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anntoldst0ries · 4 years ago

Text

Everything else is just the weather

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Dr Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr Noelle Valentine) Word Count: ~5.3k (I sinned!) Summary: Ethan takes Elle out on their “first” date. Category: Fluff Warnings: None

A/N: It has literally taken me ages to finish this fic. To the point that I couldn’t look at it anymore, but here it is. I had it in mind for a really long time and now that OH is back, I feel like I’m ready to show it to the world. As always thank you for your support and I hope you like it!

This fic is part 2 of birthday present for my friend, part 1 is the fan art which you can see here. Once you read the fic, the fan art makes more sense :)

This is my submission for CFWC Silly Love Stories, Day 12: Date night.

Loud knocks resonated throughout the room.

"Come in!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Peterson.”

“Good morning, Dr Valentine. I think you are the only doctor in this hospital with some sort of manners, everyone else just waltzes in here as if it was a damn barn!”

“Hospital or no hospital, everyone has their right to privacy.”

“Thank you, child. Once again, please call me Faye."

"Alright Faye, but only if you call me Elle.” She smiled sweetly, and the whole room seemed to be suddenly lit by a thousand suns.

“How are you feeling? Are the meds making a difference?"

"They are. I am ready to be discharged today.”

"Not so fast. I am not ready to say goodbye to you yet."

“Why would you possibly like to be lumbered with an old nuisance like me for even a second longer than necessary?”

Elle just laughed and shook her head. The ‘nuisance’, as the elderly lady so lovingly put it, was exactly what she loved about her job. She loved spending time with her patients, she loved their stories and their worldly wisdom. It made her sad to see how many of them thought they didn’t matter or considered themselves and their lives boring. To her, they were anything but.

Many of Edenbrook’s staff members kept asking themselves: what is it about her? She was a great doctor, no two ways about it, and she was a genuinely nice person. But what was the source of power she had over people? If she woke up one day and decided to start a rebellion, patients would have most certainly followed her, even if it meant they’d be leaving the premises of the hospital with naked butts or trailing their IVs behind them. Doctors, nurses, administration, cleaners and security would follow shortly. She only had to say a word.

And how on Earth was she capable of turning Dr Ramsey, the grizzly bear of Edenbrook, into a benign teddy bear with as little as one look? It was beyond everyone’s apprehension.

Had they spent more time actually observing her, rather than gossiping in the corners, the answer would have unveiled in front of them within minutes.

It was very simple.

Noelle was truly curious about people. She genuinely liked them and was determined to get to know their story, for it helped her diagnose them faster and also satiated the young doctor’s hunger for knowledge.

Patients never felt like “curious cases” or “numbers” in her presence. They were… themselves - people with hopes, dreams, fears, pet peeves and odd habits. They were human.

So little and yet so much.

Those never touched by serious illnesses often failed to understand that sickness strips you of your dignity and becomes your identity. Your true self becomes covered by this weird, annoying sticker that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard you tried to remove it.

But this young woman, despite the nature of her profession, somehow managed to notice what was hiding beneath this misleading layer.

Had all these gossipers spoken to her patients, that’s exactly what they would have heard.

"What's happening today?" The older lady asked with a flick of curiosity in her wrinkle-haloed eyes.

"What do you mean, Faye?" The young doctor sounded genuinely baffled by the out-of-the-blue question.

"Well, I am no diagnostician, but I believe I am rather observant and you radiate with happiness. Something special is happening today, am I right?"

"Yeah, you are right." Elle blushed like a teenager caught in a lie. "My boyfriend is taking me on a surprise date today, but he won’t say a word about it, so I'm super excited to find out what he planned for us. He usually isn't one for romantic gestures, so the secrecy is killing me."

"Do you think he's gonna pop the big question?" Faye’s eyes lit up with excitement.

"No, we're not there...yet." Elle faked a smile, but a tone of doubt and sadness coloured her voice. They probably never will be, those things weren’t in the cards for Ethan, as he already stressed once.

But once was enough and she didn’t dare mention the subject again.

"Well, I'm pretty sure he's got some big guns in store, I would if I had a lady like you." - a male patient lying in the bed adjacent to Elle’s patient added smiling flirtatiously.

"Jerry, you were supposed to focus on getting better, not stealing my girlfriend." They all jumped when a deep baritone echoed throughout the room, hitting present company like a wrecking ball. She must have left the door ajar or Ethan could penetrate the walls soundlessly, because no one heard him coming.

Exactly how long has he been standing there for and how much did he hear?

"Dr. Ramsey, flirting makes your blood flow faster. Isn't it the very definition of life itself?” Jerry’s tone was brisk and lively.

"Well, it definitely isn't the definition of recovery after a heart attack." Ethan used his authoritative doctor’s voice but knew this wasn't a battle he was going to win. Jerry had something he didn't: a couple more decades of life experience under his belt and even the best medical school in the country couldn’t compete with this.

"Besides, Dr. Ramsey, I don't think that the beautiful Dr. Valentine here fancies old farts like me."

"That's where you are wrong, Jerry, looks like this is exactly the type I fancy." The two women laughed, however Ethan was far from amused. "Dr. Ramsey is 10 years older than me."

"10 years? What is 10 years in these times? Nothing. When I was getting married 40 years ago, it was something. But today? Look at all them playboys with girls younger than my granddaughter. 10 years is actually a very healthy difference. Men are immature and slower with growing up emotionally. So I'd say you've caught up, Dr. Ramsey, and the two of you are emotional peers now.”

“Thank you for the fascinating lesson in human psychology, Jerry. To think I’ve wasted all this time and money on medical school and no one taught me this.”

“Dr. Ramsey, it’s because schools and useful knowledge are mutually exclusive.”

Elle and Faye were on the verge of bursting out in laughter, but managed to keep their composure and used the non-verbal communication of exchanging glances instead.

Once they made sure their patients had everything they need, Ethan and Elle wished them a good day and promised to stop by in 2 days, as the following day was their day off.

The moment the door closed behind them, Ethan crossed his arms on his chest.

"I lose you from my sight for one second and this happens. 5 more minutes with Jerry and I'd be single again."

"At least no one wants to poke your eyes out for being with me."

"And someone wants to poke yours?"

"Where do I start... nurses, who had a crush on you long before I even set foot in Edenbrook? Female interns? Anyone, who has a pair of functioning eyes and ever looked at you?"

She was adorable when she was doing this, her whole body overtaken by excitement and her hands waving. When she was talking about something really important to her she wasn't just conversing with her mouth, she was doing it with her whole body.

Suddenly, his pager painfully reminded Ethan that this was neither the place nor the time to lose himself in adoration.

"I need to go, I'm completely swamped today and I have my favourite cherry-on-top board meeting. In case I don't see you for the rest of your shift - I’ll pick you up at 7."

He was gone before she was able to form a response. Was it just her or was Dr Ramsey weirdly… nervous?

* * * * * * * *

At 7pm sharp, Ethan Ramsey curled his palm in a fist and gently knocked. The door opened in an instant, as if someone knew he'd been standing there for the past few minutes.

"Ethan! I mean Dr. Ramsey...please come in!" Sienna squeaked with nervous excitement as she let him in.

"Outside of Edenbrook Ethan is just fine, Sienna. If you don't mind me calling you by your first name, of course."

"Mm..mme? No, yes, I mean... Elle is on the balcony." She tried to hide her embarrassment and motioned towards the tall windows surrounding the living room. Some time ago, he would have been oddly proud to have such an intimidating effect on people - nowadays, more than anything, he was amused. Has he really changed so much?

The answer to his question was leaning against the railing, glass of wine in her hand. Gauzy, flowery dress enveloped her frame and tanned skin.

For Ethan, it was as clear as crystal: summer had the face and scent of Noelle Valentine.

Long before she started leaving her toothbrush in his apartment and sleeping in his old JH t-shirts, Ethan noticed that whenever he laid eyes on her, his whole body started acting in a very irrational way. His doctor’s instincts prompted him to think of all types of biological causes and chemical reactions in the brain. Then, when he sort of admitted to himself it’s not just pure science, Ethan leaned towards the forbidden fruit theory - the more he couldn’t have his drug, the more he was craving it.

But the feeling never disappeared. Whenever he wouldn’t see her for a while - be that an hour, a day, or just when she went to take a shower or make a coffee - the very moment her face came into his view again, he felt his stomach somersaulting.

Every. Single. Time.

It wasn’t any different now.

"Drinking without me?"

She almost dropped the glass when his voice stopped the train of thought in her head. But then she saw his face, the way too seldom relaxed muscles and a barely-there smile.

A perfectly tailored shirt clung to his torso marvellously. If not in medicine, he surely would have made a name for himself in the fashion industry. Fortunately for her, the idea never crossed his mind.

The warm wind blew in her face, carrying the scent of expensive cologne which overwhelmed her nostrils. She didn’t know this one, so it must have been new. But she did know that smelling it for the whole evening while staring at his handsome face will be a pure torture.

Simply put, she was a goner.

"I don't know why, but I was quite nervous. Had to summon the courage somehow.”

“As you should be. After all, it's not every day that one goes on their first date."

She looked at him as if she’d just been told that a UFO landed on the roof.

“On a what?”

"Well, I was thinking a lot lately about how we never had a first date. Nothing was ever...typical with us. I promised myself I will do my best to fix things that caused you pain or deprived you of the things you deserved. Maybe I cannot fix some immediately, but this one I can, so I will."

Her eyes, overbrimming with affection struck him like thousand lightnings. Thank god a comfortable silence fell between them - had she asked him a question, it would have been clear that right now he is nothing but a simpering moron.

With this in mind, he took his hands from behind his back, holding a small bouquet of pink gerberas.

"These are my favourites." Her face instantly illuminated at the well known sight and smell. "How did you know?”

"I had some amazing helpers."

Elle instantly turned her head left and looked inside, where grinning, Sienna was showing her the thumbs up.

"Wow, now I actually wish I'd downed the whole bottle."

"I'm glad you didn't. I want to go on a date with a woman, not her lifeless body, even though the body itself is very appealing. Shall we?”

“King of compliments…”

* * * * * * * *

"You actually look like you are having a good time, Dr Ramsey.”

"Why wouldn't I? There is alcohol, sitting under the sky definitely has its charm and the company is acceptable." She playfully swatted his arm, the gesture a quick reminder of how comfortable they felt with each other, something he constantly remembered to never take for granted.

“Although I love this, I still don’t understand why you dragged me all the way outside Boston, I’m pretty sure the rooftop bars are pretty acceptable there, too. A bit more crowded though, that’s for sure.”

“Are you complaining about the fact that we have this entire place to ourselves? I know the owner and he was indebted to me.”

“Of course he was.” Looks like the whole town is indebted to Ethan freakin’ Ramsey.

“With regards to why I brought you here… you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Gosh. She couldn’t decide whether the mysterious side of Ethan Ramsey was hot as hell or annoying as hell. But she didn’t really have time to contemplate, because her companion asked her a question.

“Why did you become a doctor?” The ocean eyes pierced her to the core and she had a feeling that even if she was the best actress in the world, there was no way she’d be able to hide something from this man.

“That’s a terrible change of subject. Also, I must have told you like a million times already.”

“No, you never told me.”

When she looked at him and really, really thought about it… she suddenly realised Ethan was right. Elle told the story so many times she sort of… assumed she told Ethan, too.

“Are you sure you want to hear it today? It’s a pretty sad story, a mood killer I’d say.”

“It’s what makes you you, so yes, I want to hear all about it - the good, the bad and the indifferent.”

“I’ll tell you, but I need to ask something first. Why now? We’ve known each other for a while and you just… I just sort of assumed this isn’t the type of conversation you’d like to hold.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head.” Ethan’s expression was gentle, not a hint of irony in his voice. “I’ve known you for a while now, but there are still so many things about you that I don’t know. At first, I didn’t want to ask, because asking these questions meant admitting that there is something more between us. What a fail would that be, after I’ve mastered the art of denial.” He laughed, but it wasn’t a bitter or a nervous laugh, it was a genuine banter between them, as the British half of her soul liked to call it. “But you made me want to dig deeper.”

Was it the heat that made her catch her breath, or did it have nothing to do with the temperature?

“Plus, this is sort of what first dates are for, right? I’m sorry for skipping right to the more complex questions. It’s not that I don’t want to know what you were afraid of as a child, I want to know all the details… but it feels like the atmosphere calls for something…bigger.”

So she told him all about her friend, how she fell ill, how she couldn’t be saved and how the experience wreaked havoc on her whole life, tears glistening in her eyes at the mere memory of the events that shaped who she was today.

Ethan listened, his whole body tense and eyes transfixed. She was giving him one of the most fragile parts of her and he had to make sure his hands were there to catch, carry and care for this treasure.

“And that’s when I realised that if I focused on becoming the best doctor I could be, then maybe one day, I’d be that person who has an answer, who can solve a mystery and save a relationship that means the world to someone. Sometimes, people don’t realise that when a person dies, it’s not only them that’s gone. The part of someone who stays, who has to deal with the whole ‘me after you’ - that part is gone, too. So for me, in a way, this meant saving more than one life.”

For a couple of seconds he didn’t move. Then, without saying a single word and with an unreadable expression he got up and offered her a hand, which she silently accepted. He led her to the railing, where the sun was slowly sinking into the boundless waters of Quincy Bay.

His lips found the all too well known way to her forehead, placing a loving kiss on her delicate skin.

“I am so proud of you.” There was something so mesmerising in his whisper, sending a shiver down her spine.

“As a mentor or as a boyfriend?”

“Both. I want you to know that your dedication to people who rely on you is astounding and hardly present in doctors your age. Or any age, for that matter.”

“Wow, Dr Ramsey, smooth. Trying to hit on me with a recycled pick-up line used on a national TV? No wonder you didn’t have too many girlfriends.”

“No, I didn’t. But I believe everyone has a limit of luck they can get per life. And looking at you, I got a couple of lifetimes worth of luck.”

This was enough to render her speechless. She smiled and at this very moment he knew he would do anything to make her smile like this. She wrapped him around her pinky finger and suddenly his whole existence revolved around finding ways of seeing her curve these breathtaking lips as often as possible and making sure he is the reason she smiles… not crying her eyes out.

Although the other didn’t know, because none of them said it out loud, they both thought the same thing.

This feels so right.

There isn’t a hint of awkwardness in the fact that they can go from being serious or emotionally vulnerable to funny and teasing in seconds.

In one effortless movement, Ethan spun her and pressed her back against his chest. Then, he started placing a series of tender kisses along her jawline and the crook of her neck, slowly moving towards her shoulder.

Come on, just say it Ramsey. It doesn’t get any better than this.

He wrapped her palm in his and pointed them towards the sky.

“There they are - the Little Dipper and the Big Dipper.” Their intertwined fingers were jumping from one tiny flashing point to the other, as if they were playing connect the dots. “And that’s Orion’s Belt.”

“I really don’t get why at this point I’m still surprised that you’re good at everything.”

Elle was drunk on his every word, as this annoying trait of Ethan Ramsey being the know-it-all was actually one of her favourite things about him.

As for Ethan, he couldn’t help but think that life wasn’t perfect and was never going to be. But this - this moment - it was in fact perfect. Why take chances of ruining it, when so many things can go wrong?

What if she doesn't say it back?

What if she's just gonna laugh at him or tell him he had it all wrong.

What if he misinterpreted everything and she never thought about him this way?

He was terrified of being this exposed. The last person he loved so much left him without batting an eyelid and disappeared for 25 fucking years.

Maybe it was better to live in a perfect illusion than a reality in which there was even a 0.01% chance she doesn't love him back.

So they both drowned in the moment, drifted in the sea of rapture, lost in the illusion that it can all last forever.

It was her who broke the silence.

“I’m getting a bit cold, is it ok if we call it a night?”

“Right, of course.”

“Thank you for the first date, I loved it.”

Handing her his jacket (her favourite, the dark green leather one) Ethan was furious at himself.

Maybe he was broken. Maybe he will remain broken forever. Maybe that’s the way it must be.

“Do you want to spend the night at mine?” The question slipped his tongue before he was able to fully reflect on it.

“At yours? Unless you have some secret place I don’t know about, just a quick reminder - I live there too.”

“Since this was our first date, I thought it was a gentlemanly thing to ask.”

“In that case… I am afraid I have the ‘after the 3rd date’ sleepover rule, Dr Ramsey.”

* * * * * * * *

The morning came all too soon and the hot, ruthless rays of the rising sun announced that Ethan is now way past his regular wake up and get up time. He barely slept, tossing and turning, replaying every second of the evening in his head.

His hand mindlessly reached for what he hoped to be the familiar curves and softness of the body he adored so much.

But his palm hit the mattress with a loud thud. The bed was empty.

The all-too-well known feeling of hopelessness slipped into the doctor's mind with ease. What did he expect? He was acting weird the previous day. First date, what a stupid idea. She must have realised something is wrong with him and finally left.

But before he was able to fully wallow in the mud of pity, the feeling was soon replaced by an old friend Ethan haven’t heard from for a long time.

Panic.

Where was she? Is she ok? What if something happened to her and he was just sleeping like a log instead of being there to protect her. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing her… again. Something grabbed his chest in a tight grip and wouldn’t let go.

Scenes flashed before his eyes, vivid and bright. Their hands touching through the glass wall. Her hand cupping his cheek through the layer of hazmat suit.

He got out of bed at the speed of sound and started running around the apartment, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, he noticed.

The balcony door was opened wide.

Shit.

Heart in his mouth, Ethan crossed the distance between his kitchen island and the balcony door in the blink of an eye.

Elle was just serving pancakes outside. The goddamn pancakes. The only thing he couldn’t cook. The one thing she kept teasing him about and he rolled his eyes every time she did.

God, he promised himself he will never learn how to make them, if it meant she would just tease him forever.

She was smiling as widely as ever, putting the sun and everything else in the world to shame. Ethan was still a bit shaken and his uneven breathing gave him away. Elle finally noticed his presence.

“Good morning, I was just about to—“

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They both froze.

The tension in the silence that had just set in was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

But the silence didn’t last long. As one man, with eyes full of disbelief, they both murmured simultaneously:

“What did you just say?”

This time, he felt obliged to break the silence.

"I...I...I mean, I…"

Damn it, get it together, idiot.

"I didn't mean to…”

Great, Ramsey, keep digging an even deeper hole for yourself, then crawl in and stay there forever.

"You didn't mean to say it?”

"Yes. No. I mean, damn it, I am making things worse, aren't I?”

She didn’t set him straight.

"The thing is, I wanted to say it yesterday. I had it all planned, I took you for a first date and I wanted to say it for the first time yesterday.”

"Why did it have to be yesterday?”

“Give me a minute.”

She just rolled her eyes, but Ethan didn’t have a chance to notice before disappearing inside. A few moments later he re-emerged, his face and torso covered by a neatly wrapped, rectangle-shaped object.

"What's this?"

"Something you should have unpacked yesterday, but then... life happened."

Elle sat down on cold tiles, her hands trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. And just like he did months ago, he took her hand in his, only this time he cupped his own cheek with her palm and placed the most tender kiss on the inside of her hand.

It was her favourite medicine, a remedy for all things wrong.

He sat beside her and nodded at the mysterious package. With impatience growing inside of her, Elle has torn the paper up.

Inside was a dark blue, framed print - the colour of it an instant reminder of her favourite set of irises.

She studied everything with intent. A circle must have been representing the earth and the irregular dots and lines must have been the stars and constellations.

"A map of the sky? That's beautiful, Ethan."

He knew immediately that although her delight was sincere, she had absolutely no clue what she was looking at and why she was looking at it.

“It's not just any map of the sky.” Ethan explained gently, hints of pride colouring his voice. “It's a map of the Boston sky from exactly a year ago. Well, a year and a day.” He smiled faintly, now a shade of sorrow in his enchanting voice.

Silence. Was she supposed to know what that meant?

“Aren’t you full of mysteries today? Ok, you need to throw me a lifebelt here. What's so special about the sky from a year and a day ago?”

“For the world? Probably not too much. For me? Everything.”

At this stage of their relationship, she knew a lot about Ethan’s behaviours, triggers, his body language. And not just a relationship as a couple, but also everything that came before Ethan became someone she was running through life with (the life of two doctors in one of the busiest and most prestigious hospitals was certainly not a walk in the park).

But it still fascinated her how his demeanour changed whenever the subject was serious, whenever he was talking about something that truly mattered to him. It was as if he’d stripped down of all the layers and let her look into his bare soul. These rare moments of vulnerable intimacy meant more to her than any night of passion they ever shared.

Her eyes turned to him in pledge, because as much as she wanted to, Dr Valentine still couldn’t fully comprehend the scene unraveling in front of her.

“Read the description below the map.”

Dear God, did she actually hear shyness in his voice?

She skimmed through the image again, and there it was, right at the bottom. Elle was so focused on trying to decipher the meaning of the image that she didn’t notice the words below.

The words which explained everything.

I WILL NEVER FORGET THE DAY

THAT MADE ME REALISE

YOU ARE THE SKY

EVERYTHING ELSE IS JUST THE WEATHER

Her emerald eyes brimmed with hot tears as the meaning dawned upon her. Words were very unnecessary, but now that he summoned the courage to speak, there was still a lot he wanted to put into words. He gently took the frame from her hands and leaned it securely against the wall.

Taking her palms into his, he placed delicate kisses on her knuckles, his lips tracing the shape of these two tiny hands, which held all of him. Everything he had, everything he was and was going to be, he placed in those two fragile palms, with an unspoken hope that they will hold him and catch him if he falls.

“Look at me.” The words were pulsing with care and affection, even though his voice coloured them in serious and desperate shades.

“One year ago… and a day from today…” He smiled and she felt the warmth spilling inside of her. The power he had over her was beyond the limits of understanding.

Little did she know that the object of her affection was lost in the same thought.

“I was standing exactly where we stand right now. It was dark and the view wasn’t that spectacular.” He freed one of his hands, but only to make contact with her cheek to caress it slowly. In this moment, he had to touch her any way that he could. With his hands. With his eyes. With his soul.

“But I always found comfort in staring at the sky. When I was at med school, I had countless moments of doubt, I wanted to quit more times than I can count. So I used to go to a secluded place at night and stare at the sky. It made me realise how, in one respect, I am just a grain of sand in the universe and how little my problems are. Funnily enough, this thought actually brought me a sense of comfort. If I am as little as I think I am, then what is the harm in being brave and taking chances? A wise man once said… There are some things that are worth any risk.”

She giggled through the tears, the sweet sound soothing his shattered nerves.

“I was standing right here and I never felt more miserable in my life. And I couldn’t understand why, for God’s sake. I was thriving at work. I had everything figured out and planned. I was pushing you to be the best you could be and I watched you turn into someone who would one day be far greater than me. But you looked so sad, so… broken. You already know I can’t just gloss over you feeling down. The sadder you were, the more miserable I felt. One evening, I was having a glass of scotch and I remembered some tiny exchange we’ve had earlier in the day, literally a chit chat. No idea what it was about. But I remembered your smile and your laugh. Every tiniest move of your muscles, your eyes, how your hair set around your face. It made me happy. Even if it was just for 5 minutes, knowing that you are happy in that very moment filled my chest with lightness. That’s when I realised I want to be the person who makes you feel this way.”

She blinked the first time in a while, as if she was afraid to make the tiniest movement, afraid it will all disappear and turn out to be a dream. Giant teardrops rolled down her angelic face, trailing the path of joy.

“Noelle Sky Valentine, I love you. I have loved you for a long time but I was too stubborn to let myself give in. And that, as you already know, will always be one of my biggest regrets.”

“Ethan, I don’t… I’m so sorry, I just don’t know what to say.” Her voice was saturated with emotions.

“I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.“

“I love you too, Ethan Jonah Ramsey. You are by far the most complicated and stubborn person I have ever met. You are… everything I never knew I looked for in another human being.”

Once he heard her say it back, he couldn't get enough of it and a lifetime didn't feel like enough to tell her he loves her, as many times as he wished to.

“But I do have to mention this, Dr Ramsey… from the first date to a love confession in less than 24 hours? I’m sorry, I think this is moving too fast.”

“I’ll show you too fast…but I’m afraid we need to get inside, I don’t want the whole world and its wife to see how I teach you a thing or two.”

Ethan scooped her in his arms and carried her inside, despite her mock protests. He smiled and corrected himself.

He wanted for the whole world to see.

Because the whole world was right there.

In his arms.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If you’ve gotten this far, I need you to know you are absolutely amazing 💗

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cinaja · 3 years ago

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Before the Wall part 58

Masterlist

----

The war is over.

Future history books will mark the day the Black Land surrendered as the official end of the war, although in reality, it was only a day after that that the last Loyalist country signed its surrender.

If not for what happened to the Black Land, historians will eventually write, it might have lasted for weeks, maybe months, longer. But as it was, no country wanted to share the Black Land’s fate, and so they surrendered rather than risk their land being turned to ashes. Throughout the centuries to come, historians will never manage to agree on whether that justified Miryam’s actions or not, although in these initial days, the wide-spread opinion throughout the Alliance is that the end of the war is worth any price. And in the human-and-Seraphim camp in the Black Land, everyone certainly agrees on that.

Stranded in a hostile country, there is little room for celebration, but still, a relieved, almost exuberant atmosphere hangs over the entire camp. The shared sense of victory does wonders to bridge some of the gaps between humans and Seraphim, so while they still keep separate camps, the two groups now mingle far more often, both during the marches and sitting around campfires afterwards.

Of course, some tensions remain, but Drakon is still amazed by how well things work out. This, he thinks, is what the future might be like with a bit of work. Humans and Fae, living side by side in peace and mutual respect. It will take years yet to get there – decades, maybe centuries – but they stand a chance.

In spite of all the horror behind them and the long road that is still in front of them, Drakon feels lighter than he has in years. Miryam seems happier as well. Occasionally, her face darkens when they pass barren fields or scorched villages, but she also smiles more than she has in years.

On the fifth day of their march east, towards the sea and the safety that lies beyond, Nephelle lands next to Drakon where he is walking near the front of the column.

“They’re making plans for bonfires now,” she says by way of greeting and grins. “I would personally say we had enough of fire for a while, but they seem to think that a good victory party requires at least one giant bonfire.”

“As long as they don’t get the idea to burn down the forests for celebration, I’m all for it,” Drakon says, grinning back at her.

Two days ago, his soldiers got the idea that they absolutely need to hold a celebration once they get back to Erithia. Celebrate the end of the war, victory and peace and the future that’s ahead of them. Planning has been underfoot ever since.

Some of the ideas they come up with are a bit extreme – for example, he had to categorically refuse the idea of shooting fireworks over the border to Rask – but he is happy that they are having fun, and even more happy that many of them are making a conscious effort to include the humans into their planning. From what he’s seen so far, most of the humans are as hesitant of the idea of a celebration as they are of anything that has to do with Fae (which is more than understandable, given what Miryam told him about what parties in the Black Land tended to mean for the human slaves), but some seem excited about the idea and are even tentatively joining the planning.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Nephelle says. “It’s been a while since we last had a celebration.”

Drakon nods. “I think everyone needed some happiness.”

“True,” Nephelle says. She ruffles her wings, shily glances down at her feet. “Talking about happiness: There was something I’ve been meaning to tell you about.” She looks around, checking that no one is close enough to listen. Slowly, a grin breaks out on her face. “Sinna and I are thinking of getting married.”

Drakon stares at her for a moment. Then, he throws his arms around her and spontaneously wraps her into a hug, grinning broadly. “That’s amazing, Nephelle! Congratulations.”

She grins and steps from one foot to the other. “We haven’t really decided on anything yet,” she says. “But, well. We talked. And I thought I’d tell you first because… well, because I wanted to thank you.”

“What for?” Drakon asks. He can’t remember doing anything that would warrant thanks.

“You suggested I become a cartographer,” Nephelle says, as if that is obvious. When Drakon still doesn’t reply, she sighs. “It was good for me. Personally.” She shrugs. “Because, well, I thought that this – “ She shifts her left wing. “ – somehow made me less worthy. That because I couldn’t fly as well as the others and would never be a soldier, I wasn’t as good as the other Seraphim and the thing between Sinna and me… well, that it would never work out in the end because of that.”

Not knowing what to say, Drakon simply nods. He remembers all too well how insecure Nephelle was about these things before the war. He also noticed that this seemed to change over the years of the war, but it never seemed fitting to ask what had prompted that change.

“Working as a cartographer helped,” Nephelle says. “It showed me that… well, that how well my wings work doesn’t dictate my worth as a person. It made me more secure, about my relationship with Sinna, yes, but more importantly in myself.”

Drakon smiles at her. “I’m so happy for you,” he says. The words aren’t really enough to convey what he is feeling, but Nephelle seems to understand anyways.

They have a small celebration in their tent that night, just Nephelle, Sinna, Miryam and him. Stuck in enemy territory, they don’t have access to any good food and can’t risk drinking alcohol, but well, they can make up for that once they are back in Erithia.

After just over a week on the march, they are finally approaching the ocean. Erithia only has a small fleet, not nearly enough to carry all humans at once, but they won’t need to go far. They will only need to sail through the passage between the Black Land and Seyhin and a bit further inland until they reach Erithia, and having the ships sail back and forth to get everyone across won’t take more than a few hours.

The closer they get to their destination, the better the mood gets. Everyone is excited to get out of the Black Land. The Seraphim are happy to return home to their families, while the humans are looking forward to finally leaving this place they hated and being able to build a home for themselves elsewhere or meet other humans.

Drakon is at the front of the group again, Miryam walking next to him this time. She is smiling and her steps are lighter, like she can’t wait to get out of here either. They have been discussing the developments in the camp for and hour, and Miryam is just beginning to tell him about Niria, one of the people the humans chose as their representants.

“She’s brilliant at logistics,” she says as they are climbing up another dune. “Her owner worked in a trading charter, and she picked up on a lot on how these things will work. She’s great, really. And she’s wonderful with the other humans as well. When they get their own country, I think – “

She breaks off mid-sentence, staring ahead. Drakon, who had been looking at her and not ahead, turns to follow her line of sight.

Below them, the ocean stretches out, waves lapping on a wide beach. Here, the ships should be waiting for them.

Only there are no ships. At least no functioning ones. Instead, the entire beach is littered with burned-out shipwrecks. Charred masts poke into the air like broken fingers. Surrounding the ships, Drakon can make out corpses lying in the sand.

Distantly, Drakon notices that more people are coming up next to them and stopping dead on top of the dune as well. He is still trying to make sense of what he is seeing. This isn’t possible – these ships… The Black Land didn’t have any soldiers in the region, couldn’t have winnowed them in, either. They knew where the Black Land’s soldiers were stationed, they checked that before he sent out orders to send these ships. They were careful. So how could this happen?

Cauldron, the people… The soldiers who were with these ships, they…

Behind him, people begin to mutter, news of what happened spreading through the column like a wave. Then, Sinna’s voice rises out over the general noise, ordering the soldiers into defensive positions. That snaps Drakon back into reality as well. Of course. If there were soldiers here who burned these ships, they might well still be here and setting a trap for them.

Miryam is still staring at the burned ships, like they are the only thing that exists for her.

Scouts are sent out. Sinna and a few other Seraphim go to check the beach for traps. Twenty minutes later, they come back with the result that the beach is trap-free. Having established that it is safe, they let the humans go down to the beach. Sinna orders a few of the soldiers to collect the dead soldiers, a few of the humans volunteering to help.

Miryam finally seems to snap out of her shock and joins Drakon in making rounds with the humans, trying to reassure them. She still seems unusually distracted, though. When she talks to the humans, she sounds nowhere near as confident as usual and between conversations, she keeps stopping to stare at the burned ships.

When they have a moment alone, Drakon puts a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find another way across the sea,” he says, keeping his voice low. “It might take a day or so, but we’ll be able to arrange for other ships.”

That will not bring the soldiers who were burned along with these ships back to life, though. Drakon still doesn’t understand how this could happen.

Miryam nods distractedly and looks over at the ships again. She’s frowning slightly, almost like she is looking at an equation that doesn’t quite make sense to her. Before Drakon can probe any further, though, Sinna steps up to them.

“We need to talk,” she says. “Now. In private.”

Her tone leaves no room for discussion. Miryam and Drakon exchange a look and follow her without question. She leads them a few feet away from the group, then waves a hand, putting up a ward around them.

“The scouts are back,” she says. Pauses. “We’ve got an army incoming, half an hour away. It’s the entirety of the Black Land’s remaining forces, led by Ravenia.”

For a moment that seems to drag on for eternity, all Drakon can do is stare at her. He heard Sinna, but he can’t quite wrap his mind around what she is saying. This is completely and utterly impossible. The Black Land’s army dissolved, and with its leadership imprisoned in Telique, it shouldn’t have been able to reassemble. But of course, Ravenia was meant to be imprisoned in Telique as well, awaiting her execution. How did she get free?

“This isn’t possible,” he whispers. Next to him, Miryam seems to have frozen entirely.

“I don’t know how it happened either and right now, it hardly matters,” Sinna says. “No matter how this happened, they are only half an hour away, they have more than twice our numbers and we are stuck here with no way across the ocean.”

“What can we do?” Miryam asks, abruptly turning to Sinna.

Sinna shrugs. For the first time, she seems completely at a loss. “The numbers stand against us,” she says. “I might be able to turn this around under different circumstances, but not with thousands of civilians to protect.

Miryam starts trembling. “We need to do something,” she snaps. Her voice quivers. It’s the first time Drakon has seen her lose control like this in a meeting, and it scares him almost as much . “We… I…” She shakes her head, pointing vaguely. “We can’t fight this many soldiers. Ravenia’s army is more than thrice the size of ours! They will break through, and everyone will die.”

“And what do you want us to do?” Sinna asks, voice hard. She keeps control of her expression, but Drakon can tell that she’s panicking as well from the set of her mouth, the look in her eyes. “Those ships were vital! There are miles of ocean between us and safety and without ships, we have no way to get across.”

Drakon digs his fingers into his tunic, staring over at the offending ocean. It is calm today, what use is it when it’s too far for the humans to swim through? Him and the other Seraphim could easily fly, of course, but the humans lack the necessary wings.

“Can your soldiers fly them across instead?” Miryam asks.

No, flying won’t work. There are too many humans and too few Seraphim for that. No, they need some way that will allow the humans to get across on their own. But how?

“Won’t work,” Sinna says, echoing Drakon’s thoughts. “Carrying people while flying is difficult, and for this to work, each soldier would need to make dozens of flights.”

Drakon stares at the ocean, wishing he could make it disappear by thought alone. If only they had water powers. Then, they could just make the ocean part for them, creating a passage for them to walk through.

“What if we part the ocean?” He asks, making both Sinna and Miryam turn to stare at him.

“Yes, sure,” Sinna mutters drily. “Let me just ask the water to disappear real quick.”

“I meant with our powers” Drakon says. “We’ve got wind powers. It won’t be ideal, but if we’ve got enough people working together, we could drive the water apart, create a passage for the humans to flee through.”

“And drown when the water comes down,” Sinna cuts in, shaking her head. “Besides, we would have to hold back Ravenia’s army while the humans run and keep the water at bay long enough for everyone to get through. This is impossible.”

“It’s our best chance,” Miryam says. “Unless you’ve got any other ideas for getting across the ocean, because I certainly don’t.”

Sinna evidently doesn’t have any ideas either, and with only half an hour until Ravenia’s army gets here and likely kills anyone in sight. “I guess there are worse ways to die,” she says drily and jumps into motion to get things organized.

----

Somehow, Miryam manages to calm herself enough to explain the situation to the other humans. They take the news calmly – most of them probably more calmly than Miryam herself. Some start crying quietly, but they don’t dissolve into a panic.

Miryam stumbles a bit over her words when she tries to explain the plan, something that never happens to her. It all seems so surreal. The Seraphim will use their magic to part the water for us. Once they do, you need to get through as quickly as possible. Please form an orderly column now, once the passage is open, you won’t have much time.

Crazy as the request is, they accept it and follow Miryam’s directions calmly. She is proud, so very proud of how well they are doing. They don’t deserve this new horror. By all rights, they should be safe, happily on their way towards freedom.

This shouldn’t be happening.

Once she is sure that everything is working out, she hands control over to Niria and the other human leaders. She actually wanted to talk to Sinna or Drakon again, do something useful, but she just ends up staring at the burned ships again. The ships that shouldn’t have been burned. It doesn’t make sense.

One of the Seraphim commanders rushes by, and Miryam waves him over to her. He stops only hesitantly, clearly unhappy about the introduction, and bows to her.

“We had intel on where the Black Land soldiers were stationed up until two days ago, right?” She asks. “And they were all stationed in Lako or west from there?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And to get here, they would have had to be travelling at full speed, right? Meaning it wouldn’t have been possible for them to send any soldiers ahead.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Not as far as I know.”

Miryam nods. “Thank you,” she says, and the soldier rushes on.

She goes back to staring at the ships. They kept it secret. Told hardly anyone about how they were planning to get out of the Black Land. Ravenia shouldn’t have found out about it.

Ravenia shouldn’t have been able to escape from Telique.

And even if both of these things somehow happened, Ravenia could never have gotten her soldiers here in time to burn the ships before their arrival if, travelling at full speed from Lako, her soldiers will only arrive in thirty minutes. Besides, even if they had managed, they would have stayed behind to lay a trap for them instead of winnowing back to join the rest of the army. It simply doesn’t make sense.

And that means…

It means it couldn’t have been Ravenia who burned these ships. But burned they were, and by someone with fire powers. Those are rare, though. Only the Black Land and Rask have them with the Loyalists, and Rask surrendered already. They would have had no reason to go along with Ravenia’s revenge plans and risk the good conditions they managed to secure for themselves.

Besides, Rask wouldn’t have had a way of getting Ravenia out of Telique.

Someone from the Alliance, then. It must have been, it’s the only explanation that makes sense. Only a member of the Alliance would have known about where the ships would be and would also have had a way to help Ravenia escape.

Someone from the Alliance would have been able to get troops here, burn the ships and vanish before they arrived, trapping them here for Ravenia to finish her off. And only someone from the Alliance would have had a reason for vanishing instead of staying to lay a trap.

This isn’t an unfortunate coincidence, or sheer bad luck. It’s an assassination attempt.

Miryam feels strangely detached from the entire situation. It’s like she is watching it from the outside, carefully analysing the patterns and coming to the only logical conclusion. Like this doesn’t concern her at all.

Fire powers, that means either Sangravah or the Autumn Court. Zeku wouldn’t… He broke off their alliance, yes, but he wouldn’t try to kill her, would he? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. And Autumn wouldn’t act alone. But of course, if there is anyone behind this, it must be Shey. Him and those who work with him.

It makes a horrifying amount of sense. Shey has been hoping to get rid of her for a while, maybe tried it once already when he sent her to Kehne. But he can’t get his own hands dirty, so instead, he set this trap. Maybe got Beron, who always hated her, to help. Maybe even had more of the Fae countries on his side, who knows. Once she is dead, he will likely be the next one to lead the Continent. And if it is Ravenia who kills her, no one will ever question it or think to blame him.

He dragged hundreds of thousands of people into it. Drakon and his soldiers, who she asked to help her in this, thousands of them. And the nearly five hundred thousand humans she freed.

None of them have anything to do with this. And yet, they might all die, just because one arrogant, self-centred asshole wants to kill her over a threat that is all in his head.

All these people. So many people.

“Miryam.”

She flinches so hard she nearly jumps into the air.

“Sorry.” Drakon steps up next to her. “I just… Well, I saw you standing there, and I thought since everything is settled, we should maybe use the chance to talk. Since, you know…”

Since it might be their last chance. Since they might both drown in the ocean, or be killed by the approaching army.

In fact, it’s more likely that Drakon will die. He will be on the battlefield, she won’t be. She hardly even has any magic left, and without it, she won’t be any use at all on the battlefield. All she can do is run, how could she? This is happening because of her. Any death that happens will be, in a way, on her. She cannot run while other people die for her.

And anyways, what point is there to running, when Shey and the others will just try to kill her again until they succeed, possibly dragging even more innocents into it? What chance does she even have?

“I should stay,” she says. She turns towards the ocean, imagining the passage that will soon form in there. “You can use all the help you can get down there. I should stay and help instead of running away.”

“Your power still isn’t back,” Drakon says. “And you’re a trained healer, not a soldier. You can help, but not on a battlefield.”

He is reasonable – she knows he is. She never even wanted to learn to use a sword, and now, she suddenly wants to fight in battle? If anything, she will probably be more of a danger to the people around her than to the enemy, untrained as she is.

But she cannot run. She cannot. How can she leave Drakon, leave his soldiers to fight and die down there while she runs?

Drakon is frowning at her. “Alright, Miryam,” he says gently. “What is this really about? Because you and I both know that all you will accomplish by fighting in that battle is to get yourself killed.”

Miryam slowly shakes her head. “I just –“ Her voice breaks, leaving her unable to finish the sentence. Suddenly, tears are running down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with the force of it.

“Hey,” Drakon whispers, wrapping his arms around her. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. “Hey, Miryam. It’s alright. We’re going to get through this.”

This just makes her cry harder. How she wishes this was true.

“No,” she whispers. She presses her face into his shoulder and clings on to him like they will be able to disappear if she only holds on tight enough. “No, you don’t understand. This wasn’t Ravenia. It was all Shey and…” She breaks off again. She isn’t making any sense, but maybe Drakon still understands because he tenses.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The Alliance did this,” Miryam whispers. “Shey and I don’t know how many others. They burned the ships, they let Ravenia out, they… All because of me. All these people will die because of me and I can’t…” She shakes her head. “I can’t run while you all stay here and die.”

Drakon is silent for a while. He doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t question her judgement, merely stands there, absentmindedly rubbing her back.

“But you getting yourself killed won’t change anything, will it?” He finally asks.

Miryam shakes her head. “But I will die either way, don’t you see?” She asks. “I don’t even stand a chance, Shey will just – “

Drakon lets go of her and steps back so he can look her in the eye. Gently takes her by the shoulders. “We’ll find a way to deal with that,” he says. “We will. But we can’t do that if you die today. Please. Please don’t do this, don’t just throw your life away like this and let them win without putting up a fight.”

Miryam swallows. Wipes her tears away. It is so easy, so very easy to believe Drakon when she says she stands a chance. After all, she wants to believe him so badly.

“Alright,” she says, voice thick, and reaches for his hands. “Then I will be at the end of the column.”

Drakon nods. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you too,” Miryam whispers, trying not to think about the fact that this might be goodbye. She doesn’t dare to say anything else, doesn’t want to provoke fate by giving goodbyes. Maybe if she pretends that this is just a normal battle, everything will be fine. Maybe if she only acts like she isn’t worried at all, Drakon will get out of this alive. So she merely squeezes his hands and whispers, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

----

Five minutes later, Drakon has his soldiers assembled on the shore, mere feet away from the ocean. On his signal, they all raise their hands and send a current of wind shooting towards the ocean.

The water doesn’t part easily. The ocean is an ancient, wild thing, and unused to being forced to yield parts of his territory to the air. It fights them every step of the way, tons of water straining against being pushed to the side by the air.

Drakon is shaking with the effort of it, almost thinks he can feel the physical weight of the ocean pressing down on him. Foot by foot, they fight their way forward, until the water is forced to give up, until a path is beginning to form through the ocean.

The passage extends only halfway through the ocean when Miryam signals to the first of the humans to get into it. They hesitate, staring at the walls of water looming up before them, but only briefly. Then, they start moving.

In the end, they barely finish in time. The passage is just finished, the last of the humans (Miryam among them) having stepped into it, when the vanguard of Ravenia’s army appears in the distance. Magic quivering in his grip, Drakon draws his sword and shouts an order to his soldiers to take up position in front of the passage’s entrance.

Looking at the army that is racing towards them, he knows they will never be able to hold it. If they manage to last a few minutes before being forced into a retreat battle, it will be a minor miracle. But for the sake of the humans fleeing behind them, they will have to try.

----

Miryam walks at the end of the long line of humans that is fleeing through the narrow channel Drakon’s soldiers created. Run, that was the order the humans were given, but truth is that they cannot run. Well, many of them can, but there are the old, the injured and the children and no matter how hard they may try, they cannot keep pace. They cannot run, and so those who could don’t, either. Instead, they adjust their pace to that of the slower ones, helping them along instead of rushing ahead.

Miryam herself carries a little girl, four or five years old, on her shoulders. The mother is walking next to her, heavily pregnant. Walking this far at all must be exhausting for her, but she doesn’t complain. Neither does the little girl, for all that she must be terrified. She doesn’t make a noise at all, merely clings on to Miryam’s shoulders and stares, wide-eyed, at the ocean surrounding them.

In the Black Land, even children this small know to stay silent, to be compliant, no matter how scared they may be.

Miryam knows little about children and less about how to put them at ease. With an adult, she would know what to say to calm them, but here, she is at a loss. After a few minutes, the girl begins to play around with her hair. Mortified, the mother chides her, but Miryam waves her off, and so the girl begins to weave tiny braids into her hair.

They move too slowly by far. From what Miryam can see from the back of the line, not a single human has reached the shore yet. She doesn’t know how long the Seraphim will be able to keep the ocean up, and once it comes down, everyone still on the ocean floor will die. Miryam resists the urge to look over her shoulder to see what is happening in the battle that must surely be raging by now. She can’t hear the noise of battle over the roaring wind that is rushing through the passage, but she could already see the Black Land’s army when she stepped into the passage. They must be here by now. She so badly wants to see what is happening there, how the battle is going, but she needs to seem calm. If she shows her fear, the entire group might dissolve into a panic.

Oh, how she hates that she is running. This is only happening because of her – thrice over. They are here because of her, it is her Ravenia is after and the Alliance Fae only initiated this to get to her. Yet she is running while Drakon and his soldiers are risking their lives.

They keep walking. It must have been half an hour by now, yet the opposite shore is still so very far away. Miryam dares a look over her shoulder, but she can’t make out any specifics of what is happening in the battle.

She should have insisted on staying. Even if she would have been of little use in battle, anything would be better than running away, not knowing what is happening or who might be dying. She is the one the Alliance is trying to kill, the one Ravenia will be after.

She promised Drakon, though. She could have insisted on staying and he wouldn’t have been able to stop her, but she didn’t and now, she cannot break her promise.

She bounces the little girl who is sitting on her shoulders around a bit and makes a point to praise and thank her for the beautiful braids. The mother offers her a tired smile, and Miryam smiles back and hands her her waterskin.

After another few minutes, a young man comes up to her and offers to carry the girl for a while. Miryam accepts gratefully – her shoulders are beginning to ache – and lets the girl climb from her back to his.

The girl’s weight has just left her shoulders when a movement in the strings attracts her attention. Something is happening there, something other than the Seraphim magic that is thick in the entire passage. Miryam recognizes the pattern; someone is winnowing into the passage. She turns around to the soldiers that are following their group as a last line of defence and opens her mouth to warn them, but before she so much as gets a word out, a group of soldiers winnows to the end of their group.

Black Land soldiers. Hundreds of them, far, far more than the few Seraphim soldiers that were left to protect them.

For a moment, the world seems to stand still as Seraphim and humans alike stare at the enemies that just winnowed into their midst. Then, the Black Land soldiers attack.

Within moments, the back of the group descends into complete chaos. There are too few Seraphim soldiers here to hold off the enemies and they quickly break through. The formerly orderly retreat falls apart the moment the first soldiers appear. The humans aren’t armed – their only chance is to run, which they do. Crammed as they are in the narrow passage, though, there is no way for them to escape their Fae pursuers, much as the people in the back may be trying to push forward.

Miryam is completely helpless. She doesn’t have a weapon save for a small dagger, and even if she had one, she wouldn’t be able to use it. And her power, drained as it is, will be of little use, either. Her abilities are made for ranged attacks, not for the thick of battle and she doesn’t have enough reserves left to chase off this many soldiers.

Suddenly, there are three Seraphim next to her. One of them pushes her back from the approaching enemies, the other following behind, weapons drawn. As soon as they are a few feet away, the one who tried to push her reaches for her like he wants to pick her up and fly her out.

“What are you doing?” She snaps, pushing his arms away. “There are people dying! I can take care of myself, go help them!”

They exchange a look, then do as she says, disappearing back into the battle. Miryam loses sight of them within moments. Around her, the other humans are still pushing to get away from the fighting, and Miryam gets dragged along, unable to fight the pull of the crowd.

Screams. The clang of weapons. Somewhere next to her, a Fae soldier breaks through the group, his sword coming down on a human man. Miryam tries to move over to help, but there’s no getting through the crowd, and it’s too late anyways. A moment later, they are out of sight.

Miryam is still looking over her shoulder when she suddenly gets pushed against something in front of her. One of the jagged rocks poking out of the ocean floor is rising up in front of her, and Miryam has to quickly grab for it to keep from being pushed to the ground. She clings on to it to avoid the crowd sweeping her along further.

Now, finally, she can breathe again. Distantly, she realizes her arms are trembling. Looks like her lack of battle training is showing. She is completely out of her depth in this situation, has never been in the thick of battle like this.

Grabbing onto the rock above her, Miryam pulls herself up a few inches until she can look out over the battle. From up here, it looks even worse. The entire battlefield has dissolved into chaos, no clear lines to be seen. If not for the Seraphim’s white wings shining in the light, Miryam wouldn’t have been able to make out who is on which side at all.

Closest to Miryam, things look the worst (or maybe that’s just because she is closer to the carnage here). While further ahead, the Seraphim are still trying to hold off the majority of the Black Land soldiers, here, the ones who made it through are killing their way through the fleeing humans. Miryam looks around, eyes jumping from one horror to the other, until her eyes settle on one figure.

There, surrounded by a group of Black Land soldiers in gold-adorned armour, is Ravenia.

Miryam freezes against her rock, staring at the Queen of the Black Land. Ravenia is wearing an ornate armour, a spear at her side. It’s the first time Miryam has ever seen her in armed.

She didn’t expect Ravenia here, thought she would send her soldiers ahead while staying safe on the shore as she usually does. But the Queen must have decided to come herself, witness her revenge first-hand. Maybe she even came here, to the back of the human group, in hopes of finding Miryam. That sort of petty revenge would be just like her.

If Miryam was smart, she would run. Ravenia hasn’t seen her yet, and surrounded by the other humans, she might get away unnoticed. With her power so drained, she can never hope to best Ravenia and her soldiers in battle, and there are too few Seraphim here to hold them back. She should run now, while she still can.

But around her, her people are being killed, and Miryam cannot go while they are in danger. She can’t leave them to face the enemy alone, or allow any more of them to die so close to freedom.

She looks around, scanning the battlefield for anything she could use for a spell. She doesn’t have enough power left to be able to make any meaningful contribution out of her own reserves, she’ll have to use what is there. Stuck in the middle of the ocean as she is, “what is there” boils down to lots of water and wind magic, both locked in battle, the ocean continuously trying to reclaim the passage, the wind pushing it back.

Messing around with that fragile dynamic while standing in the middle of said passage seems like a bad idea. Unfortunately, Miryam doesn’t have any good ideas at her disposal right now.

With a whispered order, she reaches out towards the magic and tugs a few of the tiny strings moving through the air in her direction. They move unwillingly, not designed to do anything but what the magic-users commanding them want.

The effect is immediate. A wave of water breaks out of the left wall of water and goes crashing down into the bulk of Ravenia’s soldiers. It doesn’t hit, shields going up to intercept it before it reaches the Black Land soldiers. Water hits fire and evaporates on impact, turning into steam. Tons of water crash into the shields, and within a moment, the air is thick with steam, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in the distance.

Miryam lets the wind magic snap back into place, forcing the remaining water back behind the walls of magic but taking care to keep enough control that the wind doesn’t blow the mist away immediately. On the ocean floor, mist is now hanging so thickly it is difficult to see more than shapes. Miryam can make out auras, the movements of magic and the strings on top of that, but for everyone else, fighting has just become a whole lot more difficult.

This, at least, should give the other humans some cover to get away. But the Fae will still be able to give chase and with their better sight and hearing, they will have it easier in the mist.

Miryam hesitates, torn. The mist is not enough to protect her people – as long as she doesn’t find a way to chase the soldiers off, nothing will be able to do that. Yet she is quickly running out of both options and magic, and any moment she lingers increases the risk of getting caught. She needs to think of something, and quickly.

No matter how hard she tries, she cannot come up with a functional way to attack and defeat this many soldiers, not with the state her power is in. But maybe making them believe she can kill them would already be enough to chase them off. After what she did to her country, they are probably already scared of her – she just needs to play that to her advantage.

Still clinging on to the rock, fingers turning stiff with cold, she begins whispering, making up the spell as she goes along. It doesn’t need to be efficient, after all, just flashy.

Around her, the mist seems to solidify in some places. Slowly, shapes form. They are blurry, impossible to make out clearly, but they vaguely resemble great beasts. On Miryam’s command, they go shooting towards the Black Land Fae, seemingly at full run, maws opening as if to swallow them whole.

This causes quite some panic. Miryam can see some of the Fae turning and running, seemingly without thought of their magic. Others regain enough of their senses to set up wards. With a muttered order, Miryam sends those wards shattering.

The strain of it makes her double over, she nearly falls off her rock. Alright. She won’t be able to do that again any time soon, this much is sure. Even the mist spell is already beginning to slip her grasp, some of the mist beasts collapsing in on themselves.

Most of the Black Land Fae don’t seem to notice, though. They are already panicking, maybe thinking of water turning to blood and fire raining from the sky and wondering how they could ever be stupid enough to mess with someone capable of a curse like this. Some winnow out right away. Others merely turn and run, stumbling around in the mist, shying away from the remaining mist beasts. Only a few remain, but they seem unsure as well – or maybe they are simply blinded by the mist, confused further by the shades moving through it. Some humans and Seraphim are there as well, but they seem to be using the cover to get out of here and make for the shore.

Miryam slides off the rock and leans her back against it, panting. A thin trickly of blood is running down her nose and she slowly wipes it away, watching the auras of the Black Land soldiers disappear in the distance.

She can leave now, she thinks. She has done all she can, given her people all the advantages she could. But the world is spinning around her and without the stone at her back, she doesn’t think she would even be able to keep upright.. She closes her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing. Come on, she tells herself, you’ve been through worse. Just get to the shore first, then you get to relax all you want.

Slowly, the pain shooting through her begins to recede. Miryam takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. She straightens and pushes herself off the stone, turning around – and comes face to face with Ravenia.

The Queen of the Black Land is standing only a few feet away. There is blood matted across her brow and she has a wild look in her eyes. In her right hand, she still holds her spear, although its tip is now dark with blood.

For the longest moment, they simply stare at each other. The ocean around them seems to disappear, the shouts and the noise of the wind fade into the background. It’s like they are alone on the battlefield. Just the two of them, and the weight of all the history between them.

Miryam stares at Ravenia, seeing years of suffering and pain, thousands of dead, a childhood destroyed and a life shattered. She sees everything wrong with this world, everything she was fighting against, everything she defeated. (She likes to think that when Ravenia looks at her, what she sees is the change she was unable to stop. The end of her era, the beginning of a world she will never have a place in.)

Maybe it was always going to end like this. The two of them, facing each other on the final battlefield of the war. No other players around anymore, just the two of them in one final confrontation. But what Ravenia doesn’t see, doesn’t want to believe, is that Miryam has already won. Her people made it out, she won the war. Ravenia is already destroyed, and all she can hope to gain from this is petty revenge – and even that won’t be her own but Shey’s, reducing her, at the very end, to a mere instrument in someone else’s game.

Miryam has already won. And Ravenia can only lose, no matter what she does.

They both jump into motion simultaneously. Miryam twists her fingers, making a dark blue string appear. Without her noticing, it wraps itself around Ravenia’s ankles, binding her in place.

Ravenia throws her spear.

Miryam can see it flying towards her, too fast for her to dodge, but in the first moment, she still thinks it missed. There is no pain, only the sensation of being pushed backwards a bit. She stumbles and slowly looks down. The spear’s shaft is poking out of her chest.

Slowly, Miryam looks back up at Ravenia. The Queen is watching her, eyes turning triumphant as her gaze settles on the spear poking out of Miryam’s chest. Then, the wind blows a wave of mist between them, obscuring Ravenia from view.

Only then does the pain hit. Miryam gasps, stumbling another step. She reaches out and her hand finds solid rock. She leans against it, still gasping for air. The pain is different from any she has ever felt before. Duller, somehow, but linked to the terrible, wrong sensation that there is something in her body that shouldn’t be there and it’s killing her.

Another gust of wind blows the mist away, and there is Ravenia, still standing in the same spot as before. Miryam’s palms are quickly turning sweaty and her breath grows shallow. Pain races through her chest, but she refuses to collapse before Ravenia.

“So you’re playing assassin for the Alliance now,” she says, meeting Ravenia’s eyes. Her voice is tight, but at least somewhat calm. “I would have thought this was below you.”

“Big words,” Ravenia replies. “But all I can see is that you’ve lost. You’re as good as dead, and you have lost.”

Miryam shakes her head. Against all reason, a laugh escapes her, immediately followed by a stab of pain, hotter than any before, making her gasp.

“You understand nothing,” she whispers. “All this, just for a bit of pointless revenge?”

It’s pathetic, really. She never knew Ravenia was this pathetic. Just an arrogant, cruel woman, clinging on to power with both hands. Needing to turn to revenge when all else fails because she is unable to face the reality that she lost.

“All this,” Ravenia hisses, “to make you pay. To see you lose.”

Miryam leans harder against the stone. She is beginning to tremble, and her legs threaten to give out from under her, but she still smiles at Ravenia. “But I haven’t lost,” she says. “Don’t you understand? My people are free, your country in ashes, and slavery is over. I still win.”

She can see the fury flash over Ravenia’s face, making her dark eyes flash.

“I’ve killed you,” she snaps.

“Try to winnow out, then,” Miryam replies. “You’ll find that I’ve killed you as surely as you’ve killed me.”

She can see the string she bound Ravenia with strain as she tries to winnow. Tries and fails, the ward string dragging her back before she even fully vanishes. Leaning against her stone, Miryam watches Ravenia’s expression change. Smug satisfaction gives way to confusion, then to panic, eyes widening and calm shattering as clearly clearly realizes what it means for her to be trapped her along with everyone else.

Soon enough, the water will come down again. And when it does, Ravenia will drown along with everyone else

“I win,” Miryam repeats.

Ravenia doesn’t even seem to hear her. In a desperate attempt to rage against the truth Miryam revealed, she tries to winnow again. When it fails, she spins around, an animal in a cage looking for a way out. Her eyes are wide with panic as she seems to realize that there is none.

Miryam smiles bitterly, trying to cling on to the feeling of triumph the sight summons no matter how shallow it may be. Ravenia looks back at her once more before turning to run after her soldiers, and Miryam hopes that is the sight she will think of before she drowns – Miryam standing there, smiling at her defeat.

As soon as she is gone, though, the feeling of triumph fades. Miryam allows herself to slide to the ground, leaning her back against the stone. Her face twists in pain and she lets out a sob. Trembling fingers find the hilt of her spear, but Miryam doesn’t quite dare touch it. Gasping for breath, she stares down at the spear poking out of her chest.

She suffered her fair share of injuries already and is well-accustomed to pain. But this… this feels different. It’s like her body is somehow aware that this injury is fatal, that the bit of wood poking out of her chest is about to kill her, and sending her into a panic accordingly.

Against her will, her mind begins to race through ways to still save herself, even though she knows that it’s hopeless. If it was someone else with the same injury, she might be able to save them – emphasis on the might, though – but not on herself. She cannot move enough to patch up the bleeding, and by now, her fingers are cold and shaking, which is not a good sign. And if she were to pull out the spear, she would pass out within seconds. Besides, even if she was able to stop the bleeding, what good would it do? Instead of bleeding out, she would simply drown.

Miryam wraps her fingers around the spear’s handle. Maybe she should pull it out. She will die anyways. Why bleed out slowly over minutes, or drown when the ocean comes crashing down around her? It would be faster that way.

Her fingers tighten around the handle, but for all she tries, she cannot bring herself to pull it out. So much for being prepared to die. Her grip loosens and she sobs.

She closes her eyes, trying to ignore her racing heart. (Really, you’d think that it would have the sense to beat more slowly. Doesn’t her body realize that this is just making her bleed out more quickly?)

Desperately, she tries to calm herself. There’s no need for her to panic – what happened cannot be changed now, and anyways, does she really get to complain? She got everything she wanted. (Well, except for a chance to live, but if her biggest goal had been to grow old, she really shouldn’t have started this war.) Her people are free and safe, every last one of them. The war is won, slavery abolished, Ravenia defeated and soon dead.

There will be peace. And the sad truth is that her death was the requirement for peace to be possible from the beginning. Shey and the other Fae would never accept any other outcome. As long as she lives, they will keep trying to kill her, and maybe drag other people into it as well. Really, her dying in this battle is the ideal outcome.

She always knew she was ready to die for this. Then why can’t she just take it calmly now?

Maybe she would be able to accept it if it wasn’t so unnecessary, so unfair. For all that she tries to tell herself that she is dying so that the other humans could get away, that isn’t entirely true. They wouldn’t even be here if not for the Alliance Fae and their stupid, irrational paranoia.

It’s unfair and it’s cruel and Miryam doesn’t want to die. Not here, not like this. Not all alone in the middle of the ocean, bleeding out slowly with no one she cares about there to hold her hand as she dies. Leaving Drakon behind to probably wonder for the rest of his life if she went against his back and did this on purpose.

She doesn’t want to die at all, if she is being honest. That’s why she can’t bring herself to pull out the spear. She so very badly wants to live, to see everything she fought for become reality. But she won’t get to, just like Jurian didn’t get to, and it isn’t fucking fair.

----

Nephelle always hated watching battles. When she was younger, after she had first gotten together with Sinna, it was unbearable. Watching her partner go out to battle while she was left behind, useless, unable to participate always felt terrible. Looking back, this, more than anything else, was what initially made her want to join the army. She didn’t want to be left behind, wanted to be by Sinna’s side and prove to her that she could keep up.

It took the war for her to get over that feeling and realize that just because Sinna is a soldier, it doesn’t mean she has to be one as well to be worth something or equal to her. During the last battles, it was easier to stay behind, but this time, knowing how bad their odds are, it’s a nightmare again.

Nephelle ended up in the middle of the human column, together with a few of the other cartographers. A few feet into the passage, she found an elderly man with a stiff left leg and has been helping him along since. With him leaning on her shoulder, she kept walking, all the while trying desperately to keep her eyes trained on the faraway shore instead of looking back towards the battle and imagining the people she loves dying while she is running.

Nephelle is three-fourths through when a commotion happens at the end of the group. People begin to push, forcing those at the front to move faster as well. Nephelle tries to turn around, to see what is happening, but she gets pushed along in the general chaos. She only barely manages to keep a hold of the man she was helping and now has to support a good proportion of his weight. She doesn’t think anyone who is close to her knows what is going on, only that apparently something happened and they need to get away.

It’s a miracle, of perhaps proof of how much the humans care for each other, that things do not spiral into a full-fledged panic. Even in their fear, the humans still watch out for each other. No one gets trampled underfoot or left behind.

After several minutes of running, pushing, tripping, Nephelle gets swept onto the beach. Most people keep moving further inland, like they need to get away as far as possible from the ocean to be safe, but Nephelle now pushes her way towards the edge of the group. She deposits the man she was helping in the sand by the side of the ocean, pausing to ask if he is alright (his is) or needs any further help (no, thank you, he can get by on his own now). Then, she circles back towards the water. By the side of the passage, she stops, standing up on her toes to look out over the people who are still pouring out of the passage.

It takes a while for her to spot a familiar face, a Seraphim soldier who works as a captain under Sinna. He must have been at the back of the group, tasked to protect them should things go wrong, if he is already back at the shore.

“Likian!” She shouts as loudly as she can. (Which is very loud. Sinna once showed her how to make her voice loud enough to be heard over the battlefield.) “Likian, over here!”

Likian looks around, spots Nephelle and pushes his way through the crowd over to her, people making way far more easily for him than they did for her. He has a cut at his brow, and a second one along the side of his wing.

“What’s going on back there?” Nephelle asks. Have you seen Sinna?

Likian shakes his head. “It’s a mess,” he pants. “Complete chaos. Ravenia’s soldiers are everywhere. She had some of them winnow in, and they attacked the back of the column. We only barely made it out.”

Nephelle’s stomach twists. Miryam was at the end of the column. She looks around, trying to find her, but in the chaos, it is nearly impossible to make out individual people. Still, shouldn’t Miryam be easy to spot? If she was here, surely she would be trying to get some sort of order into that chaos, calm people down, anything like that.

“What about Miryam?” She asks. “Have you seen her?”

Likian shakes his head. “Some of the humans were asking after her as well,” he says. “I haven’t seen her, though. But everything was so chaotic, I wouldn’t put too much stock in that.”

“But she should be here already, shouldn’t she?” Nephelle presses.

There are fewer people streaming out of the passage now, and still, no sign of Miryam. Of course, she might still be at the very back, trying to help the slowest of the humans. Still, Nephelle should be able to spot her from here, and she can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

“You need to go back,” Nephelle says, turning to Likian. “Take some other soldiers with you, too, to help you search.”

Likian backs away a step, like she has suddenly grown fangs. “I’m not going back in there,” he says. “The ocean will be coming down any moment. Do I look like I want to drown?”

“Someone needs to go looking for her!” Nephelle snaps, voice growing loud. A few of the nearby humans turn to stare at her.

“Why? She either made it out alive along with the rest, or she’s dead. Either way, me getting myself killed won’t help her.”

Nephelle takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I think,” she says softly, voice biting, “that you are a coward.”

Usually, calling men cowards gets them to do whatever you want them to. But Likian must be truly terrified of going back into the ocean, because he barely reacts at all.

“And I think that being General Sinna’s partner does not make you a general yourself, so you don’t get to give me orders,” he says, not quite sharp yet but certainly not pleasant either. “We came here,” he continues, each word pointed, “because Princess Miryam asked us to. I fought in Rahine, and I fought on that damned ocean floor so that the mortals would be able to escape, and I never once complained. I did it gladly. But I’ve got a family at home, and I will not throw my life away here for the off-chance to safe one person, even if she is our Princess.”

Nephelle resents the fact that she can’t even hate him for it, with this reasoning. In his situation, she might even choose the same way. But Miryam isn’t just her Princess, she’s her friend, and Nephelle will never simply leave a friend behind to die. She looks around, but Drakon and Sinna, who would listen to her, are likely still at battle and she can’t make out any other familiar faces. She could go looking for other soldiers, see if she finds one who is willing to take the risk, but that would take too long.

“Fine,” she says, turning away from Likian and stretching her wings, the left one aching with the movement. “Then I’ll go.”

Before she so much as makes it one step, Likian is next to her, grabbing her by the arm. “Come on, Nephelle, don’t be stupid,” he says. “For all you know, she might be here already, perfectly fine. In this chaos, who would notice? No use throwing your life away like this.”

Nephelle shakes his arm off. “If you don’t want to go, fine. But don’t you dare try to stop me.”

She flares her wings, ignoring the pain shooting through the muscles in the left one, and takes off. Below her, there are still humans hurrying for the shore. Some of them shoot Nephelle looks as they pass, likely wondering why she is flying in the opposite direction, but none of them call out to her. And for all that she looks, Nephelle can’t make out Miryam anywhere among them.

She stays close to the ocean floor, low enough that she won’t miss anyone who might be injured down there. Down here, she needs to circle around jagged rocks poking out of the ocean floor, but she doesn’t dare to fly higher for fear of passing Miryam without noticing. By now, there are no humans running below her anymore, only the bare ocean floor. On either side of her, the ocean is raging, walls of water reaching far into the sky and straining against the barriers that are pushing them back.

It is cold down here, far colder than on the shore, and the wind that’s keeping the water at bay makes flying more difficult. Within minutes, the muscles in Nephelle’s wings begin to cramp up, pain shooting through her wings and down her back. Around her, there is only the endless ocean.

Maybe this was a mistake. For all she knows, Miryam may be at the shore already, safe with the others. And Sinna will be at the shore soon, too. Nephelle wanted to be there to welcome her. What if Sinna is back before her and notices she is missing? She will be worried sick. Nephelle doesn’t want her to worry – she knows all too well what it is like to know a loved one in danger – and she certainly doesn’t want to die out here and leave Sinna behind.

She looks back at the shore over her shoulder. It is so far away now. She’s the only living creature around by now, but below on the floor, she can make out the first corpses and in the distance, she can see the battle raging. Now, she’s already gotten this far. Turning around without checking for Miryam would be stupidity.

She dives lower still, scanning the motionless bodies on the ground. Humans. Seraphim. Black Land Fae. Nephelle takes care not to look at any of the faces for too long. Just check if she spots Miryam and move on. She doesn’t want to know if she knows any of the dead lying there, all she cares about is if there’s anyone down there that can still be saved.

All she finds are corpses, though. She glances back to the safety of the shore, so far away now. She is getting closer and closer to the battle and if she goes any further, she will risk getting caught in the outskirts of the fighting. She really should turn around. Likian was right. Miryam isn’t here, or if she is, chances are she is dead. All Nephelle will accomplish is getting herself killed.

Wings dragging with the weight of failure, Nephelle turns to the right, flying a wide circle around one of the bigger rocks poking out of the ground. She just makes to fly higher when she notices the figure leaning against it.

“Miryam!” Nephelle lets herself drop to the ground, feet away from her.

Miryam opens her eyes just as her feet touch the wet sand. “Nephelle?” She asks. Her voice sounds rough.

Nephelle’s eyes wander from her face to her chest, where her clothes are soaked red with blood. A jagged bit of wood is poking out of her chest, the broken end of some spear or arrow.

Nephelle’s stomach turns and she has to bite back a gasp. She spent long enough with the army to know a potentially deadly injury when she sees one. Instinctively, she takes a step forward, raising her hands to do something, but she is no healer. She does not have the necessary skills to heal an injury like this, and if she tries, chances are she will only make things worse.

Miryam pushes herself upright, hissing in pain. “Why are you here?” She asks. “I thought…” She gasps slightly, briefly closing her eyes. “I thought you escaped with the others.

“I…” Nephelle clears her throat, forcefully tearing her eyes away from the spear poking out of Miryam’s chest. “I was looking for you.”

She takes a deep breath, shaking off her shock. All she needs to do is get Miryam back to the shore. They have healers there. They can get the very best healers, and she will be fine.

“You should go,” Miryam says.

“Yeah, we should both go.” Nephelle looks around, searching for anyone to help and finding nothing but corpses. Alone, she can’t carry Miryam. “Come on,” she says, offering her hands. “Get up. We need to get you to the shore.”

Miryam shakes her head. Her entire body is trembling slightly and her face seems bloodless. “I can’t.”

“Well, you need to,” Nephelle says, glancing over towards the battlefield. What if enemy soldiers find them here like this? “They’ll let the ocean come down soon enough, and I don’t want to be here when it happens.”

She offers Miryam a hand again, but she just shakes her head. “You should leave me. Go save yourself while you still can.” She stares down at her blood-stained chest. “Just… tell Drakon that I didn’t mean for this to happen. And my people… he needs to keep them save, he…” She shakes her head, clearly struggling to focus. “He promised me… tell him to remember what he promised.”

“You tell him yourself.”

“Nephelle, this is a fatal injury,” Miryam says. She likely meant to sound firm, but her voice is trembling as hard as she is. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Like hell. “I flew all that way here to find you,” Nephelle says. “If you think I’m going to turn around and leave you to die now, you ought to think again. So we can die here together or we can try to get to the shore.”

This time when Nephelle holds out a hand to help Miryam up, she takes it although Nephelle still basically has to drag her to her feet and then wrap an arm around her waist to keep her upright. Miryam’s face is tight and she looks so pale that Nephelle fears she might pass out any moment. Her tunic seems to turn an even deeper shade of red.

“We’ll take it slow,” Nephelle says, trying to fight her rising panic. She looks over at the shore. It’s only a few miles, but with Miryam, it might as well be fifty. “It isn’t that far,” she lies and starts walking, carrying Miryam along more than anything else.

----

The battle is pure chaos. There are no clear lines, no formations or strategies, nothing. It is everything Drakon hates about battles, only increased tenfold. He doesn’t know how long it has been going on, only that they have been pushed back far already, that the ground is littered with the dead and dying and that he is beginning to shake with the effort to keep his power controlled.

Around him, his soldiers don’t seem to fare much better. Many of them are panting, sweat running down their temples, as they desperately try to keep both the water and the enemies at bay. Flapping his wings a few times, Drakon propels himself a few feet into the air, trying to get an overview of the battlefield.

The fighting is so chaotic that he cannot make out much, but from up here, he sees that they have been pushed back until close to the middle of the passage already and are currently being swarmed completely. Not much longer and the Black Land soldiers will break through entirely, and they cannot allow that.

When he looks to the other side, he sees that most of the humans have already made it to the shore. A few are still in the passage, but they will make it to the shore within the next few moments.

They cannot wait any longer. They need to retreat now or risk losing everything.

Drakon whistles once, sharply, the signal quickly picked up by his captains and commanders. One by one, the Seraphim begin to disengage from the battle and shoot into the air.

At the far end of the passage, the ocean starts crashing down.

----

They’ve only made it twenty feet and Miryam looks like she might collapse any moment when they hear a roaring sound behind them. Nephelle turns around, pulling Miryam along with her, just in time to see the ocean at the far end of the passage come down. The noise is deafening, spray glinting white in the sunlight.

For a moment, Nephelle is frozen in fear. Mesmerized, she watches tons of water come crashing down to the ocean floor with all the force of a tornado.

Then, the fear settles in like a punch to the gut. The ocean is crashing down, they are miles from shore and in minutes at most, the place where they are currently standing will be hundreds of feet under water.

She can fly out. Miryam can’t, though. She can’t even walk.

“Go,” Miryam says, voice barely more than a whisper. “Please.”

Nephelle shakes her head. The only way out is flying. Another Seraphim might stand a chance of carrying Miryam – Sinna occasionally carries her into the air – but Nephelle certainly can’t. And yet, flying is their only chance.

Looking up, she can see Seraphim rising into the air from the battlefield. For a brief moment, Nephelle hopes that one of them might spot them down here and come to help, but they fly high above the ocean and seem to have eyes for nothing but the distant shore. Sinna is with them, that much is sure. When she gets to the shore, she will notice Nephelle isn’t there and she will be worried sick. Just like Drakon will worry about Miryam.

She should at least give it a try. Nephelle tries to readjust her grip on Miryam, making her gasp in pain.

“I’ll try to fly us out,” she says. “It’s the only way we’ll be fast enough.”

“Nephelle, please,” Miryam whispers, but doesn’t say anything else. Nephelle very purposefully does not contemplate how badly she must be doing if she isn’t arguing harder.

She needs to get them out of here. And the only way to do that is to fly them both out. She flares her wings, flapping them twice, thrice, and then takes to the air.

She only barely manages to not fall right back to the ground. Pain shoots through her left wing, muscles cramping as it nearly gives in under her, and she wobbles under Miryam’s weight. Desperately, she flaps her wings, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t get them more than two feet into the air. Getting them high enough that they are out of the water’s path like this is about as likely as Miryam suddenly growing wings and flying on her own.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Nephelle gasps, mostly to distract herself from the pain.

Miryam doesn’t reply and Nephelle’s heart clenches. Her hands are already slick with blood.

“Alright,” she gasps, flapping her wings in spite of the pain shooting through her body. “It’s only two miles.” Two miles over the ocean floor, with jagged rocks barring her way and tons of water only waiting to come crashing down on them. “I can fly us two miles.”

After that, Nephelle doesn’t say anything else, all her strength going into keeping them in the air. Her breath is soon coming in ragged gasps, her wings are burning, but somehow, she keeps herself and Miryam flying. It’s all she can focus on, one wingbeat after the other. Don’t crash into the jagged rocks standing everywhere. Sometimes, they stand close enough together that the tips of Nephelle’s wings brush the stone.

Behind her, the water is still roaring as it reclaims its territory. Nephelle doesn’t dare to look back to see how close to them the approaching death is already. Miryam is limp in her arms.

All she can do is keep flying towards the distant shore, praying that she will be fast enough.

----

Come on, Miryam begs herself. Just a little longer. You just need to hold on for a little bit.

When Nephelle took off, she tried to cling onto her as well as she could, to make herself as light as possible. Now, all she can do anymore is fight against unconsciousness – and she is in the process of losing even that fight.

She is so cold. If she had any strength left, she would probably be shaking, but as it is, she can’t even lift her head to see how far away the shore is. The edge of her vision is swimming, darkness closing in. She can’t feel her fingers anymore.

The small part of her brain that is still able to function rationally tells her that she is fighting a losing battle, that she is already dying and nothing she does will keep death at bay.

Still, though, she fights it. The shore must be so close now, so very close. She could make it, she could…

Her thoughts are beginning to fracture, desperately, she tries to focus.

She just needs to hold on until they get to shore. Then, they… Her people are there. Drakon… He promised… She doesn’t remember what it was he promised, only that it was important. She can make it, she… Not like this, she doesn’t want…

She is so cold. But it barely hurts anymore. Without the pain, it is easier. She’ll will just close her eyes, only for a moment, and then…

----

Drakon’s knees give out from under him as he lands on the shore and he lets himself drop to the ground. He is trembling, his stomach twisting and turning as his power desperately tries to give out. He refuses to let it, though. He doesn’t know if there are people still out in the ocean, people who will die if they just let the ocean crash down too quickly.

For the first time, he probably comes close to understanding what Miryam feels like after using her power. It is not pleasant at all.

Around him, other Seraphim soldiers drop to the ground as well. To his left, one of them throws up. Another presses her fingers against her temples.

Drakon manages to keep the struggle with his power going for another minute or so before being forced to give up. For a few moments, he merely sits on the ground, gasping for air, trying to control his racing heart.

They made it. They actually made it. He stares up at the sky, not quite able to believe that they got out of this alive.

“Drakon!” Sinna calls.

Drakon tries to sit up, nearly falling over again as the world starts to spin around him. Slowly, he looks up at Sinna who is standing in front of him, swaying slightly. Her nose is bleeding and there is panic in her eyes.

“Nephelle is gone,” she says.

“What?” Drakon’s head clears a little, worry taking over, and he slowly pushes himself up to his feet. Nephelle can’t be gone. She was in the middle of the human column, and most of the humans made it to shore by now. “What do you mean, gone?”

“Gone! One of my soldiers told me. And Miryam is apparently unaccounted for as well. They say Nephelle was looking for her.”

“What?” Drakon manages to fight his way to his feet, dread settling in his stomach.

Miryam can’t be unaccounted for. She had guards with her, and she was safe with the other humans. They all made it out alive as far as he knows. Miryam should have been with them. She has to be with them. Chances are she’s just somewhere in this chaos and he simply hasn’t seen her yet. And Nephelle wouldn’t have flown back into the passage on her own. Would she?

“But there isn’t anyone in that passage anymore?” He asks. “Right?”

Sinna doesn’t answer. She is already striding back towards the coastline, humans and Seraphim alike parting to make space for her. Drakon hurries after her, still a little unsteady on his feet.

The passage they made through the ocean is already more than halfway collapsed, more water coming down by the second. The roaring can be heard even from here, drops of water are hanging in the air like crystals, light painting rainbows into the air. A few Seraphim are still flying in the air above the ocean, but at the first glance, the passage itself seems deserted.

Next to him, Sinna breathes in sharply, taking half a step forward as if she’s about to jump into the passage. A moment later, Drakon spots the lone Seraphim flying through the collapsing passage as well. She is flying low, so low her feet can be no more than a foot above the ground, and although Drakon is too far away for him to make out any details, she is clearly carrying another person in her arms.

Nephelle. And Miryam.

Drakon’s heart misses a beat, terror surging through him and chasing away any lingering dizziness. He flares his wings, ready to take off, but Sinna grabs him by the arm before he can actually do so.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice tight with barely-concealed emotion. “Your magic is completely drained – you won’t be able to fly.”

“But we need to do something!”

Nephelle is still a bit ahead of the water that’s rushing back into the passage, but it is catching up quickly. She doesn’t seem to be able to fly any higher, barely seems to be keeping to the air, and she keeps having to circle around the rocks that poke out of the ocean floor. And Miryam… He prays she is unharmed, that Nephelle is only carrying her because she can’t fly and not for some other reason.

He looks around, trying to spot a soldier who is still able to fly. But all Seraphim he sees seem to be in a worse state than he is.

Sinna didn’t even bother to look around. She just keeps her eyes fixed on Nephelle, like she is scared she will disappear the moment she looks away.

“She’ll make it,” she whispers, fingers clenching at her side. “I know she will.”

----

Nephelle can barely keep herself in the air anymore. The pain in her wings is growing by the second. Whenever she thinks it won’t get any worse, it does, and by now, the muscles in her shoulders and back are beginning to cramp up.

In her arms, Miryam is entirely limp. In the beginning, she was still trying to help, to hold on to Nephelle on her own, but now, she hasn’t moved in a while. Nephelle wants to try talking to her, to somehow make sure that she’s still alive, but she can’t spare the breath. She can only pray that Miryam is only unconscious, not…

Just a little longer, she thinks, unsure if she is begging Miryam or herself. You just need to hold on for a little longer, then it will all be fine.

Slowly, painfully, she lifts her had to look up at the shore. It still seems so far away, but it is closer than the last time she looked. And she can make out figures standing by the beach.

She wonders if Sinna is standing there, watching her. The thought makes her tired wings flap faster again. She will get back to Sinna. She will. And then, they are going to get married. In spring, maybe. A spring wedding would be wonderful.

She is sure Sinna is there, watching. Drakon as well, probably. She will get back, and get Miryam back as well. Then, everything will be fine. The war is over and they will go home and never have to fight another battle again.

So Nephelle keeps flying, even as her wings ache and she wants nothing more than to let herself fall to the ground. She doesn’t have the strength left to look back at the ocean that is still chasing her, or forward to the awaiting beach, but she can hear the roaring water getting closer.

She keeps flying. One wingbeat after the other. Until eventually, the wet sand under her gets replaced by the soft, white sand of the beach. Wings giving out under her, she only barely manages to land on her feet and gently deposit Miryam in the sand before collapsing next to her.

Black dots are dancing before her eyes, and for a few moments, all she can do is gasp for air. Her wings cramp up hard and she sobs.

“Nephelle!” Sinna crashes down to her knees next to her, reaching out to cup her face with her hands. “Cauldron, Nephelle. Are you alright?”

Nephelle nods, still gasping, trying and failing to get to her feet. “Miryam…” She manages. Is she alive? She wants to ask. Next to her, she can hear Drakon calling for a healer.

Sinna still understands. Within a heartbeat, she is on her feet and stands next to Drakon who is kneeling next to Miryam. Nephelle doubles over in pain just as Sinna reaches for Miryam, maybe trying to take the pulse or do some first aid. She looks up again just in time to see Sinna slowly shaking her head.

----

A/N (a long one this time): This is the one chapter out of the entire story that was most closely dictated by canon, and I cannot say it made things pleasant. As some of you may know, I am keeping this fic canon compliant mostly as a challenge to myself (as I do not like canon and it is also full of plotholes). This chapter... made it difficult.

For one, having Miryam get killed at this stage, and by Ravenia no less, was not a choice I would have made for multiple reasons. I tried very hard to make it make sense thematically, ease the (what I found to be) absolutely terrible feeling of her getting killed by her former owner of all people and generally make it fit in with Miryam WINNING in the grand scheme of things. I hope I succeeded.

That aside, I had to make a few exceptions on my rule to stick to what canon dictates (if with a few twists) because some of the details canon offered made no sense, and others were part of a narrative that (to me) felt somewhat ableist in its implications and that I refused to include in my writing. (I’m referring to both Nephelle’s disability basically disappearing and her somehow being able to fly completely perfectly and without any issues (adrenaline will make lots of things possible, but that is too much) as well as that entire business with her (in canon unnamed) lover asking her to marry her directly after, which felt like it was some sort of “reward” for her being able to do something her disability normally made impossible.) In general, there is a lot wrong with that entire sequence in canon, and I tried to ease/change what I could.I hope you liked how I chose to handle it.

Finally, once again, a huge thanks to @croissantcitysucks. Without his help, I don’t think I would have been able to get through writing this chapter, and a few of the ideas to fix things (or meta stuff) were their ideas. (Seriously, thank you so much, Lyn. You are absolutely amazing <3)

Tags: @femtopulsed @aileywrites

#sorry for the cliffhanger guys #also #this chapter was meant to be SHORT #it's over 13k words #yes i'm good at keeping things brief /s #jurian #miryam #before the wall #drakon

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qqueenofhades · 4 years ago

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The photo set you reblogged of Yusuf and Niccolo helping throughout time just filled me with so many happy feels and it made me realize that it seems so common in media with immortal couples that they take breaks from each other and reconnect after a few decades. Which is a great trope but seeing these two that seems to have been attached at the hip since the day they met just fills me with all the heart eyes.

(I haven't read your fanfics for them yet. I know I'm a bad fan but if it helps I havent been able to read anything since all this started but while writing this ask I got the feeling that all this rambling I spewed out is a big theme)

Hush. Bad fan nothing. We all are coping with this stupid, awful year in different ways, some of us by escaping into fandom and some of us being unable to engage with it and some of us doing both or anything else. You certainly don’t owe me or anyone any obligation to interact with our content, fic or otherwise. So just to have that there on the top. You’re good, hun. :)

ANYWAY, thank you for giving me a chance to meta a bit on the boys and their relationship and to have a window into what my brain looks like pretty much 24/7 these days. (I blame them.) I keep thinking about all the ways this couple is depicted in the TOG film and how lovely it was and how unusual it is for me to have an OTP where I actually love them in canon and don’t need to violently disavow it in order to create AU fan content with just the characters. (See: Timeless, Game of Thrones, pretty much any show I’ve hyperfixated on at some point.) I love AUs anyway, because that’s the way my brain works, but the fact that I can also enjoy canon just as much is rare for me and for a lot of us. I saw a post somewhere remarking on how the fanfic for Joe/Nicky isn’t fixing anything, which is usually the point of transformative fanworks: we take something that canon atrociously fucked up and fix it. But in this case, all our interpretations are based on actually appreciating the way they’re presented in canon and wanting to enjoy that and uphold it, and that -- especially with a couple like this one -- is shocking??

Like. Despite my historian gripes about the occasionally incongruous details for their graphic-novel backstories (which are the only things I HAVE fixed in my fics), I’m just... deeply appreciative of the care which everyone, writers and actors and all else, put into depicting Joe and Nicky and their relationship. And god YES, one of the things I love the absolute MOST is that they’re a loving, faithful, committed, happy married queer couple over centuries, and that seems to be the case for as long as they’ve known each other/ever since they got together. (See Booker’s “you and Nicky always had each other.”) These fools can’t sleep apart from each other even when they’re stuck on a freight train in the middle of nowhere, they flirt like teenagers at dinnertime and even when they’re strapped to gurneys in a mad-scientist laboratory, they make out to enrage bad guys and also because they’re just still that goddamn into each other after all this time.

I think it was Marwan Kenzari who pointed out that there’s simply no way to truly state the depth of their knowledge and devotion and commitment to each other. They’re 950 years old. They have known each other since they were in their thirties; they’ve been husbands for literal centuries. There is no way anyone else in the world could possibly come close to replicating the kind of bond they have with each other, and neither of them have ever had any inclination to look, because why would they? Especially with the fact that queer couples in media, even otherwise sympathetically portrayed ones, often have Drama and Third Parties and Promiscuity and whatever else (because of the tiresome old canard that Gays Equal Hypersexualized!), and Joe and Nicky don’t need or want ANY of that. There’s no urge to make their relationship a cheap source of soap-opera conflict. It’s the rock and the center and the core of both of their lives, and everything they do stems from that.

There have been some great metas/comments on how neither Joe and Nicky are sexualized, they dress like stay-at-home dads during quarantine (Marwan Kenzari and Luca Marinelli are both objectively gorgeous men, and they’re out there looking like that, god bless), and the viewer is never invited to goggle at or fetishize their relationship. There are no leering or exploitative camera angles on anyone, and their expressions of love aren’t posed or intended to titillate the audience, they’re just solidly embodied and natural and lived in. It’s never bothered to be stated clunkily in dialogue that they’re a couple; we just see them exchanging looks and smiles in the early part of the film, and then we see them spooning on the train after the mission in Sudan, which confirms it.

At every turn, the narrative celebrates the kindness and love shared by the Immortal Family, the individual characters, and Joe and Nicky, especially and explicitly in queer form. The villains of the film are also defined by how they react negatively to that love. @viridianpanther had a great meta on how Keane as a villain is especially set up to menace Joe and Nicky as the narrative representation of toxic masculinity, aggressive heterosexuality, and the usual “Kill Your Gays” trope that we’ve all come to wearily expect. But instead, after that scene where Joe and Nicky fight Keane, Nicky is shot and comes back to life in Joe’s arms rather than dying permanently like we probably all momentarily expected, and then Joe gets to FUCKIN’ BREAK THE NECK of the guy who enacted that violence.... good GOD. The first time I watched it, I almost couldn’t believe it was happening. (This goes for the whole film, but especially that scene.) Like... when do we get that?? When do we EVER get that???

Obviously, there are so many stereotypes, whether visually or in behavior or character traits, that could have been assigned to a gay Italian character (excessively dramatic, effeminate, fashionable, etc) or a gay Arabic/Muslim character (explicitly announcing He’s Not Like Those Muslims, having to actively reject his heritage to make him more palatable to westerners, being tormented over being gay, etc) and Joe and Nicky subscribe to none of those. I get very emotional about Joe referring to Nicky as the moon when he is lost during the truck scene partly because it’s SUCH a common motif in Arabic love poetry. To call someone your “moon” is a beautiful way to say they’re the light of your life, and since the Islamic calendar is obviously lunar and the holidays, months, and observances, are set by the phases of the moon, this also has a deeper religious significance.

I don’t know for sure if they did that on purpose, but it it’s a lovely and subtle way of showing us how Joe clearly doesn’t have an issue with being both queer AND Muslim, and is able to draw on both facets of that identity in a way that a lesser narrative would have denied him. And that is just really wonderful. Yes, we’re seeing these characters when they’ve had centuries to settle into themselves, but there are plenty of writers who would have forced those conflicts artificially to the surface, rather than letting them be long in the past. It’s the same way when you watch a film set in the medieval era, it wants you to know that it Is Set In The Medieval Era. Cue the filth, misogyny, racism, violence, etc! Rather than it being a lived-in reality, it has to be jarringly drawn attention to, and I’m just so glad they didn’t do that with Joe and Nicky. And for them to have met in the crusades and fallen in love??! Come on. That’s just rude. Rude to me, personally.

Anyway, this was a rather long-winded and feelsy way of saying that these characters are constructed, acted, and written organically in such a way that you hate to even THINK of them being separated, and it’s not because they can’t function without each other, but because they are two halves of a whole. We also see that the characters themselves can’t stand being forced apart: Joe’s freakout in the truck scene when Nicky briefly won’t wake up, Nicky making sure to tell Joe that he’s glad he’s awake in the lab, the whole post-Keane fight scene that I talked about above, the way Nicky fights ferociously to get to Joe when Merrick’s stabbing him, etc. For that to be given to the queer couple, where the strength of their love and devotion is reinforced as one of the emotional goals of the story, and for that queer couple to be written in the way that Joe and Nicky are, both individually and as a unit, is just so very rare.

Because yes, there’s plenty of drama and angst and pain in their lives, but there’s none at all in their relationship, and that’s what fans keep telling TV writers the whole time: they WANT to see the couple confront things as a unit, rather than being kept on tenterhooks the whole time and forced to go through manufactured or artificial drama. It would feel especially wrong for Joe and Nicky, who have known and loved each other for 900 years. The fact that their respective actors also put so much care and love into them is very obvious, and makes me feel even luckier that they’re played by people who clearly get them and honor them and know what they’re doing.

Basically: of course Joe and Nicky have been with each other the whole time, and of course we’re all drowning in feelings over it, and I feel very blessed that this ship exists, and I very much need the sequel ASAP. Thanks.

#the old guard meta #joe x nicky #immortal husbands #long post #roseoswiins #ask

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imagine-that-one-thing · 3 years ago

Text

Her Majesty || 19

Aces and Spades

Smut Warning

May

Three times every Summer, the grounds of Buckingham Palace are awash with scones and fascinators as the Queen hosts her annual garden parties. The events recognise those in public service — so guests include charities, organisations, and the civil service. As Queen, this is now MY garden party.

Just under a year ago, my father was hosting this identical garden party in debut to telling everyone who my boyfriend and soon to be husband was. Unfortunately, it didn't go as planned, nor did the series of unfortunate events that followed suit.

Today, there's a distinctive atmosphere to the event. It isn't as articulated and controlled. Today it's an event that doesn't bother me as much as it worries Harry. He despises events held at the Palace because it implies there's constantly a flow of people in and out of the grounds. The garden parties customarily host around eight thousand guests, but today we have a little extra. Harry has been operating nonstop doing his dues for the Palace, revising plans with Matthew and specific insurrections for today in case of emergency.

I wander the grounds, viewing as the staff hustle around in an attempt to make sure the settings are immaculate. Finally, the tents are up, the flower arrangements are in sequence, and all that is left is for the food and little things to be settled into place. I beam as the crew pass me, their hands abundant with an array of various items. They do deserve so much acknowledgement for these functions. Without the team, these events wouldn't transpire. They indeed are the masterminds behind it all.

I have not possessed substantial control over the garden party. I know my mother habitually plans the event for my Father, but my mother had no desire to plan the event to the extent she usually does due to circumstances. I enabled the staff to plan the event and have most of the say with all decorations and foods. The only thing I requested was for my father’s chosen flower to be the tables' centrepieces. He always loved blue orchids, so did I, but that is one of the flowers not grown in the gardens. Perhaps the reason for him not desiring orchids in the gardens is because, in Victorian-era England, the orchid was a symbol of luxury and decadence— My father never threw around his luxuries, he never overstepped and became entitled or snobby, he stayed humble throughout his life as a royal. The colour blue is associated with peace and tranquillity, something that my father did not observe towards the end of his life. I believe orchids to be elegant of all colours, no matter their meaning or their status of luxury or wealth.

"Excuse me, can you help me?" I discover a bass voice question. Without a second thought, I turn on my heel to recognise a gentleman carrying boxes stacked higher than he can view.

I take the top box from him, allowing him the ability to meet my gaze. The man has voyager-blue eyes that are as clear as a fresh pond. Although they are vibrant and clear, something about him is cloudy, something I can't quite put my finger down on. His eyes are beautiful, but I can't ignore the unsettling feeling he leaves me with when he makes eye contact with me.

"Oh, my, your highness, I am so sorry," the man begins to apologise profoundly.

I draw my gaze from his eyes, scared I have spent too much time staring into the eyes of a man who has a front that I cannot figure out. Staring into the eyes of someone can lure you deeper into a pit you don't always want to be in. "Don't mention it," I shake my head, staring at the rest of his figure for a moment, attempting to grasp where he's from. He appears familiar, but I'm not sure what about him is drawing my curiosity.

"I'm trying to get these insides before they dry out."

"What are they?" I question, beginning to walk back towards the palace doors.

"Flower centrepieces for the tables," I'm informed.

I gawk at the man and nod my head, my emotions wanting to take grasp of me, but I halt them in their track. This is a felicitous day; there is no room for tears or sad emotions. In my hands, I hold the orchids that I insisted on, and for a brief moment, I don’t feel alone in the royal world. I feel the sense of tranquillity and peace wash over me. I don’t think my Father ever intended for things to pan out the way they have; he had no intentions of surrendering me into this world of monarchy distress. It happened, and I can do this.

We reach the palace doors, and I slide my finger over the thump print. I shift the large, gold-lined door, enabling the man to wander into the Palace before me. "Thank you. You can place it right here. I'll come back for the box."

"Do you know where you're going?" I raise a brow, unsure how this poor man will discover his way around the Palace. Sometimes I still get lost roaming the Palace grounds. This place is like a horrible maze to newcomers.

"Uh, well, no. I don't believe your highness should be carrying boxes. So I figured I'd get inside and wait for someone to help me."

I lift my shoulders into a shrug. Carrying a box or two isn't going to kill me. "Excuse me," I seize the awareness of one of the manor staff affiliates, "Would you mind showing this gentleman where he needs to go? He has the centrepieces for the tables."

"Certainly," The staff member nods, taking the box from my hands.

I leave the two of them to figure things out, making my way back upstairs to my room.

♛ ♛ ♛

The trek to my room is reserved and tranquil, something that is quite surprising. I expected to run into Madeleine or Louis attempting to sneak around the Palace in an attempt to keep their relationship ambiguous. I know what is going on between them, so does Harry, but the two of them act as though they are smug for trying to keep their relationship quiet. I think the award for best relationship honoured quiet is mine and Harry's. We did manage to fool my parents and the monarch.

I travel down the long-drawn hallways adorned with various paintings and decorations, the man, however, in my thoughts and driving me bonkers. Perhaps it was the eyes, but I want to know more. I am intrigued; I crave to learn who he is.

Is he a florist?

Is he attending the event?

What is his name?

I shake my obsessive thoughts away as I find myself at my door. I unlock the door with ease and step into my quiet room, just as equally bewildered. I suspected my room to be bustling with staff striving to shove me into a dress and get my hair done. Instead, I regard Harry on our bed with the covers draped over half his body and no staff in my room.

This is a first.

"Did I wake you?" I challenge, noticing him move insignificantly between the soft sheets, the rays of the sun peeking through the sheer curtains, forcing their way through the crack of the blackout curtains.

"Mm, no, been awake for a few minutes," Harry responds tiredly and with a soft voice.

"Oh, I was just downstairs looking at the setup."

"I know," Harry responds, his hand gesturing towards his phone. "I can see the cameras from my phone. Just wish you wouldn't stand in the blind spots every bloody time," Harry softly snickers.

I roll my eyes as I shift the heavy, red curtains to each side to induce light into the room before I shuffle closer to the wrack of clothes that were left in my room last night for me to go through. I have seven dresses I can choose from to wear today, all of which have been pre-approved by my mother already. Even as Queen, I have to have my attire pre-approved by her. I don't think I'll ever be able to wear what I want without approval, no matter how long I reign. "Shouldn't you already be with Matthew?" I challenge, shocked Harry is still in bed at this hour.

Harry shakes his head, not bothering to move in the bed as I gaze at each dress, taking them off the wrack and holding them up. "No, I was allowed to sleep in," Harry responds.

"Which dress?" I turn around, holding up two dresses that I can’t decide on.

One is The Reiss Peacock dress with lace and cording embroidery detailing on the bodice, a wide neckline and a heavily lined, full skirt. The second dress is a red and white Alexander McQueen dress, with a knee-length skirt and slim-fit sleeves with white cuffs.

Harry moves insignificantly in the bed, the sheets sounding with each slight movement. Harry grimaces as he relaxes upon his forearms to get a better glimpse.

"The lace," Harry answers with a petite smile, "Swear your mother picks the most horrid dresses sometimes," Harry continues, relating to the green gown at the end of the wrack that I didn’t touch.

My mother has a way of trying to dress me up to par with royal protocol. I do my best to stick to the protocol without looking like I am in my sixties.

I am not entirely convinced that the only reason Harry is in bed is that he got the morning off. It is rare for him to still. be in bed, for the most part, on his day's off, he gets up and starts moving. Something about him doesn't seem quite right. Perhaps I am reading into things a little too much, but I feel uneasy when I shouldn't. Harry doesn't just take days off or stay in bed unless there is a reason for it. Sometimes it is to keep me occupied while protocol takes place, sometimes it is because he has worked too many hours and legally has to stand down, and other times, on that very off chance, it is because something isn't right with him.

"I can see you're stressing already. Relax."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Harry sighs and nods his head, "Yes, I'm a bit tired, that is all, I promise." ... "Your mother said I was to attend as a husband today. I never knew marrying you would entail your mother controlling my work schedule." Harry informs me, "I am not mad, just amused. She won't do this often, will she?"

I shrug my shoulders in response. I am not sure why my mother decided to inform Harry that today was an event as a husband. I am confident she has some purpose. I can only imagine she is delighted to show him off as her son-in-law to the several people who do know. Perhaps she intends to show the world that we are together, I am not quite sure. I frankly do not want the media and the people to draw much attention to us. I know the balcony from the night of my coronation has people talking, but I don't want the spotlight on us or myself. I don't want the spotlight at all.

My door opens, and my ladies-in-waiting unobtrusively walk in, smiles adored across their lips and bright eyes as they notice the dress I have chosen. I don't know how they appreciate the process of getting me ready and looking like a royal, I am over it, so I assume they would be too. From the anticipated expression on their faces, it is safe to say they relish this a lot more than I do.

"I am going to get for a walk or maybe get coffee, enjoy whatever you lot do," Harry gestures around us as my hair is already being touched and hairstyles discussed. Harry kisses my cheek and promptly leaves, allowing me to be forced into a chair.

The ladies assist me with getting prepared, making sure my hair, makeup, and attire match perfectly. They smile happily with each moment, asking questions to help prepare me for any sort of conversations that may take place. They enjoy the questions and keep me occupied so that I don't freak myself out. I chuckle and roll my eyes as Eleanor exposes the glass boxes that contain jewellery pieces. "She wants to wear a tiara," Harry pipes up, ultimately making himself known in the room after his coffee walk.

I raise a brow and shake my head, "No," I mouth to Eleanor.

"The sapphire one that I like." Harry presses.

"The Dubai Looped Sapphire Demi-Parure?" Eleanor challenges with a raised brow as we all glance at him. He doesn't typically comment when the ladies are around. He tends to let them do their job and choose for me unless otherwise specified.

Harry nods his head and steps closer to me, placing a warm cup in my hand, the scent of tea filling my senses. This man always knows when to bring me what beverage.

"I will have Matthew get it from the vault with the earrings," Eleanor smiles, and I nod my head. "Now for the dress," Eleanor gestures towards the dress that I picked out.

Eleanor helps me into the dress; it doesn't take much assistance, unlike some of the ball gowns I have had to wear in the past. This dress is quite simple and slips on perfectly. The only issue is the buttons down the back.

I glance over and view Harry once again grimacing as he stretches his shirt around to draw the sleeve up to his arm. Then, finally, he catches my stare and softly grins, "You look lovely," he compliments me as Eleanor proceeds to button up my dress from the back, tightening it with every moment.

"You look like you're in pain."

"Just a little sore, it's normal," Harry shakes his head, "Plus, this suit is not my usual look. It's not black." Harry half-smiles, attempting to hide the pain laced in his eyes.

Harry is notorious for wearing the same damn suit. I don't know why he wears the same one, he can afford to buy different suits, but he doesn't. I think he has duplicates of the same suit, to be honest. The man can afford to buy horses and have a nice car, but the man will not buy a different suit. He won't even change the colours. He is a simple man; a straight black and white suit is more than enough for him. I am surprised I got him to wear suspenders on our wedding day.

"Well, your hardcore black and white suit isn't going to cut it for today's event. Get over it."

"Feisty," Harry chuckles, "What am I meant to do? I am prepared as security, not a husband, so I need some pointers," Harry reminds me of the fact that he has not been introduced into the royal world as more than his career. He only understands how to act as my security detail. "Do I curtsey? Do I act posh? Do I carry one of those umbrella things around?" Harry questions. He is spiralling. The man who isn't frightened of much is somewhat panicking over how to present himself in the royal world.

I chuckle and shake my head, "Next, you're going to ask if you have to play polo."

"Well, if I do, I cannot, "... "Not only am I god awful, I can't play with my shoulder."

I roll my eyes as Harry works to arrange his tie, "Just act like you."

"The royal's do not want to see me as an asshole who will call a level four protocol if I seem fit."

"Harry," I breathe.

Harry huffs and shakes his head, "I like this better as security."

"Just stay with me, talk to people and try to enjoy yourself."

"There are thousands of people on the grounds. I cannot enjoy myself." Harry is in security mode and not husband mode. It doesn't matter how many people are on the grounds. It isn't his problem.

I restrain myself from glaring at him and huffing. Instead, I offer him a small smile to conceal my frustration, "Are you going to be a grumpy ass all day?"

"I am sorry," Harry sighs, "I will do my best."

I walk away from Eleanor and step to Harry, taking his suit jacket from his hand, "Allow me," I instruct, moving behind him and helping him put the jacket on without having to move his shoulder too much. I know he is in more pain than he leads on. I know he struggles daily with his shoulder; it seems to be getting worse.

Harry turns around and nods his head, "Thank you," he kisses my cheek.

"You should get your shoulder checked out again."

"When I have time," Harry responds, dismissing the conversation and stepping away from me instantly.

♛ ♛ ♛

The Palace is bustling with staff hurrying to get last-minute things under control, and the rest of us in the Palace are getting ready, more so the ladies adding any last-minute touches to things. For once, I am ready early and without restraints. I am not hurrying to find pantyhose or trying to find ways to see Harry before we are whisked away for a day apart.

I escort down the endless hallway, my heels silenced under the red carpet that has been rolled out for today's occasion. God forbid if this marble floor is scratched by anyone who cannot walk in heels.

When I recognise Harry walking in my direction, I smile to myself, his physique adorned with the navy blue suit he left my room in. He is dashing with a rascal's smile, and his hair is a casual jumble but mostly neat and flowing. Harry prowls typically around with a lion-like power when walking the halls, but today he eases about the hallways with grace, seeming more relaxed and not so dominant.

As he steps closer, Harry’s eyes are a-twinkle with the ‘Joie de vivre’ as he graces me with a confident smile.

I grasp Harry's hand and sway us away from the hallways leading to the event of people commencing to assemble outside in the gardens. I drag us into a hidden passageway with no warning.

"Why are we here?" Harry questions, confused as he locks the door behind him. “I didn’t call a protocol,” Harry informs me.

I lean up and kiss him fearlessly, wasting no time with my intentions.

"Anna," he draws away, gazing at me with bewildered eyes.

"Harry, I'm in a dress," I point out the obvious, motioning towards the white dress that caresses my body in the superfluous yet modest way.

Harry nods, "And you look lovely."

"I'm in a dress, so please, for the love of God, give me attention," I breathe out, "Give me you," I demand, causing him to raise a brow. "We have a few minutes." I remind Harry that we still have time before we need to make our entrance into the garden and begin mingling with people who have been invited.

"Right here?" He is shocked as he gestures around the passageway I have drawn him into without any sort of warning.

Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do. There is nowhere else that we will be adorned with privacy. My room is clustered with the staff cleaning up and taking out the dresses I did not choose, the team are all around the palace, and I am sure security has every damn camera working and being watched intently.

"Any other time and place we are interrupted, right here, right now," I confirm. “There are no cameras, no staff, no interruptions.”

Harry stands in front of me, blinking owlishly. I sigh and shake my head before moving to the side, my hand reaching for the door we entered from.

He isn’t interested.

Abruptly, he seizes me and pushes me against the wall. My back hits the wall as one hand cups my neck and the other rushes to my hip, leaving very little space between us. His lips waste no time with leaving rained kisses on my exposed skin, butterflies in my stomach soaring with every luscious kiss settled to my skin.

He caresses my shoulder and bequeaths a trail of kisses leading to my collar bone, my fevered skin shivering at each moment his raspberry-red lips leave their mark. I tilt my head to the side as he advances to kiss the slender skin column of my neck, producing a meagre exhale to escape my lips.

Finally.

He urges his body closer to mine, and my breath hitches in my throat while he bites my neck mildly, just enough to enthral me. My chest rises up and down, and I sense his breath brush my skin with every moment that transpires. He takes bold possession of my lips, kissing me vigorously and passionately with his sumptuous, sensuous and velour soft lips that drip with honey. My hands' haste to Harry's physique, which deserves to be on statues, chiselled by the greatest artists. My leg encloses around his body to draw him closer, a wild desire and yearning taking power. His hand drifts to cup my boob, my body continuing to advance into his as tongues slip and surge in superfluous movements.

He takes his palm and glides it up to my inner thigh, my dress being of no concern to him. He takes his time, welcoming every inch of my inner thigh that he can, feeling every inch like a map for him to follow. Finally, he discovers the lace beneath my dress, and my palms clutch his shoulders. He glides a finger across the lace, my leg wrapping tighter around him while the other holds me up, keening anticipation humming through my veins.

I draw away from our kiss and let out a breath, my chest rising rapidly as he teases me with extremely light glides across the lace. "How much do you want this?" Harry challenges with a soft voice and a grin on his face. "Because I don't think you want this enough."

"I need you, now," I murmur, my fingers burrowing into his shirt while he brushes his finger over the lace of my underwear.

"You sure?" … “Tell me how much you need me,” Harry instructs, gradually positioning himself on his knees and thoroughly pressing his hand to the back of my thigh.

“Don’t do this,” I whine as he begins to kiss my skin, slowly making his way up my thigh.

Harry gently squeezes his hand on the back of my inner thigh and leaves a few more sweet kisses on my skin. I tilt my head back, my mouth allowing a small groan to escape as I am enthralled with him getting closer and closer to where I want him.

“I’m still waiting,” Harry responds, his breath tapping my skin, driving me crazier.

"Harry, just put me out of my misery and—"I begin, frustrated with him, but my words trail off as he slides the lace to the side, ever so nonchalantly.

"And?" Harry questions, standing back to his feet, his hand pressed to the lace band of my underwear, tampering with my sanity.

"And do what you do best. Why do you make this so fucking frustrating you're—, oh," I trail off the moment he graces me with his presence and slides a finger inside me, shutting me up instantly. I tilt my head back and softly moan.

“Is that what you wanted?" He grins cockily, working his fingers in a circular motion, causing me to want more and more of his breathtaking movements.

“Don’t stop.”

Delighted with excited anticipation, he slides in another finger, my toes curling within my heeled stilettos, my hand clutching fistfuls of his shirt, my body focusing on the sensation he’s dominantly advancing, his fingers twisting in a circular motion. My eyes narrow to half-mast, my head is tilting back, my nails digging into his shirt as he continues to grin.

Harry chuckles quietly as I begin to dance my hands along with the band of his pants, hinting at what I want next.

“Gettin’ ahead of yourself already,” Harry grins, “I’m not done,” He continues, catching me off guard as he slows his circular motions and lowers himself back down to his knees. He rides my dress up and grasps the back of my thighs, kissing his way up my thighs. My fingers press his shoulders while my other hand holds my dress. He bites gently on my inner thigh, a small chuckle escaping his lips before I go weak at my knees, enthralled by the motions of his tongue.

His hands squeeze the back of my thigh harder, in turn, my fingers squeezing his shoulders as my legs begin to quiver. I feel the rushing, narcotic power building in my body, “Harry,” I moan his name, fighting the power and squirming as he gets closer and closer to finding the exact spot I have been demanding.

I feel the building pressure, the climax coming at me in digging waves, but Harry stops. He stands to his feet, and I go to protest, but I’m stopped the moment he unbuttons his pants, thrilling me further and entering slowly. His hand presses against the wall, and we work together, at first going slow before he gradually inclines his thrusts, my hips moving to work with his.

My eyes roll to half-mast as my residence is broken and my body weakens, entirely falling into him with pleasure.

I catch my breath as he holds me up, my nails removing from their emended position on his shoulders.

I give him a smile as my dress falls back to its original length and my leg unwraps from around him. He holds me tighter, my legs shaking even further.

"You okay?" He breathes, pressing me back against the wall while holding me securely.

I nod, “Just for future reference; I’ll be getting you back for demanding praise before pleasure.”

Harry shrugs as he drops his arm from me and begins to adjust himself and his pants. “You dragged me in here.”

“If I had to wait for you to drag me in here, we’d never get anywhere.”

“I’m sorry I prefer to pleasure you in complete privacy.”

“Up your game, Styles,” I smile, adjusting my dress.

Harry rolls his eyes, “I look forward to your revenge, darling.” Harry winks as he cocks his head and looks me up and down, “Your quivering legs say you’re satisfied.”

“Very,” I nod, “Next time, it’s my turn to pleasure you.”

Harry grins and agrees, “Revenge and all.” ... "You have an event, Queen," Harry winks, gesturing to the door, reminding me of my other duties.

Harry's POV

When I woke up this morning, I had not intended for the events of the morning to go as they have. I didn't anticipate Anastasia to drag me to the royal office right before the garden party to take care of business. Then again, I didn't expect her to lure me into a passageway and demand I please her, not that I'm complaining by any means. Intercourse is infrequent these days. Finding alone time is like attempting to find a pot of fucking gold.

I stand in front of her, waiting for answers, just as Pippa and her mother do as well. My mother in law steps closer to me, "What is going on?" she questions, and I shrug my shoulders.

"No clue," I whisper.

"It is rude to whisper," Pippa remarks, causing me to cock my head to the side and glared at her.

Before I can speak, my mother-in-law speaks for me, "Nobody asked your opinion," she mutters.

"The only way to become KingKing is to inherit the title; I hereby change the ruling. If any Queen wishes to title her husband as KingKing, she can do so on the conditions she rules the majority of the monarch, and they can co-monarch successfully. I am still higher ranked than him." Anastasia states, signing her name effortlessly across a piece of paper, taking all of us by surprise.

I watch as Anastasia signs a warrant authorising the preparation of the letters patent and approving the draft text of the letters patent. "What? Anna… What?" I utter, confused as to what is happening as Anna hands me the letter that will be written in ceremonial calligraphy on vellum in the next few hours.

"You cannot be serious, Her Majesty," Pippa laboriously huffs.

I am not sure how any of this affects Pippa. It isn't like I do anything to bother her.

"I am changing your title," Anna responds, glancing towards her mother and Pippa, who have witnessed the moment, "Any objections?" Anastasia raises a brow, narrowing her eyes towards Pippa.

Pippa shifts her weight from foot to foot, evidently troubled with Anastasia's smartass remarks and comments. Pippa shakes her head, and I take a moment to glance down and read what Anastasia is ordering.

In the name and on the behalf of Her Majesty.

Anastasia Annette Leanor, Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen Defender of the Faith etc. To all to whom these Presents shall come greeting: Our Will and Pleasure is, and we do hereby declare and ordain, that from and after the date of this warrant, Harry Styles, shall be styled, entitled and called "His Royal Highness, King of the United Kingdom," before his name and such Titles and appellations, which to Him now do, or at any time hereafter may belong or appertain, in all Deeds, Records, Instruments or Documents whatsoever, wherein He may at any time hereafter be named or described. And We do hereby authorise and empower the said Harry Styles henceforth and at all times to assume and use and be called and named by the style title and appellation of "His Royal Highness" accordingly.

Given at Our Court at Buckingham Palace the Fifteenth Day of April 2022.

I place the paper down on the desk, "Anna, Are you sure about this? I don't know about all this," I gesture, unsure of what to do or how to act.

I don't want this at the expense of pissing Pippa off.

"Yeah, I am unsure too," Pippa steps closer to the desk.

"Nobody asked your opinion, and this has nothing to do with the Priminsiter. Why is she here?" I cross my arms over my chest.

This woman is a pain in my ass.

"I think I liked you better as a security detail."

"Yeah, well, I liked you better when you weren't up my ass and pissing me off all the time."

"That is no way to speak to a parliament member," Pippa responds.

"Parliament can kiss my royal ass," I respond, "I believe this is a conversation between my wife and me, so please, respectfully, shut up," I smile through my teeth, trying my hardest not to be an outright asshole to her, but my patience is thin right now.

I look back towards Anastasia and Anna stands from her position at her desk, "I am sure, we have a garden party to attend," Anastasia smiles before she steps towards me and kisses my cheek, "Are you escorting me or are you going to argue Pippa?"

"Do I get a say in this?" I softly challenge.

Anna shakes her head, "No, take it," Anastasia responds, her eyes narrowing down on me, indicating that I need to shut my mouth and let her do what she is doing. Perhaps there is a method to her madness, or maybe she wants to give me the damn title, either way, I will stand by her, even if it means I become a fucking King, formally,

♛ ♛ ♛

For the first time, I trail Anastasia's lead, doing my amplest to empower myself to be in the moment and not destroy things by being her security detail. I try my best not to keep track of the number of people in the gardens or that with every second that passes, there's an extra set of eyes on Anastasia.

Matthew is in charge of keeping Anastasia safe in the event of some catastrophe, and Oliver is in charge of keeping me safe. Quite frankly, as her husband or not, I do not care about myself in situations; my main focus is her not just because it is my profession but because she is the woman I love. Therefore, I will put my life on the line for her no matter the circumstances.

"Eaglette, any threats?" I softly question Oliver as Anastasia is occupied with one of the other Princess' that have appeared.

Oliver clears his throat and steps closer to me from behind, "Will she fire me if I tell you?" Oliver whispers, and I can't help but laugh. Anastasia and Princess Charlotte view me with raised brows, and I begin to softly cough into my hand, proposing to divert the attention.

"No, Oliver, she will not fire you. Give me the rundown," I instruct, moving to the left so he can stand beside me.

I begin to glance around, exercising close surveillance of the physiques around us. "One woman was denied entry, and that is all. Nothing dangerous or threatening."

"Who has their eyes on her mother?" I question, unable to locate Anastasia's mother where I am.

"She is sitting under the tent with her lady-in-waiting. She will not be moving. Everything is running smoothly."

I nod my head and march towards Anastasia, joining her conversation.

I feel out of place. I feel as though I should be standing with Matthew or Oliver. I shouldn't be participating in the events as more than security detail. My marriage to Anna doesn't modify my stance on things. I don't want to be known as the man who abruptly gains a title and completely changes; I am no better than anyone else and don't like the idea of being more than just security. Most people would love to have some sort of title. I don't.

I excuse myself from Anna and walk away, leaving the crowd of minglers for Oliver to handle. These events have always bothered me, not just from a relationship stance but from a security detail stance. It is rattling my nerves not being in the loop and knowing where everyone is or who is here. Matthew didn't want me a part of today's service, as requested by my mother-in-law but not knowing makes me want to panic. I weave in and out of the gardens, well aware of Matthew's sneaky path, and I eventually locate him.

I offer him a grin, and he shakes his head, "What do you want? You're off duty."

"Can I please just have my in-ear? It would give me peace of mind," I ask politely.

Matthew rolls his eyes and shoves his hand into his pocket, "I figured you'd ask," Matthew chuckles, "Can't help yourself, can you?"

I lift my shoulders into a shrug and take my in-ear from him, "Makes me nervous not knowing."

"I understand, but if Anastasia sees you being her detail, she is going to get upset with you. She wants her husband."

"Yeah, well, her husband is struggling with this… What the fuck am I meant to do? I don't know these people." I question, needing some sort of advice. "Do I curtsey?"

I am the kind of person who likes to be prepared, and I haven't been prepared for anything. I don't know how to start conversations with royals, I don't know how to act as anything other than a security personal, and most of all, I don't know who I am meant to curtsey to and who I am not. Things are more manageable when I am security. As Anna's security, I knew every single person who was meant to curtsey to Anna and every single person who did not have to. Everyone who does not hold an HRH title has been required to bow to Anastasia even when she was young, and anyone without an HRH title will have to curtsey to our children. Now that Anna is Queen, everyone is to curtsey to her no matter the title, and now that I have a title, I have no clue who the fuck I am meant to bow to or who is meant to bow to me, not that I want anyone to bow to me.

Matthew chuckles to himself before placing his hand on my shoulder, "Harry, relax. It is okay."… "Anna had to only bow to her parents; now her mother has to bow to her… As reigning Queen, everyone curtseys to her, and when you two are together, they curtsey to you. You are titled His Majesty, and as King, everyone curtseys to you as well when you are both together."

"So I do not bow?"

"No, Harry, and there is no way I am bowing to you either."

I laugh at Matthew's comment, "Royal protocol says otherwise."

"You can shove it up your ass; I am not bowing," Matthew continues, causing me to laugh a little harder. "Now that you are relaxed, just breathe. Don't worry about the royal rules. Anna doesn't want you to be moulded to those rules. She just wants her husband; she doesn't expect you to act like a King on your first day."

"Nobody even knows I am King, oh God, is the media going to find out? I don't think I am up for this. I don't want to be formally known as King."

"Would you prefer the title of an asshole? I think it is still available unless Pippa took it," Matthew continues to endeavour to lighten the mood and stop me from spiralling with my thoughts and feelings towards the situation. "Look, Anastasia knows what she is doing. It doesn't change anything major right now, Harry. It isn't like you have to make speeches and attend public events on your own. Just stand with her and smile."

"I prefer to be on security. Can I just do security?"

Matthew shakes his head, "You need to do this for your wife, so suck it up."

I nod my head, "Can I just get a few minutes to recoup?" I question, requiring a few extra minutes to amp myself back to go back to Anastasia and the swarming crowd of guests.

"I am going back to Oliver. If you're not back with your wife in ten minutes, I will make you regret it."

"How so?" I curiously ask, purposely being a shithead.

"I will stick you on watching the cameras between two and six in the morning, your favourite shifts," Matthew responds, causing me to groan. "Figured you would see it my way and get back to being King," Matthew smirks, shuffling away from me.

I stand in the extensive gardens, taking in deep breaths in an attempt to calm my racing thoughts.

What have I gotten myself into?

I struggle to wrap my head around this morning's events. I just gave up the crown and being in charge of the monarch, and somehow I gained the title of King- a title that has never been obtained by a man who hasn't been royal by blood. I am sure the parliament will dispute it the best they can, but ultimately, Anastasia has the last say.

I observe a man and take it upon myself to walk closer to him, "This area is off-limits," I immediately begin, startling the man as he turns to stare at me.

"You're in here."

"I am allowed to be here. I would suggest you go back to the public and leave the flowers alone," I command, pointing to the flowers he had been touching, "If I catch you here again, I will have you arrested." I threaten the man, not wanting to cause a scene. Anna would kill me.

"No need, Harry," the man shakes his head.

"How do you know my name?" I instantly challenge, narrowing my eyes on him and stepping closer to the man who appears familiar, but I know I have never met him before. He isn't in any of our files for looking out for and for someone who can't be trusted.

"I read social media. I am not from the seventeen hundreds, Mr Styles," the man chuckles.

I nod my head, "Careful what you touch, might be poisonous," I cross my arms over my chest, making it known that I know he is up to something, but I am not quite sure what it is. I don't know what he could want with a few flowers or what he was doing out here, but I do know that I do not like it.

"Likewise, wouldn't want any Aces in the hole," the man grins.

"You seem a bit lost in the shuffle there, mate," I respond, irritated by his use of idioms.

"Have a good day," The man proceeds to walk away, leaving me intrigued. Part of me wants to grab him and force out of him what he means by an Ace in a hole. The saying represents a hidden or secret strength or unrevealed advantage, but what could this man mean?

What Ace is hidden in the gardens?

What Ace is hidden in the flowers?

What Ace is hidden?

I shake my thoughts and force myself to forget about the man, a man who is just someone attempting to get some sort of attention at the Palace. I walk the pathway and head back towards the area where the guests are gathered. I weave in and out of the bodies, trying to locate Anna or her mother, whichever one I can manage to find first.

I find Anastasia standing under one of the tents on her own, standing beside an ice sculpture that is just for looks. "I was looking for you," Anastasia begins, "You okay?"

"I am fine," I kiss her cheek.

"I know that is a lie," Anastasia sighs, and she takes my hand, lacing her fingers with my own.

I heavily sigh before speaking, "I don't like not doing my job, it is… weird," I trail off into a whisper as we are interrupted by Princess Madeleine. "Princess," I nod, acknowledging her as she smiles towards Anastasia and glares as her eyes meet mine.

"I believe you have the title wrong," Madeleine informs me, purposely irking my nerves as she did the first day I met her.

She has lived with us for a little while, and I do everything in my power to avoid her at all costs; she and I don't see eye to eye, and her sarcasm pisses me off nine times out of ten. The only time she has come in handy was when she scared some of the new guys I am trying to train.

I clear my throat and look at her, "Madeleine Noelle Veil of Denmark," I correct myself, "As I call you by your official title, I believe you must curtsey," I gesture with a grin, "Go ahead, don't be shy."

"Harry," Anna nudges me, signalling for me to stop playing the same petty game as Madeleine.

"I Madeleine Noelle Veil of Denmark do not bow to you, but as for your royal title, I shall curtsey," Madeleine mutters unhappily, bending her knees and curtseying.

I chuckle and nod my head, "Thank you, Princess Madeleine Noelle Veil of Denmark. Your presence is always a joy."

"Do you two do anything but bicker?" Anastasia interrupts before Madeleine can comment.

Madeleine and I both lift our shoulders into a shrug, "No," I shake my head, "I am going to find Prince Louis," I inform the two of them as they grab more drinks, "Madeleine, who is watching you?" I ask.

Madeleine raises a brow before looking around, "Are you not on my service?"

"I am serious, Madeleine."

"Nobody was assigned to me. My guard never showed."

I run my fingers through my hair and shake my head disapprovingly, "Stay with Anna. I will have someone put on your service." I inform the two of them before walking off, on a mission not only to find someone for Madeleine's service but also to figure out who the man in the gardens was. He has left a bitter taste in my mouth, and something about him doesn't settle with me.

♛ ♛ ♛

The garden party ended an hour ago, and as the evening concluded, I couldn't help but have this begging need to go to the security office and grab some paperwork. My thoughts have been racing since the man in the gardens. I haven't been able to shake his comments off.

I rummage through a few files, doing my best to locate what I am looking for.

I turn to observe Anastasia sitting down; her head bowed as she stares at her lap. I watch her for a minute and cock my head to the side. At first glance, I assume she is tired from a long day; hell, I am exhausted from today, and all I had to do was stand there and look pretty. But, instead, I was merely just the man who stood beside her all day. "Baby, are you okay?" I challenge, walking closer, realising that something about her doesn't appear the same. Minutes ago, she was smiling, had energy to her, and now she seems as though her light has dimmed.

I step closer and notice what Anna has in her lap that has caused her to gaze down thoroughly. "Anna, you can't just go through things," I raise my voice insignificantly, panic mode setting in.

Anastasia was not intended to perceive anything in that folder. I lean down and snatch the file from her hands and arrange it back on my desk. She gazes up at me, all the colour drained from her face, her eyes sullen, and her hands shaking as she attempts to disguise them by adjusting the length of her dress. "I'm sorry for raising my voice," I apologise, not knowing where to begin with what I have to handle. I thread a hand through my hair while she twists the wedding ring on her finger anxiously.

Anastasia stands to her feet and wraps her arms around her. I can't tell if it is out of comfort or for the fact it is chilly down here. I know she viewed information in the file she was never meant to perceive, there is a reason she isn't meant to be down here, but I didn't expect this file to be left in plain sight for her to recognise. "Anna?"

She doesn't want to speak, I don't blame her, but she can't keep shutting down on me any time an inconvenience occurs or she finds things out she doesn't want to acknowledge. At this rate, her life is a series of unfortunate events, and I am doing everything I can to shield her from it. But it isn't my fault she is in the mess she is in. It all originates from her family line. Finally, Anastasia steps to the door and waits, not bothering to turn back to glance at me as I stand in the middle of the surveillance room at a loss for words. I don't know how to comfort her.

I take my jacket off and step closer to Anastasia. I drape my coat over her shoulders from behind before I grab my keys from my pocket, "How mad are you at me?" I question, flipping through my keys to locate the one I am looking for.

"Harry, I don't want to talk." Anastasia's lips set in a grim line.

"I don't want a lot of things, but I have to deal with them, Anna."

Anastasia glances at me and takes my jacket off, handing it to me out of spite. Her usually effervescent eyes now burn with contempt. "Leave me alone," Anastaisa mutters.

My body stiffens at the remark; it breaks my heart, but I know deep down this has nothing to do with me. I am just the middle man attempting to figure out who the fuck killed her father and who I need to deal with so they don't take Anastasia.

I unlock the door and permit Anastasia out, "As you wish," I gesture for her to step out, allowing her to march out of the security room and into the tunnels. I close the door behind me and place the keys in my pocket. I heavily sigh, and I lean on the door as I watch Anastasia walk off without me. I should follow her, but I know the tunnels are relatively safe, at least the ones on this end— I know that sometimes she needs space. I can't smother her, and I can't shield her from everything as I try.

After a few minutes, I begin to walk.

I recognise Anastasia on the cold ground, and I wander closer to her before I kneel in front of her, her cheeks tear-stained with mascara, her arms wrapped around her stomach, and her legs tucked under her dress. Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. "Don't ask if I am okay," Anastasia snaps before I can bother to open my mouth.

"Didn't plan on it," I respond before I stand up, leaving her to her own defences and beginning to step away. I may walk away from her, but I can watch guard without her knowing. I don't want to push her over the edge or start an argument with her.

Sometimes you have to pick and choose your battles, especially in relationships; this is a battle I do not want to fight. I don't want to argue herewith in the tunnels because of her emotions.

I catch her weeping, and it breaks my heart, but I can't always be the one to pick up her pieces if she doesn't want me to. I cannot fight her and urge her to understand things. "Harry, wait," the painful vibration of her voice causes me to stop in my tracks. I stand with my back to her, unsure of whether to turn around and go back to her or to leave her where she is. "I'm sorry," her apology causes me to think for a moment. She is furious and sad at the same time, and I am frustrated— neither of us is better than each other— we both have emotions that we can't always control. Finally, I turn around and begin to walk back towards her.

Anastasia gazes up at me, her usually alluring eyes harbouring nothing but grief and sorrow. I kneel again, this time noticing the blood spots on her dress. "What happened?" I request, lifting her arms to take a glimpse at her dress.

"I was coming back to apologise," Anastasia breathes, bowing her head in defeat, "I tripped over the uneven stones."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" I ask, gingerly shifting her arms from their position from around her stomach, scanning every inch of her.

"It's no big deal," Anastasia responds, "Life likes to knock me down."

"Happens to the best of us," I respond, "Can you get up?" I request, unsure of how she fell or if she had hurt herself aside from a few scrapes.

I place my hands at her waist and mindfully assist her where I see her dress is torn, and she scraped her legs on her fall. "If you hadn't walked off, this may not have happened."

Anastasia's eyes roll skyward, and frustration crinkles her eyes. "Sure, because prince charming would have saved me as always."

"I am not sure why you're angry at me," I shake my head, kindly placing my jacket to slide up her arms before I bring it to her front. I button my coat up so the tear in her dress isn't exposed.

Anastasia gazes at me and looks down before peering back up at me, "I don't know who else to be angry at…."

I don't respond, mainly because I do not know how to. So instead, I swallow any sly remarks I have and place my arm around her before we quietly walk the rest of the tunnels.

The walk was silent; the only thing that we could hear was the echo of her heels tapping the stones with every step she took. I know the fall to the stones hurt, and I know she was doing her best not to lean on me, but even when she is pissed at me and I am frustrated, I don't want her ever to think I won't be there for her to lean on, whether that be literally or metaphorically.

Life is troublesome, and it is even harder when you're attempting to avenge your wife's father's murder. I promised her I would get to the bottom of things, I promised her father I would keep her safe, and these go hand-in-hand. I will stop at nothing to make sure Anastasia is not next. It scares me every day to wake up knowing that there are people out there who don't want her in the monarch. It terrifies me that she took control of something much more significant than her. It scares me that there are members of parliament who are evil and corrupt— I plan to deal with them the second that I can, but for now, Matthew and I are taking things one step at a time. Anastasia can't stay enraged at me forever. I didn't tell her to scan through files; she took a seat to get off her feet, resulting in disaster. I didn't expect her to open the one fucking file with pictures of her father the night the unknown killed him. I didn't expect her to somehow turn things around on me. I didn't anticipate becoming the inferior guy in the situation because her emotions are ramped.

♛ ♛ ♛

Anastasia rummages around the bathroom, and I observe her silhouette with every move while I undo the tie around my neck. Every so often, I notice her wipe her reddened cheeks and shift her hair away from her face. I want to comfort her and stop her from crying, but nothing I do will help. Finally, she bends down to take out bandages from the drawer, and a groan escapes her lips, her hand grabbing the edge of the marble counter for balance. I stand to my feet instantly, discovering myself in the bathroom before I can think twice.

"Here," I sigh, placing my hands on Anastasia and sitting her on the bathroom sink. I've watched her struggle enough with trying to clean herself up.

I take the cotton from her hands, the smell of rubbing alcohol causing both of us to screw our noses up. I am not sure what it is, but the sterile smell of rubbing alcohol bothers me. I take her arms and begin to clean her forearms off; I dab delicately. "I know it burns," I soften my gaze on her as she jerks away from my touch, pulling her arms back with a hiss. "Rubbing alcohol burns, but it's all we have unless you want to go-"

"No," Anna cuts me off before I can finish speaking, her voice rough with pain. I know she doesn't want to go to the doctor at the Palace. I know all she wants is to get in bed and forget this evening ever occurred. Anna gives me back her arms and glances away, focusing her attention on something other than the burning pain.

"Can I take your pantihose off? They're all ripped, sweetheart," I softly request, not wanting to take them off without her permission. Anna nods and lifts her dress just enough to take the thin layer of material between my fingers and slide them down her legs, doing my best not to touch the tender skin at her knees where she befell.

Her knees remind me of a time when I was a little kid.

I was running with my sister, we had both been told to stop, but neither of us listened. Instead, we competed with who could reach the neighbours first. The giggling between my sister and I grew louder and louder, and my mother's pleas fell silent the further we got. Finally, I tripped over my own feet, and I went straight into the concrete. I skimmed both my knees that day, I still have the scars, but I remember trying so hard not to cry because I knew my mother was precise. I should have listened to her. The moment my mother got to me, I cried, and I cried. The fall destroyed my pants, and my knees stung like thousands of needles pricking my skin. I attempted to focus on something other than the agony of the minor incident, but I couldn't concentrate on anything besides my skimmed knees.

I remember the fall and the discomfort, and I remember my mum taking me home and cleaning me up in the same way I am with Anastasia. The only difference is I was six, and Anastasia's cuts and scratches are a little more vicious than what six year old me managed to do.

Anastasia winces and hisses as I start to dab her knees. I look at her, and she's biting down on her lip while her hands curl and hold the edge of the countertop. "I'm sorry, baby," I again sigh, apologising for a pain I did not inflict. But, of course, this could have been averted if she wasn't stubborn and marching away from me. Perhaps then she wouldn't have been so emotional and stumbling over herself.

"It's fine; we've both been through worse."

I nod my head and agree, "Perhaps, but scrapes deserve credit. They're fucking painful."

"The tough security guard agrees scapes hurt?" Anastasia softly questions.

"Still recovering from mine when I was six," I wink, attempting to lighten the mood, but she goes withdrawn as I continue to tend to her scrapes.

I clean Anna's legs, bandaging them with bandaids before standing in front of her and benevolently placing my hands at her hips. "Look, you can be mad at me all you want, you can give me the silent treatment, you can yell, do what you need to do, but— hey, look at me," I softly trail off, touching my hand to lift her chin, "I'm not going anywhere. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't tell you to look through the stuff. I never intended for you to see what you saw. This is why I don't let you down there." I begin to explain my train of thought. She can be bitter, but it doesn't change the outcome of anything at the end of the day.

"What if it's you?"

"Excuse me?" I am taken aback by her question.

Is she referring to me as the person who killed her father?

"What if it becomes you, like him?"

"I don't understand." I shake my head, still unsure of what she's alluding to.

Anastasia becomes reserved for a minute before she shakes her head and places her hands on my shoulders, propelling her body forward, signalling she wants to get down off the counter. I help her off, but I retain my hands on her, "Please explain." I caress my hands to hers that rest on my shoulders, and I hold them as she releases her grip on my shoulders.

"What if… What if they do to you what they did to him? Since you're on track to knowing what happened." Anna is fighting a rising panic, but I don't know where she is going with it or where it stems.

"Anna, you told me this is what you wanted, for me to find who did this."

"I don't want to see pictures of you like the way I had to see pictures of him."

"I know what I am doing."

"So did he," Anastasia whispers, "I am going to bed. I don't want to keep having this conversation."

"Hey, you can't just walk away every time you get uncomfortable with something," I inform her as she steps towards the bedroom.

Anastasia halts in her tracks and turns to glance at me, "I'm not coddling you. I am done coddling you so much with certain things." I stand my ground, not wanting to be an arse but not wanting her to keep shutting down conversations. It isn't healthy for her to do this.

"Okay, would it help you sleep better to know that one of the two of us is likely next? I won't sugar coat it; I know that no matter where I go or how good security is that I am a threat. So perhaps it would help you sleep to know Dad, Victoria, and Henry are all dead, and it all boils down to me."

"No, that doesn't help me sleep, but you know what does? Knowing that I do everything humanly possible to make sure you are not touched."

"You're missing the point," Anastasia exclaims, "What about you? Who is keeping you safe? Matthew and Oliver's main concern is me. So who the fuck is making sure that you aren't going to be joining Henry and my Dad?"

"Anna," I sigh, working my hands through my hair. "I signed up for this. I knew signing up for the job that my life would always be on the line to save yours."

"You signed up for your job; you didn't sign up to be in harm's way because you married me."

"Well, that's just one of the perks I have to deal with. I will be fine, damnit… This conversation is over."

"Look at the pot calling the kettle black, uncomfortable?"

"I love you."

Anna shakes her head, "You don't get to end things with an I love you. No."

"You end it as you wish," I respond, stepping around her and beginning to unbutton my shirt.

Even on my worst days, I love her. My love for her is immeasurable. I don't care if we are bickering like cats and dogs. I still love her. Neither of us is perfect, and we are going to fight; it's inevitable. We don't see eye to eye on everything; right now, I have no fucking clue what eye she is even using, but I will figure it out. I vowed to love her through everything, even the moments she is spiralling with emotions.

"You don't understand, do you?"

"I understand that you are hurting, I understand that you're scared, but arguing with me isn't going to help… I don't even know why you're mad. It isn't my fault. This is how things panned out."

"It isn't my fault either."

"I never said it was, Anna," I respond, letting out a grunt, pain branching across my shoulder like lightning as I move my shoulders back and take the damn shirt off. A sharp breath escapes my lips while I lean forward and massage my shoulder. "Don't worry. I promise I am not dying," I mutter, glancing up to notice her staring at me. Damnit.

"Insensitive," Anastasia rolls her eyes.

"Fuck me," I sigh, leaning down to lay on the bed.

I peer up at the ceiling and begin to wonder where I went wrong with this evening. Today went well. There were no significant issues that arose, no protocol I had to call, and everyone complied with the garden rules. I didn't have to throw anyone out, nor did I have to lock down any parts of the Palace. Today is a day that rarely happens when events happen, today was successful without any errors. Rare.

Anna and I had a decent time; I did my best to escort her around and speak with people who I wouldn't usually be entitled to talk to if I was only her guard. So, for once, I somewhat appreciated a royal event... up until now.

"Are you alright?"

"No, Anna, I am not," I respond, "I have a wife who I have no clue how to make feel better and who thinks I am going to be assassinated in my sleep. I also apparently have a monarch and parliament after me, not to mention a job you make a bit difficult."

Anastasia grows silent, and I realise I am only digging my grave deeper with her. If I don't watch it, she's likely to smother me with a pillow in my sleep. But, of course, I wouldn't blame her either. "Just turn the light off when you're ready," I mutter, not wanting to get up to turn it off or to get up to do anything. I am pretty comfortable with my legs dangling over the edge and my back against the bed.

The lights turn off, and I continue to stare up at the ceiling, thinking of how to defuse the situation when we wake up in the morning.

It is my honour to keep Anastasia safe. I started this job due to needing money and a job; I never expected to fall in love with the Princess and get married, but I did. I wouldn't change my job or my decisions to marry her for the world. I'll put my life on the line for her whether it means I get paid or not. At this point, I do my job because I have grown to enjoy the career path I chose. I do it to keep me occupied; keeping her safe is a bonus now. Whether I am on her service or not, I will do everything to make sure she is safe. I don't need to be in a suit and tie with an earpiece to look out for her. I am trained for all conditions and emergencies, whether I'm on the service or not.

I have never thought twice about my life or hers.

It's always going to be hers over mine, not just because she's Royal but because that's how I am as a man. I won't hesitate to take all pain from her. Love isn't just about the sweet kisses, the dates and the honeymoon phase. It's about knowing how to take care of the other person in all aspects; it's about putting them above yourself when it's appropriate and being selfless. Don't get me wrong, I'll put my life on the line for her and take a bullet for her, but dammit, it irks my nerves when she says she doesn't want anything and then drinks my coffee. Being selfless doesn't have to happen constantly; just because I'll take a bullet for her doesn't mean we are perfect or that I devote everything and give her everything. There's an appropriate time and place for each selfless act. Right now, I'm selfish by letting my emotions and feelings rise to the occasions— and that's okay.

I observe the bed dip, and surprisingly, Anastasia lays beside me, closer than I ever anticipated. She thoughtfully wiggles close to my body before she rests her head on my good shoulder, her arm carefully draping over my stomach.

I thought she would prefer to sleep as far from me as possible. I don't move. I lay on my back, still staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck to do. I don't want to give up my job to give her peace of mind, I want to stay in security, but I don't think I'll be able to. If I were to give it up for her, what would I do? Sit around in a robe and drink coffee while dubbing people knights?

After a few moments of silence, Anastasia pushes away from me. I realise she's moving away because of my lack of words and emotions. It wasn't intentional; I didn't aspire to push her away or make her believe like I didn't want her around. I'm merely attempting to figure out my circling thoughts, "Anna," I breathe out, "Come here," I whisper, opening my arm and enabling her to nestle back into me. I wrap my arm around her and caress a kiss to the top of her head.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," I respond.

Me too, baby, me too.

#harry styles imagines #Imagine harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurbs #harry styles prompts #harry styles fanfictions #harry styles fic #harry styles one shots #harry styles preferences #1d imagine #imagine harry styles #harry styles writing #fanfiction

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aion-rsa · 3 years ago

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Midnight Mass Ending Explained

https://ift.tt/39I2zkp

This article contains spoilers for Midnight Mass.

Ending a horror story is hard.

Perhaps no one knows that better than Mike Flanagan, the writer-director behind horror hits like Doctor Sleep, The Haunting of Hill House, and The Haunting of Bly Manor. After observing the occasional less-than-enthusiastic reaction to the endings of some of his other projects, Flanagan decided to end his latest, Netflix series Midnight Mass, on his own terms.

“I didn’t want to come up with an ending that I thought would please people,” Flanagan told Den of Geek and other outlets prior to Midnight Mass’s premiere. “I wanted to come up with the ending that would have the most to say down the line.”

So what, exactly, does the ending of Midnight Mass have to say? Let’s explain just what goes down in the conclusion of Midnight Mass and assess what it all means.

What’s Up with Mildred Gunning and John Pruitt?

Monsignor John Pruitt a.k.a. Father Paul (Hamish Linklater) was, by all indications, a good Christian man.

“The thing we kept coming back to is that authentically, through-and-through evil people are very rare. We’re all way more complicated. The humanity of Father Paul was something that was baked in relatively early,” Flanagan says.

Though Pruitt is not a bad man, per se, he is a deeply flawed one. A long time ago, before the “war” (probably World War II or The Korean War), Pruitt hooked up with the married Mildred Gunning and fathered their daughter Sarah Gunning out of wedlock. That is obviously a big no-no for a priest and Pruitt lived with the guilt of denying his daughter for decades.

Pruitt finally got a chance to alleviate that guilt when he came across a curious creature in Damascus. In this fictional universe where the concept of a vampire is clearly not well known, John Pruitt made the understandable mistake of confusing a monstrous vampire for an equally monstrous angel. After all, the angels of the bible are so visually terrifying that they make a habit of telling those they visit “be not afraid.”

Pruitt thought this angel had granted him the gift of eternal life, just like the Bible promises. He then decides to share that gift with his congregation. The priest’s major sin here though is pride. He didn’t share the angel’s gift with his congregation out of pure benevolence. He did it because he wanted many more years of life in his prime with Mildred and Sarah at his side. Catholicism means everything to Pruitt. And yet, he would cast it all aside for another chance to have the family he wanted.

“If you showed up and asked me, I would have taken this collar off and gone with you. Gone with you anywhere in the world,” Pruitt tells Mildred after she’s been vampirified.

That’s a touching sentiment from the artist formerly known as Father Paul but it’s unfortunately a destructive one.

“When it became clear that Paul could do bad things with pure motives, the show came into clearer focus. There’s only one character in the whole show who I think is evil and it’s not Father Paul,” Flanagan says.

Only one character who is evil? Who could Flanagan be referr….ohhh.

What Were the Vampires’ Plans?

Flanagan actually never confirms which character he sees as evil, but Bev Keane (Samantha Sloyan) seems to be the best fit…unless we count the angel, and he just seems to be a hungry, growing boy.

Bev is, let’s say, a real piece of work. As beautifully depicted by Sloyan, Bev Keane is the officious church lady who can’t keep her nose out of other people’s business. After Mildred talks some sense into John Pruitt, he understands that he and his congregation “are the wolves” and refuses to participate further. That leaves a power vacuum at the top, which Bev is more than happy to step into.

Why Midnight Mass is Mike Flanagan’s Most Personal Work

By Alec Bojalad

Midnight Mass Cast: Previous Credits From Hill House to Bly Manor, Legion & Sherlock

By Louisa Mellor

Now that Bev has a veritable army of superpowered vampires what does she intend to do with them? The same thing that all Bevs want to do: make more Bevs. Bev represents the worst of colonial Christianity and its historical penchant for converting all to its kingdom of heaven…through any means necessary.

When Erin Greene (Kate Siegel) finds out that Bev and friends have merely disabled the boats and not destroyed them, she realizes that their ultimate plan is to eventually take their vampire party to the mainland and create a whole planet of enlightened Christians who just happy to have an insatiable taste for blood and a severe UV-ray allergy.

What Happens to Crockett Island?

Thankfully, Bev’s ultimate goal never comes to pass thanks to the careful plotting of the handful of human beings left in Crockett Island. Erin Greene, Sarah Gunning (Annabeth Gish), Sheriff Hassan (Rahul Kohli), and Annie Flynn (Kirstin Lehman) get to work on finishing the destruction that Bev started.

Ironically, it’s part of Bev’s plan that eventually dooms her and her kind. When one of Bev’s lackeys proposes putting out a fire that the human crew started because the whole island could burn to nothing like in ‘84, Bev’s eyes light up.

“I mean…the church didn’t burn in ‘84,” she says.

Surely this is Revelation. And Revelation means a hale mixed with fire and blood. There will be a flood of fire that ends the world and St. Patrick’s church will be the arc. That’s a great plan and all…as long as something doesn’t happen to the arc.

Welp. Sarah Gunning burns down St. Patrick’s and Sheriff Hassan and Erin Greene (with an assist from Hassan’s son) burn down the rec center. As if burning a church designated as an arc wasn’t symbolically compelling enough, recall that the rec center next to it is equally as symbolic of Bev’s greed. It was Bev who convinced Crockett Island to take the oil company’s money for ruining their island rather than pursuing litigation. And all they got out of that settlement money was that stupid rec center.

With the church and the rec center gone, there are no man-made structures for the vampires to hide from the sun in the coming morning. And that’s how an entire island of 120-ish vampires perishes simultaneously when the sun rises.

Why Do Leeza and Warren Survive?

All of Crockett Island perishes save for two actually. Warren Flynn (Igby Rigney) and Leeza Scarborough (Annarah Cymone) are spared thanks to some quick thinking. Putting the only two remaining non-vampirized children in harm’s way is not an option for Erin, Sarah, Hassan, and Annie. Thankfully, Warren knows of one secret canoe to reach the “Uppards” that Bev’s crew wouldn’t know about.

The canoe doesn’t take Warren and Leeza to the mainland but it does get them away from the carnage to come. The last shot of the series is Warren and Leeza floating peacefully and Leeza announcing that she can no longer feel her legs. This means that the last bit of “angel” blood has likely left her system and with it Pruitt’s vampire legacy is over.

Saving Warren and Leeza has practical, emotional implications for Midnight Mass’s characters but it also has some symbolic ones as well. The concept of witnessing and witnesses themselves are very important in the Bible. As a second-hand text (though purportedly with every word inspired by God) there would be no gospel without witnesses. Good news is only half the battle. Someone to witness and report on the good news is the other half. Now Warren and Leeza can report on the ultimate good news that the world is saved.

The fact that the kids survive while the adults succumb to their own adult nonsense has some major implications for Midnight Mass’s creator

“That last moment of the next generation looking out at the ashes of what the grown ups made – that’s what my kids are gonna get no matter what,” Flanagan says. “That’s what all of our kids are gonna get. I wish it wasn’t as on fire as it it. But it really is. We’re never going to be able to explain adequately to our children what happened to the planet they inherited.”

What Happens to the Angel?

With all of Crockett Island burned to the ground, the world’s vampire nightmare is over, right? Well that depends on how well you think an angel can fly with torn wings. No, that’s not an aphorism or a poem, it’s the real question facing the end of Midnight Mass.

As if saving Warren and Leeza and upending Bev Keane’s plans weren’t enough, Erin leaves one last little gift for humanity before she dies. While the angel attacks her and drinks her sweet, sweet blood, Erin begins systematically, yet carefully cutting holes in its leathery wings. At first the angel is kind of annoyed but his hunger supersedes any level of discomfort or pain he’s feeling.

Later on, while Warren and Leeza watch their home burn they see the angel flying away but in a halted, loopy pattern. The kids aren’t sure if the beast will have time to find shelter before the sun rises. According to Flanagan, if Midnight Mass is a parable (and he assures us it is) then the ultimate lesson of all this isn’t too hard to glean.

“The angel doesn’t represent vampirism or horror but corruption in any belief system,” he says. “It represents fundamentalism and fanaticism. That’s never gonna go away. You might chase it away from your community for a minute. You might send it off to the sunrise and hope that that corrupting ideology will disappear. But it won’t. And the show could never show the angel die for that reason.”

With that in mind, the angel’s flawed flight pattern isn’t so much Inception’s spinning top but rather a promise that evil will find a way. And then we puny human beings will just have to find a way to stop it all over again. If that’s not Biblical then we don’t know what is.

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All seven episodes of Midnight Mass are available to stream on Netflix now.

The post Midnight Mass Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

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author-a-holmes · 4 years ago

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Underwing Challenge Day 3

"Who is your main cast? Describe as many of your OCs as you can cram into one post."

(Event Link) - (Day One) - (Day Two)

As many as I can cram into one post? Whooo-boy, you have no idea what you've asked for <3

Because Stolen is a Fantasy Romance, it's written in Third Person Close/Limited from the points of view of Stella Korazon and Reilly Mosswolf.

Stella Korazon

"Loving someone forever is the easy part, so long as you actually love them in the first place." - Stella

At the start of Stolen, Stella is a young but very talented thief. She was raised by her Da', Colm Korazon in a wagon that they used to travel the East Coast caravan route of Moryann.

Her greatest skills include being able to read a persons body language, and her pick-pocketing. She was taught how to fight, but her preferred reaction is to evade, dodge, run, or a mixture of the three.

Physically she's small. Short, and very slim, and with long blonde hair to her waist/hips and large blue eyes that make her look younger than she is, a look that she often uses to her advantage.

Stella's also a very good mimic, she can copy people's patterns of speech and behaviors as long as she's given sufficient time to study them.

Her biggest disadvantage is innocence. While Stella isn't naive to the dangers of Moryann, or the darker sides of the world she lives in, her Da' always encouraged social isolation. Teaching her to trust him, herself, and no one else. This makes for a strange dichotomy to her character that I enjoy playing with where she might be able to flirt with a mark and fluster them enough to rifle through their pockets unnoticed, but blush and stumble when being on the receiving end of genuine thanks or kindness.

Reilly Mosswolf

"You're in trouble, and I can help. Do I need more of a reason than that?" - Reilly

Reilly's parents were murdered when he was very young. He's elven, so very young for him was around 22 years, the developmental equivalent to mid-teens.

After his parents death, Reilly had his younger sister to look after, so he took to stealing. He was rather bad at it, and was caught. Luckily, for him, but the Guild Master of the Antillune Thieves Guild, Aldune Lamuird.

Instead of turning Reilly over to the guard, he took Reilly and his sister into the guild and looked after them, training both siblings himself when they expressed a desire to learn the trade.

At the start of Stolen, Reilly is 252 years old, and the current guild master having inherited his position from Aldune. Despite that he, and the guild, are in trouble.

For the previous year or two, there has been a rival guild from the Western side of Moryann beginning to encroach on the Antillune Guild's territory and while it hasn't yet escalated to an all out war, tensions are building.

Not least because around 6 months prior, Reilly's sister was found dead, having been clearly tortured. While Reilly is sure that the rival guild are responsible, he has no evidence and won't put the thieves under his protection at risk for a personal vendetta.

Physically, Reilly has the black eyes and sun-burnished skin of his mother's Desert Elf heritage. He also has black hair that he keeps shoulder length, and a scruff of a beard that helps give a messy edge to a face that would otherwise stand out in a crowd. He also has the traditional Forest Elf tattoo's that span from shoulder to wrist along his left arm; His family history written in elven.

His strengths are his experience, and his willingness to listen to opinions and advice other than his own. Reilly is a strong fighter, and Aldune taught him to carefully balance the racial specific talents of both his parents bloodlines, and to use them to his advantage. He has the powerful blows that belong to the forest clans, but the speed of the desert elves, making him a formidable opponent before he even picks up a blade.

Reilly's biggest disadvantage is his fear of losing people. Over the years, Reilly has lost almost everyone he's ever loved or cared for. His parents, Aldune, his sister Eryn, even a lover or two. He has an inner circle of people he relies on within the guild, six people he trusts above all others, but his best friend and the only one truly able to get through to him is Dara Brookor.

Reilly uses nicknames and pet-names to distance himself from his guild members, giving the illusion of closeness, but using the affectionate names to distance himself, and make sure he can't put a real name to a face should one of the people under his protection turn up dead.

It's when Reilly begins to use a person's real name, that they've truly begun to worm their way under his armor.

***

Stella and Reilly are surrounded by a small supporting cast, each of whom has a very important part to play in either the main characters lives, or the main plot, although that may not come to fruition within the first book...

Dara Brookor

"So you're trying to tell me that, when you realised you were developing a meaningful connection to a person you have known for less than a decade, you didn't panic, pull back, and avoid them like a complete moron?" - Dara

Dara runs most of the administrative side of the Antillune Thieves Guild. She handles all the records, job allocations and thief payments, and is also responsible for pairing up thieves whose skills will compliment each other.

She's also the best friend to Reilly Mosswolf. She met Reilly, and his sister Eryn, when they were attempting to steal from one of her clients. Before joining the guild, Dara ran a brothel in Antillune, and when Eryn Mosswolf tried to disguise herself as an employee to get close to her target, Dara interfered in an attempt to protect her staff.

Once the situation was explained, she ended up helping Eryn and Reilly with their job, and occasionally passing along information on good targets if a client tried to skip out on their bill.

Dara is over six feet tall, and almost half as broad, which is the only sign of her part ogre heritage. She has honey-blonde curls that she keeps cut to her jaw, and dark blue-green eyes.

She made good use of her imposing form to keep her staff protected and her clients in line, but eventually her establishment was set on fire by a competitor, which is when Reilly asked her to work for him instead, in the administrative side of the guild.

The fact that it meant Reilly got out of most of the paperwork was, he swears, simply a bonus.

Dara's strength is her ability to connect with people. While she isn't a thief, her long history in Antillune has given her a network on contacts across the city that feed her a steady supply of information, and Dara can quickly utilise those contacts to seek out any specific leads she or the guild needs.

Her weakness is that she doesn't want to think badly of anyone, and it can cloud her judgement. She doesn't automatically look for deceit and deception, which has often led to her finding herself in dangerous situations.

Thankfully, Dara strikes an intimidating form, can curse like an Antillune sailor, and knows how to wield blades well enough to back up her threats.

Myris Orinan

"I am not the youngest graduate from the college of Wizardry in nearly two centuries for nothing." - Myris

Myris Orinan is, simply put, a genius.

A forest elf in possession of extremely powerful elemental magic, Myris is one of only 3-4 people in Moryann who can control all four branches of elemental magic and manipulate them simultaneously to access the rare Kurro or Healing magic.

He completed his training at the College of Wizardry in less than 100 years, making him one of the youngest graduates to ever complete the training and he is also passable-to-fluent in over ten languages.

Myris is also entirely mute.

Married to Tanar Orinan, the pair met when Tanar had been hired to steal something from the library in the College of Wizardry. Myris discovered the thief, mid-job, because he'd been working late into the night and bound Tanar before demanding an explanation for his presence.

Tanar agreed to surrender the book, and forfeit the contract, in exchange for being allowed to court Myris and the pair were quickly inseparable.

Due to this close association with the Antillune Guild, however, Myris was attacked, kidnapped, and tortured for information on the guild, and on Reilly Mosswolf in particular.

Even though, at the time, he had no knowledge to give, his attackers punished him for withholding information by forcing an alchemical mixture into him that burnt away his vocal chords, effectively rending his magic useless as it's commonly accepted that without the ability to speak a spell, spellcasters and wizards are rendered powerless.

Myris proved everyone's theories on elemental magic wrong however by slowly developing his own language using hand positioning and finger shapes to communicate words and phrases, and with practice and strength of will he gradually taught himself how to cast spells with a non-verbal trigger, instead of a spoken one.

While Myris has physically recovered as well as he can from the experience, and his magic is as strong as ever, despite requiring more effort to cast non-verbally, Myris has been left with a powerful hatred of Vine, and an ever encroaching fear that such an attack will happen again.

After his recovery, and several assessments by the College to prove that he could continue to retain his Wizard title, Myris moved to the Antillune Thieves guild to work as their wizard in residence, providing wards and magical services to the guild in exchange for a modest fee and even working to create unique items to help the guild function better and to keep its members safer.

Myris does not leave the Guild grounds without Tanar by his side, and even then only in exceptional circumstances. If he is required to leave the guild for any reason, it also tends to leave him with nightmares for several weeks.

Honorable Mentions

I had some others I was going to do but this is so long already, and I'm already 7 hours into Day Four that I'm pushing them into an honorable mentions section instead.

Tanar Sotor Orinan, Indre Larieth, Lurall Penrith and Nilion Kurez are all additional members of the guilds Inner Circle.

Tanar is half plains elf and half human, and is married to Myris. He used to be the thief partner to Eryn Mosswolf after Reilly was made guild master.

Indre Larieth is a half-elf who was recruited by Nilion Kurez, but has remained steadfastly loyal to Reilly for many years. Due to her Snow Elf heritage she can appear stand-offish and cold, but she cares deeply for her chosen few, and will go to extraordinary lengths to do whatever she thinks is nessecary to protect them.

Lurall Penrith was once trained by the Ikhari guild of assassins. It wasn't a path he chose, but instead of running her decided to become good enough that the guild would have no choice but to allow him to leave. After he met Reilly, he leveraged the backing of another guild to convince the Ikhari to let him walk away. Lurall now runs the Guild Outpost in the Western Desert, but frequently visits Reilly in Antillune.

Nilion Kurez is a Forest Elf, and has been a member of the Antillune thieves guild since Aldune Lamuird founded it. He helped write many of the guilds laws, and has known Reilly most of his life, having watched him grow up inside the guild, and in many cases been one of Reilly's teachers.

Hawk Denill is the face of Vine in Book One, and the person who hires Stella to break into the guild and steal from Reilly Mosswolf. He is a dark character who I intend to be a thorn in Stella and Reilly's side for at least the first three books. Once a member of Reilly's own guild, Hawk was banished when the guild discovered he was responsible for a series of grisly murders in Antillune. Hawk has returned to the city only recently, confident with the backing of a new guild.

Liandra 'Andy' Jenkin is a bright but brash young thief who Dara partners with Stella once she settles into the guild. Andy is Human, but makes up for the disadvantages this gives her in speed and strength by sheer enthusiasm, and stubborn determination. Andy has a grudge of her own against Vine, since their people laid an ambush on her last job that injured her and killed her previous partner.

Colm Korazon is Stella's Da'. While Colm is also a thief, he's not a particularly good one. He raised Stella in a travelling caravan, using it as a base to sell all sorts of false herbal remedies, imitation magical items, and any other junk he could con people into purchasing. All the while training Stella to do what he could not. By the time she was old enough to blend in with the crowds that gathered around his stall, the items he attempted to sell were merely a distraction to allow Stella to silently search through pockets.

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westallenfun · 4 years ago

Text

Two's Company (1/3)

Westallen secret santa gift

For: Lauren (@backtothestart02) (I hope you like this fic!)

From: Lina (@cheryls-blossomed)

A/N: A special thank you to my beta, Caroline (@ginandweas).

Inspired by Jane Austen’s Emma, and the blissfulness and hardship of tumbling into true love. On the eve of publication of the most important article of her professional career thus far, Iris West realizes that she is head over heels in love with her best friend, Barry Allen, but grapples with revealing her true feelings, for fear of completely ruining their friendship. But a weekend trip to Metropolis sets in motion a series of events, with romantic mishaps and conundrums abound, that may in fact force both Barry and Iris to face some long-awaited, romantic truths.

Rated: T (Warnings: Mild language)

Perhaps the most notable visual extravagance at wedding receptions is the abundance of balloons, flowers, and the chiffon backdrops, draped like curtains, framing the table whereon sat the wedding cake.

Iris is already trying to determine how she might steal away a few balloons, because really, nobody would miss them, and she had, after all, been the one sitting with the wedding planner for days on end, painstakingly selecting a theme for the reception and agonizing over every detail. Surely, after all her efforts, a few balloons going missing at the end of the party would be forgiven, if not unnoticeable. And she would be surreptitious about it too, seeing as how she would wait until the final guests, likely pleasantly drunk on champagne, rosé, and Prosecco, stumbled their way out of the Central City Gold Hotel.

“Nice work, West.” Iris looks up to see her heavily pregnant sister-in-law take a seat next to her, while cradling a rather magnificent sundae in her hands, spoon hanging precariously atop the hazelnut fudge.

“Thanks, but don’t you call my brother ‘West?’ Could get confusing,” Iris says, raising one eyebrow.

“Yeah, but I’m married to Wally. Have been for three years. And so, it doesn’t have the same effect with him anymore. That’s the troublesome thing about marriage.”

“Classic Linda Park logic,” Iris murmurs, before once again focusing on the balloons. They are all the same shade of ivory, which made them particularly functional. For gift-giving purposes, that is. Gift-giving, Iris knows, is all about the presentation.

“No, but seriously, Iris. I’m impressed. Joe and Cecile deserve the best, and this is, honestly, the best.”

“Thanks, Linda. Dad deserves a perfect wedding day. As does Cecile. To be honest, I didn’t expect it to come together as beautifully as it did, but I’m still praying we see this thing to the end without any hiccups. We’ve got…” Iris taps the screen of her phone to check the time, “About three hours, at least, left.”

“And it’s probably especially important to you. You know, because you played matchmaker for Joe and Cecile,” Linda says, while spooning a generous amount of ice cream, topped with fudge and sprinkles and coconut flakes, into her mouth. Iris’s brow furrows,

“I did not ‘match-make’ my dad and Cecile. We’ve been over this Linda…” Linda begins to interrupt, but Iris shakes her head, “I know you seem to think that because I introduced my dad to Cecile that somehow this is my doing, but that’s untrue. To be honest, I didn’t expect them to hit it off so well, let alone date and get married within a year of my introducing them.” Cecile owns an interior design shop, which Iris had visited when she was helping Barry decorate his new apartment— a memory which immediately brings a smile to Iris’s face, for she fondly recalls Barry frantically searching eBay for a bed and a couch, and the way she had persuaded him that that was a terrible idea and instead found her way to Cecile’s trendy furniture boutique, which was also quite affordable. Cecile was so friendly and sweet, and Iris remembered her father struggling to date again, as it had been nearly a decade and a half since her mother had passed away, and so when she had thrown Barry a housewarming party, Iris figured that there was no harm in inviting Cecile, who had become friends with both Barry and Iris after hours spent together at the boutique, and introducing her to her dad. That had been a year ago. Now, they are at Joe West and Cecile Horton’s wedding reception.

“Well, we can debate semantics, but you definitely match-maked Wally and me. You can’t deny that,” Linda says, matter-of-factly, before eating another scoop of her sundae.

“I wouldn’t call it match-making. More like I have a sense for people that I know well and then introduce them, thinking that they may potentially like each other.”

“You set Wally and I up on a blind date six years ago, and now we’re married and have twins on the way. I would say there’s a diabolical matchmaking side to you. Don’t tell me you don’t feel accomplished every time you successfully match-make a couple.”

“Linda, I’ve only successfully match-maked— to use your word, which I still find objectionable, by the way— two couples. One was my brother and you. And you’re my best friend. The other was my dad and Cecile. That’s hardly a track record of successful matchmaking.”

“But it could be. Think about it. This could be a lucrative side hustle.”

“As if I would have time for a match-making side hustle, even if that was something I was interested in doing. I finally got my news site up and running, and The Citizen needs all hands on deck and then some. Besides, a matchmaking business is an exploitative way to make money.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Linda seems to ponder this, momentarily, before changing topics, abruptly, “Speaking of which, I’m your best friend now? Thought that was a privilege exclusively afforded to Barry,” Iris has heard this before and rolls her eyes, exasperated,

“My friendship with Barry is different. You know that.”

“Actually I don’t know that. But I would love to be enlightened about that.” Linda’s response is far too smug for Iris’s liking, but before she can retort, she hears a familiar voice behind her, a voice that unquestionably wraps Iris in a cocoon of warmth, so that she feels instantly home,

“I heard my name.” And although she cannot see him yet, she knows he’s smiling.

“Was wondering where you were, Allen. It’s a rare sight that you and Iris would be separated at any point, when in the same vicinity.” Barry chuckles at Linda’s quip, settling into the chair on Iris’s right and brushing away a few plastic flowers that had come undone from the upholstery. Iris glances up at him, smiling widely, which he’s reciprocating in equal measure. He sets a plate, containing a chocolate fudge brownie topped with mint chocolate chip ice cream, in front of her. Iris’s eyes widen, as she glances from the plate to Barry; her face alight with unadulterated joy.

“My hero,” she gasps, squeezing his hand and then truly taking in the scrumptious display of gooey chocolate and ice cream goodness.

“Always,” he whispers, gazing at her, affectionately, before continuing, “I was wrangling the last brownie from old Mrs. Rogers, who apparently wanted to share it between herself and her cat. Although I don’t know,” Barry pauses for a moment, glancing around the reception hall, “if her cat is even here. Doubtful. Regardless, it took a great deal of speed, stealth, and possibly defying Newton’s first law of physics, because I could have sworn that I willed the brownie in my direction without even touching it, to retrieve this dessert.”

“Don’t lie, Bear,” Iris says, her eyes sparkling with laughter, as she eagerly grabs her dessert fork, “Mrs. Rogers would never argue with you, if you wanted that brownie. She loves you.”

“Yeah, it was just my regular, old charm. And by charm, I mean, because I tutor her grandson, Matt, in chemistry.” (Linda snorts at that.) “Still, I think defying Newton’s first law makes for a better story. But nobody was getting this brownie except for you, Iris. You know, we wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t for you. I mean, just look at this place. It looks fantastic,” he raves, gesturing towards the décor, “The work you put into this is amazing. You’re amazing.”

“Thank you, Barry.” She’s touched, not just because Barry managed to negotiate the last brownie from poor, old Mrs. Rogers with his rather endearing, tripping-over-his-feet-type charm, but also because he is being, as usual, so disarmingly complimentary of her. Barry never expects her to be amazing; he just thinks she’s amazing always, even when she’s at her lowest or when she is mistaken, and when Iris reflects deeply on that, it overwhelms her. It forces her to dwell on feelings untold; on how, whenever she sees him, she can’t help but smile, almost as if by instinct.

But she can’t think about it. She won’t think about it.

“Before you got here, Barry. I was telling Iris how she should really get into a matchmaking side hustle,” Linda says, forcing Iris to focus on the conversation taking place and not on… well, a place where she refuses to go. A place which she cannot explore.

“Matchmaking?” Barry leans back, resting his arm on the back of Iris’s chair. “I don’t think that’s even remotely close to anything Iris-like.” Iris is acutely aware of how close his arm is to the bare skin of her upper back, but she ignores this. Or tries to.

“Exactly. And so I was telling Linda how that’s an awful idea, and how I am pretty sure a matchmaking business, where I have zero actual knowledge about strangers’ interpersonal relationships, could be fraudulent. I can’t possibly claim to be an expert. I mean, no guarantees, right? Seems like a colossal waste of people’s money,” Iris remarks, still trying not to think about Barry’s arm on her chair, right near her back. And how (she thinks she had just imagined it but, no, it was real) he had seemingly shifted his arm, so his fingers are now grazing her skin; his touch is feather-light, equally comforting as it is emboldening.

“That could be the genius of it, though. Enough people want to pay money for a matchmaker, even if it’s probably not going to be any more successful than a dating app. Throw in some good, old Cosmopolitan level astrology knowledge for marketing purposes. And there you have it. A potentially incredibly lucrative endeavor. Maybe I should start it myself,” Linda says, while still enjoying her sundae.

“Why waste money on a matchmaker? Sometimes something incredible is right in front of you, and you just have to tell yourself it’s time to throw caution to the wind. A matchmaker can’t tell you that, only you can know that,” Barry sounds wistful when he says this, and Iris turns to him, abruptly, studying his expression. He’s looking straight ahead, but his gaze is demonstrable of clear desire, and upon hearing such longing in his voice, her stomach drops. Because that’s the face of someone in love. That’s the sound of someone in love. That’s the sound of someone who’s found their someone. But who could her Barry have found? When did he find someone?

Iris is contemplating this, her stomach churning with her every thought, when the conversation shifts to pregnancy, as Linda comments how she’s always hungry and moody thanks to,

“…These two whom Wally impregnated me with.” To which Barry laughs, his fingers still softly grazing Iris’s back, while Iris forces herself to smile along and even joke that Linda had talked her ear off about how much she wanted babies and how maybe she shouldn’t have gotten so ahead of herself. But Iris’s mind is still on Barry potentially having found someone. She knows she should be happy, monumentally happy, because Barry is happy, so she cannot fathom why she feels like she’s about to vomit. Suddenly, she has no appetite for her brownie and ice cream, but she eats to evade suspicion, because Barry would surely know something is wrong if she fails to eat her dessert. But from the way he’s carefully watching her, maybe he does know something is wrong already, and Iris wishes, not for the first time, that they did not know each other’s every fidget and expression, signaling a mood shift, so well.

When the wedding reception is over and after Iris has said goodbye to every guest and promised her father and Cecile that she would be at their house the next day for their family dinner, she manages to take three ivory balloons with her to her car, without a single guest noticing. The decorator who had stayed to help her wrap up tells her that she can take any number of balloons that she would like. Or, perhaps more practically, however many would fit in her car.

More accurately, perhaps, Iris thinks she had not been noticed by anyone, when she’d successfully managed to fit all three balloons in her car two nights ago. She’s standing on line at CC Jitters, the local hub for Central City citizens to get their morning coffee and pastry fix, and holding a basket, which contains baked goods, a carefully wrapped red scarf, and a small, navy blue bag. Tied onto the handle of the basket are the three balloons, still inflated.

“For the boyfriend?”

Iris turns to meet the friendly disposition of a blonde woman she’s never met before. Startled for a moment, Iris realizes, that the stranger is referring to her basket, and she smiles, shaking her head,

“No, for a friend.” Although, given her thoughts lately, friend seems far too simple a word. She feels like she’s perjuring herself by saying friend, but best friend who I’ve known since childhood and with whom I think I might have feelings for, but who is possibly in love with someone else seems far too complicated, especially when Iris is not ready to admit this to herself, let alone to a stranger whom she meets for the first time on the queue for coffee.

“Well, they’re lucky. You clearly put so much work into that. No friend has ever given me a gift like that. Actually nobody’s given me a gift that thoughtful before,” the stranger continues, before visibly cringing, “I’m sorry, I’m oversharing. I’m Patty, by the way.”

“I’m…”

“Iris!” There it is again, that feeling of home settling upon her shoulders, like a velvet cloak, shielding her, protecting her. Barry is walking towards her, holding two mugs of coffee, and when he stops before her, he presses his lips to her forehead briefly, a typical form of greeting between the both of them. But if he could hear the way her heart hammers against her chest whenever she feels the soft brush of his lips on her skin, then surely the ruse would be up. He would know how she feels, and so Iris is grateful, not for the first time, that her heartbeat is inaudible to anyone but her.

“Hey Bear, that for me?” she asks, nodding at one of the two mugs.

“Yep. One Americano with an extra shot. Got here earlier and figured we could beat the line,” Barry grins, and he’s looking at her as if she’s the sun, and it’s almost too intense, perhaps because of all of those pesky feelings that she’s been feeling lately, so Iris breaks their gaze, remembering herself as well and turning back towards Patty.

“Patty, this is my friend, Barry. Barry… Patty. We just met on the line.” Barry nods politely, as Patty says,

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Barry responds. “New around here?”

“Is it that obvious? I’m just about to start at CCU as a grad student. And so I’m trying to get used to the city. I’m originally from Midway.”

“Yeah, understandable,” Iris smiles. “Takes awhile to get used to a new place, but CC Jitters is the best, so you’ll never be wanting for good coffee, that’s for sure.” Patty laughs, then,

“Well, I’m glad for that. Anyways, I won’t keep you two. Thank you, Iris, for just chatting with me.”

“Of course.” The three exchange polite goodbyes, and Barry and Iris make a beeline for their favorite booth in the farthest corner from the entrance to the coffee shop; a rather secluded, cozy spot that Iris had first started occupying, when she was a journalism student at Central City University. Barry had been a chemistry major, and they met up every morning for breakfast and would come to study nearly every weekend, armed with cookies, coffee, and blankets. Iris remembers long afternoons spent in this booth, her feet propped up on Barry’s lap, his hands massaging her calves, as they studied in companionable silence.

It was in this booth that Iris had written article after article for The Central Brief, CCU’s university-wide newspaper, including her famed paper on the state of land rights of women, globally, that had won her the Scholastic Student of Journalism Prize and had given her the chance to speak in The Hague at an international conference on human rights. As Iris agonized over her field research, including research accumulated from summers of backpacking, Barry, while studying for his Protein Crystallography final, had been effusive in his support for her. He was constantly breaking from his studies to be her sounding board, should she need one, despite her reminding him time and again that he ought to concentrate on his own finals and not on her. He never listened, though, not that it in any way affected his marks. And so sure was he that her work would be honored that he’d planned a party, months in advance, before she had heard back from the National Committee for Excellence in Student Journalism and before she had been invited to The Hague.

Indeed, it was Barry who had remarked then that Iris ought to consider starting her own news media site after university, stating that she already had the credentials to draw in a large audience and investors.

“How are you feeling? About the exposé, I mean. Today’s the big day and all,” Barry says, as they settle into the booth, referring to what Iris considers to potentially be the most groundbreaking piece of journalism of her career thus far, namely an article exposing the rot of the biotechnology company, McCulloch Technologies. Its CEO, Joseph Carver, has been using the corporation as a front for a highly dangerous and illegal weapons trafficking scheme. The exposé, which is due to be published later today, will be a highly contentious article, no doubt, but Iris had long since decided that she will not rest until she sees justice through and the thousands of innocent people, caught in the crosshairs of Carver’s inhumane crimes, are safe.

“Okay. I’m trying not to think about it, honestly,” Iris replies, and Barry takes her hand for a moment,

“Hey, I get it. It’s hard not to be anxious, especially given the magnitude of the article and the far-reaching consequences it’s going to have. But I am so proud of you. And you should be proud of yourself as well,” he says, running his thumb over her knuckles slowly, before releasing her hand. Iris smiles softly, deeply touched by Barry’s faith in her,

“Thanks, Bear.”

“Of course,” he says, before gesturing towards the gift basket, “So, are you going to tell me who the basket is for?” Iris adopts a playful expression, then.

“Hmmm, it’s for this friend of mine who just submitted his dissertation for his DSc.”

“How did you know I submitted today? I told you my deadline was next week, which it is,” Barry states, apparently incredulous that Iris could have known that he had submitted his paper this morning.

“I have my ways. And by that I mean you drooling on my couch last week and mumbling, half-asleep, that you are definitely submitting your dissertation on Tuesday. Well, today’s Tuesday, Bear,” Iris teases, chuckling at the memory of Barry entering her apartment last week in need of caffeine, which culminated with him staying the night, when he fell asleep on her sofa.

“I really can’t keep anything from you,” Barry sighs in mock frustration. “Although I really wouldn’t want to, anyways.”

“Good. And think about it, now you have this nice surprise.” Barry takes the basket from Iris’s hands, admiring her handiwork, before giving her a sly smile,

“Well, I guess I know why you took those balloons from the reception on Saturday.”

Okay, so apparently she had not gone completely unnoticed. One guest had noticed her attempt to fit three inflated balloons into her car. Unsurprising, she now reflected, given who that guest happened to be.

“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Iris. I may not be able to keep anything from you, but you definitely cannot keep anything from me either.” Are you sure about, Iris thinks momentarily, before banishing the thought immediately. For she will not dwell on those feelings again, not when she stands to lose too much if they start consuming her. When Iris looks up again, Barry is looking through the basket, marveling at the baked cake lollipops and banana bread and brownies (Iris can only bake sweets, and she would never subject Barry to her cooking, although he claims it’s not as bad as she seems to think it is), before he takes the red scarf from the basket. “Iris…” he whispers, her name like a prayer on his lips, and there goes her heartbeat again, pounding against her chest. “You knitted this.” And she knows that he already knows that she did, but it’s the way he’s looking at her now, like there are not any words currently discovered to express to her how much this means to him. She gives him a comforting smile, hoping to diffuse some of the intensity of the emotions that are radiating off of Barry.

“Open the rest,” she encourages, and he’s now holding the small, navy blue bag, and removing a velvet box from it. Encased in the box is a watch, which she’d been saving up for, because all of his watches are for some reason broken, and she can hear his gasp, nearly inaudible, and then he’s looking at her, solemnly, gravely.

“Iris… I don’t know what to say. I don’t… thank you,” he says, his tone soft and tender.

“Of course, Bear. I’m so proud of you, and I don’t think this simple gift basket really can quantify how proud I am of you.”

“It’s not… it’s amazing. You’re amazing,” he says, and there it is again. How definitive it is to him that she’s amazing. And perhaps she forgives herself a little for her feelings then, for how can she not feel as she does when he says things like this to her every single day. He’s already wrapping the scarf on his neck and remarking how comfortable and warm it is. “I couldn’t get better knitted scarves at the store. I’m pretty sure you’re a superhero. You can literally do anything.” She listens to him wax on about her many, unbelievable talents, which she’s sure only he seems to think she possesses, before shaking her head, affectionately,

“The scarf looks good on you. Red is your color.”

“Always has been,” he jokes, although the emotion is still evident in his voice. “Come here,” he says then, reaching his arm towards her. She leaves her side of the booth to come over to his, and the moment she’s at his side, he wraps his arms around her, burying his nose in her hair, breathing deeply. She has one arm around his back, the other clutching his sweater, and her head is tucked into the crook of his neck, and Iris is sure that now he must be able to feel how rapidly her heart is beating. She’s cloaked in warmth and in comfort, and all she can think of is home. And all she can feel is love. The kind of tumbling, head over heels into a field of daisies type of love that Iris’s college friend, Cynthia Reynolds (now a hotshot litigator who works in BigLaw and who also is the Citizen’s unofficial legal counsel), claims is simply mushy, fairy-tale nonsense that couldn’t possibly exist outside of movies. Iris had laughed then, telling Cynthia that maybe she shouldn’t be so cynical. Cynthia had been unmoved, steadfast instead in her sentiment that people can fall in love, but that kind of ‘I want to go gallivanting in a forest somewhere and run towards you in a field, as if this is some damn terrible romantic drama’ love does not and cannot actually exist in real life.

Well, Iris is feeling that mushy, fairy-tale type of love now (a fact which shocks her, despite the fact that she’s very aware of her growing pesky feelings), while wrapped up in Barry’s arms, so clearly, Cynthia had gotten it wrong. Oh fuck.

There are approximately fifteen different photos, capturing different angles of the McCulloch Technologies building, sitting on Iris’s desk when she walks into The Citizen that morning, after saying goodbye to Barry at Jitters, and all Iris can think about is the fact that she’s in love with her best friend. And as if her life could not be more complicated in that very moment, Barry is potentially in love with someone else.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

She cannot think about her feelings nor Barry being in love with some mystery human being right now, though, for she’s on the verge of publishing the explosive piece on Joseph Carver, who has been using his internationally successful technology company to peddle a highly intricate and complex hub-and-spoke conspiracy involving arms trafficking. He had managed to slither under the radar of inquiring agencies by acquiring different sorts of obscure technology, including ballistic software and parts that are often used to construct robots for laser guidance, under the guise of developing cutting-edge bio-technology. When Iris’s source had informed her that Carver’s labs were combining methane and ammonia, she knew that there was an underbelly of weapons-related criminality within the globally recognizable technology company, and armed with her pen, pepper spray, and sheer gumption, she and her photojournalist, Kamilla Hwang, had obtained press passes to Carver’s unveiling of robotic limbs. While there, Iris had asked janitors, low-level software engineers, and other personnel about why Carver’s labs were having methane and ammonia react with oxygen and how this in any way ameliorates existing biomedical technology. Iris and Kamilla eventually obtained access to a private press tour of Carver’s labs, where they noticed how jittery the staff had been, and after Iris had slipped her card to some of the employees, she had found herself, three days later, with nearly fifteen whistleblowers willing to come forward about nefarious activities in the labs.

As it turned out, Carver’s labs had been trying to create and had indeed succeeded in creating a gun that releases hydrocyanic acid, which they are currently selling on the black market. This is the latest of extraordinarily dangerous weapons that Carver sells both domestically and internationally. Indeed, several politicians are in cahoots with Carver; Carver having made them rich men, in exchange for avoiding Congressional inquiries into McCulloch Tech.

Now, Iris stands poised to publish the most explosive exposé of her career thus far, and the thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

She studies Kamilla’s photos of the McCulloch Tech building, now having to decide which one would accompany the headline that is due to go up right before noon. One photo stood apart among the rest: a shot of McCulloch Tech at night, illuminated by the lights of the city, but with only one floor of the building, the top floor, indicating any activity: the lights of the top floor were on, and the rest of the building was largely camouflaged by the night sky. That top floor contained the only working laboratory at headquarters and is where hydrocyanic acid is processed. This is the photo, Iris thinks, just as she hears a commotion at the door and sees her newest hire, Allegra Garcia, forcefully wrangle open the door, rather dramatically, before slamming it shut.

“Hey, boss,” Allegra says. “We have got to get that door fixed. I’m telling you; it’s trying to kill me every time I arrive.” Iris chuckles fondly at Allegra’s dramatics,

“You’re the only one who seems to be constantly battling the door, Allegra. There are four other people who work here who seem to have no trouble getting in and out of the office.”

“Well, I don’t know, but this door has had it out for me since I began working here. And so… oh! Are those the photos? How much time have we got until noon…?” Allegra pauses momentarily, as she taps her phone, which she was holding in one hand, “Forty minutes. Fantastic.” Iris smiles, watching Allegra race up to her desk, excitedly. Two of the reasons that she had hired Allegra was for her enthusiasm about reporting and for her passion for ethical journalistic integrity, both of which she demonstrated every day on the job.

“This is the one I want to use to accompany the article,” Iris explains, while pushing the photograph towards Allegra, whose eyes widen when she sees the photo.

“Yeah, this is incredible. I know Kamilla must have camped out awhile to get this shot,” she exclaims, before looking up at Iris, “We’re really gonna do this, boss. We’re gonna expose Carver and who knows? You might win a Pulitzer from this.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have to publish the exposé first, and our legal team has been sending me messages since this morning about how she is obligated to warn us about frivolous defamation suits that Carver might file in the immediate aftermath. But the truth is more important. Let Carver sue us; if he does, he’s going to lose anyways.” Although, to be completely accurate, the Citizen’s unofficial legal team, comprising of one Cynthia Reynolds, whose texts to Iris consisted of, “Carver is definitely going to sue you for defamation, so I’ve got to warn you of that, but screw that guy. Publish and destroy him once and for all,” were certainly more emboldening than averting. Iris is also quite certain that that is technically not sound legal advice, in the least.

The door opens again, and in walks Kamilla, joined by the two other reporters at The Central City Citizen, Kara Danvers and James Olsen. They’re all chatting animatedly about the exposé and the explosive ripple effects its publication might have.

“He’s an absolute monster,” Kara tells James, no doubt referring to Carver. “I mean, hydrocyanic acid? The sheer inhumaneness of his crimes just to fill his coffers…”

“Evil folks will do absolutely anything to satisfy their greed, including murdering people,” James observes, and Iris knows this is perhaps a fundamental truth of which every investigative journalist must be aware. Kamilla walks up to Iris’s desk and grins when she sees Iris scanning the chosen photo onto her computer,

“That’s the one, isn’t it? When I captured it, I knew I had gotten it. It took me, I think, nearly five hours of camping out, and it was 2:45 AM yesterday when I finally had managed to take that photo.”

“It’s incredible, Kamilla,” Iris praises. “All your photos are great, but this one is fantastic. It captures exactly what we need to accompany the article.” When Iris had taken this on by herself, she had been wary about putting any of her reporters in danger, but Kamilla had insisted that she accompany Iris in order to take photographs. In hindsight, Iris is incredibly grateful to have had Kamilla by her side through it all, for her calm, steady demeanor was vital amidst the insanity of taking on Joseph Carver. Kara and James, who have caught up to the others, both make approving noises, congratulating Kamilla on her photography, as Iris continues to work to format the article.

When she is satisfied with the formatting, she taps her phone, seeing that there is roughly twenty minutes remaining until the deadline, and while her reporters are chattering excitedly, the door opens once more, and Iris is greeted by the sight of Wally carrying two champagne bottles in one hand and precariously balancing a few glasses in his other hand. On his heels is Barry, who is carrying a large white box with the words ‘Zulma’s Pastries’ emblazoned on the top, and Iris is flooded with that fairy-tale, gallivanting in a field of daisies feeling again, to which she now finds she is already getting accustomed, which is a somewhat terrifying thought.

While Iris has some idea as to why both of them are in her office, she is also aware that Dr. Wally West is supposed to be at work at Central City Hospital, and Barry is supposed to be meeting the Dean of Graduate Studies at CCU about a potential professorship.

“What are you two doing here?” Iris asks, smiling nonetheless, for she is touched that they likely took time out of their busy days to celebrate the publication of the exposé. She had not mentioned the details of the publication to them, in an effort to protect her sources, but Linda had let it slip to Wally that Iris is publishing the article on Tuesday at the wedding on Saturday, and Barry… well, Barry knows everything about Iris, just the way she knows everything about him, so his appearance in her office twenty minutes before she is meant to publish the most important exposé of her professional career is even less surprising than Wally’s.

“I can’t believe you thought we weren’t going to come and crash this… pathetic party, quite frankly,” Wally says, frowning as he takes in the Citizen office, which while buzzing with the excitement of determined reporters, is not exactly set up for any sort of impending celebration. “You have nothing here to celebrate, Iris. No food, no drinks, nothing.”

“We haven’t even published, and we have no idea of the repercussions of a piece like this, Wally. I think our sheer grit as reporters is celebratory enough.”

“We knew you were going to say that,” Barry chuckles, placing the box on a desk adjacent to Iris’s, and then helping Wally with the champagne glasses. “But Linda and I wanted this to be a surprise. We managed to get Wally to help, which is good…”

“Linda’s not feeling well,” Wally cuts in. “She was having awful morning sickness, and I told her I didn’t want to go and that Barry could do the heavy-lifting, but she threatened me and sent me away with two of our best champagne bottles.” Iris begins to protest, but Wally continues on, “And honestly, Iris, before you say anything, I’d rather get an earful from you about leaving Linda at home for this— and by the way, she’s feeling much better, thanks to the fact that I’ve finally perfected the art of making a ginger and mint smoothie— than defy her orders.”

“Glad to see your theatrics are still in top form,” Iris deadpans, before turning to Barry, pointedly, “Thank you, Barry. You and Linda really didn’t have to do all of this. I haven’t even published it yet.”

“Excuse me, I helped!” Wally interjects, and Barry is laughing now as Iris reaches up to give him a quick hug, which he returns immediately. As they break apart, Barry’s hand lingers on her arm.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “I wanted this to be a surprise and that’s why I didn’t mention earlier coming by later on. And I knew you could have used a distraction this morning from thinking about the exposé.”

“I did need a distraction,” Iris smiles, still keenly aware of his fingers slowly brushing against her arm, gently, tenderly.

“I imagine you did. But to reiterate what I said earlier this morning, I’m so proud of you. So, so proud of you.” He cups her face with one hand, gently caressing his thumb against her cheek, and he’s gazing at her with so much emotion in his eyes, and she knows that the same intensity that had radiated off of him when she’d gifted him the basket earlier this day is emanating from him now, and she cannot help but wonder if he feels what she feels, because in these moments, she’s sure he must be.

Wally clears his throat loudly, while pouring out the champagne, and both Barry and Iris break away from each other quickly. When Iris looks up at Wally, he’s giving her that same look Linda had given her at the wedding reception on Saturday, when she had clarified that her friendship with Barry was different. Unwilling to entertain the idea that Wally and Linda have discussed her feelings for Barry, she turns to her reporters, who were already opening Barry’s box of sweets.

“Brownies!” Kara yelps, eyeing the chocolate chip, fudge brownies and quickly grabbing paper plates from the Citizen’s supply cupboard.

“Thank you, Barry! We really needed this,” James agrees, while Kamilla and Allegra join their colleagues in helping themselves to the scrumptious sweets and expressing their gratitude.

“We’re not going to get any work done today, but it’s fine. Thanks, Bear,” Iris laughs, as Barry hands her a glass of champagne. They clink their glasses together, before sipping their respective drinks.

“The Citizen can use a break. Especially you,” Barry says after a few moments, giving Iris a pointed look. “You’ve had countless sleepless nights over the research for this, and now it’s ready for the public to read. You deserve a whole week long break, at least.”

“The news doesn’t stop for me to catch up on sleep, unfortunately. I have three upcoming potential stories, including the ways in which exam software companies have violated the privacy of examinees.”

“Sounds like you’re about to become the hero of every university student everywhere. I can’t believe the vagueness of some of those disclaimers that exam software companies put out, as if students have any choice but to use them, when they have examinations online.”

“Yeah, exactly. And if nobody holds their feet to the fire, they think that they can get away with anything. That’s why I’ve got to do it.”

“Iris West saves the world yet again. That should be a headline. Maybe I should pitch it to Central City Picture News. Think Scott Evans would run a headline on his biggest rival?”

“Scott would definitely do it, if it brings CCPN good business. Besides, our rivalry is more friendly than anything else. That said, ‘Iris West Saves the World Yet Again’ sounds more like I’m saving the world with superpowers, not the power of a pen and a public audience. I think you might be overselling me just a little bit.”

“Absolutely not,” Barry says, affronted. “Iris West is my hero, and she always has been, so I think you’re underestimating her. She’s a total superhero.”

“Doubtful.”

“Don’t try to tell me that you’re not a superhero, Iris. You’re definitely not going to win this argument.”

“Fine, I’ll level with you. Because you know what they say, right? Every superhero has her own hero? Well, if I am a superhero, then I have a confession to make: my hero happens to be this guy I know… superheroes need strength to be invincible, right? So yeah, this guy is my constant strength. Maybe you know him? Name’s Barry Allen?” Barry blushes furiously at that, ducking his head bashfully, and Iris thinks, Success! She knows she’s rendered him flustered, and he’s so adorably handsome, as he fidgets with his hands, as if searching for something to hold. But even despite his flustered state, he remembers the ongoing debate, and he manages a,

“Alright, alright. You win, Iris.” Iris smiles at him, radiantly and triumphantly, just as Wally makes his way over to them, holding a champagne glass of his own, and he’s got a rather sheepish look on his face, which immediately makes Iris suspicious.

“I know that face, Wall. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Not every expression of mine means something,” Wally says, immediately defensive. “Although, I do have to ask you a small favor. But really, it’s not a favor, because it’s actually going to be great for you. So it’s technically a favor, but a favor that you’ll enjoy.”

“Of course you think so. What is it?” Iris asks, tiredly, knowing immediately that she probably was not going to enjoy this favor as much as Wally seems to think.

“Okay, so you know Cecile’s godson, Eddie Thawne? He couldn’t come to the wedding, because he was away on an emergency business trip?”

“Yeah, I know Eddie,” Iris responds, confused as to what he had to do with whatever Wally was asking of her. Eddie Thawne was the son of Cecile’s best friend, a wealthy hotelier, and he’d been friendly enough in the few interactions that Iris had had with him, but she could not claim to know him all that well.

“Right, so he’s hosting this gala in Metropolis for dad and Cecile this Saturday. It’s very last minute, found out last night, actually… and well, I’d told dad I was going to go, because you know, one of us should go, right? Technically, both of us should, but dad didn’t want to trouble you, because you’ve been so busy with work, and it’s not a big deal. In fact, I think dad didn’t want you to know, because he thought you might get the wrong idea and think that this gala was going to upstage all the work you put in for the actual wedding and reception, which I kept insisting to him you wouldn’t think at all. And I don’t want to leave Linda, even for the weekend. She keeps telling me she’ll be fine, and I know she’s not due for another two months, but I’m not comfortable going.”

“So, you want me to go,” Iris says, knowing exactly what her brother was asking of her. On the one hand, traveling to Metropolis for the weekend for a gala made Iris nervous, because she did not want to leave Central City for at least a week after the McCulloch Tech article was published, but on the other hand, Wally could not be expected to attend, and it would be wrong if both of them missed a gala that was being held for their dad and Cecile.

Wally is apparently under the impression that Iris might need some more coaxing, so he puts his champagne glass down and reaches into his coat pocket, brandishing four plane tickets.

“Here, the flight tickets are on me. Eddie is putting people up in rooms at his family’s hotel, and he apparently booked four rooms between the two of us, so we could each bring some guests. With Linda and I not going, you’ll have at least three rooms to fill.”

“It’s fine, Wally. I’ll go. You’re right; we should go for dad and Cecile, and you honestly cannot and should not go. I just have to find people who can take a trip with me, last minute…” Iris knows whom she would want to invite, and so she turns to Barry, immediately. “Look, Bear, I know it’s short notice, but…”

“Yeah, I’ll come,” Barry agrees quickly, before she can even finish posing the question, and Iris notices that he has a slightly agitated expression, which worries her. His hand clenches the edge of her desk, rather forcefully, and so she places her own hand over his, reassuringly, and this seems to relax him, at least momentarily, as she can feel some of the tension in his muscles evaporate slowly. He smiles, then, perhaps trying to mask his sudden agitation, “My weekend’s free, and we were just talking about how you could use a break, Iris. This’ll be good, as it’s a vacation of sorts.”

“Thanks, Barry. I’ll also ask Cynthia; she could always use a break, and Bear, why don’t you invite someone?”

“I’ll ask Cisco.” Iris glances up at Barry, and they both share a knowing look: they had been trying to get Cynthia and Barry’s old college roommate and engineering genius extraordinaire, Cisco Ramon, to meet for ages (So much for swearing off match-making, Iris thinks then), but they had not had the chance to introduce the two of them yet. This trip might just provide the long-awaited golden opportunity.

“Perfect,” Wally says, considerably relieved, but before Iris can respond, she finds herself surrounded by her fellow reporters who are telling her that it’s just before noon. She nods, waiting until everyone is gathered around her, and Barry’s arm comes around her shoulders, providing her with both comfort and strength. And while a sudden, rather dignified silence, perhaps to mark the solemnity of this publication, descends upon the Citizen, Iris can feel the soundless excitement of Kamilla and of Allegra and of Kara and of James, as she publishes the exposé on the Citizen’s website.

Thus, late that Friday afternoon, Iris finds herself boarding a plane with Barry, Cynthia, and Cisco, in tow, and she’s only half paying attention to Cisco’s exuberance in describing his latest inventive feat at S.T.A.R. Labs, the product technology company he works for, because Barry is acting… odd. He has been acting odd since he had accepted her invitation to come along to Metropolis, and she cannot fathom what it is about this trip that has him so on edge. He is fidgeting so much, and every time he notices that she notices, he gives her a forced smile, as if to divert her suspicions away from his agitation, but that only serves to increase her worries. Whatever is bothering him so much is something that he apparently is unwilling to share with her.

“…It’s insane. I mean, if we get this right, we will be revolutionizing tablet computers and robotic interpreters,” Cisco is saying, and Iris is sure that if Cisco is put to the task, he and his team certainly would get it done, for she had witnessed his genius first hand before, when, during a birthday party for his best friend, Caitlin Snow, a few years back, the power had blown and there had been no backup generator, and Cisco had managed to create a temporary power source seemingly out of thin air. Iris is sure that there were numerous devices at Cisco’s disposal, and he’d had the aid of Caitlin’s then boyfriend now husband, Ronnie, also an engineer, but it was the sheer ingenuity of Cisco’s engineering ability and the sheer determination to get this done and to ensure Caitlin had the party that she deserved that was so impressive.

“If anyone can get it done, though, it’s Cisco Ramon,” Iris voices her thoughts, and Cisco smiles proudly,

“Thanks, Iris. It’s definitely going to be a lot of work, but I definitely think we’re headed in the right direction. Hopefully.”

“Hmmm, it all sounds impressive, but what are the patenting ramifications that come with such a unique project. Surely, you’re worried about somebody trying to build upon your product once it’s out in the market. How stringent is your patent going to be?” Cynthia, ever the cynic, adds, eyeing Cisco.

“I don’t want to hog all the spotlight, honestly. We want other people and companies to be able to build on our findings and develop even better tech. There’ll be a patent, but it’s not going to be exclusive.”

“You’re way too nice.”

“I’m just here to improve tech. Being nice isn’t a crime, I hope,” Cisco laughs, and Cynthia shakes her head fondly, clearly believing Cisco to be naive, but apparently endeared to his naiveté nonetheless. Cisco and Cynthia, still playfully arguing about the stringency of a future patent, take their seats in the middle row, and Iris and Barry, the latter who is still distracted, sit by the window across the aisle.

“Bear, what’s going on?” Iris sighs, finally, turning to him, once they’ve taken their seats. Barry looks up at her, startled and guilty, and immediately starts deflecting,

“Nothing. I’m fine, Iris, really. I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit out of it. Just… I don’t know, I’m fine.” Iris can tell that he’s not going to be forthcoming with her, no matter how persistent she is, but she is not ready to drop the issue entirely.

“I’m not going to press you, but you know that if something is bothering you, I’m always here, if you want to talk. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that. Of course I do,” Barry says, his voice tender. “And I’m the luckiest guy in the world for it. I’m sorry that I’ve been out of it the last couple of days, I just… I don’t want you to worry about me. That’s the last thing I want.” Iris can tell he’s struggling between telling her and being evasive, so she takes his hand in her own, their fingers interlocking almost instinctively. She squeezes his hand, as his thumb brushes against her knuckles.

“I’m going to worry, because it’s you, and so I can’t not worry, but I don’t want you to tell me anything when you’re not ready to.” Barry’s free hand comes to cup her chin, as he brings her closer to him, and she basks in the warmth of his hand against her skin. When his lips meet her forehead, she closes her eyes and relishes in his lingering kiss, and she knows… she knows that she’s unequivocally in love with him, and she’s sure that she has been for quite some time, and all she wants to do is lift her face and coax his lips to hers, but she can’t. She knows that she can’t. She can’t ruin their equilibrium, because if she were to admit her feelings and lose Barry’s friendship completely… that is a possibility that she cannot risk.

“I know how deeply you care. And I love you for it,” he whispers against her forehead. And I love you for it.

He’s told her he loves her so many times over the two decades that they’ve known one another, and she knows that he means it platonically, as he always has, but that doesn’t stop her from imagining that he loves her in the same way that she loves him.

And when Barry falls asleep, after the plane takes off, and drops his head, so it rests comfortably on her shoulder, his face turned into the crook of her neck, so that she can feel his steady breaths fanning against her skin, Iris leans her head against his, and she thinks that this is what true tranquility feels like.

And I love you for it.

#westallen #westallen secret santa #submission

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madatobiweek2019-2021 · 4 years ago

Text

Submission from PeacefulDiscord

Back To Spots

“Are you sure this is a good idea?,” Madara stared at his idiot friend incredulously. “If we die in here, I’m going to kill you Hashirama.”

Hashirama paused his snooping, turning away from the test tubes balancing precariously in his hands. He set them down on the table, a smidge too close to the edge if you asked Madara but whatever. That was Hashirama’s problem when Tobirama saw how displaced everything was. Brown eyes peered woefully at him, tearfully vehement as the other man pouted, though ineffective with the messy state Hashirama was in. Scraps of parchment paper were stuck in his hair, ink streaking across his cheek and speckling his fingers.

Madara crinkled his nose, chucking a handkerchief into Hashirama’s face.

Hashirama beamed, rubbing the cloth against his cheek and smearing the ink more. “I don’t think it will be that bad Madara. Tobirama has a lot of protective seals around his lab to keep it safe!”

“Seals that you’ve no problem getting around!”

It was worrisome really, as foolish as Hashirama was, being related to Tobirama and married to Mito had left him with many chances to learn basic skills. While he could not fully understand the way seals functioned or how to lay them, he knew much too well how to disable some. Some like the ones Tobirama had around his lab.

Not to mention his willingness to disable them.

“Now Madara—,” Hashirama began, shoving the napkin into his pocket before snatching up another scroll that looked newer and striking through yet another one of Tobirama’s protective seals.

“See! Like that! You even took down the damn wall with your Mokuton just to get in here! If we don’t die because of whatever disasters are in here then we will die at your brother’s hands!”

Madara shuddered. The last time he aggravated the younger man he’d found himself on the receiving end on some awful seal that summoned nearby birds and critters to him, drawing them to burrow and nest in his hair. Villagers had flocked around him, curious and far too amused, tittering behind hands as they watched the animals lay siege to Madara’s hair knowing he was too busy running away to scream at them. His hair was ruined, bitten off and tangled so horribly that he had to chop the strands to a length he hadn’t had since being twelve years old.

He can already hear the sharp snap of the younger man’s voice— “Don’t go in my lab without me!"— as if he were standing right there.

"It’s important! He’s been in here for weeks—" Hashirama exclaimed, puppy dog eyes on full force.

"Three days! He was in here for three days and he actually came out to eat and take naps—”

“—and who knows what he’s been getting up to! He could be getting hurt or devising something awful—”

“He’s been making food preserving seals for the past month!”

“Do you remember the chain-reacting explosive tags? The undead jutsu? He said he was working on enhanced storage seals!”

Madara froze, mouth opened to yell, and clamped his lips shut. Tobirama did have a way of spiraling away from his original intentions— it wouldn’t hurt to just look to make sure nothing was too….deviated.

“Fine,” he huffed. “But if anything happens I’m chopping your hair off!”

Hashirama squeaked, hands coming up to clutch at his hair. And knocking over the test tubes, sending them careening to the floor with a resounding shatter. Madara watched in horror as the liquids met the black lines of a seal Hashirama had left on the floor— to be analyzed with Mito, he said— and lit them. Colored smoke filled the air and Madara could hear the ground breaking apart moments before Hashirama used Mokuton to send them upwards away from the mess. With a quick wind jutsu, weaker than usual he noticed as his vision swam, Madara sent the smoke into the vent system Tobirama had incorporated early on in case of explosions or dangerous fumes.

Madara rubbed his eyes, carefully lowering himself to the ground. His body was aching— much like the summer over a decade ago when he’d grown almost half a foot in what felt like a few short nights. Coughing, he looked up to see how his friend fared and shrieked.

Sitting in front of him, rubbing his eyes, was Hashirama. But a twelve year old Hashirama. With too big clothes and that godforsaken bowl cut.

“What the fuck! Hashirama, you're—”

“Oh my god, Madara you—”

Madara glanced at his hands. His smaller than before, less calloused hands. “We’re kids again. What the fuck? How? Hashirama!”

He snarled, throwing himself forward to tackle the other man, no, boy, to the ground. “The fuck did you do Senju?!”

“I don’t know— ow! Madara! Don’t, not the face!”

“I'll end you!”

———————————————————-

Half an hour and a semi brutal spar that resulted in Hashirama’s entire face being painted in ink later and both boys were sitting sullenly in the debris they had made of the once pristine lab.

“Tobi’s gonna kill is,” Hashirama sniffled, tears cutting through the black. “I won’t even get to see what my baby looks like.”

“If they’re lucky, nothing like you,” Madara sneered, pulling at the sticky glue-like substance that he’d tumbled into during the fight, snarling angrily as his sleeves still stuck together.

He was surprised his clothes even stayed on, they were so big, but the ties must have worked for something. Hashirama had already wrapped himself up in the excess cloth and tied it off as tightly as he could with his obi and other straps of fabric that he tore from his haori. Madara, on the other hand, would just have to wait.

He tugged at his sleeves again, cursing the glue and Hashirama.

“Ah Madara, don’t be mean!” The brunette sobbed. “My baby would be cute! Even if they looked like me!”

Madara opened his mouth to respond— wanted to sneer that it was good Hashirama knew he wasn’t attractive— but froze as the door opened at just that moment. Red eyes peered distractedly over a thick book, widening as they caught onto the state of the lab. With careful movements, Tobirama lowered the book and set it down, hand reaching for his sword.

“Anija. Madara. What did you do?” He snarled low in his throat, biting through every word like a separate sentence.

The boys blanched, glancing to each other and then shunshinning to the window only for Tobirama to slam his hand against the wall, a seal stretching across the metal to form a barrier they couldn’t get through.

“It was an accident!” Hashirama wailed, gasping through his crocodile tears. “I-am-so so-rry o-tou-to.”

He ran over and clutched at Tobirama’s yukata, burying his messy face into it. “I’m such a bad brother!”

“Anija! Stop that! You’re dirtying my— get off you idiot!”

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe and—!”

“By destroying my lab?” Tobirama shoved at Hashirama, stumbling when the boy’s grip didn’t let up. “Damn it, you poisonous vine, let go!”

“Tobi—!”

“I will get Mito-nee in here so fast—”

Hashirama yelped, letting go with a heavy pout. “You don’t have to be like thaaaat,” he whined, scuffing his foot on the ground. “That’s a really low blow, Tobi. How could you do that to your precious brother—”

“After he destroyed my lab and turned he and his idiot friend back into children?” Tobirama snarked, leveling both of them with a sharp glare. “I’ve no idea.”

Madara shuffled guiltily, wincing as he took in the mess they made.

“We can clean it up!” He offered quickly. Hashirama squawked, shaking his head.

“Oh?” Tobirama quirked a brow. “Properly?”

Madara could feel Tobirama’s chakra rise and fall, unsteady and bothered like a riptide, dragging him closer to anger and not letting him calm down, and nodded hastily. Hashirama became frantic in his head shaking, panicked as he looked at the mess miserably,

“Absolutely. No problem. It’ll take an hour. Tops!” Madara promised, grinning a touch sheepishly even as he tossed his friend a glare. “I understand why you’re upset— we shouldn’t have invaded your privacy and we certainly shouldn’t have made such a mess of things. We were concerned but we should have respected your boundaries. You’ve my sincerest apologies Tobirama.”

Tobirama’s gaze softened and he huffed out a breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“It’s fine. You haven’t gotten into anything too important. We now need to figure out what you two have done and fix it. None of my seals were meant to do this.”

Hashirama slumped in relief, “Oh thank god, I hate cleaning— what?”

———————————————————

“Oh wow, I haven’t seen Hashirama look that awful in years," Touka breathed out in wonderment. ”I almost forgot he was such an ugly bastard.“

"Touka-nee, you’re supposed to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t destroy anything, not keep an eye on his confidence to just destroy it,” Tobirama sighed over his brother’s wailing. Then, speaking over the sound of Madara pummeling his brother, asked, “Mito-nee, will you be able to handle the Hokage’s duties in your state?”

His sister-in-law and he were able to deduce that the jutsu, since many had overlapped and were then combined by the liquid soaking through the papers and smudging the inks, would eventually wear off on its own, a few days at most given the seals were not meant for major bends in time and space. And, even without that, it would, or at least should, not take them too long to devise a remedy.

But that was for tomorrow. Now, they were much too tired and irritable.

“My pregnant state, Tobirama?” Mito arched a brow. “You’d be amazed at what I can handle in this state, brother-in-law. The bigger concern is will you be able to handle Madara while Izuna is away?”

Tobirama looked at the two boys now disguised as other, unidentifiable children. Too many people remembered them as children or at least would recognize their features. With their weaker abilities it was best to keep them hidden and separated (they couldn’t last too long without bickering and yelling each other’s name in rage, like the complete idiots they were) to not give away the precarious situation the Village had now found itself in. The jutsu that changed Madara’s haír to a soft, pale blue, gently wishing about his face and skin to an olive tone did nothing to hide the fire in his chakra boiling beneath.

A new student from a distant place— Cloud Country perhaps— that was the story they would go by. A student adopted from parents Tobirama had saved.

The younger man felt a sudden tiredness fill his bones watching Madara blow flames at Hashirama’s shoulder length purple hair only to be slapped at by many flowers that erupted quite spontaneously from the wood paneling on the wall.

This would be a long few days if they couldn’t undo the mess that was made of Tobirama’s work.

“Izuna may find himself rather alone if he doesn’t hurry back,” he rubbed between his eyes, hand glowing green to chase away the headache. “Who knows? He might thank me.”

He ignored the smirks on his cousin and sister-in-law’s faces, snatching Madara by the wrist and all but hauling him out of Hashirama’s home to his own. Madara glared and very pointedly took his hand away to instead clasp Tobirama’s in his own, twining their fingers together and smiling triumphantly when Tobirama did nothing but sigh.

Oh yes, it’d be a long few days indeed.

———————————————————

The walk home had been silent, the streets much too empty for distraction and they were inside Tobirama’s home before he could properly gather himself. He could admire the timing, if anything. Just yesterday his house had been strewn with far too many papers and even some dust, given the time he spent in the office or his lab instead. Messes from ruined meals had been spattered across his kitchen and his dirty laundry pile had consisted of all of his clothes save for the set on his back. That was the breaking point, sending him into the cleaning frenzy that lasted clear into early morning, until every corner was cleaned to pristine, his laundry washed, dried, and packed neatly away. It was the most presentable and welcoming his home had ever been and the first time Madara, child or not, would actually step past the threshold.

He resolved to give himself a silent pat on the back, watching carefully as Madara took everything from the bookshelves to the altar in, knowing those hawk-like eyes were looking for dust as his clean freakishness often had him doing and finding none.

The tension seeped from Madara’s shoulders and he carefully took off his shoes, setting them neatly aside as he wandered furthered in, already growing comfortable in Tobirama’s small space. At least, if anything, Tobirama could rest knowing he had made a good impression, hoping it would serve him well when the jutsu finally wore off.

“You know,” Madara began over his bowl of noodles, slurping the noodles gracelessly. “I don’t think your brother would’ve wanted me to come stay with you if he knew I was courting you.”

“You’re a child at the moment— that’s hardly relevant right now,” still Tobirama felt his face warm and he swallowed some of his food quickly to disguise it. What they had while Madara was an adult was— nice. A small secret for just the two of them while they got comfortable with each other.

Just the other day he and the older man had a picnic besides a lake closer to the edges of Konoha, waded deep and relaxed beneath the stars— quiet because they hadn’t needed any words to enjoy just being with each other. It was smiles upon eye contact, soft laughs at little quirks. Thinking of slightly chapped, languid lips against his own, gentle like the brush of fingers on something so invaluably precious and irreplaceable, the feel of coarse hair twisting in his hands and just the comfort of a body pressed to his to block the chill of night air made something warm build in his chest and spread to his cheeks.

It wasn’t so nice a memory to think about when his beau was a mere twelve years old to his twenty-eight however.

Madara set his bowl down carefully. “Does it bother you?”

“Hm?” Tobirama wasn’t used to the other man, boy, being so pensive. He put his scroll down and met Madara’s eyes, concerned.

“Does it bother you to be with me?” Madara clarified, clearing his throat as he sat up straight. “I know with our past, the rumors, and our temperaments— they don’t exactly make for an ideal relationship but…”

Tobirama interrupted. “But yet I have not rejected you or your gifts,” he frowned. “Madara, my only problem before was that— well, I had wanted to keep things private for a bit and have time for us before Anija started planning a wedding and now, well you’re a child now,” he scrunched his nose in disgust, giving Madara a pointed look when the boy stared at him with a fondness much too heady and mature for his age. “It’s best not to think of my attraction to you given the circumstances.”

Madara flushed, looking away quickly. “Ah right.” He paused for a long moment before a cheeky grin pulled at his lips. “I suppose I won’t be allowed to sleep in your room then?”

Tobirama scowled, throwing cold tea into Madara’s face, relishing, privately, the crack of the boy’s voice, so much more high pitched than how Tobirama knew it to be.

———————————————————

“You can’t do that Shouta,” Tobirama hissed between gritted teeth. It was only the second day and he was ready to throw Madara, now going by Shouta, into the deepest, roughest river he could find.

Drawing a deep breath to calm himself, he willed water from the air to douse the flames engulfing the now terrified shopkeeper’s stall.

“He was flirting—” Madara bristled, crossing his arms. “He deserved it!”

Tobirama huffed, apologizing quickly to the shopkeeper and pulling Madara away. “He asked where I got my kimono—”

“Because he was admiring the way it fits you!”

Tobirama cringed. Madara’s voice as an adult never, not once no matter how much he was yelling, ever got so shrill. He would need to invest in earplugs at this rate. Glancing around discreetly, he shoved Madara around the corner, away from prying eyes and dropped to a crouch so they could talk face to face.

“Because he liked the fabric and wanted some pieces made for his daughter! You are completely insufferable, even as a child!” Tobirama snapped.

“I’m protecting your virtue! Hashirama said you never realized when people were interested. And that shopkeeper was interested. I know he was!” Madara protested angrily, before turning away and crossing his arms, grumbling curses under his breath.

Rubbing at his nose— it was a wonder the shape hadn’t changed after all the times his frustration had him irritating it— he sighed explosively before swallowing a quick, calming breath. Younger Madara lacked maturity and sense apparently so Tobirama needed to gain patience.

“Madara, you trust me, correct?” he asked softly.

Madara turned back to him curiously. “Of course.”

“So why would anyone showing interest in me be a reason to get so angry unless you thought I would leave my courtship with you for them? That is a lack of trust towards me Madara,” Tobirama explained. He’d seen too many people treat their partners in such a manner and he detested it. He wanted to be able to be himself without worrying how others would perceive him— he had lived much too long with others in mind.

Madara fiddled at the braided bangs Tobirama had put his hair into, pinky finger touching his lip.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he whispered. “I just…don’t like it.”

Tobirama smiled softly. Madara, no matter his age, was always much too protective. He couldn’t fault him though. Not now.

“Let’s go, I have to get some shopping done. I think you already finished all the food I had in the house.”

Madara blushed fiercely, ducking his head so his hair fell in front of his face though he still took Tobirama’s hand in his.

“You said I could have whatever I wanted!�� Madara’s free hand was back by his lips again.

“Ah right. Whatever, everything. I see how you could get the words confused,” Tobirama ribbed gently, easily pushing down Madara’s hand so the boy wouldn’t bite his nails. “That’s a bad habit, don’t do that.”

As they passed the still horrified shopkeeper, Madara stood upright, pout replaced with a haughty sneer. “You talking to him won’t change anything. He’s mine.”

Tobirama flushed, letting out an awkward laugh as the other villagers eyed him in curious amusement.

“New student,” he grimaced through an explanation. “You know how they are.”

“We know how they are with you Tobirama-sama!” Someone called out, drawing more chuckles from the crowd.

“He’s so cute!” A lady smiled, gently patting Madara’s head as she passed by. “If only people closer to our age were like this, hmm, Tobirama-sama?”

Madara preened under the attention, tugging Tobirama closer and intertwining their fingers, much to the growing entertainment of the entire marketplace. Tobirama thanked every kami for his happuri, casually activating the seal on the side to cool his flaming skin.

If he let Hiruzen test his monkey summon on Madara later that day, no one would have to know (something that was more terrifying without the ability to use his sharingan anymore, having been sent back to an age where he did not have them).

Not that that stopped Madara from yelling at anyone that showed a smidgeon of too much interest in Tobirama to “get their own boyfriend”. ———————————————————

“Madara, you needn’t carry everything,” Tobirama sighed, watching fondly as the boy shifted the basket and bags about in his arms, stumbling along as they made their way back to Tobirama’s home. “I am perfectly capable of carrying my own groceries.”

It was only the fourth day of Madara’s stay and they’d run out of groceries again. Especially the few sweets he had bought just for Madara. Those were gone within moments.

Madara squawked suddenly, one leg tripping over the other, and went sprawling to the ground. With a quick shunshin, Tobirama dropped a scroll onto the dirt to catch all the groceries, letting his free hand shoot out to grab Madara and pull him upright. Straightening the young boy’s collar, he snatched up the now rolled scroll and tucked it into his pocket.

“Like I said, perfectly capable of carrying my groceries,” he drawled. Catching sight of Madara’s embarrassed pout— and oh, he made that exact expression as an adult too!— hair moving forward to hide his face again, Tobirama pushed the unruly strands back with an indulgent smile. “How about we get some dango?”

The word koibito hovered on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back. He was getting rather impatient waiting on this jutsu to let up.

He ignored the flicker of ire and almost-sadness, grinning as Madara’s face lit up. If anything, he was given quite the ideal opportunity to know his suitor. He could enjoy it while it lasted.

———————————————————

“Save me,” Mito snarled as soon as he and Madara stepped through the door. Her face was splotchy and she seemed less composed than ever. “Before I kill your brother.”

Tobirama blinked, eyes searching, landing on his brother sat in the corner and facing the wall. “Mito-nee—”

“Because Hashirama doesn’t realize being in his childhood body doesn’t mean he can act like a child. He keeps making messes and being too loud and, Hashirama if I hear you wailing one more time—”

“Breathe Aneue,” Tobirama held his hands up placatingly.

Mito heaved a breath, pushing her hair behind her ear before resting her hands on her belly. Her eyes were watering when she looked back at Tobirama. “We need to work on the jutsu Tobirama. I can't— with the Hokage duties and watching Hashirama and feeling sick all the time—”

Tobirama nodded. “Go sit, Aneue. Madara—”

“I can make you some tea, Mito-hime,” the boy said, bowing quickly and heading to the kitchen. “Ginger maybe? Or chamomile?”

Mito stared at him in wonderment. “How—I thought he’d be like Hashirama. I was sure of it. Has he been well-behaved this entire week?”

Tobirama smiled sheepishly. “More or less.” He frowned, sending a hard look to the boy all but wilted over himself. “Has Anija been giving you a lot of trouble?”

“Not really—” she glanced at the boy. “Hashirama, can you be a dear and help Madara in the kitchen please?”

Hashirama sprang from his seat, wiping his eyes and nodding hurriedly. “Of course Mito-!”

The rest of the sentence was lost as he scurried away.

“I just need my husband, Tobirama. Not this child who can’t keep his hands off my belly or food in his mouth. I— he’s not even being bad! Not really, just—”

“Overwhelming?”

Mito gave a small nod, looking horribly miserable.

“He was like that as a child. He only learned more restraint as an adult when he realized he kept accidentally hurting others in his enthusiasm,” Tobirama rolled his eyes, heart feeling a little too fond given the grievances his brother had put him through. Once, Hashirama had fractured his ribs with a hug. He’d hoped, however, that Hashirama would not fall back on childhood habits.

He should’ve seen it though— Madara had after all. The flailing, the quirky habits, threatening with fire— wait no, he did that as an adult— but everything else was so painstakingly innocent. Tobirama should’ve really kept a closer watch on Hashirama.

“I’ve been working on the jutsu, a little while longer and I believe I will be able to undo everything,” he reassured.

Mito sighed in relief, pulling Tobirama into a hug as best as she could around the swell of her stomach. Tobirama let her hold onto him for a few long moments, talking softly of the progress he made with the seals and making note of her suggestions, before coaxing her into the kitchen to eat.

And let Mito freeze, hiding his smile at her surprise. Dishes were neatly laid across the table, a cup of steaming tea covered with a small plate and placed by Mito’s seat. Madara grinned at them from beside the stove, turning at a pot.

“I’m making ramen! I know it’s nothing fancy but you seemed stressed and tired so I thought you might want something easier to eat so you can go rest sooner.”

Mito blinked. Settled herself into her seat and took a sip of her tea, humming appreciatively. “I didn’t even remember having those spices.”

“You didn’t,” Madara frowned. “I don’t know what the hell you two are eating but without these,” he gestured to the various small bottles he had set on the counter, “it can’t be anything good. I sent Hashi to Tobi’s. I made him buy these earlier.”

Hashirama grinned, swinging his feet from where he sat atop the counter. “See! I helped! I even set the table!”

He looked at Mito hopefully and she smiled. “Thank you Hashirama. Thank you Madara.”

Both boys beamed proudly though Madara quickly ducked behind his hair, adorably bashful. “It’s very simple. I hope you find it as pleasing as the effort.”

Mito smiled encouragingly, taking the pot from Madara and helping share it into the bowls. “I am certain it is delightful Madara.”

Madara blushed a bit brighter, settling quickly in front of his own bowl.

“Itadakimasu!”

Tobirama grinned, making sure to limit his own portion as he watched his brother’s and sister-in-law’s eyes open with surprise, noises of appreciation slipping past their lips as they dug in with a little more vigor than would be polite. Mito and Hashirama were sure to want seconds. Maybe even thirds.

Madara’s eyes darted to Tobirama’s bowl and he looked up with confusion, eyes silently asking if Tobirama were okay. Smiling gently, Tobirama glanced at their other two companions before dropping Madara a wink.

It was okay. He’d get Madara to cook for him later.

———————————————————

“I uh want to go look for berries at the river! From over there!” Madara called out awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other.

Hashirama looked up from the berries he and Tobirama were picking. He looked bemused for all of two seconds before his lips spread in a wicked grin that he hid behind his basket. “Okay!”

Tobirama, too busy separating the berries (and perhaps sneaking a few to eat) just nodded distractedly, only looking up when Hashirama stood up a few minutes later. “Anija?”

“Let’s go look at the river too, Tobi!”

Rolling his eyes, Tobirama let himself be pulled down the path Madara took, frowning when he heard something like a trickle of water when usually the river was silent during these times of low-tide. As they neared, he could just faintly make out Madara’s hair and, just before he could call out, watched Hashirama throw himself out of the bushes right behind the other boy.

Madara’s back went ramrod straight.

“Still can’t go when someone’s behind you?” Hashirama laughed loudly, finger pointing.

Madara whirled around just as Tobirama stepped through the bushes, face cherry red and mouth open to scream at Hashirama. Upon seeing Tobirama, he burned even redder, looking for all the world humiliated and betrayed as he hissed at Hashirama to shut up.

And suddenly so many other things made sense. Madara’s insistence to wait until Tobirama was far too distracted or not even in the house to use the restroom, mumbled excuses of needing privacy to go do something like clean or having to water plants of all things (“better for him to get the job done correctly”) keeping the bathroom door firmly locked even though Tobirama had not once known him to be body shy. Hell, just that morning Madara thought it appropriate to walk around the house with nothing but a small towel wrapped about his waist.

Madara was shy to use the bathroom around…anyone apparently. Tobirama bit back a laugh, frowning instead when he saw Madara hide more behind his hair, the tip of his nose reddening as he curled as much into himself as he could.

Tobirama could feel the headache coming. Why did he think agreeing to watch over both of them was a good idea? Oh right, so Mito could rest and Touka wouldn’t feel tempted to commit treason by killing one of the two brats. Especially given the fiasco that happened yesterday when Touka was in his shoes so he and Mito could work on the seal more.

He really was too kind for his own good.

“Anija!” Tobirama snapped. “Stop wasting time bothering Madara.”

“But Tobi—” Hashirama whined. “I—”

“We are going to pick berries at the river mouth—Madara already has this area covered.”

That would put them far off out each other’s sight so Madara could have his privacy and still be close enough for Tobirama to come if anything were to happen. He dragged his brother away without another word, missing the besotted and grateful look Madara shot him.

It wasn’t too long until Madara joined them again, flicking his hands through a much too familiar sign and setting the edge of Hashirama’s clothing on fire. Shrieking, Hashirama took off upstream before Tobirama could douse him with water, passing the place Madara had been and diving beneath the river surface.

“I suppose that was fair,” Tobirama mused. “I don’t think he got hurt at least.”

Madara scuffed the ground with his shoe, voice soft when he responded. “Yeah.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. While I’m certainly surprised your bladder cooperated with your discomfort in quite the opposite manner than I would have expected—”

The boy flushed deeper. “No! I um yeah that’s odd but I um, I actually have something for you!”

“Oh?” Tobirama raised a brow. “Did you get something you were with Touka?”

Madara shook his head, determinedly looking at his shoes. “No I, I meant to give this to you earlier but then,” he waved his hand about awkwardly. “-all of this happened instead.”

Tobirama squinted, nose wrinkled. “Before you do that, did you wash your hands?”

The Uchiha squawked. “Of course I did! I’m not your brother! Stupid Senju—!” He shoved a small box in Tobirama’s hands as he continued his tirade against the Senju Clan.

Ignoring him— Tobirama had gotten quite good at that even before they began courting— he opened the box carefully and stilled. Inside was a small chain with a circular tanzanite pendant, a silver dragon figurine curled around one edge, its tail curling up to connect the pendant to the chain, and a silver leopard figurine stretched along the opposite edge. Their eyes were little red gems, pyrope, and almost exactly the shape and shade of his eyes. The only difference was the trace of black cutting through the red, carving Madara’s mangekyou into the dragon’s eyes.

Tobirama felt his breath catch.

“Madara—”

“You like both those animals! And, and you said I'm— that having me around is like having you’re own personal dragon so I…” his voice fell to little over a whisper. “I had that made for you. So it’s like I’m always around, like we’re always together.”

And now Tobirama’s eyes were watering, happy tears, and wasn’t that an idea. After so much grief, after never once even humoring such an absurdity as crying happily like his brother, Tobirama was well on the verge of doing the same.

Falling to his knees, he pulled the Uchiha into his arms, habit leading him to tuck his face against Madara’s hair. “I find myself really wishing you weren’t a child right now.”

Madara stroked a hand through Tobi’s hair, returning the hug tightly with a disgruntled pout. “Me too. This is fucking annoying. I want to kiss your pretty face, damn. Why’s that so much to ask for?”

“What!”

Hashirama stood gaping behind them, horror and anger twisting his features. “You’re dating my brother?”

“Anija—” Tobirama sighed, hand going right for the bridge of his nose.

“No!” Hashirama yelled, stomping his foot, childishly if not for the Mokuton poking through the dirt. “No, you don’t get to say anything! You were supposed to tell me before— don’t bother explaining or, or giving excuses now! I forbid it!”

Tobirama reeled back in shock. Not once, not even in the worse of Hashirama’s anger, had he ever tried to silence Tobirama.

“What?" Madara growled. "You what?”

Hashirama snarled. “I forbid you from dating my brother.”

The plants and grass were growing, leaves and stems thickening, hardening, and coiling up towards Madara.

“You can’t do that!”

“I can! And I will! I know you! I know your habits—”

“My habits?”

“All that damn time— you can’t handle a long-term relationship! And I’m not letting you use my brother, you backstabbing—” Hashirama was shaking with rage. “You, you bastard!”

With a yell, he lunged towards Madara recklessly only to be thrown over the Uchiha’s shoulder. Madara kneeled onto Hashirama’s chest, wrapping a hand around his throat, body also trembling with fury.

Tobirama moved to separate them, hands grabbing at Madara’s shoulders.

“I love him!” Madara yelled. “I love him! And you don’t get a damn say in any of it!”

Hashirama stopped clawing at Madara’s hands and Tobirama’s own hands went slack. Madara spun to look at him, sharingan burning in his eyes. Something like desperation seemed to spin in the commas.

“You hear me? I love you.”

Perhaps with the best timing ever, the air filled with smoke, startling them all apart. Tobirama covered his eyes as a bright light danced between the wisps and tossed the scroll he’d kept packed with Hashirama’s and Madara’s clothes into the fog, right at the red eyes looking back at him. When it dissipated, a Madara, an adult Madara (thankfully somewhst properly dressed) was standing there, sharingan still spinning in his eyes as he stared at Tobirama. No words passed before the two men pressed their lips together, hands tangling in each other’s hair. Something wet trickled down their cheeks and Tobirama couldn’t tell if the tears were coming from his eyes or Madara’s.

“I love you, I love you,” Madara whispered between kisses. And Tobirama nodded as of to answer some unspoken question.

“You love him?” Hashirama whispered, eyes flooding with tears. He tugged a haori over his shoulders. “You love my baby brother? You’re not just— Oh. Oh Madara I thought you were— oh I’m so happy!”

They weren’t paying attention to Hashirama’s babbling though, too transfixed and overly emotional at the admission of a confession they had been denying themselves.

“I’ve missed you,” Tobirama murmured, pressing his forehead against Madara’s. “Don’t ever go in my lab without me again.”

Madara laughed shakily. “Never. I’m never going anywhere without you ever again."

———————————————————

Omake:

Hashirama wailed, squirming against the chains and seals in vain to get away as Madara used his kama to shear his long brown locks down to the base of his scalp.

"I told you I’d chop your hair off, bastard!” Madara cackled. “Now stay still before I accidentally take your head off!”

“I can’t believe you disguised yourself as Mito!” Hashirama sobbed. “I can’t believe she and Tobirama helped you! Traitors!”

Madara just laughed louder and continued hacking at Hashirama’s hair.

#madatobiweek2020 #de-aged #fanfiction #submission

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