share our values, even as we oppose. Let us never celebrate the suffering of those who oppose us, for they suffer, too. Let us seek to divest ourselves of unearned cultural advantage. Let us enter spaces where our voices are not primary, and listen without thinking to speak. Let us create space to speak, in places where our voices are primary, for those who have had no voice. Let us reject optimism and blind belief. Let us embrace hope. Let us work. Let us work. Let us work. We are a people who have dreamed of the sky. I’d like to see if we can make it real.

source: http://www.armoxon.com/2017/01/sky.html (January 16, 2017)

VOTE

[theshatteredrose]

Relic Keepers: Awakening of the Red Lily (Chapter 27) - Original Fiction

AN: Sorry for the wait, I got distracted with a few other oneshots :’D Anyway, another fun chapter to write. Hope you enjoy reading~

Ao3 | Wattpad | Inkitt | FictionPress

~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 27:

It wasn’t until class ended did Eishirou received word from Jacob that Irwin had finally submitted his work to public records. Just in time as his next stop was the museum. So, he knew what he was going to do for the rest of the afternoon.

After he bid farewell to Misaki and Lyvia, Eishirou stepped out of the Communications Centre. He paused and checked his communicator once again. He wanted to give Zayne a quick call just to check in on him. But decided against it. If he was in the midst of battle, the call might distract him. And that was the last thing Eishirou wanted to do.

Still, he felt a light sense of trepidation as he stepped out in the sunlight. He had to take an open path to the museum. A path that saw little traffic and was quite isolated.

Yeah, he felt a bit paranoid.

He was sure it would be fine. After the ass-kicking they received yesterday, they were sure to be busy nursing their wounds. And maybe their prides, too.

Even so, he broke out into a jog as he made his way to the museum.

He made it to the museum in record time and uttered a sigh as he stepped into the museum’s foyer. A couple of somewhat tense minutes there. But thankfully, he didn’t encounter one of those Star Rebellion guys.

“Ah, there you are.”

Eishirou turned to watch as Jacob moved through the foyer toward him. In one hand a somewhat familiar briefcase. “Hey. And where are you off to?”

“Professor Jairus wishes to inspect the Red Lily in preparation for further sessions with you,” Jacob answered as he raised the briefcase and gave a light pat. “Mind if I take it out for a bit?”

Eishirou couldn’t say no to that. “That’s fair. I have some documents to search through.”

“Ah, so Irwin’s data finally dropped.” Jacob grinned as he dropped his arm to his side again. He suddenly glanced over Eishirou’s shoulder and a curious expression appeared on his face. “Hm? Zayne not with you?”

That was a fair question, though Eishirou can’t help but feel that there was some teasing insinuation to that. “He had a mission.”

“Ah, I see,” Jacob murmured, a light frown tugging at his lips. “I had heard rumours about an increase in ShadowDweller sightings. I hear those harbor rats have grown even larger, so it’s easily to mistake them for ShadowDwellers.”

Eishirou hadn’t visited the harbor for a while, but wouldn’t be remotely surprised.

“Well, I best not keep Professor Jairus waiting. I’ll catch you later, hm?”

“I’ll be here.”

Eishirou waved Jacob off before he turned and headed deeper into museum. The building was sparsely populated, so Eishirou would have the examination room to himself. A little unnerving, but it was fine. Meant he wouldn’t need to deal with any interruptions.

Dropping his bag next to his chair, he quickly sat down and switched on his computer. It took him only a matter of seconds to pull up Irwin’s research notes.

The notes weren’t complete, admitted by Irwin himself at the beginning. But that was understandable. There was still more to discover on that island that he had decided to call Keeper’s Isle, in honour of the ancient writings discovered.

The name itself offered Eishirou hope. The role of a Keeper. That was what the sentient being within the Red Lily had instructed him to focus on.

The environment within the small island was dense and marshy; solid land few and far between with tall trees and spiralling roots. Yet there were remnants of man-made pathways found throughout. Some still in relatively good condition. Allowing them to reach usually inaccessible areas.

Which proved to be fortunate as they had discovered a few very intriguing runestones scattered throughout. And there was the high possibility of more hidden deep within the waterlogged areas.

The words written upon the runestones were of ancient dialect. Unfortunately, they were too large and engrained within the environment to safely extract for deeper examination. The etchings upon the stones themselves had also suffered greatly at the hands of the elements, causing much of the writing to be illegible.

What words they were able to translate offered an intriguing mystery.

It appeared as though the islands of Midnight Islands and Keeper’s Isle were once connected. And an ancient tribe prospered. The word “Keeper” had been noted several times. Along with something they called “the source”. Perhaps what they now referred to as Mana today.

Keepers appeared to be a role of high regard and respect. They were akin to a High Priest or High Priestess. Someone who communicated and sought guidance from the Source.

They appear to have some kind of connection to someone or something called “Radiant Soul.”

Wait-a-minute…Radiant Soul?

That was what the Sentient within the Red Lily called him, wasn’t it? During his meditation and back at the lighthouse.

That was significant, wasn’t it?

Eishirou quickly scrolled through the rest of the research. He, however, sighed in disappointment. Unfortunately, there was nothing else to be found about this “Radiant Soul”. Even Irwin noted the lack of information. They only had speculation and assumptions regarding this topic.

He felt that Radiant Soul had a strong connection to this Keeper. Perhaps it was a status one took before they could ascend to the role of Keeper? Perhaps Radiant Soul was similar to what Passives were of today?

The research paper finished with a short conclusion of promising to return to Keeper’s Isle to conduct further research.

Attached to the files were several photos. Mostly of the weather-worn runestones and of the landscape.

However, Irwin managed to discover two more mosaics. They seemed to be etched upon tall runestones. The stones themselves hidden within the foliage and draped with moss and vines. They appear to be as old as the mosaic Eishirou had discovered in the Flutterlight Forest.

One of the mosaics in particular that caught his attention.

A being in white with long white hair with feathers braided throughout. Eyes closed though a small smile upon their lips. Seemingly genderless, it reminded him of the being he had encountered during his mediation.

The runestones and mosaics…they had stories to tell. To tell him.

There was no other way around it; he needed to visit Keeper’s Isle and view those runestones in person. There had to be recordings stored within for him to reveal and view. They would be able to offer him more information to work on.

The buzzing from his communicator pulled Eishirou from his research. He immediately picked it up, perking up when he saw Zayne’s name flash across the screen. “Hey,” he greeted. “Finished with your mission?”

“Hey,” Zayne said in return. “Yeah, it was hardly worth the time. A couple of Rat ShadowDwellers. Though, I have to admit that those bastards are getting big.”

Rats? Oh, so they were near the wharfs. Eishirou had heard horror stories about the size of normal rats, let alone the ShadowDwellers in the forms of rats.

“Where are you at?” Zayne asked.

“The museum doing some research. Do you have time off now or are you still on alert for missions?”

“Free for now. I’ll meet you at the museum. Got nothing else to do.”

“That’s fair. See you soon.”

Eishirou ended the call and set his communicator down onto his desk. He turned his attention back to his research, fully intent on marking down the locations of the runestones he would like to inspect for himself. If and when he was granted permission to visit Keeper’s Isle.

A prickly feeling of the hairs standing up on the back of his neck caused Eishirou to stiffen and immediately turn around in his chair. He didn’t say anything as he looked around the Observation Deck. Just listened.

His paranoia was starting to get the best of him. But he swore that there was someone else in the room with him. It wasn’t Jacob; he could never be that quiet. He was a big man with big feet, always clomping about.

“Who’s there?” he asked as he stood up from his chair.

He received no response at first. There was a tension in the air, however. There was someone else there. And their lack of response only heightened Eishirou’s worry.

The silence stretched out. It was uncomfortable. And deafening.

Then, the sound of footsteps. Purposeful, loud, but slow.

Eishirou’s eyes widen and his heart skipped a beat when a tall, hulking figure finally ambled into view.

Long, impractical robes. A white, emotionless mask.

They were from Star Rebellion.

“You’re…” Eishirou whispered as the intruder continued their slow, methodical stroll toward him.

Eishirou stumbled a step backwards, only to collide with the table behind him. He fell back against it, but stayed on his feet. His hands clutched at the edge tightly, the knuckles turning a ghost white from the tension.

They were tall. Over six feet. Nearing seven. They towered over him easily.

They were intimidating.

And they knew it.

Eishirou froze to the spot for a few seconds, though his mind reeled. What should he do? He obviously couldn’t even begin to fight back.

All he could do was try to get away. No matter how feeble that would be.

Without little thought, Eishirou planted his foot onto the seat of his chair and then kicked it toward the robed figure. He managed to nail him in the legs, briefly startling him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him to scramble across his desk and vaulted over the balcony to the examination floor below.

He landed in a crouched position and he winced from the impact. But he soon pushed himself to his feet, intent of heading for the second entry on the other side of the room.

He didn’t get very far. The Star Rebel were suddenly in front of him. Eishirou skidded to a halt just before he crashed into them. But that was all he could do.

Before he could even think on what he should do next, his attacker managed to snare his wrists and pinned them together. They then went the extra step by restraining his wrist with a single hand. With little effort on their part, they raised his arms over his head and slammed his pinned wrists to the wall behind him. Trapping him and restraining further.

Eishirou released a gasp, winded from being virtually thrown against the wall. He followed that with a wince from the pressure around his wrists. His attacker’s grip was so tight, they could break his wrists…

“Passives are so fragile.” Their voice was electronically distorted. Just like the ones he had the misfortune to encounter yesterday. “Can’t even put up a token fight. It’s pathetic.”

“Wh-what do you want?” Eishirou stuttered as he could only stare wide-eyed at the being before him.

“Where is the relic?”

That surprised him. “Relic?”

“The one you called Red Lily.”

“It’s…it’s not here.”

“Where is it?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Liar,” they said in a cold, deadpanned manner.

They then effortlessly pulled Eishirou away from the wall only to throw him to the side. Equally effortless. Eishirou struck and fell against an examining pedestal, breaking the glass on impact. He dropped to the floor like a rock immediately after and felt the air rush from his lungs.

He landed hard on his right shoulder. Red hot streaks of pain ran down his arm to his fingers and across his shoulder blades. He hissed in pain and unconsciously curled his body into itself in an attempt to ease the pain.

When heavy-set boots began to pace over in his direction, Eishirou tried to push himself up onto his knees. But it hurt to move. His shoulder and back ached in protest. He had to move. He didn’t know what else they were willing to do to him.

Were they targeting him because of his connection to the Red Lily? How did they even know about it? And about him?

“What do you want with the Red Lily?” Eishirou managed to bite out between tremors of pain.

“That is none of your concern.”

Yeah, he had figured as much. There was no way they were going to simply tell him every detail of their plan like some villainous villain.

“You are at a disadvantage here, Passive. Tell me where the Red Lily is hiding.”

And pull Jacob and Professor Jairus into danger, too? Not likely!

Zayne…Zayne was to turn up soon. He just needed to distract his attacker long enough for Zayne to arrive. But how?

Something made of cool metal suddenly brushed against his head. Instinctively, Eishirou looked up and through grimaces of pain he noted a round object. Dark silver and seemingly made of two parts. The dark metal had been cleaned in some parts, revealing exotic etchings of ancient lettering and symbols.

The Sound Orb.

“The right hands to hinder the wrong ears.”

Did that…could that mean…?

Eishirou’s shoulder ached violently in protest as he reached for the orb and snatched it up. He half expected a boot to the ribs as punishment for his movements, but the Star Rebellion terrorist seemed oddly amused by his frantic scrambling.

“And what are you planning to do with that?” Despite the metallic, distorted voice, they even sound amused.

Eishirou placed his hands on either half of the orb and stared up at his attacker through his brown hair. “I’m planning to give you one hell of a headache.”

Sound Orb, please; hinder his attacker with noise that would cause him the greatest pain.

As if responding to his plea, the orb in his hands sprung apart abruptly. And a sound so ungodly resonated throughout the entire room. The entire museum, even.

The reaction from his attacker was immediate. And violent. They grabbed at the sides of their head; palms pressed tightly against their ears. A scream, on the same ungodly frequency as the Sound Orb, ripped from their throat. They threw their head back, their back arching at a painful angle.

They suddenly dropped to the floor and floundered. Literally rolling across the floor, their hands still desperately clutching their head. Their scream maintained the same volume.

Eishirou could only stare at first. He wasn’t expecting such a violent reaction…

But it was what he needed to get away!

He kept the Sound in his right hand as he clutched his shoulder with other. He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet. He staggered his first couple of steps but soon found his feet.

As he stumbled up the stairs to the Observation Deck, he heard a loud growl;

“I will kill you!”

Eishirou’s heart leaped into his throat as he threw himself up the stairs.

Over the loud, painful shrills from the Sound Orb, Eishirou was able to hear the sound of feet thumbing loudly against the flooring. In spite of the debilitating noise, his attacker was still able to push themselves to their feet and come after him. Following him as he desperately stumbled through the halls of the museum.

He had to get away. If that guy caught him…

“What the living hell is that noise?!”

Eishirou snapped his head up. Zayne?

There, in the foyer where the large dinosaur fossil was displayed stood Zayne. Holsters in his hands and by his sides. Not manifested into weapons, but at the ready to do so.

“Zayne!”

Zayne was immediately in front of him and had his arms around him. Eishirou collapsed against him, his pain his shoulder returning with intensity. He squeezed his eyes shut as he buried his face into Zayne’s shoulder, who in return tightened his arms around him. Holding him tightly and closely.

In his hand, the Sound Orb continued to resonate in that debilitating high pitch.

Yet, Zayne wasn’t affected by the Sound Orb.

It worked. He managed to use the Sound Orb against his attacker. And only his attacker.

“What-?”

“A Star Rebellion guy,” Eishirou quickly cut him off as he pressed himself against Zayne’s chest and looked over his shoulder. “They’re here.”

The very second those words left his lips, his attacker stumbled into view. One hand on their head, the other flat against the wall for support.

“Shit,” Zayne cursed as he briefly tightened his hold around Eishirou to pull him away.

After Zayne set him to rest against a display cabinet, he spun around and all but launched himself at the Star Rebellion follower.

With a single, effortless kick, Zayne swept the Rebellion supporter’s legs out from under them. They crashed to the floor in a heap, though immediately tried to push themselves up with their arms. But Zayne quickly put an end to that by literally jumping onto the assailant’s back, causing them to hit the ground hard once more.

A knee in the middle of the back and a twist of an arm later saw the attacker immobilised completely.

It took Zayne a matter of seconds to take control of the situation and deescalate the threat.

However, Eishirou’s attacker continued to scream and slam his hand repeatedly against the floor. “Make it stop already!”

Zayne looked mildly confused as he glanced in Eishirou’s direction. “What is he screaming about?”

Eishirou showed him the object in his hand. “This. The Sound Orb.”

“That-?” A brief look of realisation flickered across Zayne’s face before he furrowed his brow and tightened his grip on the attacker’s arm. “Can you turn it off?”

Well, yes. He knew how. But should he? They won’t jump back up and try to attack Zayne, would they? If they were determined enough to chase him while suffering from the Sound Orb, they were capable of anything.

“But…”

“I’ve got the asshole,” Zayne quickly reassured. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“Ok.” Eishirou trusted him. Besides, he sounded rather agitated.

He placed his hands on the halves of the Sound Orb. “Ready?” After he received a sharp nod from Zayne, he pushed and twisted the two halves together. As he did so, the noise lowered before it dissipated completely.

The Star Rebellion followed slumped onto the ground, lying flat, completely exhausted. They were even breathing heavily.

The pain they experienced must have been intense.

“Eishirou, what was that god-awful noise? I heard it outside.”

Eishirou sighed as he grasped his shoulder. “Jacob…”

His timing was impeccable. Thank goodness he didn’t turn up five minutes earlier; he could have been caught up in all that!

An expression of utter surprised appeared on Jacob’s face. “What in the world-?”

“Call Sigmund,” Zayne cut him off sharply. “Looks like we’ve caught one of those Rebellion assholes. And he’s going to want to have a nice long talk with them.”

[ssa25]

Maybe for you - Sasuhina Month 2020 Prompt - Cafune

(This is also the sequel of ‘Not for You’ - a Sasuhina story I had written some time back.)

Rating : T (for language)

There was a rumour going around.

That Uchiha Sasuke liked a Nursing Major student. Some said the student’s name was Hinata. Some speculated that it was the guy with the same name who was, coincidentally, also in the same department. That might better explain why he was always rejecting all kinds of propositions from the female population in the University.

But a few were quite sure that it was the new transferred girl who was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. These were a minority of the total University population who used the Main library in the same hours as Hinata.

-

There was something so calming about the total silence inside the humongous library that Hinata absolutely loved. It was an old building with wood panels and high ceilings, ornate wooden banisters that ran along the stairs leading to the upper floors. Interspersed between the tall shelves were massive tables that provided just enough privacy to concentrate without getting distracted by others, but not enough to encourage uncouth behaviour.

Looking at some of the tables, Hinata felt a stronger desire to work on her assignment to the best of her capability. Everyone had their heads down, and were focusing on their books. It just fueled her determination, which sometimes fell short when she was in her shared apartment with Tenten. She got easily distracted by the television, by the gossip, by the loud music and sometimes even by the presence of Ino - not so much Sakura, nowadays - who was always coaxing them to accompany her to frat and house parties.

Looking down at her wristwatch, she swore to herself that she would spend another hour there before leaving for home. Full of vigour, her mind was completely zeroed in on the textbook when there were few murmurs that erupted in the hall.

Shoot! Not again!!

She panicked and grabbed the big thick hardback book off from her side and opened it midway to make it balance upright on the table, before she slid down a little in her chair to hide behind the book.

She closed her eyes and prayed that her trick worked to avoid the person she was guessing had entered the holy halls of the library.

Few seconds later, crouched in her chair she got a familiar whiff of soap and she closed her eyes hoping that she wasn’t busted.

Something light bounced off her head and landed in front of her. It was a crumpled ball of paper. Curiously, she straightened the paper out and found a neat scribble-

‘Your book is upside down, Hinata.’

Absolutely flustered, she sat upright to see the inverted text of the thick book. She had been caught. Yet again.

Trying to appear cool, she closed the hardback and looked up at the smirking face of Uchiha Sasuke who was now sitting opposite to her.

“Is that one of your skills? Reading upturned books? I think I can come to appreciate it eventually…”, Sasuke commented casually.

“What are you doing here Sasuke?”, she asked flatly.

He shrugged and opened his bag to take out some of his own books. His damp hair meant that he had just got out of basketball practice. Which was exactly why she had not been expecting him today.

As if he had read her mind, he replied, “Practice wrapped up earlier than usual. So I wanted to come see you.”

He was absolutely unbothered by the attention the two of them were getting from everyone. Since the last party at Shikamaru’s, he had non verbally declared some kind of interest in her. Initially she thought his intentions were probably lewd because of their first meeting. But he had never tried anything inappropriate. Tenten and Ino constantly teased her about him, while Sakura was avoiding her. 

Now rumours were abound at their University. She tried to lay low most of the time, but it was impossible to completely stop the unwanted gossip. Most of the time she was trying to avoid crossing paths with him, which was somewhat possible only because they had different majors. Other times she just accepted his presence. She would never say it out loud to him, but it had even ended her short lived crush on his best friend Naruto.

He snapped his fingers in front of her to get her out of her reverie. “Finish what you are doing quickly. I’m taking you out for cinnamon rolls after this.”

-

It was the middle of October, and incoming low pressure from the west coast was causing some sort of heavy stormy weather. Basketball practice was cancelled, and Sasuke was making his way to the main annexe of the campus hub.

“Yo bastard, we are going over to Kiba’s for some pizza and Fortnite”, the deep scratchy voice of Naruto interrupted his stride. “You in?”

Sasuke turned to him and shook his head. “Count me out. Have fun.”

Without waiting for a response he continued on his way, but he heard the loud barking laugh of his friend as he commented, “You are so whipped, ya pussyass!!”

And Sasuke nonchalantly flipped him off.

-

This was new. Out of all the ways Hinata had tried to dissuade or fend him off, he had never come upon her sleeping with her head resting on her forearms on the table. He could only smirk before he bent down to her ear level.

He felt the stare of nearby occupants, but it did not bother him. He wasn’t breaking any rules.

Sticking close to her ears, he whispered, “ This is not going to work, Sleeping beauty.”

She did not flinch even a little.

He looked closely at her face and found her to be in deep sleep. Her breathing was slow and deep, and there was a tiny bit of drool on the side of her slightly parted lips. He reckoned that the all nighters she was pulling for her assessments had taken a toll on her.

Chucking lightly, he pulled out his camera and took a quick picture of her drooling face. It would work well as a collateral.

He sat down in the chair next to her and admired the carefree beauty of Hyuuga Hinata. Her hair was left open today and it fell back on her shoulders and back like strands of pure silk. 

An unusual thought occurred to him - Their kids would have beautiful dark tresses.

His instinct was to touch it. It wouldn’t be the first time they had made physical contact, so this should not be labelled as creepy. His left hand lifted to gently touch her head and softly ran down the length of her strands. As if in a trance, he repeated the motion a few times, before his fingers parted to dip through and comb down. It was oddly satisfying and sensual, all at the same time. Mental images of his fingers gripping her hair while kissing her passionately flashed through his mind. From there it turned quickly perverse, imagining other needs for gripping on to her thick soft hair. He had to abruptly take his hand away before his semi turned to a full.

Easy there. They had not even kissed each other. Yet.

He decided to wait for her a little longer before he woke her up. The rain was pelting down hard outside, he would not let her go home by herself. When he turned sideways, he found a young man standing in a slightly damp suit looking suspiciously at him. He looked a little familiar, especially his frowning gray eyes. But right as his brain connected the dots, the man asked him with a cold deep baritone.

“Who the f*ck are you?”

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 9

It was concerningly easy to lie about the circumstances of their hospital visit. All Ford had to say was ‘there was a bear-’ and the nurse was already taking Stan off of his hands, nodding like this was an everyday occurrence. No questions asked or police notified or rangers called.

Then again, this was Gravity Falls. That seemed to be a sentiment that never got tired.

The nurse also didn’t bat an eyelid at Stan’s jumpiness and apparent inability to communicate with anything other than body language – whether that was a symptom of shock, or of his… condition, remained a mystery. However, when Ford had last seen him Stan seemed to be relaxing somewhat, enough to mutter ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to the doctor’s questions.

Ford had only suffered some scrapes and bruises and minor puncture wounds, so once those had been cleaned and covered he was just… left in the waiting room. To wait, presumably.

Ford hated waiting.

And now he was stuck here in this practically empty sterile room, listening to a clock on the wall tick idly. Tick, tick, tick. It set his teeth on edge. But it couldn’t begin to distract from the complete and utter confusion swirling around in his skull.

Ford pulled his journal from his pocket with shaking hands and began jotting down information, in the hopes of organizing his mangled thoughts.

·      Rebus appears to be some sort of shape-shifter

·      Is also Stanley???

·      Why didn’t he tell me who he was?

·      Why is Stanley here at all?

·      Stanley is a human. But this isn’t a human.

·      By all accounts, it seems to be him.

·      Stan – Rebus? He protected me. Rebus has always been protective of me.

·      Stan was protective of me before he was kicked out left

·      Same person?

·      Why is he so scarred? What has he been doing these last nine years?

Ford hesitated, seeing fresh wounds crossing old scars in his mind’s eye. They’d been visible under Rebus’s pelt and on Stan’s skin alike. Stan’s – pelt? Try as he might Ford couldn’t reconcile the two individuals in his head. There simply wasn’t enough data to come to any conclusions!

No, he could still work with this. The first step in the scientific method was having a question, coming up with a hypothesis, speculating on possible solutions before investigating. But where to start?

Stan certainly hadn’t come to Ford of his own free will, not with Ford rescuing him from being beaten to death and then locking him up. The thought of that cage made Ford feel quite ill, now. The thought of trapping his brother behind steel bars and studying him like any other specimen…

And for some reason, Stan hadn’t revealed himself, despite the fact that he seemed perfectly capable of it. But why? Ford resisted the urge to pull at his own hair in frustration. His life’s work was studying and quantifying the anomalous and unexplained, but somehow his brother’s decisions baffled him far more than any Manatour or gnome civilization ever could!

“Mister Pines?”

Ford startled at a nurse’s voice in front of him. He snapped his journal shut and hurriedly straightened his glasses.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Your brother’s ready to be discharged.”

“Already?” Ford found himself saying. The nurse shot him a funny look.

“It… it’s been several hours.”

…oh. Ford may have been a little more lost in his thoughts than he’d realized. He flushed and cleared his throat. “Ah.”

The nurse roused himself and glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. “He sustained a lot of flesh wounds, but luckily no bones have been broken except for a few ribs. Those have been bound and he’s on pain medication for it, but there’s not much else we can do for those. He needed quite a few stitches on that arm, and – well, just about everywhere else too. That being said, he’s in surprisingly good shape. The doc cleared him to leave but you’re gonna have to pick up his pain meds and antibiotics from the front desk before you go on your way. Wouldn’t want injuries like that getting infected.”

“No.” Ford agreed uneasily. The nurse continued, talking about the importance of taking the full course of antibiotics and proper dosage of pain medication and how Stan shouldn’t be operating any heavy-duty machinery, which Ford filtered out because he already knew it all.

There was paperwork, and a prescription to get filled, and then finally a familiar figure approached, arguing loudly with a nurse about how ‘no, he didn’t need a wheelchair thank you very much, he wasn’t an invalid’ and ‘he’d had worse, who cared about a little blood loss’. He had recovered from his shock enough to be difficult, it seemed. Stan shut his mouth once he caught sight of Ford.

Ford scanned his brother quickly – he was dressed as well as he could be in shredded clothes over bandages and assorted wound-dressings. He was also obviously doped up on some kind of medication, given the slight slur to his words and his unsteady gait. It didn’t help that one arm was pinned to his chest by a crisp white sling.

The nurse sent Ford a harried look that seemed to say ‘he’s all yours’. Stanley shuffled on the spot and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Ford sighed. “My car is just outside.”

Stan still quiet as he followed Ford to the car. It made him uneasy – Stan was meant to be loud and exuberant and big, not quiet and… small. He wouldn’t even meet Ford’s gaze. He stared out the window as Ford turned on the engine and pulled out onto the road.

Ford opened his mouth, realized he didn’t know what to say, and closed it again. They drove in silence.

They had just started on the winding forest path when Stan mumbled, “You can just drop me off here.”

Ford slammed on the brakes.

The wheels squealed and both brothers were jerked against their seatbelts as the car jerked to a halt on the thankfully abandoned road. Stan swore and rubbed his chest. Ah yes, broken ribs. Whoops.

“Shit, I’m going, okay-”

“You owe me answers.” Ford didn’t mean to sound so accusing. But good grief, he’d been kept in the dark for long enough. He twisted around in his seat to face his drugged-up brother. “Stanley, you are not leaving this car until you explain to me exactly what is going on.”

“Alright, jeez!”

“Rebus.” Ford said. It wasn’t quite a question. “The whole time, that was you?”

Stan grunted an affirmative, shoulders curling in.

“Just… how. Just how.”

“Apparently I’m a werewolf now.”

…well. Not the weirdest thing Ford had heard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t wanna get kicked out!” Stan snapped. “Okay?”

Ford spluttered. “What on earth gave you-”

“Obviously that plan’s bumpkus now. Well, I had a good run. Later, Sixer.” Stan rambled as he fumbled for his door handle. Ford gaped.

“You’re leaving?”                        

“Well, yeah. No use overstayin’ my welcome.” Stan was still struggling one-handedly with the door. “Now, just – gotta get my stupid car – if it hasn’t been impounded – I’ll just get outta yer hair-”

“Stan!” Ford said loudly. Stan jumped. Ford sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not telling you to leave.”

Stan stared at him like a fish out of water. “But – you-”

“It is quite literally my life’s work to study the paranormal. You really think I would throw you out?”

Something Ford had said must have hit a cord with Stan, because he slumped and turned his face away. “…no. Not when you put it like that.”

Ford nodded, pleased that his brother was finally getting it. “Good. Let’s go back to my house, it’s – well, you already know where I live.” And wasn’t that strange? “I have several tests I’d like to run; and I’m going to need to hear about how this whole thing started. In my studies I’ve never come across conclusive proof of the existence of werewolves. Knowing how it came about would be very useful for classifying…”

He trailed off when he noticed the click of the car door and the fact that the seat next to him was empty.

The crunching of footsteps through leaf litter snapped him out of his shock. Ford undid his seatbelt hurried from his seat to follow his brother, who was currently making his way into the forest.

“Stan!”

Stan whipped around to snarl, “Fuck off, Ford!”

Ford blinked at him like a startled owl. “I… what?”

“Ya made yer point!” Stan’s words came somewhat garbled through fast-growing fangs. The glint of them sent a shiver down Ford’s spine. “M’no’ gonna be yer science ‘periment. ‘Tha mithtake thtaying here a’ all.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Ford demanded. Stan growled out an answer but it was lost in the distortion of his no-longer-human vocal cords. Stan threw up his hands and turned to stalk off into the woods.

“Stanley! Where are you going? Stanley!”

Ford shouted after him, but Stan had already disappeared.

 _______________________________________________________________________

Something’s wrong.

Everything’s wrong.

His head was stuffed with cotton wool. It made the world around him blurry as he stumbled deeper into the forest. The forest was Safe. Trees were Safe. They felt almost like home. Now that he was surrounded by them, he couldn’t even remember what he was running from. Or where he was running to…

He hadn’t been in this form for so long. He’d forgotten how weak humans were. His vision blurred and smeared (to be fair, that could be the lack of glasses), the cold nipped at his skin, his hearing was muffled as if he were underwater, all he could smell was dirt and sweat. He felt naked without his thick coat of fur, only jeans and his torn jacket chafing against raw skin. Everything was wrong. And that wasn’t even counting the oil-slick taste of wrongness that seemed to have pervaded his throat, making every rasping breath taste awful, like he was biting into that weird bear all over again.

But worse was how fucking intense this hurt felt. His chest pinched and it felt like his lungs were tied together with an elastic band, unable to inflate. He almost wanted to crack open his ribs to give them space to breathe. But… he couldn’t remember what he was even upset about. Why did hurt so much? What was he forgetting? Think, think, think.

He staggered and leaned heavily against a tree trunk. The light was all wrong, it glinted and glared and threatened to blind him. Was that his head buzzing, or had hornets encircled him? He swiped blindly at the air around him and his claws bit into bark. Why were his claws out…?

Ugh, it was getting hard to think and his mouth still tasted awful, like the air around that weird crystal, and the blood of the thing that had attacked them. His whole body was buzzing now. He tripped on not-so-human legs and fell forward into a more comfortable stance, spine shifting with a grinding crunch. The cloth binding his throbbing arm ripped and tore at the shifting of muscle and bones beneath it. This… this was wrong, he wasn’t in control here, what was going on? Where was Ford?

Ford. Ford, who didn’t care for him. Who saw him as an oddity to be investigated, and later discarded. He had been stupid to think that his brother would want him around. That hurt, enough to make his eyes prickle. Of course Ford wouldn’t want to help him.

(Yes he would. Brother is Safe.)

(But he only likes not-me.)

(Wait, that’s… me? Who am I…?)

Maybe it was easier to just let go.

Just for a little bit; let the hurt fade into numbness until it wasn’t quite as hard to bear anymore. Let himself forget the ache in his chest. Close his eyes and no longer be…

…who?

Someone who was already dead, just a ghost of pain and frustration.

It was all too easy to let go.

[jtem]

Better Call Saul Season-6 Predictions

#1.  Lalo dies

The buzz online is that Lalo survives Better Call Saul and is still running around, unseen, in the Breaking Bad world.

Don’t believe it.

Most of this buzz seems to be emanating from the same source. I’ve watched more than one Youtube video speculating about Season-6, for example, which pretty much mirrored each other. We’re talking little or no difference in content from supposedly unrelated people! So that’s not a Buzz, that’s the studio setting expectations.

Anyhow, the buzz points back to an Episode in Breaking Bad, Season-2, where Walt & Jesse kidnap Saul in an attempt to pressure/scare him into not making any deals with the DEA no matter how beneficial they would be for his client. Anyhow, they succeed in scaring Saul, he thinks they’re drug cartel henchmen, and pleads for his life insisting “it wasn’t me” and “it was Ignacio.”

Ignacio is the Nacho character’s real name in Better Call Saul.

So the Buzz is claiming that the scene in Breaking Bad, WHICH TAKES PLACE AFTER SEASON-6 OF BETTER CALL SAUL, means that Lalo is still alive & walking around, and none of this makes sense.

“Family is everything.”

That’s a Salamanca family creed, heard in Breaking Bad & Better Call Saul both.

There were at least four Salamancas alive in the Breaking Bad universe at the time Saul Goodman was pleading for his life and none of those Salamancas were Lalo.

Hector. Not very active, post stroke, but not dead.

Hector’s two nephews (the psycho twins), later done in by Hank Schrader, but still very much alive at this point.

Hector’s son, who is eventually killed by Jesse in Season-4.

So we don’t need Lalo alive for Saul to fear retribution, we’ve got Salamancas enough for that,  and... And... AND...

Lalo doesn’t kill Saul. If Lalo was alive and had reason to murder Saul, Saul would be dead. 

But, again, Lalo isn’t in Breaking Bad. The last of the Salamancas dies in Season-4 of Breaking Bad and none of them are Lalo. Gus visits Hector in the nursing home, after poisoning the cartel’s leadership, taunting him with the fact that they’re all dead and the Salamanca name dies with him (Hector).

We watched all the Salamancas die. None of them were Lalo.

#2.  Kim Wexler

Ever notice that Kim’s enemies are all men? She hates Howard. She hates Kevin at Messe Verde. The victims of her little play con games were men. She’s a loner, she doesn’t seem to have any friends except for Jimmy, and Jimmy appears less a man in her life than a surrogate mom. Which doesn’t make sense because she didn’t seem to get along with her mom too well. But we don’t really know much of that story so maybe Jimmy/Saul is that loving relationship she never had with her mom, maybe Jimmy/Saul is a place holder for the dad we never saw... 

Kim’s mom was unreliable and pretty shady it seems. That implies Jimmy but who knows? Still I have to make a prediction so I’m saying that Jimmy is Kim’s way of trying to have an emotional relationship with her mom.

I don’t think we’ve seen “The Real Kim” in Season-5. 

“Opposites Attract.” Kim is far more similar to Howard and Kevin than she is to Jimmy, which may explain her negative feelings towards them. She’s beating on herself? By beating on them she’s beating on herself?

Anyway, I think the journey for Kim comes full circle, and the Jimmy Experiment ends. I don’t think she dies, I think she walks. That, the love and attention from whatever parent she never got growing up she now gets from Jimmy has served it’s purpose. It fulfilled her needs.  And, she realizes this. She doesn’t hate Jimmy, it’s an experience she had always wanted, and Jimmy is never going to stop loving her but their paths diverge in Season-6.

Would be a hoot if she winds up with Howard... Probably what I would have done with the story.

#3.  Jimmy/Saul

At some point Jimmy fully transforms into the Saul Goodman character of Breaking Bad, and I’m guessing it’s the departure of Kim Wexler from his life that makes it happen.

Supposedly “Slipping Jimmy” had been trying to recast himself, and rebrand himself, from the beginning of the series, and he drew most if not all the inspiration from Kim Wexler. It was her rise from humble mailroom beginning to Power Attorney that prompted Jimmy to try the same. It was Kim, or Jimmy’s emotions for Kim, that drew him away from the path of Slipping Jimmy and towards that of Kim’s... and his brother’s. 

Anyway, I see Kim as Jimmy’s anchor. He’s a moth drawn inexorably towards her flame. The moment that flame is gone there is nothing to oppose Slipping Jimmy, no reason to fight it, no incentive to try much less actually change.

So that’s how I see it:  Kim walks and Saul Goodman snaps back hard into the Slipping Jimmy traits. He becomes the Saul Goodman of Breaking Bad.

#4. Nacho/Ignacio

I suspect that he dies. If I was writing for the show I would certainly write that in, his death, see if it stuck. I mean, he clearly has no future in the Better Call Saul universe as he doesn’t appear as Nacho/Ignacio. 

Could he just run? Of course. That’s what he wants to do. He wants out of the drug cartel, he wants out of his life of crime, he wants to run and he could certainly do that. He could run. And that could be why the character is not in Breaking Bad. It could be. It could happen that way. Or he can die. I’m going to say he dies.

#5.  Francesca

I don’t know. I really honestly don’t. She was an employee of Jimmy’s and Kim’s, they loved her, she was a great worker and then in Breaking Bad she seems like a mostly angry and corrupted person. On Breaking Bad she often comes across as somebody who is compromised and doesn’t like it, but she clearly is not lifting a finger to stop being compromised...

So I don’t get it.

Francesca returns to Saul Goodman sometime between Season-6 of Better Call Saul and Season-2 of Breaking Bad. I’m assuming we see her in Season-6. So, um, I guess that’s my prediction? We see Francesca again?

#6.  They overlap

Better Call Saul is a prequel to Breaking Bad. It happens first. Right?

Not necessarily.

The two shows could run concurrently.

Saul Goodman doesn’t make his first appearance in Breaking Bad until Season-2, Episode-8. So that leaves the entire first year and just over half the second for a Better Call Saul/Breaking Bad crossover.

We’ll definitely see more Breaking Bad characters pop up in Season-6. The money is on Walter White making an appearance.

#10.  The Breaking Bad Movie

So Breaking Bad ends and Walter White is dead, right? No. Wrong. All we saw was him collapse, presumably unconscious. But he could have been alive. People survive gunshot wounds all the time. So Walt is alive, in prison and the first act of the film is Walt’s stupendous breakout! We’re talking Mission Impossible & MacGyver all rolled into one! Walt engineers the most brilliant escape EVER, and then goes hunting for his $80 million that the Neo Nazis stole from him. He doesn’t know where it is but unlike everyone else on the planet he knows that it exists.

What do you think? Ground penetrating RADAR? Maybe inferred to search out changes in surface temperature, revealing hidden doors or tunnels?

AND THEN he needs to go after Gretchen & Elliot. Walt hated them, yes, but if you recall he dropped all of his money on them with instructions to gift it to his son, Walt Junior. Gretchen and Elliot agreed, of course, but after Walt’s capture they turn it all over to law enforcement, double crossing Walt. So Walt needs revenge on them, but he also needs a flight out of the country because he’s sick of trying to hide his cash, and he doesn’t want to go underground. No, Walt wants to retire someplace where he can live out his life as a free man, spend his money without care and Gretchen & Elliot just happen to own a private jet!

See how that works out?

Now, is Jesse involved in any of this? Jesse now knows that everything he was thinking about Walt was wrong, that Walt never double crossed him but he had double crossed Walt.

Jesse’s turning point -- against Walt -- when he was waiting to “The Vacuum Cleaner Repair Man” to help him to disappear, start a new life. Jesse seems to believe that he was being set up but in El Camino he spots the exact same mini van parked at the vacuum cleaner’s shop, so he knows that Walt was legitimately trying to help.

So, maybe now Jesse wants to help Walt. Or maybe law enforcement caught up to him and he just wants to escape and start a new life somewhere else, like Walt.

Is Saul Goodman in prison? How does Season-6 end? We know that in Season-5 he got made by a cab driver who seems intent on some sort of “Reward” i.e. blackmail. Maybe he puts Saul in prison. Or someone else recognizes him. Anything. So by the end of Season-6 Saul may be behind bars with Walt or even Walt & Jesse.

I think I’d rather see Walt reunited with his family on Gretchen & Elliot’s plane, instead of Saul. And the movie might need a sequel anyway, and Saul is as good a reason to have one as any,  so there’s that...

[post-itpenny]

The Challenge

So this is completely ridiculous but I’ve had the idea for a while and just really wanted to try writing some Dead By Daylight.

Yeah this is definitely ridiculous.

There were few things they could take comfort in while trapped in this never ending nightmare that the survivors called “The Game.”

The first being that despite how twisted and horrifying the game was, it did still have some semblance of a set of rules that both survivors and killers alike had to follow.

The second being that for some reason, despite coming from different countries and languages, they could all understand each other. They heard each other in their own languages except or obvious accents. It was strange and unnerving, something that became more disturbing as more and more survivors came claiming to be from different decades.

Jane speculated it was because they were dead, explaining to the others the last thing she remembered was flying off the road thanks to some black ice. Adam added that he had been in a train crash which he was certain he should not have survived. It was Kate that pointed out she had been literally yanked out of reality by The Entity and dropped by the campfire. Several others could attest getting lost or just walking into the fog by complete accident.

Perhaps it was another rule they didn’t fully understand. But then again, communication was vital during a trial. Regardless of the reasoning of The Entity the survivors all agreed it was a small comfort being able to speak with each other.

Which led to how everything started.

Dwight, Claudette, Nea, and Jeff had been pulled into a trial. The anxiety that came with waiting for those in a trial to return never lessoned. There had been a handful of survivors that only lasted a few rounds before completely breaking, dying in a trial and not returning to the campfire. No one wanted to think about what may have happened to those few but the fear someone else would break was always present.

Fifteen minutes in and Dwight had appeared, his clothes muddy and torn. The look on his face said it all- a mori.

“Ghost Face,” he groaned, “‘Dette was hooked and I ran to help her. Should have known it was too easy since he had already gotten me once.” Dwight sighed as he shrugged off his shirt and took the offered needle and thread from Quinten. The Entity could repair broken bones and gored flesh; heck, it even fixed Dwight’s glasses more than once. But it was apparently not a tailor.

From across the campfire Bill shook his head as he took a drag of his cigarette, “how the hell did he get you so fast boy?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Dwight snapped back with a slight whine in his voice, “I spawned in right next to the guy. I didn’t have a chance.”

Half an hour later the other three came back, Claudette seemed…. dumbfounded.

Nea was laughing hysterically.

“I would have paid anything the see his fuckin’ face!” She cackled. “You guys, guys! You won’t believe it!”

Apparently Nea had also tried to come to Claudette’s aid, hanging back in the tall grass as she saw Ghost Face pounce on Dwight. But then-

“So he’s fishing his camera out of a pocket and to take a picture and- an-“ Nea couldn’t continue, breaking into another fit of laughter. Claudette, who had seen everything, continued.

“Ghost Face took a selfie with Dwight’s body and Nea photobombed it.”

“He sat there for two minutes just staring at the stupid screen!”  Nea screamed between fits of laughter, Dwight gave  a huff of annoyance and half-heartedly shoved Nea off the log she sat on and flat on her back in the dirt, tears in her eyes with laughter.

Bill took another drag of his nearly dissolved cigarette and scowled. “That was bold but stupid, what if he turned around and stabbed you?”

“Oh come off it old man,” Nea scoffed, “pass me a cig from wherever the hell you get them from.”

“Nope, you’ll ruin your lungs.”

“Bill you-“

“So what's a photobomb?”

It had been Nancy that had asked, which considering it had been the 80’s last time she and Steve had checked no one could blame her. Confusion about slang did not change even if they could understand each other, the time gaps not helping. So it was explained what it meant to photobomb someone and as the realization of what Nea had done really started to sink in, most of the group could agree, it was hilarious.

But then two days later Ace decided it would be funny to sing “I Only Have Eyes For You” to the Nurse, leaving the apparition coming to a halt in her chase with Meg. He made it through the first verse before she seemed to pull herself together and swing at him with her bone saw. Ace died pretty quickly that round but that night at the campfire they were all in better spirits than they had been in a long time as they listened to Ace and Meg recount the story.

And so, the challenge was born.

There were several like Bill, Tapp, and Jane who saw it as reckless but even Claudette who was arguably one of the most level headed of them all pointed out that it wasn’t like anyone would die permanently. Plus, if it raised everyone’s spirits then wasn’t the risk worth it?

Even the survivors got bored with the monotony of one trial after another, so anything that could spice things up was welcomed by most.

It took some time to explain what a “meme” was, several failing since the best they could do was give examples that not everyone understood. But the idea got across soon enough and quickly led to Steve screaming “is that a cat?!” As the Demigorgon charged his way which led to Feng Min screaming “yeet!” As the Huntress threw a hatchet in Bill’s direction.

The Huntress didn’t seem to appreciate the humor as much as Feng Min did.

Perhaps the boldest came from Laurie who had at first been very much against the idea of taunting the killers in such a way. But she had been inspired, and there were very few things that could bring her as much joy as giving her brother any form of grief.

Kate and Quinten has been trapped in a corner of the ironworks, Michael staring them down as he prepared to strike-

But they were far more interested in Laurie who was standing an arm’s length behind him.

Michael lunged and they split in separate directions; Kate apparently being the unfortunate chosen as Michael chased her out of the ironworks and Quinten watched as Laurie followed right behind, just as stealthy and quiet as her brother could ever be. She followed him like this for nearly the entire match and when Michael did finally turn around to spot Laurie he skipped the usual protocol and went straight to a mori.

It was amazing and Quinten was well convinced Laurie could be just as dangerous as her brother given the right circumstances.

Many of them took turns playing like this, even at the risk of an early death the survivors found it worth it for just two minutes of a good laugh. They now had stories to share around the campfire aside from the mournful accounts of what they missed from their old lives. Even Jane eventually joined in, propping her arms up on a window ledge and holding a thirty second mock interview with an extremely confused Wraith with an imaginary microphone held out for his response.

They started repeating the antics of each other which infuriated some of the killers to no end. The Huntress especially really did not seem to like it when someone screamed “yeet.” But a challenge was still a challenge and the ultimate goal was to outdo each other.

Dwight often did not feel like a proper leader even though he somehow had found his way into the role. He didn’t like the idea of the others willingly throwing themselves in harm's way for the sake of a laugh. It already worried him to no end when Meg or someone else would lead a killer on the chase so the others could work on a generator. The theory that they would always come back as long as they had hope felt shaky to him at best. If The Entity could bring them back on a whim then surely it could just get rid of them if they proved too troublesome. It did make the rules of the game after all.

And yet…

Dwight was running as fast as he could, the leader of The Legion right behind him. He turned a corner and dashed for a pallet, hoping the killer had not reached a frenzied state yet. Dwight lept to the other side of the pallet and slammed it down in the killer’s face. He stood there for a moment as some speck of sanity seemed to snap and his brain went to autopilot.

Dwight dabbed and took off running again.

From behind him came a roar of laughter, spotting Nea he gave a grin as he dashed off into the cornfields of Coldwind Farms.

Later on he somehow made it out of the trial alive, giggling like mad as he sat down next to Nea.

“Did you see? That was amazing!”

“Y-yeah I saw you,” she stammered.

Dwight frowned, “look I know it’s not the most impressive but you still laughed-“

“That wasn’t me.”

“... what?”

“Dwight, that wasn’t me laughing. I was hiding in a corner, I wasn’t laughing.”

It was then Dwight realized the laughter he had heard was distinctly male.

Dwight slipped off the log in a dead faint.