#it’s taken me a few days to be more or less certain that our conversations are more than 2 sort of old friends catching up

[i-could-be-so-much-more]

It frustrates me to no end that everyone I talk to someone new my brain catastrophises to the point where even though I know logically it’s fine, and normal, and fun, I end up making it a bigger deal in my head that I know it is…I think myself into spirals that the logical part of my brain knows are ridiculous and dramatic and improbable, which stress me out more than is entirely necessary…it’s so tiring to exist and participate in the social world sometimes

[ithebookhoarder]

Special Delivery (Spencer Reid x F!Reader)

Description: Something's different about Reid and no-one knows what. However, a surprise delivery to the BAU may just have the answer...

Warnings: Food references, mentions of mental health, mentions of medical procedures, references to smutty behaviour, Spencer being adorable

Masterlist

“Ok. Am I the only one who’s noticed something’s different with Reid lately?” Morgan remarked, watching as the said boy-genuis made his way across the bullpen and over to his desk. 

“Yeah,” Emily hummed, watching the young agent over the rim of coffee cup. She had to admit it - as much as it annoyed her - Morgan was right; Spencer has definitely been acting different. If anything, she was surprised it had taken them all this long to say anything. 

Normally, they were all over each other the moment they noticed anything even remotely different about each other. Hell, she’d barely taken a step off the elevator, after getting an extra few inches cut off at her latest haircut, before the team were quizzing her about possible life changes and whether or not they needed to be worried about her. 

It was a hazard of working with profilers for a living; it was almost impossible to keep anything a secret. No wonder they were all intrigued and slightly confused by the fact that none of them had been able to pinpoint what was going on with their friend. 

The most notable difference was the gradual disappearance of the dark circles under his eyes. Reid also seemed happier in general, less quiet and reserved when talking to others, and it was starting to make agents talk. 

Morgan and Emily stood up straighter as JJ walked over to join the unofficial gossip session. She took one look at the pair and knew immediately what they were whispering about. 

“Are you talking about Reid?”

“Oh yeah,” Morgan grinned, “my money’s on him having finally found someone.”

Emily choked, seemingly as a result of inhaling her coffee at the grand statement. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Miss ‘super spy’. Just look at him,” he teased. “He’s been distracted. He’s all goo-goo eyed and he’s been leaving this place at a normal hour. Like… tell me that doesn’t scream ‘I got a date’.”

“What? It could be loads of things. It doesn’t have to be a date, right JJ?”

“He’s probably just happy. We’ve all been getting more sleep lately and our paperwork is non-existent at the moment,” JJ murmured, reaching past the pair of them to grab for the coffee pot. She was clearly doing her best to try and put this line of questioning to rest. She’d always been the first to protect the younger agent she now saw as a little brother. “Besides, we all know he’s not interested in dating, he hasn’t been since…. Well, you know.”

Morgan groaned. “But what about the secret texts, JJ!” he protested, ignoring the look Emily shot him in return. “He’s been glued to that phone of his and keeps giggling like a school kid. Then there’s the lunches! I know he’s always been organised and likes things a certain way, but damn. His lunches have been like next level - and actually healthy? And I swear he’s had jello like every day.”

JJ rolled her eyes. “You’re basing your profile on jello? Is that it?” 

“Well, no I mean… did you not hear the part about the texting and the taking secret calls and the fact he didn’t come out for drinks last night-”

“-Can’t we just be glad for him? Whatever is going on, it’s good for him. Let’s just drop it, ok? He’ll tell us when he’s ready if there’s anything to share.”

“JJ’s right,” Emily echoed. “Reid’s just … happy. End of.”

By the way Morgan frowned it looked like it definitely was not the end of this conversation, but he never got the chance to argue. In fact, he was interrupted as the main doors opened next to them and a rather lost looking receptionist hurried through. 

Normally, this wouldn’t have been worth noticing but all three of them spun around at the sound of him calling out the name, “Agent Reid? uh… Is Agent Reid here?”

“Oh, uh, here!” Spencer shouted, soundly vaguely like he was taking roll call. It didn’t help that he shot his arm up in the air too, almost falling off his desk chair as he lurched to his feet and hurried over. “That’s… that’s me - and it’s Dr Reid, but it doesn’t matter. How can I help?”

“Oh, uh, there’s a Y/N at reception for you,” the unfortunate messenger managed, gesturing back the way they’d came. “I told them to wait whilst I came to check with you as they’re not on your visitor list-”

Spencer didn’t even let the poor man finish. He was already racing for the door before the man had even made it to the end of the sentence. Needless to say, the others were quick to follow, with Morgan smugly boasting “told you soooo” as he went. 

There was no way on earth they were missing this and considering Hotch and Rossi hadn’t arrived yet it wasn’t like they were about to get their asses handed to them for missing their briefing either. 

Despite the amount Spencer had told you about the BAU, you were still surprised by how different the FBI offices were to what you’d imagined. 

The offices were larger and the sheer number of people walking about in suits and carrying a side arm made you feel even more nervous, and that was already a problem considering you were stood there wearing neon blue scrubs, embroidered with jungle animals on the pocket. 

You were like a walking, flashing sign, screaming ‘outsider - does not work here’.  Thankfully, you weren’t going to be there long. You were only swinging by on your way to work, hoping to catch your utterly perfect - and utterly forgetful - boyfriend, before the start of your shift. 

Speaking of Spencer, you had only been standing there for possibly five minutes when you saw him barreling through the doors towards you. 

“Hey, Spence-“

“Y/N? Honey? What’s going on?” he gushed, hurrying over and taking your face in his hands. You could see his wide eyes frantically scanning every inch of you, looking for some kind of problem or sign that you were not ok. “Is everything alright? What are you doing here?”

You felt your cheeks warm at the sudden display of concern, very much aware of the scene your wonderful boyfriend was making. Spencer wasn’t normally the most affectionate in public, preferring to save those rare moments for when the two of you were alone. The fact he was so worried about what might have brought you to the FBI on a Tuesday morning was touching and made your heart swell. 

“I’m fine, Spence. Don’t worry-” 

“Then what are you doing here?” 

“You forgot something,” you soothed, pulling back and reaching into your satchel. It was impossible to miss the way his face reddened as you pulled out a neatly labeled Dr Who Tupperware by way of explanation. “I’m here because you were in such a rush this morning that you forgot your lunch.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’,” you teased. “I couldn’t exactly let you go hungry so I thought I’d drop it off on my way to work. I don’t start till later as I’m covering Amelia’s shift as she’s visiting her sister in Boston, so I thought I’d swing by.”

Sure, Spencer was an adult and you could have let him just buy something from the cafeteria or order something in for lunch, but considering how much effort he had gone to to cook with you the day before you felt bad letting it go to waste. 

He’d been so proud of the way the recipe had turned out, following the instructions and your guidance with extreme precision and care. The result had been a rather tasty looking dish - and it had the added benefit of being healthy too. You were always worried that Spencer seemed to think fast food, like Pizza, was a food group. Then again, he had been forced to be an adult pretty fast and had been in college so young that it wasn’t a surprise that no-one had been there to teach him about cooking and eating right. He had been too focused on his studies to even think about anything else.  

It was something he had been working on since you’d got together and now cooking had become one of your favourite date night activities. It didn’t hurt that you often ended up spilling food all over yourselves and needing to shower together - it was just a lovely bonus. In fact, your screensaver was now a picture of you and Spencer, covered in flour, and beaming ear to ear. 

“Thank you, that… that’s so nice,” Spencer stammered, “but I feel bad. You didn’t need to go out of your way and bring it to me.”

“As I say, it’s on my way to work. It’s no trouble.”

“Well, still-“

“Hey, pretty boy!” 

Spencer froze. 

“You gonna introduce us to your friend, or what?”

Spencer opened his mouth but instantly closed it again. You knew by the way he rolled his eyes and began muttering under his breath that whoever had shouted that had definitely been talking to him. 

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Pretty boy, huh?” 

“Don’t ask,” he whined, taking a deep breath as you looked over his shoulder and saw a small group of people now making their way towards you. “I should probably mention that I wasn’t sure how comfortable you were with me mentioning you, so I haven’t told anyone about us yet and those idiots are some of my team and I would say ‘run’ but they’re all faster than me.”

“Ah… I see. So I’m guessing that one is Morgan?” 

“Yes.”

“Well, no time like the present,” you cheered, turning and waving at the approaching trio. “Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N - Spencer’s girlfriend.”

“Wow. A girlfriend?” cooed Morgan, reaching over to pull you into a hug before the other two could stop him. To their credit, they looked slightly embarrassed by the display but they were clearly too interested in your identity to care. “And a doctor to boot? Didn’t know he had it in him. I’m Derek Morgan.”

“Oh, I worked that out. It’s good to finally meet you all.” 

The others were quick to echo the sentiment, with JJ and Emily quickly introducing themselves in tandem. They were also quick to invite you inside the office for some coffee, but thankfully you weren’t lying when you said you had to get to work. 

“You know how it is. People to take care of, medical cases to solve, lives to save - same old, same old. All I’m missing is a snazzy badge and I could be an FBI agent.” 

“Ha ha.” Spencer’s smile was genuine as you stole a kiss before making a dash for your car. However, you could see the nerves in his eyes at being left alone to face the great inquisition that now awaited him following the discovery of your existence. You were pretty sure the entire BAU would know about you before it even hit lunchtime. “I’ll see you later, ok?” 

“Of course. Just let me know if you’re coming home or if you’re off saving the world in another state - otherwise I can’t promise I won’t eat all the leftovers before you get back.” 

He chuckled. “Will do.” 

With that, you bid the others goodbye, making sure to agree when they asked (more like insisted) that you came to their family dinner on Friday night at none other than Rossi’s house. The rest of the team were going to be begging to meet you after this, and they were all bringing their families along too. 

If Spencer wasn’t comfortable with you going you were pretty sure the team would believe it if you said you’d got called into a last minute surgery, but you’d check later when you both returned to the apartment you now called your home. Either way, you were going to have to make something to take with you, just in case. 

As your grandpa had always said, there was no quicker way to someone’s heart than through their stomach. Or, as in Spencer's case, with an unlimited supply of Jello...

[seancekitsch]

The Sword and the Quill: Chapter Three

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Reader

In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop teasing you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.

My Daring Unfamiliar,

Quite coy of me to evade you? And what of your clever ways of evading me? I find myself no closer to figuring out your identity, though I feel more drawn to you than before. I too am glad you are not betrothed, as a vibrant woman such as yourself you should not find yourself shackled to one of the stuffy men of King’s Landing probably twice your age. It does seem to be their proclivity, as loathsome as it is. I am glad for your friendship, even if I do not know who you are. Even if I feel I will waste away and die without knowing who you are. To think, am I on your list? Are you on mine? I will admit I have my list narrowed down to six women, those that I think daring and smart enough to be you. Perhaps after this letter I will narrow it down even farther. I find I will be searching for your frazzled hair and short temper now that I know what to look for in this humidity. Of course I only jest. I am certain that what you think is unkempt is only marred because one is always critical of the face in the mirror, I am certain such wit and a sharp mind is accompanied by beauty to match.

How is it that a lady of noble birth would ever want to visit a place like Lys? Do you not know of its reputation? Of the pleasure gardens and pillow houses? Of the pirates that lurk there from the triarchy? I have not been there myself, but I do have a few of their coin, of which were taken off of a triarchy pirate. A gift, for you, is one of them I have sealed with this letter. You are an even bigger mystery to me now, knowing that a place such as Lys piques your interest so. But to answer your other questions, I have been to Dorne and Oldtown. Dorne is interesting, some parts a vast desert and others a beautiful oasis. Their wines and silks are the loveliest in all of Westeros, their people far less concerned with the pretenses that we are. Can you believe that I was asked to dance with a man’s wife openly? Such things could never occur here, although I will say that I did very much enjoy that everyone spoke plainly of their intentions and emotions. It was freeing to have that, and the courts proved all too constricting to me every day after. These letters to you are the closest I have had to that feeling since my travel there, and I appreciate you doubly for it. I am glad that I have found someone that I may converse openly with, ignoring status or titles or circumstances.

I will also say that the Queen is correct, Oldtown is maybe the most beautiful city in the kingdoms united. There is nothing more lush than its gardens, more splendid than its chateaus filled with artifacts and scrolls dating back to the conqueror, nothing more breathtaking than the flame at the top of the citadel.

I fear that you will find me boring, if I now admit my love of tourneys. I find the spectacle magnificent, and the skill and prowess on display to be a display of the strength of our shared kingdoms and crown. Perhaps I will find you and make it all the less boring for you. I do hope that my eyes will find yours amidst the crowd, and your countenance will make itself known to me immediately through some supernatural knowing. I will be searching for you in every row of the stands, praying to the seven that it will be easy. More importantly, tell me your favorite song, and I shall learn to play it for you. Or even, you may tell me your favorite poem and I shall transcribe it to song for you, a new creation of art for my Unfamiliar.

I do hope that I have discovered you by the next feast, so that I can ask you to dance properly, and that we may converse without the guise of the quills. So that I may grasp your hand to know that you are real. I assure you that I will be a spoiled man if I am to watch you dance circles around me, and a man utterly ruined if I get to steal more than one dance.

Your letters have cooled a part of me too warm, warmed a part of me too cool.

Truly,

Your Unfamiliar.

You look down at the golden ribbon tied into your sleeves for the day, your mind thinking only of the fact that he had underlined Your in his signing off. He considers himself yours. More, you think of the Lyseni coin that he had tucked into the parchment, a golden oval with the portrait of a naked woman engraved into it. An obscene gift for a lady of the court, but one you cherish because it is from your unfamiliar. Yours yours yours. It now lies in your jewelry box, a dingy coin amongst your finest of necklaces and rings. You have narrowed your list down. It is for certain not Darklyn or Beesbury. The names left are Lord Rowan, Ser Loras Florent, Ser Gwayne Hightower. You have picked out these ribbons for Lord Rowan, as a subtle sign of acknowledgment of his house colors, strikingly different from your own. You do not exactly wish it to be any of the men on your list, however. Lord Rowan is a complete stranger to you, Ser Loras you know to frequent married women’s beds, and Ser Gwayne… infuriates you. All of these men handsome and on parchment suitable matches, yet picturing any of them on the other side of the quill feels wrong. So you are hedging your bets in the days leading up to the tourney by attempting to garner the attention of the complete stranger. Maybe he is well traveled and sharp and charming like your unfamiliar.

Although you admit, the first day you did not see Lord Rowan anywhere within the Red Keep. Nor the day after that or yesterday. And now, the morning of the tourney, you hope that whatever hole he has crawled into he has emerged from so you can look into his eyes and figure out if he is yours. It’s silly, to think that you could tell, but maybe you can? Maybe this is like one of the fairytales you were told when you were young.

Only, it’s not Lord Rowan that you find in the hallways.

“Oh, please don’t tell me this is a new look for you,” Gwayne’s voice calls from the other end of the hall. How is it that the Red Keep is so large, yet Gwayne Hightower is inescapable?

“And if it is?” you call back. Gwayne closes the distance between you, his armor clanking the entire time. He is dressed and ready for his tilt in the tourney already.

“I’d say Lord Rowan is remiss for ignoring your efforts, but I’d also say you are wasting your time,” Gwayne smiles widely. He knows something. Your fingers start to fiddle with one of the ribbons, knowing you could easily pull them all out. It’s horrible, that for as rude you and Gwayne may be to each other sometimes, you can see that he’s not trying to humiliate you right now.

“Why?” you ask, pouting in frustration.

“Because he found out that he’s been writing to Lady Caswell, and now they are courting.”

Oh. That is a very good reason, indeed. You yank at the ribbon you’d been toying with, then the next one and the next one until your hands are full of the little ribbons, and hastily you look for somewhere to toss them, but there is none.

“Thank you for informing me,” you say, trying to steady your voice as much as possible.

“It seems you are no closer to finding out who writes you than I am.”

“I keep a list of his qualities to try to narrow it down.”

“As do I with my lady.”

“May I see your list?”

“Would you tell me who is on your list, if I did?”

“No.”

“Then my answer is the same.”

You are once again at an impasse with Gwayne Hightower, two immovable objects in the tide. 

“I hope you find your woman without the issue I face, I guess,” you offer, not exactly meaning it but not trying to be mean. If this is as trying for you, it has to be for every unwed person in the castle too. As much as your love for the Hightower family finds its limits at the brother, you still wish to carry on the tenants of this experiment for at least your friend.

“Then I shall see upon you at the tourney,” Gwayne says, and then tilts his head “Though I rather see you in different colors.”

“And what colors would you wish?” you ask, though you regret the words as they die on your tongue. He looks you up and down, and then scoffs.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Hours later, at the tourney, you are sat three seats away from Queen Alicent Hightower. You are dressed in the deep burgundy and blue color of your house and idly snapping your fingers closed on each of the elder Targaryen children’s hands; your fake predator of a hand keeping little Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena preoccupied for now. You wish that games like these could entertain you equally, but instead all runs through your mind is your Unfamiliar. Is he here, indeed? You hate that you have to be here, but yet you find your head almost whipping around in search. You told your Unfamiliar that you’d be searching for him; and you are. But with every turn of your head you seem to recognize and be bored of everyone. Bringing a favor to this event even feels silly at this point. You do not feel the spark you had hoped for. In fact, nothing draws anything besides boredom from you until late in the day.  

That is when Gwayne Hightower atop a horse galavants across the royal box and back again. Despite your ebbing annoyance from him earlier, you find yourself tensing in your seat. If not on your own, then on his sister’s behalf. You remember what she told you about the last tourney that Gwayne had attended in King’s Landing. To be almost killed by Daemon Targaryen himself, maybe the only person in all of Westeros you found truly and deeply loathsome and terrifying, is a memory that clearly stains the Queen’s outlook on this tourney. You tense and worry and stop your little game with the children in rapt attention, for her. 

His armor glimmers in the sunlight, blight enough to blind. His smile, though obscured by the helm, is similarly blinding. You’re certain he remembers his brush with death at the hands of the Rogue Prince, but his demeanor would say otherwise. He is the definition of confident bravado. This man looks foreign to the uncertain and studious man you spoke with the other day in the library. 

Lord Manderly has his horse trot and dance as he crosses the pitch, not yet a knight but clearly already presenting the same qualities as any of the rest of them. Soon, you are certain, he will be laughing and chasing women around with the rest of them. The northern stoicism does not seem to carry to this man, as he laughs and points into the crowd, at friends and serving people and women he may ask for favor. 

Both men cross back and forth, searching the crowds, their jousting lances upturned to the heavens as they circle, the crowd growing ever the more excited. 

You clutch your favor, unwilling to let it leave your grasp as a pit forms in your stomach every time Gwayne passes by the royal box. You look down the row of chairs to Alicent, who is already looking at you; her hands frustratedly pick at one another, her nails already rimmed with crimson. You offer her a weak smile, hoping it is enough to reassure her as the thought dawns on you: she has not seen her brother fight since that day. Sparring and training were nothing like this. And though Lord Manderly is no Daemon Targaryen, Alicent is really and truly afraid. You reach your free hand over the children’s heads, and her fingertips copy the gesture to brush against yours, your comfort not lost on her. It is moments like this where you feel truly wanted and needed here, and you could not imagine yourself traveling anywhere else. The love and friendship of the queen is almost enough. 

But her eyes snap away from your gaze, and your attention follows. 

There, resting at the railing, is Ser Gwayne Hightower’s jousting lance pointed at you. 

Shit.

Does he mean to humiliate you? A jape for your attitude towards him earlier? A way to twist and soil your efforts to find your letter writer?

You grimace at him, unsure of what to say as little Aegon fiddles with one of the ribbons on your favor. 

“My Lady, may your favor give me some of that fiery personality of yours. Perhaps your boldness will inspire the courage to win,” His smile is wide as he talks, as if he is holding back a laugh. You wish to snarl at him, hurl insult after insult, but his sister watches with rapt attention. 

“Perhaps you are already too bold, Ser,” you retort, but Aegon tugs harder on your favor. 

“My Lady, I will name you Queen of Love and Beauty if I win,” he presses, eyes darting to his sister before back to yours. It feels conspiratorial. 

“You wish me to have a line of suitors? How kind, Ser Gwayne.”

“I wish to repay a favor you’ve given me,” he explains, and begrudgingly you pull the favor from the little prince’s grasp to wrap it around the lance, the wine red and blue ribbons with embroidered grape leaves easily sliding down to where the base flares out, cementing itself on his weapon. The entire act feels intimate and strange, your handmade favor never having been given, and your eyes never truly meeting his for this long at once. Even from a distance, you can see the shining hazel. 

“You’d better win, I worked hard on that embroidery,” is all you offer, but anything else would feel far too tender, far too genial for the tense at best relationship between you. 

With that, Gwayne winks at you and has his horse trot off, proudly lifting his lance with your favor up to the entire crowd. The pit in your stomach deepens, realizing that if your Unfamiliar is truly here today, you now appear unavailable to him all because of Gwayne Hightower. You could hate him for this. 

But all you can do is sigh as you lean back into your chair, now completely ruined for the entire event. You chew your bottom lip as the dread settles in you, your hopes for the day dashed and taken away by your dearest friend’s brother. 

“Why do you look sour?” Aegon, who now has nothing to keep him idle, asks, “I’d name you Love and Beauty too.”

You roll your eyes as you give the prince a cheeky smile.

“I’m too old for you, little princeling. Move along.”

He sneers at you, but there’s no malice in the little boys face, and he turns back to his siblings to talk to them. Alicent looks over their heads at you, a curious and accusatory look on her face. You’d called her brother a brute, a ruffian, every rude name in the book but here you were giving him your favor with little protest as he talks of naming you Queen of Love and Beauty. Surely, she knows of her brother’s reputation, but you are the big question mark in this situation. 

“When did your loathing of my brother subside?” She asks, finally no longer picking at her hands as this now occupies her. 

“It did not,” you explain, “I merely helped him find a book the other day. He thinks this will repay me for my efforts.”

Alicent’s lips turn upward, a ghost of a laugh in the form of a sigh leaves her. She shakes her head, and finally her gaze breaks yours, casting her eyes to her brother on the field below. 

“Whatever he was looking for must have been very important,” The Queen mutters, and that ends the conversation. 

Gwayne and Lord Manderly line up, opposite sides of their tilt barrier on opposite sides of the list. Otto Hightower speaks, as Viserys’ voice does not find him lately. The King is weakening, today a rare public outing. You are certain that sooner rather than later, Alicent will take the reins and you will be her unofficial hand. 

“Let the final tilt begin!”

Needing no further encouragement, the men urge their horses forward, lances tilted forward and favors blowing in the wind. Gwayne’s lance finds purchase, easily shattering the wooden shield of Lord Manderly, the force of it pushing the northern lord backwards off his horse. However, this is the gruesome part. The moment Lord Manderly hits the ground, a squire brings forth his sword. Gwayne slows his horse, and jumps from the saddle with ease. He passes his shield and lance to his own squire, and reaches for his own sword. The two men run towards each other and finally you find yourself cringing in your seat. The memories of the Hightower Knight covered in blood flash through your mind as if they were yesterday. You grab the material of your skirt, white-knuckling the fabric to the point that you’re certain you’re ruining it.

You worry for Alicent, worry for the outcome of the tourney, worry for the fate of the favor you spent time making, and finally you let yourself admit that you do indeed worry for Gwayne Hightower. As much as he vexes you, you do not want him harmed. Being pompous is not a crime punishable by cracked ribs or bloodied eyes. Damning yourself and your superstitions, you allow yourself to pretend that your favor grants him some kind of protection spell. 

Gwayne’s sword clashes loudly against Lord Manderly’s, sparks flying as metals meet. He dodges and parries easily, and it becomes clear to you that he is the stronger fighter. It calms you, but only slightly. One wrong move could still give Manderly an advantage. But he disarms Manderly at the last moment, the sword flying through the air as Gwayne kicks the man down, his own blade pointed towards the mans face. 

He wins. Gwayne wins. 

You let out a breath, loud and relieved, no longer really caring about your appearances. Alicent too, untended her shoulders, and ushers for wine to be brought from your serving girl. The girls pour into both of your goblets seconds later, and both of you drink deeply. You look over to Alicent, whose other hand holds her seven pointed star in silent prayer, a torn up thumb rubbing meaningful circles across the points. 

“This fear does not become thee,” you remark playfully, smiling at her, “He is fine, you may celebrate.”

“And you may…” but her words die on her lips, now forming into a bigger smile than before as her attention drifts from you. Gwayne rides towards your box, lance back in hand as well as a crown of flowers.

He stops just ahead of you, his horse’s shoulder just against the box. You rise, and lean over to the edge of the railing, to the winning knight. 

“I chose the flowers, I do hope they bring joy to you even if I may not,” he tells you, and you cannot sense a jape in his voice. 

“Thank you, Ser Gwayne, I will wear them with honor,” you tell him, and duck your head down so he may place the ring of flowers, with a trail of flowers downward in the back, onto your head gracefully. His fingers, though gloved, are gentle against your head, his touch soft and careful. 

You rise up, the smile on your face not exactly facetious. As a child you did once dream of this very thing; maybe with a different circumstance, but you did wish this. That is, before you knew how much you disliked tourneys in practice. 

“My Queen of Love and Beauty!” He cries out, and the entire stadium cheers. 

It’s hours later that you finally get to return to your chambers and remove the crown to inspect it further. The ring itself is Mountain Larkspur, a fully poisonous plant. The thought makes you laugh, that Gwayne would pick such a toxic bloom for his Queen of Love and Beauty. But it is to be said that the Larkspur signify lightheartedness, humor, and an open heart. The trail of flowers that rested on the back of your head are Grape Hyacinths, which based on your family, should be a compliment to their legacy. But these flowers signify sincerity, and you’ve been to enough weddings to recognize them. They are more a mauve than a blue like the Larkspur, and those wealthy in the knowledge of bouquet language would know that they symbolize a desire for forgiveness. 

Curious, you think, that Gwayne would go out of his way to mention that he had chosen these flowers. Were they truly and truce between you? Was he trying to tell you something without saying it?

You push through thoughts from your mind, deciding not to dwell on them, lest they give you a headache. 

The quill in your hand touches the paper, releases, touches again. 

It’s quickly that you realize you will not get any writing done, even here at your library desk. You sigh as you push yourself up from your chair, hastily packing everything into your bag as if it pains you to do so. 

It is quick, the trip back to your chambers to change into your simplest dress and cloak, and back out into the hallways, and into the labyrinth of Maegor’s tunnels you had found years ago when Aemond was still just a wish. You pull the cloak closer to you by the strap of your bag, wrapping yourself in a bundle by candlelight as you walk the barely worn path, your candle the only light as you navigate past each stone. It took turning and and faith to get you towards the edge, and for the last twenty feet you blew out the candle for fear of getting caught, but finally the moonlight would hit your face. The tunnels set you out at a district of King’s Landing littered with taverns and food stalls. The food stalls you never saw, for you only come here when you need to write and use some ale in your belly to make the words move more easily. Sure, you could ask a serving girl to fetch you a flagon, but for some reason that did not work the way that writing in a dingy corner with the smallfolk does. Perhaps it is their songs, their open way of speaking, their camaraderie that inspires and spurs you on. 

You enter The Roost, the favorite of these taverns for you. 

“Girlie!” the barkeep calls as you enter, and you shush him as you rush towards the bar to order. As far as the owners of this tavern know, you are a well paying woman attempting to cover up an affair. While they are discreet, they do not hide their fondness of you or your coin. 

“Keep the ale flowing,” you tell the burly man, fatherly and kind, ��I’ll be at my back booth.”

“Will do, girlie,” he responds, and you move to the other room behind the bar, a room with two long tables and six small alcoves each dotted with wooden half circle booths. The tavern is busy, but you move through the crowd deftly, easily reaching your little bench and placing your belonging down. You settle in easily, your parchments and your quill and ink easily spread out across the table and one of the barmaids brings you a large flagon of ale. 

You tip the rim of the drink into your lips and drink heartily, careful not to tip your head back too far or else your hood will tip off from your hair and expose you. 

Your quill hits the parchment more easily now. 

My Dearest Unfamiliar,

How dramatic! To think that you will die if you do not know my identity. Though I will not ease your pain, I will give no name in this letter. I find myself narrowing the list of who you may be: an unmarried man, a sensitive yet playful man, well traveled and well read, the best of all things. With words that compliment me, flattery flushing my own face as I read your letters. There are far and few men in the Red Keep that match that distraction. There are three men now on my list after this tourney, and I do hope that I have determined you right. Are you searching for a wife from these letters, I wonder? an a man not yet betrothed, it cannot be distant from your mind. I will have you know that I did not see you during the tourney, or at least I do not think I did. I tried hard to look for you, I looked at every man, but I was not sure what countenance to look for. I will say myself, I am not certain I want a courtship from this, but I do find myself more interested in the idea and the affection that comes from it with each of your letters. You are warming a heart usually icy, My Unfamiliar. Is it too forward to say that when and if I find your identity, I wish to kiss you? It will not be my first kiss, I admit, but I would want to bestow one upon you. Even if you did not want to court me, if only just to thank you for being a just and honest companion for me. I am not saying that I am hoping, but I am hopeful.

I will have you know, My Unfamiliar, that I have read A Caution for Young Girls by the Corinne Wylde, and read it well. The legends of Lys will not make me balk or shy away. I am, as I have said, interested in seeing the world warts and all. I want to see everything that the world can show me. I will say, I do appreciate your gift of the Lysine coin. It is exhilarating to hold something of value to a life so far from my own, to treasure it as if I would a jewel.

Would that I should thrive in a place like Dorne? To speak freely and open tongued. You make it sound such a lively place compared to this. How I wish to experience their wines in a setting where I can speak like the Dornish. Perhaps though, and most likely, if I may be granted leave from court, I will see how grand and lovely Oldtown is. I would love to spend an afternoon perusing the scrolls or reading inscriptions on artifacts just as much as I would enjoy any grand view or adventure.

I will tell you that I do not find you boring for enjoying tourneys, especially because I did not find myself as bored as usual at this one. Though I will say my amusement came from looking for you, I guess I can admire what a tourney is supposed to represent.I am saddened, though, that I could not recognize you immediately. I was hoping some sort of spell could overtake me and cast mine eyes only to yours. I however, just saw many faces in the crowd, and narrowed my list no further.

I find though, that I would appreciate any piece of art you would offer. I am a lover of the arts and a purveyor of understanding them. Jenny of Oldstones is a song I find myself drifting towards often, the lyrics catching me. How beautiful, a woman dancing with the ghosts of the past? How often do we all do the same? Is our love fated by stars, written into the histories? Or is love as fleeting as a ghost on the wind?

For the next feast, I shall try to come up with some coded word. Something we shall say to each other so we will know who we are. I fear giving a dance to just anyone, lest they try to court me and take me away from whatever is between us.

Yours as well;

Your Unfamiliar

The letter is, plainly, too forward. You do not care, though, as you finish off your ale and motion for another one. It’s only now that you look upon the tavern’s rooms, surveying the guests and all their revelry. Your eyes scan, casual and unassuming, until you fall upon a crop of auburn hair. Could it be? You look the the hazel eyes attached, surely, it’s him. But is it? No, it cannot be. The man makes no move towards you, no stern recognition in his gaze, just a simple gaze upon you as you stare back. And the spell is broken as another ale is set before you.

It cannot be him, you think to yourself.

[icarusignite]

An Eye for an Eye Ch.3

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

"Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine."

Summary: Daenys receives a letter from her mother, a relic of brighter times that evokes memories of a familial love that once enveloped her, now tainted by betrayal and sorrow. As she reads, Aemond observes, realizing with a pang of despair that the ties that bind his wife to her family are unlike anything he has ever known. The realization that he can never reclaim such warmth after the deeds he has committed leaves him hollow, bereft of hope, and haunted by the chasm that separates him from the love he so desperately craves.

Word Count: 3.6k

My dearest darling girl,

I hope you are faring well. We all miss your presence here, Lucerys and the boys in particular. They all have things to tell you and sometimes the distance feels like too much, although I realize it has only been a few days. 

I hope that your husband is treating you well, but I would expect nothing less from my brother. From what I have seen for myself, he cares for you deeply, so perhaps you shall be content in your marriage. Such is the hope of every mother for their child, is it not? I will admit, however, that your mother is a selfish creature, who wishes you could have remained with her forever. 

You were my child first, before you were anyone else's. Was it so wrong to hope that you could have remained mine longer? 

Oh, look at me, blathering on so. The babe must be making me sentimental. Only a moon left and yet I already cannot wait to see her. Yes, her. I have not told anyone just yet, but it is a girl this time, I am certain. I will name her Visenya. You shall have a sister, and I will have four darling girls. Perhaps the gods are sending her to me as a consolation for not having you anymore. 

Give my greetings to your grandsire. I fear he is not long for this world and I wish to be with him during his final hours. Perhaps you might lend him strength until I arrive. I find myself not up to riding these days, but as soon as this sickness passes, I will make my journey to King's landing at once. 

The boys are doing well. Jacaerys is shouldering his responsibilities as heir well enough, and the younger ones are growing up to be fine boys indeed. Aegon and Viserys miss your nightly tales, but Joffrey has already laid claim to your chambers. He says you have a better view of Dragonmont and the bay. Worry not, I am certain we will be able to evict him should you like to visit us. 

I worry for Lucerys though. He is a quiet boy, not as sure of himself as the rest. He is afraid to inherit Driftmark, to bear the responsibility I have placed upon him. Perhaps it is indeed too much for his gentle soul, the gods know that such positions are quite a burden. In another life, I think he would have enjoyed learning at the citadel. 

Our Lucerys as a maester, can you imagine? I think he would have been suited for it. He was always so taken with Maester Gerardys and his work. 

I had an interesting conversation with him this morning. The sweet boy thinks he cannot be as great a ruler as Lord Corlys. What's more, he thinks that I am perfect. How comical, when these days I feel anything but. 

Perhaps you might ease his mind about his worries when you write to him. Tell him that he is capable of the responsibilities I have placed upon him. Tell him that his mother will prepare him as best she can and that his family will always be there to support him. I have told him as much, but he has always listened to you better in most things. I think he took your departure the hardest, so write to him as often as you can, my love. I have seen how your letters light up his entire countenance. 

He said he had something of great importance to tell you, but he won't say what it is, so I shall leave it for you to discover. He is adamant about visiting you on your name day, so he will probably tell you then, if his raven doesn't find you first. 

I do not wish to force your hand but you are so dearly missed here. Perhaps you and Aemond might like to spend a few moons with us here in Dragonstone. It will be an opportunity for your husband to see your childhood home. 

I have rambled on long enough now, but do let me know and I shall make the arrangements. 

With all my love,

Your mother.

Aemond crumpled the letter in his hands, frowning as he did so. Irritation picked at his nerves. It was quite hypocritical of his half-sister to refer to him so fondly when she had never made any efforts to endear herself to him over the years. It was obvious that his mother had already gone over the contents of Rhaenyra's letter, the broken seal a testament to it, so he could not imagine why she asked him to deliver it to Daenys. It would only further alienate her from their cause if she was reminded of her loyalties to her mother. 

Still, he supposed it made sense. He had always known his mother to be a kind-hearted person, even if she wasn't able to put her compassion into words. For all he knew, this was her attempt at mollifying his grieving wife, by giving her a piece of home. It must have been penned quite a while ago, before the death of King Viserys, before the death of Lucerys. 

He felt the resentment begin to climb up his throat along with the bitter bile of regret. Reading that letter had been too much of an intimate look at Daenys's relationships with her family. He knew his half-sister's family functioned differently from his own, but he couldn't help but feel deprived, as if something had been taken from him, something he never even had to begin with.

A father. A family that was not so disjointed. 

"I am just going to leave this here then," he placed the crumpled scrap of parchment beside Daenys and turned to leave.

"I will never know what he had to say to me," she hissed, interrupting his departure. "I will never...I never got to write to him. I never got to tell him that he would have made a brave Lord of the Tides. I will never get to tell him how much I- I will never get to tell him anything and it is all your fault."

"You must know how sorry I am, truly." 

She sat up straighter then, scrubbing her face with her sleeve, leaving it reddened and blotched. A little of her fire had returned to her eyes, and Aemond wasn't quite whether to rejoice that for a moment his Daenys had returned, or lament that she had only done so out of loathing for him. 

"Your apologies mean nothing to me so cease them at once! You cannot bring him back, can you? No, you cannot, so I do not want any more empty words. He died scared and alone and I just know that his last thoughts would have been of mother. Of how he had failed her, of how he'd failed Lord Corlys. And I will never get to tell him that he could never fail us, not ever."

The one-eyed prince turned to leave again, no longer being able to stomach the derision she threw his way. Maybe that made him a coward but he did not care. He could not bear to see the sharp hatred in her eyes anymore, not when she had only ever looked at him with warmth before.

Daenys's hand shot out and grabbed his arm before he could depart, her nails digging into his arm.

"Wait..."

It took her a while to gather her words. She pawed at her face again and swallowed her hiccups as she took deep shuddering breaths to collect herself, equal parts sorrow and rage. 

"I need to know. I need to know what you said to him last. What his last words were. Is there...is there anything of him left?" she choked on the last word.

Aemond hung his head, refusing to meet her searching eyes. What was there to say? Whatever last words his nephew may have said meant nothing now, swallowed up by the wind and the waves. Why the bastard boy was flying in the direction of King's Landing instead of returning home to Dragonstone, Aemond did not understand back then, and now he certainly would never know. 

Lucerys Velaryon's last actions would remain forever a mystery. 

"Tell me what happened," Daenys repeated. 

"Aegon told you most of the story. There is not much more to it I'm afraid."

"Tell me anyway. I want to hear it from you. Every single detail."

"It will only hurt you. I do not wish to cause you more pain."

She smiled bitterly, her fingers digging harder into his arm. Her nails would leave marks, perhaps even draw blood, but he could not make himself pull away. He relished in the pain because at least this way she was touching him. She was speaking to him. 

"You have hurt me enough already. What's a little more? This time I am asking for it. You owe me this much."

"I cannot speak of it again."

"Do not act as if you are the victim! As if you are the one in pain! Not when this is all your fault!" she was seething now, as if she was mere moments away from flinging something at his head. 

"I do not wish to speak of it because of what it'll do to you."

"How much worse could it be? I just...I just want to hear it from you, instead of your idiot brother."

Aemond met her gaze and sighed in defeat as he began to recount the tale again, and every time he'd try to gloss over certain parts, her grip would tighten and she'd ask him to reiterate. 

"What. Did. You. Say. To. Him," she asked for the umpteenth time, speaking as if each word pained her, her hold on his arm becoming almost deadly.

He was nearing the end of his tale, and he wanted to stop speaking. He wanted to stop but he had the mouth of a waterfall and his wife's attention was far too compelling. 

"I tossed him my knife. Told him I would not blind him but that he would have to give up one of his eyes."

"And what did my brother say to that?"

"He said he would not fight me because he was there as a messenger only..." Aemond paused.

"Continue!"

"No."

"Aemond..."

She said his name. It had been so long, but she had still said his name, except now it sounded different, the syllables harsh and unforgiving. 

"Do not make me say it, please."

"You are in no position to plead with me," Daenys sneered. 

"I cannot do it."

"You owe it to me."

"I told him I would...that I would take his eye out myself," Aemond took a deep steadying breath, his gaze dropping to the floor, "and I called him a...a..."

"A bastard," his wife finished softly, her breathing almost ragged. "You called him a fucking bastard, didn't you? It is your favourite insult to leverage."

"I am sorry."

"You know that means nothing to me. Do go on. What happened next?"

"I...your brother...he departed on his dragon, and then... well, you know the rest."

He considered telling her the rest of it, about how Maris Baratheon's words needled into his skin and burrowed into the recesses of his mind, filling him with fury and resentment. It felt too much like an excuse though, and he knew exactly what she'd say in response. She'd call him a coward again, trying to blame his misdeeds on someone else. She'd scorn him for dragging the Baratheon girl into a fight that wasn't hers to begin with. 

No, he wouldn't mention Maris at all. It would be utterly pointless. 

The one-eyed prince watched helplessly as his wife dropped his arm as if she'd been scalded, as if the mere touch of him burned her. 

"Why?"

It was only one word, but he found himself unable to answer. What could he say anyway? What could he possibly say that would mollify her, that would ease her pain, and make her more forgiving? He could bring up his eye again, but the truth of it was that it was never truly about his eye. 

Aemond Targaryen hated Lucerys for the privilege he held, for getting away with maiming him, for being absolved of his crime while his own wounds were left to fester. His hatred had spread through him like a sickness, like rot, bone-deep in its misery. The gods were cruel, and everything his nephews were freely handed, he had to scavenge for. Everything they received in abundance, he had to make himself content with crumbs of. 

For him, King Viserys's trueborn son, to be set aside in favour of a mere bastard was inexcusable and it was this that he could not let go. It was this unpunished crime that led him to take justice into his own hands, and follow his nephew out into the storm. 

It was always going to happen. Lucerys Velaryon had been dead from the moment he stepped into Lord Borros's castle, from the moment he set eyes on Aemond. The Stranger had already staked its claim on him, just as his one-eyed uncle had, and no amount of remorse would change the fact. 

An eye for an eye made the world go blind. 

Aemond Targaryen would soon come to learn the true meaning of that, and it would be his wife, who would make him see it. 

Right now though, she was chewing on her lips again, mulling over his words in contemplation, formulating her response. Her fury distracted her from her grief, but it was not a welcome respite. 

"You called my brother a bastard...after swearing to me that you would never do so again. Does your word truly mean so little?" she finally spoke, her voice sombre. "And how hypocritical of you. If he is considered a bastard, then so am I, or have you forgotten, lord husband? Have you forgotten that you married a bastard, something you consider to be less than a person? Or have you perhaps always scorned me for my supposed inferior birth?"

Lord husband. 

Her words dripped with venom, and he marvelled at how she could make what once were his favourite words sound like poison.

"You are not inferior."

He meant what he said, although perhaps not in the way he intended to. It was easy for him to forget that she was a bastard too, with her fair hair and violet eyes — dragonless child that she had been—he had more in common with her than with anyone else, and so he could pretend that she was just like him. He could pretend she was everything like him and nothing like them. 

It made her easier to love. 

She was him and he was her. 

It made her easier to stomach without the rot of resentment clouding the air they shared. 

"You are not inferior," Aemond repeated. "You are not less of a person."

"But I am still a bastad?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you did not deny it," a crazed laugh bubbled out of Daenys's throat — a prelude to a sob. "You killed my brother for the crime of existing. You might as well do the same to me."

"That was not the reason."

"Wasn't it?"

Aemond sighed, stepping away to run his hand through his hair in exasperation, "It was an accident, I swear it. There was a storm and the visibility was low. Then your brother's dragon came at Vhagar breathing fire. If Lucerys had just listened, if he had just...,"

"If he had what? Given you his fucking eye? Do not pin this on him or Arrax, you pathetic fool. They are dead and you are alive to sit here in front of me and present your pitiful excuses. You are the one who thought it was a good idea to chase them with a beast of war. A war-hardened dragon! They didn't stand a chance!" Daenys's voice rose an octave.

"Vhagar lost control," Aemond's voice dropped even lower. 

"No, you lost control! And my poor brother paid for it! Tell me, is there even a body? Does my grieving mother get to see her dead son one last time before she burns him? Do I?"

She squeezed her eyes shut before he even answered, stealing herself against his response, almost as if she knew.

Aemond was quiet for a moment.

"There isn't," Daenys answered her own question. "Whatever was left of him is in the sea now? Shipbreaker Bay, Aegon said."

Silence stretched between them, the only sound the distant clatter of the castle servants going about their day. How strange it was that everyone was able to go on as if nothing had happened, and yet here she was, with her entire world come to a standstill. She remained motionless, her fingers reaching to clutch the fabric of her gown. Better to twist the threads around her fingers, than her fingers around her husband's throat. 

Aemond's apology hung on the precipice of his lips, waiting to be spoken, but he found himself unable to utter the words.

She shook her head at him, as if anticipating it, the movement almost imperceptible, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. The one-eyed prince resisted the urge to wipe it away, resisted the urge to touch her as she pressed her lips together, a delicate tremor betraying the strength she summoned to hold back her emotions.

Then the room shrank around them as her grief erupted, her anguished wail shattering the stillness, her breath catching in her throat as she confronted him with a gaze ablaze with accusation. 

"Oh, why couldn't you have left him alone? Why couldn't you have let your stupid grudges go? I would have given you both my eyes had you asked, I promise. I would have given them to you with a kiss and my blessing if you had just asked. I would have blinded myself for it, if you only...How could you be so cruel!"

The weight of her words pierced through him. 

An indictment and a prophecy. 

"Why would I take yours? He was the one who took my eye, not you! Left me with this hideous disfigurement for the rest of my life, without even having to answer for it! Everyone in King's Landing looked at me with either pity or disgust. None of the ladies at court would have married me!" Aemond roared.

Oh. 

He had said the wrong thing and he regretted it even before his wife's lips curled in disgust.

"No one would have married you?" Daenys scoffed. "I would have married you. I did marry you!"

"I did not want your pity. I feared that even you would be repulsed by me. That one day you would see past whatever sympathetic affection you held for me and be sickened and ashamed of the scarred creature you claimed to love."

He did not know why he said the words, the most shameful thoughts spilling out of him, unabridged. Perhaps Maris Baratheon's observations had hit him harder than he expected, and now it was all he could think about. 

Then Daenys opened her mouth and proved all his fears to be true. 

"You were right," she nodded, almost to herself. "I do find you hideous... unsightly even. I do see now, past whatever affection I held for you, and I am sickened and ashamed that you are my husband."

"Daenys..." Aemond's voice trembled. His world was shifting, tilting on its axis. He felt like he had been slapped. In fact, he wished she had slapped him, it would have hurt less.

"You. Repulse. Me."

"Stop."

"Leave. I have nothing more to say to you and I wish to be left alone."

And when the door swung shut behind him, but the click of the lock never came, Daenys felt the walls closing in on her, suffocating her once again. 

In a sudden surge of frustration, her hands lifted a crystal trinket from Aemond's desk. It was a fragile, ornate thing, one of the many she had gifted him, a momento of happier times. Before she had marvelled at them, basking in the joy that he kept them all neatly arranged where he could see them every day as he worked, but now they only brought her rage. 

With a primal scream, she hurled the trinket at the door, where it exploded upon impact. Then, one by one, she hurled them all at the door, each one accompanied by a cacophony of shattering glass. 

She fell to her knees amidst the wreckage, her breaths ragged, the echoes of her screams still reverberating through the room. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched at her chest, the intensity of her emotions leaving her gasping for air. She resisted the urge to swallow the jagged shards, stuffing them each into her mouth, one by one until her tongue was heavy with the taste of blood and not her husband's name. She'd force them down too, swallowing until that gaping hole in her stomach was filled too, filled with glass that felt less fragile than the memory of her dead brother. 

It was her cursed mouth that brought this on, so it was only fair, that it paid the price. 

When she lifted the largest of the pieces, only seeing the stream of scarlet when she knew she ought to have felt the bite, she knew old habits died hard, and she had never been one to cope well. 

A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist

[castien-ffxiv]

Joie de Vivre

Mistake/Wild: Day 5 @daily-writing-challenge

It felt as if the past handful of weeks had been eons. She often wondered what Cyrus had been doing in their time apart. More often than not Castien had spent her time on ships when she wasn’t sailing the seas beneath sails and wading surfs she had taken up odd jobs at the Smoking Crow in Black Water Bay or upholding commissions that took full advantage of her skill set.

Crimson eyes traveled across the darkness to her companions whom she had been traveling the past few days with. The Lady Gray hadn’t been someone she was too accustomed to knowing but had been learning little by little during the journey they had been embarking upon within the wilds of Yak T’el malms from Tuliyoyall and the comforts of the seas that she had found peace within.

Wren she knew even less of aside from the fact she had been Ward to the Lady Gray and from what Castien could tell, the two were close but they kept the relationship professional – close friends more than the norm for what an employer and employee would be.

Then there was the Lady Cress, Vahalia. Still, quite the mystery as the woman often kept her private life under lock and key.

Smirking, Castien continued to carve at the curve of the piece in her hand, having worked at it for some hours now, “The lads back home must be quite jealous of our outing.” she mused with some mild jubilant snark while whittling away.

“Nary such for myself,” Wren replied and Cordelia simply remained quiet. The book within the Lady Gray's hand must have kept her attention far better than the conversation, or perhaps, it was simply a pleasant excuse.

“And you?” Castien gazed to Vahalia.

The Lady Cress only afforded Castien the slightest of smirks and a shake of her head, “I’m certain details will have to be shared though to their dismay it might not be as interesting as they play it up to be in their mind.”

“So there is someone within the darkened halls of yours?” Castien asked blowing the slivers of curled wood from the piece, listing forward she handed it off towards Vahalia.

Taking the wooden carving, Vahalia turned it over in her hand as the piece itself seemed to be very much a small gift for her. The slope and shape of the item depicted that of a tulip-shaped bell sans any true detailing but it was quality in and of itself. There was no mistaking that this had been carved with Vahalia in mind, “Yes. Though it matters little.” she finally responded to Castien, remembering something she had been privy to several months prior, “You and Cyrus though, I recall Cyrus asking me for wood of great calibur for you when you both had seized the most recent ship some moons ago.”

A small nod came and Castien pulled another piece from her bag, half-finished but it was easily starting to resemble that of a moth’s wing, “If that is your subtle way of asking if he and I are together, then yes.” the knife continued to work away at the soft wood and a few blows expelled from Castien again to rid the work of debris, “Quite the odd way we happened to meet though it makes for an interesting story. Caught him out hard on his luck and while he was in need for work I directed him to Ishgard. That is where he came upon Eivor, Carrera and eventually you.” she bobbed her head towards Vahalia, “Bit of a wild thing that man if you haven’t noticed.”

“I have but the said could be said of you, Bancroft.” Vahalia swiftly replied, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the tell-tale signs.”

Castien paused and her red eyes pinned across to Vahalia before cutting to Cordeila and Wren nearby. Cordi was still enveloped in her book though Wren looked rather intrigued.

“Worry not.” Vahalia laughed, “To make you an enemy would mean to make one of myself. It seems we all are familiar with the same dark halls. Make no mistake, you’re well within your proper circle here.”

For a brief moment, Castien caught a looming sensation that lingered in the darkness behind Vahalia, the space before her between Wren and Cordelia illuminated well by the fire's light but still, she had felt less of a threat enclosing the space and more at peace with the notion of being somewhere she belonged; darkness included.

Outside of Cyrus – these were her people.

Mention(s): @cyrus-black - @promethea-silk - @vahalia-cress - @song-of-wren

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

The Scars On Our Hearts | Adar/OC (part 1)

Summary: With her husband presumed dead, Mae struggles to pick up the pieces, refusing to believe he is truly gone. Throwing herself into her work is only capable of carrying her so far. With the threat of a nameless soldier surfacing, however, Mae will find that she has little time left to mourn. Particularly when the soldier's newest target turns out to be her.

Warnings: Alternate universe, original female character(s), canon character/oc pairing, angst, memory loss, brain-washing, depictions of violence, gun use, hostage situations, torture, more to be added as the series goes on.

Other: Please let me know if you'd like to be added to a tag-list!

He has been watching the woman for seven days.

In that time, she has demonstrated ample proof of her training. Though it may not be entirely visible to the naked eye, there are certain habits—certain mannerisms—that display it quite clearly for a more skilled observer. Never sitting with her back to a doorway or window. Constantly alert, even when she is not alone. Tiny gestures that occasionally check the weapons that are typically concealed beneath her jacket, and at her ankle.

To an unpracticed eye, the movements would seem like a simple adjustment of clothing, but he can recognize them for what they are in an instant. He recognizes every last action and reaction, because they are so very similar to his own.

A part of him wonders if that means something. If he might be better served by spending time considering the potential implications of it, but he quickly casts that particular line of thought aside. Questioning anything other than the mission is not a part of who he is. Maybe it never has been.

Instead, he redirects his focus to the woman as she climbs out of her car at the dawn of the eighth day of his observations, shutting the driver's side door behind her with a sharp snap. A young girl clambers out of the passenger seat and moves to join her.

Together, the two make their way to the gathering at the far end of the cemetery, joining with the others, dressed in black as they stand beside an open grave. The girl remains close to the woman's side, leaning against her as though trying to find the strength to remain standing.

Shielded by the structure beside him, the man watches as the two of them greet their companions. As they allow themselves to be pulled into conversations, and embraces, the young girl in particular seeming to cling to a man with wind-tousled curls.

By contrast, the woman seems to hold herself stiffly. As though determined to remain apart from her companions in any way that she can. That tension only seems to grow as a tall man draws near, dark hair pulled back from his brow to keep the wind from disturbing it. The two of them exchange a few words, before that man wanders off once more.

Taking note of the way one of the woman's hands seems to clench at her side, fingers flexing almost without conscious awareness, her observer wonders at the cause. Something about the gathering itself, perhaps, or maybe the way her former companion had spoken to her?

It startles him when he realizes he has taken exactly one step forward. As though he intends to—do what? Reach for her? Go after the man who troubled her? For a moment, confusion muddies his mind, the ever-present static that seems to exist there doubling in intensity in a matter of seconds, if not less.

A wince passes over his features in response, ears ringing with the effort of attempting to decipher it all, but before he has the chance, the grouping is moving again. Standing closer to the open grave they'd come there for, while the same man with hair drawn back that had spoken to the woman addresses them all as one.

He does not hear the words, too lost in the ringing of his ears, and the static in his mind to extend the effort to riddle it out. For a moment, those gathered around the gravesite fade to the background in favor of attempting to hold steady against this new onslaught. To avoid crumpling beneath its weight.

A hand flings out to catch upon the structure beside him, to keep himself standing, if nothing else. A ragged breath escapes as the pain between his temples eases, somewhat. As it lets up, inch by agonizing inch.

Slowly, the sounds of the world around him come back into focus. A bird chirps somewhere overhead, calling to its mate, and the wind rustles through the leaves as it passes them by.

Lifting his head, he realizes the other sounds must be—sobs? Muted by distance, they are still discernible, and the young girl he had seen with the woman, before, clings to her now, arms wound around her waist. Squeezing. Tightening.

The man he had seen the girl embracing before—the one with the curls—draws closer to them both, and the woman in particular seems to relax, some of the tension leaving her smaller frame as a result. She watches the proceedings with less rigidity in every movement than she had before.

Another unfamiliar feeling surfaces, then. Coiling its way through his chest like some sort of venomous snake. Determined to avoid a resurgence in the static and the ringing, the man grits his teeth against the unfamiliar sensation rising within him. He pushes against it, forcing it from his awareness because that is what he has always done with uncomfortable feelings, be they physical, or from another source, altogether.

"You are a weapon. A weapon, created for a single purpose."

The words rise above the static as it struggles to regain control. They provide him with a means of continuing to fight against it.

Posture straightening, the man finds himself capable of regaining the sense of resolve he had possessed when he first arrived. Looking up, he finds those gathered around the graveside mingling with one another yet again, only this time, they are clearer. More cohesive. Less blurred by the tumult of his own thoughts.

Again, his focus narrows to the woman. To the way her stance appears to have shifted once more as she crouches beside the open grave, one hand placed firmly on the ground beside it. The younger girl stands beside her, clasping her free hand, shoulders bowed in what is clearly meant to be an open display of grief, and he feels—nothing. He revels in the success of it, when the static and the ringing fade away, replaced by a singular, unshakeable thought.

"A weapon does not need to feel."

All of the confusion and uncertainty of before now a thing of the past, even if not distant enough for his liking, the man watches as, one by one, those who had gathered around the gravesite begin to depart. Before long, the woman, the girl, and that man the girl had been clinging to at the start are the only ones who remain. They speak in hushed tones, while those who had been with them move toward parked cars.

He waits as, one by one, those cars disappear, pulling away from the three that linger behind and moving back to whatever they had been doing prior to their arrival. As though his earlier confusion had never become a problem, he is once again capable of remaining nearly motionless, and hidden, exactly as he had been before.

Eventually, the remaining three he has been observing begin to stir. They move away from the gravesite, making themselves into easier targets than they had been mere moments before. Separate. Vulnerable. Alone.

It is then that he takes action, stooping to reach for the weapon that had been carefully concealed at his feet. Sights set on the woman, he positions himself to aim directly for center mass.

A serene sort of calm washes over him, steeling his resolve, where before, it had seemed almost fractured. Whatever questions and doubts may have plagued him are now long gone.

He sucks in a breath. Lets it out slowly. Methodically, while his fingers tighten on the trigger of the weapon held firmly in place. A shift in aim is all that is required as the woman continues trailing along in the wake of her companions. All that is required to rid himself of the thought that the slight lurch inside of his chest as he keeps an eye on her through the scope can be anything significant.

Focused once more, he continues to track her movements. He waits until her male companion is likely to be too distracted by fumbling for his keys to react quickly.

Another slow breath is all that is required for him to move. To bring the mission that brought him here to completion. The hollow voice that had been in his mind, earlier, echoes there once again, a distant reminder of all that he has ever known.

"Weapons do not feel."

He exhales. Muscles tense. The young girl slips back into the passenger seat, and when it is only the woman standing in the open, he acts with a practiced ease.

He pulls the trigger, watching with unflinching calm as the woman stumbles, one hand flying to her chest before she crumples in a heap to the ground.

The young girl's horrified scream from the confines of the car reaches him as he turns, weapon in hand, to walk away. Their male companion has clearly taken note of what has just transpired, given the shout of surprise, and perhaps something else, that echoes on a gentle breeze.

Attention now set upon the task of reaching the designated checkpoint at the appropriate time, the man pays the commotion little heed. He is able to continue forward, even with the lingering stab of—something—making itself known at the back of his mind.

With every piece of distance placed between them, that something—whatever it may be—only gets easier to ignore, and very soon, it fades to nothing. The bothersome buzz of a fly passing nearby, and nothing more. And as he pauses for just long enough to deposit the weapon he'd used in a predetermined location for later retrieval, the mantra that seemed ingrained in him with implacable resolve reverberates through his thoughts once more.

"You are a weapon. And weapons do not feel."

So long as he allows nothing to get in the way of the mission, those words are all he will ever need to know.

[spocks-husband]

wordless, wordless.

This is my Star Trek Gift Exchange piece for @idealisticcatastasis!! I really hope you enjoy :")

Words: 1,142

Pairing: Garak/Bashir

Genre/Tropes: Fluff, Slow Dancing, Late-Night Conversations

Summary: Garak has some... interesting dreams.

@startrekwintergiftexchange (am i supposed to tag you guys?? i don't remember lmao)

The Promenade's humming evening silence was closer to eerie than soothing, but Julian paid it little mind as he walked, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his eyes firmly fixed upon the windows of the station. Logically speaking, Julian knew that the vacuum of Bajoran space was just the same as it always was, that their system of station time was merely devised to give species in need of a consistent sleep schedule some semblance of normalcy-- but quietly, he liked to think that it grew darker this time of 'night', that the stars were just a bit brighter against a contrasting black abyss. 

Since the war had ended the station itself had begun to feel... smaller. There was nothing to do anymore. One would think that being the center of some of the most significant events of this century would make Deep Space Nine a rather popular place to visit, but at least to Julian, it seemed like there were less people every day. 

Miles had gone back to Earth for his academy job and taken his family with him, Captain Sisko was... somewhere with the wormhole aliens, Kira was spending more and more time on her home planet and away from her command post (and when she was back with them there was always a vague sadness in her eyes that Julian fought the urge to ask about. He knew she didn't really want to talk about Odo)-- everything felt... empty, somehow. 

"Doctor? You're up rather late."

Well...

Almost everything. 

Julian smiled softly as he turned around to see that familiar smirk standing several meters away. 

"I could say the same thing about you, Garak," the doctor retorted, taking a few steps until he was close enough to see the way the starlight was glimmering in the Cardassian's blue eyes. There was a moment of stillness that sat between them, a stillness that the two of them often found to linger in their company, but it wasn't paid any mind. If anything, it was welcome. 

"You should know by now that Cardassian sleep schedules are far from identical to those of humans, Doctor" the older man chuckled, his steps falling in a natural sync with Julian's as they began to walk. 

"Then maybe I have you to blame for my current bout of insomnia," Julian joked accusingly. "You're rubbing off on me." 

"Perhaps I am," Garak mused with a slight smile, glancing out the windows for a brief moment. "... Perhaps I could say the same about you." 

"Oh, really?" Julan smirked. 

"Oh, yes, indeed," Garak hummed. "In fact... I've begun dreaming." 

"Dreaming?"

"It's not typical for Cardassians to dream. Not consistently, anyway. Once in a while, sure, but not every night." There was a glimmer of regret shining in his eyes, suddenly, as if he were almost... embarrassed... that he'd brought it up. 

"And what might you be dreaming about?" The doctor asked slowly, his grin widening just slightly. 

"Oh, I can't tell you-- that's highly classified information, my dear doctor," Garak smirked. 

"Oh, of course," Julian nodded in mock seriousness. "I understand completely." 

For a while, there was a silence that returned between the two of them, and Julian couldn't help but consider how... nice... it was. Pleasant, even. 

"Though, there has been a recurring figure in these... dreams of mine," Garak added suddenly, his gaze fixed on everything except for the man at his side. Julian quirked a brow. 

"Oh?" The doctor couldn't help but chuckle. "And... who might this person be?" 

Garak fought the urge to smile. "Oh, I'm not certain," he lied. "I can't ever see him very well, the lights are too dim."

"Then how can you know it's the same man?"

"I just know." 

The silence returned, temporarily. It didn't stay, though-- it never did. 

"Well, what has this man been doing?" Julian snorted, looking up at Garak with a curious smirk. Garak smiled back. 

"Dancing." 

Julian laughed. "Really? Dancing?"  

"Oh, yes," Garak nodded, crossing his arms. "You don't have to believe me if you don't want to." 

"Hm," Julian chuckled. "Well... why don't you show me?" 

Garak raised an eyebrow slowly, his eyes locking with Julian's in a way that made the doctor's heart skip a beat as a smirk rose to his face. Without a word, the Cardassian extended a clawed hand toward Julian, a silent invitation that spoke entirely for itself. The doctor hesitated for just a moment, a playful glint in his eyes, before finally placing his hand in Garak's.

The Promenade's ambient lighting seemed to dim ever so slightly as Garak led Julian to a more open area, away from the occasional midnight passersby and their prying eyes. Garak placed his other hand firmly on Julian's waist, and the doctor's breath caught at the unexpected warmth of the touch. Garak's hands had always seemed so cold to him, but... not tonight. 

"There's no music here, you know," Julian spoke softly, his eyes remaining low as he tried to hide how flushed his cheeks had become. "I didn't necessarily mean... here... and now..." Garak only chuckled. 

"I'm sorry, Doctor, would you like me to stop?"

There was a pause. 

"... No," Julian said finally. "I... don't believe I would."

They began to sway gently, the dance unfolding organically between them. Julian felt a mixture of exhilaration and contentment, realizing that this was a moment he had secretly yearned for. As they moved gracefully together, the silence spoke volumes, filling the empty spaces that the war had left behind.

"You know, Doctor," Garak began, his voice low and intimate, almost careful. "I must confess that dancing was never my forte back on Cardassia. But there's something about this place, this station, that makes everything different."

Julian chuckled, his eyes locked with Garak's. "Maybe it's the stars. Or maybe it's the company."

Garak's gaze softened, and a warmth spread across his features. "Perhaps it's a bit of both," he admitted.

The two continued their dance, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. In the quiet intimacy of the Promenade, surrounded by the hum of the station and the distant twinkling of stars, the boundaries between them blurred. It wasn't just a dance; it was a moment of connection, a shared understanding that went beyond words. There were no more games of riddles and teasing, no subtleties or avoidance. Whatever it was that they were, something they'd always struggled to name... they were here. They were together. Perhaps that was enough. 

As they twirled gracefully, Julian couldn't help but feel a sense of completion. The emptiness that had lingered since the war's end seemed to dissipate with every step. It was warmer here, somehow. 

"Garak...?" 

The Cardassian shook his head slowly. 

"Just let it be, Doctor. I think that might be the best thing to do." 

Julian smiled softly. 

"... If you say so."

[kuwdora]

The Witcher Netflix - 3x08 Episode Reaction In season 3 of The Witcher Netflix we got our first look inside the Nilfgaardian Empire. I was taken by surprise because sometimes I think the show isn't subtle with certain things. Sometimes showing without telling. Or telling without showing in a way doesn't offer viewers enough information to understand the impact of a creative choice. The glimpses we got of Nilfgaard are, in my opinion, a subtle bit of worldbuilding that doesn't lose its impact without showing too much or telling too little. In the books Nilfgaard's culture and history, its military strategy--it's all pastiche from different historical empires. That is a hallmark of Sapko's style. I'm sure other people have spoken more definitively about that on tumblr and elsewhere. CDPR absorbed a lot of Roman Empire influences from the books for its own take for Nilfgaard. And now we can see TWN's production is also picking up on that as well and going with Eastern Roman Empire (Byzantine) flavor. So let me share a few screenshots from episode 3x08 that caught my eye. This is a mini-commentary with some thoughts, not a deep analysis. We had this establishing shot of a Nilfgaardian city (which I'm presuming to be the capital). This looks like Constantinople to me.

A modern day photo of Constantinople ruins for comparison:

Next we have Emhyr with several men dressed in what comes off as very Eastern Orthodox-inspired vestments, right down to the monastic headwear (mitre, I think?). I'll leave more the in depth TWN and costume critical takedown to perseruna. But those hats definitely kept screaming Eastern Orthodoxy at me and making me circle back to Eastern Roman Empire.

And finally we have this scene of Francesca and Fringilla in the church. In all of my groupchats everyone was losing their mind about their conversation and heartbreak. But I was losing my mind over the fact that they were a) in a Nilfgaardian church or temple and b) this shot was framed in such a way to show us the statue of an ambiguous church figure in the background. Standing in between Fringilla and Francesca, no less.

I can't help but think this might be a statue of the Nilfgaardian Emperor who, in the books, is implied to be a prophet or important figure in the religious sphere.

"...Recently the main topic of preaching has been of a Saviour who will come from the south. From the south! From beyond the Yaruga!” “The White Flame,” muttered Demavend. “White Chill will come to be, and after it the White Light. And then the world will be reborn through the White Flame and the White Queen… I’ve heard it, too. It’s a travesty of the prophecy of Ithlinne aep Aevenien, the elven seeress. I gave orders to catch one cleric who was going on about it in the Vengerberg market place and the torturer asked him politely and at length how much gold the prophet had received from Emhyr for doing it… But the preacher only prattled on about the White Flame and the White Queen… the same thing, to the very end.” -Blood of Elves

(thank you to @akilah12902 for sourcing this quote for me when I was looking for help!) This just reaffirms my thoughts that Fringilla and Francesca are arguing before a statue of Emhyr. A surprising amount of symbolism for this scene and show. Anyway. This was my main takeaway from 3x08. It was nice to be pleasantly surprised by this.

[joachimnapoleon]

"A delightful surprise"

Browsing through the memoirs of the hilariously snobbish Countess Potocka a little while ago, I randomly decided to see if she had written anything about Davout. 

I was not disappointed. Enjoy Countess Potocka’s otherworldly visit to the Davout couple at Savigny. 

[Source: Memoirs of the Countess Potocka, (English translation, 1900) pages 142-144.]

I was taken to several entirely denuded rooms; I was shown into one little less ornamental than the first, but at least there were a sofa and chairs! The lady marshal was not long in appearing. I easily perceived she had dressed up for me, for she was still sticking some pins into her bodice. After a few minutes of languishing conversation she rang to have her husband notified. Then we resumed our painful interview. It was not that Madame Davout was deficient in the ways of the world, or devoid of that sort of cleverness which facilitates intercourse between two people of the same social rank, but there was a certain stiffness about her which might have been taken for haughtiness. She was always Homer’s Juno, or, better still, the strong woman who would not laugh until the Last Day. 

The marshal finally arrived in a state of perspiration which bore witness to politeness; he sat down all out of breath, and, holding his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, he took care to moisten it with saliva, so as to remove the dust more thoroughly that covered his face. This rather military freedom tallied badly with his wife’s starched deportment; she was visibly put out by it. Finding myself superfluous in this mute scene I rose, intending to take my leave, but I was asked to stay to luncheon. While the table was being laid we took a walk in the park. There was not a road laid out, the lawns were grown with high grass all ready to become haystacks, the trees clipped during the Revolution were sprouting like thickets; at every bush I left a piece of my flounces, and my lilac laced boots had taken a greenish hue. The marshal urged us on with voice and gesture, promising us a delightful surprise! What was not my disappointment when, turning a clump of young oaks, we found ourselves facing three small wicker huts! The duke went down on the ground on one knee and exclaimed: 

“Ah, here they are! Here they are!”

Upon which, modulating his voice:

“Peep—peep—peep!”

Immediately a flock of partridges fluttered about the marshal’s head. 

“Do not let the others out until the youngest have gone in again, and give these ladies some bread. They will enjoy themselves like queens,” said he to the yokel who performed the duties of gamekeeper. 

And there we were, in the scorching sun, feeding partridges!

With imperturbable dignity the duchess emptied the basket handed to her. As for me, I nearly fainted, and, the thing becoming too much for me, remarked that the sky was overcast and that we were threatened with a storm.

[oldbutnotyetwise]

Detours

     I think we all know what a detour is.  You are going somewhere and the way you were going is blocked for some reason. You have to divert and go a different longer way.  Detours aren’t always a surprise, sometimes we plan a detour into a trip, maybe we detour to see some sight or perhaps to visit with a long lost family member.  So to summarize, a Detour can be planned or unplanned, but normally involves going in a less than straight direction.

     So what I have described above normally applies to some kind of trip you are going on, but what I have been pondering lately is Life Detours.  That is when your life is going in a certain direction but then goes off in another direction, often because of someone who you have met on your life path.  These people can often act like a bumper in a pinball machine sending you off in an unexpected direction, perhaps playing a small role but having a big impact.

     Now let me tell you how my thoughts got hitched to this train of thought.  A young man that I used to work with came to visit me recently and shared with me something that he said had a big impact on his life.  Apparently one day many years ago, before we really knew each other I stopped him in the hallway at work one day.  I hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with him prior to that day, but I had read enough of his reports to know that he was a good, hard working officer who I felt would be a good fit for our detective office.  I stopped him that day and suggested he apply for an upcoming opening we had in the Detective office.  He told me he hadn’t thought about applying before I suggested it, but he went home that night, spoke to his wife and he applied the following day.  From this short conversation, that I only vaguely remember, he was brought into the detective office, which led him to being promoted and just recently leaving the Police for an prestigious position in the Justice system.  He credits that conversation I had with him as having a significant impact on the direction of his life.  I had totally forgotten that conversation until he mentioned it.

     Another example I can offer is a woman I worked with years ago stopped me one day to thank me for being there for her many years earlier.  Apparently we were working together on the same squad and she was having a really challenging time.  She tells me that after a tough nightshift I had taken her out for breakfast, listened to her, offered her some guidance and sent her home feeling a lot better about her situation.  It was more than ten years after that breakfast that she was thanking me.  I had absolutely no recollection of that breakfast, but it had a significant impact on her as she made some changes after we spoke that sent her life in a different direction.  

      So this got me thinking about some of the detours I took in my own life, and the people that were largely responsible for those detours. 

     My first real significant job of note was when I was hired on Security at General Motors in St. Catharines.  It was supposed to be a summer job but I stayed for seven years, and during my time there I my life took two significant detours.  

     One of the people I worked with there was Gerry, a guy about ten years my senior, who became a very dear friend to me, and still is now, some forty-four years later.  Gerry was significant in my life because, well I would say he is largely responsible for the person I am today.  When I met Gerry I would describe myself as a twenty year old young man who was like many people that age.  I thought I knew everything, when in fact I knew very little, and if I met myself at that age I don’t think I would like me.  Gerry was just this really likeable young guy, married to a beautiful wife and with two handsome young sons.  He was kind, thoughtful and gave me the impression of being an exceptionally good person.  He didn’t directly teach me how to be a better person or a better father, but I learned so very much by watching him, listening to him and then emulating what I saw and heard.  Sometimes when I was struggling with a decision I would think to myself, what would Gerry do, and I would then do that.  I guess you could say he was a life mentor for me.

     Also working with me at GM was a guy named Wayne who left the Provincial Police and eventually ended up with GM Security.  Wayne knew of my desire to pursue a career in Policing, and one day as I was approaching ten years of failed attempts to get hired by a Police Force I shared with him that I was thinking that maybe I should give up this dream as it did not appear it was ever going to happen.  He looked at me and said why don’t you apply to the Hamilton Police?  I explained that it was too far away, but he pointed out that lots of guys drove down the highway to the steel plants everyday.  I thought about it, then did as he had suggested and a few months later Hamilton Police hired me.  I haven’t spoken to Wayne in over three decades, and I doubt he would even remember that conversation, but thanks to him my life took a huge detour. 

     My life took another detour one cold, wintery January day when my daughter made her entrance into this world.  Suddenly I was a Dad, and so began the desire to be the best Dad I could be. I am still working at it some 42 years later.  I watched how Gerry parented and copied him, I watched how some others parented and did the opposite, but mostly I just tried my best not to screw up the most important role I would ever have in my life.

     There are as many different styles of Policing as there are Police Officers.  It was important for me to be the best officer.  I had three Sergeants that made me a good officer, each causing me to detour from the way I had been doing things.  Peter who taught me that I had the best career in the world, and if I wasn’t having fun than I wasn’t doing it right.  Robert who was such a stickler for detail that we would often get our handwritten reports back covered in sticky notes with questions that needed to be answered.  Once I learned to write reports to his standards I never had a Sergeant send my reports back for further work.  John who taught me that true leaders create an atmosphere where those who work hard for you don’t do so out of fear or intimidation, but do so because they don’t want to disappoint you.

     There is an old saying, its better to be lonely and alone, than lonely with someone.  I was a broken man, living an unhappy life with little hope for my future.  This is when I met Traci who convinced me that my company was enjoyable, that I was interesting, that I was attractive and desirable.  Although Traci and I didn’t get our happily ever after, I credit her with opening the door that allowed me to find my way back to a happy and fulfilling life.

     Like many others I am a survivor of an ugly war in Family Court that stretched over ten years and cost an obscene amount of money.  I was trying to represent myself, drowning in a tank of sharks when Gina stepped in to throw me a life ring and pull me out of the shark tank.  She directed me to Michael, my third family court lawyer who was a kind, gentle and wise man who managed to win in court and give me back my life.  Gina and Michael, two people with minor roles in my life, but who both had a major impact.

     After two failed marriages I had begun to wonder if perhaps I wasn’t meant to be single for the rest of my life.  My friend Lynda convinced me to try out online dating and I reluctantly agreed.  I went on a string of dates and had some fun along the way but wasn’t really clicking with anyone.  Then one day I received a message from a pretty young woman, I was above her requested age range, and she was below mine, but there was something about her.  I wrote back and we began to message back and forth daily.  After a month we met, and she was every bit as special as her pictures and messages suggested.  I sometimes wonder what our lives would look like today if she hadn’t been looking outside her age range that day.  It was this detour which led me to my last, best and final wife.  The woman I was meant to be with.

     There was the Neurologist who was the first one to tell me that I had ALS and would likely be dead in 2 - 5 years.  This was an unplanned an unwelcome detour I found myself on.  If we go back to the Pinball metaphor, the steel ball has now hit the last bumper and is rolling down the centre of the game, out of reach of the flippers.  It is the last play, the game is soon to be over, there are no replays.

     Every life has detours, some good, some not so good.  

     What detours has your life taken?  

     Who in your life has had a minor role but a major impact?  

     Who on your life path have you been responsible for sending on a major detour?

[akehoshimystar]

Chapter 3

Shinobu: Tadah! Here’s a photo of the little one.

Ito: Oh, he's adorable... Wow, his fur is so shiny.

Shinobu: Let me introduce you to Maro-kun, a smooth-coated chihuahua. He's 7 years old, an age where his cuteness is at its peak.

The one in the photo with him is our client, Tohru-san

Ito: (They look so happy. So, the reason she requested the rescue is….)

Is he missing?

Soyogu: Tohru-san and her boyfriend, Kuchiki Yuuto had been semi-living together until last month. Maro was taken away by him.

Apparently, it happened while she was sleeping at the night she brought up the topic of breaking up.

Ito: !

Soyogu: She has tried to get Maro to come home many times through a third party, but….

"I want to talk to you again, just the two of us. If you accept that condition, Maro will go home with you right away.” That’s what he said.

Of course, there’s no way she could accept that, so the conversation is at a standstill.

Ito: Just the two of them?

Shinobu: It's weird, isn't it? He’s so hung up on that.

From what I've heard, he seems like a typical emotionally abusive, controlling man.

If Tohru-san were to be alone with him, he might be able to do what he has been doing up until now. If that's the case, it's seriously so over.

Ito: …………………Has she consulted the police about this?

Soyogu: I heard that she already did, but didn't get the response she had hoped for. The conclusion seems to be that it is difficult for the police to intervene at this point.

Ito: I see….

(They're living together like a family. It's still difficult when someone like that is taken away without consent...)

I once received a consultation about a stalker at my previous job. I remembered an employee who said the same thing, "I already consulted the police, but didn't get the response I had hoped for.” And ended up quitting the job due to the damage caused, and I felt a little heavy in my stomach.

Ito: (I couldn't do anything back then.)

Soyogu: After considering all the circumstances, our leader decided on two major policies.

First, "Do not let Tohru-san and Kuchiki come into contact".”

Second, “To avoid resentment, we will handle Kuchiki in a way that causes as little mental and physical damage as possible.”

Ito: (Leader... Head of the department Fushimi?)

Soyogu: Shizuka-san is still coordinating the details of the strategy, but the plan is to create a "dog escape" accident.

Shibobu and I are the “rescuers” who cause an accident. And we will have Yashiro act as the carrier.

Ito: Carrier?

Shinobu: Gucchi and I are going to let Maro-kun out, that’s when you have to pick him up and head to the meeting place a few stations away.

Ito: (Eh?)

Shinobu: Once we delivery him to Tohru-san, it’s mission complete!

Ito: ………………Thank you for the rundown.

Can I ask you one thing just to be sure?

Shinobu: Sure, bring it on.

Ito: Sorry if this may come off as an amateur opinion. From what I've heard, I think the carrier is a very important position.

Are you sure you want a temporary member to take on that role?

Shinobu: Ah. Well...

Soyogu: It's simply a process of elimination.

Ito: (By process of elimination, huh…)

Shinobu: Could you be even blunter?

Soyogu: We don't have enough people. The commander role needs experience and intelligence, and the rescuer and guard roles need a certain level of physical strength to do their jobs.

But Shizuka-san judged that Yashiro could be trusted with the carrying task. That’s why he summoned you. Nothing more, nothing less.

Ito: (.….So I was called because he deemed me capable of doing the job.)

Thank you for having a faith in me. I understand.

I'll do my best as a carrier. Looking forward to working with you.

Shinobu: Same here!

On the very day, Shizuka-san will support you with his instructions, so it’s a pretty safe role, you can rest assured.

Nevertheless, there's one thing I'm concerned about.

…...And that is?

Shinobu: Kuchiki has a wide circle of friends, and not friendly ones. They have lots of free time on their hands and are all over the place.

Ito: (A bunch of unfriendly people, huh.....)

Something like… Drunkards who walk around a busy street at night?

Shinobu: Ahaha, the image in your head is very HD. That's probably what they’re like.

Ito: (My least favorite type of human being!!)

Shinobu: There's a chance that you will face those kinds of people while you’re on the move.

I'd like you to at least take a basic self-defense lesson...or rather, a course to learn how to use your body. Would that be fine with you?

Ito: .…..If it's not too much trouble, please allow me to take part in that.

Shinobu: Great! I will be joining you, and our instructor will be Gucchi.

Soyogu: Do you have any experience in sports or martial arts?

Ito: No, nothing in particular.

Soyogu: Are you confident in your physical strength?

Ito: My physical strength is pretty much… average...? I think.

If I have to say it clearly, I would say not at all.

(My physical education grade has always been average.)

Soyogu: I see. Then, I'll make sure you can say “Yes, I am.”

Ito: Eh?

Soyogu: The more stamina you have, the better.

Just leave it to me.

…..And that brings us to today.

Soyogu: .....Let's go again! Start.

Shinobu: Okay then... I'll grab you from behind.

Ito: (If someone come at me like this, open up my palm and do this!)

Shinobu: Oh!

Soyogu: Don't be complacent with that, dash off now!

Ito: …..Nghh.

Ito: ………………Haaa...Haaa...

Soyogu: That was good.

Shinobu: Exactly my thoughts! It was really smooth.

Ito: I’m glad…... to hear that…..

Soyogu: Now it's time for repetitive practice. Ultimately, the ideal is to be able to move your body without having to go through the steps in your head.

There's nothing more unreliable than "what you know in your head".

Soyogu: ...Alright. It's already time, let's call it a day

Ito: ……!

Thank you….. very much

Soyogu: Good job today.

Shinobi: You did well!

Ito: (I managed to survive somehow...)

Shinobu: Yashiro-san, here’s water.

Ito: Thank you so-…... Thanks.

Shinobu: You’re still using polite language in this situation?

Ito: Sorry, I just thought I could do it.

Shinobu: No, it’s okay. I'm the one being selfish and leaving only Yashiro-san to speak casually after all.

"I feel uneasy when someone my age use polite language, but I also don’t want to speak in a casual manner to the acting owner." After the first meeting was over, Aizawa-kun brought up his “small worry.” After careful consideration, we have settled on this form of communication for the time being.

Ito: (...………………It's certainly rare for me not to use polite language in response to someone my age who uses polite language with me.)

(I thought it would be more awkward, but surprisingly it wasn't.)

(Maybe it's because Aizawa-kun's communication skills are on another level.)

Shinobu: As usual, you must have it rough. Let's take our time to cool down.

Ito: Aizawa-kun... You still look energetic as always. As expected from you.

Shinobu: Nyahaha. Well, this is the Watchdog Dept. we’re talking about…. Ah.

Just when I was wondering why Aizawa-kun suddenly stopped talking…. A soft towel fell over my shoulders from behind.

Ito: ! Shinkai-san?

Soyogu: Your body will get cold, so wipe yourself properly. You haven’t gone through all that training just to let a cold weaken you.

Ito: …….Yes. Thank you.

(.…..A gentleman. A very kind gentleman...)

(Just now he was saying, "Don't be afraid of self-defense, you’re only evil when you attack with murderous intent".…. I feel like I'm going to catch a cold from the difference in temperature he’s giving off.)

Shinobu: Gucchi suddenly turned into a good guy just like that? No fair. What was that, Mr. Cool guy?

Soyogu: Just hurry up and stretch before taking a shower. Yashiro, sis asked you to come meet him, right?

Ito: Yes. I was originally planning to go back to Aporia after today to say hello, but….

I was offered a training course for counter work. I heard that he had time to teach me because the reservation was canceled.

Soyogu: I see….

Shinobu: And I’m supposed to go out drinking under the pretense of being a customer, what about Gucchi?

Soyogu: I'm having dinner with Sei-san today. Well, Yashiro, you had better prepare yourself.

Ito: Prepare myself?

Soyogu: Sis may be that kind of person, but when it comes to work, he’s really strict.

Ito: Eh?

Soyogu: You best brace yourself.

The scary thing here is the fact that I didn’t hear "That's not true" from Aizawa-kun. Time passed by in the blink of an eye...

Shinobu: Good evening.

The person who greeted us there was…..

Takeru: Come in! I've been waiting for you.

Ito: .….You must have been working hard.

(I thought I was already used to the corporate culture of Aporia by now. But this person really shattered my confidence...)

Glamorous makeup that stands out in the slightly dimmed lighting, beautiful long hair, a figure and beautiful posture that make him look like a show model. The voice that resonates from the visual, which is worthy of being described as a “beauty” is unmistakably that of a man. I was taken aback for a while by this person who had such an overwhelming presence.

Shinobu: Were you surprised?

Ito: Eh?

Takeru: Oh no, I haven't done anything yet. Did I scare you?

Ito: Not at all. I just thought that you are really pretty.…..

Takeru: Oh my.

I expressed my thoughts without any twist. It’s as if I was just spilling out the contents inside of my head. Mikado-san suddenly flashed a smile.

Takeru: I’m pretty fond of honest girl like you, thank you.

Takeru: Once again, I'm Mikado from the Watchdog Dept. Feel free to call me Mika-san.

Nice to meet you. Ito.

Chapter 4

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

Crown Princes and Butterfly Wings (9/?)

Chapter 8 : Prince's Flight

—-

The group begin to travel again, Patton promises to show Virgil everything the kingdom has to offer whilst Roman teaches him to fly and tries to set up a certain pair. Key word, tries.

<- Previous | First | Next ->

@cutebisexualmess :)

—-

Whoof this turned into a long one boys, somehow, because I struggled to write the first 2k words. Well, we're like five minutes later, but five minutes is better than a week. I love this chapter, we're focusing on character interactions for a bit! My favourite!

Enjoy!

----

“So, my lovely prince,” Roman said, landing from the position he’d taken hopping through the trees to walk next to Virgil, who jumped with a squeak, “You ready for your first taste of society?”

“Don’t- do that!” Virgil huffed, batting at his arm, “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” Roman shrugged, he wasn’t actually that sorry, Virgil’s little startled squeak was adorable, “I thought I should warn you that we were almost at the edge of the forest.”

“You mean it’s not all like this?” Virgil asked with a dramatic sigh, “Damn.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Roman laughed, their walk back from the tower had been a lot nicer than the journey in. There were far less monsters that they needed to kill and the entire forest felt like a weight had been lifted off of it. The constant feeling of being watched had abated almost completely and after the rainstorm had passed they’d all been able to sleep peacefully again.

“I expect us to reach the outskirts of Brindleswan within the next three hours,” Logan called back to them over his shoulder, “And we should reach the inner city before evening.”

“Oh, good,” Roman called back with a smile. Logan turned back to continue quietly conversing with Patton a while ahead of where Roman and Virgil walked. 

“Brindleswan?” Virgil asked, tilting his head a little.

“It’s the closest town in our kingdom to this forest,” Roman explained, “It’s very light and friendly, so you should fit right in.”

“Har har,” Virgil said, shaking his head, "Will there be uh- other people there?"

"Indeed," Roman nodded, "It is a city." 

"Ah, right, of course," Virgil nodded, "More appropriate question, will I need to interact with them?* 

“Not if you don’t want to,” Roman smiled, “Leave the talking to us!”

—-

“So you’ve really never been to a city before?” Patton asked Virgil as they once again trekked through the orchards and fields that lead to Brindleswan. 

“I haven’t,” Virgil nodded.

“How?” Patton said with wide eyes, “I mean, even if you’ve been in that tower for a while, surely you were somewhere before then?”

“Before the tower… I don’t really have many memories of before,” Virgil said, “I was very young.”

“Oh,” Patton said, “Thats- so sad!”

“It’s fine,” Virgil said, “I didn’t have a bad life, you know.”

“Maybe not,” Patton said, “But you’ve missed out on so much! We’ve got to show you things!”

“You don’t have to do anything, actually,” Virgil said, glancnig back at Roman who shrugged helplessy.

“Logan!” Patton called, “I propose we stay in Brindleswan a few more days than planned so we can show Virgil what he’s been missing out on!”

“Whilst I would love to pause our journey both to rest and for- that- I suppose- but, unfortunately, this trip has already put us almost a month behind schedule and we must make it to Lymaine before the trail we’re following goes cold,” Logan reasoned, Patton sighed, looking down, Logan’s resolve broke after only moments and part of Roman wished he could crack Logan so easily, “But, due to our low gold supply we will need to make stops along the way, plus we’ll likely have to spend a few days in Lymaine, we can always take some time to indulge in the journey along the way.”

“I suppose that’ll have to be good enough!” Patton said, excitement returning, “Maybe even better! We’ll be able to show you everything the kingdom has to offer, that way!”

“Oh, wonderful,” Virgil said, sighing. 

“You may as well resign yourself now,” Roman said, “Patton is enthusiastic and probably won’t drop it, and hey, it might actually be fun?”

“I… suppose I could- try?” Virgil said slowly.

“Yes!” Patton cheered, “I have so much to show you!”

—-

They stopped in every village they came across on the way to Lymaine. Their supply of gold was running far too low and so was their supply of information. Logan wanted to do some searching to see if he could find a way to track Remus without something that belonged to him, they needed to somehow get some more gold for the journey and Patton wanted to show Virgil the best parts about society so they took it in turns.

So they decided, together, that in every village they would come across they would split into pairs. One pair would search for information and the other would attempt to find paid work for the day. Whoever was paired with Virgil would try and find something new for him to experience throughout the day. 

In one town that happened to have a large library, Patton and Roman had gone of to see if anyone would pay for assistance while Logan lead Virgil through walls of books.

Virgil was familiar with reading. Roman knew this, since he’d had that massively overstuffed bookshelf back in the tower, but he had said there was something different about the library than his bookshelf. It had been calm and dim but not dark, the books had had a certain smell to them and there were enough to keep him occupied for the hours that they were there and more.

“You should see the Royal Lbrary back at my palace,” Roman told him as they left the town late that afternoon, still determined to get a few hours of travelling into the day, “It’s size probably matches that of the whole town.”

“There are really that many books to fill such a space?” Virgil asked, tilting his head.

“Of course, and probably more beyond. There are so many that even Logan hasn’t read them all,” Roman said with a grin, “Though not for lack of trying, say Logan, how many of the books have you read, now?”

“11,521.” Logan answered, “Is my current count.”

“And how many books are in your library?” Virgil asked.

“Roughtly 400,000.” Logan said.

“Ah,” Virgil said, “That is a lot of books.”

“Indeed,” Logan nodded, “I have been attempting to read at least one book a day since I was beginning to read at three years old, though admittedly at the beginning these were picture books.”

“That is a lot of books.” Virgil repeated.

“As it said, at first it was only children’s and picture books. I was able to get through those incredibly quickly.” Logan reasoned, “As I progressed I started to slow down, however if I had continued at the same speed I would have been at around 24,000 books by now.”

“Do you have some kind of, magic reading spell?” Patton asked, wide eyed.

“I do, in fact, though it takes a while to set up.” Logan said, “So I don’t use it often.”

“Wow,” Patton gasped, “That’s brilliant!”

—-

After days of stopping in every village on route from Brindlesawan the group found that their path lead through more forest. Roman had suggested they go around in order to continue their current routine, but Logan had pointed out that it would be much faster simply to go through and, at the moment, they had enough supplies to last them the few days trip. 

Virgil seemed to be much more comfortable in the more familiar environment despite the Greensglade forest was so different to Teine. It was much brighter, for one, and there weren’t any monsters attempting to kill them. 

Although they still had to be careful incase they came across any other travellers in the forest, Logan was happy enough for Roman to show his wings, and thus he dedicated as much of their travel time as possible to teaching Virgil how to use his own.

The difficulties surrounding teaching Virgil how to fly started at the very first step. For Roman, while he wasn’t flying, his wings would rest either out flat to the side or closed behind him, meaning he could just- take off, whenever he wanted. They worked out almost immediately that Virgil’s wings did not do that. Instead they rested closed around his body like a little blanket. 

With a little help from Logan, embarrassingly enough for Roman, they worked out that Virgil needed to spread his wings out before he could take off. 

It took longer to coax Virgil into actually trying to leave the ground than it had taken them to practive what he would need to do with his wings when he got there. There had been a lot of assurances from Roman that he would catch Virgil if he did fall and then for Roman to prove himself by actually catching Virigl when he stumbled the first time they tried for them to feel brave enough to really try properly.

From there it had basically been smooth sailing, in terms of flying, at least. Virgil had gotten the hang of it incredibly quickly once he got past the fear and had started following Roman as he hopped and fluttered between boulders and ledges created by roots and low hanging tree branches by the third day of their forest travels and by the evening it had evolved into a strange game of chase that had them both laughing so much their sides hurt.

Roman knew they had been acting childish, in fact he could easily remember playing similar games with Remus and Logan when they were young, but it didn’t really matter. It did wonders for burning through the extra energy he got from keeping his wings hidden away and hell it was fun, and if that wasn’t a good reason to do anything, he didn’t know what was. Virgil must have had fun too, if the way he had collapsed next to Roman, still smiling, once they had stopped was any indication.

—-

“Whilst you two were busy playing games like faerie sprites,” Logan told them a little later, after they had set up camp, “Me and Patton have been working out where we’re going to be headed next.”

“Oh?” Roman asked, leaning forward to show his interest. Virgil hummed to show he was listening, though he was already curled up, half asleep, in his sleeping bag.

“The path we are taking brings us out of the forest almost on top of Miera,” Logan explained, before Patton cut him off, seemingly bubbling over with excitement.

“Which is where I’m from!” He said with a grin, “Oh, I haven’t been back there in years! And right around now they’ll be holding the harvest festival, which means that we’ll be able to go!”

“Patton has also informed me that he may be able to pull a few favors and get us free lodgings whilst we are remaining there. So we’ll be able to spend some time at this festival as well as restock our supplies and do our usual information gathering over a few days.”

“Isn’t it great!” Patton grinned, clapping his hands, “My goodness, I can show you around! You can meet Ma and Pop and my little siblings! And the Hervest festival was always so much fun, there are so many stalls and games and fun things you can go and do! We’re gonna have the best few days, I promise you guys!”

“And after that we will continue our journey to Lymaine, which is only a few days west of Miera.” Logan finished, a faint smile on his face.

“Oh, wonderful!” Roman said, polite smile turning into a grin, “I’ve always wanted to go to a real village festival! You know, the seasonal galas they hold in the palace are fine and all, but you can only spend so much time around snobby nobles, this’ll be wonderful!”

“I will admit, whilst I have read and heard about these festivities, I have also never experienced them firsthand.” Logan said, Virgil hummed a noise of agreement from his sleeping bag, though Roman was pretty certain he would have to run this by him again in the morning. 

“I can show you guys all the best bits then!” Patton grinned, “A new experience for all three of you, rather than just Virgil for once!”

“Hurrah!” Roman cheered, “This will be wonderful! But- Logan- are you really alright with us taking such a detour?”

Logan smiled and ducked his head a little, “You are not the only one interested in the customs of the people of this kingdom, you know.”

“Oh really?” Roman asked, “You’ve never showed interest before…”

Logan ducked his head even more, Roman was pretty sure his cheeks were going purple. He mumbled something unintelligible to Roman across the clearing but Patton squeaked and went red, Roman smirked. So this was exactly what he thought it was, then.

“What was that? My apologies, I couldn’t quite catch it,” Roman said sweetly, putting on such a false innocent face that Logan must know he was on to him. Good.

“I said that Patton seemed very excited about the idea and I could not bring myself to say no to him. Are you happy?” Logan muttered, this time loud enough to be heard.

“Very!” Roman grinned, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be sleeping alongside my fellow prince, you two are welcome to stay awake as long as you like, though.”

Roman winked at Patton, who blushed in response before laying down where he had set up his stuff next to Virgil. He did his best not to fall asleep so he could keep listening to what happened while he was ‘sleeping’. Between the two of them Roman wondered quite how much they would have to explain to Virgil in the morning.

—-

“You think he’s actually asleep?” Patton whispered, loud in the silence of the forest.

“I expect so,” Logan answered, “Roman is a heavy sleeper, do you believe he told us to stay up for a reason?”

“He didn’t exactly tell us to,” Patton reasoned, “But uh- yeah he definitely implied it. I think he has a reason, yeah.”

“There could be many reasons someone may tell their companions to stay awake whilst they sleep,” Logan said, “Which do you believe is Roman’s?”

“Well I uh- I believe he… y’know, there’s not very many chances to talk in private, being in a travelling group, and I uh- I think he wants me to talk to you, about something, and saw the opportunity now and threw it at me, since, we’re now alone, well not alone, but y’know, and talking, so, yeah.”

“What is it that he would’ve wanted us to talk about?” Logan asked, sounding confused. 

“W-well I uh- there’s this, thing, that I’ve been trying to- well- tell you subtly since we left Mirefeld…” Patton trailed off, “Actually, no, it’s nothing, nevermind, really not important.”

Damnit, Patton.

“Oh, well- you know I will listen, if you want to tell me anything-?” Logan said, sounding even more confused, “I will not judge you if you have some kind of issue we must resolve-”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that, I just- it’s really not a problem at all,” Patton shook his head, “Are you really sure you’re ok with us going to the festival tomorrow?”

A blatant redirection of the conversation.

“Of course,” Logan nodded, “It will make you happy to go, and it will also make Roman happy, and likely Virgil too, though I cannot be sure.”

“But will it make you happy?” Patton asked, almost too quiet for Roman to hear without moving and altering them to his state of wakefulness.

“Of course,” Logan said, “That is a foolish question, I have found, over the course of our travels so far, that seeing you happy also makes me happy. Besides, I value new experiences and this will certainly be a new experience.”

“Oh!” Patton squeaked, “That’s- that’s really nice, Logan. For the record, I really like it when you’re happy too, you’re- your freckles, they glow, when you’re happy, and it’s- it’s really pretty.”

That’s adorable, what.

“You think so?” Logan asked, slowly, was he unsure? “I have always found such an obvious tell of my emotions cumbersome.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Patton said, a little awkwardness seeping into his tone.

“It bothers me,” Logan simplified immediately.

“Oh…” Patton said, now a little sad, “Well I think they’re wonderful.”

“...Thank you,” Logan said, “Very much, we- we should really get to sleep, so that we have optimal energy for tomorrow.”

“Yes! You’re completely right, sleeping, yes, let’s do that!” Patton said, jumping up from where he had been sitting and moving over to the space he had picked out.

“Goodnight, Patton.” Logan said, in the softest tone Roman had ever heard the man use.

“Night, Lo,” Patton said back and Roman almost jumped out of his sleeping bag and yelled for them to just kiss already, because gave him a nickname? Really? This was just getting unbearable.

----

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[pomfiores]

" Oya what luck was bestowed upon me for my my eyes to still have the honor of witnessing our dear queen in this outfit that brings out in particular that magically enchanting beauty to light " the ancient muses with a chuckle as he finally made an appearance right through the queen's window of his personal chambers, at the very end of the party. Fashionably late and ridiculously excentric entrance, as usual " I do hope that you can excuse my absence from the party, there were some problems that needed to be taken care of so i was caught in a little more than i would like " that is not an excuse but a mere explanation, or perhaps just a smooth way of taking the conversation where he wants it " Ah however, in the end i do prefer this time after all " lips curl into a sly grin and the fae places a small box upon Vil's hands. The box was a familiar certain magenta color however instead of green, the ribbon wrapping it was a very elegant shade of deep purple, a match made in heaven if he was so bold to say. Inside the box was a precious necklace in the image of a peacock feather, the main piece that brought the precious thing together was the ' eye ' of the feather which was a beautiful deep purple sapphire stone that on it's own was breathtaking enough, however, the captivating gem had a delightful little secret inside it. If one looks closely, you can see something moving inside it, that is because the inside is filled with some droplets of a dangerous poison.

" I call it, the eye of poison, the handyman that crafted it said i had a good taste with names so i trust his judgment kufufu " he takes the necklace and proceeds to carefully place it around the queen's neck " Boring days may come any time, two taps of the finger for the eye to open and a few drops of poison to fall, in a drink, directly on the skin, the choice would be yours of course based on how you feel at the moment, then you can replace the poison with another one of your liking for a next time " and he smoothly steals a kiss, one that lingers for way longer, one that is pressed deeper with hunger, fangs sinking into his bottom lip as he bits hard and blood quickly follows " Mmm ~ what a sight " he whispers against the kiss and licks Vil's lips while he still did not pull away one bit.

He presses the kiss deeper until he knocks the other over his back to fall nicely on his bed and Lilia to lad on top of him, fitting oh so perfectly " Ah my, it just suits you so nicely " he says oh so enamored. //happy birthday his darling queen mwah

His shoulders shrugging off velvet robes, revealing the black chiffon wrap underneath — the gentle spring wind against his back makes Lilia's appearance apparent. Who else? He isn't quick to turn. Instead, his brows furrow into a light frown as he almost rolls his eyes. It's one thing to show up late. But to still show face and do so uninvited? What kind of student — much less a knight — had the gall? "It's late, Lilia." You're late, Lilia. "I'm going to bed. What is it that you want?"

Vil's annoyance slightly grows as fae takes Vil's response as an invitation to completely enter the room. Hmph, he has more than the gall. It's the lack of respect. Never mind the excuse. Was he bothered? Yes, however, his reasons do check out. If Lilia thought he could simply show up with no repercussions — he had another thing coming. And Vil wouldn't let him get away with it scot-free. "Yes, you prefer being awake all hours of the night whereas I prefer my sleep. Can't this wait until tomorrow? I thought you'd be at your dorm, by now." Now, shoo.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Vil finally looks over at Lilia who's already right beside him in seconds upon entering his bedroom with the box in hand. He must think he can bribe his way out of this by gifting — come now, Lilia, you've known him this long. It's an extravagant piece, that much was obvious. Vil certainly wasn't going to do anything with it tonight but Lilia's already on it; putting the accessory on his neck. It's cold, especially through the chiffon.

"Hm... it is, indeed, original." He comments, glancing at the vanity to watch Lilia behind him and a peak at the piece adorning his neck. The necklace is suitable for practicality. Though, he wonders ... from what it sounds like — the poison inside must be formulated with rare ingredients. Briar Valley, he wonders? He'd ask but Lilia seemed to have other plans, sneaking around to catch the Queen's lips.

Now, just what do you think you're doing? "Lilia." Quite persistent. "Lilia." visage contorts as his eyelids lower. Vil's taken by surprise by the kiss, his hand taking the Knight's shoulder. He has every intention to not simply give in to what the fae wants and he will do just that. It was — after all — still his birthday. Leaning back to create some space, Lilia's quick to recover it to keep the kiss going. Fine. He won't mind testing the fae's endurance. Irritability begins to subside albeit slightly so, until — ah!?

Eyes open wide at the sting, Vil hisses. It doesn't occur to him why until he tastes iron ... Slack-jawed, he doesn't react as erratically as one might possibly expect. Violets locked with crimson once he'd landed upon his bed, unshaken and quite possibly determined. "Ugh. How barbaric." This behavior? Wherever did it come from? No matter, Vil wasn't opposed to reminding a knight who he was being reckless with. "You impudent." Taking Lilia's shoulder, he sits up to return the favor; kissing the fae back with just as much force.

One chaste kiss. Followed by two sloppier ones.

[kyndaris]

Whole Again - Part 1

This short story is a sequel to one I wrote a couple of years back. called Splintered. During that time, I was struggling with a lot of things including the fact I never truly presented my whole self to others but only certain facets.

I've come to realise, however, that just because I don't bring my whole self into a conversation doesn't mean it's a fake personality I've conjured. It is still me.

There is a time and place for everything.

While not everyone may appreciate Chaos Gremlin Kyndaris, maybe some others will. Then again, there is Work Kyndaris and Eager Gamer Kyndaris. Dutiful Daughter Kyndaris and Exhausted Caregiver Kyndaris.

Humans are multifaceted. In this day and age where we try and label everything, is it any wonder so many are trying to seek their 'true selves' only to stumble because they've not realised the whole of who they are is a complex contradictory mess?

So many things have been relegated to black and white, it's become impossible to see the nuance of who people are.

With that, I hope you enjoy this first part of my short story: Whole Again.

Life as I knew it changed when I graduated from Seven Oak High. At college, there was a whole new host of challenges I needed to weave my way through and I realised the old masks I’d worn to get me through high school were no longer fit for purpose.

Gone was mean-girl queen-bee Trish. Her actions and behaviour wouldn’t have worked under the watchful eye of the sorority den mother in charge of my dormitory.

Pat, on the other hand, stepped up to fill the void. But instead of being the meek and dutiful student and daughter, she had taken on several more facets of who I was. There was a new spring to her step. A confidence that exuded from putting my hand up for several campus causes.

Suddenly, everything was all new and fresh again and I had to adapt once more.

From the remains of Pat and Trish emerged Patsy.

No longer was I a leader so much as another cog in the fight against oppression and the patriarchy. All the energy I poured into becoming Queen Bee was now put into healthier pursuits as I railed against a slew of social injustices.

And yet a part of me still missed hanging out with my friends, Naomi and Evangeline (although they both ended up going to different universities than me), I was still a version of Trish. But this time I could let my guard down a little. Show off a little bit of the real ‘me’ lurking beneath the mask I had worn.

They deserved it, after all. Especially after the pain and terror we had all endured at the hands of Amelia last year.

After all, if it hadn’t been for the Evangeline and her boyfriend, Michael Sanchez, there was every chance I might not be standing here at all.

And thus, Tricia was born to serve as a dorkier and less catty version of Trish. Tricia was about having fun, with a focus on nostalgia.

Was it what Amelia had wanted for me? No. But given that she was in a juvenile detention centre and mandated to see a court-appointed psychiatrist every week to deal with whatever was wrong with her, I doubted her opinion mattered much.

Not that she put much stock in therapy.

In her mind, she was the least crazy of us all. Rather, it was the entire world that was mad as we catered to society’s expectations of who and what we were. Better, she had told me while holding a knife, to be our truest and authentic selves. Whatever that meant.

The first time I’d visited her at the detention centre, she hadn’t seemed surprised when she came out. Rather, there had been a knowing smile on her face as she sat down. We stared at each other for a few minutes.

But as I struggled to find the words I wanted to say, Amelia motioned to her guard and whispered something into their ear. Before I could stop her, she had risen to her feet and left.

I was left sitting at the table, alone. And for the longest time, I didn’t know if I wanted to leave or stay. Hell, I didn’t know why I’d come to see her in the first place.

Maybe I wanted closure. Or maybe I wanted to see the person still haunting me in my nightmares and know she couldn’t hurt me anymore.

Whatever the reason, I was left with a roiling churning maelstrom of emotions in my gut. None of which I could decipher.

In the end, one of the guards had to escort me out.

Still, despite that, I came to visit her again. And again. And again.

Amelia was a mystery. One I wanted to solve.

From all accounts, before the incident at her old school, she had been just like me. Except, perhaps, more outstanding. She was smart, athletic and didn’t shy away from the arts either. She was a triple-threat student.

But something had happened in the summer of 2018. One that had seen her thrown out of her prestigious school and enrol at Seven Oaks High instead. The word on the street was it was an altercation with another student though the details were hazy.

What kept me up most nights was the fear I might turn into her. Or a version of her.

The fear and anger and hurt I’d repressed all throughout middle school and high school had coalesced into something frightening. I wouldn’t call it a personality exactly. Nor was it a facet of who I was. Not really.

Just an impulse. A voice in my head wishing ill on others or asking me to do something cruel and mean and demeaning.

It sometimes came out as Trish, but only if I ever felt threatened.

Trish, as a mask I wore, was created from an amalgamation of mean girls from teen movies. The stereotypical queen bee who often got their comeuppance by the end of the film. She was meant to be all bark and no bite. A harmless stereotype most people forgot because it wasn’t who I really was and nobody at Seven Oaks High really cared much for.

Except, of course, Amelia had brought out a side of me that was petty and jealous and actually hurtful because I couldn’t stand how effortlessly she made friends with any and all cliches. There was no artifice to her.

She was everything I wanted to be but couldn’t.

And that was why I hated her.

Or I would have if, by the third time I’d visited her, the façade she had of being above it all hadn’t begun to slip. Behind all the bravado she had projected during my first visit, Amelia was scared.

She knew she had done something wrong but she hadn’t quite grasped the extent of her actions.

Still, even though I could be more ‘myself’ when I was with Evangeline and Naomi, it was with Amelia I could truly be the entirety of Patricia.

“So, tell me about college. What are you studying? Doing anything fun?”

“There’s not much to tell. Just a lot of courses and assignments and projects. I’ve signed up to help protest sexual harassment on campus and I’ve joined two clubs, one’s acapella and the other is about climate change.”

“How typical of the overachiever.”

“You’re one to talk,” I scoffed. “How are things in here?”

“Same old, same old. Although, there was this other girl that was giving me the side eye last week. Said I’d taken her towel.”

“Did you?”

“Well, yes. I did. But she wouldn’t have known that. I returned it, cleaned and everything. She should have been thanking me. Her towel was filthy.”

“That’s not the point, Amelia.”

“Oh, then what is, Patricia? Should I have done the socially acceptable thing of pointing out her towel was filthy and she needed to wash it?”

“No, but—”

“Fine. Next time I’ll play nice and not say a thing. Wait until they notice how disgusting they truly are.”

“Amelia…you know what? Forget it. This isn’t why I came to visit you.”

“You sure you don’t want me to regale you all about juvie life, Patricia? You come here so often, one would think it’s the sole reason you come and see me here. Or do you relish seeing me behind bars?”

I rose to my feet. There was no sense in talking to Amelia when she was being contrary.

“It was good to see you, Amelia. I’ll see you next time, yeah?”

“Leaving so soon? Was it something I said?”

“Amelia, I don’t have time to play these games. Not today. I’ve three assignments to get through and I’m helping out at a fundraiser tomorrow.”

Something shifted in Amelia’s face.

A flash of fear or disdain or something else, I couldn’t tell. She opened her mouth, perhaps to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, I felt the weight of her gaze on the back of my head as I left the correction facility.

I couldn’t help but wonder if she had known the lie on my lips.

~

It was a struggle to remain awake as the professor droned on about the basics of supply and demand. Head propped on fist, I stifled a yawn and looked over at Sonia, who seemed enraptured by the subject matter, as she scribbled down notes. Sonia and I were roommates and shared three classes. We’d become fast friends, bonding over a shared love for the online game Honkai: Star Rail.

While Sonia was an avid gamer, I’d been drawn to the space-themed fantasy role playing game because of the artwork. And the fact many of my online friends had been effusive about both Star Rail and its predecessor, Genshin Impact. It had been easy to get into. And almost impossible to get out of.

Amelia might have said I’d been trapped. But it didn’t feel like that for me.

The world of Honkai: Star Rail was one I loved. Especially when coupled with the awesome characters found therein.

It was freeing in so many ways.

In a world of pretend, I could be whoever I wanted behind the username I used.

But Honkai also had its hooks in me simply as a fan of the series. Without even meaning to, I’d bought a plushie of one of my favourites when I’d spied them in a store. It now sat on my bed, next to my pillow. A guilty pleasure I allowed myself because I knew Sonia wouldn’t tell.

“Patsy, you look like you haven’t been paying attention,” said the professor, looking right at me. I flushed and desperately looked around, hoping there was another Patsy or Patricia in class he was referring to. But the professor merely shook his head as he pointed to me. “Come, come. This isn’t anything hard. And I’m not trying to single you out. But since you were caught daydreaming, I’ll need to make an example of you. Who knows, if you did the readings I’d set last week, this shouldn’t be too hard either. So, tell me, what is the umbrella term for the various macroeconomic theories and models of how aggregate demand influences economic output and inflation?”

I scrambled for an answer; racked my brain for anything I could offer.

This was something I knew because I had read the readings from last week. Yet, being put on the spot like this, all I wanted to do was fade into the seat underneath me. Vanish into the great unknown.

Sonia leaned in. “—nesian—” she whispered to me.

What? There wasn’t an economist named Nesian to the best of my knowledge. Had I missed something?

For a moment, I blinked dumbly at Sonia then turned back to the professor.

God. Why was this so hard? Think Patricia, think!

“Um, Keynesian?”

The professor let out a sigh. “Yes. That’s right. Sonia, next time, I’d appreciate it if you let Patsy answer on her own, hm?”

Sonia sank in her seat, the tips of her ears burning red. The professor waited a moment before turning back to the blackboard and resuming his presentation.

As I listened to his speech, I wrote a quick note in the top left corner of my notebook, ripped it off and slipped it over to Sonia. She barely glanced at it, still traumatised for being caught out by her favourite professor, before pushing it back in my direction, an apologetic look in her eyes.

Shit. My brief lapse in concentration had cost Sonia everything she cared about. I’d have to make it up for her.

Right after I helped the Climate Change Committee with their placard signs, printed off posters for the ‘Sexual Harassment on Campus’ rally and a bajillion other projects Patsy had signed herself up to. Patsy, of course, was a real believer in human rights and social causes. She also kissed up hard to the professors when it came to her studies. When it came to friends, though, Patsy sometimes did let them down.

But she was the mask Sonia knew best. With a side serving of gamer chic.

Still, it was no excuse. I’d find a way to properly express my remorse before next Friday night. Which, of course, was when Tricia had scheduled a late-night karaoke session with Naomi and Evangeline to catch-up on all the hot goss around town. And to also let my hair down after a gruelling two weeks of assignments.

The queen bee of Seven Oaks High still needed to partay!

Still, all of this juggling between masks was exhausting.

There were days when I wished I didn’t have to pretend to be something I wasn’t. Or, at the very least, hide away parts of me that didn’t fit with the image people had of me.

And it made me want to explode.

Despite my attempts to quieten the voices, they seemed only to get louder and louder and louder with each passing day.

I wondered what might happen if I kept trying to shove my round self into a square hole. Wondering if it would last.

Movies and social media had forced us all into one pigeonhole or another. Popular girls were stereotyped as mean. The protagonist was always the ugly duckling who was actually beautiful once she underwent a makeover.

But the whole of who I was couldn’t be contained in one label.

Could it?

I was pulled from my thoughts as the hour ran out and the professor dismissed the class. Gathering my belongings, I was right behind Sonia when a voice called out to me.

“Patsy, could you stay behind for a minute, please? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

I froze. Sonia looked back at me, a look of concern on her face.

“Go,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you back in the dorm.”

Frowning, Sonia gave a nod of her head before she headed down the corridor and vanished around the corner. I turned back to face the professor, steeling myself for the reprimand that was sure to come when the last of the students trickled out.

But it never came.

“Sir?”

Professor Langley heaved a heavy sigh, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. He flashed me a weary smile. “Patsy, this isn’t easy for me to say but I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.”

“Is it about my studies? Because I can do extra credit or—” I started, scrambling to figure out what it was I had done wrong.

“Oh, no. Patsy. It’s nothing academic. Which is why I struggled with bringing this to your attention.”

“Okay?”

“Patsy, do you happen to know a girl called Amelia Cardum?” asked the professor, a sheepish look on his face.

A cold shiver went down my spine at the mention of Amelia’s name s I stared up at Professor Langley, wide-eyed with horror.

How much did he know? Was he somehow related to Amelia? While newspapers weren’t forbidden from printing names, the journalists had kept it lowkey. Even when it came to reporting the trial, no-one had been identified and I’d appeared only via teleconference.

The professor couldn’t have known of my connection to Amelia. Could he?

“Judging by your gaping mouth, I assume I’ve hit the nail on the head with that assumption. Listen, Pasty, you’re not in any trouble. It just so happens, though, that Amelia attended my cousin’s high school.”

What Professor Langley said next was forgotten as my mind scrambled for a way to escape. To sink into the ground. To defenestrate myself. Or combust into flames.

His next few works caught me off-guard.

“—my cousin with nary but a slap on the wrist. The fact you were almost killed—”

“Sorry. What?”

Professor Langley stopped and searched my face for something. “This was a mistake. I apologise for overstepping. Forget I said—”

“No,” I said, grabbing hold of his arm. “It’s just, when you mentioned Amelia, I didn’t know what to think. I was scared you were going to judge me for something out of my control. It’s…still a touchy subject.”

“That’s understandable, Patsy,” said the professor, nodding emphatically. He leaned in towards me. “My cousin is still very much shaken after what happened to her. But I’m sure your experience was much more harrowing. It’s just…well, I’ve heard Amelia has a parole hearing later this month. And I would appreciate if you could be there, say a few words. She might have been a minor at the time but there’s something wrong with the girl. She’s evil incarnate. And she can’t simply get away with this anymore. Don’t you agree?”

  It took me a moment to grasp the implications behind his words.

But while I knew where he was coming from, I couldn’t agree. There was a part of me that pitied Amelia. Who still saw a part of myself reflected in her.

She might be troubled and out of touch with reality, but she was also the person who had seen into my very soul. A dark reflection of who I could be if I made the wrong choices.

“I…can I think on it, professor? This isn’t something I can decide on right now.”

Professor Langley straightened. “Of course. This is a hard ask, I know. My cousin was also reluctant to step forward too.”

“Would it suit to give you a reply next week?”

“Yes, of course. There’s no pressure. None at all. But, Patsy, I’m glad we had this talk. Amelia is a monster who destroys everything she touches. And my family—” Professor Langley stopped, something almost like sorrow darting across his features.

“I know,” I said, flashing him a weak smile.

He returned it in kind. After a beat of silence, I headed towards the door.

As I slipped out, I glanced over my shoulder and caught a parting glimpse of Professor Langley, slumped in a chair near to the lectern, an unreadable expression on his face as he stared up at the ceiling.

Not for the first time, I wondered if I had done the right thing when it came to Amelia.

~

“What’s on your mind, Patricia? You’re unusually quiet today.”

I blinked up at Amelia, seated across from me. The only thing between us was a sheet of protective glass.

“Sorry. I was just thinking about my mother. And then all this additional work I have to do.”

Amelia was silent for a few seconds as she looked me in the eye. “Don’t bullshit me, Patsy. Spill it. What’s really going on.”

Fuck. I should have known I wouldn’t have been able to trick her.

Fine. If she wanted to play this game, I’d give it as good as I got. “Okay. You got me. Why didn’t you tell me about the parole hearing?”

The question seemed to catch Amelia by surprise as she raised her eyebrows. “Where did you hear that, Patsy? Were you sticking your nose in things that didn’t concern you again.”

“You’re evading, Amelia.”

“No,” said Amelia, slapping an open palm on the protective glass. “I just want to know the little snitch who told you I was going up for parole.”

“And lose out on my ear to the inside?” I said. “Hell no. You’re not the only one who gets to hold all the cards here.” Did she know I was lying through my teeth?

Amelia slammed the receiver down and stood to her feet. She stayed that way for a good few moments before she sat back down and picked up the receiver again. “Well, if you really want to know, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I’d get out. Fact of the matter is, I did something bad according to the unenlightened folks in charge and, if it was in their power, they’d keep me here until the day I died. Not that I’m complaining. I get free food, a bed and some people to help get through their childhood trauma and open up their eyes to the truth.”

“You’re evading again.”

“No. I’m not.”

Silence stretched between us as I plucked up the courage the one thing I’d wanted to ask ever since I’d got to the correction facility earlier in the day. “But, if given the choice, would you want to leave Amelia?”

She snorted. “Of course,” she answered with barely a pause. “None of the people in here get me. They posit theories of what’s wrong with me, never knowing that there’s nothing wrong with me. My mind is whole and I know who I am. The more pressing question is how well each of these psychiatrists know themselves or the work they do. I often wonder if even a single one of them knows what the DSM-5 is.”

“What’s a DSM-5?”

Amelia looked at me as if I’d grown a second head.

“What? I really don’t know. It’s not as if I’m studying psychology,” I said defensively.

“But you’re thinking on taking on a science major, aren’t you?” asked Amelia, arching one eyebrow.

“Yeah. Like microbiology or chemistry. Human behaviour follows certain patterns, true, but there are always exceptions. At least with hard science, you know everything will follow the rules. And if it doesn’t, there’s an explanation. A new rule to be discovered. But humans? They’re too contrary. They make up their own rules.”

“Do you really believe that, Patricia?”

I hoped my pointed stare would be enough. Out of all the people I knew, she was the one exception. I’d never seen anyone be able to belong to every single group in high school and none at all. More than that, Amelia seemed to stand above us mere mortals. As if she was another race entirely.

Her mind was a labyrinthine mystery, simple and complex in equal measure.

There were some days when I felt almost a kinship to Amelia. Where I felt I could understand the alien creature before me. Then there were days where Amelia felt completely and utterly unknowable.

Nevertheless, I was drawn to her in a way I couldn’t quite understand. There was a part of me her words spoke to. A part of me that scared the living daylights out of the other personas I’d carefully curated over the years because it fed off the chaos.

And it was this part of me I swore to keep squashed down for I feared where it would lead me.

“Yes, Amelia. I do,” I said finally.

My answer was met with silence. When it became almost unbearable, I rose to my feet.

“Anyways, I’d better go. It’s been a long day and I’ve a lot on my mind.”

As I was about to put down the receiver, Amelia tapped the window to gain my attention and mimicked holding a phone. I put the receiver back against my ear. Her voice came through, sounding almost strained through the connection.

“Patsy. If you’re thinking of attending the parole hearing, let me give you some advice: Don’t.”

~

Lying on my bed at home, I stared up at the ceiling. It was easier to stay at home than go back to the dormitory when I visited Amelia at the juvenile detention centre. Besides, it was the weekend. And Sonia was off catching up with a friend from Minnesota who had come to visit.

What had Amelia meant?

Did she fear I would finally see sense and refuse to visit her? Afraid the words of others would finally sway me to see the light?

But given she had tried to kill me during our final year at Seven Oaks High, I doubted there was much that could be said to persuade me she was a danger. I already knew she was. And yet I still came back.

There was just something about Amelia that I couldn’t quite shake. No matter how many times I promised myself I would stop.

Beside me, my phone buzzed with a message. I picked it up, watching as it unlocked by scanning my face and opening to the last thing I’d been looking at. The DSM-5. Or The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Supposedly, it was the be-all and end-all when it came to diagnosing ailment a person might be suffering from when it came to mental illness.

While it was still a hefty tome, sitting at over 900 pages, it still boggled my mind that the entirety of the human mind and experience could be distilled into it.

It just didn’t seem right. Or possible.

My phone pinged again, pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced up towards the notification.

Naomi: herd u in town? Evie wants 2 go out. U good for 7?

The offer was tempting. A chance to let my hair down after that talk with Amelia?

Yes, please.

And if I could get away with a little underage drinking, why shouldn’t I? Having to deal with Amelia would give any sane person a headache at the best of times. A part of me wondered if she did it only to seem complex and above the petty concerns of us mere mortals.

In any case, it was something I didn’t want to deal with right now. Especially given what Professor Langley had said earlier in the week.

Maybe it was something I could raise with Naomi and Evangeline? Surprisingly, the two of them could be quite prescient when needed.

I clicked open my messages and sent through a confirmation. Naomi’s reply came but a second later.

                Naomi: k, will come pick u up at 6. c u soon. xoxo

Smiling, I rose from my bed. I only had a few hours to get ready.

~

“Patsy, a word, if you would?”

Sonia quirked an eyebrow at me as she hovered near the exit, wondering if she ought to go ahead to her next lesson or wait up for me.

“I’ll be fine,” I mouthed at her. She nodded hesitantly before heading off. As the rest of the class petered out, I joined Professor Langley at his desk, waiting with my hands behind my back.

“So, have you given some thought to what I asked you last week?” he asked, barely looking up from the papers he was grading.

“I did.”

“And?”

“Um…I’m still not sure,” I answered. “I don’t really want to be involved in all this. And after…everything, I don’t want to relive it all at the parole hearing. The trial at the end of my year in high school was already terrible.”

At this, Professor Langley looked up sharply. Moments passed in heavy silence as he scrutinised my face with his piercing blue eyes. Finally, he put down his pen.

“I completely understand where you’re coming from, Patsy,” said Professor Langley. “My cousin, after all, was also reluctant at first.”

“Then—”

“Listen, Patsy, why don’t you take a seat.” Professor Langley gestured to the chair in front of his desk. As soon as I sat down, he continued, “The thing about Amelia is that she gets into your head. She got into my cousin’s head. Made her start wondering if any of this was real or not. And my cousin, well, she went down a very dark path until me and her parents were able to pull her back out again.”

“I’m so sorry—"

“No, Patsy. There’s nothing you need be sorry about. This is all Amelia’s doing. And take it from me, I just want to keep you safe. So, if you feel like you can’t attend the parole hearing, I completely understand. But if you could find it within yourself to maybe write a victim impact statement, I can help. It’s just…I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, you know?”

“No. Of course not. I understand.”

“Good. Good,” said Professor Langley. “Well, I suppose that’s it, then?” He rose to his feet and stuck out his hand out for me to shake.

I took it.

“See you next class, Patsy. And, um, if you ever want to talk about anything, just reach out.”

“Yes, of course.”

The silence hung between us for another awkward beat or two before I grabbed my things and hurried for the door. Thankfully, I didn’t have class immediately after or I would have been a good thirty or so minutes late.

Instead, I headed back to my dormitory, thoughts awhirl with what had just transpired with Professor Langley. As I entered my rooms, I was greeted by Sonia.

She jumped up from her bed as soon as the door creaked open.

“Patricia! I got so worried about what Langley wanted with you, I thought I’d wait for you here.”

“What about your next class?”

Sonia shrugged. “It’s not so important I can’t take some time out for a friend,” she said with a smile as she patted the bed next to her.

I sat down beside her, unsure of how much to tell her or if I should. Maybe if I came up with a lie about why Professor Langley wanted to talk to me? But what would work without it seeming like I was up to no good?

There were rumours already on campus that a few students were sleeping with their professors to get good grades. I didn’t want to be another statistic. Especially given how hard I worked to eke out my place here at college.

As I opened my mouth to speak, even as I was still figuring out what I wanted to say, Sonia cut me off. “I just want you to know that I’m here, Patrica. For anything and everything. Whenever you feel ready.”

“I…thank you, Sonia. It means a lot.”

Sonia nodded. “Well, it better.” Before I knew it, she’d caught me in an embrace.

For one brief instant, I felt completely and utterly seen. Sonia had been there for me through thick and thin since the start of college. To her, I was simply her roommate. More than that, I was a person with all the flaws and strengths such a thing entailed.

Even if it was the Patsy persona I’d carefully.

But it was enough. Right?

Patsy was enough. Right?

Before I could put a rein on my emotions, I could feel myself beginning to hyperventilate.

Sonia held onto me tighter but it only served to make me feel claustrophobic. Before I could break out into tears, I pushed her away. “Sorry. I just need a moment to breathe,” I said, dabbing at the wetness at the corner of my eyes.

“Are you sure?”

I mustered up a fake smile as I rose to my feet. “Yes. Sorry. You just took me by surprise and then the whole thing with Professor Langley earlier, I guess I’m just a little bit emotional. But thank you, Sonia. For being here for me.”

Sonia smiled up at me. “Always, Patricia. Always.”

~

I was one of the last to slip into the court along with a journalist from the local paper. Thankfully, neither Professor Langley or Amelia noticed as I took in the seat in the back and whipped off my sunglasses. Professor Langley I understood as he whispered fervently to a woman about my age. His cousin, perhaps?

But Amelia? Usually, she was so sharp. Or maybe that was how she wanted others to perceive her. As the smartest person in any given room.

Here, though?

Despite her attempts to try and look strong, Amelia looked nothing more than a little lost girl who was finally out of her depth. As the judge took his seat and brought the court to order, Amelia looked only at her lawyer and her face a little wan. There was no-one else she could rely on, after all.

None of her family had chosen to attend.

Much like when the case had first gone to trial. And according to Amelia, not a single one of them had come to visit her while she was being held in juvenile detention. Not her mom. Not her dad. Not even her younger sister who Amelia said she was closest with.

The hearing dragged on as the judge made a show of going through the documents that had been submitted.

As always, Amelia’s expression was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking as reports of her poor behaviour whilst held in detention were read out.

One story stood out to me.

In a dispassionate voice, the judge outlined an incident where Amelia had stolen a fellow inmate’s towel. But while Amelia had blown it off as an anecdotal event, here, the full story was told.

Amelia had taken the towel the day after an altercation between the inmate in the prison cafeteria. The guards had witnessed Amelia calling the other girl several crass insults including a ‘slut-whore pig who needed to be taught manners.’ And while Amelia had returned the towel, it had been under threat of solitary confinement. The towel, in question, had been returned as torn pieces and stained with a foul-smelling liquid.

Then there were the psychiatry sessions where Amelia either proved bullish, refusing to engage with the therapist, or broke down sobbing in the room as a manipulation tactic to garner sympathy.

Listening to it all, I couldn’t help but feel sick.

When she had tried to kill me during the end of senior year, she had said the two of us were alike and that the only thing holding me back was my inability to be authentically my ‘true’ self. But I had to wonder if any of her words held any truth to it.

This woman before me: did she even know who she was or what she really wanted?

And as I watched her performance up in the dock – for it was a performance – I came to realise the complicated weave Amelia had created to hide away her true self. Everything I knew, from the talks we shared to the person she presented during her time at Seven Oaks High had all been an act.

And she, like every good liar, had even managed to convince herself that this was who she was.

For so long, she had pushed me to embrace who I really was. Yet, all the fucking time, she’d been putting up a front to pretend she was a puzzle box waiting to be solved instead of the broken and lonely girl that she truly was.

It made me angry.

But it also made me sick to my stomach.

I’d been as like a puppet to her, dancing always to the tune she played.

She had wanted to keep me confused. To always be second-guessing myself. And to see her as the only one with all the answers when instead, it had all been fucking bullshit!

What made it all the worse was the fact I’d fucking let her.

As one of her solicitors raised an objection, I sharply rose to my feet. A few heads turned in my direction but I only had eyes on Amelia as I made my way past the journalists and exited the courtroom. Fuming with indignation.

~

It was an old photo sometime between Amelia’s sixth and ninth birthday. She was hiding behind a lamppost Her hair was long and lanky, and the clothes she wore were tacky at best. In the foreground, her parents and sister were posed for the camera in Halloween costumes.

Although I had performed a cursory search online on Amelia back when she had first attended Seven Oaks High, I’d mostly been focused on why she had chosen to attend Seven Oaks High.

After the trial, I’d been tempted to uncover more of Amelia’s secrets online but had worried I would only find details of her attempt on my life. Or see my name featured in some news article.

In school, there had been several unsavoury rumours I’d overheard in the cafeteria. Back then, I’d dismissed them. Especially because I hadn’t been able to find much of anything when I did a cursory online.

But some had whispered Amelia’s expulsion had been a lover’s tryst gone wrong. Others had said I was the one who had tried to kill Amelia instead.

And if those were the rumours in school, I feared the misinformation that would have spread online.

But after scouring the internet and searching through any and all social media accounts for one Amelia Cardum, I finally stumbled upon an Instagram account for a Belinda Cardum nee Gains. Investigating further, I also uncovered her LinkedIn and Facebook profiles.

Lo and behold! A photo from the distant past with Amelia lurking in the shadows and watching on with envy.

I don’t know what it said about her as a person.

Maybe she was simply the jealous sort and hated how she wasn’t the centre of attention. Or perhaps, when the photo was taken, she had simply suffered a bad day and she was throwing a tantrum.

It was more telling that this was the only photo of Amelia I’d managed to find despite endless hours scouring social media. Despite being friends with her mother on Facebook, she was never tagged on any posts. Her profile picture, as well, was a default image from the old Microsoft Windows user account pictures.

But that was little to go on considering she kept everything private.

Clicking back to her mother’s profile, all the photos I could find were either related to food or of Rose, Amelia’s younger sister. The most recent photo, posted just last week, was of Rose. She’d won a medal from a swimming competition for under 16s.

I leaned back in my chair.

Who was Amelia really?

Despite all the time I’d spent with her, I still knew so little about who she was. There were too many contradictions. She was both charmingly naïve and a vindictive sadist. Intelligent and yet also out of her depth.

There were just so many layers.

How did one go about unravelling it all?

Or perhaps, none of it was an act. All of it is Amelia at her core. Unstable though it may be, whispered a dark voice in my head. And true, that too was also a possibility.

I had a feeling Amelia was a girl at the end of her rope. She knew she had done something terrible. But whether or not it had sunk in properly was still up in the air.

It explained why she seemed so standoffish when I asked her about the hearing. In her head, perhaps, Amelia felt she had been in the right. Most people did.

And though I was loathe to admit it, I was a bitch in high school. I’d been so utterly jealous of Amelia. So consumed with the thought of destroying the perfect image she had of being able to so smoothly navigate the various cliches with ease. It was something I wished I’d been able to do even as I clung to my status as Queen Bee with Evangeline and Naomi hanging onto me as the vapid sycophants of my posse.

Heck, I didn’t even know why I’d gravitated towards them in freshman year.

Naomi wasn’t very popular. She was pretty but could be casually cruel without meaning to. And every boy within a five-mile radius wanted to bang her.

There had been an altercation in the cafeteria where one of the other students confronted Naomi about sleeping with her boyfriend. I’d stepped in before it had come to blows. Looking at Naomi’s wide-eyed wonder, I couldn’t help taking her under my wing.

Evangeline, on the other hand, was a mess. She wanted to look like the models in Playboy magazines and was always looking up beauty gurus on Tiktok or YouTube. Unfortunately for her, she had two buck teeth and parents who couldn’t afford to have it fixed.

Over the years, though, she made it work for her.

And the three of us came to dominate Seven Oaks High during our four years there.

As I very much learned, being Queen Bee was all about projecting confidence and manifesting one’s own popularity. Anyone could do it with the right mindset.

For me, that came in the form of Trish. I’d moulded her from every single resource I could find because I couldn’t face another four years of being teased for all the things I actually liked and cared about. When I was Trish, everything else was suppressed. She was my mask. And my protector.

Without her, I doubt I would have survived.

More importantly, though, through Trish, I learned of another part that comprised me as a whole. I learned that I did like hanging out with Naomi and Evangeline even though they weren’t the brightest people around. I learned I didn’t always have to be the straight-A perfect student I thought my parents wanted me to be.

And I learned it was okay to let myself have fun.

It was something the old Patricia – the one who had become Pat – would never have allowed. Or thought possible.

Amelia, though, would have probably said it was all ‘fake’ and I needed to strip it all down until I was the raw unvarnished version of me. But what Amelia didn’t understand was that this wasn’t the entirety of who I was either. It wouldn’t be the whole me either.

My time at college had also shown how people could change.

By trying new things and going through our lives, we grew. No longer was I insecure about who I was. I could be freer to be closer to my true self with Naomi, Evangeline and even Sonia.

But Amelia wasn’t me. And I wasn’t her.

She had thought she had found a kindred spirit, but I was more than the clone she was trying to make me into.

I shut off the browser, sicked to my stomach that I’d wasted so many hours trying to research Amelia to figure out who she was. Once more, I’d played right into her hands. This was what she wanted me to do. Professor Langley, too, could forget about asking me to provide a victim impact statement.

The last thing I wanted to do was dwell on Amelia Cardum for a moment longer.

I had a life to live.

~

“Patsy, I would like a word,” said Professor Langley as I was packing away my belongings.

“I actually have something on afterwards, sir. Could this not be an email?”

“This won’t take long,” replied Professor Langley, shutting down any further protest.

I exchanged a look with Sonia. ‘What do you think he wants?’ she mouthed at me. I shrugged. After my decision to cut Amelia Cardum out of my life, I’d tried to avoid Professor Langley as much as I could. The way he acted as soon as her name was even mentioned felt like a man obsessed.

Even though Amelia hadn’t ruined his life, or had tried to murder them at the bleachers, he seemed intent to keep her behind bars for the entirety of her sentence. It made me wonder what Amelia had done to his cousin. He’d alluded to a few things before but hadn’t exactly stated outright what had happened.

I’d seen a young girl seated next to him at the parole hearing. At the time, I’d thought it was the cousin in question but I wasn’t so sure now.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” I said, swinging my backpack over my left shoulder.

“Ah, Patsy. Yes. Why don’t you take a seat?”

“Um, no. I really do have something on later. I’d like to stand. Sir.”

Professor Langley’s brow furrowed for a brief moment, his lips thinning, before he flashed her a smile. “Why, yes. That’s fine.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. Bag over my shoulder, I waited for Professor Langley to continue. He didn’t disappoint.

With gusto, Professor Langley began. “I know you said you didn’t want to be involved but I thought I’d give you an update on the parole hearing for Amelia Cardum. You see—”

“Sir, whilst I thank you for keeping me in your thoughts, I would prefer you not mention her name in my presence. I’ve decided to move one and no longer wished to be reminded of what had proved a most harrowing time during my final year in high school.”

“Yes, that’s a very understandable sentiment. But what I wanted to tell you is that we’re going to see her locked up for a very long time. Just like she deserves.”

“Why do you care so much? She didn’t hurt you. Not directly, at least.”

Professor Langley’s cheeks flushed red. “Patsy, there’s no need to be so aggressive. Don’t you want the same thing? Amelia ruined your life, just like she did my cousin’s.”

“Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. I don’t want to think on it anymore. I just want to live my life and enjoy it again.”

“Don’t you think I want the same thing?” exclaimed Professor Langley, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I look at Nadine and all I can see is the broken girl Amelia left behind.”

I looked away, scratching at my upper arm. “Yeah, well…that’s not my problem.”

“Isn’t it? Did you know Nadine tried to take her own life six months after Amelia attacked her? She was hospitalised and her parents were shattered. And all Nadine would say about the event was that she ‘wasn’t living her authentic self.’ I ask you: is that fair?”

“No,” I said finally. “But what more do you want from me? According to you, she’ll be behind bars to serve out her sentence in full.”

At my question, Professor Langley looked askance. “It’s nothing important,” he said, playing with a pen on his desk. “Just, there were a few things that came to light during the parole hearing I wanted to clarify with you.”

As he looked up at me, there was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite place. As if he was seeing me for the first time in a new light. I didn’t like it.

Nervously, I readjusted my bag. “I’m really sorry, sir. But I really have to head off to my next class.”

“Yes, yes. I understand. But Patsy, think on what I said, yes? I’d really like to have a chat. Just you and me. Maybe over a coffee?”

~

“—freaking believe it? Like, he had no right to talk to me like that!”

“You go, Tricia! I hope you smack him upside the head next lecture,” said Naomi. She downed a second can of vodka spritz. “What a creep!”

“And he sounds like he’s super obsessed. Like, does he hate Amelia or does he want to, you know, fuck her?” asked Evangeline.

Michael Sanchez plopped down in the chair next to his girlfriend and kissed her on the cheek. He put down a bowl of chips. “What’s this about fucking cause Evie and I have been getting it on like rabbits. We’re going to have a huge family. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“Yes, that’s right, honey drizzle.”

I fought down the urge the vomit. Sometimes Michael and Evie could be far too extra for their own good. It was like they wanted to shove their perfect relationship down everyone’s throat.

It was nauseating.

But I managed to plaster a fake smile on my face as I said, “Oh, you know, my Economics Professor and She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Ah. Yes.” Michael nodded sagely. As he grabbed a chip and bit into it. “How is Amelia doing anyways?”

His question threw me off. I blinked stupidly up at him for several seconds, trying to compute what he had asked.

“What do you mean?” I said finally.

“You see her, don’t you?” answered Michael with a shrug. “My dad works at the juvenile detention centre she’s in. Tells me you visited her pretty often. I figured it was because you wanted to wrap your head around her actions or seek closure.”

I stared at him agog, mouth open wide, and unable to mount any type of retort.

Michael Sanchez, it seemed, was a dangerous man. And if I wasn’t careful, my whole life could unravel at the drop of a hat.

Naomi looked in my direction. “Is that true, Tricia? You’ve gone to see Amelia?”

I covered up my momentary lapse by snagging a chip and popping it into my mouth. “It’s just like Sanchez said. I wanted to understand what made Amelia tick. And what, you know, actually triggered that episode. It just seemed so extreme. You know?”

“Really?” asked Naomi, looking unconvinced.

“What else do you want me to say?” I grabbed another chip, popped it into my mouth and chewed. All the while, I stared dead at Naomi, daring her to challenge me.

Naomi was the first to look away, disgust clear on her face.

“Well,” interrupted Evie after several uncomfortable seconds, “I think we should all get something to drink, yeah? Naomi, want to come with?”

Before I could protest, my two best friends from high school hurried to the bar and I was left alone with Michael Sanchez. In the summer or so since graduating, the runt of the football team had filled out. Though his grades hadn’t been the best, he still managed to secure a spot at the local community college and was thinking of studying physiotherapy.

“So,” said Michael after the silence between us became heavy, “how are things at that special school you been going to?”

“Good. Great, actually.”

“Dating anyone?”

“No.”

“Shame. I thought you and Brad were good.”

“Yeah. It was nice while it lasted,” I said taking a sip from my already empty glass. “How is he, by the way? Brad.”

“Oh, he’s doing good. He’s looking to become a personal trainer.”

“That’s nice.”

Sanchez grinned. “Isn’t it? He’s just so motivated to have a good future and expand his horizons. I kinda envy him.”

“How are you and Evie going, by the way?” I asked.

Before Sanchez could respond, Evie and Naomi returned with four drinks in hand. They plonked them down on the table, none too gently.

“What did we miss?” asked Evie with a saccharine smile. She glanced at her boyfriend and I could see Sanchez squirm uncomfortably in his seat. Despite the affection they often displayed in public, I couldn’t help but sense there was trouble between them. That the lovey-dovey couple I was often tortured with was just a performance.

Much like how Almeria had been during the parole hearing.

The thought made my gut churn.

Why did it seem like everywhere I turned, people were always pretending? Why was no-one ever as authentic as they so claimed?

I hated it. I hated it with every fibre of my being.

Were Evangeline and Naomi even my friends anymore? Or were they pretending as they secretly gossiped about me behind my back?

It became too much.

There was a loud thumping in my ear. And not too far, I could hear the belaboured heavy breaths of someone nearby. It took me far longer than I expected to realise that it was me. By then, my chest had tightened, constricting until it seemed I could barely get any air in, and my vision darkened. I tried to fight it by rising onto my unsteady feet even as I kept a tight hold of the table.

Before I could even say something or reach out to anyone, the faces of everyone around me vanished into nothingness and I knew no more.

~

I woke to the flashing of red and blue lights, and the night sky above me. When I tried to sit up, to make sense of what was happening, I couldn’t. Something was holding me down. It sat tight across my chest and my wrists.

Fuck. What was going on?

Desperate, I tried to get up again, squirming to free myself from my binds. Even as something slimy came crawling up my throat.

It took me a moment to realise it was fear. Cold and dark and oh so frightening.

I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know where my friends were. And all I wanted to do was scream and cry and plead for someone to come over and help me.  

As if they had sensed my wish, I heard the rush of footsteps to my left. Dark russet entered my field of vision.

Naomi. It had to be Naomi.

I tried to say her name but I couldn’t seem to make my lips form the letters.

“She’s awake! Tricia is awake!” Naomi called over her shoulder.

There were more footsteps and then Evie and Michael Sanchez were crowded around me. Every one was talking at once and none of it made sense.

“Do you think she knows what’s happened?”

“Won’t attack me again, will she?”

“They’ve got her restrained, if that’s what has you frightened.”

“Yeah, but what if she can, I don’t know, hulk out? You know, like The Hulk?”

“Sanchez, are you still high? Evie, I know he’s your boyfriend but I’d rather you found someone with a few more braincells.”

I tried to process the cacophony of voices, taking deep breaths as I tried to centre myself. It looked like we were still near the nightclub but I was on a stretcher, presumably, to be taken to hospital. But besides the throbbing at my left temple, forewarning me of an incoming migraine, I felt fine.

“W-what’s going on?” I forced through chapped lips in a low rasp.

“Tricia…” Naomi turned back to me, some unknown expression flitting across her face. “What do you remember?”

Once more, I tried to sit up but was prevented from doing so. “I-I don’t know,” I said, licking my dry lips as I tried to recall the events of the night. “We were talking about things. How I was doing at college. And I think Amelia?”

I paused, waiting for Naomi or Evangeline to nod. They did so and I continued, drawing strength from a hidden reserve I didn’t know I had.

“You and Evie went to get drinks. Then, everything went dark. W-what happened? Why does Sanchez think I tried to attack him? And why am I being restrained?”

Naomi and Evangeline exchanged a look while Sanchez looked on, a diffident grin on his face.

“Well…” began Evangeline. “You staggered forward and Naomi caught you. And then, you started acting really strange.”

“It was like you were a completely different person,” added Naomi. “You immediately flinched away from me, started to accuse me of being a fake friend. Said you knew Evie and Sanchez were having problems with their relationship. Told us we were all pretending to be good people. It was all very hurtful, so Sanchez tried to confront you. But then you lashed out at him, almost managed to hit him with a glass.”

I listened to her recount with growing horror as a chill went down my spine.

“And then, I don’t know, you stiffened. Before anyone could stop you, you grabbed a toothpick and lunged for Sanchez. He ducked out of the way, of course, and then, I don’t know what happened exactly but you slumped down onto the ground and started twitching.”

“It was fuckin’ scary,” said Sanchez. “Thought you were goin’ rabid, you know?”

“I-is that why you t-thought I was going to ‘Hulk’ out?”

Sanchez scratched the back of his head. “Heard that, yeah? Well, I’m good to see you’re back to normal. But the paramedics say they’ll still need to run a few tests ‘fore they’re willin’ to clear you.”

“W-where’s my phone?”

“Here,” said Naomi, putting my iPhone into my right hand. “I called your mother earlier. Told her what happened.”

“Thanks.”

There was a moment’s pause before Naomi bent down over, her voice low as if she didn’t want Evangeline or Sanchez to hear. “Listen, Tricia…I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you need someone to talk to, I know a good psychiatrist. You went through some mad trauma with Amelia. I mean, I’ve been seeing a therapist recently too, you know. Just to wrap my head round high school and everything else.”

I looked away. “I’ll think on it.”

“Cool,” said Naomi before straightening up. “Well, looks like the questioning is almost all done. Paramedics will be taking you to the local hospital. Message us later, yeah?”

“Okay.”

~

For the first time since high school, I felt overwhelmed. Burdened by the masks I still juggled in order to segment my life and give it some semblance of order. There were too many things to keep in mind, though Naomi and Evie had already seen shades of who I really was.

After all, it’s not everyday that the Queen Bee also manages to snag a 3.8 GPA.

As I stared up at the ceiling of my dormitory, after being released by the hospital, I couldn’t help but go over the events of the night two days ago. Something was deeply wrong, I felt.

Yes, I’d been irritated by how Naomi and Evie had kept pressing me about Amelia but I hadn’t expected to lash out as I did.

By all accounts, I had another persona lurking underneath the surface. A violent one that was willing to drag my friends down be it verbally or physically.

And it was that very fact keeping me up despite the late hour and classes due to begin in the next three hours.

I felt terrified. Out of control.

What if it happened again?

Could I, perhaps, turn into another Amelia?

The thought sent a shiver down my spine as I shifted to my side and tried to snatch a couple hours of rest before my alarm went off. Sonia, just a few feet away, continued to snore, blissfully unaware to the inner turmoil I found myself in.

Like every good friend, she had asked how I was when I returned late yesterday to our dormitory. Had said I looked haggard and tired. And because I didn’t want to acknowledge what the last 36 hours had been like, I’d lied. Had told her I was feeling stressed about the upcoming exams and had a bad panic attack while I was out.

Sonia had nodded, though the concern on her face remained.

“If you need anything, Patsy, just let me know,” she had said before returning back to her desk and putting her headphones back on as she watched a film on Netflix. It wasn’t one I knew though I caught a glimpse of Ryan Reynolds and Gal Godot on the screen.

Guilt had churned in my stomach. A part of me wanted to tell her everything. And yet I tamped down on the words on the tip of my tongue.

In the end, we had both gone to bed, pretending everything was fine.

But I knew Sonia didn’t believe me. And the thought weighed on me as I showered and put on my PJs. I turned our conversation over and over as I pulled the covers up to my chin.

And as I stared at the wall, it gnawed at my insides and leading me to spiral down old familiar paths.

Maybe there was something to be said about going to therapy. If it could cure me of the heavy anxiety weighing down on my chest, perhaps my life would be a lot better.

Yet, doing so would leave me exposed. Vulnerable.

It meant admitting something was wrong with me.

And that was untenable.

I’d prided myself for picking myself up by the bootstraps and reinventing myself while in high school to become the popular girl. All the while, juggling the expectations of my parents and the teachers. I couldn’t simply throw in the towel right now and mentally break down.

I was stronger than this.

After all, I’d survived an attack by a madwoman.

By that token, I was wonderfully sane in comparison. Yes, I was struggling to find my own authentic voice, but I was thriving member of society, able to converse with ease to just about anyone.

It didn’t matter that it was usually inane small talk and I couldn’t divulge many of my actual interests. Nobody truly cared about what Patricia wanted or thought about. And that was fine with me. I could be a chameleon. A jack-of-all-trades as it were.

And that meant I didn’t need medication. Nor did I need to talk to someone about non-existent traumas.

What I needed was a walk to clear my head and to refocus on the things important to me. And squash down on any stray musings as fast as possible.

Everything was going to be okay.

If I believed it hard enough, surely it would come true.

~

Things went from bad to worse as the semester dragged on.

Professor Langley continued to hound me about my relationship with Amelia. He wanted to know every little detail about my interactions with her during my time in high school and the details of her attack on me in the two weeks leading up to prom.

I hadn’t wanted to tell him anything until he started to threaten to fail me for being difficult.

 Fear had crept up my throat then.

In school, I was Patsy. I was meant to be smart and get good grades and be involved in extracurricular school activities like protesting climate change. But Professor Langley was threatening to upend all of that.

Finding it difficult to find the words I wanted to say to the professor, I’d exited the lecture hall, making sure to slam the door behind me, before hurrying to the nearest toilet. Inside a stall, I’d tried to calm myself from the impending panic attack threatening to seize me in its grip.

That was when I had my second blackout.

When I came to, I was out in the quadrangle near the library. People were staring down at me, none of whom I knew. One of them, a girl with short brown hair, took me to the health centre. She sat with me as I was looked over by a nurse before being declared I was fit and healthy.

It was only later in the week I learned someone had trashed Professor Langley’s car by puncturing the tyres and scrawling the word: Pedo Groomer on the windshield with black paint.

I knew then what had happened.

Despite Sonia’s best efforts to calm me down, I closed myself off. Even playing Honkai: Star Rail was unable to help get my mind of things.

My grades began to slip, feeding into my ever-growing desperation to maintain the façade I wore at college.

I was at my wit’s end.

As the weeks rolled on, I knew what I needed most were answers.

To figure out what was happening to me.

And the only person I could turn to was Amelia.

Although I’d sworn to disavow her, Amelia Cardum was now my only lifeline. Last I’d heard, she had been transferred to a woman’s prison after her application for parole had been rejected.

I would visit her during the weekend. Maybe confront her over the lies she’d told me over the intervening months to garner my sympathy. And discover, once and for all, who Amelia Cardum truly was behind the persona she projected, thinking it was the one I wanted to see.

~

Amelia sauntered into the room looking like she had all the time in the world as she approached the tempered glass screen separating the prisoners from the visitors. Gone was the demure frightened girl from the hearing. Instead, Amelia looked like she was in her element, if the smirk on her face as she reached for the receiver was anything to go by.

“Hello Patricia.” Her voice came through the receiver strong. “It’s been a while. But I always knew you’d come back.”

I frowned at her. “Don’t act like you know me.”

“Oh, Patricia, but I do.” Amelia smiled sweetly at me despite her gaunt frame and dark circles under her eyes. “So, how many blackouts has it been now?”

Fear spiked down my spine.

How did she know? Trapped inside a prison, Amelia shouldn’t have been privy to that information. Unless…

I schooled my expression, not wanting to let slip my real thoughts. But perhaps I was too late because Amelia continued, “You’re surprised. Probably questioning how I know. Rest assured Patrica, nobody has told me anything. I just know. Because you and I, we’re the same.”

“When did they start happening for you? The blackouts, I mean.”

“Middle-school. It became worse in high school. But when I was transferred to Seven Oaks, I learned how to control it. Want to know how?”

I stared at the woman before me, trying to spot a hint of madness in Amelia’s eyes, but I couldn’t find it. AlthoughI still remembered what Professor Langley had told me, I was desperate to seek any help I could get. And I knew Amelia held the answers I sought. “Tell me,” I said, finally.

Amelia leaned back in her chair. “I learned to accept who I was,” she said with a shrug. “No longer would I be beholden to the expectations society had thrust upon me. My first act, of course, was to take down all my social media accounts. I hated all the past photos I’d put up to play pretend at being the happy perfect girl I had been. I would finally live my truth. Just like you should yours, Patricia.”

“And what is my truth?” I demanded.

The knowing smirk on Amelia’s face stretched wider.

It was only then I realised I had fallen into her trap.

Instead of answering, Amelia hung her receiver back on its hook. She motioned to one of the guards and they came to escort her out and back to her cell.

“You can’t leave me like this! Amelia! I need answers! I need your help!” I slammed against the glass separating us with the palm of my hands, loathing boiling up inside me as my vision tunnelled until all I could see was her orange jumpsuit vanishing behind the cold steel door leading further into the prison.

[notexactlyrocketscience]

When I initially listened to the ending, it felt like a good plan (and the prospects of a perfect happy ending) unnecessarily jeopardised. Jon and Martin’s panicked conversation sounded so hopeless and their final decision felt impulsive. Everything was in shambles, and a good outcome was unlikely at this point. The promise of Somewhere Else seemed like an empty euphemism to make certain death more bearable. I was frustrated, and heartbroken.

Now that I've taken a few days to process and distanced myself from the characters' momentary pain, I actually truly believe that what happened at the end was a happy accident instead.

I don’t think I can put it better than the Reddit post already has—The original plan proposed by Annabelle could have had equally (if not worse) disastrous outcomes. Even if it had been canonically executed, knowing the way Jonny and Alex love to write, things would still have been shown to end ambiguously—just less tragically poetic. For the purposes of the narrative, I think they did a great job of ending the series on a climactic, fulfilling (and hopeful!) note that remains faithful to the overall tone of The Magnus Archives. Jon and Martin weren’t exactly planning on doing what they did, but it’s given them a chance at the best and happiest ending that was up for grabs.

And I love that I genuinely don’t feel like I have to be in denial of the canon at all to fully believe in this interpretation, since it was left strictly ambiguous on purpose.

But there’s more!

The Magnus Protocol teaser has a seemingly unharmed (and physically corporeal) Martin surprised to see the familiar tape recorder show up again, long after he’s assumed they’ve stopped listening. This, plus the fact that Jonny and Alex have confirmed they will appear in TMA 2, tells me:

It’s unlikely that Jonny and Alex will appear simply to voice other side-characters, even those with distorted voices. It’s clear from Q&As that they take casting very seriously. I can’t see them double-casting (former) main characters.

So we’ll see Martin again, post-escape from Eyepocalypse. Not just an old S1-to-S5-era never-seen-before Magnus Archives tape found by Alice and Sam. Including formerly unrevealed tapes from TMA would be a really nice touch (and I hope we’ll get that too!), but I’m sure Jonny wouldn’t release that particular teaser if he wasn’t solidly planning on following through in some way. Jonny has always been very serious about giving the audience breadcrumb trails with properly viable clues.

Well … what about post-Eyepocalypse Jon? Well, I think Jon is only going to appear in such a way that either fully retains the ambiguity of the TMA ending, or hints/confirms in some way that he is also alive and unharmed (in whatever avatar or semi-avatar form).

In any case, if post-Eyepocalypse Martin (and maybe Jon) do indeed appear (which seems very likely at this point), it will also be implied or shown that they are, indeed, together—in a non-tragic, romantic, bordering on wholesome way.

I say this because confirming their death or separation after the TMA finale would completely ruin the sanctity of the ending. It’s really neatly tied up and beautiful as it is right now. Answering questions to ambiguous events negatively in sequels (eg having formerly surviving main characters simply as side-characters who die in sequels) is really hard to land properly. It borders on being disrespectful of the investment the audience put into the original. Jonny has always been very receptive and sensitive to these things.

However, showing that characters from a previously ambiguous ending are living their best lives as mysterious side-characters that pop in and out—bamboozling the main characters (but delighting the audience)—is a lot easier to execute favourably. It also keeps from taking attention away from the protagonists and the main plot of the sequel.

So my expectation (read: hope) is that we’re going to see Jon and Martin in our world, where the end of TMA implied that the tapes are, and where I assume The Magnus Protocol is set! They will be happy and together (this may be explicit or implied vaguely, I am not sure how they’d keep that completely ambiguous if the post-Eyepocalypse versions of the characters themselves explicitly appear), and nothing worse than TMA finale will happen to them.

I only have this belief because I have incredible faith in Jonny and Alex as writers! I think they subverted insensitive tropes creatively and did just about everything right in TMA, and I can’t say that about most authors I love. Yes, I do generally want my blorbos to be safe and happy, but the above is not just a culmination of my wishful thinking. Jonny and Alex have already said that they certainly aren’t going to try to overshadow TMA, but I’m also hoping The Magnus Protocol will complement TMA while not really trying to step on TMA’s toes. They didn't have to drop so many JonMartin return hints (or even write JonMartin into TMA 2 at all) but they did. Super excited and optimistic for what's to come!

I finished listening to the Magnus Archives last night, and just wanted to thank these two users in r/TheMagnusArchives for providing posts that finally soothed my broken heart a little bit in the morning. I hope they can do the same for you, too, if you’re also easily utterly devastated by endings that even have a smidge of dark uncertainty.

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

A new servant desperately struggles to understand what exactly Merlin is:

A cryptid? Arthur's boyfriend? Simply a dude? The court jester? Something else entirely? Who knows, certainly not the new guy.

The first time the new kitchen-hand, Tristan, saw The King’s dark-haired servant sprinting down the corridor, he couldn’t tell if the man was laughing or crying.

He was fast, faster than Tristan thought possible for someone whose arms were so full of laundry, but he politely steps out of the way, coming to the conclusion that he must’ve been late for something. At least... he did think that, until he turns the next corner to see three of The king’s most trusted knights peering out of windows and into random doors. Tristan freezes in the corridor, he’d heard that servants were treated extremely well here, but he’d only been employed for a few days and he didn’t want to risk anything by pushing past or addressing his betters.

One of the knights, Sir Leon, his brain helpfully supplies, spots him stood there, and his annoyed frown quickly morphs into a friendly smile:

“Pardon me, sorry, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Merlin around anywhere, have you?”

Tristan’s eyes go wide and the grip he has on his tray tightens, but he forces himself to take a breath and answer, trying his best to keep his voice even:

“Merlin is... The King’s manservant? Tall, with dark hair?”

Another knight pushes forward, he looks to be the oldest, with dark hair falling in an almost deliberately tousled way around his bearded jawline. His charming grin seems just a little too wide to be genuine, but Tristan isn’t quite sure if that’s because he’s about to take pleasure in punishing someone, or if he’s just being polite to a stranger:

“Yeah, yeah that’s him, seen him? Arsehole turned our shirts pink in the wash, and something tells me it was deliberate.”

Tristan gulps at the accusation and he takes a shaky step back, but before he can even think of defending the stranger that he now thinks must’ve been crying, the last of the three knights, a giant, if Tristan believed in such things, steps forward:

“Don’t worry, we won’t beat him too much.” 

He says it with a grin and a quirk of his eyebrows, but once again the kitchen-hand can’t tell if it was cruel or genuine, if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Uh... yeah, he turned left at the end of this corridor, but I didn’t see where he went after that, I apologise.”

Sir Leon waves away his apology with a smile, looking to the long-haired knight with a raised eyebrow:

“The stables?”

The man grins widely, nodding his agreement as he turns his grin to the giant. Sir Leon offers Tristan another soft smile, murmuring his thanks before moving past him, elbowing the other two to prompt them in to thanking him as well. The three of them march down the corridor with almost vindictive smiles on their faces, and Tristan prepares himself to see a vacancy note, or possibly a funeral invite, posted on the notice board by the next morning.

When he passes a window that evening to see the King’s manservant being carried on the giant’s shoulders as five other knights pelt them with gloves, a grin on every face, he decides that... well... it’s probably best to just not to ask.

~

The next time he sees Merlin, a few days later, The King is also there.

This is the first time Tristan has been in Arthur Pendragon’s presence, and though the other servant’s all rave on about how awkwardly kind he is, he’s a bundle of nerves. Not even Cook’s stories about how often she whacks The King’s knuckles with a wooden spoon when she catches him about to pilfer something stops Tristan’s heart from racing. 

The King was overseeing a few of the servants decorate the main hall for a feast, and whilst Tristan is certain that that’s not something The King normally does, he doesn’t question it, just thinks that maybe the other servants had been telling the truth, and he was a genuinely nice, but normal man. 

Merlin stands at his side, and though Tristan can’t hear their conversation, the two of them are clearly bickering over something. The servant can’t help his curiosity, wanting desperately to move closer to find out what sort of things The King allows his servant to bicker with him about; luckily, the table right next to them has yet to be laid, so he moves towards it quickly. He doesn’t even glance at them, terrified of being caught out, but perhaps Merlin surviving the knights non-wrath the other day is encouraging him, and his steps don’t falter. Their words come in to focus, and he has to stop the confused, and slightly horrified, frown from spreading across his face:

“Arthur, I swear to the Gods, if you make me wear that hat again, I’ll piss in your wine and serve it to you in front of a crowd.”

The King scoffs just as Tristan shakily begins laying down the cutlery:

“That’s treason, Merlin.”

“Do I look like I care? Not only will I piss in your wine, I will not hesitate to push you over a balcony at the first opportunity. This hall is high up and it’s a long way down to the gardens. He drank toxic wine and turned loopy and tipped himself off a balcony and went splat! That’s what people will say. I’m not wearing the Godamn hat.”

Tristan has to focus extra carefully to stop himself from gasping; Merlin just threatened to kill The King... that’s got to be a death sentence. Pissing off some knights that he’s obviously friendly with is one thing, but threatening to kill The-

“Ha ha. Very funny. If you can’t tell, Merlin, I’m being sarcastic, I know you struggle with complex concepts like that.”

Merlin just rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he says with no hesitation:

“My mind is more than capable of coping, My Lord, it’s your belt I worry about being able to cope nowadays.”

Tristan bites his tongue to stop himself from yelping and turns away so neither of them can see his horrified face. The King just makes an outraged noise in the back of his throat, and Tristan can hear Merlin snort in laughter at whatever expression Arthur was wearing to match such a noise:

“Go to the stocks. I want you there for three hours.”

Tristan lets out a confused breath; Merlin threatens to kill The King, and gets playful sarcasm, but he implies The King might be a tad overweight, and gets sent to the stocks for three hours? How is that-

“Yeah... no. Not happening. The feast starts in less than two hours and I still have to help Guinevere organise some stuff in the courtyard, do Gaius’ rounds for him, then put an extra hole in your belt and help you get dressed because, despite being a grown man, you’re still an idiot who’s incapable of putting clothes on in any sort of decent manner.”

Tristan finds himself relaxing a little. This seems to be the norm for them, but surely... surely The King had a line somewhere, and a servant just flat out refusing to be disciplined must be where it lies?

Arthur just scoffs, and Tristan angles his head in such a way that he can see him roll his eyes:

“Fuck off.”

Merlin grins, seeming to cast a suspicious gaze over the room to make sure no one was watching and somehow completely missing Tristan stood just there, before saying quietly:

“You love me really, you prat.”

With that, Merlin reaches up to yank at a lock of The King’s hair before hurrying off in the direction of the courtyard before Arthur can react. The King jumps slightly, clearly caught by surprise as an annoyed flush rises on his face, but Tristan just frowns in confusion when his shock gives way to a softly amused smile.

Huh.

~

The next few times Tristan saw Merlin made him fear for the servant’s safety. He was being taken on hunts by The King and his knights, that’s meant to be for squires, to learn the ropes and gain experience in tracking and riding. 

He supposes it isn’t entirely unheard of for a servant to follow their master on a hunt, but with the way Merlin complains without pause, and The King in turn complains about his complaining, he thinks it would better for everyone if Merlin just... didn’t go. When he brings it up to another servant, a lovely woman named Guinevere who had helped him get unlost at least three times in his first week, she just laughs and smiles at him pityingly:

“I wouldn’t worry, those two have been like that forever, they’re practically inseparable.”

Tristan responds with a rather intelligent sounding:

“...What?”

Gwen laughs softly again, shaking her head and patting his shoulder consolingly:

“You’ll get used to it, they’re just... like that.”

She gives him one more smile before turning to wave the boys out of the gates and walking back to the castle as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Tristan supposes that it probably is.

The next time Tristan sees Merlin leave the city gates with the knights, Sir Elyan, Sir Mordred, and Sir Lancelot this time, it’s distinctly worse. Because he’d caught sight of the patrol rota last time he ran food down to the training ground, and he was certain that those three had a city patrol right about now.

Before he even has time to gape in shock, he hears Merlin’s pleading voice as he trails Sir Elyan like a lost puppy:

“Please, El, I promise to stay out of the way, I will do anything, but I swear to the Gods if I have to spend one more minute around that prat, I’ll hurl myself from the battlements.”

Swearing to the Gods and threating to hurl various people, including himself, from significant heights seems to be some sort of theme for The King’s manservant. Before Tristan can consider the implications of that, Sir Elyan turns to Merlin with a wide, teasing grin on his face:

“You know, I would’ve let you tag along for free, Merlin, but now that you’ve promised me something I feel the need to take advantage.”

Tristan tenses at that, a shot of ice spiking down his spine. He has keen eyes and sharp ears, he knows that Sir Elyan is the lovely Gwen’s brother, Sir Mordred seems to have an... odd worship for the servant, and he’s definitely picked up on the close bond between Merlin and Sir Lancelot, but is this where Camelot’s image comes crashing down in Tristan’s head? He knew that it was better here for servant’s than other Kingdoms, but there are always people who’ll take advantage of their position, no matter where you are. Merlin’s shoulders just drop and he asks in a sulking voice:

“What do you want?”

Tristan grits his teeth, moving his gaze so no one would catch him glaring at the knight as he tries to figure out a way to help, a way to get this virtual stranger out of being... abused, in such a manner. If he’d carried on glaring, he would’ve noticed Elyan’s soft smile and amused raised eyebrow:

“Next time you gather herbs for Gaius, bring back some more of those flowers that you got for Gwen. She said they added vibrancy to the house, whatever that means, but they make her happy, so...-”

Merlin just giggles and nods and Tristan relaxes, looking back to them with a confused smile on his face. That was... actually kind of sweet, he can definitely see the resemblance between the knight and his sister:

“-AND I want whatever Arthur’s having for dinner tonight, his food always looks way nicer than ours.”

Merlin lets out a faux annoyed groan, but then rolls his eyes and grins, nodding:

“Consider it done. Can we go now? I really don’t want to risk him seeing me and giving me some stupid chore to do.”

Elyan laughs and nods, and the four of them begin making their way out of the courtyard and into the city. Sir Lancelot finally joins the conversation, clearly amused as he says:

“You know it’s literally your job to do chores, right?”

Merlin turns to glare at him as Sir Mordred and Sir Elyan laugh, and Tristan only just hears his reply as the castle gates shut behind them:

“Fuck off.”

Tristan decides it would be pointless to bring this up to anyone again, he figures he’ll probably just get the same answer as last time.

~

The next confusing incident happens only a few days later. But Tristan supposes that at this point... it really shouldn’t be confusing. Gwen was right, he did just... get used to it.

He heard the steps pounding down the corridor before he saw him, but they were coming fast and hard, so he presses himself against the wall, holding the tray to his side to protect it as best he could as Merlin comes skidding round the corner. 

He stops just long enough for Tristan to calm himself by spying the wide grin on his face, but he’s quickly sprinting down the hall again, laughing as he waves whatever it is he’s got clutched in his hands. The second set of loud, rapid footsteps stops Tristan from stepping away from the wall quite yet. Just a moment later, Sir Gwaine follows Merlin’s skidded path around the corner, though the heavier man overshoots slightly and he runs into the wall opposite Tristan with a crash and a deep groan.

The rebellious knight gives a wide-eyed Tristan an awkward nod before pushing himself off the wall and following Merlin’s blazing trail, screaming down the corridor:

“I warned you Merlin!! Don’t come between a man and his ale, now give that back you bastard!”

Tristan hears Merlin’s laughter grow louder, even from the two corridors away that the other servant had managed to race to.

He shrugs to himself, waiting for a moment to see if anyone else was going to come barrelling around the corner before sighing, and continuing his journey up to the visiting Lord’s chambers.

It was unusual, he thought, how quickly he’d come to terms with the fact that a servant was sassing The King and pranking the knights and inviting himself on various hunts and patrols that he really had no business on. Unusual indeed.

~

He’d learnt to ignore it. Or at least brush it off.

In the two weeks since Merlin had (presumably) stolen Sir Gwaine’s skin of ale, he’d seen the servant call The King a long list of imaginative insults (what the hell is a dollop head?), walk around with Sir Leon’s cloak on because he was a little chilly, accuse someone of treason (and somehow been right about it), and threaten to kill at least seven people; including, but not limited to: The King himself, The King’s already dead father, some stuck up Noble (though that was under his breath, Tristan just happened to be stood next to him), and Sir Percival.

And Gwen was... absolutely right. He's just... like that. He's Merlin, and that’s what Merlin does.

So when he turns a corner in a rarely used to corridor to see him pressing The King against a wall, snogging the life out of him, Tristan simply turns around and walks back the other way. Both of them look fairly happy with the arrangement, and they’d probably chosen this corridor for the exact same reason Tristan had: it was out of everyone’s way, and was unlikely to be inhabited.

He thinks it’s odd, how... un-odd he finds it. He absent-mindedly thinks that, with the way they acted around each other, he really should’ve seen this coming. A sudden thought occurs to him, and he ducks into a storage cupboard, laying his tray down carefully as he rummages through the boxes. He lets out a quiet “Yay” when he finds what he’s looking for, carefully picking up his tray with only one hand and nudging the door open again with his hip. 

He walks back towards the corner he had just turned (and turned again) making a conscious effort to keep his steps quiet; he places the danger sign, usually used where walls had collapsed or windows had been smashed, in the middle of the corridor, a clear indication of “Do Not Enter”.

He nods smugly at his quick thinking and easy handy work before mentally planning the quickest route to the kitchens and following it hurriedly.

He casually wonders if he has time to circle around to the other end of the corridor so he could put another sign down before Cook gets angry at him for being late. Probably not. At least, not before they... finish up and move on. Hmm. He suddenly panics about the thought of them seeing the sign and knowing that someone had spotted them but... well. Hopefully they would just appreciate it and move on.

Yet again, he decides not to bring this up to anyone. He may or may not have overheard a few of the knights making some sort of bet, and he may or may not want to watch on with amusement as they fail to realise that all of them have already lost.

Tristan smiles to himself; working here had turned out to be rather entertaining, in the end.

~

THE END

I know it’s short, but I really didn’t know what else to add without it sounding like I was just repeating myself over and over😅

I hope y’all enjoyed it!!