#missed opportunity to do a shout-out of sorts and make him the master of shadow though

[jinxed-ninjago]

i like that because i've seen Sonic Prime, my first thought hearing Cinder's voice was basically "he sounds like Shadow, does one of Shadow's voice actors voice him" and yes. yes Ian Hanlin does voice Cinder

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 119: Occlumency

Frank still felt like he was falling and moving for a very long time even after he felt the cold surface on his face, and pushed himself onto hands and knees.

They were almost in total darkness, only the burn of a blue light leaving streaks across their eyes and slowly dimming to guttural torches in the wall barely illuminated anything. It was just shadows on top of nothingness, the floor they were on had the exact same depth and shape as the endless black ceiling above. Padfoot was almost indistinguishable except his flashing eyes.

When finally he did get unsteadily to his feet and offered Alice a hand up, their eyes only just dimly took in the doors surrounding them on all sides, and they all huddled closer together in the center. Nobody was going to ask if they should try those out.

Nobody declared where they were for reassurance, but nobody was being attacked either. They just hovered in this endless void until finally the silence became too much. Alice needed a sense of purpose right now, so she took an uneasy breath, and summoned the book to her.

There was no telling which direction it zoomed from, it just blended in too well with this place. Frank lit the tip of his wand for a better light source than those dusky blue flames, but the chapter title illuminated nothing, they'd never heard of Occlumency.

Regulus frowned in sympathy for Kreacher being found up in the attic after all this time, and wondered if his old elf missed him and was hiding in his favorite spot. Had his parents even mourned his passing, or instead toasted his goodbye as a good one, since he'd died doing exactly what they wanted? Did Sirius even care, or was he still busy mourning Potter and had only mentioned him as a passing thought? Was Kreacher the only one in that place who would even miss him?

He wasn't the only one noticing this detail though, and caught Peter's eyes which were just as worried.

Peter didn't at all like how this was so utterly dismissed by the Sirius in the book, nor how everyone in here just scoffed at his name again and passed over it. He couldn't entirely blame them, after his shrine felt like an extra blow to the back, but his thoughts lingered on Dobby. He may have been the first house-elf they'd heard doing such a thing as going behind their master's back, but that didn't mean he'd be the only one.

Everyone's attention was diverted to the latest development, Snape. Taking private lessons with Harry?!

"Dumbledore's really trying to kill my kid, isn't he?" James asked faintly. His three friends shivered in particular disgust for how pale he suddenly looked in this shadowy place, it really brought up the ghost in him he'd be at the time.

"Oh don't be so dramatic!" Lily rolled her eyes at him, she was even smiling of all things. "This is the kindest thing I've heard Sev do this whole time! He doesn't like being around Harry, but he's taking the time to teach him personally!"

Frank couldn't help but still think her rather naive. After everything they'd heard him doing, she still somehow thought that?

It wasn't just his utter amazement though.

"Don't be daft Evans!" Potter actually snapped at her. "I'm starting to wonder if Occlumency is a poison he's going to slip him or something, how can you even pretend he's still even a decent person after all he's done!"

She riled up in frustration, and to everyone's amazement the two began a bickering round, but one they hadn't seen in quite some time now. The last fight they'd really had was back on the Knight Bus, and he'd believed just as firmly as she had the crimes Sirius had been accused of. A lot had changed since then.

Clearly not enough.

In the meantime they'd been almost passively ignoring each other, even cordial the past few interactions. Whoever would have thought he'd now find himself agreeing with James Potter Lily still needed a reality check.

He'd been proven to be a Death Eater in the last book, had been nothing but an arse to her own kid plus theirs and everyone else in that school given any opportune moment, and that really wasn't any different than back in their time at school now. No matter how much she kept saying he wasn't really like that around just her, Frank wondered what it would take for her to see being one way to everyone but one person didn't make it okay.

"Lily, hun," Alice finally stepped forward, placing her hand gently on her arm, and Lily tensed up and turned sharply to throw her off before she caught herself, stopping at the last moment before slapping her hand away. She took several deep breaths and was nearly fighting back tears.

She was well aware this was a last, pitiful defense in a long stream of issues she had with Sev. She looked Alice in the eye, and took another steadying breath. She did not want to lose their friendship, she couldn't just keep lashing out at everyone when she knew full well they agreed with the Marauders.

Turning almost calmly back to him now, she cleared her throat and said with at least an attempt at a peaceable tone, "Severus saved Harry's life in his first year," she needlessly reminded. "You bent over backwards for him," she gestured to the black dog, "and you've obviously made some sort of peace with your friends no matter the shit they do," she didn't need to gesture at Pettigrew. "Can you not bloody pull your head out of your arse and try to see Sev might be trying."

She spoke that to everyone, maybe without the insults intended at Frank and Alice.

James did not look impressed, and he spoke without thinking, "My friends haven't been inducted into Death Eater's already like Snape is! Remind me  Sirius, about Snape being involved in Mary's-" Then he whirled on the spot with a look of panic and half shouted, "wait!"

Too late, Sirius had long been looking for an excuse to change back, and backing up Prongs was more than good enough in his opinion. With a little pop he stood before them on two legs once more, and everyone except his three friends backed away in shock at the sight.

His pallor eerily resembled that of a corpse in this pathetic lighting, the long dark hair hiding even more well whatever gray should be in his eyes. His clothes were half torn to shreds adding to the gruesome sight, and Remus ran to him at once in concern. If he'd started to change back too early, if their worrying had been obsolete this whole time and he'd actually bitten him-

Sirius doubled over in pain, the retort lost on his lips as he hadn't been expecting it to hurt that badly, but he quickly tried to wiggle out of the worried hands tugging his shirt aside. There were scars beneath, but no bite marks, he already knew that, he could feel the difference.

"Stop moving you idiot," James blustered as he grabbed him practically in a head lock so Remus could see clearly. Peter was already in place, wand tip lit as close to his side as he could without being in Remus's way.

"What's the matter Prongs, finally admitting I'm prettier than Evans?" He tried to grumble, but it came out more as a pathetic huffing.

James squeezed, and Sirius yelped, but more in surprise as something cool began tracing along his side, and the burning finally dulled to a throbbing. He couldn't properly see what Moony was applying, but whatever it was he released a breath he'd been holding in for a very long time and sagged in relief in James' arms, though he'd eat one of those flames rather than admit it.

"If I knew you lot were worried about a real bite, I'd have ignored Prongs's idiocies right away and told you. I think I'd know the difference." He patted James's arm, and he marginally relaxed his grip. They'd all been bitten by Moony at some point, and the burn of that injury always lasted longer than any other kind. Yet Moony had bitten Wormtail on the ear in that cage and he'd immediately changed back, and despite his own losing consciousness there at the end, he was still confident he'd been a dog and stayed one long enough there were no side effects.

Regulus watched in fascination as they fawned over him, until finally he was released from their clutches and he stood back up with a grin and smoothed out his hair. He and Sirius had never even been hugged by mother, and father's only usual affection was a firm pat on the shoulder which Sirius hadn't received since before his time in school. How did he stand others being all over him?

Lily stared as he showed such care for his friend, and couldn't even bring herself to tense up again as he turned wearily back towards her like he expected her to start all over again. Instead she wrung her hands for a moment and tried a new approach. "He can change," she wanted to believe that so bad, that he'd go back to the way he was before he started hanging around those awful pre-Death Eaters. "Give him a chance to prove it."

He tapped his foot, ran his hand through his hair, and twitched uneasily, but his eyes never left her steady gaze. "Shall I only curse him for the shit I know he's done?"

She didn't laugh like he'd been hoping, but there was the smallest twitch to her mouth that could have just been another flicker of azure. She turned back to Longbottom and gave Alice a friendly nudge, the two beginning to whisper finally where on Earth they could possibly be as Alice went on reading about Sirius and Snape nearly brawling in that kitchen before Arthur came in.

He'd meant it, in as much as he could. If that git was the reason Harry never had to see another attack like Arthur's, hell, he'd probably go thank the slimeball. He just didn't believe it would be possible, even if he did make a valiant effort not to sneer in disgust about how he treated Harry that first Monday night, insulting him at nearly every question, surely making the answers needlessly complicated. He didn't have any proof Snape was making Harry feel as stupid as possible as he explained the concept of mind reading, never having heard of this branch of magic personally, but surely the arse didn't have to give Harry zero preparation for what was to come other than 'prepare yourself!'

Remus and Sirius stayed close to James in case he spontaneously combusted from trying to keep hold of himself. He hadn't even seemed to hear Sirius had passed Harry something along in the book, possibly even their mirrors based on the little description given, and barely acknowledged Harry's hilariously pitiful attempts to get together with Cho. He was just focused very intently on Evans and trying to keep his scowl at least as well-hidden as the two of them holding hands while the shadows provided the cover.

Lily certainly didn't notice Potter's efforts, she kept her back to the lot to hide her own shame-filled face as it all somehow turned out even worse than any of them could have imagined. Harry was in even more intense pain and suffering as Severus dragged out flashes of old, horrible memories, and he never gave a single second of caring!

Harry's revelation managed to shock some of the despair out of her that she'd made an arse out of herself again, that Harry's consistent dreams of the long dark corridor ending in a locked door was actually in the Ministry of all places, down near the old courtrooms. She wasn't the only one who shivered with distaste, they didn't need to imagine Harry's dream anymore, wherever they were was a pretty oddly comparable place, it just housed many doors.

"You think that's where we are?" Frank finally asked, quietly enough like he was trying to let the guttering flames drown out his voice. "The Department of Mysteries?"

"Harry's been dreaming of this place," Regulus slowly agreed, "and Arthur was attacked at work on guard duty."

"Merlin's beard, what is this place?" Alice whispered, revolving slowly on the spot with just a tinge of curiosity now. You-Know-Who wanted to get into here, was the weapon behind one of these doors?

Frank grabbed her hand to keep her at his side, but he could see the others all eyeing different doors now too. "Let's get to the last sentence," he said all in a rush, almost pleading with the others not to do something so foolish and have them all wind up almost dead all over again. "Then we can, try a few doors, poke around just a little. But if anything, anything starts to look bad, I'll finish and get us out of this."

"That's fair," James finally agreed. Nobody moved towards the doors anyways, but even though he'd spoken for the others, he seemed the least curious of all, eyes still on Lily.

"Can we at least all agree we're honorary Unspeakables now just for being in here?" Sirius asked with a wide grin, causing all of them to snort in surprise at him.

Harry's lesson with Snape was dismissed, Harry was feeling almost as sick as when he'd seen the attack on Arthur as he joined Ron and Hermione for homework, that barely lasted a page before he was feeling so feverish he went off to bed.

Then it happened again, more vibrant even than when Harry had felt You-Know-Who's mood in the locker room. Harry was sprawled on the floor with laughter that wasn't his, and pain that he couldn't escape when Ron found him.

Lily shivered and pressed her hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Two rounds of Occlumency with Severus and this happened moments later, was it a coincidence? Was he really still a Death Eater through and through? What was going to happen to her son because of it?

Alice came to the final line and was more than glad not to speak that aloud, turning to the others and nodding now was the best opportunity they were going to get. Some more reluctantly than others, they all went to a different door, and pushed. Nothing happened.

They weren't really surprised, but some were more disappointed than others as she finished with the nightmarish statement that You-Know-Who was happier than he'd been in fourteen years.

[nukyster-blog]

Changing course Chapter 16) Abomination of Men

.-.-.

Like a quiet lonesome observer, Ivar watched Piglet get throughout the days. She was troubled, on edge and obviously scared of something. But Ivar hadn’t been able to place his finger on the source of Piglet's great discomfort. It bothered him to be left in the dark while some unknown force was wearing his only companion down. In the course of a few days, her dark eyes turned vacant and lost their usual soft glimmer of optimism. Ever since their rough start, Piglet had always worn her burdens with a tilted up chin and shoulders back. She simply endured her poor course of life and was able to treasure all bright moments.

Ivar had envied her for that, but now that her overall brightness started to fade away, he missed the way she’d smile vividly at the scrawny lamb who succeeded to skittle after her throughout the courtyard. All of her happiness diluted along with her spirit. 

The distance between them grew and it got on Ivar's nerves because he had no say in it, she simply seemed to hide and slowly fade away. She had grown a habit of nail biting, which showed mostly during their usual game-time in between dusk and darkness. She was there but at the same time not; fighting inner battles and fears all on her own.

As for today, she’d been slumped against the wall, cracking eggs and mixing them with herbs, onions and spices without uttering a word. His few attempts to start a conversation had been fruitless, so he gave up and let her do her job as he did his. The rest of the day passed dreadfully slow and the evening promised another boring pass of time. 

“Wahid, arbe, sitta?” Ivar questioned a few times but received no response from around the corner. So he swiped a few handfuls of hay together, turned on his side in an attempt to sleep.

Ivar woke up abruptly and he didn’t know why. His eyes flashed open and his limbs flexed in shock. With his senses still dull from sleep, he tried to categorize the danger lurking in the dancing shadows of the semi-dark shed. A candle was lit, the animals sounded nervous, indicating that the danger was close. The stench of cold-sweat and fear hung in the air. And there was something else, someone else.

Ivar’s breath caught in his throat and his heart started pounding when he heard Piglet’s muffled cries and a raw voice breaking. 

Adrenaline poured itself into his veins and in a state of utter alertness, Ivar dragged himself to the wooden wall that separated him from the assault. Through the cracks, a scene played out: Piglet struggled against her attacker, shooting her right leg out. But her movements were far too slow and instead helped the attacker rather than hinder. Her legs were kicked apart and hands moved from her waist to her arms, trapping them above her head. Roughly, Piglet was shoved down.

Ivar’s eyes were glued on jewel encrusted ringed fingers. They crept their way to Piglets bosom, squeezing roughly. In an instant, Piglet grew still and her dark eyes widened as far as they could. 

Ivar could not tell how much time passed between Piglet’s eyes changing from shock, to disgust, to utter revulsion. During that moment, Ivar found himself frozen solid. Unable to move, to shout or even breath. As he watched his only companion being wronged in such an inhumane way, he realised the true extent of his powerlessness. 

The assault abruptly stopped and Piglet’s attacker jerked away from her, his croaky voice shouting in disgust. Piglet received a fist in her face, which was so low down and dirty, due to her arms being pinned above her head, she had no way of blocking it. 

Her attacker let go of her completely and quickly stood back on his two feet. Ivar managed to break his spell and crawled towards the end of his box in order to catch a glimpse of the coward. 

Before the bastard had the chance to flee, their eyes locked and enlarged; one in surprise, the other in a complete and utter state of loathing. 

In front of Ivar stood a young man. Although his overall appearance screamed wealth and fortune, his physical features were meager and plain. The only notable feature was the man’s harelip; the small cleft did not allow him to close his mouth properly. 

Ivar’s physical appearance made his opponent’s mouth drop entirely and a gleam of sweat ran down from under the man’s brown fringe. Their eyes never blinked nor looked away, it was a contest of some sorts and Ivar was dead-set on winning. 

Inwardly, he roared when the bastard drew his gaze down and scoffed, trying to save his dignity by ridiculing Ivar. 

Ivar glared at him and now that he was the victor, he looked the bastard over from head to toe and eventually stopped at the young man’s crotch, which was noticeably piss stained. 

‘She pissed on him,’ Ivar realised as gratification morphed his lips into a sly grin. 

When the young man noticed Ivar’s focus, he drew out a handkerchief and frantically rubbed the stains, an ineffective venture. 

“Oh, did that little savage make a fool out of you,” Ivar sneered and tksed, motioning him to come closer and cross Piglet’s makeshift line, “why don’t you prove yourself to be a man and fight one.” 

Ivar crawled up as close as his shackles allowed him and pushed himself up on his knuckles.

  “Congratulations, you will be my main target, once I’ve murdered the Giant.” 

Ivar surprised himself by the way he was able to keep all his anger and loathing inside his chest and transpire it into his gaze. He must be wearing a hellish mask, because even though the young man did not understand his word, he gulped thickly and took a few steps back, which meant increasing his distance from Piglet. 

“Good, keep walking you pathetic human being,” Ivar whispered as his eyes fixated on the young man’s back. 

The royal bastard left their shed and locked their door. Which meant he had keys and was able to come in and out whenever he pleased. 

The reason for Piglet's dread left the pair of them in a suffocating silence. Ivar quietly retreated to the wooden wall that separated them. Cautiously, he glanced through the cracks and noticed how Piglet had drawn her knees up to her chest and hid her face in between them. 

Ivar swallowed dryly and rubbed the back of his head, at a loss for words, he tried to summon up anything that would make Piglet’s current situation more endurable. After a few attempts to open his mouth and speak up, he realised there wasn’t enough comfort in the world to ease Piglet’s pain. It left a bitter taste inside his mouth and it struck him what Piglet’s reasons were for keeping up her poor personal hygiene. She clung to that wall of stench and filth in order to keep everyone at a safe distance. 

It was her weeping that made him feel guilty on behalf of all men. Her sounds were heart wrenching and raw. As her tears came in waves, moments of sobbing broken apart by short pauses to recover her breath, before spiraling back into that dreadful sound of losing hope. 

It was enough to make Ivar drop his head and press his palms against his ears. He didn’t want to be present during her breakdown, but he had no choice in the matter. Just like Piglet had no choice but to pick herself up in the morning, get back to work and if needed, turn the other cheek. 

Because she was a nothing, they both were nothings. They were not allowed to have feelings, nor thoughts, nor emotions. Those were privileges for the rich, for the free. Not for property, not for things. 

It took until early morning for Piglet’s sobs to evolve into chants for her God. Ivar hadn’t been able to move or sleep. His thoughts had been too occupied while he’d tried to drown out all of Piglet’s sounds. He too had prayed to his Gods, to give him a proper chance to slaughter the young man that harmed Piglet. That was all he needed, one moment in the shadows; to kill that bastard without getting caught. Because that would earn him a punishment worse than death; crucifixion, burned alive. Or being hoisted on the wheel, until the Giant broke every bone in his body. Oh yes, those Christians cursed the heathens for being soulless, but when it came to torture they were rather creative themselves. 

In all honesty, Ivar could live with that thought; of being tortured to death, as long as it was an eye for an eye. Avenging Piglet by destroying a Christian would earn him a place at the table in Valhalla. 

But it seemed wrong for Piglet to suffer the same punishment. Whether he liked it or not, their fates had intertwined from the moment he woke up in the shed. And that must mean something. Ivar could only hope that all of their suffering was for a greater good, a better purpose than to be exploited by the Christians. And so he prayed to Odin, the All-Father for strength and willpower, to endure just a little bit longer until the perfect opportunity would reveal itself. So he’d be able to burn this entire place down, with every last master burning within it.

.-.-.

The next morning, Piglet wasn’t able to meet his eyes. Although she had nothing to be ashamed of, she did her absolute best to avoid him. Without a word, she fled the shed with the cattle and didn’t meet with Ivar until late in the afternoon, where both were forced to work in the kitchen. 

Ivar remained silent too, observing how Piglet just sat next to him. Her features dominated by a profound form of sadness, fatigue engraved in her worn down face. Her hands trembled but managed to work their way through countless potatoes and onions. 

Once back at the shed, she brought him fresh water and a dish that involved actual meat. But Ivar didn’t manage to get a bite down his throat and placed the bowl away, heading towards his trough in order to freshen up. 

Ivar was scrubbing the filth from his upper legs and lower waist when something cluttered onto the floor. Craning his neck over his shoulder, he was just in time to notice how Piglet’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and her body collapsed onto the floor, next to the full bowl she’d dropped. 

Her limbs started to spasm and soon her entire body was convulsing. Her hands twitched over the makeshift line and Ivar sprung into action.

He drew her into his box and vividly remembered how the Giant smacked her until she came back to her senses. But it seemed cruel to hit an unconscious woman, especially one that still wore the bruise of a golden ring on her cheek from the previous night. Instead of beating the seizure out of her, Ivar frantically shook her shoulders and tried to keep her arms and legs from hitting the wooden panels. 

Slowly, the whites of her eyes shifted back and she blinked a few times. With a vacant stare, she tried to catch up with her whereabouts; down onto the floor, on the other side of the line, with Ivar naked, towering over her. 

Betrayal manifested after the third blink and with feeble fists, she hit his bare chest. Ivar wasn’t aware of her presumptions until she started crying again and snapped her teeth at him. 

“No, Piglet I’m not-” but before he could finish his sentence, she managed to sink her teeth into his lower arm and bit through. 

Ivar skillfully smothered the reflex to slap her, yet grabbed her neck in an attempt to stop her from biting him. But Piglet was now a dog with a bone, quite literally and would not stop her teeth from sinking deeper into Ivar’s skin, to the point of drawing blood. 

“Piglet stop!” Ivar growled at her as the stinging sensation turned to a burning row of shards penetrating his flesh. 

“Maksura,” he shouted in defeat, allowing his most embarrassing default to be on display. He’d heard her use that word before, she’d been speaking about his broken legs. 

“Maksura, damn it Piglet, my prick doesn’t work, stop biting me!” he confessed pointing at his worthless member.

His words had some effect on Piglet, at least enough to make her stop biting a chunk out of his arm. Her jaw relaxed, Ivar let go of her neck and she quickly shuffled backwards until she sat on the safe side of the line.

“Maksura?” She questioned breathless, gesturing to Ivar’s crotch. 

A part of him shattered and laid in a thousand tiny pieces in the middle of the hay covered floor when he nodded. 

“Yes, maksura, I’m broken,” Ivar whispered with a faint voice and fought the warmth that spread to his cheeks, “I can’t hurt you, not like that.” A sweltering heat wave bloomed and burned his face brightly red. He drew his gaze down and squeezed his eyes shut, for he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his sniveling in. 

He overheard her scatter back on her feet and retreat to her box. His eyes were stinging and there was a lump in his throat the size of a fortress, one he could not swallow away.  

Dejection met him like an old friend; remembering all the other shared events that stayed with him as he rapidly put his clothes back on. 

Completely empty, Ivar retreated to the farthest side of his box, away from Piglet, for she now knew his most painful secret. That he could not get it up, that he was incapable of fucking a woman. 

Solemnly, he licked the blood from his wrist and counted sixteen perfect teeth marks. She got him good, had been able to get underneath his skin in a variety of ways. 

.-.-.

A/N: This too was a very important chapter, one that revealed secrets and fears. The title speaks for itself and goes two ways; one for the young man who wronged Piglet. And two, for Ivar who perceives himself as un-human due to his inabilities. I hope I was able to write this chapter well enough, I wanted to be ‘blunt’ and ‘in your face’ of how the lives of slaves are. No sugarcoating, no soft edges, this is what men can do to others, simply because they do see them as human beings. 

I also think this chapter changes the dynamic between Piglet and Ivar, because she now knows he isn’t able to hurt her like that, which makes him different to other men. 

This chapter means a lot to me, if you can please let me know what you think.

Xoxoxo Nukyster  

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182 @conaionaru

If you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

[tigerkirby215]

5e Yone, the Unforgotten build (League of Legends)

(Artwork by Riot Games)

A YouTube comment on “The Path“ cinematic:

I can’t top this. This comment is fucking gold.

GOALS

Asakana - Trust me as a Kayn main I’m salty that we have another half-demon anime boy who isn’t even Darkin. But we still need a mask of many demonic faces.

Three swift strikes... - “Brother, why did Elder Souma let you have two swords?” Regardless we’ll need two swords for many slashes.

Death is like the wind - Yone is dead except not really, but he’s still capable of some astral projection to fight his foes from a distance.

RACE

Yone may have been human but with a demon fusing to him that gives him just enough infernal blood to be a Tiefling! As a Tiefling your Charisma score increases by 2 and your Intelligence score increases by 1. Your Hellish Resistance grants you resistance to fire damage, and Infernal Legacy grants you a few innate spells which I’ll cover in the build.

ABILITY SCORES

15; DEXTERITY - You’re an anime sword boy who was second best only to your brother who is the most anime sword boy who ever did swing an anime sword.

14; CHARISMA - As the more level-headed brother you had to do most of the talking. Remember that Charisma is strength of personality; not raw attractiveness. (Though you certainly have that going for you too.)

13; INTELLIGENCE - A master swordsman needs to study the art of war, which is more theory and less art. (Feel free to set your CON higher instead if you want more health.)

12; WISDOM - Yasuo’s the hothead and you’re the calm one. Not calm enough not to try to kill your brother, and definitely not calm enough to not be a target for Asakana.

10; CONSTITUTION - You died before, and dying generally means you weren’t that sturdy to begin with.

8; STRENGTH - Being cut down by the legendary wind technique and then brought back from the dead doesn’t spell a good workout routine. Yeah Yone has big pecs but put simply we need everything else more.

BACKGROUND

You had a background before, but unfortunately dead men tell no tales. You are a Haunted One brought back to life to hunt the creatures of the night. You can choose two skills from the Haunted One list to be proficient in: Investigation will help you find any stray Asakana, and depending on if your definition of emotional demons are Religion or Arcana you can pick either of those for your second skill. (Arcana is probably going to be more useful though.)

As a Haunted One people can easily see into your Heart of Darkness, easily telling that you’ve faced unimaginable horrors in your past. No shit you have a demon mask permanently attached to your face. Regardless commoners will be willing to aid you as much as possible unless you’ve shown yourself to be openly hostile, such as throwing their promo games.

You also learn two languages of your choice: one of which must be Exotic but since you already know Infernal as a Tiefling Sylvan would be good to talk to the spirits in a dating sim. For your other language Elvish seems fitting for Ionia.

(Artwork by Riot Games)

THE PATH BUILD

LEVEL 1 - ROGUE 1

Perhaps not the most fitting for the honorable brother, but being a Rogue will give us the skill to strike swiftly. As well as more skills in general! Take Perception and Insight to find Asakana, Acrobatics to fight them, and Intimidation to strike fear into their hearts. You also get Expertise in two skills your proficient in: Investigation and Perception would help further with finding Asakana.

When you find the Asakana you can strike it down with Sneak Attack. If you have Advantage on an attack roll or are attacking an enemy within 5 feet of an ally you can do an extra d6 of damage. Despite the name “sneak attack” you don’t actually have to sneak, but you do need to use a Finesse weapon such as a short sword. Yes your swords aren’t exactly “short” but for the purposes of dual wielding it’s the best you’ll get.

And after striking the demon down you might need to speak its true name in Thieves’ Cant. That’s not what Thieves’ Cant is? Well regardless it’s a code language shared among rogues; perhaps you picked it up from the Navori? At least you can shout the demon’s name loud and proud as you seal it away thanks to Tiefling Thaumaturgy, along with all other sorts of little supernatural effects I suggest reading into.

LEVEL 2 - ROGUE 2

At level 2 Rogues get Cunning Action to Dash, Disengage, or Hide as a bonus action. Hiding isn’t very in-character but being able to move swiftly across the battlefield is key for the twin blade technique. Unfortunately attacking with a twin blade also requires your bonus action, so pace your movements accordingly.

LEVEL 3 - ROGUE 3

Level 3 Rogues get to choose their Martial Archetype and in order to strike swift and true you’re going to want to play a Swashbuckler. Swashbucklers get Fancy Footwork to be able to slip away from enemies they attacked without provoking opportunity attacks, even if they miss.

Additionally they get Rakish Audacity which ironically provides two benefits: for one you get to add your Charisma modifier to your initiate, but you can also activate your sneak attack if you strike an enemy in melee with no other enemies nearby. Single the demon out and cut them down now that your Sneak Attack does 2d6 damage!

And finally you can cast Hellish Rebuke at second level as a reaction once per long rest thanks to Infernal Legacy. Strike a ganking lust demon with a big burst of “BEGONE THOT” damage!

LEVEL 4 - FIGHTER 1

Adding a quick level in Fighter because Yone was professionally trained, so a Fighting Style would be good to have. Naturally we’ll be going for Two-Weapon Fighting to fight with twin blades. You also get Second Wind to heal for a d10 plus your Fighter level once per short rest for a quick Corrupting Pot in lane.

But unfortunately now we’re going to have to die...

(Artwory by KAIZERS02 on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 5 - WARLOCK 1

Just kidding of course because it’s ya boii coming back with the WARLOCK LEVELS! You can choose your Warlock Patron straight at level 1 and as someone who came back from the dead you may think we’ll be going for the Undying patron right? Well that’s where you’re dead wrong because we’re going for a pact with a Fiend.

Why Fiend Patron? - Along with the lore reasons (not all Warlock pacts have to be made on good terms) Pact of the Fiend gives us Dark One’s Blessing to recreate the shield from Spirit Cleave (W), and Burning Hands also gives us an easy-to-use cone spell to recreate a cone-shaped cleave.

Why not Undying? - Undying has a pseudo-support role and a heavy focus on not dying, neither of which Yone does in-game.

Why not Hexblade? - We need at least 12 levels in Warlock for an invocation, and that means we’d be getting Accursed Specter from Hexblade. Yone doesn’t summon spirits to fight for him and while I could normally get past that bit of flavor fail (as both Hexblade’s Curse and Armor of Hexes actually make a lot of sense for Yone) Fiend made a lot more sense given that he literally gets his powers from a demon. A DEX build also allows you to be shirtless in Ionia.

Pact of the Fiend Warlocks have the Dark One’s Blessing, granting them temporary hitpoints equal to their Charisma modifier and their Warlock level when they down an enemy for some spiritual shielding.

Additionally Warlocks gain access to Pact Magic. You learn two cantrips from the Warlock list: Minor Illusion creates a sound or small visual you can use to trick an Asakana into falling for a trap. And Toll the Dead isn’t Eldritch Blast! Excluding the war crimes I just committed by not putting Eldritch Blast on a Warlock (you’re going to be using your swords most of the time anyways get over it it’s one spell) Toll the Dead forces the enemy to make a Wisdom save or take a d8 Necrotic damage, or a d12 Necrotic if they’re injured, making it a great finishing blow after using Soul Unbound.

You can also learn two first level spells: Burning Hands forces enemies to make a Dexterity saving throw or be Spirit Cleaved for 3d6 fire damage. If you want to mark an enemy for Soul Unbound however Hex will let you do an extra d6 of necrotic damage every hit, and give an enemy disadvantage on skill checks related to an ability score of your choice. You can also cast the Darkness spell once per long rest as a Tiefling, blinding everyone in the 20 foot sphere of darkness. If only you could see through it...

LEVEL 6 - WARLOCK 2

Second level Warlocks get Eldritch Invocations and we actually won’t be taking the one that helps us see in the dark. We will however be taking Armor of Shadows to let us cast Mage Armor at will and go shirtless in Ionia. Your second invocation will remain empty for now.

You can also add another spell to your repertoire and Protection from Evil and Good will help a lot with fighting Asakana. A creature blessed by the spell is attacked with disadvantage by aberrations, celestials, elementals, fey, fiends, and undead. Additionally they can’t be charmed, frightened, or possessed by them. If they’re already debuffed by these types of enemies they have advantage on future saving throws against them. Once you know the truth of Asakana there is no reason to fear them... or some other edgy one liner.

LEVEL 7 - WARLOCK 3

Third level Warlocks get their Pact Boon and hey look it’s Pact of the Blade. You can create a magic weapon in your hand as an action. The weapon counts as being magical to overcome armadillos who say “okay” a lot. And you know that Invocation I told you to hold off on? Improved Pact Weapon will let you do more damage with the blade of the Asakana. If you want to remain in character I’d suggest only attacking with your pact weapon in your offhand, but remember that Two-Weapon Fighting takes your Bonus Action so feel free to hit hard and then run if needed.

You can also now cast second level spells like Misty Step for some sick plays with Flash.

LEVEL 8 - WARLOCK 4

Fourth level Warlocks finally get an Ability Score Improvement: increase your Dexterity by 2 for swifter and deadlier strikes with your twin blades. Could we take a feat? Yeah, but we won’t.

You also learn another cantrip at this level on top of another spell. For your cantrip Prestidigitation will further your ability to cast small spiritual magic, and for your spell of choice we already got flash so how about Ray of Enfeeblement for Exhaust? There’s a lot of other great options though: Blindness / Deafness from the Fiend list is also a great choice.

LEVEL 9 - FIGHTER 2

Second level Fighters get Action Surge, allowing them to take one additional action on their turn. Right now that only means one extra sword swing but you can cast a spell after you attack!

LEVEL 10 - FIGHTER 3

At level 3 Fighters can choose their Martial Archetype and to unbind one’s soul you must travel to the world of Wildemount for the Echo Knight subclass. I’ve already made a few Echo Knights before on this sub so I’m going to give the cliffnotes version of a class that has quite a long ability description at level 3 for Manifest Echo:

You can summon your soul within 15 feet of you as a bonus action.

You can move your soul up to 30 feet for free on your turn.

Your soul can’t be more than 30 feet away from you by the end of your turn, or else it disappears. (Goes back to your body)

Your soul has an AC of 14 + proficiency and 1 hitpoint.

It’s immune to all conditions and uses your saving throws.

You can swap places with your soul using 15 feet of movement (regardless of the distance between you two.)

When you attack you can make the attack come from your soul instead.

Your soul can opportunity attack (using your reaction.)

Additionally Unleash Incarnation will let you attack an extra time from your soul’s location on your turn. You can use it a number of times equal to your Constitution modifier but your CON mod is currently zero. Thankfully you can use it a minimum of one time before finishing a long rest.

(Artwork by Valkhar on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 11 - FIGHTER 4

Fourth level Fighters get an Ability Score Improvement: invest further in Dexterity for 19 DEX and all the benefits that provides.

LEVEL 12 - FIGHTER 5

5th level Fighters get an Extra Attack, letting them attack twice with their main action. This means that with your bonus action you can attack three times in a round! Now would also probably be a good time to put the Asakana’s blade in your main hand instead of trying to work around your fancy passive.

LEVEL 13 - WARLOCK 5

It’s straight down Warlock now to become one with the Asakana we wear as a mask. Level 5 Warlocks get another Invocation and it wouldn’t be Pact of the Blade if we didn’t take both Improved Pact Weapon and Eldritch Smite! Pretend to be a Paladin by turning a spell slot into more sword damage and pretend to be your brother by knocking people over when you do so!

You can also learn another spell like Gaseous Form to turn into petals on the wind. Additionally Hex is probably wearing away its welcome by this point so I’d suggest taking Hold Person instead to CC-chain a foe to death.

LEVEL 14 - WARLOCK 6

6th level Fiend Warlocks get Dark One’s Own Luck, letting them add a d10 to an ability check or saving throw once per short or long rest. I consider this less you being “lucky” and more you going all out just this once.

You can also learn another spell from the Warlock list such as Spirit Shroud from Unearthed Arcana to give nearby enemies a Randuin's Omen while you cut them down.

LEVEL 15 - WARLOCK 7

7th level Warlocks get another Invocation and while there are plenty to choose from it’s only fair for the man who collects masks of many faces to get a Mask of Many Faces, allowing you to cast Disguise Self at will! Is this mostly done for flavor and is it a bit late to get Disguise Self? Yes but it’s still a very good spell to have.

And you can learn a 4th level spell like Fire Shield from the Fiend List. You can make a Fire Shield for resistance to Cold damage or a Cold Shield to resist Fire damage which you already resist. But regardless of your choice anyone who hits you with a melee attack for the duration will take 2d8 damage of either Fire (if you chose the Fire Shield) or Cold (if you chose the other.)

Also I’d perhaps suggest replacing Misty Step with Dimension Door? Sure Dimension Door takes a full action (while Misty Step takes a bonus action) but Dimension Door has a 500 foot range which will never not be useful! Teleport can be just as useful as Flash you know.

LEVEL 16 - WARLOCK 8

8th level Warlocks get another Ability Score Improvement: put one into Dexterity and the other one into... yeah Charisma. You also could learn another spell but none of these really interest me so I suggest holding off on it for now.

(Artwork by MizuriOfficial on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 17 - WARLOCK 9

9th level Warlocks get another Invocation, and while again there’s plenty to choose from we strive for accuracy here so how about some spiritual levitation? Ascendant Step lets you cast Levitate on yourself without using a spell slot or material components, so you can float towards a wise old man who definitely isn’t an Asakana in disguise.

But most importantly you now gain access to 5th level spells! Hallow is a big spell with a lot of effects, a 1000 gold cost, and a 24 hour casting time but it’s the ultimate way to protect an area from Asakana! To seal the fate of your foes  Synaptic Static forces an intelligence saving throw on all enemies in an AoE to try to avoid massive damage along with a disorientation effect that tends to come with being knocked up into the air by a tornado.

LEVEL 18 - WARLOCK 10

10th level Fiend Warlocks get Fiendish Resilience, allowing them to resist one type of damage of their choosing. They can swap the resistance out on a short or long rest but damage from magic weapons or silvered weapons ignores this resistance, so probably better just to resist wind magic (Thunder damage) in general instead of specifically resisting a magic wind sword.

Additionally while you won’t learn any more Warlock spells you do get your final cantrip: for some more minor spirit projection how about Mage Hand to grab things within 30 feet and bring them to you?

LEVEL 19 - WARLOCK 11

11th level Warlocks get Mystic Arcanum, which are like regular spell slots which only come back after a long rest because you’re no longer special. Regardless if you want to harness the wind technique look no further than Investiture of Wind Stone, because the rock spell actually lets you knock people over.

Regardless until the spell ends you have resistance to nonmagical slashing, piercing, and bludgeoning, you can move across difficult terrain without spending additional movement, you can move through terrain without spending extra movement (but can’t end your turn there), and you can spend your action to try to knock everyone near you over with some basic wind techniques.

Yes there are better spells to take (even in the Investiture spell line, such as the genuine Investiture of Wind which would let you fly as well as block projectiles with a wind wall of your own) but you’re not your brother. You’re a simple, practical stone who gets the job done. Or you can be a wandering poet: make your own Yone - you don’t follow this build point-for-point.

You also apparently get another spell because Mystic Arcanum doesn’t count as a spell? Hold Monster is like Hold Person but it works against everything at the mere cost of a much higher spell slot, meaning that you can only affect one creature with parallelization but that should be more than enough for your little brother to get the job done and flash his fancy blue crest afterwards. You do have three spell slots now after all.

LEVEL 20 - WARLOCK 12

12th level Warlocks get our final Ability Score Improvement and... ugh. As much as I want to do something fun I have to accept the fact that Charisma will help us more, so you may as well grab the Resilient Feat with Charisma for better saving throws and a higher Charisma mod.

But that Charisma mod is going to get a lot of use since now you can take the Lifedrinker invocation which grants the Asakana’s blade Necrotic damage equal to your Charisma modifier! That’s a lot of damage? How much damage? Well...

FINAL BUILD

PROS

One to cut, one to seal - Let’s do the math for how much damage you do with your swords every round: two strikes from the Asakana’s blade (d6 + 6 slashing + 4 necrotic), one from your regular sword (d6 + 5), and sneak attack damage (2d6) for a total of... 5d6 + 25 damage (8 of it being Necrotic and the rest being Slashing) every round. Not to mention Eldritch Smites in a pinch and a large assortment of spells.

Fear, once named, controls no one - You are also incredibly elusive with 18 AC and strong saving throws. Swashbuckler lets you get into the fight fast and get out before your enemy has a chance to react, and cunning actions let you weave around the battlefield as you see fit. To top it off Echo Knight levels let you attack your foes without even being near them! "Cross the veil!"

Wear a mask long enough, and you forget the face beneath - You have a great deal of out-of-combat utility too. Language proficiencies (along with Thieves’ Cant), skill proficiencies (including expertise in two very important skills 23 passive perception, anyone?) Thieves’ Tools, several utility spells which you can cast pretty much at will, not to mention the utility of near-infinite teleportation and flat out infinite levitation.

CONS

Blink, and you'll miss your own death - Between two-weapon fighting, cunning action, and interactions with your echo there’s such a thing as too many bonus actions.

Do not wish to hide behind masks - There’s also such a thing as being too elusive. Swashbuckler gives you plenty of mobility as does Echo Knight, but putting them together means that you’ll be everywhere at once.

Are you here to usher me back? - Multiclassing a spellsword means that you miss out on some vital ability score increases. This means your Charisma isn’t topped off, the saving throws you aren’t proficient in are subpar at best, and your health is just barely over the Power Word Kill threshold.

But a hunter with many weapons will always have the right one to catch its prey. Lure out the Asakana and strike them down. Just remember that even if you alone can stop the demonic plague you don’t have to work alone. Your brother may have struck you down but if you learn to forgive the Asakana will be a lot weaker. "Long before blades and sorcery are needed, words... can save a soul."

(Artwork by @ThatwasforZED on Twitter)

[some-mad-lunge]

Answers - Michael Guerin Week AU

Okay this is WAY off the fic prompt which is Drunk and Disorderly. I started imagining Michael being the exact opposite of that. Which made this AU come out in a weird jumble. So yeah...sorry! (Also it’s stupid long. Again. Sorry)

👽 👽👽👽👽👽👽👽👽👽

To say Friday nights at The Bunker were rowdy would be an understatement but Saturday nights were like a second coming of hell. Michael did not have two masters, one in engineering and the other in biodynamics, to deal with this shit. But needs must, and plying officers with alcohol while they held up the bar was a gateway to information. He took in every tidbit, worked out shift schedules and even swiped one security pass from a dubious looking corporal. After two months he was so close to getting inside that he was antsy, that much closer to some answers about who he was and where the hell he was from. He tried to remind himself he’d waited 28 or so odd years, that he could wait just a little bit longer.

***********

He’d done a decade in the foster care system, he knew a thing or two about biding your time and protecting yourself. You move when the moment is right and you keep your fucking head down.

It was easy to go unnoticed in most regards. Everyone in this town either worked for the military or made their living off of it. No one questioned what was going on behind the chain link fences or deep in the desert too barren to visit. No one bothered to look to closely at the man sliding them drinks. Especially when it was really easy to slip into their mind and erase yourself completely.

Michael would have made an excellent spy, probably would have given James Bond a run for his money. Fact was he’d much rather be the Q in the situation, but once again, needs must. So he watched and he clocked and he made himself as unassuming as possible.

So as Saturday nights went it was loud and obnoxious. Clearly there was a new brood of recruits, some battle scarred, some probably with their virginity still intact, but all happy to have been selected to work at one of the most prestigious and secretive bases in the US. Michael scanned them all, none of them would be any more than grunts. None of them had a fucking clue what was really going on and therefore weren’t worth his time.

But he’d pour their beer and serve them army themed burgers and wait for his opportunity.

What he didn’t expect was the package said opportunity would turn up in. Or how it would unravel every plan and belief Michael held dear.

What was it they said about mice and men? They should have included aliens in the mix.

*********

It was second nature, every time a new body came through the door his mind scanned them. He didn’t even have to look up, he didn’t have to stop what he was doing. He’d know in a few seconds what he was dealing with. It got to the point that he probably let his guard down too much, that’s why this one had affected him so much. Or so he told himself.

It was the end of the night, most had cleared out except for a few men leaning on each other nursing the dredges of their beer. Michael had done his share of the clean up and was going to kick them out on their asses in a few short moments. He’d heard the door open, his mind doing what it did until he was hit with a wave of something he’d never experienced before. It was desire mixed with pain, dark and light. Secrets in shadow mixed with laughter and contentment.

He could admit to being shocked, instinct telling him in some way whoever had just walked in held the key to something vital. Something tangible. Until he turned and met brown eyes.

Then Michael learned the true meaning of being knocked on your ass.

*******

The thing was he’d never bothered to look for the other two kids he was found with over 20 years ago. He wondered vaguely if they all had the same made up birthdays on their drivers licenses. He’d occasionally get a memory of giggles and mischief, but then pain and fear. He didn’t know if they were alive but somewhere inside he knew that was a lie. He’d know in his bones if they weren’t.

They’d be together again someday, of that he was certain. But Michael felt like he needed to have the answers before he met them again. He didn’t know why, but the why had been what he’d spent most of his life searching for.

********

He didn’t have to wait long before he saw those eyes again. He’d been too stunned to do anything but nod as the man mumbled apologies for his intoxicated soldiers and then shuffled them out the door. He noted the name Manes as one drunkard shouted it with delight. He’d seen that name before but he couldn’t quite put his finger on where. He went straight home and used every contact and dark web access he had to find out more.

Staff Sergeant Alexander Manes, from a family of military servicemen. More importantly his father was Jesse Manes and the rumours that swirled around that name had Michael buzzing with excitement. This was a window of opportunity he could not pass up, he just had to figure out how to get an in with the Staff Sergeant.

He didn’t expect Alex to make it so easy, and so fucking complicated.

********

The first time Alexander Manes talked to Michael he felt it in his dick. He politely asked for a beer on a rather dull Wednesday night and the sound made Michael’s knees weak and his pants tight.

Thoughts of seduction hadn’t entered his mind as a viable option until he smiled, got a lick of pink lips and heated eyes in reply. Michael had done that before, used his charm and body get him the answers he needed. It had never been a hardship, he never jumped into bed with anyone he didn’t want to. If it turned out to be more than beneficial for him in the long run so be it.

The fact was with Alex it hadn’t been anything but a need from the start. He told himself it was answers he was after, but he wouldn’t let himself admit it was all the wrong questions.

**********

He made sure to run into him at the gas station, at the grocery store. Casual head nodes, one blinding smile and a wink for good measure.

It was the wink that must have sealed it, gave Alex the green light. You always let them come to you.

That night when Manes had walked in Michael got the same jolt, only this time it was more than heat. It was like shooting stars and swirling cosmos.

When he handed Alex his beer he casually mentioned he was off at 11:00. He held the bottle a little longer than necessary, felt the soft rub of skin as their hands met. It was warm and soothing in a way he didn’t expect.

They ignored each other for the rest of the night. At least Michael attempted to, but his mind kept going back to him. Searched him out. Wanted to settle in and stay a while.

*********

He broke all his rules that first night. Never take them home, never let them in. Guard up Guerin, at all times, at all costs.

Rules are easily forgotten when your shirt is scraping against plaster and your mind is deliciously blank of anything else but how good Alex feels in his arms. He’d never been one for making out, not since he was a teen. With Alex he’d have happily stayed pressed in the shadows, night sky lit by the moon as they teased with lips and tongue.

If this was the preview then the main act would probably end him and he kind of liked the idea.

So he pulled and he shoved as they danced to his Airstream parked in the far back of the parking lot. He needed walls and a flat surface with Alex’s skin on display.

He wouldn’t realize until later how dangerous that had been. He forgot himself, forgot everything. Because they moved and they moaned, they laughed and they smiled into each other’s mouths.

When it was over they curled around each other, limbs and sheets tangled. He whispered stay and got a contented sigh in return.

The one thing he should have realized was that they’d never shared their names and yet still they’d been whispered and gasped into the night.

That should have been his first clue.

**********

When he woke up Alex was still there, dark hair messy and the only word that came to mind was adorable. He’d never felt fond of anything in his life. He’d never felt this way before.

So instead of using his advantage, the openness of a sleeping mind and the time to explore it, he pressed closer and breathed.

********

They were dating, which was sort of the most bizarre experience of Michael’s life. Not so much the making each other dinner or texts asking how is your day? No it was the openness of affection, so easily given, so easily received. It was missing Alex the moment he was out of sight, the flood of relief when he was near.

They spent most of their time at Alex’s apartment, after a few weeks Michael felt like a different person. Was this what it was like to be normal? To be human?

He let himself forget why he’d started this. He let himself sink into the warmth of Alex and belonging.

********

They were both secretive in their own way. They didn’t talk about their pasts or their families. Which was a godsend. Michael should have seen it for what it was, both holding each other just far enough away.

Just in case.

**********

It wasn’t until he’d gotten a message from a deep web contact that Michael remembered why he’d come here to begin with. There was info on Jesse Manes and two suspected aliens living in Roswell. When he opened the attachments and saw their photos he knew.

His family.

************

Michael started to work more then, tried to make up excuses as to why he couldn’t see Alex. He was walking a dangerous line.

He didn’t want to use Alex, not anymore, but he also needed this all to be over. He didn’t want to pretend to be nothing but a bartender for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to pretend anything.

Michael had never wanted anyone to know him before, all of him. Alex hadn’t been part of the plan, and now he was the only plan Michael had left.

*********

It felt weird to show up at Alex’s door with a bottle of wine and an apology on his lips. He knew why he was here, he had to take what he needed and then say goodbye. He couldn’t let himself think about it, couldn’t let himself fall back into the comfort and warmth and this.

Alex didn’t even make him pay for the distance, just wrapped him in a hug and whispered I’ve missed you. Fed him dinner and kept looking at at Michael like he was all he’d ever need in the world. He kept telling himself it was okay to accept it just one last time.

Maybe it was that knowledge, knowing he’d never have this again. Alex above him, Alex below him, Alex buried so deep inside in every way possible. Maybe that’s why.

The plan crumbled fast when he was so close to the edge he wanted to cry, Alex’s fingers digging into his ass and his eyes unwavering. Maybe it was the words I love you kissed into his mouth that had him losing control, falling apart, finally letting go.

Michael had never let go before, didn’t know what it could do. Didn’t know what it would mean.

*********

Alex was still wrapped around him, eyes laser focused and wary. The bed had thumped hard to the ground shortly after the pictures had flown off the walls. If he wasn’t mistaken the lamp beside the bed hadn’t been shattered into a hundred pieces just a few moments ago.

Michael?

Alex wasn’t scared, just questioning. That look in his eyes was still there, those whispered words still meant something. Somehow that was more terrifying to Michael than the truth.

So he ran.

**********

Less than an hour after leaving Alex and his destroyed bedroom behind he was driving his truck and Airstream down the darkened highway. He’d wasted months of this life and never got any closer to the answers he’d been searching for.

He thought of Alex’s hair damp from the shower, of lazy Sunday afternoons draped over each other on the sofa and teeth biting into Michael’s shoulder.

The answer he never got to give.

I love you too.

*********

He ended up in Roswell. He didn’t have anywhere else to go and it felt like the only way to close the chasm in his chest. Part of him was missing now, he needed to fill it with something.

He’d barely crossed the city sign when he heard her in his mind. She was sassy, a little bit beautiful and she told him it’s about damn time. It was the first he’d smiled in weeks.

Maybe it should have been awkward, they didn’t really know each other. But it wasn’t. They understood him, they welcomed him in and he thinks they might have even love him a little.

He was more powerful, Max and Isobel only started really investigating their abilities a few years prior. Neither of them had telekinesis, but his sister (as she called herself) had weaker telepathy skills. Their first order of business was to make those stronger. But his brother (as Michael liked to tease him) had a healing ability that Michael had never felt an inkling of.

Both of them were in committed relationships with scientists who accept them, knew the truth. At times he felt like he had more in common with Liz, Max’s wife and Kyle, Isobel’s husband. They spoke his language, sometimes they’d get in friendly arguments over theories and Michael felt understood for the first time in his life. He had a family, he had friends, people who knew what and who he was and didn’t run scared.

It wasn’t until he was alone under the stars at night that he could feel the hollow space where Alex was supposed to be.

*********

It had been a month of feeling each other out, sharing their pasts and their experiences. Until they all sat Michael down and decided to share what they were working on.

The danger they were all in.

Thankfully they had a lifelong friend on the inside, someone who was close to getting pieces to their puzzle. A man who Michael already knew was the exact opposite of the father that hunted them.

Liz insisted he was the kindest soul she’d ever met. Max called him a good guy. Kyle called him family. Isobel called him her best friend.

You can trust him.

If only they knew.

**************

It was fireworks and a gasping ache when Michael felt Alex walk into the Prancing Pony. His skin itched in an instant, he wanted to rub up against Alex like a cat, curl in his lap. He wanted to push him down on a table and remind himself he was alive. He wanted to hold that face in his hands and rub their noses together.

Instead, he gripped his beer tight and expected a punch to the chin that never came.

Alex’s eyes were blank, like he didn’t know Michael at all. Like weeks ago he hadn’t kissed salsa from his lips or slept with their feet intertwined. He shook Michael’s hand, polite and indifferent.

Isobel has told me a lot about you.

Then he turned away and acted like Michael wasn’t even there. He would have appreciated the punch more.

**********

So he cornered him in the bathroom because Alex Manes breaks his brain. He doesn’t think or function properly, he just needs to be alone with him.

Alex sighs, leans against the sink.

I get it.

But he doesn’t, not at all. He tells Michael he understands, that had Alex been in the same situation he would have made the same play. He would have used Michael, pretended to care. He would have done anything for the answers.

Just forget it okay. I don’t blame you. I’ll be gone in a few weeks. They don’t need to know. Please.

Michael realized then that Alex is ashamed. Ashamed that he fell for it. Ashamed of how he felt for Michael. So ashamed he doesn’t want his friends to find out.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, like every breath is tearing him up.

***********

The next day he has lunch with Isobel but she’s looking at him funny. She even tries to sneak into his mind but he snaps the walls up quick. It actually makes her laugh.

She asks him if he’s nervous about his interview the next day with a research lab at the hospital. He’s not, they’d be fucking lucky to have him. He tells her so.

So...Alex…

The name makes his head pop up, and she gives him a sly smile.

Yeah I thought so.

Turns out Michael was far from subtle when it came to watching Alex’s every move the night before. He’s not embarrassed, weirdly he’s proud of what he feels for him, even if he’s not allowed to be.

It’s not a good idea, not right now.

And then Isobel tells him about how Alex was seeing someone, was head over heels in love. She’d never heard him so happy, so content in his own skin. She’d been so hopeful for her friend, until one day he said it was over and refused to speak about it again.

Who would ever be stupid enough to let Alex Manes go? I mean…

Michael doesn’t really hear the rest of it. He throws money on the table and rushes out of the restaurant. He’s in his truck about to turn the key when he realizes he has no idea where he’s going.

Well his sister turned out smarter than he ever gave her credit for. He sees directions in his mind, the front of a cabin in the woods, a red door. He offers her his thanks and steps on the gas.

**********

Maybe banging on Alex’s door like a maniac wasn’t his most charismatic move. At least he hadn’t blown it off it’s hinges. He waited impatiently for the door to open, and then he just let go. Let it all tumble out.

I love you. I didn’t fake that. I didn’t even know something like us could exist until I met you.

Alex just searched his face, warm brown eyes and something akin to joy lighting up his face. He pulled Michael into the house, into his body and into his mind. Into his heart.

So that’s when he learns what home feels like.

****************

Michael never does learn all the answers but he learns the most important one. Not bad for best laid plans and all that.

[7deadlycinderellas]

If the summer of our lives could just come again, ch22

Ao3 link

The Eyrie

Watching Robin trying to shoot a bow, Sansa is filled with a mix of annoyance and sympathy. She sees bits of Bran and Jojen in his jerky movements (though much less in his whiny voice). Though, she thinks, watching him slip his elbow and send the arrow soaring far too high, even Jojen’s a better shot than him.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” she says in an even voice from across the training yard. “Pretend you have a fence post under holding it up.”

The master-at-arms helping Robin ignores her words, before instructing him to do much the same as she said. His arm still wobbles.

Silently putting aside the hood she had been stitching rabbit fur lining into, Sansa quietly makes her way to the chambers her and Catelyn had been put up in and retrieves her bow. She returns to her spot and continues her sewing until the master-at-arms leaves, dismissing Robin.

Before the boy leaves, Sansa stands, nocks her arrow and looses it. She hits the target with ease.

Robin looks at her funny.

“How’d you do that?”

“Practice,” Sansa tells him, with an eyebrow raised.

“They don’t teach girls to shoot.”

Sansa bristles. Some people clearly do. All the things Arya used to complain about are becoming more and more understandable. She tries to guide Robin’s words in another direction.

“Like I said, all you need to do is practice and you’ll get better. You might not be great but you will get better. My younger brother has a bad leg and can’t stand up for long periods of time, but he loves to shoot from horseback. My sister shoots like she was born with a bow in her hand. All of our brother’s learned as well. I didn’t want to be left out.”

She looks at Robin askance. He’s paying attention, but barely. Sansa does not envy his future advisors.

“Do you ever feel left out, Robin?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re supposed to be Lord of the Vale someday. But do your mother ever ask for you to help her with petitions? Does she ever teach you anything about what you will be expected to do? Have you even left the Eyrie much?”

Her questions are pointed, and as she guessed, Robin’s face falters a little.

Sansa takes the opportunity to sling her bow over her arm, take the hood she was sewing and leave.

When she re-enters the keep proper, Catelyn is helping Lysa with her hair, and Lord Royce is going over paperwork for the arrangements so that the guests might be accomodated.

“May I be of any assistance?” she asks the older man.

He shakes his head,

“There’s no need my lady, you and your mother are guests. Where have you even been getting off to?”

“I insist,” she says, with a smile. He finally passes her the stack and she starts sorting through them.

She chatters a bit with Lord Royce, talking about her excitement for the wedding.

“I had to miss my own sister’s wedding, I’m glad to see this one. It’s been so hard, since Mother and Father…”

She trails off, deliberate, turning her head just enough to see Lord Royce take note of her words. She smiles, changing the subject.

“Are all of the houses of the Vale going to be present?”

Lord Royce nods, and Sansa notes he looks a bit put upon.

“They’ve been chomping at the bit for Lady Arryn to remarry for years. She hasn’t done well by herself.”

“I noticed, she doesn’t seem happy at all. Do you think she is? She must love her son at least, she keeps him so close.”

Just as expected, she sees Lord Royce wince.

She hears much the same when she goes amongst the other lords and ladies of the Vale as she assists in greeting their arrival at the Eyrie. They speak of eagerness to see Lysa remarried. There are other things they speak of too. Distrust of Petyr Baelish among them.

“They all speak of his low birth,” she tells Catelyn quietly, as they return to their chambers to dress. The wedding is in the evening, and it’s barely midday. Lady pads behind the two of them as they walk and talk quietly.

Catelyn sighs.

“I understand, and I’ve come to hate myself for it. They seem him as seeking power, as obtaining his position through deceit and under-handedness.”

They’re right, Sansa thinks. And in her mother’s face, she again sees the shadow. The shadow of these things that she would have assumed of her own goodson.

“Do you think you can do as I asked?”

Catelyn nods, her face faltering, if only a little. Sansa reaches out and squeezes her mother’s hand.

“It’s not lying, none of it. Not really.”

Sansa is dressed in her finest gown, green edged in gold, Catelyn in a similar one, though more subdued.

When they enter the hallway off the side of the High Hall, Lysa is already in her dress and cloak. Sansa can spy Littlefinger off on the other side, finishing his last preparations. And in the middle, Sansa notes, the Moon Door.

Why in the world did that thing even exist? Sansa wondered. Was hanging not enough?

Sansa smiles widely when she approaches her aunt Lysa.

“You look beautiful,” she tells her, reaching out to touch the edges of her cloak. What even to call it? She wonders, it’s not a maiden’s cloak. Westeros could really use better traditions for second marriages.

Lysa nods, and so Sansa prattles on.

“You must be so excited, I can only imagine, and you’re marrying a man you’ve known nearly your whole life.”

There’s a flicker in Lysa’s eye, a flicker Sansa feels herself quake when she recognizes the spark. She saw it just the instance before Lysa had grabbed her before, and squeezed far too hard. Good, she knows that spark.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Catelyn leading Littlefinger over by the arm. She sees Lysa see the two of them.

“Mother spoke so often of the three of you being close as children. It must be so good to not have to be alone after your husband’s untimely death.”

Lysa’s eye begins to twitch. She grabs Sansa’s arm a bit roughly, but she can take it.

“Come niece,” she says stiffly, on edge, “Let us join the ceremony.”

Sansa stands and she sees as Catelyn tilts her head up to kiss Littlefinger on the cheek. She watches, seemingly in slow motion, as Lysa’s face contorts, she watches as she rushes forward, grabbing at her sister violently. She watches her mother’s face twists with shock. She watches as Littlefinger’s eyes go wide and he tries to separate them. She hears shouting, from all three of them.

They are too close to the moon door, Sansa thinks. Far too close. It’s not open yet, but she suspects it will be.

She sits on the ground, Lady at her feet, and waits.

 Over the Wall

Bran had scrawled more on the back of the note. Jon reads it to himself when they’re back in the cave and supposed to be sleeping.

It should hurt, he thinks, learning that his brothers in black had decided he was dead. But, he reasoned, it had been years. It had been three to four times longer than he’d spent with the Night’s Watch at all since he’d disappeared.

And it made what was coming easier to take, what he knew was coming as soon has he took the note from the raven’s leg and read its contents.

The bird had followed him and Ygritte into the cave. Jon had never seen a bird act like that before, it had hopped from one spot to another, as if in awe of its surroundings. Then all of a sudden, something had disappeared from its eyes and it panicked for a moment until Jon found a stick and shooed it out of the cave.

This was what he was thinking about when he went to sleep and had his dream.

In the morning, when he shows both to Rowan and she nods quietly, and tells everyone they have to leave.

“Do you think it was prophetic?”

Rowan’s nod is gentler than her last ones, and more unsure.

“I’m not sure if that’s the right word. Most humans who speak of green dreams speak of dreaming in symbols. Yours was very straight forward right?””

Jon nods, the images from his dream playing before his eyes, even as they begin to fade as dreams did.

“Perhaps…”

“What?”

“Perhaps you understand these dreams more fully because you already speak the language.”

“Speak-” Jon is nearly speechless, “Rowan, are you saying you think green dreams are the weirwoods trying to speak to humans?”’

“It makes sense, too much,” she replies, “Especially knowing of the physical toll green sight takes upon the humans who have it. They are burdened with images that they don’t understand and have no ability to. Their minds are grappling with something they cannot reason and so the body revolts.”

Jon keeps his mouth shut. Nothing she says matters once they all begin to pack up and begin the journey south.

Traveling through the tunnels under the earth is not exactly straightforward, but as they are free of obstacles, it is much safer and faster. They emerge at cave openings to set a fire and sleep, but can’t go all the way through without losing the protection of the wards at the far northern end.

Even with Gilly and her sister’s maps, Jon’s never sure exactly where they are. After a little over a month’s travel, one of the caves opens up into a much larger space than the others have, revealing an enormous underground hot spring.

The other women squeal at the warmth and the chance to bathe properly, instead of out of a kettle. Jon sits quietly in one of the side pathways, allowing them some privacy.

He gets a look as they all file in. It’s strange, Gilly aside, he’s almost come to think of them as a collective. He files off their names. Jyna, Nella, Ryta, Norea, Gilly (carrying Sam), Henneh. He sticks outside to give them privacy, wondering if there’s anyway for them to wash off what’s happened to them. They all seem to be happy with it, at least.

After a bit, Ygritte joins him. She sits and he throws an arm around her idly.

“I know where we are now.”

“How?”

She turns her head to look at one of the smaller paths off another side of the spring.

“We’re along the Milkwater just south of the Frostfangs. This is where we took you to meet with Mance Ryder before. “

Jon frowns,

“This place doesn’t look large enough for a big group of people to shelter.”

Ygritte shook her head.

“I took you out here to try and tempt you away from your crow vows.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, his hand playing errantly with the ends of her hair.

“And how did you do that?”

Her smile turns mischievous instead of melancholy, if just for a moment.

“Stripped naked and went ‘want some?’”

Jon snorts loudly.

“Guessing I did?”

“Well you didn’t really say yes or no, you just sunk to your knees and stuck your face between my legs…”

He laughs, and kisses the side of her face, with intent. He still doesn’t care for recollections of his previous life, and he hates the look on her face still.

“That was the last thing I remember before I died,” she admits, “That I wish we had just stayed here.”

They can’t stay. They both know that. The dead are coming and the fate of everyone and everything. But once the others are finished, the two of them strip down and slide into the water to try and wash off some of their burdens.

Once they are a bit sleepy and wrinkled from the heat, Ygritte pulls herself onto the edge of the spring to sit. And with an idle thought, Jon swims to her, gently pushes her knees apart, and buries his tongue inside her. She wraps her fingers in his curls and pulls them, with rather less force than her someone hearing her moans would probably think.

He’ll call it recreating a good memory.

After they dry off, redress, and rejoin the others, Jon asks her.

“How far are we from the wall?”

Ygritte chews her lip.

“On the ground, I’d say a moon’s turn. Down here? No mountains to cross, no snow, no bears, but not exactly a straight line of a journey either. Maybe a week less than that I’d say.”

The closer they get to the wall, the narrower the passages become. Much of the rock turns into tightly packed earth, and they can only go through one at a time.

Jon asks Rowan,

“How are we supposed to get over the wall once we reach it? The tunnels will be sealed and guarded at all the castles.”

Ygritte had told him many times of when the wildlings had climbed the wall  before. How one off placement of her pick had caused a crack that nearly killed them both. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, but more than that, he knew it was impossible. He could have probably carried Sam on his back, but there is no way to get all of Craster’s girls over, even one at a time.

Rowan shakes her head.

“We aren’t going over, we’re going under.”

Even in the extremely low light, Jon can see Ygritte’s face twist.

“Fuck me,” she mutters under her breath. When Jon looks at her quizzically, she replies.

“Story goes that three thousand years ago, brothers Gendel and Gorne discovered a huge network of caves that caverns that led one into another. They even found a passageway under the Wall and tried to use it to invade the North. They failed, and that path has been lost since.”

Jon’s face pinches,

“I guess we’re lucky Mance and the others never found it.”

“They wouldn’t have,” Rowan interjects. “These caverns were why I came south in the first place. I had to dig many free of earth, a few had even collapsed completely. But the way should be clear for us now.”

Jon’s sick of the torch-lit darkness. He’s sick of the damp air.

And so, when Rowan finally beckons them to the end of the largest cave opening they’ve seen in days, he squeezes Ygritte’s hand, and they guide the others out into the light.

And Jon takes the first breath of northern air he has breathed in years.

 Winterfell

The morning comes that Robb and Ned must leave for the Dreadfort. They are both reluctant, as Sansa and Catelyn have according to raven, just docked in Gullstown.

Bran claps one hand on his father’s shoulder. Standing straight, he’s up to his brow.

“It’s not for too long, and we still have three Starks in Winterfell. “

Most of the others leave for breakfast, but Gendry lingers behind.

“Wanted to say thanks again, to the both of you.”

He shakes both of their hands, and for the first time, looks them square in the eye as he does so.

He’s the last one to breakfast, and when he gets there, it’s just the small group around a pot of porridge. Rickon’s feet swing, unawares, while Meera and Arya whisper quietly. Bran’s head is resting to one side on the wood of the table.

“Is he…” Gendry asks, trailing off. They’ve all been paying close attention to what Bran tells them when he wargs, since the day when they’d woken up to the news that Jon was alive and unharmed, though they were not as shocked by the knowledge that one of the children of the forest had survived as Bran and Meera were.

“No,” Meera replies, not even looking up, “He’s sleeping. We were up late again last night.”

Gendry raises an eyebrow in her direction and Meera rolls her eyes. Jojen told Bran the truth all those years ago, that it wasn’t safe to warg alone, especially not for as many hours as he had been doing it. And if the best way to bring him back to earth afterwards involved her getting to discover the noise he made when she sucked on his earlobe, well, call it a bonus. Her next words are quiet though.

“There are big groups of others gathering far north towards the Lands of Always Winter,” Septima had flown past several, all heading in one direction.

“At least they aren’t coming south yet,” Arya adds grimly, though she is as apprehensive as the rest.

Gendry spares a glance down the empty table. Rickon had managed to already disappear without a word.

“Where’s everyone else got off to?”

“Rickon ate two bites and ran straight off,” Arya tells him. She doesn’t let on how much she worries about her youngest brother, tall now, but still without even the traces of a beard. How she sees the wildness in his movements and fears he may slip away. He’s the best archer they’ve got after her and Meera.

“And Theon left without eating.”

Gendry snorts at that. No doubt off trying to flirt with some of the Free Folk women. He’s having both more and less luck with them then with the other women from the north. More willing, without worries of their virtue, but also less likely to be impressed by him and his stories of being Ironborn. Gendry wonders if perhaps he just likes the challenge.

“And Jojen and Shireen left for the library already.”

That was expected, they did that pretty much every day. Shireen admitted that books aside, she is still unused to the cold of the North.

Right now, despite her cloak and the walls, she is still shivering under her cloak.

“Does it get this cold where you’re from?”

Jojen shrugs over the lip of his book.

“I don’t remember the last winter, I was too young. I know it gets cold enough that most of the bogs freeze over, but it’s pretty hot in summer, and I don’t think it ever gets hot here.”

He goes quiet again, and Shireen pouts a bit. She likes talking to him, but he’s so quiet most of the time it seems like she has to drag the words out of him. Or maybe he’s just comfortable being silent a lot of the time. She spares a glance at the book he’s going through.

“You’re reading about diseases and healing?” she asks, with a grimace.

“Lots of things about caring for wounds in here,” Jojen replies, “That could end up being really important.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“And it’s sobering to realize how likely that I probably would have died if I hadn’t been born the son of a lord, even if a minor one. There’s nothing in here that could change me, but I could have drowned or fallen from a horse, just because I would have been left alone all the time.”

Not even withstanding that others might not have even understood his visions. Might have thought he was possessed by something.

Shireen’s silent. She hates how much she understands. She’s heard all the stories about what happens to most people with greyscale. Disfigurement sounding so minor in comparison to potential blindness, loss of appendages and madness before death.

“When I got sick,” she says, slowly. It feels like a secret, even though it isn’t. “My father sent for any maester who thought he might be able to help. I don’t even know if it became known that they stopped the disease. Feels like the sort of thing that should be spread through all of the known world.”

She would have died, she comes to the dim realization. Had she been the daughter of a sailor or a crofter, or even a merchant. Maesters were under no compulsion to treat any but those in castles. Those who paid them.

She opens her mouth to say something else, when Jojen suddenly goes stiff and falls from his chair.

Shireen knows she would normally be frightened, but she isn’t. Jojen had said he had fits when the visions came to him. She very calmly moves his chair and the stacks of books on the floor so that he doesn’t hurt himself.

After only a minute or so, his jerking movements still. Shireen recalls Leeman, one of her uncle’s men. He had had a shaking fit after being ordered to stop drinking so much, and she’d seen how the maester laid him on the ground after. She remembers him doing much the same with men who had drank so much they passed out.

When Jojen still, Shireen rolls him onto his left side, leg and arm bent, and one hand under his chin. She worries for a moment before he sputters and takes a deep breath.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, and starts to say something else when he reaches out and grabs her by the arm, frightening her more than the fit had.

“Get the others,” he tells her in a voice far deeper than his normal one.

“What did you see?”

He squeezes his arm tightly, and the look in his eye makes her words catch in her throat. She stands and instead of leaving, she pulls him up, throwing one of his arms over her shoulder to bear his weight, and half pulls his towards the library door.

[xreaderfic-land]

What Lies Beneath Part 1 Red Hood (Jason Todd) x Reader

Summary: Coming back home to Gotham after several years was a tough choice, but you needed to put the past behind you. You blamed yourself for Jason’s death and hope that with a medical degree you can have a second chance at saving the kids of Gotham’s streets, but the past won’t stay buried. As the Red Hood invites himself into your life and the little safe bubble of a lie you call life bursts you’re left struggling to cope. You secret studying of toxins used by Gotham’s villains is sure to land you in hot water eventually, but you’re always up for a challenge. Life is a game of survival and it’s time you joined in. WARNINGS: MILD LANGUAGE

Co-Author: @inkteller-17

Your hands clenched around the steering wheel as you eased off the highway and took in the sight of your hometown; Gotham. It had been a while since last time you’d been home, but the city from afar looked just as you’d left it. Even as the sunset behind you there was a darkness that clung to the city and its skyline. The feeling of home overcame as you continued to cruise down the road.

Inhaling deeply, you steadied yourself a bit before weaving your car along the fastest route you could think of. While you tried to not let your eyes wander while you drove you couldn’t help it. Crossing one of the city’s bridges you let yourself take in the awful beauty of the place all the while trying to ignore the memories linked to the place. Your heart ached as the scenery flew by. There were plenty of good memories from here, but too many bad ones made your eyes sting as you held back the urge to cry.

Pushing down on the accelerator you made sure to remind yourself that it was getting dark, and Gotham was still Gotham. As if the universe wanted to highlight that fact a parade of police cars zoomed by with their sirens screaming into the dark night. Now, that really made it feel like you were home.

“Home sweet home” you heaved while shaking your head.

As the city lights began to kick on surrounding shadows seemed to thicken, a trait only Gotham managed to pull off. Continuing to pass through the city you finally let yourself admit you had sort of missed this place. Gotham will forever be home no matter where life took you. You knew that Gotham would always be here for you.

‘If I didn’t love this city so much I would hate it.’

The memory of your childhood friend speaking those words through a laugh had the air in your chest aching. Your hands white knuckled the steering wheel as you fought against the memory of a cocky grinning blue-green eyed teenage boy. This time you had to bite your cheek to keep the tears from falling. You promised yourself you were done crying over him and these memories weren’t going to break you this time.

Your phone vibrating against the plastic cup holder finally snapped away the memories and redirected your attention. Easing to a stop light you noted you were almost to your destination before hitting a button along the driving counsel.

“Hello?” You answered.

“Y/N! How’s my favorite person today?” Dick asked a little too excitedly.

You rolled your eyes. “Doing fine Dick, you?”

“Doing good. I figured I would do our daily talk while it’s still light out where you are.” Dick happily said.

You smiled at his words as you hit the button to switch on your headlights. “Oh yeah, it’s got to be like what, around seven there?”

“Yeah, the sun set just a little while ago.” Dick replied nonchalantly.

“Hey, I really hate to do this, but can I call you a little later? I’m really beat. Just got done with a four-hour surgery.” You lied, but it was a good lie.

You heard Dick make a sound of disappointment before finally replying.  “Yeah, sure. That’s fine. Sleep well Y/N. Later.”

“Later.” You said a little ruder than you meant, but you had to keep your story straight.

Ending the call, you withheld your laughter while forcing your car up the driveway that was part of Wayne manor. Slowing to a stop you rolled down your window and hit the intercom button just outside the towering gate of the Wayne residence. If Dick had only realized how close you were to him.

“Yes?” A familiar voice said over the intercom.

Your features brightened further as Alfred, the Wayne family butler, answered your call. You had missed the older man.

“Secret mission Homecoming is a go!” You exclaimed.

“Miss-“ Alfred began, but you quickly cut him off.

“Shhh, don’t say my name remember.” You reminded him.

“Of course. I’ll meet you outside the manor then.” Alfred replied.

You watched the wrought iron gates slowly swing open as you inched your car along. Rounding the drive you couldn’t get out fast enough as Alfred stood waiting outside the large manor doors. Taking the steps two at a time you quickly pulled Alfred into a hug which he warmly returned. He tightened his grip on you. He had missed you more than he would admit, but the hug told it all.

“Good to see you Miss Y/N. Welcome back to Gotham” his whispered words had you pulling away with a forced smile.

“It’s been a long time” Shifting on your feet you peered toward the door “So, who’s all home?” You asked.

“Masters Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Damian.” Alfred answered.

You jumped in place like an excited kid as Alfred ushered you inside. You sucked in a sharp breath as you stepped into the foyer and admired the interior. While you had practically grown up alongside a few of the Wayne family members the sight of the place still struck you. Wayne Manor was always the talk of the town. Growing up, all the kids wanted to be friends with the Wayne boys just for the opportunity to see what Wayne Manor looked like. You were one of the lucky ones.

Trailing behind Alfred you weaved through the halls getting more hyped up for surprising the guys the closer you got to several voices. You didn’t realize just how much you missed the boys until the closer you got to being reunited with them.

“-there’s no way quizzify is a word!” Dick shouted.

“It is though, look it up.” Tim said with a roll of his eyes.

“That’s such crap, but yeah-“ Damian agreed.

“I refuse to accept this. That word makes absolutely no sense.” Dick pouted.

A warmth filled you as you stopped just outside the doorway while Alfred entered. You couldn’t wait for their reactions.

“Who was it Alfred?” Bruce asked.

You took a deep breath at the sound of Bruce’s deep tenor that seemed to have gotten worse during your absence. Tucking a stray hair behind your ear you slowly stepped in behind Alfred before he responded. You nervously rung your hands together as you waited for it to click that you were standing there before them.

The stunned silence and expressions aimed at you had you laughing weakly before awkwardly waving a hand. “Hey.”

Your voice was enough to snap Dick out of his stupor as he rose off one of the several brown leather couches. Your eyes scanned over his form noting he hadn’t changed much. The iconic jet-black Wayne hair was swept back in a professional way making you smirk. Dick sported a black t-shirt that strained against his natural muscle toned body and dark blue jeans. You met him halfway across the room with a strong hug.

God you had missed him.

Pulling away “What are you-how are-I thought you were-“ Dick muttered.

“That four-hour surgery sure was long.” You teased with a smile.

Dick’s face split into a massive grin as he shook his head “You’re something else Y/L/N.”

You opened your mouth to reply but was suddenly aware that Bruce’s tall figure had at some point joined the reunion. Turning toward him your greeting was muffled suddenly by his chest as he enveloped you into his arms. Bruce had been a father figure to you. Being back in his arms now you truly felt like you were home.

“After everything I didn’t think we would see you again.” Bruce admitted.

Bruce’s words had your spine stiffening involuntarily. Memories of rushing back to Gotham and almost getting kicked from your medical program because Damian had gotten severely sick flooded your mind. Those were some of the worst moments of your life.

“Who is this, father?” Damian asked.

Bruce pulled away from you allowing you to take in Damian. The boy was relatively short possibly in his teens if you had to guess according to his voice. Damian was almost an exact miniature copy of Bruce as he stood with crossed arms eyeing you.

Tim, he too had the Wayne black hair blue eyed vibe, propped himself casually against a side table.

“It’s unbecoming to play dumb, Damian.” You told him.

“Tt, thought I could catch you up.” Damian giggled.

You rolled your eyes while walking over to Tim and Damian to give each their own hug. These boys were so much more than just friends. They were your brothers, your family. You had missed them more than you wanted to admit, but you were so happy that you decided to come home.

It didn’t take long for everyone to quickly sink into a comfortable discussion as you did you best to keep up with them. Several times as you curled up on one of the couches you felt your eyes dip dangerously low.

You were genuinely happy to be back in Gotham for good with a medical degree in hand and your children’s hospital project underway. At that thought you rose from the couch unnoticed and made your way further into the manor.

Your feet carried you by sheer memory toward one room in particular. Resting your hand against the cool wood of his bedroom door you swallowed thickly. Shutting your eyes and letting your forehead lean against the door you addressed the ghost hanging around you.

It was his birthday after all, the one day a year you loved and hated to think about. Only day you let yourself think about Jason anymore.

Thinking about the boy who’d been ripped from the world, your life, too soon was just painful. Jason and you had been best friends growing up in the harsher part of Gotham. He’d been the orphan and you the kid of two abusive druggies.

In a way Jason had saved you from that dark life. He was the cocky caring type of kid that you couldn’t help but wanna be near. You allowed Jason’s features come to mind with crystal clarity causing tears to burn the backs of your eyes.

“You alright?” Dick asked coming up behind you.

Dick’s low words had you jumping back in surprise. Clearing your throat, you shot him a sharp look “You really have to stop sneaking up on me.”

“Sorry.” He quickly apologized.

Pushing hair out of your face “I’m good. Just walking down memory lane.”

Dick’s eyes softened as he stepped closer to which you back peddled, you hated people feeling sorry for you.

“Seriously I’m okay, Dick.” You reassured him.

You watched as his mouth opened and shut several times in failed attempts to form words. Words and phrases you knew probably all somehow would suggest you visit Jason’s grave or actually go into his room. All things you refused to do because it meant being okay to forget him, and you weren’t. You never would be.

Teenager you had at one point fallen helplessly in love with Jason so hard that even adult you was still hooked. What made it all worse was that he’d died before you had enough to courage to tell him. And, that was you biggest regret. The one thing that haunted you.

Shooting Dick a weak smile you stepped closer to give him a hug “It was good to see everybody.”

“You leaving already?” Dick asked confused.

“Yeah I’m beat. After being in meetings with sponsors all day for Gotham’s newest children’s medical wing was stressful. Then the traffic coming back was terrible too.” You squeezed Dick’s midsection “Thank you by the way.”

“For what?” Dick said.

“Being there for me all this time. Especially after Jason and my parents died.” You told him.

“You cared a lot about him, Y/N.” Dick said.

You snorted at his words before pulling away; you both knew he knew that was an understatement.

“Well BFF I have to go. My apartment is calling my name.”

Dick mutely nodded before watching you head toward the front door. Hollering toward the living room you said and received good-byes as you left the manor. Climbing into your car you whispered an apology to Dick because you had no intention of going straight home.

The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke had stopped being processed by your senses about the same time you’d finished your third drink. Propping your head up with your hand allowed you to stare down into the dark amber liquid of your glass. Vaguely you were aware of all the sleazy men who’d approach you with some unflattering comment before leaving a little pissed when you failed to respond.

You knew from city gossip that the patrons of this place while all assholes weren’t the type to be physical when shot down so you were sort of safe there. Waving away the bar tender when they suggested a refill you expressed your being done for the night.

You’d sober up and go home after. Heaving a sigh you tried to decide if you were really done celebrating the life of Jason. Wondered if you were ready to close the box for another year.

“You look sad as shit.” A voice said.

“That’s a really piss poor pick up line. I’m not interested-” You rolled your eyes at the new wannabe courter and noted with you periphery a distinct color “-red.”

“Any woman that can figure out my name without looking at me turns me on and scares me. Have we fucked before?” He asked

Your eyes grew, a nasty soul crushing retort on your tongue, as you turned fully toward the dude. As you opened your mouth to lash out the words died in place of something else.

“You gotta be kidding me, Red Hood?” You groaned.

You weren’t sure how but the dude pulled off looking smug in response to your words even though he lacked viewable features. Alcohol had you glancing over his form with serious appreciation. Even if the dude was a masked gun fighter that roamed Gotham at night he sure was still a good-looking body.

“Careful you don’t start drooling over me there doll.” He teased.

Your mouth snapped shut as your eyes flew to his featureless face “What did you just say to me?”

His hands rose in defense as he claimed the stool next to you “Doll?”

You laughed weakly at his timid tone and cautious body laugh while returning to your drink.

“This night keeps getting weirder.”

Several moments passed before you spoke again.

“I haven’t heard anyone call me that in a long time. Not to mention I wouldn’t have guessed in a thousand years that I’d been sitting next to the infamous Red.”

“So you’ve heard of me?” He said.

You laughed “I’m not answering that.”

You bit your lip as a comfortable silence settled between you while he busied himself by shelling peanuts.

“What has you drowning yourself in here of all places?” He asked you.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Had a stressful day, it’s my dead best friends birthday.” You replied.

He was silent for a long time “Well that’s one reason to drink.“

“Yeah. He’s been gone a long time, but still-yeah.” You sadly said.

“Still what?” He wanted to know.

You shook your head “I really don’t feel up to revealing my life’s number one regret to a dude, while physically appealing, looks like a bingo dabber.”

You watched him jolt back a bit at your comment before recovering “A girl who drinks whiskey and is sassy. I like you already.” He shifted his body more toward you  “Stranger Danger me is here to lend an ear.”

“Is the crime fighting business so dry you have to resort to part-time guidance counseling?” You teasingly asked.

He snorted at your words “I only help guide the good ones doll.”

You closed your eyes as he spoke while your fingers flexed against the cool glass in your hand.

“No one’s called me doll in a long time. Only person who did it was my best bud. Hearing you say it, I won’t lie, is really throwing me off.” You admitted.

You reached for your cash only for Red Hood to waving off your attempt by placing a twenty down. Scooting off your stool you let him follow you to your car only because his reputation didn’t include defenseless woman.

Unlocking your car you reached for your phone in your back pocket only to find it gone. Turning around to go check the bar you found Red Hood’s helmet illuminated by you phone’s glow.

“Red, what the-“‘ You hissed.

He passed you your phone back on a newly listed contact named ‘Red’.

“You ever need anything I’m just a phone call away.” He told you.

You shook your head “Why?”

He shrugged “I told ya already.”

Unable to fully comprehend all that was happening you went with it. “Well, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you Red, I guess. I have to go.”

You climbed into your car and headed toward your apartment leaving the Red Hood to stare after you.

I have to make a better page for this, but check out the other parts Here

[musette-thornsong]

Mighty Ducks: The Madness of Dragaunus Version #1

The Saurian Overlord, Dragaunas, had conquered Earth for some years and left the planet barren wasteland after making an ancient evil prophecy come to realization. Many perish who refuse to worship him while there are those who plot and lie in wait for the moment to launch a full-scale retaliation. Meanwhile, Dragaunus has grown rather tiresome of his role as it all seems too easy and that no one worships him out loyalty but fear. And if that wasn’t trifling enough, he felt something was missing; something that he felt has left him incomplete to make his reign feel more fulfilling…What could it be?

Dragaunus x Fatimah

Warning: CREEPINESS may ensue!!!

Words: 1770

Fatimah Rhenzon and any other non-Mighty characters belong to me.

Enjoy!

--

Dragaunus: (lies back on his throne) Wraith, why am I not loved?

Wraith: (clears throat) If I may, my Lord. Things around here have gone to pot

Dragaunus: (blows by the response, comes down from his throne) Oh, pish. What matters is how I feel

Chameleon: (continues on the subject) The planet Earth has become the armpit of the entire universe

Dragaunus: (carries on with himself) I’m warm, witty and…. (looks at his reflection, smiling) good-looking

Wraith: (adds on) We practically prance around like we own the place

Dragaunus: (continoues to carry on) I tell a joke like nobody’s business

Chameleon: (yells) There isn’t enough water to fill a knat’s navel!!

Dragaunus: (thinks) Is something missing? What is it?

Siege: (shouts) YOUR GRASP ON REALITY!!!

Chameleon: (shouts) Do something before this planet goes completely down the dumper! Now if the Mighty Ducks were here…

Dragaunus: (snaps, grabbing Chameleon’s face and slamming it to the ground) OH, SHUT UP!!!

Chameleon: (nervously) Consider it shut

Dragaunus: (annoyed) The Mighty Ducks! The Mighty Ducks! I’m sick to death of them. Especially their insufferable leader, Wildwing. What did he have that I don’thave?

Chameleon: (assuredly) Nothing! You lack nothing at all

Wraith: (points out) Except a few minor things… adoring subjects

Siege: Respect of your species

Wraith: A loving family

Chameleon: (gets a tad cocky) A devoted queen, shall we go on?

Dragaunus: (grabs Chameleon’s mouth, stopping him short of his last response while immediately jumping at the idea) A queen! Yes, I need a queen!

Chameleon: (hesitantly shocked) A whawhawhawha-A qwhat!?

Wraith & Siege: (also stand shocks at their lord’s response) O_O

Dragaunus: (utterly delights at the very thought of having his own queen while flailing Chameleon all over the place) She would rule by my side. We’ll have hatchlings! Little cross-breed Dragaunus’ running all over the place. My heirs. My descendants. My lineage! I WILL BE IMMORTAL!!!

Fatimah: (appears in the throne room, sternly seeking his immediate audience) Dragaunus?

Wraith, Siege, & Chameleon shuttered at the thought of their Lord settling down and even worse so…mating with a human. But that mattered little to Dragaunus (seeing as how there were no female Saurians to speak of) as he did take note before his reign over Earth the very few suitable candidates were he to ever take a wife. But who would be the “lucky lady” that would rule by his side? It wasn’t until Fatimah walked in that the flames of interest suddenly sparked within him as he gazed upon this immaculate beauty. He met her some years ago when his “required assistance” had him enlisted with her younger sister, Ratna’s, group in stopping the dark prophecy from coming to pass. But when more “outside help” was needed, Ratna sought out Fatimah’s expertise on ancient history, facts, legends, science, deciphering, research, etc.  When Dragaunus first gazed upon Fatimah out of all human females he encountered, he became stunned with her natural beauty as well as her intellect, athleticism, spirit, and rather authoritative/fierce demeanor. He never thought in all his life he would take such a trivial interest even more so a human. But there Fatimah was, standing before him in her standard look: a loose, white midriff-tank top with a cross-strap around her neck; skin-tight, black sports pants from her torso connecting to her bare feet; leather armguards, a simple 3-beaded necklace; ankle bracelets; and her wild, long and dark hair in its usual ponytail. Her slim muscular figure and fierce amber gaze that could turn heads or send people running with a simple glare was something that he found very striking. And the fact that Fatimah showed no fear towards Dragaunus or any of his minions or even in the face of danger, only enticed him further. Dragaunus was now under the strong belief that she would make the perfect queen for him.

Dragaunus: (turns his attention to the voice that entered the room, delighted before dropping Chameleon to the ground) Aaaaahh, Fatimah. Your timing couldn’t be more perfect. (smoothly) Dooo come in. (nonchalantly to his minions) That will be all.

Chameleon: (insistent) Don’t you think we should stay?

Dragaunus: (growls) That will be all!

Wraith: (whispers in Fatimah’s ear as they scuffled out, warningly) Give a shout if you need anything

Fatimah: (looks back, concerned at what he meant by that)

Dragaunus: (casually walks towards her, grinning) Oh, come a little closer. I won’t bite

Fatimah: (sternly) Dragaunus, it’s chaos out there and someone needs to do something!

Dragaunus: (swipes his robe aside casually, feigning sensitivity) The world is full of problems, even for an overlord. (attempts to serenade her) ♫It’s tough at the top, I deserve a… companion. A mate, who will start♫

Fatimah: (eyes him cautiously as he circled her like a vulture)

Dragaunus: (eyes every inch of her sexy body while continuously circling her) ♫My cylinder’s firing with fervor and you, my sweet thing, fit the part♫

Fatimah: (grows increasingly uncomfortable) Excuse me?

Dragaunus: (runs his claws through the soft strands of her ponytail while holding it to his cheek, faking misery) An overlord alone is a sad situation indeed, but an overlord without heirs… (places his hand around her shoulder, smirking) Now that’s a tragedy

Fatimah: (pulls back, jarred by what he was proposing) You can’t be serious!

Dragaunus: (suavely brings his face closer to hers, deeper tone) I’ve never been more serious

Fatimah: (shifts around him as she prepares to walk out the main entrance, brushing him off)

Dragaunus: (offended but becomes more persistent as he grabs her arm and spins her back around to face him with his other hand around her waist, pulling her up to him) ��Be prepared for a stunning proposal that power and beauty should bond♫

Fatimah: (pushes off him and makes a run for the exit, becoming unnerved of the current situation)

Dragaunus: (grabs her by the leg with his tail, dragging her along the floor back to him as he kneeled, towering over her) ♫Which cannot but fail to ensure cries of hail to♫

Fatimah: (frees herself from his grasp once more as she got up but suddenly finds herself backed into a wall)

Dragaunus: (skulks towards her before trapping her with his hands on either side of the wall, looming over her) ♫The chief and his consort, the sine qua non sort♫

Fatimah: (becomes terrified of her predicament as he drew in closer and felt his hot breath down her neck, realizing what he was planning)

Dragaunus: (draws in closer preparing to take her forcibly, growls ferally) ♫Of ruling ascendance, our line of descendants will flow throughout the universe and beyond♫

Fatimah: (suddenly remembers the dagger strapped to her waist as she immediately grabbed it, fiercely slashing Dragaunus’ face to get him to back off)

Dragaunus: (growls in pain backing away from her, but suddenly puts it aside as a turn-on) RAAAH!!! Oohohoho…Fatimah, Fatimah, Fatimah. You know, you really have no choice. (insistently assured) One way or another, I always get what I want

Fatimah: (takes the opportunity to bolt out of the throne room)

Fatimah ran outside the castle to her sister, Ratna, and her friends who became concerned about what happened when left. Unfortunately, before she had a chance to say anything, Dragaunus had teleported himself to stake his claim much to everyone’s immediate shock and dismay.

Dragaunus: (makes his announcement loud and clear) Let this pathetic excuse of a species be my witness!! I choose Fatimah Rhenzon as my queen!!!

Fatimah: (firmly) And I reject you!!!

Dragaunus: (comes near her group, warningly) Either be my queen or be forever banished from this planet

Fatimah: (angrily) You can’t banish me!!

Dragaunus: (orders his slaves callously) Take her away

Ratna: (defensively) Be reasonable, Dragaunus

Dragaunus: (annoyed) Didn’t you hear me, Ratna?

Ratna: (fervently) No

Dragaunus: (repeats himself, ferociously) Take her away. I am your ruler! Your master! Your overlord! YOU MUST DO AS I SAY!!!

Everyone gathered with the group (and surprisingly Wraith, Siege, & Chameleon as they felt their boss had completely lost his mind since the start of his reign) to protect Fatimah from Dragaunus’ imminent wrath. They would rather stand by her for her unwavering bravery than further succumb to the Saurian overlord’s iron fist. But by doing so, they had sealed their fates in the worse way possible. This Dragaunus was not going to let slide so easily.

Dragaunus: (overwhelmed by their lack of fear-induced loyalty and sudden betrayal) Aaaah, so that’s the game eh? Mutiny? (growls) Insurrection? Fine, have it your own way. I don’t require your respect. Only your obedience.

Group: (stands fervently preparing for his worst)

Dragaunus: (teleports to his castle balcony above them all, smirking arrogantly) ♫It's time you were all introduced to your ruler's executive staff. Perhaps not the kind you've been used to, but certainly game for a laugh♫

Group: (suddenly notices multiple droid shadows approaching them)

Saurian Droids: (maliciously skulked down to them) ♫We'd like to assure you, no fooling. Red meat is no longer our scene♫

Group: (prepare to defend themselves but become overwhelmed as more appear)

Saurian Droids: ♫And if now and then we're seen drooling, it's only an ancestor's gene♫

Dragaunus: (strongly exclaims over them) ♫So prepare for a glorious future! Be prepared for the pride's golden age!♫

Droid #1: ♫It's like any other, who murdered duck broth-♫

Droid #2: (muffle the stupid droid’s mouth as he nearly outed their master) ♫If we don't spread rumors, he'll feed us and room us!♫

Saurian Droids: ♫With friends in high places, we hold all the aces!♫

Dragaunus: ♫So don't try and rattle my cage♫

Saurian Droids: (surrounds the group separating them from Fatimah before surrounding her) ♫Oh, imagine if anyone dared♫

Fatimah: (tries to find a way out)

Saurian Droids & Dragaunus: ♫BE PREPARED♫

Fatimah: (manages to break through and makes a run for the deserted wasteland)

Saurian Droids: ♫Oh, imagine if anyone dared♫

Dragaunus: (glares down malevolently at Fatimah as she ran, believing she won’t make it for too long out in the desert as his eyes watched her from the sky) ♫Be prepared♫

Fatimah goes far enough to a deep crevice where a passenger ship was hidden for emergency purposes. This was as big an emergency as any. She hopped in and took off into the farthest region of the universe, hoping she could find some help to save Earth. As she activated the built-in dimensional gateway generator to open the portal, she looked back solemnly as tears flowed down her cheeks.

Fatimah: (shakily swore a personal oath, but remained strong) Don’t worry, everyone. I’ll find help and I will come back to save all of you. I promise

[jtq1844]

One day into this and I’m already behind ...

Where did the day go?  So much for taking this opportunity to build in some writing discipline into my life.  I actually have a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Antioch University -- Los Angeles, 2017).  It started out as “an external goal” in 2015, something to try after we moved as empty-nesters up to Washington State from Santa Cruz.  The program is “low residency,” meaning it is mostly online.  I had had a few stories published already, so I had reason to think it was doable.  I like story-telling.  I like writing.  What I discovered was that, while I have some writing competency, I don’t exactly have a passion for it. 

Here is one of the CNF essays from my official portfolio to amuse you until I compose a more heartfelt and informative post for tomorrow … er, I mean, today … um.  You know what I mean.

-=-=-=-

Sister Clorina, Saint Blaise and Doubting Thomas by Jean Tschohl Quinn

    It can take years to come to an understanding about something. Alternatively, an understanding can barrel into consciousness like a grand and glorious epiphanic elephant.  Sometimes, both happens. I love paradox.  I adore the celestial AND. It is in this sort of epiphany, decades in the making, that I found Bahá'u'lláh.

    Sister Clorina hated me. No. That’s too strong. She simply did not like any girls not named Mary. She didn’t like me in particular because she had suddenly been “demoted” to second grade from fourth grade where my sister Mary was -- sweet, clever, pious and faithful.  How could I compete?  My best friend then was named Mary too.  Mary Wirhanowicz was also sweet, clever, pious and faithful. I hold no grudge against the average Mary. They’ve got the whole Blessed Virgin Mother expectation thing to deal with and had no choice in the matter because that was their collective given name. It is, apparently, a lot of pressure. There is the occasional exception of the BVM standard when there are multiple Marys in a single classroom.  Some of them get an out if they had, say, a younger sibling who called them something else and the teacher approved for clarity’s sake.  One of my grandmothers was one of those. There were several Mary’s in her one-room schoolhouse in Nova Scotia. Her younger brothers and sisters called her Mayme already and so she was dubbed in the classroom and life in general. To this day, I consider her the sanest person I’ve ever met. However, in my second grade classroom, Sister Clorina felt she had reason to suspect me as nefarious.  First, I was not named Mary.  Second, I was “philosophical.”  

     Her move down to second grade was precipitated by Sister Marie Madison’s hasty withdrawal from the convent life after only a month with our class.  We were informed that we had simply “driven her crazy.”  Mea culpa.  Mea culpa.  Mea maxima culpa. (That’s not quite accurate; it was post-Vatican-II. We didn’t actually learn any Latin.)  The girls of the class all knew the blame rested solely on the antics of Vince Wederath, Brian Doherty, and Eddie Marx. They were the bad boys. Maybe Tim Relihan too. We were sure of it. Twelve or so years after the fact, I bumped into Eddie on a bus as I headed home from college for a weekend of free laundry and food.  He was still proud of his part in the good sister’s loss of faith. We choose our triumphs; this apparently was one of Eddie’s.

    Sister Clorina emanated a stern energy.  I cannot tell you whether she was tall or short from my second-grader memory, but I do recall her immense energy.  Sometimes, she’d fill in on the organ at Mass when the ridiculously cherubic Sister Acquitaine was overwrought or under the weather.  Sister Acquitaine was the music teacher.  She felt my brother Kevin’s musical talent was extraordinary -- it is – and so she kept him in at recess for violin lessons because we already had a violin that Grampa Hanson had picked up at St. Vinnie’s for $7 in 1967.  Kevin did not like missing recess. He abandoned the violin at his earliest possible convenience. I still have and play that violin, mainly because no one else had a use for it. I have always felt that I have a right only to that which is of no use to anyone else. It’s a youngest child thing. In second grade, I even went so far as to claim my favorite color as moss green because I felt sorry for it.  

    In any case, Sister Clorina as a substitute organist kept the tempo “up” much to the consternation of the older folks. My family liked it that way; it was zippy. She would shout over her shoulder, “Hymn number 8.”  Only I thought she was saying “Hit number 8” like Casey Kasem might, so I thought we were going to sing Winchester Cathedral or Last Train to Clarksville depending on the week. I somehow knew never to expect Wild Thing.  

     I had high hopes as Sister Clorina glowered over us in the hall outside the classroom. I reached for her hand, trying to be the brown-noser I knew myself to be.  She sniffed and tucked her arm inside her surplus.  Her disdain for me was immediate.

    First grade had been a long line of substitute teachers after Mrs. Conti-Morgan left to give birth after an entirely crabby last month. She and Mrs. Lambert, a squat dynamic storyteller, in the fifth grade were the only lay teachers in the school.  Second grade looked like the beginning of a whole new world. I was finally going to be close enough to a nun to touch one.

    After Sister Marie Madison bailed on us in the second-grade, I suspect Sister Clorina took the move from her already beloved fourth grade class to our clearly evil second grade as a demotion. The smaller four and fifth grade classes would be combined with the incredible Mrs. Lambert at the helm. My sister Mary was immediately named co-chair with Mrs. Lambert of their mutual admiration society. Mary has that mysterious charm that immediately made her teacher’s pet. Every time.  

    My year with Sister Clorina should have been a good one.  She did Science. We studied the classic simple machines: lever, incline plane, screw, pulley, wedge, and wheel and axle.  She even pointed out that a screw is really just an incline plane wrapped around a pivot point. This was good stuff. We learned about meteorology and taxonomy. Why wasn’t it working?  For one thing, she had no joy once Mary Wirhanowicz got really sick and was gone for weeks.  I brought homework to Mary and back to school regularly.  Did I get any credit for helping the BVM wannabe?  No I did not. Looking for credit is always a sure way to not get any. I was dead last in the rankings of teacher’s pet, even behind Renee Kucze and she NEVER adhered to the dress code.  

    Mary eventually recovered and returned to class. My only hope was merit by association.  No luck. Christmas rolled around and the requisite study of the Nativity. We learned about the Magi, those astrologers from the East. The question was obvious, so I asked it, “If they understood how important Jesus was before He was even born, shouldn’t we be studying their Religion?”  Sister Clorina never called on me again.  

    Second grade crawled on. I was dying to ask about the blessing of the throats on Saint Blaise Day, February 3, but I couldn’t ask Sister Clorina. I thought the hubbub was kind of cool -- how we’d line up and have blest candles criss-crossed about our necks with a little prayer for health offered – but still didn’t understand it.  My mom, who was much more informed and cynical than I could have realized then, knew a little about it. One of the miracles attributed to Saint Blaise was miraculously saving someone from choking. His “day” was the day after Candlemas, February 2, when families traditionally brought in all their candles to be sanctified.  

    “While this is completely pointless in the 20th century,” she postulated, “imagine what candles meant to a family three hundred, five hundred, seven hundred years ago.”  Having them blest would be a prudent gesture to Christians throughout Old Europe and the Byzantine Empire, she hoped I would agree. In my limited comprehension, however, I continued to attempt reconciliation of all of this with Groundhog Day.  Maybe the flicker of candles cast interesting shadows on any groundhogs popping out of holes on the same day.  

    By Lent, I knew better than to ask questions. During the required Tuesday-after-school Stations of the Cross, I languished with questions.  It’s not three days between the afternoon of Good Friday and dawn of Easter Sunday.  It’s two. Much later, I learned that the Jewish day starts at sundown, so it was definitely only two days. I did not dare ask. And the renaming of Simon to Peter, the rock.  What was that about? That was a whole lot of palaver over one little verse and the power that Saul/Paul grabbed anyway. I didn’t get it and couldn’t ask.

    At Pentecost, I remember sitting amiably in the pew, gently kicking at the kneeler after the Gospel Reading, followed by a rambling homily about Doubting Thomas. He misses a visit from the post-Resurrection Christ and demands physical proof.  Christ does come to revisit and offers Thomas a chance to “probe the nail holes.”  Thomas believes even though there’s no record of him poking his fingers anywhere – seriously not in a single one of the four Gospels -- just being with Him again is sufficient.  Christ then adds “blessed are they that have not seen but still believe.”  

    Yes, I committed to myself – kick, kick, kick -- I will never be like Doubting Thomas, needing proof like that.  To this day, I have never witnessed any firsthand wowza moment. Some friends of mine have hosted these remarkable, spiritual ongoing events where miracles of joy, epiphany and synchronicity are a regular occurrence for years. Long-lost friends reunite. Extraordinary fund-raising. Mysterious healings. You name it. Whenever I show up, it’s invariably an “off night.” My friend who has witnessed it all invariably shrugs and says, “I don’t know what happened this time. Maybe it was the traffic.”  I trust their reality.  I have to, because I wasn’t there.  

    I was still mindlessly kicking the kneeler.  Why didn’t they recognize Christ as Jesus when meeting Him after the Resurrection? Seriously, they don’t recognize Him at first. Why would that be? What was the big deal about a physical resurrection anyway? The Old Testament was full of them.  I could get the importance of a spiritual one – I thought: Peter … Rock … denied Him and the hiding … rock rolled away … blah, blah, blah … Didn’t Jesus call His followers His body?  I was not about to ask questions. The symbolism worked so much better than literal story.  Don’t ask; don’t tell.  Just get through second grade.

    By the end of that year, Father Podolak, that gentle, rambling soul who would eventually preside over my wedding years later, announced that the school would be closing at June. My sister and I were devastated.  My brothers and older sisters were already going off to junior high and senior high school, mercifully saved from attending more Catholic school by the cost of tuition times six. Mary and I lay in bed with the blankets kicked off, feeling entombed by the muggy heaviness of Wisconsin in the summer bemoaning our fate, a public school education with their loose morals and strange ways.  Of this we were sure.  No potentially free music lessons from Sister Acquitaine; no exciting tales about WWI in Italy from Mrs. Lambert; no stern preparation for junior high from Sister Rhodelia whose great contribution to our family was her encouragement to my parents that my shy, nervous, older sister Jackie would achieve every regular thing, just in her own time. We were off to public school and weekly Catholic CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine.  I kid you not).

    How wrong we were! At the public school, we got free music lessons on any instrument we chose from hip young musicians; one for band instruments, the other for strings (my choice, obviously).  And Mrs. Grossman taught us singing. She really liked how Mary (either one) and I sang together.  By the following Christmas, my sister now a fifth grader and I a third grader sang in front of an audience of hundreds a harmonized duet of Mel Torme’s A Christmas Song. Afterwards Brian Doherty spoke directly to me, probably the only time he ever did, “You have guts. Double guts.” Respect. I don’t remember seeing him after that.

   We also had a regular dedicated art teacher, Miss Sanford.  She got a nose job the following summer and nobody recognized her when she returned. The best part was, my third grade teacher, Miss Nawrocki. She looked like a Barbie doll. She wore wigs of different colors and lengths. She got married halfway through the year and became Mrs. Raniewicz. Dang.  We had just conquered spelling capital-N A W R O C K I. She directed a class musical. I had lunch with her a couple of years ago.  She is still awesome, although significantly shorter than I thought. Public school was fine. Better than fine. It was great. To heck with you, Sister Clorina.

    Around ninth grade, Confirmation rolled around. It was time for me to publicly commit to God and His Church, whatever that meant. Among the somewhat arbitrary options for going through a Catholic Confirmation is taking a new name.  It has little or no intrinsic meaning within Western cultures, but the vestigial tradition hangs on.  My 15-year-old self was interested in saving the world by becoming a medical doctor – didn’t happen: boys, booze, and a reading disability derailed that vague idea during the first semester of college – so I chose the name “Blaise” as my Confirmation name.  I had mistakenly thought he was the patron saint of physicians. I was a piss-poor researcher back then too.  So many of his miracles had to do with healing, particularly having to do with throat ailments and choking. Who am I kidding?  I claimed the name Blaise because the choice was due the week after the whole Candlemas/Saint Blaise weirdness -- exactly forty days after Christmas. What was this thing with forty days anyway?  Noah in the Ark, Jesus in the desert, Buddha under the Bodi Tree, the Prophet Mohammad in a cave.  There’s Lent.  There are periods of mourning, of fasting or of thanksgiving in most belief systems.  

    In any case, my choice of Blaise, a male name, upset a fair few people, so I had to write a couple of letters to some persnickety council of some kind. The request was okayed … with reservations. The actual Confirmation was forgettable other than choir director being in a car accident on the way there, so the choir – which included my mother, my sister Mary, Mary Wirhanowicz and me – had to wing it.  

    “So why was the name Blaise so important to you?” Father Podolak asked me months later.

    “Well, if this spirituality stuff doesn’t work out, ‘Blaze’ is a good name for a stripper.” The words were out of my mouth before I ran them through my brain. I kept walking.  

    The next time I saw Fr. P, he said, “Jean, do you know how we make holy water?”

    “You bless it?” I stammered.  

     “No, you boil the Hell out of it.”  He smiled apologetically and gently clarified, “That was a joke.”  

    I chatted with a priest at a wedding I was hired to sing for a few years later, I mentioned the parish I grew up in. The priest said, “Ah!  Bill Podolak, a kind man.”

    “Yes, indeed.” I was running out of things to say.

    “… not a dynamic speaker.”

    “No, indeed.”  We laughed, all too cruelly I believe.

   In spite of my bad research skills, Saint Blaise continues to intrigue me. Having been martyred by being beaten to death with iron combs used for wool combing and carding, Saint Blaise has since been associated with any trade having to do with wool since the Middle Ages, not the healing arts. So, after all the hubbub about me picking a male saint’s name, perhaps it works for me.  After all, what is my essay-writing but glorified wool-gathering?  

    The year after my Confirmation, I lived in Tunisia through a foreign exchange program the same summer that Monty Python’s Flying Circus filmed Life of Brian a mere 100 kilometers away.  I did not find out until just after my return to the US, by watching an episode of Saturday Night Live hosted by Eric Idle.  His monologue was about the long, sad love songs Tunisians sing with such relish and the ubiquity of jasmine there. Mr. Idle’s monologue went over like a fart in church as the saying goes.  My family, however, laughed spasmodically as they recalled the similar stories from my letters home. Dad with his ever-present bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest, fell off the couch chortling. Mr. Idle’s underappreciated monologue notwithstanding, my summer in Tunisia changed my perceptions of just about everything. I had lived with a Moslem family in a Moslem neighborhood in a Moslem village. They valued education and kindness, respect and humor, the individual and the collective. The child peeking out of the doorway to see the American girl may have looked like an advertisement for C.A.R.E., but I came to know that her family loved her abundantly, fed her regularly if frugally, and had dreams and hopes for her.  Neshua, the daughter of my host family closest to my age, and I were invited to several homes. Some of those invitations were offered because I was a curiosity to the village. In most of the humbler homes, there was a carpet in the works, a large frame taking up a wall in their main living space.  A color plot hung taped to one of the loom’s posts.  I learned to knot and trim the wool according to the plot, to shift the heddle and weft shuttle, to tamp work with the kleleh to compact the threads.  We sat together, partly in fellowship, partly to contribute to the household. One little girl elbowed her way next to me knotting two to my one and announce that she would teach me the Arabic alphabet. “C’est très important” for me to learn how to read Arabic. I never did, except for “Coca-Cola” which I suspect had more to do with it being on large red billboards.

    I was quite full of myself. Eventually the lessons of that summer, about the oneness of Religion, not the Arabic alphabet, sunk in. No longer would the coat of we’re-right/they’re-wrong Christianity fit me properly.  

    Eventually, I was off to college where at some point I made out with a guy who decided to become a priest.  I think there may be something more to process about that.  Maybe not.  I ended up eventually working in Washington DC and met my future husband Mike at a Trivial Pursuit party in the apartment complex we both lived in.  We were both Arabic-speaking (although mine was pretty patchy), left-handed (which has its own complications in Middle Eastern countries), green-eyed Catholics.  It was Kismet.  Oh, and we both preferred to drink milk with pizza. Like I said, Kismet. We went through all the Catholic wedding hoops and started our family when I got pushed onto a spiritual journey by a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses.  While the JW logic never worked for me, I will forever be grateful to Betty and LaVonne for starting me on the journey.  Here I will skip chapters full of synchronicities that only Baha’is would find amusing, we attended some meetings referred to as Firesides after moving to San Jose, California a few years later.

    The speaker one evening expounded on the subject of Progressive Revelation.  In brief, Progressive Revelation encompasses the idea that Religion is unfolding over time as humanity becomes ready for a fuller understanding of the true nature of Reality. The speaker went on to offer examples of how Judaism begot Christianity and primarily affected Europe in its initial reach and development. Likewise, Hinduism begot Buddhism which moved out to Asia.  Islam is also Abrahamic but was couched in Zoroastrian customs as well. It spread into North Africa, the Middle East, Oceania.  The Baha’i Faith was revealed just as the world needed to start thinking globally, in the mid-19th century.  Any corruption of Religion has to do with mankind messing with it, not with the purity of the original Message.  This made some sense to me, but I didn’t know anything about Zoroaster. The speaker recognized my raised eyebrow-of-confusion and explained.  

    The moment the speaker explained that the primary understanding of Zoroastrianism in the West would be the Zodiac. He also mentioned that the priesthood was referred to as the Magi, as in the “astrologers from the East.” In that moment, all the disparate thoughts from the time I was seven onward coalesced in my mind’s eye like a jigsaw puzzle completing itself. I wiggled in my seat in excitement, trying not to disturb the tiny middle-aged woman of Asian descent or the black man next to me who had fallen asleep. He was snoring full out and no one was perturbed by it. His wife, a white woman at least a head taller than he was, later explained that he had had a stroke during brain surgery a few years before and often fell asleep. The oneness of God, the oneness of Humanity, the oneness of Religion all made sense to me. In that blink of an eye, I saw the interlocking of fact and legend, of the Magi and the Baby, of tradition and skepticism. I was back with Sister Clorina, Saint Blaise, and my family in Tunisia.

    It was both in an instant and over the course of my lifetime up to that point that I came to this understanding. A few weeks after that night, Mike and I together declared our Faith in Bahá'u'lláh, that is to say, became adherents to the Baha'i Faith. We have found our lives infinitely richer because of that choice, so have our children (so they tell me).  It is not easy to always keep in mind that each and every person that exists or did exist or will exist is unique and beloved by God, or that our individual Free Wills can send us in all different directions, or that "This is the changeless Faith of God, eternal in the past, eternal in the future" as Bahá'u'lláh says. In fact, it's mostly challenging. Building Heaven on Earth is not for sissies. However, I know it is the right thing for me to pursue.

    I still do not get my faith confirmed by fantastical measures.  I’d love to see a crowd of people collectively gung their foreheads with the heels of their hands that the oneness of Humanity is a fact and the work it will take for every person to feel loved and beloved as the family we are will be worth the effort and sacrifice.  I’d love to see someone healed miraculously.  I still get the sense that I won't ever witness events like that first hand.  

    Occasionally, I do witness people who die with grace or see a smile generated from a purely motivated kindness perpetrated on an unsuspecting grump. It is things like that -- tiny, lovely indications that my spiritual path is worth toddling upon – with which I chose to be satisfied. I promised myself so long ago that it would be enough.

     Sister Clorina was only in my life for six months over fifty years ago.  She still pops into my head, usually when I am accused of being “too sensitive” about something. I’d love to prove to you that she’s not important to me now, but you’ll just have to take that on faith.

[outworldxwasomi]

Ritual Of Blood: Idi Mercy Pt 2

//After some revising, this will now be three parts. Pt 1 can be read here.

As Idi walked alongside his brother, paying half a mind to what he was telling him. He couldn’t help but notice the other tarks around him. He looks back as he passed two older tarkata dragging a tark his age by the wrists. The kid was roaring at  the top of his lungs, doing his best to get out of their grasp. His parents just stood by and watched, knowing if they tried to interfere there would be consequences. It was a sad thing to see, a child begging for their parents to save them from a fate that they knew would come. The kid bit one of the older tarks, getting a small window of opportunity to run. And run he did, run right back to his mother arms and clung onto her. 

“Idi!” 

“Hmm?” Idi looked away as he heard Benzi raise his voice. He looks up at his brother with a confused expression. “Can you repeat that?”

“Uh huh.” Benzi knew what Idi was looking at, something he chose to ignore outright. It was the same thing every year, nothing he hadn’t seen before. Placing a firm hand on the back of Idi neck, to keep him looking ahead. “Ignore everything happening now, just focus on yourself.”

“Understood.” Idi responded, not one to protest against his brother. Though it was easier said then done. Sure he could pretend to be blind to his surroundings and drown out most of screams and cries of tarks but he couldn’t help that feeling of dread creeping into his veins. As if he was being tested, another young tark his age could be seen running, almost towards him. It made him stop in his tracks, frozen in place until Benzi had the right sense of mind to pull him out of the way. Both of them just watched the frightened tark continue to run, seconds later two older tarks were chasing him down. 

“Go.” Benzi commanded, fearing that all this chaos would affect his little brother. 

The walk to the ‘proving grounds’ was a short one, a half mile walk from the Kamp, in the center of an Oasis that served as the Ritual place for the Kwanzaa Tribe. Hundreds of Tarkatans stood in a circle, just off the edge of the lake. Right in the center was circle  line dug up and filled red sand, serving as a ring for kombat to take place. An old Tarkatan war flag was planted on the line where the Four Elders of the tribe sat, waiting for everyone to arrive. And right in the center seat was Baraka, he stood standing with his arms crossed, brows knitted in frustration as he heard the scared tarks in the distance.

Standing in a line on the other side of the ring were the young tarks who were set to compete. A total of 16 boys, 21 girls stood side by side, with their fathers or other Guardian standing behind them. Idi was the 7th one in line, standing between two boys who had a few inches over him. It was obvious to most people that Idi was outmatched when it came to size, whereas most boys his age were around 5’3 and higher, he was 4’11. Benzi assured him that he didn’t stop growing, just he took longer than other kids. Not to mention the fact that all these kids were hitting puberty. 

A horn sounded off, signalling the beginning of what would be considered a bloody night. The crowd quieted down as Baraka walked to the center of the ring, Jabari and Chuma at his side. Baraka turned his head to Jabari and notions to him to go. Jabari walks pass him towards the line, all the young tarks watched as he goes to the end of the line and stands behind a young girl in blue at the end of the line. Most of them recognizing the girl was Jabari sister, Mudiwa. All eyes went back to Baraka as he started to give the usual speech he gave every year. 

Last year Idi was suppose to participate, but due to the fact that there was an odd number of young tarks, he was given a pass. Of course he was teased by tarks both young and old, most of them saying he was lucky to live another year. Idi ignored them, spending most of his time hiding in the trees or shadowing Benzi when he was around. Then 3 months ago, Benzi took Idi with him on one of his trips, returning to kamp three weeks ago. Some people were surprised to see them back, thinking Idi was possibly being kept away or turned Jambozi so he could avoid the ritual. The only ones to know where Idi really went were Baraka, who agreed to let him go in the first place. 

“Idi, look over there.” Benzi whispered in Idi right ear, pointing to the left side of the crowd. Idi was confused at first, wondering who his brother was pointing at. Then he spots a familiar figure among the crowd, one that sort of stuck out from the others. A tall figure in a long gray robe with a dark hood. Curled up around the bottom of the robe was a thick white reptilian tail that swayed back in forth in the sand. 

“Master Varanus.” Idi sounded excited but knew to keep his voice low. As if he was heard, the hooded figure pulls down his hood to reveal his face, getting a few surprised looks from the tarks standing near him. An albino Zattaren was a sight to behold, a rare one at that. Still the tarks did nothing but stare, sensing he was only here to spectate. Idi gives a quick nod to the Zattaren who nods in return with a small crooked smile. 

“First to fight, Lulu vs Nkechi. Best of luck to the both of you.” Baraka announced the first fight, making his way back to his seat. Idi blinked, having missed the speech and possibly the rules that were spoken. Still he knew the rules beforehand so it wasn’t like he was missing anything. He looks to his left to see the two girls making their way to the ring, both of them accompanied by their fathers. They were led to the center of the ring, given one last praise from their fathers who then steps out of the ring to stand behind the Kiongozi seat where they have to stay until the fight was over. Chuma steps in the ring, motioning for the girls to take a respectful tarkatan bow to each other. This year, Chuma would be the one to ref the fights since it was usually the Kamanda job to do it. 

Both girls crossed their arms with their blades extended and bowed to each other then took their fighting stance. Chuma took a step back and looks to Baraka who raised his right hand, giving the signal. Chuma looks a both girls and raised his left arm, the girls trained their eyes on his arm. As soon as his arm-blade extended, the girls shout and charge at each other with blades drawn.

To Be Continued…

[readbookywooks]

‘Um. Look,’ said Rincewind.

‘Yes?’ said Abrim.

‘Well, if you put it like that …’

‘You wish to make a point?’

‘It’s the Archchancellor’s hat, if you must know,’ said Rincewind. ‘The symbol of wizardry.’

‘Powerful?’

Rincewind shivered. ‘Very,’ he said.

‘Why is it called the Archchancellor’s hat?’

‘The Archchancellor is the most senior wizard, you see. The leader. But, look -

Abrim picked up the hat and turned it around and around in his hands.

‘It is, you might say, the symbol of office?’

‘Absolutely, but look, if you put it on, I’d better warn you-’

Shut up.

Abrim leapt back, the hat dropping to the floor.

The wizard knows nothing. Send him away. We must negotiate.

The vizier stared down at the glittering octarines around the hat.

‘I negotiate? With an item of apparel?’

I have much to offer, on the right head.

Rincewind was appalled. It has already been indicated that he had the kind of instinct for danger usually found only in certain small rodents, and it was currently battering on the side of his skull in an attempt to run away and hide somewhere.

‘Don’t listen!’ he shouted.

Put me on, said the hat beguilingly, in an ancient voice that sounded as though the speaker had a mouthful of felt.

If there really was a school for viziers, Abrim had come top of the class.

‘We’ll talk first,’ he said. He nodded at the guards, and pointed to Rincewind.

‘Take him away and throw him in the spider tank,’ he said.

‘No, not spiders, on top of everything else!’ moaned Rincewind.

The captain of the guard stepped forward and knuckled his forehead respectfully.

‘Run out of spiders, master,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ The vizier looked momentarily blank. ‘In that case, lock him in the tiger cage.’

The guard hesitated, trying to ignore the sudden outburst of whimpering beside him. ‘The tiger’s been ill, master. Backwards and forwards all night.’

‘Then throw this snivelling coward down the shaft of eternal fire!’

A couple of the guards exchanged glances over the head of Rincewind, who had sunk to his knees.

‘Ah. We’ll need a bit of notice of that, master-’

‘- to get it going again, like.’

The vizier’s fist came down hard on the table. The captain of the guard brightened up horribly.

‘There’s the snake pit, master,’ he said. The other guards nodded. There was always the snake pit.

Four heads turned towards Rincewind, who stood up and brushed the sand off his knees.

‘How do you feel about snakes?’ said one of the guards.

‘Snakes? I don’t like snakes much-’

‘The snake pit,’ said Abrim.

‘Right. The snake pit,’ agreed the guards.

- I mean, some snakes are okay-’ Rincewind continued, as two guards grabbed him by the elbows.

In fact there was only one very cautious snake, which remained obstinately curled up in a corner of the shadowy pit watching Rincewind suspiciously, possibly because he reminded it of a mongoose.

‘Hi,’ it said eventually. ‘Are you a wizard?’

As a line of snake dialogue this was a considerable improvement on the normal string of esses, but Rincewind was sufficiently despondent not to waste time wondering and simply replied, ‘It’s on my hat, can’t you read?’

‘In seventeen languages, actually. I taught myself.’

‘Really?’

‘I sent off for courses. But I try not to read, of course. It’s not in character.’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t be.’ It was certainly the most cultured snake voice that Rincewind had ever heard.

‘It’s the same with the voice, I’m afraid,’ the snake added. ‘I shouldn’t really be talking to you now. Not like this, anyway. I suppose I could grunt a bit. I rather think I should be trying to kill you, in fact.’

‘I have curious and unusual powers,’ said Rincewind. Fair enough, he thought, an almost total inability to master any form of magic is pretty unusual for a wizard and anyway, it doesn’t matter about lying to a snake.

‘Gosh. Well, I expect you won’t be in here long, then.’

‘Hmm?’

‘I expect you’ll be levitating out of here like a shot, any minute.’

Rincewind looked up at the fifteen-foot-deep walls of the snake pit, and rubbed his bruises.

‘I might,’ he said cautiously.

‘In that case, you wouldn’t mind taking me with you, would you?’

‘Eh?’

‘It’s a lot to ask, I know, but this pit is, well, it’s the pits.’

‘Take you? But you’re a snake, it’s your pit. The idea is that you stay here and people come to you. I mean, I know about these things.’

A shadow behind the snake unfolded itself and stood up.

‘That’s a pretty unpleasant thing to say about anyone,’ it said.

The figure stepped forward, into the pool of light.

It was a young man, taller than Rincewind. That is to say, Rincewind was sitting down, but the boy would have been taller than him even if he was standing up.

To say that he was lean would be to miss a perfect opportunity to use the word ‘emaciated’. He looked as though toast racks and deckchairs had figured in his ancestry, and the reason it was so obvious was his clothes.

Rincewind looked again.

He had been right the first time.

The lank-haired figure in front of him was wearing the practically traditional garb for barbarian heroes - a few studded leather thongs, big furry boots, a little leather holdall and goosepimples. There was nothing unusual about that, youd see a score of similarly-dressed adventurers in any street of Ankh-Morpork, except that you’d never see another one wearing -

The young man followed his gaze, looked down, and shrugged.

‘I can’t help it,’ he said. ‘I promised my mother.’

‘Woolly underwear?’

Strange things were happening in Al Khali that night. There was a certain silveriness rolling in from the sea, which baffled the city’s astronomers, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. There were little flashes of raw magic discharging off sharp edges, like static electricity, but that wasn’t the strangest thing.

The strangest thing walked into a tavern on the edge of the city, where the everlasting wind blew the smell of the desert through every unglazed window, and sat down in the middle of the floor.

The occupants watched it for some time, sipping their coffee laced with desert orakh. This drink, made from cacti sap and scorpion venom, is one of the most virulent alcoholic beverages in the universe, but the desert nomads don’t drink it for its intoxicating effects. They use it because they need something to mitigate the effect of Klatchian coffee.

Not because you could use the coffee to waterproof roofs. Not because it went through the untrained stomach lining like a hot ball bearing through runny butter. What it did was worse.

It made you knurd.[17]

The sons of the desert glanced suspiciously into their thimble-sized coffee-cups, and wondered whether they had overdone the orakh. Were they all seeing the same thing? Would it be foolish to pass a remark? These are the sort of things you need to worry about if you want to retain any credibility as a steely-eyed son of the deep desert. Pointing a shaking finger and saying, ‘Hey, look, a box just walked in here on hundreds of little legs, isn’t that extraordinary!’ would show a terrible and possibly fatal lack of machismo.

The drinkers tried not to catch one another’s eye, even when the Luggage slid up to the row of orakh jars against the far wall. The Luggage had a way of standing still that was somehow even more terrible than watching it move about.

Finally one of them said, ‘I think it wants a drink.’

There was a long silence, and then one of the others said, with the precision of a chess Grand Master making a killing move, ‘What does?’

The rest of the drinkers gazed impassively into their glasses.

There was no sound for a while other than the plop-plopping of a gecko’s footsteps across the sweating ceiling.

The first drinker said, ‘The demon that’s Just moved up behind you is what I was referring to, O brother of the sands.’

The current holder of the All-Wadi Imperturbability Championship smiled glassily until he felt a tugging on his robe. The smile stayed where it was but the rest of his face didn’t seem to want to be associated with it.

The Luggage was feeling crossed in love and was doing what any sensible person would do in these circumstances, which was get drunk. It had no money and no way of asking for what it wanted, but the Luggage somehow never had much difficulty in making itself understood.

The tavern keeper spent a very long lonely night filling a saucer with orakh, before the Luggage rather unsteadily walked out through one of the walls.

The desert was silent. It wasn’t normally silent. It was normally alive with the chirruping of crickets, the buzz of mosquitoes, the hiss and whisper of hunting wings skimming across the cooling sands. But tonight it was silent with the thick, busy silence of dozens of nomads folding their tents and getting the hell out of it.

‘I promised my mother,’ said the boy. ‘I get these colds, you see.’

‘Perhaps you should try wearing, well, a bit more clothing?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’ve got to wear all this leather stuff.’

‘I wouldn’t call it all,’ said Rincewind. ‘There’s not enough of it to call it all. Why have you got to wear it?’

‘So people know I’m a barbarian hero, of course.’

Rincewind leaned his back against the fetid walls of the snake pit and stared at the boy. He looked at two eyes like boiled grapes, a shock of ginger hair, and a face that was a battleground between its native freckles and the dreadful invading forces of acne.

Rincewind rather enjoyed times like this. They convinced him that he wasn’t mad because, if he was mad, that left no word at all to describe some of the people he met.

‘Barbarian hero,’ he murmured.

‘It’s all right, isn’t it? All this leather stuff was very expensive.’

‘Yes, but, look - what’s your name, lad?’

‘Nijel-’

‘You see, Nijel

‘Nijel the Destroyer,’ Nijel added.

‘You see, Nijel

‘- the Destroyer-’

‘All right, the Destroyer-’ said Rincewind desperately. ‘- son of Harebut the Provision Merchant-’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got to be the son of someone,’ Nijel explained. ‘It says it here somewhere-’ He half-turned and fumbled inside a grubby fur bag, eventually bringing out a thin, torn and grubby book.

‘There’s a bit in here about selecting your name,’ he muttered.

‘How come you ended up in this pit, then?’

‘I was intending to steal from Creosote’s treasury, but I had an asthma attack,’ said Nijel, still fumbling through the crackling pages.