#it's turned into a spiral of self-loathing that has drained me of any confidence and ambition

[namig42]

Alright, the past few weeks have taken quite the toll on me and Just One Yesterday already does enough of that even on my best days, so we're gonna take a quick pause from writing drama to write a quick fluffy one-shot to give myself the comfort I need. It'll still be Wyllstarion, though definitely a different au.

[fangsandfeels]

I've seen the "Non-ascended Astarion ending is bad for him because you have to persuade him to reject the ritual" opinion...

..implying that he never really wanted not to ascend, it's you the player who selfishly forces him to give up on his goal. To prove their point, they state that you can get a good ending out of all other companion's quests without using Persuasion at all, except for Astarion.

And boy did I want to talk about this...

(In fact, everything I wanted to say has already been told in this amazing meta post, but I still gotta ramble)

First of all, Astarion was going through an intense PTSD. The game gave him a debuff to show how badly going back to the place of his torment was affecting him. Larian couldn't make it more obvious that he wasn't thinking clearly.

Second, there is one thing all abusers have in common: they destroy their victim's feelings of self-worth to the point, the victim no longer wants or knows how to ask for help or have relationships outside their abusive circle.

Who would want you like this? Look at yourself, you think you're better than me? You're nothing. Who would want to waste their time on you? You think somebody else would treat you better?

Since entering the Cazador's palace, Astarion is reliving his worst moments. Initially, he takes it in stride, hiding his discomfort underneath performative and emotional expressiveness. He talks about how he spent time in the bedrooms where he never did any sleeping, about the kennels where he was tortured, about the barracks where he was sent to when he "deserved neither carrot nor stick". Bad memories, but he shares them with Tav because he trusts them with his scars already. They might as well know the rest.

But after descending into the dungeon, Astarion starts spiraling into self-loathing at a break-neck speed. He used to think that all Cazador victims he ever brought to him were long gone, drained, and discarded. A horrible, undeserved death, yet the thought of them not having to suffer for too long was a small consolation, one of the threads holding his sanity together.

But then it turns out that they weren't dead. They were turned. Locked away deep underground, alone with their new selves, with the hunger and isolation. They did suffer. All these years, they suffered, buried in this tomb - because of him. Cazador may have turned them, but it was Astarion who brought them to him. And they remembered it. They recognized him. The monster who stole them from their home. The monster who ruined their life. Monster. Just like Cazador.

So, as if his PTSD wasn't enough, this revelation was another blow to his grip on himself, his perception of himself. His confident facade was shattering - and in his head, he was starting to think that Tav's idea of him, of who he is, was shattering as well. He tried to warn them before. He said he couldn't be what they saw in him. Whatever person they believed him to be had never existed - and Tav was finally coming to realize that as they walked through the gallery of his sins, looking his victims in the eyes and hearing out what they had to say. Of course, Tav hated him now. They had to. How could they not?

So, at the end, he is scared. Terrified. He bit off more than he could chew by walking into the manor and thinking he had only six fellow spawns to deal with. He saw their lives as a small price to pay because Cazador made sure to erase any solidarity between them. He made them torture each other and compete with each other. He twisted the very meaning of family bonds to his perverted liking, and he knew that by doing so, he would make sure every single one of them would get a whiplash from anyone trying to mention family in a positive connotation. Astarion takes no issue with getting rid of his "brothers" and "sisters" because he is fully aware that had the roles been reversed, they would have sacrificed him without a second thought. And he was certain that Tav would change their mind once they learned more about his brethren.

But the spawns in the dungeon...All the faces he remembered. All the lovers he lured. They did nothing wrong. They never hurt him. They never tortured him. Their only mistake was to trust him.

The revelation horrifies him. His first response is to be shocked, overwhelmed with emotion - and then he has to remind himself that sacrifices must be made. He feigns indifference. He tries to cover his internal conflict with gallows humor. But his flippant mask keeps slipping as he lapses from indifference to anger, to guilt, to begging Tav not to hate him as his greatest crimes glare back at him and claw at him, shouting out threats and seething with hatred.

He can't bear the thought of dealing with all the people whose lives he helped to destroy. He can't do anything for them. Just killing Cazador won't undo what he did to them. He will never be anything but a monster in their eyes. And this is what he deserves to be. He will always be reminded of what he is.

He has no choice but to do the Ritual.

He has no idea what will happen to him after he is done - he isn't a planner. He has never been. But at this point, he doesn't see his soul as something worthy of preserving - and by association, he extends that to other spawns. He knows it all too well because he remembers how it felt. He dissociates, projecting everything he hated about himself onto Cazador's victims, trying to rationalize why he should live and why they must die while he actively avoids the truth.

Completing the ritual is no longer about being free. Or protecting himself and his lover. It's about running away. Even when Astarion has Cazador at his mercy, he still thinks of running away. Getting lost forever. So nobody could ever hurt him.

A part of him even realizes that it means running away from Tav too. But Tav can leave, he naively thinks, not knowing the full consequences of the ritual. Tav will leave to find someone else, someone better, and he will start everything anew, a king of his castle.

So, of course, Tav has to reach out to him through that thick haze of fear, anger, and self-hatred. Persuasion isn't about strongarming someone into doing what you want. It's not subjugation or emotional blackmail. It's reasoning with someone. And that is exactly what Tav does - reasons with Astarion after watching him mentally struggle, after seeing his genuine shock and fear, after understanding that he isn't fully on board with the idea.

It's true, vampire spawns tend to gravitate toward power, especially if nothing is pulling them back. A vampire spawn is a feared and scorned creature - it no longer matters whether they were an unwilling victim, forcefully taken and turned. They are seen not as an individual but as the extension of their master - and the only natural transition for them is to get on the top of the food chain. The only way to make a name and become treated as something more.

Astarion saw power as the mean to safety and freedom, first and foremost. Ironically, he never planned beyond securing these two priorities. He never saw himself after accomplishing his goals, and it's kinda amazing how people can make conclusions about his hedonism because he misses petty vanities, wants to drink blood from a goblet, and sleep on silken sheets. The man who was held and tortured in the kennels, fed rats, and had to stitch and fix his only set of clothes over and over to keep it presentable, the man who has never felt happy for most of his conscious non-life is called hedonistic for wanting nice things. For still wanting to take care of himself for once.

He wasn't harboring any grand plans, conquests, or schemes. Even his idea of taking control of the Absolute was abstract and shapeless because he didn't care about getting control over the most influential people as much as he was afraid of breaking whatever protected him from Cazador's domination. He never really knew what to do with power aside from keeping Cazador and the likes of him at bay.

The way Astarion behaves in a relationship also speaks tons of how controlling he really is...or how he isn't controlling at all. When his romance with Tav transforms into something real, and he enters a new territory, Astarion is empowered to make decisions and think about what he wants instead of pleasuring others. It's clear that he and Tav don't have sex after they come clear about their feelings. Tav respects his comfort and boundaries, gives him all the time he needs, and lets him take the lead. Whether they will have sex again or not is entirely up to Astarion. Whatever he decides, it won't change Tav's feelings for him. He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do.

Astarion enjoys this new autonomy. He is playful, affectionate, outspoken...and afraid of messing everything up. If Tav mentions breaking up, Astarion thinks he is the problem. If there is another potential love interest showing they have eyes for Tav, Astarion encourages Tav to be with them because he believes they can give Tav everything he can't. When Tav says "I choose you," Astarion is taken aback, needing a moment to hide his genuine confusion at Tav actually wanting to be with him rather than Gale, Karlach, or Halsin.

For all his talks of control and dominating others, once Astarion finds himself with a lover who values his autonomy more than getting power at the cost of his dignity, who makes it safe for him to be honest, and who listens to him, he almost stops mentioning control. He merely lives in the moment, happy not to know, not to pretend, not to manipulate. Just to be.

What Astarion truly craves - not wants on a superficial level, not conditioned to want - is not to be a vampire lord. He wants the freedom to be anything. Anything he wants. Little does he know that true vampires rarely get to be anything they want, even if they gain the ability to walk in the sun -- we see it in his Ascended path as, instead of acting up on his supposed freedom to be anything, Astarion repeats Cazador's rules step by step. Just like Cazador did. Just like Verlioth did. He isn't anything he wants. He is the replica of his former master.

Astarion never had the luxury to explore who he wanted to be outside what Cazador made him. He only makes his first steps once he is free. We see glimpses of that deep-seated aspiration to be seen as a person. Treated like a person. Loved like a person. To be reflected in someone's eyes. He wants to know if there is someone beneath his usual mask, something his, not tainted by Cazador. Someone real. And at the same time, he dreads to know the answer. Because that part of him knows regret. Knows shame. Knows guilt. Confronting it posed the risk of realizing he didn't deserve love, kindness, or a future. What if real him truly doesn't amount to anything? What else for him to do?

So, he tells himself that he has no choice, and he expects Tav to affirm it -- not because he wants them to, but because he believes that Tav has seen enough to make the same conclusion. However, Tav objects, trying to be louder than all the inner demons hissing into his ears. Tav speaks to the Astarion, who asked them what they saw when they looked at him. The Astarion, who thanked them for standing by his side when he said "No" to Araj. The Astarion one who stood frozen in their hug before returning it tentatively. The Astarion who diligently, dedicatedly, caringly kept pulling himself together instead of letting himself unravel completely.

Tav reminds him that this Astarion, right here, right now, is worth fighting for. That he didn't survive all these years of torture, pain, humiliation, and dehumanization to give himself up now. He already has the power to avenge himself, avenge all Cazador's victims. He can end everything right here, right now - and this is the only power to free him. He has the power (and responsibility) of having a choice.

Tav empathizes with other spawns as victims not because they're more "innocent" than Astarion, but because associating with them doesn't brand Astarion as weak or broken. These spawns aren't horrible wretches, and neither is he. They don't deserve this, and neither did he.

The only one who deserves to die today is Cazador - the vampire, the monster, the pathetic piece of shit.

Astarion Ancunin deserves to live.

[cdyssey]

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

—

Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.” 

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe. 

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise. 

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home. 

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels. 

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her. 

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears. 

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire. 

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening. 

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself. 

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts. 

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace. 

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse. 

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

[gay-otlc]

To Love Unafraid (With An Ugly, Poisonous Heart)

Summary: Fintan was silent for a long time. Then he nodded and said, "The life of a pyrokinetic is a lonely one. It's hard to get close to people. When you do, it's too easy to hurt them. It's best to just isolate yourself from the good parts of society. If the council doesn't lock you up, you lock yourself up. I'm sorry you had to manifest this curse. I'm sorry you're turning into a monster like me."

(Or, Marella has OCD, and her intrusive thoughts feature hurting Biana.)

Word count: 3374

Content warnings: Wow, this is gonna be a long list. Um. Intrusive thoughts and depictions of OCD is the main one. Severe guilt and self loathing. Cursing. Fire and (imagined) death/murder. Mentions of suicidal thoughts and self harm. Generally disturbing. And yes, I did warn you that this would be fucked up.

Written for Marelliana week. Would probably fit under day two (nightmares) but also a free day. Whatever. It's all Marelliana. @marelliana-week

Read on AO3

Every time Marella looked into Biana's eyes a little too long, she thought she would catch on fire.

It wasn't her fault Biana was so... Biana. Were there really any words for how wonderful ae was? Beautiful, one could say, but that would barely cover it. Yes, Biana was so fucking beautiful, so beautiful it was unfair, with mahogany skin and a wide smile and stiff, dark hair with streaks of lavender. Marella had never been especially poetic, but she wanted to color Biana with adjectives and metaphors until the page reflected even a tenth of aer beauty.

She couldn't write that beautifully, though. She could only watch aer and think that if she could freeze time right then, she would be happy forever.

"You're staring again," Biana said, a hint of a laugh in aer voice.

"Sorry! You're just... you're just really pretty."

Ae looked down, cheeks turning pink. Sheepishly, ae scratched the back of aer neck. "Aww. Thanks. You're the sweetest."

Biana's lips are the sweetest. They'd only kissed a few times, and before then, Marella had thought nothing could taste better challah. She'd been proven wrong. At the thought, she noticed she'd been staring specifically at Biana's pink lips. She blushed harder, looking away. Until warm skin touched her hand, and wrapped fingers around hers. Marella looked back, surprised. Biana chuckled quietly, the prettiest smile on aer face. Marella brushed her thumb over aer knuckles, wondering how the hell she'd gotten so lucky as to date the princaess next to her.

And then the princaess burst into flames. Ae was a girl on fire, stunning. Ae looked like a phoenix, a mythical creature even for the elves. But aer face didn't look triumphant or majestic or beautiful. Just scared. And sad. Aer skin turned charred, angry red burns blistering across aer face. The girl Marella loved crumpled into ashes.

She blinked. Biana was back, alive, not on fire, beautiful as ever. But Marella couldn't appreciate aer beauty nearly as much, because the image of Biana burning was seared into her mind.

Do it. Do it. Burn aer. You know you want to.

Marella ripped her hand out of Biana's.

"Love? You alright?"

Deep breaths forced their way out of Marella's lungs. She clenched her fists so hard her nails painfully dug into her palms. "Yeah," she choked. "Don't feel well."

"Oh." Biana gave her a sympathetic look, and she squeezed her fists tighter. She didn't deserve Biana's sympathy. "Do you want me to get you anything?"

Let aer stay. Talk to aer. Don't push aer away.

"No," she replied forcefully; half a scream, half a sob. Hurt flashed across Biana's face, and Marella somehow felt even guiltier. If she could snap at aer like that, what would stopping her from getting just angry enough to really snap and... well... see the scared, sad, girl on fire once again. She took a deep breath, feeling tears rise to her eyes. She looked away. "No, I think I'm just going to lie down. Thanks, though."

"Okay." Biana still looked worried. If she could have, she would have comforted aer. But she didn't know exactly how to explain I'm not sick, I don't have some life threatening disease, I'm just getting horrible visions of murdering you and I'd prefer not to let those visions become reality, because I couldn't stand to lose you, and I don't think I could be responsible for that without burning away my ugly heart and soul as well.

Once Biana tore aer gaze away from the mess that ae had the misfortune to love, and light leaped away, Marella let herself crumble. She didn't even wait to get up to her room and hide under her blankets. Just let her knees collapse as she sank to the grassy yard in front of her house. Her shoulders shook with sobs. It felt like she would explode with anger and guilt and fear, and if she wasn't careful, the fire that exploded out of her would burn everything else in her life as well. All the things she cared about.

(Biana Vacker.)

She'd had thoughts like this before. Attacking people she was close to. Usually physically, but sometimes verbally. Still, that was all before she manifested. The worst she had ever thought about doing to anyone would have left a few bruises. Not like this.

Not a pile of ashes where a girl used to be.

When she was a kid, she'd been confident that her mother's accident was her fault, that she was the one to push Caprise Redek. She needed constant reassurance that she had been in a completely different room of the house at the time, that she couldn't possibly be responsible. Her dad thought it was a grief response, the guilt, the nightmares with false memories.

It could have been, if it was just a one off. But lately, Marella had begun to think there was some sort of monster living in her brain, whispering these horrible thoughts. Trying to convince her to carry out its wicked instructions. She would beat her head trying to force it out.

That didn't work, of course. And ever since Marella manifested, it felt like the monster was on fire. Bigger. More powerful. The monster was just an entity of flames, wanting to burn anything and everything that had the misfortune to be in Marella's path.

Sometimes Marella thought she was the monster.

And monsters didn't deserve to collapse on the front lawn crying, mourning the girl she used to be, who wasn't a danger to everyone around her. The girl she could have been, if she was just a little less twisted.

Glaring, jaw clenched, she stood up and swiped an arm across her face. She screamed as loudly as she could, trying to force the monster and the fire and all the poison out of her. Then she took a deep breath. She needed to talk to someone about this, because the secret, or the monster, or both, would eat her from the inside if she didn't let some of it out. Obviously, she couldn't tell Biana. Nor her dad- he didn't need to be more worried about her than he already was. Nor any of her friends, they had a hard enough time trusting her already.

Marella needed advice from someone who was just as dark and twisted as she was, so she could escape all the judgement. Someone who knew about monsters. And fire.

She needed advice from Fintan.

Reluctantly, she took out the leaping crystal that directed her to her much-dreaded training sessions with Fintan. Once the world materialized around her, she shivered. I'm never going to get used to the cold here.

Maybe it'll freeze out the monster.

Don't be ridiculous. The monster will never leave. The monster is you. The monster won't die unless you die.

Then maybe it would be best if-

"Marella?" Fintan's raspy voice said, interrupting Marella's spiral of thoughts swirling down the drain, slowly disappearing just like any goodness, or sanity, she had. "What are you doing here?"

"I-" Marella swallowed. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"What about your girlfriend's house?" Fintan asked, smirking a little. Marella really hadn't done a very good job of hiding that.

"I can't go to her. I'm too dangerous to be around her. If she's too close to me, she'll get hurt."

"Because you're a pyrokinetic?"

"Because I'm a monster."

"Please. If you were a 'monster', you wouldn't resist every time I suggested you join the Neverseen. You're disgustingly concerned with morals."

The words spilled out before Marella could stop them. "I'm also disgustingly obsessed with burning the love of my life to a pile of ashes!" Fintan stayed silent, and for a heartbeat, Marella thought, This is it. She was such a monster she even horrified Fintan. But her mouth kept talking, and her heart kept bleeding. "There's a monster in my head, that tells me to do really horrible things, like- like kill Biana, set her on fire until she can't survive me, and the more it goes on, the more I realize I'm the monster, it's my own actions. The monster tells me I want to do those things, and why would I think it if I didn't want to carry it out?"

"Do you want to hurt Biana?" Fintan asked, his voice calm and collected as ever. What a dickhead.

"I don't know!" Marella screamed, spinning around to punch the wall. Her knuckles split apart, droplets of blood appearing on them. "Part of me, part of me loves her more than anything else, can't stand to see her in even the least bit of pain. And the other part wants her to burn. And I don't know which part is real, or how to stop the second part. All I know is I can't be around her. I'm too dangerous."

Fintan was silent for a long time. Then he nodded and said, "The life of a pyrokinetic is a lonely one. It's hard to get close to people. When you do, it's too easy to hurt them. It's best to just isolate yourself from the good parts of society. If the council doesn't lock you up, you lock yourself up. I'm sorry you had to manifest this curse. I'm sorry you're turning into a monster like me."

"I'm sorry too," said Marella, not quite knowing what she was apologizing for. And then she ran.

Where was she running to? She didn't know that. Just... away.

When she finally had to take a breath to catch her breath, calves burning and lungs aching, it finally occurred to her. Where the pyrokinetic monsters had to go. The only place in the world that the world could possibly be safe from her. She'd considered the Forbidden Cities, midway through her run, so she wouldn't hurt anyone she knew and cared about... but she could kill humans, and that was still monstrous. Same with any cities for the other intelligent species. If she was around people- any people- they'd be in danger.

Exile. She had to go to Exile. A place meant to keep the rest of the world safe from her.

But how the fuck do I get there?

Marella screamed. No one was allowed to hear her. She screamed, because she was so damn close to keeping everyone she loved safe, and at this last step she couldn't make it. How the fuck did she get to Exile? Did she turn herself in to the Council, have a tribunal? Would they lock her up? They fucking should. The Council had thrown innocent elves into Exile, they wouldn't mind banishing a Pyrokinetic with a fucked up brain.

To Eternalia, she supposed, since she didn't have many other options.

She leaped there, starting heading towards the Councillor's castle, barely able to focus on anything around her other than the screaming in her head and the thunderous beating of her ugly, poisoned heart. Which is how she didn't notice that there was a person right in her path... and how she managed to bump into them.

Aer.

Biana.

"Hey, watch where- Marella? Love? Are you alright?"

Just her luck, the person she needed to stay away from. "What are you doing here?" Marella blurted, before she could really think about it. It sounded harsh, and she saw the hurt flash across Biana's face.

Ae recovered quickly. "I was getting some work done for Team Valiant, since we weren't together; it's too hard to do it around you, your pretty face always distracts me." Under aer breath, ae mumbled something that sounded like Biana, you disastaer queer.

Normally, Marella was happy to laugh about being a disaster queer- a concept she was well acquainted with, but that was drowned out by the fact that Biana was still affectionate with her. Still found her pretty, wanted to date her, just as in love as ae was before. Why wouldn't ae be? Ae didn't know. But ae needed to know- it wasn't fair to keep lying to Biana, manipulate aer into thinking aer girlfriend was a good person.

"We need to break up," said the words spilling out of Marella's mouth. In horror, she watched as Biana's face fell, looking like slow motion. She could see the heartbreak dawn on aer, moment by moment.

Aer brown eyes filling with tears, ae whispered "Marella?"

"I- you can't- we- I need to go to Exile," Marella said. "We can't date if I'm in Exile."

"Why the fuck would you need to go to Exile? The fuck did you do?"

"Nothing yet. I'd like to keep it that way. Which is why I can't see you again."

"You're not making any sense, Marella!" The tears spilled onto aer cheeks, and whatever was left of Marella's ugly heart broke.

She didn't want to tell Biana. She really, really didn't want to look Biana in the eye and explain that she fantasized about killing aer. She would rather be anywhere else- preferably Exile- but Biana had a right to know why Marella was breaking up with aer. So she swallowed. "I... I get these thoughts," she started, not quite knowing how to verbalize this secret she'd kept so close to her forever. "About... hurting people. Hurting you. Earlier today, right before I left, I thought about killing you. Burning you. It was really vivid... I could see you on fire, looking so scared of me, before you turned to ashes and smoke. And then my brain whispered..."

Marella broke off into a sob, not daring to look at Biana's face. Ae probably hated her now. Ae hated herself too.

"It whispered, 'Do it. Burn aer. I know you want to.' I'm so fucked up, Biana, I'm too dangerous to be around you. Please just leave before you get hurt. I don't want to hurt you, but this monster that lives in my head wants me to. Or maybe the monster is me, it's all so fucked up, but I don't want to let the monster win, whatever it is. Protect yourself. Don't let it win."

"Marella..."

"Biana, please don't let it win! It would kill me to see you die, know it was all my fault... my heart's full of poison and seeing you die would still break it. I love you, I love you more than anything, which is why I have to keep you safe. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She turned away, almost crying too hard to speak. "I'm sorry. I'll just... I'll go."

Cold fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Not a chance in hell," snapped Biana, whirling Marella back around. "Don't you dare push me away. I am your girlfriend, and I call the shots on whether or not you're too dangerous to be around me. And the only danger you pose is trying to make my head explode from gay panic."

"Hello!? And also burning you!" Why the fuck couldn't ae understand? Ae needed to get away.

"I'll carry around a damn fire extinguisher, I don't care. I'm perfectly capable of handling myself in life or death situations. I've survived the Neverseen a million times over, I can survive the off chance that you lose control and set me on fire. I'll take precautions and I'll be ready to defend myself if I need to, but I don't think I'm going to need to."

"You don't know that! You don't know how horrible I am!" Marella couldn't stop screaming. She wasn't angry at Biana. Just angry at herself. Angry at the monster. Just... angry. She needed to stop before she set anything on fire. Monster.

"No, I don't know for sure that you'll never hurt me. But I know that I love you. I'm not going to stop loving you just because you're a flawed package. It's not like I'm little miss perfect or anything. We can be fucked up together."

"You're not perfect, but you're damn well closer than I am! Even Fintan thought I was fucked up. Fintan. I love you, Biana, I do, but my heart's too ugly and poisonous to be in love like we are. I just need to cut our ties and hope the pain from missing you goes away eventually."

"I love you, you fucking idiot!" Biana shouted. "I love you, because you're Marella fucking Redek, and you make me want to freeze time and be happy with you forever. I love you so much that it feels like burning any time I think of life without you in it. I love you so much that it feels like my world is a little bit off-kilter and then I kiss you and that's the only time everything feels right. I love you because you've been with me through all the shit in my life and made me smile through it all, so now it's my turn to help you with your shit. I love you so, so much, and I love everything about you. Even the flaws. Even the monster. I wish I could tell the monster to stay away from my Marella, but I can't, so I'm going to tell Marella to stop being so hard on my Marella. I love her, and she's not as bad as she thinks she is. She's not bad at all. I love everything about you, Marella, but I can't love you the way I want to if you keep pushing me away. So we'll be in love, and then we'll also have my scars and your monster and all our history with the Neverseen, but we'll love each other through it all. I need you to understand that I love you, you fucking idiot." Biana's eyes were wild with desperation. Ae exhaled heavily, giving Marella a pleading look.

"I love you," whispered Marella. It was all she could say before collapsing into a hug, crying. "I love you. I'm so sorry I tried to leave. You're the best. I love you."

"I want you to love yourself almost as much as I love you. You deserve it."

Maybe Marella would believe that, eventually. Maybe she'd get there.

She was still broken; how could she not be, with a monster living in her head? A little bit burnt, a little damaged, a little horrible. But she kept living. (Biana stayed alive and un-burnt too, to Marella's delighted surprise.) Her ugly, poisonous heart kept beating.

Elwin gave her a little pill to help keep the monster quiet, help keep her from freaking out so much every time the monster reared its fiery head. She eventually got to a point where she could make little fires with her hand and not spiral into a panic. Biana held her other hand as Marella lit the Hanukkah candles herself, and she was a bit scared, but it melted away with the laughter and latkes and warm lighting. It was hard not to push aer away; hard to keep herself from running away.

But Marella did it, because she loved Biana. And she loved herself, just a little bit. And she tolerated the monster. So she kept going, and she allowed herself to love Biana. To love unafraid, with an ugly, poisonous heart.

[when-a-humble-bard]

heartbeat

Jaskier has a nightmare about Geralt. Geralt jumps to the wrong conclusion. Geraskier hurt/comfort with a light sprinkling of fluff. 

word count: 1788 (it was supposed to be like 500 words what happened)

Warnings: some elements of self-loathing, nightmares, mentions of death, Geralt has feelings and he is Not Ready for That, bed-sharing trope, Geralt’s first use of a nickname if that needs a warning??

A/N: Geraskier fuels my soul in this trying time, and I am but a wee humble writer trying to explore them in all the ways I can. 

...

Geralt startles awake when he hears the rustling, followed by a choked off noise. The scent of fear is sharp like frost, and it floods his nostrils. He bolts up, ears perked for the signs of danger, his bright gold eyes peering into the dark of the room around him. The door is still shut, as is the window.

It’s not until he hears it again—most rustling, another sound that’s something like an aborted sob—that he realizes the noise is coming from Jaskier in the bed on the opposite side of the room. Geralt can hear the pounding of the bard’s heart. He looks at him in the dark, realizing a moment later that he’s still asleep.

Geralt’s lips press into a thin line. He was well-acquainted with nightmares.

“Jaskier,” he says quietly in the dark. He doesn’t know if he should wake him or hope that he settles on his own. He’s, admittedly, a bit surprised. It wasn’t common for Jaskier to have nightmares. And when he did, it usually manifested as a brief bought of restlessness and little else.

Whatever is plaguing his mind, though, seems to be especially bad. Jaskier makes another strained noise in the back of his throat, and Geralt sighs before climbing out of his own bed.

“Jaskier,” he tries again, preparing to reach a hand out to shake him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes off, and Geralt freezes. His eyes widen, even as something he can’t name plummets in his chest. Jaskier’s nightmare is about him.

In all their travels together, one thing that made Jaskier different from most other humans was the complete lack of fear the bard seemed to have when it came to the Witcher. The absolute refusal to acknowledge Geralt’s ability to hurt him, to put him in danger. Jaskier felt fear—Geralt had smelled in on the bard and seen it in his eyes any time he got a bit too close to the monster fights that Geralt couldn’t persuade him to avoid—but it was never about Geralt.

But the scent of fear is nearly the only thing Geralt can smell this close to him—harsh like the air right before a lightning strike—and he’d said the Witcher’s name. The evidence was damning. And Geralt. Well. He forces a hard swallow past his tightening throat.

But he has to do something. Because the fear is so strong it’s really more like terror and Geralt will do anything to at least get that smell from the bard to ease. Even just a little. Even if he has to leave after this so that Jaskier can stop pretending he’s not afraid of the Witcher.

“Jaskier,” he repeats for the third time, grabbing the bard’s shoulder.

The effect is immediate. Jaskier’s bright blue eyes fly open and he gasps, scrambling up into a sitting position. Geralt quickly retracts his hand, taking a step back as he watches the bard get his bearings. His chest is still heaving with panting breaths.

Then those wide eyes settle on Geralt in the middle of the room and Geralt feels rooted to the spot. He should leave. Jaskier deserves to feel safe, and—

“Geralt?”

Geralt nods once in the dark. His jaw works. He wants to say something, knowing he should say something. But he doesn’t know if he should be reassuring or apologetic or something else entirely.

And then suddenly—so suddenly in fact, that the sensory change makes the Witcher almost dizzy—the scent of fear vanishes. In its place is Jaskier’s usual wildflowers scent, tinged slightly with salt. From tears? From sweat? Geralt glances over to see just as Jaskier covers his face with his hands and leans his head back against the headboard.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says shakily. He takes a few more deep breaths, each one a bit more even than the last. He pushes his fingers up his face and back through his hair. “Melitele’s tits.” He looks over at Geralt, and even in the dark, he can see some color tinge the bard’s cheeks. “Thank you, Geralt. For waking me.”

“Hm.” Geralt hums, because he still hasn’t decided what he should do. He keeps waiting for that tinge of fear to creep back—for Jaskier to realize he’s alone in the room with the very object of his nightmare—but it never comes. Even stranger is the way that Jaskier keeps looking at him. Not guarded. Not afraid. There’s something far, far too soft in his eyes for that to be fear.

Jaskier leans his head back against the headboard again and closes his eyes. A second passes, and then Geralt smells it. The faint, sharp scent of fear. It’s barely there—really more of an echo of what it had been a moment ago—and Geralt wonders if he’d even have picked up on it at all if he hadn’t been specifically waiting for it to reappear.

But it’s enough. Geralt moves to grab his things when Jaskier’s voice stops him.

“Geralt.”

Geralt stops. He wants to tell Jaskier that it’s okay. He understands. The bard doesn’t have to ask him to leave; the Witcher is all too willing if it will help Jaskier sleep better at night. If it means that Jaskier will feel safer—

“Can you come here?”

Geralt turns around with a frown. Surely, he must have heard him wrong. But Jaskier’s voice still doesn’t quite sound like him, and he just looks at the Witcher with that odd look in his eyes, and Geralt can’t find it within himself to refuse such a simple request. He gravitates towards the bed and Jaskier sits up a little more.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” Jaskier says in a way that cues Geralt into the fact that he’s about to ramble. The bard pulls his legs up closer to him, a clear invitation for Geralt to sit down on the bed. Before he’s even fully aware of what he’s doing, Geralt sits. “And you are more than welcome to say ‘fuck off, Jaskier’, like you usually do even if you say with a certain and increasing friendly banter-kind-of-way, but ah, well. Can I just, um.” Jaskier swallows and reaches a hand out towards him.

Geralt doesn’t move, watching as Jaskier slowly presses his palm to the center of Geralt’s chest. The Witcher’s brow furrows, confused, but Jaskier just keeps his hand there. When Geralt looks back at the bard’s face, Jaskier’s closed his eyes. And after a long moment that seems to stretch, Geralt sees the lingering tension in Jaskier’s shoulders drain out of him. The way he hangs his head slightly, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly. The faint, barely-disguised breath he releases.

His hand goes slightly lax against the Witcher’s chest and Geralt instinctively covers it with his own to keep it there.

Jaskier looks up then, surprise flickering through his gaze before he offers a soft, sincere smile. “Thank you.”

Geralt’s gaze narrows inquisitively. “Why?” he asks, glancing down at Jaskier’s hand on his chest.

Jaskier—usually so bold and confident—ducks his head. It makes Geralt frown even more before he responds. “I suppose my overactive imagination has it’s… downsides as well. I dream vividly in the day and even more vividly at night. I suppose I just desired some tangible evidence that your heart was still beating, my dear Witcher.”

“My…” Realization dawns slowly, but it tightens something in Geralt’s throat as it sets in. “Your dream. I… I died.”

Jaskier tilts his head slightly, his gaze flickering down to Geralt’s hand covering his own against Geralt’s chest. “Yes. Though I’m quite relieved to inform you that it was only a dream, however… realistic and um… however realistic it may have felt.”

But Geralt can’t stop staring at the bard with wide eyes, an unusual warmth blossoming beneath Jaskier’s hand. The thought keeps repeating in his head like a mantra with increasing weight and conviction.

Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him. Jaskier was afraid for him.

Nobody in Geralt’s life had ever been afraid for him before. They didn’t need to be. And yet, here was Jaskier, and…

Fuck.

The Witcher feels a little bit like the ground has shifted beneath his feet. He sees Jaskier’s brow furrow in concern, and just the slightest bit more pressure against his chest. But not pushing him away. Instead, Geralt recognizes it as Jaskier trying to ground him, and Geralt squeezes his hand in a silent thanks. Because he does feel—a little—like he’s spiraling.

“Geralt?”

He blinks a few times. “Hm?”

“Are you all right?”

Geralt tries to clear his throat. “I’m fine.”

Jaskier’s eyebrow arches. “Are you sure? You look a little… off kilter.”

Geralt huffs a breath, because he can’t quite argue with that. He shakes his head slightly, more in an effort to clear his thoughts than in disagreement. “It’s still the middle of the night, Jask. You should try to get more sleep.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to blink at him, and it’s only then that Geralt realizes he used the nickname he’d so often heard Jaskier use for himself. But from the smile that tugs across Jaskier’s face, the bard doesn’t mind. Maybe he even likes it. Geralt quietly files that information away to turn over in his brain another time.

Jaskier inclines his head wearily in response, but Geralt sees the hesitation flicker through his blue eyes in the dark. “And yet, I am not sure it will be quite that simple. Perhaps I shall work on composing another song—” He moves to reach for his lute leaned against the foot of the bed, but Geralt intercepts him. The bard is deflecting. Avoiding.

“Jaskier.”

“Truly, Geralt, I think I’ve had enough rest for the night—”

“Hm.” Jaskier hasn’t moved to pull his hand away from his chest still. Geralt’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze narrowing slightly at the bard. Jaskier glances away, and it’s all the confirmation that the Witcher needs to his theory.

Geralt doesn’t say anything as he shifts to stretch out on the bed with Jaskier, but the bard also doesn’t say anything as he shifts over to give Geralt room. Geralt folds his arms behind his head and takes a deep breath as Jaskier settles beside him after a moment’s pause, his hand returning to feel the Witcher’s slow-beating heart.

Geralt wraps an arm around the bard to run his thumb back and forth along the young man’s back. He listens to Jaskier’s heartbeat in the dark until his breathing evens out, indicating he’s fallen asleep.

It’s the best sleep either of them have had in a long time.

[theeternalspace]

In Memoriam 5

Summary: The metal tree had always fascinated the Prince.

Only, it wasn’t a tree.

And, as it turned out, he wasn’t really a Prince. Instead he was… a side of someone’s personality? He doesn’t remember Thomas, or the other sides, those who call themselves his friends. He doesn’t really remember anything, not even his own name, no matter the efforts of Patton, Logan or Virgil. He must venture back into the Wardrobe door, back to the metal tree in an attempt to recover his missing memories and regain everything he has lost.

But perhaps some doors are best left closed for a reason. And perhaps some personas should remain in the ground where they have been buried.

Story Warnings: Sympathetic/Grey Deceit Sanders. He is trying his best you guys. Anxiety. Self doubt and self loathing. Fantasy fighting. Verbal fighting. Threatening behaviour. Blood and injury. Memory loss. Drowning. Near death.

Previous || Next

Night fell over the snowfields. Virgil had never been able to get a grasp on the way time worked within the Imagination. It operated on its own timetable, independent of what might be happening in the real world or even inside Thomas’ mind which followed the earth day and night cycle. Inside the Imagination, Virgil swore it just did as it pleased. Or rather, it did as Roman pleased.

No wonder Logan hated coming here. Night could last as little as five minutes or as long as a week depending on the dramatic need for it and no two cycles were the same exact length. It drove the logical side to distraction.

Virgil could understand that. He wasn’t too keen on it either, on the way things didn’t make sense and he liked it when things made sense. It was better when they followed a pattern he could keep to because with a pattern came familiarity and with that came safety, came reassurance. Knowing it could be day or night as it pleased was not a situation likely to calm his constantly frayed nerves. It had been evening in the mindscape when they entered and yet daytime here. Virgil had no idea how long they had been travelling before the sun started to set, turning ice white into the colder blues of night.

It caused the air to become that much colder, each exhaled breath of air curling around them like dragon smoke, creating patterns of pale white that danced in front of them. It grew steadily darker and darker with only the stars twinkling overhead offering any sort of light and making it hard for Virgil to even see that smoke and reassuring sign of life from the rest of the group.

There was no point in trying to press ahead in darkness when they could barely see anything. Virgil and Roman used what fading light was left to gather wood as best they could and haphazardly built up a fire. The anxious side was fairly confident that if Roman focused enough he would be able to create a fire from nothing, including the flames themselves and that would save them a lot of effort.

Then again, he was equally confident that if Roman got distracted even for a moment that he would accidentally set the whole forest ablaze and so it was probably safer to build it by hand. It gave them both something to do, something physical that kept them busy and calmed Virgil’s nerves a fraction. Just a fraction of course, but then that was normally all that he could hope for.

The repetitive motion of collecting wood and building up a fire was almost soothing in its own right, letting Virgil think of what had happened and what they were going to do next.

Except, neither really knew where to go or what to do next. Virgil had a vague idea of trying to find some of the pivotal locations in the story, in the hope that there might be some answers there because that was how stories worked but it was nothing more than a guess. A hope without any kind of actual foundation was a precarious thing indeed and Virgil didn’t trust something without stable support. Try as he might to remain positive, thoughts turned increasingly towards the negative end of the spectrum, as they were bound to do.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were travelling without any true destination or purpose in mind, just drawn along by a vague, ill defined hope. Another thing that was not going to keep him relaxed, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the simple pleasures of seeing the wood build up ever higher or the small burst of satisfaction when a spark finally caught alight. It kept Virgil from spiralling into a full blown panic attack about everything.  

Soon they settled around the fire, drawing comfort from its heat. Without really knowing how, Virgil found himself telling Roman tales about their past, about some of the more amusing things that they had all done.

“I didn’t!” Roman sounded scandalised, his mouth dropping open in shock and for a moment Virgil was struck by the mental image of the Pikachu meme, a smile twitching on his lips at the thought.

Same energy.

Except it would be pointless to point that out, to laugh with Roman about it because Roman probably had no idea what Pokemon even was and would just stare blankly if Virgil tried to explain that he looked like a little yellow electric mouse. He wouldn’t laugh or be offended or come back with some clever retort of his own because he had no idea how to do any of those anymore.

It was more than just memories connected to his own life, connected to Thomas, he had forgotten almost everything about the world in general. There didn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason to the things he did remember - he knew Bree’s name, he knew what a horse was but not what a heffalump was. Not who Virgil was and as much as Virgil tried not to let that bother him, there was still that selfish part of him that felt hurt by it.

Roman was still staring at him like a Pikachu, waiting for an answer.

Okay, so, Virgil couldn’t point out the similarity, but he could still tease him, could still answer him and tell him more tales about the past. He could still focus on what mattered, which was the conversation itself.

“You did,” Virgil assured him, a warm smile, a soft little giggle slipping out as he remembered watching the video from inside Thomas’ mind. Virgil had known what they were doing even though he hadn’t been called for it, because as he had stated before, he was listening. Always listening. Just in case they took it too far and Virgil had to step in to look after them all.

If it had been a year or so earlier, he probably would have thrown a fit about it, imagining what the fans might think about such a silly video topic. He would have kicked and screamed in a misguided effort to protect Thomas from harmless fun because he had been too wrapped up in his own worries to be able to look at it from any other point of view. It was impossible for him to imagine any other outcome bar the worse because he spent so many years on high alert, so many years dismissed by the others and so forced to scream just to be heard over the others, no matter the topic.

Them accepting him had meant it was possible for him to relax. Not all the way of course, not all the time. But just the simple fact of knowing that they were willing to listen to him meant he could breathe for what felt like the first time in years. Just knowing that they were willing to listen to him if it was something important meant that Virgil no longer felt the need to scream at the top of his lungs about everything.

He had learnt, had grown and tried to be better. He trusted Roman and Logan not to take it to that kind of extreme and as a result, he managed to enjoy watching the three of them relax and grow closer - even if Roman slipped into being insecure yet again. Virgil couldn’t help but wonder if they could do better now, if this loss of memories could be considered a second chance and that they could make sure to build Roman up so he didn’t have such thoughts.

That wasn't how he should be thinking about this.

Roman shook his head in disbelief, blissfully unaware of the thoughts that were circling around in Virgil’s mind, unaware of the dark currents that lapped at this conversation, hungry and eager to ruin everything.

“You’re telling me I love Crofters so much I made a whole song up about it? And that Logan - Logan - actually joined in singing? I can’t picture Logan doing anything... as light as that. He doesn’t seem like the sort to sing.”

“Never underestimate Logan’s love for Crofters. Or yours...” Virgil could feel his mood start to tip further slightly, his words reminding him of just how much Roman loved Crofters and what it had cost him. If it hadn’t been for his near obsession with that particular jelly brand or his desire to be recognised, to be loved more, because he couldn’t see how loved he already was, then they wouldn’t be camped out in the middle of nowhere without his memories.

They would have received another mundane evening at home that Virgil treasured because of how few he actually gotten to experience over the years. They might have watched movies as a group or just hung out for a little while together before going their separate ways. They would certainly have had Family Night recently, and Virgil would have laughed in one night more than he had laughed in ten years growing up. They could have been doing all of that instead of this.

No, Virgil couldn’t focus on that, couldn’t allow himself to think like that. Not when they were finally having a good time and he was feeling relaxed somehow, almost loose, as though the events of the past few days had drained him completely but not necessarily in a bad way. He was only one wrong word or thought away from being caught in a trap and spiraling down into a bad place.

A worse place than normal because Roman wouldn’t know what was happening. What if Virgil did or said something he didn’t mean while caught in the grip of anxiety? It didn’t excuse whatever terrible thing he might say but Roman didn’t know he was Anxiety, that he was prone to leaping to the worst conclusions without getting all the facts right. He didn’t want to say something he would regret. And he didn’t want Roman to forgive him for something he might say simply because he thought he was supposed to, because he felt he ought to without any knowledge of what Virgil was really like.

Then again, he was always only one wrong word or thought away from that, so really it wasn’t the worst mood he had ever been in. And he was feeling a lot better as a default state of mind than he had before.

Virgil stared across the flames at Roman, watching as sparks flew up into the sky, little flashes of gold and red which flickered against the darkness and made the whole scene feel so much more alive. It was hard, in moments like this, to remember that they were inside Thomas’ imagination, that they weren’t real boys just having a real camping trip. Virgil could almost buy into the illusion that they were just two friends hanging out, that there was no quest, nothing important beyond just spending time together. Maybe they were just family out in the wilds, around a campfire.

Maybe this night wasn’t so bad. Maybe he was actually having fun.

“What about some tales from when we were kids?” Roman asked eagerly, leaning forward as though afraid he might miss the answer to his question.

Virgil felt himself tense a little, that blissful feeling of relaxation vanishing under the weight of those words, no matter how hard he reminded himself that Roman had no idea of what he was really asking. Right now, he would have given almost anything to rewind time a few moments, to go back to when he was balanced on the edge of a worry but not yet fallen in. Now he was mentally falling hard, the ground coming up to meet him and if Virgil wasn’t careful he would ruin everything.

“You want... to hear a story from when we were younger?” Virgil slowly asked, hoping against hope that Roman might change his mind.

“Yeah!” Roman nodded enthusiastically, smile bright and open and far too naive for the question he was asking. His words opened up the dark corners of Virgil’s mind once more, the areas that he tried so hard to deny existed. Virgil wanted to be Protection for Roman, he wanted to be something good.  

He wanted to act as though he belonged here and mean it. There had to be some story Virgil could think of, something he could share with Roman and they hadn’t fought every second of every day. Sometimes they had even come close to getting on with each other and more than once they even worked together. Admittedly those times were mostly because they were acting in opposition to something Logan or Patton wanted and Virgil had been able to convince Roman it wasn’t a noble plan or whatever. Once he even got Roman to help with the promise they could then spend that time watching Disney and learning the songs off by heart. That was far less risky than the late night lecture Logan had wanted to go to alone which finished at gone midnight and no way beyond walking to get home.

Of course, he couldn’t actually think of a single example now he was put on the spot, but Virgil knew there had been some good times. There had to be some good times. Beyond the time they conspired to deny Logan because Virgil didn’t think that really painted either of them in a good light, for all that he had done it to protect Thomas. It was almost a blessing that Roman couldn’t remember the expression on Logan’s face when he had lost, the utter crushed look before he turned and retreated to his bedroom, locking them out.

He didn’t say a word to either of them for days and when he finally been convinced to speak to Roman, it was as if he had blanked those days from his memory. Virgil tried once to bring it up, to explain his reasoning to Logan because back then he nurtured the faint hope that he and Logic might have been able to get on, that Logic at least might understand where Anxiety was coming from. Logan cut him dead and changed the subject with one icy look and a handful of words.

Virgil hadn’t tried to make friends with him for years after that, not until Logan admitted that he didn’t mind his company. Only then had Virgil dared to try again, cautiously reaching out to try and forge some kind of relationship with the logical side.

They never talked about that day. Perhaps they should have done because Virgil had always been left with the impression that both blamed him and him alone for that night and the damage it had done to their relationships. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Roman acted differently around him after that, as though worried about the influence that Anxiety had been able to inflict on him, worried about the control he seemed to have when he wanted.

Or else worried that maybe Anxiety wasn’t the clear cut villain he always believed him to be and that perhaps he should re-examine his own thinking but that would imply that he had been wrong and they couldn’t have that.

Virgil didn’t blame Roman for the past. At least, not really. He could see why Roman acted the way in which he did, a perspective granted with distance. He knew he tried to act in a scary fashion on purpose, he knew that while they might have painted him the villain, Virgil had willingly embraced the role as the only way he knew how to help. He tried to scare them all the time on purpose. He was to blame for how they grew up, just as much as Roman and the others had been. More so perhaps, because he had never been happy with where he was. He had never been content but always yearning for that added space, that thing always out of reach.

He had that now, he was a member of the family and the circle he always stared at and imagined being a part of had expanded to include him with almost no effort at all. Sometimes, he can allow himself to forget that it had ever been any other way.

Sometimes it still hurt of course, moments like this when memories of the more unpleasant past were dragged to the surface but on the whole, Virgil learned to live with it. They all apologised in their own way, and they were all trying to be better. He had forgiven them and Virgil meant it, but he couldn’t always quite convince his heart to not feel the hurt from the wounds. Virgil didn’t want to hurt anymore, not tonight at least, when the focus is meant to be on protecting Roman and making sure he was feeling good.

Except Virgil still couldn’t think of a single example to keep Roman happy.

“Don’t sit too close to the fire, you might burn yourself,” Virgil warned after a moment, changing the subject as Roman shifted, moving ever so slightly closer. Probably not near enough to actually burn himself or worse, catch fire, but all it would take would be one little spurt of flame getting too close for something terrible to happen. Virgil wasn’t going to let anything happen to the prince.

Roman tilted his head to the side, fringe falling across his face a little. It cast shadows where before there had been none, his expression thoughtful as he watched him. It made Virgil want to fidget slightly but he forced himself to remain still, to meet his gaze steadily and not reveal how uncomfortable he was feeling.

“Caution,” Roman announced after a short pause, one finger tapping against his chin. “You’re Thomas’ Caution right?”

“No,” Virgil replied, his smile sad. Another guess, another one that was still so good. Virgil had done nothing but scream and yell, moan and warn Roman about everything and anything. He had pointed out every single flaw, had insulted him for falling for a trick that had apparently been designed specifically to trick him, and still Roman didn’t hate him. All Virgil had done was nag him about something, judge him about something else and yet Roman seemed able to look past that and to get something good out of it.

Virgil didn’t understand it at all, but it was nice to pretend, even if only for a split second and within his own head, that he might be one of those guesses.  

“Oh well. Next time.” Roman seemed more resigned about being wrong than upset, giving a little shrug before lying back on one of the blankets he had conjured up. His head was cushioned by his arms as he stared up at the sky, his previous question apparently forgotten. Virgil couldn’t help but breathe a soft sigh of relief at that and the minefield they managed to avoid for the moment. He debated lying down himself, trying to get some rest before the sun rose again but even as he considered it, Virgil knew his own anxieties would never allow him to rest.

Could they both afford to sleep though? Who knew what manner of foul beast might slither its way into camp during the night while they had their guard down and attack them. There was no way to know how long the night would last either and so they couldn’t split it evenly. Perhaps he could wake Roman after a few hours and get him to keep watch. That sounded like the best plan, because it gave Roman chance to rest and he got to work out some of his worries by watching over him.

“Do you think I will ever remember?” Roman’s voice was soft, almost lost amongst the flickering and crackling of the fire as it burnt its way through the wood. He was still staring up at the sky when Virgil looked over, lips pushed together into a little pout. Perhaps it was the distance, or the smoke that wanted to get in his eyes and blur his vision, but for a moment he would have sworn that Roman’s eyes were glassy, filled with unshed tears that spoke of a pain that his voice was able to hide.

Virgil wanted to say yes. He so badly wanted to say of course he would, that this adventure would result in the desired outcome. He wanted to remind him that Patton and Logan were still working on trying to come up with a solution. If nothing else, Virgil knew that they would never stop working on it until they had come up with some kind of answer, some way to fix this and he should point that out. The more rational part of him knew that while they might never give up, it was completely possible that they would be forced to put it on the back burner so to speak, for the lost memories to gradually become something they worked on between projects.

Thomas needed them. As much as it pained Virgil to think otherwise, he knew that none of them were as important as their host. He loved Thomas so much to do anything that would put him as second place. They all loved Thomas more than anything else and if he needed to work on a video or a project that would take up almost all of their time, they would do it. Even Roman would do it in this state Virgil felt, and he wished now that they had reintroduced him to their host so he understood just how wonderful Thomas was.

But they would still keep trying. And there might be something here they could use to help him. Maybe they would find the White Wizard and it would turn out the guy wasn't some super villain and would simply give them the cure without any further fighting. Maybe it would just wear off and for all they knew, Roman could wake up tomorrow and have his memories restored completely. Doubtful but it wasn’t completely impossible. He had no idea how the magic in this place worked and what rules it followed.

Virgil couldn’t really say any of that though. He couldn’t bring himself to lie and being optimistic to the point of wilful blindness was lying. There was no way to be sure of anything and although he hoped they would find an answer, they hadn’t had any luck so far. Who was to say that they would tomorrow? Or ever?

“And a truckload of bubba gump shrimp,” Virgil sang softly in lieu of answering one way or another. If nothing else, when - or if - Roman regained his memories, he would have the pleasure of knowing that Virgil had sung that line willingly. It was the least he could do and it was far easier to sing the line here, with only Roman for company than have to sing it not only in front of Thomas and the others but on camera where thousands of people could watch him mess up.

Roman gave a short, bark like laugh, pushing himself up on his elbows to look over at Virgil. His expression was open and amused. There was no sense of Roman hiding his feelings away, not like he had done in the past when he had tried to hide his hurting heart or his insecurities. He seemed more trusting here and it made Virgil’s heart hurt, made it ache in a completely different way. This was who Roman had originally been, before the world had tried to destroy him.

“What was that?”

“A line from a song you came up with for me to sing... even if you don’t remember Ro, it won’t be the end of the world. You’re still you and there is a lot you can learn again. I mean we will try, of course we will and we will never stop... but you’re still you, even without them. You’re still the prince. You’re still our family and we all still... care.” The word love got stuck in his throat, Virgil swallowing a few times as though he could push down that throat and clear the obstruction from his throat.

He might love all of them so much but Virgil was nowhere near ready to actually verbalise that thought out loud. It scared him sometimes, how easily he had grown to love all of them, how for years he had adored them without once expecting to get anything back. Certainly not the outpouring of love that he was given, the easy way in which all of them, including Thomas, including Roman, had let him into their hearts. He just wasn’t ready to tell them how much that meant to him and how he returned those feelings a thousandfold.

It was an understood thing and that was about as far as Virgil was willing to take it.

“And there are the videos too I guess!” Roman was trying to appear upbeat about the possibility of remaining like this, searching for something positive.

“Yeah... the videos...” Virgil couldn’t help but trail off as he thought of them, and how they would give Roman a real window into the different dynamics across the whole mindscape. They would show how all of them had grown over the few years since Thomas had started making them which was good... but it also meant that he would see what Virgil was really like. Which was bad.

If there was a chance that Roman might not remember then he was going to go into those videos blind. He might not like what he saw. After all, Virgil had been trying to scare them at first. Virgil had been a terrible side, a terrible person in some of those earlier videos and he shuddered to think what Roman might think when he saw Virgil deliberately trying to scare them, bringing up bad memories, bad thoughts on purpose.

It was who he had been at the time and Virgil couldn’t shy away from that fact. He wouldn’t shy away from it, but at the same time, he didn’t know if he was strong enough to handle Roman looking at him with fear, hate or distrust again. Not after he had gotten greedy and used to the easy affection offered to him. Going back into the cold would be too much of a shock to his system and Virgil knew he wasn’t brave enough to be able to deal with that.

“You know... I didn’t... I didn’t really grow up with the rest of you. I mean, I wasn’t as close to the rest of you.” Words were hesitantly said, Virgil feeling as though he was stumbling along and having to relearn every single word as he said them. He swallowed nervously, a faint tick in his jaw as he tried to find the right words to say his thoughts, to somehow explain everything they had been and everything they now were.

“I mean... I had a different childhood. It’s why I don’t really have any stories I could tell you, you’d have to ask Patton or Logan for those and the videos... well...”

Virgil had his own sort of not quite there family when he was younger. Well, he had one person at least, the only person that ever acted as though he had cared about a young Anxiety, who had looked out for him, had helped him get through some of the worst days of his young life. He often helped Virgil practise his lines, his arguments before letting him rise up to face the others on his own, the other favouring a more shadowy approach. He had never seen the point of arguing in person when they would simply dismiss and belittle him. Far easier, he always maintained, to just sneak around in secret and do what had to be done. The ends, to him, would always justify the means.

Virgil had never liked doing that, which had created one of the first cracks within their relationship, a pressure point that over time would just keep building and building until the eruption had been inescapable and terrible.

It was... complicated. Virgil had never known how to be part of a family growing up and although his would be brother had tried his best, it was clear that the other side had no idea how to act like a family member either.

They had just been two idiots fumbling along in the dark and trying to do their best for each other. Well, Virgil had thought he had been trying to do his best for... for Deceit, had thought they were a team, that they worked together, looked out for each other above almost everything else - aside from Thomas himself of course. It had been a shock to learn that Deceit apparently didn't feel the same.

Even saying his name in his head felt odd, stilted and unnatural. He hadn't allowed himself to even think his name for years before the snake skinned side snuck his way into a video. For many of those years Virgil had simply done his best to pretend that the other side didn’t exist, that they had never been as close with the King of Lies as he had been.

It made it hard at times, after he had made his choice and was surrounded by people who seemed to hate him, when all he could do was lie alone in his cold bed and pretend that there was no other way and that he didn’t miss the warm hugs and whispered honeyed lies which would grant a degree of comfort in the moment. Virgil couldn’t go back though, it would mean admitting he was giving up and turning his back on the Light Sides because he knew he couldn’t keep shifting from side to side. Virgil had to draw on his stubbornness, on his refusal to be moved and just stick it out because he had nowhere else to go.

It was easier to avoid a conflict of loyalties when he denied one set of loyalties existed after all.

Once upon a time they had been close, close enough to give each other nicknames, to call each other big and little brother. Once, Virgil would have laughed at the idea that he might want to spend time with Creativity over Deceit. Once, he would have gone running to him when he had suffered a nightmare or panic attack.

Until they had fought, of course, until Virgil had let his pitiful - at the time - desire to be part of the Light Sides world overwhelm his proper and right desire to stay in the dark with Deceit. Who made it very clear that he had no intention of trying to ally himself with the Light Sides, even if it was for the good of Thomas and how could he think that?

Hiding only made things worse and he couldn’t help Thomas the way that Thomas needed to be helped if they kept cloaking their intentions behind shadows and word play. They wanted to keep Thomas safe and Virgil would do anything to achieve that goal, even things he hated. It was worth taking a deal with people they didn’t like for Thomas’ sake. Virgil knew he was lucky in that they eventually grew to like him and even on his worst days he was able to comfort himself with the thought that they tolerated him at least.

It could have so easily gone the other way after all and very nearly did when he had felt it all too much and had chosen to duck out rather than crawl back to the Dark Sides.

Even now, he wasn’t really sure how he felt about Deceit, a strange churning of conflicting emotions that tore at his psyche, pulling him this way and that. Lying had always made him feel sick, had set his own anxieties off, which had made their friendship a strange thing even from the start. Somehow it had worked though, and for so many years it had been good, had been the cornerstone of Virgil’s life.

Until the fight. Until Deceit screamed exactly what he felt about Virgil, exactly how much he hated him and how pathetic he actually considered Anxiety. Just thinking about that fight made the breath catch painfully in his throat, made him want to cry and he didn’t cry. He wasn’t the sort to cry, at least not in front of other people. He wouldn’t show that kind of weakness.  

Virgil looked down for a moment, finding the zipper on his sleeve, awkwardly playing with it. There was far too much going on in his head for Virgil to actually say any of it and he needed a lot longer than one night to explain to Roman their whole past, both his and Deceit’s and then his and Roman’s. He couldn’t even think about how to start explaining everything that led up to the first video Virgil appeared in and why he had acted the way he had done.

There was no excuse for his behaviour and Virgil wouldn’t seek to create one. Just an explanation but even that felt tied up with so much weight behind it, so much that he didn’t know where to start. Virgil exhaled, feeling the air against his teeth as he did so.

“If... when you watch them, just... just remember that’s not who I am anymore, okay?”

“You make it sound as though you were a villain or something,” Roman complained. There was an odd expression on Roman's face as he said those words, Virgil feeling a fluttering of panic in his chest, a brief terror that maybe he had remembered something. Maybe he hated him again.

It didn't seem like a bad expression though, but more of a questioning one, as though Roman was on the cusp of remembering something and that... that really didn’t help with Virgil’s anxiety but perhaps he could handle being on the edge of remembering. That meant that there was still a chance for Virgil to create a better impression, to convince Roman not to hate him.

“Try and get some sleep okay Roman? It will probably be another long day tomorrow. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Virgil pulled his knees up tight against his chest, staring deep into the heart of the fire as Roman sighed in turn, muttering some agreement before lying back down again.

Tomorrow would be another day and he would face that challenge when it dawned.