#long since learned that’s an impossibility and just another facet of the realities of her position that she can’t do anything about but the

[heireign]

@worthyheir : does your muse value their legacy ? what have they done to ensure it ? ( ZODIAC HEADCANONS )

see, that's a difficult question because the answer is both absolutely and not in the way you'd think - like she wants to be remembered well, she wants to have been considered a good queen, and a good person to have so many people hedging their bets on her ascension and throwing their support behind her - she wants to make that worth it. though she can not really do as much during her own reign as queen that she may well want to, and she does want to, but she can shift the general perspective and feeling toward absolute primogeniture into an air of potential acceptance that can be implemented during the reign of her son. she does not have any illusions that she can push so far down the path of progression its a law she can pass herself. but she can set them on that path by ruling, and ruling well, and giving the realm a prolonged period of stability and prosperity under a female ruler - and that way, jacaerys can pass that law that makes absolute primogeniture set in stone in westeros. she is under no illusion that her legacy is going to be one of such monumental change, because she was always aware that she was by and large considered the exception by even the lords and ladies who supported her as queen, she was hoping that her reign and she herself would embody a new precedent being set. she was hoping that her ascension would crack open the door a little bit so that if jace named his daughter as his heir, it would be a lot less difficult to do and there would be a lot less push back to the potential ascension of her granddaughter then what she herself faced as heir to the throne.

she cannot say any of this out loud, of course. she cannot verbalize what her intentions are for the realm as queen in that sense because that would imply that she was going to muddy the waters a bit too much. she was going to do something that would endanger the powers of the lords of the realm who had elder sisters who could potentially rival their own claims and take that power from them - because it would be theirs by right. she has to play very much on the straight and narrow when it comes to her political career so she can advance in a way that plainly, does not make her more trouble then what she's worth. but it is an end goal that she has shared with her son, it's an end goal that she has talked with at length with her boys. she's engrained at least in her eldest two sons the importance of the subtleties of manuevering politics and the art of moving and advancing in a place where one wrong move can have the whole palace whispering behind your back and plotting your downfall. she's engrained in them the virtues that she herself prioritizes and holds the most dear like the importance of honor, and duty, and loyalty and adhering to oaths and promises that one makes. she's brought them up with a prioritization for family, and familial loyalties as opposed to personal ambition and brought them with the understanding that jacaerys is gonna be king, and baela is gonna be his queen, and they're all gonna have places in his court.

her own legacy in her eyes pales in comparison to what her children embody in that sense. she wants to be remembered as a good, stable choice for queen that only brought betterment to the realm and gave them a king that brought real, lasting change for them. she does not care if she's remembered less then they are, she doesn't care if she is remembered at all, in truth. even if the memory of her fades between one generation and the next, as long as she did do good in the long run she doesn't care if her memory lasts in the hearts of people who did not know her. she wants her children and her grandchildren to be left with a memory of her that they're proud to claim. but she wants them to be remembered, she wants them to be great, and she wants them to be remembered as well as the conqueror or king jaehaerys was remembered. she wants them to have a lasting impression in this world - and she has taught them how to handle the weight of it. because she does have such a genuine belief in their potential, she believes that they can be great in a way that she can't inevitably because of how stymied her political career is by her gender. and how little she can truly do because of it, and like, they embody so much of her hope, they are her hope - her own, and her hope for the realm at large. they are her legacy, and they are what she hopes is remembered that she did. above all that she's done, she hopes that they are what she's remembered for.

[kdtheghostwriter]

SNK #128 - Seeing Shadows

That’s bad, right?

There were some semantic debates regarding what exactly Hange meant when they said, “Humanity is out of time!” I think it’s clear now that humanity has no more time for them to be indecisive. Eren is on the march, and even if he settles for destroying everything on the Marley continent, that’s a massive loss of civilization and one you simply can’t live with if you think of yourself as a hero. The look on their faces tells the story. It’s no longer about saving the world; it’s about saving what’s left.

How much is left depends on how quickly they move, but it’s not as easy as mounting up the troops. Eren and his Colossal Army are across the ocean now. They’ve had at least one full day to march and probably more since the previous chapter’s events around the campfire. Think about how long it takes for a plane to cross an ocean. Not a full day. Their best bet is commandeering Miss Kiyomi’s special aircraft powered by the mysterious Iceburst Stone. Before they do that, we have to pause for another episode of the worst show in the world: This Floching Guy.

As much I have advocated for Eren to be accepted as the new villain – praising Isayama for turning the Face/Heel dichotomy upside down as it pertains to Reiner – those two, even in their most vile moments, still have their fans. There is no guesswork with Floch Forster. He’s predatory, conniving, authoritarian and mean-spirited. Above all of that, he’s a cocky little shit in a way that even Kenny Ackerman would have scoffed at. He’s the antagonist to the characters we’ve followed for ten years now, but in his own mind they brazenly oppose him, which is where the title of this chapter ‘Traitor’ becomes important.

 For the last four years, Eldia has been ruled by deft slight of hand. In spirit, Historia Reiss, the rightful heir to the throne, has reclaimed her birthright. In reality, she retired to run an orphanage while the three branches of military have taken control of the government and all proceedings. Eren’s mission to Liberio as well as the counterattack from Marley’s Warrior Unit caused a vacuum to appear that was quickly occupied by the Jaegerist Faction. They now control the government and in extension all facets of Paradisian society. So what do you call a group of AWOL soldiers that are conspiring to sabotage your one method of security?

Traitors. Villains. Monsters.

They’re killing your friends and attacking your home. They’ve infiltrated your ranks and betrayed your trust. Thousands of innocent people dead just for the sake of completing their mission.

This week I learned that many people viewed Bertolt’s death as karmic in some way. I never saw it like that at all. His death at Armin’s hands was a necessary evil. Necessary certainly, but it was evil. It doesn’t make the 104th evil for carrying out the deed. It just happened to be the most brutal death in the series even if it wasn’t the most graphic. Bert is left defenseless as his powers are forcibly taken from him. He calls for his former comrades only to realize none of them will help. Then he calls for Reiner, his best friend who barely escaped with his own life. He dies a lonely, agonizing death.

“Who the hell wants to kill innocent people?!”

Who knows how long this question has been haunting Armin’s waking thoughts? There is evidence to suggest that the once bold Survey Corps veteran who was willing to sacrifice his life to help Eren take down the Colossal has been hampered by his successor’s timid nature. Ever since he acquired his powers, he’s always attempted to seek non-violent resolution. I don’t see this as simple naivety.

If you were given a power as destructive as his, where you are capable of destroying a town by simply calling upon it, why would you ever use it? Why would you ever want to? I grow uncomfortable with the amount of voices in the fandom concern trolling the 104th and their refusal to spill the blood of their neighbors. They’ve fought alongside or trained with most of these people. Why should they be expected to kill them like nameless drones? Even if it is necessary, why are they not allowed to mourn the choice?

Characters like these that we’ve known from almost the beginning. They know nothing of the outside world other than it’s filled with people that want them dead. Eren Jaeger is their best chance at keeping their society alive and these people they lived and fought and suffered with want to impede that and doom them. Samuel and Daz are soldiers, too. Forget for a moment that they’re opposing the main characters. Why would they let this happen?

 I digress, though. This point is more about Bert and his exit from the story. It came at the end of a fierce battle that saw the SC expend all of their resources and most of their man power. The fact that they came away with even one shifter’s power is a small miracle. The characters can be excused then for watching, unfeeling, as their former teammate is eaten alive. Now the shoe is on the other foot. Armin has been mortally wounded and the one vehicle that can get them to Marley in time is about to be destroyed. Before Daz can do this, he is stopped by Armin who is delirious but regenerating. Before he can deal the fatal blow, Connie wrestles the gun away from Samuel and shoots them both.

The mission continues.

One could say that it’s overkill perhaps. How many times must the 104th learn the hard lesson? Even Annie made reference to the fact that the Warriors plan was being criticized with no alternative. If they spot them, the mission fails. If the ship is blown, the mission fails. If they Azumabito clan is destroyed, the mission fails. All of these facts are true and the current best way to keep any of that from happening is to fight and kill the Jaegerists. It’s remarkably easy to say, but then they are the ones who have to live with choices made.

 No one should ever have to “get used to�� the idea of killing…well anyone but especially not people you partnered with. Bert’s inclusion in this moment was no accident. It isn’t just because Armin inherited his mental likeness. This is the closest they have come to understanding the impossible position he was forced into four long years ago. Only this time, it’s Samuel who is scared and confused.

You can disagree with Samuel’s point of view but what Connie does next is by definition an act of treason. He shoots two members of his own combat unit and defies a direct order from a commanding officer. We know that the commanding officer is a sociopath and we know that following orders means being an accessory to genocide. But that genocide is the only thing keeping that island alive. That island has been the only home Samuel and Daz have ever known. They deserve as much as anyone, an explanation instead of a bullet to the face. But this is what happens isn’t it?

I love Metal Gear Solid for a number of reasons, but chief above them is the series protagonist, Solid Snake. In the flagship game, he is introduced to us as a super soldier engineered for battle that is pulled out of retirement to thwart his twin brother’s plans of nuclear destruction. This game is one of the few of its kind that can be completed without killing a single enemy. You are rewarded for your stealth. Because, you see, Snake the character is a pacifist at heart. He doesn’t want to do this, but he’s the only one who can. It’s a solo mission, so running and gunning almost always fails and if you kill too many people, the action hero main character becomes sick.

You see, because, these choices aren’t made lightly. They ripple and they matter. The 104th kids aren’t acting high and mighty, lording their moral values over the heads of those that betrayed them. They genuinely hate doing this. From your mouth you say, “We have to save the world,” but when you arrive you are told, “We have to kill these people.” For once they would like to preserve peace without additional death and I don’t think they should be scolded for that wish.

�� Stray Thoughts

- Wasn’t all that impressed by Magath’s little speech, especially considering what came before it. It’s a change of heart, yes, but not from a genuine place. When faced with the reality of his homeland being flattened, and the futility of his current position, he immediately goes back to torture. Yelena is callous in her own right but she did nothing to warrant the violence. He’s lashing out and I don’t shed tears for him.

- Onyankapon on the other hand. What a guy. He resets the joint in Yelena’s arm and crafts a splint to keep it in place. He has no powers, but you would want this guy on your team during the end of the world.

- Reiner finally puts the pieces together here. “I’m just like you,” Eren says and like Eren, Reiner moves to protect his former teammates from making this impossible choice. It’s a noble gesture and one I respect. There’s no going back for him. He has far too much blood on his hands. That he recognizes that is a strong moment for the character.

- Armin and Connie’s plan wasn’t a bad one. If nothing else, it bought time enough for Annie and Reiner to get into position. If they had attacked outright, the plane likely would have been destroyed. Some people are frustrated with them but honestly, go read Berserk if that’s the case.

- East Sea Gang rise up! Mikasa in combat is still an absolute treat. And Floch gives us an example of this faction’s greatest flaw. You know; besides the nationalist framework they are founded upon. Floch is the most experienced soldier they have and when Floch Forster is your best fighter, your team sucks. Mikasa Ackerman was worth 100 soldiers as rookie. As an adult soldier, she is easily worth two Jaegerist groups put together. Kiyomi is clearly capable, but she also took advantage of Floch’s arrogance in the moment.

- Credit to Reiner and Annie for hitting their cue. I wondered what it would be like having them in this group but it seems like for the purposes it should work.

[rhetoricandlogic]

Of Makers, Magic, and Monsters: Shorefall by Robert Jackson Bennett

Martin Cahill

Thu Apr 30, 2020 3:00pm

Last we left the crew of Foundryside, in the titular first book of Robert Jackson Bennett’s Founders Trilogy, they had just succeeded in pulling off the impossible, saving Tevanne from a brutal plot of attempted godhood, even as they lost a friend along the way. Now, three years later, their own scriving house exists as an open source for any scriver who would seek to grow, learn, and compete in the marketplace against the looming Merchant Houses, provided they leave anything new they make with the crew at Foundryside to disperse to others.

But as scriv-sighted Sancia, brilliant engineer Berenice, irascible but talented leader Orso, and the powerhouse Gregor, still struggling with memory and violence, find their feet under them for the first time since book one, the mysterious Valeria reaches out once more: her Maker, the hierophant Crasedes Magnus, long thought dead, is close to convincing reality he is alive once more. And he seeks to do more than come back to life: he has plans for all of humanity, and it starts in Tevanne, just shy of Shorefall, the holiday of true night everlasting.

Bennett wastes no time in putting the reader right back in the action, bringing us swiftly through the streets of Tevanne, reacquainting us with the four heroes of Foundryside, and giving us gentle reminders into scriving, magic that can imbue inanimate objects with sentience, and argue reality into working in ways it was not intended. Which is good, because our understanding of every single one of those things aspects of the book flip and change, evolving through Bennett’s expert touch and effortless prose. Through Shorefall, we watch as from chapter to chapter, characters are challenged and new facets of their personalities bloom, driving and nuanced. Our understandings of scriving grow, as he introduces concept after concept of what can truly be done when one knows how to argue reality into shifting things like time, mortality, and godhood. And our knowledge of the way we thought the world worked is revealed to only be a glimpse of the truth as Valeria, a scrived artificial intelligence, and her Maker peel back layer after layer of falsehood and assumption, of not just the world, but how these characters thought the world worked. At the end is just truth, bloody, difficult truth, and Shorefall thrives on what happens when our characters know that truth.

It’s always a sheer pleasure reading Robert Jackson Bennett because of his talent at writing work that is both seamless and balanced. For every moment of plot momentum, there is an equal moment dedicated to Sancia and Berenice’s deep love for each other. For every glimpse we get into Gregor’s terror that he’s not in control of his mind or body, there is an equal moment given to someone arguing about the nature of humanity. For every page of philosophy argued, there is an awe-inspiring sequence of action, magic, and motion. Bennett’s work has always been fine-tuned, but Shorefall is a testament to his ability to make a modern epic fantasy flow so seamlessly from scene to scene, never bogged down by excess or pontification. If his books were a scriving rig, they’d be masterworks in convincing reality that somehow a book with ideas, action, characters, and lore this massive isn’t somehow two thousand pages long.

And as packed as this book is, I still could’ve spent another four hundred pages in Bennett’s story. Because in Shorefall, the main conflict about good versus evil; it comes down to two entities who have seen the worst the humanity has to offer, and are both fed up with it. And despite their differences and grudge against one another, they spend the book argue for humanity’s worst instincts. Meanwhile, Sancia and her crew? It’s their job to argue in humanity’s better angels; through their actions, in trying to change the way their city works, to empower and protect those disenfranchised by the Merchant Houses and society, to defend their city in times of conflict, their actions argue that humanity may have its moments, but it’s through connection, through helping one another not just see one another, but understand one another, that we can rise beyond our worse devils. It’s a compelling argument, and one that sets the stage for the conclusion of the Founders Trilogy. From where Bennett leaves things, it’s sure to be one hell of a finish.

Shorefall by Robert Jackson Bennett is a riveting epic fantasy that gives you a little bit of everything, but so seamlessly, you’re going to wonder when you got to the ending. It has heart and intricate characters who love and care for each other. It has wonder and danger, oftentimes attached at the hip. It has upheavals and twists and morality and action, that culminates in a breathless series of events that will have you eagerly awaiting book three. Bennett has written another stunning novel that shows exactly what this genre can do and why we love it. And if Foundryside and Shorefall are any indication, he won’t just stick the landing, he’ll make it seem like no sweat at all.

[thebennettdiaries]

a private audience

On the twelfth day of Shipmas...

Trope: Royalty --- because nothing says Christmas like a prince! Pairing: Klonnie 

“Are you going to the square today?” Caroline asks.  She is practically buzzing as Bonnie unloads a box of candles nearby.

“Why would I?” Bonnie already knows the answer but she enjoys watching Caroline’s eyes bulge to an unnatural size.

“Prince Niklaus!?” Caroline shrieks (there is some regret in Bonnie now that her ears are ringing).  “He is going to get the official key to the city.  And the children’s choir is going to sing to him.  He’ll shake hands afterwards.  Everyone is going.”

“Not everyone,” Bonnie points out.  She could care less about the Royal Visit.  Okay, she appreciates the flood of tourists it has brought to downtown area.  Her sales have been higher than she initially projected and she is looking at a nice deposit in her vacation fund.  But beyond the economic boost, she is content to ignore every facet of Prince Niklaus’ visit.

“Ugh, you work too much,” Caroline complains.  “You miss out on all the good stuff.”

Bonnie decides she will let Caroline think that is her reason for staying back.  After all, this place is a one woman show.  But in reality, she is much happier surrounded by her crystals, herbs and candles.  “Go, have fun.  Take a selfie or ten.”

“Imagine if I get one with him?!”

“Living the dream,” Bonnie retorts.  She kicks the empty box aside as Caroline dances out.  

Blissful, peaceful silence.

She spends most of the afternoon tidying the place up, stopping long enough to sell things to those who stop in on their way to the city center.  Each time she is asked if she will be joining them and she becomes an expert at feigning disappointment that she will be trapped within the four walls of the store.

By early evening, things have come to a standstill, her customer base held captive by the fair prince. She takes the opportunity to brew herself a cup of chamomile tea.  She hops up on one of the shelves and drinks deep.

Then the door opens with enough force to rattle the glassware throughout the store.

Bonnie’s body jolts automatically, her tea sloshing over the rim and into her lap.  She sets the mug down, moving quickly to eye her newest (and potentially rudest) customer of the day.  She finds a man at the door and he is turning the sign from open to closed.

“Hey!” She protests immediately, her eyebrows pushing together.

He turns, a look of absolute panic evident on his face.  “You’ve got to hide me.”

Bonnie blinks.  She knows that face.  It is impossible not to know that face.  It has been plastered all over every newscast and newspaper for the past few weeks.  “...what?”

“Hide me,” he pleads.  “Quickly.”

Bonnie’s mouth is slightly ajar now.  A prince is in her store.  A prince is in her store begging for a favor.  

Before she can form an answer, Niklaus runs past her and actually ducks behind the counter.  

“...what?”

The door opens again and this time she is hit with a blast of cold air.  And a chattering of voices.  Female voices.  There are at least a dozen of them trying to crowd the front of her store.  She winces as one bumps into a displace of lavender essence.  If those bottles fell and broke she’d be smelling lavender into her afterlife.  

Thankfully she is spared.

“Is he here?” One of them calls with the same level of enthusiasm that Caroline had displayed earlier (Bonnie wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Caroline was squeezed in the back of the mob).  

“Who?”

“The prince!” There is exasperation in the woman’s voice.

Bonnie can practically feel Niklaus silently pleading with her not to give him up.  For a moment, she is tempted to ignore it but then she worries about the state of her store if she jerks her thumb towards his hiding place.  

It will be like a bomb went off --- a scary, amorous bomb.

She can’t have that.

So she shakes her head.  

“Was that who went running on by about five minutes ago?  Tall man in a black coat?”  

They don’t need much more convincing.  They just hear five minute head start and back out to make up ground.

Bonnie breathes a sigh of relief.

Niklaus peaks his head up from behind the counter.  For a moment all Bonnie sees if blonde curls and she resists the urge to snort in laughter.  Instead she holds it in as he rises to his full height.

“Thank you,” he says with a little incline of his head.

“I didn’t do it for you.  I did it for the future of my business,” Bonnie tells him (because there is some real truth to that --- she won’t let herself slip back into being overwhelmed by the idea of royalty in her store; that reaction was temporary).  

“Right.”

Bonnie glances towards the storefront, noting the crowd moving by at a steady pace.  All in pursuit of the prince.  “You know, you can’t just stand there…”

“You are going to kick me out?” For a moment he looks as if he will try to pull rank and remind her that he is royalty and therefore she should bend to his will.  Lucky for him, he does not.

She would have opened her door and shouted his location loudly on principle alone.  

“I just mean you kind of stand out right now.”

That is true enough.  He is dressed in a neat suit, his tie perfectly done up.  Draped across his shoulders is a long felt coat.  She can see the crest of the Royal Family stitched above his breast.  Meanwhile she is in a billowy blouse and skirt and is wearing enough bangles to play him a lovely tune should she so wish.

Yep, he definitely doesn’t belong here.

“Let’s go out back,” she suggests, noting the stark relief on his face.  

She is quick to turn the lock on the door to avoid anymore bombardments.  Then she moves with ease through her store to push back the curtain that separates the public from the private.  Her eyes scan over the space, noting the clutter.  She doesn’t have time to regret issuing the invitation.  He is already right behind her and she has no choice but to move further into the room.

He seems out of place here too.  But at least he is no longer visible to the public. 

Bonnie takes a deep breath and turns to him.  “I should apologize for the mess.  But since you are sort of an unexpected guest, I won’t.”  She eyes the way he stands tall even surrounded by her personal things.  “I won’t curtsy either if you were waiting for that.”

After a split second, he breaks out into a smile.  “Not necessary.”

Bonnie still fusses a little even though she does not feel as if she needs to.  She moves enough aside so he can have a proper seat.  He is slow to sink into it.  She bristles a little.  “It’s not a throne, I know.”

Niklaus shakes his head.  “I was just wondering where you will sit.”

Oh.

Bonnie casts a glance around the room.  Then she does what comes natural.  She hops up on chest, her legs dangling over the side.  She can’t help but swing them as the pair eye one another.  Now that the initial shock and panic has worn off, she finds herself wondering just what the hell she is expected to do in this situation.  

“So...you’re what?  Into hide and seek?  Strange for a royal but according to the tabloids, there is always worse.”

Niklaus blinks and then laughs despite the situation.  “The crowd became a little too zealous.”

“You mean the female side of it did.”

He nods his head.

She wants to scoff but now that she is up close and personal with his majesty she thinks she actually gets it.  His pictures do not do him justice --- and he has an accent.  You can never go wrong with an accent.  

“I am sure my security is fully panicking right now.”

“They should be.”  At his look, she explains.  “Isn’t it their job to avoid this kind of thing in the first place?  Don’t you have a backup plan?  A decoy to throw their way?  A stretch limo for them to throw you headfirst into?”

Niklaus shakes his head.

The room falls into silence once more.

Bonnie becomes very aware of how his eyes roam across the space.  She has a cot in the corner for when she is just too tired (or lazy) to go back to her apartment.  There are clothes strewn here and there (she is forever grateful that her bra is well hidden) and remnants of her lunch are on display.  Not exactly the luxuries he is used to.

“Do you want some tea?” she asks, eager to distract him.  Before he can even nod, she is pouring two fresh cups and shoving one in his direction.

“What is it that you sell here?” He is sipping the tea with all the pomp and grace that she expects.  “When I was hiding I noticed an invoice for love potion?”

Her cheeks burn.  “I am just your average New Age store.  You know, crystals for healing, candles for warding off bad vibes...an occasional love potion for the tourist who wants something out of the ordinary.  Completely harmless by the way.  Pretty sure it’s just concentrated fruit juice.” She makes a face.  “Please don’t say anything.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

They exchange a smile and this time the silence is not so overwhelming.

“So what are you missing out on?  A ball?  A state dinner with the mayor?”

“A visit to St. John’s Hall actually,” he says and he looks pained at the thought.

Bonnie’s face softens.  She knows that place --- a home for the children who don’t have anywhere else to go.  It is supposed to be temporary but some grow up in that place.  She bets they are excited that he is coming.  It won’t be the reception he got earlier in the town square but it will be everything they have.  

(the cynical part of her wonders if he is doing it for the press)

“I am sure once the fervor passes, I will be able to make up for lost time.”

He sounds sincere enough.

She actually finds herself wishing just a little that she had actually been in the city square earlier when he spoke to the city.  But then again, if she had gone, she certainly wouldn’t be sitting here now.

Funny how things work out.

From the depths of his pocket, his phone rings.  He is careful to sit down his tea before he pulls it free.  She can hear him explaining the situation to his security.  She even helps, filling him in on the address.  

Then he stands.  

“I should be out of your hair soon.”

“Good, you’ve probably cost me business,” she says but there is no real heat behind her words.  Instead she smiles.

He gives her one in return.  It is wide enough for her to fully understand why Caroline danced around her store that afternoon.  

“I appreciate your assistance.  And discretion.”

She can read between the lines --- don’t sell this story to the tabloids.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

His security turn out to be two very beefy men, each of whom could probably bench press her without working up a sweat.  They look appropriately sheepish for how things have played out.  

“It is all right,” Niklaus assures them.  “I have been greatly assisted…” He furrows his brows and she realizes she hasn’t told him her name.

“Bonnie.”

“Bonnie,” he repeats.  “Thank you once more, Bonnie.”

“Anytime,” she says as if he will ever walk through that front door again.

He is almost gone when he turns once more.  “ --- tomorrow I have a few hours to myself.  Thankfully.  Would care to join me for a proper show of gratitude?”

She is back to being slack jawed despite her promise not to be.  This time around she finds her voice more quickly.

“Yes, yes, I would.”

Later that night, when Caroline talks her ear off about how Prince Niklaus actually shook her hand, Bonnie decides against pointing out that she actually has a date with him.

Some things are just better left unsaid.

[esonikofanfiction]

K: TALES OF MIDNIGHT: CHAPTER I: SASHIMI || pt. II

Fushimi gained his feet, choking in the cool night air as though he’d since forgotten how to breathe, or even that he needed to, until his breath came flooding back to him.

Across the pebbled surface of the roof, the woman merely stared at him, stone-frozen as a statue. 

Fushimi then recalled with startling vividness: the burn he felt a moment prior, caught within her aura's pitch-black wrath, was not a fiery heat at all but biting as a rain of icy fractals cutting through the skin and puncturing the bone; and with its steady passing, still the sting remained inside this woman's gaze, locking him inside. 

Pronounced among her features' snowy confines, all was cold and lifeless, save her eyes, which flashed him with a tinkling of jade; and yet for all their listlessness, they seized him in a manner that he could not comprehend, nor did he particularly wish to comprehend it. What, in truth, he wanted was to rid himself entirely of all concerning her: to take what he had come for and be done with her as quickly as he could. 

A moment passed and still she did not move; even so, she seemed to rise as would some haunted being, grim and treacherous before him. She reminded him of a black hole, her very essence that of an anomalistic trap no matter how one went about her: always one would find himself enveloped and consumed. It made him cringe to look at her. He wished to look away but somehow found he couldn't. 

He sensed resolution in the strange degree of ravenous regard she seemed to give him; and it dawned on him to wonder why she even bothered being there at all. You got what you came for, he reflected. You even had the lead on me. Why stop and fight and then not even kill me when you clearly had the chance? 

Scanning every facet of her sly, unflinching countenance, the large yet highly slitted eyes that looked at him, he found her absolutely blank. It was impossible to divine her thoughts, yet at the time, he realized — rather angrily — that it was too late. A slight reverberation in her eye informed him that she'd read his own transparent features fluently. Her visage, once unmoved, contorted in a grin, causing him to flinch and raise his saber in the air. "The Kawaguchi Algorithm," he spoke in cutting tones. "I know you took it before you chucked the laptop." Holding out his hand, he ordered, "Give it to me." 

"You mean you're not going to ask me my name?" She said, blinking into feigned, wide-eyed innocence. Her voice was unexpectedly soft. 

"Like I care about your name," he answered in somewhat of a lie. He took a step toward her, his sword-point inching closer to her throat. 

"Yes, that's right, you're here for this," she said, pulling out a flash drive from her pocket. Tauntingly, she waved it at him, watching with amusement as he gripped his saber tightly in response, his eyes a trailing movement in alignment with the drive. "You know, you nearly had me back there. Another moment and..." she popped her brow excitedly and smiled, slinking out her tongue in a not-so-subtle lick along the edges of her mouth. 

Fushimi sneered at her. ”Better to lose it altogether than to let you run off with it."

“Yes, but without it, you wouldn't be here," she pointed out.

"And I'd really like to leave here, so if you'd just give it to me..." he suggested, at which, she sent him three consecutive clicks of her tongue, accompanied by a finger tapping likewise in the air. 

"Not before I have a chance to formally introduce myself. I'm Rei Kiyoka." She blinked: a minute gesture of a bow. "Your living night flower," she added. Again, she donned a fabricated air of sincerity, broken altogether with a wink. "Come now, don't tell me you've not wondered all this time chasing me. You've been on my tail for weeks. I could feel you inching closer day by day." Then adopting a higher mimicking voice, she forced her lips into a pucker. "'But why can't I keep up?' you kept asking yourself. 'Always trailing behind, never making it in time.’" She humphed a little snicker. "I wonder: how many proxies did you meet instead of me these past few weeks?" 

“Funny, I don’t see one now,” Fushimi answered dryly, and another laugh escaped her lips, causing him to blink. 

"I should hope not," she replied, flitting her slim hand into a wave. "A chase, of course, is fun if there's a bit of bait to test you with, but even that was beginning to grow dull. Quite honestly, the blossoming tediousness of it all was enough to make me anxious. I longed to finally have you." She smirked a sinuous grin, making him uncomfortable, and sighed as one enraptured in a daydream. "Alas, appearances and such forbade me from indulging any earlier than the game itself allowed. My only consolation, then, in being forced to wait, was knowing that in every line of bait, in every trail I left, commanding you to follow, I was merely laying out the pieces that would one day lead you here; and now look at us!" She uttered happily, at which, her smile turned devious. "Together at last." 

Just then, alarm awakened in Fushimi and he stiffened in his place. Let alone the obvious vulgarity of Rei Kiyoka's overly refined advance (or was she merely teasing him?), Fushimi dawned more thoroughly on the truth between the fluff and the indecency. 'Laying out the pieces?' He repeated in his mind. Hold on. That would mean...she planned this from the beginning? Eyes alert, he looked at her; she looked at him; no one said a word. So while I was chasing her, she was really chasing me? Or worse: she was baiting me? He lost his breath, cringing in a sudden recoil. What kind of twisted — !

"You're with Scepter 4," She said, cutting off his inner monologue. Unlike him, it seemed, who's mind had momentarily lapsed, Kiyoka had since reached the height of comfortability and began to pace around him, followed by the cautious tip of his sword, on which, she set her finger in a sly, hypnotic gesture up and down its flattened edge. "Third-in-command," she went on, "the one who's name sounds like 'sushi." Once again Fushimi cringed, sending off his saber from her reach, a gesture that she did not seem to mind or even bring herself to notice. 

Tapping her same finger on her chin, she feigned an epiphany. "Ah yes, I have it! Sashimi!" Pointing to him, "That's you, right?" She raked her head, eyeing him a bit more snakily than was natural. "Yummy. You know I think from now on I'll get hungry every time I see you." 

Fushimi's eyes narrowed. "Then I'll be sure to visit often once you're neatly behind bars — granted I don't kill you first." 

Kiyoka rose a single brow. "I see. Best keep me wanting all the time, is that it?" 

He blinked into a shrug. "Something like that."

“Well then, Sashimi, until that day comes — because let's face it: that day's not today," she bat her eyes and dipped into a sweeping bow, rising with her rapier aimed at him, "I plan to claim my prize and satisfy my hunger right here, right now." 

At this, her farcical tone (he assumed) meant only to mock him, Fushimi waved his sword haphazardly, gaping with a snigger at the lewd absurdity of her words. "And I'm just supposed to what: roll over?" Repositioning his saber in alignment with her blade, he darted her a similarly provoking grin. "Not a chance." 

Kiyoka turned her rapier with a simultaneous coil of her neck as like a cobra in observance of its prey. "Don't be boring, Sashimi. Have you not learned your lesson?" 

"I'm still here aren't I?" 

She hummed a mesmerizing taunt. "By my good graces."

"Then finish it."

Kiyoka seemed to ponder this a moment, or else she faked a slight degree of rapt consideration. "Yes, but then all this would be for naught," she whined. "What a waste." Clicking her tongue, "No, I'm afraid I just can't let that happen," she decided, at which, her rhythmic convolution, partnered with another one of her unfathomable expressions that Fushimi could not hope to comprehend, sent her lunging in a sudden dash, her weapon brought against his in a clang that echoed shrilly in the breeze. 

Fushimi darted back, sending out his aura. "What the — !" He shot out. Shaking her away, he thought, You weren't going to kill me then but now you are? Make up your mind!  

He parried with a spin (less cheerfully done than hers) and found himself where she had stood while she assumed his former stance, facing him again, her rapier posed and darkened aura sumptuously lit. 

It came as no surprise (so livid and confusing were his thoughts), Fushimi's look of fury was perceived by his opponent, and in a laugh as eerily as that of a madman wreaking terror for the fun of it, Kiyoka whirled around his saber, rushing him again, shielding every onslaught while frolicking about as though their parry were a dance, their two conflicting auras linked inside a symphony that played on either set of ears: one of chaos and disorder, yet surprisingly, no genuine disorder came between the pair despite the evident chaos Fushimi met from her before. Strangely, by some unknown and unspeakable force indeterminate yet nonetheless apparent, everything had changed. 

With every clash that brought their swords together, Kiyoka's face grew more serene. Her slanted eyes reduced themselves to lazy, verdant pools while all her flowing waves, their rich delightful scent, sailed sweetly in the air. In the same way, her aura fountained downward in a smooth and fluid stream, hardly monstrous anymore, nor torn with poisoned fumes, but sailing to the rhythm of her form, and hers to that of his. 

Such balance having formed itself, a bit of life emerged — or something thereabouts. Her former coarse frigidity, what once was so apparent, had subsided like a gust of wind that brought a stir, then promptly slid away. It made Fushimi wary, giving him a sickening sensation to have witnessed transformation pass so flawlessly and seemingly so naturally, when truthfully, he understood that nothing could be further from reality. Thus he was annoyed, and desirably so, for it only proved to nourish her delight as she assailed on him again and again, though never out of malice but to toy with him, to test him and to tease him, less with might and force enacted with an aura but with swiftness and agility in combat with a sword — that, and her all-too-ghostly tremor of a laugh that sent a shiver up his spine — until at last, she leapt apart and spun around to face him, the bulk of her aura sinking to a fog about her sides, her weapon lowered halfway through the cloud.

"My, you're fun to play with, Sashimi.”

"And you're just wasting time," he answered. Observing his slim margin of a chance, he flicked his sleeve and whipped himself about, one-by-one propelling red-soaked daggers through the crack in her defense. 

Kiyoka made no effort to resume her aura-shield and therefore counter his attack but rather bounded to the side, spinning past one dagger, then another, while a third produced a twang as it collided with her blade and ricocheted away. 

Without the force of an aura, she radiated fluent artistry, yet it was not enough. Fushimi stole the shot and bridged the gap between them with an aura-seeped hand bound tightly round her throat. "That's enough!" He ordered. "End this now. I won't ask you again."

Kiyoka made to laugh, though it only brought his fingers in a deeper wringing hold, cutting off her air. She choked and dropped her rapier to the ground, extending both her arms in signal of defeat. “Alright, Sashimi,” she breathed. “You win.”

"Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, highly agitated. “Now give me the — "

Another zing ignited in a penetrating burst that sent him sprawling back, knocking the wind from his lungs; his saber ripped apart from him and chinked across the pebbles to the side. His sight gave way to flashing scenes of her, the roof, the sky, and all conjoined with equal blots of darkness like a bulb inside a pitch-black room that flickers on and off, disabling the eye from fully resting on the darkness or the light.

The pair of lightning bolts emitted from Rei Kiyoka's palms subsided in an instant and she paused, patiently observing as Fushimi landed with a crash against a metal unit sprouting from the roof. 

Stupefied from head to foot and achy all around, Fushimi rolled into a kneel, head spinning, and witnessed Rei Kiyoka, her blurry form, releasing a small glittering object in the air. An instant passed and the flash drive clinked against his boot. He blinked, scowling at the drive, then flashed an angry glance at her. "The Algorithm," he wheezed. "It was never here." Reaching out a wobbly hand, he took it, tightening his grip. "Just an empty drive."

Kiyoka shrugged. "That's not entirely true," she said with aggravating coolness. "I mean, not unless you like kitten videos."

Fushimi glared at her. She merely smirked. "Don't get so worked up, Sashimi. The real algorithm's safe."

"Tch. 'Safe,'" he growled. "Don't make me laugh." Fuming, he tried to rise and fell against his knee, still reeling and suddenly nauseous. "So those tin nobodies?" He coughed, suppressing the urge to gag. "Were they part of your little act too? This 'game' you're insisting on playing?" 

Kiyoka hummed in the affirmative. "Call it: 'festering belief.'" Rapier in hand, she turned her back to him and sighed her features to the sky. "Face it, Sash," she said, soothing her closed eyes against the breeze. "If I hadn't done exactly what I did, you wouldn't have come...and I needed you to come. What were a few deterrences if not to spur you on?" 

“If, by 'deterrences' you mean 'giving cheap guns to morons.'"

Another hum hit the air. "Quite the morons since they obviously fooled you." She glanced around her shoulder, winking at him. "They helped bring you here, didn’t they?"

Another gust blew past her and she slowly turned to face it, breathing in the air with a long, contented blink as though in desperate need of it. "Besides, I knew their lack of auras would annoy you. You Blues have always been so noble when it comes to keeping ordinary humans nice and safe, even the bad ones." 

Fushimi chuckled ruefully and stumbled to his feet. The ground seemed all at once precarious. "Yeah well, normally I wouldn't care," he answered, spotting his saber several feet away, "except I made a promise not to kill anyone — not civilians, anyway." 

Kiyoka turned to look at him, for the first time drawn to what he said. "A promise, huh?" Then, as though it never happened, her unnerving smile returned. "I made one similar." slinkily, she took a step toward him and he tensed, shooting his saber an urgent glance. "I made a promise not to kill you," he heard her whisper dangerously close, a sibilating potency resounding in her voice. He flinched his stare back onto her: the black hole, the endless web of entanglement. No, he told himself, peering into cryptic pearl-green eyes. I won't fall for that.

"We're done here," he declared, and in one darting leap, he skid across the gravel, taking up his sword and posing it against her. 

Kiyoka neither moved, nor cared enough to pay him any heed. Her sword did not ascend an inch above its resting pose; her aura wallowed gently at her knees. She simply stood, her features calm and placid as a doll's.

"No more games," he said deliberately, narrowing the gap between his sword-point and the edge of her lapel. "I know you're searching for technology that coincides with supernatural energy, and I know you need the Kawaguchi Algorithm to do it; but if that's not why you came, then why exactly are you here? And if not for yourself, then who are you working for?" 

Triggered into coyness yet again, Kiyoka peered a knowing eye to him, raising slender fingers in the air while backing off a step. "You mean you don't believe I planned this just for you? After all the trouble I went through explaining it to you? Still, you're unconvinced?"

Fushimi narrowed in. "I said: 'No more games.' Tell me what you know!"

Kiyoka chuckled, inching further back. "Poor Sashimi," she said in babied tones. "I'm afraid we're all out of time." 

"Don't!" He ordered, spotting her retreat. 

"However," she went on, sliding back a pace, "I hope you don't mind — " 

"Stop moving!" 

" — I left you a small parting gift: just something to remember me by." She paused, shifting a transient glance to his chest and back.

Fushimi froze and darted his attention down the length of his uniform. Skimming over pockets, he produced a slender object and sighed, suddenly relieved. Not a bomb, he told himself, and peered back up to find Kiyoka standing at the building's edge, balancing on one heeled boot while giggling back at him.

"I said I wouldn't kill you," she laughed. "I wasn't lying about that. What use are you to me if I killed you? For starters, I’d be out a plaything; and besides, he’d not bet very happy with me either." She smiled, perhaps genuinely, for all that he could tell. "I hope you won’t forget that, Sashimi.” 

He tightened up again, repulsed; then he comprehended and his lip meandered upward with the onrush of a thought. So you do work for someone, whoever this ‘He’ is. 

“Oh, one more thing," she added, and another violent instant, he was reeling back a step, a ripping screech resounding in his ears. 

By way of a second parting gift, Rei Kiyoka flicked a bolt of what was then an unmistakably black aura toward the rim of his glasses. Merely a spark sent out to pester him, Fushimi stumbled sideways, blinking over fuzzy pictures flashing in his eyes.

“Will you stop doing that!” He raged, swiveling back to face her general direction. He caught her eye, received a noticeably flirtatious wink, and watched in vain as she ascended from the ledge and leapt into the air. “Stop!” He called out after her. Bounding two unsteady paces to the ledge, he shot his gaze across the open spans below, but she was nowhere to be found. 

“Damn it!” He yelled, partially to her and also to himself. He huffed a furious breath and gripped the concrete block, his anger oozing outward until one long breath, partnered with a heavy blink, commanded him to peace. 

“Clever, I’ll give you that," he uttered low, “if not totally insane. But not clever enough.” Holding up his arm, he pressed a little button on his wrist device. A holographic screen appeared: a map of Shizume City; inside: a dot, red and blinking, roamed the digital streets.

The tracker he had painfully neared himself enough to sneak inside the hem of Kiyoka’s trench coat wouldn't last, but it would certainly give him some idea as to where she was headed, where her hideout was, and — if he was lucky — where the actual Kawaguchi Algorithm was and this ‘He’ she spoke of: her accomplice, perhaps.

He followed the dot as it drew further from the trade building, away from him. “This isn’t over,” he said. “You should know: we’re just getting started.” With this, his own game afoot, he grinned. Then, as though remembering a dream, he scowled, shifting his attention to the object in his hand. It was a vial of translucent liquid, it's swirling crystal flecks emitting their own sheen, as though the little vial bore a life-force all its own. He stared into it, baffled. He'd never seen anything like it before. Why? He brought himself to wonder. Why give me this? 

In a rush, Fushimi traced his mind back over all her lies, her vile affronts, her mystic air: all-in-all, the lifeless life-form that was she, and wondered what her purpose was, why he seemed to matter in whatever twisted way she hinted at, a way too deeply hidden, a way he couldn’t fathom. Is it really that important? He asked himself, and all at once, he scoffed, brushing off the thought, angry, frowning, contemplating, wondering. He sighed long, gripping tightly to the vial as though seeking to distinguish, to cling to, perhaps to understand? No. To stifle some small, terrorizing remnant of her.

By then, the final rays of daylight had diminished, taken on by darkness and the brisk night air that blew against his face. Abstractedly, he glanced out at the place where she had been. “Rei Kiyoka,” he said to the wind, “Who are you?”

(Chapter I: Sashimi, pt. I // Chapter II: Game)

(K:Tales of Midnight is an Eso Niko Fan Fiction series based on the anime/manga series K, written by GoRa and produced by GoHands. All fan fiction works written by Eso Niko are categorized as ‘unofficial fan fiction,’ and are in no way affiliated to GoRa and GoHands.)

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, PIKA! You’ve been accepted for the role of PORTIA with a faceclaim change to JESSICA VU. Admin Rosey: Be still my heart, for it has been captured ruthlessly and quite brutally by your interpretation of my darling, my sweet Pandora. “ …there’s a hubris to pandora that intrigues me. everybody sees life through a window, and pandora is no exception. she prides herself on her pragmatism and her ability to cut through the whimsical bullshit that others fancy. and maybe that helps her see the world more clearly.” It was in the beginning of your application that I noticed you captured the cruz of her character and for that, I thank you. I can’t wait to see our machina on the dash!  Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

Out of Character

Alias | pika

Age | mythic. timeless. 18+ lol

Preferred Pronouns | she/her/hers or they/them/theirs, i’m not picky!

Activity Level | hoo man i try my best but i’m a full-time student with a bunch of stuff on my plate. I’m really good about tracking the dash on mobile, and i promise to be on to write every other day unless i let you know otherwise!!

Timezone | pst/gmt-8

Current/Past RP Accounts | jake. hugo. mallory.

In Character

Character | PORTIA, or pandora linh phan, with a fc change to jessica vu! (you might need to age her down a year bc jessica is only 19 but idk if it’s super feasible for someone that young to be a captain?? oof idk ur call adminnies!! or if it comes to it i’m ok with using jolie LOL i just prefer jessica.)

What drew you to this character? |

listen, i fucking love portia. the paradoxical free spirit who binds herself to the most minutiae of the rules? someone who simultaneously adheres to and flouts convention? a lawyer who uses her words for mercy? BADASS.

and then. AND THEN. you all reimagined her to be even more badass, which is certainly impressive. pandora isn’t a direction i would have imagined portia to be taken in. this is not a woman who would manipulate the law as an agent of mercy (though i imagine she certainly could, if she so chose to). no, this is a portia who has chosen to use her keen intellect in pursuit of the truth above all else, a product of the machinations imposed on her throughout her entire life. as an heiress, there have been strings cast upon her since birth. she has simply grabbed them to take control of whatever facets of her destiny she could.

but to return to the question, i think what really drew me in to pandora’s character was the lingering paradoxes you teased in her skeleton. for all she appears to be an unstoppable, calculating machine of a woman, a part of her still fears the inexplicable. though she might seem callous toward even her family, she wants to use her influence to help others—i imagine that in a world where she was not sent to the mob, she would have ended up a major humanitarian. i think it’s easy to be misled by pandora, to see only her calculating exterior and not dig into her underlying belief systems. she may be sharp enough to see and understand things about the world that the rest of us may not pick up on, but that ability has almost certainly strongly shaped her own views. the possibility of exploring the inner workings of someone so complex is something that makes me giddy on its own, and that’s before you even factor in the possibility of character development, because…

…there’s a hubris to pandora that intrigues me. everybody sees life through a window, and pandora is no exception. she prides herself on her pragmatism and her ability to cut through the whimsical bullshit that others fancy. and maybe that helps her see the world more clearly. but i think it gives her a very deliberate blind spot when it comes to her own weaknesses and the strength of mankind; she can predict what man’s folly will lead to, but i don’t think she’s had enough experience with positive relationships to understand the strength of human bonds. so there’s a lot to explore there, as well! and all of that’s before you start talking about her role within the mob and its interplay with her pre-existing heuristic reasoning omg. this is a girl that was forced into a war and turned it into a game. there are just a lot of layers to explore within pandora, is what i’m trying to say, and conflict between the various aspects of self that make up her identity.

ALSO HAVE I MENTIONED I LUV BADASS LADIEZ BC WOWOW I RLY DO UNF

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

foul is fair and fair is foul:

to build off of what i introduced in the previous section, i think that a major underlying theme within pandora’s character is the notion of control. she is so used to having it—over others, but most importantly over herself—and fears losing it so much that i would love to see it wrested from her. pandora considers herself above verona’s war, in a way; as a captain, she doesn’t touch blood, and as a phan, she knows (or assumes, at the very least) that she has a way out. she is inherently analytical and never impulsive. but this is a game where logic fails in the face of the whims of faux gods, of ambrosia and warfare and the hands of witches. pandora’s been lucky so far in how the world has kept to its unspoken rules, but silly girl. the very otherness that separates her from verona’s darkness may very well doom her to it. let her see she that the best-laid plans have nothing against the hand of god. let her see that she cannot play a game where the rules are a sham.

the quality of mercy is not strain’d…:

pandora is a young captain, especially for only having been a montague for three years. surely, there are mixed feelings about that within the montague ranks. i think her relationship with castora is notable because of how unexpected it was for her to pick up castora as a mentee and how pandora herself wanted someone to show her the ropes. she clearly has ambition and intelligence, but she isn’t necessarily agreeable, nor particularly concerned about crossing the line into insensitivity. what i’m trying to say is that in the mob it takes a certain willingness for action to rise as quickly as pandora has, particularly as someone who isn’t part of one of the traditional mob families. despite what some of the rumors say, it is certainly not because of her wealth or her engagement, what has she done to position herself so valuably in so little time? who has she made enemies of? allied with?

and more importantly, what consequences will these actions have now, particularly during the unrest?

…it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven:

because of how quickly pandora has made herself indispensable to the montagues, i feel like it’s easy to overstate her loyalty to her fiance’s family. but loyalty isn’t necessarily something logical, and pandora’s first loyalty is to her logic. i don’t think it’s impossible for a party to shift her loyalties, whether it be to the capulets, to the montagues, or to finding peace another way. she may have her mind set on serving the montagues but her eyes are not closed to the complex reality of the situation she’s in. perhaps a compelling argument could shift her view.

oh romeo, oh romeo:

pandora’s relationship with roman is something i’d like to explore bc i’m a slut for romantic-coded plots because love seems antithetical to everything pandora values. there’s no logic to love, no real value that seems to be had from it. furthermore, it requires a relinquishing of control, and that more than anything is enough for it to be completely unattractive to pandora. she certainly respects, and to a certain extent cares for roman, but it is duty that binds them.

so i say, let her fall. it’ll be against her better judgement, certainly, and maybe it’ll end well, or maybe it’ll end with disaster. maybe she’ll finally learn to trust roman, and maybe that will lead to something more. perhaps she’ll fall for someone else, a rival, maybe, and their story will end in tragedy. either way, there is something to be said about how love can derail the best-laid plans.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | lol sure i guess as long as there’s some kind of like plot sense to be made yknow

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

The girl they send to interview Pandora-—and make no mistake, it is unmistakably a girl—looks like she could be Pandora’s age. Her blouse is crisply ironed, but the collar is slightly crooked. Her pen is cheap, and so are her shoes. Her earnestness is palpable. She is pretty, but she wears her youth in her face. Perhaps a person in the habit of indulging whimsy could have pictured the two women as roommates, recent graduates worried about internships and graduate school applications. Pandora, however, is not one of those people.

Their passing similarities are increasingly eclipsed by their differences the longer the women sit, the still-nameless girl fumbling with her notes, Pandora perfectly still. It’s easy for Pandora to mask her annoyance with indifference, less so for her to silence the disdain on her tongue. But she does, sympathizes with the girl, even. She does not belong here, that much is clear. Perhaps this is how Athena felt when she was challenged by Arachne.  

Eventually, the girl finds her footing. “What is your favorite place in Verona?” she asks.

There’s a moment that, on anyone else, would have been considered hesitation. On Pandora, it reads like anticipation, like the world is taking a moment to prepare itself for the words she is to say. “Would it be surprising for me to say Verona’s library? It contains a rather incredible collection of historical Roman documents.” It’s not a lie, not really. The library fascinates her, but not for the stories it holds in its walls. Rather, it’s the stories that unfold in its shadowy corners that draw her interest. If the girl isn’t a total fool, she can figure out the rest.

And apparently she does, or she is at least willing to take the answer at its face, because she presses on. “What does your typical day look like?” she asks.

“If you’re looking for a jetsetting life of glamour, I’m afraid you must go elsewhere.” Pandora feigns a sigh, twirling a lock of hair around a finger. “I wake up early, drink tea—I’ve recently given up coffee, you know—and meditate. If I have business for the wedding, I’ll tend to that; if not, I’ll study.”

There’s a look in her conversation partner’s eyes that seems akin to doubt. Ha. Certainly a recent graduate, then. Pandora smiles benevolently, but her eyes are cutting. The girl has shown weakness. “You seem surprised,” she says lightly. “I know it’s been going around that I’m taking a year off of schooling for the wedding, but you don’t think I’d be content as a trophy wife, would you?” Her parents had, and look where that had gotten all of them. She doesn’t sneer, but it’s a close thing.

The girl can’t meet her eyes, so Pandora continues. “Anyhow. I’ll usually spend the afternoon attending to family business, either my own or the Montague’s.” And wasn’t that the truth. “I try to meet with my fiance in the evenings. And at night?” She tilts her head coquettishly, but on Pandora, the action reads almost predatory, the gaze of a panther deliberating a strike. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”  

“And what of Montague’s more…nefarious business dealings? Do you have any comment on those?”

Huh. Perhaps the girl has more backbone than Pandora credited her with. A single, impeccably groomed brow rises.

“I do not.”

The girl swallows, then continues. “Okay, um…well…What has been your biggest mistake thus far?”

Pandora laughs, and the sound is beautiful but out of place, uncannily youthful from a creature that seems to transcend conventional labels. It’s easy to forget that Pandora is young, barely out of girlhood herself, worlds apart as she is from her interviewer.

“Darling,” she says, “I don’t make mistakes.”

She knows what they say about her, how they call her bella macchina, how they quaver before her ruthless pragmatism. Was it so bad to lean into the reputation? There were worse things to be associated with. And looking at her, content in her realm, a spider in the orb of her nest, it is so, so easy to believe. It is easy to forget that it is not her dominion, that Verona is not her land and the Montague-Capulet fight is not her fight, in the strictest sense. But nobody is as acutely aware of the reality of her situation as Pandora is. She is but a tool.

And thus, her mistakes are not her mistakes. It’s logical, really.

She has shaken her interviewer. That much is certain. But Pandora must give the girl credit, because she pushes on. “What has been the most difficult task asked of you?”

Pandora could recite a litany, if she so wanted to: becoming a Montague, being the Phan her parents intended, swallowing her knives instead of spitting them, unlocking the gilded cage her birth placed her in.

“Taking a break from school.” She sighs, and this time there’s a sort of truth to her wistfulness. It isn’t that she dislikes taking a more prominent role within the Montague family—to the contrary, it has been one of the most exciting experiences she has been able to apply herself to. There’s something about the unpredictability of mob life that challenges Pandora in a way that few other things have been able to. Though she likes the satisfaction of conclusions predicted, of victory strategized four steps in advance, there’s something exhilarating in being kept on her toes. However, she has a raw love for learning—for bettering her understanding—that is unique from her love for the game. There’s a comfortable reliability to the rules in academia, a safe expectation of how things are to react. And recently,  she sometimes misses the reliability of writ law, despite the new opportunities Alvise’s death has unlocked.

Perhaps it would be more apt to say that coming to Verona has been akin to opening Pandora’s Box. What a joke.

The interviewer pushes Pandora out of her thoughts. She has been saying something that Pandora could probably recite later, but didn’t particularly care enough to consider. Eventually, she reaches another question. Her last, if Pandora remembered correctly. And Pandora always remembers correctly. “What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?”

Pandora averts her eyes; she is not so proud to pretend that she is a good enough actress to hide the hunger in her eyes. “I don’t understand it.”

It’s not a lie. War, as a general concept, is inherently paradoxical—and that fascinates Pandora. The way that man has tried to civilize it, put rules to it, when it is ultimately a series of acts that defy basic human ethics, the one set of laws all decent men ought to follow. The attempts to moralize it. The strategy involved, the balancing act between victory and order and understanding. Understanding the philosophical notions of war is one of the few universal perplexities that Pandora itches to scratch, a puzzle that she can’t immediately solve.

Of course, in the meantime, there’s always the art of war to busy herself with. That, on the other hand, comes naturally to Pandora, almost frighteningly so.

She finally meets the girl’s eyes. “You can understand my concern, of course, especially for my fiance.” She clutches her hand in a gesture that could be mistaken as one of disquiet. “Dearest Roman…as long as this rages on, there’s a target on his back,” she says entreatingly.

Of course, she neglects to mention that there is a matching mark on her own.

Extras

a playlist:

control - halsey // runnin’ (interlude) // kehlani // pride - kendrick lamar // oh no! - marina and the diamonds // biking - frank ocean // woman (oh mama) - joy williams // talking to myself - gallant // never catch me - flying lotus feat. kendrick lamar // bite - troye sivan // power - kanye west // keep ya head up (jhene aiko cover) - tupac

hcs & misc. bits

Pandora graduated summa cum laude from her undergraduate program, where she studied economics and public policy. Technically, she’s a law school student—as her day job, if you will—but since Alvise’s death, she’s taken a break to focus on her work as a captain (or, depending on who’s asking, to focus on her engagement).

Pandora is fascinated by the Witches. They fall under the category of things she cannot explain, and that simultaneously frightens and attracts her. She spends a fair amount of time at the Museum, as a result.

Pandora is notoriously dismissive of things she finds wasteful, but she’s actually very into fashion and art.

Pandora is pretty skilled with languages. She’s fluent in Italian, English, and Vietnamese. She’s passably conversational in German and Mandarin, and can speak enough Japanese to conduct business.

Pandora doesn’t touch drugs or alcohol if she can avoid it. She’ll partake in wine socially, but otherwise avoids mind-altering substances. After all, her mind is her greatest asset. What is she without it?

mbti: istj-t

enneagram: type 6

likes: documentaries, oolong tea, louboutins. being right. victory, as a general concept. puzzles, especially crosswords. granita.

dislikes: people who chew loudly. empty rooms. foolishness. coffee. being called dora.

aesthetic: the click of heels on a polished marble floor. the smell of lavender at night. the rush of air that leaves your lungs when you exhale. a piece of ice melting on your tongue. the pre-dawn hour, when the world is a breath from still and light barely dusts the sky. falling, falling, falling down a rabbit hole. the knowledge of victory. gold on steel. the refraction of light through a shattered glass.

[365lite-blog]

You, Clouds, Rain

Pairing: Saeran/Ray/Unknown x reader/MC. Disclaimer: None. A/N: I wrote this the day I created the blog but I kept on avoiding posting it for some reasons. Still, I love it so much because Saeran and the rain are two of my favorite things (here comes coffee!!) so I decided I had to start my blog with this one. It was quite challenging not turning this into an angst.

By the way, it takes place when Saeran is Ray. Can you see the hints of psychosis?

It was raining at the Mint Eye’s mansion. Still, it did not stop Ray from wanting to collect a few flowers for his precious promise. He did not bother taking a more suited coat nor an umbrella. All he desired was to get this done so he could be spectator of the sweetest smile decorating the prettiest face he ever laid his eyes on. Everything else was futile at this exact moment. His light footsteps echoed slowly on the marble of the stairs in the main hall. As impatient as he was he forced himself to take his time since it would have been nice if (y/n) could miss him a little. This thought brought the tiniest blushy smile on his features, leaving him like a mess the more it took place in his mind. A disciple went past him, greeting him with the usual ‘Mr. Ray’ and he would have mentally stabbed himself if he had not succeeded in acting serious again. Nobody other than his lover had the right to see the love he felt for her. She had to be the only witness of his bubbling passion, for it was destined to her and only her. Long fingers pushed the garden door open as he finally had crossed all the residence just to get there. He made his way out, already starting to get soaked by the cries of the clouds. He remembered hearing once that (y/n) really liked days like this. That time, she opened the window and hummed as she took a deep inspiration. He thought it was odd to open a damn window just to get her face wet and cold and, actually, he still did as he was walking on the paved road that led to the flowers he wanted today. But she looked so beautiful he had wished that moment would have lasted forever.

- Saeran?

The most calming voice called his name, making his heart skip a beat and his mind go blank. Still, his body managed to turn around in the direction of the sound. Even the other facet in him could not be repulsed by the way she pronounced those syllables. Only pure adoration filled him in every crack of his being. While his expression did not change from his usual intimidating stare, he thought he could have sworn she was getting prettier every day, even more in this sight. A landscape that fitted her perfectly. She was at the door frame, protecting herself and her pale attire with a transparent umbrella. Could she had been an angel? Sometimes he pondered if she was real or if she was going to vanish like smoke in the air. But she did look concerned and this got him confused. Quite worried too. Nothing had the right to make turbulence in her happiness.

- You are going to catch a cold like this. We are in November and you are wearing nothing to keep you warm, plus it is raining. What were you thinking? She said kindly as she made her way to him.

The young woman placed the umbrella upon their heads and a blush creeped on his cheeks again. She did not notice though, or she just pretended as if nothing happened because she knew it would have embarrassed him.

- It is raining but you prefer talking about me… It feels good, he whispered, so quietly even the flowers could not hear him.

- Well you are more important than some raindrops, don’t you think?

This took him aback. More important? To who? To her? Damn, was this true? Could it be true?

- Saeran… She called again, softer than before. She must have seen him drifting in his unassertiveness.

(Y/n) robed him out of his thoughts and he looked at her, motionless. He loved hearing his real name slipping out of her mouth. It felt right. As if he had a name just so she could pronounce it. He almost asked her to repeat herself so he could feel the butterflies a little longer. How much he was selfish to love her, granted he was convince he did not deserve her.

- Do you want to have a walk? He asked, begging bursting out more than he wished to admit.

His hallowed princess nodded and crossed her arm with his, inviting him to take the lead. Little did he know just how much her own heart was racing like some disease. No matter in which state he was; violent or vulnerable, caring or abusive… She loved him. She hoped she had the courage to confess it. However, she never knew why she kept silent; if it was from the fear of rejection or the one of seeing him flee. She was afraid her feelings would be a burden to him and he would run away from her, maybe even kicking her out of their little paradise. Not that Mint Eye was the promised land, it was far from it to an extreme. But heaven was anywhere as long as Saeran was by her side. She was definitely sure he was her soulmate, her only true companion in life. For it, he did not have to know her heart as long as he was happy staying with her like this. Well, anyone may have wondered what kind of stupidity this was because it was clear as crystal that he loved her too but, call it insecurity, she was reluctant. She kept on telling herself that maybe he loved more the idea of having someone for himself rather than truly adoring the person itself. Which was the worst guessing she could have made since he loved her with every instance of his mind, body and soul. Nonetheless, for the time being, they were quietly roaming, arms locked and fingers playing together in a tender embrace.

After a few minutes, he realised she still was the one holding the umbrella and he started debating whether or not he was supposed to take it from her. He kept this a dead secret but when he had the tiniest free time he would search about couples. That was how he started to long for kisses, hugs and dates. What was that terrible movie called again? The one where the boat crashes onto an iceberg and literally almost everybody dies? That movie was trash. Well, at least in Saeran’s point of view. He never had time for such trivial distraction but he thought movies were supposed to entertain you, not break your heart. Plus, it was boring. In a way. Because, halfway through it, Ray found himself daydreaming about him and (y/n). Maybe he could take her to a cruise one day, he wondered. Until the iceberg appeared of course. After that, he swore he would have to restrain his fantasies to safer dates. He heard a little chuckle and turned instantly his attention to reality again, realizing he had been staring at her like a creep the whole time. She did not seem phased by it though. One more reason he loved her so dearly.

- If you wish to kiss me, you do not have to ask, you know, she told him in a teasing manner.

She giggled once more, sending him waves of warm felicity. In spite of that, he was quite in a tizzy by her words and, this time, it was impossible to pretend he was not blushing like the first roses around them.

- Nonsense, he muttered, frankly avoiding her gaze.

- I suppose you do not want to then.

She sounded a little… Disappointed? Did she hoped for him to kiss her here? Just like this? They never had their first kiss though… He never gathered the courage to do it as having physical affection was still kind of weird to him. Not that he did not enjoy it; he just was not used to. He needed to learn. He needed to have the assurance he would not fuck up everything if he did touch her. Her arm left his and he received the umbrella in exchange as she took a few steps into the pouring landscape. Quietly, as if he was peering at the universe harmonizing with his lover, he watched her lifting her head up so she could feel the drops on her face as she inhaled gleefully. Seconds later, she looked at Saeran with a smile he never saw until that day. She looked stunning. Drenched to the bones by the rain and the obvious joy she was feeling. That was when he stopped caring for an instant about everything else. Maybe with a little help from his ‘mindmate’ Unknown too. The umbrella fell to the floor next to him and, in a heartbeat, he took her wrist to pull her closer so they were already only millimeters apart.

- Saeran what are y-

Finally.

His lips pressed against her own as his fingers made their way against her cheek and onto her wet locks. This sensation was so pure he might have panicked and pinched himself to wake up from his dream. But (y/n) brought her hand at the back of his head to prevent him from escaping and he was forced to contemplate the fact that he was indeed fully awake. She tasted like freshly baked pastry and hot cocoa, making her even more delicious than he ever dared to imagine. Her lips were warm, smooth and he could tell that he became instantly dependent to this. Reality was so much better than hopes and dreams. She was the one to finally break apart. Her forehead rested against his and he took an instant to watch how beautiful she was with her eyes closed and her lips turned roseate. He never felt this happy in his entire life. Even if a part of him still feared her in some way, he trusted her so naturally. In that sense, he knew she meant well by kissing him back and this realization only made him even more exalted.

- (y/n) … he murmured with adulation.

Her gaze met his as she opened her eyes, humming in response. But he did not say anything else. He was lost in the moment. His mind went from a point to another, unable to really think clearly. Could this be real? Could he have finally reached the promised happiness? The rain felt as if the world was protecting them, creating a pocket dimension just for them to exist in it. This was happiness. He knew it. At least, he was the closest he could get to it, if only he was not so broken.

- Let us go back inside Saeran, you are going to catch a cold.

And he was only able to nod silently before she took his hand and the umbrella. A thought made him smile as he walked with her, almost bringing joyful tears to his eyes...

They would never be apart, for she was his now. They sealed their own contract.

[kuriquinn]

Penthesilea [2/?]

Cover & Disclaimer

Chapter Summary: Though they do not combat each other directly again, Sasuke is aware of her in the background. It’s a strange, otherworldly awareness, too, one that he can’t explain. Even when he can’t see her in his periphery, he simply knows she is there.

Author’s Note: A note about the dialogue - if you notice a lack of contractions when people speak sometimes, take a look at who they’re speaking to. If they’re in a formal situation, chances are they’re speaking more formally. If you have two equals/friends talking, they’ll be more informal. I just don’t want to be accused of altering anyone’s character too much :)

Chapter Beta: Sakura’s Unicorn

戦国時代

As he follows Hyūga from the battlefield, Sasuke is unable to keep from glancing down at the woman in his arms. There’s something about her that didn’t register before—a mark on her forehead that he thought was debris. The sight of it worries at his memory, but he has no time to dwell on it before realising something else.

Her chest appears to be moving.

Sasuke pauses mid-step, his body going still as he focusses his attention. A second later, her lips part, and he hears the soft whistle of air between them. There’s another minute movement in his arms.

“You’re alive,” he realises, genuinely mystified. It shouldn’t be possible because he aimed to kill and no one can survive a wound through both the lungs and heart.

“What did you say?” Hyūga asks him. Sasuke barely hears, his knees already folding as he lowers the woman to the ground.

Before his astonished eyes, the mark on her forehead grows, black ribbons snaking across her face and neck, disappearing beneath her armour. He senses a burst of chakra and shifts her to one side, examining the spot where his blade pierced her. He finds beneath the blood-soaked chain and fabric only a thin, puckered red line like a newly scabbed-over wound.

Impossible, he thinks, staring at this woman. This is— But his thoughts stall when he notices her gazing up at him from beneath long lashes, those damned green eyes considering him. Judging him.

There’s another shift and his attention falls to the one hand she suddenly raises. Slowly, she places her fingers against his chest, and he expects the weak, ineffectual push of someone seriously wounded. Instead, he flies several yards backwards, forced to relinquish his grip on her from the power of her shove. Shoulders heaving as she gasps for breath, she picks herself up, eyes never leaving Sasuke’s.

Hyūga wastes no time charging at her in retaliation, Byakugan activated and ready to use jūkan to cut off whatever chakra allows her this inhuman strength. He is foiled by a simple stamp of her foot which splits the earth, disrupting the prodigy’s balance and forcing him to jump back.

Through the dust and debris, Sasuke catches one last glimpse of her—still watching him—before she darts away. He moves to follow, only to find his way barred by Hyūga.

“Move,” he orders.

“Do you know what that was?” Hyūga counters tersely.

“Sōzō Saisei,” Sasuke replies, impatient. “Mitotic regeneration.” Though he’d never seen it in action.

“So, not only is that woman very strong, but she won’t fall in battle. Capturing her as a hostage will be a waste of our time and effort,” Hyūga reminds him. “The only person I’ve ever heard of being capable of that technique is Senju Tsunade.”

“That wasn’t Tsunade,” Sasuke replies.

“Exactly—if she’s passed on her talents to an apprentice, that’s intel your brother will need.”

“Along with why we didn’t know about her before,” Sasuke says thoughtfully, still staring into the space where she disappeared. He must miss something else that Hyūga says because, when he looks up, the pale-eyed man is observing him with calculation. “What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that expression on your face before.”

Sasuke scowls. “What expression?”

The other man tosses the reply over his shoulder, a throwaway comment that is somehow still laced with suggestion.

“Interest.”

Sasuke quickly turns around and follows him, glowering at his back.

“You’ve obviously been in the field too long,” he tells him. “You’re developing a sense of humour.”

戦国時代

As odd as the incident is, Sasuke pushes his strange reaction to the green-eyed woman to the back of his mind. It’s rather easy given that the same day he encounters her, his older brother is badly injured in battle.

Despite his battle prowess, Itachi cannot lead their troops with his eyes damaged, thus, the duty falls to Sasuke. He has cousins who are older and better suited—determined Obito, or even the reluctant, kind-hearted Shisui—but Sasuke is the heir of the main family after Itachi. He is required by law and custom to assume the responsibilities of commander and general, not just a front-line fighter.

Senju Tsunade quit the battlefield five years earlier to lead from shadows, nominating Uzumaki as her commander. The rumour is that the old age she tries to hide finally caught up with her, but days continue to pass without a formal announcement of her death. Until both the Senju and the Uzumaki are defeated, no one in Sasuke’s clan can rest.

He often directly challenges Uzumaki, hoping that cutting him down will strike such a demoralising blow that his followers will surrender. He knows it’s naïve—they’ve been fighting each other since they were eight, neither able to emerge the victor—but it’s the only strategy that currently makes sense.

And so the weeks pass.

More often, he and Uzumaki end up fighting each other in earnest. They drill away at one another, trading endless blows that would cripple lesser men. Inevitably, before one of them can finish the other, some ally will intervene and drag them home to rest, all to fight another day.

It’s here that Sasuke discovers he hasn’t seen the last of the mysterious woman.

Just as Hyūga is his lieutenant, his second in battle, the woman with the outlandish hair and eyes appears to be Uzumaki’s.

Though they do not battle each other directly again, Sasuke is aware of her in the background. It’s a strange, otherworldly awareness, too, one that he can’t explain. Even when he can’t see her in his periphery, he simply knows she’s there. She flits through the trenches, helping downed soldiers, retrieving the bodies of those who have fallen eternally. She does not fight unless directly challenged, and he sees the results of those bouts in crushed chests and caved-in faces.

The woman’s reluctance doesn’t make her less fierce or effective in her kills, and he wonders at the contradiction there. It’s different from the brutal savagery he knows of Senju Tsunade, and yet, it’s clear this woman has learned her ways.

There are no more Senju left, other than the old woman—which means she had no choice but to find an outsider to pass on her talents.  Since neither Shisui nor his spies brought news of her, she was either very well hidden or—implausibly—a civilian that no one accorded any attention.

Whether that means she is simply heir to the Senju techniques, or has been adopted as leader of the defunct clan, Sasuke doesn’t know. Nor, he tells himself, does he care.

He will kill her one day, either way.

戦国時代

The yearly floods make prolonged sieges impossible, and the brief engagements are so bloody that both sides will call a temporary truce for weeks or months at a time. They need to regroup, retraining the recovering wounded and drafting new soldiers into their ranks. Even gathering around the war table and planning strategies is useless because the rising tides are unpredictable; they often change the landscape completely by season’s end.

When they were younger, Sasuke remembers spending these times skipping stones on the river and playing with a civilian boy and his dog. At least, he thought Naruto was a civilian, until they grew older. A tense encounter between their fathers ended that friendship, and since that day, they exist to kill each other.

Sasuke’s brother often fills the lulls in fighting with quiet reflection. When they were both younger, Itachi would try to capitalise on the unofficial ceasefires, trying to convince their clansmen and the enemy to sue for peace. Sometimes, he would come close, too. And then another brawl would break out somewhere over real or imagined insult, and another wave of fighting would begin.

Sasuke sees that hopeful facet of his brother less and less since Izumi died. Childbirth has robbed them of as many good women as battle has ravaged their men, and Itachi is weary now—stoic. If he appreciates the breaks in fighting, he keeps it to himself, resigned to the inevitable return to battle.

It’s different for Sasuke. He is and always has been restless during these periods, never knowing what to do with himself.

As he’s gotten older, he’s expected to spend his free time with the Hyūga’s heiress, Hinata, but he doesn’t. There are negotiations for a marriage between them, a full union between bloodlines which has never happened before. Both clans steadfastly prefer to marry within the clan to keep their kekkei genkai pure. Sasuke is indifferent to the potential match and feels nothing for the woman in question. She is a shy, kind-hearted girl, shielded from the harsh realities of the war by the sacrifices of her branch families. He knows she’ll make a respectable wife—for someone else. A man like Sasuke—with his hands soaked in blood and more effective at ending life than creating it—does not deserve a woman as untarnished as she is.

So, instead of enduring supervised visits in which neither of them make any attempt to speak to or even look at one another, Sasuke explores the outlying villages. There are several which his brother has requisitioned for Uchiha use. These usually have spaces in their environs where he can hone his skills to prepare for the upcoming battles.

It’s in one of these villages where he encounters his mystery woman face-to-face once more.  

On a moonless evening after the most recent battle, he wanders the town square where the wounded and dying have been brought. Village women tend to them—wives, mothers, sisters, and lovers who cry in anguish at injuries that won’t heal or have already robbed them of loved ones.

At first, he thinks that she’s just another one of these—dressed like a peasant, hair and forehead covered by a turban. But, by chance, she looks up as he passes by and he stills; Sasuke would recognise those eyes anywhere.

She doesn’t look away when she realises he’s seen her, nor does she try to run; she simply holds his gaze, considering. When she finds whatever she’s looking for, she slowly looks away and returns her attention to the gaping wound in a nameless man’s side.

Every bit of training Sasuke has tells him to strike her down and take her as prisoner, or kill her outright. Instead, he wanders cautiously closer until he looms above her and the unconscious man. His eyes fix on the woman’s hands. They are small and delicate-looking without her gear, but covered in scars—defensive wounds and callouses. Cool green chakra glows against the man’s skin as she knits it back together.

“You are either brave or stupid to come here,” Sasuke tells her quietly, duty-bound to remind her of their respective places. “No one here would question if I killed you where you stand.”

“Death doesn’t frighten me,” she replies, unconcerned.

“How could it, given your talents?”

“Even without them,” she informs him, shaking her head. Her tone is matter-of-fact, and when she looks up again, she’s smiling. There’s a subtle edge to it. “Women have to be strong to survive, in any era.”

“They should be smart, too. Not wandering into rival territory, healing the enemy.”

“The sick and wounded need to be cared for, whatever side of war they’re on,” she maintains. “We kill so many in battle—should we not try to balance those lives somehow?” She tilts her head to one side, looking deceptively innocent and earnest. He gets the sense she truly wants to know his opinion on the matter. 

“Who are you?” he blurts out. The question encompasses both her identity and existence.

She chuckles. “In these times, it’s unwise to give one’s name.”

He shifts, annoyed, because he’s the last person who needs to be reminded of this.

“Perhaps you could make one up for me,” she suggests then, pulling away from the man whose side is now whole once more and turning to face Sasuke. “And I could make up one for you.”

“Childish,” he snorts. “Especially considering you already know who I am.” His reputation in battle and tendency to fight Uzumaki have ensured that no one in this land is ignorant of his identity.

“Uchiha Sasuke,” she agrees. She ruminates on something for a moment, before declaring, “I would call you Taka, though. You’re as proud as a hawk, and just as fierce. And with those keen eyes of yours…” Her voice trails off and she gives a little shrug, a tiny smile on her face that makes his stomach tremble inexplicably. 

Sasuke scowls at her. There’s nothing about this that he should find endearing. “I have no time for your games, or your disrespect. If you refuse to tell me your name, I will make you tell me—and more besides.”

His hand goes to his katana, and instantly, she moves, jumping several feet back as nimbly as the lioness that graced her somen.

“Please don’t start a fight again so soon,” she suggests, a slight edge to her smile now. “I’m only trying to be friendly. There’s far too little of that in the world these days…Sasuke-kun.”

She disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving nothing but a satchel of medication in her wake.

It would be an easy thing to go after her—even Shunshin leaves traces that can be seen by eyes like his—but he doesn’t move. Instead, he kneels and picks up the small bag, noting enough herbs and balms within to treat most of the wounded in the square.

This woman doesn’t understand the concept of warfare, does she?

Sasuke is completely puzzled by her, unable to understand how someone can be so open in such a dark time. It’s confounding. And annoying.

She’s annoying.

In a way, more than Uzumaki, he decides as he passes the supplies to a nearby healer and walks away.

As he returns to camp, he can’t bar her from his mind. Her uncommon hair and her damned green eyes—the image again reminds him of the cherry blossoms which rain from the sky in the spring.

Haru, he thinks, bemused. Spring.

Then his wits return to him and he angrily shakes his head in denial.

戦国時代

“Did you know that your woman heals our wounded?”

The question seems to confuse Uzumaki because, as he parses Sasuke’s question, he nearly takes a katana to the knee. He only jumps out of the way at the last second, misdirecting the tip of the blade with a hastily raised kunai.

“My woman?” the blue-eyed man echoes. “I don’t have a woman.”

Sasuke rolls his eyes at the other man’s clueless expression. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“Then why’d you ask me about my woman?!” Uzumaki demands as two of his shadow clones try to ambush Sasuke from behind.

With a wide arc of his katana, he disperses them. “Then what do you call her? The one with the strange hair, who turns the ground into craters and can walk off a sword to the chest.”

He tells himself it’s not admiration in his voice.

“You mean Sakura-chan? She’s not really…” Uzumaki trails off with a snort, and Sasuke blinks, reflecting that his guess as to her name wasn’t that far off. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Sasuke replies, lunging forward and meeting the other man blade-to-blade. “It’s encouraging to see that treason lingers so high up on your side.”

He tries to catch the other man in a genjutsu, but Uzumaki has always been irritatingly good at snapping himself out of his illusions. Sasuke doesn’t think it’s a natural affinity like the woman—Sakura—possesses, but something else. Uzumaki pulls back at the last second, earning a bloody swipe to his shoulder, but gets out of attack range.

“Sakura’s not a traitor,” he snaps, defensive. “She’s doing her job—she is a medic.”

“A medic who heals the enemy.”

“To her, they’re patients. And maybe she’s hoping that by helping people get a second chance, she might get them to think twice about going back into battle,” Uzumaki informs him. “Which, by the way, wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“If any of my people left their positions to help the enemy, they’d be tried with desertion and executed,” Sasuke returns.

Rather than get angry or defensive again, Uzumaki simply looks sad. “Sometimes, Sasuke, I don’t think your side wants this war to end.”

The lack of surname, along with the ridiculous suggestion, makes Sasuke snarl and dive forward, charging his sword with electricity.

“If you really believe that, why haven’t you killed me yet?” he sneers. “There’s been many opportunities over the years.”

“I could ask you the same question,” Uzumaki snaps back.

“Give me a few minutes, I will rectify that—usuratonkachi!”

“You—” he splutters. “Promises, promises, asshole!”

And just like that, their momentary lapse into conversation disappears into the usual death-match.

 つづく

Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Also, if you are in a supportive mood, I have a ko-fi button at the top of the page, or you can find my tip jar here.

Thanks for your interest in my work!

クリ

Next Chapter

[easkyrah]

Elorcan Werewolf AU part 8

If you haven’t read the previous 7 installments, I highly recommend you read those first in order as this series is chronological based. My masterlist is here. Also, I have no idea if this part makes any sense at all, so please give me your thoughts. It’s also quite long. I think there may be only two or three parts left, actually! On the bright side, the angst is over. Or at least I think so.

Yuputka — the phantom sensation of something crawling on one’s skin

Elorcan Werwolf 8

Now

Elide drank from the heavy cup of bitterness and spat out the viscous liquid of forgiveness. She lost track of time and sense in the sodden cell, and found paths of bruises and sores lining her body. She gave up on hope towards the light and retained resentment towards what laid on the other side of her prison.

All was dark. Dark was all.

Her hair hung matted as a rat’s nest, perspiration running down her skin, cracked and peeling. Her lips bled frequently, her ankle more mangled than she could remember.

Pain replaced her loneliness. Regret was a mere notion she entertained of what could have been. Suffering served her reality.

Sleep was simultaneous torture. Nightmares of the day’s assault and night’s cold swept through every crevice. The first stay in the cell, Vernon had tore her clothes into tatters, fangs tearing at her skin. Elide had screamed and thrashed until those teeth had bit down on her throat, threatening to tear out her neck.

“I conquer,” was all her Uncle had said before she’d screamed out in pain, blackness slashing across her vision. Aches had throbbed in parts of her body where she had waited for her mate, waited to be respected, waited to be worshipped.

At first, tears had persisted, the tang of salt cracking her lips. Now she cried no more, for the seconds she knew were filled with the consistency of raw anguish. It was just her own shaking, shredded skin and devastating poor excuse of family that haunted her.

The chains became her tether, lest she slip away into the next life or what awaited. Her ankle became a figment of a reminder in her story, of living with a disability, to a euphoric type of enmity in true healing, to a shattered piece of her inked soul.

For all she knew, the seconds had passed to minutes to pass to hours to pass to days and perhaps months. For all she knew, her presence was a forgotten whisper of dust between the burning and burnt stars. For all she knew, her life was declared deceased, her mate with another, her legacy into ashes, her pack free of an invalid.

And perhaps it was better that way.

She could not fathom how the Lycans could have fought for eons, loosing themselves in the raging battlefield, in the horrid torture chambers, in the unescapable sea of blood.

But perhaps they had never been caged, for this was a different war.

This was a battle to live, persist, endure. This was torture in every sense. This was an ocean of loneliness, pain, and belittlement.

She did not want this to be another facet written within her pages.

For Aelin she would not dwell in darkness, but in light.

For Manon she would not toil in coldness, but in warmth.

For Lorcan she would not waver in passiveness, but in aggression.

Her story was not of loneliness and sorrow, but of hope and affinity.

The cell doors rattled open, and the shadow of the Morath Alpha lurked in.

Predatory eyes met her own bleary ones.

“Hello, Elide,” Uncle Vernon said. “Sleeping well?”

When she didn’t answer, he slapped her cheek, the sound richotechting across the walls. When she didn’t bat an eye, he kicked her in the stomach, her teeth grating across one another. When she didn’t flinch, he jerked the chain on her ankle, the scraping scratching the barren floor.

She supposed she should thank her uncle for teaching her to befriend pain.

“I have special news,” Vernon sneered. “Regarding your friends.”

A momentary thread of anticipation tore through her. She kept her face blank under Vernon’s scrutinizing gaze. Her heart did not beat faster, for she had learned that any component of hope was an offering from the devil.

And any dance with the devil ended in the purest sense of hopelessness.

Finally, he said, “I’m moving you to a more secure location.”

Moving.

Hands gripped the chains against the wall, and a key clicked several times. The pull of the metal and steel slammed against the floor, Elide’s knees following suit. She hissed as Vernon wrapped the chains around her, and dragged her about by her hair, her roots harshly yanked and protesting in pain.

The cell was a ghost, surrounding and haunting and cursing her. As soon as her body passed through the doors, elation poured over her, the flickers of pain seeming to subside.

Moving.

“What do they see in a frail, worthless invalid?” Vernon said as her body was limply hauled across stones, the dripping of droplets digging into her cuts and scrapes.

The damp hallways seemed an eternity’s walk, Vernon’s nails digging into her scalp. Little lines of blood ran down her neck and face, her heart twisting and turning.

He tossed her onto the curve pathway of stones, and kicked her ankle. She curled into herself, her withered and emaciated body already tired from movement, her muscles faded away into complete atrophy. Her bones seemed to rattle as coldness prickled at her skin.

“Look up,” Vernon commanded.

Elide looked up.

“Look left,” Vernon ordered.

Elide looked left.

“Move,” Vernon sneered.

Elide looked down—and then looked up at the first step of the many stones that spiraled up into an ascension of a new fatigue. All hope dissipated as a lit candle in a storm. The cuts on her knees and shins flared. Her ankle collapsed and twisted and flared with pain.

This was beyond her limits, and her Uncle knew it.

Vernon yanked the chain around her neck. One harsh tug forward, tossing her against the fragmented stones, leaving her gasping for breath, cutting off her circulation.

Dry coughs filled the air as she blinked away the dizziness and clouds fogging her vision. Manon would have fought back with that sheer strength of hers. Aelin had have snapped back with that vicious tongue of hers. Lorcan would not have been in this situation in the first place with his clear brutality.

She was the weak link. The disabled. The handicapped. The misfit.

She struggled to lift herself onto her knees. Her palms hit the damp stones, the crescending slope a mockery of how far she’d descended.  

“If you have all the time in the world, Elide, then perhaps I should entertain myself.”

Her nails dug into the cracks as she forced her head to slowly turn around, her neck aching, the ghost of fingers choking her.

Her heart sunk.

Vernon slowly unbuttoned his collared shirt, and slid the belt off his pants. With expert grace only mastered by practice, he brought the whip down in a single strike across her back. Her body splintered against the base, and her hands desperately reached up to scrabble for purchase.

“You little slut,” Vernon grinned, a maniacal hint tinging the smirk. His fingers went to the hem of his pants. “You want another round, don’t you?”

His eyes raked over her body, her exposed skin, her brokenness.

She turned her head back towards the slope of the slanted stones, cold determination fixing within her.

Biting harshly down on her peeled lip enough to draw slivers of blood, Elide Lochan, true heir to the Morath Pack, slowly began the rise of a climb up.

Three Weeks Ago

“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” the dark-haired male snarled.

Trend carefully, her mate had warned, when Lorcan had first arrived, beaten and battered and the borders of her pack.

Standing in front of the Alpha of the Fireheart Pack was a Lycan coated from head-to-toe in blood. Standing in front of the Alpha Lycan’s mate was the commander, oozing a stench of something darker and wild.

Standing in front of Aelin Galanthysius was Lorcan Salvaterre, the one who broke Elide Lochan and was broken by Elide Lochan.

Aelin swallowed. As Alpha, she felt each string of connection to her pack members. But a week ago, after her trip to the royal castle, Elide’s familiar and warm presence had disappeared.

Vanished.

Without a trace.

“You’re a shit excuse of an Alpha,” Lorcan swallowed, but she held her stance, finding a soothing in the blades pressed against her skin.

An hour ago, this male had held too-many deaths within his palm. An hour ago, this male had realized that Elide was fully missing. An hour ago, this male had not sensed his mate anywhere within the safe parameters of all the packs.

Yesterday, the onyx-eyed male had snapped her elbow. Yesterday, the male had executed a flawless punch towards her eye. Yesterday, the commander had her ears ringing with his infuriated roaring.

She had merely pointed out that he had been temporarily suspended from his own pack until he resolved the issue with his missing mate.

A week ago, Aelin had lost connection to Elide. A week ago, she had scoured through every book in search of reestablishing the link. A week ago, her pack had been victim to rogue attacks.

A week since Elide’s disappearance, Lorcan had gained full control back of his body, demanding to see his mate.

Only to find that his mate had dissipated if she were nothing but a faded passing.

His rage had destroyed fundamental tenements many omegas depended on. His fury had ceased the fields of crops and plants many werewolves depended on. His enmity had caused the execution of many females connected to the Shadow Market.

She had watched the after-effects of losing scent and connection to his mate drive Lorcan to his knees.  

She had watched the dark-haired male wreck up his guts into the bucket for the thousandth time today. She had lost count as her Pack Doctor, Yrene Towers, had replaced each bin with another, dutifully monitoring the impossible male that would have given her own mate, Alpha of the Lycans, a run.

Lorcan gazed at her with a dark look in his eyes.

Aelin braced herself for another attack, but the male merely painfully closed his eyes, and croaked out, “I miss her.”

Longing.

Aelin let the dagger fall back into her sleeve, and looked over the commander of the Lycan’s armies.

Sweat and grime painted the heaving male’s skin, those ghastly eyes cracked and shattered. He was shivering, fists clenched against the rim of the bucket. His had lost his voice frequently, only to have the sound rasp out into a guttural scraping.

Aelin loosed a breath. “What did Sorscha say?”

Flinging open the heavy, steel door with all her might from that fateful day in visiting the castle, walking down the damp and dark hallway, Aelin had seen Lorcan convulsing on a bed of spikes and bones.

No Elide.

No connection.

Only a feral Lycan bringing down the castle from its very roots, shattering the entire southern complex.

It had taken three hours and the rest of the cadre in order to restrain Lorcan against the heaviest chains of silver, surrounded by circles of wolfsbane.

But Lorcan’s feral side still remained, roaring and hissing and screaming for his mate. Sweat and a thick, glowing green liquid had oozed out of his skin for hours until the commander had gained clear consciousness.

“Yellowleg’s Death,” Lorcan said so softly Aelin almost missed it.

Her heart skipped a beat. The manipulative, slow-working concoction created by the blessing of a witch’s spell, only found within the depths of the Shadow Market.

Manon stood next to them, and watched without emotion as Lorcan leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead. The half-Lycan, half-witch had spent her evenings and mornings looking for their pack’s apprentice healer, her afternoons honing her already skilled abilities with the blade.

A hole had emerged within her pack. A wide, gaping emptiness.

The Fireheart beta let out a dry laugh. “The poison worked.”

Aelin coughed, and muttered out, “Obviously.”

Lorcan didn’t budge from his spot against the wall, a look of concentration and fatigue holding his focus.

“Yellowleg’s Death grants the creator full access over the victim’s body for an hour. It can usurp power from the victim whenever and wherever. It can take years or months to occur.” Manon tapped a nail against the sheath of her blade. “All it took was an hour to break Elide from Lorcan, to spur a rejection, to foster a wound to deep to be mended.”

To seize Elide Lochan, true heir to the Morath Pack and second-Pack Doctor to the Fireheart Pack, away from them all.

Aelin looked at Lorcan. “That’s why you destroyed the Shadow Market, and executed all those connected to the drug.”

A curt nod, and the female Alpha could see the acceptance of the drug settling between the granite-hewn face.

Temporarily expelled from his pack, Lorcan Salvaterre had taken refuge in her pack, where Yrene coaxed the final remains of the poison out.

Where Lorcan had wallowed in self-pity, disappointment and regret drowned him.

Aelin had watched the beta to the Alpha Lycan fade away into a shell, and realized that Rowan Whitethorn had been right: A Lycan would rather die than hurt his mate.

And Lorcan Salvaterre, although slowly being freed of Yellowleg’s poison, would die if he did not have his mate near him.

One Month Ago

Lorcan watched as the spines of the guards snapped with a surety to rival death’s inevitable appearance himself. The darkness wrecked havoc, de-rooting trees around the castle grounds and slamming into entrances. An ominous wind screeched along the fading sunlight, those managing to near him collapsing to the ground, thick rivers of blood pouring out of their ears.

A massacre of those in his bloodlust.

A divine retribution for daring to cast him out.

A welcome for Hellas’s realm.

With a glance towards the newly installed barricaded, Lorcan pushed his will of shadowed obscurity into the silver force. Large dents imprinted onto the wall, and seconds later, the ground shuddered as the barrier collapsed against the marbled floor.

Lorcan stepped through the rubble, stalking towards the center meeting room. Here, the Lycans hung back, heads bowed and eyes cast down. A warning had been issued, and they would obey.

His hand violently jerked the golden knob to the side and pushed the hardened door forward. Silence sagged across the immaculate room as soon as he stepped in.

Five pairs of eyes landed on him, the Alpha Lycan rigidly sitting at the head of the chair. Fenrhys sprawled lazily at the left side, goblets of wine surrounding him. A flicker of something deeper with wronged remembrance flickered through Lorcan’s head, but he dismissed the amiss feeling and flexed his aching back muscles.

“I’m leaving for Morath,” Lorcan said abruptly, striding to the right, empty seat—his spot—at the head of the table. He did not sit down, but calmly gazed at the Prince Rowan Whitethorn with a menace that would have cowed a lesser man.

Fenrhys choked on his wine, Gavriel crossing his arms. Vaughan merely arched a brow, Connal’s face pinching slightly.

“Your ban does not end until you can prove to my mate that you are in control.” Rowan’s words echoed across the room. His hands clenched, and Lorcan knew he was restraining the order to further his banishment.

“Having half of her pack members end up in the infirmary and killing our guards probably isn’t the best way to do it,” Fenrhys chimed in.

“Wrecking Sollomere into a ground of ashes hardly demonstrates control,” Vaughan added.

“You also broke the covenant searching for Elide Lochan,” Gavriel observed.

Rowan’s eyes twitched, his resolve slowly chipping away. Lorcan warily threw up his shields, ignoring the tension wading through the air.

“That’s why you’re travelling to Morath,” Connal mused. “To find your mate.”

Lorcan didn’t bother to object to his pack members. Today marked a month in which Elide Lochan, his mate, had disappeared. A month of futile, ceaseless searching, of unending longing and loneliness. A month of wandering through a parallel trail of sorrows and agony, restless wishes never answered.

The Alpha Lycan shook his head. “You destroyed the Shadow Market. Our connections there have ceased.”

“And what if the chance that Yellowlegs poison harmed your mate?” Lorcan growled. “In which you had no control over?”

No control.

The Lycan’s worst fear.

Whether losing control to their feral wolf side or having dark magic posses them, Lycans eluded any poison, liquid, or scenario that would test their control.

Because absolute control meant absolute power.

To control others, Lycans had to control themselves.

And Lorcan had not been in control one month ago.

Rowan Whitethorn released a burdensome sigh and exhaled quickly. “I revoke your suspension. I grant you full privileges and rights to travel to Morath and do what business you need to do.”

Full control.

His friend, the Alpha, the King—Rowan Whitethorn was giving him full control and access to his actions and the extent of the consequences.

For his mate, for the other half of his soul, for Elide Lochan.

Lorcan bowed his head in acknowledgement, the only recognition and expression of gratitude the Lycan Alpha would receive. When Rowan held out his hand, Lorcan clasped it.

Gavriel cautiously looked between the Prince and the Commander. Finally, he said, “I suppose you need a few nuclear arms, silver covers, and a shit ton of wolfsbane?”

Fenrhys gave them a wolfish grin. “Imagine the terror on Morath’s face when they see the cadre united.”

Connal slowly smiled. “Morath’s time has come to an end.”

Avoidance of the Pack that had violently sucked the former ruling off the throne, had notoriously experimented on the supernatural, had utilized brutal tactics to remain their power didn’t reach for from the Lycans.

Ultimatum after ultimatum, the Morath Pack had ignored the cadre’s warnings.

Now that a direct threat to one of their own had been issued, Morath could burn. Legally within the borders of the covenant, annihilating the pack appealed to the Lycan on another level.

Yet—before more plans could stipulate, Lorcan slammed his shield into the iron table, the hollowing sound causing the five pairs of eyes to once again land on him.

“I go alone,” he firmly stated.

Silence. Then—

“Absolutely absurd,” Vaughun snarled. “You’ll die. Morath broke Maeve’s legions. What do you stand a chance?”

Cold froze through the air at the mention of the former Lycan queen’s name. A curse, an abomination, an infamy. The stinging of lashes whispered in haunting strokes across his back, the silver cell of insanity unfolding within Lorcan’s mind.

The true savagery—

Connal snarled, a thunderous growl building leaking out. “Say the bitch’s name one more time, and I’ll tear out your throat.”

Fenrhys teleported next to his brother, and laid a hand against Vaughun’s chest.

Rowan loosed a bark, and Connal slouched against his seat in submission. The Alpha turned towards his commander, an unfathomable look sketched across his face.

“We have every reason to be concerned. Especially when it concerns another’s welfare. We do not know what lurks in Morath, save for death.”

Lorcan stared at his pack with eyes of the soulless. He had already wasted too much valuable time loitering. The darkness summoned an abstraction into reality, Hellas’s raw power pulsing around him. Lorcan swung the convened hatchet in his hand, the craving for his mate ushering senseless violence through his veins.

Rowan raised a brow at the burst of power emanating from Lorcan.

Before the Prince of Lycans could speak, Lorcan answered the call of darkness webbing through him, his onyx eyes perceiving more than he’d ever before.

“What—” Gavriel started.

“When your gift is Death, you no longer fear him.” Hellas’ might flowed to him.

Lorcan welcomed the sheer control pulsating through every inch and cell.

His voice sounded far away as he spoke with an ancient, long-feared and worshipped guttural tone. “Death is my ally. Mine to control.”

His.

Death had always belong to him.

It was life instead that slipped through his fingers, the facets and faces of true existence evading him.

An integral part of living would not escape him one more time: his mate.

Elide Lochan.

Lorcan stalked out of the castle, the darkness cascading through him and around him in large streams and flares.

Two Months Ago

Lorcan laid in his bed, breathing heavily.

Pain lanced through every pore. Grogginess laced his vision. Lead settled in every muscle.

His wolf roared at him to visit his mate���that he would be content and pliant if he could just settle his eyes on her lithe form or soak in her scent even from afar. Her presence, if utilized correctly, would be the worst type of military tactic used against him. She would be his downfall, and she would not know.

His fingers brushed against papyrus scrawled with loops of elegant curls and spirals, a golden and flaming embroider filling the edges. In another realm, perhaps he could have been the prince charming, showing up to the ball completely unannounced with his finest clothes, locking eyes with Elide, and asking her for the first dance.

He would have kissed the top of her hand and charmed his way into her heart; she would return his affections, and they would have their lives carried out by fate as perfect mates.

But he was Death’s Right Hand.

And she was a living Angel.

This was not a fairytale in which the maiden lived happily ever.

This was reality in which the maiden either was massacred from the vices through violence or was forged into the sculpture created by the monsters.

This lie was that if the maiden followed her mind, then she would not follow love.

The truth was that if the maiden followed her heart, then she would lose her mind.

He lived with forgotten violence and remembered cruelty brimming from every surface. She lived with colored perceptions and warm neutrals on a floating canvas.

His thoughts were polluted with fabrications that belonged to the Devil’s Mind, hers a beautiful universe waiting to be seen.

A creak broke his melancholy.

The doorknob slowly twisted in a torturously slow manner, and Lorcan grimaced in pain as he glanced towards the entrance. If Fenrhys was about to mock the misery of a state he was in just one more time—

A soft, ever-familiar voice filled the room, the sound almost hesitant.

“Lorcan?”

Lorcan hissed in response. The scent that did not belong to his mate seeped into the room. It was an unwelcomed scent, one he constantly regretted and condoned, one he believed better off in the grave, even if royalty. It was a persistent scent that lingered in front of his doors and followed him through the hallways, one that drove his wolf into insanity.

A doe-eyed female leaned in the doorway, eyes sweeping through the darkness. Those gentle orbs locked in his direction when he loosed a grunt, his chest heaving with pain.

“Get out,” he rasped. “You are unwelcome here.”

Lorcan winced in the cover of darkness and and snarled lowly as the quiet padding of footsteps filled his room.

She did not listen.

A soft glow lit his room, the burning wax chasing away the deep shadows. He closed his eyes with the sweeping light, his nose twitching from the candle’s aroma.

The female trespassing into his room stirred the bloodthirsty side of him. She either him as his canines slide out or wished to die as growl thundered in the base of his throat.

A hand caressed his forehead, and Lorcan flinched.

“I said. Get. Out.” Warnings after warnings, and she still paid no heed.

The tips of her fingers touched his lips, and she clucked her tongue once. “That’s no way to treat an old friend.”

He had once thought she knew the line between his animalistic needs and her loose fantasies. She had been nothing more than a body to satiate the Lycan’s feral side, nothing less than a body to use and manipulate. Not a friend, not a lover, not his mate. Nothing more than a passing acquaintance.

The intruding female brushed back her hair, revealing the pale column of her throat, and gracefully settled herself onto his duvet sheets. “You need to relax, Lorcan Salvaterre. You’ve been through so much. I can help you.”

“You know nothing.” He knew the way she said his name was meant to entice him. He knew the purr in her lilt was meant to arouse him. She knew that he was in a vulnerable state.

His eyes managed to catch the flash of a quick smile she flashed.

“I know you have a mate.” She stroked his chest, coaxing his shirt’s buttons apart. His arms were full of inflexible lead to stop her. His mind seemed to seep into an abyss of murkiness no stroke or kick could save. “And that she does not want you. But I do.”

All the dates Elide had accepted. All the males that had pawed at her. All the stares lusting after her. The flowers and smiles endowed towards her. The invisible blood on his hands—is that what she saw? What his history to full of gruesome atrocities that she would not consider the future?

Lorcan’s body laid rigid and paralyzed as the other female’s nails raked across his hardened skin, each strike a burning sensation. He didn’t know if it was because his wolf side was rejecting her touch or because his body was still coping with his mate’s loss.

He wanted Elide Lochan. He wanted her without her cold eyes that chipped him away slowly, with her inviting ones that made him feel worth more than destruction. He wanted her with warm smiles that drove away the darkness, without her frowns that made him fall to his knees. He wanted her with open arms, without her closed walls.

He did not want this woman in his room and her unwarranted advances. Eons later from when they had first met within the forest, and he still did not want her. The one female he wanted and needed, desired to cherish and protect, hold and soothe—did not want him. The path in waging wars had kept him forbid him from entertaining any facet of the elation life had to offer. Yet when he had laid eyes upon Elide, even through the dark night as she had raced through the trees, expertly wielded the car, saw the fierce determination of hope and compassion in those reflections, Lorcan had known that Elide Lochan was the most beautiful, untouched piece of art his eyes had ever laid upon. There would be expensive, lavish masterpieces, but there would not be the kind-hearted, impossible Elide Lochan, a beacon to him.

His mate.

So he managed to stare at the doe-eyed female with coldness centuries had crafted, a glance full of censure.

“You forget that I do not want you.” He struggled to keep his eyes open, the phantom hand of sleep lulling him into another realm.

“So you’ve said,” the royal female said. Lorcan could make out the form of a goblet in her hand, her lips pressed against the edge. “And I respect that.”

“Do you now?” He did not have the energy to raise a brow or move an arm to break her neck.

A sharp, curt nod. “So I propose one last toast. To what we had. To what past we shared. To us.”

Lorcan warily eyed the goblet, and then the princess Lycan that had pursued him for an eternity. He could have said that they had nothing, their past worthless, that there was no ‘us’. But his tongue was ash in his mouth and his bones were tired. Of fighting physically and sparring verbally.

“Is that all?” he managed to scrape out.

The princess twirled a strand of her hair, and sat on his lap. “Yes.”

They had toasted often, during galas and balls and masquerades. She had always plucked flutes of champagne for him, saying he needed to work on his image. The royal had always clinked her glass against his in a possessive way, Lorcan always brushing her off.

Drinking was nothing new. But the glint in her eyes—that was something new.

“Do you swear to cease your advancements towards me and my mate? To allow us to find peace between us? To raise no harm against Elide Lochan?”

The she-wolf raised a dainty brow, and pressed the ruby-studded goblet into his clammy hand. “I, Essar, in the name of the Bright Lady, swear to fulfill the promise.”

The princess Lycan held her back straight and watched as Lorcan gripped the base of the goblet. Essar slowly brought his hand to his lips as his arm remained unwilling, his wolf snarling in protest.

Before he could leash in his feral side or question his wolf’s sudden thrashing, Essar tipped the goblet into his slightly parted mouth, shoving the steaming liquid down his throat. Lorcan gagged, and felt the marks of where she had scratched him respond with searing pain. His body convulsed as the princess Lycan shoved a hand around his throat, forcing every drop down.

His wolf quieted, and his body flared with pain for several seconds until a blurred daze fell across him. He could consciously hear purring, and feel a warm body pressed against his. There was an itching at the back of his mind, something holding him back. An irking of sorts scratched at him, but nonsensical thoughts like cotton clogged his brain.

There was something wrong, something forcing him still and compliant. His mind struggled to cut down every barrier, but there was a hint of dark magic that had his will recoil.

Something tepid pressed against his lips, a hand fingering the hair at the nape of his neck. There was a sound of creaking, and then a scent appeared that had the cotton in his head blowing away.

His eyes snapped open. He turned his head towards the door.

Lorcan knew then by the figure in his lap and the figure at the door he had irrevocably fucked up.

And that by the flash of betrayal and hurt contorting across his mate’s face, he had broken the maiden. And that by the whisper of her scent that fled from the room and the familiar sound of bones cracking and howling, he had sculpted the maiden into a monster.

And from there, the poison of Yellowleg’s Death, bewitched with dark magic and control remained stagnant within his veins, swirling through every notch and crevice, an invasion of his mind and will and muscle.

[ecotone99]

[RF] Max and Suzette

Max, the shortened version of a name he wasn't called in decades, had become completely dependent on those around him for nearly every facet of his life. He could still manage to use the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. It had been a few years since he needed a wheelchair to move outside of the home, but that too had become an activity which required accompaniment. When his home care nurse was off-duty and his wife was drunk, he could do nothing but sit at home and flip through the channels. His hands still worked well enough to accomplish this task.

The old man had been living with his disease for decades.

This fatal saga had begun on a nondescript summer evening in Ohio. It was a hot July day, the sun had long since been overhead, and Max was making the familiar drive home down his newly paved road. The single bedroom home he shared with his wife Suzette sat on a serene two and a half acres in the Idaho country, barely within shouting distance of the closest neighbor. This was the way they liked it. Max was still at the farm he had worked on for eleven years, and was proud of the large spring crop. Max was a laboring man, and his rusted-tinted white Chevy had the dents to prove it.

Since he was a child, Max had dreamt of running his own farm. His own potato farm. Potatoes are the backbone of America, Max told himself, and he wanted nothing more than to preside over fields that stretched further than the eye could see. As he came into adulthood he began to realize that most large farms are passed down family lines, and that poor young men usually work on someone else's farm. Adulthood had sobered his grand notions, and he soon found himself working his way up the ladder on a local, mid-sized russet potato farm.

Though this was a compromise from his rather unrealistic childhood dreams, Max worked with vigor. He started as the lowest man on the totem pole; he spread shit, carried seed sacks, and made lunch for the small crew. He hoped beyond belief that he'd soon learn to drive the tractor.

That day that Max arrived at his own small plot of land, he noticed that the yard was rather unkempt. Brown weeds were making themselves visible around the small blue house, and his wife's broken down station wagon had begun to look more like an Americana relic than a reliable form of transportation. This image didn't lessen the pride he felt at owning his own land. He knew that the labor he wasn't putting into his own property was being put into the soil on the farm. He had long since learned to drive the tractor, and had settled into a rather important role working under the owner. His boss had even mentioned the possibility of sending him down to Boise for agriculture classes. Max had figured that his boss's late night offer had likely sprung more from the few drinks he'd consumed than from any version of reality, but it still gave him hope.

Suzette looked out the window and felt a warm pulse move through her body. The man she loved was home safe for another night, and would soon break the day's monotony with tales from the farm. She loved to hear Max tell stories. There was nothing she wanted more than to draw her large husband a hot bath, cook him a warm meal, and listen to his deep voice tell her of the day's exploits. The stories were usually the same; some hands had fought and he had to break it up, his boss got mad at him for something out of his control, or a piece of machinery had broken, but he was able to fix it and save the day's productivity. Max was an honest man, a man who dreamt big, and a man who knew that at the end of the day, his wife came first.

The large man had felt weak on this particular hot, humid July day. Not even the hundred dollar bonus given to him for the season's exemplary yield seemed to put energy into his limbs. That day was a slow day, the first of many.

----

It was winter now, and Idaho was in the grips of a rather serious snow storm. The brown weeds around the home were no longer visible, and in their place were large snowbanks covering the bottom half of the blue home. Max and Suzette had lit a fire in their fireplace, and were both reading the books they had been slowly working on for months. Suzette asked Max a question. The question was neither here nor there. An unimportant inquiry; she simply preferred to talk then to read. As Max was giving his response, Suzette noticed something strange. Something she had never noticed before: a slur in his voice.

Max rarely drank alcohol, and Suzette was coming up on two years sober, so she knew it couldn't be drunkenness. It sounded like it though. Suzette asked Max another question to confirm what she was hearing, and again his words came out like he had just finished off a fifth of Jack. What concerned her more than the quality of his speech was the fact that he didn't seem to notice it. The ever supportive wife decided that it must be the stir-craziness of a long winter. She put it out of her mind and looked back down at her book.

----

The snow began to melt and it was time for Max to go back to work. It was another season without his potato empire, but he knew that it may not be until old age when he'd sit on the porch of his own two-story farm home, watching his under-bosses command an army of hands. The dream of owning his own farm hadn't been lost, just sidelined by the realities of his situation. Max lived in America after all, and in this nation anything is possible with hard work, determination, and a dream.

This Spring, unlike the dozens before it, he felt like he wasn't stronger than the year before. Every other season he worked as a potato farmer he could carry more, walk further, and work longer hours than the one before. But this spring, this terrible spring, he felt weak.

In late May, as the crop was beginning to get big and Max was feeling proud, something happened. The day wasn't a scorcher like he knew to expect in July, but the cloudless blue sky was a weak match for the noontime sun. Max was walking beside a field to inspect an irrigation leak, when suddenly he became dizzy. He fell down, face-first, into the dirt. Max regained consciousness only when he noticed the footsteps of a laborer approaching him.

He denied assistance, and stood up feeling lightheaded. On this day, Max decided to go home early. He knew that something in was wrong with his body.

----

M.S. is a disease that slowly robs your body of life, but never quite finishes the job. M.S. is a disease that people have to endure until something else kills them. Heart disease, cancer, suicide; these are what finally end the life of someone suffering from M.S.

Suzette was more than accommodating after learning the diagnosis. She read books about the disease, doing everything in her power to keep up Max's spirits as he too learned about the disease. Suzette had even taken a job working as a substitute teacher, knowing full well that Max's working days were numbered.

In his final seasons growing the beloved russet potato, Max's boss had kindly allowed him to retain his position. He moved about the farm in a truck, avoiding labor that would be impossible with his impaired movement. Eventually he began to have trouble walking without a cane and his grip had become weak. It was decided that Max was not fit to work on the farm anymore. He knew his boss wasn't wrong, and the decision was mutual.

It was two years since Max was able to work, and between the mortgage and the medical bills, there was never anything left for a night out or an extravagant meal. The costs were unbearable and the couple was forced to sell their small blue house which stood on two and a half acres of fertile Idaho soil. Before they sold their land, in an attempt to value the house as highly as possible, Suzette spent the day picking the brown weeds. Max was no longer a farmer, and he no longer owned a farm.

Fortunately, their marriage didn't suffer. In fact, the disease brought them together in a strange way. First, they were together much more often, and the love they shared of hearing each other speak intensified. Unlike the days of their youth when Max would return home to a warm meal and tell stories of the farm's exploits, it was Suzette who was telling stories of the outside world. She would tell Max about the polite students who thanked her at the end of the day, and about the students who believed a day with a substitute teacher was a day of true anarchy.

Another reason Max's condition caused their love to intensify was that every day he knew that Suzette chose to be with him. Suzette chose to get up and be the breadwinner when he was forced to lay in bed. As a young man, Max never knew why a beautiful woman would stay with a man after he was paralyzed in car accident, but now he knew. He knew that Suzette truly loved him, and he truly loved her.

----

Both Suzette and Max were past middle age now. Max's condition had progressed to the point where he could walk about the house, but he needed to be pushed around in a wheelchair outside the home. Even with his walker he'd fallen in public places too many times for that to be a viable option.

Suzette was becoming tired of substitute teaching. One particularly rough day, as she was driving home from a high school assignment, Suzette stopped by a grocery store. She walked to the back corner of the store and picked out two bottles of cheap red wine. She purchased them and sat in the parking lot, the radio quietly playing "Hotel California" by The Eagles, and broke 14 years of sobriety. Max could tell Suzette was drunk when she arrived home, leaned down, and gave him a wet, sweet smelling kiss on the lips. He didn't say anything.

----

Max and Suzette moved into a trailer. She was past retirement age, but continued to work so that Max could have a nurse on the weekdays. He could still use the the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. Suzette liked that Max had someone to look after him during the daytime, and that she had someone to prepare a warm meal for her when she came home from work.

Max had, on a few occasions, talked to Suzette about taking his own life. He told her that killing himself would save them both a lot of suffering. The disease would cause locked-in syndrome, rendering his body motionless, mouth and tongue included. Eventually a heart attack, a stroke, cancer, or some other ailment would strike the final blow. Suzette didn't know what to say when he brought up the topic of his death. She never responded to these comments, but knew that he was probably right.

----

Max was alone one hot August afternoon. Suzette was at the store. It had been a few months since they had to let the nurse go.

Max was laying in his bed in the back room of the trailer. A baseball game was playing on the T.V. but he couldn't hear the announcers over the sound of the rattling air conditioner. There was a gun in the nightstand.

Max knew that as the days passed it would only become harder to put it in his mouth and that eventually, this too would become impossible. He knew that today would be the day.

He struggled himself upright and sat against the cheap wooden headboard. He reached to the lower drawer on the nightstand next to him, and picked up his small german-made firearm. This was the last gun he owned from his rural youth, and he insisted on keeping it next to the bed when they slept.

Max had lost all dexterity, and knew he would not be able to write a note.

He sat with the gun in his hand and thought about how much he loved Suzette. He thought about how kind she was to stay with him into old age. He thought about the dreams he had of being a potato farmer in his youth and about the fields he would own that stretched into the horizon. He thought about how happy he was when he learned to drive the tractor, and how he told Suzette about it when he went home. He thought about the stories that she told him after a day at school.

Max wished so badly that he could write a note to Suzette. He wished that he could say one final thank you, and tell Suzette that he loved her one last time. His crippled hands would not allow it.

Max lifted the gun, unable to insert it into his mouth, and fired it into himself.

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