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fisherrprince · 3 years ago

Note

do you have more thoughts on keyblade fighting that you need to put somewhere, because i have two hands ready to catch Should The Need Arise

anon: hey I heard you mention you’d analysed the combat styles in KH and what you said in the tags was already alluding to really neat stuff, but I for one would love to hear more of what you came up with!! so if you ever wanted to share any of your analysis then the floor is yours

aHAH, MY EXCUSE!!

Okay, so first some words on “standardized wielding styles”. These are styles shared by Terra, Aqua, Vanitas, Riku, and Xehanort and every other scala and daybreak kid. I will make the argument that the red style is the fanciest standard style, while the purple is seen often to make it easier on the little chibi sprites. BUT, I cannot discredit Eraqus, who uses the purple variant in bbs, nor can I discredit half of the Foretellers (Gula and Ava, at least, use this. Invi and Aced use the first type). So, two standard styles. For simplicity, let’s say one for primary offense, one for primary defense. The standard offensive style really wasn’t popular before Scala-era society.

check this difference out, specifically between ava invi and gula:

then between eraqus, hermod, and xehanort, and eraqus and terra.

These two were likely popularized and standardized for education in Scala ad Caelum for their predominant lack of obvious weak spots.

After this, we have unique styles. Those include Sora Kairi and Xion’s (similar to standard defense, but more mobile at the expense of form — Kairi takes after Sora but less confident, she hasn’t been hit that heavily yet), Ven’s (backhand, heavy range and mobility), Roxas’ (modified for two keyblades, but takes after Sora), and Axel’s (taught himself, comfortable with chakrams).

So! Let’s go.

Standard (offensive)

All styles have sub-variations, of a sense. Different wielders can choose where their keyblade points, and how they hold it exactly, based on what makes them most comfortable. Terra and Aqua point theirs downward, while Vanitas and Riku hold theirs above their head. What is recognizeable to this style is a hand for the sword, and a hand for guarding/blocking/items/magic.

It’s incredibly efficient. With only one hand on the weapon, you not only free up a hand for other things, but increase your range of movement with said weapon. Test it out yourself! The keyblade hand is always your dominant hand, held behind you for increased power when attacking (since you lose a significant amount of it by choosing not to grip with both hands). This style also decreases the speed of the defense you have, but with that increased mobility and swing power, along with a hand free to brace against the keyblade (defense strength up!), it makes up for it. Many people who use this also have strong barrier spells — both a testament to their preference for coverage and an acknowledgement that any directional block will take a little longer and be weaker if they try it with one hand.

The pointy end, though. What difference does it actually make, the height it’s at?

I think it’s half a matter of attack style preference and half intention. Riku, Vanitas, and Xehanort stab quite a bit. Aqua and Terra slice more. Not that they don’t do both, but it’s the first instinct. Aqua and Terra are also likely taught to hold their keyblade neutrally, in a safe position, until someone starts attacking. It’s polite! Eraqus also holds his one-handed, neutrally, until he gets into position. Riku and Vanitas learned to fight assuming everyone was out to fight them. Invi and Aced may like this style because of range (i hc she’s blind and strikes very very quickly, and he’s already very powerful with just the one arm and wants better motion).

and on character specifics: Terra often switches to two-handed, to copy his dad and add extra power to his hits without always sacrificing the empty hand. Vanitas likely was forced to relearn how to fight, as instead of solely being trained to be better at withstanding, he was constantly being made to better his own attacks. The moves Xehanort uses would best be replicated in the same style. Vanitas is wild for holding the massive spiky x-blade like that.

Now, what‘s good on this style does not correlate to what’s bad in the other. The two standard styles simply have different ways of dealing with each con they create or taking advantage of each pro.

(Here’s an interesting side note — Gula uses standard defensive, but in this instance, swaps. One hand… likely to display confidence! Wrong move, but hey. He got cocky. He’s also doing it wrong, and swaps back to two-handed to take Aced’s attack.)

Standard (defensive)

The main detriment of this style is the lack of ease of long range movement. Hold a wrapping paper tube out in front of you with both hands, then run. It goes to the side, or tucks in to your stomach, right? Dodge. Your legs will get in the way unless you know where to move that sword. It requires, interestingly, a little more discipline. You’d think Aqua would like that, but no, she wants movement and practicality, and she loves magic, and remember that you must take a hand off this style to grab a potion. You’d think young Eraqus wouldn’t, but remember that he’s a fancy royal lad.

The main draw, though, is tankiness, readiness, and power. You don’t need to move as much if nothing dares hit you! Ava and Gula might be attracted to this style because they’re not as physically strong, but want protection in close-quarters fighting. Using this style when your muscles aren’t as big but you still want to Hit Things Good, or when you want to be a boy you can’t knock over with a pail of water (horse stance rules), is probably solid advice.

Traditionally, this is a lot less like fencing, and a lot more like a samurai sword or kendo. Your blade is held in front of you, giving you very easy access to blocks and frontal attack/defense. In losing some twirly spinniness, you gain power and minimize your opponent’s ability to parry and block.

you gotta dodge master Eraqus so mcuh

All styles will swap between one and two hands for different moves. Eraqus, notably, swaps to a stance very similar to Xehanort when channeling a metric ton of magic.

Both of these styles require a degree of upper body/core strength, as does all swordfighting. I would be interested to see someone whose keyblade style relies on leg strength.

Sora, Xion, and Kairi

please look at the difference between the foretellers’ or eraqus’ two-handed grip and Sora’s. Do this with your shoulders and a top-heavy object.

They’re both in a hard stance, but hon. What are you, a gremlin? Anyways, a traditionally taught master would have… better form, even if it’s harder to learn at first. It’s habitual. Sora nearly crouches, and holds his keyblade back-pointed with two hands, which makes it easier for him to dodge roll, push off his feet quickly, and pull off those spinning combos he loves. It‘s really gonna hurt his muscles, in the future, though, since he’s doing a squat for like…. hours. Pulling on those shoulderblades and neck. Xion, too. Replicas had better have correct muscle dynamics. Kairi is brand new, so… maybe Aqua can teach her how to hold a sword so it doesnt hurt you.

Okay, now look at the grip itself. Held in front versus held to the side-back. They’re really attempting to combine both standard styles subconsciously, giving themselves more attack power while really wanting to keep that hard defensive parry, wanting to prevent all attacks to the front while also wanting mobility. It’s working for them really well, they fight like an anime character, and manage to get the best of both, with a minor sacrifice of length range that they don’t care about. We’re flexible and full of magic, baby! Holding the blade like this makes it pretty easy to let go with one hand without sacrificing that crouched defense position.

Now, Sora, specifically, is very adaptive. He’s had two keyblades, claws, guns, yo-yos, and a giant shield, to name a couple. He retains a bit of that alert crouch no matter where he goes, but Sora knows how he wants to attack and how to balance that with the most effective way to use his current weapon. He’s a smart kid! Sora has the most ridiculous shotlocks, which are also probably due to not always wanting to go standard for it. He also prefers to keep his focus on the enemy, which is evident in his reprisals and lack of very many effective “escape” moves.

Xion is very similar to Sora, but she does have some moves that are all movement. She switches to one handed for strikes a lot — using two for defending, one for smacking. In her data battle I’d swear some of those heavy hits are claymore-like. But anyways, since we’re magic, Xion cares not for the laws of exhaustion, and will ping about as a ball of light everywhere. Short range? Up in your business. Mid-range? In your business with one hand. Long range? Throws a boomerang. Hit her? No you dont. Ball of light. She’s above you and wants to bash your head in. (Vanitas also does this! A lot. It’s an easy way to catch someone off-guard. I’ll argue that the soras are very tough and strong, but not tanky. they want to avoid being hit a lot)

Another interesting note about Kairi. I say “unconfident” not because she doesn’t hit hard, but because her stance is also often tilted back, ready to dodge. It’s two handed, but almost all her moves are one. She does love spinning and throwing the thing! It looks like she’s been taking notes from the wielders she knows. It would be easy to teach her a standard style, I think. See here, she lets go on the strike, and by trying to do both, actually ends up with an advantage (being confusing) and disadvantage (losing both the power of two handed and versatility of one handed).

A counter to Sora and Xion is difficult to pin down. Time? Probably. Lack of heating pads. Something that takes all their attention is about the only way to get a sneak attack in, and then you have to hit hard. A counter to Kairi would be anyone who can knock her off balance. She needs a sturdier stance. .

Roxas

Roxas is interesting. He takes after Sora for the one blade. Wielding two, however, nets him a totally different way of fighting. Roxas’ clavicle muscles n… deltoids and stuff must be Ironclad. Also, two handed means you are very fast and sharp all the time. He has the advantage of standard defense (horse stance), and the advantage of offense (range of one sword, but twice).

Roxas generally attacks in two ways — simultaneous hits, and follow-up hits. Either he hits with both at once, or hits hard with the first one, and adds the second one as a bonus smack. He can attack by hitting in opposite directions with the two, like a drum, but that will be a little awkward and leave him prone to being tangled. That established, the follow-up hit method means he spins a bunch. As do we all.

Roxas gets a little complicated because we are not in the real world. We have magic and turning into light and physics that let you become a circular saw. So, typically, disadvantages would include: being unable to let go of a weapon to grab something or use an item, having just a very big silhouette to attack on, having difficulty with close-range attacks because Oathkeeper and Oblivion are kinda long, and convenience. Roxas gets to dodge #1 (keyblades can be unsummoned) and #4 (keyblades can be unsummoned). Speaking of dodging, he also gets to skirt the difficulty of dodging and rolling with two swords because he turns into a beam of light. But he can’t dodge how difficult it is to use two swords effectively — he needs to concentrate on fighting, and nothing else, or he risks messing up. He has to be very, very coordinated, and undistracted. Luckily he’s pretty good at making his opponents shut up, most of the time. Blocking is another thing — theoretically his blocks could be strong, but Roxas has no real brace: crossing your blades and taking a hefty stab might smack one of them back into your face. He mostly uses reversals and dodges, because of this.

The takeaway to this is Roxas is built for speed and power, and he is very strong. He’s a mid- to far- range fighter who if you’re not careful can snap you in half if you’re too close (be SO careful of that cross blade scissor).

A perfect counter to Roxas would be a tank that can grapple, and also be very distracting. If you can take hits, be talkative, and get close enough to stop his blades, you have a chance.

Ventus

This is a bizarre choice, my guy, but I get it.

Backhanded weapons are very impractical for a lot of... attacking, mainly in mid-range combat, and Ven likes to either fight very close or throw the keyblade like a boomerang (and hey, backhand gives it a good whip for throwing). His attacks aren’t meant to one hit KO, but they do come with a bit of power to them, especially on the backslash. Like holding a knife for gouging. It’s for very close defense — pretty good when Wayward Wind and Missing Ache have hooks.

Backhand also, while retaining that empty hand for potions and guarding, gives you an extreme coverage boost. By which I mean Ven’s sword hand now has a nearly 270 degree sweep of “I see you, don’t touch me”, very quickly, based on just flicking his wrist. It sacrifices a ton of strength/sturdiness, but you don’t need that if you’re dodging. You also don’t really need to block, which is slower, but relatively sturdy when Ven does it, as he blocks with mostly the chunky hilt between crossed arms. He sacrifices (again) a bit of strength for coverage — an attack would hurt his arms, not his chest, if he were hit head-on.

His attacks often have him flip the blade around in his hand, too. Quick swaps between standard moves and backhand ones. Basically, Ventus is built for moving, protecting himself, and quick attacks that wear down the enemy, not outclass it. Likely because he’s good at fighting, but everyone he’s fought hits harder than he can! It doesn’t matter how he holds it, getting hit will hurt. So he just. Doesn’t. He’s not a buff little guy — but he is a persistent one. Ven very likely made this up on his own, in Daybreak, and it was too hard to fix his whole style, but it was enough to correct most of his form so he doesn’t hurt himself too much. He is going to have to really stretch that shoulder and wrist (maybe get a brace), though. At least his neck is ok. … not sure about his knees tho dang boy that crouch

A perfect counter to Ven would be someone big and fast, who hits hard mid-range. He’s already been sparring with Terra, though, so when in doubt, try scruffing him?

Axel

Theres not a ton to say about him — he‘s not a swordfighter. He uses his keyblade like it’s a frisbee. Because that’s what he’s used to! His neutral is behind his back on his shoulder, which is terrible for readiness, but okay for chucking the thing. It’s good it has a sort of… ripstik like… boomerang quality.

Axel’s fighting style is completely made up, like most of the self-taught wielders’. His strengths lie in some of the benefits of standard offensive style (one-handed), and some of the same coverage stuff as Ven, having a cocked wrist most of the time so no one can sneak up around him without risking getting whacked very quickly, and having an interesting range due to the pointy end being basically on a spinny swivel wherever his hand moves. He’s not going to be good at close-range and he knows it — his attacks are mostly distance. And the guy has ZERO defense, combined with zero coverage when idle, so it’s for the better.

Distance-wise, though, he rocks. Treating the blade like it’s a flaming throwing weapon means his idle is actually great for sudden flick-tossing and attention-guiding for sneakier attacks, and his stance itself (…nonexistent) serves a different purpose: bait. Basically a big "come hit me". Fun, when you have a lot of fire magic and two friends who are beasts and love to take advantage of a distracted enemy — distance on the blade, proximity on the burning.

A perfect counter to Axel would be someone pinging around very close <—> very far and circling him incessantly. Like, data Xion could wreck him, as he has to wait for the boomerang to come back -- he no longer has two spinny wheels. Also someone with water magic.

SO! In conclusion! Having a teacher who teaches you correct sword usage rather than instinct may detract from overspecific styles that benefit you most but leave weak spots, but your muscles and your oversights will thank you. Everyone is glad we have the power of the Mouse and anime on our side.

Keep in mind again that I have done cursory research, and have had minimal actual sword instruction, I am not an expert and this is all for fun anyways :]

#I ran out of images which is homophobic #KH #ask #mojimallow #THANKS MOJI #If you’re wondering what the counter would be to Terra and Aqua; in terms of counters there are no counters #not style-wise anyways. That’s why they’re standard.#Terra can’t react very fast and Aqua needs more mp but that’s individual #and we are mostly talking BASE COMBAT here #of course lingering will can use keyblade transformations and there’s magic strategies — but that would make this post… much longer #brrrrrrr #kh analysis #kh meta #thanks to the handful of other people who asked me to expand on the same thing <3<3<3 #REALLY wanted to include one of Invi blocking — just go watch invi and aced fight for two standard offense #it Shows off their strengths and weaknesses #… no living adults do the two handed grip. Watch Sora and Xion’s data battle for an approximation I guess??#you. Hey you. Look in the notes rn #metazone

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chibi-mushroom · 4 years ago

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Hey everyone! Finally get to post my piece for the memory of promises zine! check out the link here if you want to grab one of your own copies in the leftover sale! I was so happy to be able to join in on this zine, and I hope you guys enjoy all the work that went into it! (Also keep in mind this was written before MoM.)

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Namine rubbed her temples and looked at the clock. Midnight already. DiZ was not going to like this. The next time he came into the white room would bring on some lecture or punishment of some kind. She had been working furiously all afternoon trying to get past this one section of memory, but there was something that was keeping her back. Her pulse began to race. She was feeling sick. The door to the white room opened and with a squeak, Namine ducked under the table, fearing the familiar stride of the man in red.

"It's okay, it's just me. You can come out now." A soft voice sounded in her ears. "You're safe. DiZ said he needed to run an errand and wouldn't be back for a couple of days."

Slowly looking up, Namine could see the outstretched hand of the only comfort she had in this lonely place. "Riku. You're back."

She took his offering and stood up. He hadn't let go of her hand just yet, blindfold still covering those beautiful blue green eyes he had. She was glad it stopped him from seeing things like her girlish blush. He was only offering his hand as a friend. Besides, it was wrong for her to want to be with him- nobodies weren't supposed to feel anything. So why did she?

"You're shaking." Riku stated simply. "Have you eaten anything today?"

So he could even feel the slight tremor in her hands. "No, not exactly."

"Do you want me to get something for you? I think there are some leftovers in the fridge."

"No, I'm alright. I have to get back to work." Namine tried to take her hand from his, but he held onto it all the tighter, leaning down a little to be at eye level with her.

"You were working when I left, and I can tell you haven't gotten any sleep. How are you expecting to take care of Sora when you can't take care of yourself?"

Right. Namine thought. He's just like DiZ. All he cares about is getting Sora restored. You're just a tool.

Still, she couldn't help but notice the way her breath caught in her throat as his blinded eyes sunk to meet her tired ones. Maybe she should take a small break. All of this stress was making her read too much into small gestures.

Namine simply nodded, and Riku left to warm her up some food. Sensing that going back to Sora's memories would be futile, she grabbed her sketch pad and turned it to the very last page. This was her secret page, covered in things she thought about. Mindless doodles she drew when she was waiting for the computer to check on Sora’s physical well-being.

The sketch pad was not necessary for her magic to work. She could rearrange memories- crush the hearts of her poor unsuspecting victims- without it. She used it though to help her concentrate. By visualizing the memories, she was able to make a more convincing edit or capture the feelings that were hiding beneath the surface. So many times she had drawn Sora, Riku and Kairi together. And sure there were strong feelings of both love and jealousy, but had she not had her sketch pad, she might have missed Sora's emotions of gratitude for two stalwart best friends, confusion about school topics they had recently studied, and hope that Kairi would want to go with him to the first school dance, even though he knew they would just go together and bail early to hang out on the play island like they always did whenever the school had some social.

"Here you go. It's nothing special, but it's better than nothing." Riku interrupted her thoughts with a plate of food.

With a gasp, Namine hurried to cover her sketch pad. Even though she knew he couldn't see it, he moved so gracefully that she sometimes wondered if he really was blind. Although those first couple of days made the mansion quite a bit louder with his cries of annoyance as he bumped into furniture. He even fell into the secret compartment that hid the computer lab, but luckily managed to land safely.

"Drawing something you don't want anyone to see?" Riku smirked.

"No!" Namine replied a bit sharper than she thought. "Maybe."

Riku laughed as he set their plates down and pulled a chair over. "I'm only kidding. You don't have to be working on Sora nonstop. If you want to take a moment for yourself, then do it."

"No, I need to be working on Sora. It was my fault he's like this in the first place. I want to keep my promise." Namine picked up the white plastic fork. For once would it hurt to have some color around here?

With a sigh, Riku held his hand out for her to hold. "We've been over this, Nam. What happened wasn't your fault. You were being used." Softly Riku muttered "you still are."

Namine looked at him for a moment and then looked down at her food. She picked at it for a few moments before softly sliding her hand in his and taking a couple of bites. She ate in a comfortable silence, simply feeling the pressure that came from the gentle touch. This sort of thing wasn't unusual for them. They could usually be found in silence with their hands connected. But the mountain of pressure from the recent block in memories and lack of self care was threatening to squish Namine with its enormous weight.

"How's the restoration going?" Riku asked.

Namine's stomach began to twist around itself. "I'm….not sure."

Riku squeezed her hand, urging her to explain. Namine sighed, unsure of how to continue. Would he get mad if she told the truth? He had slowly been becoming more like DiZ, after all. He used to be there with her when she was getting told off. These days, Riku was never usually in the white room for more than five minutes unless it was late at night.

"You remember what Sora's mom used to tell him all the time, right?" Riku recalled.

"Never talk to strangers on the play island?"

Riku chuckled, remembering a secret promise. "A problem shared is a problem halved. If you tell me, it might relieve some of the pressure on you."

There was no avoiding it, not as long as he held her hand.

"It's just that, well-" Namine fumbled for the words. "There's been a bit of a roadblock. I've been doing my best to sort it out, tracing the connections, but it's like the memories slip away as soon as I think I have a grasp on them. I may have gone through half a notebook trying to find a solid piece."

There was a pause, as if Riku were considering what to say.

"I'll go get you a new notebook tomorrow, then. As for the memories, we'll get it figured out. You need to take a break, anyway."

"No!" Namine swallowed back further emotion. Maybe she really did need some sleep. She was being more irrational than she expected. "No, it's fine. I'm sure I'm doing something wrong."

"Don't say stuff like that. If there's anyone who can make this situation right, it's you. Please, just take a few hours to rest tomorrow, okay?" Riku squeezed her hand again.

"I don't really have a choice here, do I?" Namine sighed.

"You always have a choice. I'm just asking you as someone who cares a lot about you."

Someone who cares? Namine thought. She slowly nodded in reply. Maybe a break was exactly what she needed.

"Thank you, Riku."

One Year Later

Again Riku tried to beat Marluxia, and again he was defeated. He only had this last battle to finish, having started against the organization members he recognized or had personally fought against. Which, admittedly wasn't many, but after several attempts, he was down to the last. It frustrated him that he still wasn't quite used to the keyboard controls, and Sora's moves were much less based in strength and relied much more on magic. Riku had never been very good with magic, focusing on perfecting his cure and dark firaga spells instead of learning the large array of magic that his friends had mastered.

Some keyblade master I turned out to be. Riku thought, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms. I can't even stop my two best friends from leaving me again. This is just like back then…

His mind began to drift away with thoughts of Castle Oblivion and Twilight Town. He heard the door open and gentle footsteps move toward him.

"Hey Aerith. We can work on that scarf in a minute. I have to get some more ethers for data Sora first."

"I take it the fight didn't go well then?" A soft voice walked closer.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. Not Aerith.

"Hey Namine. How could you tell?"

Namine placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. "You're really tense. Besides, I could feel your frustration from a block away."

What anger and annoyance had once plagued Riku's mind had since washed away. All he could register was how reassuring Namine's hand on his shoulder felt. She smelled nice, too. A faint blush warmed his cheeks. Ever since Kairi had insisted on going to sleep and Terra had left for the dark realm with Aqua and Ven, Namine was the only person Riku shared everything with. She had heard him vent several times, and she had been helping Aerith teach him how to knit. It was her delicate fingers that had lead him through the steps of a cable.

"I guess I need a little bit of a break." Riku said with a sigh. "Wanna go get some ice cream or something?"

"Sure." Namine smiled, stepping back so he could get up and stretch. They began to talk as they walked to their usual ice cream shop.

Since Scrooge, Huey and Dewey had returned home, the ice cream shop had been manned by one of the local citizens. He usually gave Riku a discount, so Riku usually put some munny in the tip jar. It had become routine over the past year to go whenever Namine came to visit from Twilight Town.

"How is everything going with Roxas and Xion?" Riku asked, sitting down and unwrapping his fruit bar.

"Slow." Namine replied, taking a small lick from her chocolate cherry ice cream cone. She wanted to try all of the flavors, and this was the last one. "Not too bad, but I think I preferred the strawberry cheesecake the best."

"That was a flavor Kairi always liked." Riku smiled softly.

When he saw the way Namine looked for just the hair of a second, he realized that was probably the wrong thing to say. He inwardly cursed himself and his inability to be the suave guy all the girls had thought he was growing up. Kairi and Namine didn't get much of a chance to talk after she got her replica body, as Kairi had almost immediately asked to be put under. Riku wondered what it was like living inside a heart of pure light. Just like Castle Oblivion, she didn't talk about it much.

"We should get some for her when she wakes up." Namine continued to eat her cone. There was an uncomfortable silence for just a moment before Namine spoke up again. "Who were you fighting when I came in?"

"Marluxia. He was the head of the castle, right?"

Namine nodded.

"I never really got to meet him as I was down in the basement back then. I'm sorry you had to deal with a guy like him."

"It's alright. I...had some support. There was Sora and Donald and Goofy. And despite everything I did to him, there was your replica, too." Namine spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "But don't feel bad. He made his decisions, like everyone else."

This time, it was Riku's turn to nod in agreement, taking a bite from his treat.

"After the data battles are all said and done, what happens next?" Namine asked softly.

"I...don't know. All I know is that I've been having these weird dreams lately."

"I wondered. You look tired." Namine grabbed on to Riku's hand, intertwining their fingers.

Maybe it was a reflex, maybe it was a force of habit, like how they used to sit back in the old mansion. Either way, the touch on its own was enough to pull Riku away from the dark thoughts that usually sat at the horizon of his mind. He squeezed her hand in response.

"Don't hesitate to call me if you ever need someone to talk to. I miss our little midnight chats." Namine admitted.

"I do too." Riku smiled softly. "They really helped clear my mind back then."

"A problem shared is a problem halved, remember?" Namine was glad she could actually see his eyes as she recalled back to his words that helped her through her time at the old mansion. "Care to share anything?"

Riku paused. He sighed before starting to speak. After he told her of the recurring dream he'd been having with the buildings and the feeling of being watched, he also admitted to the weight that had been pinned on his shoulders.

"I know it might sound silly, but I can't help but wonder if these dreams are connected to Sora somehow. I just wish I could understand it more." Riku finished his bar and set the popsicle stick on the bench beside him.

Namine had just finished her ice cream as well, wiping her face with the napkin. "Maybe it's time you take another journey."

"With the data battle still to fight and Kairi still asleep? I can't leave now."

"Maybe not now, but after the last battle is won." Namine gently pulled his hand close to her and began massaging it. "But that means I can't follow you. Will you be alright on your own? Maybe you can check Kairi's dreams."

"I...don't know. I haven't used my dream eater powers in a long time and the process is still kind of fuzzy for me." He could feel his muscles relax as she worked at his weary hand.

Doubt was rising in his chest. Maybe she was right. Who was he kidding? He wasn't ready for this kind of thing. He wasn't like Sora or Kairi who could follow their hearts at a moment's notice. He couldn't always feel the way it was trying to lead him.

But as he saw Namine patiently working on his hands, the stiff muscles being brought to relax against her fingers, a light shone through the storm of his doubt. How he hadn't realized it before was a mystery. Ever since they had met, she had been the light in the dark, just as he had provided shade for her in the brightest situations. As she finished the massage, she tenderly squeezed his hands, reassuring him that she was there and willing to help. Surely that was love.

He felt love for her, no question. But with Sora and Kairi gone and asleep, there never seemed to be a good moment to tell her what his heart really wanted to say.

"We...we should be getting back." Namine sighed. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"No, but then, I'm not really all that sure of anything anymore."

"If there's anything I know, it's that things will get better. We'll find Sora. I don't know how or when, but we will." Namine took his hand again, standing before him.

Namine took a quick breath and then leaned over, placing a quick kiss atop his head. Ordinarily, she wouldn't be able to reach, but since he was sitting down, she could offer a small token of her affection and confidence in his abilities.

She and Riku's faces filled with blush, although a smile tugged at her lips. Namine didn't have enough courage to kiss him on the lips like she had wanted to for so long, but this was safe. He couldn't spurn her for a harmless kiss to the head. After all, what was some reassurance between friends?

"Thank you, Namine." Riku had a hard time looking at this angel of a woman without his heartbeat increasing.

To think she was willing to be by his side after all this. He decided there and then that he would listen to his heart and tell her of his feelings...after they set everything right. Once Sora and Kairi were home and together, then they could sort out their own relationship. It would give him yet another reason to bring his best friend home.

He could still feel the kiss on his forehead, and it brought a genuine smile to his face. He stood up and began walking away from Merlin's house.

"Don't feel like you have to stop working on the data battles on my account. I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright." Namine stopped for a second.

"We can get back to those soon enough. I need a little longer before I get back into it." He took his trash and threw it into a nearby can. "There are some fountains that are really pretty this time of day nearby if you want to check them out with me."

A smile formed on Namine's lips. "I'd love to, Riku."

#RikuNami #namiku #mopzine #kh fanfiction #riku #namine #post Re:Mind #Pre MoM

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antiloreolympus · 3 years ago

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7 Anti LO Asks

1. tbh the fact rachel purposely didnt let persephone have any romantic relationships before hades gives the impression that had persephone had any other experience, she'd see right through him and not want him because she had better. not having any other point of reference isnt good. its setting up that hades can get away with whatever he wants because she doesnt know anything else. thats really not a healthy dynamic to have even while dating, much less eternal marriage.

2. You know what’s weird? How Hades is a 2000+ year old being and still has not gone through his trauma. We know that he was eaten by Kronos when he was around 8 and stayed there for like 13 years if i’m correct (in the LO version), so we can assume that when he got out he was in his early to mid twenties. And then he fought in the war which we don’t know how long it was in LO bc there’s no info on that at all but let’s assume that that lasted 100 years.. he’s still pretty young there. So how is it that he’s only now getting help for his traumas? Which we don’t even see actually, it’s just a sentence said by him when he adopts the little dog. We don’t even know how old he actually is bc it’s always assumed it’s 2000+ but 2000+ years old could mean 2030 years old or 2999 years old or even 3000 and more and he has just lost track of time. All of these years and he still has not processed or made any progress?? At all?! Unless therapists are a new thing in the Underworld but we have Chiron who says that she was a physician in the old world but got tired of it so she decided to study the human mind. And that must have been quite some time ago. So why exactly is Hades a 2000+ broken man who needs to be fixed by a 19 year old going through her own trauma?

3. The underworld being an infertile world doesn’t make sense at all. If we compare the underworld with the underground it’s a fact that where there’s decay if is more fertile. Not to mention that in the myths the underworld is in fact considered a fertile land. We know that the underworld is full of souls, and souls are considered what give life to a body or place, so the underworld being a desert still doesn’t make sense at all.

4.If I may also add, just because LO is a “retelling” doesn’t mean it doesn’t harm Greece or Greek people. They still exist, funnily enough, they didn’t all die once Alexander the Great stop conquering. They’re a country full of strong, passionate people who have gone and are still going through massive problems and hardships. They are also a country who are still, at best, ignored, or at worst, mocked for the suffering they must endure by nations that are far from economic instability and from actual war zones like Greece is. Despite all that, their mythos are seen with great reverence to this day, and they don’t “gatekeep” it, you can ask any Greek in here and they’ll tell you they enjoy stuff like the Disney version or PJO just fine, but you have to stop and wonder why LO is a Greek myth product that is almost universally despised to Greeks who know it exists.

It’s pretty obvious why, RS not only butchers the myths completely to where they don’t even resemble what they once were, but her constantly silencing and badmouthing actual Greeks who want to help her make it more accurate is not a great look. She’s acting as if she, a white woman from an island made of literal England reject descendants, somehow not only knows more about Greek myth than actual Greeks, but that she OWNS the mythology and she can do whatever she wants with it, and only those who agree to her biases know what they’re talking about while everyone else is wrong, so obviously Greeks don’t know Greek mythology! Even media products in the same, non-Greek realm as her get her ire. Case in point, we know she’s hostile to PJO, she badmouths the Disney movie all the time, she complained about Blood of Zeus (emphasize on ZEUS) didn’t revolve around HxP, and despite them being heavily promoted by her own employers, she never speaks of Punderworld or HxP ficlets, even when her fans harass them and in Ficlets case purposely got them kicked off Canvas for “copying” LO, meanwhile she will happily promote OSP because they confirm her biases and kissed her butt in their HxP video. What does this tell us? Because it doesn’t seem very nice.

Of course she’s allowed as a creator to play with the mythology as she wants, but even then there are still limits to adhere to, and she never does it because obviously her half-baked concept of the “mythology” is way better than the 3000+ years of texts and interpretations out there. Sure she has people flinging themselves at her to offer her help for free, especially Greeks and academics, but what would they know over her, the self proclaimed master of mythology itself? Obviously she created it all in 2016 when she decided to draw a sexy pink girl and that’s it. Greece and everyone else was just using a fake version this whole time!

It seems from her POV, Greece ands its citizens are, in her own words “haters” who apparently know less about Greece and its own mythology than her, a white woman who uses a fanfic-writing white supremacist as a main source. The ego on this woman is astonishing.

5. May I also add to the age discourse, something like Edward and Bella can get away with it because Edward stopped aging physically, mentally, and emotionally at 17, and even in story there is a logic to them still going to HighSchool after all this time. He may be 117 age wise, but he’s at the same exact level as Bella in every other regard. That doesn’t excuse his creepy actions, of course, but there is in canon logic to it to justify it and make sense.

I’d say LO could use this too, but tbh it wouldn’t work. Either it’d involve making a CEO king as immature and childish as a 19 year old (not great) or it’d have a 19 year old suddenly be way wiser beyond her years which wouldn’t make much narrative sense, but also has some really creepy implications to it. Anyway RS dug herself into a stupid hole and doesn’t know how to get out of it.

6. im in the same boat 😭 i was watching one of those LO critique videos you posted and they were showing panels from early on and i just thought "they photoshopped this, right? theres no way it looked this bad. they're just goofing around with this" and nope, that's exactly how they looked the video didnt change a thing. the bright colors really were distracting your eyes from seeing how bad it looked.

7. Correct me if i’m wrong but in one of the first few episodes wasn’t Hades annoyed with Persephone? Especially at the panel where she wanted to drive his car? Like nothing has really changed in her behaviour with him apart from her being more flirty, but the only change is that Hades started viewing her more sexually. Always thinking about her breasts and butt, and nothing else. Half the time he was thinking about her, he wouldn’t even think of her face. So how exactly is their relationship a romantic and lovely one?

#anti lo art #anti lore olympus #lore olympus critical #lo critical #anti lo

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ot3 · 5 years ago

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your last post made me think about how I loooove how you use color in your art, it's so vibrant and full of life and movement and expression! I was wondering if you had any advice on how to do color studies? perhaps doing drawings with limited palettes? or anything similar?

First things first, thank you, I really do appreciate comments like these! this post now also has a follow up for finish limited palette pieces

I'm obviously very fond of limited palette art and color studies/color thumbnailing are great ways to get that done. When people think limited palette there's often the association of unrealistic and fantastical color palettes, but learning to limit your color use absolutely applies to semirealism and just builds stronger color theory in general. I was planning to talk about limited palettes in more realistic color use in this post, but this already ended up way too long. If that's something people want to hear about I can talk about it later.

Color theory basics crash-course! I'm sure almost anyone who has colored anything is familiar with this, so I'll be SUPER brief, but I want everyone to be on the same page for this. Color has three qualities you need to take into account: Hue, saturation, and brightness. Hue is what we think of as the 'color'. Saturation is the vibrancy of this color; how bold or dull it is. Brightness is how light or dark the color is. Here's this all labeled on a color picker I stole from google.

As a rule of thumb, things that look good in color should look good in grayscale. Having a strong range of values (brightness) makes for a strong image. Keep this in mind when you're picking colors – knowing what areas need to be light and what areas need to be dark before you start coloring will make your life easier. I'm going to teach you when and how to break this rule later, but for now let's just talk about picking a palette. I've found five to seven different colors to be a really nice sweet spot for working with limited palettes.

There are three main types of color palettes ill work with and ill provide examples each of them. I expect you to all politely refrain commenting on the amount of homestuck fanart that's here.

Monochromatic, where the piece is all within one color family with slight variations in hue, and larger variations in brightness and saturation

Accent, which is essentially the same as a monochromatic type with the addition of a strong, contrasting secondary color in one or two variants. Normally the accent color is lighter and serves as a highlight. This is not any kind of a hard rule, but is instead just what I like.

Split. There are two (or more) main colors at play, each with a couple of different shades.

Cool. Now lets see how we'd go about making one of these palettes.

I'm grabbing an inconsequential sketch i've already got and we're gonna slap some color on it. Let's start monochromatic – I've gone and just tossed six pretty random shades of green on it, picking what goes where based on what I want to be light and what I want to be darker.

Keep in mind, by monochromatic, I don't mean just picking one color and making it lighter or darker! Adjust your hue within the same color family – some of these are very blue, definitely more blue than green, and some are much warmer and yellower. Play around. In this stage I like to have every color on a distinct layer, so I can just recolor the entire layer at once as I tweak the palette.

On the right, I have each color lined up in order of lightest to darkest just so I can get a sense of what I'm working with. Lets go ahead and call this one thumbnail. Now I'm gonna group the layers, duplicate them, and flatten the copy. I'll shrink it down and shove it off to the side so I can compare it to the other ones I make later.

Okay, I did a few more almost completely arbitrary monochromatic palettes. Here they are compared with their grayscale counterparts.

All of them have the same number of colors, and lights stay lights, darks stay dark, midtones stay mid consistent between all of them, but the range of values is different between them all. The difference in light or dark between each tone is different and it gives a different mood that you can see even in black and white. None of them is more 'correct' than any other, and it's all about establishing the tone and atmosphere you want. Experimentation is key.

Now lets try making this a complimentary palette. With a strong accent color, your accent should be placed at areas of importance. People are naturally drawn to contrast and when using an accent color in a piece it'll make that area stick out, so make sure you're placing your colors with intent. For this I went back to that first set of greens I had because it was my favorite. Since this palette is over all very dark, I am going to make my accent the lightest color, because that'll stand out more. In a lighter palette, try making your accent the darkest color. Once again I must stress these are not hard rules – there are very few hard rules in art at all – but these are very useful tips for getting emphasis in the right place. This is just an example piece so I'm not being huuugely thoughtful with how I'm placing the color.

Here's the same image but with the lightest green just swapped out for a far more vibrant accent of yellow. Looks pretty terrible. I don't want all of the papers and blinds to seem so prominent. So let's scrap this and try a different approach. We're gonna instead add our accent as a sixth color to our palette.

By adding another color, I've added another level of detail. Figuring out how to manage detail isn't just dependent on how many colors you have, but this is already going to be ridiculously long so I'll spare you that spiel. This is another one of those things I'll talk about more later if people want to hear my #thots. Using the new yellow accent, I emphasized the eyes, the mug, and added some interior detailing to the objects on the table. I also decided to place yellow in some of the windows of the outside buildings, to add a bit more interest in that area, and to justify giving yellow back lighting to our little goblin lad here, which makes him stand out nicely.

A split palette makes things a whole lot more complicated. Now that you're gonna be working with two different base colors you don't just only have to worry about which one is lighter or darker, you have to worry about how the hues look next to each other. Lets work with an orange on top of our original green here. I picked two of the greens and replaced the darker one with a darker orange, and the lighter one with a lighter orange. Now our palette is six colors split 50/50 between orange+yellow, and green.

But now something interesting is happening. Let's take a look. If you're particularly keen eyed, you might have noticed that there's a third set of colors here, using a greyish brown in place of the oranges. What's up with that?

Well, what's up with that is, they are orange. The palette on the far right is what happens if, instead of choosing my own oranges, I simply hue-shifted the bluegreens until they were technically orange in hue.

The oranges I chose just based on how they looked without actually checking the value and saturation of actually changed the value hierarchy of the whole piece. The table, instead of being in between the objects stacked upon it in terms of brightness, is lighter than either. This isnt bad at all – there's absolutely nothing wrong here. It's just important to be aware of things like this! This is why I said a split palette is the most complicated of the three I'm talking about here – in many occasions, the hue hierarchy can top the value hierarchy. Keep that in mind for slightly later.

I think split palettes work really well for comics, and I like to make my comics with split palettes. Whereas with a single illustration, you can just putz around with your color thumbnails until you get something good, for a comic you're locked into your palette once you've done the first page. Unless you're some sort of insanely meticulous person, in which case I envy you, you probably don't have every single page of your comic blocked out with respective values and can't apply your palette to the whole thing at once to test it. This means you'll need a palette that's pretty versatile. Having a split palette where one of the hue sets is lighter than the other overall allows you to decide whether you're going to create an overall light panel with dark accents, or vice versa. I'm gonna compare two palettes I'm using for comics to make this point.

Here's a sampling of the comic pages in full color, at 0% saturation, and adjusted for grayscale respectively. You'll notice a slight difference between the desaturated colors and the grayscale colors – grayscale seems to hold truer to the full color version, doesn't it?

Now, here are the palettes themselves, and some grids showing the relationship between every pair of colors. When you don't know exactly what you're going to be using any given palette for, the relationship between any two colors becomes more important than ever. The bottom palette is split three ways, red yellow and blue each with a light and a dark, and then a completely neutral dark gray color. I'm using it for a long ongoing ace attorney comic I'm drawing. The top one has 4 shades of blue that go from darker and cooler to lighter and warmer, then 3 shades of orange that get yellower as they get lighter. Underneath is just the values – you'll notice that the top palette has a larger value range, with its lightest color being lighter than that of the bottom palette, and it's mid tones spaced further apart.

What you'll also notice about the bottom palette is that instead of the reds being lighter than the blues and darker than the yellows, the value alternates dark red dark yellow light red light yellow. Take a look at the color grids. You'll notice that for the most part, every color in the palette on the right looks good with every other color. That's not nearly as true for the palette on the left. The light blue has a weird vibration where it meets either of the reds, and a few of the pairings just aren't particularly pleasant. Honestly, from any objective ideas of color theory, this palette kind of sucks shit. Lets make some adjustments to it.

I've changed the dark yellow and light red hues so now the light red is slightly darker than the dark yellow. That's the palette that's on top now. Looks better, doesn't it? But so now the question becomes why am I using a palette that looks awkward, disharmonious, and visually strained when I know exactly how to fix it? The simple answer is because I wanted a color palette that's awkward. I wanted that visual strain. I have trouble working on comics and general, especially anything as long as this one, and I wanted a color palette that already meant things would come out looking a little bit wonky, so I wouldn't be as concerned with nitpicking all the details and making everything pretty. I think the sort of visual upset also fits the tone I'm keeping with a lot of the comic.

Remember earlier when I said I'd talk about breaking the rule of stuff looking good in gray scale and in color? That's now. Take a look at this image.

Which of the three colors is darker: the red, blue, or yellow? The stupid truth of it is that there's not really a proper way to tell. All three are technically the same 'brightness' but our brain tells us that the blue is the darkest, and the yellow is the lightest. Why do our brains do this? Let’s make em gray now.

On the bottom you can see what the colors look like when they are set to 0% saturation; as you'd expect it's a homogeneous gray blob. So then what the fuck is going on with the grayscale one? The grayscale one is closer to the way our brains interpret the colors, but we know this to be an improper rendering of their respective values. Which is the correct version, then – the grayscale or the desaturation? Luckily, we're using a computer, so we can have photoshop tell us the exact balance of hue, saturation, and brightness of any given pixel. Let's take a look now.

Wait, huh? We can plainly see that all three of the colors are at 49% brightness. But neither the desaturated value or any of the 3 grayscale values have a brightness of 49%. So what does a brightness of 49% look like?

Okay. Sure. Why not.

All of what I've just shown you regarding grayscale is to emphasize the point that your best judgment for which colors look good is a far better measuring stick for a good color palette than any technicalities. Even if the value is the same, the hue can differ enough that you can still get a beautiful finished drawing. Color and our perception of it is so, so vastly technically complex. You can not allow yourself to be bogged down by this. Simply practice, and color will become intuitive to you over time. I have a lot more I could say on the subject of picking and using your colors, but this is already insanely long. Feel free to ask any follow up questions, I hope this was of literally any use!

#long post #uhhhhh.#color theory #i guess #i drew this #Anonymous

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dp-marvel94 · 4 years ago

Text

The Mystery Shack Spooks- Part 3

For Holiday Truce 2020

Summary: Elle Fenton had hoped for a normal summer, a chance to make normal friends with people who know nothing about her crazy family, ghosts, or, most importantly, her status as a clone. But ghosts always seem to find her, even in Gravity Falls. Now the Mystery Shack is haunted by a unknown apparition with an unknown connection to Dipper and Mabel, and to Elle herself. The half ghost struggles to open up to her new friends and to find a way to help this lonely ghost.

Part 1 -> Part 2 -> Part 3(Here) -> Part 4 -> Part 5

Also on AO3 and fanfiction.net

The half ghost sat, waiting on her bed and hoping that the Shack's mysterious ghost would reappear. Sadness swirled in her heart as the scene replayed in her head- the panic, the desperation as the misty figure begged to be seen. Why did he react that extremely, that devastated? She puzzled over Dipper’s explanation. Maybe that was correct; the ghost was upset about still being unseen and unheard. But there had to be more, didn’t there? It was almost like….he was upset that Dipper and Mabel couldn’t see him specifically.

The half ghost’s frowned. The ghost…he’d been moving Dipper and Mabel’s things. He’d latched on to her because she could see him but he’d first started with moving the twins’ things and following them…. almost like he was trying to get their attention, But why?

Wait... It's me, he’d said to Dipper. Like the boy should have recognized the ghost, like he knew him. But, how could he? If the twins closely knew someone who’d died, wouldn’t they have brought up the idea that their loved one was trying to get their attention from beyond the grave?

Unless…Elle’s eyes widened. Unless they thought it was impossible for him could come back because…. The half ghost’s breath caught in her throat as pieces slid together. He…the boy had died…maybe died… in the Mystery Shack. He was about her and Dipper and Mabel’s age. His name started with a T. But…no, that’s-

Elle’s heart stopped, the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. Back at the beginning when Dipper’s journal went missing, she’d…she’d asked who the figure was, and he’d shown the copier in the book. The Copier meaning….No, it couldn’t be…but….The ghost’s height, it…it matched Dipper’s exactly. And the brief coloration she’s seen- white and blue like Dipper’s hat and vest. Oh god, he even paced like Dipper did.

“Tyrone.” She whispered. “Oh my god. He’s Tyrone.”

No, the half ghost shook her head. No, that was impossible. It couldn’t be…he couldn’t be. A clone made out of paper, who’d been alive for all of a few hours. There couldn’t have been enough emotion, enough sense of self to form a ghost. But…the clone had helped to choose his own name, part of her argued. That required a degree of independence, a sense of himself as different from Dipper Pines. So maybe he was Tyrone. Maybe a magically created paper clone had managed to be reborn as a ghost. She bit her lip. Maybe…. maybe she should tell Dipper and Mabel her idea….

No, the girl bit her lip. She shouldn’t get their hopes up. If she was right, this would be an incredible miracle. But if she was wrong….Dipper’s wavered voice and downcast eyes as he talked about losing Tyrone rang in her head…if she was wrong, this would crush them. But maybe she could get proof.

Talking a deep breath, she stood. “Hey, if you’re here…” She looked up at the ceiling. “I think…I think I know who you are. You’re…you’re Tyrone, Dipper’s clone.”

Silence.

“Are you there?” She called.

Nothing. Elle sighed. Was he ignoring her? Or… he had used a lot of energy to make the lights flicker, float objects, and freeze the floor (Elle had ice powers so she knew how tiring that was). Maybe he didn’t have enough power to appear even to her.

“Okay. If…if you are Tyrone, can you give me some sigh? Or…show up so I can talk to you?”

No response. “Alright then. I’m gonna go to bed.”

Elle tossed and turned for a while, struggling to sleep without her answer but none came.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The half ghost girl blinked awake to sunlight streaming through her window. She groaned sleepily and went to bury her head back in her pillow when the sound of something heavy falling to the floor rang through the room. Suddenly startled, the girl sat up.

In the middle of the room and suspiciously far from any furniture was a thick, heavy book. Beside the object, a misty blue and white figure floated for a second before flickering out of existence.

“Are you avoiding me now?” The girl rubbed her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you if you wanted to see Dipper and Mabel. I probably should have and I get why you’d be upset if you’re…..” She trailed off, the lack of response deepening her frown. “Come out and talk to me, please. I…I just want to know if you are... who I think you are.”

The room remained silent, except for the flutter of paper on the desk. Stupid window must be….Elle looked to window, eyes widening. It was closed.

Heart pounding, the girl leapt to her feet. She practically ran to the desk. It was covered with the normal mix of knick knacks and school supplies but…there was a colorful piece of paper that hadn’t been there yesterday. With shaking hands, the half ghost picked the piece up. It was white cardstock covered with green pine trees, probably a Christmas themed piece from Mabel’s art and craft stock. In thick black marker, it read ‘Tyrone.’

Elle’s brain short circuited for a moment as she stared at the paper. What was…what did…how… The paper dropped through her fingers and into the desk. She whipped around, eyes hungrily searching for a blurry figure.

“Tyrone. You’re Tyrone. Dipper’s Tyrone. You’re….” She ran a hand through her hair. “I…I can’t believe this. How…how did this even happen? I mean I know how but…”

The girl blinked for a long moment as an insubstantial apparition appeared in front of her. Despite his flickering, translucent body and pale blue tint covering his figure, the ghost wore a surprisingly familiar looking appearance. As a clone, he looked almost exactly like Dipper, complete with the typical vest and hat, though Tyrone’s hat bore the number 2 instead of a picture of a pine tree.

Elle’s mouth fell open. “I can see you.”

The ghost boy frowned (frowned! As in she could actually see his mouth to see his frown!) and gave her an exacerbated look.

Elle shook her head. “No. Your face, I can actually see your face!”

Tyrone pursed his lips in confusion for a moment before his eyes widened in understanding. He opened his mouth and excited sounding static exited.

That sobered the half ghost. “Your voice still sounds like a broken TV though.”

He frowned, crossing his arms. Clearly, he was displeased. A sliver of sadness tugged at her heart too but she could actually see him!

Elle marched forward. “I mean…I wish we could actually talk with words, but I can actually see your facial expressions now! I can read your body language. I could…I could learn to read your lips or we could learn sign language…or…”

Tyrone’s eyes lit up at the last suggestion, a smile stretching across his face as he nodded enthusiastically.

The half ghost grinned. “Man you’re…you’re actually him. You’re Tyrone, Dipper’s clone.” Her eyes widened, a realization filling her with awe. “You’re a clone, like I am.”

The boy nodded but there was no shock, no surprise.

Elle stumbled towards her bed, the weight of what she’d said hitting her. She’d feared even uttering the word clone in front of Dipper or Mabel but… she’d just spit it out. The girl glanced up at the other ghost. And Tyrone wasn’t even shocked.

The half ghost put a hand on her head. “You already know. You heard me after…after I found out about the copier.”

Static buzzed for his answer, but Elle knew it was a yes. To her surprise, the conformation didn’t make her feel nervous or exposed. Instead…her core hummed with some emotion she couldn’t place.

Tyrone drifted forward, shifting in the air until he was floating crossed legged at her eyes level. He focused compassionate eyes on her. You’re like me. He said and this time she understood. Not just because that was the first thing he’d said to her that she understood. Instead….she knew the meaning. They were both ghosts. They were both clones, supposed copies of someone else but they were not alone.

Elle’s core purred in her chest and she subtly smiled. This was part of the reason he’d warmed up to her and she’d become comfortable with him so quickly. There was a connection she hadn’t recognized until now. A kinship she’d felt since….

The other clones, her first brothers were still alive. Her face fell at the thought, at the memories. Playing with tag with Tiny. Watching the clouds with Bones. Petting the cat that wandered the garden with Muscles. Sitting on the floor reading to the prime clone, Daniel.

Something cold brushed against her arm, drawing her attention. She looked up, registering the mostly insubstantial hand on her arm. She met the other clone’s eyes. ‘What?’ He mouthed.

Elle shook her head. “It’s just…I haven’t talked to another clone since…since the others were still around but…they’re all gone now. It’s just me.”

Tyrone’s eyes softened in understanding. ‘Same.’ He looked down, expression full of sorrow.

The half ghost startled at the answer before nodding. “Right. You weren’t the only one either.” There had been nine or ten others and….she paled at thought….he’d seen all them melt, barely escaping that fate just to meet his demise minutes later.

Tyrone seemed to be thinking about the same thing, a queasy look on his face.

The girl sighed. “It’s okay now.” She gave her best comforting smile. “We’re both here. We both survived.”

The other ghost blanched at the thought, looking questioningly down at his translucent body. He then pinned her with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, you…that. But…” Elle shook her head. “You came back. Most people don’t.”

She looked down. Very few people came back as ghosts but…. (The other clones, maybe they could too. Maybe they were out there somewhere, waiting. If one of Dipper’s clones became a ghost… a jab of jealousy…. Why hadn’t any of her clone brothers come back to her?) No, Elle forced the dangerously intoxicating thoughts down. This wasn’t about her and her lost siblings.

The corner of her lip turned up as she forced her voice to sound lite. “Besides, being a ghost isn’t that bad. You’ve got cool powers and you��uhhh…more durable than before.” The girl smiled sheepishly, unsure if she should have said that as soon as it left her mouth.

Across from her, Tyrone shivered. Then he gave a rye smile and said something equally sheepish. Elle tilted her head in question and he tried again, carefully enunciating the words. The girl watched his mouth. Was he saying ‘can’t melt now’? He repeated the words a third time and Elle was sure.

She fought not to grimace. Well….that wasn’t actually true. Ghosts could melt as she well knew but…she wasn’t exactly going to tell him that right now. Instead, she shrugged uncertainly. “Yeah. Water can’t actually hurt you now.”

The boy let out a relieved breath for a moment before his shoulder’s fell. More static exited his mouth. The half ghost continued to patiently study him until the other ghost again realized she couldn’t understand him.

With a huff, he uncrossed his legs and floated around the room, looking for something. He paused at one of the end tables as Elle came to stand beside him. The ghost boy reached for a strip of photos on the desk and then gritted his teeth as his fingers passed through. An intense look of concentration crossed his face (it reminded Elle greatly of Dipper yesterday) and he reached again. It took several tries but he managed to pick up the pictures.

Elle tilted her head. It was a line of photo booth pictures she had taken with the twins at the arcade. Tyrone pointed at the two siblings with his free hand.

“Dipper and Mabel?” She questioned.

The boy nodded. In that moment, his concertation lapsed and the pictures fell through his hand. He groaned in displeasure.

Elle bent down to take the paper, studying it. Then she looked at the other ghost again. “What about Dipper and Mabel?”

Tyrone frowned. Deliberately, he pointed at each twin. Then he shook his head, covering his ears and then his eyes.

“Oh.” Elle also frowned. “They still can’t see or hear you.”

The ghost nodded, a deep sadness in his eyes. The half ghost felt a similar sadness. Though she now knew that the ghost haunting the shack was Tyrone and could see him, he was still invisible to everyone else. He can’t show himself or talk to Dipper and Mabel. It was almost he wasn’t even here. Except that he was.

Tyrone had come back as a ghost and Elle didn’t know the true extent of his relationship to the twins. She didn’t know what he actually thought of Dipper especially. And she didn’t know what the twins actually thought about him, how they would react if he showed up again. But…

She remembered Dipper’s sadness talking about Tyrone melting, Mabel’s uncharacteristic soberness during that conversation. She remembered last night- Tyrone begging and crying in front of them. Please, it’s me. I’m right in front of you. He wanted to connect with them, didn’t he? But he couldn’t do that alone.

“We’ll figure something out.” Elle ran a hand through her hair. “But for now, what am I gonna tell Dipper and Mabel?”

Tyrone’s eyes widened, a panicked look crossing his face. He vigorously shook his head.

The girl stared at him. “Tyrone. I figured out who you are. I can actually see you. I have to tell them something.”

The ghost boy continued to shake his head exaggeratedly.

Elle raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to tell them?”

His voice buzzed as panicked static and she didn’t need to understand the words to know he was saying no.

The girl held out her hands. “Why not? I saw how upset you got last night. You want to talk to them. And…I think they’d want to talk to you too.” She said that last part with less certainty but it was true, right?

At some point, the ghostly clone had started pacing. He stopped to stare at her. He waved his arms, motioning to his mouth.

Elle scowled before catching. “You can’t talk to them…and they can’t see you.” Her lips turned down.

Tyrone nodded, more static popping. Some words broke through the noise. “Can’t see…how can…like not here….and….can’t break their hearts….”

“You don’t want to hurt them.” The half ghost said softly.

The boy confirmed with a nod.

Elle frowned. “But..” She started to argue.

Tyrone floated forward, holding up his hands. He closed his eyes, concentrating before he opened his mouth. “Please, wait until we figure this out.” He motioned to his still insubstantial form.

“They could help us with that, if they knew.” She argued.

He still shook his head, before biting his lip. “No, I’m…not ready…..” There was a long pause when the half ghost thought he wouldn’t say anything else. “I’m…Just a copy. Aren’t I? But….I don’t know…what will they think of me?” The last words rang with doubt and fear but somehow they were more real and solid than anything she’d heard from him.

Elle frowned, trying to make sense of the words. Except they made too much sense. She knew all the self-worth issues that came with being a clone, all the fear of people knowing what a freak you are, not being ready to face the truth. Or…maybe she was projecting what she felt on to him. Maybe he wasn’t feeling insecure because of his clone status. Maybe he was just afraid of hurting Dipper and Mabel and being physically unable to comfort them.

After long consideration, the half ghost sighed. “Alright. I won’t tell them. But we’ll find a way for them to see and hear you. And then you’ll have to face them.”

Tyrone swallowed nervously but nodded in agreement. Then he offered her a half-smile and a mouthed ‘Thank you,’ before he disappeared, leaving Elle to get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maybe agreeing not to tell Dipper or Mabel about Tyrone was a bad idea, Elle thought ruefully. The fair had come early this year and she was supposed to be having fun with the twins. Mabel was talking about their time travel adventure last year, gushing about how she won Waddles and chuckling about how Dipper kept hitting Wendy in the eyes with a baseball, to the boy’s groaning.

“Yeah, we never figured out what that time anomaly thing was.” The female twin shrugged.

“Mabel, that was us.” Dipper stated flatly.

“That’s just silly bro. Us, cause a time anomaly. Psh.” She waved her hand flippantly. Dipper rolled his eyes, exacerbated. Elle wasn’t sure if Mabel was being serious or not but before she could say anything, the other girl’s eyes widened. “Candy! Grenda!”

As Mabel ran off to meet her friends, Elle sighed, and Dipper’s smile fell. A moment later, he looked at the other teen and sighed. “So…what do you want to do?”

Elle shrugged, frowning. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

If she was honest, she wasn’t in the mood for fun, not after this morning. She was feeling blue and Dipper didn’t seem to be doing much better. Elle had noticed it as soon as she saw him at breakfast this morning. The tension in his shoulders, the bags under his sunken eyes, the way he kept wringing his hands. He looked like he had barely slept, deeply bothered by something.

“How about we go get some food?” The boy offered halfheartedly.

“Sure.” Elle agreed, her thoughts away from her friend’s sour mood.

The pair walked to one of the food trucks, ordering cheeseburgers, fries, and cans of Pit Cola. They sit down to eat at a picnic table, beside some of the older teens.

Elle listlessly picked at her food, while passively watching people pass by their table. Across from her, Dipper was in a similar mood, his eyes fixed down while he nibbled at his fries. He remained silent which was fine with Elle; she wasn’t in a talking mood today either.

If she’s been in a better mood, she might have wondered about what was bothering him and asked about it. But instead, her head remained filled with her own troubled thoughts. She couldn’t stop thinking about Tyrone who was in the Shack somewhere, still invisible. Elle sighed. She knew his name now but what did that matter? She still had no idea how to actually help him.

A blue tinted figure drew Elle’s attention away. She looked up, her frown deepening. There in the attic window was Tyrone. He was watching them with one hand on the window; even from this distance she could make out the sad look in his eyes.

“What are you looking at?” The living boy across from her asked, startling her.

Elle whipped to look at him. A moment later, she recognized the question. “Oh…our ghostly friend.” It wasn’t a lie, technically, right? “He’s in the window of your bedroom.” She looked back up and pointed, causing the boy to swivel around to see and then frowned. “Or he was.” Tyrone had disappeared in second she looked away.

“Oh.” Dipper frowned. “What was he doing?”

“Just looking out the window. Watching the fair I guess.” She shrugged, trying to sound unbothered. But she was bothered. He was watching them, with the expression of someone on the outside looking in.

Despite her efforts, the boy mostly likely picked up on the unease anyway. “He must be really lonely.”

“Yeah.” The girl nodded, putting her arms around herself. Jazz had said as much earlier and Elle herself thought that was well. She shivered. “No one being able to see and hear you must be horrible.”

Dipper swallowed. “It is. It’s awful.”

The sureness of the statement giving her pause, Elle blinked at him in surprise. “You sound...very sure about that.”

The boy’s shoulders rose, and he paled, looking like he’d been caught. Then a deep look of consideration covered his face. He looked around cautiously. “There’s a reason for that.” He lowered his voice. “We shouldn’t talk about it here.”

With that, the boy stood. He grabbed his food and Elle followed with her own food as he led her away from the picnic tables. With another cautious glance, he darted behind one of the game stales. With a food truck to their backs and the back of the stall in front of them, it formed a secluded little alley away from listening ears.

Dipper took a seat, slumping into the grass. He bit his lip, mulling over something silently before meeting her eyes. “I..I kinda know what it’s like to be a ghost.”

Elle frowned in surprise. “What?”

The boy opened and closed his mouth, searching for words. He nervously rubbed one of his arms. “I…When Bill Cipher possessed me, I got kicked out of my own body. While that demon,” His voice pitched up in anger at the word, before dipping down in sadness. “was tramping around in my body. I was just floating there. I couldn't touch anything. And no one could see or hear me. I yelled in people’s ears, waved in their faces but…nothing.” He looked at his hands. “It’s like…I didn’t even exist. I wasn’t even there, like I was a….”

“A ghost.” The girl’s eyes lit up in understanding. “It’s like you were a ghost.”

Dipper nodded. “It was horrible. I felt so…helpless. Cipher was running around, doing whatever he wanted to do to me and I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t get anyone to help me, because they couldn’t see me. It was…one of the most horrible things that's ever happened to me.” He almost whispered that last part before shaking his head. “It turned out okay though. I possessed one of Mabel’s sock puppets to talk to her and she helped get the demon out of me.” Elle’s eyes widened at the last part, wanting to ask more about that story but Dipper continued before she could. “But the point is…I was stuck like that for a few hours and it was awful. But the ghost in the Shack…he’s been like that for who knows how long.”

Elle shook her head, considering the words. “I can’t even imagine that. Well…Well no, I can...”

The boy gave her a curious look and the girl pinched her mouth shut. She didn’t want to bring that up, not right now, not when it could lead to…other revelations but….she met Dipper’s eyes. He’d already spilled deep secrets to her. He trusted her, repeatedly, and she still remained closed off.

Elle hazarded a cautious glance at Dipper. "I...uhh….I have something to tell you about..." She rubbed the back of her neck. "About why I can see the ghost but no one else can. It's uhhh.. it's not because I've been living above a ghost portal."

The boy seemed to pick up on her somber tone, his frowning deepening. "What do you mean? Is there no portal?"

The halfa wrung her hands. "No, I mean…Mom and Dad do have a portal and it is in our basement. So I have been living above it but… I know what's not why I can see the ghost."

"Then why?"

Elle could hardly believe she was saying this, she was trying to confess this as she stammered. "I...uhh...I..umm… it's...it's complicated and weird. And...I'm … I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier but I thought...well.. it's silly but…" Her voice quieted. "Please don't be mad."

Dipper's expression softened. "Elle, it's okay. You can tell me whatever it is."

The girl took a breath and closed her eyes. She braced herself. She would say it. She was gonna actually say it and it would be fine because she could trust Dipper and he'd believe her and...She spit out the words. "I'm half ghost."

There was a long moment of silence when the other teen didn't react. Tentatively, she peaked her eyes open and took in his bewildered expression.

"What?" He finally said.

"I'm half ghost." Elle forced the words out again. "That's why I can see the Shack's ghost, 'cause I'm one too." She glanced up, meeting Dipper's still confused gaze, before looking down again. She then continued as the other boy remained silent. “So yeah...I’ve got all the typical powers. I can turn invisible.” In demonstration, her hand disappeared. “Intangible.” Her hand took on a bluish tint before she passed it into the ground. “Make ectoblasts.” Pulling her hand back up, she summoned neon green energy into her palm. “I can do ice too and float but those are….uhh...harder in this form….”

She trailed off at the end, blushing under Dipper’s slack jawed stare. The girl bit her lip. Had she gone too fast? Should she have explained better? Should she transform? No that was a stupid idea. This was stupid idea. Stupid! She just broke her friend. He probably thought-

“You’re a ghost.” Dipper’s uncharacteristically quiet voice cut through her growing panic. “You’re a ghost. I can’t believe this.” His voice was quickly growing in volume as he spoke faster. “In the Shack, right under our noses the whole time. You told me...you told me your parents are ghost experts. And...you’ve gone through the ghost portal.... Earlier, I thought I saw your eyes glow like that.” His eyes flickered between her face and her still lit hand as he pointed. “You’ve really a ghost which means you’re…” His speech slowed as his eyes widened, shining with sadness. “You’re dead.” He practically leapt to his feet, waving his arms. “You’re dead. You’ve been dead this entire time. You’re-”

“Dipper! Stop!” Elle cut the boy off as she rose to her feet and extinguished her ectoenergy. She grabbed one of his arms. “I’m not dead.”

The boy suddenly stopped, jaw falling again. "But.. you just said you were a ghost."

"I'm half ghost." She corrected pointedly.

"Half ghost?" Dipper questioned.

Elle blew out a breath at her friend's lingering confusion. “Yeah, Half ghost and half human. I’m a...human-ghost hybrid.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I am a ghost but I’m a human too. And…. I’m not dead…”

The boy continued to study her, his expression equal parts confused and distressed. “But...how can you be both? Ghosts are the spirits of dead people and you’re…” He looked down at her hand that was still around his wrists. “You’re solid and warm and..you’re breathing but…” He pulled away. “Are you possessed? Is this you trying to tell me you’re possessed because if you are-”

Elle cut him off again. “Dipper, I’m not possessed. These are my powers.” Again, she demonstrated, deliberately turning a hand invisible. “See. I’m doing this. There isn’t a ghost controlling me. It’s just...this is just me.” The boy said nothing, staring at her hand. Elle bit her lip. “Maybe….I should transform. That might help you understand.”

Dipper’s eyes flickered back up to her face. “Transform?”

“Yeah uhh...into my ghost form. Since I have a human form.” She motioned down her body. “And a ghost form.”

The boy nodded, seeming to follow what she was saying even if the blank look suggested he still had no idea what she meant.

Elle took a step back. “Okay. So...there’s this light that's gonna form around me and I’ll change. You...uhh...might not want to look directly at me. It’s bright.”

With another nod from the other teen, the half ghost summoned the ring of light. Dipper’s eyes widened at the sight and remained fixed even as the light moved across Elle’s form. The light passed Elle’s head, stealing the breath from her lungs. A moment later, the familiar chill and weightlessness enveloped her, leaving the girl floating in ghost form a few inches above the ground.

As Dipper hadn’t looked away, he squinted at her, blinking the spots from his vision. After what felt like minutes but was really seconds, he focused on her face again. “Elle?” He took a tentative step forward. “Is that really you?”

The girl nodded. “Yeah. I know I kinda look different but… it’s still me.”

The boy took another cautious step forward, the shocked look on his face morphing into awe. “Wow. You do look so different.” Elle frowned, shifting nervously in the air. Dipper shook his head, noticing her reaction. “No, I mean...you look so different from the other ghost I’ve seen. You’re not see-through at all. You look solid…” He reached a hand forward. “Can I...uh… touch you?”

The girl blushed. “Uh...sure?” She put an arm forward and let Dipper take it.

His eyes lit up. “You are solid but...you’re so cold.” His lips turned down. “And you’re not...you’re not dead?”

Elle shook her head. “No. I even still have a heartbeat in this form. Here if you press down on my pulse point, you should feel it.”

With a hum, the boy did so. Slowly, he smiled, his voice ringing with relief. “You do.”

“Yeah.” Elle gently removed her arm from his grasp. “So not dead. Or half dead. Or anything like that.”

Dipper blinked. “But then how...how are you like this?”

The girl paled. “Well that’s...that’s complicated.” She bit her lip, again shifting nervously.

The other teen stepped back. “Oh...sorry. Sorry if that’s personal. You don’t have to tell me.” Clearly he’d picked up on her discomfort but despite the words, Elle could still see the pure curious interest in his eyes.

The half ghost sighed. “No...I wanna tell you but...it’s hard to talk about and…”

Dipper’s expression softened. “It’s okay.”

Elle shook her head. “I’ll just say...I was in a bad place with a bad person. That bastard. I was…I was an experiment to him. He hurt me and…” She swallowed. “And other people too.” She clenched and unclenched her fists, thinking about the other clones. “He tried to get me to help him. I...I should’ve died. I should be dead.” Dipper’s eyes widened in alarm at the statement but she continued. “I almost died but...Danny saved me.” A small smile spread across her face at the statement.

“Danny?” The boy raised a brow. “You mean your brother?”

The half ghost blinked, realizing what she said. “Yeah...I guess I should mention….Danny’s half ghost like me.”

“Your brother’s...half ghost?” He put a hand on his head. “But how..wait, is this genetic or something?”

“Or something.” Elle shrugged, trying to avoid the topic. “Anyway, Danny’s half ghost too and he saved my life. He got me out of that place or...guess we helped each other escape really. But still...I would have probably died that day without him.” Her face fell at the last part, remembering Vlad’s hate filled face, how the man would have driven her to the point of destabilization if Danny hadn’t refused to fight her. She swallowed. “And...I got really sick after that.” She shivered, the memory of her body numb and dripping green fashed in her mind. Those dark, cold nights when her body was threatening to fall apart and she’d feared that she’d died there on the streets. But- “Danny found a way to make me better. He...he saved me. He saved my life, again. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.” In more ways than one, she thought almost ruefully. But she smiled fondly anyway.

Dipper frowned for a long moment, taking in all she said. “Wow, that’s...that’s a lot. That sounds really awful.”

“Yeah. It sucked.” Elle rubbed the back of her neck. “But everything’s okay now.” Which was true for the most part. “I’m healthy. That fruitloop is out of my life. I’ve got an incredible family and…” She smiled very deliberately at Dipper. “I finally have friends.”

The boy blushed at the attention, though he also smiled. “Yeah, friends. And...I’m happy things are better for you know.”

Elle sighed, feeling happiness at his agreement along with a sense of relief. She’d shared the barest hint of all she’d gone through but it felt good to say at least a portion of it. Although...she looked back at Dipper who was looking at her thoughtfully.Her stomach flopped as she wondered what he was thinking.

“You’re taking this well.” She said, slightly skeptically. “But...I guess you’re kinda used to the paranormal.”

Dipper raised a brow. “I don’t think there’s any getting used to your friend secretly being a supernatural creature.”

“Part supernatural creature.” She snorted. “So….do you have any more questions?”

“Do I? Well…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dipper of course had dozens of questions for the newly revealed halfa. After posing several questions about her powers and requests to demonstrate, Elle turned human and asked to go somewhere more secluded. The pair made their way away from the field hosting the fair and into the woods, far enough to not be seen by any of the townsfolk but close enough to easily find their way back to the Shack.

Elle demonstrated her powers and the two talked more about the Ghost Zone and ghosts. Dipper even learned about Elle’s superhero alter-ego and Phantom’s real identity . Again, it was nice sharing the truth with someone. The boy wasn’t angry that she’d waited or distrustful of her. Instead, his enthusiasm and wonder was infectious, lifting her spirits. He clearly thought what she was, what she could do was wondrous and incredible, not weird and inhuman. In an odd way, it reminded her of her dad and the child-like wonder he exhibited when talking about ghosts. The man had worn similar expressions when watching either of his two half ghost children display their powers. The reaction made her literally glow with happiness. Until…

“Hey, Elle.” Dipper put down the journal he’d been jotting down notes in. “Thanks for showing me all this. I could tell how nervous you were earlier about telling me so...thank you for trusting me with your secret.”

And just like that, an underlying tension surged. She’d shared a secret but not her biggest one, not about her origin as a clone. Her stomach flopped. She could tell him about that now, right?. He accepted her being a halfa; learning that she was a clone too wouldn’t change that. But…doubt stabbed in her heart. It would change the way he saw her. He’d know that she was not a real person but a fake, a copy, a hateful voice whispered.

No, Elle shook her head. She wasn’t those things. She’s been over this again and again, reassured by her family. She was a real person, her own person.

“Come on.” Dipper interrupted her thoughts. “Let’s head back to the fair.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Elle shrugged, returning to human form.

The boy led her back to the field, stopping as they cleared the trees. “Do you want to play some games?” He pointed. “I’m pretty good at balloon darts.”

“Let’s do it.” The girl agreed.

With that, the pair of friends walked to the stall and played the game. All the while, Elle’s thoughts tumbled her head. She really should tell him about how she really got her powers and....She watched Mabel walk by with her friends...She needed to tell the other girl as well. Elle frowned. Well, one thing at a time then. She’d talk to Mabel about being half ghost and then...figure out what to do next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About an hour later, Mabel joined back up with Elle and Dipper. “Candy and Grenda had to leave so I’m back!” She grinned. Then she wiggled her eyebrows. “Did you two have fun?”

Elle raised a brow at that tone; what exactly was she implying?

Dipper either didn’t pick up in the expression or chose to ignore it. Instead he excitedly said. “Yeah! Mabel you won’t believe what Elle-”

The half ghost elbowed the boy in the side, cutting him off. “Dipper.”

“What?” He shrugged, slightly confused and slightly incredulous. Elle gave him a pointed look and a moment later, understanding dawned on his face. “Oh, right. I guess you should tell her yourself.“

“Tell me what?” Mabel questioned.

Elle bit her lip. “More like show you. Let’s...let’s go somewhere private.”

Without further questions, the group went back to the area in the woods where Elle and Dipper talked earlier. Once they arrived, the half ghost turned around to face her two friends.

“So...I’m half ghost.” She started, already cursing herself for not deciding to tell both twins at the same time. Really, why did she keep doing this? It wasn’t that she didn’t like or trust Mabel so why...

She pushed the idea out of her head to focus on explaining and showing off her powers. Much as she had with Dipper, she gave a very vague explanation of why she was half ghost and the awful things that happened before she was stabilized.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Mabel said, after she finished.

With a huff, the girl touched down on the ground. “Yeah..it was really bad but...I came out okay.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “And like I said, Danny helped me.”

The other girl’s expression softened. “He sounds like a good brother.”

Elle nodded. “He really is.” That was true, no matter the complicated feelings she had about being his clone.

“Are you two close?” The halfa rose a brow Mabel’s question and the other girl continued. “The two of you have the same powers and all the stuff you went through together? I know with all the crazy stuff that happened last summer, all the times I had to save Dipper’s butt.”

“Hey!” Said boy gave a somewhat indignant cry. “You saved my butt? I saved your butt!”

Mabel glared at him without heat. “We saved each other’s butts. But anyway...we got closer, after everything that happened.”

Dipper lowered his pointed finger. “You’re right.” His expression turned fond. “We did.”

Elle glanced between the brother and sister, fondness entering her heart at the thought of her own living siblings. “You’re right. Danny and me are close. Well...I’m closer to him than Jazz anyway. Some of that is being half ghost.” Though some was, she had known him longer than she had known Jazz. “He got his powers first so he’s taught me things. And all the stuff that happened with the fruitloop…” She bit her lip. “I know he’ll always have my back.” Elle shook her head; she could say more, a lot more. Her relationship with the older teen was complicated. “I mean...he sometimes drives me nuts and...” This was saying a lot from a clone. “I wonder how the heck we’re even related.”

That earned a laugh from Mabel. “Same. I mean, brothers?” She jabbed a thumb at Dipper. “What are you gonna do with them?”

The mentioned boy rolled his eyes. “I love you too.”

His sister stuck out her tongue and Elle giggled.

The halfa then shrugged. “But yeah….I guess the point is...it’s not always perfect. But Danny’s my big bro. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

There was a pause as Elle let the statement settle and the silence stretched. From the fond looks the pair of twins traded, the half ghost was sure each thought the same of their respective sibling even if neither was going to say it out loud. Granted, Elle wasn’t sure how much of that said she would say to Danny out loud but...maybe she should. Maybe after this, she’d call Jazz and Danny and thank them for encouraging her to trust Dipper and Mabel. She’d tell the two how much she loved them.

Speaking of trusting….she did have more to tell them but…

“Elle! Can you show us your ice again?” Dipper grinned excitedly.

Mabel beamed similarity. “Can you make snowballs?! Oh, can we have a snowball fight?”

The halfa laughed, forming a snowball in her hands. “I don’t know…” She threw it at Mabel and smiled. “Can we?”

A shocked expression crossed the girl’s face before she shrieked with laughter. “No fair. Me and Dipper need snowballs too!”

With that, the half ghost made a pile of snowballs. As the three had a snowball fight in the middle of the summer, Elle was again happy that she told her friends about her powers and she could share this with them. There was still that little secret about being a clone which kept rearing its head. But for now…. Elle laughed as a snowball hit her in the back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the impromptu snowball fight, the group went back to the fair. Elle looked side to side; there were noticeably less people around and many of the game and food stalls were closed.

Mabel frowned. “I guess we ended up talking for a long time.”

“Sorry you didn’t get to see much of the fair.” Dipper said.

��That’s okay. I still had fun with you guys.” Elle shrugged.

The twins both smiled at the statement. Mabel then waved. “Come on. Let’s ride the Ferris wheel before they close.”

The three got in line for the ride and soon after loaded onto one of the cars. The group happily chatted. As they rose higher, Dipper and Mabel oohed and awed at the sight. Elle looked around with considerably less awe. The sight was beautiful but she could see it all time she liked; she could fly of her own power after all. But still she smiled, enjoying her friends’ reactions.

That is...until she looked through one of the windows of the Shack and again, saw the misty form of Tyrone. Her smile fell; there he was in the window again, watching, waiting and probably hoping she’d come up with a way to make him fully visible and audible. Guilt wrapped around Elle’s heart; she’d forgotten about him all day, too busy hanging out with Dipper and Mabel and thinking about herself. She’d been worried about telling them about her status as a clone but there was another clone to worry about. She still needed to figure out how to tell them about Tyrone. But how to have that conversation, that definitely painful conversation that Tyrone didn’t want to have yet?

“Look! It’s the water tower!” Mabel grabbed her arm and pointed, drawing Elle out of the train of thought.

The halfa tilted her head. “Is that a muffin painted on the side?”

Dipper waved exaggeratedly. “That’s what I said!” The boy crossed his arms. “Robbie says it’s an explosion, though.”

“An explosion?” Elle raised a brow. “Huh? I can kinda see it.”

The boy’s mouth fell open and his nose wrinkled. “Traitor.” He muttered.

At that, Mabel laughed. “I think Elle’s right. It does look like an explosion.”

The two girls continued to laugh at the other teen’s offended expression. More quips were traded as the Ferris Wheel spun around. After several minutes, the ride ended. The trio walked around the fair for a while as the sun set before going back to the Shack after the fair closed.

As soon as Elle walked into the living room, her ghost sense stirred in his chest before exiting her mouth. She crossed her eyes, looking at the blue mist.

“What was that?” Dipper asked, apparently having noticed.

“Ghost sense. I guess...our friend’s around.” She frowned. “I don’t see him though. I’ll just…” She looked side to side. Seeing no one around, she summoned the rings. “I’ll look for him.”

Elle half-smiled, enjoying the twin’s awed looks at her transformation. But she was still worried about the ghost she’d sensed. After that conversation this morning, he’d been alone all day and based on glimpses, Tyrone had been watching the going-ons at the fair. She sighed as she phased through the ceiling, wondering what she’d say when she found the ghostly clone. And what would she tell Dipper and Mabel?

In quick succession, she invisibly flew through the house, searching. Where was he? Her core pulsed with the familiar cold of sensing another ghost. But there was no mist, no semi transparent figure. Where was Tyrone?

Five minutes later, Elle returned to her friends.

“Did you find him?” Dipper asked hopefully.

The half ghost shook her head. “No..I sensed him a few more times but he’s nowhere to be found.”

“Oh.” Dipper seemed to sober at that. “Do you think he’s still upset about last night?”

“Maybe…” Elle’s stomach flopped at the idea. Maybe he was still upset. It wasn’t like him, just disappearing. Again she worried. Was he moping? Avoiding her? Avoiding the twins? “Maybe he...he doesn’t want to see any of us.”

That was kinda hard to believe but...with how upset he got seeing the twins, how he didn’t want to tell them about his true identity...maybe he didn’t want to see them. And her….what exactly were they gonna talk about after that bombshell?”

Mabel frowned. “What do we do now?”

Elle swallowed. "I guess...he’ll show up again eventually.”

“And we keep researching.” Dipper said, eyes downcast. “I wish we could do something.”

Guilt churned in her gut as part of her whispered, she could do something. She could tell Dipper and Mabel that the ghost was Tyrone but… the ghostly clone’s uncertain and distraught face flashed in her mind. Would it be more painful for him if the two knew but he remained unseen and unheard? Won’t he be angry if she told them without his permission?

Heart aching, Elle remained silent.

#Danny Phantom #gravity falls #holiday truce #holiday truce 2020 #dp holiday truce #dani phantom #elle phantom #Elle Fenton #dipper pines #mabel pines #clone angst #My fic

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miraculouscontent · 4 years ago

Text

Askplosion #11:

(note that I know I mentioned a “Voiced Askplosion” last time in the tags for anyone who put a 🎤 in their ask, meaning they wanted to hear me respond verbally to it, but I only got one and it wasn’t anything serious - just a tease from someone I know - so I either won’t be doing it at all or will be holding off)

Asks responding to previous posts:

ALYA NO!!!

(the idea of Sabrina avoiding not only Ms. Mendeleiev, but also Alya, is very amusing to me)

The fact that the special focuses on the love square instead of Sabrina and Delmar is a crime.

(also note that “Need some help?” is rhetorical in this context; Alya doesn’t care)

Highly recommended, honestly, otherwise it just turns into a big shame because there are shows I really like but with some content that I don’t like, and why torture myself with it when I can cut it out instead?

Just to give a rough idea, here’s my cut of “Desperada”; mind you, this is just my quick cut of it (basically a “beta” version where I just removed everything I disliked without much care for transitioning/having everything make sense; some of Marinette’s friends talking, the guitar scene, Aspik, etcetera), as I’m not comfortable handing over my “perfect” cut of it since it’s like my personal copy.

Yeah, that’s a super awkward scene. As much as I’d like to imagine that Adrien just doesn’t understand the “guy time” thing (which I still hate), the fact that they use the word “guy” specifically is--ugh.

I wasn’t aware of what he said in the French dub, so thanks! It’s really painful to see her throw so much love his way, openly and publicly and obviously, then be so humiliated for it, only for Adrien to feel nothing for her.

Say whatever you want about Chat Noir’s advances and how sAAAAAAD he is when she rejects him, but her rejections are just that; in private. There aren’t other heroes who are around and Chat is never really humiliated. Even in “Prime Queen,” Chat wasn’t the target - Ladybug was, and then Ladybug shifted it to Nadja - so Marinette is the one taking all the heat in love while Chat gets to sit on the sidelines (plus, then “Oblivio” happened and now people probably all thing they’re a thing).

Yeah! That’s the group I was thinking of!

Thank you!

I’m so sorry that happened. ;—;

I’m not aro but I am ace and I’ve gotten the whole, “oh it’s just because--” stuff before, so I know what it feels like to have people put on the pressure/invalidate you.

YES.

IT’S GORGEOUS.

I’m not really familiar with how holidays are celebrated outside of the bare basics of Christmas/New Year (which I am trying my hardest to forget lol), so I couldn’t say.

Sorry!

New Asks:

10/10 thought, would fantasize again.

Though would also accept MC Audrey just doing some “spring cleaning” of the whole staff in general. I have no idea how she’d replace Jeremy since he’s the company’s poster boy but most of the writers have to go at the very least and Jeremy should be given less power.

I think MC Audrey would appreciate how Kagami carries herself, though potential bonus if - while Tom and Sabine just openly trust whatever Marinette wants - Audrey does a bunch of digging to make sure Kagami is “worthy” of being with Marinette (she takes this all very seriously).

Double potential bonus if Kagami takes it just as seriously, so here’s Audrey and Kagami acting as if Kagami dating Marinette is like some sort of job interview.

Kagami handing over a “resume” of her accomplishments to Audrey. Audrey has already looked all of it up herself but appreciates the effort put in.

If the question in Miraculous is, “Do we really need a--” and the thing being introduced is something the staff came up with then the answer is usually “no.”

The movie will look pretty and that’s all I’ll expect. It’s just Jeremy’s take on Miraculous. Luka and Kagami probably won’t even be around so I’m not even interested.

I’ll watch it, but I’m also not interested lol.

Honestly, I’d rather turn into bubble froth.

oddly specific but... I mean, damn

I have no idea, and I try not to throw around words like “spite ship” because I know people could genuinely like the ship, though I will say that I went on AO3 and - unless I read from - the first Maribat fanfiction on there was posted after the airdate of “Chameleon.” I think it might’ve started with inspiration from “Marinette moves schools” ideas at the very least.

Non-Miraculous Asks responding to previous posts:

Oh, I understood, no worries! It was just funny for the split second it took me to figure it out.

My bad, that’s not how I meant to come off (especially since “magical girl shows” is a little broad; I mean, obviously I don’t think something like Cardcaptor Sakura is aiming for fanservice when Sakura’s--like... ten). I answered all those asks in the last askplosion in the same day so my brain was a little fried by the time I got to that ask.

I’m not even talking about Sailor Moon either; it’s just that I knew there are shows with fanservice and there are certain magical girl outfits where I kind of give the side-eye.

Absolutely zero problem with girls fighting in pretty outfits though. I fully admit that I’m a bit of a prude so sometimes I see fanservice where there might not be any. Super short skirts without shorts, for example, inherently throw me off (shout-out to Saint Tail - which I discovered while looking up “pretty magical girl outfits” - because the main character does have a skirt in “magical girl” form but also tights/boots and a cute hat, which is one of the more unique ones I’ve seen).

Non-Miraculous Asks:

Do you mean Sailor Moon Crystal? Yeah, the only reason I hesitate on Sailor Moon in general is because I’m not crazy about the transformed designs. It’s not really a matter of animation but more a design choice that takes me out of the experience.

I have seen all of Cardcaptor Sakura anime though, and then all of the Clear Card arc. I like the former, despise the latter, and I tried to keep up with the manga but once one of the big plot details were revealed, I officially dropped it.

As for Revolutionary Girl Utena, I looked it up a while ago and don’t remember what exactly turned me away. It might’ve been the darker tone though if what you say is accurate that it’s a darker take on a magical girl show.

Also, I may or may not have looked up the ending of at least Princess Tutu and I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s a great anime, but if there isn’t a happy ending then I give whatever anime a hard pass.

(note: yes, I realize the hilarity of saying that when I continue watching Miraculous)

(More Madoka Magica talk/salt below!)

Ohhh, it started a trend? I had no idea since I don’t actively keep up with every anime out there; descriptions need to really pull me in (the only current anime I’m keeping up with is Hanyou no Yashahime, Otherside Picnic, and Cells at Work (Season 2)).

The focus on specific--uh--body parts in magical girl transformations also reminds me that I think that’s usually what kills it for me, not because of the sexualization but because I expect transformations (especially ones that get repeated over and over) to be really dynamic with changing angles and such, which is harder to do when the camera is trying to draw focus to specific places.

Obviously you have to do it for some moments (I’ve always imagined Miraculous transformations like a potential sheep or another one for rabbit, then rabbit!Jean from Leave for Mendeleiev and fox!Juleka from LadyBugOut) because things will be weird if you focus on nothing, but I think there are ways to draw the eye without trying to sexualize.

Not having Ladybug-esque bodysuits is a good start. It reminds me too much of the Catwoman with just a bodysuit so it leaves nothing to the imagination.

How did I forget about that Sayaka scene? omg (though I dunno if the Bechdel Test is hard to pass if there aren’t really any endgame male love interests? are there rules about that? not saying a pass isn’t a pass but it feels like cheating)

It is nice when fans can respect the opinions of others without having to outright attack. I have had a few people come to me with, “I see your point/respect it even if I disagree,” instead of accusing me/others of--well, you get it.

Fandoms can be really messy, particularly as they get larger. I think there’s a certain balance between small fandoms that all know each other and a big fandom that’s out of control. Then there are things like “loud minority” and it’s just uggggh.

Anyway, back to the asks themselves, yeah, I’m not crazy about taking things that are just meant to be positive/cute/whatever and being like, “OKAY BUT WHAT IF IT WAS EDGY AND SAD.”

n o , p l z

Oh, I’ve never heard of that one!

Sayaka dying didn’t really do anything for me either. It’s hard to explain when I saw it so long ago, but it was just Sayaka’s attitude about the whole thing and it made it feel underwhelming. It was a shame too because I liked her and she had potential.

She was Madoka’s friend so I was just like, “Yeah, she’ll die soon.” Probably didn’t help since I knew what I knew about the show being “dark.”

Madoka/Sayaka is probably what I’d support the most out of all the potential shoujo ai ships. To my knowledge, none of them are really canon, though I remember a special song after the death Sayaka and Kyoko which I guess makes them the most canon and that did basically nothing for me since their relationship didn’t interest me (nor did I care for Kyoko as a character). The PSP game might have more intimate potential between the girls, but I never played them so I can’t make those claims (I only remember something about everyone potentially living and then a bad ending for Sayaka where part of her body was decayed when they didn’t get her soul gem back in time).

The tomboy argument makes me think back to a conversation with a friend of mine where we were discussing tomboys in anime and... we couldn’t really think of any? At least any that really qualify as “tomboy” for me.

Like, Misty from Pokemon, for example. I knoooooow everyone really likes Misty, but regardless of my opinion on her, it’s hard to see her as a tomboy.

I feel like they try to lean that way by making her super aggressive and violent (because... m E N) and I think Ash makes a comment once about her not being “like a girl,” but... I feel like that’s just how general “aggressive” female characters are written?

I mean, that’s tsundere female characters I’ve seen in general. Really loud (and not in a “gIrlS aRe sO lOuD aND ScReEcHY” way but like... the way anime gives them big heads while they scream at whatever male character they’re mad at), angry a lot, short fuse, etcetera.

But Misty is still crazy about clothes and dolls, she still gushes about cute things and romance, and both of those things seem pretty indicative of what “standard girl character” would be defined by, since they’re all “stereotypically girl thing” (I say stereotypically for obvious reasons since boys can like blah and girls can like blah and gender exclusivity is blah--). I get that she dresses differently, but that’s about it, and it comes off like, “she dresses differently and she’s ANGRY and VIOLENT, so she’s a tomboy,” which... yeah. They even gave her three beauty queen sisters with CURVES and BUSTS as if to say, “See?? These are GIRLS, not TOMBOYS.” (busty females can exist who are also tomboys, thank you have a nice day).

This becomes more complicated in magical girl anime since girly clothes are usually part of that so “tomboy” means that frills and skirts probably wouldn’t be a factor.

I mean, if you gave those sorts of outfits to me, I’d be like, “SCREW IT, I’M NOT A MAGICAL GIRL ANYMORE. IF LOOKING PRETTY IS REDUCED TO SKIRTS AND FRILLS, SOMEONE ELSE CAN SAVE THE WORLD.”

I’d also like to see some mixes between personalites and “tomboy” things. Like, non-stereotypical tomboy personalities doing tomboy things. Mix and match, y’know?

This was really rambly, but to answer the question... no, I wouldn’t count Sayaka as a tomboy.

All of this.

I think it also exemplifies the whole “dark and edgy magical girl show” thing because... ugh, how do I put this...

The “girls are overly emotional” thing is already bad, but then you realize that there not being any magical boys is also because that doesn’t hit the “shock value” threshold as much.

Y’know, because boys equal dark and edgy shows, so if there was even one magical boy it wouldn’t be as shocking when Mami gets her head chomped. They could’ve done, “emotional teenagers are the target because they’re in that vulnerable stage; smarter and more physically capable than children, but not as mature/stable as adults,” but having some boys in there for balance (it makes me feel weird saying that when I’m all for girl power shows with an all female cast, but in this show’s logic, it’s a different ball game) would make the show seem less bright and “girly” and thus lessen the shock value.

Does that make sense?

#((Aspies who also deal with Winter Blues or Seasonal Affective Disorder))#((how do you do iiiiiit))#((my usual methods aren't working and I'm constantly sluggiiiish))#category: trash #special: Miraculous New York #MC's Art #art: single picture #relationship: alya cesaire & sabrina raincomprix #category: salt #episode: Party Crasher #relationship: love square #relationship: adrien agreste & marinette dupain cheng #MC: Audrey Bourgeois #relationship: kagami tsurugi & marinette dupain cheng #character: marinette dupain cheng #other: non ml talk

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nanoland · 3 years ago

Text

new chapter (supernatural fic)

(earlier parts are here; whole thing is here)

Clean Hands, part 3

Crowley/Castiel/Dean Winchester, warning for violence and spn demons being spn demons

Another day, another assassination attempt.

“Congratulations, sir,” said Paula, bustling in with his coffee and daily planner. “That brings it to eight, yes? I recall your making some remark about throwing a small office party if we hit ten before the end of the month.”

Lifting the corpse off the row of retractable spikes he’d installed in his desk, Crowley grunted, “It was a joke. On the other hand, maybe it would be good for morale. Make the blighters less determined to snuff me.”

“I’ll add it to the calendar. Sir, your ten ‘o clock is waiting in the lobby. Should I send him in?”

Technically, ‘ten ‘o clock’ didn’t exist in Hell. Time didn’t exist in Hell.

But by God, it did for Paula.

Infamous among Crowley’s minions, she ruled his appointment diary with an iron fist (well – iron talons, more accurately) and kept a horseman’s pick tucked neatly under her workstation for anyone who was more than five minutes late.

She’d been the most competent corporate PA in the business when Crowley had purchased her soul in exchange for a medical breakthrough that had beaten down her cancer and allowed her those ten precious years. It would, in fact, have allowed her a normal human lifespan, if not for Crowley’s hounds.

(Her wish was among his favourites and her contract had pride of place in his trophy cabinet. She could have just said ‘cure me’; she’d dreamed bigger. Ambition! Now that was what Crowley liked to see. Very few people who sold their souls managed to leave the world a better place than they’d found it.

Truthfully, arranging the breakthrough had taken an amount of power on his part that, ordinarily, he’d have objected to. Ever since the Zuckerberg Incident of 2004, Crowley had maintained a policy against granting wishes that fundamentally altered the pace and trajectory of human scientific development. But he’d wanted her. Reliable PAs were like gold dust and they almost always went to bloody Heaven. “And for what, I ask you?” he’d said to Dean once. “How much admin is really involved in keeping people locked in a lotus-eater machine?”)

“The ten… oh, piss. It’s Alan, isn’t it? Yes, yes. Let’s get this over with. Send him in.”

Another day, another fucking workplace harassment mess to sort out. How many more sodding seminars was he going to have to host before they all got it through their heads that biting off a co-worker’s arm was not a viable long-term conflict resolution strategy?

Sigh.

It was only after four meetings and sixteen calls that Crowley remembered he’d not yet disposed of the assassin.

“I suppose I should make an example of you,” he huffed, already imagining it.

The hassle.

The bother.

Getting an apron on.

Finding the hammer.

Lugging the stupid bastard up a ladder and nailing him to the office noticeboard by his scrote.

He could always ask Paula to do it. But, bless her heart, she’d only been a demon for six years and arranging a corpse for maximum intimidation was just as much a matter of practice as talent.

As Crowley was fetching the ladder, Gwen from Legal arrived whey-faced and dogged by two dozen assistants and interns.

“Sir, it’s a catastrophe,” she wailed.

Five minutes later, Crowley was back at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Avoidable. Utterly, pathetically avoidable. All you had to do was amend the contract to state that the phrase ‘ten years’ refers solely and specifically to Earth’s orbital period, not the orbital period of the contractee.”

Gwen hung her head. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. Finding qualified staff to manage this sort of deal is tricky. When people with, you know, science degrees and stuff die and are damned, the assholes over at the Experimental Punishments Department always snatch ‘em up first. It’s a real problem.”

“I’ll have a word with them. Ugh – alright, alright, let’s try and sort this out. How long is a Martian year?”

“The internet says six hundred and eighty-seven days.”

“Damn. Almost twice as long,” Crowley grumbled, pouring himself a drink. “What did he even want from us? He’s a billionaire. The list of things they can’t get without our help grows shorter by the day.”

“He wanted to guarantee that he’d be the first man on Mars, sir; that none of his competitors would get there before he did.”

“Wait. Hold on. The thing he wished for and the mechanism by which he’s attempting to fuck us over are one and the same? Oh, no, no, no. I’m not going to take that cheeky bollocks lying down. Get the head of Research and Development in here, now. We’re going to find out how to crash a spaceship.”

Gwen’s gaze flickered to the assassin’s corpse. “Um.”

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered.

At which point Paula tapped on the door to ask if he wanted to reschedule his next five meetings, because unless he could deal with them all in a grand total of twelve minutes, he’d be late for his call with the NRA’s chairman.

When Castiel arrived – without an appointment, as per usual, but Paula had standing instructions to let him through – he found Crowley resting his head on his desk, fantasising about being a paperweight.

“I’ve come for more sex,” he explained.

Dragging himself from despair’s depths, Crowley slurred, “T’riffic.”

He instructed his meat suit to sit up and turn on the winning smile. Unlike more reliable vehicles, possessed bodies didn’t have dashboard lights to indicate an exhausted battery; instead, it announced its displeasure by growing three new tumours.

Castiel stepped back, confused. Displeased. “You’re usually more enthusiastic than this. Why is your desk covered in diagrams of rockets? Is this a ‘new hobby’?”

Exaggerated finger quotes. Damn him to the pit, he was precious.

“Kitten, rest assured I have only two hobbies and they both dress badly.”

He expected retaliation for that. Castiel hated being reminded that Crowley regularly dallied with his favourite human. It came as a surprise, then, when the angel simply reached out and firmly gripped his shoulder, declaring, “You need to rest.”

Wings flapped. Suddenly, Crowley was standing in front of a wide, glassy lake, surrounded by dense forest, and in the distance…

“Is that Mount Fuji?”

“Indeed,” said Castiel, smiling briefly. “She’s a childhood friend. I first visited when she was little more than an unusually picturesque bump in the ground.”

There was no one around. There was nothing around. No boats on the lake, no fishermen, no families on holiday, not even the distant roar of traffic. Just them, the view, the water, and a – huh – a bright orange tent pitched nearby.

“This is where I come to relax,” Castiel informed him, opening up the zipper.

“Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

“Huh. I wasn’t aware that you��”

“That I what?”

“Owned things. Or even grasped the concept of owning things. Don’t give me that look; you’re the one who’s worn the same socks ever since you slipped into that God-bothering flesh puppet.”

Castiel sniffed. “Materialism is a disease. But I’m not a child, Crowley. For your information, in my time on Earth I have owned many things.”

Always fun to ruffle the pretty bird’s feathers. “Yeah? How many of them were hand-me-downs from the Hardy Boys?”

“Most of them,” he said, levelly. “With the exception of this tent and your ass, demon.”

A pin drop pause.

Castiel maintained unblinking eye contact for exactly twelve seconds, then turned and crawled into his neon den.

Practically vibrating with adoration, Crowley followed.

It was evident that Castiel, despite his laudable efforts to create a space for himself in a world that had no space for him, didn’t entirely grok camping.

There were no sleeping bags. Instead, the tent’s bottom was covered in duvets, dozens of them, soft and fresh as if they’d come directly from the shop – or, more accurately, Crowley suspected, someone’s washing line.

“I cured her dog’s foot infection,” Castiel said, somewhat defensively, settling into his cotton and fleece nest.

“Ah. And she was so grateful she said you could make off with all her laundry, hm?”

“She… did not say those words, precisely. But it was heavily implied.”

Thank sin this was only a meat suit. Thank sin, thank everything that Castiel couldn’t see the expression of hopeless, pitiable fondness that would have adorned Crowley’s true face at that moment.

It was a relief when Castiel, without further ado, started undressing. Crowley, copying him, took the opportunity to talk sense into himself.

Come on. Grow up. Get it together. You know what you are. More importantly, you know what he is. Ageless. Unfathomable. Demons, at the end of the day, are just distilled human nastiness, but him? He existed before humans. Before microbes. He’s nice to babies and bees and pot plants and Dean and that makes it easy to forget that… that…

Oh, yes. Remember when he came to Hell? The first time he saw Dean; the start of their epic, eternal, infuriating romance? And where were you? That’s right. You were with the others, standing there slack-jawed and helpless, like dinosaurs watching the comet hit. Like children gazing up at a mushroom cloud.

Twelve thousand. That’s how many demons he burned out of existence, without even trying. Twelve thousand.

Do you think he ever thinks about them? Do you think he even noticed?

Twelve thousand.

Do you think he knows how close you were to being one of them?

Do you think he cares?

He’s nice to babies. Bees. Pot plants. Dean. You, even, sometimes. He’s sweet. He’s got big, soft blue eyes and hair that aches to be tussled. He’s a top-tier, world-class fuck. And at any moment, for any reason, he could end you, easy as blowing away dust, and you can’t say for certain he would even remember your name in a month’s time.

“What? No,” Castiel protested when Crowley kissed him. “We’re here to rest, Crowley.”

Drawing back, Crowley leered. “That’s what you want to do, is it? Rest?”

Perpetually thirsty tart that he was, Castiel bit his lip and looked torn. “I… yes.”

Crowley pouted.

Firmer now, Castiel said, “We will rest for a while first. Then we will have sex. Is that satisfactory?”

No sooner had Crowley resignedly nodded than Castiel seized him and finished undressing him, tossing his undershirt and socks out the tent. When they were both naked, the cold air coming off the lake making Crowley shiver, Castiel burrowed into his pilfered pile and dragged the demon down with him.

“Rest first,” he ordered him. “Sex afterwards. No, no – stop that. Afterwards, I said.”

Crowley groaned and whined and fussed, but obeyed.

And bugger him gently if it wasn’t actually pleasant, very pleasant, to lie there with Castiel’s strong arms locked around his torso, toasty warm under layers of wool while, outside, the lake lapped at its bank and wind rustled through the trees. No assassins. No paperwork. No blood. Everything nice and quiet. Everything calm and clean.

Then Castiel sighed, a hot puff against the back of Crowley’s neck, and said, “You know, the thing that vexes me most about Dean is the way he…”

#supernatural #crowley #castiel #crowstiel #dean winchester #drowley #destiel #drowstiel #fanfic #my fic

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years ago

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Portmanteau, 1.1k, KiriBaku, DynaRiot

(ao3)

Portmanteau (port·man·teau) n. a word blending the sounds and combining the meanings of two others

Like Bakugo's chosen hero name. But was that his first choice? Kirishima doesn't think so, after finding a damning piece of evidence hidden within his notes. Except it's not what he thinks, at all...

Eijiro barely paid his friends any attention, currently copying Katsuki’s notes while they fooled around. Yelled about a movie playing on screen, ignoring it, and throwing popcorn across the seating area. Mostly Mina, Hanta, and Denki. Katsuki stayed out of it. Only getting involved when stray kernels bounced off his head, drawing his attention away from Eijiro. Delaying his efforts at helping Eijiro study as he ranted freely. Like now, with Katsuki jumping from his seated position. Fingertips crackling, tiny explosions rippled through the air, punctuating his many threats. Normally Eijiro enjoyed this kind of break. But he nearly finished transcribing today’s English lecture, one page left. Katsuki promised him no more schoolwork after that.

Motivated, Eijiro grabbed his pen, and then moved onto the next page. He scanned it, estimating how quickly he can scrawl his friend’s work, when Eijiro caught sight of a word that successfully derailed his concentration. “Bakugo?” he asked, pulling Katsuki’s and everyone else’s focus away from their fight. Instead towards where Eijiro’s finger pointed. “What’s this?”

Katsuki stuttered on a breath, cheeks bulging bright crimson. Eyes twitching with fury, those explosions near his hand grew more frequent, and larger. Eijiro looked past him, at their friends. Mina sank deeper into her seat, smugly watching Katsuki melt down. Meanwhile, Denki leaned forward, hand raised for a high five Hanta happily gave. Their clapping broke Katsuki from his daze. He angrily snatched his notebook back, tossing it far from the couches. “It was nothing, Kirishima,” he said, “just a stupid thought I had…”

That was clearly a lie, even without Katsuki’s lame addition. Eijiro knew how important notetaking was to his friend. Saw him erase mistakes like All-Might pressed a gun against his head, telling Katsuki if even a trace remained then he will never be a hero. So not only did it mean something, but it was also important. Enough that Katsuki risked valuable class time in creating it.

He can still see Katsuki’s notebook, and the little doodle different than his notes. Handwriting shaky, as if testing this word before committing with a large heart ensnaring it. Brushstroke heavy, making curves rounder and sweeter. Which begged the question –

What was DynaRiot?

Eijiro rubbed his chin, thinking. He cycled amongst theories he entertained for a few seconds. Most of these revolved around his first insight that whatever DynaRiot was, it meant a great deal to Katsuki. Leaving his unflappable friend flustered since its discovery. Standing, glaring at everyone, yet silent in the strangest sense. Afraid of what he might say. Surprising and uncharacteristic. Unfortunately, each attempt at finding a reason ended in failure. Nothing he imagined fit exactly, his gut rejecting all of them.

Following his instincts, he stopped looking at the whole and instead examined its parts. Broke it into easier segments, like Yamada taught them. First, Dyna, reminded Eijiro of Katsuki’s hero name. A smile graced his lips, reminded of how Katsuki told him.

Alone on campus, left behind by their class as they ran off, they walked in comfortable silence together. Katsuki nudged him, muttering how he wanted Eijiro’s opinion on a possible name. “DynaMight,” he told Eijiro, “because of my quirk and –“

“And you’re honoring All Might,” Eijiro smiled, throwing an arm around Katsuki. Felt him tense briefly, then melt into his side. “I totally get it man, I… I think it’s awesome. Manly, too. I mean, that was why I chose my name, nothing is manlier than honoring people who inspire you!”

“Yeah, well…” Katsuki scoffed, avoiding his gaze, “I mean, I did sort of… sometimes you have not-so-shitty ideas, y’know?”

His chest warmed at the memory. Fleeting, however, as his mind abandoned it for the second part of this mystery. Why would Katsuki write Riot, alongside Dyna, and not Might? Unless…

Eijiro might have inspired an earlier draft.

“Bakugo…” Eijiro cooed, gazing up at his friend. Katsuki flinched, meeting his stare. Red skin paling while swallowing past a freshly formed lump. “I can’t believe you’d do that, it – it really means a lot.”

Their friends perk considerably, surprise visible. Katsuki’s jaw hung for a few seconds, snapping shut with a loud boom! “It… you really feel that way?”

“Of course!” Eijiro rocked back and forth, body vibrating in excitement. “Knowing that you even considered naming yourself after Crimson Riot, I… I’m so happy you think he’s an amazing hero, too!”

Mina tumbled off the couch, landing hard on her face. She wasn’t alone with her pain, Hanta’s arms thrown haphazardly into air and smacking Denki. Immediately Denki responded by shocking him, Hanta yelping. Katsuki tugged on his hair; explosions trailing, mini fireworks as sweat jumped off his body.

Seeing this disappointed Eijiro, his theory rejected. Worse, he’s alone in not understanding what DynaRiot meant. Group reactions expressed how everyone knew except him. Eijiro hated being left out of the loop.

“Kiri…” Mina frowned at him, pity wounding.

He shook his head, discarding the previous assumption. If not a hero name, then… “What we’ll call our agency?” he tried, “After we graduate?”

“Shitty hair…” Katsuki dragged a hand down his face, familiar aggravation returning, “You can stop guessing. Seriously, you’re reading too much into it! It was dumb, and I should never have -”

“No! No, I can – give me another chance Bakugo! Please!”

“No!”

💥💥💥💥💥💥

Mina crawled over towards Denki and Hanta, groaning. “I can’t believe Kiri’s this dense.” She glanced at her friends, both boys oblivious about how much noise they made. Eijiro’s voice rose, matching Katsuki’s. Katsuki, creating competitions wherever he can, shouted louder. They disturbed the calm atmosphere within their dorms, attracting other classmates to their spectacle.

“Are you?” Hanta chuckled, “This is the same Kirishima who thought Bakugo’s confession was a sign he had a concussion.”

“To be fair,” Denki defended Eijiro, “Bakugo did look like he was having a stroke during that.”

“Maybe an allergic reaction, at best.”

Sighing, Mina rolled onto her back. “This is getting tiring, though. I mean – DynaRiot? He literally spelled it out for him. What will it take for them to get together already?” An explosion rocked the room, bits of ceiling debris falling. Mina growled and wiped it off her face. Turning, she listened to Eijiro and Katsuki’s argument again –

“What’s so important about DynaRiot that you don’t want to tell me? Is it a code! Do you think I should change my name?”

“If you don’t shut up, I swear I’m – no level of Unbreakable will save you from shattering under my fists!”

“Tell me, please!”

Mina choked on a sob seeing how their foreheads touched, noses pressed tight, with lips inches apart. Though she knew neither will take the initiative, closing that distance. Katsuki doubtful of Eijiro’s feelings. Eijiro unaware that he loved his hot-headed best friend.

Criminally, DynaRiot only existed on the page.

But if her prayers were answered, that wouldn’t be the case for long.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #eijiro kirishima #kiribaku #dynariot #katsuki x eijirou #bakugou x kirishima #ashido mina #sero hanta #kaminari denki #bakusquad shenanigans #oblivious kirishima #pining bakugou #bnha fanfic #kiribaku fanfic

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ivory-sunflower · 4 years ago

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Arty Art Things ✨

Hellooo!

I've decided to post some of the arty things I've done either recently or in the last few years, well the pieces I'm somewhat proud of at least. All my posts tend to be a lot more wordy than they need to be but hey it's what I do here!

Conchúr White

Anyone one who's been on this blog for a bit will have probably have seen me talk about this lovely Irish fella. The pencil drawing is actually a year old as of yesterday, I only know that because screenshots of me flipping out about Conchúr following me on twitter popped up in my memories yesterday. I think I'd sent it to him at about 3 in the morning (I was not in a good head space at that point in time), so probably not what he was expecting to see when he opened his phone in the morning aha

The biro version is much more recent: I got bored while sat at my desk and doing research about university courses, saw a biro, saw my old drawing of Conchúr, had an idea. I revisited my GCSE art techniques and here we are. Again, I put this up on Twitter and now (at the the time I'm writing this) when you google "Conchúr White" it's the third top image of him which is a bit mad really. I think I spent all of about 20 minutes on Conchúr but another 45 minutes on the words behind him. The words are the names of the songs on his EP 'Bikini Crops', he doesn't just really love the idea of Channing Tatum driving him around at night in a daisy print bikini... Well maybe he does but what he does in his spare time is none of my business...

TechDif

So I mentioned that the pencil drawing of Conchúr came from a rough patch in my mental health and this one is no different! In fact this one came from an even worse circumstance so we love to see it. I had a bad, bad time in July and this started as a way of distracting myself from what was going on in my head. Without it, I can't honestly say I'd still be here so even if the final product of this had been a terrible mess I would still love it for keeping me alive. However, it did not turn out to be a terrible mess!

Now that the origin of this is out the way, where do I start with TechDif? Unlike Conchúr, I haven't really talked about them on here (unless you count one brief post about Citation Needed) before so I guess I'll do it here. The Technical Difficulties are a wonderful group of 4 British fellas who have had their fair share of fun online and even before. They did a radio show at university together, which went on to become their Reverse Trivia Podcast, later moving on to a panel show called 'Citation Needed': and a game called 'Two of These People Are Lying'. All of which I would thoroughly reccomend, they're one of my go to things when I'm having a rough time. All 4 of them are excellent! Tom Scott (red top, blue jeans on the picture) has his own YouTube channel which does content aside from TechDif. If you're quite nerdy and like science, linguistics, computers, or any number of other things you may enjoy Tom's channel. He is probably best described as "The Moderator" of the group, much like a tired teacher he tries desperately to keep everyone on track with what they're meant to be doing, but usually it does not end well for him. Then we have Matt Gray (space top, holding an ice cream) who also has a channel away from TechDif stuff, he does techy electronic things and has a series called 'Will it Soft Serve?' where he puts all kinds of strange things through a soft serve machine. Matt brings a very specific energy to TechDif and I can't fully describe what that vibe is but I love it. Matt and Tom also share a YouTube channel where TOTPAL is posted and they had a series called 'The Park Bench'. Moving on to everybody's favourite Gary Brannan: Gary Brannan (SATIRE hoodie, glasses) and can I just say, what a fella he is! He's just excellent! He is the one that will argue and rip into Tom the most (not in a malicious way) and hilarity ensues. There are some episodes where he is absolutely on it, getting all the points and others where he very clearly has no idea and that's where some of his funniest quotes come from. Given how badly I was doing at the time I made this, his response to it on Twitter was so so lovely. I specifically remember one tweet where he said I'd made him happy and although it was probably a flippant comment, it just made feel alright for a bit. Yeah I might be feeling awful right now, but I've made someone else happy so that's a nice feeling. Then last but certainly not least, we have Chris Joel (buffalo check shirt, beard)! I would be lying if I said he isn’t my favourite... His sense of humor is the one I vibe with most, he can get rather dramatic in parts and can chat bollocks like a champion. He has absolutely no online presence away from TechDif and, like Rens from Temples, I fully believe he’s a cryptid and lives off in a tree somewhere.

The picture took me about 4 days to complete, well 4 nights because I did most of it between the hours of 12 a.m. and 7a.m. - I remember watching the sun come through my window each morning. It’s made up of lots of little pieces, all cut out and stuck on; even the sky and hills are made of separate pieces of paper. Nothing was actually drawn on the piece of paper it’s all stuck on, it’s not how I usually do things but if I messed up one little but I could just redraw it rather than ruining the whole thing. The most tedious parts to make were Chris’ shirt because I had to draw each square individually and then join the as well, and cutting out the ban-hammer in the bottom right was surprisingly hard. Every single detail of the picture is a reference to the podcast/shows, I still have the plan sketch and reference list knocking about somewhere. I listened to a lot of true crime videos while making it to the point that certain parts remind me of different cases: the brandy now reminds me of Peter Tobin, and the big spiral thing reminds me of Tim McLean (very harrowing case) - sorry that fact is a bit morbid but interesting nonetheless.

I did post this for a little bit back in July, but I received some rather awful messages so I took it down. Generally, Tom Scott/TechDif fans are lovely but there’s been a few that have taken a disliking to me for some reason so I’m hoping they don’t resurface again. I’m in a better head space now though, so even if they do I’m more equipped to deal with it this time.

Hozier

This was a quick sketch I did in April, I was getting bored with lockdown and decided to summon the bog man himself. There’s not really much more backstory than that, no poor mental health story, no fun twitter story - he’s just here. He’s vibing. I will say I’m particularly proud of his nose, I just think it’s one of the best noses I’ve ever drawn. His hand is okay, but I think that the hands on my Conchúr drawings are better. So there is the Hozi-Boi...

The Corpse Bry

I’ve talked about Bry on here before as well, I love him, he’s excellent, top lad. He is a living Tim Burton character, he’s 6′6, very skinny, and his legs are longer than my will to live. I was watching ‘The Corpse Bride’ a few weeks ago and suddenly had an idea and so ‘The Corpse Bry’ came to be. I gave him a little panda friend because the panda has always been his animal - he used to wear a panda beanie all the time and his album had a panda on the cover. Again, there’s not really a fun story behind this one, I guess it’s somewhat fun because it’s the first art I made after finishing my psychology exams in October so it was nice to actually have the time to draw.

James Bagshaw

Ginger talking about Temples for the third post in a row? it’s more likely than you think! I did this one last week, I’d had a bit of a wobbly day and had group therapy on Teams in the evening and I just couldn’t concentrate on what was going on and I ended up doodling Mr James E. Bagshaw, the glitter crying fraggle man himself. It’s a bare-bones drawing that I could definitely work into more but I’m happy with it as it is to be honest. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit and add the individual bits of fringe to his jacket, just thinking about doing that makes me tired. Maybe I’ll get around to drawing the whole band at some point...

Alice in “Wonderland”

This one is from about 5(?) years ago, it’s not my typical style and was a “study” based on another artists work (basically i just had to copy this fellas work). I’ll be honest, this one has a sketchy backstory that I won’t go in to because it’s not exactly a nice one, and because of that I also won’t say who the artist is that it’s based on. Despite this, I’m still really proud of this one and I’m so sad that I never got this piece back after I got taken out the class. I’ve considered trying this style again, I’ve even joked about doing another Conchúr drawing in this style as a nod to my progression through GCSE art, eventually leading to Conchúr drawn in ink on music manuscript and stained with neon paint and dyes - it would be quite the project!

So this has been quite a lengthy post so apologies about that but life goes on. Similar to the vinyl post, I’ll probably add to this as and when I make more art. Even if no one is reading these posts, I’m enjoying making them so that’s the main thing. It’s just nice to document things and the feelings that go with them. 💕

~ Love Ginger xx

29/11/2020

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bang-to-the-tan · 5 years ago

Text

Moth to Flame

Chapter 14

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Anal Sex, Slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

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“And how are we doing today?”

You hum into your coffee with a grimace, eyes not straying from the television.

Hoseok somehow takes your grim silence as an invitation to get closer, vaulting himself over the edge of the couch and plopping down beside you with a deep noise of personal satisfaction. A sharp breath of pain leaves your throat when the bounce jostles you, your legs, your abused holes.

“Sorry,” he adds, quick, and you almost believe him. When you throw a tired look his way, he’s got this weird half-smile on, lips stretched straight across his face. It pushes his cheeks up into his eyes. When your gazes meet, he waggles his brows at you. It’s so close to cute, but you aren’t in the mood. “How are you feeling?”

“Are you going to keep asking me that until I answer?” you mutter, turning back to the tv.

“Yeah, probably.”

“I’m feeling shitty.”

“How’s your ass?”

“Feels shitty.”

“Yoongi really gave it to you yesterday.”

“He did indeed.” You take another careless sip of your coffee. This morning, you managed to complain loud enough to Namjoon that he went and got you milk and sugar for it before he left to go and do his mysterious ‘vampire stuff’. It’s still way too strong, but at least palatable. You even had a croissant when you got up—real food. Not exactly a king’s breakfast, but something. He promised to fill the cupboards for you when he got back, and you intend to keep him to it.

“When is it my turn?”

“We aren’t taking turns.”

“Weird, that’s not what you said yesterday.”

“Can I help you Hoseok? I’m trying to watch my show.”

There’s a pause.

“Animal planet?”

“I like the little furry things.”

“Same.”

“I’m not talking about genitals.”

“Oh. Then I take it back.”

Silence sinks back in and you go back to absently imagining throttling him, half-listening to the narrator talk ceaselessly about mongoose. Mongeese? The little guy on the screen takes down a snake and damn near bites its head off. Wouldn’t it be cool if you had sharp little teeth and quick reflexes like that? Not sure the ego trip is worth it, though. Present company very much included.

“You aren’t getting rid of me today.” Oh, good. He’s decided to continue talking.

“Am I not?”

“No yoga studio today. Joon’s going looking for covens. Even Yoongi’s headed out. It’ll just be you and me.”

“Oh, good. Just what I wanted.”

Hoseok chuckles, the sound far too low in his chest. “I know it is.”

“No fucking today, Hoseok,” you throw pleading, exasperated look at him, shoulders sagging. “Come on, I’m seriously hurting.”

He raises his hands, palms forward, in a sign of surrender. He makes an expression that’s all innocence, wrongfully accused. “I’m just teasing you, pretty girl. It’s okay. We won’t do anything. If you wanna chill and watch your boring animal planet, that is all you’ll do.”

Uh-huh. Right.

“I’ll tell Namjoon.” You threaten.

“Ooooh. Wouldn’t wanna get in trouble with the boss.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Hey.” Yoongi’s deep drawl comes from behind the sofa. You pay no mind to the shiver that slinks down your frame at just the sound of his voice. “I’m going out.”

“Hey.” you and Hoseok echo at the same time.

“Did a good job on the couch,” Hoseok pipes up, cheerful. “Can’t even really tell there was a foursome on it 24 hours ago. Mostly.”

“Thanks.”

You don’t hear him moving. Is he watching the show with you? You can’t tell. What do you suppose Yoongi’s opinion of mongoose is? Are?

“Hey,” he says again, quieter.

“Hey?” you mumble, sensing that he might be addressing you.

“I...I’m sorry. For yesterday.”

“Sorry about fucking your ass like a maniac,” Hoseok clarifies helpfully. “Imagine that on a card.”

Yoongi ignores him. “I’m gonna go...try and get something to eat. I’m sorry...for what I said.” He draws a breath through his teeth. “Threatening.”

“...it’s okay.” you say after a beat.

“I’m sorry for the other things I said, too. Calling you stuff.”

“It’s fine, Yoongi.” It isn’t fine, not really. You aren’t sure how you feel about being called a slut when they’re no better, but the threatening to kill you feels like it should be crossing a very specific line. On the other hand...you can’t shake the sense that he’s being honest. Like he’s actually sorry. You won’t look at him, though. You know exactly what kind of look he has on his face. The kind of deeply hungry look etched into his very skin. And if he’s any worse off than he was yesterday, you aren’t sure either of you would survive if you made eye contact.

Out of the corner of your vision, you catch movement. A long, veiny hand, hovering over the couch. You’re afraid for a moment that it might be reaching for you, but instead, he drifts towards Hoseok’s shoulder. It hesitates, as if waiting for a reprimand, but eventually touches down and curls faintly, familiarly.

“Sorry for hazing you, Hope.”

Hoseok snorts. But his tone is genuine as you’ve ever heard him. “It’s alright. I know you aren’t okay.”

“I mean it.” He's oddly insistent. “I won’t do it again without permission.”

Hoseok nods, pouting absently. “‘Kay.”

Yoongi’s hand lingers before it slips off, and you aren’t sure what, exactly, sort of vibe is filling the atmosphere.

“Good luck,” Hoseok adds, oddly gentle.

“Thanks.” You can hear him travelling down the hallway to the front door. He has a habit of dragging his feet. The door is, by comparison, almost unbearably loud, and when it shuts, it shuts everything into a muted silence.

There’s a blissful quiet, but you can tell that Hoseok isn’t the kind of person to stay quiet for very long. He starts twitching, sniffing, scratching his neck, trying and failing to feign interest in your show.

“Heard you met Jackson.”

There it is. It’s begun. You resist the urge to sigh. “Yep.”

“What did you think about Yugyeom?”

“Who?”

“The baby of the coven. Sweet kid.”

“I didn’t meet any of the others.”

“Oh.”

Again, a silence settles between you. The mongoose on screen darts furiously, little legs spurring it over terrain with that kind of desperation that small animals are so good at.

“Mark’s nice, too.”

“Do you really have nothing better to do?” You crane to peer at him in exasperation, brow furrowed.

“I want to hang out with you.” Funny, considering he isn’t looking you in the eye.

“We haven’t interacted at all unless it was for sex.”

“I know!” He throws up his hands, flopping backwards dramatically. “That’s the thing! But Namjoon seems to be really caught up in you. I’m curious, okay?”

“I don’t know what to tell you but all you’re doing is making things awkward.”

“No.” There’s a weird tone in his voice that convinces you to look back to him. His grin has disappeared, and when he shrugs, it’s heavy, like the world is up there. “No, I don’t have anything better to do. And, I...honestly, not to be mean, but I can’t stand animal planet, alright?”

“What psycho doesn't like animals?”

“Animals are fine, it’s not the animals, just—like, okay, I get it!” He waves at the screen. “He’s really fast and he’s gonna eat smaller things and something bigger is probably gonna eat him. I get it. Once you’ve watched one, you’ve watched all of them.”

“What would you rather do, then, huh?”

“Anything! Let’s go out.”

“I’m not leaving this couch. I cannot walk.”

“We can do anything else. Anything.”

“What if I don’t want to do something with you?”

“Sheesh, I just want to get to know you.”

“I don’t know you!” you burst, throwing your own hands ceiling ward, rolling your eyes. “I don’t know any of you! I don’t know me! So sorry not sorry, it’s tough that you’re bored, but what I wanna do is sit here and watch animal planet until my taint stops fucking hurting!”

“Do you want to?”

“Do I want to what.”

“Know me. I don’t mind talking about it.”

“You don’t seem to mind talking, full stop.”

“You aren’t wrong,” he adds, “Anything to distract from animal planet. Anything.”

“Alright, fine.” you lean back with a huff, rolling your eyes. “Tell me your story, Hoseok. Animal planet stays on during.”

“Poor family.” he starts off much less dramatically than you’d have thought he would, just diving right into it. “Really poor. Dirt poor. Ma and Pa worked triple, just to keep food on the table. Me and my sister worked too, soon as we could, delivering papers and stuff.”

“...You have a sister?”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah.” You can hear the shuffle of the fabric, feel the displacement as he moves to copy you, sinking further into the sofa’s cushions. “I did. I got really into music, too. Music, y’know, it doesn’t care, where you’re from. What you know, who you know. Started making it. Shitty stuff, really bad.”

“How bad?”

“Incredibly bad.”

“I believe it.”

“Don’t be rude.”

You shrug, watching a mole dig a hole and wiggle into it with a faint feeling of jealousy. “Beginners are bad.”

“Yeah, well. I got better. Once Yoongi and I met...I mean—”

You crane your head, throwing him a surprised raise of your brows. “You knew each other? Like before?”

The dark expression that flits across his face reminds you of who he is. Who he’s been to you, regardless of the person he’s talking about now. His grin isn’t friendly. “What did I say about interrupting?” he muses, low, but he cocks his head and returns his empty stare to the television. “It was like magic. He could write like the devil, make all these tracks that made you feel things...He was a music god and I prayed in his church every day I could.”

“So the…” you make fangs on either side of your mouth with your fingers. He pretends he doesn’t see you.

“I don’t know where he got it. He said he knew a way to the top. He said...we’d never die.” Here, he chuckles, but like the smile, there’s no warmth in it. “I thought he meant by being famous. Y’know, like a sane person.”

“Yoongi changed you?”

“Yeah. He did.”

Hoseok shifts on the couch again, his gaze turning into thoughtful as he reminisces. The light of the television plays off his hair, his fine cheekbones and long eyelashes. You think briefly of how that must have looked. A different version of him. A hardworking boy promised a way up through the rungs of his passion. He’s kind of understandable when you think of him that way. Doesn’t excuse his behavior, in your opinion. But understandable.

“We fell out for a while. My family grew old without me. I went to my mom’s funeral in a disguise. My sister...I mean, by the end, she didn’t even recognize me.”

“...I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s how things are supposed to be. I’m just not...supposed to be stuck for them. I’m supposed to go through them too. But he was still there for me. And eventually I came back to him. Scared of being alone, I guess. Together, we met Jin and Namjoon. And that’s...I mean, that’s pretty much it.”

The tv switches to a commercial break, and above the glare of super-powered objects that will surely change your life for the better, the shouting people telling you exactly what you’re missing, you finally enjoy a pause of real silence that lasts longer than two minutes. Hoseok seems to have fallen out of whatever chatty mood had spurred this impromptu baring of his soul, but you aren’t sure, now that you have it, whether you preferred it when he was talking. The commercial break turns to a news report and suddenly Jin’s face is appearing on the screen, handsome eyes dark and expression serious. Suit sharp, hands clasped businesslike on the table in front of him. He’s reporting on this and that, talking about celebrities you don’t know, people in offices of power that you don’t remember. None of it particularly interests either of you as far as you can tell. Neither of you really belongs here anyways.

Until a picture flashes on the screen that you immediately recognize.

“Oh shit.” Hoseok exhales sharply next to you. You’re inclined to agree with him.

It’s you. Standing next to Namjoon in his hoodie and Yoongi’s sweatpants, scarf wrapped carelessly about your shoulders. It’s a little blurry, but there’s no mistaking either of you, even with Namjoon halfway turned away from the camera. Ahead, the sharp lights of the store, and all around you the racks of reasonably priced outfits.

“In other news, we’ve received an anonymous tip about the whereabouts of a local wanted criminal—” Oops, you’re having a really hard time breathing. Local wanted criminal? Namjoon. Oh, fuck. “—posted on social media, with the comment, quote, ‘look at that guy—”

Hoseok moves, scrambling for his phone stashed away in his back pocket, brow furrowed.

Those kids. Those teens. Oh, shit.

“—do not try to engage, and instead call law enforcement with the street address—”

How can Jin stay so calm, ratting his brother out like that? You scrutinize his face in shock, looking for some indication, some way out. But he only continues on, steely, unmoved.

“—for her involvement in the riots that have been plaguing—”

Wait.

Did he say “her”?...

“Namjoon,” Hoseok says from next to you. He must have gotten his phone out, punched in the numbers to connect him to the other man. “Yeah, uh, everything’s okay with us, but...”

Another picture flashes on the screen.

It’s you again.

But this time, it’s a mugshot. Your hair’s wild. Your makeup is smeared. And there’s a look in your eyes you don’t remember ever wearing in your life. But it’s you. You see that face in the mirror as often as you can bear it.

“—while authorities confirm, and continue the search for the suspect.”

“Again, if you see this woman, do not engage. Report to your nearest law enforcement office as soon as you can. Stay safe.” Jin finishes.

“Namjoon, I think we have a problem.”

Previous Masterlist Next

#moth to flame #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts vampire au #bts x reader #HI KENNA HOW ARE THINGS HOW ARE WE FEELING #congrats babey you got itttt #yeah this chap fuckin fought me idk #better luck next time champ lmao peaceee

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soveryanon · 4 years ago

Text

Reviewing time for MAG183!

- I’m not sure I can manage to put it into words quite right but: sounds-wise, this episode’s domain didn’t feel mind-blowingly new, it wasn’t something that felt “Oh! I’ve never heard something like this before!”? But the echoes, grinding and scratching were timed so well, giving so much strength and gravitas to the conversations, that it perfectly scratched an itch. I could hear that there was something close to Jon and Martin, that it was big, and mostly deserted, that it stood eerily in the overall wasteland, that they were two people alone against a whole world, a whole machine with gears and a mechanism ready to crush anyone?

- I LIVE for artist!Martin giving his commentary and overall throwing shade at the Fears’ taking of artistic licence liberties:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Oh, bugger off! ARCHIVIST: Everything all right? MARTIN: Oh, no, what e–, what e–, what even is that? It, it’s like Escher ate a bad cathedral and threw up everywhere.

He had shown interest in the Stranger’s carousel upon learning that the statements had been a poem, but shots fired for that tower, uh.

- Jon and Martin were so cute starting the episode! Their quick banter was adorable!

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s a building. A tower. … In a sense. MARTIN: Oh yeah? A–and what sense might that be? ARCHIVIST: [FAINTLY OMINOUS] … The Tarot sense. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERS WITH LAUGHTER] Really? ARCHIVIST: Wha–? No? Sorry, it… felt like a good line…! MARTIN: No, no, it was, I just… I dunno, I… [FOND EXHALE] You did the look, and…! It’s fine, sorry.

Martin being IN LOVE and appreciating Jon’s cuteness! The return of Jon showing that he’s an occult/horror nerd! We had seen in season 2 that he was generally very knowledgeable about anything related to the supernatural, and in season 4 that he was into Neil Lagorio’s movies, I’m happy to get another trace of it!

(MAG076) MELANIE: So I came here to dig a bit deeper. ARCHIVIST: Really? Our… our library is extensive, but it’s hardly focused on the Second World War. MELANIE: No, but the most detailed description of the crash that I could find came from the report of a man called William W. Hay. And later in life William Hay… ARCHIVIST: Became a noted occultist, whose memoirs and researches were only ever published in a heavily edited form. And we have unexpurgated copies. MELANIE: Exactly.

(MAG136) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Statement ends. Hm. Neil Lagorio… You ever see any of his work? DAISY: No. Not really into films. ARCHIVIST: Oh, they were… Well, let’s just say that it’s not a complete shock there was something unnatural to them. Didn’t know we had copies in the Institute, though; let alone original cuts. [CHUCKLE] Records indicate they [PAPER RUSTLING] ended up in… Artefact Storage. DAISY: Probably best that they stay there. ARCHIVIST: … Yeah. Yes, of course.

But SOB x2 since:

* Tower-in-the-tarot-sense meaning ominous stuff… and change. (While Jon knew they would soon come face to face with the choice to take the route through Martin’s domain.)

* Crying over the fact that we’ve seen and learned quite a few outside-of-the-job aspects of Jon this season, comparatively to the previous ones? He’s cute! He’s making jokes! He mentioned his student days a bit in MAG165, and visiting Upton House as a kid in MAG180! And this is happening when the world has been forked over and Jon&Martin certainly won’t survive together past MAG200, which means they have at most seventeen episodes together remaining. Martin, and we alongside him, are seeing so many different, more casual aspects of Jon, and it’s at the end of things…

- I really like how information bounced around in this episode? It felt even more dynamic than usual, quickly shifting depending on some reaction, or going from an association to another:

(MAG183) MARTIN: What, what’s the deal, though? Parts of it almost look like– ARCHIVIST: The Institute. MARTIN: Yeah…! ARCHIVIST: Yes. [INHALE] It makes sense, after all it was… built on the ruins of what Robert Smirke constructed…! MARTIN: Smirke? … What, no! But, but, surely he’s– ARCHIVIST: Dead, yeah, I mean, yes. [CHUCKLING] Very much so! This place is… an homage, shall we say. A monument. To him, and those like him, who tried to… categorise the world with themselves at the centre. In so doing, constructed the architecture of its suffering…!

Ohohoh about Martin feeling like the tower looked a bit like the Institute, and Jon drawing similarities through Smirke – the Institute being built on the ruins of a Smirke building, and the current domain being dedicated to people like him. The Institute is coming closer and weighing on their minds, isn’t it? I really like that Martin immediately worried about Smirke potentially being alive-ish, since:

(MAG138) MARTIN: “The Eye has marked me for something, of this I have no doubt. My… humble hope is that it may be a swift death, an accidental effect of your own researches, which I once again implore you to abandon. It is likely too late for me, but I will not…” [PAPER RUSTLE] Uh… [INHALE] The, hum… The letter ends there. Uh… Ap–apparently Robert Smirke was found collapsed in his study that evening, dead of, uh… [FLIPPING THROUGH PAPERS] Apoplexy. Mm. I–I don’t know how the letter reached the Archives, I mean… Well, I can guess, but…

… he had read Smirke’s last words before he died. (But Martin has seen enough by now to know that there is always a risk for people to not have actually died; on that front, we’re safe, Jon confirmed! Loving Jon’s chuckle: ah yeah, no, Smirke, “very much so” dead from Jonah.)

(Also loved the “[those] who tried to categorise the world with themselves at the centre” shade: yep! That’s West-Eurocentrism and Smirke’s little gang for you!)

- About the way the world works now since the Change, I’m curious about Jon’s wording as “the architecture of [the world’s] suffering”, since it’s echoing the title of Smirke’s statement, “The Architecture of Fear”: my understanding is that right now, the world is mostly running on a loop of people’s fears => feeding and shaping the landscape => which hurts people by turning those realised fears against them => squeezing the fear out of them => feeding the landscape, etc.

What is quite curious is the status of Smirke’s taxonomy in the current world. Jon went off on a rant about how Smirke and people who attempted to classify had been wrong all along because it was meant to fail… while he himself has persistently been using the very same classifications during this very season:

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: Look, we can talk about it later, we’re– coming to a… “domain of The Buried”, and [STATIC RISES] I would really rather… […] God, I hate The Buried. [DEEP BREATHS] … End recording.

(MAG172) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] “Knowing”, “seeing”… i–it’s not the same thing as… understanding. Every time I try to know what The Web’s plan is, if it can even be called a plan, I see… a hundred thousand events and causes and links, an impossibly intricate pattern of consequences and subtle nudges, but I–I can’t…! … I can’t hold them all in my head at the same time. There’s no way to see the “whole”, the, the point of it all. I can see all the details, but it doesn’t… provide… context or… intention. I suppose The Web doesn’t work in knowledge, not in the same way.

(MAG173) MARTIN: That’s the avatar for this place? ARCHIVIST: Callum Brodie, thirteen years old. He guides the children through their fears of The Dark.

(MAG174) ARCHIVIST: I’m not entirely sure what you were expecting, it’s The Vast. The clue is in the name! MARTIN: Yes, all right…!

(MAG176) MARTIN: … Besides, I thought The Hunt was meant to make you go faster. ARCHIVIST: Depends on the type of pursuit. [INHALE] Besides, the chase isn’t… really the point of this particular place.

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Bad therapists. Let’s just say it’s the fear of bad therapists, filtered through The Spiral. BASIRA: That’s… a lot more nuance than I’ve gotten used to since everything went wrong. ARCHIVIST: Yes, well. The Spiral is nothing if not insidious. […] You just heard what The Spiral does to people, you can’t… trust her.

“constructed the architecture of [the world’s] suffering” kind of implies that they did manage something, even if it doomed the world? Is it specifically about Jonah using the division into 14 in his incantation? We’ve seen that that one had limitations, since The Extinction also got there anyway… But at the same time, true that at this point, we would still force-apply Smirke’s labels to anything anyway.

- Loved Jon sounding awfully pedantic and (fake-)poetic at the same time:

(MAG183) MARTIN: [SIGH] Bit of a mouthful. ARCHIVIST: Would you prefer I described it as a… “cascading recursion of shifting arrogance and hubristic dead-ends”? [STATIC RISES] [THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [CONSTANT HIGH-PITCHED FREQUENCY] HELEN: I would. [FOOTSTEPS] [THE DOOR SHUTS] [STATIC FADES] MARTIN: [SIGH] Hello, Helen.

AND HELEN HAVING THE BEST ENTRANCES. It also cleared up something for me (unless I had already realised it and forgot about it since then): the high-pitched sound we hear when she’s around is the mark of Helen and Michael, not of the corridors – if the door is open or characters are inside of the hallways, we’ll hear some of the usual crackling static, but we heard it rise when Helen arrived and fade when the door shut behind her (and same thing with her departure, it was briefly heard when she opened the door).

- Shots fired, MARTIN PLEASE:

(MAG183) MARTIN: [SIGH] Hello, Helen. Might have guessed you’d be into weird architecture. Very much your area of expertise, no? HELEN: Hmm, depends! Would you describe “petulant poet” as your area of expertise? I am weird architecture.

And Helen went equally incisive on that one, but also UUUUUH WAS IT A SPECIFIC REFERENCE TO PETER’S COMMENT ABOUT MARTIN…

(MAG158) MARTIN: I’m… saying no. I refuse! Game over. [KNIFE CLATTERING ON THE GROUND] PETER: Martin, this is not the time for petulance; there are bigger things at stake, here.

This was the only time someone referred to Martin as (acting) petulant… I mean, Helen not missing one second of MAG158 wouldn’t be surprising (she did tell Jon at the end of MAG157 that she would be enjoying the show), but ;; Little chilling when remembering Elias-Peter-Martin in the Panopticon and Martin refusing to kill Jonah there…

- I was right to suspect that Helen might have been unable to know where Jon&Martin were over their stay at Upton House, and that she wouldn’t be pleased about it!

(MAG183) HELEN: Anyway, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you, but you both just vanished. ARCHIVIST: Aaah… Right, I see…! HELEN: I was so looking forward to catching up after that whole Basira and Daisy thing, but then, pfft! You both disappear. I’d be very keen to know how you managed that little trick. MARTIN: Why, it caught us by surprise too, I mean, we, we actually ended– ARCHIVIST: [FIRMLY] We found somewhere to rest. That’s all. MARTIN: … Oh, yeah. Ah, yes, hm. HELEN: Fine. Be like that. I can appreciate the particular pleasure of a kept secret. ARCHIVIST: I’m sure you can.

* Salesa’s zone seems to be protected as long as you don’t physically find it? I wonder how Annabelle managed to find it, still, since Jon only become aware of that blind spot when they arrived nearby; how did she become aware of it in the first place? Did it feel like a hole in the world’s web?

* Awww for Jon keeping the secret and conveying to Martin that they should keep quiet about it ;w;

* AHAHAHHAHA for Jon’s “aaah”, which was absolutely a mischievous grandpa sound. Jon ready to cause trouble, with a smug smile on his face.

- … I love how Helen could observe that the dynamic of the exchange was slipping out of her control (Jon&Martin knew something that she didn’t, didn’t feel threatened by her, and Jon was amused to keep it out of her reach) and immediately tried to go for the throat again:

(MAG183) HELEN: Anyway. Such a shame about Basira and Daisy. I was really rooting for them to make up. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERS] Since when? What happened to– I mean, how did you put it… a, “a quick shot to the back of her head, and then back in time for tea”, or whatever?

Martin: Forgive and forget? NO, RESENT AND REMEMBER AHAHAHAHAH.

Direct reference to the fact that Helen indeed ~offered her door to Basira~ to quickly get to Daisy and execute her:

(MAG177) HELEN: I can offer a shortcut. Take you right to that murder machine you call a partner. MARTIN: Basira… Jon can’t go through Helen’s doors, we, we couldn’t come with you. HELEN: Basira is a strong, independent woman. She doesn’t need you two holding her hand. Anyway, it’ll be dead quick. Two minutes, door-to-door, quick shot to the back of Daisy’s head, and we’ll be home before you know it!

Laughing that Martin added the tea mention (Martin, you single-track minded tea-aficionado), but I’m glad that he remembered it full well to throw it in her face; it wasn’t even a personal attack towards Martin, it was something Helen tried to do to Basira, I’m glad that Martin is still absolutely offended about it ;w;

- I felt like Jon and Helen had two definitions of “what we want”: Helen potentially talking about quick, short-term wants (even if they turn out to be self-destructive), while Jon was more about well-thought decisions and choices?

(MAG183) HELEN: [EXASPERATED SIGH] Oh, give over. I was obviously just prodding her, trying to make a point. She didn’t want to kill her. ARCHIVIST: What we want doesn’t matter much these days. HELEN: Oh, [RASPBERRY NOISE], nonsense. What we want is the only thing that matters these days. And Basira wanted to join Daisy. ARCHIVIST: She made her choice. HELEN: With your assistance. ARCHIVIST: It was still her choice. HELEN: [SIGH] What a waste. ARCHIVIST: No. [INHALE] It wasn’t.

There have been a lot of discussions about “choices” and “wants” throughout the series (with big moments in MAG092, MAG117 and MAG147), so it felt a bit nice that Jon seems to have reached a point where he could draw a line between both? Jon, Martin and Basira didn’t want this world, don’t want the way it operates and what it inflicts on them; it doesn’t mean they can’t weigh options and make specific decisions – Basira, to honour her promise to Daisy and kill the monster she had become; Jon, to not smite for revenge (and Martin, to face his own domain).

I LOVE HOW JON WAS FIRM ABOUT BASIRA’S CHOICE MATTERING ;w; It once again reminds me of Martin’s line to Simon: “I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.” (MAG151); the little things, the individual existences and choices, their own stories, still having value in the expanse of the universe…

- Martin! It’s a delight to see him so firm, having faith in Basira although he’s been so worried for her:

(MAG179) ARCHIVIST: Martin, this is what she needs. MARTIN: No, no! I–it’s…! BASIRA: It’ll… MARTIN: It’s completely– […] … We’re not doing this. BASIRA: [SOFTLY] Martin. Please. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … [SIGH] You’d better look after yourself. BASIRA: I will.

(MAG180) ARCHIVIST: How are you doing? About… MARTIN: Yeah, yeah. Yeah. I’m… I don’t know. I’m–I’m not sure how to feel; just… pressing on, you know? ARCHIVIST: I do. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Do you think she’ll be okay without us? ARCHIVIST: Oh, she’s made it this far. MARTIN: … Yeah. I just worry.

(MAG183) MARTIN: Basira is… She’s going to be okay.

And then pointing out that he was involved in the discussion too and that he wanted to know what the other two knew already and not be kept out of the loop:

(MAG183) HELEN: Oh. Is she? Do you want me to tell you what she’s been up to while you were “resting”? Where she is right now? ARCHIVIST: You don’t need to. I already know. MARTIN: I don’t. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s currently moving through, uh… “The Void.” [STATIC FADES] Hungry shadows drifting in the dark. She’s been there a long time now, struggling to find the path. MARTIN: But she will? ARCHIVIST: I think so. HELEN: Yeah, she does always seem to manage, doesn’t she? It’s impressive. Although a little bit… tempting at times.

I’m not absoooolutely sure about Basira’s status: is “the void” a space between domains, or is it a Dark domain that Basira is having trouble finding the exit of, since unlike Jon, she can’t just “know” the paths? I suspect the latter but I’m not 100% certain. If it’s indeed The Dark, that’s a close to home one for her, since she had a few brushes with it over the course of the show – the Section 31 expedition to save Callum Brodie, leading to Rayner’s death and Basira’s decision to quit the police, her research to find out more about the People’s Church of the Divine Host (as shown in season 3) and her overall worry about them, which allowed Elias to convince her that they would attempt another ritual in Ny-Ålesund, leading to her discovering what “Rayner” was and travelling there with Jon, finding Manuela and the Dark Sun mid-season 4…

;ww; for Jon having faith in Basira, too… And the fact that once again, Basira has it a bit rougher than Jon&Martin (Jon had already told Martin that it had been a difficult journey for her, before they reunited). Helen does have a point that Basira seems to manage to find her way out in general: she had successfully escaped The Unknowing on her own, she had survived The Flesh’s attack on the Institute, she had pursued Daisy in the apocalypse… Basira has already gone through Helen’s corridors (offscreen at the end of MAG143, to return to the Institute), I’m YIKES about Helen implying that it would be “tempting” to grab her. (… But at the same time, why hasn’t she done it already, if she is capable of doing it? It might be a bit more complicated than that?)

- … I love Martin, I love that he was RIGHT to point out that Helen had just waltzed in to try and steer chaos:

(MAG183) MARTIN: Look, Helen, what do you even want? Okay, you keep turning up like a bad penny and, honestly, it, it seems like it’s… it’s just to be a dick! HELEN: Gasp! I am trying to be friends, Martin. Forever is a long time. And I occasionally like to have some company that isn’t… screaming. MARTIN: … What do you even think friendship is? HELEN: I dunno, do I? The only personhood I have is from someone I ate.

It feels like Helen has REALLY tried hard to make up for the weeks(?) she couldn’t find Jon and Martin? She went extra-hard on them: first with Basira, then implying to Jon that he had manipulated her into killing Daisy, then pointing out that Basira was not safe at the moment and still at risk of falling prey to other Fears (including herself), then trying to mock Martin about his domain, trying to guilt-trip Jon for not having told him about it yet, and when she finally managed to get Martin shocked and upset… job done, byebye.

Is it that she’s trying to get Jon so riled up he ends her? “Helen” used to like Jon and to turn to him (MAG101: “Helen liked you so… there’s a lot to consider. But I will help you leave.” / MAG115: “Before, talking to you made Helen feel better.”), before she was absolutely Down With Doors And Murders (MAG146: “We do what we need to do when it comes to feeding, don’t we? … Don’t we, Archivist?”), is it a remnant of that? Or is it really just an attempt at confusing Jon and Martin further, feeding from them Spiral-style?

- More about Martin’s domain later, but the reveal was BRUTAL, and yet not coming out of nowhere; we knew he had one, we knew he had almost been trapped in the Lonely house in MAG170 and the question was whether or not it had been (/was still) his domain once Martin got freed from it, but there was also the question of how Martin was able to walk in the apocalypse unharmed (was it due to Jon’s proximity, Martin’s connection to The Eye as an assistant, etc.), and Basira’s own status after Daisy’s death… so, yay! Answers and clarifications, and as usual, nothing feeling like a plot-twist, just things that make sense, and that we already had most of the information about!

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: Martin… MARTIN: Are there people, Jon? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Are there people in my domain? ARCHIVIST: Not many. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Do you need to do your… your thing? Make a statement about whatever’s going on in there? … I could use a moment to think. ARCHIVIST: Sure thing. Yeah, I–I’ll… [INHALE] Yeah. [EXHALE] [BAG JOSTLING] [DEPARTING FOOTSTEPS]

Sobbing a bit about Martin’s priorities (“Are there people, Jon?”) and Martin asking for a quick me-time. It wasn’t ice-cold, Martin turned it into something useful for both of them (expecting that Jon would have to give his statement anyway), but aouch, he sounded absolutely shattered inside while blank on the surface…

- Yes, yes, yes, reminder that Smirke’s categorisation is arbitrary and just like the Doctor’s theory, sometimes just doesn’t work, because it’s trying to force-apply rules and a classification over something that resists it (and because the classification is not perfect from the start), but hey, that’s most theories and classifications out there anyway, so: Escher reference, the functioning of the Tower reminding me of the Great Twisting, and the reasonings sometimes reminding me of Gabriel’s work (MAG126), plus Helen popping by – it was Spiral stuff, right?

Well! I felt like it looks like Spiral, but the Doctor’s fears by themselves:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “But it is not the fall that terrifies him, not the pain of the impacts, but the fact that none of them should be there. That it doesn’t make sense, and it must make sense, there must be a system, there must be, because if there isn’t– [THE BODY LANDS WETLY] He lands with a heavy smack onto rough limestone, and lies still, his body twisted and broken. He knows it will knit itself back together, slowly, painfully, as it always has before. But the thought of starting over, of composing yet another theory, fills him with a deep dread.”

… are more something I would identify as Eye (fear of a truth) and Hunt (fear of having to return to the start, to have to elaborate a new theory from scratch, again and again, of being trapped forever)?

It was really reminiscent of Smirke thinking back over his life, his hubris and the pride of being the one who would have found the answer, to the point where he would reject reality if it didn’t match his taxonomy (refusing to, well… do what you do with a theory: change, or evolve and perfect it when its flaws are pointed out):

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I believed then, as I still believe now, that these places I saw were the Powers themselves, expressed in their truest form, far more entirely than any ‘secret book’ can claim. And if, as I came to believe, the Dread Powers were themselves places of a sort, then surely with the right space, the right architecture, they could be contained. Channelled. Harnessed. So yes. Hubris. Not simply in that, I suppose, but in believing that those I brought into my confidence shared my lofty goals. […] Would you have me separate The Corruption between insects, dirt and disease? To, to divide the fungal bloom from the maggot? No. No, I… stand by my work. And thus, we must conclude that the only explanation is a new Power, created from what was once others, yet also distinct. And if such change is possible, how then can any “true balance” be achieved through immutable, unchanging stone…?”

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “If they are feeling very confident, they may lean down and stretch a curious tongue beyond their chipped teeth and rotten gums, desperate to add another sense to their observances – more evidence to support their declaration of what the world must be. […] They must simply study and learn, if they are to escape the labyrinth. They will be the first to escape. The one who sits in the central chamber cannot remember his name. But he knows that people called him “doctor”. He made sure of that; to ignore it would have been the greatest disrespect, and he will not be disrespected. […] He knows, for a fact, that this is the central chamber because he is the one sat here. […] They’ll all remember him forever, the first to escape the Monument. His name will be hallowed with the greats: Doctor, uh… Doctor…”

Same old pride, Leitner knew that well too (MAG080: “But I think, in my heart, I dreamed of my work becoming known. That ‘The Library of Jurgen Leitner’ would stand as a symbol of courage and protection. Hubris.”) and Gerry didn’t have many nice things to say about it (MAG111: “Flamsteed, Smirke, Leitner. Idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing.”). Loved how the statements came for Smirke’s life and was absolutely ruthless about it – but maayyybe a bit too ruthless, even? Jon didn’t express much sympathy for “fools like Smirke” either, and this is a rare case in season 5 where I find that the statement was a bit lacking in empathy for… people who were technically victims. I mean! Insufferable pedantic academics sure are a type, they’re really not having the worst life out there, but it makes me feel a bit weird, with season 5’s overall tone, that the episode had that vibe of “serves them well, they’re insufferable” about people who were technically still trapped in a domain and suffering from it?

… I still laughed a lot about the Doctor vs. Professor rivalry and how they solved their argument:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: “The doctor that lies on the floor has recovered, just enough to laugh. ‘You’re still working on mineral theory? How painfully outdated.’ A flash of genuine fear crosses the face of the professor at this dismissal, before he picks up his chunk of granite, and begins to smash the doctor’s head in, yet again.” [SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PEER REVIEW]

Academia unleashed.

(- OKAY, I HAVE TO CONFESS that when the character could only remember his title as “Doctor”, with Smirke having been mentioned earlier, my mind just jumped to Doctor Fanshawe… ;; He had left a strong impression on me, okay.)

- ;w; Over the fact that Martin got his me-time and that it was enough: he was clearly tense, but he came back with direct questions and knew what he wanted cleared up…

(MAG183) MARTIN: Finished? ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: Good. … I need you to explain something to me. ARCHIVIST: All right.

- I can’t believe that Martin Global Heartthrob Blackwood made The Eye FALL FOR HIM too:

(MAG183) MARTIN: How do I have a domain? That doesn’t make any sense. ARCHIVIST: It’s like I said. [INHALE] Everything here is either watcher, or watched. MARTIN: [SIGH] Subject or object, yes, I know, we’ve been over this. ARCHIVIST: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements, The Eye is… fond of you. You’re not getting thrown into your own personal hell, which means…

Jane, Peter, Simon, Elias, Salesa, Annabelle, now Beholding – do you have any limit, Martin.

!! I’m excited over the fact that Martin’s entanglement with Beholding stuff was acknowledged! Comparatively, Melanie had read 2 statements (MAG086, MAG106) and Basira 1 (MAG112). Meanwhile, Martin had read 12; plus, although Tim, Melanie, Martin and Basira had taken (… or tried to take) one live statement each in MAG100, Martin had also taken 3 additional full statements:

MAG084, Adrian Weiss (Corruption) MAG088, Enrique MacMillan (Buried) MAG090, Ross Davenport (Flesh) MAG095, Luca Moretti (Slaughter) MAG098, Doctor Algernon Moss (Dark) MAG100 (live), Lynne Hammond (Desolation) MAG104 (live), Tim Stoker (Stranger) MAG108, Adonis Biros (Lonely) MAG110, Alexia Crawley (Web) MAG134, Adelard Dekker (Extinction) MAG138, Robert Smirke (Eye) MAG142 (live), Jess Tyrell (Buried, Eye) MAG144, Gary Boylan (Extinction) MAG149, Judith O’Neill (Extinction) MAG151 (live), Simon Fairchild (Vast) MAG156, Adelard Dekker (Extinction)

With Simon highlighting that Beholding had compelled him through Martin:

(MAG151) SIMON: Hm! No wonder I’m so sympathetic to The Lonely. You know: this really is a place for self-discovery, isn’t it? [CHUCKLE] “Statement ends”, I suppose! MARTIN: Uh… I’m sorry? SIMON: Oh! Nothing, just my own hubris. I should have known. When I came here, I said to myself: “Simon,” I said, “you’re going to answer this young man’s questions, but you’re not going to give The Watcher a statement. You’re better than that.” But it’s a hard one to resist, isn’t it? You get in the flow of talking about yourself, and it all just… tumbles out. MARTIN: Mm, does seem like it.

Elias might have been eyeing him as back-up Archivist, too (although since then, we’ve learned of his bet with Peter which would have already been running at the time – it might have been that Elias mostly wanted to ensure that Martin wouldn’t die during the Unknowing because he’d be needing him afterwards):

(MAG116) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] What about Martin? MARTIN: What about me? ARCHIVIST: He should stay behind. MARTIN: What?! ELIAS: Really. MARTIN: Why? ARCHIVIST: Too many people might attract attention. MARTIN: No, no, I can help, I’ve been reading the statements! ELIAS: … Quite right, er, probably best he does stay behind. BASIRA: What, so you have a backup if Jon doesn’t make it? ELIAS: I’m sure that won’t be necessary.

Martin did a lot of research, read these statements aloud, took live statements, was hinted as a potential replacement; tape recorders have spawned around him like they do with Jon, even outside of statements, and Martin had been exceptionally kind towards them on multiple occasions; there had been that little moment of Martin somehow knowing that Jon was alive back in season 3 (MAG088: “It’s the not knowing, you know? I mean, Jon’s still alive. Not sure why, but I’m sure of that. But Sasha, I…”), shortly before we had learned about Jon’s own Knowing powers developing; we don’t know why and whether that was Beholding or The Web or something else, but Martin had been able to know how to get Jon out of the Coffin in season 4:

(MAG134) PETER: What does puzzle me, though, and I mean that genuinely, is… why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin, while Jon was in there. [PAUSE] It’s a question, Martin, it’s– it’s not an accusation. MARTIN: I don’t know. And I just… felt like it might help. He’s always recording, I thought… it–it might help him… find his way out. PETER: Interesting. Were you compelled? MARTIN: [SULLEN] … I don’t know. … M–maybe? I–I, I definitely wanted to do it… PETER: But? MARTIN: I’m… I’m not sure where the idea came from. PETER: You should watch out for that. Could be something dangerous. MARTIN: Sure.

… And Peter’s whole plan relied on the fact that Martin was initially touched by Beholding:

(MAG134) PETER: [BREATHES] I’m still working out some of the kinks. But I believe I have a plan. However, it requires this place, and it requires someone touched by The Beholding. Elias was, perhaps unsurprisingly, unwilling to help.

(MAG158) PETER: It’s quite simple, really…! I want to use the powers of this place to learn about The Extinction: what it’s doing, where it’s manifesting. Then we can stop it. MARTIN: And you need me for this? PETER: Correct! Without a connection to The Eye, any attempt to use it would likely end… very messily indeed! But thankfully, it just so happens that you hold such a connection. MARTIN: So that’s it… Both “lonely” and “watching”. PETER: You must admit you’re the perfect candidate. MARTIN: I suppose I am.

Beholding baby!! Now coming in an additional Lonely flavour.

- Mmmmmmmm… The way Jon put it, it seems that Beholding is consciously rewarding its servant and:

* It could be Jon trying to make sense of something else, that he doesn’t understand? Gertrude didn’t think that the Fears were able to “think” at all (MAG145: “Sometimes, I think They understand us as… little as we understand Them. We don’t think like They do.” “I’m not actually convinced they “think” at all.”); reward&affection could be primitive enough feelings for a blob of terrors to work out (Martin fed Beholding as an assistant by reading statements => Beholding grants him things in the hope of getting fed even more?), but I don’t know, I can’t help but wonder if this is just Jon humanising the Fears a bit too much? It’s curious that Beholding got “fond” of Martin precisely when Jon himself fell in love with him – could Jon’s feelings have influenced Martin’s position in the apocalypse, could Jon be having a bit more power over the landscape than he realises?

* … If Beholding is rewarding its servants, that doesn’t bode well for Elias. WELL, no, I mean: it might mean that Elias is having a Great Time as a Beholding acolyte, which means it doesn’t bode well for my desire to see Elias get absolutely wrecked and wrong about being the “king of a ruined world”. I want him to have miscalculated, damnit! x’D

- I’m having so many feelings over Martin himself being unsure of what he wants, whether it’s better to know or to remain ignorant…

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s like I said. [INHALE] Everything here is either watcher, or watched. MARTIN: [SIGH] Subject or object, yes, I know, we’ve been over this. ARCHIVIST: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements, The Eye is… fond of you. You’re not getting thrown into your own personal hell, which means… MARTIN: [QUIETLY] That one of them belongs to me. But that’s… Ho–how can I be a “Watcher”? I, I didn’t even know it existed! ARCHIVIST: But you’ve suspected for a while now, haven’t you? MARTIN: Maybe? But that’s not “watching”! ARCHIVIST: Do you want me to tell you about it? MARTIN: No. … Yes. N–no, no, I don’t know, I don’t know. [SIGH]

Is it a remnant of his discussions with Tim in season 3? He’s basically gone the reverse of Tim about it:

(MAG098) MARTIN: Y’know, I think he thinks that the distance keeps us safe, you know? Like, like, if he just makes sure that we’re not involved, we’re somehow fine. TIM: He’s an idiot. Look, we didn’t know what that door was, and it still trapped us. Ignorance isn’t going to save anyone. MARTIN: No, I mean, you’re right, I guess.

Martin has seen enough to know now that ignorance doesn’t protect anyone, but also that knowledge can be used as a weapon – that the horrors are just made to hurt. I feel like, in his situation, noping out of Jon’s statements was one of his only ways to assert his boundaries (which had been denied from him — and from others — for a long time)? But here, the situation is different; it’s about Martin’s own involvement, he knew the knowledge would hurt anyway… but it’s also his load to bear? To at least face what is happening, since he’s benefitting from it, since he’s been made complicit (without ever wanting to)? It still goes perfectly with the exploration of exploitative and oppressive systems: Martin, unknowingly and unwillingly inflicting hurt, still being in a better situation than others… while not being directly responsible for it, not wanting to benefit from it. It really makes me want to see Jon&Martin find a way to reverse or improve things, to get people out of the domains or giving them the keys to escape them, and I don’t know if I can even hope something about this ;; (On the Jon&Martin front, things are so good; but it still feels so unfair for… everyone else.)

- Martin having a domain and being classified as a “watcher” finally explains why he hadn’t been impacted by the apocalypse since the Change! He had been able to get out of the domains’ grasp even when he wasn’t around Jon (he had fallen behind at the end of MAG163, he wandered around in the Web’s theatre, he left Jon alone for most of the statements), and there was still the question of… how he was still surviving without eating, and at the same time wasn’t (at least as far as we knew) trapped in a domain:

(MAG161) MARTIN: [MIRTHLESS HUFF] What about food? ARCHIVIST: What about it? When’s the last time you thought to eat, o–or even felt hungry? MARTIN: [FAINT] What…? Wha… Uh… I don’t know. ARCHIVIST: No. Whatever is sustaining us now doesn’t need us to eat. MARTIN: That… that can’t be possible– ARCHIVIST: It’s a new world, Martin, the natural laws are whatever they want them to be. And I suspect they don’t much care to keep humanity fed and watered.

I was wondering if it was Jon’s influence, or Martin being “trapped” in Jon’s domain, and Jon had also alluded to the possibility that they were themselves trapped in their quest towards the Panopticon:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place. MARTIN: Apart from us. ARCHIVIST: I suppose. I–in a sense, though… [CHUCKLING] how much of that is because we are trapped in our own quest to– MARTIN: Okay, let’s, let’s not dive into another… ontological debate right now, not here. ARCHIVIST: Fair enough.

And Jon had even specifically told Martin that he had a domain, shortly before Martin got almost imprisoned in the Lonely house:

(MAG167) ARCHIVIST: We all have a domain here, Martin. The place that feeds us. MARTIN: Oh. [PAUSE] Where’s yours? ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLE] I mean, we’re… traveling towards it. MARTIN: Oh! Right, obviously. [CHUCKLING] Duh. Hum… What about me? ARCHIVIST: … Would you… like me to… ? MARTIN: No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. ARCHIVIST: … Okay!

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: I, I didn’t want to… look too ha–, I–I–I promised I wouldn’t… know you, and, and with the fog in all–all the rooms, I’ll, I just, I lost y–, I… I–I’m sorry. MARTIN: It’s okay. ARCHIVIST: … No, I… I tried to use the… to know where you were, but… it was… You–you were faint. It was so strange, i–it took me so long just to find you…! [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] MARTIN: Jon, it’s… okay. I promise it’s okay. This place tried, it really did, and honestly I… I wanted to believe it. But I didn’t. ARCHIVIST: This… “place”, i–it… [STATIC] My god…! […] I, I just… I wanted to make sure that you knew what this place was. MARTIN: It’s The Lonely, Jon. It’s me. ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Not anymore. MARTIN: Hm! No. [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] No…! Not anymore.

And alright, that finally answers it: the Lonely house wasn’t his domain, wasn’t meant to be (but he was susceptible to it, got almost trapped in it as a “watched” although he eventually managed to reject and break free from it). His own domain was elsewhere, and Martin himself was amongst the “watchers” all along; Martin is living a bit like Helen in this apocalypse, having a fixed domain, but able to navigate elsewhere.

Aouch for Martin, since he had been encouraging Jon to smite domains’ rulers as soon as he discovered that Jon could do it; it was already murky territory for Jon himself (if the “avatars” and “monsters” just deserve to die, what about Jon?), it was awful with Callum (Martin himself drew the line at smiting a kid)… but now, we know it was directly including him, too, and that he had been fed through people’s pain all along. No wonder Helen had encouraged the smiting so hard, if she already knew they were kind of neighbours…

… Double-aouch for Jon, because he had offered twice the option for Martin to stay elsewhere, permanently:

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: M–Martin, if you… did; i–if you wanted to forget… a–all of it, stay here and just… escape. I… I would understand. MARTIN: … N–no…! It’s comforting here, leaving all those… painful memories behind, but… It’s not a good comfort, it’s… I–it’s the kind that makes you fade, makes you… dim and… distant.

(MAG181) ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I… It would have been nice to stay. MARTIN: [WISTFULLY] Yeah… I’d almost forgotten what it was like, you know? A bit of peace, eh! ARCHIVIST: I mean, you could have… MARTIN: No, don’t say it, Jon. You know I never would. I–I can’t just “forget” about all the people out here! Besides, I’d rather be trapped in a post-apocalyptic wasteland with you than spend one more moment in paradise with her.

And Jon probably didn’t know what Martin’s domain was exactly, back then, since we heard the knowing static kick in when he described the domain in this episode? But he probably knew, already, that Martin having a domain didn’t mean that he belonged to it as a victim, but as a ruler, and that it would hurt Martin so much. (“No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.”, indeed ;;)

- I AM HAVING SO MANY FEELINGS OVER THE DESCRIPTION OF MARTIN’S DOMAIN…

(MAG183) [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely. Inhabited by a few lost souls whose fear is not of their isolation or their agonies, but that no-one… will ever know of them. That they shall suffer in silence, and be mourned by nobody. That’s why you can’t really see it. It’s why even if we do travel through it, you won’t be able to see… any of the people trapped there.

… It reminds me so much of what Martin probably experienced in his own flat, when Prentiss besieged him for two weeks and Martin was unable to contact anyone, and nobody came to check on him? Did Martin’s domain grow from his own old fears…?

It also reminds me a bit of Naomi’s brush with The Lonely:

(MAG013) NAOMI: The fog seemed to follow me as went and seemed to swirl around with a strange, deliberate motion. You’ll probably think me an idiot, but it felt almost malicious. I don’t know what it wanted, but somehow I was sure it wanted something. There was no presence to it, though, it wasn’t as though another person was there, it was… It made me feel utterly forsaken.

Overall, the description is extremely… typical from what we’ve seen of The Lonely: there was Naomi’s misadventure, Ethan disappeared and nobody even claimed his backpack (MAG048), Yetunde Uthman had “disappeared a year ago. And nobody noticed” (MAG150)…

(But from that description alone, it doesn’t sound very Beholding, despite what Jon said? I’m curious about the Eye aspect of it…)

- Can’t believe that Martin canonically turns out to be the Lonely Eyes love(hate)child, gdi. It really was a custody battle in MAG158.

- Extra-sad that Jon warned Martin that there was meaning in the fact that Martin didn’t know anything about his domain, and wouldn’t even be able to see people in there… It’s just so cruel, both for them, and for Martin, to learn that he’s been unknowingly contributing to their misery (because they fed him and he didn’t even know about them)?

Pretty sure that Martin will stay with Jon to hear that statement, at the very least ;; (Or could he ask for something more? We’ve seen Jon extracting Breekon’s statement in MAG128, I wonder if he could put something into someone’s head like Elias had done, allowing Martin to give that statement himself…)

- I’m wondering about Jon’s own domain, too, now! He said they were heading towards it, so it’s either the Panopticon, the Institute or the Archives, or a mix of those… or something close to it, on their way to it. If Martin’s domain is a mix of Lonely&Eye, is Jon’s pure Eye? A mix of the 14/15? A Web&Eye mix, given Jon’s own personal fears?

I know that Jonny (lovingly) called out the obsessive classification in this episode through Jon, who went off on a rant about the “neat little boxes”, but he’s still using the Smirke classification this season:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: It’s a small domain. A swirling mix of The Eye and The Lonely.

(AND IN THIS VERY EPISODE… Jon…)

- On the one hand: feeling directly called out by Jon’s rant about how the divisions between avatars/monsters/humans/victims wasn’t and isn’t working, that reality escapes that division because it’s much more complicated than this:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: [HEATED] Avatar isn’t a thing, Martin, it’s not–! It’s just a word. A word used by… fools like Smirke to try and sort everything into neat little boxes, to reduce the messy spray of human fear into a checklist: Human, avatar, monster, victim. Only now, now, there’s a binary. There’s finally a clear dividing line and… [SIGH] Well. I’m sorry you’re not happy with which side you’ve ended up on.

(It felt especially relevant with Callum Brodie: could we really tell that he was an “avatar” when he was still a freshly wounded kid, even if a tormentor himself?)

On the other hand, well, that was still a useful distinction to have to identify servants, and mostly, I’m not extremely convinced by Jon arguing that there is now a Clear BinaryTM in the new world, between the “watchers” and the “watched”, since:

1°) Helen herself explained the dichotomy to Martin (MAG166: “And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: the watcher, and the watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid.”). Given that she mostly tries to confuse them… that’s a red flag.

2°) Despite Jon defending that binary, we’ve run into plenty of examples of things… not fitting into that new classification. He himself acknowledged that Basira’s status wasn’t established yet; we’ve seen Salesa, protected by his camera from the chaos; Jon has been unable to know about Georgie and Melanie, only hypothesising that they might in what-used-to-be-London; Martin, a watcher, could still have fallen prey to another domain… That’s already a lot of special cases around that “clear dividing line”…

3°) Somethingsomethingsomething about how it’s in Beholding’s best interest that Jon believes in a clear, unchangeable, dividing line which serves Beholding’s own interests. If things feel fixed and unchangeable, then there is no point trying to fight against it or find a loophole, right?

Given that a Watcher can get trapped in another domain… does that mean that it could be the case for Jon, too? We got a threat of it in MAG172, when Jon began to give the statement of the following act – if Martin hadn’t interrupted him, would Jon have ever been able to stop?

- Confirmation that Daisy had “trapped” Basira in her Hunt! I was suspecting it since Jon’s first wording:

(MAG164) MARTIN: Is Basira alive? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN: Is she… in… o–one of these places? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s alive. Out there, not… trapped in a–a hellscape, but… moving. [STATIC DECREASES] Hunting. She’s… she’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind.

(MAG183) MARTIN: … What about Daisy? Or Basira? ARCHIVIST: Daisy carved through the domains of others. Basira… well… In a very real way she was a sufferer in Daisy’s domain. Maybe the only one. Hunting, following, hurting. Now Daisy’s dead, she’s… free. Sort of. She’s inherited something of Daisy’s ability to move through the other domains. For now, she’ll… feed off what she sees in them. As to whether the Eye ultimately gives her a domain of her own… I don’t know yet.

* And now, Basira seems to have a peculiar status… Is it because she killed Daisy? Is it because she killed the ruler of her domain? Jon explained that a ruler’s death didn’t change much for the domain itself, but maybe it operates differently if a victim kills a ruler (… they become the new ruler?)

* Another reminder that Jon cannot see the future.

* Big Eyeball didn’t immediately give Basira a domain, but Martin got one. I see that favouritism, uh. (Joke, it does make sense given how Martin recorded a lot of statements and had worked at the Institute for years and years.)

- I love how Jon managed to explain why he hadn’t told Martin everything, and how Martin… indeed agreed that Jon had been mostly trying to respect his wishes about not knowing ;; It’s true that Martin had been adamant about not hearing much of the horror:

(MAG163) MARTIN: J–Jon, enough! Enough! [STATIC FADES] … Please don’t tell me these things. ARCHIVIST: I… I’m sorry, I– There’s just so much! There’s so much, Martin, and I know all of it, I can see all of it, and I– It’s filling me up, I need to let it out! MARTIN: I’m sorry, but tough. Okay? Tha–that’s not what I’m here for. [VOICE IN THE DISTANCE: “No… No!”] MARTIN: I can’t be that for you, I–I just can’t.

(MAG167) MARTIN: Oh! Right, obviously. [CHUCKLING] Duh. Hum… What about me? ARCHIVIST: … Would you… like me to… ? MARTIN: No, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. ARCHIVIST: … Okay!

(MAG183) MARTIN: You didn’t tell her any of that. ARCHIVIST: I didn’t think the metaphysics of her place in the fear ecosystem was something she’d be particularly interested in at that moment. MARTIN: Fair. But you seem very reluctant to tell anyone any of this stuff. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I did try, right at the start, but y–you didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I didn’t push it. It’s hard, I have so much knowledge but… how do I decide what people want me to share, and what they never want to know?. MARTIN: I guess that makes sense.

But Martin seems to acknowledge that indeed, Jon had been trying his best about it…

(And now, I wonder if there is still other stuff that Jon hadn’t told Martin, in the same vein…)

- First choice for Martin:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I was going to bring it up at the crossroads. Inside. I only just realised we would be going this way. […] MARTIN: I guess that makes sense. … So what did you mean about the crossroads? When you were talking to Helen. ARCHIVIST: It’s a maze in there, something between a, a Rubik’s Cube and a Magic Eye picture. I can find us the way through easily enough but… well. For us, there are two ways out. Two paths to London. MARTIN: What are the choices? ARCHIVIST: One would be a long, winding route, we’d see a lot of horrors, but remain… personally untouched. MARTIN: And the other is my domain. ARCHIVIST: Eventually. It’s a shorter path, with faces we know along the way. Including Helen. MARTIN: I thought Helen was her domain, wi–with all the doors and that? ARCHIVIST: She is, but she has a… position within this pseudo-landscape, like any other. MARTIN: O–okay. [INHALE] So, so, I mean, I suppose we’ve got to do that one, right? ARCHIVIST: We don’t have to, w–we–we could just– MARTIN: What, what? We could, we could dodge around it? Take the path of denial? I guess, but… what is it you keep harping on about? “The journey will be the journey”? [SIGH] I mean… It’s pretty obvious that this one is my journey.

! Glad that Martin didn’t hesitate and immediately understood what it was about – that it mattered to do it that way, that Martin had to face it, that this is how this world works. No hesitation about it. He got a demonstration with Basira, but still, he was quick to accept it.

I’m expecting a few episodes before Martin’s domain, so… with the overall rhythm of the season, they might reach the Institute by MAG189? And Hill Top Road during Act III?

- Since Jon mentioned that the path Martin ended up choosing had:

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: Eventually. It’s a shorter path, with faces we know along the way. Including Helen.

I wonder about those “faces we know”, since we’re running super-low on ~avatars~. Different options:

* Institute staff. Rosiiiie?

* Melanie&Georgie. A bit unlikely, given that Jon had trouble knowing what was the deal with them, I feel?

* Since Helen will be there, people who gave live statements to Jon and were trapped in his nightmare zoo. I’m mostly thinking about this one, especially since Jon’s “No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.”… (And if it’s about an internal and metaphorical journey, I feel like having to face people that Jon hurt, first unaware (he didn’t know about the nightmare zoo when he signed to become the Head Archivist), then partially unwilling but still doing it (he felt guilty about it but still hid it, still chose self-preservation instead of warning the others about it), would have its place…)

- In the same fashion, who is trapped in Martin’s domain? Unrelated people? Live statement-givers? (;; I’m thinking of Jess, who had the misfortune of being compelled by Jon and of giving a statement to Martin…)

… Given that it’s confirmed to be a “journey” for Martin too, I can’t help but squint at Jon’s wording, because. “Faces we know”. The only thing we know of Martin’s father is the fact that he looks like Martin… (MAG118: “The thing is, though, Martin: if you ever do want to know exactly what your father looked like… all you have to do is look in a mirror~ The resemblance is quite uncanny. The face of the man she hates, who destroyed her life, watching over her, feeding her, cleaning her, looking down on her with such pity–”)

- I’ll be having Annabelle’s words stuck in my head (ha) for a long time but:

(MAG181) ANNABELLE: Don’t worry, Martin. We’ll meet again. Hopefully when you’re feeling a little bit more… open-minded…! MARTIN: I wouldn’t count on it. ANNABELLE: I would. MARTIN: [SIGH]

… Was it a reference to Martin learning about his own domain and about how the world operates, his place in it? I think that Martin might be even more resolved to turn the world back at whatever cost, now that he knows that he is himself sustained by fear…

(LISTEN, THIS IS ABSOLUTELY HOW WEB!MARTIN CAN STILL WI–)

- !! Footage of Martin saying “I love you” for the first time ;w; I love how it was the thing he was certain about, both a slight decompressing joke and a true statement, a reminder that he has faith in Jon, that he has something to cling to?

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: If you’re sure. MARTIN: … I’m sure I love you. [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: I love you too. [FABRIC RUSTLES] Let’s go.

(He had mentioned that he was “in love” in MAG170, I’m happy to hear him telling Jon, too!) And the fabric RUSTLED, SO LONG AND SO HARD, AND AT LEAST TWICE!! I love how the tension from right before and after the statement had faded by the end of the episode ;w; Rollercoaster of little emotions…

MAG184’s makes me think of something Leitner had said (more lore about the Fearpocalypse?), and of Vast and Corruption… with very different vibes. If Corruption, and keeping in mind that Jon has announced that they will be encountering “faces [they] know along the way”, it cooould contain Jordan Kennedy, the exterminator from Pest Control…? Especially given that both Jon and Martin had met him (Jon took his live statement, and Martin pleaded offscreen for him to get them the jar of Prentiss’s ashes to comfort Jon).

(Yessss, I am absolutely aware of the irony of still using Smirke’s categorisation after another episode in which we were told again that it is bollocks, but if Jon himself still occasionally labels the domain as one of the 15, so can I ♥)

#long post/#tma liveblog #mag183 #tma season 5 #the magnus archives #tma spoilers/

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nettlestonenell · 4 years ago

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Armie Hammer wants a sequel to The Man From U.N.C.L.E.—shouldn’t you?

This post is a long time in coming, Gentle Readers and @jammeke, but now, though it might be here, before your very eyes, to think it will be well-laid out would be a mistake. It’s set to be just about as messy as Ilya’s misplaced loyalties and murky motivations.

How dare!

I probably first watched this film well over a year ago (courtesy @jammeke posting things about it). I used Sling OnDemand (I think on TNT). In the ensuing viewings I also watched it in that way, but as I was sitting down for a fourth(?) viewing, it kept coming to me that I was tired of watching it with commercials I couldn’t skip, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it had been edited for time and I was missing out on scenes. [pointless aside: I was also watching the film in chunks, and never as a whole]

Where is she now? What’s the time stamp? How far along did she get? Are you shagging the hotel hostess yet?

So, I, uh, set out to buy it on DVD—without any luck! In the sense that copies I could find cost more (w/ shipping) than buying it to stream. So, I bought it to stream on Amazon. Do I regret my choice, Gentle Readers? No, no I don’t. I do regret burden of knowledge in learning that TNT was already playing the entirety of the film. That was a hard pill to swallow.

Nope, I’ve looked. That’s absolutely everything. Nothing additional lurking around here...

So here it is, as it is, @jammeke, “My Notes on The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”

Look, I don’t know what this film is. I probably can’t fully articulate its appeal. Or maybe I can--certainly after transcribing four page I’ve tried. Number One thing to know about me and fiction/films is that a top draw for me is seeing something out of the ordinary, such as beautiful locations, a historical era, delicious costumes. There are times, frankly, this can trump weak story and undefined character for me. (The best films, of course, combine all three) Certainly, The Man... delivers in the delight of the eyes. Additionally, I must confess that growing up as a person older than @reblogginhood but younger than Miss Fisher, so much of what was on TV was essentially reruns of this film’s iconic Look(tm). So, when I see women dressed like Gaby I am just another three-to-seven-year-old overcome with the drop dead glamour of it all.

Darling, tell me how you really feel...

Some questions I have:

· IS Armie Hammer a hulk of a man? Everyone in this film seems to think so, yet he always tracks to me as trim (rather than hulking)

· Why translate via captions some Russian speaking, but not all?

· IS Napoleon’s backstory directly cribbed from USA’s White Collar?

· DOES Gaby have a German accent?

· Does Ilya get preternaturally attached to all the people he’s ordered to look after? Also, what is his bonding rate with kittens?

Sorry, wrong iteration.

· If Lady Villain knows the lens is wrong—if her technical understanding is that in-depth--does she really need Gaby’s dad to make the bomb?

· How old was Gaby during the war?

· What happens when Ilya gets a NEW puppy assigned to him? (please let this be addressed in film #2)

Hooray for:

· That bathroom fight! *all the Burn Notice feels!

· Gaby is her own lady, and chooses sides as necessary—not always unilateral in her support for either male character. Case in point: she sides with Ilya over the clothes, and Napoleon over the incident of the wallet.

· That delicious (speaking as Rusty, here) Ocean’s 11-stylized action. It’s pretty, so I’m not bored with it. Sometimes a sandwiched montage gets shown, so I’m REALLY not bored. I’ve got 18 tiny moving boxes of things to look at!

· Pinkie rings. There, you’ve told me everything I need to know about that character.

· Solo in a beret. English has not yet found a word for the feeling it evoked in this viewer. Somewhere between ‘precious’ and ‘oh, no’.

See, there? Now you’ve felt it too.

· Goggles! All the accessories! Dune Buggies! (I mean, that’s what I’m calling Napoleon’s chase-scene ride)

Things I adore:

· It seems (after some research) that more than a few folks view Gaby as a third wheel, and though she’s not exactly a Princess Leia commandeering her own rescue and exuding competence and a deserved take-charge-attitude at every corner, she IS a foci for both male characters (though romantically it would seem only for one), just as Ilya is a foci for both her and Napoleon [no one seems to worry about Napoleon, though they should--film #2, anyone?]

· Mechanic Gaby not needing a beauty makeover, or being dragged into one. She gets some nice clothes, but it’s never suggested that she’s not attractive or acceptable before putting them on, and I respect, nay, embrace it.

Oh, my heart. She’s still not as tall as them!

· Ilya, drab pigeon Ilya, knowing fashion

· Oh man, don’t even get me started on the power of the statement, “it doesn’t have to match”

· You knew it was coming on this sublist: the wrestle-fight. I mean, c’mon. Poor little Gaby, locked behind the Iron Curtain, living a life of always being watched. She’s in the swankest hotel (I mean, Napoleon chose it, so we can be sure it’s swank with an E). She’s trying to celebrate her freedom, her liberation. She’s playing verboten music, she’s drinking to excess. Girl wants—and deserves—a party. And Ilya is…not built for that (that he knows of). For some fun, just imagine if she had been given Napoleon to room with instead.

o I will say that this scene, and some of their other interactions have what I would call early (non-sibling) Luke and Leia energy. Ilya seems to have moments of being struck by Gaby in a way Luke is struck by Leia in the early part of the trilogy. When Leia takes charge, and Luke accepts it. When Leia does something incredible, and Luke is left open-mouthed. *no, I don’t see OT Star Wars in everything. Shut up.

· “He fixed the glitch.”

· Again, shout-out to the non-action action.

· “I left my jacket in there.”

· The whole race to rescue Gaby I am in love with beyond words. [I have noted it as “Crazy Jeep Drive with Warhead!”] Probably b/c it comes across as totally egalitarian. Both men want her rescued. They’re no longer in competition. It’s just as important to Napoleon as it is to Ilya to catch up to her. Also, it is bonkers, like some sort of X-games version of a commercial for the vehicles they’re driving. And screaming Willie Scott does not make an appearance.

Someone says “winkle” out.

· Look! Another note about the screen divisions and how I love it, shout-outs to the original Steve McQueen The Thomas Crown Affair (a contemporary of when this movie is meant to be set), and TV’s 24.

Things that get a great, big NOPE:

· Jerrod Harris: you’ve been in so much streamable content in the last decade I can’t hate you, but frankly, you’re terrible here—unless you’re supposed to be giving a mannered, not-campy-enough-to-be-enjoyable performance here. Your American English puts me in the mind of Alex Hawaii 5-0′Loughlin where it feels you’re concentrating so hard on your accent that you fail to convince anyone that you’re a harried, over-worked and exasperated spy handler. Your performance is at odds with every bit of dialogue you’re given to say.

· That awful, mishandled title that doesn’t even connect to the film until the final moments (a sequel set-up, for sure)

· Look, you don’t introduce Hugh Grant casually mid-way through your film in a throwaway appearance. I mean, he’s HUGH GRANT we all know something’s up now.

· This is not exactly a great big NOPE, b/c I love a flat cap, Tommy Shelby—but I feel like a less tall man with a far rounder face in a flat cap would track more as Russian to me that AH does. To me, he just looks like he’s about to go golfing.

Over par? Unacceptable!

· Is Victoria a British-accented Italian? A British woman who married—what? Gaby’s uncle isn’t Italian!? An Italian who went to school in Britain? My head hurts. Also, is her hair meant to be unconvincingly bleached?

Other commentary:

· Napoleon’s adult ne’er-do-well backstory is so far from being emotionally equivalent to Ilya’s childhood trauma [and his enslavement to the USSR] it seems bestial when he calls it out on multiple occasions. Badly done, Solo.

· Gaby is the film’s key (sorry, Buffy fans). Everyone is connected to her. Yes, she could have been given a bit more on the character front, but I don’t see her as as much of a flaw in the film as some others/reviewers seem to.

· Look, essentially (and not very nuanced-ly), Ilya is a stalker. I think the film goes a certain distance in establishing that his early behavior toward Gaby is not normal, but concurrently it does not truly call him out on it. He’s essentially viewed as an odd-duck, sure, but not a true threat to her (should she not reciprocate or tolerate his intensity toward her). I think I might be able to cite his behavior when Gaby comes on to him (that he doesn’t jump at a chance with her) that maybe he’s given a little more nuance than a straight-on stalker, and it helps that he and Napoleon never get into a pissing match over Gaby’s person, only over her new clothes. But overall the film has to walk a fine line (and the jury is still out on how successful it is, I’d say) between playing Ilya’s laser-like attention to Gaby for its humor, and calling it out for the unsettling, threatening behavior it is.

· Honestly, it wasn’t until I engaged the Closed Captioning that I understood Napoleon was calling Ilya the ‘Red Peril’. So, that was nearly three viewings in.

· I give the screen credits A+, on both ends. Not to mention the end credits are actually INTERESTING with lots to see and learn! (Certainly we learn more about HG in them than we do at any time during the film)

Things I would have liked:

· More of fish-out-of-the-Iron-Curtain Gaby moments

· A better dichotomy shown of East vs. West Berlin/Germany. There’s nothing easy either visually or otherwise to distinguish the two.

· HC being given a more specific American accent (from an actual locality). This, for an American viewer, works better than the flat, unlocated American accent many a British actor will bust out. *Mind you, HC does a generally good job, but he fails utterly on both “Immediate” which he pronounces at least twice as “immeedeejt” [rather than imm-E-deeot] and “Nazi” as “NAHT-zee” [rather than “NOT-zee”]. And let’s not get started on that late in the film use of ‘earnt’, a word that—well, it’s just not in the American English twentieth century lexicon.

· C’mon. You gotta tease the Hugh Grant more.

· Solo is a blank before the war. I’ve read thoughts on the film calling out Gaby as the blank character, but they’re wrong. Solo is the blank. He’s the ‘made’ man, his identity seemingly assembled during the war and after. For example, he doesn’t go into the war a thief, nor (it would seem) a particularly educated or urbane individual. Now THAT’s a juicy backstory I’d love to learn about, perhaps in film #2--or #3? What creates a Napoleon Solo? What would he be doing if he weren’t on the government’s leash/incarcerated? Is anyone left caring about him back wherever he calls home? I mean, who doesn’t love a gender-flipped 60s-era Holly Golightly backstory? [And yes, I would love there to be an ex-wife or even a current wife mixed up in his origins as well—Guy Ritchie, call me!]

Notes I have that I’m not sure if they still make sense to me:

· Only mom calls me Napoleon (do he say it ‘mum’?) Is he a secret Canadian?

· Solo’s torture, 1st view recall Napoleon’s childhood? *I think this means that after watching the first time I somehow erroneously believed that during the torture Napoleon’s childhood was a topic gone over. This was wrong. HOWEVER, this would have made far more story-sense than the backstory we’re given on an easily disposeable villain.

· “Even the average Russian agent. You’re special.” ?

· Uncle is Baddie (*so glad I made this note to myself)

· Ilya’s dad IS an embarrassment. I’m not sure what genius commentary I had in my mind, here. Perhaps that Ilya himself is embarrassed of him? Not just Ilya’s handler’s? [Also, aside: Napoleon totally slut-shames Ilya’s mom, which is the doublest of double standards from ‘I got myself the biggest and most ornate suite b/c I-wanted-plenty-of-space-for-my-random-seductions’ and I really wish Ilya had thrown that back in his face] *yes, of course I know that Ilya and Napoleon would not likely equate a wife/mother’s sexual exploits with that of Solo’s, but let’s be honest, this film tweaks the nose of (I won’t say reverses, it doesn’t go that far) plenty of tropes and gender expectations, and this certainly seems like a missed opportunity to call Solo on the carpet (which I hope film #2 does far more)

Things I wrote down so long ago I don’t recall what they mean:

· CC-save

In conclusion:

What does film #2 look like? What title does it get? Will the Peter/Neil White Collar dynamic continue to grow? *note that I have no confidence a second film will ever come to pass...

In the end, all I know is, “It didn't help when American Tom Cruise, who was slated to play U.S. spy Napoleon Solo, dropped out, prompting the casting of Cavill (who had previously read for the Russian role).“ I would not have watched that film.

#tmfu #tmfu 2015 #ilya kuryakin #napoleon solo #gaby teller #henry cavill #armie hammer #alicia vikander #the man from uncle 2015 #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#the man from uncle #i don't know what this film's tags are meant to be to keep it from popping up in the TV series searches Sorry

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saudadeonly · 4 years ago

Text

never doubt never fear

Read on ao3. Part seven.

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

The year after Andromeda Tonks and her family are declared dead to the rest of the Wizarding Britain is the most confusing, most unnerving year she's experienced in her life but she wouldn't change it for the world.

(Spans from February 1982 to March 1983.)

Word count: 11577

___

Andromeda Tonks, formerly Black, which she still has trouble forgetting on the worst of days, considers herself to be a fairly put-together person, able to keep her wits about herself in the direst of situations and her cool even when faced with emotional turmoil.

(“Maybe usually,” says Marina, her friend of too many years, sipping her whiskey, probably the third or fourth one since she arrived. She drinks like it’s a lifeline and has for longer than Andromeda has loved her, but she’s the only one that’s ever cared enough to stay. “But you do have some very specific exceptions.”

“You’re going to die from that,” Andromeda tells her in lieu of an answer, taking a sip of her tea.

Marina laughs, raspy around the edges. “I’ll be gone long before that,” she says.)

(The Dark Mark appears above her apartment three weeks later, the walls painted with her blood, so she’s right, in the end, as she always is—was.

For the first time, Andromeda resents the fact that she can’t sit and listen to Marina tell her, I told you so.)

But waking up in a house she has not been able to visit in a decade, her daughter and husband nowhere in sight when her last memory is of her sister’s manic laugh as she flees through the woods away from her, then walking out of her room only to find her cousin that’s been presumed dead for years in the kitchen is a bit of a stretch, even for her.

Let alone the fact that said cousin, one Regulus Arcturus Black, is currently wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and stirring a pan full of what look like scrambled eggs. He looks up when she enters, black hair sleep-messy around his face, grey eyes bright. “Good,” he says, blinking slowly at her. “You’re awake.”

“Regulus—” Andromeda starts, then finds she has no words yet and sits down on one of the high stools at the island counter. She goes over the previous night in her head. Dinner, riddle-solving with Ted, getting Dora to bed, pouring tea in the kitchen; then a group of wizards inside her house, Bella’s grin, the dark woods around her. After that, nothing at all—certainly not anything involving Regulus.

She watches as Regulus ladles the eggs onto two plates, adds an abundance of bread slices to both, and sets one of them in front of Andromeda. He flicks his wand and a kettle from the stove flies toward the counter, pouring tea into the two mugs resting there. Once poured, Regulus pushes one toward Andromeda and takes the other one for himself, putting it down beside his plate of eggs as he starts to eat.

He nods toward her plate. “You should eat,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

Andromeda stares and finds she has no energy to stop, which, considering the years of etiquette lessons her mother imposed on her, is a surprise in itself. It’s not so much the fact that he’s here as it the fact that he’s here like this, domestic and relaxed as she’s never seen him, at ease with himself and the space around him. He’s taller, too, and broader, a new weight to him that only age could have brought along. Age that, as far as she knew only a few minutes ago, Regulus never got to experience.

“Am I dead?” she asks, clearing her throat. It’s the only explanation that comes to mind.

He huffs a breath between two bites and looks up at her, brows and the corners of his mouth raised. She doesn’t remember his smiles, however small, coming as easy as they do now. “Not unless I am, too,” he says.

Andromeda blinks. The irony isn’t lost on her, nor him, judging by the remains of his smile. “Well, legally,” she says, slowly finding footing on this rocky ground, “you are.”

Regulus considers, mouth pulling to the side. “So are you.” He points his fork at her and adds, “Legally.”

“And Dora?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper, the name like a jolt of that peculiar thing Muggles call electricity. She can’t believe it’s taken her this much time to ask about it. “Ted?”

Regulus’s eyes darken, mouth settling into a firm line. “Alive but, like you, considered dead to the majority of the wizarding world. And in much worse condition.” He nods toward the room at the beginning of the hall, the one Cissy always claimed as hers because it had the best view. “In there.”

Andromeda makes to stand up but Regulus catches her wrist before she can take a single step. She reaches for her wand, only to find it’s not in the inner pocket of her robes where she usually keeps it. “Where’s my wand?”

“Let them sleep it off, Dromeda,” Regulus murmurs. “Bella got to them before she got to you.”

Andromeda’s heart slams against her ribcage, as if it could jump out and reach Ted and Dora all by itself. Bella’s cruelty has always aged like fine wine and Andromeda dreads to find out what new expanses she’s discovered in the years since they parted ways. “Then let me see them,” she says, ripping her wrist out of his grip.

He draws his hand back, letting it rest against his side, but he doesn’t back down. “Eat first,” he insists with a stubborn frown that is at once familiar and strange; she’s not used to it on his face but she’s seen it plenty of times before on another. “You need it. You won’t be of any help to them like this.” He runs a hand through his hair, the waves an enviable mix of elegant and mussed. “Your wand broke,” he adds in a quiet, careful voice, so much more like the reserved boy she remembers, “when they got to you. I’m sorry.”

Andromeda’s throat closes up. That wand was one of the few constants she had been allowed for most of her life. From that first summer before her first year, through all the years at Hogwarts, through her elopement, her pregnancy, every good and every horrible part of her life. It was the only thing given to her by her parents that she still truly adored.

“We’ll find you a temporary replacement later,” Regulus says. “I promise.” He nods toward the plates, the food probably cold by now. “Now you sit down and eat.”

Andromeda looks up at him. The last time she properly saw him he was only eleven years old, more skin and bone than anything else, all sharp edges and big eyes, small enough she could use him as an armrest. Now he towers over her, looks at her with patient eyes, all that skin filled out, that sharp edges softened.

She collapses onto the stool. “How did you pull it off?” she asks before she brings a spoonful of eggs into her mouth. They’re not bad, certainly worse than she could have made but they might as well be the best thing she’s tasted in years. They’re not yet cold, at least.

He copies her, then takes a sip of his tea. “I didn’t,” he says, shrugging with tense shoulders, which is a contrast that she can’t find strange, not on him. “Sirius did.”

Andromeda is suddenly grateful that she’s sitting down. Her knees might have gone out from underneath her otherwise. Finding out that Regulus is alive is one thing but to know that Sirius, who has despite her best efforts to convince herself and others the opposite always been her favourite family member, is the one responsible for the survival of her entire family, the only thing she still cares about in this wretched world, feels larger than life. She's spent years of anger at the betrayal he seemingly so carelessly executed, not only at her but at his friends. It hurt more than finding out about Bella’s admittedly expected affiliation with Voldemort or Cissy’s marriage into the Malfoy family. She's never been able to put a finger on why exactly.

“Let’s talk,” Regulus says, giving her a soft smile that she might have once thought shy or unsure. “There are so many things you don’t know.”

***********

Andromeda gets used to the old house slowly at first, then quicker every day. It was always a warm, welcoming place but it was slowly falling apart when she last saw it. Uncle Alphard, always a bit eccentric, had never had much interest in keeping a house elf or keeping up the house himself—a trait that was later only amplified by his years-long sickness. But now, with Regulus as the main resident, the house has been fixed up, the rooms put to good use and all of Alphard’s peculiar collections thoroughly sorted through. Andromeda enjoys finding the unfamiliar in the familiar, the little changes that tell her that the shelter of her childhood has become a haven of her adulthood.

Regulus, however, demands a little more adjusting. Andromeda learns quick enough that any change she might have thought superficial at first goes deeper than she could even imagine. There aren’t just the wardrobe change and the growth spurt in play. He’s still distant and considerate, but there is a new sense of strength in him, like his spine has become unbreakable, like it’s been coated in steel and tempered in fire. He dotes on Dora, redresses her wounds, coaxes her to drink her potions and is nothing but patient with her. He’s more reserved with Ted but no less respectful, no less mindful of his newly-obtained injuries – broken ribs, gouged face, cracked spine – and Andromeda can only marvel at the kindness, the one that has despite his mother’s best efforts always simmered inside him, he can so freely give now; there was a time she never would have dared to hope of such a kind fate for her little cousin.

He has his secrets and, as he always has, guards them well, with smooth, easy-flowing movements and an impassive face but Andromeda still manages to catch little glimpses of dark books and large maps he pores over early in the morning or late in the night when he thinks everyone else is asleep.

She doesn’t mind, is quite used to it after years of having to keep secrets herself and even finds comfort in the fact that this is a part of Regulus that hasn’t changed, a part that she still—quite ironically—knows.

*********

Dora, wedged between Andromeda and Ted in the large bed, is just drifting off to sleep when the door to the cottage bangs open. Andromeda’s first thought is that Dora was finally, finally calm enough to have fallen asleep and she is going to kill whomever just woke her up. Then it occurs to her that she might actually have to.

She jumps up and is out of the room before she remembers to grab for the wand Regulus found in the old study. It’s not fit for her at all but it’s better than nothing, especially in a situation like this one.

Ted calls out after her, unable to follow her, but Andromeda ignores him. She trusts him to keep Dora safe while she deals with the intruders or if it comes to the point where he has to take them on by himself. She’ll be damned if she lets her family get hurt again just because her sister has some kind of a desire to get rid of everything she considers to be tainting her past.

But it’s not Bellatrix or even a barrage of Death Eaters that stand in the living room. At first glance, Andromeda almost mistakes the tall, lean man for Regulus; but his hair is too long, his face too pale. He is swaying on his feet and he is much too thin under the cloak he’s taking off. The spike of recognition is more pain than relief.

“Sirius,” she breathes, her wand lowering with the frantic beat of her heart.

Sirius gives her a slow, small smile, an alien thing on his hollow face that was so full of life the last time she saw him. Years have passed since then, long, difficult years for him; she shouldn’t be surprised that he is so, so different now. “Hi, Dromeda,” he says, voice scratching against the walls of her heart. “How have you been?”

Andromeda takes a breath, then another. In between, Sirius throws off his robes with shaking limbs, revealing a white shirt underneath. A white shirt that is, from the side of his ribs down to his hipbone, stained red.

“Sirius,” she chokes out, taking one staggering step forward.

“I know,” he says, glancing at her before he rips the shirt off as well, grey eyes glassy.

For a moment, all she can notice is the ribs pressing up through the too-pale skin, the scars littering the expanse of his torso and his arms, white on white, blades of grass through paper. Then she sees the long, narrow gash down his side, streaming red, and it’s so much worse.

Sirius coughs, a dry, heaving thing, and sways back on his feet. He’s always been a steady boy, unperturbed in the harshest of conditions, resilient where all others failed. It’s the first time Andromeda thinks that that strength will fail him, that he might crumple in on himself.

Funnily enough, that’s what snaps her out of the trance she’s fallen in. She steps forward, wand once again poised but with a different intention this time. “Let me help you,” she says.

Sirius huffs a laugh but he doesn’t stop her as she taps her wand against the wound and murmurs a low incantation, pushing against the will of the wand as it seeks to evade. The gash simmers at the edges, the flesh almost knitting together, but then spreads further back, the blood more like a river now. A leaden ball settles in the pit of Andromeda’s stomach.

“Hardly can be helped,” Sirius says, looking down from the wound towards her with dark eyes. If possible, his face has paled. “It’s cursed, probably.”

Before Andromeda can say he should have told her that before she made it worse, the door bangs open again, this time indeed announcing Regulus with flushed cheeks and wind-tussled hair. His eyes take the scene in within seconds, his hands already throwing off his cloak. “What happened?” he asks, calm despite the situation. He reaches for Sirius and catches him just as Sirius’s knees buckle.

“Bloody Dorcas,” Sirius rasps as Regulus deposits him on the sofa. The plush soft-blue material is dark with blood within seconds. Sirius bares his teeth in what might be a self-deprecating smile, the sound that escapes him almost a laugh. “Knew she’d get me back for Marlene eventually.”

“Talented witch,” Regulus murmurs, turning Sirius onto his side, fingers skimming along the edges of the wound. He reaches for his wand, hidden in the inner pockets of his robes, but Andromeda catches his wrist.

“Magic makes it worse.”

Regulus blinks, swallowing as he tucks the wand away again. “Blood-replenishing potions,” he mutters instead, then gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

“Andromeda,” Sirius says as his eyes flick away from Regulus and towards her, clearing and blurring almost in time with his breaths. He presses his hand over the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. His voice is steady despite all of it. “Right pocket of my robes. There’s a book. Get it.” He coughs, his chest heaving with it, and adds, “Please.”

Andromeda’s eyes burn as she reaches for the robes, blindly digging through the pockets until she grabs a leather-bound book. The thought of losing Sirius just as he’s so close turns over her stomach. She makes to give it to Sirius but he shakes his head.

“Page 23.”

She dutifully flips it open, finding the pages filled with a familiar, elegant script. There are sketches, too, quick but precise, more beautiful than Andromeda would have managed to draw in her entire life. She looks back at Sirius. “These are spells.” Newly invented spells, from the looks of it – Andromeda has never heard of any of them.

Sirius nods, swallowing. “Healing spells, mostly,” he says.

Regulus appears back in the living room, levitating a number of potion vials beside himself. He grabs a dark red one and shoves it at Sirius. “Drink it.” He glances at the book in Andromeda’s hands. “What’s that?” he asks as he hands another potion to Sirius.

“A spell Andromeda will try out on me,” Sirius answers between gulps of the potion. He makes a face and leans his head back against the armrest. His hair lies plastered against his forehead, perspiration gleaming down his neck and chest.

Bile rises in Andromeda’s throat, her fingers shaking. She closes them around the book, refusing to be anything but useful here. She cannot afford to be anything else. “You mean to tell me you haven’t tested it yet?” she asks, managing to keep her voice even.

“Not that one, no. Haven’t had the time.”

“Sirius,” Regulus says, locking his jaw as he glares down at Sirius. They look so alike in the bright room, the lines of their regal faces nearly matching, both of their mouths set in a stubborn frown. “You can’t.”

“What is it going to do?” Sirius shoots back, lifting his chin as far as he can in his reclining position. His voice trembles but his eyes on Regulus’s remain steady. “Kill me?”

*********

After, Andromeda sits by Sirius’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest, tightly bound with Muggle bandages. She fiddles with the book, fingering the pattern pressed into the soft leather to set herself at ease; it’s a beautiful, intricate thing – a stag, a dog, a wolf, and a rat, standing side by side, the moon arcing high above them. It’s nearly as peaceful an image as the one before her.

Sirius’s breaths are slow and deep, his heartbeat steady. He is in no danger of dying, at least not from this wound, but Andromeda can’t bring herself to walk away. It’s been so long since she saw him, since she heard his laugh, since she listened to one of his stories. She only now notices the gaping hole in the side of her heart that has existed since she first heard the news.

In the months after Remus and James stopped by for tea, with darker bags under their eyes than Andromeda had in the first year of Nymphadora’s life, Andromeda stayed up for hours at a time, finding ways to berate herself for not having foreseen it, for not doing more to stop it, for not helping Sirius. She was just a renounced heiress back then, struggling with relying on anyone but herself and discovering the difficulties of having a child, but there had been so many occasions Sirius had found the time for them, for her, and she never repaid the favour. The guilt tore its way through her for a long time before she found a way to check it, burying it underneath her love for the only family she had left.

To know now that that was all an illusion is a relief but the guilt has broken through the dam she so carefully built around it, the one that remained firmly intact even after Regulus told her everything, and it now burns like acid, clawing its way into every crevice of her body.

Andromeda takes Sirius’s hand. It’s long-fingered and elegant but even the back of it is flecked with tiny scars. She bows down low over it, forehead touching his wrist, and murmurs, “Je suis désolé, Sirius.” The tears are not unexpected but they feel wrong somehow, too hot and heavy for someone who did so little to help at all. The tightness in her chest eases, though, and her next breath is easier to draw in. So she lets them spill over, lets the acid burn and hopes that tomorrow she can begin to make amends for her mistakes.

*********

Sirius more or less sleeps for the next few days. He wakes intermittently, sometimes murmuring names Andromeda can’t decipher but mostly reaching for the refilling glass of water they deposited on his nightstand. He just lies there, filled to the brim with various potions Regulus practically had to force down his throat, looking more dead than alive even on the best of days.

Dora glides by his room most of the time, drawing back at the smallest of sounds Sirius makes, and Andromeda’s heart aches with the knowledge that her daughter would have been the first to spend her nights watching over her uncle only a week ago. Now, she is just a girl whose normally vibrantly pink hair has remained short-shorn and dark brown since the night she had the misfortune of meeting her older aunt.

She inches her way into the room after a couple of days, drawing herself up against Andromeda as soon as she’s close enough, and watches as Sirius’s eyelids flutter in his sleep. He looks, for a lack of a better word, different than the last time Dora, only five years old then, saw him but when she reaches out to touch the ends of his hair, dark against the white pillows, Andromeda knows she remembers the boy who used to upend her by her ankle and make her shriek with laughter, who spent hours listening to her babbling and answering every one of her concerns with utmost honesty.

“Will Sirius be alright, mum?” she asks quietly, curling into the warmth of Andromeda’s arms in the small armchair. She smells like the sea and chamomile tea Regulus must have just made her. She'll have to remember to thank him later for so diligently taking care of her daughter.

“I hope so, sweetheart,” Andromeda answers, curving her body around Dora’s, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Here, in the quiet, in the dimness, the memory of Dora’s small body, broken and beaten, is clearer than the daylight skies. Andromeda shudders. She cannot lose another person she loves. She will not. “We’re doing everything we can to help him and Papa.”

*********

There is a tapestry of the Black family tree in the dining room. It is reminiscent of the one at Grimmlaud Place, with the vastness and the pompous names, but this one has no scorch marks. It is strange to see her own name, written out in a slanting, copperplate script, right between Bellatrix and Narcissa’s. She can’t imagine that its twin was so lucky.

It’s the first time Andromeda has even been in the dining room since she came here. She usually avoids it like the plague because she nearly suffocates with the memory of long, stuffy family dinners she had to endure in here but it is the fastest way from the kitchen to the small wooden terrace in the back where Ted and Dora are and she stepped right into the rabbit hole of their beloved family. She readjusts her grip on the tray with tea and glances at her name again, eyeing the golden thread proclaiming her death to have been in 1982. She has yet to step beyond the border of the Fidelius charm guarding the house so it might as well be true, for all anyone in this world knows. Although only a few steps away, the prospect of it seems daunting now that she’s got used to this small haven, unaffected by the war raging on outside.

“I was all for painting over the damn thing but Regulus insisted we keep it,” says a voice from her left and she whirls on the spot, miraculously managing to not slosh the tea all over the place. Sirius stands in the doorway, half leaning against the frame, dressed in a loose shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He grimaces as he pushes off of the frame and steps further into the room, adding flippantly, “Something about tradition and legacy.”

“Sirius,” she says, pausing long enough to put the tray down on the table. She turns back around to find she has no idea what to do next. She’d like to hug him but she doesn’t know how well he would take it, or if at all. The few feet between them feel like a chasm, started by war and gouged by time.

Sirius saves her the trouble and positions himself next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder. She can feel the rhythm of his breathing, just a tad quicker now that he is awake. “At least this one is complete,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch the names of the people whose faces had been burned off in Grimmauld Place. Isla. Phineas. Marius. Cedrella. All names the two of them spent their childhood searching, if only to know what things they had done to have earned to be cast out of their family. Their findings only ever offered a horrible insight into what kind of family they had been cursed with. Andromeda had barely been able to look at her father for weeks after.

Sirius’s finger touches uncle Alphard’s name and stills.

Andromeda’s hand trembles and she clenches it into a fist, tight enough to hurt. Her favourite uncle, the dearest soul she has ever known. “He left me some money,” she says, then adds unnecessarily, “In his will.” She chances a glance at Sirius, finding his jaw firmly set. “Is that why—?”

Sirius nods. “Cygnus flew into a rage when he found out. It was the last straw for him and mother dearest wasn’t about to disagree with him. She didn’t waste her time either.” He scoffs, though the corners of his mouth turn up with it. “Alphard left most of the money to me but he wasn’t about to go out of this world without one last dig at the two of them.” He taps his finger against the tapestry, once, twice, then drops his hand. “Stubborn man,” he murmurs, looking all over the tapestry with dark, grey eyes; eyes that, now that they are not closed or glassy with the haze of pain, Andromeda can barely recognise.

“How are you?” she asks softly. She reaches out a hand and hesitates. She keeps it still mid-air for a moment then decides to damn it all and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Sirius, comment tu te sens?”

Sirius glances down at her. He’s been taller than her for some years now, even before they last saw each other, but he seems small now, stooped over in the kitchen where they spent some of their best years, finally, finally not just groomed to be scions of the House of Black, but allowed to be children. He touches her hand, lightly, with the tips of his fingers. “Ça va.” He looks out the window, his chin lifted as he watches the clouds roll past. “I should go,” he says, the words like a splash of cold water in her face; his duties don’t end here, not by a long shot, and she cannot save him from them. “They’ll be wondering where I’ve been.”

Andromeda doesn’t let herself look down at his forearm where the mark rests, dark and too alive across the veins rising against his thin skin. “Not right now.” She grabs his upper arm again and doesn’t let go as she levitates the tea tray with her other hand. “Come outside, for a little while.”

“Are the others there?”

“Just Dora and Ted. I think they’d both like to thank you while you’re awake.” She pulls at his sleeve gently, bites back the urge to beg him to stay. She’d go in his stead if she could. “Come on.”

Sirius glances at the window again, then sighs and lets her lead him out into the sun. He seems a stranger to it.

*********

Regulus doesn’t settle for days after Sirius has left. He is quicker with his movements, more intense when he studies his books, constantly looking between them and the door from the couch he’s nestled himself in.

“It’s been a hard couple of months for Sirius,” he explains softly when Andromeda nudges him. “I always fear I won’t see him after he goes.”

“Not hard years?” Ted asks from where he’s stretched out on the couch. Like this, underneath a red blanket, he looks nearly as he once did, content and dozing in the afternoon, not confined to the couch and a prisoner in his own body.

Regulus looks up at Ted, his hand almost absent-mindedly reaching up to touch the scar resting across his throat. His fingers move when he swallows. “Not like this.” He taps the corner of a small, dark book resting on the coffee table. “He lost a lot.”

And Andromeda finally sees something that she can recognise in Regulus – the fall of his eyes, stubbornly firm, the way he pulls his mouth to the side as if he’s biting the inside of his cheek; guilt has always been easy to notice with Regulus and she can do little to hold down the wave of her own that whirls up at the bottom of her stomach.

“He’ll be back, Regulus,” says Ted. His eyes are dark and gentle, even with a boy that he never met before two weeks ago, and Andromeda’s chest feels tight with the appreciation for this kind, patient man she was thankfully not stupid enough to let go. “He still has you.”

“Yes,” Regulus agrees softly. “Yes, he does.” He readjusts himself when Dora slots onto the couch between him and Andromeda and only once she’s safely curled against the two of them does he add, “I just hope he knows that, too.”

*********

Sirius comes back, of course.

He puts his hand on Regulus’s shoulder when he comes into the kitchen, quiet and unassuming; he moves like a ghost sometimes, half-there, half-alive, trapped between two worlds and welcome in none. Though Andromeda has seen ghosts who suffered a kinder fate. He goes to draw his hand away but Regulus turns toward him, giving him a slow, sad upturn of lips, and puts his hand over his, squeezing it once, quickly.

“Alright?” Regulus asks after he’s let go.

“Alright,” Sirius says, nodding. He reaches around Regulus to steal a piece of bacon from his plate and bites off half of it. “Bella is still on a rampage so they were all sufficiently distracted.” He looks at the remaining piece of bacon, frowning, then up at Andromeda. “Did you make this?” he asks.

Andromeda nods, still not finding the right words to say anything else, too busy scrutinising Sirius. He seems better and worse at the same time – he’s paler than he was when he left but he holds himself upright now and doesn’t grimace anymore when he moves.

“It’s good.”

Regulus glares up at Sirius. “Are you implying mine isn’t?

Sirius shrugs. “I’m not not implying it,” he says and Regulus shoves him.

*********

Sirius and Regulus filter in and out of the house from then on. Regulus, who used to disappear for scraps of time during the day, now stays away for hours, although he always comes back before the dark has settled in, usually smiling softly at himself or humming under his breath. On some days, even both.

“He has someone,” Sirius says on one of the rare days he’s with them. He’s gone for days at a time and unlike Regulus, rarely spends the night and even then, he is gone before the sun has risen. He spends most of his time with Regulus and his books and parchments, scribbling in the margins, or with Dora, playing chess with her or showing her various wand tricks to entertain her. He is always kind, always patient, but the scars and wounds underneath are visible even on the best of days. Andromeda wonders sometimes if he sees Bellatrix when he looks at Dora with her dark hair and high-cheeked face, or when he looks at Andromeda herself; she doesn’t blame him for getting lost in the pain sometimes. “He won’t tell me but I see him.”

“Are you sure?” Andromeda asks. It seems unimaginable, not because Regulus would be incapable of forming such a relationship, but because it seems almost bizarre that he might allow himself such a comfort, such a liability when he and Sirius are clearly mixed up in something that goes beyond Sirius’s affiliation with Voldemort.

Sirius nods, dragging on the cigarette he’s lit. “I don’t blame him for it,” he says, puffing out the smoke, his voice caught with it. “I had things I didn’t tell him about, too.”

There are so few things Andromeda thinks Sirius has left to keep to himself, to cherish. She cannot imagine the pain he must have felt leaving his friends in the dark and with every loss after it – there can’t have been just a few of them. Her heart aches with the thought of how alone he must have been that first year before Regulus joined him.

“He’s happy,” Sirius says, pressing his shoulder against Andromeda’s briefly. “I can never resent him for it.”

“I’m glad,” Andromeda says and pushes the question bubbling up her throat back into her lungs, squeezed between her ribs, storing it for a day she might get a satisfactory answer. Are you happy?

*********

Days bleed by, then weeks, during which Andromeda learns to exercise a degree of patience she has never known before. It takes hours to put Dora to sleep sometimes, days to help Ted master a new level of mobility, but Andromeda never for one second wishes it were any different; she has them still and that is more than she can ask for.

Sirius examined Ted the second time he came back and his diagnosis, coming from someone who Andromeda has known to be exceptionally talented at healing, offered little hope; but Ted is trying with everything he has, religiously doing all exercises and drinking his potions—the results are defying all expectations.

Currently, he’s learning to use the wheelchair Sirius has procured and magically enhanced for him, using the wheels to propel himself backwards and forwards, back and forth, back and forth. “This is quite nice,” he says, smiling up at Andromeda with tired eyes, set strangely into his thin, scarred face. He’s always been a bit on the stout side, but he’s lost a lot of weight during his recovery, his rehabilitation; it’s not a bad change but the reasons for it are. She misses, sometimes, her cheerful husband and her bubbly daughter but always catches herself before she wishes to go back. There are so many things she has gained now that she would never have managed to see otherwise. It is hard to be resentful of that. “Come on,” he proclaims as he tugs on her hand and then lets go to push himself forward, past the kitchen and towards the front door. “Let’s take it out for a test drive.”

Andromeda follows, opens the door and steps out. It’s a beautiful day, cold but not unpleasant, the sun shining high up in the clear sky. She hasn’t made it a habit to remind herself of it lately.

Ted is a bit unsure in the wheelchair, rolling over the grassy knolls and dips, but it is wonderful to see him enjoy the outside world without having to rely on anyone’s assistance, to be self-sufficient, if only for the time being.

She stands next to him once he’s stopped and reaches for his hand on the armrest. “I love you,” she tells him. “And I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much pain.”

Ted smiles at her, wide and unrestrained, but weak around the edges. He wraps his fingers around her and brings their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss the back of hers. “My Dromeda,” he murmurs. “You’ve only ever brought joy to my life.” He pulls on her hand until she gives and climbs into his lap, curling into his firm torso, into his smell of chamomile and healing potions. He wheels them forward, slowly and unsurely, but Andromeda trusts him enough to keep her eyes closed until he stops. He’s brought them all the way to the end of the path leading to the village below, where Regulus has taken Dora, heavily masked, for the day.

It takes her a moment to realise that they’ve crossed the border of the Fidelius charm and there’s a painful tug in her chest, an old panic finally rearing its ugly head; but it’s Ted and she trusts him. So she noses against the curve of his neck as he wraps his arms around her and she breathes him in, lets the sunrays wash over them. With him by her side, she isn’t afraid.

*********

“How’s Cissy?” she asks Sirius when she finally dares.

He looks up from a parchment, depicting strange, mangled creatures. He and Regulus have been becoming more open with their research, leaving them to lie on the table even if they’ve left their spot for longer than a minute; she thinks they might tell her what they’re up to soon. “Good,” he says, grey eyes unreadable. He takes a bite of the sandwich she’s made him and it seems almost absent-minded or at least not deliberate. Regulus told her Sirius practically has had to have food forced down his throat for months, if not years. “Surviving,” he adds after he’s swallowed the bite; then, even softer, “She fears for her son.”

Andromeda thinks back to the family tree in the dining room, the gold thread tracing down from the line connecting Narcissa and Lucius. “Draco,” she says and he nods.

“He’ll be two soon,” he tells her, a distant look crossing his face; it seems at once caught between reminiscence and regret. “I’d help her if I could but Lucius would kill her before he’d let her go and she won’t risk Draco.”

Andromeda’s throat burns, a familiar sensation by now, older even than Sirius’s servitude. It’s been a constant companion since she last closed the door of her childhood home. Bella, she had little qualms about leaving behind, but Cissy, pliable Cissy who would do anything to please their parents and Bella; she would have taken her with if she had been able to. She cannot blame Sirius for having the same conflict within himself, for failing to come up with a solution when his circumstances are so much worse.

“I’m sorry you’re alone,” she says, leaning back against the counter, gripping the old, hideous wand like it’s her lifeline; she hates it, its history, its character and everything in-between—but it’s all she has right now and it has to be enough.

“I wasn’t always,” Sirius says, the long, elegant lines of his face shifting as he reaches up to touch a small carnation pendant resting just below the hollow of his throat. She has the sudden image of the boy he was, rising from the stool at the Sorting, equal parts elated and terrified. She really thought that he was safe then, that he would get away. “But I am now.”

*********

Regulus teaches Dora to fly on a broom, leading her high up into the sky and guiding her through easy manoeuvres. It makes her laugh, makes her giddy with excitement and she comes back into the house rosy-cheeked and with shining eyes.

Ted reads bedtime stories to her, has her tucked against his chest until late in the night, until she’s been asleep for hours and not mere restless minutes. He kisses her hair and tells her he loves her and doesn’t let go of her unless she asks him to.

Andromeda sings her lullabies until her throat hurts and brushes her hair and plays with her. She shows her all the wonderful things Alphard kept in his house, all the knowledge he kept in his books. She teaches her to dance every ballroom dance she remembers and doesn’t once mind any antiquity Dora breaks.

But Dora’s hair remains dark, her features familiar and painful not because they remind Andromeda of a past she’d rather forget, especially now, but because they are not her daughter’s, who has made it her personal mission to be her own and no one else’s since the day she first figured out how to control her abilities. They are a reminder that Dora lost something – that she was robbed of it – she can’t ever get back.

Then Andromeda goes for a glass of water in the middle of the night and she finds Sirius sprawled out on the couch, a thin blanket over him. He rarely goes to his room to sleep, instead preferring to crash in the living room; Andromeda hasn’t dared to ask him why yet. His chest is rising and falling steadily, his breaths blowing his hair away from his face. He has his arm around Dora, who is snuggled into his chest, her own arm barely reaching up to be wrapped around him. The embers in the fireplace cast a soft, warm light over the two of them, just enough that Andromeda can see that there, just above the swell of Nymphadora’s ear, her short hair glows pink.

*********

Snow melts under the relentless onslaught of the sun and gives way to blooming flowers. The days grow warmer, longer.

Andromeda starts tending to the old garden and Dora, with her hair a beautiful, beautiful pattern of pink and brown, joins her. They work while Ted sits in his chair nearby, reading or simply watching them. Sometimes he tells them stories or jokes; on other days, they are all content to stay in silence, to enjoy all the things that they nearly lost. Here, in the small world they’ve built for themselves, occupied and protected by people Andromeda loves most, they start healing.

*********

The newspapers grow darker and Regulus’s eyes become stormier, his face worn with frowns. He stays inside day and night, digging through old texts that probably haven’t seen the light of day for decades.

Sirius doesn’t come home for weeks.

*********

It’s nearly June when he does. The garden outside is blooming, bright with colours and life, but the house doesn’t light up until he bursts through the door.

“I got it!” Sirius yells. He’s smiling, honest-to-god smiling, when he barrages directly into Regulus and knocks the two of them off-balance, nearly onto the floor. “I got it, Regulus,” he says into his shoulder, muffled and fuzzy with the shock. He’s still grinning when he pulls back but now, so is Regulus.

“How did you get it?” Regulus asks, reaching out a hand.

“I convinced Narcissa.”

It’s not until Regulus takes the small black book from Sirius’s hands that Andromeda even notices he had it. It’s an old, unassuming thing but Andromeda spent nearly half her life in houses where she learnt the hard way that most things weren’t what they appeared to be; even just looking at it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, her chest heavy with the weight it has brought to the room. Whatever it is, it isn’t harmless.

“What is that?” she asks.

Regulus and Sirius exchange a dark look, an old sort of connection she remembers the two of them sharing since they were children; they have always known best how to exclude others from their conversations without even trying. Sirius’s face remains for the most part impassive, but Regulus’s mouth twitches to the side.

“I’m not stupid,” Andromeda tells them, which they should already know. She was the mastermind behind most of their pranks in their youth, after all. “You’ve already done it now.”

Sirius sighs, a deep, long thing that seems at once strange and usual for him. “Fair enough,” he says, sweeping his hair out of his eyes with practised ease. It’s getting long again; Andromeda should make him sit down and cut his hair. “You should sit down.”

*********

Sirius brings a dagger that Andromeda’s seen in one of the display cases in the study and offers it to her. It’s goblin-wrought silver, he tells her, coated in basilisk venom, a thing a friend of his managed to procure for him. It is one of the few things that can destroy the soul inside the diary.

“Your honours, Dromeda,” Regulus says softly, standing against the wall next to the fireplace. She only now notices the golden chain of the locket resting against his chest, the shape of it obvious underneath his white shirt now that she knows what to look for.

“This is how we end it?” she asks, looking between him and Sirius, unsure at whom the question is directed.

But it’s Sirius, with his eyes like shards of ice, his back like a pillar of steel, that says in a firm, cool voice, “Yes.”

Andromeda nods, steeling herself, grips the dagger and stabs it into the middle of the leather diary. Black ink bleeds out, pulsing in time with the shrill, dull screams that tear out of it. Andromeda dives to the side, the dagger clattering to the ground as she covers her ears. Sirius catches her, pressing her against his chest with a quiet, soothing murmur, the sensation unfamiliar after so many years but Andromeda can’t look away from the horror before her, knowing that it’s a piece of someone’s soul dying, something she caused. Voldemort was, despite everything, human once, too.

The diary heaves one last spurt of black blood, then goes silent and lies there. The weight in the room lifts.

*********

“What else could be a Horcrux?” she asks Regulus the next morning. Ted and Dora are still asleep in their rooms and there’s no one else to overhear them.

Regulus looks up from his breakfast, swallowing before he answers, “Anything. Voldemort seems partial to sentimental items – his diary, Slytherin’s locket, Hufflepuff’s cup, his family’s ring.”

“Items relating to Hogwarts?” Andromeda muses, taking a sip of her tea. “Sword of Gryffindor?”

Regulus shakes his head, eyes sharp. Andromeda doesn’t doubt that everything she might come up with he has already thought of. “Only a true Gryffindor can get his hands on that one.”

“Ravenclaw’s Diadem?”

“In theory. But it’s been lost for centuries.”

Andromeda knows, of course, so she nods and doesn’t mention it again; but something trickles against her mind, an old memory, a passing thought, and it doesn’t let go.

*********

Regulus pokes Sirius, dozing on the couch next to them, while they file through different texts. It’s tedious and gruesome work, Horcrux hunting, and no one can blame him for not wanting to participate in it after having to deal with the Death Eaters for weeks. “How did you convince Narcissa?” he asks.

It makes sense that he would; if Sirius was Andromeda’s favourite cousin, then Narcissa was Regulus’s, the feeling no doubt mutual. Although years apart, they both found solace in the quiet things, the unassuming ones; they have always been the counterweights to Sirius and Andromeda. Regulus must have kept the worry for her despite everything that happened—or perhaps exactly because of it.

Sirius blinks open his eyes, languid. The dark bags underneath them are a horrible sight to behold but not an unusual one. “I mentioned Draco – that it might help keep him safe if she did what I asked.” He makes a face, absent. “I’m not proud of it.”

Regulus glances at him, then back down at the parchment in his hands. “Had to be done,” he murmurs.

“He’s a good kid,” Sirius says, a tinge of fondness creeping into his voice. “Happy.” He adds, to Regulus or Andromeda, she doesn’t know, “You’d like him.”

Andromeda knows he doesn’t mean to hurt them but it stings, the knowledge that he gets to know their nephew, gets to see him grow up while they are stuck here, grasping at dragon’s breath. The darkness rises up in her for a moment, two, then dies down. It doesn’t disappear exactly – but Sirius has sacrificed so much for them and still does, on a daily basis. Having that small reprieve, that one little gift, is the least that he deserves.

He’s happy. I can never resent him for it.

Besides, it is just a matter of time.

*********

Regulus turns twenty-one years old in the hottest week of the summer. Andromeda forgets sometimes, how young they all are, how much they have already suffered.

She bakes him a cake, the cranberry one he so adored as a child. Dora draws him a picture of him, Sirius and the three of them, prouder of it than she ever has been of any other accomplishment. Sirius buys him a set of books and even hugs him, a quick, brief thing that nonetheless makes Andromeda’s eyes sting.

He blows out the candles and Dora asks him, “Did you wish for anything?”

Regulus cradles the back of her head, fingers carding through the purplish hair there. “Oui,” he says, “I did.”

He doesn’t tell them, of course, and Dora is content with that, but he slips out of the house in the evening and Andromeda has an inkling anyway.

*********

Andromeda doesn’t look at the newspapers anymore. She stopped long before Bellatrix came crashing through her front door and the idea is to never start doing it again until she dies or until Voldemort is defeated, whichever comes first—and she’s having her doubts.

But it’s pointless not to look at newspapers when she can just take one look at Sirius when he comes through the door and know how bad it is anyway. Given the fact that most of the media is currently already controlled by the Death Eaters, that way is even more accurate than the Daily Prophet itself. She wishes she didn’t have to know, that she could just curl into the space between Ted and Dora and stay there forever, the rest of the world be damned.

There are people in the rest of the world, though, people she loves, people she knows, people she wishes she could make amends with. Sirius. Narcissa. Lucretia. Her classmates, her colleagues. They’re all fighting, in their own way, she’s sure of it. It seems unfair that she gets to step away from that.

The thing is, she could. Sirius is the Secret Keeper of this house and she knows he would let her if she asked; even if his cover was blown, even if he was tortured to death, she knows he would not give them up and they would all be safe for the rest of their lives.

But at the end of the day, Andromeda knows who she wants under the roof of this house if the worst time comes and it’s not just her small family and Regulus; it’s Sirius and Narcissa and a dozen people in-between. So she covers Regulus with a blanket, kisses the top of his head as he moves and murmurs in his sleep, and brushes Sirius’s hair away from his face, presses a kiss to the edge of the scar across his cheek. Then she settles against them, opens the book again and starts reading.

The war isn’t going to end itself.

*********

“He has the Ministry,” Sirius says with a hoarse voice on a November morning. He came sometime during the night, slept on the couch again. It’s the first thing he’s said since they woke up.

Regulus frowns. “There hasn’t been any indication—”

“Imperius,” Sirius says, shrugging. “Bagnold and most of her office – I don’t know exactly who, though. He didn’t put me on the job.”

“Who then?” Andromeda asks and dreads the answer even before Sirius’s eyes, dull and dark, catch hers.

“Lucius. Bellatrix. Rodolphus.”

“Why not you?” says Regulus. “We wouldn’t—” He rubs a hand across his face, makes a soft, agitated noise. “We were doing so well.”

“I know, Reg,” Sirius says softly. “Believe me, I know.” He worries his lip and sucks his cheeks in; they look even more hollow now, his face as white as death. “He’s sending me to the werewolves.”

Regulus blanches. “Again?”

Sirius’s nod is short, curt, like he’s already resigned. “He wants them ready. He has something up his sleeve, I don’t know what. He’s not telling me. I don’t think he’s telling Bellatrix either.”

One short conversation, a few scraps of information and the world is already infinitely worse than it was mere minutes ago. A lump gathers in Andromeda’s throat. The Ministry being done for was to be expected, of course it was, but it’s worse now that it’s actually happening, when the possibility of the people outside being protected is completely gone, not only because the government has fallen but because Sirius won’t be there either.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, trying for a reassuring smile but his mouth trembles. “They’re not such big bad wolves as they’re painted to be. Preferrable to the Death Eaters, really.”

*********

Dora cries when he tells her, throwing her arms around him and clinging to him long enough that Andromeda has to look away.

Sirius holds her, murmuring soft words to her, shushing and rocking her to the side. “C'est d'accord, ” he says, soft against the wild purple of Dora’s hair. “It’s just a couple months, Dora. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“But it’s your birthday tomorrow,” Dora tells him between sniffles. “I haven’t finished your present yet.”

Sirius blinks, mouth open, and Andromeda wonders if he even remembered – or maybe he didn’t expect that they would remember, that she and Regulus would care enough to tell Dora. Oh, Sirius. “Your presence is present enough, Dora,” he says finally, pulling her into another hug. His head is tucked against hers, his eyes closed, the gentle expression on his face at odds with the strength he’s holding her against him. “Besides,” he says, slowly drawing back, “you can give it to me when I come back.” He pokes her in the belly and that makes her crack a reluctant smile. “Gives me something to look forward to.”

*********

It’s worse, somehow. It’s not like he wasn’t gone before but at least they knew he was around somewhere. Regulus could reach him when the need called for it and it was a matter of days, or weeks, at worst, before he came home. Now, it’s months, an endless stretch of time that only seems to draw on longer with the lack of success their research offers.

Then Regulus says, “A Horcrux can be a living thing.”

Andromeda looks up from her parchment, the image of Ravenclaw’s lost diadem now permanently scorched into her mind, all too familiar, then blinks at Regulus. “What?”

He stretches across the coffee table to hand her the piece of an old text. It’s in Ancient Runes, her brain blanking for a second before it starts translating, but Regulus has already continued by the time she’s halfway through. “The soul can be placed inside a living thing – an animal, a plant, a human, probably.” His eyes are shining when she glances at him. “Sirius said Voldemort found this snake, Nagini. He always keeps her at his side and with his obsession with being the Heir of Slytherin—” He tilts his head to the side, like a cat, giving a slow one-shouldered shrug.

“He made her a Horcrux,” Andromeda finishes, her mouth tugging up at the corners.

Regulus nods, running a hand through his tousled hair. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes twinkling. “We’d have to check— Sirius would have to check,” he corrects, his forehead creasing up, his eyes blinking closed for a second, “but it’s likely.” He takes a quill and scribbles a quick message onto a small piece of parchment lying to the side. He slices the tip of his finger open and presses it to the top of the parchment, leaving behind a bloody fingerprint when he pulls it back. He taps his wand against it, once, twice, then sits back. The parchment disappears in a puff of blue-black smoke.

*********

“What will you do, Andi?” Marina asks, her voice velvet-smooth. She’s sitting on a throne in front Andromeda, leg crossed over the other, her sea-blue dress barely reaching the bend of her knee. Her chest is splashed with red, her brown hair tangled around her bruised face. A tiara rests atop her head, it, too, speckled with red.

Andromeda pushes back the urge to throw up. She’s dreaming, she knows she is, but Marina’s death is still an aching scar; she will never forget the emptiness of her eyes as they stared up at the ceiling painted in her own blood. “I don’t know,” she whispers.

“You? You, Andromeda Black, don’t know?” Marina says with a laugh, a high, breathy thing that sends chills down Andromeda’s spine; it is not the familiar, throaty sound she remembers. “I don’t believe it.”

“You know how you can help. Of course you do.”

“I don’t, I don’t.”

Marina shoots her an unimpressed look, eyes dark. She reaches up to move a stray strand of her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Where is it, Andi?”

A sob builds up in Andromeda’s throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Marina was always a sharp person, a no-nonsense kind of one, but she never demanded more of people than what she knew they could give.

She shakes her head, fingers gripping the edge of the throne until her knuckles are white as bone. “You know,” she says. “Now you just have to remember where it is.”

*********

They celebrate Christmas without Sirius.

Regulus, rosy-cheeked, drags in a Christmas tree, tall enough to reach the ceiling and make Dora jump around with glee, her hair changing colours every time her feet touch the ground. They adorn it with ornaments Ted and Andromeda, despite her wand acting up, manage to conjure up and spend the day before Christmas baking cookies. By the end of the day, they are all so full they nearly forget anyone is missing at all. Come morning, they are all starkly aware of it again.

New Year’s Eve comes around and that passes without Sirius, too. Regulus sits outside on the cliff until they drag him in and even then, his eyes seem hollow, his voice empty when he says, “I forgot—it’s been a year—more than—since—” He puts his face in his hands and whispers, “Evan.”

It’s a sombre affair, New Year’s Day.

*********

Dora’s birthday is looking to be the same kind of subdued when no one is around in the morning—just the two of them, curled up on the couch while Dora opens the gift Andromeda managed to get for her. Ted and Regulus disappeared down into the village a couple of hours ago.

It should be better, Andromeda thinks. It’s her tenth birthday, the last whole year before she’s set to leave for Hogwarts and she deserves better. The knowledge that she can’t give it to her presses down on her chest, too heavy.

“I love you, little one,” Andromeda tells her, kissing the crown of her head. At least she’s happier now, at least she’s safe this year. At least Andromeda can be thankful for that.

“Love you too, Mum,” Dora says back absently, fingers skimming over the Quidditch book she’s unwrapped. She smiles up at her, though, bright and sudden. “Thank you, I love it.”

Dora is not a naïve child, has never really been, but Andromeda sees how much calmer she is now, how much more she considers everything she says or does and it makes her want to get up and find Bellatrix herself – to do to her the unspeakable things that she did to her daughter, to show her that she took away something from an innocent bystander in the name of something as trivial as blood. But it doesn’t matter to Bellatrix, it never has, and it isn’t worth it, not when both Andromeda and Nymphadora would lose so much with it.

“We’re back!” Ted shouts as he wheels himself into the living room, his lap full of presents. He’s grown stronger in the past months, his muscles building back up once he started moving around; but more important than that, he’s happier and not resigned but at peace with this big change life has brought for him.

“We even picked up a renegade,” Regulus adds, following in after Ted and carrying a load of things, the beginning and end of which Andromeda cannot for the life of her figure out. He frowns at someone behind him. “He’s refused to help us carry the gifts.”

Sirius steps in after him, dressed in clean, pressed dark robes, everything about him sleek and polished. He shrugs, his too-long hair falling in his eyes, and says, “I am the gift.”

Dora shrieks and ricochets herself off of the armrest, slamming into Sirius with enough force to make him stumble back a step; and he is. He really is.

*********

Sirius bends down low over Regulus and her, each of his hands on their shoulders. He doesn’t look unwell, not for a man who was supposed to have been dealing with feral creatures for the past few months. “You were right,” he murmurs, low enough Dora and Ted won’t hear. Andromeda thinks Ted probably knows anyway. “Nagini is a Horcrux.”

*********

Sirius is sitting eerily still for someone who could not be forced to calm down as a child. Then again, there are many aspects in which Sirius has changed and settled; this can hardly be any different. He’s letting her cut his hair, which is, although soft and glossy for the most part, damaged enough she will have to cut off at least a half of it.

“Don’t the werewolves have any tools to keep themselves in order?” she grumbles, sniping off half of a strand. Once it falls in place, it just reaches his earlobe.

Sirius breathes deep. “They live in poverty, Dromeda,” he says, rolling his shoulders back. Through the thin material of his white shirt, she can see a scabbed wound stretching from one shoulder to the other. “They can hardly afford such luxuries.”

Andromeda has, as a principle, made it her main objective in the last decade to be as different from her family as possible. In large part, that involved successfully relearning every ideology Cygnus and Druella had done their best to instil in her. On the rare occasion, however, Andromeda, in her admittedly bull-headed pushing, came to the limits of her own morality, to the grey zone that she could not move out of solely on the basis of being far away from the Blacks’ mentalities. Werewolves and similar dark creatures fell into that grey zone because at the end of the day Andromeda, as a child from a deeply dysfunctional family, felt she didn’t have the ability to make the judgement for herself. She fears such moments most, when she realises that she can escape her family, but some shackles can never be fully stripped away.

Sirius’s voice is soft but rather lost, a boat far out in the open sea. “They’re not bad people, not most of them,” he murmurs into his hands covering his mouth. “Those that are, were bad people before they were ever Turned.”

*********

Andromeda stands in a vast room, with no end in sight. There are piles of trinkets around her, large piles of every little thing Andromeda can think of and yet larger ones of things she couldn’t name to save her life. They are arranged in lines, leaving narrow rows for passage in-between.

She steps forward, down one of those rows, her fingers skimming over the things scattered atop. A book, glasses, a quill. A frame, a wand, a tiara. A piece of string, a wig, a bust.

Marina appears in front of her, dressed as she was the last time, only her hair is woven into a crown of brown and red now, her fingers taut with dried blood. “You are far more foolish than I thought you were,” she says, looking down at her with hooded eyes and curved mouth. “I thought you were the observant type.”

“What are you talking about?” Andromeda asks. She’s tired of these dreams, these nightmares that plague her even in the daylight. If she’s not dreaming about them, she’s thinking of them. She wishes they stopped.

“Where is it, Andromeda?” Marina says, huffing impatiently but not in the way Andromeda is used to. “Where are we?”

Andromeda looks around. The ceiling of the room is high and dark, plain and unassuming, the walls too far away or too covered to be made out. She knows this place, she’s certain of it. She’s been here before. This meant something to her once, once, a long time ago—

And then it hits her. The seventh-floor corridor, the left one—the tapestry with the room that was never not there, the one she hid all the evidence of her relationship with Ted in, then later on of her plan to escape. I need a place to hide my things.

She turns, eyes searching for the thing she should have remembered a long time ago. The wig, the painting, the frame.

It’s resting on a precariously-put set of old, leather-bound books, covered in dust, all the glamour that should have been there long gone; but she knows where it is and what it is. She knows, she knows.

Marina has moved to stand next to her, her breaths steady. The blood has disappeared from her dress, has been washed out of her hair and off her hands. “I knew you’d remember eventually,” she says, fingers curling around Andromeda’s wrist. Her voice is once again the harmony of warm, raspy tones Andromeda knows. “It’s high time the war ended.”

Andromeda is stumbling out of bed before she’s even fully awake.

*********

Regulus grumbles when she shakes him and tries to burrow himself deeper under the covers. The sun is beginning to arc across the sky, far too early yet, but this is important. Andromeda cannot wait when she knows every minute wasted is a minute more that the people she loves have to suffer.

“I know where the last Horcrux is,” she tells him and he’s sat up within the next three seconds.

He looks up at her, grey eyes wide and just the little bit glassy, but his voice is strong. “Where?”

“Hogwarts.”

*********

Regulus sends a message to Sirius, the words smudged with sleep, messy with haste. We know where the last one is. Come as soon as you can.

After it’s disappeared in the burst of smoke, Andromeda asks, “What do we do now?”

Regulus sits down in front of the fireplace and opens a book, the picture of restrained calm. She shares none of it; her body is alive with the need to get up, to pace, to do something. “We wait.”

*********

Hours pass. Then days.

Sirius doesn’t come.

*********

The door to the terrace slips open so quietly Andromeda almost doesn’t hear it. She thinks for a moment it’s Dora or Regulus and she doesn’t even deign to open her eyes. Then she remembers Dora has taken off on a broom, diligently supervised by Ted, and Regulus is sitting next to her, gently rocking the garden swing they’ve settled on for the morning.

She stands up, just a second after Regulus, and whirls towards the door. She’s never felt anger like this before, pulsing in her belly like a fresh seal, scratching against the walls of her throat, as if it might tear them apart if she doesn’t let it out. She hides her trembling hands in the pockets of her dress.

Then she sees Sirius. His hair is a mess, haphazard around his face, his chest heaving with quick, rash breaths. The beat of his heart is not nearly audible but even so, Andromeda can imagine its fast pace just fine. He’s holding their message in one hand, his fingers dark with blood, a stark contrast to his pale face once he brings them up to it.

All the fight drains out of Andromeda.

Regulus doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. “Where have you been?” he asks, voice at once lower and louder than Andromeda’s ever heard him use. “We sent the message nearly two weeks ago.” He pauses, eyes flicking up and down Sirius’s body. “No matter.” He steps forward, grabbing Sirius by the shoulder and shaking him lightly. He cracks a smile, unsure in the face of Sirius’s indifference. “Sirius, we found it. It’s the Ravenclaw Diadem. It’s at Hogwarts.”

That does get Sirius to blink and shake his head, like a dog getting water out of his ears. “Oh good,” he says, voice hoarse. “We can kill two birds with one stone.”

Regulus’s smile fades as he steps back, his arms falling back to his sides. “What do you mean?”

Sirius clears his throat. He looks down at his hands, at the bloodied message, then up at Dora, laughing in the sky. Once his eyes move, they flick towards Andromeda, then settle back on Regulus. “Voldemort has had a spy at Hogwarts since September,” he says, his face crumpling with a desperation Andromeda hasn’t seen on him, probably ever, opening up like a chasm after an earthquake. “He’s going to attack Hogwarts at nightfall.”

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