#livia shroud

[liviavanrouge]

Adopted

???: She's charging, everyone hush!

???: Sorry, sorry!

Livia: *Opens her eyes, her charging tree dimming*

Shroud Family: HAPPY ADOPTION DAY!!!

Livia: *Flinches in alarm, almost firing an energy ball at them*

Mrs Shroud: Sorry for startling you, Liv-Chan!

Idia: We adopted you Livia, w-welcome to the family

Citro: We got a little sister how great is that!!

Pen: So great!

Pan: Yeah!

Ortho: Welcome to the family Livia Aidon Shroud!

Livia: *Blinks in surprise* Livia....Aidon Shroud

Mr Shroud: Forgive us, we looked up your name and saw that a middle name was registered

Mrs Shroud: Since we adopted you we decided to give you a new name!

Livia: *Smiles wide* Livia Aidon Shroud!! I LOVE IT!!!!

Idia: We have a gift for you...

Citro: You always say you wanted to go into space!

Pen and Pan: So we copied Ortho's Star Gazer gear and remodeled it!!!

Mr Shroud: *Carries a new gear in, setting it down*

Livia: *Floats closer, her eyes lighting up*

Mrs Shroud: Do you like it, Liv-Chan?

Livia: No.......I LOVE IT!!!!

Mr Shroud: She gave me a fright for a minute there

Idia: Wanna go into space Livia? The gear is specially designed for you to be up there for days without ever getting tired-

Livia: *Squeals causing the lights to flicker* Yes!!!!!!

Mr and Mrs Shroud: *Quickly places their hands on her shoulders* Let's calm down!!

Mr Shroud: Livia, daughter, we don't need another blackout....

Livia: *Giggles as Citro hooked her up to her Space Gear* Sorry Father, I'm just so happy

Idia: *Glides his fingers across the keyboard, Livias eyes closing*

Livia: *Opens her eyes, looking into the mirror* Wowie! It's amazing

Mr Shroud: And we installed an opening in your room *Presses a button, a space in Livias room opening* you can go in and out as you please

Mrs Shroud: Be back better dinner, Liv-Chan

Livia: *Nods and activates her blasters, taking off through the opening in her room ceiling*

Mr Shroud: *Stares after her then rushes to the computer, tapping into the security cameras*

Mrs Shroud: Oh, he's worried about her

Idia: She is the only daughter now...

----

Livia: *Smiles, blasting through the atmosphere, heat surrounding her body but vanishing*

Mrs Shroud: *Communicating through a speaker* Liv-Chan can you hear Mommy through the helmet speaker?

Livia: Yes, Mother!

Mrs Shroud: Good be careful but have fun!

Mr Shroud: Daughter, if it gets too dangerous tur back, don't jeopardize your safety.....

Livia: *Nods* I will! First stop! Saturn!!

Mrs Shroud: Mommy and Daddy Shroud out!

------

Mrs Shroud: Let's get dinner ready

Ortho: Alright!

Mr Shroud: *Stays silent, keeping close to the microphone that lets them speak with Livia*

Mrs Shroud: She'll be fine Papa, but if you're really worried you can stay here and keep an eye out

Mr Shroud: *Nods silently, worry waving off him*

Mrs Shroud: Let's go make dinner boys!

Citro: Alright!

Pen and Pan: HECK YEAH

Mr Shroud: *Sighs* Be careful....My Daughter

[starrygnome]

A vision of a mysterious women

As Viktor Blackthorne, the vampire, grappled with the perplexing visions of Livia Rae Valentore, a mysterious woman haunting his thoughts, he found himself increasingly troubled and bewildered. The dreams and visions seemed to defy explanation, stirring a deep sense of curiosity and concern within him. Unable to shake off the enigmatic allure of these encounters, he resolved to seek counsel from his old confidant, Vladimir Struds.

Vladimir, a seasoned and astute vampire elder, resided in a secluded manor nestled within the shadows of the Forgotten Hollows. Viktor knew that if anyone could shed light on the cryptic nature of his visions, it would be Vladimir.

With purpose coursing through his undead veins, Viktor embarked on the journey to Vladimir's abode. As he traversed through the mist-laden forests and winding paths, memories of their shared history flooded his mind. Viktor and Vladimir had faced myriad trials together, forging a bond that transcended the ages.

Upon arriving at the ancient manor, Viktor was greeted by the imposing figure of Vladimir, his stoic demeanor softened by a glimmer of recognition. The two vampires exchanged solemn nods before retreating into the dimly lit confines of the manor's study.

Seated across from Vladimir, Viktor recounted the inexplicable visions that plagued him, describing in vivid detail the haunting presence of Livia Rae Valentore. With each word, he hoped to unravel the tangled web of mystery that enshrouded his mind.

Vladimir listened intently, his piercing gaze betraying a hint of intrigue. After a moment of contemplation, he spoke in a voice as ancient as the stones themselves.

"Visions such as these are not to be taken lightly, Viktor," Vladimir began, his tone grave yet measured. "They may herald the onset of a greater destiny, one intertwined with forces beyond our comprehension."

Viktor's brow furrowed in confusion, his thirst for understanding growing ever more insatiable. "But who is this woman, Vladimir? What connection does she hold to my existence?"

Vladimir's lips curled into a wry smile, a spark of recognition igniting within his ageless eyes. "Livia Rae Valentore… A name steeped in mystery and shadow," he murmured, as if invoking a long-forgotten incantation. "Her origins are veiled in obscurity, yet her presence resonates with a power that transcends mortal understanding."

As the weight of Vladimir's words settled upon him, Viktor felt a surge of determination coursing through his immortal being. Though the road ahead remained shrouded in uncertainty, he knew that confronting the enigma of Livia Rae Valentore would be his greatest trial yet.

With renewed resolve, Viktor Blackwell embarked on a journey that would test the very limits of his immortal soul, guided by the cryptic wisdom of his old friend and the echoing whispers of destiny.

This part of Generation Three where we meet Viktor Blackthorne, who has recently been having visions of a mysterious young women. This young women is our Heir Livia Rae Valentore.

In these visions Viktor sees a much older Livia while the current one is still an infant.

created a story by chatGPT :D

[discordapples]

PT 9 At Candle Glow

Word count: 2k (8 mins read)

Characters: Ominis Gaunt, Sebastian Sallow, Livia Novik.

Summary

With the help of the Grimfire candle, Livia, Sebastian and Ominis find the entrance to the Room of Requirement and meet with a sinister figure calling itself the Collector.

Read the ninth chapter below.

Livia | Hogwarts, Early September, 1893.

The Grimfire candle gasps alight. A shy lucence at first, then a blood-red glow dispelling the legion of shadows emboldened by the gathering night. 

Sebastian is gloved to his wrist, the Grimweave Gauntlet espousing his hand and fingers like a second skin. 

He insisted on carrying the sacrificial work—despite Ominis’ injunctions to study the artifact before making a brash decision—sliding into the garment without a second thought and palming the Grimfire with confidence. 

Now the spiny candle rests in his hand, a long, emaciated and crooked thing, barbed with hundreds of prickly needles, crowned in a vermilion flame.

It burns hot—blistering, really—and even at a distance, Livia can feel the swelter on her cheek. 

She takes a step back, the familiar lump in her throat calcifying at the thought of the blaze jumping over to her, setting her clothes afire. She half expects Sebastian’s hand to melt from his bone, but he looks unaffected by the sizzling heat.

“Now what?” He asks her.

The corridor stretches on each side of them. The silence in the castle is oppressive—strictening. A yoke looping around Livia’s neck and ushering her further into the arms of her goal.

As if there was any other way but forward. Her past is spinous with teeth. The present, brittle and shivery. 

Only the prospect of pulling Laurence back from what orphic reality lies behind the afterlife’s veil sustains her. 

“We need to move,” she says. “The flame will find the fraying seams in the wall.”

“How you itch to speak as cryptically as Dovetail to make our little quest more exciting…” Sebastian teases her. 

Next to him, Ominis clicks his tongue in annoyance. “She quoted the exact passage.”

“I’m well aware,” Sebastian shoots back. “The flame will flutter when the room is nearby because fire feeds on oxygen, and a hidden room is bound to be filled with air. I’m no Ravenclaw, but I’m not an idiot either.”

“There is a little more to it,” Livia adds. “The Grimfire has been designed to detect things that have been magically concealed. No normal candle would do.” She glances around her, to the pooling shadows that fester outside of the crimson light’s vicinity. “We should get going before someone catches us. I don’t know how I could justify meandering in the company of my tormentor.”

A neat line traces down Ominis’ brow, but a scowl is the only thing he offers in response to her slight before Sebastian leads them onward.

They plod wordlessly through hallways at candle glow, the flame burnishing their warped silhouettes on the walls.

Hogwarts is silent as a tomb, save for the ghosts that idle in the eaves somewhere above their heads. Even the paintings are empty, as if the subjects they shelter have been expatriated by the Grimfire. 

There is something eerie about the blood-red glare and the way it slices through the murk and, for an instant, Livia thinks it a sentient, living thing, marshaling them into uncharted depths to a destination only known to it.

They traipse past the Three Sisters Bells, needle through countless warrens of corridors, ascend a tower, then climb down another, until they find themselves in the Astronomy wing.

The air here is stale, the silence assertive. The Grimfire’s glimmer flickers once, twice, thrice; the flame’s apex dramatically leaning to the left.

Excitement swells through Livia’s veins, her heart thrashing against the boning of her corset. 

Ghosting over her palm, the phantomatic touch of her brother tells her she has never been so close to pulling him through the shroud of death back into the world of the living.

Sebastian likewise smiles, his excitement dripping through his face.

“Did you find it?” Ominis asks, his eyes wending about the shadows before him. 

“Yes,” Livia confirms. 

Her fingers scuttle along the stone wall, and Sebastian inches closer. The Grimfire throbs, its heat intensifying. He turns to Livia, his pupils two boundless pits of ink-black in the queer light. “How do we get in now?”

“What do you do when can’t see things, Sebastian Sallow?”

His brow hikes on his forehead, a smirk playing on his lips. “I tell myself it must suck to be Ominis.”

Ominis gives a low growl before giving Sebastian an irked shove.

Livia ignores the puerile display. “The right answer is you turn on the light.”

“Isn’t it already on?”

“Lift the candle,” she orders Sebastian and he obeys, his curiosity discernible.

She lets her fingers hover close to a sharp spur. “Haven’t you wondered why it’s made of needles? The Grimfire flame feeds on blood.”

“I don’t know why I let you two sway me into coming with you,” Ominis cuts in, his tone barbed with exasperation. “First, we paint me as a ravisher to break into Black’s office and now we prick ourselves with needles to access a room that doesn’t want to be found. Doesn’t it sound a little dangerous to you when I say it out loud?”

“Sounds even more exciting, actually,” Sebastian retorts with a wicked smile on his lips before angling his face to Livia. “Show us what you’re made of, new girl.”

Her ventricles plangent, she extends a finger towards the candle. 

The tip is razor-sharp, puncturing into her skin with ease. A flower of blood blooms on the pad of her index, bubbling when it comes in contact with the seething heat. The Grimfire flame tumefies, and Livia retracts her hand swiftly, clasping her flesh wound into the folds of her skirt to stave off the blood flow. 

Sebastian is next, the shy pain and the sight of his blood leaving him unfazed. Again, the flame purrs and fattens. Sebastian turns to his friend. “Care to contribute, Ominis?”

With a sigh, the Slytherin obliges. 

The flame sibilates now, the glimmer tumescent and replete.

“Fuck,” Sebastian mutters, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “This shit’s burning through my fingers.”

He doesn’t have to weather the hurt for too long, for a searing line crawls through the spaces between the stones forming the wall. There is an ominous hiss, then a sheen of simmering air rippling before them. The Grimfire goes out next, and a door flickers into existence.

Sebastian tilts his head, visibly perplexed. “Is it—”

“It must be,” Livia says, her voice is reduced to a whisper. “The Room of Requirement.”

Ominis sighs next to them. “A part of me really wished it didn’t work.”

“What a spoilsport you are,” Sebastian snides. 

Livia’s thoughts, however, are miles away from the banter, and even further from the caution she knows she should exert. 

The room beckons, its arcane a calling Livia longs to unravel, and she presses both her palms to the metal flourishes stippled into the door.

“Maybe we should tread carefully,” Ominis advises.

“It’s a door, Ominis,” Livia replies. “There’s only one thing to do with it.”

“Get your wand ready if you’re so skittish,” Sebastian suggests before laying the candle on the ground and shrugging out of the glove.

Together, they push the door open. It groans on its hinges, then gives way.

A musty smell feathers to them. The room’s entrails are stitched with obscurity.

Swallowing in a dry throat, Livia moves deeper into the room. She cannot see any walls, yet something encroaches on her. A film of brumal air roams close to the ground, swirling around her ankles, and she is reminded of the poltergeist’s lair. 

Reality bends and twists here. She can sense it. The fabric of materiality is threadbare. If there is a tear in it, Livia will find it and wrench the Promissum Mortis from it. 

She pulls her wand from her pocket and utters a feeble: “Lumos.”

The light grows coyly from the tip, throwing a bone-white glow through the room. It sits hollow, save for a looking-glass.

“A floor mirror, really?” Sebastian mouths, and even if considerably lower-pitched than his usual clarion tone, his voice booms through the room like a lash of thunder.

For a moment, Livia doesn’t move. Behind her, Ominis likewise holds himself in an agitated silence.

Can they awoke something? Is there a presence lurking in the gloom with a lick of froth on its lips?

Seconds elapse during which nothing happens. Even the gelid glaze of air seems to have settled and dissolved.

Staring at the mirror, Livia notes the surface is stained with black fingerprints. The florid silver frame is antiquated, coated with a patina of fine dust. It is an old thing, rusted and neglected, and something ferments inside Livia’s stomach. When her fingers touch the glass, the effect is striking and immediate.

The room shifts. An eidolic lucence fuses from the mirror, and the wainscot of the previously imperceptible walls peels away as if curling away from a naked flame. Above their heads, a crystal chandelier skirls seethingly. 

Sebastian’s fingers curl around Livia’s arm, wresting her away from the looking-glass. 

The tempest of sound and light grows fiercer until Livia can see nothing but bursts of white exploding through her vision.

It is maddening, but not once does Sebastian let go of her, and she desperately holds onto his presence to anchor her back into reality. 

When the squall dies out and Livia peels her eyelids open, her heart skips a beat. 

They stand in a chaste white room in the middle of which stands a masked figure.

It is nipped in a black robe; its obsidian mask featurless and smooth as polished stone. Voiceless, Livia takes in the trailing knurled twine jutting out from the entity’s navel, as if a braided umbilical cord limping lifelessly onto the floor. Its gait is angular and cadaverous, and Livia is persuaded that if it steps out of its clothes, it would be no fleshier than a skeleton.

Sebastian’s fingers tighten around her shoulders. In other circumstances, Livia would note the feverish warmth effusing through him, the comforting press of his body trellising hers, the curt breaths he pushes against her scalp, but her mind is fixed on the uncanny being before them. 

Time leaches, cruel in its abating. 

Next to Livia, Ominis is tensed as a wire, his shoulders corded with apprehension. If he cannot see the figure, he can sense something is amiss. 

The festering air, however, is enough of a deterrent for him to loosen his lips to let out a question.

Then, noiselessly, the presence tilts its head, as if curiously eyeing a flock of unfamiliar creatures. Its long, skeletal fingers join before its lap, right above its strange appendage, and a cavernous, masculine voice swells from everywhere all at once, as if carried to their eardrums by every particle hanging in the air.

It scuttles over the walls, skims across the floor, bleeds from the ceiling. It is utterly and mesmerisingly terrifying and beguiling. “You sought, and you found. You may call me the Collector.”

The Collector glides forward, the mangled hems of his cloak soaring with each of his moves as if poised with a will of its own. Livia feels Sebastian’s hand inching ever closer to his pocket. 

But the entity stops, as if combing through his intention and Livia asks, her heart hammering in her chest: “What are you?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “Three wizards found their way to me. Three questions I will grant them, and one I will ask in return.” The Collector lifts his hand and his sleeve bares a rawboned hand. His skin is papery, fragile and, most of all, without nails, yet the tip of his fingers are keen as knifepoints. “Return to me at the same hour tomorrow with your inquiries. The room will be open to you.”

And before Livia can think to react, a white noise savages through her skull.

The stone of Sebastian’s presence is gone. So are all sensations within her. 

It’s as if her soul is wrenched out of her body; her shrilling fear dissected from her frame.

And when she opens her eyes, she finds herself in her bed, her pillow drenched in sweat and a noose of blankets snarled around her neck. 

[uncannily-adroit]

meet some my tavs! (updated)

1- nox, tiefling, folk hero fighter (they/them)

2- livia, half elf, entertainer lore bard (she/her)

3- anne, human, noble swords bard (she/her)

4- aurelia, human, resisting durge druid (she/her)

5- ledi, aasimar, acolyte oath of vengeance paladin (she/her)

a little lore and fun facts under the cut! (subject to change, and also i'm not very good at making lore)

nox and livia are both romancing gale and ledi is set to romance wyll! anne and sethe have yet to choose (a/n: i plan on having anne, a squishy bleeding heart like nox and livia, to end up with lae'zel, though astarion is also strong contender. sethe will probably end up with halsin or karlach! i have yet to think of a good tav/durge to romance shadowheart with...)

nox grew up with human parents after having been abandoned as a baby due to their skin color

nox is awkward and not very good with lots of attention. they don't want to be a hero, they wanna go tf home. they turn down gale's offer to go with him if he ascends to godhood

nox is best friends with karlach! they've never had a friend like her before, and they follow her and wyll into avernus

anne grew up with wyll but lost contact with him after he left baldur's gate. imagine her shock when they meet again at the emerald grove!

ledi is the daughter of the god helm

ledi is completely blind, a condition given to her long ago in a battle (think kanan jarrus from star wars), and it's the reason her eyes are shrouded. following this, she vowed for vengeance against any foe who seeks to do harm

ledi looks up to dame aylin like a big sister. literally and figuratively. ledi is actually quite small for her race and she has a little bit of a complex over it. isobel thinks its adorable

the collar around aurelia's neck is the only way she knew her name when she woke up on the nautiloid

aurelia's preferred wild shape is that of a wolf

aurelia has heterochromia, her left eye is silver and her right is a deep red

[godsvvept]

º   .   ♔   ⸻   the  capital  of  king’s  landing  welcomes  GWYNESSE  of  HOUSE ( s )  LANNISTER  (  by  marriage  ) &  GOODBROTHER (  by  birth ),  the  LADY  of  LANNISPORT.  the  THIRTY  year  old  CISWOMAN  is  reputed  to  be  ENTERPRISING  and  MELLIFLUOUS,  but  with  the  eyes  of  court  watching  their  every  move,  they  might  turn  out  to  be  IMPERIOUS  and  DESENSITIZED.  when  songs  are  sung,  their  verses  speak  of  THE  TIDE  VICIOUSLY  BREAKING  AGAINST  THE  SAND  AND  SPLASHING  AGAINST  THE  WALL,  A  NEVER  ENDING,  ALL  TOO  FAMILIAR  CALLING  ;    “WHAT  IF  I  TOLD  YOU  I’M  SPLIT  IN  HALF?  WHAT  IF  I  TOLD  YOU:  I’M  THE  KNIFE?”  ;  PENELOPE,  THE  QUEEN  OF  ITHACA,  PATIENTLY  TENDING  TO  THE  WEAVING  OF  A  SHROUD  AND  OF  A  FUTURE  OF  HER  OWN  DESIGN.  whispers  throughout  the  seven  kingdoms  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  HOUSE  LANNISTER  OF  LANNISPORT  /  HERSELF,  where  they  conspire  to  GET  RID  OF  THE  SQUABBLES  ON  HER  SHIPYARD  AND  INSTAL  HER  HUSBAND  AS  RULING  LORD.  but  in  the  end  fealty  means  little  when  you  play  the  game  of  thrones.

full  name  :  gwynnesse  lannister,  née  goodbrother. alias  /  nickname  :  gwyn,  ness,  senne, the  gilded  siren. age  :  thirty. gender  and  pronouns  :  ciswoman  and  she / her. orientation  :  demisexual  demiromantic. occupation : lady  consort  of  lannisport  ( as  wife  of  the  lord  heir ),  secretly  acting  regent  of  lannisport. faceclaim :  naomi  battrick.

date  of  birth  :  first  month  of  the  year  of  270. parents  :  gorold  goodbrother  &  eydis  farwynd. siblings  :  eleven  sisters  (  two  older,  nine  younger ) and  three  brothers ( all  older ). significant  other :  tba  lannister,  lord  heir  of  lannisport. offspring  :  at  least  five  children.  she  does  not  always  remember  their  names. religious affiliation : the  faith  of  the  seven ( public;  converted  by  marriage ),  the  drowned  god ( by  birth ). 

inspirations : eleanor  guthrie ( black  sails ), jocelyn  castell (  jamestown ), penelope  of  ithaca ( odyssey ), cersei  lannister ( asoiaf ), ariel ( the  little  mermaid ), georgia ( ginny  &  georgia ), isabella  the  she  wolf  of  france (  history + knightfall ), livia  drusilla ( domina ), emma  of  normandy ( history + vikings  valhalla ), nurbanu  sultan (  magnificent  century +  history ), caroline  collingwood  and  marcia  roy ( succession ).

                    application  ; full  statistics ; tdlr  and  connections  below  the  cut.

trigger  warning  for : toxicity ( both  for  her  #girlboss  gaslight  gatekeep  ways  and  for  her  actually  poisoning  her  father  in  law  oop. )

as  the  third  born  daughter,  it  seems  all  that  she  could  be  has  already  been  taken  by  either  gael  (  begrudgingly,  the  childrearing  )  or  gyda  (  their  mother’s  old  chainmaille  )  —  straining  for  individuality  or  selfishness  (  one  and  the  same,  at  times,  but  who  cares  ),  young  gwyn  would  attempt  to  reach  out  for  father  instead,  an  endeavor  that  while  others  (  most  of  the  other  goodbrother  girls  )  would  fail,  she  would  succeed.  before  the  rebellion  made  him  harder,  and  even  afterwards,  she  took  prize  in  being  one  of  the  few  to  pry  a  smile  out  of  him,  and,  most  of  all,  she  enjoyed  accompanying  him  to  the  family  mines,  learning  of  the  ores  and  the  business  and  economy,  while  taking  home  whatever  shiny  little  rock  she  could.

although  she  trained  with  the  sword,  as  well  as  the  needle  (  her  mother  had,  after  all,  been  a  notorious  shieldmaiden  and  now  she  was  a  loyal  wife  who  had  given  her  lord  fifteen  children  ),  gwynesse  preferred  the  former,  if  only  because  being  a  lady  paired  up  well  with  what  she  was  truly  good  at  :  cunning.

still,  once  she  was  sixteen,  she  asked  to  take  a  part  of  a  crew  that  would  travel  to  essos.  although  she  cared  nothing  for  physical  exertion  activities,  she  greatly  enjoyed  the  trip  —  it  made  her  realize  that  the  iron  islands  were  nothing  compared  to  the  world  and,  perhaps,  she  would  rather  be  elsewhere.  somewhere  better,  greater.

the  realization  of  her  wish  was  a  double  edged  sword:  while  she  did  manage  to  go  somewhere  greater,  she  almost  died  (  or  actually  died,  and  was  brought  back  to  life  by  the  drowned  god  who  wished  to  set  her  to  greatness,  in  her  own  mind  )  when  the  ship  wrecked,  and  she  washed  around  westerland  waters.  she  was  rescued  by  the  heir  to  lannisport,  who  took  a  liking  to  her  and  took  her  to  his  home  to  be  cared  for.  there,  fearing  she  would  be  killed  or  worse  for  being  an  ironborn,  she  pretended  to  be  amnesiac  and  was  allowed  to  remain  at  the  castle  out  of  courtesy.  

during  that  time,  she  effectively  managed  to  make  the  lord  heir  fall  for  her  (  and  if  she  fell  for  him  too,  it  was,  then,  a  sweet  consequence  ).  once  she  fell  with  child,  she  arranged  so  her  brothers  would  come  retrieve  her  —  the  shot  gun  of  sorts  wedding  was  a  good  enough  deal,  for  she  did  bring  a  big  dowry,  even  if  her  father  -  in  -  law  (  and  possibly  her  husband,  though  he  was  easier  to  bend  )  was  not  very  pleased  with  having  an  ironborn  for  a  daughter.

within  two  years  after  that,  her  husband  was  called  to  lead  a  part  of  the  lannister  fleet,  and  gwynesse  remained  at  lannisport,  bregundigly  bearing  babies  and  facing  scrutiny  from  the  westerlanders  who  thought  of  her  as  too  foreign  to  be  trusted  —  a  sentiment  her  father  -  in  -  law  shared,  refusing  to  allow  her  in  and  aid  him  with  anything  of  importance,  much  to  her  distaste.  at  some  point,  she  begins  poisoning  him  with  lead  (  something  that  has  no  taste,  no  smell  and  that  slowly  can  drive  one  to  madness  and  several  other  unpleasant  physical  ailments  ),  which  leads  him  to  become  more  dependent  on  her  and,  of  course,  she  takes  advantage  of  that  to  help  him  rule  lannisport.

currently,  it’s  been  over  ten  years  since  the  poisoning  started,  and  if  anyone  points  at  her,  gwynesse  is  offended  and  can  easily  begin  tearing  up  if  necessary,  even  offering  to  take  on  his  food  and  drink  if  they  are  so  suspicious.  her  husband  defends  her,  likely  unbeknownst,  something  she  is  glad  for.  gwynesse  has  no  qualms  in  engaging  in  falsity,  and  even  takes  enjoyment  of  that,  of  this  power.

her  father  -  in  -  law  is  greatly  debilitated,  of  course,  and  she  is,  for  all  purposes,  mistress  and  ruler  of  lannisport,  a  duty  she  does  not  take  lightly  and  tries  her  best  to  always  stay  on  top,  either  that  be  to  know  who  comes  into  town,  what  goods  arrive  and  of  the  deals  happening  in  it — it  is  an  understatement  to  say  she  is  controlling,  and  likes  things  her  way.  while  some  may  frown  at  such  power  being  granted  to  an  ironborn,  most  have  come  to  terms  that  she  is  as  westerlander  as  one  can  be,  proved  by  her  loyalty  to  lannisport  and  to  the  many  children  she  has  birthed  and  raises  under  the  light  of  the  seven.  

truthfully,  she  does  not  feel  westerlander  —  but  also  she  no  longer  feels  ironborn.  this  is  not  a  sentiment  that  disturbs  her  much,  however,  for  she  is  content  with  her  position  and  very  busy  occupation,  but  she  is  growing  more  bothered  by  the  day  by  the  ironborn  growing  bolder  around  the  westerlands  coast  and  how  that  may  disturb  her  security  in  her  role.  besides  mother,  wife,  ruler,  daughter,  sister,  she  is  now  being  pushed  to  be  a  diplomat,  a  position  that  may  be  all  too  suited  to  her  silver  tongued  ways,  but  that  she  is  less  pleased  to  juggle,  as  it  may  jeopardize  all  that  she  prizes  and  worked  so  hard  to  build.

i’d  love  more  goodbrothers,  particularly  geirdis,  her  twin  sister  (  annie  has  put  the  wc  on  the  main  with  all  the  information  but  i’m  glad  to  help  out  with  more  ideas  if  needed  ).  the  goodbrothers  are  often  around  lannisport,  either  for  business  or  for  familial  affection.

the  friendship  is  not  entirely  stretched  to  the  other  ironborn,  but  it  wouldn’t  be  unlikely  some  do  come  in  lannisport  and  i  think  interactions  between  gwyn,  who  has  definitely  been  ‘corrupted’  by  the  way  of  the  westerosi  and  enjoys  dealing  with  the  gold  price  rather  than  the  iron  price,  and  her  old  countrymen.

anyone  from  the  westerlands  or  who  stops  by  lannisport  really.  this  also  includes  people  who  have  not  come  to  lannisport,  but  do  deals  within  the  city  or  with  the  lannisters  of  lannisport,  as  she  often  speaks  for  them  all

due  to  the  children  and  to  her  duties  at  the  realm  of  lannisport,  she  is  not  often  away  from  it,  but  it’s  possible  her  husband  could  have  taken  her  to  some  nearby  places,  or  even  acquaintances  from  that  travel  over  a  decade  ago,  when  she  was  just  one  out  of  many  goodbrothers

the  lannisters  of  lannisport!  please!!!  at  the  moment  i  only  have  her  husband  and  his  sister,  but  they’re  both  pretty  interesting  —  there’s  all  sort  of  things  to  explore  with  her  husband,  his  position  at  sea,  the  shift  to  proper  lordship  and  how  he  deals  with  her  ambitions  and  everything  else  in  their  relationship;  his  sister  is  rosamund  lannister,  who  is  acting  as  lady  /  doppleganger  for  myrcella  on  kings  landing.  i’ve  sent  wcs  for  the  both  of  them  but  i’m  very  game  to  discuss  or  change  anything  if  necessary!

[harrycollins]

I realized I never talked abt Calian’s mom. Her name is Lysandra and she was the only daughter of a wealthy Dalmascan merchant also had a twin brother. She is also very good at archery -which is passed to Calian- and her family lost all of their money after the Garlean Empire conquered Dalmasca. 

While she escaped to Eorzea her brother stayed behind and joined the Dalmascan Resistance -and probbaly executed by Livia when she was hunting down the rebel leaders... or did he?-

Lysandra and Calian’s adopted father met while she was hunting in the Black Shroud. She was a poacher and he was trying to catch him for months. 

[longclawislightbringer]

Chapter Seven: Vindication

Rating: T

Relationships: Rosaline Capulet/Benvolio Montague, Helena/Princess Isabella, Livia Capulet/Count Paris, Rosaline Capulet/Prince Escalus (past)

Characters: Rosaline Capulet, Benvolio Montague, Prince Escalus, Livia Capulet, Count Paris, Princess Isabella, Helena, Stella

Summary: Rosaline figures out her feelings; the evidence points to a suspect.

Hello everyone!

Thanks for waiting so patiently for this chapter. I know the cliffhanger on the last one was a doozy ;)

I’m really excited for you all to read this chapter; the scene in the precinct is another one I came back in ye olde days of 2019 and it’s one of my favorites. I hope you all enjoy!

Thanks once again to unwrittenmusings on Tumblr for the original prompt and my beta Ry for all her wonderful work these last few months. You can find her on Tumblr and AO3.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Six. Chapter Seven.

Read on AO3.

Chest heaving, Rosaline burst through the double doors to the hotel veranda. Her bare feet slapped against the coarse stone while she ran to the marble railing.

Breathing deep, she slammed her hands against the balustrade and screamed as loud as she dared—at that time of night, barely above a rough stage whisper. The sound burst from deep in her chest, carrying with it all the frustrations and anxiety of the last month. Her voice hoarse, her scream trickled off into nothingness as she gazed out at the glimmering stars that dotted the night sky.

“You look like you’ve got a story to tell.”

Startled at the sudden intrusion, she gasped and turned.

Bathed in the warm glow of the streetlamp and half shrouded in shadow, a middle-aged man lurked at one of the wrought-iron tables, drinking a glass of water. Rosaline recognized him as one of Helena’s guests.

“I didn’t know anyone was still out here,” Rosaline apologized. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your solitude. I’ll be going now.”

She turned to the door.

“No, stay,” the man responded. “You seem like you’ve got something on your mind, and sometimes talking about what’s bothering us can help.”

“Alright, I guess,” Rosaline grumbled, taking the offered chair and dropping her clutch on the table. “I’m Rosaline.”

“You’re one of Isabella’s bridesmaids, aren’t you?” He asked, tapping the table.

Rosaline nodded morosely.

“Name’s Orsino.”

Rosaline shook his outstretched hand.

“You and your boyfriend sure looked like you had a great time today, so what’s got you all in a tiff?”

“That’s just it,” Rosaline groaned, burying her head in her hands. “He’s not actually my boyfriend.”

“Really?” Orsino almost spat out his water. “You certainly had me fooled.”

“He’s my partner at work,” she explained, fiddling with the ribbon at her waist. “This is all going to sound so stupid.”

Orsino quirked an eyebrow.

“My ex-boyfriend, Isabella’s brother, wanted to get back together before the wedding, so I panicked and told him I had a new boyfriend.” Rosaline dropped the ribbon. “Benvolio agreed to come along as my fake date today, and it went well . . .” Rosaline sighed. “ . . . Only now it’s so complicated.”

She leaped from her chair and paced the veranda.

“I’m feeling all sorts of . . . things I can’t explain, and then Benvolio has to go and say that he has feelings for me and that he wants our relationship to be real!” Rosaline threw up her hands. “As if things weren’t already confusing enough!”

“And what did you do?” Orsino’s eyes crinkled.

“Well,” Rosaline stopped pacing, “I didn’t know what to say, so I just . . . kind of . . . ran away?”

Orsino burst into laughter.

“Stop laughing!” Rosaline collapsed into her chair and crossed her arms. “This isn’t funny.”

Orsino wiped a tear from his eye.

“You do have to admit that it’s like something out of a rom-com.”

His laughter trickled off.

“I know it’s not the same, but it reminds me of what happened when I met my wife.”

Rosaline leaned in.“How did you know? That she was it for you, I mean.”

“It’s just something you have to really think about. What is this Benvolio to you?”

“He’s my partner,” she answered without hesitation. “What kind of a question is that?”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Orsino retorted. “What else is he to you? Think long and hard.”

“Nervous, Capulet?” Benvolio had asked at work earlier that week when he noticed her staring off into space and writing the same line over and over again. “About the wedding, I mean.”

Her pen fell out of her hand, clattering onto the desk.

“What makes you say that?” Rosaline stuttered and shuffled her papers.

“Nothing,” Benvolio shrugged with a facetious smirk. “Only the fact that you’ve been working on the same line for the last three minutes.”

Rosaline groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to the people who know you,” Benvolio drummed his fingers across the desk. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He reached across their desks and squeezed her hand.

“I guess he’s my best friend,” Rosaline answered the question.

“You guess, or you know?” Orsino smirked.

Rosaline gritted her teeth.

“I know.”

A wistful smile graced Orsino’s face.

“Viola worked with me as one of my assistants before we married, but she was also my best friend. She had disguised herself when we first met, plus I fancied myself in love with another woman. I spent hours upon hours composing sonnets to this woman’s beauty; I even sent Viola to woo her for me like an idiot. When Viola revealed her feelings for me, I realized that I didn’t want to live without her by my side.”

“That’s a nice story, but it doesn’t help me. I’m still confused.”

Orsino fixed her with a quizzical look.

“Let me ask you one more question.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Were you pretending?”

Rosaline gaped at him, speechless.

“What?” she blinked.

“Were you pretending?” Orsino repeated, unfazed.

Rosaline closed her mouth and averted her gaze, staring off the veranda at the blurry lights of the city.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

She was back in the ballroom. “Annie’s Song” played over the loudspeaker once more. Benvolio’s hands pressed against her waist; the disco ball reflected in his ocean blue eyes.

“We don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No,” she had answered. “I want to.”

Orsino waited for an answer.

“No,” Rosaline admitted, to herself more than Orsino. “I wasn’t pretending.”

A wide smile spread across his face.

“Then you’re luckier than most,” Orsino nodded. “Some people are ill-fated enough to spend their whole lives pretending.”

Rosaline nodded as the full impact of what she’d just said dawned on her.

“I need to talk to Benvolio,” Leaping out of her chair, she snatched her clutch off the table and darted toward the door. “Thanks for all your advice!” she shouted back. “It was lovely to meet you!

“Godspeed, Rosaline!” Orsino waved goodbye as she sprinted away.

***

A light, airy warmth rose in Rosaline’s chest when she boarded the elevator and put a pep in her step.

While the elevator rose, the butterflies in her stomach danced in time to the jaunty elevator jingle, and she rocked back and forth, her toes squishing the plush pink carpet.

The elevator dinged as the doors opened with a quiet whoosh into the hotel hallway. Rosaline tiptoed down the corridor, careful to avoid making a sound in front of the many doors decorated with “Do-Not-Disturb” signs.

When at last she reached her own door, she straightened and took a deep breath before rapping her knuckles on the door three times.

“Benvolio, it’s me,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for leaving earlier. I need to tell you something.”

No answer came.

Rosaline frowned, digging in her clutch for her hotel room key.

The door unlocked with a click and swung wide.

“Benvolio,” Rosaline called quietly as she stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind her.

The lamp on Benvolio’s side of the bed scattered light and shadow along the back wall. She flicked the main switch on, bathing the room in warm yellow light.

The murder board remained in place, but Benvolio’s bag had vanished from its resting place along the back wall.

Numb, Rosaline dropped her purse on the desk.

“I’m too late,” she groaned as she crumpled onto the bed. “Now he thinks I’ve rejected him.”

She rolled onto her side, curling into a ball.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a piece of hotel stationery folded in half on Benvolio’s pillow. Lugging herself upright, she snatched the note off the pillowcase and unfolded it.

A sketch of her laughing on a dessert napkin fell onto the pillow. She smiled and turned back to the note. b

Biting her lip, Rosaline perused the scant lines.

Capulet, it read.

I apologize for putting you on the spot tonight. Your friendship is the most important thing in the world to me; I would never do anything to jeopardize that. We can pretend tonight’s conversation never happened if that is what you want.

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay, but I had to leave before I did or said something even more foolish. I hope you can forgive me. Enjoy the rest of your weekend—I will see you at work bright and early on Monday morning, partner.

Benvolio

Rosaline almost choked on her own tears as she laughed.

“Monday, then. I guess I’ll just be a bundle of nerves until then.”

She brought the note to her nose and sniffed. It smelled faintly of Benvolio’s sandalwood cologne.

Delicately placing the night on her nightstand, she slunk to the bathroom and peeled the sweaty bridesmaid’s dress from her body. She caught a whiff of it as it fell to the tile floor—a trip to the dry cleaner’s was in order.

With a sigh of relief, she unclasped her bra. Dark lines stretched across her rib cage where her bra had confined her.

Finding all of the pins in her hair took the longest, with all the hairspray and mousse holding her curls in place. She dragged her hands through the crunchy hair, picking every last pin out of place. Satisfied, she tied it up and hid it under her satin sleeping bonnet.

It would need a good long wash, but that could wait until tomorrow.

Rosaline stripped off her underwear and threw on her nightclothes in one quick motion, heading back to the bed on autopilot.

“Monday,” she thought, closing her eyes as her head hit the pillow. “I just have to wait until Monday.”

***

Cradled in her arms, the tray of coffees balanced precariously as Rosaline opened the door to the precinct early Monday morning. A pastry bag holding Benvolio’s bear claw nestled in between the two coffees, his sugary atrocity, and her own black coffee. A heart peaked out from under the cardboard sleeve near the end of Benvolio’s name where she had added it.

She pivoted in the doorway once she passed the door, making sure to hold her umbrella outside as she somehow closed it without spilling any coffee.

“Hope the bear claw didn’t get wet,” she muttered.

Her eyes darted to the clock above the door.

Five minutes to 8:00. Benvolio would already be at his desk.

Moving out of the doorway, she stopped in the middle of the precinct lobby to consider her options. Butterflies danced the tango in her stomach as they had all morning.

“Maybe I should just turn back.” She paced the tiled lobby floor. “I could just toss these in the trash can and pretend this never happened.”

“Detective Capulet, you heading in?” Mulder asked, looking up from his enormous stack of paperwork at the station’s reception desk.

“Yup,” Rosaline swerved hard at the last second toward the elevator, almost spilling the coffee in the process. “Just heading up now.”

Mulder quirked an eyebrow.

“Have a good day, detective.”

Rosaline jammed the elevator button multiple times.

“You too,” she laughed nervously, scooting inside the empty elevator when it opened at last.

As the doors closed in front of her, Rosaline breathed a sigh of relief, only to clench up as it rose.

Attempting relaxation, she leaned against the bar along the back wall while the elevator climbed to the sixth floor.

The bell dinged, the doors sliding open onto the bullpen once more.

As she stepped out of the elevator, Rosaline scanned the crowd of bustling detectives weaving between the desks like a well-oiled machine. When her gaze lighted on Benvolio, slouched back in his rolling chair pouring over an evidence file, her heart skipped a beat as the room froze.

A spotlight shone on Benvolio so bright that she could see the dust particles floating in the air around him, leaving the rest of the bullpen shrouded in shadow. The clock on the far wall ticked in slow time with her beating heart, the second hand following a sluggish path around the clock face. Benvolio, lost in thought, jiggled his pen between his fingers and bit his lip.

Rosaline gulped.

The shrill ring of the sergeant’s desk phone jolted her from her reverie.

Rosaline shuddered when the bullpen sprang back to life, the officers scuttling around to deliver their paperwork.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched to their desks, and before she could stop herself, she plopped Benvolio’s coffee and bear claw on his desk.

Removing his hand from his ruffled hair, Benvolio frowned and picked up the coffee cup.

“What’s this?” he asked. “You don’t owe me any more cups of coffee.”

“It’s my apology,” Rosaline shrugged, setting her own coffee on her desk, “for running out on you like that.”

Benvolio almost dropped the coffee, the amber liquid spilling out the top and dribbling down the sides in his attempt to leap to his feet.

“No, no. You don’t need to apologize for that,” Benvolio spluttered, shaking his head. “I’m the one who sprung something like that—“

“Please let me finish,” Rosaline interrupted.

Benvolio leaned against his desk, waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t even know where to start . . .” Rosaline picked at her jacket. “I’m not good with feelings. That’s always been my sister. My philosophy so far has been, to quote John Mulaney, ‘I’ll just keep them bottled up inside, and then I’ll die.’ “

Benvolio chuckled.

“I ran away,” Rosaline continued, twiddling her fingers, “because you had just dropped a bombshell on me, and I didn’t quite know what to say.

“But while I was soul searching, I talked to someone who helped me see that you are one of the most important people in my life—you’re my best friend.”

Benvolio tried to school his features into a neutral expression, but a flicker of sadness passed over his eyes.

“Don’t misunderstand me!” she blurted. “Gosh, how do people do this in movies.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath.

“I meant to say that you are more than just my best friend. If it’s not too late, would you consider being my boyfriend—for real?” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “Because it turns out I kind of love you too.”

Benvolio flushed as red as his tie, with a bashful smile to match.

“I’d like that.” He took her hand in his and swung it back and forth with a playful air. “Should I kiss you now?”

Rosaline glanced around the busy bullpen.

“In the middle of the precinct?” she hissed. “It’s 8:00 AM!”

Benvolio quirked an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

The same face had urged her to dance at Isabella’s wedding.

“Fine,” she shrugged, “but we’re definitely gonna have to talk to HR after this.”

“Absolutely,” Benvolio winked, resting his hands on her shoulders as he pulled her closer.

Rosaline closed her eyes in anticipation, smiling into Benvolio’s lips. He smelled of sandalwood and mint, of fresh eucalyptus shampoo; he tasted of stale breakroom coffee and the half-eaten bagel on his desk.

Her chest swelled, this time with the certainty that this time she was where she was meant to be.

This felt like home.

A round of applause and whistles rose around them.

Startled, Rosaline pulled away and opened her eyes. A sizable crowd of officers and detectives had gathered around them.

She buried her face in Benvolio’s chest as Dogberry clapped Benvolio on the back and said, “It’s about time, mate. We almost began to lose faith.”

“You guys are oddly absorbed in our love lives,” Benvolio remarked.

“Oh, you have no idea,” came Dogberry’s cryptic reply.

The cheering died abruptly, and a sense of quiet dread crept over Rosaline. She extricated herself from Benvolio’s arms, only to see the entire bullpen frozen, staring at the Captain’s office.

Benvolio tapped her on the shoulder and spun her around.

Captain Lawrence stood in his open office door, squinting at them with an unreadable expression.

Rosaline gulped.

She took a step forward.

“I can explain.”

“No need.” Captain Lawrence raised a palm to stop her. “I assume you two have finally entered into a romantic relationship?”

“Yes, but—“

“And when exactly did this happen?”

Benvolio rubbed the back of his neck.

“About five minutes ago.”

Rosaline winced, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

Instead, Captain Lawrence beamed, punching his fist in the air as he shouted, “Vindication!”

Rosaline blinked.

She turned to Benvolio, but he just shrugged.

“Dogberry, Verges!” Captain Lawrence ordered, returning to his usual stoic manner.

Dogberry and Verges pulled a full evidence board from the supply closet, the black wheels squeaking on the linoleum floor.

Stopping in front of the window to the Captain’s office, Dogberry flipped the whiteboard over to reveal an extremely detailed betting pool titled “Rosvolio Finally Smooches.”

“Read it and weep, fellas,” Captain Lawrence crowed, pointing to the date written in black erasable marker with his name beside it.

The entire bullpen groaned and shuffled past the captain, placing crisp or rumpled bills into his outstretched hat.

“Did you . . “ Benvolio struggled, “did you all place bets on our love lives?”

“Yes,” Verges answered, dropping a twenty into the Captain’s hat. “You two were so obvious.”

Rosaline’s cheeks heated again.

“We thought we might as well make some money off the situation,” Captain Lawrence continued. “It was not a question of if, but when.”

Dogberry parted with a fifty-dollar bill with a tear. “Why couldn’t you two have waited until next week?”

The captain smiled and counted his money.

“Your timing was perfect,” he licked his finger to peel some bills apart. “You just made me $800 richer.”

“You’re welcome?” Rosaline responded, unsure if that was a statement or a question.

The rest of the detectives and officers grumbled as they returned to work.

“Montague, Capulet,” Captain Lawrence paused on his way back into his office.

“Yes, sir?” Benvolio straightened.

“You will still need to make an appointment with HR.”

“Right away, sir.” Rosaline nodded.

***

“Well, that was awkward,” Benvolio remarked as he shut the door to Human Resources. “Who knew Hermia was in on the bet too?

Rosaline laughed.

“It’s kind of weird that they’re all so invested in us.”

Hermia’s muffled sobs echoed in the empty hallway as they walked away.

“Don’t they have anything better to do?”

Benvolio pressed the elevator button.

“Like solving crimes?”

Rosaline raised an eyebrow.

The elevator doors dinged open.

“Speaking of which,” Benvolio followed Rosaline inside, “We should get back to our sword-wielding murderer case. I was just reviewing the evidence from the new crime scene and Dogberry’s and Verges’ interviews with Truccio’s associates when you got in.”

The elevator lurched downward.

“Alright, let’s get cracking,” Rosaline grinned.

When the elevator arrived, Rosaline bounded over to their desks, snatching her coffee from her desk in the process, and plopped into Benvolio’s rolling chair.

“Show me what you got,” Rosaline smirked with a playful nod.

Benvolio wheeled her over to their evidence, recreated from the board at the hotel.

“I see you brought the glitter string from the hotel,” Rosaline remarked.

“It makes it easier to think.”

Benvolio grabbed the folder from his desk and jogged back over to her. Taking a photo out of the folder, he stuck it below the mugshot of Truccio.

The photo showed a dingy apartment, clearly ransacked by someone looking for something.

“From Truccio’s associates, we were finally able to locate where he was squatting in between couches, but it seems our friend the Hooded Man got there first. The place was completely turned over; he was evidently looking for something, but we don’t know if he found what he was looking for.”

“Our team, however, did find a burner phone at the scene,” he tacked a picture of an old Nokia up on the wall. “TARU’s examining the phone as we speak. It’s just a hunch, but I think Truccio may have been working for our mysterious Hooded Man, and he may have wanted to back out when the operation went from vandalism to murder.”

“That’s a workable theory,” Rosaline snatched her coffee from her desk. “What about this new murder?”

“Glad you asked.” Benvolio tacked up a new photo next to the pictures of Truccio and the John Doe.

In the photo, a heavyset woman in bloodstained scrubs lay face down in an alley, a clean sword wound on her back.

“Meet Rebecca Adelson, a nurse practitioner at Verona General Hospital.”

He tacked up another picture of Rebecca, this time from her work ID.

Rosaline took a sip of her coffee. She grimaced and placed her cup on the floor.

“She was found by two uniformed officers on patrol in the alley between Sicily and Bohemia Streets around 9:00 on Friday while we were at the rehearsal dinner—what’s with that face?”

“Coffee’s cold already.”

“Just put it in a mug and reheat it in the microwave,” Benvolio waved her off. “We have to solve a murder, Capulet.”

“Do you want me to reheat yours too?” Rosaline asked, wheeling the chair back in place before jumping to her feet.

“Please and thank you.” Benvolio tacked more pictures to the board.

Snatching the coffee cup off his desk, Rosaline sauntered to the break room and dumped their lukewarm beverages into their respective coffee mugs. Rosaline kept a mug emblazoned with the Starfleet symbol at the precinct in case of emergency caffeination.

When she returned with the steaming mugs, Benvolio had finished hanging all of the photographs from the file. She handed him his cup, which read “Mornings are for coffee and contemplation” in a stylized font.

Benvolio swallowed the steaming coffee in one gulp and wiped his mouth with his hand.

“I’m impressed,” Rosaline remarked, blowing the steam rising from her reheated mug. The coffee burnt her tongue. Benvolio pointed to the board with the collapsible pointer he kept in his shirt pocket for just such occasions.

“This,” he slapped a photo with the pointer, “was written next to the body.”

“Is that Latin?”

Rosaline peered at the photograph.

“It appears that our murderer has a classical education.”

“Or he just wants to look smarter than he is. What does it mean?”

Benvolio snorted.

“It’s a quote from Cicero. It means ‘Never was a government that was not composed of liars, malefactors, and thieves.’ ”

“And what’s this?” Rosaline removed a photo of a footprint from the board.

“It’s a footprint,” Benvolio deadpanned.

“I can see that,” Rosaline smacked him on the arm. “Does it match the other footprint?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Benvolio replied. “It’s not the same shoe, but CSI thinks it might be the same size. And we lucked out—because of the rain, we got more than one.” He held out a second photograph of the muddy ground.

“No way!” Rosaline crowed. She pored over it, noting the measurements marked down by the CSI technicians in their report.

“One foot makes a deeper impression than the other,” Rosaline mused, picking up the crime report. “Maybe our perpetrator walks with a —” A horrid thought flashed through her brain. “—limp.”

Rosaline dropped the photo in her race to the city map on the far side of the board.

Three yellow magnets marked the murder sites. Rosaline turned her concentration to the site of the third murder, the alley between Sicily & Bohemia.

A chill crept up her spine.

“When exactly did you say the time of death was?” Her voice quavered.

“Between 7:00 and 8:30 PM—why?”

Benvolio raced to her side.

Wordlessly, she pointed to the location of their hotel, a mere three blocks from the crime scene.

Benvolio gasped.

“You don’t think—“

“He left dinner to take a phone call and came back wet half an hour later,” Rosaline explained. “He walks with a limp, collects antique swords . . . He even quoted Cicero at the rehearsal dinner. There are too many coincidences to explain away.”

She dropped her voice.

“And he has a motive. He was one of the victims of the Globe Incident; that’s why he’s running for mayor.”

Benvolio snapped his fingers. “Capulet, you might be on to something. But we still need concrete evidence to tie him to one of our victims.”

“I could be wrong,” Rosaline offered half-heartedly. “I hope I’m wrong for Livia’s sake. She’d be devasted if—“

Benvolio pulled her into a hug. “You check in with your sister. I’ll talk to the captain about getting the phone records—at least, we can see if he really was on the phone for an hour.”

“Thanks,” Rosaline whispered into his shoulder.

Benvolio squeezed her one more time before leaving for the captain’s office.

Rosaline plopped into her rolling chair and tapped her pencil against the desk while she pulled out her phone.

With shaking fingers, she typed in her passcode.

“Your passcode is incorrect,” the phone beeped at her.

She drummed one hand against the desk as she tapped the passcode again.

When it let her in, she navigated to her contacts and selected Livia’s name from her favorites.

The dial tone sounded as she brought the phone to her ear. It rang.

Rosaline bit her lip and bounced her leg against the side of the desk.

“Please pick up the phone.”

But there was no answer.

[starrysnowdrop]

Imperial Cid AU Timeline

Because my brain is super disorganized and refuses to write in sequential order, I am posting all of my Imperial Cid AU headcanons here so that everyone has a general idea of the timeline of events, which will allow my brain to do what it wants to do and jump around as it pleases. So here’s the info dump! Enjoy!

((I will link this to my pinned post as well for easy access later when I finish with more prompts!))

* Not too long after the Bozjan Incident, in the midst of the investigation of what happened to have caused the explosion, Cid found the evidence that he needed to prove his theory: His father Midas was tempered by Bahamut.

* Cid decided then to accept the promotion to his late father’s position as Chief Magitek Engineer for the Empire, as a means to an end: he wants to rid the Star of all primal summoning.

* He accompanied Gaius van Baelsar and the XIVth Legion to Eorzea five years ago to subjugate the populace, but Cid’s main concern was not the invasion but to sabotage Nael van Darnus and the VIIth Legion’s plans to unleash Dalamud. In this AU, Cid tried to squash Project Meteor altogether, but Nael van Darnus was already tempered by Bahamut and still secretly went along with her own plans.

* Not too long before the Battle of Carteneau, Cid has what he believes to be a dream of an Auri woman entirely made of light who gives him his trademark goggles. He can’t explain how he actually obtained them in reality, however.

* Obviously, Cid fails in his mission and Bahamut is unleashed, causing the Seventh Umbral Calamity. Cid is able to escape Carteneau with Gaius, so he does not get amnesia in this timeline. Instead, Cid goes and researches Allagan Ruins, eventually finding the Ultima Weapon.

* During the time following the Seventh Umbral Calamity and the beginning of ARR, Cid is working on locating the Ultima Weapon and developing weaponry for another invasion of Eorzea. He also had the same reoccurring dream of the Auri woman in light more and more frequently.

* While Cid is investigating the summoning of Ifrit, he sees a group of adventurers fight and defeat the primal. These adventurers all were immune to primal influence, much to his surprise. Among them, he sees a woman who looks exactly like the woman in his dreams.

* Against his better judgment, Cid goes and follows the woman, to find out more about her. He sees her talking with Thancred, and recognizes that she must be working with the Scions. He continues to follow her until he is forced to reveal himself to her.

* They introduce themselves to each other, and Cid can finally put a name to the face: Yume Aino. He goes back to the Castrum and Livia has already told Gaius all about the adventurers that defeated Ifrit.

* Cid overhears Gaius tell Livia that investigating the adventurers that have the Echo might prove useful. Cid begins to feel protective of Yume and fears what might happen if she keeps interfering with the primals.

* Cid and Yume meet each other three more times, twice in the Black Shroud while investigating the Sylphs and once before the summoning of Titan. Each time they reveal a little more about each other, and the tension between them builds. Cid keeps trying to tell her to stop her interference with the primals and the Garleans, but she refuses.

* After the massacre at the Waking Sands, Cid is angry with Livia and is worried that Yume is dead. He goes to the Waking Sands only to find Yume helping to load up the bodies of the victims. Cid is elated that she’s alive, and Yume thanks him for his concern, but she warns him that she wants to avenge the fallen and plans on killing Livia. Cid says that he won’t stop her.

* After the fight with Garuda, Yume is wounded and due to internal bleeding, she falls unconscious. Cid runs to her side and carries her back to the airship, declaring that she is under his protection.

* Cid has chirurgeons heal Yume while he watches over her. The two share an Echo vision and they realize that Yume gave Cid the goggles via the Echo around the time of the Calamity. Cid asks Yume to join him but before she is able to answer, the Scions come and rescue Yume. Cid doesn’t try to stop them and he allows them to escape.

* Yume and Cid don’t meet again until the attack on the Praetorium, when Cid once again asks her to join him. Yume tells him that she can’t because she will not become an oppressor like she was back in Hingashi, and she doesn’t believe that Cid wants to be one either. She tells him that he could come with her and help the Scions with any primal threat, but she must destroy the Ultima Weapon.

* Cid and Yume fight, and Yume is victorious. While holding her katana towards him, Cid pulls her down to him while on the floor and puts the katana to his neck, asking her to kill him. Yume sheathes her sword and refuses to kill him.

* When Yume finds Gaius, he also asks her to join him, but laughs when she tells him no, as he knows how she feels for Cid. Yume then realizes that she has fallen in love with Cid, and that she must save him no matter what happens.

* As the Praetorium is in ruins, when the other adventurers take Thancred and escape while Yume goes back to search for Cid. He is laying under some rubble unconscious, but Yume is able to get him out alive with a suit of magitek armor. Cid is taken into custody.

* After a time in prison, Cid agrees to help the Eorzean Alliance in the building and maintenance of a fleet of new airships and in giving them inside intelligence on the Empire in exchange for a full pardon. Cid soon found out that Yume had a hand in him receiving his pardon.

* As soon as Cid is freed, he goes and finds Yume and they do the smooches and the love confession and that’s the end. ;)

If you actually read through all of this, thank you so much! I promise more of this AU is coming soon!

[raasa-charron]

Prompt #1: Foster

It was raining.

Raasa knew this because the roof was leaking.

The roof was leaking because Papa wasn't here to fix it.

Papa wasn't here to fix it, because Papa was dead.

The small viera child, little more than skin and bones by now, curled up on his small bed, shivering. He wasn't sure if the wetness on his face was due to the leak or the tears that burned in his eyes. His dark gaze strayed close to where the shrouded bodies lay on the floor and then was quickly averted.

He wondered if he was going to die here, too. There was a clean stream outside that provided him with water, but the food had run out days ago, and his arms weren't strong enough to pull the great bow that Papa had used. He sniffled and buried his head in his arms, trying to make the best of his situation whilst he pondered existential questions that no child of his meager years should have to.

The door opened with a suddenness that made his ears stand on end and he darted for the hiding spot under the floorboards where he'd hidden while Livia Sas Junius had stuck Mama and Papa with her swords. She'd laughed while she'd done it, while their hot blood seeped through the cracks and splattered onto his skin. It was the worst sound he'd ever heard. Footsteps swiftly crossed the floor toward him and an unfamiliar voice spoke.

"Hey now!"

Abruptly, he found himself scruffed by the back of his collar, not off his feet, but caught up so he couldn't run. "Get offa me, get offa me!" he shouted breathlessly, brokenly, flailing and beating his tiny fists ineffectually at whoever was holding him in pure panic.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Easy, easy." The voice was soothing, but firm, cutting through his hysterics and leaving him panting in wild-eyed terror as he stared up at the strange-looking woman. She had long ears, too, but not furred like his, and not at the top of her head. Hers stuck out to the side. She had greying red hair and a kind face, with green eyes that peered down at the malnourished youth with concern and confusion.

"Where are your paren-" She stopped in mid-sentence as she saw the bodies, covered in crimson-stained sheets. "Oh," the word rushed out softly. "I'm so sorry," she said, brows furrowing as she regarded him, uncurling her fingers at his collar.

Raasa regarded her warily, taking a few quick steps back, ears swiveling wildly as he listened for soldiers outside, but all he could hear was the quiet nattering of a chocobo.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, producing a linen-wrapped hunk of crusty bread, along with some dried meat and holding it out to him. His stomach answered for him, rumbling loudly at the sight of it. Slowly sidling closer, he snatched both and backed away again, tearing into the food while he watched her.

The woman gazed at him while he stuffed food into his mouth ravenously, a hundred thoughts rifling through her head. Her drunkard of a husband wouldn't be pleased, but there was no way she could abandon this child to die a slow death of starvation.

"Alright. Gather up your things, boy. You're going to come home with me. Somewhere far away, warm and safe. No one's going to hurt you, I promise," she vowed. Raasa's eyes widened, ears splaying. He couldn't stay here, he knew that. He couldn't provide for himself and the life of a beggar wasn't an easy one. Not to mention, the soldiers still wandered the woods. He considered for a moment, then his gaze moved close to the bodies again, though not quite looking at them.

"Will ya help me bury 'em first?"

"Of course," came the immediate reply from the older woman, who smiled sadly down at her new foster child. "We'll do it in the morning, when it stops raining," she added, reaching out to wipe the tear-streaked dirty face.

Raasa nodded, putting on a brave face, and stuffed more meat into his mouth, chewing slowly now. "What do I call ya?" he asked around the food, studying her intently.

"You can call me... Mama," she suggested - only to be take back by the ferocity of the child's glare.

"But you ain't! She was my Mama, she was--" Raasa crumpled into sobs, with great gulping gasps and large tears that splashed onto his dirty shirt. This time, when he was gathered up in her arms, he didn't pull away, instead clinging to the woman with tiny, filthy fingers.

"We can figure it out later," she said softly, petting his matted hair. "We'll figure it all out out, together."

[deliciousdetectivestranger]

Summary: When Clave-in-Exile and Downworld answer Seelie Court's request to meet, Ash Morgenstern is declared as King of Seelie but he is challenged by Kit Herondale who announces his legacy. As the boys duel for the crown, secrets start coming to light. But will all these secrets be welcomed?

Known Secrets are Revealed

The mundanes of New York could tell something unnatural was happening in the city. Everyone was keeping track of the thick tension which had settled the city as the fog surrounded England during the Industrial Revolution, anytime now it would happen.

What they didn’t know was that it had begun a long time ago. For weeks New York was being shrouded deeply by the Warlock, Nephilim, and Fae wards. A few hours ago, the parley of Seelie Court had arrived in Central Park with the Seelie Queen herself at the centre. They had been greeted by the Clave-in-Exile, Werewolves, Vampires, Warlocks, Unseelie Court, and Wild Hunt. Confusion had spread through the lower ranks of both sides at such a huge and varied receiving party. It wasn’t as if a war was in talks or were the Nephilim still ruminating over the parley conducted by Horace Dearborn and Oban of Unseelie Court had resulted in the majority of Nephilim leaving their beloved Idris to Cohort.

Even though Alec Lightwood-Bane was now the Consul his ability to put up with bullshit was still low. He had refused the talk, talk, talk, and do no work attitude of the Clave. This was a difficult beginning for them. He was not going to make it impossible by allowing his shadowhunters to whine, refusing to do what was expected, and just being unhelpful to spite others. With Diego Rocio Rosales as the Inquisitor, his load had lessened a lot.

When the Seelie Court had requested the parley Nephilim and the Downworlders had instantly gone on high alert. After all, it was Seelie Court that had aided Sebastian Morgenstern and his Endarkened and they had never apologised. These days the Shadow World trusted the Unseelie Court which had been kept hidden and the tales of its cruelty reaching young ears but had transformed greatly under the rule of Kieran Kingson. The Unseelie Court participating in the change with immense enthusiasm as they too had been exhausted from living their lives like that.

Of Course, the beautiful but treacherous Seelie Court had shown their cards one by one but to their eternal frustration their opponents were completely nonchalant about it, some even appeared bored, something which their dramatic souls just couldn’t bear. The knowledge that Seelie Court and the cohort were in cahoots was a surprise. Though for years now they had been aware that the CohortChort had been watching them, all thanks to the spying done by the ghost of Livia Blackthorn in March 2013. Though the only people who truly knew from where the information had come up were Livia, her twin brother Tiberius Blackthorn (then a centurion in training), Christopher Herondale (the Lost Herondale), and Magnus Bane (the High Warlock of Brooklyn). Magnus had declared that they couldn’t tell the truth as it will endanger Livvy along with Kit and Ty, who had tried and failed to do the necromancy, but one day in the future Livvy would get the credit she deserved while Kit and Ty would be punished for the punishment they had in store.

Janus and Ash Morgenstern were also not a shock. Janus when he had tried to spy on the AU version of himself and his friends had also kissed Clary Fairchild. She had later teased her fiancée of his odd behaviour earlier the evening but had received a negative. Suspicious the couple had discussed this with their friends and had wondered if someone was taking their obsession towards Clary and Jace towards a higher disgusting and concerning level ore this was an atrocious prank. But they were unable to draw out his motives until Maia Roberts had complained that one of her werewolves had been missing for days and they hadn’t been able to find her. Thanks to Magnus’ magic they had found her dead body and of a fae boy who had been identified to be of Unseelie Court. It had worried them greatly but not much as Alec who had recognised the couple from an outing with his family. When Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn had visited the New York Institute as the last stop for their Travel Year, they had concluded that this Jace was Jace Herondale but from Thule. He had been Sebastian Morgenstern’s right hand, someone who after seeing and participating in the unending massacre of his world had lost his sanity and was a danger to them. And if Jace of Thule was here then Ash Morgenstern might be here as well.

What had shocked them was the betrayal of Lily Chen and her Vampires. After the Seelie Queen had removed the oblivion placed on her she had remembered her promise to Janus of Information in return for Raphael Santiago of Thule. Lily with a heavy heart and guilty conscience had aided the Seelie Court.

The Seelie Queen indicated towards her son and said, “By my blood, he is the heir to Seelie, by his father, Sebastian Morgenstern’s blood, he is a shadowhunter, by Lilith, the Mother of Warlocks’ Blood, he has been blessed by the Fallen Angels, and by the Unseelie King Arawn’s experiments, he holds many gifts. I am here to announce his rulership and to should anyone present know of any reason that Ash should not be the King, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

“We should hire her to conduct our wedding ceremony,” Simon Lewis Lovelace muttered.

Isabelle Lightwood nodded her assent. “With fair folk arranging our wedding it will be bold, beautiful, and dangerous.”

“Not unlike both of you.” Cristina Mendoza Rosales pointed out. The couple shared a smile, ignoring the exasperated looks sent by their friends.

Drusilla Blackthorn hearing this exchange added her own two cents, “You guys should make themes for each program. The wedding ceremony will be of shadowhunter style of course but have the reception in Star Wars theme” Jace groaned. “And how about the rehearsal in the horror theme. You’ll start a new trend.”

“Why horror theme? To depict the horrors of marriage?” Thais Pedroso questioned her friend and received a stink eye for her sarcasm and lack of support to Dru’s schemes. Emma and Jace could sympathise with her for having parabatais who never appreciated their grand plans.

Alec ignoring the childish squabbling taking place behind him spoke out, “I gather that you want your son to be the King but what of Ash? What does he want?”

Silence fell in the park. No one had expected this. Ash Morgenstern was the son of Sebastian Morgenstern and Seelie Queen, grandson of Valentine Morgenstern, would of course be a discriminating, bloodthirsty, power-hungry character. But at Alec’s question, they all had to agree that they were being biased. Once upon a time, Downworld had stood against Nephilim and also to the different factions of Downworlders, Shadowhunters too had butchered them kept their remains as trophies in their houses, even today their Vampire alleys had turned out to be traitors so, no they couldn’t say that they knew anything about Ash Morgenstern.

Ash eyed Alec, a golden metal band hid his forehead, his face blank but his Fairchild green eyes were of a predator honed by the years of captivity in Unseelie Court, surviving in Thule from his own AU father and of the politics in Seelie Court where honeyed tongues had poison and beautiful faces hid grotesque personalities.

“I request you, Consul, to not try to create a rift in between my mother and me. If there had to be a rift it would have appeared years ago. I have heard a lot about you from the rumours and from Janus who had you as a parabatai but knows nothing about you. You are a stranger and why should I believe a stranger’s word over those who are dear to me?”

“Well, I’ll thank the angel that you’ve thoroughly understood the basic instructions given to children.” Kit Herondale said. “At least we won’t have a Snow-White situation on our hand.”

Titters could be heard as the tension slightly lowered.

“Watch it, boy!” Janus growled. “Your sanity ought to be questioned for making merry of such important occasion.”

The Seelie Queen frowned as she stared at Kit. She didn't see any kind of resemblance between him and Jace Herondale then why did he look so familiar?

Kit rolled his eyes. The blasé persona achieved after spending years at Shadow Market, the tumultuous times in which his Nephilim heritage had revealed and of course the Herondale he was made a striking combination, hiding a brilliantly sharp mind which could see through every single of actions of his enemies.

“You were born sometime before 2009. You should be in 3rd grade now not going on and declaring yourself as King. Have you even completed today’s homework? You are spoiling your son too much, your majesty. He will turn out like Draco Malfoy like this.”

Laughter was clear this time. Ash’s lip curled at the comment. Someone *cough*Simon*cough* even did an improvised ‘My mother will hear about this.’

“He is right.” Ty Blackthorn spoke up. “His age by Fair Folk standard and by ours presents an anomaly. You can’t expect us to see this as anything more than a farce.”

Kit beamed at him before recalling himself. Ty didn’t even spare him a glance.

Livvy who was floating in the middle of both of them fell to her knees and held her hands above her. Glancing at the sky she beseeched, “Grant me the serenity, Raziel . . . this is turning worse by the moment.”

At that, both boys glared at her.

“Ty, the question is not about age but maturity.” Ty’s boyfriend Anush Joshi said.

“Yeah. But we do need to come up with something for this. What if tomorrow Ash calls us to announce he is making his child the ruler? Fae do age rather strangely. Surely there must be something to do.” Mark Blackthorn crowed.

Hong Yeon Woo of Seoul Institute raised replied, “Due to the unique age calculating system used in my country, Koreans consider a year in the womb as counting towards their age, so every one is one year old at birth. Everyone gets one year added to their Korean age on New Year's Day. But internationally it’s bothersome.”

“In Romania, many old families consider their members one year older each time their birthdays come up.” Casimir Munteanu of Craiova Institute answered.

“See? We need to do something about this. Truly mundanes always have answers to any kind of situations.” Mark gleefully said. “And we shouldn’t hesitate to take their lead. We already have Nephilim currency with our Consul on it.”

Alec groaned. Those had been truly trying times.

“In case the nonsense is finished, Consul either swear your allegiance or we shall have to drench this park from Summer to Autumn,” Janus called out.

The threat didn’t go unheard. Clary and Julian felt sick at this horrible implication to their painting. Kit exchanged a look with Tessa and Jem. They both were concerned but Tessa gave Kit a determined nod and Jem squeezed his shoulder supportively. There was no doubt in them for him only love and trust.

Before Alec could say anything, Kit interrupted. “We won’t swear our allegiance.” His joking demeanour had vanished. “For I do have a reason why Ash shouldn’t be King.”

Everyone looked at him curiously. The Seelie Queen got a sinking feeling as she once again looked at Kit.

“To join their Courts together Seelie Queen and Unseelie King made a truce that the child born through their union would inherit both the Courts. They had a girl named Auraline, the First Heir. The king who wanted a son was displeased but still kept her away from the Queen who was incensed to be parted from her daughter. Then there was a prophecy that the First Heir upon reaching their full power all the Faerie would fall under shadow. The King was enraged and the Queen was terrified. The war between the Courts grew even more fierce as the people thought that the First Heir was cursed. Auraline who had never even asked for the powers or the prophecy scared for her life escaped to the mortal world which she found beautiful. The Unseelie King however did send Riders of Mannan after her. She visited the Shadow Market where Downworlders and Mundanes unaware of her birth never called her cursed. Decades later she fell in love with a magician at Shadow Market known as Roland the Astonishing. He too had a secret of his own. As they both confessed how they were wished dead for crimes, not of their own they decided to run away together. Auraline through her Faerie powers made sure that Roland lived longer than most mortals. They had a child together and then finally even Auraline’s powers couldn’t keep death away from Roland. When Roland died, Auraline chose to be with him.”

One could hear the leaves rustle from the breeze as the parley intently heard Kit. The Seelie Queen was expressionless but internally her heart ached at the injustice done to her daughter. Jace and Clary wondered why Kit knew First Heir’s story in such detail. Mother Hawthorn connected the dots and as she looked at Kit, all she could remember were the rumours of when he had been found in LA’s Shadow Market where he had been kept hidden and not long after had left with the couple who had visited her years ago. He hadn’t been seen since then. He too had been forced into hiding just like Auraline. She was just glad that the love between Kit and the couple was real. It was what Auraline had deserved and thankfully Kit had received.

Kit continued, “Auraline’s child had a child. And so it went. There is still a First Heir in the world.”

In unison, the parley gasped.

“Tobias Herondale and Eva Blackthorn’s child, Ephriam was secretly taken to safety by Catarina Loss before the unfair justice of Tobias’ crime was carried out by the Clave. The line from Ephriam is known as the Lost Herondale. His grandson was Roland Loss. For those who don’t get it, he was also known as Roland the Astonishing.”

Kit’s last comment undoubtedly made things clear to all. And panic started to replace the tension. ‘What now?’ was the biggest question in everyone’s mind.

“The First Heir Line and the Lost Herondale have intertwined ages ago. Hunted by the Riders of Mannan, unwanted by their people, shunned by the Courts and the Nephilim, they found their refuge in the Shadow Markets.”

Hypatia Vex, Juliette the Queen of Bueno Aires Shadow Market, Mother Hawthorn along with other Shadow Market denizens couldn’t help but smile.

“I am Christopher Jonathan Herondale. I am the Lost Herondale and the First Heir of Faerie.”

At once shouting began from both sides of the parley. Confusion, fury ran rampant. One thing was in agreement that they all had been blindsided.

Kit looked unconcerned though his hand was on his double-aged straight sword. Tessa and Jem shifted into a battle stance. Emma and Julian slowly inched towards Kit. Magnus, Catarina, and Ragnor added wards in front of Kit. Kieran made a motion and the Unseelie guards split in two one surrounding Kieran and the other unsurely moved towards Kit. Cristina and Mark though didn’t move from beside Kieran. Livvy hovered above Kit but not before shooting him a betrayed look, which her younger sister was sporting too. Helen and Aline standing beside moved to shield them.

Out of the corner of his eye Kit saw that Ty was unsurprised. “I have been wondering how you made the Riders’ horses disappear that day in the Brocelind Forest.” He answered at Kit’s questioning look. Livvy and Dru shifted their glares to him.

"You did hit one of the riders with your slingshot." Kit spoke as he remembered.

Alec, Jace, Clary, Isabelle, and Simon couldn’t decide which one of them was more shocked, especially considering Magnus was unsurprised. Jaime Rocio Rosales standing beside his brother couldn’t deny that Kit was really and truly intriguing. That day in the LA institute’s library he had given Eternidad to Cristina, Mark, and Kieran, he was curious about the boy who was distinctly not a Blackthorn yet he fit in them just like Kieran. It was later when he had visited Diego in New York, he had learned who that boy was.

A growl interrupted the noise. It was Janus. He barked to Kit, “Where is the proof? How do we know you aren’t lying?”

Jace cut in, “How do we know you and Ash aren’t some faerie illusions forcing us to do your bidding”.

As Janus glowered at him, all Jace could think was how close he had come to share this man’s fate. He grabbed Clary’s hand, his palms sweaty but she only smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

Ash’s voice brokered their attention. “Then Christopher, why don’t you and I duel for the crown?”

“Well Asher, I find it difficult to finish my daily chores, there is no way I am going to shoulder the burden of ruling a realm.”

Anush goggled at him, Jaime choked, Julian nodded prompting an amused smile from Emma, Livvy and Dru facepalmed, Ty, smiled a little, Jace was ready to make a smartass comment was silenced by Alec and Clary.

“We will duel Christopher. Duel to death for the crown.” Ash snarled. His eyes narrowed at Kit.

The parley wondered what would be the outcome. They couldn’t decide between Ash and Kit both scions of important Fae ancestry but shadowhunter blood ran through their veins as well. The Seelie Queen was trying to gather her wits. She was not fond of Nephilim and definitely not of Herondales but she couldn’t ignore how Kit bore such a strong resemblance to her Auraline. Absently she wondered if the magic they had done on Auraline had passed down to Kit as well.

Kit tilted his head and after thinking for a moment sighed and nodded. Panic and excitement ran through the parley. The Seelie Queen and the Downworlders and shadowhunters who knew Kit started speaking at once. Only Jem and Tessa were quiet. They squeezed his shoulder and then stared directly at Ash.

Both blonde boys moved towards each other effectively silencing the parley. They drew out their swords and circled each other. Finally, Kit stepped at him.

“He shouldn’t have made the first move.” Jace concernedly said.

Janus chuckled at Kit’s impatience and inexperience.

But as Ash moved to block it was clear that Kit had feinted throwing him off guard and moving closer to the Seelie prince. Kit’s blade was about to slice Ash’s side but using faerie speed Ash swiftly moved. Kit circled Ash so he was always at his back, the latter after few moments stopped turning.

“Christopher’s fighting style is unique,” Anush noted. Ty observed Kit and wondered if he was mixing Mundane, Shadowhunter, and Downworlder styles.

When Kit lunged at Ash who readily parried him and moved so he could end the distance in them and draw him in a space where he could control Kit. Ash started moving faster, his moves rougher, all his blows landing heavily on Kit.

It was clear to viewers that though Kit fought unusually he did lack Ash’s training and experience as well as his savagery not to mention stamina.

Bored and smiling a smile sported by his grandfather and parents Ash moved to land a fatal blow on a panting Kit but he sidestepped just like Ash had done earlier. Ash couldn’t stop himself in midmotion and Kit moved closer, when he hit Ash’s hand with his sword’s hilt. Ash winced and that time was enough for Kit to twist his hand, remove the blade from it. Reeling him in Kit sild Ash’s sword at the back of Seelie prince’s neck and then pointed his sword at his throat.

Once again silence reigned as Kit panted and Ash stared at him wide-eyed. They could hear Janus cursing, Emma and Jace whooping, and Simon cheering, “That’s our Aragorn.”

Kit raised an eyebrow at Ash who had no way to move without getting his head chopped off. But Ash was not just a shadowhunter he bore many more powers which Seelie Queen had advertised when she had introduced him. So, he raised his hands and blasted Kit with a huge fire of darkness.

Screams erupted as Kit slammed against a tree and fell on his stomach unmoving. Before anyone could move to help him, Janus barked orders and Seelie forces surrounded Ash and Kit, but they did look reluctant. While they didn’t like Kit for the First Heir prophecy, taking orders from Janus who didn't have a speck of Fae blood in him irked them.

Ash leisurely walked towards Kit and picked up both swords. As he reached Kit, he prodded Kit with his foot further infuriating Kit’s friends and allies. But Kit made no move to get up. Ash’s brow furrowed and taunted Kit, “What happened? Ran out of your tricks? This was a duel for the crown of Seelie, it was never going to be of just our swordsmanship prowess. Powers are also to be tested but you didn’t use them. Either you can’t use them or the shadowhunter blood ran true and the First Heir doesn’t have powers. Well, which one is it?”.

There was no answer. Ash got on his and hit Kit with his sword’s hilt on his shoulder. He turned towards Janus moved towards them. Just then Ash heard a moan and turned towards the sound. Hidden by the Seelie guards who had their backs to the boys, Ash leaned over Kit so no one in the parley could see when Kit’s blue eyes opened and he grabbed Ash’s wrist tightly, a smirk on his lips.

Everyone looked away when a blinding white flash lit Central Park. When they finally regained their sights, terror filled them as they realised that Ash and Kit had disappeared.

Hello everyone, I hope you'll enjoy this. Please don't hesitate to leave feedback and constructive criticism. If anyone wants to be added to the taglist or removed from it, inform me.

taglist: @immortal-enemies @khaleesiofalicante @radisv @dark-artifices-only @beclynn-herondale @herondaletessa @chibi-tsukiko @ask-the-shadow-world @allysbookshit @themimsyborogove @kit-and-ty-fic-recs @hardlymatters @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped @shadowhunting-hooligans @pjo-tsc-trc-otherthingstoo @the-blackdale @kitandtyarelife @merry-thieves

[liviavanrouge]

Officially Part of the Family

Livia: *Floats through Styx, carrying paperwork*

Mrs Shroud: Liv-Chan!

Livia: *Flinches, almost dropping the papers* Mrs Shroud?

Mr Shroud: Livia...have you been avoiding us..?

Livia: *Stares, then looks down* I'm sorry for being a bother....I know I'm annoying you both with my unnecessary childishness...

Mrs Shroud: Nonsense!! Who told you that you were bothering us?!!

Livia: Nobody....it's just something I feel is wrong....

Mr Shroud: Livia.....in the past twelve weeks you've been here you've been nothing but helpful and a delight

Mr Shroud: You are part of the family now, you're our daughter, one I'm relieved came to us

Mrs Shroud: Mhm! We love having you around Livia, and I'm sure our boys feel the same way about their sister

Livia: *Stares at them stunned* Daughter? Sister?

Livia: *Blinks, feeling her cheeks get wet then reaches up, touching her cheek* Tears...?

Livia: *Looks up, tears falling down her cheeks* Mother?

Mrs Shroud: Yes Liv-Chan

Livia: Father?

Mr Shroud: It's alright...

Livia: *Set the papers down and floats over, hugging the two* I'm sorry, these voices in my head keep messing with me!

Mrs Shroud: *Pat's Livias head gently* Our poor girl, we'll find a way to nullify the voices

Mr Shroud: For now, you go recharge, daughter before your battery gets too low

Livia: Y-Yes, I will Father!

Mrs Shroud: Good girl! She listens unlike a few certain someones!

Mr Shroud: *Chuckles, Livia zooming down the hall*

[maddiebiscuits]

Personal Opinions on FFXIV Villains (in general order of appearance)

As a note, I will not be including any pre-A Realm Reborn villains (as I did not play the original Final Fantasy XIV) nor will I be including any one-off primals, raid bosses, etc. I will be trying to focus on villains as they appear in main or side storylines, in cut scenes, that have some over-arching influence on the story they participate in with something akin to a clear presence - Garleans, Ascians, and so on. Also SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS.

Rhitahtyn sas Arvina

Rhitahtyn gets the shaft out of Gaius’ three main players in A Realm Reborn. A conscript from a Empire-conquered land who rose to power and respect, directly honored by Gaius himself, and possessing an even temper and noble ambition really helped to level out Nero and Livia’s general nonsense. Unfortunately, Rhitahtyn is provided almost no screen-time, development or exploration, and as years have passed, his in-game 8-man trial can now be completed in a regular synced party in mere seconds. He deserved a lot better than what he got, yet remained too sidelined to really leave me feeling invested in wanting to see what sort of story this character could be used to tell.

Livia sas Junius

When first playing through A Realm Reborn my feelings on Livia were...tepid, but optimistic. Of Gaius’ three main players, Livia was easily the most active and ruthless, lacking the shady “long game” and self-serving ambitions of Nero or the more honorable, measured personality of Rhitahtyn. Suffice to say, the dawning (and then confirmed) realization that Livia’s sole motivation seeing the plan of the man she loved through to completion by any means, to the point of tunnel-visioned, murderous intent, was...disappointing. Add to that Livia was raised by Gaius in her backstory, the man being a father figure to her, and the romance motivation becomes even more unhinged (especially since it is largely considered to be a reciprocated romance, at least physically, by Gaius - barf)

Nero tol Scaeva

Nero has become a fan favourite character over the years, thanks to his continued development into Cid’s boyfriend foil rather than outright villain of the main storyline. This development was easy to spot early enough though, as it was clear Nero’s fealty to Gaius was largely self-serving. He didn’t care much about conquering Eorzea or felling primals/eikons - he just wanted to show that he possessed the brilliance to build weapons capable of doing so. His speech/squabble with Cid during the Praetorium sequence paints that picture even more clearly if the players missed the not-so-subtle implications for Nero’s character already. The man lived, breathed and seethed with inferiority when compared to Cid, and in the end he did ultimately prove his engineering mastery, even if the Warrior of Light took it (and him) down. Ultimately though, Nero serves as a much better supporting and “redeemed” character than a villain, so I do have to rank him pretty low.

Gaius van Baelsar

Aside from whatever...weird...thing was going on between him and Livia (again - barf), Gaius in A Realm Reborn was a pretty solid villain, with clear-cut motivations that I actually understood, and begrudgingly agreed with to a small extent. As legatus, Gaius was still the tyrannical arm of the Garlean Empire, but a level-headed one who was more interested with the purging of the primal/eikon threat from Eorzea than subjugating other peoples. Further development of this character into something of an anti-hero and glimpses of how other characters viewed him in flashbacks in later expansions ends up providing his A Realm Reborn rendition with more strength in retrospect. The heads of the three city-states deciding to accept Gaius off to willingly join the Empire is a pretty good sticking point for the validity of his plan as well. Ultima Weapon is...you know, pretty impossible for Ul’dah, Gridania and Limsa Lominsa to face down if they refuse, but more enticing is its ability to, indeed, single-handedly defeat primals/eikons - something the city-states desperately need at their disposal, having been plagued by such threats constantly, for years and years.

Gaius cuts a pretty direct swath to the truth of the Twelve as well - they’re no different than the primals/eikons he seeks to eradicate, and the more stock Eorzeans put into them, the more empowered they become should someone ever try to summon one, making Eorzeans no better than the beastmen and their ‘gods’. Join the Empire and have protection from such powers, and put faith into the leadership of man, versus that of fictional deities that can be given terrifying form...in the world of Final Fantasy XIV, that’s not a terrible proposition. But it would still subject thousands of people to the Empire’s tyranny, so even if Gaius has the oft-coveted ‘Point’ that most villains wish they had, he still must be stopped. Eorzea will simply find other ways to endure the primal/eikon threat rather than bend the knee, and I like that defiant angle the Warrior of Light represents to counter Gaius’ character. Also, Ascian meddling and Hydaelyn shenanigans, sure, but I don’t feel that takes away from the core conflict that Gaius presents. He was a good villain, and I’m happy to see him return and go through the motions of penance for his past deeds and aid the supporting cast now, elevating him even higher into a good character, in general.

Lahabrea

I admit I have a soft spot for Lahabrea, only because he seems to be a universal punching bag for heroes and villains alike in Final Fantasy XIV. He lacks the more subdued, long-term planning of Elidibus or the explored nuance and sympathy of Emet-Selch - he’s sort of the odd one out between the trifecta that make up the unsundered Ascians. Just a blindly-tempered zealot of Zodiark, seemingly more enthused by the ancient primal’s return than the promise of the world being set back to how it was before The Final Days. Even the other Ascians don’t seem to like Lahabrea that much - Elidibus seems keenly aware that Lahabrea has gone off the deep end, constantly needing reminders and wrangling-in to keep the plan in motion. But I will admit, he serves his purpose well enough, and the additional side-story that reveals that Lahabrea was a brilliant scholar unmatched in the Amaurotine field of ‘phantom creation’ was a nice touch to explain why he’s pretty dang good at getting people to try and summon primals and conjuring or corrupting monsters himself. By no effort of Square Enix themselves, I sort of feel bad for the guy. He really was just Doing His Best, and getting no respect for it. His end was also anti-climatic, but by the time it happened, there were far more interesting characters and stories to tell, and he was unnecessary - it was just better this way, Lahabrea.

Nabriales

This one-bit player served one substantial purpose, and it was to see an Ascian get obliterated permanently and thus provide the means and understanding to battle Ascians in the future. Except that the cost to do so was a throw-away villain, a throw-away damsel-in-distress 8-man trial, and turning Moenbrya, a character with a lot of potential to be great, into a throw-away character who has to make an untimely sacrifice because the script says so. Nabriales you’re boring, you’re bad, you’re a waste of time and your mutton chops are dumb as hell.

Ilberd Feare

You know what, I like this villain. I absolutely want to punch his face in, but I figure getting that sort of rise out of me on sight is intended, since, you know: villain. His motivations aren’t bad either, even if his methods are deplorable. The speech he gives at the very end of A Realm Reborn to rile up Raubahn is pretty effective too. Despite both being refugees of Ala Mhigo, Raubahn fought his way to wealth and status, and Ilberd was never afforded that chance, or at least never quite managed. Raubahn pledged himself more to Ul’dah and the Immortal Flames with his new privileges, however, and Ilberd was perhaps right to resent that, with Ala Mhigo still under the yoke of the Empire, and so many refugees left to flounder in The Black Shroud and Thanalan both, Raubahn seemingly unwilling to step in. Ilberd saw the opportunity to change the status quo and took it, and proceeded to rally others to reclaim Ala Mhigo. If the city-states would not help, then they would be forced to help, and for all his dirty tactics, punch-able face and Shinryu-summoning finale, Ilberd’s plan did work: he forced the hand of the city-states to fight against the Empire to reclaim Ala Mhigo, and did indeed remind Raubahn and other passive Ala Mhigans that there was still an important job to do. So, good job Ilberd. Gold star. Now perish.

Teledji Adeledji

I thought the politics at the very end of A Realm Reborn were intriguing, and Teledji’s heel-turn pretty fun, since of all the Monetarists, he seemed to be painted as the most reasonable. Though I found his game plan a bit...suspect. Yes, a poisoned goblet assassination attempt on the Sultana that he could frame on someone else, while usurping control of the Crystal Braves so he could make a bid for full Monetarist control of Ul’dah (with him at the helm) makes sense on paper, but I’m not sure why he sought to frame the Warrior of Light for it, and implicate the Scions either. While it’s true that the Warrior and the Scions would be an obstacle and want to investigate the death, and would prove tenacious foes, if you think about the scenario a bit more, it seems unnecessary. The Warrior and Scion efforts were likely going to start swinging towards Ishgard and the Dragonsong War, to better embellish the northern city-state’s relations with the Eorzean Alliance, nor are the Warrior or Scions people you’d want to make an enemy, especially with the Warrior being one of the only people who can defeat primals (a very active threat in Thanalan).

Framing Lolorito would have been a wiser idea, as he was already disliked and untrustworthy in the eyes of many, powerful and dangerous to compete with though he is. If Lolorito had been framed, Raubahn and the Scions may not have questioned it, and Teledji could have enjoyed planting himself in the eye of the power vacuum that was to come while the Warrior of Light focused their energy up north. Instead, Teledji bet on the wrong chocobo and paid dearly for it - his plan fell apart (and so did he) in more ways than he could anticipate, but on the whole? This was a pretty intriguing and entertaining storyline, I enjoyed it.

Lady Iceheart / Ysayle Dangoulain

I debated putting Ysayle on this list because by the first act of Heavensward, she’s not a villain - but, she certainly was in A Realm Reborn and going into Heavensward, so we might as well just keep representing how good Heavensward is and include her here. Aside from Minfillia, this is one of the only ever characters you meet early(ish) who shares The Echo with the Warrior of Light. Unlike Minfillia or the Warrior, though, Ysayle doesn’t really adhere to the call of Hydaelyn. Instead, her powers allowed her to hear and learn the truth of Ishgard’s history: that it was a lie, and that King Thordan broke the peace in a bid for power for Ishgard, turning Nidhogg to rage and setting the Dragonsong War into motion. Having witnessed Ishgard’s cruelty at a young age when her home was destroyed by snow and ice after the Seventh Umbral Calamity, and knowing what she knew and maintaining close bonds with dragons throughout her life, it’s sort of easy to see why Ysayle would be set upon the path she is. She wishes to end the war much like how Thordan does: ending it, with the dragons as the victors.

Her slap in the face is when she confronts Hraesvelgr though, her bid to sort of not only take the form of Saint Shiva but embody her memory being dismissed as a pale imitation. Saint Shiva wished for true peace, whereas Ysayle demands it through bloodshed - she realizes this, and changes her current course. This is why I debated to list her as a villain, because her gradual change into a supporting character and hero is a logical conclusion as she and Heavensward’s story develops. She starts a villain and dies a hero.

Igeyorhm

Full disclosure: I completely forgot this character existed. And I still don’t actually know why they exist. They’re a second to Lahabrea during the events of Heavensward, and is easily shut down by the Warrior of Light before being annihilated permanently by Thordan. Despite this, I don’t find their existence as offensive as Nabriales’, so...that counts for something.

Archbishop Thordan VII

When I first encountered Thordan (”pope grandpa”, if you will), I thought “oh, he’s evil”, because “church bad” isn’t exactly and uncommon trope and it’s apparent that Ishgard is a broken and unjust society, with this man sitting at the highest seat of power and consorting with Ascians. Yet to my surprise Thordan was...pretty reasonable. At least to start. He makes his audience with the Ascians known and seems unaffected by them and their schemes, is polite and cordial to the Warrior of Light...he doesn’t seem so bad. But the gut feeling remains, and slowly builds as Thordan’s true plan is revealed, becoming a primal-esque deity. And much like Nidhogg, I do get his motivations. Trying to broker peace with the dragons, to him, is just not going to happen - in fact, it’s insulting to ask dragons and Ishgardians both to make a bid for it, when so many people have died and live with the burden of hatred and grief. His solution is more direct: end the war entirely, by winning it for Ishgard.

After assuming his new form and powers, him and his Heavensward have the power to thwart any dragons that oppose them, perhaps even Nidhogg himself if the dreadwrym were to re-appear. Fueled by the generations’-worth of prayers from the Ishgardian population, Thordan was set on ending the war and ousting the dragons from the land, ushering in peace and prosperity. But the Ishgard he sought to protect and defend was built on a history spun of bloodshed and lies, and the dragons were not the true enemy and did not deserve to be put to the sword. Thordan’s plan would have worked in the way he envisioned it, and he made a good argument for it, even if it was ultimately wrong, and that’s a good villain.

Nidhogg

Having come to Final Fantasy XIV from World of Warcraft, a giant, scary black dragon that rants on and on about suffering and misery and pain and vengeance was something of a red flag for a Very Bad Story. Imagine my surprise when Nidhogg was given the screen-time to be properly fleshed out and explored, his motivations and hatred more sympathetically-human than his giant dragon body would have one believe, his presence menacing and well-paced, and his overall being representing the true, dark heart of the Dragonsong War: the cycle of hatred. For dragons, centuries are like days, and the pain Nidhogg feels is no less than what he felt when the Ishgardians brutally broke their pact. Because of this, with each re-emergence of him and his brood, the wheel of suffering turns anew, breathing new hate-filled life into the ongoing Dragonsong War, generation to generation. Time has no effect on his turmoil, and his existence ensures that no other Ishgardians will ever be able to move on from the war either, even as generations continue on.

I find Estinien being consumed by Nidhogg’s rage very thematic as well, Estinien truly embodying the countering hatred the Ishgardians feel towards the dragons, and it makes the final trial with Nidhogg bittersweet. He defeats Hraesvelgr, because as long as Nidhogg exists even the brightest hope for peace will be squashed under the cycle of malice and war. The Warrior of Light must put him down because he cannot be saved - but Estinien still can, and can choose to move on and pursue the peace that Nihogg strived to prevent and Ysayle died to see come to fruition. And he does, and it’s touching, and Heavensward is SO FUCKING GOOD I LOVE THIS EXPANSION.

Quickthinx Allthoughts

I don’t care much for timey-wimey storylines, but I found the Alexander plot easy enough to follow, and the timeloop it creates to be manageable. The truth about the Enigma Codex and the journal Quickthinx has isn’t exactly hard to figure out though once time travel becomes a part of the plot, and beyond beind a fun goblin with a cute kitty cat friend...there’s just not much in the way of compelling character writing here for this gobbo.

Diabolos

Big ancient demon is revived and wants to wreak havoc. Uninspiring, but its also not necessary for Diabolos to be anything more than what he is either. The heart of the Void Ark storyline is the tribulations of Cait Sith, the sky pirates and the history of the Mhachi, Diabolos just being an excuse to explore those characters and lore.

Regula van Hydrus

Regula deserved better damnit. This is the last Garlean villain with nuance and humanity before Stormblood turns everyone who is so much as associated with the Garlean Empire into a cartoonishly-evil, absolutely twisted, reprehensible confusing mess of a person.

Fordola rem Lupis

Stormblood has a lot of story, pacing and character problems. A lot. It has its moments and some people love this expansion, but I do not and its villains are a very large reason why that is. Fordola, for example, had the potential to be quite interesting. She was raised to believe in what her father did: that Gaius and the Empire were not all bad, and then watched her father die trying to protect her from angry, almost barbaric Ala Mhigans who decided that pelting a little girl with rocks because her parents were Empire-sympathizers and supporters was an okay thing to do (as the Garlean soldiers just watched on and let it happen without intervening because they didn’t feel like it - a fact that Fordola knows and remembers). You would think this event would have a sort of polarizing effect on her, feeling betrayed by both her people and the Empire her father believed in, feeling caught in the middle, in need of finding her identity and sense of self. Instead she...basically throws her entire stock in with the Empire, deciding that if she’s a good little soldier for the Empire, then Garleans will have to change their minds about Ala Mhigans and respect them because, see, look: an Ala Mhigan is a respected Garlean asset.

Except this backfires over, and over, her Ala Mhigan team nothing more than vicious dogs that never bite the hand that feeds them, turning their teeth on their own people instead. Fordola is constantly belittled and ridiculed for her heritage and even her gender by the Garleans, and at no point does she ever stop and go “wow maybe the Empire sucks hot ass and I’ve been terribly wrong about my motives this whole time”. And yet, no...Zenos offers her power in some magitek-aether experiment, she kills her own Skulls team, she finished the expansion jailed for her crimes, believing until the very end that the Garleans will win (they did not). She utilizes her anti-primal abilities once, and vanishes from the plot entirely, only to re-appear in a bad side-story where the Immortal Flames have her hooked up to some penalty-of-death submission collar so she doesn’t act out so they can use her synthetic Echo abilities to fight a re-summoned Ifrit.

Bad character, bad writing, and a waste of her new, game-changing anti-primal abilities.

Grynewaht pyr Arvina

This is such...a stupid character. His design, his voice and dialogue...I can’t tell what Grynewaht is supposed to be. Is he comedic relief? Because he’s not funny. Is he a character that you’re supposed to pity or despise? Because I felt nothing towards him. Is he supposed to be a rival? Because...no. I had to look up what his name was. The only thing I can clearly remember about him is that he was the final boss of the Doma Castle 4-man dungeon. That’s it. If you removed him from the plot entirely, nothing of value would be lost.

Yotsuyu goe Brutus

Between the two female villains of Stormblood, Yotsuyu is the more popular. It’s easy to see why: she has a cool design and a lot more screen-time and development, with a big 8-man trial to finish things off. But like Fordola, something is just off about her writing.

I don’t understand her motives or how she even came to feel the way she does about Doma, specificially. And anything bad that could happen to her, has happened to her. She suffered an abusive childhood under her adoptive parents, was sold off to an abusive husband, then sold off again to a brothel after her husband died to repay his debts. She later became a spy for the Garleans, rose in rank and was appointed acting viceroy of Doma, to keep the masses terrified and under her heel. At first, it seems pretty reasonable for her to turn against Doma, and lash out as she does on its people - her Doman upbringing left her used, abused and powerless, and with the Garleans she found power and strength. But this reading falls apart when you quickly realize that Doma was already occupied by the Garleans during the course of her upbringing, her family obedient to the Empire and her suffering just as much the fault of the Garleans. There’s an argument to also be made that not enough time was really spent portraying Doma as the disgusting place Yotsuyu sees it, as from the onset of Stormblood’s story journey into the Far East, Domans are only ever portrayed as a terrified, broken people, scared of the Garleans and Yotsuyu. I also don’t personally care for “character was abused, so now they’re sadistic and crazy” clichés either.

What does work well for Yotsuyu is the theme of power and control. Yotsuyu is a woman who lived a life not her own, weak and frail, until she obtained power. Now that she has it, her drive is to do anything to maintain it and survive - yet for some reason the story is written in such a way as to downplay this much stronger theme of her character, and play up this slightly confusing, all-consuming hatred for Doma instead. Her transformation into Tsukiyomi is also a bit odd (though decently thematic, with her ‘cold, uncaring and distant as the moon’ comparison), with not enough time paid to explore her understanding of Doman deities and why the mirror would trigger this change (and why would she even keep Doman deities in her mind, with her supposed hatred of Doma?)

I also take some issue with her “Tsuyu” arc, where she reverts back to the last time she was ever truly good or innocent, and has the personality of a child while still being an adult woman (and suffering amnesia). I find these infantilizing tropes pretty offensive, especially when Yotsuyu’s arc here is largely just to reinforce and reiterate what cartoonishly terrible people her family were, and provide Gosetsu with some development instead. Aside from killing Asahi and having a cathartic death herself, everything about Yotsuyu just baffles me. Every time I think I like something about her, athe bad writing twists it around.

Zenos yae Galvus

I don’t like Zenos, he’s a bad character, and I hate that Square Enix decided this limp-haired sullen-faced clown was going to be their poster-boy villain for Final Fantasy XIV.

What is the appeal of this character? Yeah, some people find him attractive. I don’t, but I also didn’t find Sephiroth attractive so, okay, whatever - like what you like I guess. But what else does Zenos have going on besides people seeming to think he’s their buff bishonen thicc daddy or whatever the kids are saying these days? His entire character can be summed up in one sentence:

“While the Warrior of Light was practicing empathy, Zenos studied The Blade.”

He’s a Garlean lordling with a bland and cold upbringing who likes katanas and blood sport. That’s it. He’s a sociopath, finding no joy or meaning in life for whatever reason: he just wants to collect Cool Swords and push his bizarre love-hate fight narrative on the Warrior of Light. Because they are opposites, you see: the Warrior of Light is a cardboard cut out of a Good Guy and Zenos is a cardboard cut out of a Bad Guy. He’s not even entertaining about it. He doesn’t want to watch the world burn, he just wants to fight the Warrior because the battle will make him Feel Something. Meanwhile, all I feel whenever I see him in-game, either in a cut-scene or when I’m locked in an unskippable “survive the drawn-out battle!” sequence with him, is a groan coming on. And sometimes villains who are evil just for the sake of it can be fun! But Zenos is not fun - he’s dull, he doesn’t get me hyped up for a fight...I feel nothing.

When he died after using his uber-synthetic Echo to possess Shinryu by taking his own life I thought, “well, at least that’s over” and I felt relieved. And then he came back, bigger and worse than ever! Yippee! I love confusing, unrelatable, boring villains who are recurring. Whatever Square Enix wants to do with Zenos, they need to hurry up and get it done. I care so little about him and just want to explore other stories and characters. I’m assuming he’s going to like, possess Zodiark or something, and then the Warrior will possess Hydaelyn, and there will be some big anime light fight showdown where Zodiark and Hydaelyn both shatter for good and Zenos dies and the Warrior lives another day and uuuugggghhh. How the hell did an expansion like Stormblood follow up Heavensward? Who let this happen?

Asahi sas Brutus

Bowl-cut twink hates his sister because he’s a Zenos fanboy and is angry Yotsuyu got all of Zenos’ attention instead of him. Filled with spite and piss, cartoonishly evil just like everyone associated with Yotsuyu or the Empire in Stormblood. Rest in pieces you little shit.

Varis zos Galvus

I’m lukewarm on Varis. He’s a better villain than Zenos, but that’s like saying a flat three-day-old glass of soda is better than sewage water. The bar is set very, very low. He’s ruthless, but not entirely unfair in his thought processes. Hell, he doesn’t even seem to like his own son (and really, if Zenos was my kid, I wouldn’t like him either). But Varis is a bit too...static, in my opinion. He doesn’t feel like a major player, and his batshit “let’s all just burn so the world resets and we can stick it to the Ascians” is pretty asinine and plays so transparently into the Ascian’s hands. I was originally bummed that Zenos killed him pretty unspectacularly, but...like with Lahabrea, it was probably better this way. 

Omega

I don’t have much to say about this villain, really. The heart of the Omegascape storyline hinges on Cid, Nero, Alpha and the abstract concept of free will and accepting imperfection. It’s almost hard to say if Omega really is a villain, simply acting out a series of programs and statistics in a cold, robotic way, not really with malicious intent, so I think where Omega sort of shines is just as a being to build this sort of story off of, and provide a lot of fun boss fights as well. 

Ran’jit

I had no strong opinions on Ran’jit for a long time, so I guess he improved for me as I now have An Opinion of him. He’s fine. He’s an okay villain. His Zenos-esque “survive the timer” encounters are annoying, but I find his persistence and presence more inspiring than any time crummy ol’ Zenos showed up. The biggest issue with Ran’jit is the lack of time devoted to developing him. This is a man who lost his home in the Flood of Light (which was the First’s equivalent to the Source’s Far East), and has essentially trained and raised numerous Minfillia reincarnations to battle Sin Eaters, just to watch these poor girls he saw as his own daughters die and die and die again. That cycle of loss would break down anyone, and make Vauthry’s postulations of paradise in Eulmore until the end finally comes appealing. Ran’jit pursues the Scions and Minfillia/Ryne not because he’s resolute in following orders, but because he just wants to bring this one psuedo-daughter back and keep her safe - something he could never do for the others who came and went in his tenure.

Naturally, this protectiveness leads to giving in to Vauthry’s nihilistic promises and stifles Minfillia/Ryne as a person. Thancred eventually learns to let the Minfillia he knew go so that Ryne could floruish into her own person - she was not ‘his’ Minfillia and it was terrible of him to ever impose that upon her. But where Thancred can move on and let Ryne develop into the wonderful person she is, Ran’jit cannot. And I’m disappointed this aspect of his character couldn’t be more at the forefront of his narrative.

Vauthry

If you ask me, this is more in line with how I figured Zenos might be. Vauthry lived a life or privilege and power, a child born of divine providence with no true regard for life, just his own desires. He’s spoiled and unreasonable, but his nihilism isn’t really nonsensical in the world of the First. All but a fraction of the world is destroyed, and Sin Eaters are a constant, devastating threat, so why not just relax in luxury, in the safety of Vauthry’s control over the monsters, and live in peace until the world truly ends? The battle against the Sin Eaters is exhausting and has no hope of victory anyway (until the Warrior of Light/Darkness arrives, that is). Even without the meol subplot, it makes sense why so many would flock to Eulmore once Vauthry takes over. Goofy as he can be, I do think Vauthry’s embodiment of just giving in to nihilism, hedonism and annihilation stands as a good thematic contrast to Shadowbringers strong themes of stubbornly striving for hope in even the darkest, bleakest hour. His trial is also fun and a slight swerve. All the Light Wardens up to that point had been monstrous, and Sin Eater transformations the thing of nightmares (Tesleen), so to see Vauthry take on the form of Innocence (ironically appropriate, as he truly believes he is blameless in all he has done) and become a golden-haired, angelic being of beauty - how he likely has always seen himself - is very entertaining, and defeating him feels great.

Emet-Selch / Solus zos Galvus / Hades

Ah yes. The Big One. Most people like Emet-Selch and his involvement in Shadowbringers. He’s sardonic, he’s entertaining, he’s honest, he’s explored, and he’s even sympathetic. The revelation of how Zodiark (and Hydaelyn) came to be, Amaurot and The Final Days is truly tragic. Emet and the rest of the Convocation were trying to save their world, and the cost was staggering - the lives of so many of their own, their minds, and eventually even their own world in the Amaurotine schism that followed. Being able to see a shadow of what Amaurot and its people were like really helps drive home the sorrow of it all, and Emet himself admits that he did try to learn to appreciate what the fragmented world had become. He’s also one of the most “successful” villains in Final Fantasy XIV - his intertwined association with death and masterful ability to raise up and lead empires like the ancient Allagans and modern Garleans to their self-destructing, Calamity-inducing downfalls (of which he was almost successful did with Varis and the Black Rose in the latter’s case) is pretty impressive as far as villainous plans and activity is concerned. Being forced to work alongside him in Shadowbringers because your goals are aligned while attempting to guard yourself from his inevitable schemes - which he’s pretty blunt about admitting he has - is an interesting way to develop him as a villain too. He spends most of Shadowbringers actually helping you rather than outright antagonizing you.

His conundrum is sympathetic as well, if not entirely relatable. If you had the ability to bring back your world, your friends and loved ones, at the cost of countless lives that are trivial in the grand scheme of the cosmos and start again, anew, in a better world that could repair and rebuild, would you do it? Tempered by Zodiark or not, Emet would, and while I don’t agree with him, I don’t entirely blame him either, for feeling how he does. Similar to Ran’jit and Vauthry too, Emet is nihilistic: he clings to something long-gone and will burn the current world down to get it back. To him, the Rejoining and Zodiark’s return is inevitable, and people like the Warrior of Light/Darkness are futile, frustating obstacles that cannot understand not only his plans, but just how he feels. They don’t remember what they lost. Emet does.

And yet in his final moments, Emet seems at peace. He seems to realize, as he is fading into oblivion, that the Warrior of Light/Darkness isn’t just the reincarnation of Azem, but what Azem believed in that made Azem part from the Convocation. Fractured life is still life, and Azem believed that the world and its beings was worth learning about, loving and protecting, capable of great things even when faced with insurmountable odds. The last act of good will Emet can do after requesting that the Warrior not forget about Amaurot, is to free the Warrior from Elidibus’ binds so that the last unsundered Ascian can be put to rest at last. It’s a very emotional throughline for Emet’s character, rather than a more logical one, but it works very, very well and really helps push Shadowbringers into that amazing high its story can get to.

Elidibus

I never liked Elidibus all that much for the longest time. It’s not that his character was “bad’, per se - he’s polite, diplomatic, and enigmatic, providing a much more leveled, intriguing villain to counter-act Lahabrea’s more active plays and cackling. But Elidibus’ long game always left me sort of wanting: I was never really sure what he was trying to accomplish expansion to expansion and how it related to the Rejoining that would bring about Zodiark. His plans also seemed to just regularly...fall through. Sending the Warriors of Darkness to antagonize the Warrior of Light in the Source ended up bringing about the halt of the Flood of Light on the First entirely. Picking up Zenos’ body and squashing Garlemald uprisings while nudging Varis to make and use the Black Rose was promptly halted by the true Zenos making an unspectacular return. I don’t know, I just feel like any plan Elidibus sets into motion gets stopped before it really gets started.

My opinion of him did change, however, during the course of the Shadowbringers expansion. Being the heart of Zodiark, manifesting as the First’s...uhh, first, Warrior of Light, summoning them from across the other shards to wreak havoc and empower himself, only to finally be put out of his misery not just be the true Warrior of Light/Darkness, but Emet-Selch’s last act of will and revealing that he had been an over-working, sad youth who just wanted to save the world he knew was...well, sad. And his first (and last) real gameplay with the various hero summonings was a pretty amazing set piece too, though it also tells me how devastating Elidibus could have been earlier on if he’d taken a more pro-active approach, access to the Crystal Tower notwithstanding.

Valens van Varro

Much like how I wanted to punch Ilberd, because Ilberd is a deplorable person but an effective villain with decent motivations, Valens is just...I just want to punch him, in general. He’s just Disgusting On Purpose. And since we still haven’t shaken Stormblood’s insistence that Garleans are Evil So Evil Oh My God Evil You Guys they’re trotted out a demented borderline sex-offender who forces his child wards to brand subjects who are out of line with red-hot irons. Valens is...entertaining, I guess, in that regard. And Valens does serve as an appropriate counter-part to Gaius in this storyline, the themes of which seem to largely deal with fatherhood and penance for past misdeeds. I just...really miss Garlean villains with nuance.

Fandaniel

Oh god damnit Asahi is back. Square Enix stop doing this, stop bringing back bad characters. Though it is unfair to say Fandaniel is anything like Asahi. Oh sure, he’s using Asahi’s body (and therefore the Brutus’ family inheritance to fund his machinations), he fawns over Zenos, and he’s cartoonishly evil, but at least this go around there’s a certain...goofy charm to it. Fandaniel is a sundered Ascian - he doesn’t care about the Rejoining or Zodiark, he’s aware that he’s a broken being and he is, quite frankly, loving it. He lays his intent out pretty plainly to the Warrior of Light/Darkness: he’s evil, he loves destruction, and he’s doing it because that’s just what he feels like doing. Don’t reason with him, don’t try to understand him, just fight back and cry about it. On some basic level I appreciate that brutal honesty, so much so that I’m comfortable writing my thoughts about him now because I don’t think they’re going to change. What you see is what you get with Fandaniel, and he’s just having such a good time. He’s a terribly-written villain but gosh darnit I just can’t bring myself to hate him.

[mimik-u]

Flower Child, Ch. 18 (”Abyss”)

LINK

i.

The door that led into Room 11812 was already partially cracked when Blue Diamond arrived in front of it the next morning. Lost, hesitant, adrift, perpetually undone, she simply stared at it for a long while, sized it up, reified it into yet another monolith she would have to confront.

For she was surrounded by monoliths.

All the time.

They towered over her.

Mocked her.

Grief and ghosts and all those other inlaid, ingrained fears, carved deep into the marrow of her bones, muscle memory now. She was scared of everything, really: the continuance of life, the permanence of death, the human capacity for endurance, the inhuman throes of her nightmares. And how these nightmares were sometimes, maybe even oftentimes, waking dreams nowadays, stalking her far beyond the confines of a bed that was much too big for her. She was afraid of forgetting Pink Diamond and replacing her, caring for Steven Universe and losing him. Telling Yellow Diamond that she loved her. Showing it. Proving that she did. Never doing it in the end precisely because she was so afraid. (Of what? She scarcely could articulate in the labyrinthine abyss of her mind, where everything was guttural and murky and raw.) Consigning their marriage to the same grave where their daughter laid, the memory of their once great love dressed in funeral shrouds…. She was afraid of empty halls and empty penthouse suites and empty rooms where dust laid thickly on furniture that would never be touched again. Ratty hoodies, diamond quilts, pink sticky notes reminding dead twenty-one year olds to study for upcoming tests. She was afraid of living and afraid of dying, afraid of happiness and afraid of pain. She feared mornings, and she feared nights. Doorbells, sleeping pills, good days, bad days, her very shadow, her own wasted reflection. (Because fundamentally, Blue Diamond was afraid of herself most of all.)

She wasn’t particularly afraid of doors—because most of the time, a door was just a door after all—but she was afraid of this particular door on the sixth floor of a hospital. More simply, she was afraid of what was behind it. Simpler still, she was afraid of who laid in that hospital bed. Afraid of all the unspoken things that had simmered quietly in the space between them for years upon distant, aching years...

So, she simply stood there.

Lost.

Hesitant.

Adrift.

Perpetually undone.

She made a monolith out of a door.

Voices seeped from behind the narrow gap, rising and falling together in a conversation that didn’t quite make sense, try though she did to piece the snippets into a context that she could understand. Blue braced both of her hands upon the head of her cane as she leaned forward to listen, a long strand of her silvery hair falling listlessly between her eyes, curling just over her nose. 

How terribly her heart beat.

How loud.

Her fingers shivered; they simply ached.

“... ouch, dammit! Don’t poke me so hard,” Yellow Diamond snapped, her abrasive voice loud, clear, unmistakable, ringing.

(She was always so pleasant to be around in the morning.)

“Then you should quit squirming around so much, Mrs. Diamond,” a voice that she recognized as belonging to Dr. Reed replied, as amused as her patient was irate. “It’s just a needle.”

“Yes, well—it’s too early in the morning for me to be especially happy about being prodded like a cow.”

“Mm,” the doctor made a noncommittal noise at the back of her throat as she continued to work, noisily shifting invisible materials around.

“So, when will I get these results back?” Yellow asked, affecting a tone that was passably casual to anyone who didn’t know her, who was unaware that she clipped her consonants more shortly than usual when she was tense, scared, strained.

“A couple of hours if I had to wager. The lab’ll want to be thorough.”

“Naturally.”

“And once we get those results back—if they say what I think they will, of course—then we’ll have to run through the whole gamut of other procedures: urological assessments, medical histories, blood pressure tests, cancer screenings, chest x-rays, EKGs... it’ll be a long process.”

“Sounds like it,” Yellow returned in that same punctuated voice, and then the two women lapsed into silence as the ground revolted beneath Blue’s feet, simply eroded.

And she was suddenly falling at the same time that she was perfectly upright, a swaying pillar tethered only to the facticity of her cane. She clung to it all the more tightly, fingers whitening from the beds of her nails downwards; it was the only bulwark she had against total collapse.

Annihilation.

Ruin.

All these tests?

What were they for?

She furrowed her silvery brow and desperately thought back to her conversation with Dr. Reed just yesterday; nothing about it had suggested that something was seriously wrong with Yellow, except a few fractures and lacerations that would clear up with time and rest... so what reasonable line of logic led from a minor car accident to cancer screenings and chest x-rays? What had happened in the unaccounted for hours when Blue had been away? 

She closed her eyes as nausea suddenly rushed up the cylinder of her throat, sickness invading all her delicate senses.

The answer seemed to loom darkly ahead—only a door push away.

“Alright, Mrs. Diamond,” the doctor sighed, “I’m going to get these to the lab. I’ll draw up your discharge papers soon, too...”

Yellow must have made some sort of nonverbal reply because Blue didn’t have time to recover her face as the cracked door suddenly flung open, breaking the final divide between everything she thought she understood and all the awful things that she apparently didn’t.

“Mrs. Diamond, oh, hello! Good mornin’!”

Her wiry eyebrows hoisted high above her thin glasses, Dr. Reed looked equally surprised to see Blue Diamond standing just outside the door. The medical tray she bore in her arms jumped a little as she did, shaking a few test tubes that were filled with dark crimson.

But Blue was impatient, eager, scared most of all. (She was always scared.) Her hooded eyes involuntarily slid from the harried doctor to the test tubes to the impressively cut figure just beyond Dr. Reed’s shoulder.

For Yellow Diamond, wearing her favorite pair of silken pajamas like royal regalia, sat upon the edge of her hospital bed, simply staring at Blue from widened eyes, her cracked lips parted slightly, every line etched across her face a livid, pulsing scar.

It was an expression of contradictions, of paradoxes, of dichotomies: tender at the same time that it was strained, vulnerable and equally forbidding.

Yellow averted her gaze first, a dull flush suffusing her sharply hewn cheeks. When she turned away, the sunlight pouring in from the window eclipsed her features behind the curtain of its flaxen reach.

“Good morning, Dr. Reed,” Blue murmured, painfully wrenching her attention back to the more immediate woman. “I see you have been… busy.”

She glanced questioningly at the tray of test tubes again, but just as the doctor opened her mouth to respond, Yellow got there first, cutting across her with cold precision.

“She was just leaving,” she said pointedly, still not looking their way. She brought her left arm up—the one enmeshed in a brace—to absentmindedly skim the right where her sleeve was meticulously rolled up at the elbow, where a long piece of gauze had been nearly wrapped around the joint. “Right, Doctor?”

It was a clear dismissal, blunt and unsubtle, a maneuver of clear avoidance, of keeping those strange, private words in the dark. Blue imagined it was a tactic that would have worked exceptionally well on Poppy or Livia or one of their various other employees besides whom Yellow had already intimidated into submission, but Dr. Reed didn’t seem to be especially frazzled by Yellow Diamond at all—unbothered by her elevated status, impervious to the harsh way with which spoke, as though every word was a finely calibrated weapon. She only resigned herself with a meaningful sigh that Blue couldn’t quite miss, her wire-rimmed glasses slipping incrementally upon the bridge of her nose.

“I suppose I was,” she smiled grimly, adjusting her tray more securely in her arms.  Blue counted the scarlet tubes. There were four in all. “Be sure to eat that. cookie, Mrs. Diamond”—she called over her shoulder, as calculatingly sweet as Yellow was acerbic—“and it was nice to see you again, Mrs. Diamond.”

Blue stepped to the aside to allow the doctor passage. They exchanged a final nod, charged with unspoken significance, and then, just like that, Dr. Reed was gone.

And finally, they were alone.

Blue and Yellow Diamond.

Once upon a time, this had been one of their most treasured sensations in the world.

To be alone.

With one another.

In the confines of a room.

Oh, how Blue’s slender hands had once known Yellow as intimately as they had known her own body. The curvature of her sharp jawbone. The tender column of her pulsing neckline. The feeling of their hands together, gently intertwined. Spiny knuckles. Soft palms. Brushing thumbs.

And now, eight feet stood between them.

Seven once Blue timidly dared to step into the doorway.

Merely six once she made an awkward movement to close the door behind her.

And neither of them especially knew how to breach the space between them.

The distance.

The gulf. 

Yellow seemed to have finally noticed that she was massaging the place where the doctor had drawn her blood because she suddenly stopped, self-conscious, wrenching her left hand away from the spot. But the gauze was still there, wrapped around her bony elbow tightly, advertising its unspoken secret like a flag at half-mast.

“You’re having tests done,” Blue stated.

It was as bold as it was quiet.

The loudest accusation in an otherwise silent room.

“They’re nothing,” Yellow replied immediately, trying for a nonchalance that didn’t quite land. “It’s nothing. Just routine stuff.”

The lie landed between them, too, with an odd, dull plunk, and Blue felt the beginnings of something other than fear coil in the pit of her stomach for the first time all morning. A burning sensation—stinging, raw.

She squeezed her cane again tightly and absently thought that it wouldn’t surprise her if her fingers came away with indents from where she gripped the metal.

“You were drunk… you were in an accident, Yellow,” she whispered, her words acquiring an icy edge. They lashed. They lunged. They hurt. They were intended to hurt. “Are you sure there’s something you’re not telling me?”

On the ropes, cornered—she hated being cornered—Yellow’s features suddenly hardened, her nose upturning, mouth calcifying into its trademark sneer. If Blue Diamond’s cane was her defense, then Yellow Diamond’s snarl was her weapon, sharp as any saber or sword. 

“You’re being paranoid, Blue—even more so than usual,” she scoffed, fingertips digging into the sheets beneath her hands. “It wasn’t as though I caused the accident. I wasn’t even driving!”

“Then why has Dr. Reed ordered such an extensive battery of tests for you? Can you answer me that at least?” She insisted, now shrill, now angry, now hoarse, now unknotted, soon to be undone—her throat wrenched with its own rage. Tears burned the corners of her eyes, gathering like rushing rivers down the skeletal curves of her cheeks. “I’m your wife, Yellow Diamond, and you—”

“And I should what exactly?” Yellow interrupted, laughing so mirthlessly that the sound was feral, almost inhuman. “Give you yet another reason to fall apart for four years? You barely survived the last time. I barely survived watching you, Blue. I—“

But she stopped short.

She realized that she had said too much.

And six feet became six hundred feet as the two women stared at each other across the empty tiles, as the words that Yellow had growled registered to them both. 

Neither of them had barely survived Blue’s total dissolution.

Both of them.

Together.

Alone.

They were both so utterly alone.

“I’m sorry,” Yellow exhaled, the fight in her voice punctured. Leaking. Drained. “I… I’m—“

But what exactly she was, even she didn’t seem to know. Prodigious marshal of words that she was, she was clearly at a loss for words, her mouth quavering with its own forced silence. Yellow abruptly looked away again, and the sunlight threw the stitches across her cheek in sharp relief, the redness of them, the rawness. 

Painful to even look at.

How much more painful were they then to bear?

How many other wounds besides had her wife collected in all these awful, unspooling years? Not even simply the visible ones, but all the other sundry hurts, too. The lines beneath her hawklike eyes. Her perpetual coldness, wrapped like impenetrable armor around her skin. The very way that she spoke these days, as though each word was a marionette jerked by some strict taskmaster’s violent strings. 

In the night, when she was alone in that master bed that had never been intended for just one, Blue didn’t have to look at these things, didn’t have to acknowledge that there was a reason that the door to the study was perpetually cracked open, didn’t have to wonder about how her utter contempt for life reflected on others because fundamentally, there was no one other than herself; it was her and her alone.

During the day, she didn’t have to care.

Time stretched ad infinitum all around her, slipping, always slipping away.

And she remained in the mire of her own head.

Stuck.

Broken.

Sinking.

Sunken.

Gone.

“So, please, Blue Diamond… please don’t look away, Steven Universe had whispered, indicting her, condemning her entire modus operandi with seven simple words as he laid in that hospital bed, dying for everyone to see.

She had looked away from Pink Diamond, and now Pink Diamond was dead.

She had almost looked away from Steven Universe.

Even still, even after all that they had ever been through together—and they had been through quite a lot—Blue Diamond was looking away from her wife even now.

Fool, masochist, coward.

She was, she was, she was—all of these things and very likely more.

Drowning.

Save me.

Spiraling.

Always.

Sinking, sunken, gone.

But the corrective, Steven Universe implied with every word and kind deed, wasn’t in the recognition of her problem; it wasn’t even in the actual acknowledgment that there needed to be a change.

It was in action and reaction.

It was in change itself.

A sickly boy could extend a flower to her in the cemetery, but she had to be the one to accept its grace.

She had to be the one to not look away.

Six feet, not six hundred feet.

Please, Blue Diamond… please don’t look away.

Swallowing thickly, Blue forced herself to gain perspective in that tiny hospital room, narrowing the world to just the two of them and the few strips of tile which stood between them.

Six feet.

So close and yet so far.

(Their daughter was six feet under the ground.)

“We apologize to each other all the time,” Blue murmured, her voice lilting softly in her accent, “and yet… not at all. How many times have we hurt each other, Yellow? How many times have we had to repent before doing it all over again?”

“So many times,” Yellow returned automatically, and her voice was quiet, laced only with the fading dregs of bitterness. Her knuckles were white where she continued to clench the sheets balled in her fists. “Because I am sorry—every damn time, Blue. I don’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. Hell, but I—”

As her voice rose, it was just as quickly stifled.

Choked.

A single tear glanced down the consummate businesswoman’s sharply angled face, and perhaps it was the most visible sign of her defeat that she didn’t immediately make a move to scrub it away, to pretend as though it had never existed.

And perhaps it was this gesture, or lack of a gesture, that finally did it for Blue Diamond above all.

That taught her what she needed to do.

She moved forward, one halting footstep over another, the hem of her long dress sweeping across the clinically white ground.

Clank.

Five feet.

Clank.

Four feet.

Clank.

Alerted by the telltale clangor of the cane, Yellow Diamond abruptly jerked her chin upwards, her lined eyes wide with horror and disbelief, with fear, with apprehension, with confusion, and something else, too—something almost indefinable because it had been a long time since Blue had recognized the expression in her wife’s chiseled face.

Had seen it.

Had noticed it.

Named it and reciprocated it.

Yearning, that irresistible rush of longing.

It shone painfully in her eyes, a drowning man’s golden flare shot into the dark.

Clank.

Three feet.

Clank.

Two.

“Blue, what are you—”

Clank.

One.

Scarcely twelve inches stood between them now, the air quiet, unnervingly, unnaturally still.

For everything was on a tightrope, the line just ready to snap.

Between them, individually, over twenty years of history were stored in the shared memories of their bodies, and for a moment, if only for a fleeting second, Blue felt as though if she could only reach out and touch Yellow in just the right place, that the world would just as suddenly right itself on its tilted axis, and everything would make sense once again and forevermore.  They would be reconciled, reunited, restored, all of their damages undone, and they would know each other intimately, just by touch alone. They would be able to pick up where they last stopped, somewhere in the darkness, on a road that went by the wayside so long ago. Maybe, at long last, they would even join hands.

But, no.

That was simply naïveté.

Childlike belief.

A dream.

Touching Yellow Diamond would not change the fact that their daughter was dead and that four years of grief had nearly destroyed the both of them; touching Yellow Diamond was not an apology; it wouldn’t even be an adequate excuse. The touch, if such a thing were to exist, would only be a gesture, a microscopic movement towards what had heretofore been the impossible.

The beginnings of a bridge.

And one goddamn awful gulf.

But it was a start.

And that was what mattered, right?

Yes, Blue Diamond thought to herself.

Please.

Closing her eyes against the sudden vertigo—the fear, the terror, the rush—she slowly leaned over into the darkness and gently pressed her lips against Yellow Diamond’s forehead, exhaling softly as the stalwart general tensed beneath the touch, deathly still.

“I’m sorry, Blue.”

Her voice shook, a pillar cut off at its foundation, sunken to its knees.

Blue gingerly brought her hands up so that they were encircling her wife’s head, her tousled hair, the tips of her ears, her temples…

“I’m so sorry,” Yellow repeated simply; her voice cleaved itself in two; she was insisting on an apology, as though it was absolutely necessary for them to proceed.

And it was.

But so, too, was this.

“I know,” Blue whispered as Yellow’s shoulders began to silently shake. In response, in return, because she wanted to, because she desperately needed to, she began to absently skim her thumb through the woman’s hair.

 “I’m sorry, too.”

Three words still hung—unspoken—in the sterile air.

Suspended.

On the tips of fearful tongues.

ii.

Priyanka brought them all back to the slaughterhouse again because there was nowhere else left to go. There were five of them in total, so they couldn’t very well have their daily harrowing conversation out in the hallway. They were adults, and Steven was a child, Steven was fourteen, so they couldn’t baldly discuss his mortality in his hospital room, where he laid in a bed, hooked up to so many whirring machines. Her office was cramped, and the chapel was somber. The cafeteria was too noisy, the hospital’s atrium just the same. 

And so, that left only one option.

The conference room on the fourth floor.

The slaughterhouse.

They all took seats at that long, long table and did their best not to look at each other, at the griefs laid bare in all of their tired faces.

“I’m sorry,” Priyanka said abruptly, “for yesterday. I got your hopes up. I got my own up, and I... I should have been more circumspect.”

She stared at her lined hands, at how they were templed neatly upon the smooth surface of the table. Even sidled up next to each other, brushing, her palms felt bitingly cold.

“I knew better, and that—irrefutably—is on me.”

“Aw, come off it, Doc,” Amethyst shrugged dully from the other side of Greg. “You couldn’t have known.”

“You told us best yourself, Priyanka,” Pearl agreed, her voice an almost passable imitation of prim. She was sitting in the chair opposite to Amethyst, delicately massaging her temples with the tips of her long fingers. “That damage wouldn’t have shown up on the scans... we don’t fault you for that.”

“We won’t,” Garnet added pointedly, never moving her bicolored gaze away from the empty air just above Greg’s shoulder.

“We would never,” Greg finished kindly, and when Priyanka dared to look up at him—he was sitting to her immediate left—she was appalled to see a weak smile quivering on his bearded mouth. Of all the things she didn’t deserve, a smile was high on that list which seemed to grow longer with every passing day that Steven Universe was in her care.

“You’re all being far too nice to me,” she insisted in that same blunt tone, though she knew it was a losing battle, four against one, the weapons of their affection all drawn. “I made that child—I made all of you—a promise. And doctors don’t make promises.”

Take care of my baby for me... please.

You have my word.

“Not unless they’re arrogant,” she concluded coldly, glancing away. “Foolish.”

And she was a fool—assuredly. A jester in a white lab coat. All she needed was the hat. In the slaughterhouse, she half-demanded that the people around her admitted to it, that the victims of her fault had their chance to cleave her apart on the altar, too.

But because they were kind and good and everything that was compassionate in the world, not a single one of them did.

Garnet even reached over and briefly placed a warm hand on Priyanka’s arm.

“It’s a good thing you’re neither then.”

And of course, here was yet another thing she didn’t deserve—a consolatory touch—but the doctor did not have the heart to shake it off, not now—not when there were dark circles beneath Garnet’s eyes that spoke to yet another sleepless night in a long row of likely many.

“Yes, well, at any rate”—she hurried away from the subject, desperate to escape their kindness, goodness, their sympathetic gazes—“I’ve called you here to give a progress report… we potentially have another donor candidate… a live donor this time.”

Priyanka enunciated each word as though she was announcing the presence of a ticking time bomb, and it registered as much in the faces of her captive audience. Garnet withdrew her hand quickly, as though stung, and they all stared at the nephrologist, each and every one of them, with a naked disbelief that was a far cry from the unadulterated joy of yesterday’s declaration. They had been briefly happy, and then they’d been so quickly, so mercilessly burnt; it was no wonder then that they were skeptical.

It was painfully obvious that they were still licking their damn wounds.

“A patient at this very hospital,” she continued haltingly, precise in every word. She had to be careful here not to let something slip up, not to betray a word that would drive the blades sticking into these people’s chests in just one inch more. She wanted to be fastidious this time; she intended to be sure. “Their blood type is likely a match for Steven’s, but we’re checking again just to make sure… and even if that’s a certainty, there are so many other tests besides that we’ll have to do just to make sure their body is healthy enough to undergo a transplant… it could take weeks…”

She spoke into thick silence, excruciating to the last as each word was wrenched free from her teeth in some poor facsimile of her usual brusque fashion.

Pearl and Garnet exchanged a pregnant look across the table, but it was Amethyst who spoke the meaning aloud; she was always the one who seemed to be the best at translating what everyone was secretly thinking into words, what they were all too fearful to say.

“So we shouldn’t get our hopes up yet, huh?” She asked candidly. “That’s what you’re saying… isn’t it?”

“Something to that effect, yes,” Priyanka returned with a slow nod of her head. “I just don’t want to… I would rather not…”

But she struggled to find the right words, to strangle all her emotions into sentences that didn’t complicate the professionalism to which she was called.

Because she couldn’t break down.

She couldn’t flinch.

She was the doctor in the room for goodness’s sake, and that meant something.

But again, Amethyst stepped in so she didn’t have to—blunt, plain, merciful.

“… hurt him again,” she mumbled, her lavender hair forming a curtain around her lowered head. The young woman swiped her arm roughly across her face in a gesture that was lost on precisely no one. “Yeah, I guess that’s for the best…”

The ensuing silence was somehow worse than the last. 

It seemed to chafe at them all, rubbing their skins raw.

Greg Universe shifted in his chair.

He looked less man than mountain, carved ruggedly against a bleak, gray sky—hunched in on himself, avalanched, collapsing all over. 

(When she’d first met the man some fifteen years ago, he’d still had all of his hair.)

(A kid having a kid.)

“He hasn’t said more than a few words today, Dr. M,” the mountain whispered, his voice eroding in all the right places, crumbling. “He barely even looks at us.”

Priyanka didn’t know what to say.

She wasn’t naturally warm like Maisie Reed.

Wasn’t soft.

Wasn’t encouraging.

Being a doctor didn’t require any of those epithets, even though she knew cerebrally, intimately, that being a human did.

“It’s hard being sick,” she finally said.

It was the easiest way to utter an even harder truth.

(Sometimes, her patients found it unbearable.)

iii.

“And Archimicarus preened his feathers haughtily, all the while keeping one amber eye on Captain Bonham, whose apparent warmth wasn’t enough to stop the falcon from being wary of the witch’s eccentricities: the dual pistols she wore in the holsters on either side of her waist, the long knife handle jutting just above the ribs of her corset, and most ominously of all, the necklace she wore around her neck—a leather cord threaded through the skull of a baby bird,” Connie read aloud, adopting her most suspenseful voice for one of the most tense chapters in the book—Lisa and Archimicarus meeting Valentine Bonham, famed pirate witch of the jewel-bright seas, and her serpentine familiar Scyllane. 

Of course, Valentine would prove to be one of Lisa’s most beloved companions by the end of the book, a swashbuckling mentor with a semi-tragic backstory, a kind of mother figure who had a penchant for committing petty theft and tax fraud against the despotic king.

But Steven didn’t know that yet.

“Skyllane,” Connie continued, “her silvery scales glimmering beneath the midday sun, hissed her amusement at Archimicarus’s obvious discomfort as she coiled herself sinuously around Valentine’s neck. Show off, the falcon thought savagely…”

Her mouth twitched into a reflexive smile at this part, nostalgic at Archimicarus’s occasional petty asides, and she looked up automatically, hoping to see the same amusement reflected in the face of her one-person audience… but Steven… Steven obviously wasn’t feeling it.

He didn’t seem like he was feeling much of anything, really.

When she’d come in with her mother that morning, he had tried to hide it, insisting that she open The Unfamiliar Familiar again, that they could pick up where they had last left off like everything was fine and good and normal and dandy.

But it wasn’t.

And perhaps pretending was only adding insult to injury, salt to an already agonizing wound.

Her mother’s famously steady hands had been shaking all day. They shook around around the leather of her steering wheel; they shook around the circumference of her coffee tumbler; they shook as she fumbled with her keys to lock the sedan’s door. She dropped them. Connie picked them up and didn’t comment on the incident, just as her mother didn’t comment on the event except to proffer a perfunctory thank you. And still, her mother’s hands continued to shake as she ushered Connie through the double doors that led into the Truman Ward, where only the nephrologist’s most dire patients were hospitalized. 

On the ride to the hospital that morning, she had laid out the bare bones as best and well as she could to her daughter—Steven had been going to get kidneys, and then he just as suddenly wasn’t. 

Steven’s life had miraculously stretched before him, and then the ribbon was abruptly, cruelly cut.

And his heart is tired, Connie, her mom had whispered—very quietly, with evident strain. As though she was scarcely able to comprehend it herself. So tired. And his lungs are doing their best to keep up…

Connie did not think it was necessary to ask what happened to tired hearts.

Staring at Steven, who wasn’t staring at her but rather at a fixed point upon the ceiling, she instinctively understood that there was only one thing tired hearts could do.

And that was shatter.

Break.

“Hey… Steven?” She asked tentatively, replacing the straw wrapper bookmark in the place where she had last left off. (She didn’t quite close the book—not yet. There was a finality in that action, mundane though it was, that suddenly scared her.) “Are you… okay?”

Seconds dripped before anything happened. Surrounded by a nest of tangled wires and tubes, Steven was deathly still in their embrace, less subject than object, less object than tangible ghost. From her vantage point—the chair next to his bed—she couldn’t see his face, the expression in it, perhaps even the lack of one. But she observed the way that his right hand laid feebly on top of his stomach, fingers lightly curled into a ball. And she saw the feeble rise and fall of his chest, how it stuttered every so often with each arrhythmic movement that found its companion in a staccato beat on his heart monitor.

And here was yet another thing that scared the twelve-year old.

She surmised that all these signs and symbols had something to do with finality, too.

Endings.

She hated those.

Sometimes, when she was reading a really good book, she would stop just before the last chapter to steel herself for what was to come.

“Yes,” came a mechanical reply. “Just tired…”

“I can imagine,” Connie said. (She couldn’t imagine it all. She could barely reconcile that this was the same boy she had laughed and laughed with only so many days ago on the first floor of this very hospital. He had smiled at her so kindly, eyes shining with their own paradoxical aliveness. And she’d thought to herself, even then, how miraculous he surely was, how extraordinary.) “We can stop right here for now if you want to take a nap or something…?”

“I don’t like naps,” Steven immediately said in that same colorless tone, and yet, there was a slight edge to his voice that wasn’t exactly anger, but rather defiance, argumentative, defensive, self-directed—as though it was aimed towards himself. His chubby fingers tensed on his stomach, crumpling the paisley-studded fabric there.

Connie did not think it was necessary to ask why he didn’t like naps.

Or, maybe, it was entirely necessary.

Maybe it was one of those very human statements that required an equally human reply: comfort, consolation, concern.

But she lapsed into silence rather than pursue it, the weight of her book pressing heavily upon her knees, the weight of the moment overwhelming her in all of her twelve-year-oldish-ness. She glanced emptily at the page where the spine was cracked open and realized that they hadn’t even reached the halfway point yet.

There were still so many pages to go.

Hundreds.

“… how does it end?”

But now, very suddenly, with all the air of a startled cat, she glanced up, and saw that Steven had painstakingly tilted his head in her direction. And he was simply watching her, the expression in his dark eyes impenetrable and distant, even though he was so close, quite close enough to reach out and actually touch.

Her literary mind worked ahead of her.

There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

“The chapter?” Connie asked, wondering if he was implicitly asking her to keep reading. 

“No.” The line of Steven’s pale mouth barely moved. “The book.”

It registered with her immediately—he was asking for an entirely different thing besides.

Cold collapsed down her spine, settling somewhere in her stomach.

Icy.

Hard.

“Don’t be silly,” she returned numbly, as though it was just a game they were still playing. It was not in fact a game. It wasn’t even close to one. “You’ll have to wait for me to read the rest of the book to find out. We haven’t even reached Chapter Eight yet.”

There were twenty-one chapters total.

Epilogue included.

Steven was silent for a long time, but never entirely; the various machines invading him did all of the talking in his place: whirring, beeping, stuttering on.

“I guess we better keep going then.”

“Yeah…”

Connie removed her straw wrapper bookmark again and began to read.

She read very quickly now, as though something depended upon it.

iv.

A little before noon, Dr. Maheswaran briefly came in to disconnect Steven from the portable dialysis machine and send Connie downstairs to be picked up by her father for tennis practice. Garnet watched him as he seemingly watched nothing. He looked away when the nephrologist gently disconnected the machine’s tubing from the central line grafted into his neck. He closed his dark eyes when she replaced the oxygen mask over his mouth for one of those quick albuterol treatments. (Ever since his episode last night, his breathing had been a little too stilted for the doctor’s liking, a little too short.) He barely opened them again when Connie said her tentative goodbye, placing a hand on Steven’s arm as Dr. Maheswaran placed a consoling arm around her daughter’s shoulder. 

Through his mask, he couldn’t say anything, so he only blinked slowly, the shadows turning beneath his eyes starkly pronounced. He coughed once. The feeble sound rattled across his chest. 

It shivered his whole body.

It shivered the entire room.

When Connie withdrew her hand, fear flashed across her face.

(For she was shivering, too.)

The Maheswarans left, and Garnet and Steven were left alone in that tiny hospital room that was filled with golden sunlight. It leaned through the window with a light, mocking smile, teasing a warmth that the gym trainer couldn’t feel as she continued to watch Steven.

Vigilantly.

With no little obsession.

Afraid to miss something.

(Maybe even more afraid to stay.)

Hunched over in the uncomfortable chair next to his bed, she curled the fingers of her right hand over her clenched left fist, gingerly rubbing her knuckles, and she stared plainly at the punctuated rise and fall of his chest as albuterol vapor leaked beneath his mask, spiraling into the air like fading smoke. The machine hissed pneumatically, nearly overwhelming the sound of Steven’s beating heart, which was measured out in shrill noise, clangorous noise.

Beep…

Beep...

Beep…

Garnet hated this sound and she was simultaneously desperate to keep hearing it.

A nurse came in some ten minutes later to remove the mask and readjust the oxygenated cannulas in their former place, gently threading the tubes around Steven’s ears, maneuvering the tiny nubs into his nose. He kept his eyes closed, but Garnet was almost positive that he wasn’t sleeping. 

It was subtle, but she knew the signs, having studied them night after night for almost nine months now—all those times she had curled up beside him in bed, resting her chin on top of his curly, black hair, keeping a vigilant eye out for all the demons she couldn’t exactly see. 

The shadows that lurked around and about them never quite materialized into foes she could punch, kick, or destroy, so she memorized all the telltale signs of his aliveness instead, committing each trait to memory as though her own sanity depended on it.

The slight furrow in his dark brow.

The twitch in his nose.

The grim press of his lips.

(When he was truly asleep, he had the tendency to snore, mouth lazily lolled open in unguarded torpor.)

But the nurse didn’t know him, so they only said poor kiddo before leaving too, and the room suddenly felt so much more vacant without the hiss of the albuterol to fill all the empty crevices—the silence, the all-consuming nothingness, the barefaced, omnipresent pain.

Beep…

Beep…

Beep…

Steven slowly opened his eyes as the nurse’s footsteps died away from the room.

And Garnet watched him as he seemingly watched nothing, as he stared, very quietly, at the ceiling, without so much as moving a limb. She drank every micro-gesture in, as though every micro-gesture meant something in the wide cosmos of the universe. Every breath became consequential in this barebones theology, a butterfly’s wings rippling through space and time to matter in ways both big and small.

It mattered—fundamentally—that Steven continued to breathe.

Beep…

Beep…

Beep…

“Garnet?” He asked quietly. His voice was small, weak—the mewling rasp of an injured animal. She thought fleetingly of Cat Steven, of how they had found that tiny, defenseless kitten shivering in the pouring rain. If only Garnet could scoop his namesake into her strong arms just the same and keep him safe, holding him very quietly, very gently, against her chest.

“… yes, Steven?”

“Was my mom… was she ever scared, too?”

The question was simple enough, and it simply unmoored her.

Skewered her through.

Because they didn’t really talk about Rose.

Not really.

They referenced her obliquely, in passing mention, if they absolutely had to; her portrait loomed above the door leading into the beach house; every year, on her birthday, they laid flowers upon her grave and tried not to think about young she would have been had she never died.

And yet, here Steven was, trespassing that unspoken rule and doubling down upon it.

As little as they ever discussed Rose Quartz, they touched upon her illness even less.

So many memories.

Too painful.

Too raw.

Never healed, buried deep within their skins, buried six feet under the ground.

“…I think she might have been,” Garnet answered slowly, “but I can’t say for sure. She was good at pushing down her feelings for us… for our sakes.”

Which in turn made her an excellent leader.

(And an inscrutable friend.)

Steven seemed to silently grapple with this for a few moments, his expression complex, as though there were cloud shadows roaming across his eyes and mouth, threatening rain but never delivering.

“I dreamt of her last night,” Steven said, an explanatory note in his voice. Justificatory. He wasn’t bringing up his mother for just any random reason. “My mom.”

Garnet’s heart shriveled somewhere inside her throat.

“Mm.” She attempted to be calm anyway. “Tell me about it.”

“We… we were in a pink room full of swirling clouds,” the child whispered. “We played football together. And video games. And she told me that she was proud of me… that she loved me…”

What Steven knew of Rose came from stories and anecdotes, from picture albums and yellowed newspaper clippings, from the few videotapes she had left behind—from the one video she had explicitly recorded for Steven scarcely a month before she had delivered him.

It wasn’t a lot, but still, maybe it was just enough.

Because that sounded like Rose.

Her kindness.

Her warmth.

Her fun.

For she had loved, more than anything, to play.

“And then what happened?” She asked, her voice almost even.

“… I woke up.”

And Garnet watched, helpless, as a single tear wriggled itself loose from the corner of Steven’s eye, slipping gracelessly down his cheek and away.

He was silent after that.

She was almost positive, though, that he wasn’t asleep.

v.

“C’mon, Ste-man,” Amethyst wheedled, wafting the milkshake temptingly just below his nose. She’d walked nearly a block away from the hospital just to get the damn thing—a specialty of Stacey’s, the little retro milkshake bar on the corner of Pin Avenue and 32nd. The staff dressed up like they were from The Jetsons and everything. When Steven hadn’t been… when things hadn’t been so bad… they’d sometimes shlepped over there after his dialysis treatments to slam burgers and milkshakes as the jukebox played the Heaven Beetles’ greatest hits. One time, all five of them went together and sung shitty karaoke ’til Pearl was laughing so hard that strawberry milkshake shot out of her nose. “It’s got Reece’s Pieces in it—your faaaavorite…”

“I’m not thirsty, Amethyst,” he returned dully, turning his face away from her. “Sorry.”

His pale neck exposed to her in the gesture, Amethyst could now clearly see the livid bruises that crept vine-like out of the collar of his hospital gown, blooming blue and purple near the place where his central line was inserted just next to his collarbone.

If she could have, if it would have made sense, Amethyst would have crushed that stupid styrofoam cup between her fingers right then and there and enjoyed the feeling of milkshake pouring all over her shaking fingers.

She would have reveled in the destruction of the act.

The cathartic release.

Very probably, she would have begun to cry.

But Steven didn’t need that.

He didn’t need to see her lose her shit.

So, she only collapsed backwards on her feet and into the chair pulled up next to Steven’s bed. She was ginger, notably careful, as she placed the milkshake on the nearby tray, where it’d melt into itself between the hours and the blazing sun.

For the sun burned today, like golden fire, through the square window.

It scorched.

“You… you haven’t eaten in, like, days, my dude,” Amethyst stated plainly, as if he didn’t know that better than anyone else who cared to know. “Dr. M’s worried ‘bout you. If ya don’t get enough nutrients…”

But Steven cut across her bluntly then, still not looking at her. “… then they’ll have to put a feeding tube in me… I know. I heard Dr. Maheswaran and Pearl talking about it the other day.”

She supposed it should have surprised her that he already knew; maybe if she’d been Pearl, she would have jumped to try to sugarcoat the blow with something soft, something comforting, something consolatory. 

But the truth of the matter was that there was nothing soft nor comforting nor consolatory about the ugly reality that reared its head above them, ten feet tall and ready to fucking strike.

He was fourteen, not ten.

He’d long stopped believing in magic.

“Doesn’t that scare you?” She asked him, frustration edging the rims of her scratchy voice, and she knew, even as she spoke, that she was being hella unfair. The poor kid couldn’t help the fact that he was puking his guts up left and right, but he was just laying there, lifeless, like he’d already accepted the inevitability of the stars that had spelled out his fate. 

And it maddened Amethyst.

Sickened her.

She really want to pummel that goddamn milkshake cup into smithereens; she clenched her fists tightly on top of her knees to try and stop them from shaking.

She reminded herself—painfully—that it was only yesterday that happiness had been given to the kid before it was so brutally ripped away.

She told herself that even grown ass adults had trouble with that.

The volatility, the utter unpredictability of life.

“Of course it scares me, Amethyst,” Steven replied, his broken voice barely a whisper as he finally turned to look at her, his brown eyes drowning in the black bags which encased them. Grooved them. Hollowed them.  “I don’t wanna have another surgery… but what do I… how can I do anything? I… I don’t know if I… I can’t stop this. I can’t.”

He seemed to struggle for the words, each one wrenched from him with a punishing drag of air.

And it struck Amethyst then and precisely there, with all the sharpness of a knife, that she took it for granted.

How easy it was for her to simply breathe.

“Catch your breath,” she implored him wildly, leaning forward in her chair. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, Steven.”

“B-but it’s not okay,” he insisted fiercely, sniffing. A single tear slanted out of the corners of one of his eyes and down the hollow of his face, slipping beneath the oxygenated cannulas, following the gentle curve of his beaten, world-weary face. “Don’t say that it’s okay. Please. I can’t take that anymore.”

“Okay, fine!” The awful words exploded out from her, tumbled and rushed and spilled from her mouth headlong on their hands and knees. Amethyst would say anything to make him calm down, and because she had no filter, because she’d never known how to mince the truth, she would mean every damn syllable. “Everything isn’t okay. Everything isn’t fine. Is that better? Are you happy now?”

But to her utter horror, to her staggering discontent, the answer was apparently—

“Yeah,” Steven sighed, closing his eyes in visible relief. “Yes.”

He laid there quietly for a handful of seconds to take in deep gulps of air.

It looked painful.

Excruciating.

“… I just wanna be on the same page,” he eventually finished, his voice a barely distinguishable mumble, distant and muffled.

Amethyst’s entire chest seized with fear unlike that she’d ever felt in a lifetime full of fear; it gripped her, and it wrestled with her.

Put its hands ‘round her throat and squeezed.

“And what page would that be, buddy?” She tried to keep her voice even anyway, though. Steven had yet to reopen his eyes. “Enlighten me.”

But there was no forthcoming reply.

His outburst had exhausted him, and sleep was merciless.

It stole him away.

vi.

They worked together in tentative silence, Greg and Pearl, taking damp washcloths and running them along the parts of Steven’s body that they could reach beneath all the medical apparatus: the column of his neck, his pale face, his arms, his leaden legs. He was too weak to take a shower in the bathroom attached to his hospital room, and they wouldn’t have been able to get a few of his lines wet anyway for the fear of clogging them up.

So a nurse provided them with a basin of soapy water, and they each picked up a rag, gliding the rough fabric as gently as possible across his skin as he laid beneath them like a doll, limp and lifeless.

Staring up at them from dark, button eyes.

Greg pulled his own cloth around Steven’s left ear, now rubbing the tip of it, now gently scraping behind, and tried not to think about how he’d done the very same when the kid was just a baby, so tiny in his arms, so helpless. He’d been afraid then, desperately so, to make just one wrong move. What if he accidentally hurt the little tyke? Rubbed his head a little too hard? Accidentally got soap in his eyes? What if he fucked up? (He was so good at fucking up.)

He’d miss Rose the most then, in those far too common moments, when he was at his lowest.

He’d miss the way she used to wrap her warm arms around his shoulders and show him, without so much as saying a word, what he looked like in her eyes.

Like he was someone worth loving in spite of everything.

In the face of it all.

Fourteen-years later, Steven was tiny beneath his arms.

Helpless.

And Greg missed Rose.

(He would always miss Rose.)

Pearl’s hands trembled as she gingerly lifted Steven’s left arm, weaving her cloth through the gaps between each of his fingers, swiping its breadth across his sweat-stickied palm. Greg followed his hooded gaze to where it settled somewhere on Pearl’s face, where there were faint circles cradling the spaces beneath her eyes, where there was a recent gauntness in the pointed architecture of her cheeks.

She must have noticed, too, because she blinked quickly, self-consciously, pausing her ministrations.

“Are you okay, Steven? I-I’m not hurting you, am I?”

Because that was the most important thing after all—neither of them wanted to hurt him anymore than he was already irrevocably damaged.

Couldn’t bear to even leave so much as a bruise.

“No,” came his simple reply.

It was the monosyllabism that was somehow the most dreadful above all.

Pearl also caught onto this, swiftly folding her slender fingers over Steven’s knuckles, her rag dangling like a white-sheeted ghost from her fingertips.

“Are you sure? You… you haven’t been yourself all day.”

He was silent at this, and Greg was pretty sure it was because the answer was obvious, painfully so.

(He hadn’t been himself in eight months now.)

The man swallowed thickly and turned away, dipping his rag in the basin on the nearby tray; the lukewarm water slushed around his wrists. He made a meal out of squeezing the cloth out, hoping that when he faced Steven and Pearl again, the moment would have passed, the unspoken things remaining unspoken.

But it was the very absence of a reply that seemed to gall Pearl, spiral her, and Greg could see, when he turned back to them, that she was utterly ruined.

She couldn’t hide it; it shone in the over-bright lights of her eyes.

“A-a kidney is bound to turn up,” she said, speaking in that rapid way she always did when she was upset (and trying not to let people see). “Dr. Maheswaran is looking for one even now, and… and… she thinks she might be able to secure a live donor kidney this time because, y-you know, the numbers and everything. Your numbers. Not that they’re abysmal. I mean, they’re bad, but—”

Greg tried to step in, tried to rescue her, before she got in too deep.

“I know it’s hard, Shtu-ball… but chin up,” he said gently as he maneuvered his washcloth beneath the kid’s neck. He skated around the bruises when he could. (There were so many new bruises, erupting like angry supernovas all across his tender skin.)

“Pearl’s right”—she shot him a grateful glance—“Dr. M’s not gonna give up, and neither are we.”

The silence stretched again.

It absolutely groaned.

And Steven finally moved his gaze away from Pearl and back to the bare ceiling.

Apparently, he’d been staring at the ceiling a lot today, divining something in it that no one else could see.

“Were you guys this scared… when Mom… when she was…”

But before he had ever gotten the words out, before he could finish another word let alone the whole sentence, Pearl abruptly extricated herself from Steven, gently setting his hand back on the bed, gently throwing her white cloth of a flag down.

“Excuse me,” she muttered feverishly. “I’ve got to… I can’t—restroom.”

But rather than flee into the door that led to the ensuite bathroom, she swung through the adjacent door, the one that led out into the hall, and Steven watched the place where her lithe form disappeared with cavernous eyes.

Sunken eyes.

Dull.

His mouth still partially open where he was still forming the words.

“I… I was so scared, buddy,” Greg said quietly, his throat constricting with all the surging memories. Her big, brown eyes. The tubes running through her skin. How he held her hand at the end, when Dr. Howard unplugged the machines, so she didn’t have to be alone.

Pearl, of course, held the other.

And there they were, the three of them.

And then, just the two of them.

Alone.

Steven’s eyes, so much like his mother’s own, turned to capture him now, penetrating his father somewhere deep in the muck and mire of his soul.

“… are you scared now?”

He choked back a sob.

“Yeah, buddy. I am.”

vii.

They sat together on Yellow’s hospital bed for a long time, not exactly talking, but communicating in other ways—in the brush of their nearly touching shoulders, in the painful glances they would occasionally shift each other from the corners of their eyes, in the way that Yellow’s pinky finger rested on top of Blue’s wrist where their hands were placed on top of the sheets in the microscopic space between them.

Now once more armored in a button-down shirt and a pair of slacks, Yellow Diamond almost looked herself—brilliant and impressive, striking to the last.

And then she would look to the side again, revealing the raw cuts now laced into her sculpted cheeks.

And Blue would fantasize about gently touching one, running her fingers across one of those tentatively scabbed lines, capturing the measure of her wife’s face, relearning it all over again.

But in the end, she didn’t dare.

Because for right now, this was simply enough.

To be sitting next to Yellow Diamond.

To simply be.

Together.

For once, not entirely alone, even though so many unvoiced things still remained.

Three words.

Mountains of griefs.

And something else now, too.

I don’t want to commit to claiming anything about these tests, Yellow had explained earlier, her usually gruff voice working itself into something gentle, a little more kind. Not until I know something for sure…

You don’t believe I can take it? Blue’s tone was as gentle as it was accusatory in that devastatingly contradictory way of hers.

Frankly, her wife returned quietly, no.

And somehow, it was the truthfulness in the other’s expression which made Blue stop short of pressing for more, for she could see, in the lines beneath Yellow Diamond’s golden eyes, just what these past four years had done to her.

You barely survived the last time. I barely survived watching you, Blue.

It was a miracle that they were even sitting here.

Barely touching, barely talking, but still… it was a start.

It was something simply to be breathing the same air.

Around three, Dr. Reed finally dropped by with Yellow’s discharge papers and another doctor whose name Blue didn’t quite catch; she was a tired-looking lady, though, with a fiercely drawn face. Salt-and-pepper hair. Hands shoved in the pockets of her lab coat. They asked if Yellow would come with them. It’d maybe take an hour or so.

The businesswoman made to get up, but Blue stopped her with a withered hand on her arm.

“Wait,” she murmured. “Your collar is crooked.”

She reached upwards to adjust the crumpled white band, straightening the crease between her delicate fingers. 

And Yellow stared at her silently—with open tenderness and rawness and aching disbelief.

And when she swallowed, Blue could see every cord convulse in the smooth column of her throat.

“Would you wait for me, Blue?”

But she must have realized how vulnerable that sounded because she quickly tried to amend herself, always aware of her audience, that there were people watching. She stood up abruptly and a little awkwardly; it was clear that one of her legs was killing her.

“In the town car, I mean?”

“Yes,” Blue returned softly. “Of course.”

Yes.

A complicated expression quivered across Yellow Diamond’s plump lips then; it was hesitant and rich, stiff and almost unbearably visceral in its reluctant vulnerability.

It wasn’t necessarily a smile, but it was something.

It was a start.

viii.

Pearl would have done something, anything, to escape her own body, but it clung to her stubbornly as she half-ran through the hospital’s halls—down Truman Ward and down the glass-encased skywalk, down the elevator, down some forsaken hallway and then another, the turns she took arbitrary and varied.

Anywhere but Room 11037.

Horror clawed its way up her throat—shame and awfulness and terrible, maddening grief—until she could hardly breathe for its presence in her mouth. The nausea was overwhelming. The memories she usually kept carefully tucked away surged forth, frothing like foam on the waves that skimmed the shore near their home.

Just the mention of Rose.

That alone was enough to undo her on any regular day.

But context mattered, too.

Steven had brought up his mother so readily, as though they and their situations were one in the same.

Like they were both—

But she couldn’t complete the thought, even to herself, because fundamentally, Pearl couldn’t accept the inevitable—not when Rose Quartz had once taught her what it was to touch the stars. 

Blindly, haphazardly, unintentionally, she found herself in one of the larger hallways in the hospital, and she immediately knew, from experience, that she had made her way down to the first floor. This particular corridor emptied out into the larger atrium and housed many of the administrative offices and various waiting rooms. 

It was fairly empty. A few people in olive colored scrubs walked by and paid the woman no attention, her total disintegration invisible to them.

Unseen.

And somehow, the fact of this was soothing to Pearl.

Comforting.

So she swiped a delicate hand across her face and moved forward until a sight towards the end of the hall stopped her short, like a blow to the stomach without being half as neat—so uncomplicated and yet so devastatingly simple.

A silver-haired woman wearing a dark blue dress.

Hands poised on a metallic cane.

Staring inscrutably at a pair of nondescript double doors.

Her heavy braid fell thickly across her shoulder.

ix.

Blue Diamond had been on her way out to the car when she noticed a half-open door in a dyad of two on the first floor of the hospital. Golden light spilled from the room upon the bare, white tiles, submerging them in a brightness, a warmth.

The brass label on the adjacent wall gleamed at her invitingly.

The chapel.

Because naturally, hospitals possessed chapels—sanctified spaces where people could pray to their gods and hope they would intercede on the behalves of their loved ones. There was something psychologically comforting in the gesture, she supposed—to do something in a situation where it felt like nothing else could be done, to speak to the Divine and take comfort in the fact that they were not alone because the Divine was omnipresent, and the Divine was all-encompassing, and the Divine loved them powerfully.

She stood in front of those doors for what seemed like an eternity and remembered painfully when she had once loved God.

She’d grown up with a Rosary woven between her fingers, singing Alleluia every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday at Mass until her daughter was murdered, and every theological comfort she had ever held dear scattered to the floor like beads.

She supposed it was only nostalgia then, which drove her to lightly press on that already half-opened door.

But as to what made her go in, the former headmistress could hardly articulate.

Her fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the head of her cane.

Clank, she proceeded forward.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

x.

Above all, Pearl didn’t know what made her do it—it was almost as though a sense of daring reckless gripped her and propelled her forward, step over unthinking step. She approached the spot where Blue Diamond had only recently disappeared, her pale eyes flicking upwards to the label which named the room for what it was, and then back to the double doors again, which hadn’t been completely shuttered to a close since the entrance of its last visitor.

It was a small chapel from what Pearl could tell at a cursory glance, only offering the essential trifecta of artifacts—a couple of pews, a tiny altar, and what appeared to be the portrait of a dove, spreading its elegant wings across the back wall. 

And there, sitting in the middle of the front row, was Blue Diamond, her head defiantly lifted.

As though determinedly not in prayer.

Her concentrated gaze seemed to be trained upwards, directed at the beautifully painted mural, upon which the gentle lighting threw its warm, amber glow, casting the bird in molten gold.

That same feeling of daring propitiated her again, and it was with her arms tucked neatly over her chest that Pearl impulsively drew closer, stepping across the boundary of the threshold with tender steps, ballerina movements. Her footfalls were light by nature, and in the thin carpet, they were hushed to the point that the older woman didn’t seem to be aware that she had company at all. 

Her cane stood, temporarily abandoned, on the side of the row.

Though her head was high, her shoulders were hunched in on themselves.

Caved.

When Pearl reached the pew directly behind her, she skimmed her knuckles against the grains of the wooden armrest, producing a low, plaintive note as a means of attracting her attention without entirely startling her.

And it was with painful slowness, a certain gracefulness, too, that Blue Diamond finally turned her head to look Pearl’s way, her shadowed eyes wide with surprise and melancholy, with curiosity and well-practiced temperance.

Pearl’s thin brow furrowed.

She bit her lower lip.

xi.

“May I sit?” The Crystal Gem asked, and there was a brusqueness in her otherwise smooth voice that reminded Blue Diamond of yet another encounter with one of Steven’s motley guardians—the one who had stood in front of the door, the muscled woman with bicolored eyes. 

She had warned her against hurting Steven.

She, too, had looked at Blue with quiet disdain.

Perhaps loathing was the more fitting word.

“Be my guest…?” Blue returned, allowing a pause by which the woman could introduce herself. 

“Pearl,” she curtly supplied as she lowered herself to the end of the pew and sat rather primly, with one ankle crossed daintily over the other. 

“Pearl,” Blue echoed gently, trying the name on her tongue. It was a lyrical number, assonant and delicate, much like the person to which it belonged. 

For she was slight—as willowy as the other Crystal Gem had been powerfully built. Simply put, she looked as though one puff of wind would blow her over, bending her back like the breeze did stalks of long reeds, rending her, bifurcating her, snapping her in two. And just as Yellow and Blue’s physiognomies told the stories of their griefs, so, too, did the lines beneath Pearl’s eyes announce her own.

There was a boy in the hospital bed.

There was a wasting disease.

“May I assume,” she continued tentatively, “by the expression in your face, that you already know who I am?”

“Yes,” Pearl replied certainly, but then just as immediately said, “No. I don’t know.”

She closed her pale eyes against some inner turmoil as the ambient lighting gently kissed her beaten face, caressing her cheeks in honeyed gold.

“I know your name, and I know what your family’s company has done,” she continued, “but I suppose that isn’t the same thing as knowing you, is it? Understanding why my… why he… why Steven loves you.”

There was it again—that same oblique indictment that the other Crystal Gem had leveled at Diamond Electric, silently condemning her for all sorts of untold flaws, and Blue Diamond frowned, sucking a little on her lip as the charge did what it was intended to do—level a finger directly at her chest, pressing neatly upon her sternum.

Perhaps these activists were not as inconsequential as she had wanted them to be after all.

Perhaps they had something important to say.

Perhaps here was yet another instant in which Blue had looked away, painstakingly ignoring all of the uncouth things in order to more capably realize the vision of her perfect, invulnerable, tableau of an ugly, imperfect, sheltered life.

She accused Yellow of shoving Pink Diamond in a drawer, but perhaps Blue had always made sure to be in another room when all the shoving was being done.

“Because he loves you,” Pearl finished quietly, “and I’m trying to… I can’t quite figure it out.”

She turned to Blue directly then, appealing to her simply with her over-bright eyes and her slightly parted mouth, with the shadows all over her face.

So many premature lines.

And Blue Diamond returned the gaze as steadily as she could.

Perhaps she even mirrored it.

Lines and shadows and lines.

xii.

“I don’t think… I don’t imagine that I’ve been good at love in a very long time,” Blue began, each word slow and precise, maneuvered carefully on her lilting tongue like a hand-rolled cigarette wheeled between expert fingertips. “Giving, receiving it… showing it… even with my daughter… even before she—”

But the woman could not complete the sentence.

And Pearl found that she didn’t want her to.

The unspoken conclusion sat in the space between them—a little girl Pearl imagined her to be, arranged in a pretty pink dress, dangling her Mary-Jane enclosed feet from the crimson pew.

“But Steven Universe,” she continued, and even at his very name, the mere mention of him, the older woman’s expression seemed to subtly transform, the heaviness in it unfurling.

Incrementally lightening.

Surely.

“He extended a flower and smile to me that day in the cemetery. He noticed that I was sad. And that taught me a lesson I had never thought to learn in all of these many staggering years…”

Pearl couldn’t help herself then; a breathless question fell impatiently from her lips.

“And what would that be?”

Blue Diamond arched a dark brow at her that would have been haughty were it not for the tears glistening in her eyes, threatening to exceed their sunken edges.

“That there is such kindness, such… such love, in your troubles being seen, identified, and acted upon. He saw my sadness, and he named it. He gave me that tiny hibiscus and showed me, wordlessly, that I was not alone.” 

She glided a skeletal hand across the side of her face, her palm capturing the beginnings of those now falling tears.

“I was being seen, Pearl, for the first time in I cannot tell you when… and it made me realize that this is what I wanted most of all, that perhaps, this is what all humans really want in the end.”

“To be seen,” Pearl repeated, her voice constricted, so many emotions thick.

“Yes,” Blue Diamond whispered with a gracious nod of her head, disturbing the heaviness of her silvery braid, “and to be loved by another.”

“Is that what he wants?” She pressed insistently, but deep down, the answer was already known to her, spelled out to her in the rush of so many memories. How many times alone in the past couple of days had he told them as much, both with words and without them? How many times had he asked them all not to look away? Amethyst opened a window for him so he could hear the words they’d all been too cowardly to utter in his presence. In a hospital room, in the dead of night, he told her to rip the bandaid off, to confirm that which everyone already knew and tiptoed around instead of saying.

You’re very sick, sweetheart.

I know.

And even still, even after all these horrible and unsubtle signs, she’d already done the damn thing and run away from him again anyway.

He asked if she’d been scared when Rose had been in the same place, laying in a hospital bed.

Sick.

Dying.

And yes, the answer so clearly, so blatantly was.

“Yes,” Blue Diamond murmured, her quiet voice tender.

And almost, if not entirely, kind.

“I think that is what he has desired all along.”

Pearl had no other recourse then, no semblance of a facade left by which to cling to, to desperately hold onto in a chapel where two entirely different women sat side by side, utterly undone by the same boy.

She brought both of her hands up to her mouth then and began to weep.

xiii.

Blue allowed the woman her moment of private grief, turning her head away from the sight, even though the sounds weren’t as easily escapable.

The sobs.

The keening.

The primality of it all.

Tears gathered in her own eyes, but she refused to let them fall, she swept them all away—because she understood intimately, viscerally, somehow without really knowing it—that this wasn’t her moment, her child, her bone deep, unbearable, unlivable grief.

Though it had once had been.

And it still was.

But not for this child.

Not for Steven Universe.

She’d lost a child; she wasn’t currently losing one.

And there was a fundamental difference in the fact.

There was primacy.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten, and Pearl gathered herself, collected all her tiny, fragmented pieces into a frame that wasn’t entirely shaking with its own reckoning anymore. And Blue finally looked over to see that the woman was leaned forward on the edge of her pew, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes.

“He’s not doing well,” she said faintly.

If Blue hadn’t been staring at the movement of her thin mouth, she wouldn’t have known where the words had come from.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have even believed them.

They struck cleanly, like a slap to the face.

“Yesterday’s… disappointment”—disappointment was not the correct word—“hurt him badly, and he’s shutting down. Closing off.”

Each word was painful, razor sharp in clarity, dragged from Pearl’s teeth against her will. She dragged her fingers in lines down her wet face, now reaching the point of her chin, now cupping them into fists on either side of her jaw.

“We can’t get through to him,” she finished quietly. “We’ve all tried.”

And tried and tried and tried—Blue could see every failed attempt scrawled in the lines all over the woman’s tired face. The devastation bruised her black and blue.

“I’m sorry,” she offered simply. “I’m so… sorry.”

But Pearl, with all suddenness, with an aspect of barely repressible contempt, leveled her an incredulous look as though to say, What good will sorry do?

She had an excellent point.

“You should talk to him sometime,” she went on to say, turning away from Blue now. A series of conflicted emotions seemed to be playing out in real time across her pale, sky-colored eyes—disdain warring with grief warring with loathing warring with grudging respect.

It wasn’t quite endearment, though.

And Blue Diamond had a sneaking suspicion that it never would be.

“Maybe not today… he’s tired… hurt… but some day… you should visit him. He would like that.”

It was Blue’s turn to stare at the other woman incredulously now, her mouth slightly open as she awaited a punchline that never quite came. Pearl obstinately refused to meet her gaze, fingertips templed just next to her trembling lips.

“I… I have nothing to offer him,” she whispered, a trembling note in her voice as she tried to convey exactly just how serious she was being. “I’m hardly… I mean, he was the one who saved me. I don’t know what I could ever give him in equal return.”

But somehow, without really knowing why, how, or all the sundry explanatory variables in-between, she knew that this was perfectly untrue.

And Pearl seemed to know it, too, for the corner of her lip slightly lifted in the sliver of a sardonic smile.

“Start with a flower and a smile, perhaps.”

[lys-ash-rai]

When: Late

Where: Times Square

Closed Starter: @swearonstars​​ (Livia Hastings)

Times Square was uncharacteristically dark, just like the rest of the city. It made for a conveniently heightened sense of anonymity that particularly appealed to their more... roguish tendencies. So of course it was difficult in these conditions to avoid the tempting call of loose pockets and purses. The thing about the shroud of darkness that had fallen over New York City is that, while it concealed him, it also concealed his targets. Shortly after swiping the wallet out of a seemingly random girl’s purse they felt a firm tap on their shoulder and turned around hesitantly to make out the familiar face of their victim. “Oh. Uh... Hey Liv.”

[victoria-daydreams]

Something’s Gotta Give

Chapter Three: Tea for Two

AN: Honestly, I should be asleep as I post this chapter, but if I delay this any longer I think I might rip my hair out (not really). If there are any mistakes, I’m sorry, it’s 3am and I’m bleary eyed. Anyways, thank you to everyone who has supported this story! I really didn’t think anyone would enjoy it but myself.

Chapter Four: A Frightful Dinner

Summary: What should’ve been a fun and simple dinner between Livia and Booker takes a dark turn when she discovers a startling secret about him.

Having a cup of tea with each other became a weekly ritual for Booker and I.

And from tea, sometimes we swap over to coffee, where I discovered that Booker makes the best coffee known to man. He always made my cup of coffee sweet, rich, creamy, and added a dash of cinnamon to top it off. It's so perfect, I'll never look at coffee served in cafes the same anymore. Regardless of the beverage we were drinking, Booker and I always made sure to bring food for our little get-togethers. When its my turn to bring the food, I usually buy pastries like eclairs, macrons, pain au chocolat, etc. I couldn't help myself, I've got quite the sweet tooth which Booker commented on clearly amused once he noticed the trend. While Booker opted to bring sandwiches and quiches, which were a lot healthier than my choices.

At first, our little “tea parties”, as I liked to call them always took place in my apartment, but as the weeks passed and Booker grew more and more comfortable with me, he invited me to his apartment for the first time for a cup of coffee. To my surprise, when I entered Booker's apartment, it was not shrouded in darkness like I previously believed, the space was actually well lit.

Unless, he had the lights on and blinds opened for my benefit.

But you know what, I wasn't going to complain about it. The mere fact that Booker felt he could trust me by letting me into his personal space brought me indescribable joy. Each week over tea or coffee, a new subject was discussed. One week it's about books, the next about traveling, the following about daily life, and so on. Truly, it was a very gratifying experience to see how our relationship had blossomed. Not too long ago it felt like I had to pull teeth to get Booker to speak to me or I had to decipher his body language to determine if he was even comfortable speaking to me.

But now, conversations between us flowed naturally.

However, I have noticed that other things have changed between Booker and I. Well, at least for me it has. As of late, I would feel my heart start racing and beat like thunder whenever I would spend time with him. I would find myself studying Booker's features instead of listening to what was coming out his mouth. My eyes would move from down his nose, across his cheeks, around his jaw line, and at his lips. Heat would always flush my face and down to my neck when Booker called my name to snap me out of my daydream.

I couldn't help it, from the jump I said the man was handsome, but I didn't think I would catch feelings for him.

It certainly didn't help that our hands would innocently brush against each other when doing simple tasks, for example, doing the dishes together. Or the way he would lightly place his hand on my mid-back to usher me into his apartment after we've came back from the market. I always felt like I was set aflame every time Booker and I made contact with each other. I began to wonder if Booker had caught onto my growing feelings for him, he hadn't said anything or treated me differently. But, at times I would feel Booker's gaze linger on me when he was supposed to be reading, like the time when I was detangling my hair or when I was drawing in my sketchpad.

There's also the fact that Booker brought me flowers one day when we were having tea. They were roses, yellow roses to be specific. He told me the roses reminded him of me because of their warmth. And don't get me wrong, I damn near gushed over the beautiful, sun-colored bouquet of roses because I hadn't received such a gift in god knows when, but I also had mixed feelings about the flowers. Yellow roses symbolize friendship and I was left wondering one single question.

Did Booker just politely friend zone me?

~~~x~~~

"When I invited you over for dinner I was hoping you would actually help me make it," Booker quipped, looking over his shoulder.

I chuckled a little, "Hmm," I hummed, as popped the last bit of cracker that had fromage fort spread across it. "It seemed like you had everything under control," I replied, a smile on my face.

If someone had told me that by the end of this day I would be having dinner with Booker, I would tell them they were crazy, hell I might even laughed at them. Having a cup of tea with Booker is one thing, but to eat dinner together, it's different, more intimate. When Booker invited me over, I had just finished putting away groceries and was about to make dinner myself, but in stepped Booker. It was quite adorable when he asked to have dinner with him, in my opinion. He was clearly nervous, he stumbled over his words a few times. Whether it was because Booker is still a slightly reserved man, which meant doing this was uncharted territory for him or it was the possibility that he also had feelings for me was unclear.

I hoped for the latter.

"Do I now?" Booker asked, turning around and folding his arms across his chest.

My grin widened, "Undoubtedly," I said, with a laugh.

Feeling a bit of cheese on the corner of my mouth, I took my thumb and wiped it off before placing the speck of cheese onto my lips. Booker's eyes darted down to my lips and I had to force myself to keep a straight face as I felt a slight increase in my heart beat from Booker’s lingering gaze.

"Maybe it was just involuntary," I thought.

I picked up my wine glass, "But since you're begging me so much, I guess I have no choice but to help," I joked, standing up from the kitchen chair and taking a sip of the dry wine.

Booker faced the counter again, "Your kindness knows no bounds Livia," he deadpanned, resuming his work on slicing the mushrooms up.

I walked up to him and placed my hand on the back of shoulder, at first his body tensed before his muscles relaxed.

"What would you like me to do Chef Booker?" I questioned, my lips curving into a smile.

He rolled his eyes at the title, but still a smirk made its way onto his face, "Can you chop the broccoli please?" he asked, motioning to the vegetable to the side of him.

"Gladly," I replied, removing my hand from him and placing my glass down.

I moved over to the sink and turned the faucet on, pumping soap into my hands I placed them underneath the warm water, giving them a good scrub. Drying my hands on a towel placed on the sink, I took my place next to Booker and began chopping the stalk of broccoli.

"In the month and a half that I've known you, I've noticed a difference in you,” I stated, still cutting the broccoli up.

Booker glanced over at me, "Like what?" he asked curiously, dumping the mushrooms into a pan on the stove.

"Well for one, you don't look so haggard," I commented, placing my knife down and picking up the cutting board.

"Haggard?" Booker repeated, breathing out a laugh. "Wow, Livia," he chuckled, taking the board from my hands and tipping the broccoli into in the pan as well.

"Wait, let me finish!" I said, laughing myself now. "There's a glow to your skin. I can sense a newfound joy in you, an emotion that you believed would never return," I continued, and from the corner of my eyes I saw Booker still. "And your eyes," I breathed, shaking my head. "Your eyes always conveyed to me of a man who lives in silent misery. Your eyes would say what your mouth would not," I explained, my voice taking on a softer tone. "But now, I can see a small shine, a little glimmer twinkling in your eyes," I finished, turning my head slightly to look at Booker, who seemed to be stock still.

Silence swept over the small room, apart from the sounds of the vegetables in the pan sizzling and the wind outside softly rustling the colorful leaves on the trees. My heart began hammering in my chest, the elongated silence from Booker made me nervous. God, I hope I didn't say anything that offended him.

I cleared my throat and brushed the bangs of my hair away from eyes, "I don't know, maybe I've been reading too many of those poems you suggested," I guessed, chuckling while shaking my head.

A warm, rough hand covered the top of mine and my head snapped up to look at Booker.

"I guess, it's kind of hard to remain gloomy when you have a neighbor that is the personification of a ray of sunshine, annoyingly persistent as she may be," Booker teased, looking down at me with sincereness in his eyes and a small smile gracing his lips.

I playful bumped his arm with my own, "You love it though," I teased back, sticking my chin out.

"I do," he agreed softly, stroking his thumb back and forth across my hand.

The gesture sent shivers down my spine and goosebumps raised on my arms. Booker's exquisite blue eyes were locked with my rich brown orbs. The proximity between us was making it hard to breathe, all Booker had to do was lean his head down a little further and—let me not get ahead of myself.

"More wine?" I squeaked out, trying to regain my breath subtlety.

Booker smirked, almost as if he knew the effect he had on me, "I would love some," he answered, giving my hand a squeeze before removing it to work on the garlic bulbs.

I turned around, a grin on my face as I held my hand against my chest. I made my way back over to kitchen table, a slight spring in my step, to where a bottle of unopened wine was located. Grabbing the corkscrew, I jammed it into the top of the bottle and began twisting the knob a few times until the familiar and gratifying loud pop of a wine bottle being uncorked echoed throughout the room. It startled me, but at the same time a satisfied smile grew on my face until I heard Booker swear loudly behind me. Immediately, I placed the bottle down and turned around to see little red droplets dripping from Booker's fingers and onto the floor.

"Oh my god Booker!" I exclaimed, rushing to his side.

"It's nothing Livia!" he insisted, cradling his bloody hand as he moved towards the sink.

"Nothing?" I repeated, disbelief clear in my face. I moved in front of him and grabbed his wrist to show him the severity of his wound. "Booker, your palm is split wide open!" I pointed out, my tone turning frantic "We need to go to the hospital!" I stated, releasing his wrist and turning around to grab the towel from the sink.

"Livia-"

"Here!" I began, spinning back around to face Booker. "Use the towel to...." I instructed, but slowly trailed off as my eyes widened at what I was witnessing.

My breath began to quicken, becoming shallow as I watched the skin on Booker's palm draw itself back together. The towel fell limply from my hand and onto the floor with a soft thud. Slowly, I raised my hand and covered my mouth in horror as I watched tendon by tendon mend itself, and at that moment I felt my stomach lurch and a strong wave of nausea hit, forcing me to place a hand on my stomach in order to calm it down. The deep laceration on Booker's palm inexplicably became a mere scratch before the scratch itself simply disappeared.

As if Booker never injured himself in the first place.

"What the hell!" I whispered, my eyes still glued to Booker's his hand. The image of his palm knitting itself back together flashed in my mind, making me slightly gag. I lifted my eyes to Booker's who's face had gone ashen and was contorted with unease. "What the hell was that?" I asked, my voice once again not above a whisper, but the panic laced through the question couldn't be clearer.

"Livia, I can explain," Booker stated slowly, reaching his bloody hand out to me and taking a small step in my direction.

My eyes slightly widened again and I recoiled backwards, my back running into the cupboard. I tightly gripped the counter as I watched Booker's shoulders deflate like a balloon losing air, hurt was evident in his eyes at my reaction to him and a sad frown formed on his face. The silence was deafening in Booker's apartment, the only thing I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. I slid my body along the cupboard, reaching down to snatch my coat from the chair that was next to it.

"I-I need t-to go," I announced shakily, avoiding Booker's stare.

Hurriedly, I moved to the door and made haste of the lock on the door, nearly yanking the door of its hinges as I left.

"Livia, wait!" Booker called, and I thought I heard movement behind me. "Please!" He pleaded.

My hands fumbled around in my coat pocket for my keys, but finally managing to grab them. I nearly sprinted towards my door even though it was only a short distance away. My hands trembled as I inserted the key into my door and jerked the key hard, twisting the doorknob and pushing my door open. I entered my apartment straight away and as I went to shut the door I paused, glancing at the apartment door across from me. Out of nowhere, the sound of glass shattering across the hall made me jump back, causing the door to slam shut louder than I intended it to. I slid the deadbolt lock into place and did the same with the bottom lock, leaning my forehead against the door, closing my eyes.

I flipped around with my back against the door, slowly I slid down the door and covered my face with my hands.

"What the fuck did I just see unfold in Booker's apartment?"

Chapter Five: Avoidance

[heartwoodventures]

Primary Access Required: Heads up, Medics

A few suns had passed since the Coerthas job that Heartwood had been on, after everything it had put a certain Seeker on edge and worry clouded her thoughts. The worry of what could happen to the healers of Heartwood and what they were all in for, they would need to prepare for what was to come, and G'lewra thought the best option was to gather them all together to start forming a plan of action. A quick call over the linkpearl to summon the group did it and so the Seeker waited for them in her office.

A hasty change out of her field gear was made evident by the fact that Aislinn was still buttoning her jacket as she hurriedly made her way upstairs to the chief medic's office. It had been a hectic day, to say the least and the linkpearl had come in just as she was finishing up a job. "Sorry, sorry. Got here as soon as I could." she breathed as she breezed into the room. With a nod to G'lewra, she slipped into a seat.

Livia took a hair longer than she normally ought to arrive. She had on her arm what appeared to be a bag heavy with books. "I hope you'll forgive my lack of punctuality-- there was a bookstore opening I wished to attend."

G'lewra waved a hand to dismiss their worries. "It's quite alright, I know my call was out of the blue but I had a few worries I just wanted to go over with, we're waiting for one more and then we can start."

Vanriri had arrived fairly swiftly--and while she hadn't been able to keep herself fully in the loop with the goings-on in Heartwood, she had been in and out to help attend those in need. ...Granted, of course, she was very much still an apprentice, and most of her healing was done via practical means. The tome on her hip was mostly, at present, little more than an accessory. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting long," she offers, a frown tugging on her lips.

"The other two just arrived so you're alright! Come take a seat and I'll get you caught up on what's happened." G'lewra replied

Vanriri slips by Livia, and hops up to seat herself  squarely between them. "Appreciated. The Wailers are still keeping me busy, but I've tried to be here when I can," she admits, not quite sheepishly.

Aislinn glanced briefly along the couch at her fellows and then turned her attention to G'lewra. "What's happened, then?" she asked with a raised brow. She knew the chief medic wasn't the type to assemble them together without good reason.

"Nothing has really happened as of late to have all of us here so it's alright, however somethings have come up now and that's what worries me. The other two know about it but we've come across a situation that's quite dangerous for us healers but we have to take care of the company at the same time."

Crossing her arms Lewra sighed softly, there was so much information and one might even think she was crazy with what she was about to go over.

"Well, Livia and I have learned that those spider creatures are going to target those with the most aether source along with those specialized in healing. That's what I'm worried about."

"You mean the ones we took apart the other day." Lin pressed her lips together in thought. "So it's aether they're after? Don't suppose we know why yet, do we?" She was, admittedly, still trying to fit the pieces of this whole expedition together.

"No. Only that they saw the two of us as a priority." Livia answered.

"No, we've no idea why they need such a large aether source or why they were so dead set on targeting Livia and myself. It's a confusing situation that we need to take all be careful with, I'm afraid of what would happen if one of us were taken or if Heartwood was left without us."

Aislinn made a noise of agreement in the back of her throat. She could see the point. Heartwood got itself into enough trouble and if it found itself suddenly bereft of medics, well... "That would be a bit troublesome." came her wry reply. "But what do you suggest? Did you find anything that particularly worked when dealing with these...bioweapons?"

Vanriri listens quietly, assessing the exchange; for her part, Vanriri was more concerned over the others present--she hardly considered herself a medic yet, though machines such as these may not make that distinction. She didn't yet have the knowledge of aetherial intricacies to say whether or not they'd mark her as a medic as they had G'lewra and Livia--and if they did, she'd be hard-pressed to convince them otherwise, considering.

"The only thing I've learned is that they're unable to track Nazyl but that's a whole different subject, we might have to make a surplus of potions to have Heartwood members take with them. For those that tag along we'll just have to use minimal amounts of aether unless it calls for it. That's the only thing I can come up with so I was hoping maybe any of you would have an idea." G'lewra said.

"The idea of preparing potions is sound I would say. Beyond that, I would put forward we either stagger the number of medically trained individuals that go afield, or we increase the number of said individuals under the Company's roster." Livia agreed.

"...Hit them until they can no longer spirit off our mages," Vanriri suggests--though from her tone it was wholly sarcastic.

Aislinn took a moment to think, her gaze skating along the serene surface of the pond that sat between them. "Perhaps we could find a way to shield our aether signatures?" she offered. "Or dampen them? Though that might require understanding by what rubric these things are targeting us."

"Perhaps? We would have to do some research on that to make something for us, I was able to hide mine and Livia's aether when were out in Coerthas but it would drain me too much to do it at a constant." G'lewra nodded.

Vanriri frowns faintly, unable to suggest much in that vein just yet. "Would the devices that Heartwood captured reveal what method they're using?"

"That would be something to look into." G'lewra hummed in thought for a moment. "Aislinn, when we get together with Haila and Tynos we'll have to remember to look into that part to see if we can find a counter for this tracking."

Aislinn nodded to G'lewra. "It's certainly not outside the realm of possibility. We were able to remove the receiver from one of them, to prevent it from making contact with...whatever or whoever is controlling them. I think it's a matter of *cautiously* getting it up and running. We're not quite there yet." she shook her head. "Mine isn't an immediate solution."

"Anything will help so I'd be happy to hear it." G'lewra replied.

Aislinn let go a sigh. "So. In the meantime, basically know that anytime we're out there trying to help with this issue, we'll have a target on our backs?"

"That's correct."

Aislinn nodded. "Well, it's best to be forewarned, I suppose."

G'lewra Ajra: "I'll be sure to keep you all updated if we learn anything, please do the same if you learn anything so that we can prepare for it."

"With any luck, we'll find ourselves a workaround. We're an enterprising group, after all." Aislinn offered before dipping her head to G'lewra. "But thank you. For the heads up."

"Due to Heartwood's involvement with Coerthas, I've been assigned more watches with the Wailers in the Northern Shroud to better prepare anyone caught on the borders. With any luck these things will remain in Coerthas, but if they do start crossing borders..." Vanriri shrugs, and hops the short distance down to the floor.

"Just please be safe, that's all I ask." G'lewra repeated

Vanriri nods. "Safe as I can be. Before I head back to Gridania, I'd like to help with some of those potions, if that's alright? I'll still need your guidance, I imagine..."

Aislinn rose from her seat, already turning the aether signature problem over in her mind. "Certainly. Safe as one can be." she paused and nodded to both G'lewra and Vanriri. "Time to get to work. Have a good evening, you two."

"Take care, Aislinn." Vanriri shimmies aside to make room for her to get by.

"I'll happily show you how to make them." G'lewra offered a smile to Vanriri before offering a small wave to Aislinn. "Let me know if you need any supplies and I'll get them for you."

Aislinn nodded. "Will do." she jogged down the stairs and made for the laboratory. It was going to be another late night.