#minor virgil appearance

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.2

Chapter Two: Hold On For Dear Love

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, War, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing,

Word Count: 10.1k

A/N: Chat, I am giving the reader a super vague background, like it won't matter too much, lol. You’re here for the vibes, and so am I ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ So this entire fic isn’t gonna be overly complicated, I don’t think this is the fic for that. I mean, they put sharks in the Colosseum, so… we’re going to take some liberties here and there for funsies. It’s fanfiction, it’s supposed to be fun :> ALSO YA’LL I GOT INTO A GROOVE. I wasn’t planning on updating til next week but the words kept coming to me and suddenly I’m done with chapter two hehe. AND YES YES SHUSH NEXT CHAPTER IS SMUT. MAYBE. Ok enjoy girlies heheh.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Hymn To Virgil by Hozier

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

SENATOR THRAEX’S PARTY — DAY

The grand villa was alive with music, laughter, and the heady scent of roasted meats and spilled wine. Senators, high-ranking officials, and Rome's wealthiest citizens mingled among trays of fruit and platters of delicacies, their voices filling the air with a cacophony of conversation and self-indulgent boasts. Courtesans draped in sheer silks wove through the throng, their laughter as light and false as the smiles of their patrons.

You stood to the side, partially hidden in the shadow of a marble column. The position offered a semblance of privacy while giving you a clear view of the room. You made mental notes of the faces present—senators, generals, and merchants, all drunk on wealth and power. Their alliances and rivalries played out in every guarded glance and overly polite toast.

Senator Gracchus approached you with a goblet of wine, his face etched with age but kind. “You look like a soldier observing a battlefield,” he remarked dryly.

You smiled faintly, accepting the drink. “It feels like one. Though I’m not sure which side I belong to.”

Gracchus chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “In Rome, one must always choose a side, my dear. Even if that choice is to appear invisible.”

Before you could respond, a voice interrupted. “Ah, the daughter of misfortune graces us with her presence.” Senator Thraex’s saccharine tone drew the attention of those nearby. He strode toward you, his beady eyes alight with thinly veiled mockery. “I was just telling Gracchus how tragic your loss must have been. Your poor parents—what a terrible end.”

Your jaw tightened, but you forced a polite smile. “Your concern is appreciated, Senator. They are at peace now.”

Thraex clasped his hands, feigning sympathy. “Still, such a pity. A young woman like you, left all alone in this cruel city. Surely by now, you should have found a husband to protect you from its dangers?”

The words stung, though you refused to let it show. Keeping your tone steady, you replied, “I fear my reputation for independence precedes me. Not all men wish to marry someone who refuses to play the meek lamb.”

Gracchus coughed into his goblet, poorly disguising a laugh, while Thraex’s smile faltered. “How... peculiar,” he said, his tone sharper now. “Though perhaps not surprising. It would be difficult to find a suitor for one so... outspoken.”

The room seemed to hum with energy as Thraex’s face, darkened with irritation from your earlier remark, shifted into a mask of forced hospitality when his gaze landed on a man entering the crowd—a towering figure wrapped in silk and jewels, his presence as commanding as it was enigmatic. You followed Thraex's movement as he moved to greet the man, a name rippling through your thoughts: Macrinus.  

You had heard whispers of him before. A former gladiator who had fought for his freedom, now a powerbroker in Rome. He supplied food, wine, and oil for the empire’s armies, manufactured weapons, and even maintained a stable of gladiators. His name carried weight, his connections extending into the darkest corners of Roman politics.

As Thraex approached Macrinus, his false charm returned, his arms spreading wide. “Macrinus!” he greeted, his voice dripping with exaggerated warmth. He clapped the man on the shoulder with an enthusiasm that bordered on theatrical. “I knew the provinces could never contain you.”

Macrinus accepted the embrace with a faint smirk, his dark eyes scanning the room with calculated ease. “I’m just here for the games,” he replied, his tone casual, though there was a hint of something sharper beneath the surface.  

Thraex chuckled, his grip lingering on the man’s shoulder. “Ah well, you won't be disappointed. Rome has all the games that men like you like to play.”

“Men like me, cracks men like us.” Macrinus shot back, his grin widening. “I know nothing happens in Rome unless you… tasted it first! ”

Thraex laughed at the jab, the sound too loud to be sincere. Their exchange continued, a dance of veiled threats and mutual amusement. You lingered at the edge of the room, doing your best to blend into the shadows, your ears straining to catch every word.  

Thraex handed Macrinus a gilded chalice of wine, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “What's this we hear about you being interested in standing for an election to the senate practice?”

Macrinus stiffened, his surprise poorly concealed as he let out a dry chuckle. “Me? You know, I don't even know how to use an abacus,” He sipped his wine before adding with a wry smile, “but I do understand that… it's customary for your guests to make wagers at these affairs.”

Thraex’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile didn’t falter. “How large a sum did you have in mind?”

Macrinus tilted his head thoughtfully, the jewels around his neck catching the light. “A thousand gold aureus?”

Thraex’s lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Two,” he countered smoothly.

Macrinus glanced at the courtesan draped over his arm, as if seeking her approval. The woman gave a slight nod, and Macrinus shrugged, turning back to Thraex. “Denarius,” he said simply, the single word carrying enough weight to silence Thraex for a fleeting moment.

Macrinus walked away with an easy swagger, leaving Thraex standing alone with his forced smile slipping into a scowl. The flash of irritation on his face, so quickly concealed, didn’t escape your notice.  

You couldn’t suppress a small smirk of your own as you turned your attention elsewhere. Rome’s elite might dress themselves in finery and smiles, but it was clear that every word exchanged tonight was a thread in the intricate tapestry of power. Threads you were determined to unravel.  

The air in the grand hall shifted, thick with anticipation as the crowd clustered toward the edges of the room. The glint of opulence—golden goblets, silk-draped tables, and jewels adorning the guests—clashed against the dark reality of what was about to unfold. Your eyes lingered briefly on a figure across the way: a man, bound in chains, sitting quietly. There was no fear in his expression, only a smoldering anger that made you uneasy.  

The sound of clapping drew your attention back to the center of the room. Senator Thraex, ever the showman, raised his voice above the murmur of the crowd. “Stand back! Stand back!” he called, his tone a mix of authority and delight.  

You stepped aside, blending into the edges of the gathering, as the spectators parted to form a circle. The twin emperors, Caracalla and Geta, lounged decadently on their perch, surrounded by concubines who laughed and whispered among themselves. Their indifference to the gathering's undertones was maddening.  

Thraex turned toward them with an exaggerated bow. “My emperors,” he began with a grin before addressing the audience. “Lords, ladies, senators—tonight, for your entertainment... the art of combat!”  

Excited gasps rippled through the room, the revelers’ reactions equal parts anticipation and bloodlust. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Thraex gestured dramatically toward the two men brought forward—one was the same figure you’d seen earlier, still brooding but now standing tall.  

“And now,” Thraex continued, “the barbarian, versus from my own stable, the mighty Vijay!”  

The crowd erupted into applause as Vijay, a towering figure in a yellow tunic, was escorted forward. His opponent, the gladiator from across the room, now squared his shoulders and met Vijay’s gaze.  

“It is your gladiator?” Emperor Geta asked, his tone laced with mild amusement, as he glanced at Macrinus.  

Macrinus inclined his head respectfully. “It is, your Majesty.”  

Chains were removed from both men, their freedom feeling more like a death sentence. Thraex began to set the terms. “Three rounds, hand-to-hand—”  

But Emperor Caracalla’s voice cut through. “Swords!” he barked, his grin wicked.  

The room fell silent.  

“We want swords. A fight to the death!” Caracalla continued, his voice rising with glee. “No quarter to be offered, or given!”  

Thraex hesitated, his expression faltering for a moment, but the guards stepped forward, placing swords into the gladiators’ hands. You felt your stomach twist as the two men began circling one another.  

The gladiator of Macrinus spoke first, his voice calm but edged with pleading. “Brother, come now. Let us not kill each other for their amusement.”  

Vijay’s only response was a roar as he lunged, his sword slicing through the air. The next moments were chaos. Blades clanged as they met, sparks flying from each blow. The room seemed to shrink around the violence as tables splintered and decorations toppled.  

The climax came when Vijay’s sword slipped from his grasp in the scuffle. The other gladiator seized the opportunity, driving his blade into Vijay’s chest. A sharp gasp escaped you as the larger man crumpled to the marble floor, his blood pooling beneath him.  

The victor tossed his sword to the ground with a clatter, breathing heavily, his face and tunic spattered with blood. Around you, the crowd erupted into applause and cheers, their delight in stark contrast to your quiet horror.  

“Remarkable!” Emperor Geta exclaimed, standing as he clapped his hands. He approached Macrinus with an approving nod. “Congratulations.”  

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Macrinus replied smoothly.  

Geta then turned to the gladiator, studying him with newfound interest. “From where do you hail?”  

The man said nothing, his jaw set, his silence defiant.  

The tension in the room grew thick. Even you found yourself leaning forward, curiosity mingling with unease.  

“Speak,” Geta commanded sharply. When no answer came, his impatience boiled over. “I said speak!”  

Macrinus stepped in quickly, bowing his head. “Your Majesty, he is from the colonies. His native tongue is all he understands.”  

The gladiator finally raised his head, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “The gates of hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy is the way: but to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”  

The poetry stunned you, the eloquence jarring against the brutal spectacle that had just unfolded. Around you, the room fell silent for a beat before Caracalla broke into a laugh.  

“Poetry!” the Caracalla declared, grinning as he turned to Macrinus. “Very clever, Macrinus. Very clever indeed.”  

Macrinus bowed slightly. “To amuse you is my only wish, your Majesty.”  

“We are amused,” Geta said, though his gaze remained fixed on the gladiator. His voice rose as he addressed the room. “And we all look forward to seeing your poet… perform in the arena.”  

“As do I your majesty's.” Macrinus gestured to his guard. “Viggo,” he said softly, and the guard stepped forward to escort the gladiator out of the room.  

As the crowd began to disperse, murmurs of excitement rippling through the air, you remained rooted in place. Your eyes followed the blood trail left by Vijay’s body as it was dragged away. The victor—dripping in another man’s blood, yet unbowed—disappeared through the doors, his haunting words lingering in your mind like a ghost.

LUCILLA'S VILLA — LATE AFTERNOON

The villa of Domitia Lucilla stood as a serene contrast to the chaos of Rome—a sprawling sanctuary of pale stone walls and gardens heavy with the scent of roses and citrus. The late afternoon sun stretched shadows across the courtyard as you entered, the weariness from Senator Thraex’s debauched gathering weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Lucilla awaited you, standing poised near a column. Her cream stola shifted with the breeze, but her sharp gaze was unwavering, as if she had been expecting this moment.  

“You’ve returned,” she said, warmth in her voice tempered by the gravity of her expression.  

“I have, my lady—”  

She waved off the formalities with a flick of her wrist. “Enough with that. How many times must I tell you?”  

“Habit,” you replied with a faint smile, though it lacked its usual brightness.  

Her lips twitched with amusement, but concern quickly took its place. “And how was Senator Thraex’s gathering? As intolerable as I feared?”  

You sighed, the grotesque excess of the night flashing briefly in your mind. “More wine than wit. And blood, of course. Always blood.”  

Lucilla’s mouth tightened, her brow furrowing just enough to betray her displeasure. She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Rome devours itself with spectacle. It leaves nothing but emptiness behind,” she murmured.  

You nodded but didn’t speak. The heaviness of her words settled heavily on you because they were true.  

“And Thraex himself?” she pressed, tilting her head.  

You hesitated. “He made his usual jabs about my… unmarried state. Feigned sympathy for my family. And spent an inordinate amount of time with Macrinus, the arms dealer. It seemed more calculated than casual.”  

Lucilla’s eyes narrowed slightly, her mind already turning. “Macrinus does not waste his time on frivolities. If Thraex is courting him, there’s more at play.”  

“Something to do with the games tomorrow, perhaps?” you suggested. “He seemed eager for them.”  

Lucilla’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s possible. His ambitions are endless, and I fear his alliances will be the ruin of many.”  

“Rome always finds a way to drag us into its mire,” you muttered bitterly.  

Her hand on your shoulder tightened briefly, reassuring. “Then we tread carefully. But not tonight. Tonight, we focus on what lies ahead. The senators will convene soon, and General Acacius is to join us.”  

You huffed a soft laugh, though it carried a trace of exasperation. “A grand gathering in his honor, and he doesn’t bother to attend the festivities.”  

Lucilla arched a brow, her expression turning sly. “Were you hoping he would?”  

Heat rushed to your face, and you fumbled for a response. “I—no, of course not. I just thought it odd.”  

“Mm.” Her tone was noncommittal, but her knowing smile made you glance away.  

Before you could dwell on your embarrassment, Lucilla turned down another garden path, leaving you to follow. It was there, amid the soft hum of cicadas and the golden haze of the late afternoon, that you saw him.  

Marcus Acacius sat beneath a pergola, his broad shoulders bent slightly over a parchment, a quill poised in his hand. A goblet of wine sat forgotten beside him, the scene unexpectedly tranquil for a man of his reputation.  

Lucilla glanced over her shoulder with a smirk. “It seems you’ll get your wish after all.”  

Your stomach twisted at her words, but before you could form a protest, she disappeared around the corner. Left to your own devices, you took a steadying breath and approached. The crunch of gravel underfoot drew his attention, and he looked up, his dark eyes softening as they met yours.  

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return,” he said, his voice low and warm, though a flicker of relief betrayed him.  

You tilted your head, folding your arms as you came closer. “And I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the party was meant for you.”  

Marcus chuckled, setting down his quill. “Crowded rooms filled with drunken senators and empty promises hold little appeal. I prefer the quiet.” He gestured to the bench across from him. “Join me?”  

For a moment, you hesitated, the unspoken tension between you filling the air. But then you sat, folding your hands neatly in your lap.  

“The games tomorrow will be particularly… extravagant,” you said, glancing at the parchment. “I’m to serve as a healer for the event.”  

His brow furrowed. “You’ll be in the arena?”  

“Not in it,” you replied quickly. “But close enough.”  

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “It’s barbaric. They celebrate death, and you’re left to mend what’s left behind.”  

“It’s Rome,” you said with a shrug, though the bitterness in your voice was unmistakable.  

“Does it not anger you?” His voice was steady but insistent, his gaze searching yours.  

You hesitated before answering. “Every day,” you admitted quietly. “But anger doesn’t heal. It doesn’t save lives.”  

His hand moved, resting near yours on the table—not touching, but close enough that the space between felt charged. “You do more than heal,” he said after a moment. “You remind us of what’s worth saving.”  

The sincerity in his words made your breath hitch. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.  

“I only do what I can,” you said finally.  

“And it’s enough,” he replied, his voice firm.  

Silence settled between you, but it was not empty. It was heavy with questions left unasked, with the unshakable feeling that you knew him from somewhere beyond this life.  

“You’re different,” he said suddenly.  

You raised an eyebrow, half-amused. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”  

He smiled faintly. “A truth.”  

You studied him, the edges of recognition tugging at your mind. “Have we met before?”  

His hand stilled, his expression unreadable. “Why do you ask?”  

“It’s the way you look at me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like you know something I don’t.”  

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly, “Perhaps I’m just trying to understand you.”

“And do you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.  

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lingered on yours, as if he were searching for something—something hidden behind the words you didn’t say. His jaw tightened, and then relaxed, his hesitation drawing out the silence until it felt like the whole garden held its breath.  

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting an amber glow across the courtyard. The scent of citrus blossoms drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of oil from the bronze lamps. You and Marcus sat across from each other, the heavy quiet between you punctuated by the distant hum of the city below.  

“I think,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, “that you’re not as much of a mystery as you’d like to believe.”

You said nothing, the truth of his words settling over you. He wasn’t the first to try to understand you, but he was the first whose attempt didn’t feel like an invasion. Still, you kept your silence, hoping it would shield whatever he thought he saw.  

Marcus leaned back slightly, his gaze unwavering, though his tone softened. “You wear your defiance like armor. It suits you, but…” He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Even armor cracks under enough weight.”

Your chest tightened. There was no judgment in his voice, just quiet understanding, and that somehow made it worse. You turned your eyes to the horizon, watching as the light bled into dusk.  

“And you?” you asked at last, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “What cracks your armor?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw tightening as he looked away. For a long moment, you thought he might deflect or let the question fall unanswered. But then he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly, the facade of the unshakable general slipping.  

“The things I’ve done,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “The wars. The lives I’ve taken. I tell myself it was duty. For Rome. For honor. But when I close my eyes…” His hand curled into a fist on the table, the scarred knuckles white with tension. “I see their faces. The ones I killed. The ones I couldn’t save. Sometimes, I think that’s all there is left of me. Blood and ghosts.”

His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. You felt the sharp sting of his pain as if it were your own, and it stirred something deep within you—a desire not to fix him, but to let him be broken without shame.  

“There’s more to you than that,” you said softly, surprising even yourself with the conviction in your voice. “Let the brokenness be felt, Marcus, until you reach the other side. There is goodness in the heart of every broken man who comes right up to the edge of losing everything he has.”  

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those fierce, commanding eyes—betrayed a flicker of something fragile. “And if the edge is all that’s left?”  

You shook your head. “Then you find your way back. One step, one breath, one choice at a time. You’ve already come this far.”  

A faint, wry smile tugged at his lips. “You sound certain.”  

“I am,” you said simply. “Because I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen men lose everything and still find the strength to rebuild. You’ve endured so much, Marcus. And yet, here you are.”  

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the air between you felt impossibly heavy, as though the weight of both your pasts had settled there. But then, something shifted—just a fraction—and the tension eased.  

“Tell me,” he said quietly, leaning forward. “How does someone like you—someone who speaks of goodness and second chances—end up in a place like this?”  

You let out a soft laugh, though it held no humor. “A long story,” you said, your tone laced with irony.  

He smiled faintly. “I’ve got time.”  

The simplicity of his statement caught you off guard. You studied him for a moment, searching for any trace of mockery, but found none. He was patient, steady, like a man who had weathered every storm and learned to endure the waiting.  

You hesitated, then began to speak—not all at once, but in fragments. You told him of the choices that had brought you here, the moments of defiance and loss that had shaped you. He listened without interrupting, his focus unbroken, as though each word mattered.  

When the story faltered and the silence crept back in, Marcus spoke again, his voice gentle. “You’ve carried much on your shoulders.”  

You shrugged, your gaze fixed on the table. “Haven’t we all?”  

He nodded, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps. But not everyone carries it as well as you.”  

The compliment startled you, and you looked up to find him watching you with something like admiration. It wasn’t romantic, not yet—but it was real, and it unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite name.  

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” you said, though your voice lacked its usual bite.  

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’d like to.”  

Something in his tone—a quiet sincerity, unadorned by pretense—made you pause. You realized, with a small jolt, that you wanted to know him, too. Not just the general, but the man beneath the armor.  

“Maybe,” you said finally, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “If you’re patient.”  

His smile widened, just a little, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I’ve learned to be patient,” he said. “For the right things.”  

And as the night deepened and the stars began to dot the sky, you found yourself wondering if, perhaps, this was one of them.

The room was dark, the faint glow of torchlight from the grilled window casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. Lucilla stood beside you, her sharp eyes trained on the guards below as they exchanged shifts. She watched silently, her body tense but still, until the last of them disappeared around the corner.  

With a soft sigh, she turned back into the room and extinguished the candles one by one. The light died away, replaced by the cover of darkness. Outside, a guard’s voice called up, noting that she must be retiring for the evening.  

You remained quiet, holding the lamp as Lucilla adjusted her robes and pulled up the hood, the fabric obscuring her features. The air felt heavier now, laden with unspoken tension. She glanced at you, her gaze sharp even in the dim light.  

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.  

You nodded and pulled your own hood over your head. The warmth of the lamp in your hand was a small comfort against the chill of the night.  

Lucilla stepped closer, her hands gripping your forearm briefly as she said your name. “You must know,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, “if you do this with us, there is a possibility that we may be discovered. And the penalties—”  

“I’m aware,” you interrupted gently, meeting her gaze. There was no hesitation in your voice.  

She studied you for a moment longer, then nodded, a faint flicker of respect passing over her features. Without another word, she turned toward a small shrine tucked into the corner of the room.  

Kneeling, she rolled back a slab of marble with deliberate care, revealing a narrow passage that led downward. The air that seeped out was cool and damp, smelling faintly of earth and stone.  

Lucilla motioned for you to follow, and you descended after her, the spiral staircase winding tightly into the depths. Your lamp cast shifting shadows on the walls, and the faint echoes of your footsteps seemed louder than they should have been.  

The tunnel at the bottom was carved with care, though the stone showed its age. Lucilla moved through it with practiced ease, her robes brushing against the walls as the passage widened and opened into a massive underground catacomb.  

You stopped short, your breath catching at the sight. The vaulted ceilings arched high above you, their grandeur almost otherworldly. This place was built for eternity, every detail a testament to early Roman splendor. Statues of gods and long-dead ancestors stood sentinel, their marble faces solemn in the lamplight.  

Lucilla’s steps slowed as she approached a series of crypts. Each one was marked with the bust of a family member, their likenesses carved into the stone. She stopped before the bust of Marcus Aurelius, her father, and laid a hand on its smooth surface.  

“Father,” she whispered, her voice tinged with both reverence and sorrow, “protect us and guide us.” Her fingers lingered for a moment before she turned away, her expression unreadable.  

You wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words escaped you. There was a sacredness here that felt unshakable, a weight you couldn’t quite explain.  

ANTECHAMBER — MINUTES LATER  

The air in the antechamber felt thick, like the weight of centuries pressed down upon you all. Torches lined the stone walls, their flickering light casting wavering shadows on faces lined with tension and purpose. The damp chill of the underground space only added to the solemnity of the moment.  

Lucilla moved forward with practiced grace, her head held high despite the gravity of the meeting. The first man stepped into the torchlight, his wiry frame and sharp features softened only by the faint trace of a smile.  

“Gracchus,” Lucilla said warmly, extending her hands. “Old friend.”  

Gracchus clasped her hands briefly, his grip conveying both respect and concern. “My lady. I wish we were meeting in better times.”  

Lucilla’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The sun shone once—it will shine again.”  

Gracchus raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking into a sardonic smirk. “And what in heaven’s name does that mean?”  

Before Lucilla could answer, a low, resonant voice emerged from the shadows. “It means hope, Gracchus.”  

You started slightly, your heart skipping as a figure stepped forward. Marcus Acacius. The flickering light caught the edges of his armor, making it gleam like liquid fire. His presence filled the room effortlessly, his broad frame and steady gaze commanding attention.  

Gracchus let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh yes. He is shiny.”  

Marcus didn’t react to the jest, but his eyes flicked between Lucilla and Gracchus before settling briefly on you. His gaze held for a beat too long, making your pulse quicken.  

“Did I startle you?” he asked, his tone smooth but edged with faint amusement.  

You straightened, tightening your grip on the lamp you carried. “Not at all,” you said, though your voice betrayed you.  

The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips, but he turned his attention back to Gracchus, his expression growing serious. “We want to take back the city. To restore Rome to what it should be.”  

Gracchus’s expression darkened, doubt creeping into his voice. “An exciting venture. When?”  

“On the final day of the games,” Marcus replied firmly.  

Gracchus raised a skeptical brow. “How?”  

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the tension clear as he measured his words. “My army waits for my command at Ostia. Five thousand soldiers loyal to me will enter Rome. I intend to arrest our emperors in front of the crowds at the Colosseum for their crimes against the Senate and the people.”  

A long, heavy silence followed. Gracchus exchanged a wary glance with Thraex, who stood silently in the background. The two senators appeared burdened with years of cynicism, the spark of belief long extinguished.  

Lucilla broke the quiet, her voice sharp and resolute. “We cannot continue to see Rome damaged, sliding further into corruption and decay.”  

Thraex snorted softly, folding his arms. “Does he want to be Emperor?”  

Marcus’s gaze sharpened as he shook his head. “I am a soldier, not a politician. Rome will be yours to administer and—”  

Gracchus interrupted him, his tone cutting. “Your father spoke of returning power to the Senate. But that was a generation ago. Much has changed. The people haven’t seen hope for years, and—”  

This time, Marcus’s voice rose slightly, his frustration bleeding through. “Rome is not yet ready to be a republic, but with time—and guidance—a vote by the people, for the people, would mean—”  

Lucilla placed a steady hand on Marcus’s arm, quieting him. She turned to Gracchus, her voice calmer but no less determined. “Rome can live again. Do we have your support, Gracchus?”  

Gracchus hesitated, his gaze shifting to you, then back to Marcus. Finally, he nodded slowly, his voice soft. “Lucilla, you are the daughter of Marcus Aurelius. He had my loyalty, and so do you.”  

Lucilla allowed herself a small smile. “A political answer, but good enough. Senator Thraex?”  

Thraex hesitated, his eyes flickering to you. He seemed to brace himself before speaking. “Politics follows power, my lady. Take back what is rightfully yours, and the Senate will support you.”  

The room seemed to exhale as the senators gave their tentative agreement, but Gracchus’s gaze lingered on you. His voice softened. “I vowed to your parents I would take care of you. To give you a life beyond this... chaos.”  

Your grip on the lamp tightened as you met his gaze, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “There is no point in life if the future of Rome is nothing but an abuse of power and position.”  

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Marcus’s expression shift. His gaze rested on you, his brow furrowing slightly, as if he were seeing you in a new light.  

The torches flickered, their flames casting light on faces filled with determination and shadows that hinted at the dangerous road ahead. You glanced at Marcus once more, and his eyes caught yours, a faint, unspoken understanding passing between you.  

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY

The air around the Colosseum is alive with a chaotic energy that hums through the sprawling crowd. The great amphitheater towers above, its shadow sprawling across the dusty streets. Vendors shout over one another, selling honeyed dates, roasted nuts, and cheap wine. Children dart between the throngs, their quick fingers snatching at coin purses while wide-eyed newcomers marvel at the spectacle before them.  

As you approach the towering Capitoline Arch, your eyes lift to the imposing statue of General Marcus Acacius atop a marble plinth. The sunlight gleams off the bronze plaque beneath, bearing the inscription: ACACIUS, VICTOR AFRICAE.  

You pause, a faint sigh escaping your lips as you take it in. The statue is majestic, carved with precision to capture his strength and valor, but there’s something about its stillness, its perfection, that feels wrong. The man you’ve come to know is far more complicated than the warrior immortalized in marble.  

Pulling your hood closer to shield yourself from prying eyes, you make your way toward the entrance of the Colosseum.  

Outside the massive arena, the crowd is dense, funneling into the arched entrances like water forced through narrow channels. The scent of sweat, baked bread, and dust clings to the air.  

A wagon lumbers past, its wheels creaking as it pulls into the rear gates of the Colosseum. The iron gates groan shut behind it with a finality that makes you shiver.  

Your eyes catch on one of the gladiators stepping down from the wagon. He is broad-shouldered, with a grim expression and scars that tell stories of survival. Recognition flickers in your mind—he was at Senator Thraex’s gathering, one of Macrinus’ men.  

For a moment, his gaze meets yours, sharp and searching. You quickly turn away, the weight of his stare lingering like a brand on your skin.  

COLOSSEUM UNDERCROFT — DAY  

The undercroft is a world unto itself, hidden beneath the grandeur of the arena above. The air here is damp and stale, filled with the mingled scents of blood, sweat, and the earthy musk of the animals kept for the games. Torches line the stone walls, their flames barely cutting through the heavy gloom.  

You step carefully, the hem of your robe brushing against the uneven stones beneath your feet. Around you, the sounds of preparation echo—metallic clangs of swords being sharpened, the low murmur of prayers whispered by gladiators, and the distant roar of the crowd above, a constant reminder of what waits beyond.  

A sudden shout breaks through the noise, and you flinch instinctively, your hand tightening around the lamp you carry.  

“Keep moving!” A guard barks, shoving a gladiator forward.  

You press yourself against the wall to let them pass, your eyes following the line of chained men as they march toward their fate. The air feels heavier here, thick with despair and the metallic tang of blood that never quite fades from the stone.  

The main chamber opens ahead, a cavernous space carved from the bedrock, with a stone memorial spanning two centuries etched into one of the walls. The names carved there seem endless, a testament to the lives given—or taken—beneath this roof.  

You step into the room, your eyes searching for Ravi, the healer who has been your closest ally in this grim underworld. He is leaning over a battered table, his thick canvas coat bristling with the tools of his trade—scalpels, needles, and small bottles of tinctures.  

Ravi glances up as you approach, his dark eyes meeting yours. He nods, his expression weary but kind. “You’re late,” he says, his tone more teasing than reproachful.  

“I was delayed,” you reply, setting the lamp down on the edge of the table.  

Ravi straightens, his hands covered in the telltale stains of his work. “Delayed by a statue, no doubt,” he says with a smirk, nodding toward the hallway you came from.  

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Not just the statue. The entire crowd outside could rival an army.”  

He chuckles softly, but his humor fades as his gaze shifts to the tools laid out before him. “It’s a mad world out there. And in here. They’ll call it glory, but we know better, don’t we?”  

You nod, your fingers brushing against one of the bottles of tincture on the table. “How many today?”  

“Too many,” Ravi replies grimly. “It always is. But if we don’t patch them up, they’ll be thrown back into the arena like lambs to the slaughter.”  

You glance toward the memorial wall, the endless names a stark reminder of what happens when healing is no longer enough. “And yet they cheer,” you say softly, more to yourself than to him.  

Ravi follows your gaze, his expression hardening. “They cheer because they’re too far away to hear the screams. From up there, it’s just a show.”  

A heavy silence falls between you, the weight of his words settling in the space like a tangible presence.  

Finally, Ravi breaks it, his voice quieter now. “You could have been anywhere. A villa in the hills, a proper clinic, somewhere far from all of this. Why here?”  

You meet his gaze, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “Because someone has to be.”  

Before Ravi can respond, the distant blare of a cornu horn echoes through the chamber, its mournful call summoning the combatants to the arena.  

Ravi exhales, shaking his head. “That’s our cue.”  

You nod, grabbing the lamp and turning toward the corridor. “Let’s hope today isn’t worse than the last.”  

Ravi follows, his canvas coat swaying as he moves. “Hope’s in short supply here,” he mutters. But then, as if to lighten the mood, he adds, “But if anyone can keep these bastards alive, it’s us.”  

A faint smile pulls at your lips as the two of you head toward the chaos waiting above. The sound of the horn grows louder, blending with the roar of the crowd—a noise as relentless as the tide.

The roar of the Colosseum was muffled slightly where you and Ravi stood in the shadow of the lower arches, but the sight above was impossible to ignore. Caracalla and Geta had already taken their places in the royal seats, their expressions imperious yet lacking true command. The crowd’s response to their arrival was lukewarm, tepid applause barely rippling through the masses.  

Ravi glanced at you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They can’t even fake enthusiasm for their own Emperors. Telling, isn’t it?”  

You nodded grimly, shifting your gaze to the arena floor where the fight’s Master of Ceremonies stood, clearly tense. He gestured sharply to the musicians, prompting them to play a fanfare in a desperate attempt to rouse the audience.  

Through the giant copper horn mounted on a stand, his voice bellowed, “Citizens of Rome! These sacred games are held to honor the victory of Rome over the barbarians of Numidia—”  

You winced at the crude remark, the words cutting through the air with their arrogance.  

“And to honor Rome's legionary commander, General Justus Acacius!”  

At the mention of Acacius, your eyes instinctively sought him out. There he was, emerging in white and gold, a gleaming figure against the harsh backdrop of the Colosseum. His presence was magnetic, commanding without effort. He moved with the same purpose he always did, though you could sense a tension in his posture, a reluctance masked by the pageantry.  

Lucilla followed close behind him, her chin lifted with practiced grace. When the Master of Ceremonies announced her name—“Lucilla, the daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius!”—the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, a stark contrast to their earlier indifference.  

Beside you, Ravi let out a low whistle. “They still adore her.”  

“They always will,” you murmured, watching as she ascended to the royal seats under the guise of honor, though you knew better. The two Centurions flanking her were not mere escorts but guards, a subtle display of control that would escape the average onlooker.  

From this distance, it seemed she embraced the accolades, her every gesture perfectly measured. But you caught the slight flicker in her expression when she glanced toward Acacius.  

“You honor us with your presence. Speak to the plebeians, Acacius,” Geta commanded, his tone laced with condescension.  

You held your breath, sensing the reluctance in Marcus’s stillness. He exchanged a look with Lucilla, brief but telling, before his gaze swept across the crowd, searching. When his eyes found yours, something in his demeanor shifted—resolve, perhaps, or a need for grounding.  

Finally, he rose, stepping to the railing as the crowd quieted, anticipation thick in the air. His voice, deep and steady, carried over the expanse with ease.  

“I am not an orator, nor a politician,” he began, the simplicity of his words a sharp contrast to the pomp surrounding him. “I am only a soldier. Real heroism is not the stuff of games.”  

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confusion and intrigue mingling as Acacius’s words sank in.  

“It reveals itself to us only in the service of life itself,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “I have seen bravery in men during war, and from women, too—bravery that does not falter in the face of fear but rises to meet it. And even, once, in this arena.”  

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Though his gaze never left the crowd, you felt as though those words were for you alone.  

“If you pray,” Marcus’s voice deepened, his tone almost pleading, “pray that the gods will deliver us bravery like that. Because Rome needs it now.”  

The silence that followed was profound, the kind that held more weight than applause. Then, slowly, the crowd erupted, their cheers cascading through the Colosseum like a wave.  

You watched him step back from the railing, his expression inscrutable as he returned to his seat. But as the applause thundered on, his eyes found yours again, and in that brief moment, you saw it—something unspoken yet unmistakable.  

Ravi nudged you gently, breaking the spell. “He’s good, I’ll give him that.”  

You nodded, your heart still pounding. “Better than they deserve,” you said softly, though your thoughts were far from the Emperors.

The tension in the Colosseum was recognized as the opening ceremony came to an end. Caracalla and Geta clapped from their royal seats, their applause mechanical and devoid of genuine enthusiasm. Below, the Master of Ceremonies stood nervously, his voice amplified by the great copper horn.  

“From the South Gate... fighters from the stable of Macrinus of Thysdrus!”  

Your gaze darted to the southern entrance, where the gladiators emerged into the blinding sunlight. You recognized one of them—Hanno of Numidia—whose name Ravi had told you earlier. The crowd greeted them with scattered boos and jeers, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the arena itself.  

Hanno walked with measured steps, his expression stoic as he led the small group to the center of the arena. His shoulders bore the weight of more than just the armor; you could see it in his eyes.  

“And from the stables of our Emperors Caracalla and Geta themselves: Glyceo the Destroyer!”  

The eastern gates creaked open, revealing a towering figure clad in ornate armor, seated atop a great white rhino. The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers, the noise reverberating through the stone walls. The rhino trotted with surprising agility, its hooves kicking up clouds of dust as it carried Glyceo with the ease of a seasoned warrior.  

From your vantage point, you saw the glint of weapons strapped to the rhino’s side—an axe, a sword, a mace, and a bola. Glyceo reached for the mace, gripping its heavy handle with a confidence born from countless victories.  

The first gladiator dared to challenge the beast, stepping forward with his sword raised. He attempted to dodge the rhino’s charge at the last moment, but the creature’s speed and precision were unmatched. The horn struck him with brutal force, sending him flying across the arena before the rhino finished him off with a savage thrust.  

Your stomach churned as the body was tossed aside like a ragdoll. The crowd’s cheers only grew louder.  

Hanno stood still, his gaze fixed on the carnage. Then, almost imperceptibly, he crouched and scooped a handful of sand from the arena floor, letting it sift through his fingers. The gesture was hauntingly familiar—a ritual Maximus had performed before every fight.  

Beside you, Ravi murmured, “Do you see that? He remembers.”  

You glanced at Lucilla in the royal box, noting the flicker of something in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or sorrow. But she quickly masked it, her face hardening as she turned back to the arena.  

The rhino charged again, this time with Glyceo’s mace raised high. Hanno sidestepped at the last possible moment, but the rhino’s horn clipped him, sending him sprawling. Dust clouded the air as the beast wheeled around, disoriented by the sunlight.  

Hanno was quick to act. He flung the remaining sand into the air, creating a bright, blinding curtain that obscured his movements. The rhino charged again, unable to see clearly, and slammed full force into the arena wall. Glyceo was thrown like a ragdoll, his body hitting the stone with a sickening thud.  

The rhino staggered, its massive frame reeling as it struggled to regain its footing. Hanno retrieved his sword and advanced on Glyceo, who was already scrambling to his feet. Their blades met in a clash of steel, sparks flying as Glyceo’s superior strength began to overwhelm Hanno.  

You leaned forward, gripping the stone railing as Glyceo delivered a brutal series of blows, forcing Hanno to his knees. The crowd chanted, their bloodlust palpable.  

Lucilla gasped, turning away, her hand trembling as it gripped the edge of her seat. Even Macrinus, who had been watching with a calculating gaze, shook his head slightly.  

Glyceo raised his short sword, poised to deliver the final blow. He paused, turning to the royal box for approval.  

“Shall we spare his life, brother?” Geta asked, his tone mockingly casual.  

Caracalla shrugged, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some blood.”  

Geta ignored him, his attention shifting to Lucilla. “Lucilla, shall we show mercy?”  

Lucilla hesitated, her voice trembling. “Mercy.” The word was barely audible, choked with guilt and something deeper.  

Geta stood, raising his fist. The crowd fell silent, holding their breath as he slowly extended his thumb upward, granting Hanno his life. The Colosseum erupted in cheers, but the celebration was short-lived.  

“No,” Hanno said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.  

The crowd stilled, murmurs of confusion rippling through the stands.  

“No mercy,” he repeated, his tone resolute.  

Geta’s face twisted in disbelief. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses—”  

“I will not accept mercy,” Hanno interrupted, rising to his feet despite the blood dripping from his wounds. He turned to the royal box, his gaze unwavering. “I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy.”  

The crowd erupted in chaos—laughter, jeers, and shouts of encouragement mingling in a cacophony of sound.  

“Fight on, then, fool, and die,” Geta spat, his face reddening with embarrassment.  

Glyceo lunged, his mace swinging in a wide arc. Hanno ducked, his movements fueled by desperation and fury. With a final burst of strength, he seized his fallen short sword and drove it into Glyceo’s abdomen. The mighty gladiator staggered, his expression one of shock before he collapsed, lifeless, into the sand.  

The crowd roared its approval, chanting Hanno’s name as he stood victorious. From the royal box, Macrinus smiled, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. You couldn’t help but watch Hanno with a mixture of awe and apprehension, your heart pounding as the weight of the moment settled over the arena.  

COLOSSEUM HOSPITAL ROOM — NIGHT

The dim light of flickering oil lamps cast wavering shadows on the rough stone walls of the makeshift infirmary. The smell of blood, sweat, and burnt herbs clung to the air like a heavy shroud. Ravi moved methodically among the injured, tending to other gladiators with a calm, steady hand.

You were left alone with Hanno. He sat on a wooden stool, his posture tense despite the exhaustion etched into his features. A deep, jagged wound marred his upper arm, the torn flesh angry and raw. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, drawn to the scent of blood and sweat.

You crouched beside him, your hands deftly inspecting the wound. “This needs to be cleaned and stitched up,” you murmured, glancing up at him briefly. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable.

He broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

You paused, meeting his gaze again as you answered, giving your name. You nodded toward the other side of the room. “That man over there is Ravi. We’re both doctors—or as close to it as you’ll get here. More men die of infected wounds than in the arena itself.”

Hanno tilted his head slightly, watching you as you prepared the tools of your trade. “This is going to hurt,” you added, your tone both matter-of-fact and soft.

You handed him a small pipe, its carved edges worn smooth from use.

“What’s this?” he asked, examining it with mild suspicion.

“Devil’s breath and opium,” you explained. “For the pain. Breathe it in.”

Hanno hesitated for only a moment before placing the pipe between his lips. He inhaled deeply, his expression neutral as the sharp, bitter taste hit his tongue. Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing steadied.

“The effects are different for us all,” you said gently, noting the way his features softened, the tension in his shoulders easing.

When his eyes opened again, they were hazy, unfocused. “Your voice…” he muttered, blinking at you as if trying to place something familiar.

“What about it?” you asked with a small smile, distracting him as you began cleaning the wound.

“It’s… nice,” he replied, his words slow and slightly slurred. “Kind.”

You gave a soft chuckle, focusing on the task at hand. “Don’t get used to it. This part isn’t going to feel so kind.”

He took another draw of the pipe just as you began stitching the torn flesh with catgut. The needle pierced his skin, and he hissed through clenched teeth, coughing as a puff of opium-laden smoke escaped his lips and drifted into the air between you.

“Where’d you learn your trade?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.

You kept your focus on the stitches, your hands moving with practiced precision. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got a light hand,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You glanced up briefly, the corners of your lips quirking. “You don’t strike me as someone who hands out compliments easily.”

The faint flicker of the oil lamp threw warm shadows across the stone walls of the infirmary. The low hum of muffled groans and whispered prayers filled the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood and herbs. His dark eyes, hazy from the drug, remained fixed on you as you worked.  

“I don���t,” he murmured, his voice soft and slow. “But I’ve had enough wounds stitched up to know the difference between butchery and care.”  

The corners of your lips quirked upward, and a soft chuckle escaped you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”  

“It is,” he said, his tone unusually earnest.  

Your laugh echoed softly in the quiet room, and his lips curved in response. Hanno was inebriated now—high on the devil’s breath and opium. He looked at you, his gaze almost childlike in its wonder, as if the haze had stripped away some of the weight he carried.  

“What we do in life echoes in eternity,” you said suddenly, your voice a mix of reverence and melancholy.  

The words hung in the air, timeless and heavy. You paused, your fingers stilling over the bandage.  

Hanno blinked, as if chasing a memory. “I feel I know those words…”  

You smiled faintly, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t take credit for them. They’re written on a tomb here, over the bones of a gladiator.”  

He let the words sink in, his gaze distant but thoughtful. You returned to your work, your hands moving with practiced precision as you tied off the final stitch and smoothed the bandage over his wound.  

“There,” you said, leaning back to admire your handiwork. “I think that should hold.”  

Hanno’s eyes drifted to his arm. He reached out, almost absently, and ran his fingers across the crude stitches. His touch was featherlight, as if testing the reality of it.  

You stood, gathering your tools and reaching for the pipe still clutched in his hand. But before you could take it, he brought it to his lips again, inhaling deeply. The motion was slow and deliberate, his dark eyes fixed on you through the curling smoke.  

You paused, watching him, but said nothing. After a moment, you gave a small nod and turned back to pack away the rest of your supplies.  

“Why did you let me take another hit?” he asked suddenly, his voice softer now, as if the opium was tugging him toward vulnerability.  

You glanced over your shoulder, your expression unreadable. “Because sometimes, we need the pain to go quiet for a while.”  

Hanno held your gaze for a long moment, his lips curving into a faint, lopsided smile. “You understand more than most,” he said quietly.  

You didn’t respond, but the weight of his words lingered. As you turned back to your work, his voice broke the silence again, softer this time.  

He said your name a tender echo in the quiet room. “Do you believe it?”  

“Believe what?” you asked, not turning around.  

“That what we do in life echoes in eternity.”  

You stilled, your hands tightening slightly around your tools. Finally, you turned to face him, your expression thoughtful. “I think… the choices we make, the lives we touch—they ripple outward. Whether it’s eternity or just a fleeting moment, I think it matters.”  

Hanno’s gaze didn’t waver, even through the haze of the drug. “You matter,” he said, his voice low but steady.  

The words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you could only stare at him. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t teasing. He meant it.  

Your throat tightened, but you forced a small smile. “Rest now, Hanno. You’ll need your strength.”  

He didn’t protest, but his eyes lingered on you as you turned away, your heart inexplicably heavier and lighter all at once.

LUCILLA’S VILLA – EVENING  

The villa shimmered under the moonlight, its alabaster walls soaking in the silver glow. Marble columns cast long shadows across the flagstones, and the air hummed with the gentle chorus of cicadas. Somewhere in the gardens, the delicate aroma of night-blooming jasmine mingled with the faint tang of the sea breeze.  

You stood at the edge of the terrace, a delicate glass of spiced wine cradled between your fingers. The cool air kissed your skin, but it couldn’t chase away the heat simmering beneath—an ache born of exhaustion, frustration, and something you dared not name. The day had unraveled like a tragedy, the gods watching with cruel amusement as you struggled to hold it together.  

Behind you, the sound of soft footfalls broke the stillness.  

“You stand there as though the weight of Rome rests on your shoulders,” a voice drawled, smooth and familiar.  

You turned, finding Lucilla leaning against the stone archway, her golden hair catching the light of the lanterns flickering nearby. She regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and knowing—Lucilla had a way of reading people like scrolls, unrolling their secrets with unnerving ease.  

“Does it not?” you replied, attempting a wry smile, though it faltered before it could fully form.  

Lucilla stepped closer, her movements fluid, regal. “Rome’s weight has crushed stronger people than us,” she said softly, joining you at the balustrade. “The key is learning when to carry it—and when to set it down.”  

You scoffed, swirling the wine in your glass. “And how often do you set it down?”  

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Far less than I should.” She glanced at you from the corner of her eye. “But I’m not the one standing out here, staring at the stars as though they hold the answers.”  

The faint humor in her tone was a lifeline, grounding you. “If the stars do have answers, they’re not sharing them with me,” you muttered, shaking your head.  

Lucilla’s expression softened, and she reached out, placing a hand lightly on your arm. “The answers aren’t in the stars,” she said. “They’re in here.” She tapped lightly against your chest, her gaze unwavering. “You’ve already carried so much. Don’t forget you’re allowed to put it down—just for a while.”  

Her words settled over you like a balm, and for a moment, the tension in your chest eased. You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of distant laughter interrupted, drawing both your gazes toward the villa’s golden glow.  

Lucilla sighed, stepping back. “The night calls,” she said, her tone laced with resignation. “Goodnight.”  

“Goodnight, Lucilla,” you replied, watching as she disappeared into the shadows of the villa, her presence leaving an unspoken promise of strength in its wake.  

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the night’s hum. You exhaled, leaning against the wood, letting the day’s exhaustion seep into your bones. But the solace was short-lived.  

“Finally,” a low, gravelly voice murmured from the shadows.  

You startled, your hand flying to your chest. “Marcus!” you hissed, your heart pounding. “What are you doing here?”  

He stepped forward, his broad frame illuminated by the flickering lantern light. His tunic was slightly disheveled, and his dark curls fell across his brow, softening the hard planes of his face. Yet his eyes—those piercing eyes—held a fire that made it impossible to look away.  

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Not tonight.”  

You crossed your arms, more to steady yourself than to rebuff him. “And you thought sneaking into my quarters was the solution?”  

Marcus’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve been on my mind all evening,” he said simply, the weight of his confession hanging between you. “Do you know how maddening it is? Seeing you, hearing you, but never being close enough?”  

Your breath caught, and you shook your head, trying to keep your composure. “Marcus, this—whatever this is—it's dangerous. You know that.”  

“Danger is nothing new to me,” he said, stepping closer. His presence was magnetic, and you found yourself rooted in place as he closed the distance between you.  

“Marcus…” you began, but your voice faltered as his fingers brushed against yours, tentative and fleeting.  

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will. But if you don’t—”  

The unspoken promise in his words sent a shiver racing down your spine. You opened your mouth to protest, but instead, you found yourself tilting your face toward his touch as his hand cupped your cheek.  

“I’ve seen you fight for others, care for them,” he said softly, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw. “Let me fight for you. Let me care for you.”  

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” you said, your voice trembling.  

“I do,” he countered, his forehead nearly touching yours. “And I’m asking anyway.”  

His breath was warm against your lips, and before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance, your mouth meeting his in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and surrender.  

The world fell away in that moment, the chaos and the danger replaced by the warmth of his embrace. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that left you breathless.  

You pulled back, your chest heaving, your hands clutching the fabric of his tunic. “This doesn’t make the world any less dangerous,” you said, your voice barely audible.  

“No,” he agreed, his gaze locked on yours. “But I’d burn the world to ash just to feel the heat of you.”  

His words sent a shiver through you, a dangerous mix of devotion and desire. And as he kissed you again, softer this time, you realized that perhaps the fire he promised wasn’t something to fear—but something you’d already been consumed by.  

[marley-manson]

001 | Xena

Thank you! 💖

Favorite character:

Xena!! Everything I could possibly want in a female character, and a fandom that largely enjoys it rather than downplaying it.

I loooove that the writers went into the show (Xena, not her first appearance on Hercules probs) essentially writing her as a male archetype almost no concessions to the fact that she's played by Lucy Lawless other than pronouns and some het. She's cold and stoic - it's not until the first season finale that she even really displays a raw emotion other than mid-fight glee, including when her own mother draws a sword on her, and when she has to kill a man she loves to some extent. She's the strongest, toughest, most competent person in any room at all times, and everyone knows it and defers to her, absolutely including men. Early on there are a few scenes where she's hit on and punches dudes, but that actually goes away pretty quick as she just tends to command a certain sense of respect. It's an ideal female power fantasy - not to survive patriarchal violence, but to live without even having to spare a thought for it.

She's complex and nuanced and the narrative is very interested in exploring her as a three dimensional character.

She's formerly evil and still revels in violence, and it's amazing. She's often on the verge of going too dark again and needing to be pulled back from the edge, and she snaps in a few episodes including one where she attempts to murder Gabrielle, pre-meditated and all. She's framed like a horror movie monster in a few episodes, something I always love to see in a protagonist.

And on the flip side, she's fun! She steadily loosens up the more time she spends with Gabrielle doing good, and she can be very playful at times, and it's awesome to see in contrast to the first season.

I'll never be over her and idt there'll ever be another female character who can truly compare. Xena is a product of the tone of the show, and that tone is dead now.

Least Favorite character:

Borias, mainly for his appearance in The Debt as the only man who has ever had physical power over Xena - while her legs were broken - and for clitblocking Lao Ma.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon):

Xena/Gabrielle (and Mel/Janice who counts under this umbrella) Gabrielle/Aphrodite Xena/Ares Xena/Lao Ma Xena/Callisto

Character I find most attractive:

Gabrielle. I mean just look at her abs

Character I would marry:

Gabrielle 💖

Character I would be best friends with:

Gabrielle lmao.

a random thought:

Xena has the best clipshows of any show I've ever seen. Almost always worth watching for the absolutely delightful framing devices.

An unpopular opinion:

I get shallow entertainment out of the scenes where Xena seduces men in the later seasons lol. Like firstly, I love that the show really pointedly toes a line and she never actually sleeps with them past like season 2, because she's in a relationship with Gabrielle. I also love that they show Gabrielle being annoyed or jealous if she gets into it. The show is blatantly playing both sides and trying to appeal to het viewers as well, but very deliberate in never contradicting X/G and I can appreciate that.

But also I love how dominant Xena almost always is, both in bed and in how she just interacts with men, and how it's always framed as something she wants/how she behaves by default rather than something she does for the dudes, who are generally more ambivalent about her topping. Like, ultimately it's a fantasy for subby male viewers, but it doesn't feel like it so it's enjoyable to me.

This is popular with the het fans lol, but they're the minority so it still counts.

my canon OTP:

Xena/Gabrielle, and yes it absolutely counts as canon for the purposes of this question.

Non-canon OTP:

Xena/Ares

most badass character:

Do I have to say it after my ode to her up there?

pairing I am not a fan of:

Gabrielle/Joxer, Gabrielle/Virgil, Gabrielle/any dude. Xena/Borias in terms of canon relationships.

character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another):

Najara!!!! I absolutely adored her in her first episode, she's an amazing foil to Xena. She would've been a perfect recurring villain after Callisto, with her moral ambiguity, her deliberate choice to kill vs Xena's bloodlust, her more grandiose ideals vs Xena's more do good when its in front of you philosophy, etc.

Then her second episode just eviscerates her character and turns her into a caricature of a ~crazy girl~ and it's awful. The actress probably wasn't available for a recurring role, but like, she could've been written off more respectfully, or never given a second episode at all to assassinate her character. Boo.

favourite friendship:

Gabrielle and Aphrodite, I think. They're very cute together. Though shout out to Gabrielle and Ephiny, since I did find it quite touching to see her again in season 6.

character I want to adopt or be adopted by:

None, I don't really think of characters this way.

ask meme

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 36 - Resurface

Story to date in order (Tumblr / AO3)

Previous chapter

A kind of a build-up chapter for Virgil, because he’s decided to be brave and face something but that comes at a cost because I am incapable of letting them be fixed first time around. I also had to apply some very very minor whump to Scott just because it amuses me so to do and he was RIGHT THERE being a doofus and asking for it.

Hesitating to put this one out because there is so much good fic that’s appeared over the last week and I haven’t read it all yet but… I think if I don’t get this one out of draft mode I’m never going to properly focus on the finale chapter and I really need to get that done so I can finally post the art a fabulous someone did for me four months ago when I last thought I was nearly finished 🫣😬🙄

SO… here we go…

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

Virgil’s studio was recessed into the cliff which meant it was protected from the elements. It was accessible only via his bedroom and a key coded door meant it was protected…ish from marauding younger brothers.

Although a huge picture window dominated one wall, very useful for those sky paintings, this could and often would be shuttered at the press of the button, transforming the room into a haven over which he had unfettered dominion.

Advanced atmospheric regulation meant he could ensure the air it wasn’t too arid for sculpting or too damp to allow a painting to dry. An objectively impressive array of light fixtures popped out at various levels, the angle and tone of each completely customisable at the flick of a slider (or twelve) on his tablet, meant he had absolute control of what bounced off his surroundings into his eyeballs. And the sound system…

Well.

What would be the point of a soundproof room if you couldn’t occasionally crank it up to symphony orchestra brass section volume. Virgil had played the French horn in high school and fully appreciated the sensation of his ribcage vibrating when the trombones sat behind him got into their groove.

He was safe here.

And yet, he couldn’t settle. Everything felt, off. Scratchy. As if sand had got into a sensitive mechanism and no amount of oil would flush it out again.

Virgil tucked the sketchbook under his arm and got up to adjust the brightness of the overhead spots down a little and nudged the temperature control up another increment. He’d been fiddling with it all morning but couldn’t quite find the precise balance he needed. Turning his back on the easel stool, he sat down heavily on the couch, removed a pencil from behind his ear and glared at the page.

He’d thought it might be a good idea to sketch out a few anatomical poses to build the detail on top of… to save Scott having to hang around while he got the basics done. Despite having shut himself in here all morning, he’d barely got beyond sketching a vaguely humanoid shape. Perhaps he’d got a little more fixated on the angle of an arm than strictly necessary… in fact he’d roughed it out in so many positions his graphite brother was giving off distinctly octopoid vibes.

The real one had been popping in and out all morning, providing coffee and snacks and unspoken reassurance but now was Here and Getting Ready and Virgil was also supposed to be Ready do some Healing. Find Some Closure. Desensitisation. All that healthy stuff. He tried to ignore the creeping doubt as to whether he was, or would ever, in fact, be ready to…

“Can I make a suggestion?”

He jumped a little and dropped his pencil as Scott called out from behind Virgil’s bedroom door. He put the book to one side and crawled under his chair to locate it.

“Virg?” The door opened and he could imagine Scott peering around it, with all the darkness creeping up his neck and around his throat… his heart raced and his breath escaped in a tiny squeak.

Uuuuh… he wasn’t ready. Not ready at all. Maybe he never would be. Maybe this was… maybe he was just…

“Virgil, are you alright?”

Realising he’d frozen with his upper body wedged under the couch and that Scott was inevitably now aiming the Concerned Eyebrows at his behind, Virgil forced out an airy “All good, I just dropped my… my… err…” he huffed a fake laugh to cover up the gap. Stifled the panicky breathing… the word had gone. Just gone. He spread his fingers out, feeling the grain of the wood beneath him, sanded almost-but-not-quite smooth, and focussed on drowning out the whistle in his ears with an inane little tune Gordon was humming earlier. This was transient…

“Pen. I mean pencil. Pencil!!”

The floorboards vibrated a little as knees slid into view just beside him. Navy blue knees. No, not navy. Shade 1620 “Airforce Blue” - he had a tube of it on the easel. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hex 00308F. Several paint tubes, just in case. And some inks. Zero zero three zero eight eff. Navy blue was 000080. The three and the F somehow changed everything.

A hand on his shoulder, unnaturally tentative as they all still were around him. Still. He scrunched his eyes still tighter and tried not to let it bother him, he wasn’t the type to be bitter about being ‘Poor Fragile Virgil best-not-surprise-him-lest-he-freak-out-and-see-things-again…’ ok, he was still a little bitter perhaps. And being not very kind to himself either. He’d tell Scott off for that.

Scott…

He pressed his fingertips into the floor just enough to stop them shaking, just enough to hurt. As his neck and shoulders tensed in sympathy he felt his brother’s arms curl around him, holding him steady, keeping him from bumping his head on the wooden frame. Holding him steady, keeping him from sinking through the floor into who knew where… he dragged in a breath, cursing his vocal chords for the little whine that caused.

“I’m here. What do you need?”

“Pencil.”

The harmonic skitter of light wood rolling over heavy before the pencil was nudged up close to his hand and he grasped it like a lifeline.

He couldn’t open his eyes, not yet. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to trust what he saw if he did.

He could feel Scott breathe, the weight of his arm. He could hear the repeated “It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Yet both those senses had betrayed him before too. Only one had not. It had never lied to him, but, quiet and unshowy, it was easier to ignore if the others told him a better story.

Right now, the impersonal fog of the dry cleaning spray Grandma had used almost overwhelmed him. It was a white noise.

A grey noise?

He reached past the grey for something familiar, something safe - something to prove this wasn’t hollow. There was the ever-present scent of coffee on his brother’s breath and the subtle hint of super-shiny gel… no, he corrected himself, he’d upgraded to the pricier ‘sublime shiny’ recently… which he swore was better despite Virgil pointing out the identical ingredients, smell and, even taste… alright he might have taken the debate a little too far but when Scott had poked his tongue out at him Virgil hadn’t been able to resist giving him a sample. For science’s sake.

The look on his brother’s face had been spectacular.

He chuckled and a little of the dread melted away.

He still needed to sneak some down to Brains’ lab to run a chemical analysis actually…

“Virg? You with me, short stu…OOOFFF”

Scott had clearly ducked his head under the couch to try to see what was going on and the resulting clunk demonstrating he’d immediately forgotten that he’d done so vibrated through Virgil’s teeth.

“Scott! Your head!”

“Is fine. Thick skull, remember?”

“The thickest.” Eyes still resolutely closed, Virgil assessed his tone. It was light, but not the too-light tone Scott adopted when trying to conceal an actual injury from a brother… There was more than a hint of worry, obviously, which Virgil needed to Do Something About because he was painfully aware it was him causing it.

“Virgil, are you ok? What do you need?”

“I’m ok. I… yeah. I’m good.” He was. He could do this.

“Alright.” The audible skepticism was perhaps justified but Scott had clearly decided to let him call the shots today.

“I’m not criticising your process here but would it be easier to do the arting somewhere other than under the couch.”

Virgil grunted, which was frankly all the response the question deserved. Then, eyes tight shut he shuffled backwards. The sensitive skin just below the edge of his little finger brushed against Scott’s leg and he shivered as he recognised the fabric. Polywool. Strong but soft. Permanent military creases. More capable of withstanding a worried brother knee-sliding across a wooden floor than the string of ludicrously expensive but patently unScott-proof suit pants that the CEO wore to TI meetings and managed to destroy on a regular basis. But not robust enough for any kind of action. This was dress uniform. Just for show. He’d never have got in a jet wearing it.

But without it he’d never have got in that jet…

The voice of dread in his heart hissed at him. Virgil tried to squash it, but the edges were sharp and tried to steal his breath. He could feel his pulse begin to race again, echoing back through the thumb-tips he had pressed so firmly into the floor. No, that wouldn’t work. He knew this. He knew how to deal with this now. The hand on his shoulder tightened infinitesimally, lending him strength. So, he forced himself to take a slower breath and let himself acknowledge the thought. It was a logical fallacy, he knew that, but as the counsellor had advised he resisted the temptation to be angry with himself for thinking it. He could see where it came from. It wasn’t unreasonable or stupid for his subconscious to reach for something, anything to blame. It just wasn’t helpful. It wasn’t true.

What was true?

He’d come back. Scott had come back. He was here right now, humming Mom’s song as he rested his head on top of Virgil’s and stroked his arm.

Virgil opened his eyes. Brown floor. Black pencil. 1620... Scott’s legs. He raised his head a little, braced for the darkness…

Light blue?

Light blue shirt? Airforce shirt, yes, but not what he was expecting.

Scott interpreted his frown of confusion before he realised he’d formed it.

“I was going to suggest maybe I don’t wear the jacket just yet? I could, I dunno, just hold it or something. Till you’re used to it?”

Virgil realised he wasn’t blinking enough and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets for a moment.

“Right. I… yes. I’m sorry I…” he huffed irritably “This is so ridiculous.”

“No it isn’t.” Scott squeezed his shoulder again. “And you told me not to say things like that.”

Virgil swallowed the impulse to point out that for Scott it was different. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t so different. In the absence of anything constructive to say he removed his hands from his face and made an attempt at a reassuring smile. It was going quite well until his eye was caught by a rush of movement as the hastily slung jacket slithered off the back of a chair and curled into a pile of darkness on the floor. He averted his eyes and returned his attention to his brother’s face.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Here, Virgil drew a blank. Beyond his request to paint Scott wearing the dreaded dress uniform, he was surprisingly unsure about what he wanted to do. He hadn’t got much past the idea to get himself, Scott and The Uniform in the same room and not go mad.

As the heap of fabric continued to noisily suck all the light from the room, he wasn’t sure the latter part was going as planned.

“I don’t… I don’t actually err…” he tailed off but the point had been conveyed.

Scott hummed again, but not in a musical way this time. That was the ‘IR-Commander-is-formulating-a-plan’ hmmmmm.

“We have all day... no need to rush anything. Do you want to go outside for a bit? It’s really nice out there?”

Outside was Scott’s go-to fix. If things were difficult, he did better in the open air… or at least somewhere with a clear view of the sky. Virgil suspected he knew why and tried not to think about that too much. What he did know was that it was when his brother tucked himself away - when he found a hidey hole, enclosed and dark - well that was when little brother’s alarm bell needed to ring. Outside was good.

Yet, Virgil knew Scott hadn’t suggested it for his own benefit this time. It wasn’t for the air but for the sun.

Virgil’s comfort instinct was more towards warmth. The flannel wasn’t purely a fashion choice after all. It didn’t matter where he was - snuggled in bed, melting his face off in the sauna, taking an excessively long hot shower, hibernating on a sun lounger - it was all good as long as the goosebumps were kept at bay. Gordon had long ago given up trying to persuade him to lower the cabin temperature of Two. If Virgil’s skin was warm and relaxed he had at least a chance of thinking clearly about everything else.

Outside in the sunshine sounded good. It had a decent chance of being better than here anyway, in the bowels of the earth where the darkness was closing in and an icy draft scraped across his face.

So Virgil nodded and allowed his big brother to steer him towards the doorway. Where he stood helplessly for a few moments as he realised the hand with which he’d reached for the handle was a white knuckled fist clutching a pencil for dear life… and he didn’t quite seem to know how to put it down. He shivered again.

Scott rushed around behind him, chattering away and collecting whoknewwhat, then took charge of the door-opening and, taking a firm grip on Virgil’s pencil-free hand, towed him up the stairs and out into the daylight.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

[snowdice]

Little Kestrel (Epilogue) [Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb, sexual coercion of minors implied, a minor offering sexual favors, fire, minor character death

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted (and possibly some future content), look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6Part 7Part 8Part 9Part 10Part 11Part 12Part 13Part 14Part 15Part 16Part 17Part 18Part 19Part 20Part 21Part 22Part 23Part 24Part 25Part 26Part 27Part 28Part 29Part 30Part 31Part 32Part 33Part 34Part 35Part 36Part 37Part 38Part 39Part 40Part 41Part 42Part 43Part 44Part 45Part 46Part 47Part 48Part 49Part 50Part 51Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59

“Do you think they’ll light your trees on fire this year?” an amused (but slightly concerned) voice asked from behind Jeffers. Jeffers ran a finger over the empty thumb of his slightly dirty gardening gloves while watching the two boys. They were currently leaning over an unlit lantern and various “supplies.” In truth, he’d stopped his own work to watch the two boys out of the very concern the king had just vocalized.

“Virgil helped me fertilize that tree a week ago,” Jeffers replied. “So, I would hope he exercises some caution.”

“Virgil likes fire though,” Thomas pointed out.

Jeffers sighed. “That he does.” He tilted his head towards Thomas. “You did confiscate the fire knife again after last week, yes?”

“I did,” Thomas confirmed, “but that means very little. Even burying that thing with a corpse did not dissuade him.”

As he spoke, a sudden spark of light flew from where the boys were working. A whining sound and then pop sounded as the spark exploded into 10 pieces, raining down colorful light. Luckily, the sparks burned up before hitting the ground (or the tree).

“Boys, if you set anything on fire, you will be grounded from the festival,” Thomas called in a booming voice. Both boys jumped. Jeffers imagined Logan hadn’t even known he was there. (Virgil certainly had, but he’d still jumped. “For the second year in a row in Logan’s case.”

“They’re not flammable!” was the claim from Logan.

“I don’t believe you,” Thomas called back.

The boys ignored this, turning back to their experiment.

“We should have kept them grounded,” Thomas muttered.

Despite Thomas’s original decision to ground Patton and Logan until their 50s (and Helen’s push to keep them grounded until Thomas, Helen, and Jeffers himself were all dead and couldn’t enforce it anymore), the boys had only been truly grounded for two months after Thomas had found out the truth of Virgil’s origins. (Though there were still jokes they were still technically grounded.) That did, however, mean that Patton and Logan had been grounded from most of the Lantern Festival the year before.

Logan, at least, seemed to be trying to make up for lost time this year (explosively). Jeffers did worry about where Patton was slightly, but honestly Patton without Logan or Virgil tended to be much less destructive in his hijinx. The worst he was probably doing was stealing sweets out from under Helen’s nose. Which was why both Jeffers and Thomas were currently here watching these two.

There were more sparks from the boy’s experiment. The grass caught fire at their feet. Virgil hastily stomped it out.

“I’ll watch them if you want to get food to bribe Virgil away,” Jeffers offered.

Thomas shook his head. “No need,” he said, and began walking towards them. “I thought you said that was ‘not flammable,’” he called as he walked towards them.

“Well, they’re technically not,” was Logan’s reply. “…The grass is though.”

Jeffers rolled his eyes for the benefit of no one as he turned away. He decided he was going to go get food to bribe Virgil away from destruction.

Since it was spring, he didn’t have as much food readily available, but he did already have a small crop of a new breed of radishes he could harvest to taste test. The vegetable garden was a good walk away, but he figured Thomas would be good enough supervision for the moment.

~~~

“Give,” Thomas demanded upon stopping a couple of feet in front of the children. Logan frowned but packed up and handed him the travel sized potion set without argument. (Thomas regretted giving that thing to him. Yes, it had made logical sense after the attempted poisoning. No, it had never been used for anything as practical as an antidote.) Thomas turned to Virgil. “You too,” he said. “Give.”

“I don’t have anything,” Virgil said with no hint of deception in his expression. Which, of course, meant he was lying to Thomas’s face.

“Nuh uh,” Thomas said. “Give it.”

They had a staring contest for a few moments before Virgil finally sighed. To Thomas’s surprise, he did not take out the fire knife. Instead, Virgil reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of what looked like rocks. He put them in Thomas’s outstretched hand.

Thomas had no idea what they were by sight, but considering the theme of their lantern decoration attempts (that is explosives and fire) he could hazard a guess.

“Am I holding explosives in my hand?” Thomas asked.

“They won’t explode unless they come into contact with vinegar,” Logan said.

“So, they are explosive,” Thomas said. “Just not currently active ones.”

“…I suppose,” Logan said.

Thomas opened Logan’s potion kit to get one of its sterile empty containers and put the explosive rocks into it. Then, he zipped the potion kit back up, with a mental note to himself to make sure to take the explosive rocks out of it before giving it back. He pointed at the lantern on the ground. “Paint it like normal people, please.”

Virgil leaned over towards Logan and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “King of Boring more like.”

“I can hear you,” Thomas pointed out, but Virgil, of course, had intended to be heard.

He grinned up innocently in response and Thomas just shook his head before lowering himself to the ground next to the scorched patch of grass.

In addition to their nontraditional decorating supplies, they did also have the usual supply of paints, ribbons, and colorful pieces of paper with them. They brought these out now and began work on making a few more lanterns to decorate. (As Logan and Virgil had only bothered to make one and it was now scorched on the inside.)

Patton and Helen arrived as they were finishing setting up their 6th (unburnt) lantern. The fact that Helen was not in the kitchen must mean all of the food for the festivities was officially finished and likely being handed out by other members of the staff. She’d been working almost nonstop for the past week to make sure everything was ready.

Both of them were carrying a basket full of enough food to provide snacks and dinner for their group for the rest of the night.

Most people did not go back inside during the Lantern Festival from midafternoon until all of the lanterns had been released into the night sky and disappeared, so, they had to have food for the entire night. Most of the food Helen had prepared was traditional for the festival (though there was a nonzero chance Helen had slipped some chicken alfredo into one of the baskets.)

Virgil had gotten to try a lot of the traditional dishes last year, but Thomas still couldn’t help but smile thinking about all of the sweet breads and meat stuffed pies the boy was going to shove into his face tonight.

One of Thomas’s personal favorites was a soft muffin-like pastry. When broken apart, a golden filling reminiscent of the lit lanterns was revealed. The dessert was usually eaten a bit before the lanterns were released and was shared between two people. Thomas had shared the treat with Virgil the year before and the boy had been entranced by the sparkling filling.

It had been a nice moment, one where Virgil’s leeriness towards him (that had never quite gone away after Thomas knew about his past) had faded for a moment, and the boy had just been a 14-year-old. It had warmed Thomas’ heart to see it.

God, but in those moments when his walls dropped, did he always remind Thomas of Aedan.

Now, Virgil was 15, and while Thomas could always see traces of his past in the ways he acted sometimes, things were better now. Thomas saw more of those moments where Virgil felt safe every day.

Like right now, when Logan pulled out a book detailing common Lantern Festival symbols and their meanings, Virgil only took a moment to glance at their surroundings with a cautious eye before bending over the book to take a closer look.

He had gotten much better at reading after Thomas got him a real tutor, but he still mouthed a few of the words to himself as he read the page.

He seemed to make a decision about one of his drawings because he sat back and grabbed some of the paints. Patton spoke happily to him, complimenting his color choices enthusiastically for “that one.”

Jeffers returned from wherever he’d gone off to a few minutes later. He’d brought himself a chair from his shed to sit on instead of sitting on the ground with the rest of them. Despite all the active work he did in the gardens all day, apparently sitting on the ground hurt his back.

He’d also brought a handful of something which he slipped to Virgil.

“Are these the new radishes?” Virgil asked, a hint of excitement to his tone.

Jeffers grunted an affirmation. “Thought you could be the first to try them.”

Virgil was more than happy to do so of course. (It was food, and it was gardening.) Thomas watched him chew happily; his eyes were brighter than the lanterns they would release in a few hours.

He was unsurprised when, amongst the traditional painted symbols representing safety, family, and home, a radish also appeared on Virgil’s lantern that night.

Perhaps it was a strange thing to put on a lantern symbolizing your wishes for the next year, but when the golden lantern floated into the sky hours later, Thomas thought it was perfect.

~~~

Thanks for reading and to everyone who voted and interacted as I live wrote this story over the past few years! Don't forget to check out the Little Kestrel Stats Page to see how your votes affected the end of the story. (There were 27 possible endings!)

If you'd like to impact my writing in the future, watch the Study Break Stories Tag. I hope to be returning to Folds in Paper before the end of the year.

For more in the Birds of Different Feathers Series, see my Birds of Different Feathers Master Post.

For more from me, see my Masterpost.

Thanks!

[johaerys-writes]

Do you think Patroclus is Homer's self-insert OC? No but for real, the Iliad is like Avengers Endgame level universe crossover of Greek mythology. Why isn't Pat in more stuff?

Lol!!! Patroclus as Homer's self insert is so funny actually, like yeah who DOESN'T want to be the underdog that somehow manages to very dramatically steal the show and change the course of an entire war 🤣 mary sue behaviour right there

I have often wondered why Patroclus isn't in more things myself. Like most of the heroes in the Iliad come from myths even older than the Iliad, and their lore just kept expanding after the Iliad was composed. Like you have SO much stuff about Achilles and Agamemnon and others, not to mention Odysseus; you have extensive Iliad fanfic about the most minor Trojan characters imaginable (looking at you Virgil); you have all those later myths that have the main heroes' offspring doing things and going on adventures and killing/maiming people....... but nothing about Patroclus. Zilch. Nada. And it's just so bizarre to me. Like Patroclus is an awesome character if you think about it. He was probably invented only for the purpose of shifting the narrative of the Iliad, of bringing about Achilles' grief and rage because Achilles' death has to be as dramatic and intense as possible, but I don't think that's reason enough to not include him in any other myths.

An answer to this could be that there are a lot of myths and stories that simply didn't stand the test of time. Like we know for a fact that Patroclus makes an appearance in some ancient greek tragedies, but the fragments remaining do not have any of his lines, or we only have the summaries of those plays by later authors who didn’t go into too much detail about his role in the plays. Another answer could be that Patroclus' existence as a character is very closely tied to Achilles', but whenever Achilles appears in a myth or play or story, he tends to eclipse every other character and draw the attention on himself. So the people who later preserved those stories in writing simply didn't bother to include Patroclus. But that also bears the question: why didn't Patroclus capture the people's imagination more, the way Menelaus or Nestor or even Neoptolemus do? I really don't know. If anyone has a better answer than this, I'd love to hear it.

Thank you so much for this ask!

[alexthefly]

Snakes on a Thunderbird

For @godsliltippy for TAG MiniBang 2023 (@tagminibang)

Inspired by this adorable piece of Fishtank art here. (@tippystreasurebox)

Trigger warning for snakes. Also brief mention of animal neglect, plus some minor whump and peril.

As Virgil went through his post-flight checks, Gordon twisted and revelled in the several satisfying pops his back made. 

“Oh god, that is so much better! Want me to crack yours for ya, Virg?”

There was a grumble of disapproval from his right. 

“I’ll pass thanks. Hearing yours was an experience in itself. In fact…” 

His brother reached over and snagged the small metal box Gordon had been carrying on his lap. 

“...perhaps I’d better take that before you do yourself any more damage.”

Gordon rolled his eyes and snatched the box back with perhaps just a little too much snap.

“Right Virgil(!) ‘Cos hauling passengers and crates off of a sinking ship was fine, but this last hundred yards to the rescue centre is where things gets really tricky(!)”

The rescue hadn’t really been all that bad physically. The crates in question had been lighter than expected, though that was because apparently properly feeding the various animals inside had clearly not been much of a priority for the smugglers on board; about as high as safety and ship maintenance had been. And although Gordon’s back was definitely starting to twinge a bit now, he’d have been a lot happier to be a lot achier if it meant those poor creatures had been treated right.

Well, whatever. He’d stayed professional. …Mostly. That Johnny hadn’t mentioned his little brother's prolonged blue streak ricocheting over the comms was likely a sign that he’d felt the same way.

The fact the GDF were already briefed and waiting with an arrest warrant the second they’d touched down was probably another one.

A yellow light broke through his thoughts and dragged him back to the present. He batted the medi-scan away with a grunt.

“Would you quit it, Virg? I’m fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Gordon opened his mouth, ready to deliver a witty yet devastating retort, but then thought wiser of it. Better to just let the big guy get it all out of his system. He'd only worry otherwise, and a worried Virgil was a pain in the backside, especially with the flight home and debrief to get through. He closed his mouth and submitted to the inevitable with a huff.

Virgil for his part stayed quiet too as he completed the scan; once it was done, he continued to look Gordon over with the practised eye of both a medic and a big brother.

“Well, Doctor Virgil? Are you done? Can we go now?”

Another moment of scrutiny. Then: 

“You know today was a good day, right?”

Dammit. The big green angst-detector strikes again.

Gordon really didn’t want to talk about it now.

“Whatever you say, bro.”

“I mean it,” Virgil insisted. “You’ve said it yourself - this shelter is the best. They've got the facilities and the expertise; they’ll take good care of all these guys, big and small. And the GDF will make sure the people that did this get what's coming to them."

“Uh-huh.”

"Gordy, the good guys won. Take the win.”

Honestly it didn’t feel like a win. Not even a tiny one. The memory of all those sad little eyes was too raw. It was going to take a lot for it to fade into the background, and he just didn't have the energy right now. All he wanted was to get everything unloaded, go home, swim ‘til he couldn't think anymore and then crawl into bed and sleep for 12 hours.

"Virg, could we please do the pep talk another time? The shelter staff are waiting for us."

A little frown appeared on his brother's brow, but he sighed and nodded.

"Are they all okay in there?” Virgil asked instead, nodding at the box balancing on Gordon’s dashboard. 

It was an obvious change of subject, but a welcome one. Gordon gave the portable incubator a protective little pat.

“Should be. I candled them earlier and they look good. Not pipped yet, but I think it should be soon.”

He blinked as a sudden thought occurred.

“Actually," he said as he opened the incubator lid and retrieved the covered tray inside, "I’m just gonna check they’ve not been turned mid-flight. I’ve been holding them steady the whole way over, but you never know.”

“I thought you were supposed to turn eggs?” said Virgil with a hint of confusion. He leaned across to watch what Gordon was doing. "Grandpa said it stopped the embryo getting stuck."

“That’s for birds. Snakes are different. All the little veins and stuff are fragile; you flip the egg, the umbilical cord tears away and they die.” 

Gordon gingerly lifted the lid and peered inside. 

"Of course, these guys are almost ready to hatch so I don’t know how much of that appli-”

But the rest of his thought died on his tongue as he lifted the lid and took a look inside.

A beat.

“What?”

“Erm, not sure. Hang on a sec…” Gordon gently slid the eggs to one side of the tray and running his gloved hands very carefully in the sandy substrate below.

"Where are you?" he muttered softly.

"Where's what?" Virgil quickly jumped to his feet, unease radiating from every pore.

"One of the eggs must have hatched in transit," explained Gordon, still rifling through the soft gravel, looking for any flash of movement. "Once the shell breaks they usually take a few hours to come out, but I guess with all the jiggling…"

"Okay, so presumably there should be a snake in there then. Where’s the snake, Gordon?!"

Gordon kept digging, slightly more urgently. 

"Some snakes bury themselves down into the substrate after hatching - it’s a kinda protection thing. They wait there for their first shed, then they come out looking for food."

Virgil reached out gingerly over Gordon's shoulder and picked up the soft and clearly empty egg shell, complete with a neat split down the middle. He held it softly in his hands, turning it over and over as if he might find the wayward snake still clinging to it somewhere.

"Exactly what sort of snakes are these, Gordy?" he asked slowly, deliberately.

"Umm…”

“Gordon!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a snake expert, and you can only tell so much from just the eggshell anyway.” 

He set the tray onto the dashboard and started checking inside the incubator itself, just in case. He could feel heat starting to rise across his cheeks.

“Gords, could it be… poisonous?”

Gordon swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth.

“I don’t know.”

There was a moment of horrible silence as those words sunk in. Of course, the chances of the snake being venomous were slim - only about 10-15% of known species were after all - and in any event their uniforms were designed to withstand pretty much anything, but there was still that tiny sliver of doubt in his mind. Was Brains far-sighted enough to have considered snake fangs as a variable during the testing phase?

Virgil took a step back, eyes darting everywhere, and tapped his wrist controller. 

“I’m not picking anything up. John? Any chance you could run a sweep of the cockpit for… uh… unusual heat signatures?”

“Unusual?” 

John’s projected image leapt out of the dashboard holo’ right in front of Gordon’s face, causing him to almost fall off his chair. 

“What sort of unusual?”

Virgil cleared his throat in a far-too-obviously guilty way. 

“We’ve kind of… misplaced something.”

“O-kaaay… What sort of something?”

Gordon opened his mouth to say… Actually he wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but in any case Virgil got there first.

“Can you just do it please, John?” he asked, brow furrowed. "Now?"

The look John shot them both could have stripped paint, but he turned away and started swiping.

“No unusual readings found,” he said after a few seconds. "Perhaps if I knew what I was looking for…”

Gordon caught Virgil’s eye. Despite his obvious concern about the situation, the big chonk was clearly still trying to cover for him. 

He really was the softest marshmallow.

But as touched as he was, right now the most important thing wasn't avoiding blame; it was finding the snake before anyone got hurt, including the creature itself. There would be time to wriggle out of Scott and John’s inevitable lecture later.

“The signal’s likely very subtle,” he said, drawing John's attention. “He’s cold-blooded, so his core temperature’s gonna be mirroring the immediate environment. Look at components a little below body temperature and check for tiny, unexplained fluctuations.”

“Cold-bl… You lost a reptile?!”

“A snake,” clarified Virgil.

There was a moment while John processed this new information, then he closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose. 

“Of course it's a snake(!)” He sighed. “EOS? Did you catch all that?”

EOS’s voice rang through clear over the comms. “Yes, John. Checking now…”

“In the meantime,” said John, “I suggest you put your helmets back on, just to be safe. The less exposed skin you two have the better.”

The brothers nodded. 

Gordon set the incubator down and grabbed his helmet from the dash in front of him, just as EOS brought up a schematic of the cockpit onto the screen in front of him.

“There’s a slight irregularity in temperature around the co-pilot’s control panel, but it’s too indistinct to pin down to a specific component.”

Gordon’s eyes darted all over the dashboard in front of him. 

Where?

Scrabbling to push his chair back and get his helmet on, he vaguely heard Virgil say something about lifting the main cover off the console before he was suddenly distracted by a sharp, stabbing pain in his right cheek, just above the jaw.

“Yeow!”

Virgil was by his side immediately, mediscanner in hand. “What?! What is it?”

Gordon remained in his chair, sitting stock still.

"Don’ scan.”

"What?"

"Don' scan. Th' noise'll scare 'im."

Virgil's eyes went wide.

"Where is it?" he whispered, looking him up and down.

“I’z on m’ face."

“What?!?”

“On. M’. Face. W’z inside th’ helmet.”

Virgil and John exchanged a panicked look.

…Yep.

By rights, Gordon should have been scared. After all, there was a chance he could die here; the little danger-noodle might be pumping deadly venom into him by the second. But surprisingly he wasn’t overly worried about that possibility just now. In fact he felt strangely calm and clear-headed. What was done was done after all, and the priority now was to a) not do anything to make the snake strike again (him or Virgil); and b) get it secured.

“Ah’m gonna slowly r’move th’ helmet," he mumbled, trying not to move his mouth too much. "When y’ see ‘im, grab ‘im c’refully b’hind th’ head an’ unhook ‘im.”

Keeping his head stock still, he looked sidelong at his big brother to check he’d understood. Poor Virg looked pale, but he nodded and shifted into position in front of him, mouth set in a grim line. Behind him, John's face was a picture of worry.

“R'dy?” Gordon asked. 

Virgil nodded, hands poised.

He gave a little blink in lieu of a smile. “Okay."

Deep breath.

"One. Two. ‘Hree.”

And slowly he took off his helmet.

Virgil reached forwards and closed his hand next to his face. Gordon's skin pulled painfully for a moment, then released, leaving a sharp echo across his cheek.  

He exhaled in a big whoosh that seemed to come from his very soul, and raised his eyes to finally look on the thing that had bitten him.

“Scanning for a species match now,” said John urgently as Virgil stepped back, holding the offending creature out at arm’s length. “Cross-matching size, markings and-”

“It’s a Children’s Python!”

“A what?” Virgil asked roughly.

John took a massive breath in. “Oh thank god! Are you sure?”

“Certain,” replied Gordon, finding his feet and bouncing over to look a bit closer, all concern for his safety gone. “We had one as a class pet in 5th grade. Native to Northern Australia. Fantastic pets.”

“I can confirm the identification, John” said EOS. “The species is non-venomous.”

All the remaining colour drained from Virgil's face. He lowered himself down shakily into his chair, arm still outstretched. “Well in that case would someone please come and take this thing out of my hand before I have a heart attack?”

“Oops! Yep, give me one second…” 

Gordon grabbed the tray of eggs and fished out a roll of electrical tape from one of his console drawers. 

“This should keep the lid secure until we can get him into the shelter, at least.”

Gordon reached out and gently took hold of the little snake, who had stopped thrashing around and instead seemed content to curl its body gently around his hand. He took a second to admire its beautiful mottled markings in light and dark brown, and the gentle undulation of muscles pulsing as it moved.

"Hey, little guy."

The tiny snake flicked its tongue at him, tasting the air.

Slowly, gently, Gordon encouraged the snake back in the tray, extracted his hand, and then put the lid on and taped it down.

As soon as the tray was closed, John seemed to deflate like he was the one who’d been punctured.

“Please, for the love of god, don’t ever scare me like that again, okay guys? My cortisol levels can't take it."

"Take it easy John," soothed Virgil as he stumbled over to examine Gordon's cheek. "You sit back and have a float and we'll finish up here." 

He took Gordon by the chin and turned his face to the side. 

"...C'mon Blofeld, let's get you cleaned up."

…

Fifteen minutes later and sporting a natty Baby Shark band-aid on his cheek, Gordon skipped across the animal shelter car park towards the front desk. Alongside him, Virgil carried the now-definitely-sealed incubator. (Gordon had argued it was his privilege as 'the walking wounded’ not to have to carry stuff. Virgil had just rolled his eyes and agreed, muttering something about checking for himself to ensure no more 'jailbreaks'.)

Behind them, a dozen or so vets and other volunteers were unloading the various other crates of animals from Two's hold, checking them over and directing them to their respective enclosures.

Gordon grinned.

"Feeling better now?" asked Virgil, quirking a smile in reply.

He was, in more ways than one. Somehow, staring into the face of that tiny serpent had made him feel a lot more positive about everything. Nature really was amazing. If a baby creature, just out of its egg, could survive and protect itself in a hostile environment like that little one had today, then with a little bit of care he was sure the other animals they'd rescued would as well.

Life was good. He had his health, he had his family, and they’d done good today. 

Suddenly overcome with happiness, he couldn’t help doing a little jumping air punch, earning a low chuckle from his left.

"You were right, Virg. Today really was a win.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow at him. "Not sure I'd quite describe it that way, but if you say so. You did still set a snake loose in my ‘bird, though.”

“Hey, don't blame me! I'm as much a victim as you are. Little Hissy Houdini's a force all of his own.”

A pause. “You named him?”

“Yep! Kinda fitting, don’t you think?”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. 

"You’re not keeping him.”

Gordon gasped dramatically. 

“Virgil Tracy, I am shocked! I would never-”

“Sully the Gully, Puppy Longstocking, Razorbill Bob, the Swift Family Robinson…”

“...again. Never again.”

“Well that’s just as well then, because I don’t think Scott would appreciate finding this little escapologist in his sock drawer, do you?"

As Gordon contemplated all of the delicious trickster-y possibilities that that image brought up, he stretched and gave his back another series of cracks.

Virgil regarded him coolly. "You sound like a goddamn popcorn maker," he grumbled. "Speaking of, I wonder if the others'd be up for a movie night tonight? I feel like we've earned a bit of down time."

"Sounds good to me," said Gordon, flinging an arm around the big man's shoulders. "And I have the perfect one in mind… You like Samuel L Jackson films, right?"

[edutainer2022]

This turned out sadder, than I expected. Oh well... Virgil gets to contemplate Renaissance art as Scott finds a baby in the earthquake debris. John makes a brief, bit meaningful appearance. There be angst and melancholy, and lots of Earth and Sky love.

CW: mention of earthquake and destruction; mention of a minor character death in an earthquake

BABY BLUES

Their tech would undoubtedly blur the image for security purposes, but Virgil made a point to commit the sight to memory. It didn't get more awe-inspiring or symbolic than a figure in blue, ascending into the air from the smoking pile of rubble and ashes, a small bundle cradled in a sure arm, against the backdrop of a cloudless sky, the blazing sun providing a natural halo around the stunning visage. It made Virgil think back to the stained glass windows and frescoes he got see for the first time in Rome, dragging his grumpy brothers around and pulling every favor and blackmail chip to see more of what Renaissance had to offer to an aspiring artist.

Scott landed next to Virgil, killing the jetpack, and the bundle in his arms made its presence known with a wail, breaking the spell. A baby! The sole survivor, apparently, of that building collapse in an earthquake. A baby boy, to be precise. He made it, thanks to his mother throwing herself over the crib. The crashed ceiling didn't leave her any chance. Rendered quiet in the face of an abject tragedy, that hit them all close to home, Virgil concentrated on assessing the baby for possible injuries and smoke inhalation. That was a bit of a problem as Scott was yet to relinquish the hold of the child. Parallel to Virgil's ministrations he knew John or Eos would be already running the database checks for any relatives, hopefully a father or grandparents. The first sweep came up empty fairly quickly - the owner of the demolished house was never married nor had any close relatives listed. The baby boy's birth certificate registered no information on the father, but did give them a name - Jeffrey. Jeff. Talk about symbolism.

Miraculously, the medscan flashed nothing more aggravating than yellow - baby Jeffrey escaped the ordeal relatively unscathed. Still, they had to get the child to Two's infirmary and then to a nearest hospital STAT. Babies were extremely fragile, especially in a danger zone like this. Virgil reached to transfer the now somewhat quietened baby to his hold, but, to his surprise Scott wouldn't let go. He shifted the small weight to one arm and with a flick of one hand slaved One to TB2 controls to fly in formation, turning on his heel and marching to the green bird, a baffled Virgil in tow.

Virgil busied himself with fixing a tiniest oxygen cannula on the fussing boy, as Scott materialized once again with a blanket and a bottle of formula, picking the baby up. They kept all kinds of supplies in Two, for all kinds of rescuees, of course, still Virgil found himself pausing in surprise again. Scott waved him away to pilot, his focus completely on the now happily munching little Jeffrey. Virgil turned one more time before leaving for the cockpit, catching Scott features soften and glow the way he only remembered the biggest brother look at a much younger Alan.

Virgil's heart constricted at the weight of everything their brother gave up, was still giving up every minute of every day, to be what they all and the whole world around needed of him. Part of his mind wandered into the forbidden territory of calculating if they could successfully baby-proof the villa. Or maybe not so forbidden? They had the resources and the manpower of responsible adults (well, almost) at home now, right? It takes a village, they say. Well, they did have a small taskforce of people completely dedicated to making sure Scott got every ounce of happiness and fulfillment he deserved, regardless of his take on the matter. It could work. Safely in the cockpit, Virgil pinged John over an isolated channel.

Baby Jeffrey was placed in the pediatric ward for an overnight quarantine and observation. Virgil hung out nearby, as Scott stayed, transfixed, by the huge bay window, overlooking the rows of tiny beds. Two would need to leave soon to pick up Gordon and Alan in their pods - the earthquake mission was almost wrapped up - but there was still time. He certainly didn't want to startle or hurry Scott away. Not now.

A cry down the hospital hallway disrupted the quiet reverie. Both Virgil and Scott turned their heads in the direction of the sound as a young man, not much older than Scott, practically flung himself at the IR Commander and sobbed. Virgil's first instinct was to regroup for danger, but there was no menace in the stranger's fierce hug - only relief, gratitude and sadness. The man couldn't seem to stop weeping on Scott's shoulder, a jumble of frantic thankyous and I'msorries muffled by the IR uniform. The man was baby Jeffrey's father. John was exceptionally good at data analytics and cross-reference. A part of Virgil, he wasn't particularly proud of in that moment, wished he weren't. But it was just as well. They had a huge spat with a then fiancée and broke up - she never got to tell him they were expecting. John examined the data through the late mother's social media and financial records, ran the numbers and identified the man in the neighborhood, thankfully, unaffected by the earthquake. The guy was shaken by the grave news, but extatic to meet his son and adamant to step up. Which he did immediately, rushing to the hospital and pouring out all the emotional turmoil to the leader of IR who saved his baby. Virgil nudged Scott away by the elbow, gently, as Jeffrey's Dad took over the vigil by the ward. Where he belonged.

Gordon reported they were ready for the pick-up, and generally ready to leave that particular disaster behind them, but Virgil still lingered where Two and One were parked in the field. Scott was yet to say anything after they left the hospital and was staring up at the sky. It was the kind of wistful gaze that usually filled Virgil with dread - as if Scott was not all there, missing something up, amidst the endless blue, as opposed to staying on sturdy earth with them. Virgil summoned all the courage he could and ventured to speak first:

- You can have that, you know? - he nodded in the general direction of the hospital, the baby they left behind. Virgil found his conviction strengthen, as he spoke. - You CAN. If you want to, you can start a family. We'll all help!

Any adoption agency would fall over themselves if Scott Tracy as much as blinked their way. And any child could not be luckier to have Scott Tracy for a father. If Virgil ever believed in anything, that was their biggest brother was born to be a Dad. He only wished the biggest brother in question shared that faith.

Scott shook his head slightly, in cadence with some unvoiced thoughts, his eyes not leaving the skies:

- I shouldn't. I should've known better.

Virgil took a sharp breath for a vehement contradiction, but the wrist-com blinked blue - John was inquiring their ETA to the original danger zone.

Scott looked back down on him with a rueful smile, that threw all Virgil's panic stations into red alert:

- Go, pick up the Tinies, Virgie. Go!

For the second time that day he was reminded of the art in Rome, when looking at his brother - the serene bliss and detachment of martyrs and saints, captured in marble.

- Aren't you coming, Scotty? Let's go home. Please! Please!

Virgil found his voice cracking into a plea, small and scared, as his hands moved to clasp, almost spasm, around his brother's. He wasn't above adding the biggest, teary puppy eyes to a litany of begging, in an irrational hope of compelling Scott to follow the cue. If they could just go home now, it would be alright. It will all be alright from there.

Scott returned the gentle squeeze of the hands and shifted his eyes back to the sky:

- It's okay, Virgil. I'll stay at Gran Roca tonight. I need to talk to Mom.

***

Fifty two thousand miles above John mused, not for the first time, that Open Comms was, by far, the best of their protocols - that, and the compatibility of all their crafts with all their properties - as he gave Eos instructions to reposition Five over the family estate and to prepare the space elevator for a trip down. Noone was wallowing and mourning a self-professed lost chance at fatherhood alone tonight.

[ajpendragon]

I know it's the 5th, and not the 7th, but these turned themselves into a story along with number 14, and the two are in the wrong order. So have a little emotional whump to brighten your day.

Radio Silence

Radio Silence. Any rescue coordinator’s worst nightmare. At best, it simply meant your operative was ignoring you. Over the years, John had dealt with enough annoying younger brothers (and occasionally older ones) who were either mad at him, or simply too distracted to answer. Sometimes, it was simply a comm malfunction, which, although stressful, was easily fixed back at home. But today…

Today was the worst-case scenario. 

It shouldn’t have been a hard rescue. As far as disasters went, this one was relatively minor. The collapsing building was the first in the new development, so there was nothing else nearby it could bring down with it, and it was still under construction, so it was relatively empty. 

Virgil and Gordon had been tag-teaming it, alternating getting people out and shoring up the weakest points. The building was going to come down, there was no question about that, but they could delay it until everyone was out. 

“You’re doing great, guys.” John encouraged, eyes darting between life signs, weak points, and his brothers’ vitals. “There’s one more life sign in the southeast corner of the building. Looks like ground level or lower.”

He could see the weight lifting off their shoulders as they wiped dust and sweat from the foreheads. They were both flagging, he could tell, but they would finish the job. Gordon grinned brightly. “I got this, Virgil. Keep my exit open until I come back.” He dashed out of view, his hologram flickering out. 

Virgil sighed heavily. “He’s doing too much, John. He’s going to burn himself out.”

“I know, Virgil. After this, he’s on mandatory downtime for the next week. You both are.”

Virgil shook his head, moving to secure a crumbling beam. “I can keep going.”

“Funny. That’s exactly what Gordon would say. You’re both grounded. You’re way over your flight hours.”

Later, John would blame his lack of focus on bickering with Virgil. Whatever it was, he missed the yellow blip on his screen indicating a major weak point until it turned blaring red. 

“The building’s coming down now!” He shouted. “Get out of there.”

Virgil responded immediately, getting clear fast enough to avoid the debris, but Gordon must have been underground, for all they could hear from his comm was static. 

“Gordon? Gordon!?!” John and Virgil both shouted simultaneously. John’s hands were flying, pulling up images of the building and Gordon’s last known location, as well as any other information he had. “EOS! Get me Gordon’s suit readouts, now!”

“I cannot. Gordon’s suit appears to be malfunctioning or damaged. There is no data transmitting.”

Just then, the rubble shifted, a few last pieces of debris settling down, and the garbled static from Gordon’s comm cut off, leaving something worse…

Silence

[gumnut-logic]

A Sign of Purpose

Okay, this is new fic, but it is weird fic. Since I haven't written for months, I'm going with whatever it is.

So what is it? Well, it reads like the beginning of a new AU. I was reminded of the Soulmate trope today where everyone has a mark somewhere on their body that indicates who they are meant to be with. The traditional idea doesn't work in this fandom very well without the addition of OCs, and I don't have the energy to build a new bunch of OCs right now, so I tried something different. Don't know if it works, but eh, 1500 words of what appears to be some kind of intro to this AU. Don't know if it is worth expanding or exploring, but I wrote something, so yay! :D

I hope you enjoy it at least a little in any case.

-o-o-o-

He rubbed his chest with a wonderfully soft towel. Thank goodness, Scott had taken his advice and really splurged on the quality when it came to the locker room towels.

As to the brand of the towel, he did not have a clue and did not care. As long as they were soft and sucked up water from tired skin.

The mirror at the end of the room blurrily reflected his movements through the steam and habit drew him to stop and take a step towards it, his eyes narrowing on the scar across his left pectoral.

He didn’t know why he did this. It wasn’t as if he expected his Sign to appear. He had lost hope a long time ago.

At least he had thought he had. If there was no hope, then he could just be who he was.

There were a few in the world who had never received their Sign, an imprint of a symbol or icon on their left breast which indicated a person’s ultimate Purpose in life. Most due to accident like his. The scar was old now and in a way more of a Sign than any Purpose. More a reminder of his failure.

He did have to admit that watching each of his brothers gain their Sign when he didn’t had affected him. Scott, of course, had grown up before Virgil, maturity bringing the almost predictable Sign of Flight.

Their parents had been so excited, just after Scott’s sixteenth birthday. The family had celebrated and there had been several excited questions as to what Virgil’s might be.

Their parents were both Stars, both born to reach for space, Dad with wings and Mom with numbers, so it hadn’t been surprising that Scott had aspects of both merging into Flight.

The traditional Reader had been brought in and the new Sign had been examined, interpreted, and aligned with Scott’s interests. The Reader had frowned a lot. Not that Virgil had any experience with Readers, but the elderly man in his carmine robe had muttered about success, challenges, losses and gains.

Scott hadn’t had to do much upon the revelation of his Sign. He had been heading for the Air Force in any case. But it had been good to know his choices were meant to be.

Unlike Virgil.

He sighed and ran the towel down his leg, turning away from the revealing glass.

It was the bruises on that leg that made him grimace, not the long ago loss…

Who was he kidding?

The scar twinged as if to remind him.

He shied away from the memories of losing his mother and the avalanche responsible. He had been lucky to survive with minor injuries.

Just happened that one of those injuries hurt more than the others.

The year that followed was traumatic enough for everyone to forget Virgil’s sixteenth birthday and the importance of that time in his life. Dad had fallen into grief. Scott was juggling the entire family, trying to keep everyone and everything afloat.  Virgil did everything he could to help, but survivor’s guilt and the thought that everything, especially his mother’s death, was his fault, sucked him into a deep dark hole.

His father couldn’t even look at him.

It took Scott finally cracking and a screaming match from hell between him and their father for it all to fall apart. Enough to create a turning point in all their lives and the first shaky step towards recovery.

So it wasn’t until John received his Sign early, that the question of Virgil came up.

John was only thirteen, very young to receive his Purpose, but considering how far advanced he was in his learning, it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

John was Stars, just like his parents. The Reader who visited them frowned at Virgil as he walked past, but nothing was said. The Reading declared John would follow his parents into space, that he would bridge communication across the planet, that he was destined for greatness.

Everyone celebrated. Dad drank soft drink instead of alcohol, but the glasses clinked together all the same and John shone, the centre of attention and, for once in his life, enjoying it.

Virgil slunk away early and spent the next half an hour peering at himself in the mirror, willing the red scar across his breast to reveal something…anything.

By the time Gordon turned sixteen, Virgil was an adult and had comes to terms with his loss…mostly.

It just wasn’t going to happen.

It did affect his life choices. Unlike everyone around him, he had no guide to his true Purpose. His interests flickered back and forth between the arts and the sciences. He loved to paint and play music. But he also loved pulling machines apart and putting them back together. He was handy with his hands and could repair just about anything. He could plan and organise and create. He could do so many things, but he had no idea which he was supposed to do, which direction he was supposed to go.

What was his Purpose?

He had to admit that for at least part of that time, he followed Scott around like a lost shadow. Scott had enough direction for both of them and Virgil willing followed his big brother. After all, what wasn’t to follow? Scott was at the top of everything he did. Academic, sports, socialising…if there was a direction to go, Scott was a good choice.

But Virgil was not Scott.

It came close, though. Virgil gained his pilot’s license not long after his brother, and was a hair’s breadth away from following him into the Air Force.

If he could have. The Air Force did not accept those without a Sign of Purpose. Apparently it was too much of a risk to enlist those not destined to Serve.

There were words, none of them polite, but looking back, Virgil knew he wasn’t military material. He didn’t need a stupid Sign for that. If he was honest with himself, it was simply doing what his big brother was going to do.

Maybe the Sign of Flight had been taken from him by the avalanche?

Grandma had so many hugs for him the day Scott left for the Air Force.

But perhaps Scott leaving was necessary, because it forced him to stop following and work out what he should be by himself.

In the end he chose a bit of everything and the hell to a blasted Purpose.

Looking back, it all seemed so long ago. All the things that had happened since - Scott returning from Bereznik, broken and in pieces. The birth of International Rescue and the Thunderbird that gave his big brother his wings back.

John reaching the Stars he was destined for.

The loss of Dad.

An echo of their father’s Stars appeareing on Scott’s left breast overnight, blurring his Sign of Flight, almost caging it.

Grief.

So much grief.

Virgil straightened and cleared his throat. Even now, a good five years after, it still hurt. Scott had stumbled and it had been Virgil’s turn to juggle the family and support where he could.

Gordon won gold at the Olympics.

Honestly, joyful though it was, it wasn’t really a surprise. After all, The Reader swore he had never seen so many fish in a Sign before. Gords was aquatic life personified.

Until he wasn’t.

So many hundreds of knots worth of speed and a sudden stop did that.

Another hard year. More grief, more challenge. he could have taken it personally and declared his Purpose as one to bear witness to each member of his family going through hell. But since they all were experiencing the same pain, he couldn’t claim any originality or self-centred angst.

But they were lucky. Gordon survived and clawed his way back to health. Some of the fish were now missing due to Gordon’s own set of scars, but as he had so many, the hydrofoil hadn’t got them all.

Plus one scar had warped one of the little fish into a shape Gordon was determined to call shark, so watch out, he had teeth now.

Virgil smirked and found himself grinning into the foggy mirror. You know, the mirror that he pointedly hadn’t been looking at.

A sigh. It annoyed him that even now, the lack of his own Sign, his own Purpose, still bugged him like this. He should be over it. Take a bruise or two and claim that was his Purpose, to take a hit while saving people’s lives.

But yeah, it was bugging him again because he still had one more brother who was due to receive his Sign any day now.

As he hung up the towel and started shoving on his clothing he thought about little Allie. Or not so little, because sixteen was tomorrow, no doubt to be followed by a Sign…predicted to be Stars of some kind. It wasn’t like the kid wasn’t begging to go into space every moment of every day. Stars was pretty much a given. But there were subtleties to Signs that needed interpretation…and celebration.

His littlest brother was growing up.

Pulling his t-shirt over his head, he straightened it across his chest, only to have his hand automatically trace the scar through the thin material.

Would he ever stop hoping?

Apparently not.

-o-o-o-

[i-am-bitterly-jittery]

On Death's Doorstep (pt 42/53)

[<<First],,,,[<Prev],[Next>] [ODD Masterlist]

Word count: 2164

Rating: teen

Pairings: Karrot Kings, minor Anxceit, familial Moceit, minor boring heterosexual ocs

Warnings: identity theft, depression, kidnapping, mentioned threats of violence, mentions of drugs

~~~START~~~

Sophie Lafferty was a mousy woman, awkward in the extreme, and was prone to bouts of eccentricity, but despite all that, she had a reputation for being a hard worker. Usually, during this point of the summer, she’d be off on vacation with her family for two weeks, but this year both of her parents were sick, so the vacation had been pushed to August. 

Sophie worked a desk job in the legal department of the MAA, the work could be boring at times, and most of what she did was research assigned to her by the higher ups about some historic building that a supervillain had blown a hole through, or the insurance policy on a billionaire’s skyscraper that had mysteriously been damaged in a fight that happened twelve blocks away, or a similar case to the one they were working that had happened ten years ago on the other side of the country. One day, Sophie thought, she’d be one of those higher ups, maybe even appearing as a counselor in a court case or two. But that wouldn’t be for a long time yet, for now, she would have to content herself with following the paper trail of one Logan Crofter until he mysteriously dropped off the face of the earth six years ago to see if there was any hint of where he’d gone. 

It was the kind of project that could catapult her career if she did find something, but unfortunately for Sophie Lafferty, she was currently on a cruise to the Bahamas with her family — including her parents, who weren’t any kind of sick except, perhaps, seasick — while someone who looked a lot like Sophie, and talked a lot like Sophie told her bosses that her vacation had been postponed while thoroughly bungling their research on Prof. Crofter. 

Usually, Janus’s impersonation act didn’t last long — a couple hours to kidnap a politician, a day to infiltrate a shitty business — but this was a deeper operation than usual. In two weeks, Sophie would be back and the jig would be up, so they would need to get all the information on where Virgil was being kept, what kind of security was in place, and when the best time to act would be and stage a rescue before the MAA knew there’d been a security breach. No pressure. 

“Morning, Soph!” A security guard said, stopping next to Sophie’s desk for a moment. Sophie and Lee were very friendly, a fact that was both an asset and a hindrance to Janus — on the one hand, Lee had a greater chance of noticing something was off with Sophie, but on the other hand, Janus might have use for a security guard later, depending on how things shook out. 

“Hi Lee.” The voice modulator itched against Janus’s neck, but they resisted the urge to fiddle with it. 

“Sorry to hear about your vacation.” 

“It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to go without my parents anyway. Besides, we’ll go in August. What about you, any big summer plans?” Janus couldn’t force themself to smile even if they tried, but that hardly mattered to the illusion — Sophie’s lips curled upwards in the expression of a person who honestly cared what this man did with his life. 

“Nah, I’m more of a winter sports guy,” Lee grinned as though that were in any way impressive. 

“Oh.” It was, based on Janus’s observations, usually around this point in a conversation that Sophie ran out of things to say, so they said nothing. 

Lee stood there for a moment, marinating in the awkward silence before clearing his throat. “Well, I should be going now.” 

“Yeah.” Please leave. 

“Bye Soph.” 

“Yeah.” 

Janus resisted the urge to gag as Lee walked away, there were other people in the office who might hear if they did, even if their actual face was hidden. 

Turning back to their work, Janus found an article about a boat that sank in the Gulf of Mexico two weeks after Logan dropped off the radar, everyone on board had drowned. They added it to the research on Prof. Crofter they were assembling, they were amusing themself by reimagining Logan as more of the Walter White type, maybe he’d drowned while smuggling drugs — Logan would hate this interpretation (for many reasons, not the least of which being how close to the truth it was) but it was exactly the kind of thing that would fuzz the radar while still looking like Janus was actually working. 

A small usb drive sat innocently plugged into the computer, scanning away for the kind of security and monitoring there was on Sophie’s desktop before Janus started with their actual work. 

Their day was long and boring. They stole Jared’s lunch just to amuse themself — he almost had a full-blown temper-tantrum when he opened the fridge to find his tupperware full of bland chicken missing. Lilie from accounting spent almost an hour monologuing at them about… something, honestly Janus hadn’t been paying attention. And at the end of the day, everyone gathered in the break room to celebrate Jason’s birthday — it took everything they had not to burst out laughing when they realized. 

Finally, as they were gathering their stuff to leave for the day, their hacker drive finished its work. They would need to wait until they got home to see what kind of security they were working with, but at least that meant they could get started first thing tomorrow — plus, they had already outlined most of the details in their Crofter-equals-drug-smuggler “theory”, so they should be good for the next week or so as far as Sophie’s work went. 

They drove Sophie’s car back to Sophie’s building where they parked in Sophie’s parking spot and walked up to Sophie's apartment. Her lights had been set on a timer to make it look like she was spending the night there, but as soon as Janus entered, they left again, this time hiding themself from sight completely. They walked down the block to where their own car was parked, and then proceeded to drive back to their actual home. 

What they should do was go straight upstairs to Logan so they could go over the MAA system’s security, but instead what they did was detour to what was formerly Roman’s apartment before they moving in with his sister and was now, after a couple reconfigurations of the housing arrangements, the — hopefully temporary — apartment of Thomas and Nico Sanders-Flores and their grandson Patton. 

Janus knocked politely, and after a moment, Nico answered the door. It was always awkward to spend time with Thomas and Nico — seeing how Janus had kidnapped them and all — but they were Virgil’s parents, and Patton’s grandparents, and Janus would just have to work through the awkwardness. 

“Oh, hi Janus,” Nico gave them a strained smile, which Janus returned in kind. 

Before they could say their own polite greeting, however, the smoke alarm began to sound. 

“Thomas Sanders!” Nico turned and yelled into the apartment. He walked away from the door, leaving it open, so Janus took that as an invitation. “I turned my back on you for less than a second! How did you burn something already?” 

Janus followed Nico to the kitchen where they found Thomas desperately fanning an inflamed pan in a futile attempt at putting it out. 

“I don’t know!” Thomas cried as Nico got the fire extinguisher out from under the sink and put out the fire. 

“I can see where Virgil got his kitchen skills from,” Janus commented dryly. To Janus’s surprise, Thomas actually laughed at that. 

Nico shook his head in exasperation. “I’ve been trying so hard to teach either of them how to make anything. It might just be impossible.” 

“It’s not so bad,” Janus pointed out. “Virgil’s been getting the hang of it.” 

“Really?” Nico asked, looking excited for all of one second before it was replaced with a look of intense sadness. “I guess… I guess it’s been a while since we’ve seen him.” 

Janus cursed themself internally; their score was currently Janus: 1, awkwardness: 1. 

“Uh, where’s Patton?” They asked, knowing that at least Patton didn’t mind when they were awkward. 

Thomas frowned and Nico turned away from them entirely. 

“He’s in the living room,” Thomas explained. “Today hasn’t been a good day.” 

“Oh.” Janus: 1, awkwardness: 2. “I’ll, um…” Janus pointed towards the living room, then walked away. 

Awkwardness: 3. 

Patton was curled in a ball on the floor in front of the couch, The Princess and the Frog was playing on the TV, but Patton didn’t seem to notice. 

“Hey, Pat,” Janus said softly, taking a seat next to the kid and attempting to put their hand on his back. Their hand sank through him as they realized what Thomas meant by it not being a good day. “How are you feeling today?” 

The question wasn’t necessary, even if the intangibility didn’t give him away, Patton projected when he had strong emotions, and the sadness rolling off him reminded Janus of themself at their mama’s funeral. 

Patton didn’t answer, or even look at them, so Janus contented themself with quietly sitting beside him. 

After several minutes and a song about what the main characters would do once they were human, Patton spoke up, quietly. “Mommy, will you tell me a story?” 

Janus startled, but any thought of correcting the boy went out the window when they found Patton staring at them with big, watery eyes. 

“Of course, dear,” Janus said instead, tamping down any trace of panic. “How about the story of when I met your daddy?” 

Patton nodded eagerly, so Janus launched into the story. 

“It was probably about six or seven years ago — before you were born — and I was a law student. Frankie hadn’t joined the business yet, but he had been selling black market gadgets for a few years and had already decided to take me under his wing, so to speak — he likes to think he was my mentor because he was a criminal first, but I was a supervillain first, so it’s really six of one, half dozen of the other. 

“Now, in one of my classes we had recently discussed a situation that had been in the news about the chief of police. I felt that the chief was getting away with some nasty stuff with no repercussions, so I decided to… scare him a little bit — it’s not like I was really going to drop him off that building.” It suddenly occurred to Janus that this might not be the best story for a five-year-old, but Patton looked enraptured, so they continued. 

“I had just gotten him to make a blubbery confession for my camera when we were interrupted. Your dad was dressed like a grade A dork, horns greener than you can believe–” 

“Daddy doesn’t have horns,” Patton frowned, leaning his whole weight into Janus’s arm. 

“It’s an expression, kiddo, what I mean was, he was new to the business and it was obvious. Now, he ordered me to ‘let that poor man go!’ and I was tempted to follow his order to the letter, but turning the chief into a martyr wasn’t on my agenda at that time, so I brought him back on the roof and let him flop like a fish. 

“‘Poor?’ I said. ‘No, not yet he’s not.’ Your dad didn’t like that. He was cute, all angry and just, I just couldn’t stop myself from flirting. Most heroes, once someone as fruity as me starts flirting with them, go from cute-angry to bigot-angry pretty quickly, but Virgil just got more flustered. 

“I may have gotten a little too in to flirting with him, and he nearly managed to catch me when he make some bright starburst in front of my eyes, causing me to see spots, but I’d had years of experience to fall back on, and I knew when it was time to cut and run. The chief wasn’t in any position to catch me — he was still experiencing adverse effects to altitude — so I made a mental illusion of myself in your dad’s mind and had it fly away, mostly to test whether or not your dad could fly.” 

“He can’t,” Patton said. 

“No,” Janus agreed. “He can’t, so he stooped down to help the chief while I waltzed away at my leisure — that trick never worked on him again, by the way.” 

“Hey guys,” Thomas interrupted gently. “Dinner’s ready.” 

“Okay,” Patton stood, sadness no longer leaking from his pores. “Thanks, mommy.” 

He wrapped his little arms around his neck before running off to collide with his grandpa’s legs. 

“Pop pop?” Patton asked as Thomas lifted him into his arms. “Can we have cookies after dinner?” 

“Sure kiddo,” Thomas smiled. “Whatever you want.” 

Thomas smiled at Janus before turning to carry Patton to the table, and Janus felt a little bit of tension leak from them. Janus: 2, awkwardness: 3. 

~~~END~~~

Y’know that awkwardness when you’re meeting your significant other’s parents after you kidnapped them because your significant other has been kidnapped, and also your significant other’s child has spontaneously begun referring to you as their parent?

ODD taglist:

@royalty-of-all-things-snuggly @pixelated-pineapple @arsonic-knight @misunderstood-shadowling @lost-in-thought-20 @remy-the-lemon-berry @jinxcrafter @apinkline2715 @gothfoxx @donutsarepartybagels @xoaningout @awful-at-naming-things @lunatatic

[motherstone]

Which characters do you think you're going to leave out/downsize their role in your rewrite?

Honestly, I'm not finalizing things for now but looking back on it, it does seem like almost EVERY character NEEDS an increase of focus or at least more active participation in the plot. I will end up omitting many of the new characters because there's far too many Amulet characters that it's bloated the FUCK outta the series, and instead try to prioritize those most crucial to the plot. Meanwhile, I would maybe try to change the nature of their roles/their story journey:

Main Characters: Emily, Trellis, Navin (in that order)

Great Impact on the plot: Leon, Vigo, Max (he won't die in this version), Karen (up in the air), Luger (he'd last longer and stay villain til the end), Riva

Minimal focus, Great Impact: Miskit (working on him), Virgil (he's not related to Trellis, but an advisor to EK), The Human Resistance (maybe?), the Elven Resistance (definitely)

Crucial character to the flashbacks to why everything is shit: Silas (he's not a good guy here, I'd argue he never really was), EK, Cielis... Vigo.... Roy. Virgil.

Increased minor character focus: Daniel (Vigo's son)

Increased villain focus: Elf Army, Cielis

Still important, but we really gotta reduce their appearances: Alyson, David Hayes, General Pil, Gabilan

The character I'd reduce the role of most is.... the Voice. Because I can't fucking stand him, removes too many chances for the characters to choose for themselves, be it fuck ups or triumphs, and an overall tumor on the plot. In fact, there would be no fucking possession or mind control or what have you in this Rewrite, because we love character agency in this house. Instead, the Voice as a character would be merged with the Elf King to solve character focus and pacing issues. The EK isn't the main source of all problems, but he is the most obvious, widespread, and the biggest priority to be taken down right now.

[pielove123clan]

I'm sleepy and never post but I keep thinking about Spiderbud Ryoshu and this one fan art with the spiderman from spiderman into the spiderverse, the O'Hara. This is kind of crack but I want to make a spiderman Ryo-shu because I love the idea of Ryo-shu biting the spiderbud and becoming a spider man. Maybe she eats the spider or makes art with it, but then she has all these spider babies she's adopted.

- The person she loses is obviously her daughter. After that, Ryoshu becomes a fixer (or maybe she just joins Limbus Company)

- I know next to nothing about the Avengers actually but now it's a minor crack idea the Limbus Company can be the Avengers of that universe. This is just based off appearances. Mersault with that one angel ego as the stand in for Thor, Gregor as Antman (maybe with the centipede ego) , Dante or Virgil as the eyepatch guy of course, Outis as Captain America, I can't think of anymore. These are flawed.

-The backstory would probably follow Hellscreen with Ryoshu completing her art. After that, she uh, goes to seek better art instead of suicide? Eh? She still feels the need to live. I don't think

-Ryoshu's daughter is too much of a sunshine on earth and accepted all her new siblings.

- another crack head idea, Ryo-shu gets a role in the spiderverse to take care of the radioactive spiders like the mother she is.

- Ryoshu rightfully horrifies everyone.

I might post more later if I come up with something else. I need spider ryoshu to be real. I want to rp her ha.

[gerdy-sertorius]

The Lee Shore

The quiet embrace of land calls like a siren, and one ship, weary and hungry from years on the open sea, is primed to hear its call. It just needs a little bit more time to find a port, just a little bit more time at sea to ensure its safe landing. Yet its mastheads don’t quite stand with the same vivacity they initially carried themselves with, and its will eventually buckles. Left without wax for its ears, the ship pushes towards the land, nominally its only source of respite, its crew shaking with a growing horror that refuses to be abated. Not unlike the exhausted hands on deck, the twins Scylla and Charybdis hunger; they have hungered for millennia, and it’s safe to say that their bottomless stomachs may well never be full. The very concept of free will is stripped away from the lowliest ship hand and the captain alike as the galleon achingly, forcefully hobbles its way towards its desolation. Eurus himself takes initiative in marching it to its execution, pushing it against the wall for his never-tiring firing squad to take full advantage of. Such is the lee shore. In the chapter of the same name, one Bulkington, a ship’s pilot, found it within himself to reject those winds, and in that, Melville’s Ishmael, possessed for a moment of the spirit of Virgil or Homer, eulogises him and all he represented; it would be the only lasting record in memory of him. 

He appears for perhaps three pages in the novel, in all but this epitaph a minor character, forgotten by the world. The irony is that within the metanarrative, until looking at this eternal tombstone of a chapter, neither would we remember him. Quoted as a man for whom “[t]he land seemed scorching to his feet”, Bulkington was someone who dared to not only reject the grand winds that would push him unwillingly towards land, but someone who dared to reclaim his own destiny from the hostile elements that would come before him. One who found refuge in the greatest danger he could find, whose courage would put a lion to shame. The final thought we ever hear of him is the concluding paragraph of the only page he is remembered in, and some of the greatest prose to grace the English language: “But as in landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God --- so better is it to perish in that howling infinite than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing --- straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!” As I’m sure one can guess, there is a certain connotation to that final word that, for all the tenacity of a bulldog, I cannot completely extricate. 

But in that moment, the Eureka escaped from my lips, and I thought to myself, why must one necessarily oppose the connection of the two concepts, particularly when it is inevitable? Why can’t I simply unify the ideas? Is there anything within the concept of art that irrationally linked concepts cannot for whatever reason be rationally linked? In short, I found I was being shortsighted. And, as such, I shall now attempt to explain why, exactly, the themes of both this paragraph and the other Apotheosis, aren’t fully extricable. First of all, I really must apply a disclaimer to this. Doing this properly would in fact require me to elucidate exactly what both the Apotheosis and the Melville passage signify. I’d like to emphasise that this is before the Pristine Cut releases, and as such, I lack the deeper knowledge from Apotheosis that comes from, well, playing Apotheosis in full, but I have enough faith in Black Tabby to believe that the majority of the existing themes are already present within, and will simply be expanded upon and properly developed. That is, I am taking the art as is, and trying to take from that the basic themes that we have now. With regards to the paragraph from Moby-Dick, in my professional opinion, it should be more or less safe from revision, considering it is dated from a hundred and seventy-five years ago, in addition to it being nothing more than a paragraph.

Furthermore, before all else is put forth, it is important to make note of the fact that within Ishmael’s eulogy, Bulkington is not a person. Bulkington the character is only the inspiration for Ishmael’s musings, and could be replaced with anyone else for the same result. He has not played any significant role in the story; he is completely static, and he was never even mentioned by the narration except insofar as to paint a picture of the regulars at an inn. Bulkington the character does not matter. Taking him, however, as an ideal shows a much fuller picture of what Ishmael is trying to say. Bulkington does not need to be a character, but what he does need to be is the conduit for that striking prose, for the triumphant cry against the sea. That is to say, I shall not be minutely analysing Bulkington, nor his four lines of dialogue.

To be able to compare the themes of the End of Everything and the obituary to the End of But One Man requires, definitionally, those themes to be made known. Throughout the final paragraph of Bulkington's epitaph, the primary theme is made quite clear. Despite the battery of waves, the lack of safety, the very ground constantly shifting beneath one’s feet, it is of far greater virtue to die at sea than to perish while cringing towards the land that initially promises its protection. “Lee”, before it was used as a term for sailing, meant “safety”, yet the lee shore promises not safety, but destruction wrapped in the guile of innocence. As it gently pushes a sailor towards the land, his just home, it simultaneously begs him to be dashed upon the rocks of that land. And if he does listen to those sweet lips calling him home, then he shall verily “come home,” and all the seafaring, all the agony was wrapped in the pallor of futility. To conquer the greatest of the seas, to see Tahiti, Cape Horn, the Maldives, to view the truly universal continent, and yet be brought down like Goliath himself by the rocks of the land. They outstretch their hand to hold him, to finally bring him rest. And, at last, they succeed. Such is the lee shore.

Yet Ishmael notes something else, something, dare I say, far more interesting. It is also in the rejection of the lee wind that mankind truly ascends. In nothing more than simply remaining at sea, mankind reaches its towering heights. For vice is meaningless without virtue, no? He who refuses to let himself be compromised by the false cry of home, well, he has then made himself greater than Hercules and all his labours. For in that rejection of the call of safety, mankind has found its freedom. And the greatest thing mankind can do, its highest calling, is to save its life, even if that requires its own destruction. In happily going to the ballroom for the Danse Macabre, the Grim Reaper tires. Ishmael posthumously cries that the pilot should “take heart”, because just as the heart was the key to bodily life, so too has the heart, according to the ancients, a deep and sincere reservoir of what may be more important – moral strength. And it is through that strength that man finds it within himself to fend off old Thanatos’s scythe with the rudder of his innate purpose. 

That may seem rather confusing; after all, Ishmael himself, within that quote, directly romanticises death at sea. Clearly this is not about life and death – it is simply death. Yet, in my humble opinion, I would declare a key difference. To perish in the ocean is the choice taken. It is the adeo, a Latin word that carries the various and eclectic meanings of “goodbye”, of “fulfillment”, and of “action”, all at once; one's final decision. It is desire fulfilled, not simply living in denial about the inevitable, as one attempts to grasp for a chance that will never rear its head. If death is then hanging its gloomy countenance over every outcome regardless of action, then the man who lives as he was, the man who carries on with what he has determined he shall do, he carries far more valour with him than he who futilely runs screaming, never allowing himself to write his own future. A decidedly unromantic view, one could argue, yet one with a strange quixotic passion to it yet; a contradiction in terms, even. Yet, in the end, those are even the words of Christ: whosoever shall lose his life, the same shall save it. The very struggle with death, eternal for man, has become paradox.

And this philosophy of his is itself reflected in Ishmael’s actions later on in the book. He, in no less than the first chapter, is indicated to have an unhealthy morbidity about him – marching in funeral processions in which he has no connection and staying for an abnormal amount of time within coffin warehouses. And in the end, it comes to pass that even the ship he boards and the beast he attempts to slay are hearses of their own (in the plaintext, no less), sepulchres that stand whitewashed in two quite markedly different ways. He is no stranger to looking the angel of death square in the eye. And at the end, it is by clinging to a coffin that salvation finally comes to him. It is in that unashamed embrace of his mortality that he is able to find his way out of the waves. Melville was no Poe. He did not dive into the morbid purely for the sake of itself. But rather, it was the opinion of him that, in contrast, courage was, just for the sake of it being courage, virtuous. And the slow, futile crawl towards the shore, towards “salvation”, only to fall nonetheless, was for those of whom a timorous countenance was the only one they had learned. And in that ocean-perishing, in that death so completely removed from the desperate wish for life, ears far too stuffed with the wax of fulfillment to hear the growing chorus of the shore’s desperate cries, desperate attempts to claim one’s soul; up from that leaps thy apotheosis! 

The Apotheosis carries more or less that same message, but in a very different light. Her context must be taken into consideration if anything is to be said about her, which in turn requires a brief analysis of the Tower. The Tower arises not only out of the failure of her (presumptive) Slayer, but his complete and total submission upon that failure. And in that, she becomes dominance incarnate, she ascends to divinity. And at that point, what is the Slayer to her but whatsoever she wills? There is contained within her purifying light no room for the blemish of disobedience. She offers the Slayer a spot at her side, willing to put aside his past transgressions for the sake of the future. Yet in the face of her magnanimity, he still refuses. 

The Slayer refuses the Princess’s offer, his place forgotten — or perhaps simply never learned. She is willing to forgive his sins, as he has awakened her to her true place, that celestial throne. She speaks, her voice gently booming, love infused in every word, and tells him of all they could accomplish together, she offers the life that only she can bring. Yet in the face of her magnanimity, he still refuses. She is taken aback, yet understands. She understands everything. He needs to be able to process everything, like a young child who is confused on what exactly he did wrong. She has time, all the time in the world. For she is the world. Nothing happens that does not happen without her saying it is so, and nothing does not happen should she say it does. She can reform the world in the Imago Turri, and verily, she shall. She loves the lost little bird, for a reason that she cannot fully express. She finds it within herself to not only forgive his mistake earlier, but to forget it altogether. She is merciful, she is benevolent, she is loving. And through that love, she decides that he has come to a decision. 

And so he utters that decision. And something odd occurs. In the face of her magnanimity, he still refuses. The Princess is disappointed, though she is careful not to break her imperious, royal smile. After all this time, he still doesn’t understand who he is? What he is? And so, though it breaks her heart, she does what she must. She offers him a choice, to either embrace her or to embrace the next iteration of their saga, one in which she shall surely open his eyes, to open the eyes of that poor little bird, if only he would accept it. She hopes deep within her heart that he does not choose the latter; why can her open arms never be embraced? In the last life, her foot brought down the Slayer like it was iron: strength that refuses to yield — why is he so blind to her head of gold, potential made into reality, value that cannot fade? Her silver shoulders that, despite the sickly air of the cabin being so corrosive, refuse to tarnish? Her belly of bronze, sturdy as steel and loving as Venus, here to protect him? 

Yet in the face of her magnanimity, he still refuses, after everything, and her heart aches as she realises what she must do. The Slayer has forced her hand. And now she will force his. Such is the benevolence of her that she not only shall forgive him his trespasses, but shall even deliver him from the evil one, a dead echo throughout his skull, long forgotten by anyone, yet a plague, a parasite to his form nonetheless. This is something that is neither her nor him, and as such does nothing more than futilely stand in the way of the victory of the god and her herald. The pitiful echo is gone, and they shall begin their dance anew. He will understand now, there is no question of that. And that is all that matters.

The Slayer refuses the Princess’s offer, his place forgotten — or perhaps simply never learned. And so he fights, he marches onwards in his futile drive to freedom. He refuses to turn his eyes to the lee shore where safety and home lie, and stays within the tempestuous, oceanic struggle with a force far greater than him or anything else. This fight was never between equals, yet still the Slayer maintains his assault, not so much because he has a moral imperative to keep the world from ending, but because he shall not be beaten down such that he cannot bring himself back to his feet. He could, perhaps, yield control of the situation — that’s manageable, if not ideal; but he cannot yield his nature. Yet, at some point, he does. He feels his very soul crying out as his willpower becomes moot, shaking with the inevitability and the horror of it, a fight in vain that the Slayer refused to abstain from. It has given a magnificent swan song, yet the hunter he once thought he could win against has wrung the angelic trumpet out of the bird’s chest. He takes his blade, fighting with his own body, delaying the inevitable. 

There is a part of him who wants to lie down, who wants to die, who wants to stake the Slayer’s life upon the ascendance of the only thing that can ensure safety. This part has been a thorn in the Slayer’s side ever since it made itself known. He is sick of it. He refuses to give any oxygen to it. He ignores it. It does not leave. He fights with it, he tells himself that he doesn’t want to give in. It does not leave. He gathers together all of his volition and he wills himself to simply reject this side to him, like he always has. Like he knows he can. But that broken little part of his psyche? He does not leave. He refuses to simply be stamped out. And as he remains, his voice begins to ring with the almost blinding clarity of knowing exactly what he is. But his value becoming as clear as the Princess’s light means nothing. Alongside the Princess, he can do anything. He easily overwhelms any opposition, and with a force unlike anything the Slayer has seen before, that puny little voice steels himself and acts. And with that imperceptible tremor, the mouse has roared, and the rocks upon the lee shore end the day speckled with a blood that the waves that crash against it can’t quite reach. 

And he wakes up once more, the situation hanging like a heavy radiance over his head, a burden that his shoulders cannot bear. Yet he cannot set his burden down. Not yet. The world is apocalyptic and gorgeous and broken and complete all at once; even the trees, desolate and dead as they may be, herald with an Olympian majesty the cella of the cabin, proclaiming the divine majesty of who the Princess is. He at once realises that this is final; that this is going to be the climax of the dance of the god and her singular subject. There is an echo within him — it, unlike in lives past, declares its full and undying support behind him. There will be no treachery, there will be no petulance; the stakes are far too high for something as empty as that to be brooked. He takes a solitary step, not in any direction in particular, and in that moment the height of anything that has existed or ever will exist is reached. The Princess reveals Herself, yet at the same time remains unrevealed. There is no way to describe Her, because there is nothing other than Her. She stands, and with that the heavens bend themselves around her, a thousand lights, a thousand eyes, and a thousand suns in a halo around her beatific head. There is nothing that escapes her gravity, nothing able to stand its ground in the face of who She is. She is the absolute, the end of everything. The beginning of something new, something far grander than could be imagined. 

She is so much more than him. And Her arms are happily opened to his embrace. The Long Quiet lets himself be pulled into the zenith of existence. He has opened his soul to Her, he has opened his mind to Her, he has even opened his carotid unto her, a sacrifice poured upon the marble floor and the symbol that he has repented of his transgressions. It is so easy to simply be loved. There is no virtue greater than love, there is no vice greater than abandoning that love. She loves him, and he loves her. What would he be if he denied that? She smiles at him, as if to say that tonight, he shall be with her in paradise. It has always been an option. This was always an option. He may have lost that paradise, yet alongside her, “the World was all before them, where to choose their place of rest, with Her as their guide. They, hand in hand, with wandering steps, and slow, through this world, they could take their solitary way.” He has embraced oblivion, yet while The Long Quiet remains in the unshakeable grasp of Her, the word has no meaning. She smiles, and reaches to take his hand. The lee wind blows him to shore, and he happily complies. He happily takes the safety offered to him. He is happy, and, just perhaps, that happiness is far more virtuous than any futile resistance could be. She is absolute, the end of everything. The beginning of something new, something far greater than could be imagined.

Yet despite who She is, he still fights. He deigns to perish in this howling infinite — if he must die for the sake of his soul, so be it. The Hero finds the blade, buried deep within one of many monuments to her greatness, and lets himself be swept within her gravity. He is facing the most awesome being to ever walk upon this earth, yet he still fights, for there is no other option. As the world breaks, the one thing that shall not is the Hero’s resolve; the mistake shall not be repeated. The world will end if he does not find victory, so then let him be damned if he doesn’t at least seek it. The knife feels perfectly balanced in his hands, and, shockingly, as he leaps towards Her, he finds within himself a brief moment of exhilaration. He feels that, despite everything, he can still do this. He is the one who has found the highest truth, indefinite as the Princess herself. He will end this. He will Slay the Princess, this false idol that purports safety yet is incapable of living in a world where not all is bent to Her will. The Hero is just the symbol of that, he is just the one who refuses to bend. The Princess turns to him, as he still resists with all the effort he can muster. And upon Her face is plastered a look that the Hero cannot quite understand. She is delighted. After all this time trying to tear his resolve down, to force him to see her point of view, She is glad that he chooses to fight. She faces him with the same love She had when he first entered the basement, all pain between them forgotten by Her. He has borne the suffering grimly, and with that, he, up from the spray of his perishing, found the love that was so much foolishness, a veritable stumbling block only a few seconds ago. Straight up, he leaps to his Apotheosis. 

It is not entirely difficult to see the comparisons between the chapters. There exists within them the ideals of seizing your soul even at the expense of the body, most clearly seen in the end of the Tower. There is, curiously enough, a seeming innocence of the shore within the passage of Moby-Dick. It does not intend for there to be so much pain as a result of its existence, it simply welcomes the ship to itself, holding the anxious family members of the crew up such that they can see their returning loves. It provides respite, it provides warmth and resupply and new people to talk to and new cultures to understand. It simply wants the best for the ship that chances upon it, and with that, there is continuously a shout of joy arising from the crew as they see the land they have left for so unbearably long. There is a love present there. Yet as the lee wind pushes, as the confines of the construct begin to demand its toll, the land warps into a demonic entity, one that claims the souls of far too many innocent men. It does not necessarily want to bring harm, but it does anyway, because what else ought it do? As wood splinters all around it and bodies begin to pile up, the land cannot move. It must simply remain in place, horrified, as these externalities force so much desolation upon the ship that once loved it so. But whatever horrors it may have seen, it shall take heart, and see them through. Because there will always be a ship that the land can help, that the shore can do its just penance for. It never meant to bring harm, not to the ships that love it, and that the land loves in turn. 

This is a love story. 

[idontknowreallywhy]

A Part of Her

For various reasons (train strikes etc) I haven’t done a commute fic (where I just thrash something out in a linear form and don’t obsessively edit it later) for a while, but a little idea occurred to me today so here is a hurried lunch-break fic…

What do we call these two? Was it Astro Turf?

Whatever, a bit of Allie and Virg…

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

“Virg?”

“What’s up, Allie?”

His little brother had drifted across the room and was slowly running his hand along the edge of the piano lid watching the hammers rise and fall as Virgil played. He’d not said anything for a while and not wanting him to believe his presence was unwelcome, Virgil had just smiled at him and waited for whatever was coming. When he eventually spoke, Alan’s voice was steeped in uncertainly.

“This was… Mom’s, right?”

“Yes Allie it was. We had it shipped over when we moved here.”

Alan nodded and was quiet again for a while. Clearly something was brewing. Virgil shifted from the concerto he was niggling at into a slightly sparser, atmospheric piece which gave more space and time for any words that might be coming.

“She… played a lot?”

“Pretty much every moment she got. More than me I think.”

“Why do you play so much?”

“Why do I play?”

Virgil paused to consider, looking down at his hands as he ran a couple of gentle arpeggios through a series of chords. There was a lot more behind that question than there appeared and he needed to choose his answer carefully.

“Firstly, because I enjoy it, I like the music I create and I like the fact it’s something I’m creating, even if it goes a bit wonky.”

Alan nodded, blue eyes met his with very deliberate focus. He was clearly concentrating on every word Virgil said.

“Secondly, because you guys enjoy it. I like being able to help Scott relax, or Gordon laugh… or cheer you up sometimes.”

Another nod. Virgil stopped playing a moment and rested his fingers over the black notes.

“Um, I also often play to try and process how I feel about things. Sometimes it’s hard to put the difficult stuff into words but…” he played a series of chords around D minor and then coughed and reverted back to a slightly cheerier key as he noticed Alan try to cover up rubbing at his eye by scratching his nose.

“Then I guess the final one is… it helps me feel close to her, to Mom. I imagine her hands on the keys, making the same sounds and I feel like a part of her is still with me.”

Alan closed his eyes and whispered something hurriedly. Virgil leaned over to put his right hand over his brother’s left where he held the side of the instrument in a vice grip.

“I didn’t quite catch that Allie?”

He opened his eyes and looked Virgil full in the face again, eyes wide. “Can you teach me?”

Virgil knew his expression must have betrayed his surprise as his baby brother rushed on hurriedly.

“I know you did before when I was a kid and I sucked, I didn’t try very hard or practise because I didn’t get it. I didn’t get what it meant. And I’m probably still going to suck at it Virgil, I know that.”

Alan swallowed hard.

“But I want to try because maybe, maybe there is a part of her inside me too and if there is I want to find it.”

Virgil pulled gently on the young man’s hand and guided him around to perch next to him on the stool and wrapped him in his arms.

“She’s in your every cell, your every breath, Alan. And she would be so proud of you.”

Alan sniffed and tightened his grip on Virgil’s shirt. Virgil unpeeled his little brother’s fingers from the flannel and guided his right hand to rest on the keyboard.

“If you want to play it would be a privilege to teach you, but you need never doubt she is a part of you Alan.”

Alan twisted and placed his left hand on the keys alongside his right.

“Show me. Please?”

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

[snowdice]

Little Kestrel (Part 55) [Birds of Different Feathers Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan & Patton & Virgil (future Virgil/Patton but not in this story)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton, Virgil

Appear: Thomas

Mentioned: Janus

Summary:

It was supposed to be a quick job either way. Either Virgil would assassinate King Thomas of Prijaznia or he’d be caught and get executed. Yet, when Virgil gets the wrong bedroom and gets caught by Prince Logan and his future royal advisor, Patton, the job ends up getting way more complicated for the 14-year-old. He also ends up sleeping in a (actually pretty comfortable) closet for a few weeks…

Notes: Implied/referenced child abuse, assassination attempt, knives, torture mentioned, captivity, teenagers being really dumb, sexual coercion of minors implied, a minor offering sexual favors, fire

This is a prequel to Kill Dear. I wrote it 100 words at a time on my blog, but this is the edited version. If you want to see how it was crafted (and possibly some future content), look at the tag proofread stories.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54

Virgil was beginning to be able to read some of the common instructions in magic books, but Logan still made sure to read out the instructions to him at least twice before setting him loose. He’d started to jot down notes to himself about things, though these notes were not words, but various symbols that only made sense to the boy himself.

Logan had asked about their meaning at one point and received an answer that, while earnest, was unintelligible. The symbols were mostly just pictures of things to represent certain steps in spell casting, but they were filtered through Virgil’s rudimentary penmanship and often bizarre perception of the world.

Though, despite the fact that Logan could not often decipher his chicken scratch, it did seem to help him produce more and more quality charms even as Logan began to introduce more complicated processes to make them. He was a very good student even if he didn’t have the best foundation for learning.

“I add lavender for the next step, right?” Virgil asked, his finger on a word in Logan’s magic book.

“That is correct,” Logan confirmed.

Virgil looked back at the book and mouthed the word ‘lavender’ to himself before turning back to his potion. He grabbed a few sprigs of lavender and threw them into the cauldron.

The liquid popped and bubbled violently, but Virgil didn’t flinch as he once would have, prepared for it now.

After the lavender, Logan knew that it would have to simmer for 5 minutes. Virgil looked down at the boiling liquid, contemplating it for a long moment.

“Can I soak a knife in it?” he asked.

“What?” Logan asked.

“Can I soak a knife in the potion once it’s done?”

“In that potion?” Logan clarified. “In the emergency hand warmer potion?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think a hot knife would be useful,” Virgil said.

“For what?”

Virgil shrugged. “Cooking food on the road,” he said, “burning wood, stabbing someone and immediately cauterizing the wound.”

“That is… not a standard use for this potion,” Logan said.

Virgil titled his head at him. “Would it work though?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Logan contemplated. “Perhaps. The potion can cause burns if one uses too much of it or if it is used without an appropriate layer between it and the skin. If one were to pick a knife with enough surface area and let it soak long enough, it could in theory get hot enough to do as desired. Hmm…” he thought about it. “There would perhaps be the problem of the potion not sticking to the knife very long as it is intended to soak into fabric. However, cardamom could solve that issue as long as it doesn’t interact with any other ingredients. Let me see that spell.”

Virgil stepped out of his way so he could study the page. “Yes,” Logan said after scanning through all of the ingredients. “I think cardamom would work for something like that. Let me go find some.”

He turned to walk towards where he kept his supplies of potion ingredients. Virgil followed on his heals.

“Can we use a serrated knife?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea, Virgil,” Logan said, nodding as he searched through the cupboard that should hold the coriander. “The knife being serrated would help keep the potion stuck to the blade after many uses and would increase the surface area.”

“That was certainly my intention,” Virgil said smoothly. There was something odd about the tone that had Logan turning and blinking at him. Virgil just smiled at him innocently and Logan turned back to the cabinet finally locating the cardamom.

“So how are we going to use that?” Virgil asked.

“We’ll put it in right before the last step and let it sit for about 3 minutes,” Logan said. “If it doesn’t quite work, we may need to make another batch. There are options other than cardamom, but that’s the first idea that comes to mind and it’s a lot simpler if it works.”

He continued to speak of the many other options they could try as they returned to the caldron as well as how they could test the hot knife. It was already about time for the next step and Virgil did it without interrupting Logan’s rant.

Virgil listened to his suggestions with interest all while still making sure the potion he was making was progressing well.

Logan did eventually take over to finish the potion with the revised steps he’d come up with and they ended up with a potion that looked perfect except it was a few shades darker than the one they’d originally been planning to make.

“Well, it looks good,” Logan declared. “We will need to acquire a knife to test its effectiveness, however.”

“There are a few good ones in the kitchen,” Virgil pointed out. “I especially like the one 10 inch one with the black and white handle.”

“You have been eyeing up the kitchen knives?” Logan asked.

Virgil rolled his eyes as though that was not a perfectly reasonable question to ask him. “We should steal that one,” Virgil said.

“Do you think we’ll be able to sneak past Ms. Heart to steal a knife from her kitchen?” Logan asked.

“We can’t,” Virgil said. The ‘but I can’ was implied.

Logan almost didn’t believe him… and then he remembered the water pouch incident. “It’s the dinner rush,” Logan said. “We should probably wait for a bit.”

Virgil was shaking his head. “The dinner rush is the best time,” he said. “Everyone will be distracted, and all of the knives will be out and in prime stealing position.”

“And if Patton’s mother catches us messing around in her kitchen during her busiest time of day, she will have Father ground us for a week.”

“Then we just won’t get caught,” Virgil said.

“I’m not sure if it’s that simple,” Logan said with a frown.

“You can stay here if you want,” Virgil offered. “I’ll just go by myself.”

“No, I’ll come too,” Logan relented, though he did still have some reservations about the idea.

He let Virgil lead him towards the main dining hall. By now, Virgil knew the kitchens and dining hall very well.

“Stay here,” he said. They were in a hallway a few feet down from the staff entrance to the main kitchen. “I’m going to do some reconnaissance.”

“What type of reconnaissance?” Logan asked, but Virgil had already vanished before his very eyes. With a blink, Logan looked up and saw a dark figure disappear onto a balcony overhead.

Well, Logan really had no choice but to wait there for him. It wasn’t like he could follow him. He could hear the clatter of silverware on plates from the dining hall down the corridor as he impatiently waited. It only took Virgil a bit over five minutes to return. He dropped suddenly from above and landed in front of Logan in a crouch.

“Well?” Logan asked, letting a bit of irritation into his tone so Virgil knew he was displeased. Virgil did not seem to care.

“Got it,” Virgil said with a wide grin, brandishing a large kitchen knife.

Logan flinched back at the unexpected sight of a weapon.

“You said you were doing reconnaissance!” he sputtered. “Not…” he trailed off remembering that while they weren’t in eyesight of anyone right now, they could be in earshot of someone. He lowered his tone, “stealing the knife already.”

“I was doing reconnaissance,” Virgil said with a shrug, “and then I used the information gathered by that reconnaissance to steal a knife.”

Logan narrowed his eyes at him.

Virgil just smiled. “You would have gotten in my way.”

“I would not have,” Logan insisted.

“How many times has Patton’s mom caught you stealing food from the kitchens in the past?” he asked.

Logan pursed his lips. “That is Patton’s doing,” he said.

“Sure,” Virgil said with an eyeroll. “I’ll have you prove it some other day, but for now,” he twirled the knife around in a way that made Logan cringe even though he did seem to have an expert handle over it. “We have a knife.”

“Right,” Logan agreed with a nod. “We should continue the experiment.”

Virgil stored the knife away… somewhere on his person, and they snuck back to Logan’s rooms.

When Virgil handed over the knife, Logan did have to admit it was a perfect specimen for their project: long and saw-like with a heatproof handle.

Logan carefully set it in a shallow dish and proceeded to pour the potion they’d made onto it. They let it sit for a little under half an hour before carefully pulling it out of the concoction with tongs and letting it airdry. Meanwhile, Virgil suggested they set up a testing area with various old sheets and clothing. They’d even found and decorated an armor stand with an old suit that Logan particularly disliked.

“Well,” Logan said once he’d tapped the handle and had not gotten burned by the potion. “I think we can test it now.” For safety, he made Virgil put on thick heatproof gloves before handing him the knife.

“So how do I make it work?” Virgil asked.

“The original potion works through light friction,” Logan said.

“So just start stabbing things?”

Logan went to respond, but before he could, Virgil had already twisted around and sliced through one of the sheets hanging in Logan’s potion room. There was a sizzling noise as the knife cut through the sheet like it was tissue paper leaving two aflame halves flapping about.

Logan leapt forward to tear the pieces of sheet down and the two of them stomped on the flames to put out the fire.

“It’s perfect,” Virgil said with a grin once the charred remains of the sheet were extinguished.

“It does seem to work as intended,” Logan agreed.

“Let’s do it again,” Virgil said.

“Er, well, perhaps we shouldn’t…,” Logan started, but Virgil had already set his eyes on the armor stand they’d set up. That suddenly seemed like not such a good idea to Logan.

He stabbed the armor stand viciously. It went up in violent flames. Logan’s eyes widened as the blaze only seemed to get bigger as Virgil drew back the knife.

Virgil did not seem to share Logan’s worry as he turned and stabbed another piece of hanging clothing, setting it ablaze as well.

“Virgil, no! You’re going to burn the room down!” Logan yelped.

The armor stand, at that very moment, decided to fall to the ground. They had, perhaps, not set the testing area up as well as they should have because it fell directly onto one of Logan’s rugs and set that on fire as well.

“Oops,” Virgil said, eyes wide.

Above the sound of crackling fire, Logan heard a tapping on the door between his bedroom and work room. It opened slightly after a moment and Logan’s father’s voice called out as he was sticking his head into the room, “Um, what do you mean Virgil… is burning the room down!”

The moment Logan’s father fully processed the presence of the flames, he was bursting into the room. He at least remembered that there was a fire extinguishing powder stocked in Logan’s work room even though that fact had slipped Logan’s mind in the chaos. (Perhaps Logan should have thought to set it out when they were testing a fire knife, but Logan would just add that to his growing list of regrets.)

The king managed to put all of the fires out within 30 seconds of poking his head through the door, but the fire left in his eyes when he turned to look at them afterwards was perhaps more dangerous.

Virgil slowly hid the knife behind his back. It was probably a bit late for that.

“What were the two of you doing in here?” the king asked.

“Nothing,” Logan said. Virgil shot him a look that told Logan what the boy thought about his lying abilities.

Logan’s father put his hands on his hips. “‘Nothing’ set the rug on fire?”

“We may have been doing a small experiment,” Logan said.

“What experiment?” the king asked.

“…I do not wish to say.”

“Logan.”

“Virgil wanted a fire knife.”

“A what?”

Virgil frowned over at Logan. “Your resistance to interrogation techniques is deplorable.”

Father turned to look at Virgil and obviously spotted the fact that Virgil was holding something behind his back.

“Give it here,” Father said, though his tone was a bit gentler with Virgil than it had been with Logan.

Virgil debated it for a moment, but then offered over the knife with a pout on his face. Father gingerly took it and the fire-resistant gloves from him. “Where did the two of you even get this knife?”

“You can’t tell her,” Logan said.

“You stole a knife from the kitchens?!” the king asked.

“We borrowed it,” Logan said.

“Can it be used for cooking anymore?”

“…Well.”

“In the intended manner.”

“No.”

“Then you stole it.”

Logan just frowned and looked away.

“I’m going to go put this in a secure location,” Father said, grimacing at the fire knife in his hands. “No more experiments for you two for a month. I’ll sic Patton on you.”

With that, he picked up what was left of the fire extinguishing powder (just in case) and turned to exit the room.

“Well,” Logan said once he was gone. “That was irresponsible.”

“I could steal it back from him.”

“N-no don’t do that.”

“I definitely could though,” Virgil said.

“I did not hear you say that,” Logan said, putting his hands over his ears. “I am not responsible for any more of your actions in this matter. I am going to the library.”

He walked out of the room then and Virgil followed him to the upstairs library. He said nothing more about the fire knife, but Logan would be a fool to suppose he forgot about it.

[mrmustachious]

Sofia-NOT-the-first requested: Stalker AU with Alan please!

“Mail’s here!” Virgil called as he dumped the bag on the floor of the living room.

Whilst he was on the mainland, Virgil had swung by their PO Box to pick up their mail from the past few weeks. It was one downfall to living in the middle of the ocean; no one wanted to come deliver mail out here.

Alan got up from where he had been playing a game on the couch to help his brother sort through the pile. He was expecting a couple of parcels with things he had ordered, so he was eager to see if they’d come.

As word got out across the island that Virgil had arrived with the mail, more family members started to appear to see if there was anything there for them. Mail days were almost like Christmas with how they all crowded around, eagerly searching for their pile of presents and tearing into various envelopes and boxes.

It didn’t take them long to sort through all the parcels, and as they reached the end of the pile, everyone started to retreat back to where they’d come from with all their gifts in tow.

“Hey, Al. This one’s for you.”

Read on AO3

Tasam1075 requested: Serial Killer - something deadly is happening to the marine life and Gordon's got to protect his 'world'

A/N: This was hard to write. I don't like making Gordon evil! XD

Warnings for death and minor mentions of marine life death

The first time wasn’t even intentional.

He’d arrived on the scene, ready to save the crew in the broken down submarine. However, when he saw the oil-stained water, he was so stunned he couldn’t move.

He thought that they were past using toxic fuels that damaged the environment, but it seemed that whoever built this sub didn’t seem to care about that. Now a leak was causing the oil to seep into the water, turning the ocean around Gordon so murky and black he could barely see past a few metres ahead of him.

He didn’t realise how long he had stopped to just stare in horror until John’s voice was suddenly in his ear.

“Gordon.”

“Yeah, I’m going as fast as I can,” Gordon lied, like he hadn’t just been sitting there, and grabbed Four’s controls.

“No, there’s no need.”

Gordon paused and frowned, not understanding what John was saying.

“There’s no more lifesigns in the sub.”

“Oh.”

Read on AO3