#my other concern with the blood version is that the blood might look more muddied when printed on a smaller sticker

[gayestcowboy]

if yall like the blood version more i’ll clean it up a bit! it’s pretty rough right now LOL

alternatively— double sided keychain? if there’s any interest!

[criminalmindzjunkie]

I Carry Your Heart With Me (Part One)

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Summary: Spencer and the reader are reunited for the first time in fifteen years. 

A/N: Very excited to get the ball rolling on this one. I hope you all enjoy it! Message me if you would like to be added to the taglist.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 4.5k

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Damien mutters from the passenger seat, his icy blue eyes wide with fright. He pulls his gaze away just long enough to point at a lone cow grazing to the left of the road. “Look! That cow is just like… standing there. No fence around him or anything. What’s stopping him from stampeding into us the second we get out of this car?”

Damien sounds so genuinely horrified that you almost feel bad for laughing. Almost.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Dee. Besides, that cow didn’t even look up when we drove past. We’re not even on its radar.”

“Oh, yeah? Ever heard of a little thing called mad cow disease?” Damien persists, in typical dramatic flair. You roll your eyes at him and he curses underneath his breath. “You know, when I agreed to go with you to this wedding, I pictured something more akin to a five-star resort with a minibar and a heated pool. Not rogue livestock and shitty cellphone reception.”

“You didn’t agree to anything – you practically begged me to take you with me.”

Damien waves his hand, dismissive, his eyes still roaming over the pasture. “Because I wanted an excuse to take a week off work. This is not the controlled environment I expected.”  

“If you don’t quit complaining, I won’t hesitate to push you out of the car and leave you here with the cow,” you retort. In your periphery you’re able to make out Damien raising his middle finger to you. Rude.

You chuckle and fix your attention back on the dirt road. You’re driving almost painfully slowly, because the very idea of having to pay extra for damages to this already astronomically expensive rental car makes you feel nauseated. Despite your efforts, the car is covered entirely in dust. Its once pristine, white paint job has transformed into a muddy color.

There goes my deposit.

You shake your head at the thought. You had more pressing matters to concern yourself with; i.e., the fact that you were approximately five minutes away from coming face to face with the one person you swore you’d never speak to again. Two months seemed like ample time to prepare yourself in theory, but now that it is no longer some far-off thing, you know that your attempts at preparing yourself were in vain. With each day you crossed off the calendar leading to your departure date, your anxiety grew and grew until you worried your poor heart would give out under the stress. Getting onto the plane bound for Montana felt like the proverbial nail in the coffin, and a hefty dose of Dramamine was the only thing that kept you from spiraling as the plane ascended into the air. You slept through the entirety of the trip and, much to Damien’s chagrin, there is a sizeable puddle of drool on his left shoulder to prove it.

The lengthy nap helped. The tight band constricting your chest had loosened, and you pulled out onto the highway feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. You had Damien by your side and five vacation days to enjoy. Your best friend was getting married to the love of her life, and you were hellbent on standing by her side through it all. Spencer Reid can kiss your ass, as far as you are concerned. No way is he going to ruin this for you.

You are still very much clinging your take-no-shit mentality when you breach a hill and the ranch comes into view, effectively expelling every single positive thought from your head. Aforementioned anxiety reappears in full-force and you stomp down on the breaks.

“Fuck, I don’t think I can do this,” you squeak out, casting a look at Damien, whose eyes are trained on the sprawling expanse of the house ahead of you. “We can still turn around – no, we should turn around. There is no version of this that won’t end in me getting embarrassingly drunk and crying in front of everyone. I’m turning around.”

Damien’s hand on yours, strong and steady, is the only thing that keeps you from whipping the car around and retreating with your tail between your legs. His fingers pry your white knuckled grip off of the wheel slowly, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles across your skin. Its sweet and so overwhelmingly gentle that you’re a bit stunned. You glance at him in a silent question, as if to ask who are you, and what have you done with my friend?

He gets the message loud and clear, because of course he does. Damien fixes you with a smile, grip tightening on your hand.

“I’ve seen you hold your own against some of the biggest names in journalism on an almost daily basis – looking damn sexy while you do it, might I add,” Damien chuckles, and you can’t help but give a weak laugh of your own. Damien’s smile grows at this, and he continues, “If you can handle your business against those conniving pricks, I’ve no doubt that you can tough it out for this. You’re not the type of woman that lets some guy dictate what she does or doesn’t do. And you sure as hell aren’t the type of woman that would let some guy rob her of the opportunity to stand by her best friend on the most important day of her life. As the person who probably knows you better than anyone else on the planet, my opinion of you is pretty rock-solid, if I do say so myself. So, unless I’ve completely overestimated the extent of your badassery, I suggest you rethink that plan. What do you say?”

You avert your eyes and swallow against the lump in your throat.

“Spencer’s not just some guy. For a long time, I was convinced that he was the guy,” you whisper. The car is silent, save for the quiet crooning voice of George Michael flowing through the speakers. Damien squeezes your hand, prompting you to continue. You blink up at him with wet lashes, lips pulled into a sad smile. “Have you ever been in love?”

Damien shakes his head and rubs his thumb along the top of your hand. “I can’t say that I have, babe. Haven’t been that lucky.”

You let out a shaky breath and bring your other hand up to wipe at your eyes.

“Maybe you’re better off. I’ve only been in love once,” you gesture to your pitiful appearance and choke out a wet laugh. “Look where that got me. He fucking crushed me, and fifteen years later I’m still broken up about it. It’s pathetic.”

Damien frowns and shifts in his seat so that he’s fully facing you.

“I don’t want to hear you say that self-deprecating shit again. You were hurt by someone you gave your heart to, and I can only imagine how devastating that must feel. Being upset about seeing him again does not make you pathetic. The fact that you’re here, about to spend a week with the guy just so you can be there for Cassidy, is pretty damn admirable as far as I’m concerned.” Damien ends his monologue by pulling you into a tight hug, and you couldn’t be more thankful that he’d come with you. Not only was he a secret sweetheart, he also gave the very best hugs.

By the time he releases you, the tension in your chest has eased significantly. You nod once, and Damien’s rewards you with a smile.

“I am pretty cool, aren’t I?”

Damien snorts rather unattractively and rolls his eyes.

“I take back everything. You suck, and I don’t know why I bother with you, you narcissist.”

Now that the mood has lifted significantly, you reluctantly press your foot against the gas pedal.

“Too late. No takesies backsies,” you singsong. “You think I’m sexy and badass, and I’m never going to let you forget it.”

Damien mutters something undoubtably snarky underneath his breath, but it’s drowned out by the sound of gravel crunching underneath the tires. That, and the sound of your blood roaring in your ears as you inch further down the driveway.

The house, a beautiful log cabin with stone accents along the underside, is massive. Standing at two stories tall with a large wraparound porch and more than a dozen large windows, it’s a far cry from the modest little cabin in the mountains that Cassidy had made it out to be. Even Damien is slack jawed at the sight of it, sitting pretty against a back drop of rolling mountains, and you can’t help but feel a little smug.

“Still want to complain about that five-star resort?”

Damien shakes his head dazedly, “I retract my earlier complaint.”

All too soon, you roll to a stop and put the car in park. Several other cars are parked haphazardly in the grass around you, and that annoying voice inside your head wonders which one belongs to Spencer. It’s not that you care – you totally don’t – it’s just that you are kind of hoping that he hasn’t arrived yet. A few hours to acclimate to the environment before having to deal with him would be nice.

“You’ve got this, babe,” Damien murmurs. “And I’ll be with you the whole time, just in case you need a reminder.”

You flash Damien a nervous smile.

“You’re a really good friend, Dee. I’m really glad that you’re here,” you say, before narrowing your eyes at him. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

Damien snorts and pushes open the door.

“Get your sassy ass out of the car. I’m ready to mingle.”

As soon as you set foot on the porch, the front door flies open and a flash of curly red hair precedes a collision that nearly sends you flying back into the railing. Ecstatic squeals rip through the otherwise serene evening air and two boney arms envelop you into a tight hug.

“I cannot believe you’re actually here,” Cassidy laughs as she squeezes you tight. Her enthusiasm has you joining in, the two of you laughing happily and pulling back to examine one another. Cassidy places a sloppy kiss to both of your cheeks before throwing an arm over your shoulder. “I fully expected you to just blow off the whole thing, if I’m being honest.”

You cast at Damien, who’s watching on with an amused grin on his face.

“Believe me, she tried.”

Cassidy turns her attention to Damien and extends her free hand.

“I take it you’re the infamous Damien that I’ve been trading emails with?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, “Wait, what? The two of you have been emailing?”

Damien accepts Cassidy’s hand and gives it a firm shake, all while smiling smugly.

“Yep. Me and Ms. Cassidy go way back.”

“I mean, that’s cool, I guess, but why?”

Cassidy and Damien share a look, both of them shrugging.

“Mainly to talk about you,” Cassidy admits, not even bothering to look apologetic. When you frown up at her she waves her hand dismissively at you. “All good things, I promise. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Cassidy punctuates her words with a patronizing pat on your shoulder.

“I knew letting you two meet was a bad idea,” you grumble.

Cassidy simply drops her arms from its place on your shoulder in favor of tugging on your hand.

“Come on, sour puss. I want you to meet my husband. He’s a real sweetie – you’re gonna love him.”

A flash of white-hot panic shoots down your spine and you dig your heels into the floor.

“Wait,” you squeak out, eyes wide. “Is… Is he here yet?”

Cassidy’s eyes shine mischievously, briefly flitting up to Damien before returning to you.

“He is. And you’ll be happy to know that pictures do not do the Good Doctor any justice.”

Salt, meet wound.

“Don’t know why you’re telling me that,” you mutter.

“Denial is not just a river in Egypt, my friend,” Cassidy singsongs as she begins tugging you forward. For someone so tiny, she makes easy work of forcing you through the threshold.

The foyer is just as impressive as you expect it to be – beautiful cedar walls and a grand staircase that leads to the second floor. If you weren’t horribly on edge at the current moment, you would definitely comment on the fact that the foyer alone is probably larger than your entire apartment, but you’re too busy scanning the immediate area for tall skinny white guys with stupidly curly brown hair to comment on the grandiosity.

Cassidy leads the two of you to double doors to the right, and just as she’s about to push them open, the shrill ring of your cellphone offers you an out.

You slip your hand from Cassidy’s grip and give her a faux apologetic look.

“I should probably take this – it might be work.”

Damien narrows his eyes at you. “I thought you left your work phone at home.”

You ignore him and begin taking a few steps backwards, “Is there somewhere private I can go?”

An indiscernible look flashes across Cassidy’s face and then her lips pull up into a sugary sweet smile. “Follow the hallway to the very end. Leads to the back porch,” she says. “No need to rush. Take all the time you need!”

Okay, weird, you think to yourself, but the idea of putting off the inevitable for a few extra moments is too tempting to pass up, so you continue your retreat. You make it to the back door in record time and let out a relieved breath as you bring the phone to your ear.

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi, baby. I was just calling to make sure the two of you got there safely.”

You push open the back door and the breathtaking view of the ranch prompts you to take pause; sprawling fields and rolling hills as far as the eye can see, grazing livestock congregating near a lazy stream at the far end of the property, and several horses running across the expanse of the left field. It was wonderfully serene and vastly different from the bustling rat-race that was New York.

You smile to yourself when a loud moo rips through the otherwise quiet ranch. I could get used to this.

“Yeah, we made it,” you murmur into the receiver. “You would love this place, Mom. It’s probably the prettiest place I’ve ever been. I’ll send you a picture when I hang up.”

“How’s Cassidy? Still a little spit-fire, I assume?”

You lean against the railing and let out a snort, “Oh, absolutely. Don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“I’d hope not,” your mother hums. “How does Damien like the ranch?”

“He’s not exactly a fan of the livestock,” you chuckle. “Damien’s never even seen a real cow before. City boy through and through, that one.”

You and your mother share a laugh that dissolves into a comfortable silence. Comfortable, until the telltale clearing of your mother’s throat warns you of the impending inquisition.

“So,” your mother begins. “Are you going to tell me how it went, or are you going to leave an old woman wondering? “

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “Fortunately, I have yet to run into him. I may or may not be hiding out on the back porch as we speak in an attempt to avoid just that.”

“Y/N,” your mother chastises. “Prolonging the inevitable isn’t going to make this any easier.”

“I know, I know. I’ll go in there soon. It’s just a lot, you know? I needed to take a breather, first.” Just until my hands stop shaking. Or until Cassidy comes hunting for me. Whichever comes first.

“I know, baby,” your mother coos. “I’m proud of you for trying. Just don’t drag things out, okay? You’ll only make yourself sick with nerves.” Unfortunately, that ship has sailed. The rolling in your stomach can attest to that.

           You laugh a humorless laugh, “I don’t know, Mom. You always like to remind me how stubborn I am. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I can just avoid him for the entire week.”

           A tiny movement at the very corner of your vision and a loud creak makes you whip your head around, and what you see has your heart falling to your ass.

Spencer Reid, looking absolutely stunning in a pair of khaki dress pants and a white cable-knit sweater, sits in a porch swing with wide eyes and a book clutched tightly in his hands. Soft, caramel-colored curls frame his face and a five o’clock shadow runs the length of his jaw, adding a bit of grown-up flare to his otherwise boyish features.

He looks every bit as beautiful as he did on the day he broke your heart.

--

Spencer knows that he should have spoken up as soon as you walked onto the porch. It was immediately obvious that you hadn’t seen him, and he swears he’s one second away from clearing his throat and launching into the introduction he’d been planning for the last sixty days. But the words die on his tongue as he drinks in the sight of you.

You’re so close to him for the first time in years and it’s more than a little bit dizzying. And yeah, he’s used his very limited knowledge of how the internet works to Google you on more than one occasion, but the version of you leaning against the porch railing is a far cry from the pixelized one. A light breeze rolling through the air lifts your hair away from your face, and Spencer’s breath catches in his throat as he surveys every perfect inch, from the curl of your lashes to the smattering of freckles on your nose. He indulges himself, eyes settling on your cherry red lips, fascinated by the way they move as you talk on the phone. Spencer is intimately familiar with those lips – can recall the way they felt pressed against his own. The years spent apart have done nothing to dull the memories. He’s not entirely sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

It amazes him how you’ve somehow managed to change a lot, but also not at all. You stand before him as an oxymoron personified, and it’s a lot for Spencer’s poor heart to take in. Your hair is a bit lighter than he remembers, as well as a little longer, but it still looks just as soft and he can recall with startling clarity how it felt when he used to run his fingers through it. You have a few more laugh lines than you did, as well as a scar on your left elbow that hadn’t been there before, but everything else about you is so painfully familiar that Spencer could almost pretend that no time had passed – that he still knows your body as well as he once did.

Spencer knows this isn’t true. Every seven years, the body resets; old cells destroyed and replaced with new ones. You’ve both spent enough time apart that your bodies have reset twice over. You’re as much of a stranger to him as he is to you.

Spencer positively abhors the thought.

The sound of your laughter pulls him from the depths of his mind, and while the laugh isn’t warm or inviting in the slightest, he relishes it. What was once one of his favorite sounds has existed in his head as only a memory for far too long. Hearing it in person is jarring in the best of ways.  

The euphoria he feels dies a horrible death when you speak again.

“I don’t know, Mom. You always like to remind me how stubborn I am. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I can just avoid him for the entire week.”

Fucking ouch.

Spencer cringes hard, too hard, because the porch swing screeches out an angry creak and you whip around and holy shit, have your eyes always been that entrancing?

He watches as your entire body goes rigid, tensed as if you’re about to bolt. You blink hard, eyebrows drawn together to form an adorably bewildered expression as you assess him. Spencer hopes he doesn’t look too disheveled. He hadn’t even thought to freshen up after his trip, an oversight that he’s regretting terribly as your eyes flit over him.

Spencer isn’t sure why, but he stands up. Maybe it has something to do with feeling vulnerable. Maybe he just wants to close the distance. The two steps he takes towards you support the latter. He’s thankful that you don’t move away, but the blank expression on your face worries him.

The two of you stand five feet apart, but you feel worlds away. Spencer refrains from speaking for as long as he can stand, which is only about thirty seconds.

“Hi.”

Your lips part, and Spencer holds his breath.

“Hi.”

More silence. Spencer gulps.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, cautious. The last thing he wants to do is fuck up within the first five minutes. Unfortunately, his brain and his mouth seem to have some sort of disconnect, and Spencer continues against his better judgment. “It’s been a while.”

It’s been a while? That’s seriously the best I can come up with?

Spencer contemplates drowning himself in the nearby stream.

“It certainly has.”

“Five-thousand, five-hundred and seventeen days.” And roughly thirty-six and a half hours, but who’s counting?

Muted noises flow out of your phone speaker and you pull your eyes away from Spencer. He’s both relieved and devastated.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. I just ran into someone. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

Spencer agonizes over the fact that he’s been reduced to someone while you and your mother exchange goodbyes. You’re smiling when you look up at him again, but Spencer’s seen what a genuine smile of yours looks like, and this isn’t it.

“I didn’t see you sitting there. My apologies.” Your formality makes the situation all the more excruciating.

Spencer lets out a nervous laugh, “I suppose avoiding me is out of the question now, huh?”

It’s hard to tell who’s more horrified by the words that tumble from his mouth, you or Spencer. A fierce flush spreads across your cheeks. It’s the first crack in your otherwise calm and collected exterior thus far and Spencer relishes in it. Maybe you’re not as unaffected by him as you seem.

“I… I’m sorry you had to hear that,” you stammer, blinking up at him with guilty eyes. “That wasn’t very kind of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t say that I’m undeserving of your anger,” Spencer whispers so quietly that he worries you don’t hear him over the gentle flow of the stream. The hardness that returns to your eyes lets him know that you heard every word.

You clear your throat, signaling your unwillingness to discuss that particularly painful topic. “You’re still partial to Cummings, I see.” You gesture to the book clutched tightly against his chest.

Now, it’s Spencer’s turn to blush. The book in his hands, tattered and worn from years of use, is incriminating. The two of you both know what lies just beneath the binding. The fact that Spencer has it with him now makes him think that he might as well be wearing a t-shirt that reads, I’M STILL NOT OVER YOU.

Spencer raises a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. Old habits die hard, I guess.” His eyes scour your face for a sign of anything that might clue him in to you feeling the same way. A flicker of something dances across your face, but it’s gone so quickly that he can’t be sure if he imagined it. He forces a nervous smile. “If I remember correctly, he was your favorite.” It’s a shitty attempt at a joke.

You exhale a shaky breath and to his absolute horror, your lower lip begins to wobble. He wishes he could reach up and pluck his words from where they hang heavy in the air.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, and fuck if that doesn’t absolutely wreck him.

Spencer shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help himself. “Oh. Why not?”

He holds his breath, anxiously anticipating your next words. You seem to be battling with yourself, mouth opening and closing several times. Spencer is content to wait as long as it takes for you to answer, but the universe is much more impatient than he.

The door leading onto the porch swings open and out walks an honest to God Abercrombie and Fitch model. Or at least, a man who meets the qualifications and then some. Long, flowing blonde hair and a crisp white dress shirt makes Spencer’s unruly brown mop and dumpy sweater look pitiful in comparison. Spencer frowns.

“Sweetheart, you’ve been out here for like ten minutes,” the man chastises as he closes the distance between you and him. Spencer watches him wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you to him like someone might watch a car wreck happen; with equal parts horror and morbid curiosity. “You can’t hide out forever.”

All traces of rigidity leave your body and you melt into the man’s side. It happens in such a way that screams familiarity, as if the pet name hadn’t already driven that point home. The awful, gut-wrenching realization slams home and Spencer has to fight to keep his knees from buckling.

“Uh, sorry,” you mumble, before nodding your head in Spencer’s direction. “Damien, this is Spencer Reid.”

The man’s – Damien’s - eyes go almost comically wide as they settle on Spencer’s dejected frame, before schooling into a cool indifference. He offers him a polite smile that’s a little tight around the edges, but doesn’t outstretch his hand.

“Ah, Spencer. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Spencer swallows hard to keep himself from barking out a crazed laugh. He’s heard of me! That’s certainly something, considering the fact that no one thought it necessary to tell Spencer that you have a –

Spencer’s eyes dart down to your left hand. Thankfully, mercifully, your ring finger is bare.

“Uh, y-yeah. It’s nice to meet you.” The words burn as they roll off his tongue.

Damien nods at him before turning back to you. There’s an unmistakable fondness in the way he looks at you as he speaks. “Cassidy wants everyone back inside. They’re about to serve dinner.”

You smile up at him, not even casting a parting glance at Spencer before Damien leads you back inside. Spencer stands there long after the door closes behind the two of you.

The book feels heavy in his hands.

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taglist:  @is-this-even-important @evelyncade @usuck​ @m0rce1ddd​ @bauhousewife​ @whxt-to-write​ @spencerwaltergubler​ @lovesicksofi​ @idgafayiowf​ @shadyladyperfection​ @mercy-burning​ @sapphic-prentiss​ @itsmytimetoodream​  @m0rce1ddd​ @bauhousewife​ @whxt-to-write​ @spencerwaltergubler​  @enchantedcruelsummer​ @no-honey-no​ @inkstainedwritergirl​ @tnoh13​ @xxconfettiitsaparade​ @calm-and-doctor​ @muffin-cup​ @fortheloveofcriminalminds​ @arcticrory​ @holl2712​@themanwiththreephds @blameitonthenight21​ @stellabelle​ @me-a-hopeless-romantic​ @musicxlover97 @anightflower​ @andiebeaword​ @annesauriol​ @haylaansmi​ 

[bonjour-rainycity]

Odin’s Ward ~ Chapter 14

Link to previous part:

https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/638547377817550848/odins-ward-chapter-13

Pairing: Loki x female reader

Word count: 3943

Warnings: Mentions of violence (non-graphic)

True age: Y/n: 1449 // Loki: 1575 // Thor: 1827 // Audunn 3213

Human equivalent age: Y/n: 23 // Loki: 25 // Thor: 29// Audunn: 51

Loki’s POV

“He planted his seeds in my half of the land,” the farmer spits, red in the face with anger. Odin’s expression is calm, but I, as much as this annoys me, know him well enough to tell when he is putting on a facade.

“I should get what’s sown! It’s my land!”

“But they’re my seeds,” the other farmer counters, face equally splotchy.

I sigh deeply, unfathomably bored with these trivial exchanges. It’s the third Thursday of the month, a time when peasants and nobles alike can bring their concerns before the Royal Family. We occupy the throne room, an intricate chair for us each placed in an intimidating line. I sit to my mother’s left, Thor to Odin’s right. A familiar anger boils within me. Of course the Golden Child sits at the King’s right. Not that I want to be any closer to Odin, but Thor’s position clearly communicates his status: he is next in line for the throne. The bitterness builds. Really, was there ever any contest?

Without warning, Farmer One lunges at Farmer Two, knocking him over the head with a sharp punch. I keep my calm exterior, but internally, my interest piques. Maybe this won’t be a completely wasted day after all.

But to my disappointment, four guards quickly put the skirmish to an end. Both men are taken to the dungeons.

Problem solved, I guess.

The interest I felt only seconds ago abandons me as I see a nearly identical pair to the last come forward.

I slouch.

“Stop her!”

The shout, which comes from a guard outside the throne room, is followed by a loud clamoring as armored guards chase after an unknown offender. And although I logically know it’s probably just some widow trying to cut in line, my hand inches towards my mother, ready to take her to safety if need be. Thor stands, putting on quite the show of a dutiful son. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Against all odds, the noises don’t subside—they get closer to our location. Mother shoots Odin an alarmed look.

But when the intruder enters the throne room, my stomach drops to my feet.

I straighten, back stiff with tension and I can do nothing but stare on in complete shock. I feel my fingers straining with the grip they have on the throne’s arms, but I barely take notice. All I can notice is the shaking, muddy, tear-stained and windblown woman standing in front of me.

It’s Y/n.

A messy, frightened version of Y/n, to be sure, but it’s still her.

My heart aches with a feeling I thought I had long-ago purged.

Thor is the first to break from the shock and hurries down to Y/n, waving away the guards who have attached themselves to her arms. Noticing her tattered dress and shivering form, he takes off his red cloak and wraps it around her, looking at her with the concern and surprise I’m sure we all wear on our faces.

In a hoarse but firm voice, Y/n addresses us. “May I approach the King?”

In a pinched voice, Odin responds. “You may.”

Y/n curtsies as best as she can and takes two wobbly steps forward. Thor hovers near her uncertainly, obviously wondering if she’s about to collapse.

Y/n gives me a fleeting look and my mouth runs dry.

She turns her attention back to Odin. “I’ve come to request aid from Asgard. Two days ago, my husband raised an army against my father. Since then, the realm has been thrown into chaos. Brother murders brother and citizens switch sides as the tides of the battle change. It’s civil war.” She swallows, finding it difficult to continue. “Casualties are estimated at three thousand so far, but I have been gone for several hours. That number has likely risen.”

Odin has the nerve to sound dubious when he speaks. “And just how did you end up here if the realm is indeed engulfed in chaos as you say?”

Through my shock, I still find room to be annoyed by Odin.

Y/n seems to steel herself and looks him right in the eye. “My husband locked me in the dungeon with others deemed to be a threat to his reign. I believe he would have killed me if it were not that his claim to power dies with me. He’s been so preoccupied with trying to overthrow my father that those loyal to me were able to take advantage and help me and my maidservant escape. It took a long time but we were finally able to sneak through the castle and into the observatory, where we took the Bifrost to Asgard.

Odin purses his lips, seeming unaffected by Y/n’s story. “And this maidservant. Can she corroborate your tale?”

Y/n’s face flushes. “It’s not a tale! Your Highness, people are being slaughtered. Look at my shoes!” She kicks one off and holds it up for us to see. Mother stifles a gasp. Y/n’s shoe is caked with blood. Dark, clotted blood sticks all over the bottom and side of her shoe. Upon further inspection, I see that it continues over her ankles and the lower parts of her dress. “Blood like this is running through the castle halls. I can only hope the fighting is confined to the castle and that the carnage has not yet reached the lower town.” Y/n takes another step forward, stronger this time. “Your Majesty, please. They may live far away, but they are still your people. I fear that if we wait much longer, Audunn will take control and anyone loyal to me or my father will be executed.”

Odin squints, mulling over his options. “My help does not come freely.”

Oh how I hate this man.

Y/n grits her teeth but nods. “Then let us negotiate quickly.”

“Asgard’s army will step in and restore your father to the throne. Your husband and his supporters will be put to death or imprisoned.”

Y/n’s lack of reaction is noticeable.

“Your husband’s death does not trouble you?” Odin’s voice seeps with judgement.

“Audunn has made his choices. He must suffer the consequences.” Knowing Y/n so well allows me to detect the malice in her voice. I stifle a mirthless chuckle. So it seems we’ve both been hardened by the world.

Odin nods. “Very well. Since you will be without a husband and my son is still unmarried, I propose the obvious solution.”

My heart stops.

No.

“You and Thor will wed.”

“Father!” Thor’s explosion is the loudest, but Y/n provides her own objections as well. I swallow mine down, retreating into myself. He will get everything that was ever dear to me. I really shouldn’t be surprised at this point, nor feel the hurt, but still, it stabs deep into my chest. I put a lot of effort towards not letting my pain show.

“Father, you are well aware of my intentions to wed Jane. I love her! Y/n is like a sister to me, I would never consent to be her husband.”

“I will not have the next Queen of Asgard be human!” Odin slams his staff into the ground. “For all I care, you can take Y/n as your wife and keep Jane as your mistress. But make no mistake, Jane will never be your wife, nor will her children be heirs to my throne.”

Odin’s proposal clearly sickens Thor, but Y/n just looks blankly at the ground, noticeably quiet now. The two men continue in their argument, each getting louder than the other with every new point.

“Thor please,” Y/n interjects, her voice breaking on the last word.

Silence rings through the room as all eyes turn to her.

She addresses Thor directly, desperation evident in every inch of her body. “My people are dying. An entire realm will be condemned to slaughter and chaos if we cannot reach an agreement today. I am familiar with a husband who keeps mistresses and am very good at being discrete.”

The heart that I thought had long ago hardened breaks a little.

“I promise our marriage will not interfere with any more aspects of your life than absolutely necessary. We can work out the specifics later but for now, I beg for your cooperation.”

Her earnestness is clear and, with a defeated nod, Thor agrees to make my once lover his wife.

Unable to stand it any longer, I stalk from the room.

Y/n’s POV

Loki strides out of the room, looking bored. That’s it?

It’s not like I expected loud objections and an offer to marry me himself,—it has been over two hundred years and all—but I did expect, at the very least, some recognition. Loki gave no indication that he knew or cared who I was. Even through the shock and exhaustion and fear, hurt still manages to find its way into my heart. I try to shake it off. The task at hand is much more important than my feelings.

“If you are ready, Your Majesty, my people will be eagerly awaiting Asgard’s aid.”

Odin doesn’t look at me. Instead, he gestures to a guard. “Have the warriors gathered and ready within the hour. Thor and I will accompany them to Alfheim.”

Frigga interjects before I can. “What about Loki?”

If he stays in Asgard with me and Frigga, the people might view him as cowardly for not going to fight with the men.

Odin purses his lips unpleasantly. “He has not yet regained my trust.”

What?

Frigga looks away, her mouth set in a hard line. Odin exits the throne room, sparing no one any further glances. As Thor passes me, he gives what I think he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“All will soon be well, Lady Y/n.”

I nod, hoping he’s right. When he’s nearly exited the room, I remember his cloak.

“Wait,” I call, hurrying to him. He drops slightly so I can throw the cloak over his massive shoulders and secure it under his chin. Shame keeps me from looking him in the eyes. After all, if he dies, it will be my fault. I don’t want to marry Thor, but he was a dear friend to me at one point, much like a brother. I don’t want to lose him. “Be safe.”

He nods and gives my shoulder a hesitant squeeze. Then, without another word, he follows Odin out of the room. I can tell it will take him a long time to accept our eventual marriage.

Not like it will be any faster for you.

“Come, sweet Y/n.” Frigga’s voice startles me and pulls me from my thoughts. “I believe you need a hot bath, some supper, and a change of clothes.”

I let out a noise that sounds scarily similar to a heaving sob. “Yes, please.”

{***}

The water is hot and the steam curls the ends of my hair. One servant scrubs the dirt from my nails and another, my back. I sigh, feeling some of the tension finally beginning to leave my body.

Then, comes the guilt.

I’m here in Castle Asgard being pampered by servants, sitting in the company of the Queen, while my people are dying. To distract myself from the strong desire to wallow in guilt and despair, I decide to question Frigga about something that’s been bothering me deeply since my arrival.

“Is Prince Loki alright?” I try to sound casual but don’t quite pull it off. “He seemed…not like himself.”

Frigga exhales heavily, and heartbreak settles in her expression. My stomach clenches in anticipation. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. “It is not really my story to tell…but you have a right to know and I doubt he plans on telling you himself.”

I dare not breathe as I wait for her to continue.

“Odin and I have never been the perfect parents. We’ve made many mistakes over the years, but one has stood out amongst them as the most damaging. And my poor son bore the brunt of the hurt from something that isn’t even his fault.” Frigga takes a moment to fiddle with her hands, not meeting my eyes. “Loki is adopted.”

What? I feel my brows furrow as I try to make sense of this. How is someone just adopted into the monarchy? Royalty is based on blood and marriage, not adoption.

“During the last major war with the Frost Giants, Odin came across a baby. A Frost Giant baby — a son of Laufey, no less.”

I heave a sharp intake of breath. “What?”

She continues, giving me a teary-eyed look. “The baby had magic and unknowingly used its abilities to capture the likeness of an Asgardian child. Odin felt for him and brought him home. You have to understand, Odin and I had been trying for another child for over two hundred years, without success. It had seemed Thor would be our only child, but then the gods dropped this blessing into our laps.” The tears fall then, and she cuts me off as I try to interject with questions. “Because Loki is a blessing, you see. He is my son just as much as Thor is, and I would not trade him for a biological child.” Her voice takes on a desperate, scratchy quality that I’ve never heard from her. “I love Loki. He is my child. And he is part of this family!” Frigga sniffles pitifully and, if I were not naked and soaking with suds and water, I would jump up and hug her. “Unfortunately, Loki does not see it this way. He did not find out the truth from us, but by accident.” A pained look crosses her face. “He thought he was a monster. He still thinks that. And yes, some of his recent actions have been like those of a monster, but I know he isn’t. My poor child is hurting, and he does not know how to handle it.” She takes a steadying breath and turns her eyes to the ceiling. “Odin has essentially sworn Loki off, and Loki has done the same for the rest of us. He still holds some affection for me, but all is lost for his father and brother. He even tried to kill Thor and Jane. Thankfully, the attempt was unsuccessful, but that makes it no less terrifying. It’s a horrible thing to have your sons on opposing sides. After that, Loki—” she shudders violently. “He—he fell off the Bifrost. Well, he was going to fall, and Thor tried to pull him back up, but-but Loki let go.” Her voice breaks and the tears fall freely now.

He…tried to kill himself? I feel a lump rise in my own throat and my breath stops all together. The bath water seems to turn ice cold. My mind races to try and draw the connection between the Loki I knew and the Loki in Frigga’s story.

What happened to him?

“He fell for who knows how long. It was many months before he resurfaced again, though he was not the same person. Not at all. My poor son! He had been brutally tortured and his anger only amplified during his time of isolation.”

I feel my muscles tense and lock into place. Someone tortured Loki? The fury I feel surprises me, scares me even. Never have I wanted to hurt someone like I want to hurt the person who caused Loki pain.

“Loki had grown up his whole life to believe he was destined to be a king. When he realized his true parentage, Loki knew Odin would never allow him to rule.” She frowns. “Odin should not have encouraged him so during his childhood only to rip the possibility away later. But the entity who tortured him—he still won’t tell us who—made Loki believe that he could be king of Midgard. Loki used the Chitarui to attack a Midguardian city and try to force the realm into submission to him. Many people died.”

My heart beats so loudly that I’m sure everyone in the room can hear it. I’m surprised the vibrations aren’t causing waves in my bathwater. As much as I want to cover my ears or run out of the room and denounce Frigga’s words as lies, I can’t. Because no matter how horrifying and outlandish this story sounds, I can’t ignore the fact that the Loki I saw an hour ago was not the same Loki I knew two hundred and fifty years ago. Yes, people change, but not like that. Something really, really awful must have happened to bring about this new Loki.

Frigga continues, sounding weary. “A Midgardian fighting group Thor associates with defeated Loki and the Chitauri. Loki was brought back to Asgard in chains. Odin sentenced him to a five hundred years of imprisonment. There was nothing I could do to lessen the sentence and, of course, Loki has too much pride and hatred for his father to try and lessen it himself. But not long after his imprisonment, the Dark Elves launched an attack on the Nine Realms.”

I furrow my brow. I hadn’t heard of this. How had Alfheim not been aware?

“Loki broke out of prison and aided Thor in the fight against the Dark Elves.” Frigga gives a tearful smile. “Finally, they were on the same side! Loki nearly died in the fight. He protected Jane with his life. Thankfully, Thor was able to bring him back to Asgard in time and the Healers and I saved him with our magic. At mine and Thor’s behest, Odin begrudgingly ended Loki’s imprisonment. We all agreed that Loki’s sacrifice and willingness to protect the Nine Realms atoned for his crimes. I truly thought that was the turning point and that my Loki would be back.”

She sighs, looking at her hands once more. “But Loki is still a changed man. The lies, betrayals, hurt, and anger penetrated too deeply into his soul. Now he is cold, distant, spiteful, and he always wears a mask. No one can ever guess what he is feeling, because he refuses to give any indication of it! I worry he is not letting himself heal. And he is trying to push away the people he loves most.” Her voice softens, and she places a tender hand on my soapy cheek. “Do not be surprised if he does the same to you.”

{***}

Since my most immediate needs have been taken care of, I have ample energy to worry.

My stomach, in a near-constant state of unease since my escape from the dungeons, churns. My mind darts from thought to thought as I try to cope with fears for my people and my father, my anger at Audunn, shock at all I’ve experienced, pain and frustration at my engagement to Thor, and deep, deep hurt for Loki. There’s some anger there, too. Maybe more than some.

I huff.

Definitely more than some.

How could he be so stupid?! Yes, it’s absolutely terrible what he went through, but resorting to realm-domination and murder? Uh-uh. No way. Unacceptable. And the attitude on him! What the Hel is that?

“Ugh!” Some of my frustration leaves me at the spot where my foot kicks the table.

It immediately returns upon registering the pain.

“My Lady, please sit down!” Ragna worries over me, trying to pull me into a plush, high-backed chair. “You have been through so much, you need to rest.”

I scoff, yanking my arm from her grip. “There’s too much going on to allow time for rest, Ragna. And yet there’s nothing I can do about any of it!” I drop my arms to my side, defeated. “I hate that there’s nothing I can do.”

She frowns, unsure of how to help me. It’s then that I notice how tired she looks herself. A deep scratch runs from her temple to her hairline—she got that from a rogue guard when we were escaping Alfheim. She’s been through just as much as you have.

I give her a weak smile, hoping I look reassuring. “You and I both have been through a great ordeal. Please, let me call a servant to show you to your quarters. Take as long as you need to bathe, eat, rest, whatever you need.”

Ragna hesitates, but she’s so tired that she’s swaying on her feet. I nod encouragingly. “Al-alright, My Lady. Thank you.”

“Of course.” I go to the wall and pull on the string that will ring a bell in the Servant’s Quarters. Within minutes, a young serving maid enters the room with a knock and a curtsey. I send Ragna away with instructions not to come back until she is fully fed, cleaned, and rested.

But once I’m alone, the thoughts come racing back. While there’s nothing I can do right now to help Alfheim, there is something I can do to help myself.

I let out a loud, guttural groan, knowing what I have to do.

{***}

I haven’t been in the palace in over three centuries, but little has changed. Queen Frigga insisted I retake my old living quarters, so the path is one I know well.

He doesn’t seem surprised when I bypass a servant and enter his chambers without knocking.

“Leave us.” While my throat feels tight, the command is clear, and the five servants hurry from the room.

Loki doesn’t look up from his book when he says his first words to me in two hundred and fifty years. “Well, that was rude. What a terrible first impression the future queen of Asgard has given them.”

I scoff, crossing my arms, trying not to let the jab at my imminent marriage to Thor hurt me. “You want to talk to me about manners? All you do is scowl and stalk out of rooms.”

He gives an unaffected shrug. “Think what you like.”

The silence weighs on me and I can feel my heartbeat echoing through my body.

“Stand up.”

Now it’s his turn to scoff. “Why? Planning on impaling me with your dagger?”

Tempting. “Stand. Up.”

He sighs but humors me, setting down his book to stand with his arms spread mockingly wide. “Happy?” He fixes me with a hard, emotionless look.

I steel myself and barrel forward, throwing my arms around him in a tight hug.

He stiffens. “Lady Y/n, whatever you hope to achieve—”

“Shut up.” I squeeze tighter, turning my face so my cheek is against his chest. He sighs again and lets his arms hang, refusing to hug me back. I press on, forcing myself to say what I came here to say. “Listen. You’ve done some really bad things and turned yourself into a pretty awful person to be around.” I swallow, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. “But regardless of where we stand or what is in the past or future, you need to know that I am always on your side. I want you to get better. I don’t want you to feel pain or be sad or hurt or anything bad. But you have got to stop self-sabotaging. You need to let yourself heal. The people who love you can only protect you from so much.”

I push away from him and leave the room without another look.

A/n Happy New Year! My requests are open so message me if there’s something you would like for me to write :) Let me know what you thought of this chapter and if you would like to be added to the tag list!

Link to next part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/639618035738607616/odins-ward-chapter-15

Masterlist

Tag list: @80strashbag @dark-night-sky-99 @what-am-i-doing10 @chxrryycola @ravenclaw5606 @hiddlebatchedloki @jooordanharrrop

[tendertenebrosity]

Rill - after the battle

This is another older piece of writing I have but didn’t have anywhere to put. This one probably requires a bit of worldbuilding context. Basically - your standard ‘mages are imprisoned because they’re dangerous’ setup, but in this version magic is basically a poison and makes people who channel it sick. 

~

Tunk. Tunk.

Rill yelped aloud and scrambled away backwards until his shoulder and back hit the impermeable magic that surrounded him, throwing an arm up. Somebody was rapping on the bubble with their fingers.

After a second, he peered over the sheltering arm. The bubble was surrounded by people – uniforms of the Duke’s army, standing over him. One of them was reaching out again – someone with a bandage around his right arm -

Tunk tunk.

The soldier waved at him, and tapped on the bubble again, with a questioning look. Yes, Rill knew him, although he couldn’t recall his name. He was standing too close, his sandy moustache looming over Rill as he leaned forward. Why was he so close? Why were they all looming…

Rill realised that there were other people behind his back, barely a few feet away beyond the magic. “No! Aaah!” He threw himself forward, to huddle in the middle. The still-glowing spell shone above his head, and he was seized with an irrational dread that it would wink out before it was supposed to, leaving him to the mercy of the crowding soldiers.  

The ground under his knees was grass torn up and trampled into mud. Muddy water soaked the knees of his robes, cold and gritty against his skin. The blood that soaked his robe had started out warm but now it was cold, too, sticky and sodden.

Tunk. Tunk. Tap tap tap. Tap. Now there was tapping coming from all directions.

“Stop it! Go away! Ahh!” Rill covered his head with his hands and cowered. They wanted to kill him. Why else were they standing so close, why else would there be so many of them crowding around?

A corner of his mind doubtfully said that there were only five or so, not that many, but he lost that train of thought when he remembered the soldier he’d killed.

They saw me, Rill thought, panicked. They saw what I did. They saw what I did and now they’ve come to get me. Who wouldn’t be scared of me after something like that? Oh Maker, his arm came clean off…

Tunk tunk tunk tunk tunk…

“Leave me alone,” he whimpered, hands over his ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please leave me alone.”

“Mage, can you hear us in there?” Tap tap.

“Go away. Go away.”

“Ma – Rill. It was Rill, yeah? You can take this down now. Nobody left to fight.”

“Go away!”

“Can we back away from the crazed mage, okay, I like my limbs…”

“…. what it was that set him off?”

“Stop tapping on the glass, idiot!”

“… hell if I know. Fuckin’ mages, you know as much as me….”

The soldier wouldn’t hurt Rill, would he? He’d only known the man for a day… nobody liked or trusted Rill, nobody liked or trusted mages… he wasn’t supposed to have been using magic… he’d killed three people.

Why had Rill made the bubble so tiny? He felt like it was crushing him. The uniforms standing around it loomed and wavered like they were underwater. He was breathing in sobbing gasps, his heart racing.

“Stay away,” he managed to say, raising his voice. “Don’t – come - any closer. Please just go away and leave me alone – please – ”

He wrapped his arms around his head and closed his eyes. If he stayed like this for long enough maybe everybody would go away. They couldn’t get him in here. They couldn’t get him in here.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. His whole body seemed to be shaking, in a horrible way that felt like he was going to fall apart if he didn’t keep his legs still and his arms locked.

“Mage Rill. Look up at me, please.”

Rill knew that voice. He looked up, crossing his arms to try and stop the awful shaking.

Magewatcher Captain Laurent was standing in front of him. His hair was in disarray and his blue coat was torn and bloodied, one arm and breast singed. He was alone - all of the soldiers from before had retreated to the base of the hill to watch from a distance.

Laurent’s expression was concerned, but not surprised. His eyes met Rill’s steadily.

Rill’s gaze darted, almost without his volition, to Laurent’s hip. Sure enough, Laurent’s hand was hovering close to the sword hilt.  

“Laurent,” Rill said. “A-are you here to kill me? Oh, God, you are, aren’t you?” He was struggling for breath again. “You don’t have to. I’m sorry. Please tell them I’m sorry.”

Laurent’s forehead creased in a frown. “No,” he said. “I am not. Take your shield down, Mage Rill.”

Rill inched backwards, mud slipping and squelching under his knees, until he was pressed against the back of the bubble. It was reassuringly solid against his back. He shook his head violently. “No. No. I’m not doing that.”

Laurent looked down on Rill for a few seconds. As if he was passing judgement. It had taken him an awfully long time to say ‘no’. Rill watched his hand settle on the hilt of his sword, thoughtfully.  

Unexpectedly, he crouched down, resting one hand on the grass for balance.

“Rill. I need you to listen to me,” he said, slowly and deliberately. His gaze was fixed on Rill’s face. “How about you take a deep breath for me? Come on. Like in class. In for a count of four… hold…”

Almost unconsciously, Rill found himself obeying. It was a struggle to slow his breathing down, but he did. Count of four. Breath out.

“That’s better,” Laurent said, still speaking slowly. “All, right now. I know you’re scared, but you need to try and think clearly. The battle is over.”

“I know,” Rill said. Another count of four, breathe in, hold, breathe out… “I know the battle’s over. But it’s, it’s not safe for me to come out. I’m not taking the bubble down, I need it. It’s not safe.”

“Yes, it is,” Laurent said. “It’s very safe. All of the enemy are gone – we won. You don’t need your shield anymore.”

Over Laurent’s shoulder, Rill could see the menacing huddle of uniforms. “What about them?”

Laurent half-turned. “Those are our people, Rill,” he said patiently as he turned back.

“I know that.” Why couldn’t he get himself to stop shaking? “But they could still… they could…” He trailed off. Suddenly what he was saying didn’t make any sense at all. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?”

Laurent nodded. “You’re mage-sick - it’s the magic you’ve used over the last few days making you feel this way. We talked about this, remember? That’s why it’s important for you to dismiss your shield. So I can get you a draught as soon as possible.”

Rill took a deep breath, and then another. Each one seemed harder to pull into his chest. There wasn’t enough air in here, but the thought of letting Laurent or any of the soldiers get to him still filled him with unreasoning panic. “I can’t do that. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. It’s safe out here,” Laurent said firmly. “I am here.”

Rill choked back a hysterical laugh. “You think that makes it better? I know what you do with crazy mages!”

Laurent hissed in a breath, and let it out. “Rill. Look at me. I promise I am not going to hurt you.”

“But –”

“I promise. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to let anybody else here hurt you. You’re not in your right mind, and I know it’s hard, but right now you need to trust me and do what I say. All right?”

Rill let his head fall into his hands. This is Magewatcher  Laurent, he told himself. You have to do what he says. You know he’ll do what’s right. What if he decides what’s ‘right’ is for you to die before you hurt anyone else? It might even be true. He promised not to hurt you. People break promises all the time. Watchers won’t hesitate to lie to you if they think it’ll stop you hurting others.  

You have to do what’s right.

Rill gritted his teeth. “Yes. All right.”

The bubble disappeared soundlessly, leaving him sitting in the grass face-to-face with Laurent. The wind caressed Rill’s face; he hadn’t even noticed its absence.

“Good,” Laurent said warmly. “That’s right. You keep breathing.” He dug a pair of mage gloves from a pocket, his eyes not leaving Rill. “You’re going to be fine. I need you to give me your hands now.”

Rill flinched instinctively. No. This is okay. Calm down. He held his hands out – they were shaking, and covered in dried blood. The blue of magic shone through the blood, too much, way too much. Rill was happy when they were covered with the gloves and he didn’t have to look at them anymore.

Rill flinched when Laurent touched him, but schooled himself to stillness. The other man’s hands were shockingly warm against him.

“Come on. Let’s get you some medical attention,” Laurent said, taking a firm grip on his upper arm and pulling him to his feet. “Is that blood yours?”

“Yes,” Rill said, stumbling.

“… All of it? Shit.”

“Not all. I th-th-think,” Rill said. The touch of Laurent’s hands on his arms made his skin crawl, and instead of steadying him against the shaking, it seemed to make it more obvious. Don’t let him see how bad you are. He might decide you’re too far gone. “I h-have a wound on my back, but I d-don’t know...”

Please stop touching me.

Once he was standing, his head spun and the world whirled. The thought of the heavy, cotton-wool muffling of a draught started to sound almost appealing. At least if he was drugged into sleep he wouldn’t feel so frightened, wouldn’t shake so much, wouldn’t be here hovering on the brink of tears.

“You’re going to be fine,” Laurent repeated. “We’re going to have to walk through camp. Don’t take fright at all the people; just walk with me. Let’s go.”

[dark-and-kawaii]

i want to have a wholesome carnival date with all might where we eat cotton candy and have fun a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶w̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶o̶p̶s̶

This is so pure and adorable (´ ω `♡) *sips warm drink* I think he’d win you all the big stuffed animals and ooooohhhhh he’d hold your cotton candy for you and feed you it.... *reads your crossed out words* ... *facepalm* gotta finish the carnival date with fireworks *winks winks* I left this sfw for now :3 it was just cute and I kinda ran with an idea!!!

You were honestly shocked when he asked you to go out in public with him... All Might had wanted to keep you a secret for the longest time, and your dates usually were at either yours or his place...

“A-All Might... are you sure?”

Resting his hands on his hips, All Might let out a booming laugh, “Of course I am, ____!!! It’s time we go out instead of hiding inside!!!”

With a radiant smile you jumped into him and wrapped your arms around his neck, “As long as you’re okay with this!! I am too!!”

All Might wrapped a large arm of his around you and held you to his chest. With your head buried in his neck you were unable to see the concern in his bright blue eyes... he wanted to give you the world and more but he knew eventually it would come with a price... Everyone he ever loved was always taken from him, but he didn’t want to keep you as a prisoner... It wasn’t fair to you...

Whispering to himself so you wouldn’t hear, “I promise you, ______. We will have a good time and I’ll keep you safe..” His grip tightened around you before he put you down.

“Now then maddam!! Let us get going!!”

You were both enjoying your public date at the carnival, minus the photographers and fans, it was nice. One lady tried to give All Might a kiss on the cheek and when he turned it down she looked at you and gave you a dirty look... in fact a lot of the woman were giving you a dirty look, you even heard one say “she’s only with him for the fame I bet”.

Hanging your head you looked away, ‘no I’m not... I’m with him because I love him...’

Picking up the vibe, All Might lifted you in the air and placed you on his shoulders, his grin never leaving his face.

All Might walked around with you on his shoulders so you could see everything, but one booth caught your eyes more so than the others... it was a game but the prize was a giant All Might Plushie...

Laughing aloud, All Might saw what caught your eyes, “But you have the real thing, ____!!!”

“Mm I know, but what if you have to leave or I see you’re fighting a big badie on Tv... I could cling to the plushie version of you. It would keep me company when you couldn’t.”

“Good point!!! I can’t have you being alone!!!”

Jumping in the air, All Might landed in front of the booth. With you still on his shoulders, he played the game. It only took one toss and he easily knocked down the bottles... and tore a hole through the tent... and the one behind it...

“HAHAHAHA!!!! Oops!!” Flexing his arm, All Might looked up at you, “guess I still don’t know my own strength!!”

Carrying the giant plush of himself, All Might carried you to the cotton candy booth to snag some up. He would feed it to you while carrying you still.

“I could walk on my own ya know?”

“Nonsense!!! It’s muddy out and I’m proud to show you off to the world!!!”

The date was coming to an end... The night sky introduced itself to the carnival and everyone was packing up to go home.

“I had a really nice time, All Might. Thank you.”

“I did too, ____.”

Placing you on the ground, All Might handed you the plush and kisses your cheek in doing so. He smiled at you warmly... god he loved you so much.

“_____. Thank you for being with me.”

A blush crept up on you, “y-you’re welcome but really I should be thanking you for that... you could have anyone in the world and you chose me.”

Messing up your hair, All Might tossed around your hair with his hand, “Let’s go home”

It was late, midnight to be exact... All Might was starting to cough... and blood was spitting out in his hand as he covered his mouth...

Looking down he saw the crimson color, ‘crap. Need to get going...’

“What’s wrong All Might?”

“It’s late, I should be getting home...” he coughed again...

“You should stay here... you don’t sound that good...”

You didn’t know about his secret yet, to you he was just All Might coughing due to a cold... you had no idea about his real name or form... And All Might wasn’t about to tell you either... He didn’t want to lose you and he thought you’d leave if you knew...

“It’s nothing really, I just need sleep my love.”

...

He coughed yet again... And this time you saw the blood...

“!!! No way!!! Look at you!! You’re coughing up blood!! You need to stay, please!?”

His face was full of worry and he was trying his best to keep it together... He needed to get out of here...

~Cough ssss

It was too late... steam was arising from his body... And before he knew it... he was back to being Toshinori Yagi...

Your eyes went wide and you jumped back from the couch... “wh-who... wh-what...”

Toshinori looked defeated, this was it... Looking over at your giant All Might plushie he thought to himself, ‘at least you’ll have that...I’m sorry, ____...’

He was looking away from you, and just as he was about to standup he felt cold fingertips grace his face with a soft touch...

“Wh-why didn’t you tell me...”

Leaning into your touch, Toshinori looked at you with sorrowful eyes... “I didn’t want you to leave...”

Tears welded up in your eyes, “and you think this would be the breaking point? How foolish are you, so much for being number one, huh.” You continued to caress his face with your fingers, “you’re so much more than a good looking body, your heart is what I fell in love with... I love you for you, not for your hair or muscles...”

Toshinori’s blue eyes glistened with tears... Pulling you to him he embraced you and kissed the top of your head, “I love you, _____.”

~ Love Kiwi xoxo

[winterverses]

Walking Wounded - Chapter Sixty-Three

Before noon Anne had already received the summons to court and reviewed the charges against her. In summation, the accusations were that she had participated with Loche of her own free will and even taken the lead in some of his torturous pastimes. The thought of it was chilling. She’d had to remind herself, very firmly, that there was no way this could stand up in court. Even a cursory examination of the evidence would show that it was impossible for her to have been in collusion with Loche.

Wouldn’t it?

Her accusers weren’t named, but Loche had to be behind it. And he wasn’t stupid by any means. Was it only a last chance to hurt her before he lost power over her completely? She didn’t think he was given to that sort of idiocy the way Tarenn was.

When Jim woke, she tried to put on a smile, but it didn’t fool him. He came out into the kitchen, saw her hands shaking as she set up breakfast, and just said, “Show me.” With a flour-smutched hand, Anne tapped out her access code on the padd on the table, and then left him to read. Mason would kill her for letting Jim have free access to her personal profile, but she couldn’t care just then. She busied herself with breakfast.

When she heard him set the padd down and stand, she tried to laugh. “Well, at least we won’t have to worry about getting bored,” she said.

A kiss on her shoulder stilled her, Jim’s hands sliding around her waist and pulling her back against him. “Can I send that on to a few of the crew? I’d like them to be aware so that they can prepare to testify on your behalf.”

“Do you think they will?” Anne asked. Nyota would. Spock might. The rest…

To his credit as a human being, he didn’t react as if it was a silly question. “They will.” Jim kissed the top of her head. “Even if they didn’t know you, they would still do it. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Let’s not mention this in the same breath as the party,” Anne murmured, feeling a little better. “I’d rather not feel like one or the other was pity.”

“No one who knows you pities you,” Jim said.

She pressed back against him for a moment, and then pulled away. “Breakfast will be ready in a few moments. Would you like to eat out on the balcony?”

“Sure,” Jim said, backing off. She heard him picking up the pad, the soft thump of his fingers on the screen as he sent off messages, and concentrated hard on making sure the oil didn’t get too hot, even though it didn’t need that much concentration.

By the time she brought out the beignets, topped with a snowy mound of icing sugar, he had finished with the padd and was wandering outside, looking at her garden. Anne was fairly sure he didn’t know quite what he was looking at, except for the few plants that were self-explanatory like the potted orange tree and the tomatoes. “Come and eat,” she said, setting down the tray. When he looked questioningly at her, she said, “You’ve had these before, but you don’t know it.”

“Well, I know what coffee is,” he said, picking up the mug as he sat down. When he sipped at it, his eyebrows rose at the unusual bitterness. “What’s in this?”

“It’s New Orleans style, café chicorée. Let me know if you don’t like it, and I’ll make you some regular coffee.”

“Huh.” Jim sipped it again, testing it. “No, it’s good. Nice for a change. Did that make it onto the synth database?”

“Yes, of course, along with my teas. I can’t imagine why Chun Mee had been missed. I know you don’t usually take cream and sugar, but please, let me add some. You’ll want it this time.” She picked up the small pitcher of cream.

He pushed his cup toward her. “You’re the boss when it comes to food. If you say you prefer something, I know there’s a reason.”

Anne poured in the cream, using far more than she would under any other circumstances. The coffee paled to the shade of a muddy river, and Anne added sugar, mixing her own mug the same way. “I’m not as good as the Café du Monde, but then, it’s survived hundreds of years just being a coffee and doughnut place. Mine aren’t as good, but I try.”

Jim scoffed at her and took a bite of a beignet, icing sugar falling everywhere. He evidently came to the conclusion that it was delicious. “I should have guessed you were French,” he said, looking up at her. “Paris. New Orleans. Tahiti. Vietnam. All historically influenced by France. Let me guess, you lived in Quebec too, or on Martinique?”

“Caught,” Anne said, grinning. “If it ever comes up, I can tell you where the most perfect beach on any world is, and when to go to have it all to yourself. I got such a sunburn. Black sand that looked like stars, and angelfish that played around my ankles.” She paused, then added, “Bring a rebreather. You’ll want to look under the water.”

“Being planetside does have its advantages,” Kirk said. “I’d love to visit the ocean again. Maybe I will, once I--”

The padd chimed, indicating a videocall. It was probably Nyota. Anne waited for Jim’s nod, and then answered it.

She nearly dropped the padd. There, on the screen, was a face she hadn’t seen in more than half her life. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “Maman,” she said weakly.

“Ne penses-tu pas qu’il est temps pour toi de rentrer à la maison?” That same, sharp-featured face looked out at her, framed by crow-black waves.

Jim knew something was wrong. Before he could say anything, Anne waved him off. “Je ne veux plus jamais te revoir, ni parler. Laisse-moi tranquille. Adieu.” She blanked the screen of the padd so hard that it shook in her hands, and set it on the table, far from her.

“Why don’t I watch your calls today?” Jim asked, having caught the gist of the exchange. “I’ll bounce any I don’t like.”

“S'il te plaît,” Anne said, her voice still unsteady, and then realized she hadn’t spoken English. “Please do. You know my login, yes?”

He made a little embarrassed face, meant to cheer her. “It’s not like I meant to learn it…”

Anne laughed, feeling her steadiness flowing back. “It’s not a problem. I’ll have to change my comm code now that she knows. This is the first time I’ve spoken to her since I was a child.”

“Then you’re good at hiding. It’s kind of unnerving that she hasn’t given up.”

“You don’t know her. She won’t give up.” Shaking off the chill she’d gotten, Anne stood. “I think this coffee needs some rum. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Once inside, she set out the rum, then walked to the washroom to cry, just a little, before she had to go back out.

As he’d expected, Kirk heard the padd chime again. He glanced inside. Anne had walked off somewhere. Hopefully she would take a while. He answered the message and found himself looking at an older, softer version of Anne. Coal-black hair, not swept into one of the smooth twists Anne preferred, but stylishly framing her face. Color of her eyes indistinguishable, beyond that they were dark. As he watched they flicked instantly from a hard sternness to friendly and open. Kirk returned her gaze evenly, having seen that sort of facile switch far too often.

The woman said something in French, smiling at him, and Kirk shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t speak it.” He did, a little, but he wasn’t about to give anything away. The softening of those sharp features should have made her seem more approachable than Anne, but something about her would have made him wary even if he hadn’t known anything about her. An air of severity, despite her prettiness. Maybe just that what few wrinkles she had were all in the wrong places for smiling.

“How embarrassing,” the woman said. British accent. Mellow, pleasant voice, not as low as Anne’s. “Anne has not introduced us. Please forgive her rudeness. I’m Marie Sauvageot.”

Kirk purposely took a beat too long to respond, a beat during which he saw a flicker of impatience in her eyes. That decided his course of action. “I’m afraid I’ve heard more than enough about you, ma’am. I’ve no interest in a conversation except to say that you won’t be speaking to Anne, and this comm code will be canceled today. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

It was a mistake to be polite; the woman interrupted him immediately. “I know you must feel you are trying to protect her, but I’m her mother. Whatever happened in the past, it’s unfair not to give me a chance to make it right, unfair of her and unfair of you.”

“Fine. If you have something to say, you can say it to me. If you choose not to say it to me, you won’t get to say it at all.” Kirk sat back in his chair, waiting to see whether the woman would attempt to prove him to be bluffing.

“I’m not going to air our family grievances to a stranger. Please let me speak to my daughter; this is none of your concern,” the woman said, looking stung. Different tactics than he remembered from his stepfather, but they had the same goals: persuasion, isolation, control of the terms of engagement. He idly decided that he would rather have a shark for a mother in law. No wonder Anne’s file wasn't quite accurate, if she had to deal with this following her around.

“I’m not going to stoop to arguing about it. If you need to know who I am, you can look up my record with Starfleet-- Kirk, James T., serial number SC 937-0176 CEC. In fact, I encourage you to do so. I also encourage you to remember that harassment is a crime and I am a Starfleet officer. Now, Anne’s made her wishes clear, and I’ve witnessed it. I’ll be logging this with UFPJ immediately. If you have any questions, you can request further information from Justice.” He paused, looking her over. She only seemed even more hurt, and for a moment he wondered if he had been too harsh-- but immediately reminded himself that the first thing she’d done was insult Anne, and the second had been to dismiss Anne’s wishes. Definitely not a great start, especially when the woman presumably didn’t know anything about him or his relationship to Anne. “Have I made myself clear?”

Her frown deepened fractionally, her words coming slowly. “If you insist, there is very little I can do regarding it, though I worry for my daughter's happiness with someone so heartless toward her family.”

She didn’t believe him. Well, that was her prerogative. He shifted back in his chair, deliberately letting the viewscreen catch a glimpse of his bare shoulder. “Goodbye, belle-maman. I hope we don’t hear from you again.” He was careful not to let his tone become insulting.

That broke her composure. She scowled at him, blanking the screen herself. Kirk set down the padd and sipped his coffee. Disturbing. If he hadn’t already been so protective of Anne, would he have tried to avoid the issue? If he hadn’t understood what Anne had lived with on some level, would he have tried to argue her mother’s case? And, perhaps even more unsettling, if they hadn’t been caught up in this pattern of rescuing and being rescued, would he have implied that their relationship was more permanent than it actually was? What did that say about his motivations? What did it say about what he wanted?

Maybe Claudia was right. But did it matter?

Kirk realized he was staring blankly at the padd, and shook his head. He was still logged into Anne’s civilian profile; might as well press on. He searched up Mason’s code, noting the man’s full name and address of residence as a matter of habit, and gave Mason a wide, insolent grin when the man answered. “Hi there. Anne’s comm code needs changing, and it needs to be forwarded on to UFPJ and Starfleet, as well as whatever contacts she needs to keep in touch with.”

Mason answered stiffly, “I’m not sure what you expect me to do without her verbal or signatory authorization.”

Good man. No beating around the bush, just a pretty straightforward British go-fuck-yourself that Kirk recognized from his time in London. “No need to get your back hair up. She’s just bringing out breakfast, she’ll talk to you in a sec.” Maybe now wasn’t the time to mention that she had gone to get a drink; Mason seemed like the type who might object on the grounds of her potential inebriation even if she hadn’t touched the rum yet. “I just thought I might also ask, though I’ll understand if you don’t answer, if anyone could plausibly have gotten access to her comm code. Starfleet wouldn’t have given it out. It’s not a matter of public record. That leaves me, you, and her personal friends as potential leaks.”

Mason froze, his expression turning to an uncomfortable mixture of anger and guilt, his scowl thunderous. “La bête sauvage called, didn’t she? That bloody cunt. I’m aware of how she obtained Ms. Hardesty’s comm code; I passed it on to her myself in desperation, when I was making my inquiries into Ms. Hardesty’s disappearance. That woman has a talent for chasing Anne down, and I thought--”

Kirk nodded. As a desperation move, that was plausible enough now that he’d seen Anne’s mother firsthand. “No need to explain. I’m just glad you know the source of her information.” He heard the door slide open then and looked up-- Anne was carrying the rum in one hand and two glasses of ice with the other. Her eyes looked a little red. “Hey. I hope I didn’t overstep, but I’ve got Mason on the comm here regarding the two calls we just received.”

“She called again, huh?” Anne asked, and Kirk was relieved to hear that her voice was steady. She set the rum and glasses down on the table. “I thought she would. Did she leave a message?”

“Not... as such,” Kirk answered. “I let her know that she could contact Justice if she was unclear on laws about harassment.”

Ambiguous emotions tugged at Anne’s expression until it finally settled into humor. Bending down, she brushed a kiss on his temple. “You’re such a dragon, cher.” He knew that wasn’t a wholehearted endorsement of his actions, but she didn’t seem upset; he held up the padd and she took it from him with a little smile, then spoke to Mason. “I would imagine Jim’s told you about the situation.”

“I am fully aware of the details. You have no need for concern on this front,” Mason said stiffly.

“Good. Please take care of it by whatever means you feel necessary. If you have any questions, you know where I am.” Mason signed off, and Anne sighed, then poured a slug of rum into each glass and sat down. Handing one to Kirk, she said, “It’s all right, but I do wish you hadn’t spoken to her.”

Why had he answered the call? It hadn’t been necessary. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s frustrating to keep on slamming headfirst into situations where I can’t just… react.”

“I know. You still have to be so careful of me, even though I’ve come so far already. I can’t imagine how much it must chafe.” Anne shook her head, laughing abruptly. “I hope it was satisfying to take some of that out on her.”

And there she went, being perceptive again. “If I say yes, does that mean I can do it again? Because I could definitely blow off some steam.”

To his surprise, her laugh became more heartfelt. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer working on that case of champagne? Dodging flying shards of glass has so much more potential for enjoyment.”

“You’re not wrong,” he answered. “I should see whether Bones ever got back to me.” After a moment, he decided he couldn’t quite let the topic rest, however; he added, “In case it ever becomes an issue, I… may have implied that we were married at some point during that conversation.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and he worried a little until he realized that she was biting back her amusement. “You are… incredible, James Tiberius Kirk. I can’t believe your nerve. Of all the things you could have said, you picked that?”

“It seemed like the most direct way to--”

“I get it, I get it. I’m just not sure how you knew I wouldn’t rip your face off for that, because trust me, if anyone else had ever done that, I would.” Snickering, she clinked her glass against his and tossed back some rum. “I should find some way to tell your friends. They would stage an intervention, and it would serve you right.”

“Nah, they’d close frequencies. Too weird for them, even Bones.” He considered briefly. “Spock would get it. He can be surprisingly good at letting people jump to conclusions when he wants to be.”

“I had gotten that impression, yes. I’m glad he’s your friend, otherwise I’d worry for you.” Nudging his rum toward him, Anne took a deep breath, then flashed him a smile. “All right. Well, let’s just forget about all this. Let’s get drunk and fuck.”

He couldn’t argue. That was infinitely better than any alternative he could think of. “Sounds fantastic.”

“These violent delights have violent ends,” Anne mused, staring at the ceiling of their bedroom as Jim made his way over to the bed, kicking aside shards of green glass as he walked. The case of champagne had shown up shortly after that phone call; they'd spent the rest of that day and part of this one amusing themselves with it, and other things.

“No more Shakespeare,” he sighed as he collapsed onto the bed. “Spock quotes Shakespeare too often for me to be okay with that.” He dropped a beignet from the day before onto her stomach. “Eat something.”

Anne sighed and picked up the beignet, throwing it across the room. “It’s cold. I’m not a barbarian.”

As she had known, he didn’t take offense. “What, are we ordering in? I don’t know where the powerwall is in here.”

“Somewhere,” Anne said, waving vaguely and letting her hand fall back above her head. “This is going to hurt. Eventually.”

“We’re too drunk for it to hurt,” he said.

“And not drunk enough. Yet.” Abruptly, she pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. “I did used to know a guy--”

“Save it. If you really want to find him, we’ll look for him when we sober up.” Even when denying her, he was too beautiful.

“I could be in rehabilitation by then,” Anne muttered, but after a moment of thought, she relented, dropping back to the bed.

“Not gonna happen,” Jim said.

There was a short silence while Anne contemplated this, and then she waved at one of the walls. The viewscreen appeared. “Music. Classical Pop. Sugary horseshit.” The apartment began to play something terrible.

“Your categories are great,” Jim observed.

“Thank Dr. McCoy.” Rolling over, Anne threw her leg over Jim’s waist and pushed herself up, looking down at him with her hands planted on his chest. “We have four bottles of champagne left. Are we going to drink them, or are we going to find somewhere else to explode them?”

Frowning up at her in pretended offense, Jim answered, “I haven’t exploded one since the third bottle.”

“I was getting so good at ducking too,” Anne said, leaning down, letting her hair fall around his face, her lips brushing his.

His body arched beneath her. “We have days. We can do whatever we want.”

He had to go to Command. He’d have to testify. She’d have to be present for her investigation. There were the trials to think of. They didn't have days. “Yes,” she said, giving in to the fiction.

If it was something they both wished was true, did that mean it wasn’t a lie?

Three or four eternities later, Anne lay on Jim’s chest, still breathing hard, his arm thrown over her, and a deliciously hazy afterglow suffusing her body. In a moment, she knew she would have to get up and get them painkillers, water, vitamin supplements, or they would pay for it when they sobered up. In a moment, she’d have to start the laundry and arrange the cleaning service to take care of their mess. In a moment. Without thinking about it, she said, “I’m going to go see Claudia tomorrow.”

His reply was neither surprised nor disapproving. “Better tell her now.” After a moment, he amended his statement. “Message her, I mean. She’ll have your hide if you drunk-dial her.”

[elthadriel]

This Tired White Flag

He doesn't remember how to exist as anyone other than Captain Flint.

Read on Ao3

Flint felt stripped raw, like a layer of skin had been flayed from his back. His shirt pricked at his skin and Thomas hands burned where they touched him, too much, too intense.

It hurt but he couldn't pull away.

Thomas kissed him and it took him too long to remember how to kiss back. God, when was the last time he had kissed anyone? When was the last time he has even wanted to? Thomas pulled back, hands cupping his face beaming at him through watering eyes.

"James," Thomas said, with the same reverence that had made Flint so uncomfortable a decade ago. He wasn't ashamed anymore, but it caused his gut to twist just the same. He couldn't bear the way Thomas was looking at him. He couldn’t bear to look away. “James,” Thomas said again, caressing Flint’s cheek with his thumb. “It’s all right, we’re going to be all right.”

“You can’t know that,” Flint managed, horrified out how thick the word where in his mouth. He thought he might vomit, or cry, and he didn’t know which was worse. He didn’t remember how to exist with Thomas holding him.

 “We’ll make it all right. I swear, Love.”

 Flint sobbed, throwing himself back into Thomas’ embrace again, burying his face into Thomas’s shoulder, gripping the back of his shirt.

 Thomas was speaking softly, soothingly, but Flint couldn’t make out the words. Everything was too much. His whole body ached with an ache he couldn’t locate the cause of, and there was an itch under his skin that he couldn’t shake, worse where he was touching Thomas. His soul was filthy with sin, and he hated to think that he could somehow infect Thomas with it.

He shouldn’t have come here, he should have told Silver to take his offer and choke on it. He couldn’t deserve Thomas after everything he’d done.

 “James, we should go somewhere private.” Thomas was prying himself out of Flint’s grip, but only enough to move back to look at him again. He was still holding Flint at his waist and shoulder. “Get you out of those clothes.”

 Flint laughed, surprising himself with the noise. “Awfully forward of you, my Lord.”

 Thomas was smiling again, though there was still concern in his gaze. “I think you’ll find that I’m not a lord anymore. My days of hard labour have turned me into quite the scoundrel. Besides, I only meant that you’re filthy, some clean clothes will go a long way.”

 For a terrible moment, when Thomas smiled at him like that, Flint was sure he was dreaming. Only, his dreams were never so kind, though neither was his reality.

 He allowed Thomas to lead from him the field, the guards watched them, but made no move to stop them.

 It was cooler in the shade of the barracks, though not by much, the still air thick and oppressive. Flint was never going to miss the sea, he refused to, but at least out in open water the wind provided some relief from the blistering Caribbean sun. Thomas had an arm around his shoulders, and Flint was aware that with each step he was leaning more and more of his weight onto him. He had been awake for what felt like days, might actually have been days, and he was sure that if Thomas was to step away he would fall to his knees and be unable to stand again.

 “Almost there,” Thomas murmured, adjusting his arm to take even more of Flint’s weight. Thomas was stronger than he had been, Flint could feel the muscles in his arms and could see the new broadness to his shoulders.

 They finally stepped into a long room with a dozen beds lines up against one wall. It was dim, with only small windows to allow a breeze, but Flint was used to living below the deck of a ship, and the low light barely registered. Thomas pushed him so he was sitting on one of the hard narrow beds, squeezing his shoulders before leaving him sitting there.

 “I’m going to get some water,” Thomas said over his shoulder.

 Flint expected to panic when Thomas was out of his line of sight, that his brain would insist that it was just an extended hallucination, and that the pressure had finally gotten to him, and his mind had shattered. Instead the momentary solitude was refreshing, and he breathed deeply, rubbing at his face with his cuff.

 Thomas was right, he was filthy, and his shirt was covered in dirt and dried blood.

 He fumbled with his collar, pulling it off over his head. His fingers felt thick and clumsy. He dropped the shirt onto the floor and reached for his boots, with less success. The laces were too fiddly and his fingers just wouldn’t obey. He swore, distress rising in his throat.

 Thomas knelt down in front of him, placing a basin of water down beside him and knocking Flint’s hands out of the way. He easily unlaced Flint’s boots, pulling them off and setting them to the side.

 “Breath, James, I’ve got you.” Thomas pressed the cloth against Flint’s chest, the water ran down his skin in cool streams, leaving a worrying contrast of clean skin against the built up dirt. He wanted to reach out and touch Thomas, but his hands couldn’t respond, and they sat in near silence as Thomas cleaned him.

 “I fantasised about this,” Flint said, looking down at his hands. “During my more disparaging moments. That you were somehow alive, and I would storm London and break you out Bedlam. In that version of events, I was always the one comforting you.”

 The water sloshed as Thomas returned the cloth to the bowl and then his hands where back, taking Flint’s. He ran his fingers, over Flint’s bloody knuckles; Flint couldn’t even remember what he had punched to damage them in the first place.

 “If you had found me right out of Bedlam, that would have been the case. I wasn’t myself when I left that place.” Thomas sounded tired, and Flint wished he could comfort him, wished he would pull together the shreds of himself enough to know what to do. “But I’ve had time to heal, your trauma is fresher.”

 Trauma? Was that what this was? It seemed like such a detached term for what they had gone through. God, Flint couldn’t remember ever feeling this old.

 Thomas picked up the cloth again, wringing it out into the basin.

 Flint tried to view it symbolically, as if Thomas was washing the filth from his soul and not just his skin. The water muddied and Flint felt as sinful as ever.

 “Did Peter know you were here?” He asked, the question coming to the forefront of his mind suddenly.

 Thomas’s hand tightened on the cloth, and his hand froze. “Yes.”

 Flint’s anger flared and then settled just as quickly; he didn’t have any rage left to spend on Peter Ashe.

 “You know what his role in all this was?” Flint didn’t know what he hoped to gain from the train of questioning, but he couldn’t abandon it.

 “Yes.” Thomas returned to his careful cleaning. Some of the discomfort on his skin was fading as the layer of dirt was removed, but there was still a phantom itch under his skin.

 “He killed Miranda,” Flint said. He had so many awful things to tell Thomas about, and part of him wanted to put them off, wait until had more time with Thomas. He didn’t know if Thomas would ever look at him as softly again after he knew who Flint had become, and he was selfish enough to want to put that off as long as possible.

 But Miranda wasn’t just his secret to withhold

 “Bastard,” Thomas snarled, with more venom than Flint had ever heard from him.

 Flint looked up sharply, gaping probably rather foolishly.

 “Say what you will of Bedlam, but it does wonders for expanding one’s vocabulary,” Thomas said with a shrug.

 Flint snorted, mouth twisting into a grin. It wasn’t funny, not really, but the alternative to finding it funny was too awful to consider.

 “I missed your smile.” Thomas’s fingers brushed the edge of Flint’s mouth. “You’re so handsome.”

 “Thomas.”

 “I never thought I’d see you again,” Thomas said, voice cracking. He gripped Flint’s shoulder, tightly enough that it hurt. Again Flint wished he knew how to comfort Thomas. Not knowing else to do, he kissed him.

 It was messy and uncoordinated, Thomas’s beard scratched against Flint’s face and their noses bumped as they tried to find the right angle. It was more than Flint ever thought he would ever have again.

 “I never stopped thinking about you.” Flint whispered into the space between their mouths. “Everything I did, shit, Thomas, I tried so hard to make the world that you wanted.”

 Thomas’ lips were drier than Flint remembered, the heat leaving them cracked and rough. Flint couldn’t help but wonder what differences Thomas’ was noticing about him.

 “I did awful things in your memory,” Flint said between kisses. He wished he would stop talking. He was getting too close to a truth that would end this moment between them. For just a second he wanted to enjoy this, enjoy holding Thomas, kissing him, having him.

 “Its fine, James, I understand. I can’t imagine what I might have been driven to if our roles had been reversed.” Thomas’ hands where running over the hair along the back of his head, somehow soothing and agitating all at the same time. Flint’s skin didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

 “You don’t know what I-”

 “Flint.”

 He flinched, pulling back. He would have preferred that Thomas had struck him.

 “How long have you known?”

 “I began to suspect after Charleston. That both my father and Peter had been killed by the same man seemed too much of a coincidence.” He sounded calm, and somehow that was worse than if he had screamed it at Flint.

 Thomas knew.

 Thomas knew and there was no way anyone could forgive this.

 “I’m sorry,” he choked out. What else could he say?

 “I wanted to contact you, but I had no idea how, and even if I had found a way, what was I to say? What does one say to an infamous pirate captain who you may or may not have fucked into a mattress on numerous occasions?”

 Flint made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob.

 “There was something nice about thinking you were alive though, even if I couldn’t talk to you. I was scared about what I would do if I found out I was wrong.” Thomas took Flint’s hands again, and he found he wasn’t strong enough to pull them away again.

 “I lost myself, Thomas.”

 “It’s all right.” Thomas rose up on his knees, pressing his forehead against James. “I’m here, we’ll work it out.”

 “The things I’ve done, Thomas.” He closed his eyes, anything to avoid looking meeting Thomas’ gaze. His skin was itching again, and the urge to claw it off with his bare nails was rising. “There’s a reason they called Flint a monster.”

 “Please look at me,” Thomas whispered. There was an awful moment of silence before Flint managed to open his eyes again. He wanted to recoil under the intensity of Thomas’s gaze. No one had been able to make him feel so small since he had taken up the name Flint. “You aren’t beyond forgiveness, you can leave this behind you.”

 “You can’t know that.” Flint gripped at Thomas’s hands. They were rougher than he remembered, more callused, but the size of them was familiar. He didn’t have an inch of skin those hands hadn’t touched and he knew them as intimately as he knew his own.

 “I wanted to give pardons to ever pirate in Nassau; that includes Captain Flint.”

 The tears that Flint had been struggling with since first allowing himself to hope that Thomas was alive finally spilled from his eyes, and he was torn between hiding his face from Thomas, ashamed to be seen so overcome, and wishing to accept the comfort Thomas would offer him.

 “I don’t know how to exist as anyone other than Flint.”

 “We’ll figure it out together.” Thomas’s hands were still on Flint, holding him, comforting him. Flint couldn’t possibly deserve this, but he wanted it badly enough that he felt he would take it anyway. “I love you, I never stopped loving you. I will forgive your history.”

 Flint wanted to believe that was possible.

 “I’m not the same man I was either, and if you can accept me as simply Thomas, then you can also be James, with both McGraw and Flint in your history, but not in your present. We can define ourselves, our relationship, however we like.”

 “Well, you certainly didn’t lose your love of a well-crafted argument.” Flint’s voice was thick with emotion. Maybe this could work? Maybe he could have this one thing.

 “And I doubt you are any less stubborn,” Thomas said, smiling. “We’ll find ourselves together, I promise, my love.”

 He could do it for Thomas. He could return Flint to the sea. He could be James again.

 James dropped his head to Thomas’ shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, the feel of him, refreshing faded memories. The stayed there for a long time, the water drying on James’ skin, Thomas’ arms warped around him, his face pressed against Thomas’s skin. For a moment, James felt at peace.

 “James.”

 James jerked upright, almost toppling over, and he blinked, dazed, staring dumbly at Thomas.

 “You fell asleep, I think, for a moment there.” James had forgotten how fond Thomas sounded when he spoke to him, how could he have let that memory fade? “You need to rest, and I need to stand; I’m not a young man anymore, my knees can’t take it.”

 James laughed, and it only sounded a little forced. Thomas stepped away only to return a second later, pressing a clean shirt and loose pair of trousers into James’ hands.

 “We’ll get you your own clothes soon enough, but until then you’ll have to content yourself with wearing mine.” Thomas stood close, on hand hovering over James’ shoulder, ready to steady him if required.

 “Wouldn’t be the first time.” James was mostly grateful that while getting to his feet was difficult, his body felt heavy and sluggish, he was able to redress himself.

 Thomas smiled, the same, cheeky smile that James remembered do well, that one that had always managed to make him feel like a teenager with his first crush. It still gave him butterflies.

 The bed was too small for two people, but neither considered an alternative. They shifted against each other, trying to make them both fit, until the settled almost entirely on top of Thomas. There was a strange comfort in knowing that no one would be able to remove Thomas from the bed without James knowing.

 Flint fought against sleep for only a moment longer.

 “I can get us out,” James said, voice muffled by Thomas’ chest. “Of here, this place.”

 “You have somewhere else in mind?” It was too warm to lie in each other’s arms like this, but James couldn’t think of a single that would convince him to move away.

“Somewhere safe, somewhere England can never touch us again.” He paused. “Away from the sea.”

 “We’ll leave here, but not today. We have time, James, we have all the time in the world.” Thomas’s chest rumbled under James’ head. “You can rest now.”

 God, James was so glad to just rest.

[tmiquotepage]

SILVER WAR: AN OFFICIALLY UNOFFICIAL FAN FICTION

Description: War has come. Mare, Cal, and the rest of the Rebellion against King Maven have taken the final step and an all out war across the continent ensues. Blood will be drawn on both sides of the fight. But whose side will run dry first? **This is my fan fiction version of what could happen in RQ4. Spoilers for all the previous RQ books!**

One

Mare

I fight the urge to punch yet another wall. Pain radiates from my scarlet-marred knuckles all the way up my arm and my shoulder, not doing anything to dispel the thoughts plaguing my mind.

Cal chose his crown. More than that, he’s chosen it over me. After swearing up and down for months that he didn’t want it, the smallest promise of getting his kingdom back has lured him away from whatever I thought we had. He didn’t choose me. He’ll never choose me.

I wish the thought would hurt more. I wish I could bring myself to cry or scream or even punch the wall one more time. But I don’t have any emotion left. All I have is the twinge of my abused hand and the sense of utter and complete emptiness. Between the battle, and Cal, and everything else that’s happened to me in the past year, I’m simply drained.

“You’re not saying anything,” Farley states plainly, arms crossed over her chest. “Not like any of the Barrows to keep their mouths shut.” Though her face is a mask of disinterest, I’ve known her long enough to recognize the slightest concern in her voice. It should infuriate me, but the lick of anger that shoots through me dies before I even really feel it.

“What am I supposed to say?” I mutter. When I said it in my mind, it came out as a haughty retort. Instead, it comes out flat. The muddy ground slops around my boots as I turn to slink back against the cool rock wall behind me. I can’t meet Farley’s gaze—not right now, not like this—so I cast my gaze down to the battered flesh of my hand.

I poke at one of the dark bruises, nearly black beneath the skin. The pain is biting, but momentary, and I barely have time to wince before it ebbs back into a dull ache. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve fractured a bone or two. Maybe even broken one.

I’m reminded of Gisa’s hand, after that chaotic day in Summerton, what feels like a lifetime ago. Her slim fingers, better suited to sewing than thieving, catching on a Silver’s bag as she tried to rob them. To help me, I recall. To help steal the money Kilorn and I would need to pay Farley to escape conscription. Gisa’s been healed since, as I’m sure I’ll be soon enough. But I don’t think the image of shattering bones and bruise-painted skin afterward will ever be purged from my mind.

“This alliance had to happen, Mare,” Premier Davidson interjects, breaking me from my reverie with his patented calm tone. I meet his impassive gaze with a glare. How dare you lecture me on what had to happen? You don’t know me. You don’t get to talk to me right now. Ignoring the flurry of messages I try to convey through my eyes, Davidson just continues. “With the war in the Lakelands over, the King is finally able to dedicate his time and forces to defeating the Revolution. With a King on our side, the rightful King that Maven helped usurp, we will be more powerful than ever. And with the Reds and Newbloods and Silvers behind him? Tiberias will be undefeatable.”

His name is Cal, I want to snap at the Premier. Tiberias is his father. But the words don’t make it past my lips. I can’t find it in me to fight for him right now.

“Fighting together,” Davidson continues in his placating voice, “we can wipe Archeon off the map, and the boy king along with it.”

Even the thought of Maven cuts through me, sharper than any blade of Evangeline Samos. After all he’s done, the pain he’s caused and the blood he’s spilt, I want nothing more than to storm the capital and separate his twisted head from the rest of his body. I want to display it on a pike for all in the kingdom to see that true evil can be defeated.

But the Premier doesn’t know Cal like I do. He doesn’t know about our conversation, about Cal’s musings on whether or not his brother could be fixed. If, by some miracle, someone could reverse the irreparable damage Elara inflicted on him growing up. Davidson wants Cal and Maven to kill each other. He doesn’t know that Cal, for all his posturing and planning, can never hurt his brother if there is any chance that he doesn’t have to. Even a miniscule chance. Even this fool’s chance.

He believes Cal is a weapon to be wielded. He doesn’t know that Cal will break with the Guard and go his own way the moment his needs aren’t being met. But again, I don’t tell Davidson my thoughts. I’m too exhausted. Instead, I simply shrug at him and drop my gaze. “Whatever.”

To my side, Farley scoffs. Though motherhood has softened her at moments, I can tell she’s getting fed up with my angsty teenager bullshit. I’m surprised she’s tolerated it as long as she has, actually.

The Premier stares at me, awkwardly fidgeting with one hand. His lips work overtime, trying to form words before he can even figure out which he wants to say. In the end, he says nothing, as we are interrupted by subtle whoosh of air as Arezzo appears beside Davidson. Once, I might have jumped at the sudden intrusion. Now, I barely notice. So much time with Shade helped me in that regard.

My gaze falls on the teleporter’s shaking hands and wide eyes as she reaches out and puts a hand on the Premier’s shoulder. Her voice trembles as she speaks. “Sir. You’re needed in Command.”

He furrows a brow, a question forming on his lips. But, before he or anyone else can get a word out, both Arezzo and the Premier disappear. I’m left alone in the street with Farley. Both of us wait a moment before speaking, still processing what’s just happened.

Farley takes a step in the direction from which we’ve come. “Come on. Let’s go see what the fuss is all about. I’ll be damned if the Princeling shuts me out of a meeting now that he’s got his crown back.”

She’s already a good distance away before she realizes I haven’t moved with her. She halts, turning back to me with a questioning gaze. “Mare?”

His crown. His crown. The words swirl in my head incessantly, taunting me, driving me as mad as the boy who currently wears the dreadful crown of fire and flames.

It was easy to label Maven as the evil brother the night he snatched that blasted piece of metal from his father’s still-cooling silverblood. A child driven by a lust for power. Strength. It was easy to make him a villain. But right now, I can only think that Cal may be exactly the same, if not worse. A man promised the throne his whole life, only for his brother to steal it out from under him. He's vengeful. His bloodlust unmatched. If given the chance, would he be a better ruler than Maven? Worse? Or, in the worst of worse possibilities, could he be exactly the same?

“I wish I’d never met him,” I mutter under my breath. I only realize I’ve spoken aloud when Farley cocks her head to the side in confusion.

She crosses her arms again and steps back toward me. “Cal?”

I nod. “Don’t you think about it? How different the world would be if I had never come into the picture?” Maven had asked me something similar one day at Whitefire. The day I’d had the opportunity to drown him in the bath. The day I’d been too weak to end all of this. He’d asked me if I would take it all back. Going to the Palace, losing my brother, causing so much death. My answer had been easy then. No. So what’s changed?

Cal, my mind taunts me. Cal’s changed. I’ve felt true heartbreak, and it somehow hurts more than anything else I’ve endured so far.

Farley shrugs, though I can see her composure slipping. She’s pissed at me for even thinking about this. Join the club. “Dwelling on the past is pointless, Mare. We can’t change what happened. And even if we could, nothing that’s happened is entirely on you. This revolution would have happened with or without you.”

“Maybe,” I acknowledge, leaning my pulsing head back against the wall and shutting my eyes against the beaming sun above. Exhaustion and the migraine poking needles into my brain make my bones feel like nothing more than dead limbs on the winter trees back in the Stilts. “But not with the Newbloods.”

Farley pauses, considering this. To my surprise, she doesn’t argue. “You’re right. We would have built our forces, but never enough. It would have been a bloodbath. Especially for the Reds. Without you, without the Newbloods, no one would have thought any sort of revolution possible.”

Tears prick my eyes, though I don’t know if it’s from sheer emotion, the throb in my head, the biting ache in my hand, or all three working together against me. “Do you ever wonder if maybe it would have been for the best?”

The ugly question hangs stagnant in the air for a moment, neither of us willing to touch it immediately. Eventually, Farley tries. “You don’t mean–”

“I mean,” I cut her off, “that a lot less blood would be running in the streets of Norta, of the entire continent, right now if I’d never gotten that job at the palace. If I’d never gone looking for a way out of conscription.”

Farely bristles at the insinuation. She’s the one who gave us the astronomical price for escaping conscription. I guess in her mind, by blaming that for all our troubles, I’m also blaming her. I’m not, but I don’t get the chance to explain before she’s doling out her words, each sentence like another blow. “If you’d never gone looking, you’d be dead by now. Kilorn too, probably. The boy’s great at fishing and talking, but not exactly fighting. Not to mention the dozens of other Red soldiers, murdered every day on the front lines.”

“Are they any better off now?” I shoot back. “Look around. Blood flows in rivers all around us. It’s everywhere. That’s all I see anymore is blood. We kill them. They kill us in retaliation. It doesn’t even matter where it started anymore. It’s blood for blood for blood for blood until we’re all bled dry. Red and Silver.” I take a breath, recomposing myself. I hadn’t meant to say this much, especially not to Farley. But it’s been a thought dragging on my mind for far longer than I care to admit. “We know the price being paid. But what’s the cost? The real cost?” I open my eyes to look at her. Anger, confusion, and a deep, profound disappointment fight for dominance on her face. “Do we fight to make sure that everyone knows loss equally? So no one goes to sleep at night without fearing to not see the dawn the next morning? You can’t tell me you don’t think about what life would be if I’d never fallen into Queenstrial.”

“I try to focus more on the here and now, the people I’ve sworn to protect and fight for, instead of moping about,” she retorts, her calm façade from earlier quickly melting into nonexistence.

“I’m sorry,” I scoff. “Are you saying that you haven’t noticed that, even after all the bloodshed, we’re headed straight back to square one here? Cal on the throne? Silvers in charge, or completely wiped out. Neither side even considering a happy medium.”

“Mare–”

“No, you know what?” I continue, so far gone, I don’t even care anymore. “Forget all of that. Forget the Reds and the Silvers and the Newbloods for five seconds. Think of yourself. If I’d never met Cal, Shade would be alive.” His name sticks in my throat, but I continue anyway. “Clara would have a father, and you’d be happy, no matter the war’s outcome.” I shrug, shoulders and head growing ever heavier with the headache eating at the base of my skull. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Farley’s contemplative grimace twists into a positively feral snarl, and it is at this moment that I realize how monumentally I have overstepped. She stalks across the street to me, looking like a woman possessed. She pulls me forward by my good arm, so harshly I fear she might dislocate my shoulder, and slaps me clear across the face.

I stifle a gasp as the crack resonates through the empty streets of Corvium. Farley may not be Silver, not a strongarm with muscles of steel, but her blow still sends me staggering backward. I bring my uninjured hand up to my face, the touch cool against the hot blood flowing to the handprint burning on my cheek. When I finally meet her eyes with my own incredulous stare, her lips are set in a thin line and her eyes shoot daggers through me.

“How dare you.” She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t need to. Her quiet, perfect articulation is lethal. “Shade gave his life for this cause. Because that’s who he was. If this particular chain of events hadn’t happened, he’d still probably be dead sooner or later because that’s just who he was. Same as me.” She gestures to the scars on her face, stark in the harsh sunlight. “I wear my scars, even knowing a healer could take them away, even knowing that they’re not the prettiest, because I earned them. Because I am a fighter and, like Shade, I would die for this cause. That’s who I am.”

I gulp, suddenly cotton mouthed. I want to speak, to tell her I understand, that I’m sorry. Where I can’t find the words to interject, Farley seems to steal my diction for herself and continue. “And Cal is taking that crown because it’s who he is. He may be kind, and brilliant, and decent looking. But, stars above, Mare, he’s a Prince. A Silver Prince. It’s who he has always been, whether you’ve forgotten or not. The crown of Norta is what he’s been working for his entire life. It’s his birthright. And as much as you want this to be some pretty little fantasy world where the boy sacrifices everything for the girl, it’s not going to happen. Because Cal knows, in his heart, who he is, Mare.”

She pauses, features softening as the tension in her shoulder seeps from her muscles. She reaches out to touch and I almost flinch, before I realize she’s just reaching for my hand. “I know it hurts right now. It hurts like a bitch, because you really did love him.” Love. I bristle at the word. Of course I loved him. I’d admitted as much to him. But it was so much stranger to hear someone else say it. “But you can’t give up everything about yourself chasing after him. He knows who he is,” she reiterates, squeezing my hand. “But do you know who you are, Mare Barrow?”

No. The answer pops into my head immediately, much to my despair. I am only eighteen years old. I’ve spent the better part of the past year trying to save everyone I care about, and trying to save the world from falling into ruin in the meantime. I’ve trusted people and I’ve been betrayed. I thought I knew people, thought I knew what drove them, only to find out that my instincts could not be more wrong. And now, staring into Farley’s eyes, hearing her question, I wonder if all that pain and confusion is because I don’t know myself at all.

Her words still echo in my mind when a runner dashes around the corner, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he approaches Farley. Not a Newblood, but rather a Red soldier. Judging by the sun embroidered on the sash around his wrist, he’s one of Farley’s men. Well, a boy, really. He can’t be more than sixteen. Farley catches him by the arm as he tries to stop, slipping in the mud. “Coulson,” she acknowledges him. “What’s wrong?”

Coulson coughs, still trying to reign in his breathing. “Command, ma’am.” I think I catch a glimmer of irritation in Farley’s eyes at the moniker, but it’s gone before I can be sure it was anything more than a trick of the light. “They need you in Command.”

“What’s going on?”

The boy’s eyes fall on me, but flick back to Farley almost instantly. “The king,” he stutters. “There’s a broadcast.”

“He’s on the screen more than he’s on his throne lately. What’s different about this speech?”

Again, Coulson’s gaze shifts to me, an accusatory glare flaring behind cool grey. “It’s not just a speech.”

* * *

The door to the administrative tower is ajar when we reach it. Premier Davidson, Colonel Farley, Queen Anabel, and the entire Samos family await us. And Cal, of course. Only Evangeline seems to notice our arrival, which she acknowledges with a short dip of her head in my direction before nailing her eyes back to the video screen which enraptures the room’s other occupants.

Maven’s familiar features do, in fact, grace the screen. Harsh shadows below his eyes—the ones so like his mother’s—age him, making him seem far older than just seventeen. The crown of flames, that cursed piece of metal that everyone seems so obsessed with, weighs down his carefully styled curls. But he does not seem weighted. He seems strangely happy.

He speaks animatedly from a podium, though the frame is too cropped for me to tell anything about where he is, other than the fact that he certainly isn’t at Whitefire. Still, the lights, the pale white color of the vaulted walls and ceilings behind him tickle the edges of my memory with a vague sense of recognition.

“What’s he doing?” I ask the deathly silent room. Cal is the only one to even notice my words. He tears his gaze away from the video screen to meet mine, searching for something in my eyes. An answer, I guess. Resolution. Something to say that we’re okay after our fight. Subtly, I shake my head at him. This isn’t the time. Farley’s right. Cal has his duty, his life. And I have mine.

“Just watch,” Davidson mutters. In his hands, he holds a smaller video screen. A flick of his wrist brings the volume on the larger screen up, and Maven’s voice fills the space.

“Even in the face of betrayal, Norta is strong as ever,” he announces, to the cheers of thousands. The way the sound echoes brings forward flashes of memories from the not so distant past, but I can’t put two and two together. I’m too distracted by the words befalling the little King’s mouth. “We rise, ever more powerful.”

The camera pulls back slightly, allowing the person beside him to come into view. Iris Cygnet. Princess of the Lakelanders and now, Queen of Norta. Maven’s wife. Like the first time I met her, she does not wear the dripping jewels or ostentatious clothing of a courtier. Rather, she wears a simple light blue gown, tied with a garish sash of red and black around her waist. A crown of golden flames interspersed with sapphires in the shape of water droplets adorns her dark hair. Though I try not to notice, my eyes also fall to the wedding band on her finger.

Cal’s voice cuts through the room. “Who the hell is that?”

“Your new sister-in-law,” Ptolemus sneers.

“The Lakelands and Norta stand now, united as one,” Maven continues, gripping Iris’s hand. It’s not the awkward touch he occasionally shared with Evangeline, but it’s also not the comforting touch he shared with me. It’s political, kind. But not loving. “And together, I give you my word that every last member of the Scarlet Guard will be hunted down and destroyed within the year. Soon, the peace we’ve worked to create will no longer be threatened by these terrorists!”

The crowd cheers, and suddenly the room around is stifling. This time, I can’t tell if it’s Cal’s doing, or my own lungs failing me.

“And, my dear people, I assure you,” Maven adds when the crowd dies down a little. He turns to the camera with a fierce expression, one not meant for anyone around him, or anyone else that may be watching. His look cuts through the screen directly into me, as if he stands only a few feet away. Whatever is about to happen, it’s for me and me alone. “I am nothing if not a man of my word.”

Maven claps, shattering the moment. I have to force myself not to jump at the sudden intrusion on our moment. “But enough talk. Let’s get to it. The real reason you’ve all tuned in today.” The camera cuts from Maven’s close-up to an all too familiar sight that sets my teeth on edge. Judging from the tension in Cal’s shoulders, I can tell he recognizes the arena as well.

When I lived in the Stilts, arenas full of people were a weekly occurrence. Feats in which Silvers fought each other with abilities helped to keep would-be rebels from hoping and dreaming of ever defeating the Silver elite. But this isn’t any arena. It’s the Bowl of Bones. And this is no ordinary Feat. “The Scarlet Guard may soon be extinct, but to the Newbloods only, who I’ve welcomed into my home, who have betrayed both myself and the country, I provide these small mercies.”

On one side of the arena, from a doorway I recognize intimately, a man steps forward, an Arven Silent ghosting behind him. One hand grips a shiny sword, while a few inches above, his wrists are wrapped in familiar Silent Stone manacles. I vaguely remember him from my time at Whitefire. But he’s not a lord of one of the High Houses. He’s not even Silver. He is one of Maven’s Newblood recruits. A Wrecker, I remember. Like Nix or Damarian, with virtually indestructible skin. A feeling of dread pools in my stomach and I pull into myself as the realization dawns on me. The change in posture does not go unnoticed by Farley, who glances from me back to the screen with an increased sense of anxiety.

A woman around my mother’s age enters from the other side of the Bowl of Bones, looking small in her ill-fitting armor. The small battle ax weighs her tiny arms down more than the manacles or the Arven woman behind her. Her familiar features are another slap in the face. Her, I certainly remember. Halley. She’d been a servant for an Eagrie family. I was there the day she came before Maven and showed us her ability–detecting the abilities of other. It was this ability that allowed her to expose Nanny, the shapeshifting Newblood Cal had sent to court to keep tabs on me. Nanny had chosen the Scarlet Guard’s way out and swallowed a suicide pill before she could be interrogated, much to Maven’s dismay. The memory makes me shudder.

Maven’s threats from months ago wander back into my mind. While I stayed at Whitefire, the Newbloods I helped lure there would be safe. Cared for like the soldiers Maven wanted to turn them into. But if I went against him, fought him, they wouldn’t be so lucky.

I didn’t just leave. I escaped, along with fifty other Newbloods, and the entire Samos family. I’d humiliated him on his wedding day, of all days. And now, with his second defeat at Corvium, he’s facing an uprising. Watching the video screen now, it seems that he hasn’t exactly turned the other cheek. He knows what he’s doing. And somehow, though I’m not sure how, he knows I’m watching. He knows how much this will hurt me.

“Lords Arven, if you please,” Maven says in a booming voice, gesturing to the two Newbloods’ Silent guards. They follow his cue, backing out of the arena and leaving the two terrified Reds alone to face each other. The guards don’t, I notice with a lurch of nausea, remove the Silent Stone manacles.

“I don’t understand.” Farley squints at the screen in confusion. “If it’s an arena fight between Newbloods, why does he leave the manacles on?”

“Because it’s not just a fight,” I answer in barely more than a whisper.

Cal inclines his head in my direction, nodding without looking at me. “It’s an execution.”

No one answers. We can only watch. Everyone in the room is painfully aware of just how far away from the capital we are. How useless we are to stop this.

Along the wall of the arena, dozens of Silvers step forward. Judging from the colors emblazoned on their uniforms, and the fact that they all wear the same face, they—rather, he—hails from House Tyros. Clones. But they don’t attack. They merely seem to guard the exits, ready to stop any attempt at escape.

“Begin,” Maven bellows. The Bowl of Bones surges with the cheers of thousands of Silvers. Both Halley and the Wrecker hesitate, staying where they are in confusion. Even from here, I can see the tremors running through them. I did this. My words brought them to Archeon. And my escape put them in this prison of death.

The moments of inactivity in the arena are broken by a sudden flurry of activity as both the Newbloods fall to their knees, choking and clutching at their throats. Among the sea of Tyros faces appear two tall Silvers with dark skin and equally dark eyes, clad in the blue uniforms. Lakelands windweavers. The ones who survived or didn’t make it to the battle at Corvium only a few hours ago. Maven certainly is quick on his feet, I’ll give him that.

Maven waves a hand at the Lakelanders, and they release Halley and the Wrecker instantly, allowing the air they’ve stolen back into their lungs. Both champions collapse into the fine sand.

“Come now,” Maven condescends to them, as if they are nothing more than stubborn children refusing to listen to reason. “Play nicely. This does not have to be the end. For one of you at least,” he adds with a cruel, cold smirk.

My heart sinks as his words rattle me. Small mercies, he’d said.

Cal was wrong. We both were. This isn’t an execution. It’s so much worse.

This is a fight to the death. And there can be only one winner.

There will be no martyr tonight. No Red blood spilt by the unmatched Silvers. This won’t be ammunition against the elite, as the executions of the old days may once have been. This is different. The only Red blood spilled tonight will be drawn by another Red. Newblood versus Newblood.

The Feats of First Friday delighted in shedding Silver blood to show us that we were inferior beings. To keep us in our place. But now, with this little show, Maven has unlocked an even worse way of smothering the rebellion, one that replaces the all-too-valuable Silver blood with the disposable crimson blood that flows in our veins. His message speaks volumes, even without him speaking a word.

Even with abilities, even with power, we will always be Red. We will always be disposable. We will always be inferior. Tonight, one Red will die, and one will walk out of the arena alive, if only in body. As I turn to leave the administration building, I wonder which would be worse. To die at the hands of someone you thought was your friend? Or to be the one forced to take that life, and then live with it for the rest of your own existence?

[criticallyspectacular]

Ghost in the Shell (2017)

/!\ Warning /!\ Movie contains intense flashing lights

Critical: Thumbs Down

Shallow story

Inconsistent visual design

Spectacle: Thumbs Up

Good action

Great casting

Good special effects

First Things First:

**Seizure Warning** Separate from the review, I must address the use of intense flashing lights in this movie. Early on and again near the halfway point, the film makers decided to use full screen flashing lights as a stylistic choice. For those of us with epilepsy, this is very bad news. The first sequence contains a very bright sequence of red, blue, and green flashes. If you’re sensitive to flashing lights like these, you might want to give this movie a miss.

What Is It?

Ghost in the Shell is a long running Japanese franchise detailing a distant future on Earth. The main character, which I will list here simply as “The Major”, is a person who has been fully converted to a cybernetic body from a young age. She works for a police agency called “Section 9”, which specializes in cyber crime. The setting is often called cyberpunk due to the common use of high technology and mechanical body modifications. The series often questions what humanity is, and if you lose that by modifying your body with robotics.

The Movie:

This one takes a few departures from the source material, starting with The Major herself. In this movie she’s only been a cyborg for about a year. Rather than developing her elite hacking capabilities over the course of a lifetime, and honing her skill in infiltration and extraction, the company that developed her body have added some programming, giving her the skills rapidly instead of after years of training. This becomes a major plot point, as The Major has holes in her memory and sees “glitches”.

Section 9 is still the same. The major characters are all present, though the only important ones are Batou, The Major’s partner, Togusa, a non-modified detective who trains diligently to keep up with a deeply modified world, and the leader of the department Arakami, who strangely only speaks Japanese (with good subtitles) even though the rest of Section 9 speaks clear English.

After a cyber attack, Section 9 is called in to discover who was behind it. There is a shadowy individual that seems to be able to hack into any system and is very likely the one behind this attack.

What’s Good:

The casting choices for the movie are excellent overall. Scarlet Johansson as The Major was a good choice, not just for her athleticism but also because she does look like The Major from the first animated series, Stand Alone Complex. This version of the character is fairly different, and I feel she added a certain softness that serves the movie well. While Aramaki strangely speaks only in Japanese, he is perfect for the role. He has the right air of calculated superiority throughout the film. I will also make a special note of Togusa as his actor was perfect for the role. I’m sad that he didn’t get a greater part in the movie. Honestly, that would be my complaint with all of Section 9. Only The Major really gets any development, followed distantly by Batou. The casting is excellent, even if the actors are underutilized.

The movie is also visually stunning, taking great pains to mimic the visuals from the animated movie. Huge holographic billboards are everywhere, streets look surprisingly busy with traffic, and even the special helicopters from the movie and series are recreated here with loving detail. Some scenes and sequences from the animated movie are recreated here nearly frame by frame. I usually have an issue with this since it often only reminds me that I could be watching something else (and often times, something better), but here the scenes are allowed to be their own thing. It’s clear these are used for homage first and are not a crutch for the movie to stand on.

The action scenes are also largely good, allowing the audience to see everything that’s happening while keeping up a good pace. Both close quarters brawls and gun play are handled well. The movie isn’t really an action piece, but when it calls for it the movie delivers.

I’m also very impressed with The Major’s character in a lot of ways. Elements from the original comic which were relatively lewd for no real reason make a return here in refreshing ways, building upon the story created for this new version of The Major. Her story is actually handled fairly well. If you’ve come to see her specifically, you won’t be disappointed. Or… well, I’ll go into more detail later.

What’s Bad:

Unfortunately the plot is where the movie suffers the most. Skill sets for certain characters (particularly The Major) either make no sense or are irrelevant to the plot. Some characters will show up out of nowhere and then never be mentioned again. For fans, this is going to be frustrating because good characters and settings are wasted. For newcomers, it’s going to be confusing and wasteful.

The plot is also deeply complicated. That’s nothing new for the series, but here it just feels like a mess. Major story elements were changed from the source material in an attempt to make something new out of something old. And it does work for the most part, but leaves gaping plot holes and inconsistencies that repeated viewings are going to make all the more obvious. This is where the movie really fails on a Critical level.

The movie also breaks itself often with it’s style choices. Cybernetics are almost always big, obvious, and flashy. A member of Section 9 reveals he’s been modified at one point, lifting his shirt to reveal the scar on his gut. But other characters have modifications with no scarring. Some limbs and prosthetic parts are metallic and ugly while others are indistinguishable from flesh and blood. Some of that might just be an attempt at world building, but more often it just makes the movie look too busy and muddy. The city streets have the same problem of visual inconsistency.

The worst part is as I mentioned above concerning flashing lights in the movie. Twice the movie uses bright strobe effects for visual style, the first very early one with the repeated color pattern, and at about the midway point with a fight in a dark corridor with a stun baton. These style choices are generally inconsiderate of the movie goer, and add little to the film. In the second case, a brighter hallway for the long action scene would have been preferable, or shortening the scene dramatically to keep the mystery of the moment. But the earlier scene is inexcusable. Not everyone is sensitive to flashing lights, but for those of us who are it can make the rest of the movie unwatchable. In my case, due to my epilepsy, it left me with a pounding headache after nearly causing me to have a seizure. (And I admit, some of my complaints are colored by this)

And now, the other half of The Major. The part that doesn’t work. The movie outright states that she has been in the robotic body for a year. But she is a fully capable soldier, able to fight off hordes of enemies with guns or with her bare hands, and she’s fully integrated with her police combat unit? This breaks the suspension of disbelief the moment you begin to examine it more closely. The reprogramming is addressed in the movie, but it still leaves a lot of questions. Particularly with The Major going forward at the end of the movie.

Final Thoughts:

The movie has a number of issues in a variety of places, most notably the plot. But the movie has a lot of strengths as well. Think of it like a beautiful tapestry stitched together poorly. If you just enjoy it for what it is, you might see the flaws but it’s still nice. If you pull at the threads, you quickly see the problems and the whole things falls to pieces.

As a Critical movie, it’s a flop. There isn’t a lot here to really sink your teeth into, and the story just has too many problems. Very much a flash over substance movie.

As a Spectacle movie, it’s good. Not great, but good. It does mess up established characters and miss use (or under use) others, but it does give The Major a nice story arc, even if it doesn’t have anything to do with anything before it. I like to consider the movie an AU. Nice for what it is, but doesn’t effect the original.

If you’re looking for a movie to dissect, you’re going to want to look elsewhere. But if you’re looking for some good fun for a couple hours (and don’t have epilepsy), give this one a look.

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