#my disgust is unending and my rage will never die

[the-punforgiven]

God I wish there was a way on spotify to be like "Save this song to my library because I like listening to it, but also it sucks shit and I hate it, don't recommend this shit to me again"

[luminashdawnwing]

Speaking with Shadows

( Follows previous #story tagged posts, and occurs before the events of the Eternal Palace )

With a sickening crunch, Lithendras’ body was hurled up and into the wall of Luminash’s tower, waves of arcane power pummeling him, and bonds constricting him, leaving his limbs to dangle helplessly below. The glow of magic was the only light in the darkened room, save the eyes of the magister and Rift Warden.

“Why have you come here, Ren’dorei? You dare show your face to me, with all the blood on your hands?”

The fury that had risen in Luminash upon hearing the familiar deep rasp of the Rift Warden’s voice - a sound seared into his mind in Nazmir, punctuated by the slaughter in his camp and the ensuing bloodbath at Dazar’alor - was immediate and violent. His reaction had been just as swift and forceful.

“Come to finish me off, to sate your bloodlust? Another civilian, another corpse?” As he spoke, his hands clenched, tightening the bonds around the Ren’dorei and pushing him further into the now-crumbling stone, pebbles dropping to the sea-damp floor with a clatter.

Gritting his teeth, Lithendras managed to choke out a response, “You persist in painting me in such a light? No matter...” The Ren’dorei sputtered a cough before continuing, “I have come to speak.”

“Speak?” Luminash’s rage rose higher, the cold faces, drained of their lifeblood, smeared with gore and the muck of the Nazmir swamp swam in his mind, “You presume now to speak, as if you had not wasted any chance you had at that!”

“You have something we require...” The Rift Warden sputtered again, coughing and wincing as a fresh wave of pebbles fell from the wall, spilling over his head and onto the floor below, “The runestone... I have come to negotiate.”

Stepping closer, his body beginning to surge with power, a floodgate opened from somewhere beyond, Luminash spoke, “Negotiate? You seek to steal from me my work, just as you did in Nazmir.” With a motion of his arm, Luminash hurled Lithendras from the wall, sending him crashing into the worn marble and sliding across the tower floor, “Why come with words this time, when force sufficed in Nazmir? Was only one man not enough to cut down? Do you need more?” His voice rose, soft at first, until it was a shout echoing from the cold marble.

Lurching up onto an elbow, the Ren’dorei wiped a smear of blood from his face and shook his head, “It is just like your Horde to cast such stones, as if your home is any less fragile than ours. They have...” He grunted and coughed again, flecks of blood dripping to the floor, “A key. To open the way. Knowledge and power unending, a lifeline for our people. With it... We could be reunited. Silvermoon would be free of its servitude.”

Luminash strode to the prone Rift Warden, lashing out and striking the man in the chest with his foot, pressing his back to the floor and knocking the breath from him once more, “We are free! We do not serve an untried child; we do not serve the memory of a traitor; we do not serve the whispers in our heads! You may say the Horde serves Death, but who has the blood of innocents on his hands? Which of us, here, Lithendras?” More flashes. Blood, soil, pain. Death. The letters, each written individually, each stamped by hand, each delivered in person. Tears, shouts, ringing in the magister’s ears. He lifted his foot, and stomped down, a wave of power following in his heel’s wake.

Lithendras’ lips parted in a guttural scream as the force pounded him into the floor, crumbling stone giving way beneath him. Spitting blood at his assailant, he shouted through clenched teeth, “You only prove all I have said, Dawnwing! It was foolish to believe any of the Sin’dorei had any sense left in their heads, or had the will required to seize necessity, seize the moment! You would let our people die rather than adapt!”

The magister leaned down, grabbing the Ren’dorei by his collar, teeth clenched and body shaking as he growled, “And you would take everything from us! Every man, woman, and child, we would all die, withering and wasting away as the Sunwell was swallowed up in your precious Void. And for what?”

The Rift Warden spat back, “Knowledge! You, of all of them, ought to understand! Your fear only holds you back, makes you weak, a child gazing out the window into the night!”

“I know your Void, I saw what it is capable of. On Argus, the visions, Lithendras, the nightmares! Do you think they have left me? Will they ever? Whatever it tells you, it lies! And it leads you to destroy your own, all in its service!”

“How can you be sure...” The Ren’dorei grimaced as he coughed out his words, “That it told you no lies? You have never peeled back the veil, looked beyond. Not an open window...” His laugh was hollow, mocking, cruel, “You never even opened the drapes!”

With a disgusted scoff, Luminash dropped Lithendras’ collar and stood, “What does it matter? I know what I saw. That is knowledge. Not the myriad lies it feeds you. I need peel back no veil. My eyes are set upon the fire itself, not its empty shadows dancing on the walls.” The magister raised his arms, arcane bonds once more gripping the Ren’dorei, lifting him helplessly from the shattered floor, “You have had your chance to speak. Now, let us be done with it.”

“You mean to kill me here, when I have come in the name of cooperation?” The Ren’dorei laughed again, “Naive of me to expect any different.” His voice was calm, as even as could be given his injuries, eerily still.

The calmness, the stillness in Lithendras’ body and behind his eyes, gave Luminash pause. It was unnatural. All the same, he shook his head, “No, not here. Killing you now would not serve any purpose but my own.” Luminash’s voice, too, became even, calm, and cold, “You will be returned to Silvermoon once this campaign has reached its end. You will be charged with treason, tried, and executed. I will see to it myself that your head is torn from your shoulders and left on a pike in the Exchange as a warning for all the rest of your kind.”

With a dismissive wave, Luminash sent his prisoner hurtling back into the wall once again, “The Sin’dorei will ever persevere. And nothing you do can stop it.”

[jemej3m]

To the Good Place We Go (p.2)

part two! (sorry about errors totally didn’t read over this)

credit goes to @gluupor​ for the idea! link to their the good place au here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782301

warning: aftg typical violence

part one here: http://jemejem.tumblr.com/post/182518320202/to-the-good-place-we-go

“I don’t belong here.” His voice shook. He imagined his father was looking up from the Bad Place, grinning like the mad-man he was. Neil was delivering himself into hell, because it was the right thing to do. His morals had been warped and distorted on Earth. If he was going to spend eternity suffering, he might as well make himself feel better by doing it honourably.

Also, he wanted to prove Andrew wrong. But that was besides the point.

Three-hundred and twenty-one residents, an omnipotent ethereal being and a walking Wikipedia stared at him in shock.

“Well.” Wymack clapped his hands together. “Dismissed, everyone!” He crooked a finger at Neil, and he felt his heart clambering to get out of his chest as he shuffled forward. He tried not to flinch as Wymack’s fingers brushed over his shoulder, and in less than a blink, they were standing in his office. Wymack rounded the desk and grabbed a stress ball off the desk and propping his feet up on the oaken edge, throwing it up and catching it repeatedly.

“Well?” Wymack offered him the chair. Neil sat. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t try to get in or hack the system somehow.” Neil murmured. “I’m not a mole. It’s a complete mistake.”

“Ha. A human, hacking into the universe? Very interesting. Very impossible. You humans are so strange.” He caught the ball, took his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “Neil Josten, you’ve been chosen as a candidate for MPP. The Middle Place Project. Nicky!”

“Yes?” Nicky had blooped into existence next to him.

“Strike Neil Josten off the Test One list.” Wymack’s smile was small but warm.

“That was a test?” Neil said testily. Wymack held out his hands.

“Honesty is an integral part of being a good person. You, out of everyone, are the most practised liar. Eight years on the run, twenty-two identities—I’m surprised you aren’t having an identity crisis.”

“Same.” Neil muttered. In all honesty, he was glad to have died as Neil Josten. Neil Abram Josten. Out of everyone he’d been, Neil was his favourite.

“If you can come forward, in front of the entire neighbourhood nonetheless, then I’m sure the rest will follow.” He cleared his throat. “The Middle Place Project is proving that humans are capable of  change, whether it be improving, or failing. There’s a few in the midst of the neighbourhood that we’re watching to see whether or not you can improve from your characteristic behaviours on earth.”

“Will we get into the Good Place if you do?”

“Maybe in five-thousand years.” Wymack promised. “If I can manage to convince my superiors of  your genuine progress.”

“Right.” Neil drawled. “Five-thousand years. No biggie.”

He glared at Neil with intense scrutiny, but somehow, Neil was unafraid of this ethereal being. He was giving Neil a chance, wasn’t he?

“Well?” Wymack grouched. “What are you still doing here?”

“What am I supposed to—“

“Figure it out, Josten. Just don’t tell anyone it’s a test. Got it?”

He pursed his lips. “Cool. Yeah. Got it.”

Wymack watched him, unimpressed, as he shuffled towards the door. Neil shot Wymack a quick grimace as he slipped out.

He blew his bangs out of his face with relief. Andrew stood in the waiting room, arms crossed and eyes barely slits. “So?”

“I’m alive.” He twinkled his fingers. “See?”

“Actually,” Nicky piped up.

“Shut up, Nicky.” They both ground out.

“Test forty-seven!” Wymack clapped his hands. “We’re finally getting into the good stuff. Ethical responsibility!”

Neil threw a troubled glance at Andrew, who, of course, stared impassively back. Ethics?

“What’s sitting in a classroom gonna do about our ethics.” Seth grunted.

Neil had decided he disliked Seth intensely. It was something about the constant fits of anger, irrational judgements and toxic intolerance to everything that wasn’t Allison’s tits or Adderall.

“Well, actually,” Kevin chided. Wymack snapped his fingers, effectively muting Kevin. The young man tried to scream in horror, but slumped in his chair with defeat.

“We’re going to be learning about some of your moral philosophisers and interpret what they had to say about what’s right and wrong. How about some basic questions, hm? Just to gage where each of you at.”

This wasn’t going to go well.

It was fine, wasn’t it? They had, what, five-thousand years?

“These first few should be simple.” Wymack picked a clipboard off his desk. “Let’s see. Neil?”

He looked up at the towering, omnipotent being. “What?”

“Is murder good or bad?”

Neil shrugged. “Depends.”

Wymack looked a little dismayed. “Andrew?”

Andrew jerked his thumb at Neil. “What he said. For example, Seth is a perfect example of why murder isn’t always bad.”

Neil grinned at him, and liked the way a spark of amusement glinted in his eye. Seth was probably clambering out of his chair to haul himself at Andrew in a fit of rage, but Neil wasn’t watching. He simply appreciated the sunlit hair that shone like spun gold, and the perfect understanding shared between them.

Their benevolent guardian simply dragged a hand over his face as his classroom dissolved into chaos.

“Good morning, son.”

Neil opened his eyes slowly. He was sleeping in a double bed, his double bed, in his cottage. In the afterlife. He was in the Middle Place. His name was Neil Josten. He had died at the age of 19. He played striker. His soulmate was Andrew Minyard.

Sitting upright, he saw Andrew standing at the opposite end of his bed. There was a young man standing behind him with a vicious glean to his eye; He had his chin hooked over Andrew’s shoulder.

Andrew was gagged, hands cuffed behind him. His feet were bare: His skin shone with sweat as his muscles convulsed. There were bruises blossoming under his skin: He’d put up a serious fight. How was he bruising? Could you be hurt in the afterlife?

“I said, good morning.”

Slowly, Neil craned his neck around. All six-feet of his father were craned over the edge of his bed, one fist denting the mattress and the other wrapped around Neil’s neck. He was looking at a mirror image, the eyes and the hair and the sadistic smile. Thick fingers tightened around Neil’s windpipe.

“Young Drake Spear was promoted to help me. It’s time to collect our rewards for such excellent work down in the Bad Place.” His grin was that of a wolfs.

“Fitting.” Neil wheezed out. Honestly, he was terrified. The thought of eternity trapped with the unending methods of his father was enough to wish that there was a way for Neil to die and end up in a further layer of the afterlife.

His father only laughed. The last thing he remembered noticing was Andrew closing his eyes. For a moment, it looked as though an angel was praying.

Dan crouched down, back to the wall. In her hand was a magnetic clamp, ready for Bad Nicky. It’d render him useless, and they couldn’t let Nathan Wesninski, Drake Spear or Riko Moriyama have access to him. They were powerful enough as it was.

Kevin was bone-white beside her. It had to have been years since he saw Riko Moriyama. Neil and Andrew weren’t the only ones facing their old demons today.

The man who’d stabbed Dan in the back had been boiling in a pit of acid. The demon in charge of the tank flashed a grin at her. “Want to join him?”

Aaron’s mother had leapt out at him from a shuffling line of prisoners, grabbing for fists of his hair and screaming. She hadn’t been able to tell which twin it was, mixing up the names as she spasmed with hysteria. Aaron had clutched his arms to his stomach and hurried away.

With Dan and Aaron’s close calls, Renee knew it was every possibility that her old gang leader had heard the commotion the group had caused and would want to connect with the girl who ended his life in a knife fight. Renee was clutching her rosary, praying as every demon brushed by her.

God, was Dan exhausted. Matt, Aaron and Seth had all been lured with narcotics. Then Matt got into a fight with a security guard, and Seth backed him up. Then someone insulted Allison as she was trying to flirt her way through a checkpoint, and she’d clawed their eyes out with her nails, but gotten bust up at a result.

So yeah. Not a great time for any of them.

“This is it, kid.” Wymack warned. “We’ve got a window of thirty seconds to get them out of there.”

Dan nodded.

A young man left the room, meaning Bad Nicky was watching over Andrew and Neil. Dan rolled out from her hiding position and bolted at the black-clad man standing in front of her. She whacked the cuffs on, stunning the look of contempt right out of those big brown eyes. He stumbled, turning around to look at her.

“Oh my god,” Allison cackled. “Bad Nicky is a straight, fuck-boy version of Nicky?”

It was true. He was wearing a flat-cap, backwards, and a big grey hoodie underneath a leather jacket. His jeans were torn and he wore stupid, stereotypical boots. He had a tattoo of a girl with her tongue between her fingers on his neck, and a gold-capped tooth.

“Hell.” He slurred. “You got me. Ha-aahh.”

Nicky was staring at himself with horror. “Disgusting.”

“Andrew,” Kevin faltered. “Where’s Neil?”

Andrew was sitting up, both hands chained to the bedposts behind him. He was blindfolded, his clothes in tatters and bloodied. Aaron rushed forward, dragging Nicky with him. The chains were cut and Dan watched Aaron murmur something to Andrew as he tore his blindfold off.

“We have to go.” Andrew said, fierce. Dan had never seen him so angered. “I know where Neil is.”

Matt grabbed bad Nicky and hauled him over his shoulder. The group filed out, lead by Andrew, Aaron surprisingly right on his heels. Despite the obvious abuse, he was legging it down the hallway. With the chaos of the Bad Place, the rag-tag team and their badges had looked like nothing more that a bunch of demons. With a Bad Nicky incapacitated and over Matt’s shoulder, they were running out of time. Andrew somehow had perfectly memorised the route to Neil’s cell.

They were almost there, when Andrew staggered to a holt. The young man they’d seen leaving the room earlier was standing in front of them. Aaron acted too quickly, brandishing a knife and jumping the guy. The knife buried itself into the man’s chest. Dan gasped.

“I won’t let him touch you again.” Aaron promised his twin. “Go.”

Andrew said nothing, instead shoving his way through a metal door on the left just metres past.

The demons present whirled upon their entrance. Dan felt her blood boil as she saw Neil in a chair, head hung. He couldn’t even lift his head to see who’d appeared.

“Wesninski, these humans are mine.” Wymack growled. “Give them back. They’re official property of the Middle Place.”

“Oh, oops.” The man—who did look scarily similar to Neil—grinned at the younger boy. Riko Moriyama. “It’s almost as though demons have to follow rules. Incredible.”

Riko had no eyes for anyone but Kevin. Kevin, who stood with his chin up and broad shoulders as he stared the other boy down.

“I’ll oversee your retirement myself, you rotten sack of sadistic fuckery.” Wymack snarled, stepping forward with Nicky at one side and Andrew at the other. “Back down. Now.”

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin.” Riko clucked his tongue. “It’s so nice to see you. Such a shame that we’re opposed like this, brother.”

“I’m nothing like you.” Kevin rasped. “I’m going to go to the Good Place.”

“Why bother?” Riko leered. “When you can have so much more power, down here? They recruit the worst, you know. I was just human too. Now look at me.” He lifted his hand, and Neil spasmed, head flung back and mouth open in an aborted scream.

That was the precise moment that everything went to shit — as if everything hadn’t already gone to shit. Wymack launched at Wesninski: Andrew was hurling towards Riko, and the rest were attempting to shut the door on the copious amounts of demonic spawn trying to get a better look.

Dan was desperately trying to get someone’s attention but the only one who listened to her was Renee. That was ultimately futile, because Allison was thrown aside and Renee, obviously lost her shit. Even the faithful had their breaking points.

Kevin was desperately clawing for Neil to break him free: Andrew was brawling with Riko with a desperation that had Riko shaken, Wesninski was waving a knife in Wymack’s general direction, Matt was thrown over a demon’s shoulder and causing a ruckus, Seth was yelling and Allison was wiping furious tears off her face, snatching a knife off Renee.

Wesninski threw the knife. Riko threw himself at Neil. The door was thrown open.

“ENOUGH.” Nicky screamed, standing in the middle of the room.

Everyone froze.

“I’ve been through a lot, today!” Nicky’s voice was so shrill that Dan would have winced if she weren’t completely stiff. “I’ve hauled almost a dozen of you shits through portals, this way and that way. I’ve been running faster than I’ve ever had to run in my life, because I don’t run, I teleport! My husband’s disappeared because he wasn’t compatible with the Bad Place, I’m not meant to be this emotionally distraught because I’m just a machine, and now this?” He gasped. “I. Am. Flabbergasted. It’s my favourite human word, and that’s what I am right now. Not only have you—“ He pointed to Wesninski. “Defied basic laws by having a child with a human, you’ve been recruiting humans! Gracious, do you know the worst part of this entire shit-fuckery?” His voice raised into a scream once more. “I have to live out the rest of my eternal existence knowing that Bad Nicky is a straight fuck-boy!”

“That’s the worst part?” Neil said, weakly, his voice raw with screaming. “Well, gee, Nicky. I missed you too.”

“So,” Nicky continued. “I’m going to unfreeze my friends. Friends. F-R-I-E-N-D-S. And we’re going to leave. And am going to report your demonic asses to the new Lord Ichirou of the underworld, and I hope you live in agony for eternity. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” He snapped his fingers and Dan almost collapsed, if it weren’t for Matt holding her up. “We’re leaving.”

Andrew hauled Neil to his feet, clutching the taller boy to his side in a fit of possessiveness.

Dan stood by the door as she counted her crew out of Neil’s cell, watching Nicky carve an angry path through the mob of frozen demons. She glanced over her shoulder to see Kevin glaring at Riko.

“Kevin,” Dan started.

The man slapped Riko so hard that Riko’s head shifted, even with Nicky’s freeze power. Or whatever the fuck that was.

“You deserve so much worse than hell.” He said, calmly, before marching out the door. Dan followed him, squeezed his shoulder. His look was not as confident as he’d been momentarily ago, but he offered her a shaky smile.

“Let’s go home.” Wymack said, tiredly slinging an arm around Nicky’s shoulders.

They all smiled faintly, and with a nod, they were on their way home.

“How’d you do in the Trolley exam?”

Andrew glared at the sun. It was still peering over the horizon, the endless rolling hills, trying in vain to grasp a few more minutes of illumination. It turned the sky into a brilliant palette of purples and blues.

He wanted to shove Neil off the roof of this stupid house, but he probably wouldn’t even break a bone. He had been sleeping in Neil’s grossly cramped cottage for a few months, where there was only one room and Andrew had been donated the couch. They’d razed Andrew’s old house to the ground a few weeks back. That had been great fun.

The reason he wanted to shove Neil off was murky, but he knew part of it was because Neil provided him a tether: To stay in the Middle Place, to try and achieve Good Place status with everyone else, to stop himself from marching down and delivering himself into greedy hands. It didn’t matter if Drake and Wesninski and Riko were gone. Hell would still suck.

He hated it.

But he also couldn’t cut the rope.

“I ran you over. It was very satisfying.”

They corner of Neil’s mouth quirked. Andrew hated that too. He hated Neil’s stupid red curls and brilliantly blue eyes. They were sparkling in the sunset, each freckle and scar glossed with a decadent shade of gold. “What was it between?”

“You and nothing. I think I’m a bit behind in class.”

Again, the quirk of the mouth.

Truthfully, the choice had been between Neil and Aaron. Because they were all already dead and this was just a theory, Andrew knew it didn’t matter. But still, he’d found himself torn. Usually apathetic and uninterested, he was placed in the simulation and felt a strange thrumming in his. ear. His heartbeat. Quickening.

Aaron was his brother. He had promised Aaron protection. Aaron had gotten them both killed. Aaron ignored his conditions and went out with Katelyn, and lied about it. Aaron was his brother. Andrew died protecting Aaron from their mother. Aaron had stabbed Drake for him. Aaron was his brother.

But Neil was his other. Neil listened. Neil smiled. Neil was honest with Andrew. Neil was relaxed with Andrew. Neil looked at Andrew in a way that made Andrew felt as though he was coming undone, unravelling at the seams. Neil could see Andrew. Neil understood Andrew.

He’d only had a split second left to decide.

He’d chosen Neil over Aaron.

“Yes or no?”

Neil narrowed his eyes. “To what?”

“A kiss.”

The word sounded so delicate out of Andrew’s mouth. He felt delicate, exposed and raw to Neil’s understanding gaze. All this studying of ethics and morality and those stupid philosophers was getting to Andrew’s head. The question yes or no was balanced on a scale, the decision between forever and never ultimately resting on Neil’s final answer. Andrew fucking hoped it was a yes.

Death made one’s apathetic resolve melt like ice sometimes.

Gosh, he was a miserable forking sap. It was disgusting.

Neil smiled, so hesitant that it was almost unnoticeable. But Andrew saw it. Maybe Andrew understood Neil, too. “Yes.”

Fork the Good Place. Andrew was already there.

once again, credit goes to @gluupor /// link to their the good place au here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782301

hope u enjoyed!

[sanctumslider]

The 100 Fic: Take My Name, I Offer My Soul

[A03] [ff.net]

The giving and taking of names for five relationships as each one begins; Memori, Marper, Mackson, Zaven and Bellarke. This story is meant to be read as a whole, but the sections can standalone as well, and are written in order.

~Mars~

What’s in a name?

What’s in a name, but a collection of letters, a jumble of sounds marking you as unique.

But there is power in a name.

In the naming, you can give something power. In the naming, you can take power away.

Your name can become you.

Or you can become your name.

Outsider.

Cockroach.

Traitor.

Thief.

Freak.

Murderer.

Tainted.

A name can burn you, a brand upon your skin. It can overcome you, until it is all that defines you. Until you’re sick of fighting it, tooth and nail, to be something more. Until you resign to it, until you accept it, and follow where it leads you.

But sometimes, rarely, impossibly… you find someone with the same names as you. With the same twisted brands upon their skin.

And you see that your names, the names those people gave you, the names they gave her… they were true yes, but they didn’t have to define you.

Sometimes a fire can burn brightly enough to cleanse those old names away, can kindle a passion you hadn’t thought yourself capable of. Sometimes you can find something, someone to fight for.

“John.”

His name sparked off her tongue, in a way that was always so unique.

His mom had used that name in disgust, in anger, hanging like ash in her mouth.

Jaha had used it too heavily, too purposefully, a suffocating weight trying to snuff him out.

The others used his second name… Murphy… and since he met her, since he had started to find a new path, he thought they might use it with fondness, friendship… even with the love of a family.

But when she named him… in joy or anger or passion or fear… it set fire to the space between them, and when he used hers…

“Emori.”

…it closed a circle. Together they burned hot and fast, as jumping sparks set alight to dry kindling. They were a constant chaos, and sometimes they burned so brightly that one of them would get hurt.

But they would always be drawn back to each other, pulled to the heat, lips hot like molten gold, blood burning, souls on fire.

~Venus~

Sometimes it comes upon you slowly, steadily, quietly. Sometimes it creeps up from beneath your feet as softly as the whispering trees. Sometimes you think you’re looking for fire when really, you’re looking for something, for someone to ground you.

She would never have thought at the beginning, when everything was new and exciting, that she would have ended up here. When she jumped from the gangway of the Drop Ship and her boots first sunk into the dark, loamy soil, how could she have imagined being where she stood today?

She thought she was in it for the fight, for the rush and the adrenaline and the blink of an eye.

Until she was buried beneath a mountain, and all she wanted was more time.

And he gave it to her. He brought her back from the brink more than once, with a promise of a future. He gave her life, and hope. In a dying world of bloodshed and anger, he believed there could be something better, something more. If only they had the patience to wait, and watch it grow.

“Harper Green, my wife.”

They couldn’t marry, not really, but when you’re the only two people standing, you can make the rules.

“Monty Green, my husband.”

In each other’s names, they found home. They found a life. They found time. Moments of quiet, moments of tears, moments of laughter. Moments of everything a full life should hold.

And with the moments, built each upon the next, with time ticking on as steadily as dawn and dusk on their old world below…

“Jordan Jasper Green, our son.”

So came one last name, born in the same sky as his parents, gifted with a life and a legacy and a potential.

And time kept ticking, slowly, steadily. Each day one more rotation of orbit, each day perfect in its banality, each day breathing in the life of the ones she loved.

It wasn’t what she had pictured, when she met him in the middle of a ramshackle camp in a forest. It wasn’t what he had expected, when he came to know her buried deep beneath the ground.

But they wouldn’t change it for all world, their little life lived long in the shadow of a dying Earth.

~Mercury~

In the deep and the dark and the cold, you start to forget who you are. You’re swept away, gasping, drowning in a tidal wave of hate, selfishness and anger.

Survival is paramount.

All else is secondary.

But then how do you stay sane? No one can drown forever and not die.

You grasp hold of something. You take hold with all your strength, anchor yourself against the raging currents that threaten to rend you apart.

One person will sink, claimed by the depths of despair.

Two people will kick and struggle and fight, help each other stay afloat amidst the chaos of a world that makes no sense. When you get tired, you know he won’t let you go.

It creates a love and a loyalty like no other, limitless as the ocean.

And there’s no one to tell you not to get swept away so fast. No one to tell you to think, to hold back, to be careful of getting hurt.

So you give yourself over completely, you trust in him utterly to keep you safe, to keep you sane as you will do for him. You love him with a furious determination, and he loves you with an unending certainty.

“Nate”

A name spoken in a whisper of a breath with questioning eyes. A careful and rare name, reserved. His other names, Miller… Nathan… he gave them freely to people who knew him, to people who cared for him, who laughed with him, who fought with him and watched his back.

But that one syllable, a trickle off the tongue, that name is for the people who love him. Because that’s all his love needs. It doesn’t need lots of words, to be drowned in declarations or complications. It just needs to be returned with as much as is given.

“Jax.”

It was an accidental name, a new name, not one he had owned before.

It wasn’t Eric, the name he had never felt he belonged to. The name that died on the lips of his mother, and sometimes came to life on the tongues of those like Kane who had known him as a child.

And it wasn’t Jackson, Doctor Jackson, the name he grew into, the name he used as a shield.

It was Nate’s. Vulnerable and open and honest and theirs.

They belonged to each other, standing fast against the sucking eddies and undercurrents that tugged coldly at their legs.

They wouldn’t drown. They would hold on tight. They would kick and struggle and keep each other afloat, even in the moments when it would be so easy to just sink, sink down to the depths and let the cold fill their lungs.

Waiting until the day the bunker opened, life could flood in, and their heads could finally break above the water.

~Jupiter~

You don’t know you’re in a cage until you see someone who’s free.

Boundless, intangible, ethereal.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this, met someone like her. It had been so long ago, maybe he never had.

He didn’t know why he wanted to help her. He shouldn’t. She was the other, the unknown.

But she was also a hurricane, soaring, mind quick as lightning and just as deadly.

How could he be anything but pulled towards her? When she was everything he had wanted to be, back then at the beginning, before he had made his choice and doomed his crew.

His first mistake was to try to catch her, to pull her down, as if she was a little bird in need of protection.

He quickly learnt how wrong that was, how impossible. As unpredictable and changeable as dry autumn leaves whipped up into a dance, she caught him.

“Raven.”

Her name heralded her storm, her strength. From the moment he saw that bird shining through her code on his monitor, he knew something was going to change. Something was going to be different, this time.

And when her cool lips caught his in the darkest part of the night, he knew he would follow her anywhere.

Even if that meant pushing through the blood and the screams, even if it meant teetering on the brink of death. As long as he could fly by her side.

“Zeke”

She said the name for the first time with a wicked grin and a whispering breath, fingers dancing lightly over the middle name Ezekiel on the monitor, next to where he would lie down to sleep. Her lips brushed his, a ghosting promise.

He would leave Miles behind on the tongues of loved ones long dead. He would keep Shaw, for the people he still wasn’t sure he could trust. But this new name, she claimed it. For the new him, for the new future.

And when they woke, he couldn’t wait to be free. To be free with her and follow her at the slightest changes in the wind.

~Sol~

What’s in a name?

A name is taken. A name is offered. It is so much more than the sum of its parts.

A name can be simple, but it can be said in so many ways that each time it’s different.

A name can be a lingering shadow.

Wanheda.

A name can be a responsibility.

Big Brother.

And sometimes names can be bigger than themselves, they can stretch beyond their bounds and become a reflection of one another.

The Princess and the King.

Names can cause friction, they can force you down a path you didn’t want to tread, down a path you can’t be followed.

From the moment you say a name, it can be a fight, it can be a plea. It can be a million questions and answers and thoughts spilling out into the stars.

Sometimes you can own too many names, sometimes you can be trapped by one.

Sometimes you can take a name for granted, believing that with every sunrise and sunset, it will always be there to roll off your tongue with a grin or a frown, a whisper or a shout.

Until the day it’s not.

Until the day it’s not there to be said, for over two thousand sunrises, for over two thousand sunsets.

And you realise just how much you had come to rely on it, that name that was one half of your own. One half of your soul.

But when you finally get to say the name again, it trips on your tongue. It gets stuck, tumbling out without the hidden words that need to be said. And then you’re pulled away with a hundred names and responsibilities and fears that you simply can’t do it.

It never seems to come. It always seems like there’s one more disaster, one more horror, one more way to scream their name without saying the words.

Because your names aren’t fire. They aren’t quick to kindle, crackling with heat and passion and urgency.

They aren’t earth, able to grow old in wisdom and in peace.

They’re not water, swept away by a raging flood into a limitless ocean.

And they’re not wind, whipping and turning and wheeling with a boundless freedom.

Your names are precious, they are powerful, they are unique. They shine brighter than only one of you can contain.

And they needed time. They needed to leave the old world, the old sun and constellations behind. They needed to find a second beginning.

“Clarke.”

He had said her name more times than he could remember, than she could count. But this time it was new, it was different. It held a meaning it hadn’t held before.

“Bellamy.”

It shone in her smile, in her eyes, so bright and blinding and perfect.

Two names, so much more powerful than one, sealed with a kiss on their new world, in the stretching shadows cast long by twin suns.

[sugah-stixx]

Amy Meets the Egos Chapter 2

Amy and Mark are staying at Markiplier Manor for the weekend, and it’s the first dinner they’ve have with everyone! (Chapter 1) “I’m SO happy to have my favourite people here with us tonight, for such a delightful meal as this must be shared with the ones you love…” Wilford spoke out, giving Amy a wink. Amyplier Fluff, Ego Shenanigans 

Mark and Amy started to slowly walk down the long hallway to the dining area.

“Okay, so everyone is going to be there, except maybe Dark, thankfully.” Mark breathed a sigh of relief.

“So everything should be okay, even though it’s more than likely going to be a shit show.”

“You always anticipate the worst with them, why can’t you just be confident that everything’s going to be fine?” Amy asked.

“Because it’s all of my insane Alter Egos in one place, one of which just tried to kill the other one for no god damn reason, within 10 minutes of us getting here.” Mark ranted.

Amy stifled a laugh.

“I can’t imagine dinner going well on any day of the week.”

“Fair enough, but lets just not bring any negative energy going in there, ok?” Amy tried to lighten Mark’s mood as they turned into the dining room.

Suddenly, a plate of mashed potatoes flew past Mark and Amy’s faces as they entered. 

“You want to fight, you fucking baka?!” Yandereiplier screamed at Bim from across the dinner table. 

“I never insinuated I wanted to fight you, Yan. I just stated that your Senpai would be, how should I say, smart to stay away from a psychopath, such as yourself.” Bim stated, crossing his arms. 

“Urusai, you fucking hypocrite. Why don’t you just go turn more celebrities into burgers? Like you’re any good at it, bet they tasted like shit.” Yan yelled, clearly missing the point of the argument. 

“Ha! My Sexbang-Burgers are to die for, better than any of this slop being served to us tonight.” Bim mocked. 

“Excuse me?! You want to say that again?” Chef stepped out of the kitchen, throwing his ladle around like it was a weapon. 

King was sitting at the dinner table, covering his ears with his hands, repeating, “Stop it! Stop it, Stop it!” as everyone was fighting around him.

“ENOUGH!” Mark screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Why are you even here, Yan? You don’t live here, you have your own place.” He yelled loudly, pointing to the red-haired lunatic. 

“I needed to get my katana back from the Doctor, the aho needed it to dissect something, I don’t know.” Yan huffed out.

“He is upstairs. Please get it from him, and leave.” Mark tried to ask politely.

Yan stomped away, muttering angrily in Japanese. 

“Bim, why in God’s name did you even try to talk about Yan’s Senpai?” Mark looked over to Bim in disbelief.

“I don’t know. It was getting boring around here.” Bim sat down, putting a napkin on his lap.

“I don’t…. I can’t…” Marks eyes looked like they were going to match Wilford’s for a second. Amy quickly spoke up.

“H-Hey guys! Nice to see everyone again! I’m excited to hear all about the plans we have for the channel.” Amy happily announced to the Egos that were present, while patting Mark on the back as he put his face in his hands.

“Hi, Amy.” Bim muttered out, looking at his phone.

“Hello, again!” King said wiping a tear from his eye.

“Mmm…” The chef went back into the kitchen.

“Good Evening, Amy.”

Amy and Mark quickly jumped from the voice coming from behind them.

“Oh, God. Uh…Hello, Host! How are you doing?”

“I am fine, thank you.” The Host replied and walked to his side of the table, crossing his arms and sitting down.

“I’m SO happy to have my favourite people here with us tonight, for such a delightful meal as this must be shared with the ones you love…” Wilford spoke out as he walked up behind Mark and Amy, pushing himself in between the two and putting his arms around them. “Wouldn’t you agree, Amy, my little cupcake?” he gave Amy a wink.

“Uhh, y-yea?” Amy hesitantly replied.

“FAN-TASTIC!” Wilford stood up straight, clapped his hands and walked happily to the dinner table. Amy could feel the rage in Mark start to build up and she patted him on the shoulder.

“He’s just playing around, don’t take it too personally.” Amy whispered.

“You don’t know Wilford like I do…” Mark replied.

Slowly the rest of the Egos started to come into the dining area, to their respected seats. The Doctor was following Bing around (taking notes for some reason), and the Jims were talking amongst themselves. Google’s face had already been completely fixed, but he was still angry with Wilford, who had forgotten about the whole thing. Google knew this, so he tried not to let it bother him too much.

“Alright, everyone,” Wilford stood up.

“This is our first evening having the gorgeous Amy stay with us, so let’s try to be on our best behaviour! Though we all know how hard that’ll be, won’t we boys?” Wilford let out his trademark chuckle and clinked Bim’s glass as Bim rolled his eyes.

Amy let out a nervous laugh, “Well thanks, Wil! It’s nice to see you all here, will Dark not be joining us?” 

“Nah, he’s being a party pooper staying in his office all night,… I could bring ya to meet him this evening if you’d like, ma’m…” Wilford’s voice started waving into suspicious territory.

“No, no, no. That’s quite all right, thank you Wil…” Mark interrupted, giving Wilford a dirty look.

“Actually, I needed to talk to Dark about someth—”

“Yea, yea, yea, just gimmie a minute, ol’ chap” Wilford waved his hand in front of Google’s face as he interrupted him.

“And why, pray tell, is Amy not allowed to meet Dark, Mr. Markiplier?” Wilford gave a smirk down at Mark from across the table.

“She is… just-… just not right now. Not yet.” Mark looked directly back at Wilford.

“I think Amy should speak for herself, Mark. You can’t do all the talking!” King piped up.

Amy looked up, a mouth full of mashed potatoes, “Whgha?”

Mark was surprised to hear the King backtalk him like that, he’s never said anything about the way Mark has done things before.

“I wasn’t trying to, King. Amy doesn’t know what… kind of things Dark can do, is all.” Mark said reluctantly.

“Dark isn’t the best person, but he’s still the owner of the household which supports us all. I think Amy should have a least some contact with him.” Google pointed out.

“I know that, I’m not—”

“Dark’s like the other side of the pillow bruh, chill as fuuuuuuuuck.” Bing interrupted.

“He’s only nice to you because he thinks you have brain damage.” Bim added subtly.

“Darkiplier is a manipulator. He is a demon. You fools, this is only the beginning. The beginning of his disgusting twisted fantasy of creating a world where humans think they are safe. Darkiplier will dismember every last drop of hope they had in this world, everything they hold close to them, he will take it all. Everything he craves will fall into his grasp at the end, no matter how many lives, or souls are lost in the process. He will win, he will succeed. He cannot be stopped. Darkiplier will rein his unending torment upon every last soul until he has what he needs to satisfy himself. He will never stop until everyone has perished. There is no ending the hellish firestorm this house has created. Darkiplier will be the end of us all.” The Host chanted out horrifically.

The table was silent.

King dropped his fork in awe.

“Hey Doc you wanna pass me the gravy? My taters are getting dry.” Amy asked with a mouthful.

“Amy can I talk with you in the hall for a moment?!” Mark shot up, and screamed through clenched teeth.

Mark grabbed a confused Amy’s wrist and dragged her into the hall.

Mark wasn’t actually speaking any coherent words, but Amy could clearly tell by his gestures that he was feeling… a lot of emotions.

“…What?” Amy managed to ask between all the arm flailing.

“DID YOU?! What?! …Are you serious?! The Host just served it to us on a shiny silver platter! Dark is EVIL!” Mark sputtered out.

“Your point?” Amy asked with a confused smile, crossing her arms.

“I didn’t want you to be here in the first place, and now knowing that Dark is lurking around the corner, waiting to, to… to do something I can’t even think of! I’m not Dark! I’m Mark! I can’t think the way he thinks!! That’s the whole point!” Mark was still flailing his arms around.

Amy took a moment to look at her boyfriend. Her cool demeanour was enough to calm Mark down from his state of panic. She grabbed his hand and looked him in the eyes.

“I am not afraid of Dark. I will never be afraid of him, knowing that he is still partly you. I know how loving you are, and how even your evil alter ego wouldn’t do a thing to hurt me. Okay? But you have to trust me, please. I can take care of myself.” Amy’s words were full of passion.

Mark looked back into Amy’s eyes and felt the guilt rush over him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be treating you like a child… I know you’re strong. You’re right, you’re right. Ugh… I feel like shit now.” Mark huffed out.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We all get caught up in the moment, and what the Host said was pretty scary. I wonder how the other Egos are taking it…”

Amy said as they both turned their heads to subtly look back in the dining room to see The Jims doing some sort of rain dance, Wilford was practicing the art of throat-singing, and Bing was recording the scene on this phone, camera pointed at him.

They both turned back at each other, Mark pinched his temple with his fingers and let out a sigh. Amy bit her lip trying not to start laughing. They gave each other a warm hug and walked back into the dining room to finish of dinner.

[dancyon]

the gods took them back (the problem with having a heart)

Finally posting the fic I wrote for @exyordeath-zine. My wonderful artist was @still-waiting-for-godot. 

Mind the warnings, this fic is as dark as they come, like a SOA AU would be. It will be under the cut and I am linking the story on AO3 for whoever likes reading there better. http://archiveofourown.org/works/12731550 

TW  Violence, Graphic Death, Suicide, major character death, references to non-con, slavery

Putting it under the line because long fic is long

Prince Kevin didn’t know when things changed. He didn’t know if one day he woke up and realized it or if deep down he’d always known.

Prince Riko wasn’t himself anymore, but he was a shapeless, sharp teethed shadow at the corner of his eye.

The war had been going on for years, centuries, eons. There was no end, no hope, no light. The soldiers were becoming restless and hungry for the shores of their homes. Their eyes were blank and heavy after all this time, but their mouths were sewn shut by fear of Prince Riko’s knife, of King Ichirou’s cool gaze and omnipresent mind, of the Butcher’s unstoppable rage.

Even Prince Nathaniel had learned to mind his tongue more often than not, which was a vast improvement. Nathaniel was perhaps the sharpest mind their army possessed when it came to tricking their enemy and surviving this bloody and endless war that the Gods begged for, but Riko was still Hero of the Ravens, he was still their number one fighter. Nathaniel’s rebelliousness wouldn’t have ended well if his spirit hadn’t been curbed since the beginning.

“Let us do all the work, why don’t you Princess Kevin?” Nathaniel’s voice mocked behind him in a Northern dialect that few knew around them.

“Prince Riko won’t be happy to hear you speak a language he doesn’t understand.” Kevin answered in the same language, pushing those dangerous thoughts out of his mind.

The Gods might whisper them in Riko’s ear just to have some entertainment.

With a scoff, the younger warrior set down on the ground behind the tent Kevin was leaning against, mirroring his posture.

“Riko is preoccupied with the Foxes.”

With a smirk, he bit into the old apple ration he had brought with himself. Something flashed through his eyes, there and gone in an instant.

Kevin frowned, a voice nagging him in the back of his mind. Nathaniel had been awfully quiet lately. Or as quiet as someone like him could be, all fire and melted silver in his veins.

Averting his eyes, he let it go. The Butcher’s son was a grown man and he knew how to take care of himself. Most of the time, at least. He wouldn’t be unnecessarily reckless.

“Nonetheless, you shouldn’t.” he repeated.

“Well why are you answering in the same language then?”Nathaniel shot back with a glare and a softer smirk, more private joke than biting and vicious anger.

“The Foxes won’t keep him preoccupied forever, Nathaniel.” He couldn’t recognize his distant voice when he talked.

“They don’t have that kind of manpower. The end is close.”

So close. What would they come back to? Ruined houses and a Riko with only half of his soul still intact?

“Is it really?” His friend’s voice brought him back to the present.

Nathaniel’s eyes were averted towards the sky of the late afternoon, his expression terrifying.

Kevin’s blood ran cold.

“Nathaniel,” he started, something like dread filling his heart. “What –”

Brusquely, he was interrupted.

“Don’t worry about it Kevin. I’m fine.”

Getting up, he tossed the rest of his apple to the side and turned to leave before stopping suddenly and turning his head back to stare at the taller one.

“Why don’t you go check on Jean?” he asked quietly.

Kevin’s blood ran cold again.

Jean, as it turned out, had just been eaten alive and spit raw by something that looked a lot like the bite of Riko’s knifes.

Hands shaking, Kevin filled another cup of cheap, disgusting wine and threw it back in one go, his nervous energy rendering him unable to sit still.

Finally, after enough mead had mellowed his panic, he turned to the hunched and bruised figure on the bed.

“What did you do?”

It came out with more accusation than Kevin had intended, but it was already out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Jean was too tired to glare at him, he simply fumbled with the edge of his bloodied chiton. “Nothing.”

“Jean –” Kevin started through gritted teeth.

Jean and Nathaniel were his responsibility, but he couldn’t do anything to protect them.

“Kevin.” The Northerner answered almost pityingly.

“I’m war spoils and I belong to him. I didn’t need to do anything for him to take his anger out on me.”

“Why was he angry then?” Kevin finally snapped.

“The war, of course. Minyard destroyed one of our battalions in the East all by himself. King Ichirou is starting to doubt Prince Riko’s ability to defeat the Foxes.”

Riko must have been furious, that special brand of anger that consumed him flesh and bones, the one he reserved for his brother, unable to do anything else except bow and obey.

“Yes.” Jean agreed to the unspoken sentiment.

Riko ten years ago wouldn’t have taken his anger out on his subordinates. But Riko from ten years ago was so far away in the past that Kevin was starting to doubt his existence.

“The King threatened to give me to someone else if he doesn’t find a solution soon.”Jean’s tired and defeated voice brought him back to reality, and he was filled with horror.

“He will kill you if King Ichirou tries to take you away.” He said with perfect clarity and surety.

If there was one thing that Riko hated, it was when someone tried to take something from him. He would rather break his toys to pieces himself.

“Yes.” Jean said again, indifferent. There was very little that interested him lately, and his own life was not one of those things. On his list there were only Kevin and Nathaniel, sometimes Thea, sometimes watching the Sun and praying for Apollo like his father before him in the temples of his land.

Kevin left him there, eyes lost watching the roof of the medical tent and thinking of the Sun and his God.

Seven days later, Jean could finally sit up in bed on his own, but Riko’s rotten mood hadn’t gotten any sweeter. His aim was true and his sword was lethal, but the dark cloud hovering around him was killing the soldiers’ morale.

They had started whispering again, low and scared, malcontent jumping through the men like a plague and rendering them careless and angry.

Kevin was scared, a sense of foreboding gripping his heart. They couldn’t lose. They wouldn’t.

He’d been praying to Athena diligently ,and he’d even sacrificed a doe for the Gods, its blood warm and thick as it painted the earth red.

They couldn’t lose. They wouldn’t get out of this alive if they did. Riko’s fury would know no bounds.

King Ichirou would let him tear his soldiers apart while he watched on his high stands, hands unblemished and eyes ice cold. Maybe he would send his Butcher to rescind their limbs from their bodies and carve their burning flesh.

With a shudder, Kevin wiped the sweat off his brow, his muscles aching from the exercises he had put his body through in the training rink.

Shielding his eyes with his hand he looked at the sky. The sun had just passed its highest point. Apollo would start his descent very soon, and Artemis would take her turn up in the sky.

Thinking of Artemis always made him think of Nathaniel. He wondered where he was. He hadn’t seen him around recently, which was unusual. He liked to annoy the people around himself with his loud presence and unending opinions over everything and anything.

His absence was strange during such a fragile and unsecure moment for their army.

The familiar chill he felt lately whenever the Butcher’s son cameto mind was back. Sending a quick prayer to Athena for his fool of a friend, he turned to leave the training rink to his fellow soldiers, their dark stares glued to his back as he dried his face with a cloth one of the slaves offered him, her face blank and her hands steady.

He was thinking about Thea, her dark skin and her fierce eyes, when his trained soldier ears picked up the conversation that two men were having.

“He should have the title, I tell you!” a soldier snapped, only to look around horrified, making sure no one had heard him. He turned back to his friend’s poisonous glare.

“You fool! You don’t go around yelling such things if you want to keep your tongue in your mouth.”

“I’m just saying.” The first man continued in a much quieter voice. “Prince Kevin is simply better. We all know it. Perhaps-”

“No! Stop saying such foolish things. You will get the both of us killed.”

“I want the war to end!” he insisted in a voice that sounded almost desperate.

Kevin was trembling behind the pillar that was hiding his body from view, feeling cold all of a sudden as he realized where this was going.

Athena, don’t let him finish his thought!

But the idiot finished his thought, the Sun and his friend and Kevin witnesses to his stupidity.

“Maybe if Prince Kevin were to lead us, we could be done with this endless torture sooner, and we could go home!”

They were all going to die.

Voices spread like wildfire when the troops were bored or tired or hungry. They needed words to stuff their empty bellies instead of meat and bread. Two hours later, the rumors found their way to Riko’s ear like they always did.

The soldier would never see his home and his land again.

The public execution would have lifted the men’s spirit in normal circumstances, or at the very least scared them enough to get back in line, but it had the opposite effect. The soldier had voiced what everyone had been thinking, and as Riko’s mood darkened, so did the soldiers’.

Kevin wandered around their side of the camp, restless and scared.

Oh, how far they had fallen. The mere idea of Riko’s anger terrified him so. They had shared a cot and a sky and a single life in two. They had promised each other fame. And now here he was, out of his mind with fear and viciously, humiliatingly grateful that Riko had not taken his fury out on him.

What a wonderful warrior he was. The Gods must be so ashamed of him. Maybe his cowardice was the reason they had been losing so many battles lately.

The Foxes’ Monster must have been something else entirely, for the Gods to favor him so. He had heard rumors that Zeus had chosen a favorite in the war, but he had believed them untrue. He wondered now, if perhaps there was some truth to it. Zeus had remained neutral to the conflict since the beginning, but Kevincouldn’t help himself.

What if?

With a weary sigh, he made his way towards the makeshifttemple they had erected, a sacrificial squirrel in his satchel.

He was expecting the temple to be empty as the last rays of sunshine chased each other across the sky, Apollo’s carriage finally resting after a long day. He was most certainly not expecting Nathanielto be there, crouched kneeling in front of the small altar with a candle and a wild rabbit in his hands.

The younger one tensed slightly when he felt someone enter the temple and break his privacy. Folding his arms over his lap, he turned his head slightly to look at an aggravated Kevin with narrowed eyes.

Kevin sighed in relief and exasperation.

“Should have guessed that it was you. No one else waits for the night to fall before making their offerings.”

No one else prays to the Virgin Goddess, he meant to say, but Nathaniel already knew that. He knew Kevin like he knew his knifes, from the sharpest edge down tot he worst imperfection.

Nathaniel hummed his assent and then he went back to preparing the altar for his sacrifice, lighting the candle and pouring some goat blood over the altar before slitting the rabbit’s neck and letting its blood soak the ground and spill on his naked toes just as the twilight turned to night.

Settling down next to the redhead, Kevin stayed in respectful silence and prayed along with his friend as he prayed to the Hunting Goddess, words in the Northern accent slipping out. His mother’s tongue, Kevin realized. Artemis had protected a fleeing Mary, wife of the Butcher, and her small, fierce son. She had shaded them with her shadow and hidden them in her forest leaves until Ares had interfered and ripped them away from her arms. Even after all this time, Nathaniel felt safer at night when he could feel her presence andher watchful eyes.

“Keep him safe.” Nathaniel finished his prayer in the common tongue and blew on the candle to extinguish its flame.

Furrowing his brows, Kevin purified the altar and started preparing his own sacrifice to Athena, his squirrel left to the side for the moment as he lit his own candle and burned incense before grabbing the squirrel again.

He was aware of Nathaniel’s silent presence at his side, but he didn’t say anything until his sacrifice was complete, knowing better than to not offer his full and undivided attention to his Goddess.

After he was done, he laid his things aside and turned a stern look on a still uncharacteristically quiet Nathaniel.

“What have you done, Nathaniel.” His voice sounded void and dark to his own ears.

The other man twitched, uncomfortable, but he didn’t answer.

“You were not praying for Jean, were you. Or me.” The inflection of Kevin’s voice turned it into the accusation it was supposed to be.

“You certainly were not praying for your King and your Prince.”

When he remained, again, mulishly silent, Kevin stood from his kneeling position and pulled his friend with him.

“We are not doing this in a sacred place” he ordered, “Come on.”

The younger one let himself be dragged along until they were outside of the temple, but he pulled away as soon as they were under the open moon again.

“We are not doing this at all.” He corrected, finally speaking up as he held his head high and glared at Kevin. “Stay out of this Kevin.”

With a huff, he turned to leave, but Kevin took advantage of his bigger and heavier form to keep him rooted to the spot.

“Nathaniel! Don’t be stupid. Look at what happened to Jean. You can’t-” He was roughly shoved away.

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do, Kevin! Stay out of this.

If you’re too much of a coward to do something about your childhood best friend psychopath, then I will!”

With those last parting words, Nathaniel ran towards the welcoming forest that swallowed him whole.

In the days that followed, the rumors did not die down, and Riko’s eyes kept getting darker and darker, nothing like the excited boy he’d once known what felt like a lifetime ago. Someone had taken Riko’s soul in the last decade. They had smashed it to pieces, and then they had put the pieces back together in the wrong order, adding other pieces along the way: discord, fury, viciousness, jealousy, ruthlessness and everything ugly that walked the earth, every shadow and every discord the Gods dispersed on the ground.

Kevin tried to stay as far away as possible from the boy he had grown up with. He spent his days training away from prying eyes to give their men as little to talk as possible. Sometimes he went to Thea, letting her strong arms hold him afloat. Sometimes he sat with Jean as the other man went about his everyday chores, dead-eyed and quiet in a carefully crafted way. More often than not, he was unable to find Nathaniel and worry and weariness were eating him alive. Riko would notice his absences soon.

But Kevin had miscalculated. Riko didn’t get the chance to notice the screaming absence that was one of his main strategists. The troop’s malcontent had reached the higher ups so strongly that the King had been forced to intervene.

Kevin was no idealist. Chances were, King Ichirou had known all along, since the first word was uttered that first day. What had prompted him to act only now was unknown to Kevin, but he didn’t pretend to understand the way his King’s mind worked. Nathaniel might have been able to explain it to him, but Nathaniel’s state of mind was as questionable as the King’s or his brother’s.

Kevin supposed some things were simply genetic. Nathaniel’s craziness was a shadow of his father’s muted and less noticeable, but still ferocious and vicious. That was probably the reason why he could see through Riko like glass.

The beginning of the end started on the dawn of the fifth morning after the rumors about Kevin’s superiority had first started.

The King had called a meeting.

When Kevin entered the tent, Riko was already there, stiff backed and furious in front of the King, but some of the officers had still to show themselves to what would probably be a very painful and dangerous meeting.

From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Nathaniel’s invisible shadow enter the meeting space and settle in a hidden corner, where he could see and hear everyone.

Kevin frowned at his skittish behavior, but he quickly turned his attention away, not to draw any eyes to the younger man.

“Riko.”

The King’s voice had not been openly insulting in the sudden quiet of the pavilion, but for property’s sake he should have used at least some sort of honorific.

Kevin was overwhelmed by anxiety as he suddenly realized where this was going. Riko’s hands curled into fists and his fingertips white where they were scraping his own skin raw.

Pity choked him when he looked at Riko, but he tried to push it down to the deepest corners of his heart. His once brother had stopped reacting well to pity and compassion a long time ago.

“I heard things have not been going very well lately for our side.”

The King waited patiently and coolly for an answer, which came soon after, his brother’s voice tightly controlled but failing to match the King’s indifferent composure.

“It is nothing but a small nuisance. A bump on the road, if you will.”

The only comment he received in return was a dismissive hum and careful scrutiny.

Kevin had foolishly believed that the meeting had been called to talk about the war and find a solution while at the same time taking Riko down a notch or two. He had been only partially right.

The King did not want to humiliate his brother. He wanted to completely destroy his soul and devour any life left in his eyes.

The reunion came to an end as soon as it started with King Ichirou’s next words.

“Your slaves and your goods belong to someone else now, as does my army. Kevin will be my new General.” A short, deliberate pause followed the shocking revelation. “You can leave now, brother.”

The soldiers scrambled away, terror moving their feet faster. They were smart. Riko would build a mountain of corpses and strip the life from the earth for this.

Kevin didn’t move, speechless, until Nathaniel’s cold touch on his hand brought him back to reality. He followed the man out of the tent in a daze, terrified. Riko had just been stripped of everything he had by the only man that could save or destroy him with a look, and he had just been skinned alive. His army did not belong to him anymore, his swords, his horse, his slaves.

Oh Gods, his slaves!

Finally getting out of his haze, Kevin choked out a “Jean” to a hovering Nathaniel, and they were both off towards Riko’s tent, where guards where collecting their former General’s belongings.

Jean was already out in the early morning sun, stone-faced like always, but strangely emptier.

Riko was there as well, sitting on the ground with a lowered head, hair covering his eyes. He was still like a corpse. He watched immobile as his horse was led away and Jean was pushed towards the Butcher’s tent.

Riko’s things would go to the Butcher. Riko’s people would go to Kevin. Jean was Riko’s thing.

Frozen, Kevin could only watch as one of the only people he considered a friend walked towards his end, towards the one and only man in the camp who could and would hurt him more than his previous owner.

Nathaniel’s grip on his bicep tightened until Kevin could not feel his blood circulate anymore.

Riko disappeared after that, and no one had the courage to look for him. Nathaniel had wandered off as well, doing whatever it was that he did these days and probably laying the road to his own demise.

Kevin went to Thea instead, needing her deft fingers in his hair and her confident lips on his. Thea had been his since they had raided the South and killed her brothers, but she had never been his. She never would be. They had spilled too much of her blood.

They had their deal, of sorts. Thea would be there with her dark skin and her fierce, painful smile. And at the end of the war, they would cross swords. Only one of them would walk away alive.

He had hoped, with time, to show her that they could find an understanding with each other. He would be good to her, and she could have whatever he had to give, but settling was not in her nature.

She might even come to love him, but she would never forgive him. She would take his blood as revenge, or she would spill her own.

His head was resting on her shoulder as she combed long fingers through his dark hair when armed men entered his tent and ripped her away from him, pulling her outside.

Kevin followed them, horrified and confused until he met Riko’s eyes. This was to be his punishment then.

Thea looked at the two of them with knowing eyes, realizing what her fate would be before Riko even spoke.

“She belongs to me now.”

Kevin trembled, his mouth opening on an instinctive response he was smart enough to keep to himself. Riko did not like being told “no”.

Helpless, he searched for Thea’s eyes, begging her to understand.

He could not go against Riko. Not even now. Not even for her presence at his eyes, or for the promise they’re made to each other.

Thea offered him a rare smile, her head held high.

Before anyone could stop her, she reached for the sword of the guard that was holding her.

The metal glistened under the sun as it tore through her flesh like butter, her hands pushing it as far as they could into her spilling guts as she wheezed for breath, blood gurgling from her mouth.

Someone was screaming, and Kevin realized that it was him when a guard grabbed his arm to stop him from running to her side.

Her face showed no regret, only content at having taken something from Riko, who was furiously shouting as well, having fallen to his knees and desperately trying to keeps her insides in her body.

The Elysium Fields welcomed their new sister as she found her final resting place in their midst, and Riko got denied yet again what he desired. She had taken the rest of her life in her hands, and now she was finally free.

The days that followed were dark and twisted. Riko was as violent and volatile as always, and Jean’s absence pushed him to try his limits with what his soldiers would shoulder before they snapped.

Nathaniel was, again, notoriously absent.

Kevin felt on the edge, as if the smallest push could make him tumble down the rabbit hole and never come back. Something was coming.

Three days later, Jean learned something from Thea. He limped to where the sea met the earth and he gave himself freedom, the smallest spark of life back in his clouded eyes as he begged the Gods to take him.

Apollo heard his prayer and answered.

After Jean’s death, Riko’s rage seemed to settle. If he could not have Jean, then no one would have him.

That was when he started paying attention to Nathaniel’s absences.

No one had heard anything during the night. No commotion, no screams, no nothing.

This is why it was such a shock when the soldiers started waking up one morning, and instead of collecting their daily rations, they huddled towards the executions stand.

A pyre had been prepared and a white faced, trembling Nathaniel had been strapped to it. The flames had not been lit yet, and Riko stood in front of everyone with a torch and a triumphant smile.

“Beware! This is what happens when you betray your leaders.”

With a cold smile, he gestured to a bound Nathaniel as Kevin pushed his way to the front, horrified.

“This coward has been working with the enemy! He has been meeting with the Foxes’ Monster every night. He is the reason we have been losing. And he will pay for it.”

Riko let the shocked voices die down and Kevin felt his blood leave his body all at once. No. It was not possible. Nathaniel couldn’t have –wouldn’t have!

But he was just standing without a sound, looking towards the forest with a faraway expression. He was not contradicting anything Riko was saying.

Finishing the last parting words of his speech, Riko threw the torch on the pyre an on an unresponsive Nathaniel.

Kevin screamed, all instincts of self-preservation forgotten as he dashed forward to stop the fire before Riko stopped him, pushing himto the ground.

Kevin looked at him wild eyed and scared.

“You don’t get to take this from me Kevin.” He snarled raising the hilt of his short sword and bringing it down on Kevin’s left hand with a sickening crunch. “This is mine, you do not get to take this as well!”

Kevin was so shocked that he didn’t even feel the pain in the beginning, until Riko started to bring the end of the sword down again and again, and Nathaniel’s scream started echoing in the camp, the only noise except Kevin and Riko’s breathing; Kevin’s own yelling; the crunch of the bones in his hand being disfigured without repair.

As the darkness of blissful unconsciousness reached for him, he thought that Artemis was reaching for Nathaniel right in that moment to take him back to the wild like she had done for his mother.

[chronomemoria-blog]

"Bye, Taking Iri out for dinner."

For a few moments, Emiya Kiritsugu keeps loading rounds into the magazine. The bullets are a cold yet comforting weight in his hand, each making an audible click as it slides into place. Every single one is another life, placed in his hands and loaded behind a trigger, ready to be taken. With every life taken, another saved. But never both. Never enough.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The final bullet is clasped between thumb and finger. Emiya Kiritsugu turns it around, inspects it - and sees his reflection upon the brass. 

Grotesque. Distorted. Misshapen. An illusion of the light, floating on a glossy curve, above waves of unending gold.

Click.

The last one is loaded in. Emiya Kiritsugu rises to his feet, inspects the magazine carefully, taps it once against his other palm to ensure each and every bullet is aligned to the same vertical axis.The Walther is taken off the table, the bolt racked and a glance down into the barrel to ensure it’s clear and free of anything jamming it. He doesn’t load it - not now, not yet. Instead, the magazine is tucked into a coat pocket, and the Walther placed carefully to the side.

Then, with one quick, effortless backhand, Emiya Kiritsugu sends the table flying.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, King of Knights?”

The words drip with derision as he walks forward, clear contempt in his gaze.

“It wasn’t enough to simply let things be, even when I have said nothing with regard to your idiocy. No, you had to have the last word. You had to make sure your Master, so utterly undeserving of the woman you decided to take as your own, had to know exactly how much of a victory you had won. You wanted a reaction. You wanted me to show something, because like the nameless cruelty of a predator pawing at the lifeless corpse of prey, you would prefer to keep your sense of superiority by hunting down something with life.”

“You disgust me.”

Stepping closer, Emiya Kiritsugu met Saber’s eyes with tranquil fury, the impersonal gaze of the injustly accused.

“A king? What a joke. You are nothing. Nothing but a murderer with a childish, juvenile attitude, fishing for a reaction just so you can feel better about yourself.”

A cold chuckle split the air, the first time he’d ever laughed in her presence.

“I know your legend, Altria Pendragon. Your life, and death, and history. You condemned your own right hand man, your own wife, for the very sin you now partake in. You quashed entire rebellions to prevent them from destabilizing your kingdom, leaving them no quarter - among them your own child, and a bastard to boot. In other words, you did exactly the same thing as I do now - you killed a few men so the rest could survive.”

“You want to speak of honor? Your honor is only present when it’s convenient. When you need some excuse to pawn off your dated morality as judgement onto another, you speak of honor - but where was your honor in adultery? Where was your honor in seeking out justification for your own sins through my pain? Emiya Kiritsugu is a horrible and twisted man, and so I will take his wife and treat her better than he ever could, is that it? Altria Pendragon, the king above all others, who can condemn any sin upon earth - except the ones she commits.”

They were very close now, barely an inch separating his face from hers.

“People die when they are killed. That is the order of things, and there is nothing else to it. Tell me, does honor matter to a dead man? To the family he leaves behind? Can honor salve a grieving parent’s heart? Can honor wipe away a mourning widow’s tears? Can honor ease a child’s sobbing at night? I kill. Through any methods possible. Through every method possible. I do not enjoy it. I do not take pleasure in it. It is horrible, but it must be done. And I do not delude myself into thinking I have any higher moral ground, simply because I choose to stab a man in the front, rather than put a bullet between his eyes. I bear everything I do, all the lives I have taken, all the evils I have done - all of it, on my conscience, and I do it without pretension.”

Perhaps it would have been better if he’d shouted. As it stood, while his rage came through as clear as the night sky hanging outside the windows, he never spoke much louder than a whisper. Emiya Kiritsugu, so used to a lifetime of being as quiet as possible that he did not break his habits, even now.

“I have never spoken out against your relationship with Irisviel, out of respect for her choice. Out of respect for her. But do not take my silence for acceptance. Do not take it for ignorance. Do not take it for weakness. And most of all, King of Knights - do not think to take me for a fool. You are the worse kind of scum - a hypocrite and murderer, taking pride in delusions of honor, glorifying your own self importance until you can justify anything to yourself. Before criticizing me, Altria Pendragon - perhaps you should think to look in a mirror. ”

Shoving past, Emiya Kiritsugu strode away, taking a deep breath and exhaling. It was time to get back to work, and he would not let personal emotions get in the way of that.

[myaekingheart]

70. Sekkachi

So say goodbye to all your friends I fell in love with her again My baby 'Cause I'm not that kind of girl -Not That Kind of Girl, My Chemical Romance

               Sekkachi nearly spat her tea across the room when Guy told her the news. “I’m sorry, Rei did what?” she asked.

               Guy nodded dolefully. “Kakashi seems pretty upset about it” he said. It was clear he felt bad for his eternal rival—losing love was never easy. And deep down, a part of him felt a little guilty for having constantly asked him about the proposal plans, only for the relationship to fall apart.

               Meanwhile, Sekkachi was fuming. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her cup until her knuckles turned white, drumming the fingers of her opposite hand on the table. “After all those years” she growled, “All those fucking years of whining and complaining and senpai, notice me!”—here, she slipped into a mocking, high-pitched tone the likes of which she used on missions as Shitagi—“and she has the audacity to throw this shit away just because god forbid she’s a little depressed. I swear to god, if I ever run into her on the streets, I am going to pound her face into the dirt so hard!”

               Guy couldn’t help but laugh as he took a sip of his own drink. “So you do still care about her after all” he said matter-of-factly. He knew that at the end of the day, she could never bring herself to do such a thing.

               Sekkachi rolled her eyes and scoffed. “As if” she spat, taking another swig of her tea. “I couldn’t care less what that little carrot-haired runt does. I just hope she knows if I see her, I’m going to beat her up.”

               “Well, I wouldn’t get so hasty” Guy then said. “I almost forgot, there was one thing she wanted me to give you.” Sekkachi cocked a brow, eyeing Guy suspiciously. If Rei had something to give her, she didn’t want it. Guy reached into his back pocket and slid a small gold foil box across the table. She skeptically took it and opened it up, finding a single aquamarine earring inside. Immediately, Sekkachi covered her face and turned away. Guy reached across the table to rest a reassuring hand atop hers. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, and the hand covering her eyes quickly grew damp.

~o~

               It was a blistering summer day in Konoha. She had three more blocks to walk and Sekkachi was already sweating through her fancy clothes. Truthfully, she didn’t even understand why she needed to dress so nice in the first place. It was just a birthday party. She knew it wasn’t her place to demand these sorts of things, but dressed like this, she was wildly out of her element. But it was at Naru’s request, and she couldn’t possibly refuse.  

               It was her thirteenth birthday party and she insisted it be special. After all, she had said, you only become a teenager once. This is a rite of passage! I’m a fancy adult now and therefore we need to act as such. Sekkachi pressed a hand to her gurgling stomach as she remembered her own thirteenth birthday. She didn’t feel any more mature afterward than she had when she was twelve. Actually, if anything, she felt worse. Nowhere did she say she had wanted to commemorate teenagerhood with a needle through her belly button, the small ring now rubbing against her too-tight dress.

               Thirteen, however, suited Naru rather nicely. She opened the door, brimming, and tugged Sekkachi inside. On the surface, she looked no different than before but there was something in her attitude, perhaps a newfound albeit placeboed sense of confidence. Delicate flowers were weaved through a headband of braided hair and when she walked, her flouncy dress bounced and bubbled like she was some sort of fluffy cheesecake. “I thought turning thirteen meant becoming an adult” Sekkachi commented as she followed Naru back to the garden. A modestly wrapped gift was tucked under her arm. “Don’t you think that dress is a little childish?”

               “Oh, pfft!” Naru swatted the air dismissively. “You’re not getting the point! Being an adult doesn’t mean putting away childish stuff, it just means I can do whatever I want and no one can say anything about it!”

               Sekkachi had to admit, as precious and petite as the dress made her appear, it certainly suited Naru’s personality. The pastel blue complimented her bright eyes, the shape of it accentuated her bubbly personality, and the flowers printed on the fabric perfectly matched those weaved through her hair. For all intents and purposes, she looked like a princess. Sekkachi smoothed out her own dress, suddenly feeling significantly underdressed. Her only relief was when they reached the gardens where Rei awaited their return, also wearing something far less extravagant. It was then that Sekkachi realized just how much the whole thing seemed to make sense. After all, this was Naru’s birthday. She was the center of attention. It was natural that she look as such—though then again, when wasn’t she the center of attention?

               The Fuzuki clan was rather well-off and, as such, lived comfortably near the center of the village. As history foretold, they were one of the first clans in Konoha and were instrumental in helping to establish the current standard of government alongside Hashirama and Tobirama Senju. They retained close ties with the village’s leadership and Naru’s father even served as a correspondent for Lord Third. Their financial status was clearly exhibited through their intricate, sweeping garden and fine china. She really is a princess, Sekkachi thought to herself as she surveyed the place.

               Naru squealed as her mother handed her her birthday present, wrapped in a small gold foil box. She removed the lid to find two dainty aquamarine studs inside, the perfect shade to match her dress and eyes. She thanked her parents profusely and asked their maid to fetch her a mirror so she could fix them to her ears in that very moment.

               Anything else her family gave her left Sekkachi feeling extremely self conscious about her own gift. She wanted to believe she knew Naru well enough, but she proved rather difficult to buy for. In a fit of panic, she had settled for a floral haori she found in an antique shop. It was simple and perhaps a little too subdued for Naru’s tastes, but Sekkachi had hoped it would at least be appreciated. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure.

               “Your turn!” the blonde then announced, grinning to Sekkachi. The blue-haired kunoichi’s eyes went wide and she tried to stammer out a protest, but Naru wouldn’t hear of it. When Sekkachi froze, Naru took it upon herself to take the package herself. As she watched her pull apart the twine knot and unfold the wrapping paper, Sekkachi felt as if she was silently exploding. This was a terrible mistake. She was going to hate it. She didn’t do a good enough job. She was going to hate her.

               Naru gasped loudly as she held up the haori and a strange look painted her face. Sekkachi wasn’t sure whether it was delight or disgust, and Naru was taking way too long to clarify. And then it hit her: it was too big. Oh god, it was too big for her. “Y-you know, I can return it if it doesn’t fit, or—” Sekkachi started but then Naru hugged it to her chest and grinned.

               “That won’t be necessary!” she announced. “Of course I’m going to keep it. I love it!”

               “Y-you do…?” Sekkachi asked in disbelief. “I-it’s not too big…?”

               Naru rolled her eyes. “You say that as if it’s a problem!” she laughed. “It’s a little big, but that just means I can keep it forever! I won’t have to worry about outgrowing it!” For once, Sekkachi was eternally grateful for Naru’s unending optimism. She sighed and sunk back in her seat, a relieved smile touching her lips, and she realized it was likely the first time she had relaxed since arriving.

               The last present opened was from Rei, which Naru insisted was the way it must be done as she was her best friend. From her, the blonde received a pair of shoes that Naru went wild over. They were chunky and pastel with little pink bows, the exact sort of thing you would expect for Naru. Sekkachi wondered how difficult a time Rei had picking them out, if her comrade had struggled the same way she had. But then again, likely not. Naru and Rei were much closer and had known each other much longer, at least in an amicable sense. They were sharing lunches and having sleepovers while Sekkachi berated them in the academy. It was a level of friendship Sekkachi knew she could never reach.

               “You should eat something!” Naru insisted later that afternoon, motioning toward the grand cake they had cut into. Just the mere sight of it in its sugary glory made Sekkachi’s stomach flip. She hated to deny her, though, and so feeling as if there was nothing else she could do, Sekkachi succumbed.

               "Just a small piece” she insisted, but it was too late. Naru had already cut her a large chunk of cake, strawberry jam oozing from the fluffy layers and thick white icing caked on the sides. She grabbed a fork and stared at her opponent questioningly, thinking to herself If I have to die today, it might as well be by birthday cake. And then, mustering all her strength, she took one large bite.

               As expected, the cake was absolutely delicious. The icing was light and sweet, the strawberry filling perfectly tangy, and the cake itself moist and spongy. Sekkachi fell into it for a moment, closing her eyes and letting herself enjoy the taste. She at least owed herself that much.

               One bite wasn’t so scary. It was the second, third, fourth, and so on that heightened her anxiety. One bite meant just a taste. It was safe, polite, demure. To eat the whole slice was to succumb to gluttony, to jump off the cliff knowing full well she was destined to crash straight into the raging waves below. She wasn’t prepared for the intestinal suicide. She wasn’t prepared to go home early, crawling on her hands and knees, suppressing the impending flare-up. As such, she forced herself to linger. She chewed the prongs of her fork as she pretended to be interested in the small talk about boys and fashion and who’s dating who. Her stomach began to churn.

               “What do you think, Sekkachi?” Naru then asked, snapping her from her daze.

               Sekkachi stammered, her fork falling out of her mouth, bouncing off the edge of the table, and jamming into the dirt. “W-what? About what?” she asked, blinking.

               A sly smile touched Naru’s lips as she rested her chin in her hand. Sekkachi grew weak, the color draining from her face. For a moment, she truly feared for her life. “Well, I was going to ask you if you thought Chikara-sensei was dating anyone, but now I’m curious about what you were thinking about!” she exclaimed. It was too late to try and save face. There was no way she could deny her absentmindedness.

               “I wasn’t thinking about anything…” Sekkachi lied. Panicked, she started shoveling cake into her face. Naru’s grin widened.

               “I guess I should’ve asked who you were thinking about, then! Although I’m pretty sure I already know!” she said. She could hardly suppress her girlish laughter.

               Sekkachi froze, mouth stuffed, and asked in a muffled tone, “Wait, what?” Her cheeks turned bright red. She hadn’t been thinking about anyone. Or at least not during this conversation.

               Rei cupped her hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter. This was too rich. Naru beamed as she replied, “We all know you and Guy are secretly an item!”

               Now Sekkachi was choking. The maid raced in to give her the Heimlich and once she had caught her breath, Sekkachi glared at the two of them and asked, “Where the hell did you get an idea like that from?!” The minute the curse word dropped from her lips, Naru’s parents shot her a stunned glare. The other thing about the Fuzuki clan was that they were borderline virginal. Curse words and anything else considered inappropriate within a formal setting was vilified to the extreme.

               Unlike her parents, however, Naru found a certain charm in Sekkachi’s unfiltered language. She had grown quickly accustomed to it, as well, and was therefore totally unphased. She took a sip of her tea, fully prepared to spill whatever she knew and excited to do so, at that. “We all know you meet up with him for weekly sparring matches. You two are so close, it’s only natural to assume you’re dating! Now I’ll admit, I had never pegged Might Guy of all people as your type but whatever you’re into, I guess!”

               “That’s a far-fetched idea” Sekkachi muttered, wiping the crumbs from her mouth. “I swear, Guy is just a friend and nothing more, okay? I don’t understand why you always have to go prying into other people’s business, anyway. People have a right to their privacy, you know.”

               Naru simply giggled and took another sip of her tea. She clearly struck a nerve, meaning that Sekkachi was, in fact, hiding something. It was only instinctual that she would want to figure out what. And truthfully, there was a myriad of things that Sekkachi kept hidden but the most pressing of which had nothing to do with romance. In a quick moment, Sekkachi’s stomach creaked and she could feel her insides rearranging. Fuck. Chewing her bottom lip, she sprang from her seat and hastily bid everyone goodbye, insisting that it was getting late and she had forgotten she had an errand to run for her mother. She booked it out of the Fuzuki household and raced as far down the street as she could manage. She was only halfway home when the pain overtook her and she had to duck into an alleyway to keel over and hyperventilate.

               Her mind raced as she clenched her eyes shut and tried to breathe through the pain. Deep down, she was cursing the old woman, the matriarch of her clan, about that damn belly button ring. The purpose, she had said, was to redirect her chakra and therefore cure her of her affliction. But here she was two years later and she was still just as sick as ever, if not moreso. She looked left then right, trying to get her bearings on where she was, what was nearby, and where she could find a bathroom she could die in. No luck. Groaning in frustration, she pounded her fist against the ground and curled up into a fetal position. This was it. This was the end. They would find her soiled corpse tomorrow morning when the cloud of flies became unbearable. As she huffed and cursed, however, a familiar voice then rang overhead and she suddenly was unsure whether she was saved or doomed.

               “Sekkachi!” he called, “You’re not looking so good. What’s going on?”

               I’m about to shit my brains out, that’s what’s going on, she thought unkindly. She opened her mouth to speak but could form no words. Fortunately, Guy caught on rather quickly. Without a second’s hesitation, he tossed her onto his back and raced through the streets of Konoha, dodging civilians left and right like a madman, before skidding to a halt in front of the Fumeiyo clan’s grounds. By the time they arrived, Sekkachi was certain she had left her intestines in the dust. It took a few minutes before they finally caught up with her, burying her face into Guy’s shoulder with a groan. He kicked the door open and waltzed inside as if it was his own home, then carried Sekkachi all the way to the bathroom. She slithered out of his grasp and crawled to the toilet, ripping her dress off frantically and shrinking in on herself.

               It was only a few months after they had met that Sekkachi was forced to admit to Might Guy that she was sick. Her thirteenth birthday had just passed and the piercing certainly did not do it’s intended job. She had no choice but to cancel her weekly match, employing the stomach flu as her excuse. At least that way, anyone who attempted to pry wouldn’t believe she was lying. Guy was not one to sit back and do nothing, however. If his dear friend was sick, he would ten to her and ensure that she was healing. He had gathered a colorful bouquet of get-well flowers and a basket of onigiri and set off, a part of him almost too excited to see the look on Sekkachi’s face. She was so coarse and blunt, the thought of doing something to make her happy exhilarated him.

               Her house was nothing like what he expected. Not that his expectations were very high, but this was certainly a shock to his system. The Fumeiyo clan had been historically tread upon for generations, almost as much as the Uchiha, thanks to a long-standing curse that their ninja were liabilities in battle. The working men of the village wanted nothing to do with these harbingers of disaster. As such, their tight-knit clan resided on the outer edge of the village where a stream trickled and weeds grew high. The house itself was in utter disrepair.

               A sour old woman turned Guy away at the front door, insisting he never bother them again. Defeated, he began trudging home but not before the wind carried soft-spoken gossip to his ears. He snuck beneath a window and listened closely as a man and woman discussed Sekkachi’s fate.

               “The outlook is bleak” the man said. “The ritual should have cured her. At this rate, I don’t think she’ll last another year.”

               “That’s not true” the woman replied. “She’s tough. I’m sure she’ll pull through.”

               “Even if she does” the man argued, “what about her quality of life? She’ll never be normal.”

               The woman sighed. “I’d hate to break the news to her. It would break her heart.”

               Guy didn’t stick around long enough to hear the rest. He raced home in a daze, unsure of what he had just heard but knowing full well that none of it was for his ears in the first place. His limbs felt disconnected from his body, and his mind wouldn’t shut up. So she was sick. That much was true. But there was no way this could be a simple stomach flu. If not that, then, with what? And would she ever be cured? He hoped so. She didn’t deserve to suffer. He had so many questions, and he desperately wanted answers, but now was not the right time.

               When she finally returned, Guy was overjoyed. She had pulled through after all. He surged forward and hugged her tight, exclaiming of how much he missed her. Sekkachi cocked a suspicious brow and shoved him off of her. She was sick. So what? It wasn’t that big of a deal. She could tell he was going easy on her as they sparred, however, which only pissed her off that much more.

               “Alright, what is your deal today?” she asked, voice forceful, during a lull in their training. “Why are you going easy on me? Do you think I’m weak or something? Huh? What is it?”

               “N-no!” Guy stammered. “I didn’t mean to, I just--! I didn’t want to push you too far if you were still getting over your sickness!” He knew that, for himself at least, he was willing to strain himself to the utmost limits whether he was feeling well or not. Those were his own self-rules, though—no one else’s. He could never subject those standards onto anyone but himself.

               Sekkachi narrowed her eyes and leaned down so as to get right up close in Guy’s face. “Going easy on me isn’t going to do me any favors” she growled. “I want you to pound me into the dirt, I want you to kick my ass. I want you fight me like a man, got it?”

               “Are you sure?” Guy asked. Sekkachi grimaced, forcing him to quickly add, “Listen, it’s not that I don’t want to! I just don’t want to hurt you.”

               “I’m not a fragile piece of glass, Guy” Sekkachi insisted. “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t been sick before. What makes this time any different?” Guy averted his eyes, stammering, and Sekkachi could feel her gut drop. “Oh my god, what do you know?” she asked quietly, angry and scared and confused. He was crossing a line she had firmly drawn in the dirt. No one was ever supposed to know about this.

               Back then, the whole thing was so weird. He explained everything quickly and anxiously, almost as if he expected Sekkachi to strike him. Instead, she sunk into the grass in disbelief. It would take her a minute to process all of this information, to process the fact that someone finally knew of her affliction. A charged silence surged between them for a long while before Guy pursed his lips and finally muttered, “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I care about you, Sekkachi.”

               Well shit. There was no way out of it now. Sighing, Sekkachi tightened her ponytail and braced herself for the explanation. “Guy, I’m sick” she started. “I’m never going to get better. I’ve got this chronic digestive disorder that makes normal shit a living nightmare. I can’t eat anything without being fucking terrified that it’s going to make me sick. Even if the food itself doesn’t fuck me up, the anxiety does. Sometimes it’s so bad, I pass out from the pain. My clan, they say that these piercings are supposed to help”—here, she motioned to the belly button ring in her stomach— “something about redirecting my chakra to help with the pain. It’s never done any good. My belly button, all the way up my ears, my nose, none of those have helped, and I’m sure anywhere else they try to stick holes in me isn’t going to make much of a difference either. I have to live the rest of my life knowing I will always be dysfunctional. That I’m always going to be sick no matter what. I’m going to have to suffer through every day of the rest of my life.” By now, she was starting to get choked up. This was exactly why she never wanted to say anything. She had already cried in front of Chikara-sensei about it, the night of their very first mission. Food was so culturally significant—existing not just for sustenance, but as a tradition and social ritual. It only emphasized her disability that much more. She hated food. She hated everything about it, the fact that it was so varied and delicious and that she couldn’t have any of it without feeling like she was going to die.

               Guy reached out and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, Sekkachi” he said. “I can’t even imagine how tough that must be to live with every single day…but I know you’re much more than what you’re going through. You may not be able to do ninjutsu or genjutsu, and you may be sick, but you are still one of the strongest ninja I’ve ever known!” Sekkachi rolled her teary eyes and scoffed, confident that that was a lie. Guy chuckled and smiled at her. “And if it means anything, I am going to stick by your side no matter what! Just let me know when you’re feeling sick and what I can do to help and I’ll come running.”

               Sekkachi wiped her nose with the back of her hand and smiled sadly. “You’re way too nice to me, you know” she commented. “You have no reason to be this nice.”

               “Of course I do” Guy replied. “After all, you’re my friend. You might even my best friend! And that’s just what best friends do.”

               From that point onward, Guy’s friendship proved to be indelible to Sekkachi over the years. Guy was certainly a man of his word, and on this blistering summer afternoon he had definitely kept his promise. He stayed in the hallway outside the bathroom the entire time, pacing back and forth on his hands so as to get training in while he was on standby. He refused to walk away and risk not being there if she needed him. During the entirety of her flare-up, however, all she could think about was what Naru had said at that party. Did she really believe her and Guy were a thing? And if she did, then who else had bought into it? A shiver ran down her spine. If only Naru knew how false an accusation that was.

               Guy grinned as the bathroom door creaked open and an exhausted Sekkachi trudged out into the hall. “You okay?” he asked, patting her on the back. There was something so weirdly casual about it, as if he was congratulating her on a good effort in a game of football or something.

               She gave a single, definitive nod as she crossed the hall to her bedroom and began changing into a pair of loose sweatpants. She had no reservations about doing this in front of Guy, and he certainly couldn’t care less. “Can I ask you something?” she asked, tying the drawstring loose around her bloated waist. Guy arched a bushy brow in intrigue. “Do you think people assume we’re dating?”

               “Dating?” Guy repeated. “Why? What gave you that idea?”

               Sekkachi shrugged and seated herself on the edge of the bed, hugging a pillow to her stomach. “Some things happened today, some words were said. I don’t want to get into the details. The important thing is that apparently people think we’re something of an item. I guess the minute a guy and a girl start hanging out together, they’re automatically treated like a couple or some shit.”

               Guy shook his head. “Well, this is the first time I’ve heard of this” he replied. Sekkachi wasn’t sure why, but that came as a relief. Maybe because that meant Naru’s rumor wasn’t as widespread as she had feared. If Naru was overcompensating, then perhaps their reputations were saved. “Are you trying to tell me something?” he then asked, cocking a brow in intrigued suspicion.

               Sekkachi didn’t think she could do this anymore. Her hands began to shake at her sides, both an after-effect of the flare-up and a result of her anxiety. She propped open the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, fixing one to her mouth and igniting the end. As she shoved the pack back in the drawer, she propped the window open so as to better dispel the smoke.

               “You really shoulnd’t do that, you know” Guy commented, shaking his head as he took a seat at her desk chair. “Isn’t that going to make you sicker?”

               Sekkachi scoffed. “Sometimes these days, it’s the only thing that makes me feel healthy” she replied. She took a long drag and let the smoke billow up from her lips slowly. Guy couldn’t really see the appeal, but whatever worked for her, he supposed.

               “You never answered my question” he then said. She knew. She wasn’t sure if she could now. “You know you can be honest with me, Sekkachi.”

               “Guy” she sighed, “you are the nicest person I have ever met. Did you know that?” Might Guy smiled back at her. She toyed with the tassels on the edge of the pillow, her cigarette in her opposite hand. She didn’t want to look at him. She was afraid of what he was about to say. “I just need to know…guys always have ulterior motives, you know? They always do things for the sake of getting something out of it for themselves. Usually because they like someone. And I just need to know, and be totally honest with me here, do you…I mean, you don’t—”

               “Sekkachi, I’m going to stop you right there” Guy interrupted, holding up a hand. Sekkachi froze, finally gazing back at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “You know I consider you a good friend of mine. I don’t want a rumor like this to ruin the friendship we have.”

               Relief washed over her, sighing out her cigarette smoke. “That’s good to know” she said. “Because I was so scared you were going to admit that you loved me or something.”

               Guy shook his head. “Sekkachi, I consider you family. I don’t think I could ever think of you like a lover.”

               “Honestly? I feel the same way” Sekkachi admitted. Her hands trembled as she could feel the words rising up in her throat, something she had never before said aloud threatening to spill. She leaned forward and locked eyes on the ground, suddenly very aware she had no control over whether or not she was about to say it. “I love you, but like a brother. You’re always there for me, you’re always pushing me to do better. I feel like I can be open and honest with you. And that’s why…Guy, there’s something I need to tell you.” Guy’s brows raised as he leaned closer, fearing the worst. He knew she was sick, but was it worse than they expected? Was she dying? He needed to know. She took a nervous drag of her cigarette, exhaled, chewed her bottom lip. This was it. Now or never. “Guy, I’m gay. I like girls. I’m a lesbian.”

               Might Guy leaned back a moment, processing the confession. This was a huge moment and he needed to tread carefully. Sekkachi’s leg bobbed up and down on its own accord as she awaited his response. This was killing her. Then suddenly, before she knew it, Guy’s arms were wrapping around her in a tight hug. She blinked a few times, not quite understanding, and then he said, “I’m proud of you, Sekkachi.” Her cigarette snuffed out and fell to the floor as she broke down. No one else knew.

~o~

               “You sure you’re going to be alright?” Guy asked as he walked Sekkachi home. She clung to that little gold foil box, terrified of losing it if it wasn’t in her grasp at all times. As they ascended the stairs, she nodded and then smiled softly at Guy.

               “Yeah, I’ll be alright” she said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

               Deep down, she knew that was impossible for him, but he knew better than to press her. He bid her a brief goodbye and then they parted ways toward their respective apartments. As she reached her front door, however, there was a small basket on her doorstep covered by a gingham dish towel. A small note was folded and placed squarely on the top.

               This was highly unusual for a number of reasons, and for a moment Sekkachi was terrified this was some sort of planned terrorist attack. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, anyone would be targeting her of all people but her anxiety was getting the better of her. She inspected the basket closely only to find that whoever left it was, in fact, trying to kill her. There was nothing but food inside.

               Finding no other choice, Sekkachi kicked her door open with her foot and carried the basket inside, leaving it on her desk. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for a good long while before finally picking up the note attached. The message was short and simple yet shocking.

               Sorry for your loss. Here is some comfort food. Hope you enjoy. -Mikazuki

               Sekkachi had only met this girl a handful of times, one of Rei and Naru’s comrades in the ANBU, but this seemed wildly uncharacteristic considering her shy demeanor. It also didn’t make any damn sense. There was no reason whatsoever for this girl to be leaving food on a practical stranger’s doorstep. Sekkachi peeled back the dish towel (which she assumed Mikazuki would want back, if only she knew of a way to return it to her) to find a myriad of comfort food inside: onigiri, homemade senbei, manju filled with red bean paste.

               It was a nice gesture, of course, but felt so inappropriate. I hope she knows all of this is going to go to waste, Sekkachi thought to herself. She couldn’t eat any of it even if she wanted to. Or perhaps she was just being difficult. Deep down, she knew many of these foods were actually rather palatable for even her hypersensitive stomach. She supposed she feared that eating it would mean accepting whatever ulterior motive Mikazuki was after. There was no way she was doing this just to be kind.

               Sekkachi looked down to the little gold foil box in her hands and sighed. When did life become so damn complicated? If Naru was still alive, none of this would be happening. The memories of that birthday party were still so vivid in her mind. They were so young and stupid, so naïve. If only the three of them knew what was waiting around the corner. And then of course her mind leapt to Rei. A seething rage bubbled up inside of her chest at the thought of her. This was all her fault. Breaking up with Kakashi was almost deserved. A solid punishment for everything she had done. And yet…she couldn’t quite wrap her brain around why Rei would go to the trouble of relaying her this box. She popped open the lid and watched the single earring roll around inside. It almost made her nauseous. Perhaps so many years spent working together left Rei and Sekkachi far more telepathic than they had expected. Sekkachi rose from her seat, box in tow, and approached her desk, opening the top drawer and pulling out an identical aquamarine stud. How the two earrings got separated, Sekkachi would never know. Naru had a strange way of organizing her belongings, sometimes meticulously color coded and other times a complete mess. None of that mattered now, though. All that was important was that the pair was back together, and it was all because of Rei.

               Sekkachi clutched the earrings in her fist and sucked in a sharp breath. Nothing was ever going to repay what Rei had done, yet perhaps she had been too hasty. Naru was gone. All they had left now was each other. Her eyes shifted to the framed photograph on her desk of the three of them when they were just genin, so bright and happy and confident. She grazed the glass over Naru’s image, tightened her grip on the earrings, let the stones press into her the flesh of her palm, and then truly let herself break down.

Oof I'm gonna be totally honest with you guys, this was a REALLY difficult chapter to write. I really wanted to explore the origins of Guy and Sekkachi's friendship, but more importantly Sekkachi's illness. Her chronic illness is based on my own so all of her struggles with food and her digestive system hit really close to home, and it was EXTREMELY hard to try and find the line between being honest but tasteful and being gross and way too honest about the literally shitty experience of having a sickness like this. I just hope I did it justice.

[realsamcalloway]

2/22/17 - Interview With Musician Brody Dalle “Style Evolution From AUS to The USA” (www.regardingstyle.com)

Originally posted February 22, 2017 and appearing on www.regardingstyle.com.

© 2017 TRSB (Sam Bone)

A Conversation with Brody Dalle, Regarding Style (And More)

By Sam Bone

The indie/punk rock/alternative music scene has been a desolate, lonely lull since 2014. It’s been nearly three whole years since fans of Brody Dalle’s haunting-yet-dangerous growl and lyrical prowess have heard anything new. If you’re a genuine fan of Brody’s (which I have no shame in admitting that I adore her immensely and forever!), then you’re probably one of the 300,000+ people who follow or “Like” her social media posts. It is from within this social media sphere, where fans grasp onto every tweet, photo and post in general, in hopes of a tour announcement or a Beyoncé-inspired surprise album drop.

This question has been an ongoing one for Brody Dalle since she and her (former) band of misfits, The Distillers, hit the punk scene in the late 90’s/beginning of 2000. The Distillers self-titled album was single-handedly the anthem record equivalent of ammunition of that time, and every record Brody has since released has only added as kindling to that raging fire. Back then during the “debut era,” fans of Dalle were in high school (or just out) and most of those fans have grown up right alongside with her. It didn’t matter what was happening, either.

Fans of Brody Dalle don’t “mess” around, and have stayed with her through it all, the good times and the bad. #Punx4Ever, right?

Since the debut in 2000, Brody released two more records under The Distillers moniker, Sing Sing Death House (2002), and Coral Fang (2003), followed by her Spinnerette project which saw the release of an album with the same name in 2009. Most recently, die-hard fans rejoiced when Brody flew solo with the powerful and equally as memorable Diploid Love (2014).

In January of this year the stage was set for me to interview Brody and in an attempt to tackle something she has never spoken about publically; her personal style and fashion sense. I know I’ve always been pretty curious about this subject, so I’m willing to bet that other fans share my feels.

Being a badass punk poster girl, plastered on the walls of both guys and gals the world over (her fans expand across both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans), Brody Dalle’s sense of style has a direct correlation to ethical fashion in that punk style requires a love of thrift store shopping. Tattered and torn hand-me-downs are always in high demand no matter what rock subgenre you identify.

Without further ado, here is our 2017 conversation with Brody Dalle, Regarding Style.

��Hey there, Brody! I’d like to start off slightly unconventional by asking what’s got you angry lately?

The insanity right now-- the attitude and the words that come out of the Orange-Faced thing. Pence. Speaker Ryan and Bannon. He's terrifying and completely delusional and represents the Christian alt-right. Fuck all of them; their gross incompetence and their being unqualified, arrogant fucks. The lying, the misogyny, the racism, the homophobia and the unfairness of it all. The (Russian) hacking. The lack of people being held accountable. It's disgusting, embarrassing and horrifying. The hypocrisy of banning Muslims from entering the United States when this country was founded on freedom of religious beliefs.

It's baffling really. By the way, it’s only been a week.

I don’t want to get too into that here, because it’d be unending, but I will just say three words: I feel you. How are you, otherwise? How is your family? Congratulations on the birth of your newest son, Wolf!

Thank you so much! My family is wonderful! My son Wolf is a sunbeam rainbow baby, sweetest little munchkin ever. As far as myself, I'm doing better-- Going from 2 to 3 kids was a massive adjustment. Wolf is about to be one, and it's taken me about a year to get back on my feet. It's been a bit wobbly trying to balance the kids with no sleep, having to breastfeed, and issues with my health (rheumatic fever with chronic pain). Also balancing my husband’s schedule, kids school schedule, and then our family… friends… just our lives, in general… all while trying to balance my own personal life and get back to creating. Just started in the studio a couple of days a week.

How do we do it all though?! I asked my mum if life has gotten crazier and she said yes… life used to be much simpler, slower, and we didn't always have to be “on” and available.

I feel as though technology has much to do with society’s rapid pace, also that “rat race” you once spoke of is real. The struggle is real. Since the Distillers all the way through now, your style has influenced a lot of people, both girls and guys. Where did your sense of style develop? What are your earliest memories?

I guess it all started with the punks in Melbourne. I made a book for my mum when I was about 6 years old; it was of punks walking down the street whistling and girls doing handstands. I asked her why she thought I drew punks in the book with the mohawks and she had no idea, but suggested maybe I'd seen them on the street. Perhaps it was a prophecy ha!

I was in a movie about teenage delinquents called "Hard Knocks" when I was a baby, but I doubt I would have remembered it as I was 8 months old at the time. Right after that I went to see Cyndi Lauper at the Tennis Center, and Madonna was all over the TV and in the magazines-- I remember spending every waking hour putting those records on and dancing for hours in the living room with a black beauty mark drawn above my lip with my mum’s eyeliner.

My mum collected Vogue magazine, and I remember perusing though the 80’s ones and noticing all of the different angles, the neon colors and all of the multicolored make up. I sewed a pair of pants at my grandmother’s house once, but when I put them on they fell apart and I was discouraged with fashion after that.

I remember wanting certain things, the first thing I ever wanted, as far as fashion, was a purple feather in my hair for school photos when I was 5 years old. After that, it was a pale pink pair of sneakers at the tennis shop my dad would go to on the weekends… I begged him for months to buy them for me, and finally he acquiesced.

My first pair of Chuck Taylors were red and I got them when I was 8. My parents didn't have much money, so we shopped at Target for clothing which was the equivalent of Cole’s today, which I'm sure is way cooler than Target was back then. But it was mortifying, and I was teased mercilessly. Doc Martins were all the rage but they cost about $100 which, of course, my parents laughed at. So I ended up getting fake Docs… a mean girl at school made me lift up the bottom of my Docs and then ridiculed and teased me in front of the other mean girls, and well, that was that.

My Uncle Frazer gave me my first guitar and also my first surfboard; a Strapper Thruster with a giant red sun on it. I went through a surfer girl phase and got an undercut and wore giant rusty t-shirts and surfer boots and brands. I longed to be a pro surfer but there are no waves in Melbourne, the best waves were at least an hour away. Plus, I was pale as a ghost and I looked nothing like the tanned bleached blonde beach girls. I gave up surfing after being tossed around like a rag doll in 20 foot waves in Coffs Harbour, I thought “This really isn’t for me anymore" as I did full cartwheels underwater for a minute at a time.

One of the first records I ever bought was Mothers Milk by RHCP. When I was 12 and on my way to Vaucluse Catholic Girls college in Richmond, the RHCP got on our tram. They walked right up to me and talked with me for 5 minutes before getting off a few stops later… so weird to think about that, cut to The Distillers opening for them in German stadiums 12 years later. They actually remembered our encounter. Fucking weird mate.

I hated everyone and everything after that-- I got into Nirvana, Hole, Mudhoney, and Sonic Youth, and then I started going to All-Ages shows in

Melbourne. The bands I loved the most were The Meanies, Tumbleweed and the Hard-Ons.

Then, flares and ripped band t-shirts were the fash. Eventually I started working at Friends of the Earth when I was a 12-year-old hippy/anarchist. That was a Co-op that my parents shopped at. I bought my first item of clothing with the money I had earned; vintage orange and brown flares, which I wore to death to every Tumbleweed and Meanies All-Ages shows I ever attended in Melbourne.

Then it evolved to Dead Kennedys and Kyuss t-shirts. That's right, Kyuss... they were my favorite band. I also wore Levi's jeans, one pair at a time until there was NOTHING left!

After that, thanks to Courtney Love, it was 1940's tea dresses, nighties, and ripped fishnets worn with shitty, op-shop high heels and Chuck Taylors.

After that, I got into Discharge, The Exploited, Cock Sparrer, Oi Polloi and Last Resort. I got beat up by two street girls in the city wearing Bon Jovi t-shirts, and they fractured my arm... I was so pissed I shaved my head the next day into a Chelsea haircut and I dyed it blue. Also by now I could afford to buy real vintage stuff with the money I made from my jobs, and I also bought my own Docs and any op-shop find, especially plaid mini-skirts.

So my look was Courtney Love meets Skinhead. A lot of tops had to have the “Courtney Love white collar.” Then when I was 17 years old I saw “Betty Blue” (the film), and that changed everything-- I wanted black hair in a choppy bob. Black hair became my favorite thing! I got into do wop music and started cleaning up my look; black hair, up in a high ponytail with long side burns and big hoop earrings, Revlon Color Stay in Berry Red, black liquid eyeliner and Creepers-- plaid Creepers. Mini-skirts. Bomber jackets.

By this point I was in L.A., so I was being influenced by so much in Los Angeles and also New York, mainly trash and vaudeville. I was hanging around a lot of older, cooler punk chicks. My friend Tomomi made mohair sweaters.

I started cutting up my t-shirts after I'd seen a girl on the street with her t-shirt cut into tassels-- I didn't know that was an option and it changed the game. I became obsessed with, wore and collected Polly of California heels. I also discovered trashy lingerie and agent provocateur. I admired Vivienne Westwood. My friend Evelyn had a shoe store called Diavolina and I became obsessed with shoes.

I met Agatha Blois, who made most of my pants that I wore on stage… another game changer. Rosalyn Mazzola (“Casper Rose,” for you diehards out there) had these naturally occurring dark circles under her eyes and I loved the way it looked so I recreated it by using MAC's color 'texture', which is still my favorite for smoky eyes.

Right before we made Sing Sing Death House I met Rosalyn, and I fell in love. She was so beautiful and androgynous-looking, like jaw-dropping beautiful… I felt so ugly next to her. God I loved her so much. We kind of morphed into each other for a while although her thing was more gutter than mine. We dressed like dirty squatter boys and put our eyebrows on with black sharpie, it lasted for a week sometimes longer. I look back at old photos of us and think we looked pretty scummy but we weren’t, I swear!  I’m a very hygienic person, my favorite smell back then was this raspberry body spray that smelt more like cotton candy. They stopped making it of course, they stop making everything that’s awesome. I had my managers hunt down the last box in America. I wear mostly vanilla these days. The way you smell, your scent, is as important and memorable as your clothes. 

I will add this- my style icons in the past have been Kurt Cobain, Courtney Love, Lydia Lunch, the Misfits, Beatrice Dalle in “Betty Blue,” Discharge, The Exploited, Sex Pistols, DEBBIE HARRY ❤️, Vivienne Westwood, Oi, Agatha Blois, other punk girls.

Thank you for sharing all of those memories. I remember first hearing The Distillers on a sampler… I think it was one of those oi, garage punk compilations. Anyway, it had the rough cut of LA Girl on it, from the Oldscratch EP. It was of course this audio that lead me to visual curiosity so I checked out the band, and I remember the days of Rose and recall that she was very street punk, which obviously appealed to me. Moving on, do you have a vault of super-secret punk rock DIY designers that custom-make your garments? Who/what are some brands and designers that you respect?

Ha! I used to when I was touring more! I'm not much of a “fashionista.” I'm lucky to know and have some very talented friends who happen to be incredible clothing makers and designers. I'm not really too into brand names per se, it's more that I know what I like when I see it, or I’ll get inspired by something old and remake it. I did have a love for Vivienne Westwood, in fact my look in The Distillers was really a mash-up of Vivienne Westwood, Agatha Blois, t-shirts scoured from Goodwill, "wife beaters" from Target, Polly of California, trashy lingerie, vintage coats, various jeans, Submission, Very Bad Horse, spray-painted hooker boots from Hollywood Blvd, Agent Provocateur, very sick and cool shit from Japan and my old friend Tomomi (Fukuda) has a store called Camden Lock. I love Agatha Blois as a friend, and her designs had a big impact on me, she and I worked really well together. Ligia Morris made a badass jumpsuit and some stage clothes for Reading and Leeds festivals in 2004. Corey Parks makes the meanest leather jackets and pants ever. I love Hedy Slimanes, and obviously his influence made that company (Yves Saint Laurent, YSL) what it is today. Punk is Hedy's staple diet I think, not sure where YSL is headed now.

When it comes down to it, it's not the label, it's what I like in the moment.

That’s great, and it’s also very cool that a lot of those more indie-back-then designers have really sort of exploded in the sense that they are doing their thing with their boutiques and brands. I know you’re busy, thanks so much for your time. Lastly, what can fans expect from you next?

I’m slowly coming out of the 1-year baby fog of losing myself completely. It’s a scary process to unravel but I usually get songs out of it. My plan is to write two records which I’ve just started.

I know fans will love this news! Again thank you so much, nothing but the purest wishes for both you and your family!

You can stay up to date with Brody oh her Twitter and Instagram profiles.

Certain elements, such as links and photos, may have been removed from the original version of the above article.

[orodrethsgeek]

Wait Until the Light Breaks

Posting this in honor of B2MeM 2017, based on the novel concept that I can actually post things when I'm pleased with them.

Summary: The night after Eöl’s execution, a young orphan sits in his mother’s room and waits for his fate to catch up to him.

Read it at The Silmarillion Writer’s Guild.

Miners are trained when things go wrong to lie on the ground, breathe slow and shallow, wait until the light breaks at last through a chink and they are found.

— Sara Berkeley Tolchin, "What Just Happened?"

They have given him his mother’s old room. Maeglin knows it was once hers because the enormous bed on its raised dais is dressed in the pine green and rich browns she had favored. He knows it was hers by the crowd of white gowns gathering dust where they hang in the closet, by the silver jewelry packed away neatly in chests on the armoire. The room itself is directly across from Turgon’s at the crown of the King’s Tower, which tells him that its first owner was held an equal of the king; and who but his mother had ever gainsaid Turgon’s command to remain within the walls of Gondolin? This, also, proves it was hers.

Mostly he knows by the smell. Beneath the empty chill of neglect, his mother’s scent of spice on new snow lingers, a balm for spinning thoughts – save the one whispering that, soon, even this will be gone, and Mother will then be no more than a figure in his memory.

He sits on the very edge of her grand bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, half-heartedly examining a circlet he had found in an oak case during his exploration of the room. In his heart of hearts, he thinks it would look princely on him, as grand as he had felt when they first arrived, before disaster struck.

The circlet’s delicate, swooping lines show Maeglin a shattered reflection of himself, his features separated for individual analysis. Here is a blur of his porcelain skin—it had burned in the light of the open sun during the first days of their flight, but the raw redness faded once Mother smoothed a balm over it, leaving him once more unmarked. There is a smear of his black hair, frazzling out of the intricate, Noldorin style Mother had teased it into before they entered the city. Now and then he catches also the clearer glimpse of his eyes, roving over the metal with a keen watchfulness Maeglin does not truly feel.

He looks up into the full-length mirror on the wall and sees his mother’s room doubled to a full circle. Taken all together, he seems very small, weak; not at all the bold adventurer who had declared himself Mother’s protector in Nan Elmoth. Slowly, Maeglin forces his feet to the floor. As he stands he rests the crown over his disheveled hair.

Against this backdrop, black as the galvorn Eöl crafted, as the unending Dark Maeglin can only imagine because Mother would not describe it, the diadem’s silver is almost dazzlingly bright. He finds himself captivated by the way it races arcs of fire and starlight through his hair. Daringly, he lifts his chin and squares his shoulders the way Mother taught him—the way Turgon had, effortlessly, sitting on his throne. Even in the rough, travel-stained tunic and riding pants Maeglin wears – the same he set out from Nan Elmoth wearing; no one has thought to offer him new clothes, and it feels disrespectful, selfish, to ask – he thinks he might see the Noldorin prince Mother assured him he was.

“Lómion?” The voice is unexpected, intrusive. Heart leaping wildly to his throat, Maeglin whirls.

King Turgon stands poised in the doorway staring at him. In his peripheral vision, Maeglin sees the truth: his reflection wilts, shoulders creeping forward, his head ducking down. He is suddenly very aware of the smell of horse sweat and poorly washed flesh. The scrutiny of a real prince reveals him for what he is. Reduced once more to a beggar crawled out of the woods, Maeglin yearns to stuff his mother’s circlet out of sight, but he dares not draw attention to it even to do so.

The surprise fades from Turgon’s face, leaving behind only exhaustion and grief. Maeglin feels a twinge of pity for this man, with whom he shares a broken family and yet barely knows. This drowns in a flood of panic when Turgon begins speaking. The words make no sense, flowing smoothly from one sound to the next, and Maeglin knows what is happening but is too ashamed to say anything. He stands, fighting to pluck meaning from the nonsense syllables, until at last they lilt up in a question. Dizzy from the hammering of his heart and over the screaming protest of his common sense, Maeglin nods.

Turgon dips his head in return, pulling the door shut as he steps fully into the room. He speaks again, more sure of himself, less unguarded, and draws near; Maeglin backs away to keep a distance between the king’s immaculate white robes and his own reeking body.

The backs of his calves hit the end of Mother’s bed, plopping Maeglin gracelessly on his rear. Turgon is looking at him, waiting with obvious patience. Maeglin’s pulse is a roar in his ears and he stares desperately down at his knees. His hands, clasped in his lap, are remarkably steady despite it all.

“Lómion?” Turgon prompts, followed by another unintelligible stream. Maeglin shuts his eyes, swallowing, mouth working soundlessly for a moment.

“I—I don’t—I can’t—” The mattress sinks as Turgon sits next to him, and he flinches, surprise stealing what few words he has left.

“Lómion,” Turgon repeats slowly. Then, gently, he asks, “Do you not speak Quenya?”

“Some,” Maeglin defends; it comes out as a whisper. He knows colors and can count up to one hundred forty-four; he knows how to yelp and say, “The water’s cold!” and he knows what, “We’ll stop here tonight,” means. He knows the words for rabbit and deer and he knows the names of all the relatives he has never met, from Anairë in Valinor to Carnistir in Thargelion. He knows “I love you.” But Maeglin cannot hold even the simplest of conversations in his mother’s tongue, for it is the language of those who slew his father’s kin in Aman, and Eöl had asked that it not be taught to him; and Mother had honored that request. Or she had until Maeglin had taken it into his head to run away with her to Gondolin, and then along the way she had given him sporadic instruction.

“I didn’t realize,” Turgon says, his accent just as strange as it had been when Mother had greeted him – only yesterday – in Sindarin and Turgon, too joyful to be puzzled, had answered in kind. Nevertheless, he is perfectly understandable as he continues, “Please forgive my presumption.” Maeglin nods dully. Within the locked confines of the formal apology lurks a fury bordering on rage that any child of Aman should have grown up denied mastery of the High Speech.

The anger, Maeglin knows, is directed at Eöl, but his head still sinks lower as he perceives it, sending the circlet lurching. He rushes to steady it and finds Turgon’s hands already there, catching it, putting it back in place. Maeglin sneaks another glance at himself in the mirror. Turgon is also examining his reflection, so Maeglin sits up, shoving back a greasy lock of hair behind his ear and trying to mimic the king’s easy, straight-backed grace. It seems easier to correct the differences between their postures with Turgon sitting next to him, until finally Maeglin is holding himself exactly like the king.

“It doesn’t suit you at all,” Turgon says, and Maeglin sees the panic leap out of his eyes as the confident façade crumbles and he curls in on himself, snatching the crown off his head before Turgon can take it away. How many times had Mother told him how wise her brother was? Of course he would see through Maeglin’s pretense of nobility. Without the White Lady of Gondolin to speak on his behalf, the only tie Maeglin has to this city is as the son of the man who murdered the king’s sister. Staring down at the metal cradled in his hands, Maeglin knows with dreadful certainty that he will soon follow Eöl’s plunge over the precipice.

“Easy child,” Turgon soothes, not seeming to notice Maeglin’s flinch as he drapes a white-clad arm over his shoulders. “Easy, Lómion; you may keep it regardless. It is fitting that you should have it; it belonged to my—to your mother.” How generous, Maeglin thinks, with a sharp burst of hysterical relief, to let me wear it to my execution.

Strange, fractured observations come to him in his panic. The arm pulling him close is hard and lean, for all that the flowing white sleeve clothing it is long to the point of impracticality. In the brief moment before Maeglin’s stench overwhelms it, Turgon’s scent envelops him; soft and dusty. He smells like the books Mother had little use for and Eöl scorned. “If you cannot remember it yourself,” he would say, “it must not have been important. No son of mine will cheat off the accomplishments and success of another.”

A thought skips across the pool of his mind: Turgon does not find books or book learning dishonest.

“Lómion, Lómion,” the king says, syllables stretched and pulled like taffy, the way Mother spoke to calm the horses when they startled. Then, haltingly, “Nephew,” as though testing the weight of it in his mouth. Maeglin finds himself tucked closer to Turgon’s side. “Are you cold? You’re trembling.”

You cannot ask me to be brave! he shouts, all within himself, for his throat has closed for fear. His life was supposed to begin here, not to end. He had not wanted Eöl’s bitter certainty about the kin-slaying Golodhrim to prove true. He does not want to die.

Seconds pass, and still he cannot speak. Turgon shifts, pulling Maeglin closer still. Through the greasy tangle of his hair, Maeglin feels the bump of the king’s nose, followed by a rumble of disgust. Shame burns behind Maeglin’s eyes, but Mother’s kinsman pulls back only enough to tuck Maeglin’s head beneath his chin instead.

Half-pulled into Turgon’s lap, Maeglin waits to hear his sentence passed, his terror slowly turning to dull anticipation. It seems a curious thing, he notes absently, to cradle so close one you meant to kill. Likely it is for Mother’s sake; the memory of his sister that Turgon clings to, not her living son. But finally the king does stir, drawing back.

“It grows late. What say we draw you a warm bath?” Maeglin finds his voice.

“If it pleases you.” He could at least meet death clean. Will that make the plunge any less painful?

As if he hears the thought, Turgon hums, gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Tomorrow,” he says gently; Maeglin bows his head at the pronouncement, fingers tightening around Mother’s circlet. He almost misses what Turgon says next: “Tomorrow, we will see about arranging your lessons in Quenya and commissioning you a crown of your own.”

A soft noise breaks past his lips, keening and confused. The king peers down at him, his face in his alarm so like Mother’s that Maeglin could weep. Could, but for the sudden, wild hope rising in his chest. “You do not mean to have me killed?”

“No!” Turgon recoils, but in the next breath hauls Maeglin to him, so that he has no choice but to bury his face in the pristine whiteness of Turgon’s robes, as though he is once more an unnamed child. “Ai, Lómion, my sister’s son, blood of my blood—no! A thousand times no!” And over and over, no no no, until Maeglin relaxes, inhaling the king’s bookish smell. “What do you take me for?” Turgon asks, agonized, whispering into Maeglin’s hair.

You are the man who murdered my father, Maeglin thinks, but buries the thought deep, where none will ever find it. He must be Aredhel’s son now, not Eöl’s. Instead he grasps tentatively at Turgon’s voluminous sleeves, presses his face to Turgon’s shoulder. The king murmurs encouragingly, rocking them both gently, carding a hand through Maeglin’s lank hair.

“You are safe here, Lómion,” the king vows. “Safe, among your kin, as you were always meant to be. You are a great prince of the Noldor, of the house of the High King, and as dear to me as if you were my own son. I will not harm you. Within these walls, nothing ever shall. Trust me in this. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Maeglin answers. He does not hesitate. I have to.

Hypothetically, this story is one in a series on Maeglin, exploring his life in Gondolin. I just haven't written the other pieces... yet.

Dedicated to my friend Anne Flint, who has done more for me than she'll ever know, and whose interest in Maeglin and Aredhel first prompted me to unearth this story from my written notes a few years ago.

[mrspectacularity]

The Gospel Of Phestris

In the old legends it says Marqus was cursed by his mother, planted with a seed of hate and madness that rooted in his brain and spread through his body, digging it's claws deep inside of him. He was driven to kill his father, the first man. And in doing so he was released of the torture of the deep seed as it fell into a sort of hibernation in his body. But the seed remained in him, leaving Marqus twisted and pale and unable to die. The dark son of man would do all in his power to try and end his miserable existence, unable to handle the severity of his own sins. From climbing to the highest peak of the greatest mountains in the world and tossing himself to the stones below or having himself stricken, bitten, and stung by venomous creatures of the deep, he'd tried everything he could think of in his darkest hours, hours that came to him like a raging bull, hitting hard and heavy. Eventually Marqus would raze the small fellowship he gained as a son of true darkness, stowing himself away in the crags of the earth, seating himself in a thrown of carved stone surrounded by an unending sea of sweet sleep-bringing drinks and elixirs. There he would stay, wasting away as he drank himself into a deep stupor and falling to sleep for years at a time and as nature would retake his domain in the earth, the grubs and worms of the earth would slither into his body in his induced slumbers and become one in a parasitic bond with his undying flesh which was ripe with corruption. Seeing this boy wasting away eternally, taken by the parasites of the earth like a corpse prince, Phestris would grow infatuated with Marqus. His brother, Ceathis had taken it upon himself to swing low to the mortal realm and grab up Myria's hand in deep sainthood, making her the matron of mourners. At this, Phestris had grown jealous. He was sickeningly selfish, childish even for a demigod but it was simply his nature to be as such. So the dark demigod of symbiosis would appear before Marqus long after his remaining followers had spread out or died out and stopped bringing him more drink to dull his mind and lull him into an umber haze of coma. When the he awakened, the dark patricidal prince was no longer alone in a peaceful pocket in the earth barely lit by glowworms but somewhere between the mortal plain and the abyss, summoned to the dwelling of Phestris himself. The room he was in seemed eternal in every direction and dark beyond comprehension at it's edges. The floor was writhe with maggots and the thick, soupy blood-broth of all those who'd died in the name of this deity of rot, a shallow but expansive viscera puddle that soaked into Marqus' boots as he sat unable to move as his body had nearly wasted away completely, muscles stringy and weakened. Before him in the domicile of drek was the twisted, infested form of Phestris. Overbearingly massive was the form of the rotten with long, thin limbs like tree trunks rooted deep into the earth under the lake of festering gore that held his rotund, bloated body off the ground. His skin was bark-like with fungal growth, small creatures crawling about in the cracks of his thick, sickly hide. But what seemed worst about the form of Phestris to Marqus was his head, a globe with flash-covered eyes from which the corners of which came forth worms that wriggled about like feelers. The beastly rotten seemed like an infant cast aside by a mother, left to die but never become one with the earth but instead it's inhabitants. His head hung upside down, twisted backwards on his shoulders to gaze hungrily at the twisted mortal, beaming a sense of disgust deep into Marqus' soul. And then it spoke with a voice reminiscent of a phlegmy death-rattle, gurgling it's breathy words out through air-bladder lungs half full with the same blood-curd that flowed through it's veins. "Poor child, you are! Mother has left you to your own devices and of course you find yourself dashed against the stones of your own incompetence. But of course, it is I who sees you for what you are. Look into yourself and find not only the darkness which our highest matron has given us but the little sparks of lowly life that burrow into our forms. Know that we're quite the same, like brothers in our own right. We are both descendant of her loin, are we not? Or course we are. Look at us, infested with the grub of the earth that no mortal would think twice about the worth of, yet we form a home for them. But unlike I, you are infested with something much much darker than mere pests. Look deeper in yourself than any have before and see that you are touched by the abyss itself. That thing which pumps life into your unwilling form but still poisons you all the same, it is both life and death. I beg you, mortal, that you take up my hand as a god and do the work of your god who is me. Give your unending life meaning and redeem yourself through my work. True it is I am merely lord of maggots but even a maggot may clean the gaping wounds of those maimed. We together may heal the world with our parasites if only you'd be as wretched as to side with me. You need not speak, you know it's true that you can seek redemption only though me now for your body is full of my little minions, dug deep in your body. They are inhabiting, renewing, and consuming your form all the same. You've felt my touch and now you must accept it completely!" Marqus sat in somber dread, devoid as he had been for what must have been centuries of isolation and self pity. But he had been convinced deep in his heart, even if only slightly, that in being the greatest of many deep worshipers, given sainthood under a dark demigod who represented parasites and symbiosis. And so he accepted the touch of Phestris. He had been inhabited by evil but also grief and he know he would help and hurt any who his new master wished. Markus would in the gospels of the abyss be dubbed a deep saint of the rotten demi-god, one who would guide those who fed off of vulnerability and those who were fed on by beasts of men. He would be like a guiding flame for the predators and prey of the underbelly of mankind. And in this he would hope to find forgiveness for himself.