#many of my wishes in my life have come true too. it's dumb superstition but no less real and just smth I've got to deal with I guess

[no0dlru]

The wonderful @b-i-r-0 just did a very interesting tarot reading for me

[pathofcomet]

bride of ice (5)

{dragon age: inquisition | g. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 5.9k}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533642/chapters/61596748

They drink that night, after returning to Haven and getting the Chargers settled. That’s the first rule of negotiations: to break bread at the same table as your new ally, promise made but not entirely true until that moment when the first cup of wine sits on one’s lips, first sip taken, trusting it not to be poisoned. Of course, those are nobles’ fears and superstitions. She has no doubt that given the right reasons, the Iron Bull would simply strike her down: easier to deal with someone, if not necessarily cleaner.

But while she comes up with such scenarios, the Qunari seems entirely at ease, downing cup after cup of ale, laughing next to Krem, turning a bit to the side to glance at her from time to time. She tries to keep her expression levelled, not let the redness at the tip of her ears and across her cheeks to be read as anything but tipsiness. Just because she desperately wants to trust him, doesn’t mean she does so, not quite yet. For as much as she appreciates having him on their side, for now, she fears the time when they might stare at each other across a battlefield. And she knows she has seen only a shadow of what he is capable of: both as a warrior, and a spy, incredibly sharp and smart.

Trevelyan looks around the tables moved together into a corner, to fit all her people, and wonders how on earth did they manage to bring together such a capable, colourful band of experts: Sera shares a joke with Varric, as Cassandra frowns in her ale, suspicious enough to at least imagine that she’s the reason for their laughter. Vivienne looks like she doesn’t belong in here, with her delicate garments, and yet the banter she gets into with Iron Bull feels natural from the first second. Cullen is explaining something to Solas, looking dreadfully serious, all while Krem is caught in an animated conversation with Josephine and a few other Chargers.

Something in her chest booms with pride, that she somehow helped in creating this moment in time, this space for all of them. No one talks to her outright, lost in alcohol, but not forgetting her sainthood, and only the barmaid throws her a wink each time she refills her cup. From the other end of the room, Iron Bull catches her eyes again, and warmed by the fire burning in the fireplace and the drinks, her expression slips for a second, before getting up and retreating for the night. It was a weakness that didn’t feel like one, right then.

Iron Bull accepts the refill, grins at Cassandra just to piss her off, thinks how no one even noticed the Herald’s absence, or said their goodbyes to her as she left. No one questions or challenges her, no one looks after her – even as she’s the one that has to do the same thing for everyone else here. He tries to guess at her age: younger than him, almost too young to be made the symbol that stands between humanity and the end of the world. Yet, ever since they met, he has seen nothing holy in her, only in the gazes of her people.

Sainthood achieved by devotion. Obsession and prayers given as offerings to a reluctant goddess. Martyrdom expected and awaited from nothing but a lost girl. To not allow herself get swept up in all this commotion created by the breach and her Mark, she must either lack serious self-confidence or know herself too well.

Bull downs his drink in one go, shouts for another. The barmaid smiles prettily at him as she passes by.

The cheerful chats go on for much longer in the night, and Trevelyan lays awake in her bed, lulled by the faint sounds of it, but her mind reeling, considering the requests they’ve gone through during the afternoon’s council, thinking of how they can get supplies for the new wave of refugees that are on the way. She thinks they deserve a late start to the day in the morning, feels guilty because it might be a luxury that they cannot afford.

 ***

Despite falling asleep late, she’s up early, with a stiff neck from a bad night, and she swears when she gets out of her blanket only to be welcomed by the typical freezing cold of Haven. If she were back at home, today she would have gotten ready alongside her mother, being a holiday, and maybe that’s why she ends at the Chantry. Habits are hard to lose, especially ones that your entire family is built upon.

But she doesn’t pray, doesn’t want to anymore, even as the words sit at the tip of her tongue, even as her fingers itch to go and light a candle.

She will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

However, in the middle of a battle, when you’re gasping for air, when you’re sure you’ll be dealt a final blow, or when your vision goes out just as the world turns louder and louder around you – she knows one is actually very afraid, knows one is not praying for light and a place by the Maker’s side, but for more life, for another chance, for more time. One sees their entire life flash before their eyes, and in that second, they want to grasp it all, multiply it tenfold, hold on to it, lay it at the feet of the Maker and say: see, I deserve more. Dying is as desperate and as ugly as it can get, and there’s no god that can make it less of that, even as those left behind pray for it.

No matter how much she prays, no matter how hard she believes, the dead cannot be brought back to life, or, anyway, not in any way that it matters, not in any way that doesn’t involve blood magic or demons or a blight. So then, what’s the point?

She thinks of her brother, and then she’s angry all over again at a supposed Maker that allowed his death to happen, that let so many go like that. She thinks of his belief, of how badly he wanted to do good as a Templar, or how he was the person who taught her her first prayer, and he only had to die to undo all that good she made her believe in. She hates being called the Herald, because there’s nothing more she’d like to do than throw away her religion and her Mark, even as she knows it’s pointless to wish to change the past.

When will she make peace with the fact that the world if unfair, and it hasn’t been this vicious to her just because she’s been a noble until now? When will she accept that her rage is just exhausting, and nothing more?

“Herald,” Vivienne greets from her side, and she startles like a thief caught in the middle of a robbery. “If you’re praying, I can- “

“No.”

Her answer is too immediate, too sharp, and she turns her back to the statue of Andraste, smiles at the mage. Vivienne is as gorgeous as always, and if the night before was in any way more hectic than her parties, she’s not showing it. She looks at the Mark, reaches out with her magic to test it, and it tickles at the tip of her fingertips, makes it hum and glow – a sight fascinating no matter how many times she sees it. For a mediocre fighter to now possess a magical power stronger than a First Enchanter, with no magic manifested ever before, is a miracle in and of itself, though Trevelyan is not willing to attribute it to anything but pure dumb luck.

“Tell me: why were you at the Divine Conclave?”

It’s a question dressed in prettier words, Vivienne’s experience with nobility showing, because Trevelyan knows that what she means is: why you? There were the obvious political interests, and her mother’s choice that designed her at the ambassador of their house’s position. She has a brother on one side of the war, and she feared losing him even as she didn’t know it will hurt this badly to not have him anymore. She has heard the cries in Ostwick, from family of both mages and Templars alike, ever since the Chantry blew up in Kirkwall. She has barely missed being caught in too many fights on the streets, she heard the rumours that their guards were hiding apostates in their homes, that nobles welcomed back their children in their ranks, now that Circles fell around Thedas.

So she was there as a Trevelyan, just a representative of a name. But she knew what her brother was fighting for, behind the closed doors of negotiations, what Divine Justinia was hoping to achieve with the gathering in the first place.

“The war benefits no one. It must end.”

She thinks of their camps in the Hinterlands, now a mixture of those torn apart by war, villagers equally parts traumatized by lirium crazed fighting and spells blowing up everything to pieces. She thinks of all the bodies that they’ve found, burnt beyond recognition, houses abandoned, livelihoods forgotten behind just for a chance at life. She thinks of everyone who stepped in her path, crying and begging for a piece of their past, for a piece of their loved ones.

She doesn’t want to see something like it ever again.

“Mages, Templars, innocent people of all kinds now look to the Inquisition to decide their fate. Failure is a luxury that we cannot afford, my dear.”

Vivienne sounds calm, so she also tries to remain so, though her breathe is hitching in her throat and she’s starting to get dizzy. She doesn’t want someone to word out exactly what she’s fearing, like she doesn’t comprehend the gravity of the situation, like she needs guidance towards realization. She hates that Vivienne might have read her all right from the damn fucking start, and she breathes, slower, forcing herself to calm down because she doesn’t want to throw up all over Vivienne’s expensive heeled shoes, or her new boots that she looted off someone’s body in the Hinterlands.

“For almost a thousand years, the world believed ir was in the hands of the Maker. Now many believe you are the agent of His will. Whatever the truth, that belief gives you power.”

What a bunch of bullshit, she wants to say, but she knows she’s been allowed entry to Val Royeaux because of that belief, she knows she has an army, no matter how badly fed, because of that belief, she is part of the Inquisition at all because of that belief. And in those open doors, in those raised swords, in the allies she found – there’s her power.

She doesn’t want to use it, too scared, but she already did, just by surviving, and she’s now a piece in a chess game she doesn’t know against who they’re playing.

Vivienne is already not paying attention to her, returning to her desk, writing letters, inspecting the reports she’s received from Josephine. So her warning is more murmured, more an omen than an outright warning, though she knows it’ll hit where it matters anyway.

“If no one leads the way, many will be left in darkness.”

And the Herald knows, that as much rage as she is feeling, there is someone out there with more damage done to their families, with more responsibilities on their shoulders, with more grief in their hearts, failed by the world in ways that maybe she cannot even begin to comprehend. And she knows, that if her rage is true, then she has to fight to make sure that as many people as possible are protected from such pain. She hates that Vivienne read her all right from the damn fucking start. She hates that she knew exactly where to shove her, and in which direction – and if Trevelyan makes the Inquisition, then the Inquisition makes her just as much.

 ***

As she goes around Haven, writing down lists of needed supplies, marking on a map all the places that they need to scout, or where rumours are pointing at, talking with officers and soldiers, upgrading a piece of armour, training with Cullen and discussing best offers for various noble houses with Josephine, she starts noticing The Iron Bull. It’s impossible not to, as he easily towers above everyone else in the Inquisition’s ranks, and almost everyone naturally gets out of his way. When she marks Dane’s stables on her map and question one of the young helpers about the man, the Iron Bull borrows a sharpening stone for his axe from grumpy Harrit, one of the only persons that doesn’t seem at all phased by the presence of a Qunari in their camp. When she leaves a Council meeting in a late evening, Krem is dragging Bull in the tavern, looking outright comic with his arm around the Qunari’s shoulders, their laughter booming in the air.

Then, tentatively, because Bull has done her the favour of directly telling her about his status as a spy, she decides to just talk to him directly as well. Eyes to eye. First comes a morning training, as she goes through the moves with more recent recruits, that still are not familiar with her fighting style, whose moves she cannot guess just because they’ve been trained by Cullen, in a style too similar to her brother’s.

On the other side of the training ground, Cullen and Bull shout their orders to each of their troops, guiding their moves, correcting wrong stances, pushing those showing potential. Sometimes, the missed hits turn into reason for teasing from the others, or a joke is shouted instead of a scream as a soldier lunges for their opponent, and although everyone trains with all their might, there’s an air of comradery between them that makes it not seem much of a chore.

She stops first, head politely nodding at her partner, her skin still sweaty, adrenaline still making her head reel. She starts making her way across the yard, stopping by Bull’s side, waiting patiently for him to finish the drills, ask his lieutenant to take over. She’s staring at all these soldiers making up the Inquisition’s ranks when he turns towards her.

“They’ve got good form. Cullen’s putting his Templar training to good use.”

She crosses her arms, moves her weight so she’s just a tiny bit closer to him.

“Did Cullen tell you he was a Templar? He’s not wearing the armour.”

“He didn’t have to. Might not be a Templar shield, but it’s a Templar holding it. He angles the shield just a bit down. Helps direct fire or acid away, so it doesn’t spray right into your face. Qunari learn the same thing when we train to fight Tevinter mages. Your Templar’s doing good work.”

So that’s what his Ben-Hassrath training is capable of. She noticed the same thing, but it was the familiarity of it that made her notice it at all, and she’s impressed by how sharp he was to catch all those details, and piece together that much of the past behind them, and be so correct. Still, he’s true to his word, and he’s not only telling her his obvious conclusion, but also the thinking process that brought him to it – and she nods her head, looks again at the troops and sees something more this time around.

“I’m impressed by what Cullen has accomplished with the troops.”

Most of the people joined the Inquisition after the explosion at the Conclave, now refugees with a want to do something about this new problem that they’re all facing. Most of the older soldiers died when they closed up the Breach. Yet those standing in front of them are objectively good, and it is all thanks to their commander. It takes time to build a group into a team, but these men gave their loyalty to Cullen, and that’s one important detail when getting ready to fight a religious war.

“Biggest problem for the Inquisition right now isn’t on the front line. It’s at the top. You’ve got no leader. No Inquisitor.”

She turns to stare at him, try and see if he is joking, but Bull looks dead serious, his eye searching her face, memorizing every change in expression – and she knows he’s doing it, and yet she cannot stop herself from looking as incredulous as she feels.

“Cassandra’s been the driving force of this Inquisition. She’s the leader in all but name.”

“Cassandra’s a Seeker. From what I gather, that’s a bit like a Ben-Hassrath.”

The hand – that gives, that takes, that beckons, that strikes. She has hand-picked each person in their ranks, has used the authority of her title and past to create this organization. No one would be here without her, so isn’t that the obvious choice? No matter how terrible their beginning together, no one can deny the fact that the Seeker is an incredibly capable woman.

So then, why not? She frowns up at the Iron Bull, and with him, she doesn’t even have to actually ask the question outright.

“She’s a good hunter and a great fighter, but she doesn’t see the big picture. Too busy searching for answers.”

And Cassandra has searched for answers all her life: about her family’s demise, about the path of a Pentaghast, about her faith, about the heroes of Thedas, about the rightfulness of her actions, about the divinity of her Herald.

“My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions… and live with the consequences.”

She doesn’t know enough about all of these people to figure out who would best suit his definition of a leader, barely having started to know them better, to fit in-between their orders and their skills. But as she thinks it over, she thinks it does make sense – especially as in these desperate times of need, so many people need others to make the hard decisions for them. No one wants to be the one having to bear the guilt of a choice, though everyone envies the laurels of praise that might come in good outcomes. But the balance is so delicately held together, and it so many times more tips towards destruction instead of success. The people just want someone to glorify, or someone to crucify. The Inquisition needs someone willing to wear both the glory and the condemnation.

It explains, however, how come he sits at the head of the Chargers. It explains, however, why he’s so proudly wearing his scars and his missing eye and why his people talk so highly of him.

As the silence lingers between the two of them, Bull breaks it.

“Ah, who knows. Maybe you seal the breach, the Chantry gets off its ass, and all those soldiers go home and get fat.”

She bursts out laughing, the 180 degrees switch in her thoughts and in the conversation making absolutely no sense, but pleased at the attempt to lighten up the situation anyway.

“You think?”

“It could happen. It won’t, but it could.”

She’s still laughing, a smile on her face, as she waves him goodbye, a messenger sent to get her for another meeting.

 ***

Then it’s when Leliana asks her to her tent, after Harding’s recent arrival to let them know of some scouting reports – but the surprising thing is that when she’s done, Harding is still around, sitting by the fire with a few of the soldiers, and Cremisius is next to her. When she’s warm enough, and fed well enough, she’s back on her scout duties, and the Herald takes the moment to occupy what was Harding’s seat just a few minutes ago, trying to smile at Bull’s man. He’s silently passing her a cup of tea, that she’s sincerely grateful for – no matter how much time she spends in the snow, she’ll never get used to the way her fingers go numb if she’s not wearing her gloves, probably forgotten in some meeting room.

She likes him because everything is straight-forward with him. He’s just a really good fighter that is part of a mercenary band that he cares about like no other, and it’s a loyalty and devotion that is obvious even from the way he speaks about them, the tone of his voice turning just a bit softer when he says the name of the people he entrusted his life with, over and over again.

So Trevelyan just goes for it: “I’d like to know more about The Iron Bull.”

“The Chief. First time I met him, he saved my life.”

Well, that’s one unexpected way of describing the Qunari leader of a mercenary group.

“That’s a story definitely worth hearing,” she pushes, sipping from her tea – and Cremisium maybe had figured out that she’s asking out of sincere curiosity, or he is just eager to tell the stories of their adventure together. One doesn’t simply become the most trusted man of a Qunari spy, and it’s not a title that many people can boast.

“I wasn’t a soldier at the time. I was in some trouble and trying to flee Tevinter. A Tribune and his men caught me in a border town tavern. They meant to make an example of me. Bull killed them. Gave up his eye doing it. He patched me up and asked if I was looking for work. I’ve been putting up with his jokes ever since.”

That last sentence grabs a smile out of the Herald, and Krem sits back more comfortably in his seat, pleased.

“That’s how he lost his eye?”

The eye patch is certainly the most unnerving and mysterious thing about Iron Bull. She heard the servants whisper in the tavern about it, and there are as many rumours about the story behind it as there are gossiping mouths in Haven. It probably doesn’t help that he’s a Qunari as well, and he automatically grasps the attention of everyone… well, across Thedas, really.

“Yes. The guards had me on the tavern floor when Bull came inside and yelled for them to stop. The guard had a flail. Bull put himself between me and the blow. Big horned idiot. Didn’t even know me.”

Krem’s voice turns soft, no bite in the offence, lost in the memory of that situation. Trevelyan thinks of the weapon, with its metal, spiked striking end, and how excruciatingly painful it must have been to get a blow in the face, losing an eye in the process. She doesn’t know why, but the fact that he hasn’t lost it in a gruesome battle, or while doing mercenary work, but simply trying to do the good thing and save the life of someone who didn’t deserve death, makes the outline of him in her mind switch.

“And about him being a Qunari, a-”

“A Ben-Hassrath?”

Trevelyan opens her mouth, closes it again, staring at this man defending his leader so fiercely, just by knowing a truth that she thought it should be a secret.

“I didn’t expect he’d tell you all that he was a spy.”

“Not the whole band, but those who’ve been around long enough to trust. He figures most of us would find out sooner or later, and it should come from him. It’s never messed up a job. He just writes letters back home. Lot of the boys write letters back home.”

She sits in silence, sipping at her tea, but no second feeling uncomfortable – her doubt not judged, his answers accepted. They’re just two people that care, in different ways, about the same person: one questioning and one defending. She considers his words and the information that she newly learnt, and how suddenly it makes Bull so much more than just a Qunari spy, or the leader of the Chargers.

If all her selves can exist inside of her, can it not be the same for everyone else around her as well? Cullen is a Templar, as well as just their commander, and a man trying to do right by his past mistakes. Cassandra is a Seeker and a Pentaghast and a warrior. Leliana is a spy master and a deeply religious person and a skilled, Orlais-trained assassin. Varric is a writer, a businessman, a spy and an adventurer. Josephine is the eldest daughter of the Montilyets, an ambassador and a tactician.

She thanks Krem for his time, and he grins at her.

 ***

It’s rare to eat lunch at all, as supplies are spare, so most of them are just keeping themselves busy until diner time. It’s even rarer to get to eat lunch, and when you do, to have it at the same time as other people. But as Trevelyan makes her way inside the tavern, she’s welcomed by the sight of Bull’s back, the musician tuning her mandolin, and a few of their recruits eating a very late breakfast, having woken up barely in time for their morning drills. It’s part manners and part want that makes her slide into the empty seat across Bull, at the same table.

“Hey Boss,” he says, and before she gets to, he gestures towards Flissa for one more bowl of warm soup, and he shoves the loaf of bread across the table, closer to her. She smiles, and she breaks apart a piece, starts eating it as it is, as she waits for her food. Bull has stopped eating his as well, and he waits as well.

“So, Iron Bull… How did you get the name ‘Iron Bull’?”

“I picked it,” he says simply, leans back a bit to allow space for the barmaid to place the new plate and cup on the table, before he returns, picking up his spoon at the same time as her. “We don’t have names under the Qun, just… I don’t know, job descriptions, I guess. When I came to Orlais, I chose ‘The Iron Bull’ for myself.”

She keeps her spoon between her lips as she pays attention to his words, a bad habit from her teenage years that she wasn’t able to get rid of, and so her question is somewhat muffled, makes her sound younger.

“But why specifically ‘Iron Bull’?

“This may surprise you, but I really like hitting things.”

She snorts in her spoonful of soup, the blow of air making all the contents fly back into her bowl, and she’s laughing hard now, Bull joining her a second later. She’s up on her feet, grabbing one of Flissa’s rags, cleaning up at her chin and shirt, as Bull’s laughter dies out. If her mother could see her now, even she’d swear, but as it is, she’s just enjoying her mishap, and clearly her lunch partner is doing so as well.

“Also, it’s the Iron Bull, technically.” He’s waving his spoon in the air to point at her in tandem with his accent falling on the word the. “I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I’m not even a person, just a mindless weapon, an implement of destruction… That really works for me.”

Well, she has seen him in a battle, he is all of those things, but she also knows there’s not a second he’s not aware of his people and how they are doing in a battle. He always jumps where the battle is heaviest and he’s incredibly scary swinging his axe around, a fastness in him that can’t seem possible for someone as large. And she also knows of Krem’s story, and how none of Bull’s actions can possibly be called, at any point, mindless or destructive. Heck, isn’t he here at all, tied to be her bodyguard and protect her in all Inquisition matters, just because he doesn’t want this whole world blown apart? But hearing it that he prefers it the other way around, she wonders what exactly she is supposed to believe at all.

So, she asks him about how he became a Ben-Hassrath instead. She knows parts of Qunari culture, just at a superficial level, nothing much but what every other Free Marcher put together during Arishok’s stay in Kirkwall. It starts at pure curiosity, though. Her world has been so narrow, and now it is getting wider and wider every day, with each piece of land walked, with each new ally that she recruits. She wants to be just to all of them, to thrown away the teachings of her family and the superstitions of her people.

She listens to his explanations, tries to piece it together with the book about the Qun that she asked Leliana to get her, that she found in the wares of the merchants she came across. Off the battlefield, even as he speaks of his people, Iron Bull is a refreshingly reasonable person, listening to everyone’s words with the same level of attention, attentively reading the gestures and expressions of those around him, and he replies in a calm matter that has nothing to do with his way of fighting. So even if he might be annoyed by her inquiries, he doesn’t show it.

They’re down only to the bread, that they’re now each grabbing a piece of as he keeps talking.

“They sent me to Seheron because they needed someone who could fight and hunt down problems. That whole island was a sack of cats. Incursions from Tevinter, Tal-Vashoth, and native rebels fighting both sides… And in the middle, me, trying to wrangle the rebels and restore order.”

If there is a place who can haunt a man for the rest of his life, then that place is Seheron.

“I can’t imagine that was easy.” She lets him take two pieces of the bread in a row.

“One day I woke up and couldn’t think of a damned reason to keep doing my job. Turned myself in to the reeducators. I thought about letting some rebel kill me, but I couldn’t give any of those bastards the satisfaction. The Ben-Hassrath ordered me to go to Orlais, ostensibly as a Tal-Vashoth, and work undercover. That’s how I ended up here.”

Trevelyan looks around, at the shoddy tavern that they’re in, with the food that always seems to have something missing, with their untrained soldiers, and with this one table that they’ve shared over the past half an hour.

“I’m glad you’re alive and; well, here, Bull.” It’s an intentional choice of words, and a one-word declaration: his name, but not its purpose. “If you ever need to talk more about all this, let me know.”

She offers even if she doubts he’ll ever take her up on it. Iron Bull gets up from the table, shouting his thanks to Flissa, before looking down again at this Herald, a young woman that is just extending her kindness to a man that she knows to be a trained spy and killer.

“Nah. It was a long time ago.”

 *** 

And then there’s that time when a few days pass by with her locked in meeting rooms, counting once and twice and thrice and then over again all the supplies that they need for the Hinterlands once again. And the next time that she sees the Iron Bull, is as he sits outside his tent, when she finishes talking with master Harrit about the horses that he wants and the Inquisition desperately needs, and that she’s supposed to get from one of her treks in that damned place. Sometimes just the thought of doing something tires her out enough to make her want to stop, though stopping is a luxury that she cannot afford.

And yet, she takes five minutes to hover by Bull’s side, asking him some more things about Qunari. She cannot even imagine not knowing who her parents are, so much of her life hinges on her relationship with her family, and so much importance is placed by humans on their ancestors and links. Heck, the Trevelyans have an entire tapestry up on the wall in their main hall, showing their entire lineage, decades and decades ago, names that have gone out of fashion and names that have shaped the Free Marches and the Chantry and the Templar Order. And out of all of that, she was born to sit at the last end of all those familial roots: made and raised to be who she is, simply because she was a Trevelyan.

How can she judge him his religion and his loyalty for it, when she herself comes from a long line of believers, when her own version is stifling enough that it makes a holy figure out of a mere woman? There is so much she doesn’t know, or if she knows, she doesn’t understand – so it is with open ears and curious eyes that she listens to his stories and lessons, even if they challenge everything that she thought was supposed to be the natural order of things.

And how can she truly criticize the Qunari rules, when her own parents asked much of the same thing from her? There were always the things that they taught she’d be best at, the roles she was expected to fulfil – and that was the width of her life, with all the classes she was made to take to build her into the best image of a young lady, with all the unwritten and unspoken codes of conduct, with the fragile honour and egos. Life back in Ostwick was simply following a path that has existed for the women of noble houses for centuries, and much like a Qunari, they were all just expected to follow through.

People are just people, everywhere.

She likes him, because in his rebuttal of her beliefs, she understands that, for him, she’s nothing more than a bratty noble, and she wants to both weep and hug the life out of him for not even considering the idea that she might be holy. With all the others, she can feel when their perception shifts: that sometimes they cannot believe her survival or her Mark, so there’s only the heavens to blame; that sometimes they watch her train or they have to explain something to her, and they sigh in relief at her simply humane limitations. But with Iron Bull, she’s always just his boss – and he doesn’t seem to care to make more out of her.

And then, maybe because she’s reminded of her life before all of this, or maybe because Bull pauses to look after a redhead new recruit, or maybe because he has not refused to answer any of her questions yet, she asks him about marriage and love. And hears about sex instead, her face turning redder and redder with each word out of his mouth, and Bull seems like he is enjoying both the topic of the conversation, the memories it’s bringing up, and the prude reactions from her. By the end, there’s a teasing edge in his voice, and Trevelyan is covering half of her face with the pair of gloves she’s holding in her hands, while glaring at him above them.

“You asked, Boss!” he shouts after her, when she comes up with an excuse, stumbling over her words, and she just screams back at him that he better be ready for the Hinterlands from tomorrow onwards.

[laufeyson-l0ki]

Strangers In The Night {Tom Hiddleston x reader}

This is actually a really cool plot! I try to adapt that idea as good as I can! I will make a little fanfiction thing, since I think a headcanon wouldn't fit this very well. Enjoy!~

WORD COUNT : 1532

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A quiet night. You got dumped again. British men just didn’t seem to like people like you. Kind of depressed, yet not surprised, you sat on the bridge’s wall, as usually, looking up to the sky. Suddenly, a shooting star passed by. -even though you didn’t really believe in superstition’s, but you just had to make a wish. You wished for someone accepting. Someone, who wouldn’t dump you, because you liked that one thing they didn’t. A sigh left your mouth, while you were slowly looking on the water, thinking that your silly wish would never come true. There you were, sitting on this bridge, fantasizing about what could happen. And for a short moment, you wanted to jump. You wanted to end the misery you called life. Unconsciously you leaned a bit forward, nearly falling into the water underneath.

The thing that held you back was a relatively young man that threw his arm around your waist. “Don’t jump. Please. There is so much worth living for” Shocked, you realized that you nearly died, if this man wouldn’t have saved you. You turned around, looking at this mysterious man. Usually, nobody comes across this old bridge. It belonged to an old park, but nobody really wanted to visit the park. As you noticed that you accidentally started staring, you said with a silent voice “I’m sorry if you I had you worried, but I don’t intend on dying yet… I was just thinking to much. But thank you for your help, sir. I really appreciate that.”

Unexpectedly, your eyes met and something in you just went – boom. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. Seeing him smile gently, your heart skipped a beat. This man’s smile was the most genuine and the most handsome smile you’ve ever seen. “Well then”, he started, “may I help you from this wall? We don’t want you to fall in there accidentally, right?” He offered you his hand to help you down. When you laid your hand on his he gladly helped off the bridge’s wall. Only now you realized how tall he was. And you felt something weird in your chest. When he asked you for your name, you couldn’t help but stutter. “M-my na-name? Oh, well, I- well… people call… My name is…” You felt a little dumb, and as he chuckled a little you couldn’t help but get even more nervous. Tom smiled at you, showing you, that it was okay. “Sweet Miss, you don’t have to push yourself. Sadly, I must go now, but maybe I’m lucky and see your beautiful face around here again. Take care and have a good night!” With that, he left.

The next day you sat on the wall again, hoping to see him again. After yesterday you couldn’t get this man out of your head. You waited and waited, but he didn’t come. When you were about to leave you heard footsteps approaching you. Euphoric, you turned around, but it wasn’t him. Actually, there was nobody. Your senses tricked you once again.

The next evening you waited for him again. But as you arrived, he was already there, leaning against the wall casually and looking up to the sky. Since it was summer, the sunset was pretty late, but everything looked so calming. A cool wind swept past, causing his hair to go wild. You giggled a bit, letting him know, you were there too. He turned around, watching you laugh. He quickly fixed his hair, standing upright. You waved at him a little shyly and he waved back. When you finally walked up to him, the two of you greeted each other properly.

“How is my young lady feeling today?”

“Pretty good, how about you, sir?”, you answered smiling.

He looked at you, also starting to smile. “After seeing you, I’m feeling great”, he answered.

Jumping up the wall you made a gesture, letting him know that you wanted him to sit next to you, which he did after laughing a little. “You sure like sitting on this wall, don’t you?”

“Of course. Especially when the sun is about to set. The was the colors change and the stars start to become visible… It just gives me a feeling of… happiness.”

He nodded, looking at you, while you were talking about the thing you enjoyed so passionately. “I always wanted to share this moment with someone dear to me”, you said, lowering your gaze, “but as it seems, nobody really wants to be engaged with me in any way.” – “If that would be true, I wouldn’t sit here, right?” Your eyes widen after he said this. You didn’t even know this man for long, yet you felt a connection with him. He looked away from you, leaning over a little, watching the sun go down. He took a deep breath before he began to talk. “I come here when I don’t feel good or am just feeling stressed out. This scenery alone relaxes me to a point, where I would love to live here, right here.”

You listened to him, asking yourself, what his past might be. He looked like a man, that had a good job and that cared about his looks, since he sat there with formal clothes, as if he went here directly after work. He sighed and continued “Some days ago, the day we met, I didn’t know if I could make it through the night without getting drunk. I was on the way to the pub, but then I saw you nearly falling into the water… and I saw your smile and gratefulness… You kinda have been stuck in my head since then if I have to be honest. Even though I don’t know you well and I don’t know your name, I like you”

You looked at him. This man was just too sweet for this world.

“My name… is (Y/n). I wanted to tell you my name that day, but I was overwhelmed by your kindness, so I couldn’t think straight…”, you replied, getting a little closer to him. He nodded slightly, smiling a little. “(Y/N)… That’s a very beautiful name. I like it. It suits you. My name is Tom. Tom Hiddleston.”

Your smile grew wider. You leaned back a little, looking at the now visible stars. “You know, maybe it was all fate. Maybe we are destined to meet, to get along with each other.” – “Yeah, maybe… I feel the same way”

The two of you continued talking until dawn.  You talked about deep topics, silly topics and topics, that made both of you go silent for a minute. You continued meeting, letting the days pass by. By now, you guys have talked to each other for over 2 months and to be honest, you liked each other more than friends. The next time you guys met, he waited there, again leaning against the bridge’s wall. When he noticed you, he quickly walked over to you. Just now you noticed his expression. He looked nervous, yet very happy to see you.

When he got to you, he hugged you tightly. You were confused and got worried. “Are you okay, Tom?” – “Yes, I am. I’m glad you’re here. I have something important to tell you.” You felt his heart beating against his chest wildly, noticing that he was really really nervous. You asked him, what it was, with which he replied, “I have to tell you that later, but now, let’s just talk a little.”

He took you by your hand and walked with you to the bridge, sitting down on the wall as usually. He closed his eyes for a second before looking up to the sky. “You know what I realized…?”

“What”, you asked, looking at him with interest.

“When you love someone, you should treat the one with love and respect. I see so many men disrespecting their wives, women cheating on their husbands. They have all lost their love, because they forgot what romance even is.”

You widen your eyes by his words. His voice sounded hurt, yet it was shaking a bit, maybe because he was so nervous. He sighed a little, looking at you with this genuine smile of his. “And I promise I will treat you with the respect and love you deserve. Because you made my days brighter, you made me work harder and most importantly, because of you, I realized how great life can be, when someone is there for you. I want to give you back all of that…”

He paused for a second, trying to figure out, what he should say next. When he finally sorted his thoughts, he looked you into the eyes, coming closer. “(Y/N) I have feelings for you, strong feelings. And I would like to ask you out for a date. Would you like to go you with me?”

You couldn’t believe it. This man just confessed to you? Was this a ream? Did this shooting star really grand you a wish? Overwhelmed with happiness you kissed him. When you pulled away you hugged him tightly.

For once, you’ve found happiness. It was like all your suffering was worth it.

Tag List

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[raphiot]

The Alchemy Room

There was a room of the Church Mouse Gallery that saw little use. Tucked away in the corner, past the chambers of its hermit master but before the library filled with Lunar scribble-books, its mahogany entrance lay slightly ajar, and the quivering nose of a curious rabbit was poised to poke its way inside.

The dim light coming from the hallway revealed little of the room, save for hardwood flooring and wispy darkness. The sound of metal tinks crept toward the rabbit’s ears, which rose inquisitively from their lazy beds on the girl’s head.

The little rabbit gathered a fistful of her pale green dress in each hand; the hermit-master of Church Mouse, Beatrix, had not shown herself the entire day. Her two servants had deduced she was not in her room, as they had not found themselves scrubbing the floor with toothbrushes for the crime of knocking on her door during the time of her mid-afternoon nap, nor was she to be found in her other usual places, such as in the dining room to demand her multiple-course brunch. If she had not abandoned the Gallery entirely, the rabbit was certain she lurked in this darkened room.

“I am keenly aware of thy presence, Matilda,” came a calm but chilly voice from deep inside the room. “Do you intend to shadow the doorway ever long? If thou be not busy, might you prepare the kettle for evening tea?”

The rabbit’s ears twitched upon hearing her name, and a chill rose from her center. Not to be dissuaded, her shoes tapped noisily against the floor as she entered and shut the door behind her. Matilda’s eyes gradually adjusted to the cascading shadows, cast by a single light from atop a table on the far side of the room, and looming over it was the tall figure of the hermit-woman. Lining the walls were wooden tables covered in papers and instruments, shelves lined with beakers, some empty, some containing dark substances. Her nose curled at the scent, somewhere between musty wood and heated metal.

“Be’est something the matter?” questioned Beatrix, but she did not turn from the table.

“I—we wondered if you’d ran off somewhere,” Matilda said, her voice cracking as she uncomfortably spoke up. “You’re usually ordering us around like your slaves.”

“Were I to leave the Gallery, I should hardly think I would go alone. But, were I to do so, I would be certain to let the two of you know—lest Church Mouse descend into chaos in my absence,” the hermit answered, sighing.

“What is this room? What’ve you been doing in here all day?” Matilda pressed.

Sitting on one of the tables near Beatrix was a glass jar half-filled with candied cherries, their volume appearing to have been recently worked down. The rabbit-girl dipped her fingers into the jar and came away with one as quietly as she could, so as not to alert her master.

“I doth believe it to be the laboratory of an alchemist, or it were afore the Gallery came into my possession. A number of these instruments were left here, mayhap in hopes the owner would not be discovered for their work. A dubious thing, yea, for a place that was once a church,” Beatrix explained, her shoulders shifting as her hands worked with something in front of her. “But for now, let us call it my workshop, or such as like. Nay, I am no alchemist, but my work is something akin to that.”

“Your ‘work,’ huh. Like making luck charms from rabbits’ feet?” Matilda sneered, putting a hand to her hip and turning up her nose. “I guess a moonie like you would have plenty of time to practice.”

“This long life of mine hath given me many years to hone myself, yea. Not all my time can be spent in repentance,” Beatrix calmly responded, ignoring her jab.

“So then, you really believe it—that you’re some hundred years old immortal or whatever. I thought that was just some dumb superstition. Ethel didn’t tell me I was working for some senile old lady!” Matilda jeered, holding back laughter.

Beatrix said nothing, and when Matilda quieted, the soft tink of metal on metal was the only sound in the room. The hermit placed a chisel down on the table and took in her fingers another, smaller instrument, before returning to her unseen work.

“If you really believe all that junk about the moon, and stealing heaven… Then, some job you’re doing repenting, living with two little rabbit maids. No, you humans are all alike—stomp on what others have built and say it was yours all along. I bet you don’t regret it at all,” Matilda accused, venom on her tongue. She folded her arms and stood behind the hermit as defiantly as she could manage.

Laying down her tools, Beatrix held something up to her mouth and blew, once and then twice, as if to blow away dirt. Then she placed the object on the table, and laid her hands flat on the edges, taking a deep breath. Composed, she turned and faced the rabbit servant, her icy cobalt eyes searching Matilda’s face.

“Thou doth not know the depth of my regret, and loathe I am to explain it to you. For whilst there is much I wish could be undone, such are there too many fine things that would not be, hadst humans ne’er touched Luna,” Beatrix stated coolly, staring directly into the girl’s eyes.

“What are you trying to say?” Matilda questioned, but Beatrix merely shook her head.

“Methinks thy queries hath been misplaced. What of you, little lady Matilda? Doth regret not linger from the tips of thine ears? ‘Tis no simple whimsy that dresses you in the same cloth as your sister, I should think,” Beatrix countered, and rose a finger to postulate a point.

Matilda recoiled, glancing quickly down at the green dress and serving apron she was garb in, the very same attire Ethel wore. She frowned and bit her lip, and thought briefly for escaping out the door—but chose to stand her ground before the so-called Lunarian hermit.

“These are just the clothes I wear to work in—I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this anywhere else. And I can’t help it if my slavedriver wants me to dress up like a doll while I’m scrubbing the floors,” she said, looking at the floor.

Beatrix rose an eyebrow and smirked. “Be that so? Shouldst I assume Ethel’s musings on how fetching you look in it are of no consequence? Come, now. Surely, you recall a time whenst the pair of you were not so cordial.” She leaned forward, her gaze closing in on the girl, watching the discomfort grow in her eyes. “I recall a village beneath the earth, filled with little children. Though they would laugh and play and hop about, one among them were all alone, made a leper for her birth. Pray tell, are you familiar with this girl?”

The Lunarian reached her hand out to touch a lazy lop-ear atop Matilda’s crown, but the small rabbit-girl quickly jerked her head away, scowling.

“What do you know? You—you weren’t there, you don’t know what it’s like to live in a hole with nothing. We never knew what tomorrow would bring. We were always afraid of being found by the humans, or running out of food, or…” Matilda spat excuse after excuse, feeling her face become red, hot and flustered.

“E’er troubled and living with very little of their own, such was the plight of forest-dwelling rabbits, yea. One made all the harsher when thought to be a curse, I should think.”

“Yes, it’s true!” Matilda shouted, stamping her foot. “Yes, we were cruel to her! Yes, it was wrong! Yes, we abandoned her to that hole in the ground! Is that what you want me to say?!”

Beatrix straightened her back and folded her arms, watching the little rabbit suck in air. Her face was stone, her eyes cold. Matilda put her hands to her chest, surprised even with herself, but the rabbit-girl did not relent, her face tightening in anger.

“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg Ethel for forgiveness? I won’t do it! I am here, doing your bidding so I have a place to stay, and that is the best you’ll get out of me, moonie,” Matilda growled, and turned to open the door.

“Nay,” Beatrix called to her, her voice devoid of emotion. “I do not wish you to beg. Merely to hold out your hands.”

Matilda paused, her hand on the doorknob. The girl’s head looked cautiously over her shoulder, her ears raised ever so slightly in alarm. The two stood there a moment, as if in stalemate, until finally the rabbit-girl approached her an inch at a time, heart thundering in her chest.

“Wh-what…?” she murmured, her voice filled with trepidation.

“Hold out your hands,” Beatrix repeated.

When Matilda finally complied, her hands atop one another in front of her, the Lunarian turned around and gathered something from the table, hastily working her hands. For nearly a full minute, Matilda stood there waiting with her hands before her, afraid to move a muscle. Finally, Beatrix turned around, holding something behind her back.

“Now, shut your eyes,” she commanded, and Matilda obeyed, albeit one eye at a time and swallowing as if she were about to receive a grave punishment.

What she felt touch her fingers and palm was not a heated iron or a rusty nail, as she feared, but rather a cold, metal circle, with a small chain following after it. She ran her fingers over its face, confused and bewildered.

“You may open them,” Beatrix directed.

Matilda found in her palm a round, silver pendant, with an intricate design in its center—three rabbits, joined by and sharing an ear, hopping along the edges. She withdrew the pendant she wore around her neck and examined the two side-by-side. To her utter disbelief, the new pendant was all but identical to her own.

“But... but how? Why?” Matilda stammered, desperation in her stare.

Beatrix smiled at her. “Ethel often wished for a pendant like yours, that she might be closer to you. I want you to give that to her. If she asks upon its origin, merely say you had it commissioned for her.”

Grasping the pendant to her chest, Matilda began to back away, one uneasy step at a time, until she felt the doorknob graze her back. Lost and staring at the tall hermit-woman looking back at her from the work table, she slipped through the doorway as quickly as she could, and quietly closed it.

[queen-scribbles]

Charting A Course

for @pillarspromptsweekly #22 Roll for It. I got Adaryc, key, and helplessness

Adaryc was eight when he got his first sword. It was a plain thing, unadorned and rather dull. His father just wanted him to get a feel for the weight of a blade. He expected that, like any good Readceran, his son would serve their country to the best of his ability. And for the Cendmyr men, that service had always taken the form of the military. So his son--his only son--was going to do the family proud, wasn’t he?

He wanted to. Patriotism near the equal of his father’s burned in Adaryc’s chest, even at his tender age. So he took to the family’s vorlas field, swinging his sword fervently at the scarecrow. The dull blade couldn’t so much as nick the fabric, of course, but it got him used to the amount of effort it took to swing a sword, how it felt to hit your target, how much momentum you’d have if you missed.

“Dunno how good you’ll get practicin’ against that,” a voice commented one day, and Adaryc nearly dropped the sword as he spun to face the speaker. She grinned cheerfully at him from the fence that separated their families’ farm.

“Not very, if you insist on distractin’ me,” he grumbled. “Don’t you have chores, Saela? Or anything else to do other than bother me?”

“No,” Saela said brightly, ducking through the fence. “But I could help ya practice. Jara shooed me outta the way for a couple hours. An’ it’s only wood, but I have a practice sword, too.”

Adaryc only hesitated for a moment. Saela’s eternally chipper nature could be a bit wearing, but she was the only kid his age for miles, and he knew she wanted to join the army too when she got older. “Sure, I guess.”

“Great!” She untangled herself from the fence rungs and bolted back to her house, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress. “Be right back!”

Adaryc ducked through the fence once she was gone. He doubted his mother would like it if they tore up the vorlas fields sword fighting. Better to do that in the open. There was a fair chance they’d wind up filthy, but at least they wouldn’t destroy their families’ livelihoods.

Saela was back in just a couple minutes, her hair tied back in a haphazard braid and her skirts tucked up just enough she wouldn’t trip over them. She twirled her wooden sword before leveling it at him in a two-handed grip. “Prepare to be vanquished!”

He grinned and raised his sword. “In your dreams!”

Both of them were laughing hard enough they missed with the first swing. After focusing better, they fought to a dirty, dusty draw. No form or strategy on either part, just two eight year olds having fun.

“Good fight,” Saela panted as they sat in the dirt catching their breath.

“Same to you,” Adaryc nodded. He glanced at the nasty bruise on her arm. “An’ I really am sorry about that.”

She shrugged. “It was an accident, an’ I was sorta askin’ for it, leavin’ a hole like that. I’ll remember to guard better next time.”

“It won’t save you,” he teased, kicking a small puff of dust in her direction.

Saela coughed and kicked one back. “You didn’t win!”

“Yeah, well, neither did you,” Adaryc retorted.

“True,” she conceded cheerfully, rubbing the bruise. “I’m gonna see if Jara knows anything to put on this to make it less obvious. I don’t wanna get you in trouble, ‘specially since this was my idea.”

“Thanks. Has she been workin’ with the healer long enough to know stuff like that?”

“Sure,” Saela shrugged. “It’s not like I want her to reattach a limb, Adaryc, just make a bruise go away. I think four months’ apprenticing is enough to know that.”

“If you say so.” He traced lines in the dirt with his finger. “Thanks for helpin’ me practice.”

“Nat a problem.” She scrambled to her feet and offered him her hand. “It was fun.”

Adaryc accepted the help. “It was fun. Maybe... we can do it again sometime? Not tomorrow, I’m helpin’ my mother take a load of vorlas t’ the dyemaker. But later?”

“That’d be fun,” Saela nodded. “For now we should clean up, or I’m pretty sure both our moms will yell.”

As if to punctuate her words, Adaryc heard his mother calling for him and waved a final hasty goodby as he scrambled toward the house.

<<<>>>

Adaryc was ten when the sickness swept through. It wasn’t a plague, not really, just an illness that claimed many victims among vorlas farmers. Almost as if it held a particular malevolence toward them. But that was just superstition, like Watchers or bîaŵics, this was just an illness, even if it was one that settled in drained your strength. Most who caught it only lasted a week or two before even breathing was too hard and they just... stopped.

Adaryc didn’t catch it. His mother, however, did. And a few days later, so did Saela. Father was serving guard duty along the border, so caring for Mother fell solely to Adaryc. He was so busy with that and tending the fields that he didn’t even realize Saela was sick until he went to ask Jara if she had any tips for fighting the illness.

She did, but cautioned that even with the help of the herbs she told him about, odds for survival were low. “But I’ll pray for your mother if you pray for my sister?” she added with a tired smile. This far from larger towns, her two years’ training with the healer was the most anyone had.

Adaryc wondered if Jara wished her master hadn’t flitted off on some errand a few months ago even as he nodded. “Of course.” He didn’t mention that Saela was one of his only friends, or that obviously he cared about her.

But he did pray. Eothas, Hylea, any of the gods he thought would listen. Spare my mother, spare my friend. And it seemed to work. His mother, hardy as she was, recovered.

Saela did not. Adaryc spent the week between his mother’s recovery and Saela’s death helping Jara, feeling as helpless as he ever had in his life. Nothing they tried, nothing Jara concocted, worked, and he watched the desperation and exhaustion grown in tandem on her face.

“I don’t know enough,” she finally admitted one day when Saela coughed up blood. “Master Hendyr promised to come back and teach me more, but for now... I can’t do anything, and my sister’s going to die.”

Adaryc didn’t know what to say, and that was almost as bad as not being able to help. “....I”m sorry.”

“I’m still going to try,” she said determinedly. “It might work. Never discount pure, dumb luck. But our chances aren’t good.”

Try as she did, her prediction proved correct, and Saela died just a couple days later.

<<<>>>

Adaryc was eleven when word of Waidwen started to spread. His parents were initially skeptical of the claims a vorlas farmer, of all people, had seen Eothas, let alone been incarnated or possessed or whatever by Him. But as word kept spreading, Waidwen’s power kept growing, they began to wonder.  Finally, when they heard Waidwen had deposed the colonial governor and been crowned Divine King, Father left to go see if this man was everything he was said to be.

“For emergencies,” he said, pressing the key to the weapon cabinet into Adaryc’s hand. “Help your mother, do your part, and be good.” He smiled fondly and ruffled Adaryc’s hair. “I won’t be gone long, gods willing.”

He never came home. Instead, they got a letter, full of effusive praise for St. Waidwen, who was definitely what he claimed to be. Father had pledged his service right there in the throne room and now served as a royal guard. The letter was accompanied by enough silver Mother actually swore, which Adaryc had never heard her do.  He wished he could go serve with Father, but ‘his part’ was to stay and protect the farm, so that’s what he would do. That and ‘be good’, which he did by sharing some of the money with Jara. In the year since Saela died, her mother had struggled with melancholy and her father had turned to drink. Fortunately, he was a sullen and withdrawn drunk rather than abusive and violent(small blessings), but this still meant them living off what what little Jara could make as a healer. At least until her parents began to recover from their grieving process.

Jara thanked him with a tired smile and took the money gratefully. “There’s no insult in charity kindly given,” she said, one hand pressed against her growling stomach.

Adaryc and his mother received many letters over the next months. All of them came with money. Mother figured it was a portion of Father’s wages. Adaryc had no reason to believe she was wrong. With her permission, he gave some of the coin to Jara each time. Until finally, one day Jara told him her father had gone back to work. She insisted he keep the money.

It was good timing on her part. A few weeks later, Mother got a letter with a black border and a fancy seal that made her cry when she read it. Adaryc didn’t need to ask. Father wouldn’t be coming home.

<<<>>>

Adaryc was sixteen when the former armsmaster came to town. Like every other boy-and a few girls--his age, he barely gave the man time to settle in before asking(begging, practically) to be taught. It would be nice to learn how to fight without going far away from home. He tried not to think of Saela, how she would’ve raced him into town and probably won, eager to learn martial skill as well. There were so many potential students, the Armsmaster--and that’s all he’ll let them call him--started a school. Mother heard before Adaryc could tell her, and insisted he attend. “I know you want to follow your father’s footsteps,” she said. “While I’ll miss your help, this is what you’re supposed to do.”

It wasn’t long before he was one of the top students in class. As they got better, became more cohesive as a fighting force and worked together, the class decided to form a militia. They called themselves the Iron Flail.

<<<>>>

Adaryc was twenty one the first time he saw a person’s soul. It was an accident; caused by a solid collision with Alene during a sparring match. They knocked heads, and shortly after seeing stars, Adaryc was overwhelmed by feelings not his own. I have to prove myself and a flashed glimpse of unfamiliar, disapproving faces. It was all gone just as fast as it came, and he did his best to convince himself it was a weird, one time thing as a result of being concussed. Alene and all the spectators probably thought him shaky for the same reason.

But he knew what was said about soul-seers. Watchers. They were almost as reviled and mistrusted in Readceras as worshipers of Magran. He couldn’t be one. He wasn’t.

And then it happened again a few days later with Mother. And he couldn’t deny it any longer. Or make it go away, badly as he wished. He could hide it, though. Which he did, successfully. for quite a while. A few people knew, of course. Mother. Alene and his other close friends in the Flail. But he did his best to bury his abilities and use them as sparsely as possible. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it was the best he could do. And it worked. For now.

<<<>>>

Adaryc was twenty six when he saw the army in his dreams. A vague but definite threat rolling down from the White March like an avalanche to crush Readceras to dust. He woke breathing hard and with a newfound burning desperation to protect his still-weakened homeland from the obvious Dyrwood threat.

He had recently taken over leadership of the Iron Flail, which gave him resources. Assuming he could find a way to convince them of the urgency without sounding crazy. I saw it in a vision was hardly iron-clad proof, but he’d proved himself as a soldier and a leader well enough that hopefully his word would be sufficient.

It was for his lieutenants. Alene not only believed him but started offering plans. All of which Adaryc nodded along to--they were fine but not stellar--until she mentioned the White Forge. That was a plan; claim the Forge and its cannons, be in a prime position to handle the threat when it emerged. The White Forge was the key to protecting everything he cared about. And sure, the village of Stalwart clung tenaciously to their prize, but he could deal with them. He would not be left helpless again. With that decided, he resolved to tell his men and depart in the morning. Their course was set.

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

Disclaimer: been a while since I played WM2, so I maaay have forgotten something. But I really like Adaryc, so I wanted to write about him. I know the game describes him as a younger man(I did watch a LP of the confrontation with him for a few details, but not everything), but humans in Eora can live to 180, so I think 26 still counts as young. :P

[youveneverbeenalone]

Inktober for Writers/Fictober:

Day 23- Wishes (Darejones)

I don’t know where this idea came from, but it weaseled it’s way in and wouldn’t leave. So here we are. Continuity-wise this fits with any of my other stuff after they’ve been in an established relationship for a bit. As usual, prompt list here, and links to previous days at the bottom. Thank you for reading! Let me know your thoughts if you’re so inclined! I hope you enjoy!

Day 23- Wishes

He’s not sure exactly what makes him say it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, loosening his tongue. Maybe it’s the unexpected but rewarding sound of her laugh, low and soft, as he makes some self-deprecating joke. Maybe it’s the rhythm of her heart, hypnotizing him and dropping his guard. Regardless, as he checks his watch and registers the time, he finds himself saying something he hasn’t said for many, many years.

“Huh. It’s 11:11. Make a wish.”

But he starts to worry he may have misread the room, because he is met with deafening silence as soon as the words leave his lips. An excruciating beat passes as he immediately begins to regret saying the words. But after he clears his throat and takes a drink from his beer, she finally answers him, confusion in her tone.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Not familiar with that superstition?”

“Apparently not. Care to enlighten me?”

“It’s just something ridiculous I learned in elementary school. The idea is that the time of 11:11 - am or pm, doesn’t matter- is inherently lucky, so you’re supposed to make a wish at that moment, and then it’s supposed to come true.”

She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “God, kids are dumb.”

The remark catches him off guard, and unfortunately, in the middle of taking another sip of his beer. He has to choke back a laugh to not do a spit take and cause a scene.

“So, I take it that you never participated in this fine childhood tradition.”

The sardonic tone she uses is classic Jessica Jones. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

But it makes him do little more than smirk at her. “Right. Because it’s obviously beneath you.”

He’s sure she’s rolling her eyes to match the sigh she lets out. “Did I say that? I simply implied that it’s not the type of thing I would have done… because it’s stupid.”

He can’t help but chuckle at that, bright and unrestrained. And then an idea occurs to him. “Okay, fine. But if you had, what would you have wished for?”

He can hear the frown she’s wearing in the sound of her voice. “What are you after, Murdock?”

But the truth is, he’s not sure himself. He just suddenly has the urge to know what she used to dream about, what hopes she had for herself and her future, what she used to wish her life could be like, back when she was still a little girl, unburdened by the hard truths of the world.

“Just… a desire to know more about young Jessica Jones. Humor me?” He intentionally gives her his most charming smile, because he can hear her heart flutter when he does, and he thinks that might help to convince her.

She sighs and shifts her position on the couch. There is irritation in her tone as she shrugs and answers him. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to learn. I’m basically the same person that I was then. Except I was a little less of a bitch with slightly more wholesome language... Oh, and I was sober then.”

To emphasize her point, she raises her glass with a self-satisfied grin, and downs the rest of her drink in one go.

He can’t help but smirk back at her, as he leans back in his chair where he sits opposite her. “Okay. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“You really won’t let this go, will you?”

“I’m just curious.” He flashes her one more smile and he congratulates himself as he hears the jump in her pulse.

She sounds absolutely defeated when she finally tells him. “Fine, Jesus. I would have wished for… more friends.”

But that makes him pause and tilt his head in her direction, because he definitely wasn’t expecting that. “Oh. Uh, right. Okay.”

She cocks her head at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What’s the matter, Murdock? Did you think I was too heartless to want something so prosaic as friends, even back then?”

He shakes his head, looking down because this conversation is suddenly perilously close to crashing and burning. With a sigh, he decides honesty is likely the best policy, lest he make things worse.

“No, it’s not that. I guess I just didn’t expect you to take the question so seriously.”

She sighs at that. “Yeah? Well, sometimes I surprise even myself.” She takes another sip from her glass, then brings it down to rest on her knee. When she speaks again, it’s soft enough that anyone other than him would struggle to hear.

“It’s true, though. I was always a bit of a loner, but it bothered me a hell of a lot more back then.”

He has to bite his tongue to keep from asking more about when that all changed. But her anxiety is rising- he can hear her pulse increasing- and her body language is not exactly telegraphing that she’s open to continuing this line of discussion. So he takes things in a different direction.

“Fair enough. Well… what would you wish for today?”

She shifts on the couch again, leaning her elbows on her knees and sighing exasperatedly at him. “God, what is with the twenty questions?”

“Sorry. I just… no, you know what? Nevermind.” He’s pushed her too far and he knows it, so he tries to backpedal as smoothly as he can.

Several beats of silence pass as he takes a drink and works very hard not to be consumed by embarrassment for how well things had been going until he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. He’s so focused on himself that when she eventually she breaks the silence, voice quiet and hesitant, she almost startles him.

“God. I don’t know. I guess … I’d just want to make sure that there would never be another person like Kilgrave. To know that no one else would ever be hurt by someone like him.”

He blinks at her a few times, unable to conceal his awe at her response. One of these days he will have to come to terms with this and realize that she is always going to surprise him in one way or another, because that’s what she does. Since the moment they met in that interrogation room months ago. And this moment is no different.

And he can do nothing but smile softly at her, voice low. “That’s a great wish. Honestly, I think I’d wish for the same thing.”

She makes a soft, humming sound of acknowledgment, then extends a finger and points it in his direction, a faux threat in her tone.

“But you better not go spreading that around, Murdock. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He can’t help but laugh and smirk at that. “Don’t worry, Jones. I won’t tell anyone. Despite popular opinion on the matter, I do value my life.”

She just huffs at him. “Yeah, right. You know, past performance is indicative of future performance. So we’ll just have to see about that.”

She turns to look out the window, bringing her glass to her lips. And as she does, he spares a moment to appreciate her and all of her many contradictions. Jessica Jones, who detests the label of “hero”, but still wants to save the world. Who appears so small and slight, but can pick up a car with her bare hands. Who comes across as gruff and abrasive and callous, but who is thoughtful and loyal and concerned underneath the layers of leather and defensiveness and alcohol.

And with her on his mind, he makes a wish for himself: that he will somehow avoid screwing things up with this beautiful, intelligent, driven woman, who is nothing like the type of woman he used to wish for, but is everything he ever needed.

Day 22 | Day 24

[arttotravel-blog]

Dear Philippines,

where should I start? It’s been a rough and bumpy year for the two of us. A whole lot of new experiences, heat, realizations about this world, cockroaches, rice, conversations and bliss. When I tell people I went to live in the Philippines for one year, they associate dreamy beaches, nice weather and colorful fruit – holiday mainly:

Then they sigh and say: lucky you! An it’s true, I am very lucky. Not only because I got to see those paradise like places, but because of so much more you have to offer. What most people cannot imagine though, is that most of the time I spent with you, I spent in dirt, in traffic, hunting cockroaches and rats or in front of my fire place.

ARRIVING

Your first lesson for me was to learn how to live from day to day. It was a jump in at the deep end, because there was no way I could continue my efficient, planning lifestyle with out a fridge or even a water boiler. I would go to the market everyday to buy food and charcoal. It is impossible to conserve food because of the heat on the one hand and insects on the other hand. Aunts would somehow always find their way into my plastic boxes. There’s nothing I can do about it. It didn’t take long until I was like: grit your teeth and get to it, and thought of it as extra protein. Lesson number 2 you taught me: some things are out of my control.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” (Reinhold Niebuhr)

SURVIVING

The whole insect issue was not really a problem for me. I mean it’s not that I like cockroaches or rats but whatever I do, they’ll always be there. What bothered me more were the thousands of mosquitos. Especially during rainy season I tried hard not to be bidden too often, because I was worried to get Dengue fever. But again it is hopeless, they’ll bite anyway. And in the end it makes sense to ask whether it’s healthier to use Off lotion, which is forbidden to be sold in the EU and is probably carcinogenic, all day long.

UNDERSTANDING

My little sensitivities gave me a hard time in the beginning, but when I started to understand what bothers you all day long, it was worse. I hate to see you broken and weak like this. Manila bursting at the seams, so that you’re people live under the worst circumstances in basically any possible place, even a cemetery (whole article). I hate to have you admiring me for nothing but a huge bit of luck. I hate to know the truth about your missed but earning loved ones, who live abroad in Dubai or Lebanon. And I hate that I don’t have a clue of how to change any of it. On top of all that, the realization that most of your sorrows originate from colonialism. That makes those who you look up to, those who have put you in this situation in the first place.

Several relicts of Spanish colonialism can be found in Iloilo City

QUESTIONING

I love and I hate how you sometimes don’t care. The first example that comes to my mind is that huge ship in the port of Iloilo. It’s been laying there for months now and nobody seems to know what has happened to it. But even if it’s completely broken, everything would be more profitable than leaving it there. Oh well, the ship made me laugh every time but in truth it’s very sad. How are you supposed to grow/evolve when you’re not aware of your resources and capabilities?

GETTING MAD

This leads me to my favorite topic of anger: the rubbish situation. This is the one thing I cannot make you responsible for, yet cannot forgive you. I know you have bigger fish to fry. I just wish you would rudimentarily be aware of what an extraordinary beautiful ecosystem your islands are. Or at least for your own health, stop burning rubbish. I tried my best, but the war against plastic bags is a Sisyphean challenge. I pray that it won’t be too late.

PUZZELING OVER

Not to begin with the mischiefs in your politics. It would be a lie to say nothing’s in progress in your country. Economical growth is happening in your capital, but the provinces don’t profit. It’s no wonder when local politics have been under the power of one family for decades. I had to realize that one can be dumb without end, as long as there’s money one can always have a career in politics. The whole situation is screaming for change, but how is it to be done? All I know is Duterte cannot be it. I never understood your admiration/the ignorance of what’s happening.

Did somebody say corruption? This makes me think of an anecdote that once happened to me when I wanted to withdraw money. “‘My request could not be processed’, why is that?” I asked the bank’s security guard and he answered with out looking up: “Because of power and corruption…”. The only time I ever got in touch with this stuff was at the immigration office I think. One of my all time favorite places… not. Every time I went there, the prices for my visa extension were different. It sounds funny but it made me angry to pay ridiculous extra fees like “express lane” that change nothing. But again, there’s nothing I can do about it.

NOT UNDERSTANDING

Your superstitions make me laugh and angry at the same time. How can you seriously believe in spirits, trolls and fairies? How can you be in bondage like that? And where I never got behind: how does all of this fall in line with christianity?

Visiting a healer on the supposedly enchanted island of Siquijor (full article)

EXPERIENCING

Speaking of your faith: you amazed me. Coming from the least religious place on earth, Eastern Germany, I couldn’t believe how so many – no actually all of you – believe. I have to say you live a strange version of Christianity. From horror stories of people who are voluntarily crucified during easter to celebrations of events that didn’t even happen according to the bible (some islands celebrate the reunion of Jesus and his mother after he was resurrected). Even though I’m convinced that a great part has never ever read a single page of the bible, it was a pleasure to see and feel your spirituality. I found it an interesting experience also regarding my own faith.

CELEBRATING

They call you an americanized piece of Spain, with no culture except what emperors of the past centuries have left with you. But good god, you know how to celebrate fiesta! And even if there’s Lechon (pigling) for every single occasion it doesn’t matter. These events are your own. Even if I can barely finish one plate of food by courtesy, I would always go, because this is you in a nutshell. Fiesta means family, food, hospitality, karaoke, more food and Lechon obviously. I was blown away by Dinagyang festival in January. As much as I hated the beauty contest, I loved the tribe performances.

On your thousands of islands the party never stops. As much as I regretted every night club visit in Iloilo, I wish back to all the fun nights in Smallville (night life district of Iloilo) or your cozy beach bars.  I mean, what kind of world is it, where rum is cheaper than coke? It was a hell of a New Years Eve in Boracay last year – salamat gid Bryan.

One year wearing slippers and the shittiest clothes, like grandma-style maxi skirts. It didn’t matter at all, because I would still be “Miss beautiful” for you. And to speak the whole truth: All of them mold anyway.

Among the things I miss the most, your Jeepneys definitely make the top 3. Regardless if in the front, in the back, on the roof, with chicken between my feet or a 100 year old lollo (grandpa) on my lap – I love riding a jeepney! Jeepneys are a lifestyle. Even though they’re super loud and probably the main polluters, they will always have a special place in my heart. 🙂

EATING

Unfortunately I cannot say the same about your food. To summarize this long story of suffering, I’ll just say: you stay under your possibilities. With out doubt the best you have to offer is your fruit. I love all of them and they outclass everything my german super markt offers.

As the good filipina I am, I love rice a lot even though I gained a lot of weight because of it…

I would like to take the opportunity to pick the grossest and yummiest you have to offer. Basically I’m a huge fan of your vegetarian dishes like fried eggplant, bitter melon or munggo. Furthermore I would never turn down a sweet sin like a fresh halo halo, banana cue or bibingka.

But as much as I’d like to, I have no understanding why and how you can enjoy a boiled developing duck embryo (balut), boiled pig blood, duck feet or pig intestines. I am more than sure that I ate my lifetime ration of dried and later fried fish. There’s only one question left unanswered: How can you call this buko (coconut) salad?

TRAVELING

Oh Philippines, you have so much to offer. I will never forget the amazing memories I made when traveling from island to island, discovering your hidden gems. It’s hard to realize though that most of my friends from Iloilo won’t ever be able to see all this.

From the 8th world wonder: the Rice Terraces of Batad

to the Chocolate Hills and tarsiers of Bohol

to swimming with whale sharks and chasing waterfalls in Cebu

to diving in Apo Island and Coron

to island hopping and beaching in Siquijor and Palawan

As off-hook as it sounds, but during the course of visiting all those amazing places, one becomes kind of choosy. One natural wonder trumps the other and in the end it’s the quit and raw places that fascinate the most. I’m in love with all your unpopular paradises left for me to explore, unlike other southeastasian countries.

Iloilo city, you little piece of dirt. Filipinos call you City of Love but I’m afraid you cannot compete with Paris – the “other” city of love -, to be completely honest with you. Quite the opposite, you are kind of the only place that turned out a lot less – or rather not at all – beautiful, looking back. You’re importance is founded on your inhabitants, food places and open air concerts or art galleries you hold. Other than that you actualize the shady sides of urbanization. Among those firstly your terrible pollution, the dirt and waste in general; poverty and slums; waifs, adults throughout the day and drunk at night – to name a few. I’m glad I didn’t live here permanently, but I certainly enjoyed the big city life experience during the weekends. How special is though, to have my buko (coconut) juice lady of trust in a city on the other side of the world?

Guimaras my love, you are literally what I call paradise. I love you for much more than your mangoes, even though I love them a lot already. [Background information: Guimaras is the neighbouring island of Panay that is said to have the sweetest mangos in the world (full article). Once a year they hold a mango festival to worship them. Read about my mango-all-you-can-eat experience here.] You are a green wonderland, much needed escape, clean air, you are an untouched beauty. Stay the way you are please.

Thank you Philippines, for paving me the way to find eternal piece with me, myself and I and a hammock. The truth lies in the fact that one doesn’t need more than that. With this, a whole different style of traveling opened up to me. I reckon this is your most precious gift to me. I would NEVER have had the courage to hitchhike!

Yes it has a mosquito net! A local friend of mine invented them when traveling his country. They are manufactured by local women in Palawan. Get yours here

And like it is probably anywhere in the world: there are plenty of acquaintances and a precious hand full of friends. I am so thankful for every minute.

And of course salamat gid to my SOS family. There are obviously no words. You guys know already.

LEAVING

It felt weird and rash to leave you, when there was still war going on in Mindanao. When my little village got a bomb threat. When summer had finally ended and water started to run more frequently through my faucet. But really this was the end of my endless summer. It was a time of crisis, when ISIS raged in Marawi, relatives of the local islamists suddenly showed up at the port of Iloilo. When the NPA decided the time had come to take action again and raided the police station of our neighboring village Maasin. And all along I updated myself using foreign media. I didn’t want to feel unsafe on your streets at night, but how was I not to, when nobody had a clue what was going on? Even though I was expecting our foreign office to withdraw us german volunteers any minute for the last couple of weeks, my return flight came earlier than expected. It was hectic, it was emotional and sudden.

COMING BACK

What I take along with me to “real life” is sadly less than I planned on. That’s how it always goes. Never underestimate the power of habits. But what I keep with me every day is the filipino point of view. Every time I walk the streets, my university or the super market. I cannot help but wonder what a filipino would think right now.

Sex tourism to me, is one of the worst felonies of mankind. The whole problem gets to me on a very personal level, when I see that the perpetrators live right here. Make it stop!

Even if I could, I wouldn’t change a single thing about our year together. Mahal kita, and: nahidlaw ako gid sa imyo ❤

PS: Again I cannot help but recommend again everybody to watch this really close up documentary. And this little video by my fellow volunteer Gwen: It is so accurate, it bursted me to tears 🙂

Filipina for one year Dear Philippines, where should I start? It's been a rough and bumpy year for the two of us.

[riedoesrecovery-blog]

Naming (Or How I Got There)

The thing about recovery is that today I think it's possible, but yesterday I was lukewarm about it and six months ago I didn't think it was possible at all. I’m all over the place about recovery and whether I believe in it or not. 

Part of the reluctance is that I’ve had an eating disorder for thirteen of the twenty-five years I’ve been alive. Which means I’ve had one for longer than I haven’t. Which is pretty depressing. 

Especially because for a good eleven of those thirteen years I was trying to stop having an eating disorder. 

I mean, yes, there was a period of about six months were I thought I’d discovered this amazing secret. I went about using my assorted behaviors, felt less anxious, received some compliments and thought the whole thing was kind of fun. 

Other things I though were kind of fun at that time include: fart jokes, Rocket Power, velour track suits and saying the word “spoon” at random times. It was 2004. I was twelve. I had no idea about anything and unwittingly tripped the eating disorder switch in my biology. 

It stopped being fun when I realized the thoughts weren’t something that shut off. Living with an ever-growing number of unwieldy superstitions around food was tedious. I spent the majority of my time attempting to either manage my many, illogical but obsessive fears or making considerable efforts to try to seem normal despite the elaborate rituals said fears required.

For your sake I wish I found my disorder as enthralling and scintillating as the people in recovery memoirs say theirs were. But my eating disorder didn’t inspire much of anything.

All I felt about it was ashamed and vaguely nauseated. 

Between the counting, the fear and the repetition there was oppressive sameness that caused everything to stagnate. It was literally the least interesting experience I can imagine. It wasn’t romantic. It was just really fucking boring. 

Well, boring and kind of gross like dedicating an entire week to watching fruit decay. Only, this fun little experiment went on for years and it wasn’t fruit I got to watch decay, it was myself. Even worse, the whole time I felt that I could possibly maybe stop it and part of me wanted to but I was terrified and got so overwhelmed by the idea of trying that I didn’t try. And not I get to spend a lot of time doing mental Circ De Sole to convince myself to not regret not stopping sooner.   

Anyway, it wasn’t interesting. Everything, right down to my thoughts, was the same day after day. Basically, I spent a lot of time feeling ashamed, disliking my disorder and wishing it would just go away. And the rest of the time I spent feeling terrified and hating myself. 

None of this was fun. 

And I knew I couldn’t keep going with the whole eating disorder thing for every long, especially since it was all life-suckingly, soul-crushingly boring and what-not. 

And so, now, for over a decade I’ve been trying to get well and failing miserably. In this time, I have made it many weeks and even the occasional month without behaviors. However, each time I’ve failed. 

Pretty much each time I give in to seductive whispers saying how half measures are possible. Smoke-smooth they tell me how it is possible to be just a little sick, to teeter between life and non-life, and how it would be okay to use behaviors only sometimes, to maybe use them just enough to be skinny but not enough to be sick. They say it is possible to use behaviors with discipline so that they'll never get out of hand. 

Time and time again I listened to those goddamn whispers. And they lie each and every time.

Anyway, by this point I am pretty aware of what I am up against. 

Sadly, this doesn't make things magically easier or better. To my deep and perpetual annoyance, knowing something is a lie doesn't help with the part of oneself that wishes with every fiber of its disordered soul that that lie were true. 

Nor does help with the maelstrom of irritation that crops up every time my disordered self goes on and on about how it's totally possible to do x or y and literally will not shut up. Not to mention how incredibly annoying it is when my disordered self realizes that I'm not having its bullshit so it starts being mean. 

It is deeply irritating have part of oneself that sucks. And it is highly problematic when this part not just normal, negativity-Nancy-level sucks, but full, terrorist-that-you-really-fucking-better-not-negotiate-with-level sucks. 

It's especially irritating when, like an irrational child, that part of oneself goes off and tries to wage a full-on war of attrition against the rest of oneself. And it’s literally the worst when it pulls that shit once every three to six weeks. 

Lucky for me, thirteen years of dealing with my asshole of a disordered self does help the non-disordered parts recognized its nonsense. It also theoretically makes it easier to deal with said nonsense but I haven’t reached the getting easier part yet and am beginning to doubt its existence. 

See, my disordered self has a unoriginal but winning strategy. It’s basically good cop/ bad cop. Only it's weirdly sociopathic Disney villain/ syrupy used car salesman that gave up selling things that have no business being called cars and now sells that, "causal bulimia" is a thing and that it's, "TOTALLY POSSIBLE to be a little anorexic." 

It’s the worst. Also I hate the number of times I’ve fallen for that shit, but I’ll admit that it’s an excellent strategy. They clearly use in Law & Order for a reason. 

Anyway, despite, or perhaps, because of all that aggressive failing to recover, I've basically been studying my disorder for a decade. And by this point I know it pretty well. I have also tried a lot of things that didn’t work.

In a perverse way it’s like my oldest and dearest chess partner. I know its strategies, strengths and favorite ammunition. Unfortunately, it also knows me pretty well. 

So, I know my disorder well enough to know which discarded core beliefs it will dredge up. That it will build it’s base camp in the corners where the scaffolding of my self loathing still more or less intact. I know it will redact my joys until I am ashamed of them and that it will retell my triumphs until they are failures or better yet, jokes that only a fool would celebrate. 

It knows me well enough to chant that I am worthless and that no one will ever love me because I, like most sitcom character, am not-so-secretly terrified both are true. And I know that it will use every event (be it lucky or unlucky), every action (be it a failure or success), and every interaction (be it awkward or suave) against me. I know it will try to distill or twist every moment, memory and murmur into evidence of my fundamental brokenness. 

For all it's meanness, my disorder isn't creative. We all know it will say that I am fat, because it's an eating disorder and calling me fat is basically its favorite thing. And it will say the normal things; declaring my person big, dumb and utterly ridiculous. It will tell me that my friends are just pretending to like me out of pity or as part of an elaborate joke I was too dull to pick up on. It will say everyone is laughing at my pathetic attempts to live a life of substance. Then it will return to belittling my joys and lampooning my triumphs because those are easy targets. Then it will say that I am the worlds biggest joke before it soliloquizes how incredibly conceited I must be to believe I am the worlds biggest anything. Basically my disorder rarely does anything a Hollywood intern wouldn’t put in their screenplay but is still a horrible, mean thing to have in my head.

It will turn pretty much any memory into ammunition. When it is done, my life is just a dreary narrative that asserts abject futility of any and all of my efforts. 

My decade of failure taught me that this is a game I can never win once I’m playing. 

On healthy days I laugh because all of this absurd. 

On bad days I don’t laugh. I try to fight it and end up feeling small. My hopeful, brilliant self doubts and is reduced to uncertain flickering. My disordered self all crooning and smooth whispers that I don't deserve happiness, and worse, am not even capable of it. It says this is because I am no good and because I am fundamentally broken. It will sing with a voice like a lullaby that there's no point trying because at the end of the day I'm as incapable of change as I am of happiness. On bad days this gives me pause. And on the worst days I come close to believing it.

I've been fighting this for most of my life. I tried battle plans, mind games and every war strategy I could think of. It never worked. So at some point I had to try something else. 

Now, somedays I might almost believe it when it tells me horrible things, but then the next day comes and day after day comes after that. 

And eventually in the blue morning I remember this isn’t me. I remember that this is a demon of sorts and that, as is the case with demons and hungry ghosts, naming gives me power. Naming it means I no longer have to fight myself. 

So I take a deep breath and remember the name. 

I tell myself it’s my eating disorder. I say it over and over, until I remember the name. When I finally remember, I say it loud like a war cry but it doesn’t feel right. So I make my voice soft like a lullaby, and my disordered self ceases fire. 

I take a deep breath and continue my song. I coo and croon to my disordered self. With sorrow, I remember she that has been my companion for all these long years. She had been with me through it all. I realize that at times she has carried me, and at others she absorbed my pain. I sing to her like I would a wounded thing and then, with love, I  whisper, “Hush now, old friend.” 

This name is right, and all the fight goes from her. So I rock my old friend to sleep and I thank her for getting me through hard times. As horrible and boring as those years were, she protected me when I needed protection. 

I cry because it is hard to tell her how thankful I am when there is still so much pain tied up in what she did. Through tears I tell her I am thankful. I tell her the story of how she was there for me when I needed her. I rock her back and forth, and I call her my old friend because that is her true name. 

As I would with a friend I tell her about my life. I tell her that things are better and that it’s okay for me to feel now. I explain that she no longer has to carry the weight of my pain for me, because I have grown and am strong enough to carry it myself. I tell her about the things I have done and the fears I have faced. I tell her about my little black cat and how silly he is. I tell her I will never forgot all that she has done. I tell her she served nobly and that her service is now complete. I thank her once more and tell her she has earned the right to rest. And then I sing her the lullaby my mother sang to me and finally, after all these long year, she rests. 

And then I start the work of recovery. 

I needed to love and forgive my way there. Others need to fight. Some laugh, some play. Others get angry. A great many get sad. Some need to set boundaries, others need to tear their boundaries down. We all have a different way of getting there and there’s no right or wrong path. There’s no time limit. No magic potion. We each find our way or we don’t. It’s all just a shot in the dark but after a decade I hit something, so there’s at least anecdotal evidence in favor of continuing to try despite failing more times than you can remember.