#just imagine her trying to keep her court running but also grieving at the same time

[romanticatheartt]

I know this might not be very popular but I would've loved to see Feyre ruling over the Night Court all by herself after acowar.

It would've been such an interesting concept and gut wrenching at the same time.

bonus: imagine her being also pregnant with their son... I'm making myself cry for no fkn reason help

[gwynrielendgame]

Gwyncien part 5 (last part)

Thank you to all who supported this short little story! It really kept me motivated. This is the last part. I’m gonna be honest this part is not as edited at the other parts but I finished it and wanted to get it out to all of you so thank you!

Warning: the smallest amount possible of smut at the end.

Gwyn's body jolted as they hit the ground. Lucien let out an annoyed huff while straightening out his jacket. The wards around the House of Wind truly made winnowing in unfavorable. As soon as she stabled herself though, she felt a rush of happiness.

Home.

It was her only thought. She missed this place- the smell, the comfort, the people. She started to buzz with excitement at the thought of Nesta and Emerie.

"You made sure someone brought Emerie here?" Gwyn double checked with Lucien. He simply nodded while giving her a sad smile. The moment was bitter sweet. She was happy to be reunited with her sisters, but she would miss her newest friend. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. He returned it just as fiercely.

"Thank you for all that you did for me. It means more than I could ever express." She buried her head in his hair and took a deep breath. He smelled of roasted chestnuts and a summers day. She would miss it.

"I know a way you could make it up to me." He said as he pulled away. Gwyn looked at him expectantly.

"Promise me I will see you again soon." A soft smile graced Gwyn's face.

"I promise." She wanted to show her sisters the Band of Exiles castle anyways. They would love it. Lucien smiled broadly before dropping a kiss on her forehead next to her invoking stone.

She finally decided to wear it as all the priestesses do. Lucien took her to Sangravah to see Catrin's grave. She had been so sad and angry that she almost destroyed the stone right then and there. She did not deserve the stone while her sister's body lay cold in a grave. But then Lucien took her to meet the priestesses and children that had rebuilt the temple. The children that Gwyn had saved. They all remembered her and flattered her in compliments and hugs. The called her their hero and said that they were petitioning to make that dreadful anniversary known as Berdara day. In honor of the twins who sacrificed so much to protect those children. Gwyn cried for a week straight after that. Once her emotions leveled out though, she began to wear the stone. The children had been a distant memory that she forgot about while grieving for her sister. Seeing them, happy and healthy, reminded her that the sacrifice was not in vein. She may have failed Catrin but she did not fail those children. It was one more thing that made her grateful for Lucien.

Gwyn took one last look at Lucien before he winnowed away. She turned back towards the door, took a deep breath, and headed straight for the personal library. She was so excited she thought she might throw up. She wished she had kept her composure to walk the entire way there, but as she came closer and closer to the library, her feet began moving faster and faster until she was practically running. The moment she burst through the doors she scanned the room for the two females. She found them sitting side by side, each with a book in their hands. It made Gwyn smile broadly. They both whipped their heads up at the same time- startled. Nesta reacted first, practically throwing herself at Gwyn. Emerie was close behind, and then they were crushing Gwyn in a hug.

"Gwyn!" Nesta cried. Emerie just squeezed her tighter.

Home.

Gwyn felt completely at ease now that she was reunited with her sisters. She had missed them so unbearably that she almost forced Lucien to bring her back several different times. She was afraid that if she came back, she would not have left again. After a very lengthy hug, the girls pulled apart. Nesta was subtly trying to wipe tears away which only served in making Gwyn start to cry herself.

"We missed you." Emerie said softly while running her hand over Gwyn's hair. It was such a comforting gesture that Gwyn forced another hug from the Illyrian female.

"I missed you two more than anything." Gwyn pulled back from Emerie so that she could grab both of their hands. She pulled them over to the couch and forced them to sit down next to her.

"You better explain why you ran off with Lucien and you better do it right now because I am angry with you so I want a good explanation before I start yelling." Nesta warned with a hardened expression. Gwyn squeezed her hand and gave her a small smile.

"Lucien helped me with some things." Gwyn did not even know how to start explaining everything that had happened. She knew Lucien did not want her telling anyone of their ancestry, but Emerie and Nesta did not count. At least in Gwyn's mind they didn't.

"Things we could not help you with?" Emerie asked. Gwyn could hear the touch of hurt in her voice and suddenly felt very guilty. She never imagined they would blame themselves. She should have known better though, especially with Nesta.

"You cannot repeat what I am about to tell you to anyone." She gave them both a pointed look but it got a snort from Nesta.

"Who would I possibly tell other than Cassian?" She rolled her eyes with a slight laugh. Gwyn continued to give her a serious look.

"You cannot tell Cassian or Mor either. They will feel obligated to tell Rhys. This information is dangerous for me and I need to know before I tell you that it will stay between us three." She squeezed both their hands again. Nesta and Emerie shared a look before giving her a concerned one.

"We promise. We would never do anything to endanger you, Gwyn." Emerie insisted as Nesta nodded in agreement. Gwyn took a deep breath before explaining.

"Lucien's my grandfather. After the autumn court high lord killed Lucien's lover, him and a brother hid my mother at Sangravah." Emerie's eyes widened comically while Nesta took this in with a straight face.

"Holy shit. That makes you the only living heir to the day court." Emerie muttered. Gwyn's brows furrowed in confusion.

"The day court?" Nesta inquired on the same topic that Gwyn was confused about. The winged female gave them a sheepish look.

"Shit. I wasn't supposed to say anything." She gave a deep sigh. "Mor told me that Helion is Lucien's real father and that would make Lucien the only known offspring of Helion." Gwyn wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"Does this mean you'll get a real Pegasus?" Nesta pondered. It made Gwyn smile thinking of the tiny Pegasus the house conjured for them.

"I would demand weekends with it if so." Emerie added while leaning back on the side of the couch to fully face the other two females.

"Well anyways, Lucien helped me with some things regarding Sangravah." Gwyn directed the conversation back on topic. She did not want to think about being the future heir to some random court. "I did not ask for your help because I did not want to be dependent on you two. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it on my own. Trust me, it had nothing to do with not wanting your help. There were so many times I almost forced Lucien to bring me back." Nesta looked at the priestess and a smile finally graced her face.

"You are wearing your invoking stone." Gwyn blushed and looked down at her hands. Nesta was one of the only people she had confided in about why she never wore it and she had only done that because she knew that Nesta would understand.

"I am."

"Are you happy?" Nesta asked wearily. The blunt female was not a fan of Lucien's for some reason.

"I am now that I am home. I have so much to tell you, but I might still need to process some of it before then." Gwyn warned. She may not be ready to give them all the answers that they needed or wanted. Gwyn put both her arms around both the females shoulders, tugging them in closer to her.

"You know just by the way, you could have given Az a heads up about your departure. I had to convince him that Papa Lucien did not kidnap you for nefarious revenge plans." Nesta responded after awhile of comfortable silence. Gwyn cringed while Emerie cackled over Lucien's new nickname.

"I figured his shadows told him." She shrugged. It's not her fault if he was being a bad spy master. He should have known Lucien did not kidnap her. Nesta gave a small smirk while nestling her head into the crook of Gwyn's neck. Emerie mimicked the gestured and suddenly all three of them were cuddling on the couch. It made the priestess feel safe.

"Mor said he finally confronted her about their situation." Nesta's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. Gwyn was just as surprised. The Shadowsinger practically ran screaming from emotions.

"How did that go?" The red headed female asked incredulously. She also had no idea why he would chose now when he was finally with Elain to have that conversation.

"Good? I did not get a lot of details but Mor seemed happy." They all sat in another comfortable silence again. There was so much to say on both sides. Gwyn was sure she had missed out on a lot, but they all knew they just wanted to enjoy each other's presence for a bit.

"Hey Nes-" Cassian stopped mid-sentence when he saw the priestess as he strode into the library. A huge smile broke out on his face. "Gwyn!"

"Hey Cas." She gave a small wave as all three girls sat upright on the couch. They all moved over some so Cassian could sit next to Nesta. It was a tight squeeze especially with his wings but they made it work.

"Shit, I have missed you, Berdara. Training is not the same without you. Please tell me you have kept up with it." He berated her like the good trainer he was.

Gwyn gave a short laugh. If only he knew what she had been doing to keep up with her training. She knew he would approve though. She truly had missed Cassian. Nesta and his bickering was a high quality form of entertainment for both Gwyn and Emerie. She also missed his quite encouragement and lame jokes, she would never admit to the latter, though.

"I have missed you as well." He gave Nesta a peck on the cheek which caused a smile to bloom on her face. They were sickeningly adorable.

"Are you coming tonight?" He asked.

"What's tonight?" He obviously did not know that Gwyn just arrived back. They had no time to discuss anything other than her trip.

"Oh I forgot to mention. Remember Balthazar? The guy that helped Emerie and I in the blood rite? Well Feyre and Rhys are throwing him a party in windhaven for not killing us." Nesta rolled her eyes. Clearly, she did not feel that was worth celebrating

"Seems kind of like the bare minimum." Emerie muttered the same thing that Nesta must be thinking. "No need to throw a party for letting us live." Emerie mimicked Nesta with an eye roll of her own.

"Sounds fun.” Gwyn could not stop the sarcasm that flooded her voice. “But I will go anyways.” She relented.

"Really?" Cassian was clearly surprised as he looked at her with raised eyebrows. Gwyn watched as he subtly set his hand on Nesta’s shoulder and rubbed his thumb back and forth. Part of Gwyn felt jealous. She wanted to experience that type of intimacy with someone- with Az. She let out a sigh.

"Yeah. I have had a very enlightening five months. I think I am ready to brave windhaven in a showy dress while everyone schmoozes the high lord and lady." Emerie and Nesta both cheered at that while Cassian gave her his biggest smile. It made her laugh.

"Azriel is at the River house. Want me to take you there?" Cassian suddenly changed the topic. Gwyn narrowed her eyes at him. She most definitely did not want to see the Shadowsinger right now. Besides, she still had so much to discuss with her sisters.

"I can only take so many reunions at once. Perhaps his could wait."

+

Gwyn had never felt this confident. Her normal anxieties were still there, but it was not nearly as overwhelming as it once had been. She felt a little guilty for crashing Balthazar's "thank you for not killing my sister in the blood rite" party, however, she knew the male would not care much. She glanced at herself one last time in the mirror- only to feel that a stranger was looking back at her. For the first time in front of her friends, she wore her invoking stone atop her head. The color matched her dress very well. It was quite a scandalous dress by her standards even if Nesta had said it had nothing on a few of Feyre's court of nightmare dresses. The neckline went up relatively high while the back dipped down low enough to barely reach her tailbone. It left her entire back exposed. There were very few scars there which made her much more comfortable than some of the dresses with low cut necklines. The waistline came in tight enough for Gwyn to struggle to breathe. Luckily, the skirt was flowy with a slit in the side that showed off one of her legs as well as her dagger which was sheathed to her thigh. It was very unlike Gwyn. She would not wear it again, but once for a grand entrance seemed like as good of a time as ever. Lucien bought the dress for her before realizing how scandalous it really was. He saw the color and was reminded of her eyes which she apparently got from Jesminda. She tried it on once for him which resulted in him stumbling over his words in a very un-Lucien manner. He told her he would return it at once and then begged for forgiveness. It was a bit of an overreaction that had her giggling for a decent amount of time. She told him she would keep it and wear it when she was ready. She knew she would be ready when she could walk out of the door without changing. She allowed herself five more minutes of staring before heading upstairs to the House of Wind. Cassian, Nesta, Emerie, and Mor would all be waiting for her up there. She did not quite expect the reaction she received. All four of them stared at her, wide-eyed, for longer than socially acceptable. Gwyn almost asked if she should change, but then Nesta and Emerie were gushing over the dress, Mor was demanding to know where she got it from, and Cassian gave her a shy compliment. The anxiety released her chest as everyone went back to discussing their original conversation.

It appeared the high lord and lady did not spare a single expense for this party. Food and alcohol was everywhere, music played loudly, and everyone was dancing. The dances were different than the ones Gwyn was used to, but Emerie showed her a few of the steps. She had gotten so good at one of them that a crowd formed around the three sisters as they held hands and danced around in a circle, adding in different kicks and twirls on beat. Gwyn had laughed more tonight than she had since Catrin’s death. Perhaps everything was finally falling into place for Gwyn to live her life unafraid. Exhaustion pulled Gwyn from the dance floor and back onto the dais where the high lord and lady stood- deep in discussion. Gwyn did not interrupt them, instead opting to stand by herself for a moment in order to catch her breathe. She chugged her cup of water that was much harder to find than it should have been. She was not alone long before a male approached her.

She recognized the red-haired fae. She was trying to remember how she knew him, but it just barely kept slipping her mind. Based on his looks, he was from the autumn court which made Gwyn wonder why he was even here in the first place. To Rhysand and Feyre's surprise, the male asked to dance with her. Before she could accept or decline though, her high lord interrupted.

"No." Gwyn's eyebrows raised to her hairline. He did not speak for her. Now or ever.

"Rhys," Feyre began, shifting her eyes from her mate to the quickly angering priestess. "I do believe Gwyn has a voice of her own." The couple shared a look before turning to her. The red haired male looked as annoyed as Gwyn felt.

"Gwyneth, I apologize for speaking on your behalf, but he is not to be trusted. He is dangerous." He continued to dig himself further into a hole. Gwyn was the last person to openly trust a strange male, but she could handle her own. Especially against him.

"And here I thought we were allies." The strange male rolled his eyes with his sarcastic comment. All three of them ignored him.

"Do you see me warning you away from every female in this room?" It was a rhetorical question, but her point was made. "How would you like me to throw Amarantha in your face every chance I got under the guise of protection? If I want your opinion on a dancing partner, I will ask." She was a blunt person, but she was not typically so harsh. The overwhelming pity that Rhysand sent her way brought the ugliness out of her in a way that many others have not been able to do. She could see the guilt on his face. She also saw the flinch when she uttered Amarantha's name and she wished more than anything that she could take it back. Just because he reminded her of Sangravah every chance he got did not mean she had to stoop to his level.

"I apologize. Obviously, you may dance with whomever you chose." He bowed his head to her and flourished an arm towards the waiting male. Feyre was too busy watching Rhysand to add anything more. Gwyn supposed they were having an internal conversation. She stepped down from the dais to follow the male onto the dancing floor. She did not want to dance with him in particular. Truly, she only wanted to dance with Azriel who had yet to make an appearance, but she was curious. That nagging feeling at the back of her mind said that she knew him. He grabbed one of her hands to hold and placed his other at her hip. The placement at her hip was odd. Typically, that was reserved for more intimate dances between couples, but that was not why he did it. Her back was completely exposed due to the dress. He must have figured this would be better for her. She narrowed her eyes at him. He must know Lucien and therefore who she is to him.

"Eris Vanserra." He finally announced as they began their dance. "Pleasure to officially meet you." Gwyn met his stare. It was surprisingly soft. Lucien's brother she realized. This could be good or bad depending on which brother he is she contemplated. She had only heard wicked things about all his brothers except when Lucien was discussing her mother. He mentioned a brother helped him hide her mother.

"We have met before." She said it as a statement of fact, but in truth it was a question. He gave her a wicked grin before twirling her.

"We have."

"Where?" He twirled her once more before glancing over his shoulder at Rhysand. He must be listening in.

"Sangravah." Was all he said. It was all she needed to remember. He came to the services Sangravah held on Sunday's. It was not every Sunday, but enough of them to recognize him. He sat in a pew in the back and watched. He never participated. Catrin complained one time that she felt he was watching her. Gwyn had brushed it off as mere paranoia- she knew better now though. She wanted to respond with a million different questions; however, she was expected to be vague with prying ears around.

"Why?" Was all she could muster. If Lucien was not willing to risk a visit, then why was he? She was searching his eyes for any clues only to discover a hint of sadness that was quickly covered up.

"To remind myself that it was worth it." The music stopped as the dance came to an end, so he moved his mouth to her ear to continue. It would have seemed an intimate moment to anyone watching. Truly, it was only an uncle speaking a secret to his great niece. "That all I had become to save her was worth it."

Before she could respond she felt a sharp tug on her mate bond, a whisper of a shadow on her wrist, and then Azriel launched himself at Eris.

"For fucks sake." Cassian could be heard muttering as a brawl ensued between the pair. Gwyn couldn't help but agree. Punches were thrown back and forth, but once truth teller had been drawn, Gwyn did the only thing she could think of. She lightly scraped her nails on the back of Azriel's wings. Almost immediately he wrenched himself away from Eris to give her a startled look- his wings tucking in tight. Luckily, Cassian chose that time to insert himself into the fight and hold Eris back.

"Do not do that again." Azriel gave her an intimidating look, but she did not balk from him. Not now.

"Do not give me that attitude, Shadowsinger." She returned his stare with such intensity that he finally looked away.

She turned to Eris who now looked much worse than her mate. He was wiping blood from his nose with the end of his sleeve. She quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and gave a tight squeeze. He barely had time to return the hug before she pulled away. Everyone was clearly shocked, but it mattered little to Gwyn. This dangerous and cruel male had gone against his abusive father to save her mother. He had risked his future as high lord by visiting her and Catrin. It was not all that long ago that Gwyn thought she had no family. Then she met Nesta and Emerie and now she had a grandfather who loved her despite knowing little of her and a great uncle who cared for her enough to risk all he had tried to achieve. It made her feel a little less alone in this world.

"Thank you." Was all she uttered before turning back to her mate who had the audacity to be glaring daggers at Eris. She narrowed her eyes at him before grabbing him by his hand and tugging him all the way to the exit. She could see him about to speak so she stopped him.

"No. No speaking. Show me to a private room so I can scream at you for a solid five minutes and then I shall allow you to speak." She was fuming mad at the arrogance of this male. He was in a completely committed relationship with another female and he had the audacity to attack her dance partner. He took her down a long hallway, his shadows twirling around him in chaos. His wings were tense even as his face gave off an air of cool indifference. He took a sharp turn and then they were in an empty bedroom.

"I have been back for a total of six hours and before I can even utter a word to you, you have gone and fought Eris Vanserra of all people? Really Azriel I am starting to get whiplash from you. One second you are proclaiming your love for Elain Archeron and the next you are attempting murder on my dance partner. What would you like from me? Because I was hoping we could start off with a pleasant conversation but I suppose that is too much to ask for?" She was glaring him down which was not something anyone else had ever done. While he was beautiful, his icy cruelty laid right beneath the surface. It was enough for everyone to walk on eggshells around him. Even some of his closest friends. Gwyn had never done that though and she would not start now. He looked down at his feet as his shadows went still. Perhaps they also realized they were in trouble.

"You are wearing your invoking stone." He peeked at the stone that lay across her forehead before glancing out the window. She huffed in frustration.

"This is the first you have seen of me in five months and that's all you have to say?" Her glare turned more incredulous.

"You never wore it before." He paused to glance up at her before continuing. "You look beautiful." Gwyn groaned in frustration. This male would be the death of her. She sat at the edge of the bed in the middle of the room. After a moments pause, he followed suit and sat next to her with a small gap in between them. It was silent for another moment.

"I am sorry Gwyneth. My shadows refuse to tell me anything about you and I assumed the worse when I saw Eris whispering into your ear. The mate bond has become harder to control the longer you have been gone as well." She could agree with that. Her own mate bond had become more and more incessant the longer she had been gone. It was like a buzzing in her mind that would not stop. She wondered how Elain managed.

"Lucien, and I suppose now Eris, are important to me Azriel. I cannot explain why quite yet, but it is important to me that you try to be polite specifically with Lucien. Okay?" It was probably more information than she should give. She wanted to be clear with him. He gave her a curious look. He wanted to ask more that was for sure.

"Okay." He whispered. They both looked down at their hands. His were laid loosely on his thighs while hers were clasped tightly together in her lap. "Elain and I decided it would be best if we stopped..." he trailed off at the end, braving a glimpse at her. She was surprised by this. Perhaps Elain's visit to the Band of Exile's was not to reject Lucien. Almost two weeks ago, Gwyn had bumped into Elain in the castle. Their conversation was awkward and brief, but Gwyn thought for sure that the beautiful female had come to reject the mating bond with Lucien.

"Why?" Was all Gwyn could muster. She suddenly felt so tired.

"After our kiss," he started. His hands ran up and down his thighs and she realized he was nervous. She grabbed one of his hands with her own and squeezed. "Nothing had ever lived up to that. I had been chasing what Elain represented that I forgot what I was missing out on. I don't want Elain now and maybe I never truly did. I know I don't deserve it, but I would like a chance to be with you Gwyn. We can go as slow as you like." His sudden proclamation was hurting her head. It was like sensory overload.

"What makes me different from Elain?" She didn't want him to make this decision solely because they were mated. She wanted this to be different. She squeezed his hand tighter.

"You see me for who I am and you aren't phased. You have never hesitated before grabbing my hands. You didn't even so much as blink at my shadows the first time you saw them. You understand why I hold myself to such high standards and you aren't scared of me." He looked directly into her eyes to make sure she understood that every word was true. He wanted her to see him be vulnerable. His stare was so intense that she had to look away before responding.

"I missed you." She gave him a small smile. "But I have been missing you for much longer than I have been gone. I miss my friend. You were so much more to me than just my mate when it snapped into place and I feel like we lost that along the way. This has nothing to do with what you deserve, Azriel. I want you to know that. But right now I would really love my friend back. We can see where the future leads us later." It was not the speech she planned to give him when she thought he was still with Elain, but it was true. They both still had so much to deal with even now. She wanted to deal with it with her friend by her side though. His shoulders slumped slightly which had the mate bond clenching tightly in her chest. After a moment though, his head lifted and he gave her a brilliant smile. One she had never seen from him before and she realized she would do just about anything to see it again.

"I would love to be your friend, Gwyneth Berdara." He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She let out a content sigh as she put her arms around his neck. Her head rest on his shoulder as his head lay atop hers. His shadows were moving languidly as though they were also happy.

"Can I ask a favor of you though?" He mumbled against her hair. She nodded slightly.

"Can I ask that you not touch my wings in public again?" His tone was almost pleading. She quickly looked up at him putting a couple inches between them.

"Oh gods! I'm sorry. Did it hurt? Nesta mentioned that they were sensitive once and I figured it would be the easiest way to stop you from killing Eris." She didn't mean to be too rough, but she also wasn't familiar with Illyrian wings. He gave her a sheepish look. A slight blush gracing his cheeks.

"Um, that's not what she meant by sensitive." He glanced at her before laying his head on top of hers again to avoid eye contact. "It's just not something that one does with Illyrian wings in public." There was heavy insinuation in his voice, but Gwyn could not figure out why. What could she possibly be missing?

"Well we aren't in public now? Could I do it now?" If he wouldn't outright tell her, perhaps she could threaten it out of him. She brought her hand up to his wing only for him to quickly grab it and push her away. She started to laugh as his face grew even redder. "Az, just tell me. Are you ticklish?" It was just too easy to tease him. He held both of her wrists between his hands to keep her at bay.

"Gwyn, I am begging you, which I never do if I must add, please do not touch them unless you would like to act out a scene from one of your romance novels." He truly was begging. She smiled until his words finally caught up to her. Now it was her that was blushing like crazy. Nesta was going to get an earful for being woefully stubborn with details.

"Sorry!" Was all she could splutter out like a fool. She quickly shoved her hands in her lap. Azriel began laughing very loudly as realization of what she almost did hit her. Oh, how the tables have turned she thought. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her closer, dropping a kiss on her head.

"I truly have missed you, Gwyn. Tell me everything."

+

Sometime in the future

Gwyn felt a tickle on her bare back. She tried to ignore it and go back to sleep by burying her head further into her pillow. Another tickle brushed against her. She swatted at her back which was more difficult than she wanted to admit considering she was laying on her stomach. One last tickle had her groaning as she finally popped her eyes open. She immediately gave the Shadowsinger a glare.

"I was trying to sleep." She mumbled, her voice still sleep laced. He gave her a charming smile back.

"Keep sleeping. I was just rubbing your back for you." He had the look of innocence perfected, but Gwyn new better.

It was hard to stay mad at him when he looked like that though. She moved closer to him while he laid on his side. She wrapped her arms and legs around him until she pushed him onto his back with her on top. An ornery grin graced his face as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck. He began to run his hands up and down her bare thighs. It made her shutter. The warmth from his chest stopped her bare chest from being chilled by the temperature of the room. She loved waking up this way with her mate. She quickly discovered that neither of them slept too often- nightmares always finding them in their sleep. They stayed up most nights playing chess or singing or training or...doing other things. Gwyn was always curious about the scenes she read from Nesta and Emerie's romance books. Azriel was certainly willing to demonstrate for her. After one particular, evening session Gwyn profusely apologized for touching Azriel's wings in public all that time ago. It made her embarrass to know exactly how close she had been to bringing Azriel to his knees in front of all those people. She thought she might never live it down if it had happened.

"What are you thinking about?" Azriel asked while playing with Gwyn's hair. His shadows were wrapping all around her in a way that made her feel safe especially when they were being this intimate.

"You." She immediately answered with a grin while dropping a quick kiss on to his chin.

"I would hope so." He gave her one last devilish smile before leaning up to kiss her. Right as she began to grind though, Az pulled away.

"Sorry, Carynthian. That is not why I woke you." He teased. Gwyn rolled her eyes at the nickname. He loved to call her that simply to remind her of all she had accomplished. She felt he was bragging about her just a little too much.

"Well then why did you wake me?" She lifted a singular eyebrow but he only laughed her off. He sat up with her still in his lap and started to carry her towards their bathroom.

"Nyx's party will be starting soon." He set her down on the counter before getting the bath water ready. Gwyn lifted one of her legs, so that her foot could rest on the counter as well. If he was going to tease her, well then two could play at that game. Even during times like these, both of their competitive streaks came out. It was always a game to see who could get who to cave first. The look Az gave her when he turned around told her that she won this round. Before dropping to his knees in front of her though, he grabbed her face and pressed a harsh kiss to her lips.

"I love you, Gwyneth Berdara." And then she was screaming her love for Azriel, over and over again.

They were both late to the party. Neither of them cared.

The end

[virtual-luvr]

Flustered Apologies

✧ Pairing: Asahi x Artistic! Reader

✧ Pronouns: gender neutral; they/them

✧ Warnings: none, just fluff

✧ Description: asahi was just trying to impress you, not ruin your drawings

✧ Note: this was requested by someone on wattpadd thank you so much for requesting <3, also this fanfic gave me so much serotonin while writing

While trying to mind your own business outside the school gates, waiting for your friend to pick you up and have your usual cafe doodle time. A certain cheerful blonde runs towards you.

"Yachi calm down stop running you're going to-"

A sudden 'splat' is heard, all of yachi's books spilling on the floor

"..trip" you wince

She dusts herself acting like nothing happened

"I came here to ask you something!" She says with a big smile

"And that is?" You say while picking up her books

"I was wondering..if you could, maybe, uhm come to the boys practice today?"

"whAT ABSOLUTELY NOT"

She knows about your crush on Asahi, if you were to go you'd be staring all day.

"Come on! Just this once, what if we got food after, my treat!"

"Are you bribing me?"

"..maybe, please~ its only once"

"Why do you even want me there?"

"Just for your company, Kiyoko cant be there today" she juts out her bottom lip, trying to use her puppy eyes tactic.

Its almost worked

"Im sorry Yachi but I have plans"

Just as you say that your friend calls you explaining that they cant go get you and plans are cancelled since something urgent came.

You grunt and look back at Yachi, "okay fine"

Her excited yelp can be heard from a mile away, she grabs you and hurriedly walks to the gym

You open the door and the sound of the volleyballs hitting the walls and floor echoes throughout the whole gym.

Yachi drags you towards a bench; Asahi, Tanaka, and Noya all huddled up together right by you

"Are you sure this will work?" Asahi asks while nervously scratching at his chin

You wont lie, their conversation peaked your interest. You didn't even notice Asahi was the one who was asking that.

"What will work?" And while the question was mainly for yourself, the trio heard you.

"Oh! Nothing you have to worry about (Y/N)!" Tanaka tells you, a big grin on his face

Even though you were shocked he heard you, you shrugged as if nothing happened.

You grab your bag and start shuffling things around looking for a pencil and your sketchbook.

Since you didn't have much else to do you decide maybe practicing some anatomy could help.

Yachi had wandered off to go get water for the both of you but she back pretty quickly

"Hey what are you doing?" She tilts her head while asking and bringing a cup of water towards you

"Just practicing some stuff" you smile up at her and bow your head while grabbing the cup of water as a silent thank you

A yell is heard from Tanaka, "Watch out!"

Two seconds later Asahi is on the floor, there was silence for a minute, but then Asahi yells an "im okay" and the team keeps playing.

"Gosh, be needs to be careful"

You hear a silent giggle beside you, you mutter a "what's wrong?" To Yachi and she just giggles even more.

"Did you seriously not notice what caused Asahi to get distracted?"

"...no?" Now you're just confused, what does she mean?

"He was staring at you and your smile"

"That's ridiculous, why would he be doing that" the thought of him even looking at you made you panic so you tilt your head down and kept drawing.

"You really don't know?"

"I don't know what you mean" you kept on mumbling after that, trying to distract yourself from looking up and staring too much

"Hey, (Y/N)?"

"Hm?" You say and start sipping from your cup

"Do you still like Asahi?"

"Sshh! Don't be so loud, they might hear you" you choke out trying not to spill any water

"Don't worry he cant hear us!"

"But someone else might!"

"Oh shush its fine, but really, do you?"

"..yes, why are you asking?"

She doesn't answer you, she only gives you a big smile and looks back at the court.

You try to not think about how weird some of them are acting today. Maybe they just have some big game soon and are worried about it.

You notice you still have the cup of water in your hand so you put it beside you on a table, not knowing the consequences you would have for doing that later.

While almost finishing the, not so bad, drawing Yachi pokes your shoulder

"(Y/N) look!"

You look up and meet with the eyes of Asahi, since you both were looking at each other Asahi got distracted and spiked the ball a little too hard. Noya tried to hit the ball but he accidently just it flying...towards your cup of water.

The ball hits the cup and the water spills right on your just finished drawing.

You barely had time to grieve on your, very soaked, drawing before Asahi was sprinting towards you spewing out a million "im sorrys" and "i didn't mean to"

Noya just awkwardly whistled and ran away, the whole team joining him, even Yachi.

Now it was just the two of you, and while you blushed at the thought of that. Asahi was still caught up on apologizing and panicking.

When he noticed you guys were alone he grew even more flustered and kept on apologizing.

"Asahi its okay, its wasn't your fault, im sorry for distracting you"

"No no I should be the one saying sorry I completely forgot about my surroundings I should do better-"

"Hey no don't say that, you are doing your best and that's what's important, plus you're amazing already, you can't get any better" you said cutting him off

"Are you sure?"

"Yes a hundred percent" you say and smile

"I-i still feel like I should repay you, I still feel like its kind of my fault"

"Why?"

"Because, well- Tanaka and Nishinoya had a plan for me to impress you and I feel like I lind of messed it all up" after he admits to their plan he looks down and fiddles with his hands.

"Why we're you trying to impress me?" Even though you already can imagine why, you still wanted to make sure it was what you thought it was.

"I kind of, uhm, have a crush on you" he stammers

You grab his hands and hold them in yours, looking at him in the eyes.

"Ill make you a deal, if you repay me my ruined drawing with kisses and a date, ill forget this ever happened"

He looks up at your suggestion, "Are you serious?"

And when you nod, he looks at you as if you just gave him everything he ever wanted.

He suddenly grabs your head and smashes his lips on yours.

Before you could kiss him back he started peppering kisses all over your face, making you laugh, and when you were about to do the same to him someone decided to interrupt

"I came back to apologize but im guessing this is bad timing-"

"gO"

"Im still going to go tell the team~"

Noya saw the look on both of your guy's faces and decided the best thing to do would be to run.

[1250 words; july/16/2020]

[my-fan-side]

Unconventional

A/N: Okay, so here’s the Eris-Nesta Friendship (but still Def Nessian) Fanfic that I’ve started drafting about a couple months ago, but went back to it just last week while cleaning up some of my file in folders.So anyway, I hope you guys like it. Thanks for those who have liked, reblogged and have shown interest on this fic. I appreciate it very much and you have no idea how much that means to me. :)

Chapter 1

When Beron Vanserra died, the crown was instantly passed to his eldest son Eris. How he died and to whose hands he had, was never questioned by anyone, any more. What everyone was concerned, and intrigued for that matter, was what’s in store for the future of Autumn Court under its new leadership.

The dead was honored, traditions was observed, the people of the Autumn court grieved, and High Lords from all other courts sympathized with them. But as they say, the end of an era, is a beginning of another. And so, after all the of mourning, a celebration is very looked forward to.

“Invitations! We’re all going to a Ball next week!” Elain came in bouncing towards her family and friends lounging on the townhouse’s foyer. Everyone looked up to her, and to her red head mate who carries a couple of boxes in his arms beside her.

“Already?! Just a week after his father’s death, and a gathering to celebrate his crown is already happening. Eager much, is he?” Mor snorted with a mix of amusement and irritation as she took one of the invitations and stroke its elaborate design.

“Well, He is already the High Lord of Autumn. He already became one, the moment Beron took his last breath. This is Coronation Ball is just for formality.” Rhysand pointed out as he sat beside his mate. Feyre was admiring the red and gold intricate swirls on the invitation as well. It is beautiful, and if the invitation alone looked this extravagant, she could only imagine what more the actual party would be.

Elain finished distributing the invitations and was now seated on the sofa beside Nesta and Cassian. She frowns on the inner circles’ reactions though. She expected them to be at least a little bit excited for the ball, since it’s been a while since they’ve attended one from a different court. She thought that the animosity between the group and Eris has already subsided. She won’t say it out loud, but she thinks it was a relief to all of them when the throne was transferred to him. They all knew that if not for Eris, some of the treaties between Autumn and Night court wouldn’t have pushed through. He has shown good faith these past years, so she’s not really sure what to feel on their reactions. Maybe she still hasn’t truly understood how deep does the scars run among these people.

Lucien opt not to comment and just rearrange the two boxes he was carrying by the table. He is used to these peoples’ dislike toward his brother, he doesn’t blame them, there’s history there. Still, he and his brother managed to establish a civil relationship for a while now. He wouldn’t say that they are now best brothers, but for now, at least they were on the same page on being at least friendly. At the beginning he bears it for their mother, but as time passes by, Eris managed to show them that he is a better male than his Father was.

“Well, Elain is right! It’s been a while since we all visited another court for a celebration. We have been busy these past few weeks. So, I, for one, is very excited to go party!” Cassian winked at Elain and it made her giggle, Nesta snort, and the rest of the gang shook head and roll their eyes.

“Speaking of. Nesta, this is for you, for the party.” Lucien handed the box to her.

“For me?” Nesta took the box unsure what to make of it.

“Yes, the other box is for Elain.”  Lucien confirmed and handed the other box to his mate.

“Hey! What about me?” Feyre protested with a pout from the other side of the room.

“Uhmm. Well, the one for Elain is actually from my mothers. A late birthday present since I’ve mentioned to her that last week was Elain’s birthday.” Lucien explained carefully, hoping not to upset his first Archeron friend. Meanwhile, Elain blushes on receiving that gift. She knows what’s in the box, she has already opened it when they were still on the Autumn court. It was a beautiful long dress, perfect for next week’s occasion.

“Uhhhh, so is this an advance birthday present for me too? From your mother? Because my birthday is still a couple of months from now, and I wasn’t aware she knows about it?” Nesta asked with raised brows. She’s confused on why Lucien’s mom would give her anything at all, what more, a present?

“Actually, it’s not exactly from mother. That – is from Eris, sort of. He told me to give you that.” Lucien said with a raised brow and a smirk. Elain bit her lip trying not to laugh. Not because of Nesta’s snort when Lucien said it was from Eris, but because of the rest of the Inner Circle’s reaction. They were all rendered speechless looking back and forth between Nesta and the gift box. Azriel and Amren with narrowed eyes. Rhysand with raised brows. Feyre and Mor probably didn’t even noticed their mouths agape. And Cassian, Nesta’s mate, who’s face went from shocked, then confused, then angry in just a matter of seconds, was frozen still.

Nesta, however, seems to be unaffected and probably amused on their reactions as well. She took the cover of the box, saw a card atop it and read it. What’s written made her snicker. And before she returned the card inside the box, Cassian grabbed it fast and read it aloud.

“Nesta.

Here’s a dress that I hope you’ll wear on my Ceremony. I know I can’t tell you what to do, I’ve learned my lessons. But, just because you’re from the Night court doesn’t mean you’ll wear black and white only. Or Gray like you usually do. Really, you should spice up your wardrobe a little, will you?

Eris.”

The letter sounds teasing enough that they can’t help but wonder how close Eris and Nesta have really become. And why the heck they didn’t know about it. Well except Elain and Lucien.

Cassian’s nostrils flared, and crumpled the piece of paper with Eris note. He was about to say something, when Nesta punched his arm, not that hard really, just to make him stop seething.

“Will you stop being territorial. Gods! It’s just a note!” Nesta rolled her eyes at his mate.

“Sweetheart, this...” he raised the crumpled notes towards Nesta. “…is just a note. “But that—”  he point his fingers towards the dress that’s still neatly folded inside the gift box. “--is not! Why the heck is Eris giving you a dress? And since when are you two friends? Why did I not know this? Wha—” He wasn’t able to finish his blubbering. Nesta put a finger on his lips to shut him up and answers his questions calmly.

“One, he’s giving me a dress because he wants to--- for some reason. Two, I can’t remember exactly when we started to get along, but it’s not like it happened the instant I have visited Autumn court as an Emissary. And three, well… I don’t know why you didn’t know. I guess it just never came up. It’s not like we talk about him that much. Do you want to talk about him?” Nesta finished her statement coolly and with a raised brow towards Cassian.

“No.” He grumbled, he’s annoyed and mad. Too many questions running through his mind.

“I do!” Feyre answered back. “I want to know how you are friends. I mean, you go to other courts too, but it’s not like you have close friends from every courts?” she said and then crossed her arms. She can’t believe her sister is actually friends with Eris. And they must be closer than just the casual acquaintances, because he was literally giving her gifts.

Nesta tilted her head towards Feyre and answered her evenly. “And how are you so sure I don’t?” She crossed her arms too and face her younger sister. Like a challenge. The others kept quiet eyeing the two having a staring match.

Then Nesta sighed and leaned back towards Cassian’s arms. “I don’t get why you’re all bothered about this. I can have friends outside this circle and this court, you know? Like you do.”

“We never said you can’t or don’t.” Rhysand clarified.

“Of course. Of course.  I guess it just caught us off guard. We didn’t know.” Feyre let it go and leaned back towards her mate as well. “But you do?!” she then turned her attention to her other sister. Pointing out that among all of them, she isn’t surprise with this.

Elain nods her confirmation. “Well, keep in mind that I usually used to accompany Nesta if she has to go do her work in Autumn, and she chaperoned whenever I go there to meet Lucien there, back then. So, sometimes it’s the four of us who spend time together.” She continued and then shrugged it off.

“Yes, and I’m polite enough to leave them and give the two of them some time alone.” Nesta nods her head pointing to Elain and Lucien. “Because I may be overprotective, but I’m not going to hinder on what makes them… getting to know each other better.” She gave them both a soft smile which the couple returned happily.

“But my brother is stubborn enough as well and decides to not leave Nesta’s side, when she gives us space. You know, Eris might not be the sharpest knife in the bunch, but he knows what he’s saying when it comes to Court Trades and Treaties. And to be honest, when I saw their clash of words on that topic for the first time, I immediately thought that it’s either they’ll kill each other eventually, or miraculously be the best of friends in the end. Well, I guess miracles do happen.” Lucien finished and laughed at that. Elain laughed with him, she thought of that too. Nesta just wave off the statement but that little smirk was undeniably on her face.

“I actually agree with that.” Amren spoke for the first time since the discussion started. “Eris is…cunning and dangerous, yes. But he’s also clever and have the set of skills one leader must have. Just like some one we all know.” She raised a brow and a sly smile towards Nesta. “Maybe that’s why they get along. Besides, whether we all admit it or not. We are glad it was him that have inherited that crown among the Vanserras. We all know it was what’s best for the Autumn court.” She said then finished the wine she was holding.

Cassian was openly glaring at Amren, which the other felt but totally ignored, because how could she actually defend that bastard? However, he can’t say anything else to contradict her statement though, because he knew it was the truth. And everyone seems to think the same because there was a quiet stillness after Amren said her piece.

“Anyway, count me in! Because it will definitely be one heck of a party.” Amren smirked and pointed her wine glass towards Lucien and Elain’s position, her statement seems to finished the conversation.

Tags: @sjm-things @moonbeammadness @maastrash

@typicalmidnightsoul 

[littlepotatowizard]

Dancing in the Wind

A/N: I am running on 3 hours of sleep and 2 cups of coffee! Let’s go! 

Part 1

---

“Ah, there goes poor Jeras. Still hopeless in love.” 

These are the words that he has grown sick hearing off. 

“I feel sorry for him, this is, what, the 8th time already?” A man whispered to his fellow hunter. 

“No. You must have lost count for so long. This is the 14th time.” 

The whispers and murmurs about him continued to resonate as he walks back on his way to Mondstadt. Yes, the other hunter was right. This was already the 14th time he was rejected by the woman he greatly adores. A tired sigh escaped his lips as he spotted a rock near the city’s bridge. He took a seat and stared at the clear water of Lake Cider in contemplation. 

‘Are all of these heartaches worth it? Or was it all in vain?’ Negative thoughts caused his expression to be more crestfallen as his grip on his aster bouquet grew tighter, slightly bending and snapping some of the stems. 

His somber moment was interrupted by a melodic tune from a lyre. His head snapped at the source and found a young man clad in green, serenely playing a tune, presumably a love song, much to his chagrin. 

“I thought bards are supposed to be good at reading the atmosphere to match their songs with. You seem to be not in your game now, lad.” Jeras said in a bitter tone. The bard in green tilted his head to the side as he gestured if he can sit beside him. 

“Do whatever you want. I don’t really care right now.” He murmured as he passed his fingers through his hair to at least release some of the stress that ransacks his being. 

“Do you wish to hear a depressing, grim tune instead? You seem to hate love songs as of current, even though that is the one best suited for you.” The bard said. Jeras gave him a skeptical look and quietly questioned the young bard’s sanity. 

“Seriously? Can you not see that I am not in a mood of sunshine and rainbows? You better sharpen those observation skills, lad.” He spat in annoyance. The bard sighed tiredly and played a slow love song. 

“Yes, i am serious. Are you actually giving up now when the actual battle is about to begin? Do you truly love her, if you give up now?” The young bard said as he stared at him. Jeras felt a surge of anger flow through his system when he heard the questions. 

‘Calm down, Jeras. He’s just a kid who probably takes life lightheartedly’ He reminded himself as he huffed in annoyance and glared at the boy. 

“What do you know about love, lad?” Jeras asked the bard beside him. The young man smiled as he takes in the breeze of Lake Cider. 

“I know more than you can imagine.” He said wistfully. This caught Jeras off-guard. ‘More than I can imagine? Ha! As if. He’s what, fifteen at most?’ Jeras reasoned. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest as he continued to drill holes in the young man’s head. 

“Oh, do pray-tell what you know, wise one.” He said in a mocking, monotone voice. The young man laughed and scratched the back of his head. 

“Well, it is quite hard to explain, but maybe I can tell you about it through a song!” He said as he took his lyre and tested the strings. Jeras decided to humor him and nod, signaling his full attention on him. 

///

Once, in a meadow bathed by moonlight, a chanced meeting occured. Fate weaved its strings, and brought two worlds in a fold.

A wind with a strength that topples strongholds, and a delicate dandelion who in the harsh gusts is bold.

The wind was drawn by the warm glow of the flower. The wind sought it and noticed the fragility of its love, decided to weaken its own power.

They tried to live as normal as they can. With the wind visiting, carrying a tune as it sung. The dandelion gently swaying, as if dancing on the music that it strung.

All is well, and as beautiful as it can be, but of course some things are not meant to be.

The wind slowly noticed how the dandelion was so alone. It learned that the others have long since flown.

The wind realized that since it lowered its power to keep its lover, it unknowingly allowed its beloved to suffer.

With a pang of pain, it came to a decision: to let it be free and go to where it truly belong. So with a painful song, the wind send its light along.

Years has passed, and the wind continued it duty on the land, keeping watch and more. Until one day, a seed fell from the skies with a familiar glow on its core. The wind rushed to its side and held it like how it did with its past lover.

"My days are now counted, but I gathered strength to land here again." said the lone, dying seed. "I did so, because I know that your winds will lead."

They shared their last moments, dancing on the breeze, trying to put their grieving hearts in a little bit of ease.

But alas, the hours is nigh and sunset fell over the seed. The mournful wind sent a song so painful, the divines looked beyond their throne and sent a special blessing on its silent plead.

The wind was to be patient, as its a difficult path it will take. But the widower was determined to fulfill the quest for its lover's sake.

To wait and wait, even as several millennia pass, because at the end, when all has been endured, they will meet again at last and share another dance. 

///

After the last notes has been played, silence overtook them. Jeras looked at the young bard with sympathy, and spoke with a quiet and careful voice. 

“That is a pain that I know I wouldn’t be able to handle...” He drawled as he saw the sun slowly set in the horizon. The young man hummed and carefully hid his lyre. 

“You know, I also forgot to tell you something.” He told Jeras who looked back with a curious expression. The bard smiled and handed him his bouquet of Aster. 

“There was a belief here in Mondstadt that is popular with people who seeks to confess their love for a person.” He stated and got the full attention of the once distraught and rejected man. “When a single dandelion danced in the wind without breaking apart, the person who witnessed it is blessed by the Archon himself.” He finished. Jeras sent an intrigued sound as he placed a hand in his chin, as if contemplating the bard’s words. 

“Why?” Jeras asked. The bard in green stood up with a bounce in his feet as he looked down to Jeras. 

“It was said that Barbatos himself was trying to court his lover, though it has not happened for such a long time.” He said with mirth in his voice. Jeras stood up as well and shook his head in amusement. The Archon himself, courting? Pretty ridiculous. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll keep that in mind, even though it would most likely not happen.” Jeras said while dusting his clothes. The young bard laughed as he turns his heel. 

“Well, it is still a sweet gesture won’t you think? You are not alone struggling with love problems!” He laughed as he sent an energetic farewell to his new found friend. Jeras sent a fond smile back to the lad as he was now left all alone to his way back home. 

While walking back towards the gates, he saw a lone dandelion, gently swaying to the wind, still intact. “When a single dandelion danced in the wind without breaking apart, the person who witnessed it is blessed by the Archon himself.” The young bard’s voice rang in the back of his head as he chuckled softly. 

“Now I’m not alone!”

---

In an edge of a small hill in Springvale, a figure clad in green sat as it observed a man handing a woman a bouquet of Aster. The woman accepted the gift and held the man’s hand as they shared a hug. 

“Playing as match maker now huh, Barbatos?” A sweet voice behind him asked playfully. He stood up to meet the young lady behind him and held their face between his hands, as he nuzzled his nose with hers. 

“Hehe, Mondstadt is known as the City of Romance after all. It’s not too far-fetched for me to try and make couples happen once in a while.” He said as he met their eyes. The young lady wrapped her arms around his and held his hands as she too, watched over the lovers below them. 

“You should have also told Jeras how you stumbled over your words when you tried to serenade me in Cape Oath~” At this, Barbatos’ face erupted in a blush as he shyly laughed along with her. 

“Come on now, You liked it, My Love.” He retorted as he summons gentle winds that surrounded them and transported them on the way between Windriser and Falcon coast. 

“I do and I will continue loving it as much as I love the one who made it.” She said as she rested her head on his shoulder. Barbatos turned to her and kissed her hair as they continued to walk to the beach. 

“Well then, the night is still young and I still have time to court you with all the love songs I’ve prepared while waiting for you. So you better listen well!” He exclaimed as he led her running towards their favorite spot. 

“Of course, My Beloved Wind!” 

---

Mondstadt is known with many names, but one of it is as the “City of Romance”. Their Archon has always loved a girl who tamed his winds and made it warm during the cold months, which allowed the citizens to be closer with one another as camaraderie and friendships bloom, even with strangers. 

Their love was so pure, it gathered the sympathy of the other gods as they bestowed her an immortal life once she has passed. Now, whenever dandelions dance in the wind, the people of Mondstadt sends a message of “Please, Let me to dance with them” as a plea to allow them to meet their fated one and share the same love that their Archon and his lover experiences. 

The girl’s name was never recorded, but she is known as “The Lady of the Dandelions.” 

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 138 prt 2

“I don’t think I want to imagine that”

Mami would have rocked it. Keith imagined her sneaking her chocolates with a bottle of vodka giving the double finger to Sendak if she could have. Chocolates and her abundant supply of love were the only two things she zero self control over. Lance nodded, sucking down a breath, tone slightly dejected before levelling then growing wobbly

“Probably safer... but, yeah. I... the family gave me a lot of things that she’d left behind when we moved. I tried to go to the nursing home, you know, to thank them, but Coran made me stay in for observation. Luis cleaned her room out and took her things. He had the nerve to lose it at me for paying for her funeral...”

Lance started shaking again in his arms. Keith rubbing the top of his arm as if he was trying to warm him up

“Babe. Don’t go there. Luis isn’t your responsibility”

“I know, but without Mami... I won’t hear about them again”

That was true. Luis wouldn’t be rushing to call

“Pidge could change that. She can stalk down thin air and pull up all its credit card charges”

“I think Pidge would bite his ankles in real life if she knew. I wanted to... to be able to talk to them at the funeral, but Coran pulled enough magic to get me there as it was... and I wasn’t ready yet. She and Papi are together now. I wanted her buried in Garrison, but she’s in Platt. I’m talking too much”

Lance wasn’t talking too much. He’d held all this in as he waited for Keith to come home to him. He was glad Lance was telling him what he wanted in his own words instead of by letter

“You’re not. You miss your mum. From what you’ve said, you’ve made a lot of good memories”

“I suppose. I mean, I did. I know I’m very lucky I had all this time with her... really lucky considering all things. I wish I hadn’t broken my phone”

“Shouldn’t it back up?”

“I don’t know how it really works. It’s like one of your Blade phones but it’s pin locked instead of iris encoded. Laptop’s kind of the same. It’s a Coran special”

“We can ask him”

“I hope it’s backed up... I need to stop talking about this... I can’t... I’ve been so whiny. Even when I came back from Sendak, through to now, my mental health’s been shit and all I’ve done is worry everyone. Four months isn’t like long for a vampire but it is for a human”

“I literally think you’re entitled to let it out”

“I keep showing... I keep showing the wrong sides”

There were no wrong sides to Lance. Okay. Maybe 4 months wasn’t that long to a vampire but it was a fucking looooong arse four months. They’d barely had three weeksish before he was off to Rome... meaning... it was like 6 weeks he’d had quality time with Mami... and shy of a month since her passing.

Lance was allowed to have feelings. His feelings made him who he was. It wasn’t like Keith didn’t feel guttered over the loss of Mami too. He kind of wanted to just lock Lance away and cry until his head throbbed and the pain was gone

“Because I’m so much better?”

“You are. I haven’t asked you much about Europe. I haven’t asked if you’re okay. I haven’t asked how things went down. I haven’t asked about the court case or this thing about Lotor killing Zarkon. I... haven’t... even asked you... how anyone is...”

“Babe. I only got in last night. This is our first proper conversation. I want to know what you’re feeling and thinking”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling. Running seems so much easier. But... then there’s all the things I’m waiting to hear back about. Mami’s will. Her accounts. What to do with her things she’a got stored at home. If the nursing home got the flowers I sent as a thank you for all they did for her. If I chose the right clothes Mami. If I did the right thing. If it wasn’t her time to go and I did nothing...”

*

Lance kept telling himself to shut up. To stop talking about Mami. That Keith had been through so much away from him that he was probably more tired than he was letting on. He tried to shut up but he couldn’t not think about Mami. She’d adored Keith. She kept a photo of him on her nightstand. Well, it was him, Keith and an ultrasound photo between them.

When Keith started leading him away from the kitchen, Lance didn’t want to move. He had to have breakfast, have his shot, then have something actual to eat. Instead Keith tugged him along, pulling him down to sit in his lap on the sofa. That Keith had come back was a miracle. That he’d stayed... Lance couldn’t describe how much he’d needed to see Keith. Then he went and ruined things because he couldn’t stop thinking about his Mami...

“You’re overthinking”

Geez. No shit. He’d expected a joyous reunion with Keith. Mami teasing them. Not Keith coming home to this. He wanted to feel happy so badly, but Keith... Keith made it too easy. He’d feared last night they’d never talk again as they had. Now he’d word vomit... after too much actual vomit

“I think I’m... not being strong enough”

He’d cried as he confessed his sins to his Mami. How he’d killed Sendak. His Mami taking his hands and telling him that it wasn’t fair for him to be blaming himself. She went to church with him. Before God he’d prayed. He’d confessed everything, as if it’d offer some absolution for his sins. He did feel marginally better when he didn’t burst into flames. It was hard to accept that the world was safer by taking a life. Mami pointing out that Sendak was the worst of everything a vampire could be, though she got it. She got that he grieved not for the monster he’d killed but at the loss of Sendak ever changing his ways. Vampires didn’t really work that way, but she... she got it because she wasn’t a hunter. She could see that he was worse than Nyma and Rolo, but she could see that he felt worse about the actual ending of potential than killing the monster inside Sendak’s skin. She was a better therapist than Coran.

They’d headed to the beach that morning, after his nightmare. Blazing hot sun didn’t exactly lure vampires out for a spot of sun baking and spontaneous combustion between snacking on the necks of tourists. Setting up the umbrella, chairs and fetching drinks, they’d settled down and Mami had told him about his first time swimming there. Rachel carried him everywhere. Made him a “hat” out of seaweed. He’d screamed and screamed, until Mami took it off his head. The sun had felt amazing. He wasn’t too pregnant looking, so he enjoyed taking his shirt off, only to burn himself for his efforts. Mami had laughed at him as she rubbed aloe vera on his sunburn.

It’d been hard to hear about times when they’d been so happy together. Just kids doing kid things. But a lot of Mami’s stories he hadn’t heard before, and some stories he heard over and over yet didn’t mind in the slightest. She was so proud of her brood. Making all these future plans and laughing over how he and Keith were going to be clumsy parents, but that was okay because no one knew what they were doing at first.

“You’re strong. You’re so strong”

Keith kissed his cheek. Lance knew he was starved of physical affection. He knew because he’d been depriving himself of it. He felt like “King Douche” that his boyfriend came back to this. That he needed to stiffen his upper lip and carry on. He knew he’d been a total dick not contacting Pidge or Hunk, but to begin with it’d been for their safety. He hadn’t let them see him at VOLTRON, though knowing they were also grieving Mami’s loss. Asking for more space on top of so much space already granted to him seemed incredibly selfish. He loved Pidge and Hunk, but it was like with Sendak again, he was scared of losing himself in his grief and hurting them.

He’d never wished he was more human than in the aftermath of that shit with Sendak. Lance knew if it was his friends going through this he’d be telling them it was okay. To let go. To grieve for as long as they needed and that he’d be there the whole time for when they were ready. But that didn’t apply to him. He had... he had o carry himself a certain way... anxiety fed paranoia that if he wasn’t the perfect friend they’d never speak to him again. Keith... Keith just... all he had to do was breathe and Lance was falling more in love with him. He’s tried building his walls back up when he set his mind to Keith never coming for him, but all his walls were sandcastles, crumbling under Keith’s feet as he trampled over Lance’s attempts and wrapped him up in love. He... he’d been so awkward and embarrassed how easily he’d caved into Keith. Now Keith was taking the time to fix his broken bits. His boyfriend hated the tourist masses but that was Varadero’s main source of income.

Placing his hand on his belly, Lance settled his breathing back down slowly. Keith didn’t hate his belly. He’d felt their twins starting to move. Like little has bubbly gas bubbles. When he’d spotted blood coupled with weird stomach pain, he’d thought he was dying but his Mami explained to him about things stretching and moving to make space. Coran was worried about his body not being strong enough to make it to term. Despite brewing in a vampire filled with vampire blood, both their kids returned human DNA. Never did he want another long arse needle in there again. Their babies passed their genetics tests. They just had to put up with him and Keith now

“Babe?”

“It’s okay. You said you wanted to see Cuba?”

“Well I came all this way. I’ve never been here before and I’m already madly in love with my tour guide”

Lance groaned at his boyfriend. If Keith turned that charm on everyone he’d probably be an unstoppable conman of the highest degree. His ego loved the flattery. He and it had many an mental disagreement. Now Keith was fanning it back to life

“You’re a menace. I have to eat. I’ve... been going through the motions but I have to eat before we go out. And... we’ll drive. I’ll drive. I don’t have much to hide this bump”

“I don’t mind it. I think it’s cute”

“The world isn’t ready for a pregnant vampire and his lover. This is Cuba. I’ve got a jumper I use if I absolutely can’t avoid going out...”

“In this heat?”

“You get the boyfriend with a covered outside or you get the boyfriend inside with the bump showing. You can’t have both”

“I definitely want both. I love your stomach. You looked so good bouncing on my dick with that bump showing”

Lance choked on air. Keith was a damn horn dog!

“I’m going to punch you in the dick if you don’t start thinking things through. I’m going to put you in “Horny Hunter Jail” if you don’t settle down”

Keith shrugged

“I can live with that”

[joneswuzhere]

in anticipation of episode 4.14, i watched ‘how to get away with murder’ s1

here’s my thoughts on how rd might be playing out an homage to the show, and on what these parallels might suggest to expect from the whole ‘jughead dies’ plot

below are complete spoilers for ‘how to get away with murder’ s1, a few spoilers for s2 and s3. and also. spoilers for donna tartt’s ‘the secret history.’ cool ok here we go

- first. we’re abbreviating the title to htg

- second. htg’s plot is pretty convoluted and out-of-order, so it’s hard to mention one thing without having to explain four other things. riverdale’s format is so chill in comparison. i apologize for repetition and confusing timeline discussion

- also, maybe u watched this show! or maybe u want to. or maybe ur impatient and just here for riverdale lol. i’m not going to make u scroll through a whole plot summary of htg’s first season. BUT i did write one up here if that’s something u want to read. it will probably make the following easier to understand, but i’ll do my best to make it accessible without that

- third. like i said, my goal here is finding potential parallels and, based on that, speculating on what rd is doing with this plot. i have no conclusions but i do have some thoughts and maybe you do too

- ok the basics of htg:

- this show is the visual inspiration for rd’s flash forward hook, as well as for the murder cover up in the woods.

- the show structure is: a main timeline, intercut occasionally with flash forwards to a murder that happens at the midseason point. similar to rd

- a difference: in rd, the flashes jump to different points over a period of days - burning their clothes, the search party, body identification, then the arrests, the line up, and then back to the ‘death’ scene. in htg, all the flashes jump to different points during one particular night, and only deal with the groups effort to dispose of the body and evidence.

- where was i. oh, but there’s 2 murders in htg. murder #1 happened before the series start point. in the main timeline, the investigation into murder #1 builds up to the midseason climax that results in murder #2 (the one the group is covering up).

- after the timeline has caught up to the midseason murder, then the flash forwards are replaced with flash backs that begin to reveal past details about murder #1.

- so right away, what stands out to me is the possibility that, once the main timeline catches up to whatever happens to jughead in the woods, rd will continue to follow this format. but what would rd flash back to? hang on,

- the genre here is inverted detective story, where instead of finding out someone was killed and following along to find out who did it,, you learn right away who’s doing the murdering and how. the mystery lies in whether they’ll get away with it and/or what led up to that point.

- in htg, murder #1 is a regular mystery, and murder #2 is inverted. in rd, jughead’s death is an inverted mystery, and there’s several other regular mysteries/deaths: chipping’s suspicious suicide, the old generation of the quill & skull society, + the missing kids that jughead and betty are investigating

- so it may transpire that we see flashbacks to those missing students, like moose or the stonewall 5. or maybe context on why chipping jumped, what dupont said to him. or a glimpse into fpj1′s time at stonewall. i’m spitballing

- hm a note on genre here: maybe there’s a conversation to be had about inverted murder mysteries and perfect murders (recall, the theme dupont assigned for the class). like, crime fiction specifically told through the perspective of getting away with it. (a perfect murder is specifically a murder that resists all explanation. no suspects, no evidence)

- ok. the first half of htg s1 is the lead up to the night of murder #2. the second half of the season focuses on how participating in and covering up a murder is affecting the people involved. grief, guilt, anxiety, nightmares. strain and changes in their relationships with each other, friends, and family. again, perhaps we’ll see rd focus on this in a similar way.

- hey btw, does that sound a little familiar to u? it might if you read the secret history. we already know this book is one of the influences behind rd’s s4 plot, but i was surprised at how much overlap is apparent between htg’s plot and the book plot. i made a chart about it lmao. more on that later

- what else fits into a parallel between rd and htg?

- some similarities between characters. htg has a group of law students from privileged backgrounds who are super competitive with each other, similar to the stonewall kids. and there’s the one outsider student who gets into the class last minute, is far less privileged, and who has a tragic past and a head for snooping and investigation.

- there’s a student/teacher affair that gets violent. it goes down pretty much the opposite of in rd; the girl gets pregnant, is totally in love, suggests the affair should be revealed to the teacher’s wife, and then she goes missing and turns up dead (murder #1)

- also, unlike rd where we have only donna’s word, in htg the affair is confirmed, and revealed through a bunch of evidence - dick pics on phones and postmortem pregnancy results, etc

- some other minor details from the show that the rd writers may have reflected upon:

- a window jumper suicide. circumstances very not the same tho

- a blink-and-miss-it scene with a dog named mr. chips, which is the nickname of the film character who rd’s mr. chipping is probably named after (goodbye mr. chips)

- also, ok. the 2 murders story is the show’s long A plot, but each episode also has a short B plot in the form of court cases that annalise and her group of student/interns work on. (btw lead character annalise is a criminal defense lawyer & law professor). details worth mentioning from some of these subplots:

- there’s a case involving cult brainwashing. a former devotee is charged with something terroristic with a bomb she did years ago, idk. annalise has her visit her old cult leader in prison to ask him to help her by testifying that he forced her to participate. this backfires - she falls back under his sway, he escapes custody during the trial, and they run away together, abandoning the family she made after leaving the cult

- in this ep the patty hearst trial is mentioned - the difficulty of trying to legally prove someone acted under duress, or prove they were brainwashed. and how trying to claim both at the same time is a terrible legal defense

- in another case, a woman is charged with murdering her housemaid while sleepwalking. she resists help from annalise bc she feels so guilty. the woman says ‘can u imagine waking up to realize that you killed somebody you loved? that’s what i did.’ except she didn’t; they figure out she was being framed by the real killer, her husband, who was jealous bc he thought he was the only one sleeping with the maid but he found out his teen son was too. yikes

- there is so much cheating in this show smh. anyway,

- these subplots are interesting to compare to rd, but sort of trivial in terms of htg’s overall plot. so what happens in the A plot after murder #2?

- a catch-up if u skipped the plot summary: annalise keating, lawyer, professor, is the central character. she’s direct, takes no shit, and puts up an emotionally impervious wall that keeps almost everyone out. but it’s also apparent from ep1 that she’s really suffering - her marriage is falling apart, she’s cheating and finds out her husband, sam, is too. they agree to repair things and sam seems to be making a big effort, but she keeps catching him in lies that point toward murder #1.

- in the latter half of the season, while she’s helping make sure the kids get away with murder #2 (they accidentally kill sam while pursuing him as the murder suspect), annalise’s grieving process is a focus. there’s an emphasis on her appearance as her armor, guarding her complicated grief over the trauma of her loss and the destruction of her trust. her cold exterior is both a protection and, at the same time, a point of suspicion for police, lawyers, and public who wonder how she can be so unaffected. meanwhile, in private, she has a total breakdown.

- this builds from a parallel that’s played with throughout the season - annalise’s control of her image vs hiding or confronting the truth. like, at one point, it’s evening, she wipes off all her makeup and pulls off her wig, then turns barefaced to her husband and asks him bluntly for the truth, why she caught him in a huge lie. and the flip side, later walking around with her whole look in place, as if nothing is wrong, is part of her effort to cover up the murder.

- i bring this up bc it reminds me of something that (the brilliant, the illuminating) @bettycooperoutfitwatch​ talked about in her 4.05 post, regarding That Sweater.

- in this post, at the flash forward arrest scene, she points out ‘it’s betty cooper in disguise as betty cooper.’ which, like. i’m floored by this observation

- the persona betty originally created to conform to her parents’ unattainable expectations of perfection and normality, now (not for the first time) dialed up and re-purposed to try to disperse suspicion???? love this

- annalise and betty are very Not alike as characters. but it seems that betty, like annalise, will be involved in the murder of her loved one. i’m interested to see if rd will follow htg’s emphasis on emotional turmoil and pretense in the aftermath of trying to get away with something horrible

- oh but that reminds me, i promised a chart

- i haven’t read the secret history and i have no desire to, but i foraged enough details to be able to point out some bare bones similarities going on here. it’s important to include this bc, at the moment, it complicates any attempt to figure out which, if either, inverted murder plot rd might be paralleling at any time.

- in other words, all my speculations here about htg parallels might be worthless bc i might be looking at the wrong text. it’s cool, i think that makes it more fun

- book spoilers in here. sorry it’s small, u can try to zoom in here

- please feel free to jump in with corrections or more details if you’ve read the book

- [update as of 2/25: i’m reading the fuckin book after all, so i may make another post with an updated chart at some point. maybe]

- last thing. in htg, the inverted mystery (whether or not the kids get away with it) is resolved by annalise planting evidence that frames someone else (whom she chooses bc she’s confident she can get him safely out of the charges). the bottom line there is: someone innocent is framed for murder #2.

- and then a new development - one kid involved in murder #2 freaks out and may decide to turn the others in - leads to a 3rd death. hm (post s4 update: that’s jonathan i guess)

- actually no, the real last thing. wikipedia says there’s a subplot in htg s2 that involves blackmailing annalise and others with uhhhh creepy surveillance videos of them, some that incriminate them in murder #2.

- and then, in s3, drawn out over another series of flash forwards, there’s a character death reveal... of the guy who’s most in parallel to jughead.... lmao. and speak nothing of s6. so like, there’s definitely potential for more or continuing parallels here

- i kind of hope not though, bc i don’t have it in me to watch more of this show. it’s Very high strung, i can’t deal with it (post s4 update: no i never watched any more of this show but yes, that was all definitely used by rd)

- bonus: wait do u want some of my opinions on the actual show?? favorite characters: annalise, bonnie, and oliver. i liked the fast pace but the constant tension stressed me out. also, not enough lesbians; i kept expecting bonnie and annalise to kiss. the guy who plays wes.... not a very good actor, is he? viola davis though: amazing. that’s all. watch if u like stress. sorry i spoiled everything

[sleepy-giggles]

UPDATE! A World Without You: Chapter 4 - In Your Presence

Click here to read on FanFiction.Net!

Summary: Two years had passed since Juvia’s death. During a solo quest, Gray caught sight of a beautiful woman with blue hair; her resemblance to the water mage was uncanny. Who is this mysterious girl, and why is she living in seclusion at an abandoned church?

Gray woke up with a pounding headache. Needless to say, the events that had unfolded the previous day resulted in him getting little to no sleep.

As soon as he checked into the inn last night, he had called Levy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Flashback *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Hello?”

“Levy!” The ice mage threw his bag on the bed and paced the length of his room. “Sorry to call so late, but I need you to check something for me.”

He heard a faint, grumpy voice in the background muttering “Is it the stripper again?”, probably belonging to Gajeel.

“Sure, Gray!” Levy then carefully popped the question. “Is this… regarding Juvia-chan perhaps?”

“Yea.” Gray heaved a deep sigh. “Listen, I know you guys are all gonna think I’m fucking crazy for bringing this up again, but I need you to believe me.”

“Of course, just tell me what happened.” Her voice was laced with concern now.

“I think I saw Juvia today. No— I know I saw her. At the market place in Freesia Town. She looked exactly like her; same voice, height… everything! But for some reason, she doesn’t recognize me at all.”

He could faintly hear his friend discussing something with the iron dragon slayer on the other line.

“Are you sure about this Gray? You’re certain that it’s not just another girl who happens to have blue hair and—”

“You have to trust me, Levy. I’m not delusional. I know that doesn’t say much considering the way I’ve acted in the past, but I know what I saw.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I even talked to her and walked her home to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.”

“Alright Gray, I promise I’ll look into this. Just get some rest oka—”

The phone was snatched by Gajeel.

“Oi, stripper. Do you need me to go over there? If it really is Juvia, I’d wanna check for myself.”

“No,” the ice mage said quickly. “There’s still something that doesn’t add up with this whole situation. I want to find out what’s going on first before we act rashly. I can’t risk scaring her away. Just stand-by for now, and keep this under wraps.”

The man on the other line grunted. “Fine. But you call me as soon as you find something, you got that? You better not be getting my hopes up again ya bastard.”

After reassuring the couple again that he wasn’t having another one of his “episodes”, Gray ended the call. He knew of Gajeel and Juvia’s friendship, and it wasn’t surprising that the iron dragon slayer would be skeptical.

Out of all their friends, Gajeel was among those who took the news of Juvia’s death especially hard. He had wanted nothing more than to grieve properly and move on, but every time Gray came up with yet another theory as to why he thought Juvia was still alive, Gajeel couldn’t help but hold onto a sliver of hope as well. But of course, it’s always ended in nothing but disappointment for everyone.

Sleep did not come to him that night. It took all his willpower to not jump out the window, run back to that old church and take Juvia back to Fairy Tail with him. He could care less if the old hag puts a bounty on his head and an angry mob comes after him.

The events of the day truly felt like a dream. Perhaps he really was going mad, and there was no cure for it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* End Flashback *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gray made a quick stop at the mayor’s office first thing in the morning, filled out some paperwork, and proceeded to do his job of cooling down the little town. All he had to do was cover the village in a thin flurry of icy mist. He also created a couple of ice boulders in various locations throughout the city; they should be big enough to last several days. Easy peasy.

His commitment to the job lasted about 20 minutes; he made sure to finish his duties in the shortest amount of time imaginable. Seeing Juvia was his priority, so as soon as it was over, he made his way to the old church around the block. He needed to get close to the village girl he met yesterday and find out as much about her as possible.

When he neared the familiar intersection, he spotted Meiko in the front yard hanging bed sheets on a laundry string. Even though the late morning sun shined brightly, she was covered from head to toe in a black, thick-clothed cloak. The hood hid the top half of her face, but he was able to tell it was her by the sky blue hair that poked out around her right shoulder.

She turned when she noticed his presence nearby.

“Gray-san?”

“Um… I was just checking out the neighborhood,” Gray said defensively. He didn’t know why he felt the need to offer an explanation as to why he was there. Couldn’t he have just said he wanted to see her?

The bluenette smiled as she hung the last piece of garment onto the string. “I see. Well, I hope you enjoyed your first night here.”

He most certainly didn’t. He was sleep-deprived and a disoriented, bumbling mess thanks to her.

“It was okay I guess.”

Meiko tilted her head slightly in response. Her large, ocean blue eyes observed him questioningly, and he couldn’t help but look away. What the hell, why was he acting like some shy schoolgirl with a crush? He’s just going to blame it on how agonizingly cute she looked right now as she innocently stared up at him through those long, sooty eyelashes.

Feeling a few sweat drops roll down his face, he wracked his brain to try and think of something interesting to say. He had been in such a rush to see her this morning that he really didn’t come prepared. Gray had to remind himself again that he was the only one with memories of her. In Meiko’s point of view, he was nothing but a stranger. As far as she’s concerned, they had only met yesterday, and he was already paying her a visit the next day. What if she thought he was a stalker?

The ice mage’s eyes searched his surroundings desperately until finally, he saw a worthy distraction. The entrance to the old church was wide open, and he was able to catch a glimpse inside.

“Is that the lobby area?” He indicated to the doors, glad that he was able to break the uncomfortable silence. “Even the interior looks exactly like a church instead of a living room.”

“Ah, Mother Margaret kept the majority of the church hall the same so that villagers can still come in for worship whenever they wanted.” She gave him a bright smile. “Gray-san is welcome too.”

His heart did a weird flip, but before he could reply a sharp voice rang out.

“Meiko! What’s taking you so long to do the laundry?”

The girl jumped and quickly wiped her damp hands on her long skirt. “M-Mother!”

The elderly woman noticed the dark-haired stranger standing beside Meiko and narrowed her eyes. “And who might this young man be?”

Gray tensed up.

“This is the ice mage our town hired to help ease the heat waves, Gray Fullbuster-san.”

“Hmph.” The Reverend looked him up and down, her expression judging and cynical. “Then may I ask what business a magic user has here at our humble home?”

Gray took a step forward, his gaze hard as if challenging the stout woman in front of him. “I’m here for morning worship,” he indicated to the entrance of the church with a sharp turn of his chin. “Got a problem with that?”

The older woman’s lips twitched ever so slightly at his curt words. “As a respected leader of the convent, I won’t turn away anyone who wishes to have a word with the Lord. But with that said, I’ll leave you with a warning, child. Don’t you even think of courting Meiko. She’s a nun-in-training and has pledged to serve the Lord for the rest of her life. You’re not the first man to frequent this place to try and get close to my daughter.”

She turned her back to them and began walking away. “I won’t allow some pretty boy to distract her from her responsibilities.”

Seeing the scowl on Gray’s face, Meiko panicked. What is she going to do? He must feel insulted, and how embarrassing that it was her mother who had given him such a terse welcome!

“Mother, you’ve misunderstood!” The girl quickly called out. “Gray-san has no such intentions. He’s from Fairy Tail after all, the most renowned and respected guild in all of Fiore.”

“Fairy…Tail?” The Reverend looked back with a disturbed look, and for just a split second, Meiko thought she saw fear in her eyes. Meiko shrugged off her uneasiness. ‘It must be because she’s not familiar with the world of magic and mages. Mother’s probably just confused,” she reasoned.

“Yes, Fairy Tail. So he would never—”

“I must go,” Margaret said hurriedly, her once calm demeanor breaking as her quick feet took her back towards the building steps, but not before yelling one last warning to her daughter. “Don’t even think about going anywhere with him and straying from your duties!”

Her harsh words lingered in the air uncomfortably. The doors slammed closed behind the nun, and Gray’s eyes visibly darkened. ‘There’s definitely something suspicious about that woman,’ he mulled.

“I’m so sorry about that, Gray-san!” A flustered Meiko ran up to him. “Please don’t mind her. She can be a little overprotective sometimes, but she means well.”

He grunted. “It’s fine.”

Meiko looked worried until suddenly, she sprang up to her feet as if remembering something important. “Oh no, it’s almost noon! I have to collect medicinal herbs before the sun goes down.”

“I’ll join you.”

Her head whipped back in surprise. “But you said you came here for morning worship…?”

He flinched; he didn’t think he’d get caught in his lie already. “Uh… yea, I’ll do that later. Besides, it doesn’t sound like a good idea for me to be in the same room as your mother right now. Since you’re the only one I know from this town, I thought I’d use this opportunity to become more familiar with the area….”

That was an excuse of course, and all Gray could do was hope that she would take his word for it.

“S-sure,” she stuttered before donning a playful smile. “I guess it doesn’t count as straying from my duties if you’re the one who wants to tag along on my errand. It would be nice to have company for once, I suppose.”

And with that, the two walked along the dirt path that led to a mountainous area. Since the trees were sparsely located, the sun bore down on them stubbornly when noon rolled around.

At one point, Gray looked back at her in concern.

“Oi, aren’t you hot wearing all that? It looks uncomfortable.”

The bluenette was panting as they climbed the steep trail, visibly struggling to keep up. A subtle layer of perspiration was evident on her flawless, porcelain skin.

“I’m fine.”

He scoffed. “Clearly, you’re not. Why don’t you take that annoying cloak off? It’s like 100 degrees out, you’re gonna pass out at this point.”

“I-I can’t,” she rasped out. “I’ll get in trouble if I take it off.”

Suddenly, her foot slipped on a loose pebble and, with a gasp, she fell forward until a strong hand went under her arm and held her up.

The conversation that he overheard last night played through Gray’s mind. His jaw clenched as he remembered how angry the old nun had been at her for failing to wear the cloak.

“Who the hell cares?! Why do you have to wear that stupid thing anyway?”

She leaned on his arm slightly for balance and muttered a quick thanks. Luckily, Gray wrapped another arm around her shoulder to keep her steady because Meiko was starting to feel lightheaded. “Mother hates it when I bring unwanted attention, especially from men,” she sighed. “She also said that… my body was cursed.”

The ice mage raised an eyebrow. “Cursed?”

“Yes. She said that… my body was the personification of sexual desire. This cloak is so that I won’t tempt those who are weak-willed.”

“That’s some bullshit—” Gray spat out before catching his tongue. Crap, he had forgotten that ‘this’ Juvia was a member of the church. He looked away guiltily and mumbled an apology for using profane language.

He didn’t catch the tiny smile that made its way to her lips as she regained her footing and started walking away. “You’re forgiven. I’ll be sure to pray for your soul later.”

“…Gee thanks,” he said sarcastically.

Although the mood had lightened, Gray was still simmering with anger from what he heard. How could Meiko stand to live with this prudish old lady who controlled what she wore? Would the Juvia he knew put up with that? He wasn’t sure. It was true that a body like hers would no doubt attract all sorts of men, and Gray wouldn’t want her walking around in skimpy clothes either, but the Reverend Mother was going too far. Wearing a heavy cloak in this weather was akin to suicide.

He let out a frustrated sigh when she made no attempts to remove the darned piece of cloth, and instead clutched the fabric closer to her body.

“You’re one stubborn woman. Guess it can’t be helped.…”

Almost instantly, the temperature around them dropped. A cool and refreshing breeze blew past Meiko and sent her cloak fluttering. It was enough to take the heat from her body and dry the sweat on her skin instantly. Her eyes widened in shock.

“Did you do that, Gray-san?!”

He didn’t answer, and instead took her hand in his and led her down the steep path. Her whole face lit up with excitement. To feel the effects of someone’s magic and to walk alongside a mage through the forest made her feel as if they were going on an adventure. She’s never felt so alive.

The two of them spent the next few hours scoping out the mountain for herbs. Although few words were exchanged, they enjoyed each other’s presence and relaxed under the comfortable silence. In between searching and collecting rare plants, Meiko would occasionally point out an important landmark or city off in the distance to Gray. The girl still thought that the reason he tagged along was so that she could show him around. She had no idea that the ice mage’s motives extended beyond simply making her his tour guide.

“If you go further north from here, you’ll see a beautiful river. And not surprisingly, the town nearby is also known as River Village.”

Gray paused. “A river huh? Do you uh… like rivers?” He thought it’d be best to approach the subject of magic cautiously. Partly because he doesn’t want to sound pushy, and partly because he was afraid of her answer.

The girl stood up slowly, confusion lining her youthful face. “Rivers? I suppose I don’t mind them? They’re quite pretty.”

Okay, that was definitely not the response he was expecting. He was hoping that she’d say something along the lines of how she’d always been drawn to huge bodies of water, considering how Juvia was a water mage. Meiko was proving to be more mysterious than he thought. It felt like the more he tried to know her, he just ends up with more questions than answers.

“What about water? Do you like water?!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Gray mentally smacked himself at how stupid he sounded.

A pure, melodic laugh rang throughout the peaceful forest. Meiko was doubled over, her shoulders shaking with amusement. “Gray-san,” she gasped for breath in between laughs, and Gray could only watch with a horrified expression on his face. “You didn’t come across as someone who told jokes! Do I like water? Yes I do, seeing as how I need it to survive.”

Her sarcastic comeback took him off-guard. He immediately looked away before she could see the blush spreading across his face.

“W-whatever… forget I asked!”

He trudged away, trying to hide his embarrassment and failing miserably. The bluenette didn’t hesitate to chase after him, all flustered as she apologized profusely while giggling. The ice mage eventually gave in; her laughter was contagious, and he couldn’t help but appreciate Meiko’s lighthearted spirit. Her presence had a calming effect on him, which was not surprising because Juvia had always made him feel that way. Even their elements behaved similarly when combined; ice, no matter how stiff and unyielding, would naturally melt when embraced by water.

They spent the rest of the day together. The topic of magic seemed to fascinate her, and Gray had been happy to explain some of his ice-making and devil-slaying powers to her. Meanwhile, he marveled at the expanse of Meiko’s knowledge of medicinal herbs and plant ecology as he tried his best to help her complete her errand before sundown.

For the first time in years, his heart felt light and happiness swelled within him as if his body was too small a vessel to contain it. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to not have a care in the world. Being in her presence was enough to turn his brain to mush, and for a short while, the fact that the girl beside him didn’t have any recollection of their relationship had escaped his mind. He was simply content that he was given another chance to see Juvia’s smile again. To hear her melodic voice.

If this was a dream, then he never wanted to wake up.

Gray came to see her again the following day. And the day after that as well. At first, he would use morning worship as an excuse. He would walk into the church, hang his head and sit silently until the blue-haired nun-in-training spots him. There was no doubt in his mind that Meiko had seen through his flippant acting, but he did it all in the hopes of fooling the Reverend Mother.

He kept up the act until Meiko finally told him that Mother Margaret had been away the entire time; she had packed her bags citing an important trip on the day she had her first encounter with Gray.

After spending a decent amount of time together, Gray had suggested that she drop the honorific. But staying true to Juvia’s character, the girl had refused, saying that she was simply more comfortable with formalities.

On another beautiful, breezy sunny day, the ice mage came to the church again. His legs seemed to carry him here without his knowing.

Before he could go up the steps leading to the entrance, he was stopped by a soft tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see a cloaked figure with braided blue hair poking out on one side. Gray relaxed upon seeing her.

“Here for morning worship again?” A teasing smile tugged on her lips. “Should I leave you alone and come back in a few hours?”

Crap. Yup, she definitely caught on.

“Um… no, please don’t,” he sweat-dropped. “To be honest, I’ve been using that as an excuse—”

Meiko giggled. “There’s no need to explain yourself, Gray-san. I’m just happy that you’re here to see me. I rarely get any visitors because mother tends to scare everyone off.”

Gray scoffed. “I don’t blame them.”

They went to their usual place; a gentle hill that overlooks the green, rolling plains. This was often their resting station after spending hours picking herbs in the forest. The enormous tree on the hill provided them with shade and a cool breeze, so it was their favorite spot.

“Gray-san, can you show me a bit more of your ice-making magic?”

The raven-haired mage nodded. He was glad that she was the one asking questions this time and seemed to gain some sort of interest in him.

Gray brought his palms together, a cold frosty aura emanated from his hands. An idea came to him suddenly that he could use this as an opportunity to try and jolt her memories.

With newfound determination, he slammed his fist into the palm of his hand, “Ice-Make: Umbrella!”

Meiko’s eyes grew wide when a frilly and girly looking umbrella made entirely of ice appeared before her. It glistened under the sun like a jewel.

“It’s… so cute!” Upon close inspection, it was definitely a fine piece of craftsmanship. The attention to detail on Gray’s part was evident as her fingers softly traced the hearts engraved around the brim of the umbrella.

“Do you like it?”

“Gray-san, this is amazing! How did you come up with such an adorable looking umbrella?”

She looked over at him and was startled to find the look of disappointment on his face. Was this not the response he was looking for?

“Ah… I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Must’ve been the last umbrella I saw on the street or something…”

“Well I love it. If there’s ever a downpour, I think this pretty umbrella would definitely help me forget about the rain!”

Gray wondered if that was why Juvia used to carry her pink, over-the-top umbrella all the time too. Either way, he hoped that seeing one of her treasured possessions helped to jog her memories even a little bit.

“Here’s another one,” the ice mage brought his hands together once again. “Ice-Make: Crown!”

The girl sitting in front of him gasped. “How gorgeous!”

In one swift move, Gray pulled down the hood of her cloak and plopped the intricate headpiece on her head.

“There.” He felt the blush that was making its way across his face, so he looked away and did his best to scowl. “Now you can be queen for a day.”

When there was no response from her, he slowly turned around and peeked. Meiko’s eyes were cloudy and her lips trembled comedically, as if doing her best to suppress the tears that were threatening to spill out.

“Why do I feel so happy?” She sniffled and her eyebrows furrowed even more.

“Oi!” She’d better not cry. Gray sweat-dropped before letting out a sigh. Well, it can’t be helped. She was probably just happy because the last time he made a crown using ice-make magic, he had given it to Wendy. Juvia had been so upset at the time that she demanded that he make her one too. He had refused of course, which only served to make her pout even more. He chuckled at the memory. The woman in front of him now was making that same adorable face over a stupid crown.

Meiko frowned. “I want to keep this.”

“As you wish,” he snickered. “It’s yours this time.”

Not knowing what he meant by ‘this time’, she dismissed his comment and continued to admire the crown that was now in her hands.

“If you liked that, then you’ll like this even more. Ice-Make: Doll!”

The bluenette looked on curiously at the small and plump statue that appeared to be a chibi version of the handsome man before her. Its beady doe eyes stared back at her, and almost instantly, she felt a strong urge to squeal and hug the damn thing to her chest.

“It’s… It’s mini Gray-san!” Meiko took the doll from Gray’s hands and rubbed her cheek against the ice block adoringly.

The devil slayer suddenly couldn’t move. The scene that unfolded in front of him was all too familiar. That expression on Meiko’s face, with hearts in her eyes and hugging that creepy doll-like statue that looked like him… there’s was no doubt in his mind now. This can only be Juvia. His Juvia.

“Ice-Make: Heart.”

“Hm?” Pausing from her fangirling session, Meiko’s turned her attention to Gray.

She peered down as he slowly revealed a small, shiny crystal sitting delicately between the palms of his hands. The jewel was in the shape of a heart, but this creation was visibly different from the ones that came before it. It was much more polished and clear. The ice itself had a purple tint to it, instead of blue. In fact, if she hadn’t known any better, she would’ve believed that it was the world’s most precious amethyst.

“This was made with eternal ice,” Gray said softly. He reached over and placed the heart in the palm of her hand.

Puzzled, Meiko studied the gleaming object and noted its faint coolness under her touch.

“Eternal…ice?”

His piercing eyes found hers, and she had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. His gaze held a whirlwind of emotions: determination, hope, love… and so much pain.

Even so, her stomach somersaulted and her insides felt as if it was on fire. She was scared, but at the same time intrigued by such sensations that felt so new to her. She was suddenly extremely aware of how close Gray was sitting and how fast her heart was beating. Is this what people call love? Was she falling for this dark-haired stranger who had also somehow become her best friend in a matter of weeks?

“I’ve wanted to give this to you a long time ago, Juvia.”

Eh? Juvia?

Suddenly, Meiko remembered her first encounter with Gray Fullbuster. He had cried upon seeing her, even though it was the first time they’d met. She had never seen a man cry so grievously; it had frightened her. And he had called her ‘Juvia’ then, too.

The excitement she felt just moments ago quickly dissipated as she gradually pieced everything together. The reason why he came to see her everyday. The reason why he wanted to befriend a nun even after experiencing Mother Margaret’s wrath. The reason why he spent so much time with her despite being a powerful mage who would obviously have way more important things to do.

“Gray-san…” her voice was barely above a whisper. “If you’ll excuse my rudeness… but who is this ‘Juvia’? And… who is she to you?”

His eyes softened as he gave her a sad smile. “She’s someone very special to me. A fellow guildmate… but more than that.”

“Oh,” was all Meiko managed to say. So he wasn’t confessing his love to her, per se.

“But, I never got to tell her that,” he paused as his lips formed a thin line. “Because she died.”

Meiko’s breath hitched in her throat. She… died?! Her heart squeezed as she thought about how traumatic such an experience would’ve been for Gray. For anyone. She instantly felt guilty for having overlooked their bizarre first encounter and for brushing it off as just him being weird.

Gray reached a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a small 3”x3” paper. When she saw it, a chill ran up her spine, and she couldn’t stop the shiver that reverberated through her entire being.

It was a photo of herself in unfamiliar clothes.

“She… She—” A shaky finger pointed at the girl with long, wavy blue locks.

The ice mage nodded knowingly as if he expected her reaction. “She looks just like you, doesn’t she?”

“But how? Are you saying that’s the girl you’ve been referring to as ‘Juvia’?”

“Yea,” Gray said. “Juvia was a member of Fairy Tail too… a water mage. In the war we had against Alvarez two years ago, we were up against a formidable enemy, and she sacrificed herself while trying to buy me time. I wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for her.”

Meiko could only gape in shock. To think that a woman had loved Gray so much that she died for him. How could she even begin to compare to someone like that?

Meiko shook her head in an attempt to get back on track. “But how can this be… How is it possible that the girl in this photo looks exactly like me? What’s going on?”

She jumped when he suddenly reached out and grasped her shoulders. “It’s possible! What if your memories were erased somehow? Please, think hard. Have you ever thought about the fact that you might not belong here, that your life was more than just training to be a nun?”

“If this isn’t a prank… if Gray-san is really speaking the truth, then that means Juvia-san and I have been living completely different lives,” she said, clearly distressed. “I don’t have any magic, and I’ve never once stepped foot outside of Freesia Town, much less fight in a war. So how can I be her? Are you saying that the memories I have of my life are invalid?”

Gray’s shoulders slumped as he looked at her with a defeated expression, and finally, he released his hold on her.

“But to me… you are Juvia. Everything about you reminds me of her.”

For the first time since they met, she couldn’t read his eyes as they were hidden behind his bangs. At that moment, her heart ached for him. His voice was hoarse and unsure, sounding almost like a lost child.

Meiko took a deep breath and stood up, pulling Gray to his feet as well.

“Gray-san, let’s go,” she said with determination in her eyes. “Mother should be back from her trip today, maybe she’ll know what’s going on. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I’m sure of it!”

Dazed, Gray mumbled a weak agreement under his breath and allowed Meiko to drag him back to the old church.

—————————————————————————

When the old Reverend saw the pair barge into the entrance of the lobby, holding hands at that, her fury sprang to life. It looked like she arrived not too long ago, with luggage still in hand.

Her eyes sharpening menacingly, the stout woman bellowed, “What is the meaning of this, Meiko!”

The bluenette instinctively let go of the hand she was holding. Although her heart was about to jump out of her throat, she tried to gather her courage.

“Mother, I must ask you something.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” Margaret said between her teeth and closed the distance between them. “Don’t tell me that you’ve broken your promise already, Meiko. Have you been in the company of this philanderer the entire time that I was away?!”

“No, that’s not it!” Meiko forced down the surge of irritation at hearing her friend being referred to as a philanderer. She took out Juvia’s photo and thrust it in front of the old woman. “We just wanted to ask if you knew of Fairy Tail’s Juvia Lockser… and, why we look so alike?

A deafening silence engulfed the spacious room, and the Reverend did not move an inch. Her eyes, which only a moment ago was filled with rage, now carried an expression that was frighteningly unreadable.

It felt as if an eternity had passed, but just before Gray had finally had enough and was about to snap, Mother Margaret opened her mouth.

“Why of course you two look alike, dear.” The corner of her lips curved up. “Juvia Lockser was your twin.”

—————————————————————————————

A/N: For anyone curious about the "crown" scene, just google Fairy Tail manga cover 390. ;) Now enjoy this little "behind-the-scenes" excerpt:

Juvia: What is the meaning of this, Gray-sama?! Why is Juvia dead, and why is Gray-sama cheating on Juvia with this Meiko girl?!

Gray: HUH? How is it cheating if she’s literally you?!

Meiko: I am not! Stop saying that I’m Juvia!

Juvia: *eyes glowing* LOVE RIVAL!!!

Gray: This is getting weird… I just want to be happy…

Scarf-san: *pets Gray* Nope, can’t let you be happy yet. Ya gotta suffer first, cinnamon roll.

[yougotmyshareofit]

January Book Reviews

 So I inhaled a lot of books in January despite school starting back up again (not good for my productivity that’s for sure), so I thought I’d give some quick book reviews on them because a lot of them were real winners.

1.  Ziggy, Stardust, and Me // By: James Brandon

Ok this book was absolutely beautiful. After finishing it, I couldn’t do anything but sit there completely in awe. The characters are amazingly written and the author portrays the difficulties of being LGBTQ+ as well as a person of color in the ‘70s with such cutting emotion. It brings up a lot of issues and prejudices that were prevalent at that time, which was really enlightening. All in all, it was probably my favorite book out of all of them this month and I couldn’t recommend it enough. 

Summary: “ The year is 1973.... And homosexuality is still officially considered a mental illness. In the midst of these trying times is sixteen-year-old Jonathan Collins, a bullied, anxious, asthmatic kid, who aside from an alcoholic father and his sympathetic neighbor and friend Starla, is completely alone. To cope, Jonathan escapes to the safe haven of his imagination, where his hero David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust and dead relatives, including his mother, guide him through the rough terrain of his life. In his alternate reality, Jonathan can be anything: a superhero, an astronaut, Ziggy Stardust, himself, or completely “normal” and not a boy who likes other boys. When he completes his treatments, he will be normal—at least he hopes. But before that can happen, Web stumbles into his life. Web is everything Jonathan wishes he could be: fearless, fearsome and, most importantly, not ashamed of being gay. Jonathan doesn’t want to like brooding Web.... But he’s drawn to Web anyway. Web is the first person in the real world to see Jonathan completely and think he’s perfect..... For the first time in his life, he may finally feel free enough to love and accept himself as he is. ”

2. Something like Gravity // By: Amber Smith

This book was pretty heart-wrenching and also very beautiful. I liked how real and honest the author was at portraying Chris’s struggles with being out as transgender and the amount of trust he had to have to open up to Maia. It was a lovely story that showed that someone can be in your life for a short amount of time, but still change it in ways you never thought were possible. Highly recommend as well.

Summary:  “Chris and Maia aren’t off to a great start. A near-fatal car accident first brings them together, and their next encounters don’t fare much better.... But they’re neighbors, at least for the summer, and despite their best efforts, they just can’t seem to stay away from each other. The path forward isn’t easy. Chris has come out as transgender, but he’s still processing a frightening assault he survived the year before. Maia is grieving the loss of her older sister and trying to find her place in the world without her. Falling in love was the last thing on either of their minds. But would it be so bad if it happened anyway?”

3. Frat Girl // By: Kiley Roache

So this book was a pretty entertaining and humorous read. I really liked the trope that the author used -- a feminist girl dealing with all the crap that goes down in a frat house. It was also pretty enlightening for me and showed the different sides of feminism, as well as struck down lots of stereotypes that both feminists and anti-feminists have, which was really cool and interesting. Although I enjoyed this book, at times I felt that I was just reading the same scene over again, so I feel like the author could’ve been more concise. However, I still liked it a lot and thought it was an entertaining read.

Summary: “For Cassandra Davis, the F-word is fraternity—specifically Delta Tau Chi, a house on probation and on the verge of being banned from campus. Accused of offensive, sexist behavior, they have one year to clean up their act. For the DTC brothers, the F-word is feminist—the type of person who writes articles in the school paper about why they should lose their home. With one shot at a scholarship to attend the university of her dreams, Cassie pitches a research project: to pledge Delta Tau Chi and provide proof of their misogynistic behavior. They’re frat boys. She knows exactly what to expect once she gets there. Exposing them should be a piece of cake. But the boys of Delta Tau Chi have their own agenda, and fellow pledge Jordan Louis is certainly more than the tank top wearing “bro” Cassie expected to find. With her heart and her future tangled in the web of her own making, Cassie is forced to realize that the F-word might not be as simple as she thought after all.”

4. I wish you all the best // By: Mason Deaver

UGH THIS BOOK!! I inhaled it in literally less than 24 hours and I LOVED it. Classic angst (like a lot of angst) with a happy ending and it was so so good. Definitely a close second for my favorite this month. I just loved all the raw emotion that the author portrayed and how real they were with the mental and emotional struggles the characters faced. So amazing, highly recommend.

Summary: “When Ben De Backer comes out to their parents as nonbinary, they're thrown out of their house and forced to move in with their estranged older sister, Hannah, and her husband, Thomas, whom Ben has never even met. Struggling with an anxiety disorder compounded by their parents' rejection, they come out only to Hannah, Thomas, and their therapist and try to keep a low profile in a new school. But Ben's attempts to survive the last half of senior year unnoticed are thwarted when Nathan Allan, a funny and charismatic student, decides to take Ben under his wing. As Ben and Nathan's friendship grows, their feelings for each other begin to change, and what started as a disastrous turn of events looks like it might just be a chance to start a happier new life.”

5. All for the Game Series (The Foxhole Court, The Raven King, and All the King’s Men) // By: Nora Sakavic

So I downloaded these as ebooks on my iPad, which turned out to be a terrible idea because they ruined my productivity at school for a literal week. A. WEEK. Basically I would read these in class rather than pay attention, but you know whatever it’s fine I’m fine. Anyways, I loved this series so so much. I wil say that the first book was good, but kind of confusing for me because there were so many different names and backstories that I literally could not keep track of all of them. However, it gets better as the series goes on and I inhaled all 3 of these books pretty quickly. I loved the main characters and even though the backstories were kind of confusing at times, they also made the plot super interesting and intricate so I guess you win some and you lose some. All in all, you gotta read this series cuz it has all the best trope and there’s lots of angst (seriously SO much)  and lots of mystery. Good stuff.

Summary (book 1): “Neil Josten is the newest addition to the Palmetto State University Exy team. He's short, he's fast, he's got a ton of potential—and he's the runaway son of the murderous crime lord known as The Butcher. Signing a contract with the PSU Foxes is the last thing a guy like Neil should do. The team is high profile and he doesn't need sports crews broadcasting pictures of his face around the nation. His lies will hold up only so long under this kind of scrutiny and the truth will get him killed. But Neil's not the only one with secrets on the team. One of Neil's new teammates is a friend from his old life, and Neil can't walk away from him a second time. Neil has survived the last eight years by running. Maybe he's finally found someone and something worth fighting for. ”

[graysonsharpe]

Location: Dubois, WY Date: December 23rd Trigger warnings: murder/death, bad relationships with your father, anxiety, one line that can be interpreted as self harm, mentions of guns, smoking, alcohol, and food

There’s a journalist in Dubois.

It’s late on December 23rd, and it feels like the entire town is at the local shop, looking for the last few essentials before Christmas. It’s easy for Grayson to spot the one stranger in the store. Easier still when that stranger is standing by the meats and sending surreptitious glances over at Grayson and his father. In the summer, when the tourists flood the town, she might’ve stood a chance at blending in. In December though, when the town is barren and every face is painfully familiar, this move isn’t as subtle as the woman no doubt thinks it is. Grayson grips the handle of his basket tighter, and avoids her gaze.

They've only just stepped onto the parking lot when the journalist strikes. Grayson is used to the press who meet them at the Court—he wouldn’t exactly call them respectful, but they’re pretending to be, if nothing else. This woman doesn’t even bother with that charade. She gets her camera out immediately, talking a mile a minute, and Grayson realizes paparazzi is a better word than journalist.

He also realizes she’s talking to his father, not to him, and the cold shock of that silences him. “Mr. Sharpe, your son’s team recently made headlines as they qualified for the Championships, but I’d still like to talk about his interview last month. We know what he’s got to say on your family’s tragedy, but no one’s managed to get your side of things. Why is that?”

For once, the elder Sharpe man speaks up before his son has a chance. “I’m a private man.” His tone is either frustrated  or disdainful, but it’s nothing good. “My son is the celebrity here. He’s the one who wanted to answer questions about this—so you can talk to him, not me.” Grayson tells himself his father’s contempt is for the woman with the camera, but he’s not sure, especially not when his dad speeds up to leave them both behind.

“No comment,” Grayson says immediately, utterly deadpan. Hollow. He races to catch up to his father. Behind him, some of the townsfolk have left the store to cluster around the entrance, drawn in by the promise of scandal. He can feel the heavy weight of their judgmental gazes on the back of his neck, and he knows what they’ll say. That Sharpe boy’s brought the wrong kind of attention right to their doorsteps, and they love it. They’ll think he wants this, the same as they do. As he rushes off, he can hear the journalist turning towards the local gossips for a statement instead.

Grayson and his father don’t talk on the ride home. They don’t talk when they unload the groceries. Grayson goes through the motions, chopping the vegetables, preparing the meal. Once everything is in the oven though, and Grayson doesn’t have anything to do with his hands, he ruins everything.  “Dad,” he says, voice too loud in a house that’s been silent since the aftershock of a gun went off outside. “Can we talk?”

His dad nods, but his eyes dart towards the door. “Is this about that reporter at the general store?”

Grayson shakes his head. He knows why his dad didn't step in then; he doesn't necessarily know why he’s never stepped in. The years of silence between him and his father only let his doubts grow, and if he’s going to surrender Palmetto—Jen—for good, there can’t be any indecision. He’s spent too long torn between these two lives, and now that he’s made a final choice, he’s got to live with it. 

“About...mom,” Grayson says. “About what happened. We never talk about it.” Grayson’s stomach churns, the kind of anxiety he should get before a match, or a fight. Instead, he feels it now, when his dad reluctantly sits down at the table across from him, a handle of whiskey conveniently in place. Grayson’s fingers tap on the table for a moment, a rapid fire staccato that matches his heartbeat. He doesn’t have his own words, so he steals Jen’s, remembering their conversation in his car. “I was a kid,” he blurts, and somehow that, as much as anything, feels like admitting to a wrongdoing. “What happened? Why didn't we try harder?” Why didn't they stop Grayson from holding the gun, maybe. Stop the townsfolk from glaring at him afterwards. Grayson doesn’t know what he means, only that he has to say something.

His dad lets out a long, slow breath. Pours himself a glass of whiskey too quickly, until it’s overfull and some of the dark liquor splashes out onto the wooden table beneath it. “I’m sorry,” his dad begins, and Grayson’s drumming fingers still. He’s never realized how badly he needed to hear those words, and it feels like something vital loosens in his chest, like he can breath for the first time—and then his dad speaks up again. “Grayson, I really am. I thought you understood. You couldn’t be charged with anything serious, not when you were only seven. We told them the truth, and then I had to back off. It was the only way.”

“Oh,” Grayson says, without heat. So his dad couldn’t face the law with him, so what. Grayson has always embraced his own guilt. “But what about everyone in town? Even when the case was closed, you let them talk about me. You know what they say.”

“You shouldn't care what they think,” his dad says, and the idea that Grayson can just not care about the entire town turning against him feels laughable.

He’s been in Palmetto long enough to know not every town is a warzone, and Dubois doesn’t feel normal anymore. Coming back home was supposed to solve his problems, settle the part of him that wants anything different, and it hasn't. He’s still as lost as he was in that banquet hall with Jen. “I can’t just ignore them, dad.”

“Why not? I do.” His dad seems genuinely perplexed, as if their situations are equivalent. Grayson’s spent his entire life ensuring they aren’t.

Dubois for Palmetto, that’s the tradeoff, but it’s not the full truth. Yes, Grayson loves the horses here, and the sprawling wilderness outside of town, but they're not the reason he comes back every year. He comes back for his dad, for the family that’s stuck here.

He’s always been alright with the deal before. You sacrifice for family; it’s not even a question. Tonight, though, Grayson looks over at this man and thinks: I already gave up Jen for you.

And oh, God, he wants more in return for something that huge. An answer. An explanation. An better apology. Grayson’s hands twitch on the table. “Because I care,” he says. “I was seven years old, and they treated me like a garbage, and no one stopped them.”

“It was a rough time for me,” his dad protests, and for all the world he sounds distraught. It’s more emotion that he’s shown in years, and it’s not directed towards Grayson. “She was the love of my life. My wife. You can’t imagine what it felt like. I know I didn't handle things right, but I needed to grieve.”

“She was my mom.” The words fall out of his mouth before he thinks them through. Jen’s words, again. Grayson desperately wishes Jen was here. They would know what to say—they’d know whether Grayson’s allowed to feel angry right now. He feels that anger anyway, and it makes his throat tight and raw.  

Grayson’s dad runs a hand down his face. “I’m tired, Grayson,” he says. “You saw that woman at the store. You know what I’ve been dealing with. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but we aren't talking about this right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so,” his dad finally snaps.

A beat. Grayson almost gives in.

Then: “Please.” Grayson presses for more the way he’ll press on his bruises after a rough game. It isn’t fair that his dad gets to claim exhaustion after a single encounter, when Grayson’s made a life out of answering these questions for him. “I’m not—” he flounders, looks for a way to sanitize his anger even now, “—I just want to know what’s going on in your head, dad. I wanna know why it has to be like this, and then I’ll stop asking. I promise.” Please, he thinks it this time, desperately, I just need to remember this is worth it. Give me something. He’s splintering, even Grayson knows that. He needs something concrete to keep him grounded, and he needs it to happen here, in Dubois. Not Palmetto.

He needs his dad. 

“I know what happened but I don’t—” Grayson stops here, because admitting any kind of doubt is the greatest sin of all, and Grayson knows that. “Can you just talk to me?”

His dad downs the whiskey. His expression has always been flat, unreadable, but right now it’s cold. Grayson knows this conversation is over even before his dad opens his mouth again. “I said we aren't talking about this right now. That’s to protect you Grayson. I know how hard it must be to live with what happened. Why would you want to get into this right before Christmas?”

His dad, Grayson realizes, doesn't know anything about what Grayson lives with. Grayson’s going to fall into the chasm between them, and not for the first time, he thinks about Jen instead.  Mornings with the horses and sugary sweet lattes and the only person Grayson’s been honest with in years: and even then, he’d lied about the most important thing in the end. Jen, all the way in Palmetto. Jen with a stupid gnome in their hands as they chose a better life all on their own. Jen, who’d cried because Grayson couldn’t the same, because he chose this life over them.

Grayson chose this. Over Jen.

“Fine.” Grayson’s voice sounds strange, strangled, even to himself. There’s nothing here tonight, nothing his dad will give him, even when Grayson doesn’t play along with his dad’s silence. Jen loves him when Grayson’s never done anything to earn it, never shown them the affection they deserve back, and his dad won’t even talk to him when he begs. “I’m going for a walk.”

His dad sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t follow him. Grayson’s footsteps take him through dimly lit streets. They’re empty, and it’s almost Christmas. Grayson reaches the end of the block, and considers turning around. Past experience tells him that if he goes back now, his dad will pretend this never happened. Grayson will go back home, and then back to Palmetto, and everything will be the same as he left it. That’s what he wants, right?

Without letting himself acknowledge the answer to that, Grayson keeps walking. Catches a ride all the way to the airport instead. Purchases a ticket. He waits outside, no luggage at his feet. Despite everything, Grayson doesn’t believe  he’ll go through with it, and he still doesn’t go home. He lights a cigarette—and then another when it’s done, and another—and focuses on that instead of the clock ticking down to a flight he isn’t actually going to catch.

It’s blissfully empty at this hour of the night, but Grayson can’t escape when a familiar face approaches him. He squints in the haze, in the dark, and then groans out loud, because it’s that fucking journalist again.

Grayson can imagine what he looks like right now. He’s chain-smoking outside an airport with red-rimmed eyes, clearly waiting for a flight when only this morning he was buying groceries for a Christmas dinner, and that says enough. A glance at his watch confirms that it’s past midnight too—so technically it’s Christmas Eve. “Where’s the camera?” he asks, warily.

“Already checked my bag, so you’re safe,” the woman says. Her tone is nonchalant. Maybe that’s an act; maybe she means it. Grayson doesn’t know, and right now, he doesn’t care. Either way, she’s leaving town. Grayson wants to believe it’s because she’s got a family to return to, but maybe she’s simply realized Grayson’s story isn’t worth it. “You feel like sharing?” she asks, nodding towards the cigarette.  

Grayson’s mouth forms the words fuck off automatically, but he doesn’t say them out loud. It’s officially Christmas Eve, and Grayson’s waiting for a flight out of Dubois. He’s fucked everything up, but it’s not too late to change his mind. He can still rush to the ranch, and pretend he never brought up the past. Go back to normal. Go back home.

Grayson’s heart clenches uncomfortably in his chest. He’s lonely enough that he might suffocate on it—and this isn’t new. He’s been lonely for a long time now, when he really thinks about it. He just hasn’t thought about it. Hasn’t let himself. Grayson knows with a cold kind of certainty that if he gets on this plane tonight, it means he wants things to change. That loneliness will still live in him, but maybe he can do something about it too. 

Oh, God, he’s going to do this, isn’t he? Grayson loves his dad, and right now, he has to leave him: maybe both things can be true. Either way, if he goes back to the ranch now, if he doesn’t do something new, then he’ll lose Jen forever. Likely he already has, and this eleventh hour change of heart won’t mean a thing, other than to ruin his relationship with his father. Grayson swallows twice, hard, and reaches in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. “I’m off the record tonight,” he says hollowly, because he has to make that point now, apparently. After all these years, he’s a true Fox. His trauma is now interesting enough that people will buy and sell it for more than social currency,  and he’s still going to share a smoke with the person who wants to use him for her headlines.  

She nods, takes the offering. Up close, she’s messier than the reporters he’s used to—worn denim instead of nice clothes, hair thrown up in a bun, bags under her eyes. She doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t know her, and she doesn’t ask any more questions. They both focus on the bitter taste of smoke, and even though she leaves behind her card when she’s done, Grayson’s pathetically grateful for the silent companionship.

The plane lands. Grayson boards. He leaves Dubois behind.

[oscopelabs]

Paris sans Agnès by Andrew Lapin

It was morning in Paris when news of Agnès Varda’s death reached the world. On a hunch, I left the apartment I shared with my girlfriend in the city’s 5th arrondissement and walked the 30 minutes, past the hordes of tourists cramming into the skull-stacked Paris Catacombs, to reach Rue Daguerre in the Montparnasse neighborhood, where Varda had lived since 1951.

This is where Varda and her husband, fellow French New Wave filmmaker Jacques Demy, had purchased a derelict pink storefront and turned it into the production house Tamaris Films, later renamed Ciné-Tamaris, so they could produce Varda’s first film La Pointe Courte in 1954. The pair moved into the tucked-away apartment/studio complex and quickly became fixtures of the neighborhood, spreading art, whimsy, and cats around their tiny world (although the building’s exterior remained in poor shape, with paint perpetually peeling and the roof leaking). For the next nearly seven decades, Varda sightings on Rue Daguerre were an everyday occurrence: “the funny little woman in the red-and-white hair,” as one Parisian described her to me. It was fitting that Varda had inherited the spirit of this street from its original namesake Louis Daguerre: inventor of the daguerreotype, the first commercially available form of photographic imagery and the predecessor to the medium that Varda changed forever.

So Ciné-Tamaris seemed like the natural spot for a spontaneous Varda memorial. I arrived around 2:30 and a small crowd was beginning to gather, much of them reporters like myself, prowling the block for grieving soundbites. Flowers and handwritten notes already lined the sidewalk. Occasionally someone, usually a woman, would gingerly approach the display bearing flowers of their own; the person would pace along the length of the building for a few minutes, searching for the ideal spot, and then kneel down to place their offering among the others, so that it was visible but not too ostentatious.

Sometimes a person would reach the entrance of Varda’s sacred place and, instead of leaving flowers, ring the doorbell; immediately a young man or woman would answer the door, size up the greeter to determine if they were a close relation, and then beckon them inside, and you could make out just a glimpse of the entryway, the same one that all the lucky folks who interviewed Varda here over the years love to describe, with the prowling cats and the assorted found objects and the maze of different rooms connected by that entryway.

Others were drawn to the crowd but didn’t know what had brought us all here. “What’s going on?” one man asked me, and I answered that Agnès Varda had died. He gave a blank look; no idea who that was. I tried to explain, with my horrible French, that she was a famous Nouvelle Vague filmmaker, one of the last of her generation, but this too prompted no reaction. So I named the first title that came to my mind, which also seemed the most likely one for a Frenchman unfamiliar with the Nouvelle Vague to have seen – “Visages Villages” (Faces Places), the quirky 2017 documentary she had made with the muralist JR, in which the two had toured the countryside making art installations out of the folks they met in small French towns. It was a surprise worldwide hit, although it divided hardcore cinephiles I knew, some of whom thought the film was too cutesy and JR too posturing. At any rate, the man didn’t recognize the name. But he solemnly nodded all the same, to show he recognized someone monumental had passed, and that seemed enough, and he went on.

JR, as it happened, was presenting a massive new art installation at the Louvre that weekend. He’d covered the entire expanse of the museum’s outdoor Pyramide structure with his trademark screen-printed tarp to create an optical illusion of it rising out of a deep ravine. The effect was short-lived. Within 24 hours the tarp was being ripped up, both intentionally and not, by tourists, reminiscent of the scene in Faces Places where JR pastes a photo of Varda’s friend Guy Bourdin onto the side of a beach bunker and the tide washes it away.

Unlike her very young cohort, who often creates tactile public displays he knows will fade from view in short time, Varda herself was committed to something like the opposite: using her camera to make impermanent things permanent, to capture unusual people and their dissonant dreams on film before they faded away for good.

***

Another passerby, an older woman, was a longtime neighbor of Varda, having lived on Rue Daguerre for decades. She would see the filmmaker around all the time, she said. She most fondly recalled Varda’s 1975 documentary Daguerréotypes, in which she wandered her own street interviewing various shopkeepers and artisans, with a camera and microphone tethered back to her own house. Varda was interested in not only what these folks did for a living, but also what brought them to Paris and what they dreamt about at night. It was the ultimate “good neighbor” act, and also a convenient way for Varda to try to keep up her filmmaking output while raising young children at home.

The artisans of the type Varda profiled 44 years ago—the perfume maker, the magician, the accordion seller—have all but vanished from Rue Daguerre. And though Daguerréotypes never deviates from its pleasantly curious tone to reflect on their vanishing ranks, Varda seemed to be aware even when she was making the film that they were not long for this world. The artisan was a dying, hopelessly outclassed breed in Paris, a city that’s embraced mass-market goods and priced-out real estate like any other. Perhaps, as many critics smarter than I have noted, Varda saw a kinship in her neighbors because she, too, had devoted her life to a craft with no obvious commercial future, one that struck many outside observers as fundamentally useless.

Of all the commerce on the street today, including a comics vendor and a vegan bakery, I honed in on the most Daguerréotypes-like operation: a tiny frame shop with chipped, weathered exteriors, run by an older woman who kept the front door locked even during business hours. She opened the door for me, but when I asked her if she’d ever heard of Agnès Varda, she gave me the same blank look the man on the street had. “No, sorry,” she said, and shut it again.

Yet there was hope that Varda’s impact will be felt on generations of creative people to come. A young Parisian film student named Valentine brought a carton of seven potatoes to her house. Bending down, Valentine took out a Sharpie and scrawled one letter on each vegetable: “A-G-N-È-S.” She drew a heart on a sixth potato and laid it on top of the others, carefully propping up this tableau in the carton against the wall. The seventh potato was already shaped like a heart, and this one she let stand on its own.

Valentine had been sobbing as she did her work, but she soon grew excited to explain what she’d done. The potatoes, she said, were a tribute to Varda’s 2000 documentary The Gleaners and I, which was the first of her films that Valentine had seen and the one that made her want to make her own. In the movie, Varda had befriended various gleaners across the French countryside, communities of people who scoop up the leftover yield of a crop once it’s been abandoned by the commercial harvesters. More gleaners prowl urban centers looking for discarded food, clothes, and other scraps of life.

A rubber boots-clad dumpster diver proclaims people are “stupid” for throwing so much food away, but Varda’s never been the type to shame an audience. She’s content to open herself up to her subjects’ experiences, to glean what she can from their lives as well as her own (when she trains the camera on her own wrinkled hands and ponders the strangeness of having lived in her skin for so long). There’s a scene where Varda, delighted, gleans her own heart-shaped potatoes and holds them up for the camera: objects which no one else wanted, but which she has endowed with new purpose and clarity. After that film, “my little potato” became a common expression among the Varda family.

All three ethnographies came at very different stages of Varda’s life. She made Daguerréotypes at age 46, Gleaners at 71, Faces Places at 88. But they all concerned Varda’s efforts to ingratiate herself among the people of France, to learn more about life in her country outside of film circles. She was certainly an accomplished crafter of narrative films, as well, but it was with this unplanned trilogy that she enriched her deep bond with fans and ensured her own immortality in the French popular imagination. Besides the obvious fact of Varda’s gender, the strength she derived from simply being around other people might be what most distinguished her from Nouvelle Vague contemporaries like Godard and Truffaut, who only care(d) about the outside world inasmuch as it could be related back to their own vision of cinema. (And in Godard’s case, if that final passage of Faces Places is to be believed, the last one of the originals left standing has become impenetrable to even his oldest friends.)

Varda was 90 when she died, and much of her output at least since Gleaners centered in one way or another on her own impending death. Hell, as far back as 1962’s Cléo From 5 to 7, which centers on a pop star who awaits a possible terminal diagnosis, death and its effect on the everyday has been a major theme of her work. Thus, most of the gleaners now gathering at her residence were in agreement that today’s news, though heartbreaking, did not come as a surprise. But it did surprise Valentine. “I just saw her last week,” she said. Varda had attended the Paris premiere of her last feature, the career retrospective Varda par Agnès, and Valentine’s film class had been there to see her. The film had held its world premiere at this year’s Berlinale in February, perhaps because Varda knew even then she wouldn’t have made it all the way to Cannes in May.

How did she seem, I asked. “She looked very… tired,” one of Valentine’s friends volunteered. And now, a week later, she was gone. “I thought she was eternal,” Valentine said, shaking her head as though she knew how ridiculous that sounded. “I just wanted to thank her, I guess.”

***

Montparnasse Cemetery is situated just a few blocks north of Rue Daguerre, the final gathering spot of the French intellectual elite. Charles Baudelaire, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir are all buried here. Varda is now here, too, buried alongside Demy, as per her wishes. Their headstone now reads “Famille Demy-Varda.” It’s topped with a collection of sunflowers, another crop of significance to Varda: her 1964 drama Le Bonheur had a sunflower motif, and one of her final art projects was “The Greenhouse of Happiness,” in which she constructed a shack out of 35mm prints of the film and placed fake sunflowers within it.

The gravesite is absolutely choking on flowers, notes, and trinkets. Bouquets hail from the French elite film school La Fémis, cinema giant MK2, various museums, the Paris mayor’s office. Another from the modern tradespeople of Rue Daguerre – today’s daguerreotypes, inspired by her portraits of yesterday’s. The love is so massive it has overflown the cemetery. On a stretch of road just over the wall, the Varda grandchildren had painted every sidewalk post on the block – more than 100 – with her trademark red-and-white bob.

And along the headstone, a ring of potatoes. Varda’s harvest is over. Now it’s time to glean.

[rhetoricalrogue]

Family Ties 3/4

Part 1 | Part 2

This one was difficult to write, mostly because Rolfe refused to cooperate and deal with issues that have been years in the making.

tagging @thesecondsealwrites.

The second Philip entered the Herald’s Rest, he felt at home. There had always been something about taverns and public houses that had appealed to him, which was why he usually insisted on meeting with his constituents in such places. A warm plate of food and a pint of ale did wonders to bring people together to work on common goals.  He tried to ignore the stares he could feel from all sides, figuring that people were looking because they recognized him as their Inquisitor’s father.

That bit of news had taken some getting used to. After not hearing word from their son in the aftermath of the Conclave disaster, he and Marta had feared the worst, especially when the Chantry didn’t have the answers they so desperately sought. They’d grieved for their boy, yet were overjoyed to discover that not only had he lived, but Vincent had risen out of the chaos as the Herald of Andraste. After receiving his initial letter explaining events, Philip had put all the political weight he carried into helping the fledgling Inquisition as well as calling upon other prominent individuals in the area to do the same.

Even if some of the stares he felt were from people recognizing him as Vincent’s father, Philip couldn’t help but feel as if certain patrons knew he had another reason for being in their tavern that didn’t have much to do with Vincent. The feeling was cemented by a quick series of events that happened as he moved through the busy early evening crowd. As if practiced, the man who had been sitting alone in a chair close to the door stood up on the seat and the yell of Oi, Boss! carried over the noise of the busy tavern room. From the very back of the main room, a huge, intimidating looking Qunari playing a game of cards with several men and women slapped his cards down and shouted back, his deep voice bellowing all the way up the staircase Philip was climbing.

“Hey Krem, are you in for this game or are you out? Southerland, get your ass down here and join the next round!”

Philip reached the top of the stairs and bumped into a trio of people. “Terribly sorry, sir! Beggin’ your pardon, sir!” one of them babbled as they tried to jostle out of Philip’s way.

“Quite all right,” he said, pressing his back against the railing and stopping long enough for them to go down the stairs. Around that time, a shrill whistle sounded behind him. When he turned to look, he caught a glimpse of a blonde elf in plaidweave making frantic hand motions to the floor above them. As soon as she realized he was looking, she glared at him and hopped off the crate she had been sitting on before moving to go into a small alcove, slamming the door behind her so loud that Philip was certain that everyone in the tavern could hear.

He let out a sigh when two more people blocked his way up to the third floor staircase. “Look,” he started, addressing the woman. She was around his age or possibly a few years older and dressed simply, but had an understated elegance about her that told Philip she was as comfortable here as she would be in any palace. “I know that he’s up there. I promise, I mean him no harm. I only wish to talk.”

The man who accompanied her was tall, built like a massive wall of muscle, and aside from an impressive looking beard and bushy eyebrows, had no hair on his head. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and sized Philip up. “We know,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and quiet, an odd counterpoint to his physical stature. “We’re not going to stop you.”

Philip gestured to the staircase he had just climbed. “And this whole elaborate warning system? What was it about?”

“It’s more for his benefit than anything,” the woman explained. “He says that he’s ready to meet you, but whether he admits it or not, we can tell that he still needs a moment to gather his nerve.”

“He’s done as much for all of us over the years,” the man added. “The least we can do is return the favor. I’m Bruno.”

“Penelope.”

Philip nodded. “Philip, though I’m guessing you already knew that. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” He took a breath and put his hand on the railing leading up to the third floor. “But if you would excuse me, I have someone else I would like to meet.”

Bruno stepped to the side, but put his hand up. “Be patient with him. He makes light of how he feels, but Rolfe hasn’t had the best upbringing. It ain’t our place to explain, but…”

“He rarely speaks of his family aside from the two cousins who are also here in Skyhold,” Penelope continued. “And if he does, he claims that he doesn’t have a need for a family not of his choosing, especially when he’s made one for himself out of friends he’s gathered over the years.”

“I’ve known him for close to fifteen years, Ser,” Bruno added, shifting his weight and glancing up at the floor above them.  “Mention his folks back in Ostwick and he closes up faster than anything, but seeing him with his brother...it’s been good for him.  Your boy’s managed to leech some of the bitterness out of the Boss like none of us ever could, and we’re grateful to him.”

Philip swallowed around a lump that had grown in his throat. What had this man gone through over the years that so many would be this protective of him? “I can’t make promises for whatever the outcome of our meeting will be, but I hope you know that I’m willing to try.”

“We know, and thank you for that.” Penelope lifted her chin. “I’ve loved Rolfe since the moment I first met him. He’s a good man with a good heart, but he trusts very few people and you’ve caught him on a bad day. I’m wishing the both of you the best, but he’s like the son I never had.  If you cause him unnecessary grief, I will personally see to it that you’re sorry you ever met me.”

Philip looked at her, and she suddenly didn’t seem like the sweet, harmless silver-haired woman he had originally thought her to be. “He must be a good man indeed,” he said, measuring his words. “For him to have such loyal friends.” With that, he began to ascend the staircase.

He made it as far as the landing before his heart started to beat faster. He’d been a father five years longer than he’d thought and he’d never even  known it. What did Rolfe think of him? What sort of things had he imagined? Maker, he must imagine the worst, he thought, hesitating one last time.

“I know you’re coming up, Philip,” a tired sounding voice said in the darkness. “I won’t bite, at least not without ample warning first.”

The third floor of the tavern was simply furnished and somewhat dimly lit, seeing as most of the candles set in wall sconces were snuffed save for a few closer to the back of the room that was also lit by a large candelabra set into the rafters overhead. Rolfe sat at the table directly underneath, a bottle of something at his elbow and an unlit smoking pipe in his hands, one of which that was recently bandaged.

Philip felt the knot tighten in his throat again. He hadn’t gotten a good look at him the first time he had met him outside in the courtyard that morning, but there was no denying that this man was his own blood. To Philip, it seemed as if he were staring at a reflection of himself at a younger age.

“Apologies for the lighting,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the unlit sconces. “You’ve caught me at the tail end of an attempt to sober up and things were a bit too bright otherwise.”

He knew. Marta had filled him in on the state of his son when she had visited with him. “May I?” He finally managed to ask, gesturing to the chair opposite Rolfe.

Rolfe nodded, his thumbs running over the wood bowl of the pipe. The shadows under the table hid his legs somewhat, but Philip could see the barest hint of his leg bouncing up and down, almost as if he were just as nervous to meet him as he was.

“I’ll have you know,” Rolfe started slowly. “That you’ve accomplished something that not very many people can claim to have done.”

“What would that be?”

He stared at him, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I’ve waited for over thirty years to meet you, and when I finally do, I can’t think of a damned thing to say.”

Philip pressed his palms against the table’s surface. “Ask me anything. I’ll try to answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

“Did you know that my mother was married before you slept with her?” He tilted his head. “Sorry, but I figured I’d get the biggest question out in the open first.”

Philip shook his head. “No, I had no idea. I met Flora at a family gathering where she introduced herself as a friend to the family. I never questioned it and I never saw her with her husband the entire weekend.”

Rolfe’s eyes narrowed. “So, what was she to you then? Merely a dalliance?”

“No. I was infatuated by her.  I wanted to court her, I even told her so myself, but she said that a relationship would be impossible as she was sailing home to Antiva after the party.”

Rolfe scoffed. “At least that part of the story I’ve been told over the years checks out. Mother was supposed to flee from her marriage after finding out about yet another one of her husband’s affairs, but she discovered that she was pregnant with me and her aging parents refused to take her back in. My birth has always been a point of resentment for keeping her in a place she’s been so miserable in.”

Philip stared at Rolfe, noticing the tense way he held his jaw. “You didn’t have the best childhood, did you?”

Rolfe shrugged. “I had as good of one as any token bastard and family embarrassment could expect to have, I imagine.” He pulled out a small drawstring bag from a pocket and absently began to pack tobacco into the pipe. “I can’t go back in time to change it, so I’ve made my peace with it, of a sort. They didn’t beat me, if that’s what you’re asking.” He frowned, still not looking up from his task. “Well, my older half-brother William did, but he’s another kettle of fish. He took great pleasure in using me as his punching bag until I grew old enough to fight back, but my mother and Edward never struck me.”

He reached for a small tin of matches, but then changed his mind, setting the pipe aside, his gaze stuck on the tabletop as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. “Sometimes I wished that they had. Anything would have been better than being outright ignored.” His voice was quiet, his brows pinched together. Then he shook his head and sneered. “Or being so starved for affection that I jumped through whatever hoops Mother put in front of me for even the smallest scraps of attention. There was always some condition, some catch, to earn the smallest of gestures in private, yet there was such a grand show in public that we were a loving family so no one would suspect otherwise.”

Philip’s heart ached for Rolfe. “Had I known…”

“You’d what?” Rolfe turned his gaze to him and Philip could see years of pent up emotion simmering just under the surface. “Scoop me up and claim me as your own, politics and optics be damned?”

The chair Rolfe had been sitting in scraped along the floorboards as he stood. Without giving Philip a chance to answer, Rolfe continued. “I spent so many years hating you,” he confessed, his voice rough. “I was five when I learned what the term bastard meant. I had it drilled into my head repeatedly that I was something no one wanted, a burden and unworthy of the family name. Edward always said that he knew who my father was and he took great pleasure in telling me that you knew I existed but didn’t want me either.”

Philip’s blood boiled even as his heart broke for the boy Rolfe had been. “That was a lie,” he spat.

“I know that now.” Rolfe leaned against the wall and let his head rest on the stone. “It took only a few moments alone with Vincent to know that the man I had spent so long loathing could have never raised a son like him. He was taken from you and you still fought for him, from the moment the Templars first arrived all the way up until the Conclave, and you continue to support him even now. He’s never had any cause to doubt your love for him.”

Philip clasped his hands together, wanting nothing more than to stand and go to Rolfe, but he saw the man’s body language was closed off and defensive and figured the gesture would be unwelcome. He was, after all, a stranger.

“I met my wife two years after the party where I had met Flora. We were married a year later, and we tried to have children as soon as possible. The both of us came from small families: I was the last Trevelyan on my branch of the family tree and Marta’s an only child herself. We both dreamed of having a home filled with sons and daughters, but it wasn’t meant to be. After some complications conceiving, we were beyond blessed to have even had Vincent; it didn’t matter to us when his magic manifested. He was still the same little boy we had loved the day before he accidentally set a rug on fire and he’s still the same man we love today.” Philip stood and walked over to Rolfe. “I know that you have no reason to believe me, but yes, had I known about your birth and how you had been treated in your own home by the very people who were supposed to care for you the most, I would have demanded to take you from them and I would have proudly raised you alongside your brother.”

Rolfe took a shuddering breath and crossed his arms in front of his chest, silently putting some distance between them. “I was so jealous of Vincent at first. He spoke of you and Marta often, probably as his way of explaining to me who you were since I never got the nerve to ask him myself. Even with his circumstances and living in the Circle, he had everything I had ever wanted.”

“You said that you were jealous at first. What made you stop?”

Rolfe dropped his arms from their defensive posture and put his hands in his pockets. “He’s always introduced me as his brother. He's had opportunities to give just my first name, to distance himself from me, but he’s never taken them. He could tell people that I’m his half-brother, but it’s always been this is my brother Rolfe with him.  How could I be jealous of someone who accepts me as I am and doesn’t demand anything in return?” He gave a weak smile. “I’ve only known him for not even a year, but in that short frame of time, he’s shown me more acceptance than either of my older half-siblings have shown me my entire life. I love him; I’d do anything for him.”

Philip reached out then, breathing in relief when Rolfe didn’t flinch away from the hand on his arm. “I’m glad the two of you have the other. He’s written to me and he speaks highly of you.”

Rolfe looked down. “I know. I’ve intercepted and read each of your letters before re-sealing and sending them on their way.” He looked back up and Philip couldn’t read his expression. “I’m a spy, first and foremost, and a damn good one at that.”

“And if you’ve read our letters, then you should know that I already knew your profession.”

“Vincent told you that I was a bodyguard for the Chantry upper echelon. He never said a word about the secrets the higher-ups had me ferret out for them for the past twenty years, or the things they ordered me to do in the Chantry’s name.”

Philip shook his head. “And you don’t think that I can’t read between the lines? Over the years of working with both the Chantry and the Circle, I’ve come to realize that neither entity is as innocent as they would like to present themselves. They need people to get hands dirty where they cannot.”

“And you would still claim me? Philip, I’ve killed people I never knew, all because their ideologies ran afoul of my superiors’. I’ve protected people and saved them from deaths that could have possibly helped ease burdens on hundreds had they been taken out of this world. How can you stand here and say that you’d still like to know me when I have so much blood on my hands?”

“Because you are my son.”

“What does that even mean?” Rolfe demanded, shoving himself off the wall to pace the floor. “The work I did for the Chantry has ensured that I do not exist: outside of their employ I have no income, no connections, not even a roof over my head that I could say I worked to own. I can only be a liability to you and to Vincent, especially now that he insisted that I was presented as family in the Orlesian court, which I’m sure is causing Edward and Mother a bit of scandal to have their old laundry finally aired out. I’m certain that once the news reaches Wycome that it will spell trouble for your political career as well.” He clenched his hands into fists at his side. “I am nothing, and I can offer you nothing in return.”

“I think most of the people downstairs would argue with you being nothing, as would I. Bruno and Penelope wouldn’t insist that you’re a good man or be as loyal to you as they are if they didn’t believe it for themselves. Marta wouldn’t have thought the same after only spending five minutes with you, and my wife is the keenest judge of character than anyone I know.”

“She’s...different than what I was expecting.” Rolfe looked sheepish. “And I owe her an apology. I wasn’t at my best when we met. She probably thinks I’m a bumbling drunkard.”

Philip grinned. “Trust me, spend more time with her and you’ll realize that Marta is a fierce, loyal woman. I wouldn’t worry about what she thinks of you; she didn’t go into detail on what exactly the two of you spoke of, but she came up to our room afterwards ready to fight your mother with her bare hands.”

Rolfe snorted. “I like her already.” He sighed and pinched his brows together in worry. “Are you certain you want to take me on? I mean, look where I live. I drink and I smoke and at times my carousing and ill behavior causes Mother Giselle to beseech Andraste to spare my soul during services.”

Philip laughed. “Remind me to tell you the story about how I earned a few of my scars. Believe it or not, I was wild in my youth as well, and I still have my moments here and there.” Sobering, Philip put his hands on Rolfe’s shoulders again. “If you would allow me, I would very much like to get to know you, Rolfe. You don’t have to decide anything now, but my home and my heart will always be open for you, should you choose to let me in.”

Rolfe reached up to his shoulder and put his hand on top of his. For a brief moment, Philip thought that he would push him away, but all Rolfe did was squeeze his hand. He watched as his son’s lip quivered slightly and his jaw clenched before he let out another shaky breath and nodded.

“Well, Father,” Rolfe started, clearing his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly. “There’s thirty-seven years of catching up to do.” He gestured to the table he had been at and the bottle still sitting there. “Would you care for a drink while we talk?”

Philip had to clear his own throat and blink back a few tears of his own before answering. “I would love one, Son.”

[jokerepair74-blog]

Some Thoughts On Mental Health & Social Class After Experiencing A Personal Tragedy

This essay deals with death, substance abuse, and mental illness; please only continue to read if you feel it’s healthy for you to do so.

On June 18, I turn 30. By June 30, I will be older than my friend, Emma, ever got to be.

Emma (whose name I’ve changed here for the sake of her loved ones’ privacy) crash-landed into my life when I was in the eighth grade. She was a year older than me, and my Mom had just acquired her as a piano student. “She’s sweet and hilarious — you should get to know her!”

Emma also danced at my studio, and I had just moved into her age group. We became fast friends, and we grew even closer when I joined her in high school. We traveled together, acted in plays together, did every piano duet together and caused all sorts of PG-rated trouble in between. We stayed close throughout and beyond high school (for a fashion, we even dated two guys who were roommates) and our friend group stayed tight into our twenties. Personal issues drove her away from the group in the latter half of that decade, but we always maintained our affection and a bit of contact.

Emma was everything you’d say about a friend who died too young — full of life, bright, kinder to everyone than she was to herself, creative but unmotivated, funnier than any of us thought was humanly possible. She went through a million phases — granola bohemian yoga chick one day, marathoner with emerging calf muscles the next.

One Sunday in November, I was making cashew cheese sauce when I got a call from my ex out of the blue. Emma had died the night before. I still remember the frenzy of my husband emerging from the bedroom, wondering if he should hold me as I sobbed or stir the cheese sauce to keep it from burning (somehow, he did both). I remember my dining room crumbling around me as I repeated over and over, “I thought she was getting better.”

There were a lot of tragic aspects of Emma’s death: the fact that it happened at all, the fact that it happened less than two weeks after her 30th birthday, the fact that I’d barely spoken to her in two years out of what I will admit was fear of too much drama. (I was re-traumatized two weeks later when I finally had the courage to search my messages from her and saw that my last message from her was to say that she missed me like crazy and we should try to get together.) But I also struggled with the stigma around her death. Telling people I’d lost a friend recently was sympathetic. But could I risk the admission given the inevitable question of how she died? “Was she sick?” “Well, sort of.”

Emma had died of a drug overdose after years of struggle and occasional triumph. She lived with mental illness, for which she had sought help numerous times, and she had been putting in the work. I don’t believe she died because she wasn’t strong enough. It’s just that with addiction and mental illness, the tools most people are even able to access are the equivalent of bringing a spork to a knife fight – I know from my own experience with mental health and access to care.

After the funeral, where my friends and I grieved as one, I allowed the shock and trauma to take its course, and I knew that soon I’d be able to parse this out healthily. Then, weeks later, my incredible and resilient Grandpa died, resulting in a drawn-out, overlapping and utterly chaotic grieving process.

It’s only now, six months later, that I am able to look outside the individually tragic nature of Emma’s death. As summer entrenches my city, as our sitting provincial government wages a war against safe injection sites, and as mental healthcare continues to bounce like the half-deflated political football it is, I’ve asked myself — how does the world foster and enable lives like Emma’s? What are the barriers that separated Emma’s life from a life like mine — and what were the factors preventing me from becoming someone like Emma?

I, too, live with mental illness, although it’s less severe. My issues with anxiety have been manageable enough that I’ve been allowed to indulge my inner coward and only take an “on and off” approach to therapy and counseling and waffle on the idea of medication.

Like many young working professionals, I have access to mental health counseling on paper, but it’s still harder to work out in the practical sense. My plan covers a finite number of approved practitioners in my area for a finite number of hours. I have the financial privileges of being married to someone with benefits, but that’s also finite — combined, I still can’t necessarily attend therapy on what most people would call a “regular” basis without paying out of pocket. And there’s no such thing as paying “a little bit” for therapy, since pretty much any session goes into the hundreds of dollars.

And, like many working in a post-recession era, I work on an under-staffed team (when I came back from my Grandpa’s funeral, I found myself one writer down and doing the job of two for four months). No one would have ever told me outright that I couldn’t take part of an afternoon off to see a therapist, but I knew that it would throw a real wrench in our gears.

“You need help, there’s no shame in that” is what’s said out loud, but “it’s going to make things difficult” is the subtext. And that’s a microcosm for most mental health messaging these days. “Erase the stigma.” “Take care of your mental health the way you take care of your dental health.” But when it comes to the people with the power to help that happen — those in the C-suite, community leaders and politicians — they shrug. “Tools? What tools?”

At times, the lack of flexibility to address my mental health issues without derailing my work and personal life weighs on me, and I’m someone who has a job, benefits, a spouse, and issues that can go untreated with no major impact on my life. (Emma, too, had the financial support and resources to even have access treatment such as in-patient programs, which many aren’t lucky enough to do.)

But imagine if I worked in fast food, if I were still a student, if I had no job. Imagine if I had to choose between checking into an inpatient program and keeping my job. Even if I were simply at my last job, where I made a decent salary, my benefits came in the form of a “health spending account” — i.e. a finite amount of money. Imagine the tragedy of getting a diagnosis and prescription only to find out you can’t afford that prescription. Now imagine the added insult when brands appropriate the concept of “self-care,” when friends well-meaningly recommend bath bombs and yoga for stress management. (And I do believe that kind of self-care has its place, but it’s situations like this that separate run-of-the-mill, everyday mental health treatment from actual mental illness treatments. Meditation and gratitude journals are flossing, but therapy is a root canal — and no one can floss away the need for a root canal.)

In Canada, one of our biggest campaigns for mental health assistance is Bell Let’s Talk in January. This past year, Bell, a vertically integrated telecommunications and media company, raised $9 million CAD ($6.7 million USD)  in community funds grants — $3.53 million CAD ($2.6 million USD) for children and youth grants, $1.5 million CAD ($1.1 million USD) for Indigenous communities. The campaign has made some improvements in terms of intersectionality; years ago, it focused mainly on mood disorders and featured largely white, affluent spokespeople. It still taps the same well-known celebrities for the big blitzes, like comedian Howie Mandel and cyclist Clara Hughes, but recently, it has shared more stories from everyday people with more stigmatized mental illnesses, like personality disorders and addiction. It’s also positioned the stories of more diverse people (in terms of race, occupation, economic background and more) on the same pages as celebrities like Mandel and Hughes, signaling that their stories are equally important. In recent years, it has also added support for Indigenous communities, where many have identified an epidemic in youth suicides. There’s still plenty of criticism for the campaign and what many call a simplification of mental health, but it’s at least been heartening to see changes made, even if they’re gradual.

However, in the end, that $9 million has been a drop in the bucket, because organizations like CAMH (Centre for Addiction and Mental Health) still require outside donations and funding. Part-time and low-income workers still don’t have the same access to mental health services as people like me. According to CAMH, Canadians in the lowest income bracket are three to four times more likely to report poor to fair mental health than those in the highest income bracket. Mental illness occurs within the homeless population at a rate of 23 to 67%. All the while, too many still treat addiction as separate from mental illness; the same Ontario MPPs (Member of Provincial Parliament) who Tweeted that they wanted to “overcome the stigma” around mental illness also voted to restrict safe injection sites in key urban areas.

As a journalist who specifically reports on the marketing industry, I’ve always been cynical about corporate mental health awareness. But I no longer see this as just an “issue.” It’s a full-on crisis.

Drug use is still treated as a criminal issue more than a health problem. And, according to CAMH, at least 20% of people with a mental illness have a co-occurring substance abuse problem, and people with substance abuse problems are three times more likely to have a mental illness. In Canada, people of color are overrepresented in our criminal justice system, but are underrepresented in diversionary programs, such as Ontario’s mental health court (which is offered to people who commit certain infractions while suffering mental health episodes).

In our day-to-day life, we also don’t often realize the way we enable and brush off addictive behaviours, especially in women. The National Institute on Drug Abuse finds that women are just as likely to develop substance abuse problems with illicit drugs and alcohol. Women also may be more susceptible to cocaine and methamphetamine use. From a pop culture standpoint, everything from “Mommy Needs Wine” culture to collegiate binge-drinking seems to be brushed off as normal, or even passed off as an empowering form of female rebellion against the expectation that we stay demure and sweet. While it’s not fair to put something as complex as addiction and recovery on the backs of individuals, those of us who do have healthy relationships with alcohol and drugs need to still be keenly aware of the ways our society pushes us toward partying and substance abuse — even the legal kind. The fact that your workplace can’t seem to have a company get-together without issuing everyone three drink tickets may not be a trigger for you, but you might want to be aware of the behaviors of your peers.

And so here I am, staring 30 in the face and determined not to become a statistic, and trying to figure out how to retroactively make the world better for my friend who did become one. Those who have tried to make me feel better by saying her death couldn’t have been prevented have only been half-correct — I refuse to accept that death from addiction and mental illness is an inevitability, even if it’s damn hard for me, as an individual, to make sure that deaths like Emma’s become easier to prevent.

But I need help to do that, and I need help from people and bodies more powerful than me. I need the corporations who challenge me to take care of my mental health the way I take care of my dental health to fund their employees’ therapy to the same proportion that they fund dental visits. I need political parties who give themselves five-month breaks from the legislature to reinstate policies that would allow part-time workers the same access to paid time off as their full-time, salaried equivalents. I need municipal governments who evict and destroy tent cities to tell me where those people are going to go, especially if they’ve just voted against more affordable housing and more sheltered spaces. I need local media to stop running puffy real estate pieces glorying gentrification while treating the displaced people with mental illnesses as props for comic tragedy.

I need the people reading this to look at the people at the “bottom” of society and check their empathy. I need us to be open to having those hard conversations with friends who get trashed at every company party, no matter how much “emotional labor” it requires from us. I need us to not support pop-up shops and restaurants that come at the expense of homeless people’s sleeping spaces.

And I need us to keep talking about it, not in the generic, puffy ad campaign that says “talk about it.” I need those of us who have the privilege to keep bringing our feedback up the chain at work. I need those of us who have access to their MPs, MPPs and local government representatives to talk to them about what our reality is. I need those of us who discover new food banks, free drop-in programs, and support groups to offer our time and resources to promote them.

Because we need help, and I refuse to believe that we are going to do it alone.

Bree Rody-Mantha is a full-time business journalist and part-time dance teacher based in Toronto. She covered Toronto City Hall during the Rob Ford era before transitioning to business journalism. Her areas of specialty include the influencer market, advertising, media buying, and technology. Follow her on Twitter.

Image via Unsplash

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Source: https://thefinancialdiet.com/some-thoughts-on-mental-health-social-class-after-experiencing-a-personal-tragedy/

[someillplanetreigns]

What We Are Made To Bear

An Avengers fanfic

Summary: The experience of losing a brother is not contained in a single tear-stained, wailing close-up. Thor, Wanda, even Loki, deserved something more than what they were given. So I tried to give it to them.

“People are obsessed with saying we’re ‘bad at talking about grief’, but what they actually mean by that is we’re bad at listening to others talk about grief.”

Introductory note: I am an absolute mess of sibling grief right now (which I always am tbh but especially so at the moment for many reasons), and for a long time I’ve had a big issue with how it’s handled in the Avengers movies (the requisite ‘Emotions-Porn death moment’ and then nothing). There is a strong chance this will get a sequel, because honestly I’m only scratching the surface. For understandable reasons this touches on other types of grief too, but the focus is on losing a sibling, not least because on some level this is written for me and I probably needed to do that. This is my first fanfic. I’d meant to start lighter but... heh.

Warnings and rating: Discusses death and grief in a lot of detail. I’d say it’s a T. 

I.

Thor lay facing Jane on her bed, their joined hands resting on the mattress in the narrow space between them. His eyes were focussed on her small fingers interlaced with his own large, calloused ones. It had been a beautiful moment, his emergence from the Bifrost’s light into her eager embrace, the kind of moment recounted at great gatherings for centuries afterwards. He knew what he should have wanted when they were alone, knew what the heroes of one of those tales would have done, but all he found himself able to do was cling to her, to desperately reassure himself that she, at least, was there, was real, was present, was alive.

“They saved my life,” she murmured. “Both of them.”

She knew exactly where his thoughts were, it seemed. Perhaps because hers were there too.

He wanted to say something, but did not know how, or even quite what. You never were good with words, brother.

“I’m sorry,” she almost whispered.

His confusion caused him to break his silence, but his voice was hoarse when he spoke: “For what?”

“If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t needed saving...”

Thor shook his head. “Malekith’s monster killed her. Not you. She kept the Aether from Malekith, and she saved you. I am grateful, though her death pains me more than I could ever say. And it was me that Loki died saving.”

“And you blame yourself for that.”

Jane, Thor had to acknowledge, could be remarkably like his mother at times.

“Not just for that.”

She waited, her little thumb gently stroking the back of his hand, but he said no more.

“It’s fine if you want to talk about it. Probably good to talk about it.”

He drew in a breath. “On Asgard we are... not accustomed to discussing our emotions in any depth.”

“Not sure we’re much better on Earth. Especially with this. People are obsessed with saying we’re ‘bad at talking about grief’, but what they actually mean by that is we’re bad at listening to others talk about grief. I’d imagine it’s the same deal wherever you are in the universe. But if you want to talk, I promise I’ll listen.”

He vowed to ask he about her own loss in the morning. For now, he murmured, “Thank you,” and rubbed the back of her hand in turn.

He swallowed.

“When... when he fell – jumped – from the Bifrost... I couldn’t believe it.” It was a faltering start, but she looked at him steadily, so he continued, “Not just in the moment, but for months. Right up to the point when Mother said he was on Midgard, I hadn’t really believed he was gone. Not because I thought it was one of his schemes, but simply because it didn’t seem possible. He was so unlike himself in that time... Sometimes I thought it couldn’t have been him at all. Sometimes I’d... I’d just expect him to be there. I’d lie awake at night and feel that he must be sleeping in the neighbouring wing, where he’d always been... I don’t think I’d even processed that it was real by the time Mother told us it was not, that he was alive, that he was in danger, that he needed me... I had watched him let go, watched him fall, I did know, of course, but... it never sunk in. I kept waiting for him to return. And then he was there, ready for me to bring him home.”

There were a lot of things that could have been said about Loki’s re-emergence, but he was grateful that Jane simply moved to give him her other hand to hold so she could wrap her arm around him.

“I blamed myself then, too,” he continued, though his voice sounded odd to him. “He told me all he wanted was to be my equal, that that was why he did it. There was so much pain in him... Always, in that time that I believed him dead, I wished I had done otherwise. But I never knew quite what or how. And then when we learnt he was in fact alive... I was so angry, so hurt... It was hard to see his actions as in proportion to his suffering... And he would not stop. I longed for my brother, but he kept denying he was so... I found it hard to face his rage, to face what he seemed to have become – I suppose because it was hard to face the pain that I felt I had had such a hand in inflicting.

“I did not visit him in prison. I told myself I was too busy saving the nine realms – sometimes that was true; sometimes it was an excuse. Now I wish I had gone to him. But still I was angry. Angry that he would throw me off when I had loved him so much. Angry that he so vehemently insisted he was not my brother. Angry that now I could hardly recognise him as my brother. Angry at him, angry at myself. Anger was one of the emotions I knew how to feel well.

“But then... he was himself, Jane.” He fully focussed on her for the first time, looking to her for corroboration. “His performance, his forethought, his trickery, even, and his courage, his loyalty, his – his sacrifice. That was Loki. That was my brother. And for so brief a moment before he... before...” He swallowed. “I blame myself for giving up on him. He ought not have needed to die for me to recognise him again. I think back on that moment over and over, the moment the beast pierced him... He knew. It was his plan. Loki’s last scheme. He knew exactly how to kill it, knew how to get close enough... And he judged it worth it.”

“You’ve willingly sacrificed yourself for others,” she murmured. She was not refuting anything he’d said, simply contributing it. “You didn’t know the hammer would come when the Destroyer hit you.”

“It would appear to be a trait that runs in our family.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and went on, “I hope that wasn’t why he did it. Unable to be seen as my equal in life, he would have it in death... It’s what hurts me most about the way I find myself speaking of him. That his death was so noble, some redemptive action... I would not have him redeemed by his death, but that seems to be how the words arrange themselves... I fear that that is how he saw it.”

Jane, he knew, was biting back a comment about Asgardian culture. A very well-deserved one, he felt in that moment.

He was no longer sure what point he had started with any more than where he was going. There was a dampness in his hair from where stray tears had rolled across his cheek. He hadn’t noticed.

“I failed him,” he murmured. “I feel as though I still am. Failing him. I grieve my mother, feel many of the same or related emotions about her death – sometimes, in fact, they are hard to separate – but the sense of failure with Loki is overwhelming. In an instant, I lost the mother I had always known. But my brother I lost over time, then found him, in the briefest, brightest moment, and lost him again, forever. And that was my fault. I should never have abandoned him. He was always my brother, and I never should have believed him when he said he wasn’t. I never should have renounced him.”

Here Jane looked like she was about to say something, that she’d try to reassure him, and he wasn’t ready for that, so he hurried on: “And now he’s dead.” He could say the words, but they did not feel real, as though he spoke a lie with none of Loki’s skill. “And still it does not feel real. My mother, too. My mind is full of their deaths, and yet still I cannot feel it, it still seems wholly wrong... I thought I would feel better, avenging them. It focussed me, pursuing Malekith, first after Mother’s death, then Loki’s, but now... now it is just an emptiness, as though it made no difference at all.”

“The determination was keeping you going,” she said softly, and he knew, again, she was speaking from experience. “Killing Malekith wasn’t to fix how you feel; concentrating on killing him was to get you through the initial anguish.”

He pressed his nose into her hair. “And now? What now?”

“I don’t know, exactly.” Her breath was warm on his neck. So alive. “Tell me about them? A funny story. A happy memory.”

His voice gave out before he was done talking.

Jane told him there were more nights.

He had never loved her more.

II.

Court was cancelled in Asgard after Heimdall informed the Allfather of Thor’s conversations with Jane.

He grieves for the Queen, they said.

A few suggested he also grieved for Loki. Perhaps, they were generously told. 

Safe to wear his own countenance in his chambers, Loki did weep for the loss of Frigga. And for the loss of Thor. And for his own loss. And that he must grieve alone.

III.

When Wanda and Pietro had eventually been pulled from the broken shell of what had been their family home, people had stared. The orphaned twins had been a freak show to be ogled at, a short-lived media sensation – not because anyone truly cared, they had known that even then, but because cute kids sold papers. Their grief had been sold on the market, and it had been consumed.  

Now Wanda stared everyone else down, forced them to lower their gaze. Her grief, this time, was not palatable to consumers. Her grief now did not leave her one half of an adorable, wide-eyed, trembling pair as the loss of her parents had done; her grief now had torn metal to shreds. Her grief was terrible, awful, the stuff of nightmares. As it should be.

Tears rolled freely down her sullied face, carving grooves there. Her legs shook as she walked, but she walked nonetheless, shaking off the Vision.

She found him where she knew he’d be, laid out on the metal floor of the boat.

Barton sat above him, like one of those statues of angels the Catholics had had over their tomb effigies in Sokovia, before all the destruction. The archer sprang up when he saw her, his usual grace muted.

“No,” he murmured, trying to put an arm around her, as though to shield her from seeing her own brother.

“Let go of me.” Her voice was terrible. As it should be. “I will go to him.”

She knew he wanted to say something but could not find the words. There are no words. He looked so broken. Everything should be broken. He did remove his arm, but left a hand on her shoulder.

“Let her go to him, Barton.”

She had not expected him. The tallest of the men, the one with the long blond hair and the hammer. Thor. She had barely communicated with him, didn’t know why he was the one intervening. Of any of them, she had expected the man in blue, Captain America, but he stood off to the side, his head lowered. It was a gesture of respect, but she also knew where his thoughts were – when his thoughts were. Stark, whom she thought she still hated, but dumbly now, without any fire left, stood further off, slack-jawed, seemingly reliant on the iron suit to hold him up. It was the god-man who challenged the archer.

“She wants to go to him. Let her. She knows what she needs.”

Barton looked at Thor for a long moment, then nodded slowly and let go of Wanda.

She came down to her knees again, this time beside him. There was a rasping sound, and for a wild moment she thought he was breathing, that they were wrong, he lived he lived he... But then the realisation hit into her like the shell had crashed into their home: it was her. The sound was her, saying his name, over and over and over.

She touched his cheek. He was already cold. Her crying was worse now, harder, racking through her, causing her whole body to convulse and her power to thrum around her as an aura. His name still fell from her lips in a broken, hopeless incantation.

Thor came to kneel beside her. She did not look at him. She didn’t bother to look into his mind – if she could not feel Pietro’s mind she did not want to feel any ­– and she was sure he was going to make some asinine remark about the nobility of her brother’s sacrifice.

“He’s still your brother. You’re still his sister.”

She turned slightly to Thor in her surprise, but not looking away from Pietro. Her sobs quieted to fevered shake once more. “What?”

“When you wonder where this leaves you, an only child where you hadn’t been before – he is still your brother. No matter what.”

Something stirred in Wanda, around the edges of the consuming pain and shock and horror. She felt Thor’s mind exuding... it could not be called empathy, because so inherent in the emotion was his awareness that he could never know the depth of what she felt, his own experience of its depth had taught him that, but she knew no closer word in any of her languages.

“He’s dead,” she whispered in her mother tongue, her hand reaching for Pietro’s, though it was cold now. “He is dead.”

“Yes,” he replied, in the same language. “I am so sorry.”

“It will never stop hurting.” It was not a fear; it was a promise.

“No,” he agreed, “it never will. I believe that with time, we learn to bear the pain, but I, for one, hope for no more than that.”

“How can it be borne?” She was still whispering in her language – their language – still held Pietro’s limp hand.

His voice spoke of agony capable of bringing a god to his knees. It spoke to her. She saw his grip tighten on the hammer.

“It is a myth that the unbearable cannot be borne.”    

[redscullyrevival]

Fool’s Quest: Fitz and the Fool Rundown

And now we wait together @sonnetscrewdriver!

Plot/Setting/Narrative

I’m so embarrassed for my son Rap-a-taskal. 

Getting ahead of myself here but take a chill pill kid. 

Calm your Tellator tits. 

Actually, screw it! lets start at “the end”:

I’m officially caught up now and I’ve been digging around the internet lurking on forums trying to soak up art/discussions/opinions I’ve been avoiding for months.

And the most interesting fannish thing I’ve uncovered is how lots of people are treating Tellator and Rap as two different people - I’ve read several discussions and threads where Tellator was being thought of and referred to as almost like a parasite or something.

I personally didn’t get that vibe when reading Rain Wilds. 

I don’t view Rapskal as an innocent bystander taken over by an insidious and other entity, but I can totally see how folks can see it that way so power to them I suppose.

Time and Parenting really come to a point at the end of this book, bounded tight within the thrill of having these two Realm of the Elderlings character axis’ finally meeting!: 

And we the reader are, now, FAR more knowledgeable about the magics and histories of the Realm than any one character present! Funny how time and managing our narrative children will do that, huh? ;D

I’m of the personal opinion that the Elderlings are going to be too thankful and indebted to Fitz to really head the level of retribution Rapskal will demand - but that doesn’t mean Fitz won’t make matters worse with his paranoia and how he expects to be treated (Fitz’s “I-deserve-to-suffer” self loathing really reeks in this book and I have no doubt it will harm more than help in the early stages of Assassin’s Fate) 

But oh! I can’t wait to see my Elderling darlings and Six Duchies nerds mingle more! 

And yes, I do think Rapskal will continue to be an asshole. 

I’m invested in Rapskal though and I can’t wait to see what his deal is and how he’ll affect the story. 

I don’t know about y’all but I feel Rap is being set up to have some big part to play - but I’ve no clue if it’ll be direct or indirect lol. TIME WILL TELL!

If I had to guess right now (and I’m going to because why not) I’d guess that at the moment Rapskal probably struggles, that he is antagonistic, because he is outside of the narrative’s “Reflection & Parenting as Change” theme and may never fold into that current because of his choice to skip adolescence via-memory stones. 

Rapskal doesn’t have a lot to reflect back on, or maybe the issue is he has too much memory or doesn’t reflect at all and only looks forward forward forward. And we know he isn’t a parent as Nortel told us.

Frankly I hope Rapskal can learn from Fitz and/or Amber, I’d like to see him fold back into the narrative flow rather than swim decidedly against it (not that he isn’t uninteresting for doing so, quite the opposite really).

Maybe Rapskal will find something to reflect back on? Maybe he’ll refuse? 

But enough about Rapskal! 

THYMARA’S WINGS ARE SO BIG NOW. *gasp* I love her. 

Do you think when our Six Duchies party leaves Kelsingra they’ll ride down the Rain Wilds River on Tarman?! 

*muffled screeching*

Okay okay okay I’m sorry, back into a Fitz and the Fool Rundown not Kristie has deep love for Rain Wilders Giggling.

Fitz

This dummy. 

Don’t get me wrong; temperament wise this older Fitz is still my favorite but he’s also so full of grief and self loathing he’s practically useless mid-book.

And that’s fine, Hobb as always does a great job with making me understand Fitz.

But still - OH MY GOD.

You’ve done a lot wackier and intensely strange stuff than admit your daughter is the result of your BFF, your wolf-brother, and yourself’s souls mingling Fitz! 

You even come to terms with that fact, even if simply choosing to ignore it for the most part that still means you’ve acknowledged it - you’re willing to painstakingly mine information from any and everyone but you don’t tell Beloved about your daughter’s dream journal?

Um??? WHAT???

Wake up dude. 

Just poor decisions left and right. 

Needless to say I was very frustrated with Fitz for a while but we worked through it. 

Oh my god I friggin’ cried when Starling sung her Epic and Fitz was recognized by the court though, oh man that was so satisfying and mystifying and wondrous. 

I’m glad Fitz has for the most part gotten over his issues with Amber and the Fool’s various identities and seems very accepting of Ash and Spark. 

Bee

Nooooo!

I mean, “No” to Bee still being on her own but mostly “No” about Bee slowly being blocked out of the narrative perspective! 

NOOOO

I’d be fascinated to find out how long she was in the Pillar. Based on the narrative we read and assume she’s wandering about around the same time Fitz and company are but we’ve been given nothing in evidence of that. 

INTERESTING

Stay safe my little piglet! 

The Fool

Yes.

YES.

I’m very intrigued to learn more about Beloved’s dragon blood transformation and what knowledge will come with it.

What will happen if the dragon is truly dead, who will guide their transformation? 

ME THINKS FITZ

But, uh, yeah.

While it was uncomfortable I was rather happy that Fool got angry at Fitz and had no trouble telling him to step off. 

I wasn’t very pleased with Fitz myself at the time, I was a bit smug about him getting a tray full of food plopped in his lap.  

Well done.

I really hope to witness more of Ash and Spark and The Fool’s bond! 

Beloved has been alone for so long, has had the opposite later life to Fitz and his massive family. 

And what better than taking in and giving shelter to a son and a daughter? 

Good stuff. 

Shun AKA Shine

CALLED IT.

Oh Shine, you poor dear. 

Shine will become an asset to Nettle, I imagine, and I desperately hope she heals and that Kettricken can guide her well and that court does Shine good. 

I’m livid and just overall done with Chade, I’m serious.

I feel as though I’ve given Chade benefit of the doubt over and over again and it isn’t like he is an evil person or claims to be something he isn’t - but uuugh what the hell?

If you’re mister cloak and dagger spider web master maybe reel in some goddamn self control and think ahead on the consequences of your personal actions instead of just those of your King and various eyes within the kingdom, come the fuck on dude.

What an idiot sending both his children to a grieving Fitz and for not following up with any information for his children OR for Fitz.

I’d be so upset if I were Shine, I would’t be surprised if she drugs him.

It’d be poetic in a twisted away. 

Why did Chade hide Shine from others as well as from herself? What was he thinking, that she’d have to become less shallow, vain, and self-centered before he’d bestow upon her the depths of her lineage? 

Chade moans about being denied learning to Skill because he was a bastard but zip! he seals up his bastard daughter’s power because ??? 

????!!!!!

ANYWAY 

I’m glad Shine is safe and that she and Bee came to a functioning relationship even if not one ripe with mutual meaning and growth.  

Lant

Chade-light 2.0 and I aren’t hitting it off so well but I’m trying to keep a level head about this sassy lost child.

His biggest sin is that he is boring. 

Or, well, I think my real issue with Lant is that he’s young. 

So young. 

Oddly young.

Older than Per or Ash or Spark yes but younger than them somehow; he doesn’t see, he doesn’t listen, he doesn’t seem to even think for himself.

Rolling about in his self pity that he can’t bang his sister doesn’t help endure him to me either but you know, I’ll take Riddle’s advice and let time and space do it’s thing so maybe by the time the third book comes out I’ll have cooled on Lant. 

Ash/Spark

OH SHIT.

I love themmmmmm.

Oh my god.

I’m really really really hoping that Ash, Spark, Per, and Bee are going to be Gen 2 of Elderling mayhem and stories. 

That’d be golden.

Smart as a whip and willing to make their own choices, that’s Ash and Spark. 

Brilliant.

Perseverance

Talk about stickin’ to your name!

Per is a sweetie and I really need to stop but I can’t help but see him as my son Charlie. 

Which is amazing - but gutting at the same time lol.

What have I done?!

Per is perfection and I really hope Fitz does right by him and of everyone traveling now I feel like Per will help Fitz the most as far as his inner space goes. 

Per has a understanding and relationship with Bee outside of Fitz’s understanding of his daughter and I think Fitz’ll need to hear about that and mine Per’s perseverance as their quest wears on. 

Highlighted Passages

I smiled as the royal family passed, tears of pride stinging my eyes. Our doing, the Fool’s and mine.

“Vengeance?” I asked quietly. “It’s a poor motive for doing anything. Vengeance doesn’t undo what they did. Doesn’t restore whatever they destroyed.”

“Sometimes thanking someone is more important to the person giving the thanks than the one who receives it.”

“I thought you had come here in fury over what I did to you as we passed through the Skill-pillars.” He stepped back from me. “Oh, I’ll leave that to Nettle. If she hasn’t blasted the skin from your flesh with her words yet, you’ve that to look forward to.

I could not think about it at the moment. I tried so hard, but there was just not enough time or enough of me. And trying was not doing.

Safe. As if “safe” were more important than anything else.

With the instincts of all bullies, they knew that eventually she would have to emerge. Then, in the way of their kind, they would peck her to death for being different.

“Ah, Fitz. I can always trust you to have some sort of bizarre problem that breaks my ennui.”

She breathed as if she had run over nine hills. I stared at her. She had been a stranger, a lover, a nemesis, and a betrayer to me. And now she was my historian.

“Why does understanding come so late to us?”

War and hardship had hardened them; I understood that, but it did not mean that I wished to see my own folk mocked or disdained that they were not likewise hardened.

But all fires, of wood or grief, burn down to ashes eventually.

“Doing something stupid and reckless is not a better proof of your love than doing something measured and powerful.”

“Keeping a child from harm is not the same as rearing one.”

“Steady, I’m pregnant, not ill.”

Both logic and love anchored me where I was and doomed me to the suffocation of waiting.

“Every one of them has witnessed what the Servants have done to their fellows. And each has chosen to serve them rather than defy them. Every one of them is more treacherous than you can imagine.”

Once one knows what heartless people can do, it cannot be entirely forgotten. It always remains among the possible things that can befall you.

“Put it behind you, and think about it again in twenty years. Whatever it was, you can’t change it. So stop clinging to it, and let time and distance do their work.”

“I always fail the people I love the most.” “Say rather that you judge yourself more harshly than anyone else ever has.”

“No soup! Anything I can bite and chew. Or crunch! Is there anything crunchy?”

 “That I guessed,” Malta said knowingly. “When first I saw him, I felt as if I already knew him.” She smiled at me as if we shared a jest. I smiled back, without understanding.

“Worrying doesn’t solve anything. I know that. In one way I know it but in another it seems wrong. It seems that if I don’t think about all the things that hurt, all the things I’ve done wrong, then I don’t really care.”

[ashroadtrek-blog]

Shore Leave

Air Date: December 29, 1966

Writer: Theodore Sturgeon

Director: Robert Sparr

Shore Leave is an interesting episode, an entertaining episode, but is it a good episode? I don’t know. There’s a long sequence of fisticuffs between Captain Kirk and the facsimile of an Academy bully, a knight is shot with a six-shooter, a tiger and a samurai - plenty of action, not much brains. 

We open with an unexplored planet - and for once it’s not a desert! Well, okay, it’s southern California desert to be fair. 

Then again, there is a distinct difference between the original and remastered versions...

So we meet Yeoman Rand’s replacement, Yeoman Barrows, in the opener. Kirk is short with her (as usual), she starts massaging his back and he changes his tune...until he realizes it isn’t Spock doing it. 

No wonder people got gay vibes from them...

Spock says that after what the ship and its crew has been through in the last three months, they need some relaxation (not Spock though - wasting energy is highly illogical.)

So this episode takes place in February of 2267. Looking at my source, some of the episodes that took place in the three months prior to this one include Court Martial, The Menagerie, Dagger of the Mind, and The Conscience of the King, with nothing notable occuring in December but Charlie X having taken place in November and The Naked Time having occurred in October; though Balance of Terror was the previous episode, it actually took place in December of 2265.

These people need a break.

(When this season is done I intend to compile a chronological order of episodes.)

Sulu and Bones check out the planet, and Bones runs into a man in a rabbit costume, followed shortly after by Alice.

His reaction is about the same as mine would be - “did I just see that? Does this planet have vaporized LDS in the atmosphere?”

Never take too much LDS

Kirk thinks Bones is joking about the rabbit - wait a minute, Spock is there, and his mom used to read him Alice in Wonderland...

Shhh! Soft reboot!

Spock confronts Kirk about him needing a vacation by reversing the psychology - Kirk demands this crewman who is under all sorts of pressure and overwork get down to the planet and enjoy himself right this minute now that’s an ORDER! Spock gives him the name of the crewman...well played, Spock. Well played. 

So then there’s a menacing shot of a gun under a hinged rock. I’m sure that’ll never show up again. 

It does. In fact, Kirk later uses it to blow away a knight that kills Bones.

So why isn’t it called Sulu’s Gun?

"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there."— Trope Namer Anton Chekhov (From S. Shchukin, Memoirs. 1911.)

Ironic that the first actual gun that counts as a Chekhov’s Gun in Star Trek appears 14 episodes before a character named Chekhov does. 

We’re given a few shots of a couple of crewmen throughout the episode, token lower deck redshirt-tier characters who are named but barely characterized and only shown because we know they aren’t going to kill Kirk, Sulu, Bones, or Barrows. Hell, they didn’t even Yar Yeoman Rand, she just stopped appearing after Balance of Terror. 

If you’re a sharp-eyed viewer like me, you’ll recognize Angela here on the right as the bride-to-be from Balance of Terror. It may strike you as odd how she’s apparently moved on again so quickly, but again, this episode takes place about 14 months later so the grieving process is likely finished. Mildly (at best) interestingly, she also appears in the final televised episode of Star Trek, Turnabout Intruder as a communications officer. Sometimes when canon isn’t as solid as you’re used to, you dig up every connection you can.

Mama Kirk has to make sure his people on the surface are safe, so he leaves Spock the keys and beams down to the planet. 

(WHERE THE HELL IS MY SHUTTLECRAFT?)

Now we get the first of several long running scenes. Seriously, there’s more running in this episode than a Tom Cruise movie, they made the cast work on this one. 

Finding the source of the gunshots, it’s Sulu with the old fashioned gun. He’s talking about it very lovingly, he even implies that he collects old weapons. Bones rolls his eyes (Bones is one of those alcoholics that thinks he’s collecting) and Kirk takes the weapon. 

I wonder why...

Then Kirk begins talking about this upperclassman at the Academy who was always pulling old-school ‘oatmeal bucket over the door’ pranks on him, some asshole named Finnegan. Bones laughs at Kirk for being a grim cadet, which fits in Gary Mitchell’s description of Lt. Kirk as a stack of books with legs; Kirk was a serious student at the Academy, and the maverick hotshot of the Kelvin films didn’t come into being until the TOS films got rolling. (I mean yeah, he did the Kobayashi Maru but it’s a streak of mischief, not a natural inclination towards it.)

Enter: Finnegan

Finnegan goads Kirk into a chase, and with information presented at the end I came to the conclusion that Kirk wants nothing more than to slingshot around the sun, go back in time, and beat the fucking shit out of Finnegan. 

He’s asking for it!

Someone who ISN’T asking for it is Yeoman Barrows, whose screams and torn uniform imply that the Don Juan she conjured up tried to rape her. I guess Sulu fought him off, but then Sulu takes off after him? I really, really try to keep Takei and Sulu separate (I am not going to talk about recent allegations regarding George Takei), but between this and his interactions with Riley in The Naked Time...I’m reading Sulu as gay. I’m not really sorry, and he is with a man in Beyond, so...

Moving on.

Kirk goes off in hot pursuit, but then he’s stopped by a flower...and Ruth!

Is this the legendary blonde scientist who Kirk almost married in his Academy days? Kirk says he hasn’t seen her in 15 years, and if he’s 2 years into his 5-year mission on the Enterprise and served in Starfleet since he was 20 or so...

Nah, I still prefer to think the unnamed woman Gary Mitchell aimed at Kirk was Carol Marcus. As I said, you dig for any threads of continuity you can.

So Kirk totally forgets Sulu, he’s almost drunk with seeing Ruth, and Spock reports he’s found evidence of stuff that’s only there to keep the plot moving. Barrows makes a big deal about how enchanting the planet is (which I find funny because I lived in SoCal and while it’s great, I wouldn’t exactly call it enchanting) down to conjuring up a laughably costume-ish medieval princess costume.

It becomes clear Bones is going to bone Barrows. 

This man may belong on Pimp Space 9...

There’s a tiger, and a samurai, and a knight, and an old fashioned fighter jet! This episode partly runs like it was written on the fly and guess what? It was! Gene kept re-writing it on set as it was being filmed. 

So the knight kills Bones, and Kirk kills the knight. Barrows goes into hysterics because she conjured the knight and Mama Kirk tells her to buck up and do her duty. He’s not gentle, but this isn’t a gentle situation. Angela dies too because of the airplane. 

We then enter a long sequence of Kirk chasing and fighting Finnegan. I got the feeling it was long because it was padding out the episode, but it is a pretty satisfying fight. Kirk keeps demanding answers, but Finnegan refuses to give them to him. Finally, Kirk puts Finnegan down. 

Spock asks if he enjoyed it. Kirk did, Spock is not convinced; Kirk kills, Spock judges. 

Another running scene where basically everything comes after them, they meet at the glade. Apparently Barrows conjured up a repaired shirt, but Kirk can’t be bothered. Some asshole alien shows up and explains everything, then tells them they aren’t ready to understand his race yet; Spock agrees (of course he does.)

Sure, you can use my planetary holodeck for all your sex and violence desires

My favorite scene is at the end, when Bones shows up alive and well with two bunnies on his arms and a story about their wondrous facilities underground. Barrows is not impressed, but given the choice between the cabaret girls and Barrows, I’d probably choose Barrows as well. 

Now I understand why they call him ‘Bones’

Kirk almost declines shore leave when Ruth reappears. When Barclay did it, it was creepy; you just don’t go LARPing your work-life fan fiction at your job after all, that’s some Dwight Schrute-level weirdness right there. But on a planet in deep space, run by some aliens who let you play with their crayons but otherwise don’t think you’re ready to hang out with them after school, well...you can do that sort of thing. Let’s hope Ruth never finds out - although I like to imagine Finnegan never moved past lieutenant and Kirk pulled strings to have him working desk duty on a Neutral Zone outpost. 

Wait...

In the end, the crew returns to the bridge after an unknown number of days on the planet to Spock’s eternal judgement. Worth it.

Rating: 3/5; Don’t Rewatch

While Shore Leave proves to be an entertaining episode, it’s a fairly shallow episode that has nothing under the surface (excellent facilities notwithstanding.)