#lets not forget the arbiters grounds

[ya-kiri]

I get Ganondorf is supposed to be "evil" and everything but let's not kid ourselves and say the Royal Family aren't partly to blame for what is probably going to go down in Tears of the Kingdom. They had the bright idea to desecrate and preserve the corpse of someone (known for havoc and dark magic) who spews out a dangerous substance fuelled by dark feelings of anger and hatred, literally called "Malice", in painful suspended animation.

They really thought "Wow, this totally won't piss him off" in the 10,000 years Calamity Ganon was a thing? Once again Link has to be the one to clean up the mess of the Royal Family after they took things too far (Shadow Temple cough cough, Twilight Realm as prisoner dumping ground, cough cough).

[zhongrin]

rinnnn could you imagine the kind of soft yandere jing yuan would be??? unnervingly gentle, maybe rather condescending in the way he coos and laughs at your escape attempts. and then you try to escape and the kindness is there, it is...but you learn rather quick that he's a calculating man...

...and clipping his darling's wings is the best way to keep them grounded.

( it just takes pressing down on your ankles a little harder. don't worry, he'll hold you through it and kiss the tears away. he's not wholly cruel, this man...but he knows that love hurts. love hurt him once and love hurts him still.

so wouldn't you let him show you his care without that nagging tug of scared betrayal? )

🫠🫠🫠 aine why would you do this to me aine i'm unwell aine-

zhongrin © 2024 ❥ do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or feed into ai.

involves... ❥ yandere

he would be so soft and 'understanding'. it's going to be exceedingly frustrating for you, i feel like. even if you manage to escape, who would believe you when you tell them the general-arbiter himself is keeping you captive and slowly but steadily driving you insane?

perhaps you'll be better off trying to tell on him to his enemies; maybe they'll believe you. at least when you see their heads roll and their bodies charred beyond recognition, you can soothe your guilt by deluding yourself that they're not exactly good people, and you may have done a service by leading them to their demise, right?

jing yuan understands that clipped birds needs extra care, so he'll spoil you to a reasonable extent. you'll want for nothing under his wings. he's amassed enough knowledge over your preferences and wealth over the centuries to properly take a good care of you.

sometimes you might view that he treats your escape attempts as if you're a child who doesn't know any better and you're just throwing a tantrum - but deep down he knows you can slip away from him; that's why he needs to hold you tighter. tighter. tighter still. just a breadth away from fainting.

you're the only bird he keeps in a cage, but his goal lies in releasing you and knowing that you will undoubtedly come back to him, just like all the birds in the luofu. he's quite a capable mentor, if he could say so himself. what's one more disciple, right?

he'll teach you how to love him. over and over again. you'll memorize it until it becomes as easy as remembering how to breathe, and as fatal as it would be for you to stop. you'll love him with every inhale and demand his love with every exhale. you'll learn to come back to him unprompted, back to your home, perched by his shoulder after flying around his carefully kept garden, pruned free of all the bad things that could potentially hurt you.

he'll teach you how to love him, until you forget.

for only when you've forgotten it, you'll be ready.

[pistolpackinpops]

Ring, Ring!

A Harrysport-esque grooming-as-a-social-activity fic.

And a phone-head study.

Here you are again. Out of the cool nothingness of stasis and back into the maelstrom of a Fazbender diner, complete with a fine mist of blood, mucus, and expired pizza glomming to your exterior as soon as you step inside. You didn't miss it. Well, you didn't hate it, either. Hard to hate what you got quite good at. And, well. 

Managing the pizza joint on the ground usually means you're arbiting fewer lives. Afton Robotics, being the keel of the whole operation, meant you were overseeing or making life-altering decisions daily, most of which is crystal clear in your mind despite the thirty, forty years. You’re relieved to be free of the burden (that of which you will never forget) and reactivated. Managing a pizzeria is as easy as breathing. It’s comfortable in the way wearing full battle rattle is comfortable, in that it is heavy, and choking, and turns you numb, but you’re alive.

Alive, and covered in soda. It’s been a very, very long time since you were last covered in soda. It dries rapidly against your shell and happily congeals to the contours there, in the seams of your rotary dial and the holster of your hand receiver. Preliminary sensors tell you none of it seeped into your interior.

But your stomach turns all the same. You are a rust hazard. 

With practiced ease you reach into one of the desk's larger drawers. Instead of paperwork or office supplies, you are greeted by folded up rags, spray bottles, brushes, and a mirror. You withdraw each one with careful, deft hands; you use the butt of the water bottle to push everything out of the way. The mirror bumps up against the edge of the monitor console. You glance over the grainy footage, letting instinct guide your hands.

The mascot employee has taken the dining area well in hand. Your boss– Mr. Kennedy– is hurrying down the corridor. 

You use the mirror to guide your cleaning. Liquid onto a rag, which you ball up and run across the sticky layer of soda, letting the solution soften it. Music thrums through the wall as one of the monitors becomes awash in color. A concert of some kind. 

(You should really be overseeing operations. You've been through so much worse. Why are your hands shaking?) 

(Reactivation is a blessing. You don't want to die here.)

Who said anything about dying? 

Cleaning fluid starts to run down your front. Yeah, maybe you used too much. It's not like you can FEEL the soda sticking to you. It didn't even penetrate. The door jostles behind you. 

“Heyyy, employee! I saw what happened earlier, are you…?” 

It is Fazbender conduct to refer to subordinates as exclusively ‘employees’. Your boss always says it with a stutter, a nervous gleam in his eye, like he's doing something wrong. You always notice it, like now, but never know what to do with it. He has no reason to be nervous. 

He's not the one slacking off. 

Slowly, you remove the rag from your faceplate. Most of the soda has been lifted. The rubber lining you installed shines wetly in the gaps of your panels. 

Your boss sidles up to your side, orange hands hovering. 

“D'you want any help with that..? I'm surprised none of it got on your suit, honestly. Hey, I can put the soda machine out of order so it doesn't happen again!” Your boss says, voice ramping up with excitement. “Or I can, uhhh-” 

For the love of Foxy, you need to find your voice. 

“Sir,” you say stiltedly. “Are you worried about me?” 

Not. Not what you remotely meant to say.

“Of course I’m worried about you, employee,” he says.

Your boss stands uncomfortably close. Parts of him shine back at you in your little mirror. The lower half of his face. His neck. Scarred in familiar ways, like a reflection of your own skin. The teeth marks of springlocks. 

Tremulously, you switch the damp cloth for a dry one. His great big orange hand encircles your wrist. His eyes– black glowing pits– bear into your rotary dial. 

“Sir,” you growl. “I can handle it.”

“Walter has the fort for a minute. Come on, Harry. This is the least I can do,” Mr. Kennedy urges. “You're falling apart.”

The small fans built into your head kick on. (Gotta cool the modicum of circuitry feeding off your spinal cord, after all). Your skin from the shoulders down turns clammy. You really, truly are not handling yourself well. Rebecca had warned you that there would be– an adjustment period. But fumbling this hard after doing so well? Losing your composure so thoroughly even your boss- whose behavior is conflicting with your programmed protocols– notices? Hearing your maybe-alive-name from a Stranger?

Unforgivable.

You try to tug out of his grip. His fingers tighten. You’d look, but your optical array doesn’t point down in that particular angle.

“You can– clean the receiver. Watch the speakers. What do you mean, the least you can do?” You say, deciding to acquiesce.

Mr. Kennedy breaks out into a smile, showing off his missing teeth. He frees your wrist, but his palm glides across yours until the rag is firmly in his grasp. Not yours.

“I left you hanging all month.”

“You're the owner. You have your own affairs, such as… dragging in lawsuit-generating robots and gremlins. It is nothing short of a miracle we've gotten this far at all, you know. Your eye for restaurant cohesion is awful,” you say in a rush. 

Mr. Kennedy laughs. It should be a deeper, richer sound than it is, considering his stature. The faux nose crammed inside your head picks up the faint waft of rot as he suddenly leans into your space, one hand rising to grip the foot of your shell. He uses the other to mop up your base panel where fluid has been collecting. 

It is extremely forward. It is also strange to be on the receiving end of this kind of attention. Even at the height of Freddy's empire, you were held apart, distanced from Phone-men social rituals. Rebecca had changed this somewhat, but the novelty… 

“Sure, so let me make it up to you. You've been doing great work. I appreciate it,” Mr. Kennedy says, steady as ever. 

He avoids your rotary dial while carefully wiping away the tracks of soda. You stare up at him, hoping he does not pick up on the faint stream of noise eschewing from your sound system. Such high praise, and for what? 

“You called me Harry,” you state inanely. “Why?” 

Here, Mr. Kennedy falters. His easy-going grin shrinks and the corners of his eyes crinkle, demeanor momentarily dimmed. He visibly mulls something over, tongue poking out between his bright orange lips. 

You fold your mirror down and swivel the chair to face him directly. He shrinks back slightly.

“I talked to uh, Scottie. Rebecca,” he confesses. “She told me some things.”

“I see.”

And you do. It makes sense. Rebecca probably divulged the information out of a wicked sense of duty. Phone-heads stick together and this tangerine man isn’t overtly dangerous. Wordlessly, you pluck one of the long-handled brushes into your fingers and offer it to Mr. Kennedy. It has a curved end and a soft cloth-like topper. Good for following the contours of your shell and less irritating than a bristle brush. You’re not sure how much instruction to give your boss. On one hand, he is your superior. On the other…

He’s no Scott.

But he isn’t human, either, so maybe it cancels out.

“One of us should really be back on the floor,” you say suddenly. “Truly, sir, this is as spick and span as it gets for me on a Friday.” 

The fuss is unnecessary. Your composure is starting to return to you like a tide coming back to shore. You can deal with your sugar-crusted receiver. You can handle the cacophony of children, parents, and barking doggos. The worst of it has passed.

Mr. Kennedy grips the corner of your head and starts lightly tracing your panel gaps with the brush. 

“Sir, use a bit more force!” You warble out, modem feedback leaching into your output.

“I don’t want to poke your brains out!” Mr. Kennedy sputters. “Jesus. Hey, does this, uhhh-”

He drags the tool clumsily through, but there’s firm contact between the cloth, plastic, and rubber, so your sensors stop freaking out. Still, the entire lower half of your body is breaking out into gooseflesh, too aware of his proximity.

You remember, suddenly and vividly, your boss going for his zipper at the slightest provocation.

“Do not finish that sentence,” you hiss. “You can’t– don’t worry about that.”

He laughs, a low, deep bark of surprise. Then he tilts your head up, letting the light shine directly into your optics, his own eyes screwing up in concentration. Desperately, you wonder how well he can actually see with eyes that don’t appear to actually exist.

“I think I got it all,” Mr. Kennedy says. “Now, that handset of yours… Can I touch it?”

He did “get it all.” And the effect has been nothing but calming. You aren’t so dense as to not know why. Fear does funny things. Elevated emotions get lost in translation with your current configuration. Higher-ups do not usually– do whatever this is. It can’t hurt to let him finish the job, you suppose. After all, it was your original condition.

“Do you have to say it like that, sir? Here,” you say, handing him the piece. 

A part of you braces for him to grab at your rotary. That is the normal sequence of events. But he doesn’t. Your handset lays limp in the palm of his hand, the black coil shining starkly against the hue of his skin. If he listens closely, he’ll be able to hear the faintest sounds of your breathing.

“So, like, how do you receive calls? Do you have to be hooked into the wall?”

“No. We’re not equipped to handle the signals coming from a direct POTS line. It’s wireless.”

It’s not something you’ve ever had to explain before. Most people never cared, or gave it much thought, and you always took your calls in private. Not all Scotts did that, of course. You’ve been told you’re more reticent than you maybe should be. 

“Really? That’s pretty modern, isn’t it?” Mr. Kennedy prompts, eyebrows lifting high, even as he’s otherwise occupied.

He is quite deft with his fingers when he wants to be, apparently. He’s scrubbing at a stuck piece of residue in the curvature of your receiver. You didn’t realize he’d gotten so far in– cleaning.

“Afton Robotics is– was– quite the… establishment,” you say flatly.

“That it is,” he sighs. “That it was. There! All clean.”

Something in Mr. Kennedy’s face shifts and you unknowingly brace yourself for impact. He smashes your handset back into place with the same fervor of a slam dunk, irises blazing in their sockets. You grab the sides of your shell, unable to muffle the cacophony of ringing and shrieking filtering from your speaker.

“Why the h-heck did you do that?!” You cry out. The base of your neck smarts from the force.

To his credit, Mr. Kennedy quickly seems to gather himself, looking down on you with abject horror. Like he hadn’t meant to do that to you at all–

“I’m so, so, sorry– I was just thinking how much I’ve always wanted to do it, and then I did, I forgot– did that hurt?” Mr. Kennedy stammers.

“No- no worse than a Foxy bite!” You choke out, deciding to eke out a shaky thumbs up. “Just… don’t do that again. Please. Sir.”

Dully, you realize you’re still ringing. You cut the noise quickly and, as smooth as you can, rise to your feet. Briefly, you reach around for your cane, but you must have left it in the dining area after the– initial incident. 

Right.

“I… Thank you for the help, sir,” you say, drawing yourself to full height. “I truly do not deserve it. Now, I really should be going back out there. See you on the Flipside!”

“...Of course, employee. Anytime–”

But you’re ducking out of the door before Mr. Kennedy can finish. You ignore his silent pleading look and refuse to check if he’s following you back out or not.

[aubins]

8. A hazy memory

8. a hazy memory...

You are seventeen and your hands are red.

Your hands are red, but you push onward. Your hands are red, but you still swing intending to kill. Your hands are red, but you can only see the terrified faces of children you once knew, grown now, but no less fearful for their age. They are still children in your eyes; children that trusted you�� trust you still. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears; you cannot hear the mangled scream of the man who falls to the sure strike of your blade before he can turn it upon you.

“They are only thieves. Do not let it weigh on your minds. Our duty is one of great import.”

You have killed many, and some you will always think were deserving of their fate, but you have never seen yourself as an arbiter of divine justice; even now, you do not dispense it. When you draw blood, you do so in your name alone. No life is weighed more or less than the rest. In death, all are the same. To call it their duty makes it sound holy— like taking a life is some righteous act, blessed by Sothis’ grace.

(Where is that divine grace now? It has abandoned you all these years, even when you prayed and prayed and prayed. You knew then that the goddess was a liar— and you prayed still. You pray still.)

It is their duty to kill them— to wipe them out, as though they can erase their existence entirely. And they can. You may remember, but who else will? History will forget. It is their duty because—

Because they are children born and raised in the streets. Hunger is their mother and desperation their father and the spawn of both is a sinner. Because gods do not care for those unblessed by their divine gaze, and their worshippers care even less so. But you are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a mockingbird swathed in the silks of a noble— and though this savagest of birds has played the part, it will never turn its knives on its own.

Your pulse leaps and runs with every man who falls to your blade. Leaps and runs, too, with every child that falls to theirs. The ground is slick with blood. Whose, you can no longer tell, but it matters not. For every one that falls to their blade, three shall fall to yours. The thundering of your heartbeat is the flutter of the Savage Mockingbird’s wings, the flames of it stoked by a gift left in your blood when you hovered on the precipice of death itself.

(Something that was once holy, perhaps, but surely when he saved a dying boy all those years ago, he’d not known you would be a killer.)

Where is their goddess now? Nothing on this battlefield is holy.

You are seventeen and your hands are red and you are praying to a goddess you do not believe in to absolve you of your sins.

[nobylu]

I can draw again! Moving did a number on that skill but now it's back. Y'all remember my Tzimisce vampire, Oleander? After two excellent sessions, the campaign he was in ground to a half but I could never stop thinking about him. When I got invited to play Dark Heresy, I thought that it was the perfect time to revive him as an assassin arbiter and I'll tell you I've been THRIVING as him, the Certified Worst Person Ever, even if it can be fucking hard to portray him.

He's self-centered and rude. He's incapable of thanking another person or attributing good results to their actions. He's possessive and territorial. He's classist as all hell - calls people "the poors" FREQUENTLY. He's unable to say the word "friend". Forget being afraid to be vulnerable around others - he won't stand for letting others be vulnerable around HIM. He sniffs objects. He sniffs corpses. He sniffs people. He picked a fight with a baby. He's bitten his fellow player characters over free cheese. He's waterboarded a hostage. He's liquified a hostage's body with an acid gun to flush them down the drain. He's bullied a child because said child complained after getting shot. He's kicked a random person's shins because they were sleeping on the job. He demands to be carried but wriggles like a cat when being lifted. He runs on all fours. He's threatened to bite off a child's nose. He's been thrown like an american football while missile locking-on to a foe to chop off their arm and steal their giant power scythe. HE IS. THE WORST. And he's delightful.

[science-lings]

🌿I get so torn up about Wild after the quest ends... going back to places like the Forgotten Temple and Arbiters Grounds and the Temple of Time and just standing where they know the others stood once, hanging up their pictures and shields and weapons in their house, celebrating their birthdays with their favorite meals... I have this headcanon that after everything, this quest and BOTW2, Wild scrapes together all the evidence left of the heroes before them and combines it with their firsthand account to write a comprehensive history of Hyrule's heroes, the only true history after they faded into myth

***

Yeah, I can totally see that. If we assume that the descriptions of items in his inventory are written by him (which I think would be interesting if they were) then he's already started even before meeting the others. Because the items from other games are described kind of vaguely instead of in a meta way, they're more closely worded to being observations or information that he remembers about certain stories about heroes.

It would be cool if Wild and Flora teamed up as archeologists to excavate and study different places that were significant to the heroes in particular purely because of his desperation to remember them.

He ends up with a bunch of their items and he has pictures of them on the sheikah slate and he has specific places that he visits because he associates these places with them and he writes down their favorite foods and how they fought and he writes about them as more than just the goddesses heroes and legendary figures as they've become over so long, but as people. People with lives and families and flaws and he never wants to forget a single detail about them.

He tells stories about them to his kids and to all the villages kids because they already like him and suddenly he's got a lot more bonkers stories. He helps Kass write songs about them and talks to the great deku tree about what he knows and to each race's historians to compile as much information as he can.

Wild will not let himself be the last person who remembers the past heroes. He refuses.

[arkon-z]

🎮🙊⛩

For the Zelda asks

🎮 Favorite Zelda game -

Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity. I'm a sucker for well-rounded characters, especially if a work expands on characters that I already know and love. AOC did so much with the people and setting of BOTW, like letting us see how the Champions interacted with each other rather than just with Link or Zelda alone, or showing what Hyrule is like as a thriving world where the people work together, instead of just this backdrop that is waiting for Link to interact with it. But most of all is the sincerity in the writing. The characters care about each other - you can see it in the cutscenes, you can see it in the turn-in quests in the little text blurbs, in the mission dialog boxes where the characters encourage each other and reassure the NPCs who are yelling for help, even in the call outs when you swap characters and how they respond to each other. The devs put so much care and detail into this game because of how much they loved BOTW, and it really shows. I always get a little sad when people just dismiss the game outright for not being a 'true prequel' without even playing it. It's 'Fix-it Fanfic: The Game', I'm not denying that, but that doesn't mean it's not fun or well-written. If nothing else, it's worth watching the cutscenes or an entire play through.

🙊 Unpopular Zelda Opinions

BOTW is an excellent game, but it's not the best example of a Zelda game. Aside from puzzles and dungeons and linear progression, one of the main things missing from BOTW was a story that was actively happening to you. They dump you into this wide-open world and you have to go out and find the plot points for yourself. I feel like the other games are more compelling because the plot is happening to you directly. I mean, I'll never forget the moment in Twilight Princess where you turn around at Lanayru Spring and Zant is just...there. That's how you draw someone in, not by sending Link on a photo scavenger hunt.

Also BOTW Link isn't that rounded of a character at all, and most people who say otherwise are just projecting. In fact, to me it feels like the Links in the other games are more real because there's something for him to react to. Yes, stoicism is a valid personality trait. Yes, reacting in subtle ways (or not reacting at all) to a situation is a thing that people do. But on the other hand, if he doesn't do anything, I can't see him as a character. Think of it like any other piece of visual media. Actors emote. They go over the top with their expressions and reactions so we the audience can understand how they feel about it. If you're not going to emote or have some kind of narration or other window into a character's thoughts, they're going to feel very flat and dull.

⛩ Favorite Zelda dungeon/location -

Arbiter's Grounds in Twilight Princess. There's a fascinating story being told in the design of the temple itself.

There's all this Gerudo iconography everywhere.

And statues of the Goddess of the Sand, with her snake, which are throwbacks to the Spirit Temple in OOT. You know just by looking that this place was a Gerudo temple to their goddess. But you also see other stuff.

The Hylian crest, slapped over this architecture.

It even looks like it was added later. As if the building had changed ownership late in its existence.

The Gerudo, as a race, are absent in Twilight Princess, but we can guess that they used to be around. And all we're told about the Arbiter's Grounds is that they used to be a prison, before it was overrun with evil. Nothing is explained directly or even mentioned in the game, but we can make some pretty strong guesses.

Following the events of Ocarina of Time, the Gerudo left this temple and the Hylians took it over. Turning this holy place into a prison was either done for convenience or as another layer of revenge for the crimes of Ganondorf and, by association, his own people.

And that's why it's my favorite place. There's a story being told here that you only notice if you're paying attention. Not to mention it's creepy as hell (bring horror back to Zelda games, Nintendo), and it's a lot of fun to explore.

[wonderwafles]

Caiatl/Zavala for the ship ask meme because I have a Problem

1. What made you ship them?

The focus Season of the Chosen put on the two of them as arbiters of the conflict really made me go hmmm - there was a lot of emphasis on the sort of dance they were both doing. Neither of them wanted to be doing this, but they have to for the sake of their people!

The Proving Ground strike sort of hammered this in, though. Zavala really proved his quality here, telling Caiatl to her face that he doesn't care about the Cabal's thirst for honor, the Guardians are avoiding them because he doesn't want more bloodshed. They seemed like their relationship had grown deeper here, to the point where they actually understood where the other was coming from and were conversing as equals.

Oh and, important mention to the Fractures lore page! Caiatl's all harumph harumph I wouldn't be giving you this advice if it didn't concern the future of my empire, and Zavala's like, well, I'm not here to assuage your guilt over deposing Calus, and Caiatl's like, damn, good one, I respect you even more now. And then they both settle down and talk like adults. And, let us not forget that the page is from Zavala's pov, so Caiatl being called a "friend" is also from his pov... :)

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

I enjoy the tension between them despite the fact that they are similar people who want similar things! In another world I think they would be fighting side by side without a problem, but in this world, fate has put them at odds with each other. Even so, they find common ground, in a way that might just save them both.

I've discussed this before, but I also really like the idea that if they ever did formalize their relationship, it would always have to be a secondary, probably even covert thing. So long as our people do not fight again, so long as the Hive don't ruin everything, so long as none of Caiatl's hungry counsellors or Zavala's suspicious colleagues know, etc etc. But just by the fact that they are pursuing the relationship at all despite all the obstacles, you know that the relationship means a lot to both of them.

It's kind of a crackship for sure, but it's a crackship with genuine grounding and interesting dynamics, which is the best kind of crackship, I always say!

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

I kind of want to make this its own post at some point too, but basically: I think people really misunderstand Caiatl. I've seen a lot of people call her a fascist, interested in naked power, etc, but I don't think that's true about her at all! I think she is someone who wants to save her people more than anything else, and having control of the Cabal is just a means to an end. Otherwise she wouldn't have waited so long to claim the title of Empress after the Midnight Coup, and she wouldn't have come up with the plan to ask the Guardians for help on equal terms (until her counsellors forced her to demand that they bow).

[dinfeanoriel]

Ghoul Rats and Gibdos

Boy, how I’ve missed writing! Hope you guys enjoy this 5k+ fic I’ve had laying around for months... ~~~~~

I swear to Hylia, if I’ve gone blind…

This was the first thought to filter across Twilight’s muddled mind when he cracked open to pitch blackness. There was no light, no glow, no luminescence of any kind to be found. It was as if the Ordonian had awoken to find himself trapped in a void. A place completely enshrouded by darkness. 

Tell me we did not switch while I was sleeping...

There was no answer save for the silence. Not a voice was to be heard, not a rustle, nor a breeze. Only the absence of sound. 

The Ranch Hand frowned starkly to himself. The absolute stillness and nothingness unsettled him. It reminded him of his time in Arbiter's Grounds- a time he would rather forget. 

Wonderful. How am I supposed to figure out where I am? 

He supposed he could light his lantern but there was no telling if any enemies were nearby. He didn’t want to risk being ambushed if there happened to be a band of Bokoblins or Moblins somewhere close. It wouldn’t do to fend off Dark Link’s infected enemies alone.

He strained his ears, going as far as to extend his senses but couldn’t detect a single sound or presence. With a sinking heart, Twilight came to the grim conclusion that the group must have been separated else the noise would have been plentiful. A welcome distraction from the inky darkness enshrouding him. He could not hear a single, comforting, heartbeat or calm, steady, breathing. He was alone with only the silence for company and no way of knowing whether or not his companions were safe and sound. 

Twilight suppressed the urge to growl. 

Displeasure mingled with worry welled in his chest. There were vague reminders of the time the children of Ordon had been abducted from their homes he couldn’t ignore. For weeks, Twilight hadn’t known whether or not Beth, Talo, Malo, and Colin were alive. Weeks he suffered and wallowed in uncertainty and fear for their lives yet he valiantly pressed on. He stalwartly refused to believe they were dead. 

 It was by chance he’d found them in Kakariko, virtually unharmed but not unaffected by the traumatic experience. Since then, Twilight found himself reluctant to allow anyone out of sight. He’d grown especially protective of the group of Links, keeping a watchful eye on every Hero and tracking where they went. 

It was a habit he couldn’t bring himself to break. An instinctive urge of his he knew grated on some of their nerves but he refused to explain himself. Wild had once tried to ask the reason behind his fierce vigilance only to receive an ambiguous response. The younger Hero merely shrugged it off and let his mentor do as he pleased. 

Twilight grit his teeth together, shoving the dark memories into the furthest corner of his mind. It wouldn’t do for him to linger on them. Three years had passed since that dreadful day and, yet, the experience stubbornly clung to him, refusing to relinquish its grasp. 

He shook his head, inwardly barking at himself to focus. 

Find the others. 

That was his singlemost priority as of this moment. 

A quiet hiss and soft, measured, footsteps from behind broke into Twilight’s thoughts, disproving his aforementioned belief of being alone. With bared teeth, Twilight spun on his heel, ready to attack should the unknown entity prove to be a foe. He instinctively moved to grip the handle of the Ordon sword, poised to unsheathe the blade and strike, but something stilled his hand. His senses weren’t warning him of any danger and he sensed no evil lurking around. He didn’t feel the least bit threatened by this presence. 

His hand slipped from the sword, moving instead to draw his lantern free from his pack. 

The chainlinks of the metal contraption clinked ominously and the ambient, red-orange, candle flared to life. The glow chased away the darkness and allowed Twilight to see- 

“Gah!” “Ah!” 

Two startled cries pierced the foreboding silence. 

Twilight’s heart thundered in his chest, beating a mile a minute as it struggled to overcome the sudden spike of undiluted fear that had seized it whole. He’d been given the scare of his life when the light of the lantern revealed something green and blue standing directly across from him. 

“Hylia’s Grace, Twilight!” Warrior breathed, his voice a pitch higher than normal. The Knight had a hand pressed to his chest, cobalt blues wide with an echo of shock and startlement. “I thought you were a poe!” Twilight, still recovering from his own fright, snapped back just as fraily, “I thought you were a Bokoblin!” 

The look of incredulity and affrontement stealing across Warrior’s features would have been amusing had both not been reeling and fighting to compose themselves. “A Bokoblin?” Warrior repeated sourly, “Really?” 

“What else was I to think?!” “Do Bokoblins wear scarves, Twilight?” The Captain flicked his scarf in emphasis, entirely deadpan in both looks and tone. Twilight defended himself, “You came out of nowhere, Warrior! All I saw was green and blue-” “-And all I heard was the clinking of your lantern!” 

The bickering died down, granting the Ordonian and Captain a moment to recover and collect themselves. The lantern swayed in place, basking them in a warm glow and keeping the darkness at bay. 

“Pretty sure I lost ten years of my life in a single second…” Twilight’s sharp hearing caught Warrior’s murmur. He snorted softly to himself and with a shake of his head, straightened his back and shoulders with a deep exhale. 

“Let’s find a way out of here.” The sooner they were out of the dreadful place the better. 

Warrior followed suit, “Let’s.” 

Slipping alongside the Captain, Twilight held his lantern up to illuminate their path. The Ranch Hand found himself glad for the company. He was reassured upon seeing Warrior unscathed. The blond did not appear the least bit frazzled or disgruntled by the sudden shift. He was calm and collected, taking the abrupt switch in stride and Twilight commended Warrior’s ability to remain level-headed and composed especially under duress. 

The more the Ordonian mulled on it, the more he realized he’d never seen Warrior crack when pressure was high or when circumstances were dire. He marveled at it and wondered if his capability to remain poised and unruffled stemmed from the wars he’d fought.

Together, they followed the tiled path leading across the sandy depths. Twilight suppressed a shudder. This place was increasingly similar to Arbiter’s Grounds. The darkened chamber, the broken and cracked tiles, the neverending sand, and the hollow and ruinous atmosphere… He half-expected stalchildren to unbury themselves and come swarming them with their minuscule spears. Arbiter’s Grounds had been a grisly and gruesome shock to Twilight. The tarnished history of Hyrule brought to life and accentuated the further he’d traversed into the desolate and ghastly dungeon. The heinous crimes committed there...the wretchedness and sufferings of the Gerudo prisoners...The tortured souls...the air of devastating despair and anguish and hopelessness capable of stealing his own living breath... It was not difficult for Twilight to understand what had taken place during the Gerudo-Hylian war. It was painstakingly, earth-shatteringly, clear and vivid. The unimaginable atrocities and horrors sickened him. Twilight persevered to the end of the daunting dungeon through sheer will and determination alone. Midna’s companionship helped. Had he been left on his own, Twilight wasn’t sure he would have managed to endure the vile and tragic environment. At times he swore he could hear the cries of the dead… 

The echoes of terrified, disconsolate, screams ringing in his ears and heart-rending wails piercing the still silence. Sometimes, he thought he caught glimpses of mutilated and deformed spirits floating listlessly and purposelessly, waiting to be released from their tormented state.  

The atmosphere was heavy with grief, wallowing despair, endless cruelty, and malevolence. 

“Oh, look!” Warrior’s voice drew Twilight from his dark thoughts and his keen eyes were quick to follow the direction he was pointing, “A door!” 

A locked door, they soon discovered. 

Blades hissed as swords were unsheathed and the two Heroes pressed their backs to one another, waiting. Twilight found their reaction to be a little saddening although he couldn’t deny his gladness for the distraction. After all, locked doors told of something to come. 

For a long anticipatory moment, both stood unmoving and weapons extended. Nothing happened. “What’s taking so long?” Twilight muttered, loud enough for Warrior to hear. The Captain surveyed the old, archaic chamber as best he could given the limited light. “I see torches there,” He said with a jut of his chin, “I’m guessing they need to be lit.” 

Twilight did so with a couple well-aimed swings. “I hate this part,” He groused to himself, earning a hum of agreeance from his companion. He wanted to be free of this place. He wanted to escape and never look back. He stepped closer to Warrior, ensuring little distance existed between them. The Knight took note of his movement but refrained from remarking on it. Instead, he adapted to the change in position and turned his body so he stood next to the Ordonian. 

Nothing prepared them for what took place next.

A deafening sound erupted from the furthermost wall. The chamber shook and groaned as intense tremors racked the foundation of the old depths. The ground and ceiling quaked violently, showering them with loose rocks and debris. Twilight and Warrior stumbled when the earth then wrenched beneath their feet, arms flailing uselessly as they strove vainly to maintain their balance. The world around them crashed and crumbled. 

The room fell apart. 

The ceiling caved, the walls collapsed, and the floor began to gyrate. 

Instant regret is what Twilight would identify the feelings coursing through him as. He grit his teeth together, expression hardening and growing fierce. “This is not what I imagined would happen!” Warrior’s voice was hardly audible over the chaos taking place around them. It was thanks to his heightened hearing Twilight was able to hear him. “What is going on?” 

Twilight had a sinking feeling he knew. He’d experienced this before. The severe and discomforting sense of déjà vu was so potent it momentarily threw him off-kilter. “Whatever you do, stay off the sand-” He started to holler, words drowned out and unable to reach Warrior through the pervading cacophony of sounds. The sands of the dungeon-like chamber started to drain, the tiles disappearing into its gulphs. “What?” 

It was this moment- this single split second- in which everything spiraled out of control. Warrior staggered back and off the stone ledge. His boot was immediately swallowed up by the thick, coiling, sand. Twilight could pinpoint the exact instant Warrior realized his costly mistake. The look on his face...the widening of his eyes… Twilight made a desperate lunge for his friend, an alarmed cry tearing from his throat, and arm extended in the hopes of snatching him back to safety- “Warrior!” 

The Captain’s back slammed into the sinking sand. 

I shouldn’t have lit the torches

The excruciating thought racked Twilight’s mind, body, and soul as he watched the sand engulf the Hero’s lower half and shoulders. The Ordonian snapped his hand out, curling his fingers tenaciously and yanking Warrior’s wrist. With nothing save but brute strength, Twilight combatted the might of the subsiding sands and succeeded in tearing Warrior partway free. His head, shoulders, and midriff were visible but it wasn’t enough to appease the horror-stricken and determined Hero. Cobalt blues locked onto cerulean and Twilight grimaced as his arm shook from exertion. The strength of the submerging sand forcefully pulling and tugging Warrior towards the center caused his muscles to scream in protest. He refused to relent. “Get out of here, Twilight!” Warrior shouted, earnest and concerned for the safety of his companion and friend. He recognized the dangers. He knew Twilight was risking his life trying to pull him to safety. 

Twilight despised the intrepidity etched into the Captain’s features. His eyes shone, fearless and bold in the face of certain death. Stubbornly, Twilight ignored Warrior’s urgings and bent forward to grasp Warrior’s forearm with his free hand. He leant back on his heels, hauling with all his might. The old, frail and rotting tiles beneath his feet splintered, cracks webbing across and bits of stone disintegrating. 

Pain flashed briefly across Warrior’s face then vanished. He grew more insistent, bellowing and shouting but Twilight couldn’t hear what he was saying. The thunderous roar of the chamber collapsing into itself filled his ears and when the tiles beneath him gave way under the strain, Twilight and Warrior were plunged into the whirling sands. 

Twilight was immersed in complete darkness. He sealed his lips and screwed his eyes shut as his body twisted and turned, prey to the sinking sands. He clung fast to Warrior, never relinquishing his grasp. 

The sands drained, drowning them in its unforgiving depths when suddenly, the disorienting whirling, tossing, and turning stalled and the world froze. Twilight felt gravity take its toll soon afterwards. His back crashed onto solid ground, his breath escaping him with a wheeze, and Warrior’s body tumbled atop him. 

Twilight’s mouth opened in a silent, breathless, gasp. No air left or entered his screaming lungs. The reservoir was completely depleted and a surge of panic ensnared him. 

Sand filtered around them, spilling into the room they’d been unceremoniously discarded into. 

Warrior was the first to recover, his fall having been softened by the unfortunate Twilight. His shock was cast aside as the Knight rolled and scrambled to his hands and knees. His attention was solely on his winded and wide-eyed rescuer. “Twilight!” 

Hands grasped his shoulders, Warrior’s face obscuring his vision of the rough-textured ceiling as the Knight spoke speedily and urgently to him. Twilight understood not a word. Warrior’s expression hardened with steely resolve. The Captain disappeared from view. A strong arm wound around his chest a second later and the Ordonian was effortlessly hauled to safety as the discharge of sand continued to flood the room.

At long last, the ability to breathe was granted to him and Twilight greedily sucked in a huge breath. “Sweet mother of breathing-” 

Warrior slumped with relief, plopping back onto the ground with a shaky exhale. 

The Ordonian remained collapsed against him, dropping his head back and shutting his eyes. 

Warrior was alive. They were alive. Neither of them had died. 

When next he looked, he found the Captain taking in their newfound surroundings with a critical eye before he turned and scrutinized Twilight’s prone form with a creased brow. When the Ordonian grimaced and tried to sit up, Warrior swiftly moved to help. He curled an arm around Twilight’s shoulder, lifting him with ease.  “That was a rough landing,” You don’t say, Twilight grumbled sassily. 

“You’re not hurt are you?” A thread of concern seeped into Warrior’s tone when the Ordonian remained seated. Twilight was simply relishing in his ability to breathe again. With a belated shake of his head, Twilight responded, “A little banged up and bruised,” He took another breath, “But other than that, I’m fine.” The answer satisfied Warrior. “Good to know.” Something in his tone alerted Twilight and the Hylian-turned-wolf studied the Captain in the corner of his eye. “What is it?” He muttered quietly. Warrior pursed his lips, gaze flickering to the far wall. The chamber they were in was brighter than the last with lit torches casting an eerie ambience. 

A chill raced down Twilight’s spine. A sense of wrongness, a deep thrum of warning, crawled along his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his inner wolf growling. “I don’t think we’re alone.” The foreboding words gravely spoken by the Captain urged Twilight to reach out with his senses once more. He closed his eyes, calling on his wolf spirit to aid him in an in-depth search of the room. A growl rumbled in Twilight’s chest and up to the back of his throat when he detected movement. His ears twitched, eyes narrowing dangerously in the direction Warrior was staring intently in. Warrior flashed him a quick, bemused, glance. “Tell me that was you.” “And if it wasn’t?” Twilight coyly replied. Warrior’s expression flat-lined. “Not funny.” His ears twitched again and Twilight sharply raised a hand in a gesture for silence. Warrior clicked his jaw shut. The Ordonian focused on the subtle sound he’d caught, trying to ascertain the cause of it and determine whether or not it was a threat. He ignored the steady beating of Warrior’s heart and his quiet, even, breathing, forcing them into the background. Something is in that room, Twilight signed. 

Warrior snapped to attention. Drawing his left up, he demanded to know, Threat? 

Without a doubt. Plan? 

Warrior pondered for a moment, perusing their limited options. With no knowledge of what to expect or what anomaly Twilight sensed could potentially be, there were few reliable plans to rely on. 

 Right approach. I’ll take left. 

The two separated into their designated directions, weapons drawn and ready. They crept silently towards the wall. Their eyes met the moment their backs touched the coarse bricks. 

Secret chamber. 

Opening? 

They needn’t look far. Warrior pressed against the wall and a protruding brick was slid back into place. 

The locks and gears of an unseen mechanism started to turn, grinding against one another with a resounding groan. 

Found it. 

Twilight suppressed a snort. 

You don’t say. It’s funny how sarcasm and sass could translate so blatantly clear in their use of sign. 

The entrance to the hidden room was revealed when a part of the wall jerked and coasted open. Dust trickled down on the waiting Heroes. 

Warrior took the first glance into the section. “Gibdos!” “You have got to be kidding…” If there was anything Twilight detested more than the disturbing, mutilated, and terrifying Poes in Arbiter’s Grounds, it was the rotten, bandage-wrapped, limping Gibdos. Their manner of walk, the dragging of their sword, their chilling screams capable of freezing one to the core, was something he could not forget so easily. 

The look on Warrior’s face was difficult for Twilight to interpret but he could recognize the horrified remembrance etched into his tense features. 

“Yours, then?” Twilight asked, risking a peek into the dank, musty, chamber. His nose crinkled from the nauseating scent of death and decay. His fierce eyes fell upon the bony, decrepit figure swathed in bandages and his brow creased. “No, mine.” Warrior spared him a sharp glance, “They’re from your world?” Twilight cocked an eyebrow, “You recognize them?” 

“How could I forget?” Warrior muttered in reply. Twilight shared the unspoken sentiment. 

A terrifying, blood-curdling, screech pierced the silence, cutting sharply into their exchange. The two Heroes pivoted around to discover three skeletal Gibdos gimping towards them. Deformed faces with gaping mouths, broken and distended jaws, and scarred or absent eyes, drew closer. “I’m beginning to believe your world is the most terrifying, Twilight,” Warrior remarked uneasily, shuffling closer to the Ordonian, “And I have yet to visit it. On to more important matters, we need to take these guys down. The three are in close proximity to one another, so-” “Range attacks.” 

Warrior blinked at the abrupt interruption. 

“What?” Twilight took a few steps backwards, features contorted with disgust and unease, “I usually attacked from a safe distance away. Bomb arrows.” He gestured vaguely to his pack. “You…” The corner of Warrior’s lips twitched upwards in repressed mirth. His eyes practically shown with amusement. Twilight narrowed his own with a small snarl, “Careful, or I will leave you to them.” 

Warrior bit his lower lip to keep from smiling. He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, 

“Right, right. Sorry.” A snicker escaped before he could quell it. “By Hylia’s Grace, War-” 

“I’m sorry!” 

Twilight’s senses told him the Captain was completely unrepentant. A laugh broke loose. 

“You’re on your own.” 

“Hey! Get back here, mutt!”  ~~~~~

“So...How was it?” Twilight asked minutes later when an exasperated, adrenaline-filled, and mirthless Warrior stalked his way. 

“Absolutely wonderful,” Warrior deadpanned, “The thrill of battle, the adrenaline racing through my veins, and the song composed by swords and discordant shrieks was lovely. You should try it sometimes.” 

Twilight couldn’t suppress his grin. “In fact, why don’t you? I handled two of them. You’ll be fine with one, right?” Without giving the incredulous Twilight a chance to respond, Warrior plopped down on the ground beside him and slumped against the wall with his eyes closed and hands casually folded behind his head, “Good. I’ve done my share. It’s only fair you do yours.” 

“What?” 

Warrior peeked an eye open to find Twilight searching thoroughly for the remaining Gibdo. He released a small laugh, “I got rid of all three, Twi.” 

Twilight stilled, then, with agonizing slowness, turned to fix Warrior with a venomous glare. 

The Knight was unfazed. 

Twilight stewed in indignant silence. He utilized the time the Captain used to rest and regain his strength to think of ways to seek vengeance. 

“Alright,” The Captain grunted, moving to stand, “We should probably get a move on. There’s no telling where the others might be.” 

Twilight followed after him. He didn’t spare the dead Gibdos a single glance. 

“Not a fan of them, I take it?” Warrior teased lightly, nudging Twilight with his elbow. Twilight’s lips furled. 

“They are absolutely wretched. Their screams, their walk, the way they freeze you in place then jump and latch onto you-” Warrior abruptly stopped. 

“They what?” Twilight paused, turning slightly to find the Knight looking vaguely ill. 

“They latch onto you..? And...strangle you…” He trailed off at the glimmer of horror stealing across Warrior’s calm features.

“They do?!” The Knight slid a hand up to his neck, horrified. “Is that why they scream when they come close?” “...yes? It makes it easier for them if you are paralyzed and unable to move.” 

Understanding dawned on Warrior and he turned to shoot Twilight a penitent look. “That’s why you hate them so much.” 

Warrior looked horrified enough, Twilight figured, and so the Ordonian did not expound on how exactly the Redeads would fasten onto their victims. He spared the Knight the disturbing details. 

~~~~~

“I don’t like this.” 

The quiet-spoken words gently broke the eerie silence of the chamber Warrior and Twilight had stepped into. Yet another door leading to nothing but a dank, empty, and eerie room with chains, broken tiles, and vases. 

Twilight’s inner wolf huffed, shrinking into itself. Another intense wave of déjà vu washed over him and the Ranch Hand stifled a world-weary sigh. 

Something was wrong with this chamber. He could sense it. 

“There’s a door on the other side.” “Of course there is,” Twilight groused, rolling his head back to give the ceiling his best woe-is-me look. He dropped his chin forward and pursed his lips, “Should we dare to cross..?” 

Warrior hummed. With a small shrug, the Captain murmured, “We might as well go for it. How else will we find a way out?” “If we find a way out.” “Come now, Twi,” Warrior drawled, amusement seeping into his tone, “Have some faith!” 

“In what? You?” 

“Ouch. Felt that one.” Warrior slapped a hand over his heart with a look of mock hurt. He dropped his arm with a growing smile, “This is a first. I don’t think I have ever seen you so antsy before.” 

Twilight shot him a side-eyed glare but reluctantly followed after the Captain when Warrior started to make his way across. 

If Warrior’s strides were noticeably faster than usual, Twilight didn’t remark on it. It let him know he wasn’t the only one affected by whatever place they were trapped within. 

Keen, cobalt blues searched the hollow chamber endlessly. Twilight would not allow himself to be caught off guard by anything. There was no doubt in his mind that there was something in this chamber. It was only a matter of finding out what exactly was there with them. 

Squeak

Twilight came to an abrupt halt, his skin crawling and goosebumps scattering across his skin. 

The spirit of the wolf whined, curling up tightly. 

This was a sound Twilight was far too familiar with. A sound he could never forget no matter how hard he tried. Already, he experienced the phantom sensations of tiny little paws grappling onto his clothes and scrabbling upwards. Sharp, piercing teeth and hauntingly beady eyes that glowed in the dark filtered through his mind. 

He waited for a second, straining his ears to catch the sound again. 

Nothing but silence met them. 

Slowly, Twilight relaxed, the tension bleeding from his back and shoulders. Perhaps it was his paranoia acting up and his mind was making up the noises. This place was a great deal like Arbiter’s Grounds. It would make sense. 

He shook his head and hastened forward. Warrior was already a good distance ahead of him. 

The Ordonian swore he heard the scraping of claws against the disjointed and fractured tiles but he refused to believe it. Reliving Arbiter’s Grounds was not something Twilight was keen on doing. 

And that was when he felt it. 

Something latching onto his pants leg and racing upwards. 

Horror and dismay contorted Twilight’s features as he instinctively stiffened, all sense of mobility fleeing from him. 

“Warrior - Captain - Pretty Boy-” He sifted through Warrior’s names, body paralyzed and frozen stiff. The claws climbed precariously higher, but the Ordonian couldn’t bring himself to look and see what had latched onto him. If it was what he knew it was… Warrior whirled around, concern creasing his brow at the urgency in Twilight’s voice, “Twi, what-” 

Twilight flinched, eyes squeezed shut, limbs cold and hands raised, “Get it off, get it off, get. it. off,” He repeated the mantra two more times. 

Warrior rushed to his side, searching for whatever it was Twilight felt. He saw nothing. “What-” “My back!” Twilight grit his teeth together, catching a barely-audible squeak as razor-sharp claws made their way up his spine, “It’s on my back! Don’t just stand there, Warrior, if you don’t-” He was cut off when Warrior cast aside his confusion and swiped his hand down Twilight back. 

He was taken by surprise when he was met with some resistance. Both Heroes heard a startled squeak as an invisible force made contact with the ground, the impact ringing in their ears. 

Warrior blinked dumbly down at the ground, arm half-bent and hovering in the air. 

There was nothing there. He hadn’t seen anything on Twilight and yet...He’d clearly hit something. “What was that?!” Warrior shrilly demanded to know. “A rat.” “A rat?! I didn’t see a rat!” “Of course you didn’t,” Twilight said with a trace of sarcasm, his heart rate slowing now that he was in no imminent danger, “They’re ghoul rats.” “Ghoul rats?!” 

As if called upon, several other squeaks and the speedy clicking of claws came from somewhere around them. Warrior looked around incredulously. 

A slightly hysterical laugh rose in Twilight’s throat because of course this would happen, but he suppressed it when the Captain shoved him forward. 

“Out, out, out,” The Knight prompted urgently, racing for the door, “I don’t do invisible rats.” 

“You only deal with the visible ones then?” Twilight couldn’t help but quip. 

Warrior all but threw open the door in response, the two stumbling free of the room and slamming it shut behind them. Several thumps resounded against the door. 

Leaning against the cold metal, Warrior heaved a sigh and swore, “Never again. Never.”

Twilight collapsed beside him, more than happy to take a brief respite. 

“Gibdos, ghoul rats, and sinking sand,” He listed off unhappily, his head falling back, “I can only imagine what comes next.”

Warrior turned to him, chest heaving from having all but booked it out of there. 

“No more. I don’t think I can handle whatever horrors your world holds, Twi,” 

Twi snorted quietly. “I’m beginning to wonder how I did.” 

It was a good thing, Twilight figured to himself, that Warrior had never seen what the poes of his world looked like. 

~~~~~

“Should we even dare?” 

Twilight wanted to tear his hair out. 

Warrior shifted indecisively. 

This, Twilight grumbled, is pathetic. 

“There’s no telling what’s behind this door.”

“No, but if we’ve learned anything, it’s that nothing good is behind this door,” Twilight muttered and his wolf self yipped in agreement. 

Warrior gave a small chuckle, the sound lacking its typical warmth and genuinity. He rubbed at the back of his neck, staring at the door in consideration. 

“It could be the last one we have to go through.” 

The ‘or not,’ was left unsaid but not unheard. 

Both knew they were stalling. Neither one of them wanted to cross the threshold to discover what surprise this chamber might hold. Heaving a sigh, eyes closing in resignation, Twilight planted a hand against the cool metal, 

“We might as well get this over with. The sooner we get out of this place, the better.” 

Warrior huffed. Then, with a dramatic gesture of his hand, said, “After you.” 

Twilight was not amused. 

With both hands, he unstuck the door and shoved it upwards then quickly stepped to the side once it vanished. 

Cautiously, both Heroes peered inside to scope out the interior of this new room. 

Warrior blinked, a vague impression of unease and revulsion etched into his features. Twilight was too tired to care anymore. 

“You...Am I seeing correctly?” Warrior asked, his voice the ghost of a whisper. He turned to Twilight, pointing with his left. 

“Well you aren’t imagining it,” Twilight muttered in response. He took hold of the Ordon blade and unsheathed it, “Come along now, Captain, the sooner we finish this, the sooner we leave.” 

Warrior raised both eyebrows, commenting wryly, “Now where was this attitude when-” 

“Captain,” 

“Coming.” 

And with that, Warrior slipped into the room after Twilight. Both stilled when the door slid shut and locked behind them. They spared it a glance then returned their attention to the center of the musty chamber. It was, by far, the smallest room they had been in, meaning there was little space for them to move. 

“Ominous,” Warrior remarked idly, taking in the grotesque, rotting, bony arms sticking out of the ground. “Must be our boss battle.” 

“Disgusting,” Twilight tacked on. His nose crinkled at the foul and overwhelming stench of death and decay in the heavy air. Sometimes, it did not pay to have heightened senses. 

His wolf self grumbled in indignation. 

“Do we chop off the arms?” Warrior wondered aloud, studying the eerie skeletal limbs swaying in a nonexistent breeze. “Where is the main body?”  “If there is one,” Twilight scowled. He and Warrior slowly approached the center of the room, careful not to step within reach of the stiff arms. 

“Here goes nothing,” Warrior shrugged, taking a swing of his sword and chopping a couple of the limbs halfway. 

There was an ear-splitting shriek that made Twilight slap his hands over his ears and cringe.  “Din’s name! The arms grew back!” Warrior exclaimed, drawing Twilight’s attention back to...whatever they were facing. Revulsion contorted Warrior’s face, “Oh, that was sickening.” 

Twilight’s lip curled back in agreement. 

“Maybe all of the arms at once?” He suggested. Warrior gestured for him to give it a whirl. Twilight exhaled deeply and moved to the middle of the extended limbs. Without warning, one of the bony fingers of a nearby hand twitched, agitated after sensing his movement, and snatched. 

Twilight gave a muffled shout when the hand grasped tightly at his face, his vision going dark from his eyes being covered. Sharp nails cut into his skin, trickles of blood slipping free from the slivers.  The Rancher’s hands snatched at the offending limb, striving vainly to tug himself free. He felt Warrior trying to help him, the Knight muttering harshly under his breath. His sharp ears also detected something unburying itself from the ground and his heart plummeted. 

“Sweet Hylia!” Warrior cried from behind, “Din, Farore, and Nayru forbid, that thing is atrocious! Holy heavens,” 

Would you focus on setting me free?! Twilight inwardly shouted. His wolf spirit howled, barked, growled, and snapped his teeth.  

“Oh, gross, it’s coming closer-” Warrior iterated, “-Disgusting. Look at those teeth-” 

I can’t, Twilight deadpanned, not daring to speak. The slimy, rotting hand on his face prevented him from doing anything. He didn’t want to risk even breathing. 

“I have never seen anything so hideously hideous in my entire life-” 

Have you looked in a mirror? Twilight wanted to quip, his wolf self snickering. He growled, the sound muffled. 

“I am not going anywhere near that thing, so-” Strong arms wound around Twilight’s chest and Warrior yanked with all his might, tearing Twilight free of the hand just in time to see what exactly had taken him captive. 

Deep, abyss-filled eyes on a gaunt, white, sickly face inches away from Twilight’s own greeted the Ordonian. Wide, long, teeth stretched in a broad smile on that thin head at the end of an extended neck momentarily horrified Twilight.  Wolfie all but shrieked at the unexpected and ghastly sight, fur standing on end. 

He grunted when Warrior crashed back onto the ground, still holding onto the Rancher. Both stayed sprawled on the ground, staring in terrified wonder at this unfamiliar, wretched, and slouched creature. 

The monster, realizing they were now out of reach, disappeared back into the ground. 

Twilight and Warrior simultaneously released sighs of relief, jumping when the door behind them crashed open. 

“What in Hylia’s name is going on here?” A familiar voice demanded to know. Twilight and Warrior scrambled to their feet with an enthusiastic cry of,  “Time!” 

Time’s eye darted between the two as they bolted towards him, a brooding look of wearied exasperation etched into his features, “I could hear the two of you from down the corridor-” He was cut off when the teens found refuge behind him, huddling together in a vain attempt to disappear from view. His expression flat-lined. “What are you both doing?”  “Did you know Ghoul Rats exist?” Warrior asked, beyond disturbed and scarred.  “Not to mention that thing,” Twilight added with a shudder of his own,  “We don’t talk about that thing, Twi,” 

“’That thing’ came out of the ground-” Twilight pointed ahead of them. Time suppressed the urge to sigh and turned his head to pin whatever creature the two were so thoroughly shaken by with a glare. 

His gaze froze when he took in the rotting, white-limbed, arms sticking up from the ground, clawed fingers curled and ready to snatch at anyone who dared come near.  A strange expression crawled across the Old Man’s face. One neither Twilight nor Warrior had ever seen him wear. His eye had gone dead and cold, recognition flaring to life before the elder Hero spun on his heel, grabbed the teens by their shoulders, and ushered them out. 

“Um, Time, shouldn’t we-” Warrior began, gesturing vaguely back to the room they’d left. 

“We don’t have time to waste,” The Old Man smoothly interjected, patting Warrior’s shoulder. He slipped between the two and began striding down the corridor. “We still have six other Links to find.” 

Twilight and Warrior shared a bemused look but dutifully followed after the golden-clad Hylian. They spared one last glance at the metallic door hiding the monster from view and, recalling the horrors they’d experienced in the span of two minutes, and skittered away. 

“Never again,” Warrior swore, hastening his pace. 

Never, Twilight agreed. 

[littlesparklight]

A Handful of Escaping Sweetness

It's a sunny afternoon in late spring the day the world ends.

There's no one present but Paris and his cattle to feel the grinding shift in the air, like a storm rolling in from the sea, whipping the tops of waves high and white, threatening to upend the little boats out on the water surprised by the rush of chill, rain-heavy wind and clouds. The cattle around him, previously the picture of bovine unconcern, low and shift around, come huddling together and calling their new calves to themselves.

Paris, sitting on a rock, eye them with some concern for whether or not they'll be liable to start stampeding, and when he glances back he's looking up at a young, smiling face with dark, dark blue eyes, the smile a twinkle on his face. Paris can't breathe. He makes himself breathe.

"Prince Alexander of Troy, for your exemplary judgement you have been chosen to stand arbiter in a small dispute the Father of Gods and Men feel must be judged by an outside mind."

Paris glances beyond Hermes, sees the goddesses - it doesn't matter if he recognizes them or not, but of course he can't not know who they are, as shiningly, painfully obvious as they've made themselves, the very light settling about their heads like crowns, the air quivering in bending obeisance to their passing, daring not to disturb the fine fabrics of their clothing or beautifully tumbling tresses - and sees his death.

"A dispute, Lord Hermes?" Paris asks, light as if he doesn't feel light-headed, from lack of air, from the three piercing sets of eyes beyond the veiled, gentle darkness of Hermes' gaze. Hermes offers him a golden apple - it could be a ripe quince if not for the metallic shine of the skin, and Paris takes it unthinkingly, curious despite himself. Somewhere marginally safe to rest his eyes and attention. There's writing on the apple, and this is not safe.

"All three wish for this apple, Prince Alexander. Your fair mind and eyes shall be the judge as to who deserves it best."

Paris stares at the apple in his hand, silently reading out Kallistei and understands all too well what isn't said, what isn't meant to be understood. They will offer rewards, kingly, divine, as anyone should to a judge having offered the best and straightest judgement, but they have come here from anger, and if he can only award one of them the apple, he will soothe one but stir deeper anger in two.

They are goddesses, they are all breathlessly beautiful in their own ways. Paris could sing their praises with complete earnestness for years and not run out of words for it, from the flashing eyes of Pallas Athena, the broadness of her shoulders emphasizing the fall of her simple dress, the thrust of her nose the easy way she carries her helmet; from the milky shade of Queen Hera's skin, her shining eyes and rich tresses stars in the sky and jewels to her crown; from the supple gracefulness of Aphrodite's stance, her dainty feet stepping just so, the intoxicating edge to her little smile. Hera is, of course, the queen. Paris isn't sure why this is a contest at all, the answer should be clear. Not that it matters what the right or wrong answer is; there are three goddesses, one apple.

One winner, two losers, and since this is a dispute, he should lose no matter what.

"Deathless Ones, honouring me beyond what any mortal could ask for. While I am of royal blood, my family having welcomed me back past warnings, and am related to Father Zeus' own blessed cupbearer, I am also nothing more than a neatherd. My judgement may be true, and I would not deprive the winner of her fairly awarded judgement, older men than I have more experience, kings are well-versed in standing between quarrelling sides and have the authority to offer a solution." He stands up, slowly. Holds the apple out and is already shifting his weight away, towards taking that first step that will have him running, when Hermes' hand, light as a feather, more weighty than chains, come to his shoulder.

"Your blood is flawless, and you didn't hesitate when Ares won over your prize bull," Hermes says, and now the twinkle is gone from him eyes, he's serious as the coldest night. The squeeze is as reassuring as it's restraining. "Father Zeus has deemed you the most suitable."

It doesn't matter what he might choose to say; there's no way out of this, and he can't refuse.

And if he can not refuse, if he should anger two goddesses no matter what, should he not take the reward that might please him the best?

Paris of Troy isn't without ambition, but war has never suited him. He cares little for the respect to be gained through battlefield slaughter, the riches amassed through weapon skill and sacking of cities, so greater skill in such matter, though some who lacked such would surely leap upon the chance, holds little attraction for him. And while a throne of his own, vaster than any could dream of, wealth to rival the limits of man's ability to possess stir him more, Alexander of Troy is, down to his core, a romantic.

Aphrodite offers the most beautiful mortal woman in the world, and Paris thinks she wouldn't offer her if they wouldn't be compatible. If there couldn't be joy and pleasure in their meeting and joining, she would not make this her reward. He can't win, and two of the three goddesses will lose, and so Paris stays true to the foolish, gentle heart and hope of him; the mortal striving for as much pleasure as mortals can hope for in a world that will mostly offer cruelty.

When he first lays eyes on Helen of Sparta, even understanding that she's already married, Paris hopes even more to find his wishes for the reason Aphrodite offered Helen as her reward for him choosing her fulfilled. She stares at him, for a brief moment wide-eyed - an expression matched by half by her husband, too - and looks to the tall, reddish-blond man to her side before looking back at their guest.

"And what son of the blessed immortals are we welcoming into our home?" Helen is half joking, half deathly serious, and blinks, caught breathless for a moment when Paris denies himself any god as a parent with a smile.

At a hunt three days into the visit, the queen of Sparta having come with their great, baying company, Paris leans in close to her, whispering not for any flirting words or voiced wishes to kiss that rosy, fair skin, but because he's saying something entirely more dangerous even than openly lusting after another man's wife.

"How far have you gone, my lady? How much of the sky have you claimed, for your own pleasure?"

Helen goes a little pale, but where she could refuse to answer, when she glances to him, Paris quiet and attentive, leaned in close but not touching, she cracks. "... Not as far as I might have wished, once upon a time."

"Great, shining daughter of Zeus and Leda, why shouldn't you have all you want?" Paris touches not Helen, but his own chest, the spot above his heart, while shaking his head. "If you want more, you should have as much as your husband, at the very least, shouldn't you?"

Helen glances at him, looks away. Paris lets himself be drawn into the hunt, and that evening, sits in the middle of loud, cheerful noise, beautiful music and attended by two very great and beautiful people lamenting his trip will have to end at some point, and thinks of the laments made for a dead warrior, mother, sisters and daughters arranged around the great man, now cold and empty.

This is a funeral feast, and only Paris knows it.

This is the best it will get, from hereon out. Not that there won't be pleasure, won't be happiness - he should be given to some small amount of joy more, shouldn't he? - but when Menelaos has left for Crete, when he comes to Helen's chamber and she opens the door before he can knock, when they finally reach the shore and board the ships and when they land on Cranae over a day later, and she comes with him, into a shaded hide made secret by blooming myrtle bushes, their eyes meet as Paris turns Helen to face him.

They stare at each other, still for a moment, knowing the weight of the next action, and both know this is the most fragile, perfect happiness they will get.

Helen sighs, sweeter sound there wasn't, and leans in. Paris meets her, pulls her closer, and Helen throws her arms around his shoulders; such kisses are worth dying for.

*** Helen grows up in Sparta wanting for little and yet wishing for more.

Theseus scares her small and quiet, for a little while at least. And then she is just angry - why should he be allowed to do such things, why should he be able to, just because he is a man? The world is vast and yet she's allowed to hold so little of it.

It's not so displeasing, she almost forgets it when the two royal refugees come from Mycenae. The younger one is cuter, possessed of a sweeter mind, a more pleasant disposition. More patient than Agamemnon, and he even wrestles with her once, incredulous that she would want to, but not refusing her out of hand. It's not repeated, but Helen treasures that moment, treasures the startled, warm brown eyes on her when she's pinned Menelaos to the ground.

She can feel his eyes on her, earnest emotion behind every word he speaks to her while trying not to be too obvious and yet she can hear what some of the servants are whispering too, the pleasures found at his gentle hands, and Helen swallows down unfairness. Why can he, without repercussions, but not her?

Still, when her father finally marries her away, when Menelaos and Agamemnon have been back in Mycenae for two years already, Helen isn't displeased when Menelaos is proven to be among the suitors. By the amount of wealth sent as gifts, she would've been worried it was Agamemnon, but he married Clytemnestra last year. It's not. It's Menelaos, and it's Menelaos who wins out, Achilles too young to make a claim in person and Peleus refraining from making the claim for him.

Helen, led across the threshold and knowing little what to expect, only what she's observed so far, only hopes knowing the man better will bring more sweetness than not.

She isn't much fond of being pregnant, she finds. Too, what she can grasp of the world seems to shrink further, even when her heart has only grown, for tender hope has been buoyed by jokes and the laughter her husband has drawn from her, has grown high and sturdy from gentle touches and Menelaos welcoming her knowledge of city and its lands. It helps, in its own way. Makes old, secret wants sink down into the bottom of her heart, to be little thought of.

Until they received their guest from Troy.

Women cannot take, cannot do, what men can, and Helen has been living her life like that, not quite accepting it but enduring it. But then there is Prince Alexander of Troy, who whispers call me Paris, and he smiles at her and she can suddenly understand what the rest of the world must be seeing when she smiles at it.

Still, she knows her duty; she has a life, her daughter, though hard and heavy to carry as she was in her womb, makes her insides melt, and her husband's hand around hers is warm and steady. She is not unhappy.

But she wants.

She wants and has been wanting since she was young, many things, but this is one of them, and she might have confessed, once or twice, quietly, with Aphrodite there to hear. And so, whether she'd planned it or not, when Menelaos leaves for Crete and Paris comes to her chamber, she opens the door before he can reach to knock, and instead of sending him away she welcomes him.

The world does not end in the grievous fire of a city falling to its enemies, torn apart stone by stone by furious divine forces. It ends on a sunny spring afternoon, it ends in the gentle darkness of Queen Helen's chamber, it ends on Cranae under the sweet-smelling blossoms of the myrtle bush. Sometimes we take even knowing we shouldn't, and sometimes there's no choice either way, Aphrodite spreading her golden veil over the new lovers and smiling sweet enough there's the illusory hope the bitterness might not taste as sharp later.

[c-is-for-circinate]

Who wants a little Cinderbrush AU on this quarantine evening?

A while ago, @brightandshinynewstories and I were chatting about what would happen if the Cinderbrush four lived in Exandria (and also relatedly, if the M9 were Monsterhearts characters, but that is a digression y’all should take up with her).  We figured it would start, at least, a little like this:

There’s a phrase Sasha's history tutor used once, when she was thirteen or fourteen and didn’t have a way to stop her parents hiring all her tutors and arranging her schedule for her.  Her history tutor was a stuttery little halfling man fresh out of Vasselheim, and half of what he said was deadly boring, but he was less brutally awful than her etiquette and protocol tutor, which was probably why he got fired before she turned fifteen.  That one conversation, though, has stuck with her for all these years.

“Everyone thinks they live at the end of history,” he’d said.  They’d been talking about the end of the reign of Uriel Tal’dorei at the time, how his decision to abdicate five minutes before he unexpectedly died in a massive dragon attack hadn’t accomplished much of anything except for making life massively difficult for his son fifteen years later.  “This is it, the final form of the world.  All the aeons of existence have led up to this moment right now, and finally we’re living in the future.”

“Isn’t everybody always living at the end of history, then?” Sasha had asked.  “If you look at it that way?”

“Not...not quite,” Kempler had stammered, a little off-balance the way he always was when she asked questions she actually wanted to know the answers to.  “Usually it means more like..the idea that everything, societal structures, social mores, everything has fallen into place in such a way that it doesn’t need to change any more.  Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” Sasha had said, and let him go on talking about dragons and heroes and the politics of non-existent emperors and kings.  She’d thought about it all afternoon.

This isn’t quite the end of history, Sasha figures now, half a dozen years later.  If it were, there’d be a better way to work her way up in the government of Emon besides playing personal aide to Arbiter Ethna for the next ten years in hopes of getting appointed to a magistrate’s position someday.  Some kind of school for barristers and politicians, at least, instead of everything coming down to her parents’ names and polite tolerance for her existence.  Her advancement wouldn’t depend so much on this awkward noble apprenticeship system where she’s more tied to Ethna’s reputation than her own skills.

It’s got to be getting pretty close, though.  It’s 853 PD.  Emon’s a miracle of government and engineering.  Uriel Tal’dorei’s been dead for forty years, there haven’t been dragons around to ravage anything since Sasha’s parents were children, and every day law, order, and the modern age prove a little more how they triumph over chaos.

It’s good to live at this end of history, Sasha tends to think.  There’s just enough still to do in the world to give her a chance to do something really special about it.  Just enough wiggle room left to let her...bend the rules.  Just a little.

Nobody says arbiters and politicians can’t have a little magic on their side to...smooth things along, just a little.  Nobody says aides like Sasha can’t spend their free time however they like.  Nobody tells Sir Murasaki’s daughter she can’t go where she wants, besides Sir Murasaki himself.  If she likes to sit auditing classes in the back of the room at the Alabaster Lyceum--if she happens to enjoy practicing classical violin or running vocal exercises in her tiny little office behind Arbiter Ethna’s courtroom--well.  The bardic arts might be a relic of the past, when people had to go out slaying monsters and dealing with dragons every other day, but history hasn’t quite left them useless yet.  Anything can be a tool if you’re clever and charming enough to use it right.

Living at very-nearly-the-end of history might be the best tool there is.  The best thing about it, Sasha thinks, is the chance to make sure she’s the one who decides how it ends.

.

Sasha told Cam about her end-of-history theory once, some starlit evening on the rooftop balcony of his parents’ townhouse, looking out over the sparkling lights of the Cloudtop District and enjoying the quiet.  He’s not sure he’s smart enough to really understand it, but that’s Sasha for you.  There’s a reason she’s going to be on the Tal’Dorei Council someday, while Cam’s going to be...whatever Cam’s going to be, by then.

Probably running the family business, one way or another, if his dad hasn’t actually killed him instead of letting him inherit.  It’s basically fine, as life plans go.  Parts of it don’t suck.  That’s something.

It’s why everyone was so in favor of him courting around with Sasha in the first place, anyway.  The Murasakis are nobility and all, but they’re from some island in the middle of the Lucidian Ocean on the other side of Exandria.  The Solomons were nobodies, until they just happened to own the only still-operating stone quarry in a hundred miles in the wake of the destruction of Emon forty years ago.  Sasha’s parents have influence, Cam’s have money.  Even Cam knows putting that combination together is a recipe for power.

Real power, probably, not the magic kind.  Fewer rules.  Fewer restrictions.  Fewer demons, whispering in the back of your ear when you’re trying to sleep.

If this is really the perfect future that everything’s always been trying to lead to, then shouldn’t they have wizard magic or some shit that would just get the stone out of the ground without needing miners and overseers and crap like that?  And then, like, nobody would send some stupid human kid with no darkvision into the back end of the quarry just because he’s the boss’s son and some fucker thinks he needs to be hazed for “company morale” or whatever.  Just for example.

So maybe the world’s not getting better, it’s just that the bullshit that piles up a little deeper every year has just about reached a critical maximum.  That’s fine.  No wonder Sasha’s looking forward to the future so much, gets along with the world so well.  He used to watch her weave her own web of total crap every time she worked a room, catching eyes and shaking hands and making everybody fall in love with her as soon as they met.  It’s kind of the most impressive thing Cam’s ever seen.  He kind of hates her for it, right at this moment.

Cam’s just not built for that much shit.  He's charming, sure, people trust him, people like him, but he can’t talk his way out of any- and everything like Sasha can.  Probably that’s a nobility thing.  The Solomons aren’t nobility, everybody knows that, especially Cam’s dad, and he’s never let Cam forget it for two seconds in a row his whole life, so right, no wonder Cam’s useless in Sasha’s kind of world.  No wonder he lets himself get into such shitty situations sometimes.  No wonder he can’t get Anukirai to leave him--to leave Sasha--alone.

If that’s what he wants.  Which--it is, of course, it should be, it has to be, it’s just.  Hard, sometimes, when Cam’s father decides if he can’t be the normal born kind of nobility, he’d better just prove he’s the High Lord of All Assholes.  When Cam’s trying not to be the kind of guy who just up and punches his problems in the face.  When Anukirai starts making promises, and Cam--when Cam can feel the power behind them, the weight of thousands of years of lurking underground, lying in wait, full of so much more patience than Cam’s ever had himself.

He’s pretty sure he could Command his dad to do just about anything, once.  Just once.  So far he hasn’t tried.

The worst thing about living this close to the end of history, Cam knows for damn sure, is feeling the weight of all of it crushing down on top of you all the time.

.

Jamie’s heard about it, too, somewhere along the way.  Lunch with Sasha at the Lyceum is always interesting, one way or another.

It’s bullshit, of course, but it’s the sort of bullshit that always appeals to people like Sasha.  As though there are other people in the world like Sasha Murasaki.  Things don’t end, they just die occasionally, and leave stinking corpses of whatever they used to be there to entertain passers-by.  Witness the inside of poor Cameron Solomon’s head these days after that particular breakup, case in point.

But of course it’s enticing to picture the world as just half a step short of perfection, all the for pretty, perfect people who think they might just be that last piece of perfection Exandria’s waiting for.  That, at least, isn’t exactly an uncommon attitude around the Alabaster Lyceum.  Everybody thinks they’re going to be the next Allura Vysoren, or whoever it is they’re all idolizing these days.  Everybody thinks they need just that little bit of extra edge to get there.

Jamie’s done with that particular race, which doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy spectating it.  There’s a lot of benefits that come from staying enrolled as a student of the arcane arts at the Alabaster Lyceum of Emon.  Greg Wrenly keeps paying tuition, room, and board, for one.  There’s a handful of cantrips and a couple of halfway decent wizard spells in Jamie’s back pocket now, too, which is never a bad thing.  It’s always good to have options.

For instance: now the desperate, overachieving would-be wizards of the Lyceum don’t have to fight their way through years of arduous study and spend enormous reserves of magical energy to cast True Seeing.  A little bit of druidcraft, a couple of exactly the right mushrooms, and for a handful of gold coins Jamie can provide a direct line of sight to the Ethereal Plane with negligible side effects to follow.  Options.  They’re practically a public service.

Jamie prefers to keep as many options open as possible; gods know nobody in this fucking city seem to realize they have any.  That’s what needing to be the best will do to you.  If a quarter of their classmates realized how much power the average archdruid has at their command, there’d be a mass exodus of ex-arcanists desperate to be the next fucking Voice of the Tempest, every one of them desperate to live up to thousands of years of legends and heroes and complete fairytales.  Every single one of them would miss the entire point.

Jamie doesn’t need to be the best.  They just need to maintain their own, extremely specific skill set, market it in the right way to the right people, and not get caught up in everyone else’s everything.  Stay a minimum safe distance away from Sasha.  Enjoy Cam’s company without getting too invested in the pretty and the trauma.  Enough wizardry to mess with peoples’ heads and not be too bound to the whims of nature, enough druidry to keep in good supply and not be too bound to some fucking hand-scribed spellbook.  Enough alchemy to keep in business.  Enough business to make sure they don’t completely lose touch with reality, the way so many mages tend to do.

Of course it’s not exactly traditional, or historical, or Respectful of the Great Arts, or whatever the fucking line is.  What the hell would be the point of that?

The best thing about living on this end of history, whatever the fuck that means to anyone, is getting to pick and choose exactly which parts of it you want to keep.

.

Aff gets the whole history thing in pieces, in passing at first, but it makes more sense the more they think about it.  You can learn a lot slinging pints of ale in your dad’s tavern on a regular old Grissen weeknight.

It’s not like they’re friends with Sasha Murasaki of all people.  Aff hadn’t even known who she was until Amanda from the livery stable down the street explained it, and apparently there’s an actual member of a titled noble family on her way up the ranks in the Watchful Hall who comes out to Aff’s dad’s tavern, like, a lot, which is just crazy.  It’s just that sometimes when Sasha’s waiting for somebody, or she and her trio of Emon’s Who’s Who are bored or whatever, they invite Aff to sit down and talk for a while.  Cameron Solomon’s... whatever, he’s cool, Aff’s mom doesn’t live too far from his dad’s mine these days, so maybe they’d helped him out while he was puking in an alleyway once or twice before even moving to Emon, out in the countryside where being a super-rich merchant prince didn’t matter that much.  And Jamie...Aff doesn’t really get Jamie, but they’re in here a lot, alone at a table where a whole rotation of people sit down to join them and then leave ten minutes later.  You learn a lot about someone when they drink by themselves while they’re doing some kind of weird shady business in your bar at least once a week.  That’s all.

Aff doesn’t even really think any of them are friends with each other, either, anyway.  Sasha and Cameron used to come in on dates, a couple of kids from the Cloudtop slumming it in Diamond Liquor out in the Central District, but they don’t really do that any more.  The one time Sasha showed up when Cam was already here, he got up and left.  Sometimes Sasha goes and sits at Jamie’s table in the corner, and she’s usually there for a lot longer than ten minutes when she does, but she still always goes back to the rest of her crew and Jamie goes back to drinking alone.  Jamie and Cam have come in together a couple of times, and it seems like Jamie doesn’t even do business on those nights, but like, who even knows what’s up with that, right?

Not that Aff’s being creepy or anything.  They’re the bar...not-maid.  Bartender?  No, that’s their dad, ruling over the land of kegs behind the actual physical bar.  Bar...server?  Is that a thing?  Whatever, it is now.  Aff’s the bar-server, they hear things.  They notice things.  That’s all.

Like Sasha talking about the end of history, which, it took Aff a couple of different conversations to realize she didn’t mean the end of the world, which is probably good.  Aff’s pretty sure she means the fact that they live now, in modern times, which don’t really have dragon attacks or cool heroes or crazy adventures any more, because all the cool heroes already went on all the crazy adventures and killed the dragons so that modern times could happen in the first place.  Which is great!  Right, that’s totally for the best, dragons are definitely bad news.  Aff’s seen a couple of places where Emon got rebuilt forty or fifty years ago after half the city...melted, they guess?  So like, it’s good that that’s not happening nowadays.  That’s a good thing.

It’s just...

Look, Aff’s a good bar-server, or whatever you want to call it, and they like living here with their dad, and Emon’s not a bad place to be, it’s just.  Hard, sometimes.  It’s hard, when they get so angry they just want to hit something, again.  Like, a lot.  Again.

If there were still adventurers and dragons and shit, then maybe Aff would have a use for all that pent-up aggression or whatever.  Maybe they could, y’know, kill monsters or whatever, and it would make them a hero instead of a fuckup.  If it were still the old days like that, maybe Aff would be good for something.

If this really is the end of history or whatever, Aff thinks that maybe the hardest part is feeling like they got smacked down in the wrong part of it.

.

The trouble, of course, is that history is nowhere near through with them.  Or with its own twists and turns, which is how history tends to work, really, even when you think it’s all just about settled down.

The third week of Fessuran is...confusing, more than anything.  Everything happens so fucking fast, in a blur of blood and fear and sleep-deprivation, washed over with a little extra haze from Jamie’s very good berries, and a couple of days go by in either about two hours or two weeks, and this is never going to make a good story to tell any kids they ever have, if they ever survive long enough to have kids.

Half a dozen people are very dead, that’s very clear, well beyond the help of any cleric or reasonably-ethical necromancer.  Amanda from the livery stable down the street from Diamond Liquor was pale and streaked in blood, breathing shallowly and barely alive, last time they saw her.  That might be worth something, if they could figure out or agree on what.

The four of them are not dead.  They are not under arrest.  They’re not in Emon any more, either, but since staying away might be the only chance they have to keep being not-dead and not-arrested, that’s probably a win, too.

They look at each other, hollow-eyed and dazed, across the table at the only inn in the tiny nowhere town of Cinder Hills, where they didn’t dare sleep last night and had better leave the minute they finish breakfast and also decide what the hell comes next.

“What,” Cam says, speaking for them all, “the fuck?”

.

“Look,” Sasha says.  “It’s fine.  We just…go to another city, and wait for things to die down.  Come back when it’s all over and pretend none of it ever happened.  Nothing to do with us at all.”

It’s fine.  It has to be fine, because if it’s not then Sasha’s lost everything.  Jail isn’t the only way to be trapped.  Freedom costs so much.

“You cannot possibly think that’s going to work,” Jamie says scathingly.  “You think there’s anybody in Emon who doesn’t know who the great Sasha Murasaki is?  We run, and we do not come back.”

Fuck Jamie, fuck them, just…fuck.

She’s spent years building herself a future in Emon.  Years, fighting to make herself a place in history.  Scrounging for every fucking scrap her parents would let her have, every fraction of respect or freedom that couldn’t just be taken away on a whim because she didn’t lower her eyes enough on any random night.  And now she’s going to lose it to this?

“Um,” Aff says.  “I have family in Emon?  I’m not just going to disappear on my dad.  And like, what about Cam’s dad, or Sasha’s family, or–”

“I can’t see my dad right now,” Cam interrupts quickly.  “Leaving actually maybe sounds good.”

“Oh, and leaving where, Jamie?” Sasha demands, because she’s ignoring Cameron right now until she can handle looking at him.  “Are we all going to stay with your little forest friends?  Sleep on leaf mattresses and learn to be druids, then?”

Jamie snorts.  “I’m not taking any of you within ten fucking miles of any druid circle I’ve ever met.  You, they’d eat alive,” and he gestures dismissively at Aff, “and you, they’d never forgive me for.  Luckily the world’s pretty fucking big.”

“So, what, you just want to–what, get on a ship and go to Wildemount?” Cam asks, interrupting Sasha again before she can get started on what even she knows is going to come out sharp and bitter and useless.  “Never come home?”

“You can do whatever the fuck you want.  I’m going to Kymal as soon as I can get on the fucking road, to see if I can rebuild even a third of what I just left behind.” Jamie says, like it’s just…that easy.  “Maybe Westruun, eventually, depending on how that goes.”

Sasha cannot start over in fucking Kymal.  She can’t.  She’s going home.  She’ll get this straightened out.

Everybody knows who her parents are.  They could smooth the whole thing over, probably, if she went down on her knees and begged hard enough.  If she agreed to let them ship her off to whatever cloister or rich husband they chose, and lost everything to spending the rest of her life under her mother’s thumb and her father’s commands anyway.

Fuck.  Fuck.  It feels like the walls of this tiny shitty tavern room are closing in on her already.  Sasha is so fucked.

It was supposed to be perfect.  She was almost done.  She was on her way.  It was going to be perfect.

“We should probably stay together,” Cameron says worriedly, looking between Sasha and his precious Aff and Jamie fucking Wrenly.

“Westruun,” Sasha says.  It’s too small to build anything worth having and it’s too far away from everything she’s ever built so far and it’s too big for her to matter at all and it’s too close for her to really be safe.  Westruun’s nothing.  But at least it’s better than fucking Kymal.  “We can go to Westruun.”

Or Vasselheim.  Or Rexxentrum.  Or Ank’harel.  Or Port Damali.  Sasha’s a little afraid to start running.  She’s a little afraid that once she gets going, she won’t be able to stop.

.

Notes on Level 2:

Sasha, human bard 2 Cantrips: Message, Prestidigitation L1 spells (3/day): Charm Person, Sense Emotions, Disguise Self, Comprehend Languages, Detect Magic

Cameron, human warlock 2 Patron: Fiend Cantrips: Mage Hand, Friends L1 spells (2/day): Command, Charm Person, Hex Invocations: Beguiling Influence, Devil’s Sight

Jamie, human wizard 1 druid 1 Cantrips: Friends, Mind Sliver, Minor Illusion, Druidcraft, Infestation L1 spells (3/day) : Cause Fear, Color Spray, Silent Image, Charm Person, Sleep, Identify, plus any druid spells prepared that day

Aff, human barbarian 2 Rage (2/day): +2 damage

[gerudosage-a]

she had been patient, she liked to think, in letting this girl into her home. not to the point of camaraderie, not to the point of politeness, not even to the point of letting her into her actual, physical house, but to be granted leave to stay in the desert, & the little shelter not commandeered by the gerudo ? any other who had ventured out amongst the sands had been greeted with the end of her blade, & a warning to never return. this one, though, had a spark of promise about her, a determination in her eyes, & so nabooru had - grudgingly, painfully - relented, when she professed her desire to train in the desert. she had kept a close eye on her, of course, to ensure she hadn’t lied, but it seemed, so far, that this robin had been genuine about her desires.

still, the desert was not her place, & nabooru had no trouble at all reminding her of the fact when she believed that she was beginning to step out of line. the sands were calm on that day, the sun blazing overhead, & nabooru’s shout was loud & clearly heard as she tracked across the dunes, intending to drag robin back by the scruff if she had to.

❛  this area is off - limits,  ❜  she hissed as she drew close, the arbiter’s grounds looming in the distance, still far enough that it could be perceived as a mirage to the unknowing, but that was no excuse. the desert was vast enough; robin had no need to train in the tomb of her ancestors.    ❛  didn’t think you needed to ask ? you forget your place, girl, you forget yourself !  ❜  her last word was punctuated by a dull pound, as she drove the bottom of her spear into the sand, eyes filled with fire glaring down at the warrior.  ❛  there is plenty of space to train at your camp. turn around, now.  ❜

@wolfvirago

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #450

Top Ten Characters with the Best Star Trek: The Next Generation Episodes

As I’m writing this, it’s officially Star Trek: Discovery day; the first episode of the new season is up on Netflix and ready to watch. Given how little time I manage to find for watching anything that I want to watch, I’m cautiously optimistic that I can get to see it this weekend, but we’ll see; my lovely wife might want to finally catch up with Star Trek: Picard first, which for some reason she never finished. Regardless, I’m excited, and I wanted to write about Star Trek again.

The new Star Trek series have been a bit of a roller coaster, because whilst they’ve both generally been very good, they’ve certainly had their odder and more controversial moments, and neither of them has consistently felt like classic Trek. If I had to be critical, I’d argue that there are plenty of darker adult-tinged sci-fi shows at the moment, including ones set in space, but not that many that follow the day-to-day travails of a starship crew, which as always been Trek’s raison d'être. However, both shows have succeeded in giving us some compelling stories and – especially in the case of Discovery – a fantastic cast of new characters to celebrate. Great characterisation has been the cornerstone of Trek since the beginning, and no doubt one of the reasons why it still resonates to this day, from the “Holy Trinity” of Kirk, McCoy, and Spock, through to the wonderful and insanely empathetic Saru in Discovery and Captain Sexpot Rios in Picard. The fact that we’re now in a new time period, with no established history to try to tie the narrative to, means Discovery 3 is in a great place to give us some great new stories.

Anyway, to celebrate all of this – the new season of Discovery and my overall love of Star Trek characters – I’ve decided to go back to the Next Generation well and talk about just that: characters. TNG famously hit its stride when it started focusing each story through the lens of the different characters on the show, so that we tended to get a “Worf episode” or a “Riker episode”; even the best eps, the biggest and most epic, really had a tendency to hone in on one or two characters specifically, such as the all-time classic “The Best of Both Worlds” really being about Picard and Riker, or “Yesterday’s Enterprise” being a much-belated Tasha Yar episode.

But which characters have the best episodes? That is, if you know an episode is focused on a particular character, how likely is it that it’s going to be a belter? Can you reasonably say one character was better served than another in terms of the quality of “their” episodes? Well, yes. Yes you can. That’s this list. That’s the whole thing.

So this list is basically which characters have the best episodes, or are more likely to. It’s not a list of my favourite characters, or even really a list of the best episodes overall; it’s just, well, who got to chew scenery the most on the bridge, basically. Now, I really feel like I should end this blurb with an appropriate Star Trek quote, but I must have used “Make it so” and “Engage” before, so I’m not sure what else to say.

May the Force be with you, I guess.

Picard: Yes, of course; he’s the star, he’s the stand-out actor of the bunch, he gets the best episodes. If it focuses on the captain, you can rest assured you’re in for a treat. Whether it’s an epic mythology-enhancing saga or – even better – a slower, sadder meditation on life, Picard’s episodes are engaging. Chortle. Also if there’s room for a classic Picard Monologue, all the better; I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about Patrick Stewart, but the guy can chew scenery. Key episodes: The Best of Both Worlds, The Drumhead, The Hidden Light

Worf: Worf’s complex backstory offers a lot of opportunities for great stories, with the caveat that pretty much all of them focus on Klingon history or the contrast between his heritage and his place in Starfleet. Issues of familial loyalty rub up against quasi-Shakespearean dynastic dramas, often with high adventure. You can assume a Worf ep is a good one, despite the fact that quite a few of them are also about Alexander. Key episodes: Sins of the Fathers, Redemption, Birthright

Data: everyone’s second-favourite emotionless nerd on Star Trek, Data’s eps are almost uniformly great, and often poke at what it means to be alive. There may be a bit of ground retrod as we examine the notion of humanity, or sentience, or emotion, but his episodes are always interesting, and often very funny, and Brent Spiner is a continuing delight. Key episodes: The Measure of a Man, The Offspring, Brothers

Q: is it cheating to include a recurring guest star? Maybe, but I don’t care. John de Lancy is just phenomenal as Q, one of the best Trek characters, and so good he became a My Little Pony. He’s arch, he’s hilarious, he can take the show into new directions; he raises questions of fate, or of the concept of divinity; and underneath it all there’s a malevolent streak, a genuine sense of danger exemplified in his first appearance. Pairs very well with Picard, naturally. I didn’t like the Robin Hood episode, though. Key episodes: Deja Q, Encounter at Farpoint, Q Who

Riker: he’s a Kirk-esque horn-dog ragamuffin with a heart of gold and a fist of steel, so there’s always a lot to love when William T. takes the helm (see what I did there?). Often issues of loyalty, or duty versus personal wishes, arise; he’s frequently putting his life on the Enterprise above his career. But he’s also a very moralistic character, so quite often he’ll be trying to do the right thing in tough circumstances. Key episodes: The Pegasus, Future Imperfect, Frame of Mind

Crusher: always a stand-out supporting character, Crusher has some great episodes focused on her too; usually quite a self-righteous sort who puts the immediate moral obligation above her own safety or duty to Starfleet, which raises lots of interesting, thorny questions. She’s a smart cookie, exemplified in the astounding Remember Me; her relationships with her son and with Picard are good to explore too. She also shagged a ghost, but let’s try to forget about that. Key episodes: Remember Me, Attached, Suspicions

Wesley: pigeonholed somewhat unfairly due to a few ropey first-season episodes, Wesley Crusher is actually an interesting character whose stand-out storylines offer a good deal of nuance and intrigue, as well as exciting hi-jinks, insights into the Federation, and – should you go that far – weird magic Jedi stuff. He gets a nice romance with Ashley Judd, we unpeel his relationship with Picard over multiple episodes, and the bloom comes off the rose in spectacular fashion when he gets to Starfleet Academy. Wil Wheaton was a good young actor and was sadly underserved by the show, but at least we get these eps. Key episodes: The Game, Final Mission, The First Duty

Pulaski: say whaaat? Yes, she’s only in the show for five minutes, but Doctor Pulaski gets a few crackers under her belt in that time. A bit like Crusher would later, she often excels when standing up to authority and presenting herself as a moral arbiter. Interestingly, she’s not always right, and it’s a fun dance to watch. She’s also been round the block a bit, adding facets to her relationships with other characters, particularly Riker. And, of course, she flirts with a bunch of polygons when Geordi and Data cock up the Holodeck. Key episodes: Elementary, Dear Data, Unnatural Selection, The Icarus Factor

Troi: sadly suffering in the face of a bunch of soppy romances and storylines involving her mother that are, shall we say, an acquired taste, Troi still gets some good stuff, mostly later in the series’ run. Taking her out of her comfort zone, making her a spy or an investigator, or giving her some proper dramatic meat, works wonders. Also once she was a cake. Key episodes: Face of the Enemy, Eye of the Beholder, Dark Page

LaForge: oh, Geordi. I love Georgi, but he kinda got done dirty a little bit. Always an interesting and dependable secondary character, unfortunately the bulk of his episodes as a primary character tend to revolve around him being a bit of a jerk or a bit of a creep. Obviously the most heinous sin is making a computer program based on a real person and then, well, trying to shag it, but he also has a tendency to be a dick to anyone new in Engineering. He’s even a bit of a dick to Scotty! I sometimes think the writers never quite had a handle on Geordi’s character; is he a young tech genius with poor social skills? Is he supposed to be arrogant? A wannabe lothario who’s just really unlucky? Anyway, like I say, I still love the guy to bits, and LeVar Burton is fantastic, but of all the main ensemble, his are the flakiest solo episodes. That said, the three listed here are all belters. Key episodes: The Next Phase, The Enemy, Relics

Anyway. There we are. I’ve still, as of going “to press”, not watched Discovery season 3, and my wife’s still not watched the end of season 1 of Picard. Any day now…!

[state-of-longing]

53 reddie pls?

This was a one-shot I had already half-written so thank you for this prompt! It got me to finish a year old WIP. I hope you like it. Keep an eye out for a few references from The OC.

53. “Are you jealous? That’s cute.”

‘I don’t like him.’

‘Who? Tony?’

‘Oh, is that his name?’

‘Beep beep, Richie...’ It was quite early in the school day for Beverly to be exasperated with him, it didn’t usually happen until after the lunch bell. She was resting her head on her locker, trying to find some relief as Richie spoke animatedly in her ear.

‘I thought his name was Gerald...’

‘Richie —’

‘Or Assface. It’s easy to get those confused.’

Richie hadn’t met Tony, he only knew that he transferred to Derry High a week ago and was sitting next to Stan in AP History. He didn’t even know he’d been introduced to the other Losers until two seconds ago when he saw them all congregated in front of Stan’s locker.

‘Don’t do this Richard...’

‘Do what, my dear?’

But now he’d seen Tony talking to all of his friends as though he’d known them for years. And something about the whole scene just bothered him. Something about the way Eddie was hanging on to his every word made him incredibly annoyed...

‘Don’t get jealous of the new kid.’

‘Jealous? Who’s jealous? Why would I be jealous of Joseph?’

‘Oh, so you don’t care that Eddie is hanging onto his every word right now?’

That was the annoying part about talking to Beverly Marsh, she always saw through the bullshit. Even though she’d hit the nail right on the head, Richie would never admit that to her. He’d never admit that the thought of Eddie enjoying anyone else’s company, especially that of someone who was ‘conventially’ attractive and kind of smart, bothered him. Not at all. So instead, Richie did what he’d perfected over the years - he deflected.

‘Smoke another bowl, Molly Ringwald—’

‘I fucking hate when you —’

‘— I don’t care that Eddie thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. I care about my friends and I just don’t trust that guy.’

‘Give me one reason why?’

‘...his eyes are too close together.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘And the guy has 20/20 vision? What the fuck is up with that?’

Before Richie could continue on his tirade about assholes who don’t wear glasses, he was interrupted by obnoxiously loud laughter coming from the group by Stan’s locker.

This was a development that was disturbing to Richie for two reasons:

1. Stan was laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard Stanley ‘Urine’ laugh. Ever. And he’d known that kid his whole life. It wasn’t even a little polite chuckle hidden behind a hand or that handkerchief he kept in his back pocket. This was a giant belly laugh that echoed down the hallway. It was a laugh that took over his whole body and made his curls bounce. Stan Uris was fucking snorting with laughter.

2. Eddie was bent over, leaning on Bill’s shoulder as he too was overcome with laughter. Even more horrifying was that when he stood back up he had tears streaming down his cheeks. The sight felt like being punched in the gut. The only time he’d ever seen Eddie laugh like that was because of a joke Richie had made. Eddie only laughed like that at his jokes.

As far as he could tell, this Tony asshole wasn’t even telling a real zinger. Instead, he was walking up and down the hall doing some stupid bird impression. His arms were wings and his legs were bent at the knees as he waddled around. That impression was really that funny?

Richie knew from experience that he couldn’t take the rest of his friend’s reactions as any indicator for how funny this guy was. Bill was chuckling but ole’ Big Bill had never told a joke in his entire life. Sweet Haystack was so nice he would laugh just out of politeness. Richie wished Mike went to school with them because that guy was at least an arbiter of comedic taste.

‘Wow, Tony is pretty funny,’ Beverly sounded far too amused as she picked at lint on Richie’s shirt.

That comment also ruled out Bev.

‘No he’s not. Why would you say that?’

She smiled knowingly and Richie shook away her fussing hands. He hated that smile and the power it held over him. How did she just know everything?

‘Just the laughs coming from Eddie. And Stan. Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Stan laugh.’

‘He’s not funny.’

The laughing continued as Tony continued his impression and relished in the group’s attention. The guy was driving the joke into the ground. What an amateur.

‘He’s big. That’s not necessarily funny’, Richie continued and tried to distract himself from the dull ache in his chest as he watched Eddie follow the group towards their next class. His eyes were shining, cheeks flushed from all the laughter and Richie wished he had caused it. ‘And the guy does impressions? That’s just so cheap.’

‘Richie. All you do is impressions,’ Beverly’s smile faded as she closed her locker and turned to face him. Richie had a sneaking suspicion his poker face wasn’t holding up.

He really couldn’t handle the pity today.

‘Got any smokes Red? I need to get outta here.’

——

Richie had been trying to study for his physics quiz for over two hours and nothing was sinking in. All he had been able to think about all night was Eddie and that laugh. Daydreaming about Eddie wasn’t a new pastime for Richie, he’d been doing it since he was 13 years old, but this time he felt something else.

Something that made all of his ugly insecurities rise up like bile in his throat. Kicking back from his desk, giving up on studying altogether, he stood in front of his full-length mirror and sighed. This was as good as it was gonna get.

Mr ‘I Have One Impression and Will Ram It Down Your Throat’ was conventionally handsome, Richie supposed. He seemed the type who liked participating in school sports unironically and he had the build to match. He was tan and had effortlessly styled hair that just screamed cool and casual.

Richie was almost seventeen and still hadn’t grown into his limbs. He was all gangly bones and arms and legs. He was so pale that if sun touched any part of his skin he burned to a crisp. That meant he copped an earful from Eddie who was always chastising him for not wearing sunscreen. His hair now ruefully curled in a way that was nowhere near cool or casual. Just messy.

On impulse, just to see if any definition had taken over his body or he’d suddenly been bitten by a radioactive spider, Richie pulled off his t-shirt. Nope, still shaped like a beanpole. He could see why Eddie would pay slightly more attention to Tony. Maybe tall, tan and unfunny was what Eddie was into. Maybe that’s who he wanted as a best friend now.

Or more. God, it hurt to think he could be wanting more...

‘Do you want some alone time with yourself?’

Richie was so wrapped up in his own pity party he hadn’t heard Eddie climb up the stairs to his bedroom. Richie’s parents were so used to Eddie hanging out at their house they just let him in now without question. That meant Richie was often caught in painful moments like this.

He was going to say something back, maybe a joke from his back catalogue about jacking off to thoughts of Eddie’s mom, but then he realised his shirt was off. Richie thought he saw a blush come across Eddie’s cheeks as he scanned his bare torso but a wave of embarrassment overtook those thoughts and he clumsily pulled his shirt back on.

‘Jeez Eds, take a picture next time. It’ll last longer.’

As he pulled the shirt over his head, glasses askew in his haste, he saw Eddie flip him off in the reflection of the mirror. Then he flung himself onto Richie’s bed, grabbing a comic book and making himself comfortable like he always did.

Richie took a moment to admire him under the guise of looking in the mirror. He forgot Eddie was wearing that blue collared shirt today...that was definitely a favourite.

‘Where were you this afternoon?’ Eddie’s voice cut through and Richie jumped, mortified that once again he’d gotten caught up in thoughts of his best friend.

‘Ditched with Bev. Hung out down at the quarry for a bit.’

‘Did you forget we were supposed to do something after school? I had no excuse to skip out on dinner with Sonia.’

Richie hadn’t forgotten. He normally took any excuse to spend more time with Eddie after school. But he’d felt like being petty today. Richie let out a huff and sat down on the bed, his knees knocking into Eddie’s just to annoy him.

‘Oh, you didn’t hang out with Larry today?’

Eddie frowned, the wheels in his head turning as he put down the comic. ‘Who the fuck is Larry?’

Richie just shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant as he too picked up a comic and pretended to flick through the pages. If Eddie didn’t know who Richie was talking about then maybe he didn’t think he was so memorable...

‘Wait, do you mean Tony? The guy from Stan’s history class?’

...or not.

Richie rolled his eyes and continued to look down, ‘Oh is that his name? I thought it was Jim Carrey...’

A feeling of white-hot annoyance ran down Richie’s spine and he continued spitefully when Eddie didn’t respond.

‘You know since he’s such a fan of physical comedy.’

‘Are you jealous?’ Eddie scoffed out, pushing Richie’s arm so he dropped the comic and had to look at him. His eyes were shining mischievously in the dim light of the bedroom and any thoughts of annoyance left Richie immediately. ‘That’s cute.’

Richie had to remember to catch his breath at the sight of him. Did he just say cute? Cute. That’s cute. He’s cute...

But then Eddie started to laugh, bringing Richie back to reality and any feeling of hope was squashed immediately. Richie tried to recover by pushing him back onto the bed as he continued to giggle.

‘Well, you thought he was fucking hilarious...’

‘Because he made Stan laugh! Stan! His snort was the highlight of my day!’

‘So you were laughing at Stan?’

‘Well yeah...like we always do. Tony’s bird impression wasn’t really funny. Like he’s big but big isn’t funny.’

Richie’s heart soared as Eddie decided the conversation was over and snatched up the comic he had dropped.

‘That’s exactly what I thought.’

Richie couldn’t wipe the grin from his face as he tried to control his heart rate. So much for a poker face, he was too happy. A small smile also graced Eddie’s features and he paused before opening the latest X-Men.

‘You have a smudge on your glasses again, doofus. How do you even see out of these things?’

Without hesitating, Eddie grabbed the frames off Richie’s face and started cleaning them with the bottom of his shirt. Richie couldn’t see a damn thing but knew his cheeks were burning in a way he couldn’t control.

‘So how about tomorrow? We could go to the arcade we haven’t been there in a while.’

Richie broke out his trance and quickly snatched his glasses back before Eddie could notice his hands start shaking. An overwhelming feeling of powerlessness and shame ran through his veins in a cold trickle. He hadn’t been back to that place in so long. He didn’t want to start now.

‘Nah Eds, the arcade is for babies,’ Richie cleared his throat and swallowed down the need to throw up. Before Eddie could protest he quickly continued, ‘How about we rent a movie? We can watch it in your room so I can pop in for some sweet lovin’ with Mrs K.’

Eddie looked concerned for a brief moment before frowning in disgust. Richie breathed out in relief, hoping he’d changed that subject for the time being. Deflection- it was his speciality nowadays.

‘Sure thing, asshole. Is The Mask available to rent?’ Eddie smiles knowingly and any feeling of hopelessness disappears from Richie’s mind for a moment. Only Eddie can do that to him.

‘Nice callback. You, me and Jim Carrey - it’s a date.’

And that slipped out so fast that Richie didn’t even have time to panic. He just had to play it cool and ignore the way his heart beat wildly in his chest.

But when he looked over at Eddie, he was smiling to himself, a slight flush taking over his cheeks.

‘See, now that’s funny.’

send me a prompt or request. i write reddie, mileven and jopper.

[myfairgunslinger]

Title: Red Dead Revenge: Kiss of Death  [Part 6]

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC x John Marston

Warnings: Smut, Minor Cursing

Summary:  Back at camp and things get tense.  Maeve is left to recall the night John left while waiting in anticipation. 

A/N: Hey guys! I know it's been a while but I'm back with a new chapter. Been pretty busy but I finally had time to write this out so hopefully it was worth the wait. Warning: There is smut in this chapter! So hope you enjoy!  Italics means  flashbacks.

Chapter Six: Dirty Laundry

The trip back to camp was a rather silent one with John's countdown to his hollering contest with Abigail, Arthur still resenting the lying pair, and Maeve lost in her thoughts of the Bollard Twins.  The ride was also hot, the sun was at it's highest as it beat down on the trio.  Maeve wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead letting out an exhausted sigh.  She had a long sleepless night, they all did.

"Tired already?" John asked her, trying to make conversation.  Maeve gave him a nod, "I'm gonna sleep in my bed roll until tomorrow."

"That is unless, Mrs. Grimshaw let's you," Arthur chimed in from up ahead, "She usually puts everyone to work some kind of chore at some point."

Maeve rolled her eyes, "She's been kind to me.  And if doing chores is the worst thing I can do for the gang than by all means, bring on the chores."

Arthur and John eyed one another for a moment before the older of the group let out a chuckle, "It's nice havin' you around, sweetheart."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When they finally arrived to camp John dismounted quickly to then offer Maeve assistance on getting down.  She refused him wanting to only interact with him until after he had his talk, making Arthur sneer at the rejection, "Don't tell me you're gonna try winning her back.  You're just makin' a damn fool of yourself, Marston," he said when Maeve was out of ear shot.

"You sound more bitter than usual, old man," John snarked, "Almost as if you don't want it to happen."

"I don't," Arthur said unstrapping Boadicia's straddle so her back could rest, "Just leave the poor girl alone. She's been through enough trouble. Doesn't need you and that joke you call your marriage to weigh in on her."

John's nose flared, "So now you care? You know you really send mixed signals with being mean to her face then the second she turns around you're worried about her well being.  Startin' to think this behavior of yours is you being smitten with her."

The accused man shut his eyes, made a scoff at John then turned to face him, "I don't care what happens to her," Arthur stepped closer, "Anymore than I care for what happens to you," his eyes burned, they soon caught sight of the perfect person for this moment, "Abigail!"  John's eyes went wide thinking he could have stalled his talk with her for a moment longer.

"Hey, Arthur," she said holding a cup of coffee close to her, "John," the woman said in a neutral tone, "How did the trip to town go with the new girl?" she asked not having a clue what was to come.

Arthur smiled a devilish smile while keeping his eyes on John, "It went well.  John ended up joinin' us too.  He told me the most lovely story while we were in Armadillo.  You should tell her exactly what you told me, John," Arthur took in the dread on John's face, "Word for word."

Abigail glanced between the two men, thinking them strange, "Uh John, what's he talkin' about?"

John had his hands on his hips glaring back at John, "Nothing, Abigail.  Can we talk alone for a minute?"

"You'll need more time than that," Arthur called out. "Do you know when to shut up?" John snapped at him before turning to Abigail to lead her to his tent.

Maeve had watched from afar as Arthur walked away from the 'married couple'.  This was it.  The actual moment of truth.  She only wondered what was gonna happen after.  If Abigail would forgive him and take him back or would John still stay with her.  Part of Maeve still felt their connection was there and he must have too.

She laid down on her bed roll with so many thoughts on her mind, most of them about John.  If he did want to come back to her, would Maeve even take him back? 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yes," she gasped out softly when he kissed the flesh of her neck, "Just like that, John," They were very much in the middle of an intimate moment.  John's arms were wrapped around her naked body, holding Maeve close.

Their legs were entangled until John had used his knee to part hers. His lips kissed down her chest to graze over her soft bosom.  John's hands wrapped around her wrists to pin them above her head, having such a lustful look in his eyes. Maeve breathlessly spoke, "Please."

What followed was John thrusting himself into her, each penetration causing her to fill the room with her screams.  They found themselves always making love those first few weeks after their first passionate night.

John's hands were so gentle against her skin, his eyes always getting lost on her face especially when she slept next to him.  A faint smile would always sneak it's way on to her face as she dreamed while a small frown would appear on his when he thought about the big question.  How much longer was he going to stay here with her?

One early morning he thought too long of this question that when Maeve woke up, she found him sitting up, lost in his mind.

"What's upsetting you, sweet face?" Maeve looked up at him with tired eyes.

 John was caught by surprise when hearing her voice.  He looked over at her, pushing for a smile to not worry her so much, "Just had a bad dream, is all."

"Wanna tell me what it was about?"  John shook his head. He laid back down with her and pulled her close so he was spooning his girl.  Maeve wondered what type of dream would cause him to be this sad, what she didn't know is that it was John waking up to reality.

She glanced outside to see the daylight peeking through the curtains and Maeve pulled away to get up quickly, "Oh my, I gotta go."  John whined for a short moment, "Do you have to?"

Maeve started to put on her clothes that were scattered over the floor, "Do I want to? No way! I'd rather stay and cuddle with you, maybe get breakfast and come back here so you can do that thing you were doing with your hands last night," John chuckled but kept staring at her. Maeve was putting on her boots now, "But I promised my mother I was gonna send out this package," she looked around for the wrapped box.  Cecilia had to mail a dress to Valentine.

 Maeve found the box set on the chair, "There it is.  I was gonna get this to the post before today's mail was collected.  And I'm cutting things really short as it is."

"You sure are," John reached out to grab her hand and pulled her back to the edge of the bed.  Maeve attempted to tug back, "John! I gotta go!" He still kept her, grinning, "Not until you give me something that I want."

"Oh my goodness!  You are so horrible!" Maeve scoffed out a laugh then leaned down to kiss his lips softly.  John kissed her back then parted away after a moment, "I'm the horrible one, when you're supposed to be doing errands, but instead you're here with me in secret."

"Everyone has their flaws, John," she said.  However, things weren't much of a secret.  Her parents weren't stupid to think she's working a lot more at the saloon.  They had started to catch on that she's met someone.

'When are we meetin' him?' her mother had asked one day taking Maeve by complete surprise.  At first, Maeve had denied that their was a 'him', but a sober Cecilia is more sharp than any blade, 'My sweet, you used to have this annoyed look on your face every time you came home.  Now all I see is you havin' this far of look as if your head is in the clouds.  So who is he?'

Maeve opened the door to John's room but then shut it to turn back to him, "Forget something?" he asked.  Looking at John, Maeve opened her mouth to say, "I want you to meet my parents."

John stared at her not sure of what to say.  He thought she would have asked sooner, but when that happened he assumed it would be later.  She trusted him enough to meet her folks, to show him her home.  The man then gave her a smirk that could melt any woman. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maeve felt a kick to her side, the opposite one to her wound, pulling her out of her memories, "Ow! Hey!" It was Mrs. Grimshaw standing over her, "Miss Milley, the time for laying about is over.  The ladies of the camp and myself can use your help today for laundry duty."

The younger woman looked up at the gang's arbiter and thought of how Arthur wasn't kidding.  She got up to get to work, "What am I doing?"

Susan was happy to see she didn't get any lip or complaining unlike the other women around here, "I need you to go get the laundry from all the men."

Maeve's eyes glanced over to John's tent which still occupied him and Abigail, "Umm... all the men?"

Susan winced her eyes at her for moment, wanting to know why that question was asked, "Will that be a problem?" which could have been said in an intimidating tone that Maeve did take in that way at that moment.  However, Mrs. Grimshaw was genuinely curious if it would be an issue.  Who had a problem with her new girl?

"No.  No, problem at all...just checking is all.  I'll go get this done," Maeve picked up a large basket to scurry off, "Meet them at the buckets when you're done!" Susan called out.

Maeve wasn't sure were to start off so she figured why not with Arthur.  When getting to his tent he wasn't there but a pile of his clothes were on the ground as if he knew someone would come for them.  It was on to the next man.

"Mister Strauss?" she approached him as he was looking at his books that had details of loans, "Do you have anything for me to add to the wash?" The old man picked up a pile of clothes that was under his chair, "Be careful with my shirts. They are to be washed delicately and do not use cheap soap! It's the least you can do for me since I stitched you up!"

The girl rolled her eyes at his entitlement when tossing his clothes in the basket, "So wash vigorously with basically animal fat?  You got it, Doctor!"

He grumbled out, "That is the opposite of what I said!"

"Yeah, yeah I heard you," Maeve snarked.

"The first and last time I do anything to better your health! Which you still have not said thank you for!" He shouted to her.  Maeve tilted her head, "I haven't?  Wow...see you around then!" Maeve moved on to the next tent as Strauss said what Maeve could assume as curses in German.

It was Bill's tent who was cleaning his rifle out.  Maeve wasn't sure what to make of Mr. Williamson other than he was big and burly with a hat that was flat on one side, "Do you have any clothes for me to wash?"

Bill took out some pants and a shirt that were filthy beyond comprehension and the smell was enough to get Maeve to gag, "Uh..sorry, ma'am.  Had a busy week."

Holding her breath Maeve forced a smile, "It's fine...I'll just wear a clothes pin on my nose." When she was about to leave Bill did ask for her attention, "Ma'am can I ask a favor when you wash my pants?"

"Sure?" Maeve didn't know where this was going but he continued, "Can you do something in the groin area so I won't....chaff?  It's uncomfortable," his voice was low but Maeve wanted to express an 'Aww' for the man for trusting her with that detail, "I'll see what I can do, Mister Williamson."

The next couple of tents were Sean MacGuire and Javier Escuella both whom didn't have any requests when washing their clothes, just comments of: "Ain't you a pretty little lass! Makes me think heaven likes to drop it's angels on us, ay Javier?"  The other man was tuning his guitar as Sean continued, "Tell you what, you wash my clothes and I'll give you a proper thank you later tonight?" he winked.

Maeve clenched her teeth together and shook her head, "No, thank you.  Stayin' at camp is plenty of a reward," Sean tossed his clothes in the basket, "If ya change yer mind, the offer is always there."

She made a shutter and held the basket out to Javier who decided to comment, "She's not interested you.  Why would she be?  When she can be with a real man?" Javier flirted with raised eyebrows when placing his shirts in.

The girl was already getting fed up with this, "Fellas, I have five other tents I have to go to today.  Is this gonna happen a lot when I come to collect?" The two men shrugged and answered simultaneously.

"Maybe."

"Most certainly."

Maeve rolled her eyes to move on to the next person, which was the cook Pearson.  His clothes smelled of meat and blood with stains of stew.  After him was Uncle and all his booze scented union suits.

"These are your pajamas.  What about your clothes you wear everyday?" Maeve asked him.

"You want me to take 'em off?" he went to slide off the strap of his overalls and Maeve shouted out a, "No! No! Please!" then picked up the basket to run off to Dutch's tent.  This entire time Arthur had kept his eye on Maeve, seeing how well she was handling herself with the men around camp.

"She seems to be doing fine," Hosea said not looking up from his book that he was reading.  Arthur turned to his father like figure, "I suppose so.  Miracle she resisted the charms of the more seductive members of the gang."

"Javier?"

"I meant Uncle," they both had a laugh about that until Hosea closed his book after marking it with his finger, "It is nice to see you care about someone again."

Arthur scoffed while pointing his thumb to the woman, "I don't care about her."

"Really?" Hosea wanted to laugh at the denial, "Then why you so interested in seeing the men of camp conversing with Miss Lily?"

"It's Milley-- shit!" Arthur cursed himself as Hosea pointed at him going, "Ah ha! I got ya!"

"Oh that doesn't prove anything!" He tried to defend himself but Hosea knew better, "It's not a crime to take a liking to the girl, Arthur.  We all know how you have a weakness for brunettes with a pretty face and need rescuin' from some force or another."

He shut his eyes, "Please don't bring her up.  As far as I can tell, Maeve is nothing like Mary.  Or Eliza for that matter."

"Which is a good thing.  Maybe Maeve won't hurt you like Mary did," Hosea did frown at the mention of Eliza, "And you did say that Miss Milley can hold her own based on what you told me when you found her."

Arthur placed his forearm against the pillar holding up the tent to rest. He knew what Hosea was getting at with that statement.  Maeve was a fighter, a strong and stubborn one at that.  He stared at her when she was listening to Dutch go over in extreme detail on how to wash his vests.  As if sensing being watched, Maeve turned her head to see Arthur.

They gazed at each other for what felt like a long moment before one corner of Maeve's mouth lifted then raised her hand up to give him a gentle wave, like she had back on the first night that they met right before leaving the saloon.

"Now--Miss?" Dutch interrupted them to say while still holding his vest, "You need to let this soak for a while. It's important."

Hosea set his book down on the table, "Arthur, you're not with anyone.  She's not with anyone, for now. You both seem to like one another.  What's keepin' you?"

Arthur moved away from the pillar and looked down at his feet knowing the answer.  He was just unsure if he should answer it, even if it wasn't his to tell.  The outlaw brought his eyes to Hosea who was waiting to hear his answer.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maeve held up a blue frill-chested blouse against her body while looking in the mirror to see if it was the shirt she wanted to wear for tonight.  With a soft frown, Maeve had another button up blouse in her hand that was a light pink with sleeves going to her elbows.  She liked that one more and put it on while wearing her black skirt with a dark gray strip pattern going vertical on the fabric.

She went over to look at herself in the mirror by her window to practice her smiling while saying, "Mother, Father...This is John Marston. Don't pause for so long," she took a breath stressing too much over this simple introduction, "Mama, Papa-- ew no," she waved her hand in frustration.  Maeve tried again, "Everett, Cecilia, I'd like you to meet Mister Marston.  Oh, come on!  That's much too formal.  Why is this so difficulty to say? You got him to agree with meeting your parents and your parents actually want to meet him,"  Maeve said to herself in the reflection.  Resetting her composer to be that of a more relaxed state, Maeve said, "Mom, Pa.  I'd liked you to meet John.  John Marston."  

She liked that delivery enough to smile at herself, "Now give us your blessing to get married.  John get down on one knee," Maeve giggled at herself, "Maybe just worry about them meeting for now."

A loud ringing was heard from the grandfather clock from downstairs.  It rang seven times notifying Maeve that John would be here soon and she hasn't even started on dinner, "Oh no!" she hurried down the stairs in a panic.  A great scent filled her nose when she ran into the kitchen and it was delicious.

"Ma?" Maeve couldn't believe her eyes.  Cecilia had her hair up in a nice bun wearing a pale yellow silk blouse with small pink flowers embroider on it and a pink floral pattern skirt to match.  Her golden earrings dangled from her lobes.  It wasn't Cecilia's outfit that surprised Maeve, what took the daughter for a loop was that her mother was cooking without a drop of alcohol close by, "Yes, my sweet?"

The platter Cecilia was holding had freshly cooked prairie chicken with some vegetables, "This--this looks amazing.  I was gonna settle on canned goods and salted beef.  Ma, where did you find time to make this and--" she sniffed the air again catching a whiff of dessert, "peach cobbler?"

Her mother let out an amused laugh, "Well, when you put the bottle down for a day or so you find other things to fill in your time.  Besides couldn't have you stressing out so much on what to feed our guest while you gussied up. Then it would have been for nothing.  And how often is it that you take interest in a boy?" Everett had walked in the kitchen and the older woman waved her hand to him to catch his attention, "What was the name of that one boy Maeve shoved in the mud back in Saint Denis?"

The father was setting the table, "That was one of the Wilson's boys.  Neil, I think," he chuckled.

"He doesn't count because I didn't like him," Maeve stared at her mother, eyes filled with gratitude now, "In all seriousness, thank you.  I am at a loss of words," Everett was eyeing the food, "If our guest isn't here in the next fifteen minutes, I'm eatin' without him.  It is a sin to let that go cold,"  Even her father wore his best button up shirt that was a hue of green with suspenders attached to his dark town pants.  Everett went as far as having a fresh shave done to his face.

Cecilia rolled her eyes, "You eat anything without that man present and you sleep outside with the horses, Mister."

Maeve grinned at her mother's warning, "She's very serious pa, better watch out."  Everett put his fists on his hip to say in a playfully firm tone, "I did not shave off my beard to have you two gang up on me!"

Cecilia went to take out the peach cobbler to place it down on the table while saying, "Everett, enough horsin' around," her husband glared at the notion she even used that phrase, but let her continue, "This dinner is very important to our daughter and we will treat it as the most important night of our lives."

The daughter of these two hilarious yet supportive individuals was touched.  Maeve smiled lovingly at them.  Cecilia then added, "And with any luck this man will come take Maeve away to marry her and have eight children together."

Maeve stared at her mother, "Eight?! Are you insane?"

"No, I really want to be a grandmother.  I miss having a baby around the house," Cecilia smiled.  Everett groaned, "Oh gee, all the cryin' and poopin'.  I miss that too," he said sarcastically, "Glad, Maeve grew out of that--well you can still do those I just don't have to put up with it."

"Oh my!" Maeve laughed out.  She didn't appreciate this then, but all this banter did ease the girl of all the stress she had about having this dinner.

Outside the house, looking in on this family through the windows was John.  He had been standing out here since Maeve was talking to herself in the mirror.  Seeing her with her folks, laughing and being decent people, John realized something he didn't want to.  If he went in there, he'd ruin all of their lives with being the man he is.  He'd ruin Maeve.  

Looking at where she came from it was everything he wanted as a child, even now. How long would it be before he started robbing out of desperation or shooting people?  How long would it be before anyone recognized him on a wanted a poster and he had to run again?  He couldn't let this family go through any of that, they were too good for it, too good for him.  It was bad enough he was sneaking around with their daughter, being in love with her.  If he went into that house right now, they would accept him and he would love them making it so much harder for when that day came.  The day where everything came to an end for John Marston.

The conflicted man took a final look at that happy family before turning a way to get back to the saloon for a few drinks and then getting ready to leave Blackwater. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John's tent was going to be last for Maeve.  She did not want to walk in on their talk; not out of fear, but getting shot again was something Maeve didn't find to be fun. Being stabbed seemed annoying as well which was a quieter approach for an angry wife to pull on his husband's ex-lover.  Maeve could only imagine the nasty things that will be said to her once Abigail gets out of the tent. Whore was going to be a popular one.  Homewreckin' Slut would be another wonderful pet name.  Maeve knew this whole situation was not her fault since John never mentioned his marriage, but why did she feel so damn guilty then?

Maeve sighed out when getting the Callander brothers' clothes, "Can you get this back to me before tomorrow morning?" Mac requested for his bloodied blue shirt, "I wanted to hit the town and this is my best shirt." The girl nodded adding it to the rest.  She glanced at John's tent to see if anyone came out and still there was nothing.  Slowly approaching the dreaded tent, a voice called out to her, "Abigail will get John's clothes."

Maeve turned to see it was Hosea saying this as he approached her with a single dirty shirt.  She was rather suspicious as to why the older man went out of his way to deliver his laundry to her, "Are you sure that's all you want done?" The man nodded, "Positive," was all he said when walking back towards his tent, “Huh.”

When she picked up the now heavy basket she started to walk to where Susan instructed, that is until a small child ran right in front of her, startling Maeve to drop the clothes, "Oh my!" It was Jack who stopped to turn on his heel to stick out his little tongue to blow a raspberry.

Maeve scoffed at the little child, "The words you're lookin' for are excuse me, Miss." He put his hands up, thumbs touching his temples, wiggling his fingers, and blew out another raspberry.

She winced her eyes, "I don't know why I expected manners out of a kid being raised by a bunch of outlaws," Maeve got on the ground to pick up the dropped articles of clothing as Jack ran off again.

"He's almost three, what did you expect?" she heard Arthur and tilted her head up to see him standing over her.  Maeve answered with, "I don't know.  Maybe him offering to help a lady carry such a large load of clothes down to the washing area?"

Arthur smirked at her sarcasm, "You expect too much.  Hate to see what you have in mind for John."

Maeve's lip corners dropped after Arthur had said that, "I didn't expect a lot, actually," she aggressively put the clothes back in her basket.

"Say that Abigail doesn't murder him or you, you and John plan on running off into the sunset together?" he said coldly.  Maeve went to stand up, "You know something?  I think I like you better when I'm drunk."

Arthur scoffed, "Wouldn't be the first time a woman's told that to me."

"Yeah?  That's a surprise! Why would any woman, sober or drunk, wants to be around you when you act like such a fool," Maeve grabbed her basket starting to leave.  "I'm the fool?  You're the one pining after a married man."

Maeve set the basket down hard and whipped around to stomp over to her antagonizer, "I didn't know he was married!" she hissed when being inches from his face, "I didn't know he was a father either! I didn't know! He never said anything to me about it.  If he did, maybe nothing would have happened."

Arthur rose an eyebrow at her, "Maybe nothing would have happened?" Maeve let out a breath while staring at a rock on the ground, "Yeah...you heard me."

"Maeve that's--well that's not really good either," his tone dropped from antagonizing to actual concern for her.  There weren't many people around them during their discussion which they both were thankful for.

"Arthur, we--" she started, "John and I were--well what I thought--," Maeve felt so stuck getting the words out until she finally said out loud something even Maeve never wanted to admit again, "I loved him and I wanted him more than I ever wanted anything."

Arthur watched her as she spoke, "Haven't you ever just felt an intense feeling for someone?  Being around them just drives you insane with excitement?" Maeve asked him, "And then to have 'em walk out of your life just when you think things are going well?  Well enough that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with 'em?"

How he wanted to say, 'Yes' or that he knew that feeling of rejection all too well from his former love.  How he had his heart ripped out yet still had to keep going.  Perhaps he was being just a little too harsh on Miss Milley.

Maeve got the basket when he said nothing, "I get it...I'm the bad guy no matter how the situation is.  Call me whatever name you got, Mister.  Been preparing myself to hear nasty words all day," Arthur reached his hand out to her, "Gimme," he said referring to the laundry.  She gazed at him as if he was going to pull a prank on her, but he didn't.  After he gestured his hand again for it Maeve let him carry the load.

They didn't say anything on the walk over to the wash buckets.  A few of the ladies greeted Arthur when he set down the clothes, "Gee Arthur, you tryin' to impress the new girl?" Karen said smoking a cigarette instead of scrubbing shirts like Tilly and Mary-Beth.

Maeve got some clothes to start on.  She ignored the girl's teasing, wanting to get this over with to go back to her lumpy bed roll.  Arthur was a bit taken back by Karen's bluntness but just said, "Well, Miss Milley is in a bit of trouble, ya know."  Maeve's head snapped up to Arthur, on the verge of being mortified if he said anything. "Oh really?" Karen took a long drag before blowing out the smoke. He noticed Maeve's expression then said,  "Mrs. Grimshaw gave her the task of collecting the men's clothing.  How cruel and smelly is that?"

The girls laughed and Maeve, her laugh was nervous relief, "Told ya she would get lovely in a matter of days," Karen pointed out then flicked her but away to take some wet clothes to the clothes hanger.

"Yeah, you did..." Maeve stared at Arthur for a moment, mouthing a 'Thank you' to him.  He gave a soft nod to the girl then tipped his hat, "Ladies, always a pleasure," and walked back to the camp.

Maeve got started on scrubbing each article of clothing, it was a long process.  From Dutch's request to have his vests soak longer in the water, to softening Bill's pants so he wouldn't chaff.  Her fingers were tender and raw by the time she finished washing.  Thankfully, Tilly helped by hanging up the wet laundry as she went.

Susan had came over to check on the girls and was pleased to see that they got this done, "I knew I could count on you to get this done, Miss Milley.  You're a fine addition to our gang."

Maeve smirked but nodded to Tilly, "Miss Jackson was a big help too." "Well you both earned some stew," Susan started to lead them back to camp.  Maeve made a face at that reward, "I thought we did a good job, Mrs. Grimshaw."

Tilly barked out a laugh when approaching the stew pot, "Here you go, Miss.  Nice to see you gettin' a meal in," Pearson handed her a bowl noting how she didn't eat much.  "Thanks," Maeve walked by her bag about to take out a can of her favorite fruit when she saw, sitting by the fire, John, not eating.  He looked exhausted and frustrated which must have meant his talk went about as well as anyone expected.

Maeve was brought up with a decision now.  Go eat her food on her bedroll or go sit by John to see how he's doing.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was past midnight by the time Maeve arrived at the Blackwater Saloon.  Only the worst went through her head as to why John didn't show up to dinner.  Had he been robbed?  Did he get in a fight?  Did he die?  There had to be an explanation as to why he never arrived.

Maeve hitched Liability to a post before running through the doors, startling Lou, "What are you doin' here, Miss Milley? Thought you were off?" he seemed annoyed that she was there at this time.

"Where's John?" she asked.  Lou pointed upstairs, "Where else?"

Maeve climbed the stairs in a hurry and found John shutting the door to his room.  She stepped closer to him when saying, "John, what happened to you? I was worried sick when you didn't show up! I thought--" she noticed the bag over his shoulder.  He hasn't even looked at her yet, "John?  Where are you going?"

He let go of the door handle, "I have to leave.  Tonight."

"What?" she was so confused, "Why? What's so important that you had to skip out on meetin' my parents?"

While he was facing her, the brim of his hat was covering his eyes, "Nothing, Maeve.  I've been here too long and it's time I move on."

'You mean move on from me', is what Maeve thought to herself, "Is it me?"

"Mae--"

"No! What did I do to you? Did I say something?" Her eyes welled up, "If you weren't ready to meet them, it's okay!  We could have done this a different night.  I can wait for you, John.  We can do this whenever you want.  Just please--" her eyes begged him not to leave.

This was really tugging at his heart.  He knew she would wait a century if that's what it took.  Part of him did want to drop everything and just embrace Maeve, stay with her forever and start over.  That would end and every thing he's tried to hide from her for so long would come out.

Not just that he had a wife and child, but his entire past of being an outlaw.  That entire history of being a thief, a murderer, all of it was enough to scare any sane woman like Maeve running for the hills.  She would end up resenting him or worse, turning him in.

"Maeve, I'm not who you think.  I'm not that man you want to bring home to your folks," he finally tilted his head up to see the tears steaming down her face, "You're not gonna even let me decide that for myself?" Maeve's voice raised.  She took a moment to breathe, "Let me come with you."

John shook his head, "I'm not askin' you to leave your family.  To abandon your life here."

Frustrated, Maeve clutched her fists, "I want a life with you! You idiot! I don't care if we have a quiet, boring one or an adventurous one where we travel.  I just want to be with you because I--I--," her voice started to shake.  She shut her eyes for a moment then opened them to look John in the eye as she told him, "I love you."

With a heavy heart, John uttered an, "I'm sorry," staring right back at her, "but you don't belong in my life and I don't belong in yours."

Her mouth dropped open as he walked passed her to head down the stairs. Maeve's heart beat fast against her chest as John slipped away.  There was an empty shot glass on the table close to her.  Maeve on impulse grabbed it in her hand and threw towards the wall that was right by John's head whistle letting out a yell, "I hope you're sorry for the rest of your life!"

John jumped and looked back at her, "Are you nuts?" Maeve huffed a breath at him, eyes scorning with rage something John never thought he would see in her.

"I'm sorry I ever met you!" her words bit like venom.  John nodded his head once, as if understanding her rage.  In his head I figured she'll get over him faster now.  He said taking one last look at her, "Good-bye, Maeve."

As the saloon doors swung shut, Maeve crouched down on the stairs letting out angered sobs.  Lou had stood up from behind the bar after having to hide.  He looked up at his employee, "Miss Milley?" ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maeve watched John from across camp, his eyes still on the fire in front of him.  She hated him for so long after he left.  After he left her confused, angry, but most of all heart broken.  Cecilia and Everett were there to bring comfort like they always had for her, but that was the only time where it became difficult.

All that girl pondered the entire time she was observing John was whether or not he deserved to have her attention.  To have any emotions that she could give. To have her give him a second chance.  The answer Maeve needed to hear, would be no.  But that definitely wasn't the answer she wanted to hear.

Maeve stood up, leaving her untouched stew behind as she walked across the camp to go to John.  Each step brought her closer to him, to the possibility of putting behind their complicated past.  When she was just approaching the fire John's head looked up to see her there and just as his face used to do when he saw Maeve, it lit up.  Not fully, just enough that he had a smirk on his face.

And then it was ruined by a shrill voice, "Hey!" Maeve tensed up turning to see a pissed off Abigail approaching her, "I believe we need to have a talk, Miss Milley!" the wife hissed her name as if saying a curse word.

All that dirty laundry wasn’t quite done yet.  In fact, Maeve was left out to dry "Shit."

[rhetoricandlogic]

How did I never see this? The Emperor’s Soul, Deleted Scene

The Emperor’s Soul Deleted Prologue: Imperial Fool

The Emperor’s Soul

Note: It’s best if you have read The Emperor’s Soul before you read this deleted prologue.

Shai pressed her fingernail into one of the stone blocks of her prison cell. The stone gave way slightly. She rubbed the dust between her fingers, frowning. “Limestone?” she asked softly. “Who makes a cell out of limestone?”

Of course, the whole cell wasn’t of limestone, merely that single block. Shai had counted twenty-seven different kinds of stone so far, including several she didn’t know the names of. That would make escape tough. Very tough.

This was a cell that had been designed to hold a Forger. She knelt down beside her bunk, using a fork—she’d bent back all of the tines but one—to carve notes into the wood of one leg. She’d engraved a crosswork pattern on another side, with numbers representing the stones of the back wall of her cell. Without her spectacles, she had to squint to see what she’d carved there.

She wrote out, with some difficulty, the word limestone in the key representing the stone block she’d just identified. “Honestly,” she growled as she worked. “They sentence a girl to death. They could at least give her a sheet of paper.”

“A sheet of paper?” The amused voice came from outside the cell. “You actually asked for one?”

Shai jumped at the voice, standing and tucking her hand behind her back to hide the fork. Stealing that had been unpleasant. If she lost it . . .

But it was only the court fool. The man’s hawkish face was capped by a three-pointed jester’s crown, though his was of simple white and black, not the traditional brazen colors. He wore a black coat, long and flowing, almost like one of the Grands. He shouldn’t have been able to get away with such deviations; the Grands liked their fools on the silly side of ridiculous.

“Come to mock me?” Shai snapped, turning back to her carving.

“I don’t mock the condemned,” the Fool said from beyond the cell bars. “Did you really ask them for paper, Shai?”

“I’ve been sentenced to death. They’re supposed to meet my requests during my last week of life. It’s traditional.”

“You’re a master Forger,” he replied. “Giving you paper would be like handing a sword to a captive soldier who asked for one politely.”

She snorted, counting up blocks on the wall, then carving out a few more notes. “I can’t do much with only paper.”

If she had soulstone, now . . .

“It’s the principle of the thing, I suspect,” the Fool said, still sounding amused. How wonderful that her life, and its impending end, could bring pleasure to the Imperial Fool.

“There are forty-four kinds of stone in the wall, you know,” he said.

She spun. “You know them?”

He’d taken to leaning back against the wall, arms folded, cleaning out one fingernail with another. “Top left, the one you’ve been trying so long to figure out, that’s grindstone from a quarry in Laio.”

“Tell me the others,” Shai said, dropping the fork and pressing up against the bars. “Fool, tell me what they are.”

“I could,” he said. “But would that really help? Assuming you knew all forty-four, assuming you knew their histories and the quarries they came from, what would you do? Create a seal for the wall in just two days? Carve yourself a soulstamp out of . . .what? Wood? Even if you had the proper stone, you’d use a fork to etch it?”

Shai looked down at the fork, dropped behind on the ground.

“The wall is a challenge, Shai,” the Fool said.

She closed her eyes. She’d known it, deep down. A wall of patchwork stones? It was a puzzle meant to occupy a Forger. Something to make them spend their time, and make them forget, for a little while, about the noose . . .

But what else was she to do? Give up? Try to Forge the bars instead? They’d been made with ralkalest, the unForgeable element. She’d get nowhere trying that.

“I am sorry about this,” the Fool said.

“You? You’re just the court fool. Why should I care if you . . .” She trailed off. “You!” she said, pointing. “You’re the one who turned me in!”

“Yes.”

“Nights! Why?”

“I couldn’t let you steal the scepter.”

“What? Suddenly you’re a loyal subject? Nights, Fool! You should have come to me. I’d have offered you gold to keep my secret.”

“I couldn’t let you steal it,” the Fool continued, “because I had to steal it myself.”

Shai froze.

“Your duplicate, I might add,” the Fool said, hands clasped behind his back, “was quite useful. Thank you.”

Shai was a Forger. She had spent her life studying the way people thought and the best ways to fool them. She knew to spot another fake when she saw one. Usually.

All this time . . . The pieces twisted, fitting into place with one another. He had duped her. He had duped them all, the Grands, the empire itself.

Shai’s anger melted away like cold spring runoff, and she found herself raising two curled fingers to her forehead: a salute. If he had pulled this off . . . Nights, she was in the presence of a master.

The Fool smiled. “A chance is coming your way, Shai,” he said.

“A chance?”

“A sign of respect, from one liar to another. It is not much—I must leave this place, and my time to arrange an opportunity for you was narrow. But you are clever; it might be enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Keep your wits sharpened,” the Fool said, turning to go. “Be careful, be keen. It has been an interesting dance, sparring with you.”

“Fool? I have money.” A lie. “I can offer—”

He turned toward her, meeting her eyes. In that moment, the Imperial Fool changed. His face grew somber, became steel, and his eyes . . .

In his eyes lay an eternity, an age.

She knew people. She had studied people. This man cared nothing for bribes. This man was not just a master. He was something far beyond that.

A shiver ran through her. “Nights, what are you?”

“Why must people always ask it that way?” A faint smile rose on his lips. “You will not see me again. Farewell.”

He slipped up the steps on near-silent feet. Shai watched him go, feeling thoroughly trounced. How long had it been since someone had gotten the better of her so soundly?

She sank down, looking at her bent fork, the notes on the bed, the wooden handle of the fork that she’d removed and begun carving—crudely—as a soulstamp. It was far too imprecise to be effective.

A chance. What did he mean?

The door to the dungeons opened above. She half thought it would be the Fool returning. How like him that would be, to claim that she would not see him again, then reappear seconds later laughing.

Heavy boots sounded on the steps leading out of the dungeon, and she squinted at the newcomers. Guards, guiding a man with long features and fingers. A Grand, the race who led the empire, but he was not high ranked. That robe of blue and green indicated a minor functionary who had passed the tests for government service, but not risen high in its ranks.

A chance . . . An opportunity . . .

Shai composed herself. She had been bested, but her Uncle Won had taught her that being bested was a rule of life. No matter how good you were, someone was better. Live according to that knowledge, and you would never grow so confident that you became sloppy.

And she had not been sloppy. She’d almost had the prize. She had run across someone better. That happened.

This time, she would win. Whatever the opportunity, she would seize it and thrive. For now, she played not for riches, but for her life.

The Grand stepped up to the bars. He paused for just a moment, then waved for the guards to unlock the door. “The arbiters wish to interrogate you, Forger.”

Editor’s note: When Brandon first wrote this novella and sent it around for alpha reads, it included the scene above. Brandon replaced it with the current prologue featuring Gaotona due to feedback from Mary Robinette Kowal.