#occasionally there are things my mother says about the circumstances of my birth and my fucked up medical situation and the nonstandard ways

[asterixafterthis]

has the testosterone stopped my period no but has the testosterone stopped my period from hurting? Inexplicably, yes.

[mllemaenad]

Spent a bit of time redesigning Melissa, because I'm finally starting to learn a bit about her. Not a big difference – I didn't miraculously become adept with the character creator, but I'm working on it.

The broken horn is from infancy, when her adoptive mother had the bright idea of attempting to remove her newly adopted daughter's horns in the hope of better passing her off as human. In her mother's defence (in terms of logic, not morality; there's no defence of the latter), there's less difference between babies of any people than between full grown adults, and Mel's complexion was not quite so distinct then.

Her father intervened and prevented the loss of her second horn. It caused a significant rift in the family for a time. They reconciled eventually. It's ... complicated. Mel remembers none of this, of course; only that she's always been closer to her father than her mother. She doesn't think her mother would try to cut her horns off now ... but she's also not sure she completely understands why she was wrong to do it at all.

I desperately wanted horns with one broken, and the other with the same decorations she had before. But if there is one like that, I could not find it.

As a child, she was largely educated at home. Attempts to socialise were ... let's say not great. She has scars on her face and body from rocks thrown at her by other children during an ill-advised attempt to join in a game. So she turned out precocious and bookish. Little Melissa, working of whatever random old books her parents had, would tell people she was a Kossith, not a Qunari; Qunari was the religion. She was quite proud of knowing this, from some obscure and ancient military texts, when no one else did. Only much later, at the Circle, did she find out that the proper word was Vashoth.

And her magic ... oh, her magic. That should have been such a coup for her family! A daughter from a military household with magic! Instant status boost. Except ... she's Vashoth, and could barely walk the streets without getting mobbed by angry citizens, let along expect a promotion to high office.

She was educated at one of the smaller Circles, with little prestige, and can relate quite heavily to Neve: like her, she's a working class mage, who earns her living but using her skills. And she ended up with the Shadow Dragons at least in part because no one else would have her.

Elves suffer most from enslavement in Tevinter, undeniably – but she's very aware of how lucky she was, in her circumstances. Few Qunari children fall into Tevinter hands, but the outcome for those that do is not usually good. It gives her something concrete to fight for. And if it was a matter of necessity at first, she knows enough former slaves of all races now to believe the institution must be destroyed.

She's curious about her heritage, of course. She's curious about the Qun, too, but ... as a mage she's keenly aware that they would not want her. Not as she is. But she does read every scrap she can get. This business with the Antaam is infuriating for her: a lifetime of the regret that she can't investigate the culture of her birth because of her magic and now these idiots are in league with Blighted mages who call themselves gods? Are they kidding her?

Otherwise, she's a solid daughter of Minrathous: occasionally a little bit superior about her magic, nominally Chantry faithful but not hugely committed (she could submit a paper to her old Circle about the whole "the Blight didn't actually come from ancient magisters!" thing if her source wasn't "the weird elven trickster god who lives in my dreams"), absolutely certain that their food is better than everyone else's, really tired of hearing about the bullshit politics in the Magesterium.

"Rook" was initially just "rookie"; for a long time she was the newest member of the Shadow Dragons – at least the newest that lasted more than a week. It's changed over time, though. Although I haven't got all the details out of her yet.

We're going on a walk with Davrin and Assan now.

[morvantmortuary]

Maximilian “Maxi” Vincent Morvant

(The Reaper)

(Rarae Aves’s slasher/necromancer OC)

“Let’s get acquainted, shall we?”

age: Early 40s (9/9/82) (virgo, if he believed in that sort of thing)

birthplace: somewhere in calcasieu parish, louisiana (his mother’s family can trace their lineage all the way back to the Spaniards; his father’s people are of cajun stock from way back in the bayou.)

height: 5′11′’

current location: wherever you are and just out of sight. Usually found in Greymoon, Louisiana.

favorite book: other voices, other rooms - truman capote

hobbies: while running the Mortuary tends to keep him pretty busy not to mention his odd hour night work, he does tend to enjoy a few different things in his spare time. Maxi’s a connoisseur of horror movies, good and bad, and will happily talk your ear off about the accuracy of the gore/wound sfx - though he’s also a sucker for romcoms when the mood strikes. He occasionally can be caught playing video games (mostly also horror-related), collects rare books when he comes across a desired volume, and has been known to play the piano semi-passably at two or three in the morning after a few drinks. He loves going to New Orleans for concerts, live theater, and museums, and he stays the hell away from Baton Rouge on game weekends. He’s also a cheerful walking encyclopedia of death and funerary practices throughout history, including various plagues and epidemics that swept through Louisiana over the centuries. He loves animals (once having dreamed of being a vet before Death ruled his world so completely), and can often be seen leaving appropriate snacks out for the graveyard critters when he’s restoring older tombstones and mausoleums in the cemetery next door.

occupation: current acting funeral director at the family business, Morvant Mortuary

“What can I say? It grew on me, after a while.” He smiles, and it’s sweet, unassuming (but there’s still something too dark about those eyes of his - a brown so deep, it teeters nearly into burgundy). “It might not be… what I had in mind for myself, originally,” he says, and his eyes fall to his perfectly shined shoes. “But it’s fulfillin’, gettin’ to help take care of people on their worst days. Give them the rest the deserve. We don’t talk about that nearly enough in this country, honestly, and we can trace that back to when we started phasin’ out home funerals; funnily enough–” He stops himself, and laughs - a peculiar half giggle, half snort. It’s a nice sound (though there’s something under it, something that feels like it could tip into a mad cackle under the right circumstances). “But look at me, goin’ on. I’m sorry, I tend to do that about my line of work.” His eyes flicker back to you behind his glasses (and the focus is a little too keen, too watchful to be only polite interest). “Now. Tell me about your ideal funeral.”

a history, of sorts:

Maxi was always the oldest son. Dutiful, anxious, with an impeccable attention to detail even at a young age (he had to be, given the Morvant family’s notorious inherited temper). It seemed only natural he would follow in his father Vincent’s footsteps to take over the business his family built when they immigrated here, serving the town of his birth for over a hundred years now. …Vincent forgot to ask Maxi how he felt about this, however. While he went through the motions from elementary to high school, smiling through perfectly posed family photos, making perfect grades, he was planning his escape. To somewhere. Anywhere. To see the world, he hoped. The town he grew up in was enough for people like his parents and his aunt and uncle, but he would not be one of the people who ended up trapped here, living and dying within a stone’s throw of the same graveyard where everyone he’d ever known was buried (or would come to be). He was taken with art and literature, wanting to see the great treasures of history his European-Creole forebears used to speak of in rapturous tones.

Then, of course, Maxi became his parents’ only child. But that’s a story for another time.

Maxi’s mother, Mathilde, didn’t handle grief well. A hothouse flower of a woman even before the death of her youngest, she withered away within the house Maxi grew up in. (rumor had it she never left the house again after the funeral that day.) It fell to Maxi to try to take care of her, making meals carried into her room that went wholly uneaten, bringing her vases of flowers from her formerly prized garden before they all died out, trying to keep the curtains open only to have her shriek at the tiniest speck of sunlight.

Maxi learned too quickly the futility of trying to keep things alive. Especially when they didn’t want to be.

Vincent, not a man for expressing his grief, turned further into the family business and the family night business, now more determined than ever to pass the mantle in multiple senses to his oldest child and only son -- to make sure he left behind some sort of tangible legacy. (Maxi learned too quickly that he was not enough.)

For Maxi, there would be no dreamed-of going away to university, there would just be the minimum associate’s degree at the Greymoon junior college. He would apprentice under his father, pass the state exam as soon as he turned twenty-one, and take over as funeral director when Vincent was good and ready to retire.

Maxi contemplated running - one night, he even made it so far as the abandoned house on the Knox family’s property on the edge of town, where he tried to hunker down.

He doesn’t talk about what he saw there, ever. But whatever it was, it convinced him to come back. Just for a little while. (Just long enough to see this through.) He enrolled in the junior college, he got the associate’s degree in record time, and he began his training. Just as a good son would.

Mathilde died the day before Maxi’s twentieth birthday. He helped embalm his mother as part of his apprenticeship. He chose the hymns, the flowers, the photo for the portrait at the front of the chapel. It was said by everyone who attended - the neighbors, Mathilde’s former sewing circle, the Junior League, the Greymoon Historical Society, and anyone else who couldn’t resist a good snoop - to be a beautiful service. People exclaimed to one another that poor, sainted Mathilde (who had been wasting away for two years, who had made it no secret that she’d been simply waiting for her body to give out) looked to be at rest at last. Peaceful, even, after such strife at the end.

The entire time, Vincent stood at the back of the church, arms folded with a constant scowl on his face.

There was… an altercation, at the Morvant house that night. No one knows for sure what they heard. Knock on any door in town, and they’ll all tell you the same thing: someone heard yelling between the last two Morvant men, the cracking of Mathilde’s wedding china hurled across the room, a guttural scream accompanied by what sounded like howling, manic laughter, though no one would dare admit that aloud, and the slamming of a door. Then… nothing. Crickets sang away into the late summer night, and everyone went about their business.

The next day, Vincent was found dead in his own prep room of a broken heart, and poor little Maxi was left all alone in the world.

What followed the next few weeks was the most awkward standoff in the world: this sweet, polite, soft-spoken young man with perfect manners, and the parish sheriff who knew damn well Vincent Morvant didn’t die of no broken heart. He came by the house almost daily for the week after the murder, and every time, Maxi would be waiting with a plate of his great-grandmother’s famous cookies (an old German recipe) and a full pitcher of homemade lemonade. When the coroner finally declared there was no trace of anything untoward in old Vincent’s guts, not even his favored whiskey, the Sheriff about threw a fit right there on Maxi’s front porch. Maxi smiled and waved as he shut the door, but before he did, he smilingly told the old man that if he wasn’t coming by the plan a funeral, he’d need to come back with a warrant.

Given that Maxi was the only qualified person in his part of the parish, and no one wanted to send their meemaw the next town over when it was her time to go on and receive her Eternal Reward, Maxi was fast-tracked through the state exam. He passed it on his twenty-first birthday, exactly.

The next day, however, this proved all for naught: the family hearse was out of the driveway, and that boy was gone for five whole years.

The House stood empty, sheets over the furniture, with a cleaning service being wired money every so often to go in and clear away any truly troublesome cobwebs or dust bunnies. Keen-eyed neighbors noticed that it was a different crew every time, however… apparently, whatever they were being paid, it wasn’t worth it for most people to go back into that house twice. You could watch the ones that took smoke breaks stand there on the wide front porch, or near the garage door, with an uneasy shifting and a nervous glance over their shoulder every few minutes or so. If you were brave enough to walk over and ask one about it, they’d smile and laugh, insist they were being silly… but something about the house just didn’t feel right. (And not just because it was the last place lots of folks had spent their last night above ground.)

For the longest time, on windy nights, people could swear you could hear groaning coming from the loading and unloading door from the “business” half of the house in the back. It was just the wind, though. Of course. Without warning, Maxi slipped back into town one day, and opened the family mortuary right back up like nothing happened. It’s been running steady ever since, and now people from other towns bring Maxi their meemaws and other assorted family dead, having heard for miles around how dignified and magnificent all his services are — no matter who the deceased was or if their family had money.

…The only odd thing, in all of this, is that sometimes - just sometimes, mind you - people who attend the funerals tend to go missing not long after. Usually adult male relatives of the deceased: a troublesome cousin, a cantankerous father, a boorish brother. (Not to mention the unfortunate spate of pretty girls that have up and disappeared across multiple parishes during what would come to be called his “Bad Spell”  - but no one can prove they’re connected, of course.) It’s become a bit of a rumor that the Morvant business, for all Maxi’s empathy and efficiency, might just be cursed.

If you ask Maxi about this, he’ll give you a smile - a slightly pained one - and suggest perhaps it’s the same curse that took his dear Père, saints rest him, all those years ago. And how could you argue with someone whose own family wasn’t immune to… whatever this was?

But he’s such a sweet man, everyone in the town will tell you so. He hosts every funeral and wake himself, and he takes such care of the grieving families, it’s like the deceased is one of his own. He’s not one for the church, and for being so handsome, he’s most usually found in the company of a book or a stray critter in the cemetery.

But there’s nothing to say that couldn’t change, though, if he met another lonely soul...

[crownshattered]

|| Made a new dnd/bg3 oc!! (Tentative fc, currently on the hunt for a younger fc that works...) Anyways, this is Vee~ She's a half-elf rogue, and she's 11 years old. In bg3, she has no connection to the mind flayers, but you can get her to join your team anyway (kinda like Halsin). ANYWAYS, info below~ (I'll probably add her, but if i do, it'll be after I add Karlach XDD)

(tw for family death and prostitution)

BACKSTORY:

Valyri (Vee) is originally from Westgate, and with its high crime rate, it's no surprise that the girl became a rogue. She lived with her mom, both of them struggling to get by. Her mother was a courtesan (and Valyri's dad was a customer) and did all she could to provide for herself and her daughter. Despite the circumstances that led to Valyri's birth, her mother loved her and wanted the best for her despite their shitty situation.

For a while (once she was around 5-6), Valyri would steal from her mother's customers while they were with her. Her mother knew about this and discouraged it, but Valyri was never caught. She really had a gift, one that could help her in a city like this. So while her mom lightly tried to persuade her to stop, Valyri kept stealing from customers.

However, her mom soon got sick. They barely had enough money to live even while she was working, so they of course didn't have enough to pay for medicine. So, Valyri started to steal more. She would rob people in the streets with her pick-pocketing and lock-picking skills. She was excellent at what she did, so much so that she never once got caught. Maybe that made her a bit cocky.

When she was nine, her mother’s illness had nearly taken her. But Valyri wasn’t ready to give up. In one last act of desperation (and even hubris) she planned to steal the ring of one of the most influential families in Westgate. However…she was caught in the act. A tiny street urchin with enough skills to attempt—and almost succeed—at stealing from someone so influential… They liked that.

They tried to “recruit” her, but Valyri basically told them to go fuck themselves. So…they cut off her tongue and basically forced her to work for them. She had no choice but to agree, but she was allowed to go back to her mom to say her goodbyes. What they didn’t know is that Valyri did steal the ring during that whole interaction. She rushed back to her mom to try and get her treated, but her mom told her that it wasn’t worth it. She was going to die anyway. She made Valyri swear to use the money to get out of Westgate and eventually live a lavish life. So… She did.

She now goes by V / Vee (it’s easier to introduce herself that way) and is traveling Faerûn to find another town where she can steal and get rich.

BASIC INFO:

Half-elf rogue, 11 years old, mute. Vee has crazy high dexterity and intelligence, but her other stats are kinda shit XDD She's excellent at sneak attacks, but you mainly want her in the party to lockpick and steal, as well as the occasional sneak attack. (she is built on my astarion gameplay.....)

Vee doesn't talk. She doesn't even make a sound. She doesn't really care that her tongue got cut off, since she just uses that as an excuse to be dead silent. She's fluent in common and elven sign language, as well as of course Thieves' cant. Her specialty is being completely silent, never leaving a trace. However, she's pretty damn good at conveying what she needs to say, even with just looks. She goes by "V / Vee" because when she introduces herself, she draws a big "V" in the air. It's much easier than trying to explain Valyri.

Vee is very intelligent for a child her age. She's super street smart and really mature. Vee acts like an adult almost all the time, and a really witty/snarky one at that. She can definitely hold her own when surrounded by people three times her age. You could say she's an "old soul", but really she just had to grow up very quick.

Although she acts like an adult almost all the time, she has a few very child-like things. For instance, she's more prone to being terrified of monstrous enemies. She has very low constitution. And although she acts like she's independent and fine on her own, she really could use someone to snuggle with to help her sleep.

More tba.??

[holidayhost]

hina is (technically) ren’s ex-wife.

ren and hina were legally married briefly, less than a year, but it’s something neither of them talk about, and essentially pretend never happened. they tried just after she gave birth to tie the knot in hopes that it would make things more legitimate. it was a miserable marriage, more miserable than their relationship as a whole. it was a crushing blow for ren to be technically divorced, even though they continued their relationship on and off after. he never wore his ring to work, so their marriage was pretty lowkey and more revealed to anyone in their personal life over their professional life. being married in their industry is not a draw, the illusion of being single is necessary. that and ren was never not a working man when he was with hina. he still has his ring. she sold hers or she says she did.

also similar to my oc yogi, their divorce falls under this category:

A: japanese law allows for divorce either through the family court system or through a simple registration procedure at the ward office. Known in Japanese as “mutual consent divorce” (kyogi rikon), this ward office procedure can be faster and less expensive than going through the Family Court.

while in theory hina seems the type to take ren for everything (and she would), he still technically provides for her and their son, so bleeding him dry now ensures he isn’t useful later. it isn’t like they were ever really over, just in the legal sense. too many strings attached to ren overwhelms hina, he is smothering to her, but when she wants his attention, she will get it. they don’t have to be married for that, and divorcing before kyosuke was really cognizant was for the best. 

hina was also suffering heavily at this point from postpartum depression, they were unstable, living in a very small apartment with three adults, one of which is needing constant care, as well as a new baby, and the occasional caretaker that ren could afford, which was also inconsistent. a lot of moving parts without anywhere to land and build.

headcanon: the english hina knows was actually taught to her by ren. she didn’t finish high school because of circumstances, but she’s very clever, smart, and quick on her feet.

headcanon: ren is the only one that calls hina ‘fusae’ which is her birth-name (ota fusae). admittedly, they’re a bit fast and loose with what they call each other. hina first knew ren under his alias ‘umi’, and was with him before he got the moniker ren. she has always had the name hina as her alias, one she got shortly after getting into hosting. before hosting, she went under various fake names, but nothing substantial enough to stick for long. it was more to keep her identity safe as she began working in the ‘water trade’ at 15, but didn’t start hosting until 17.

hina had work done after she gave birth to kyosuke, which is also not uncommon for hostesses. she never pursued it with much serious interest before becoming a mother. it’s not something she’s ashamed of, feeling justified and confident in her reasons for doing so, but it’s not something she also actively advertises since that’s pretty personal to her.

she had kyosuke by c-section, but her scar is quite light by the time we meet her in canon (25yr). she actively worked to get her body as quickly back into shape as possible so she could get back to work sooner than later. there wasn’t much maternity leave. hina was incredibly worried that her spot would be replaced and she would have to work her way back up again, if she would even be let back at all.

the above factors are also reasons she is bitter to ren. she blames him for ruining her body, not having any physical consequences, and not having his job threatened. while ren was the only man that hina ever trusted, she couldn’t help but feel that resentment grow. hina was only 20 when she had kyosuke; she was very young, very inexperienced, and had been in a bad situation after bad situation before getting involved with ren.

in reality, hina is still young — but she’s coming around a lot more; becoming herself again. a lot of this hard exterior is from weathering harsh storms, and for all her faults, she’s a fiercely protective mother. she looks out for kyosuke, but she relies on ren to take care of him and provide. she loves kyosuke, she just doesn’t always know how to show it.

[transgender-daemon-faerie]

Hey I’m sorry but I’m going to do this on main. Usually I would save venting for my private blog but I can’t this time.

Tw ⚠️⚠️ death, drugs, overdose, grief, loss of a family member, heroine, suicide mention, mental health⚠️ ⚠️

I’m sorry if this gets through your filtering, I tried to be as thorough with trigger warnings as I could.

18 days ago, my brother died. Or rather, 18 days ago they found his body. They aren’t really sure how long he was dead before they found him.

He died of a heroine overdose. He was in active addiction for a long time. It wasn’t suicide, but it might as well have been.

I last saw my brother when I was 7 years old. In April of 2011. And for thirteen years I have wished I got to say goodbye. But due to circumstances outside of either of our control, I left the state with my biological parents who did not bother to tell him we were leaving. He didn’t find out until we were hours down the road.

Ensuing events lead to me being adopted, and discouraged from speaking to anyone from my life before that for safety reasons. Despite my arguments otherwise, my brother was lumped in that group. He was 12 years older than me, already an adult.

It is not lost on me that I am now the age that he was when I was adopted.

A large part of me resents my parents in light of this. I resent my biological parents, for causing us to be separated, for being the reason I had to be adopted, for being a huge part of the reason my brother was an addict in the first place. I resent my adoptive parents for not allowing me to seek him out sooner, for fearing my brother who did nothing wrong. There will always be a part of me that wonders if it might have helped him if I had found him sooner.

I know that a huge part of his addiction was caused by poor mental health. The life he was raised in was worse even than mine. Our birth father was in active addiction when my brother was young. Our birth father was the one who introduced him to drugs. His parents were divorced, and neither home was ideal to live in. Living with his father, he got to see his younger siblings. But he also had to deal with his father and stepmother (my birth mother) who were horrible parents. Losing connection with 3 of his siblings caused him to cut the two of them almost entirely out of his life.

I know that he had a long term partner, who struggled with many of the same things he did. She died of an overdose several years ago. They say that after she died, he was never the same. He actively struggled with suicidal ideation for many years. He gave up on life. He saw his mom and other siblings occasionally. But frequently, he hid from them so that they would not see him in active addiction. He believed it was best to protect them from himself.

I started looking for him last October. By then, it was too late. He had stopped going online or speaking to anyone he knew. No one could reach him to tell him I was looking for him.

For years, I have grieved the loss of the years I should have had with my brother. The milestones we should have seen each other reach. I used to lie awake at night, sobbing, and write him letters that I had no way to send. Just to get the feeling out of my body. So many of my friends never heard me talk about him, because doing so brought me close to tears. I have never stopped loving my brother or waiting for the day I would see him again.

That day will never come. He’s ashes now. His mom will give me some of them, and I will wear them. This grief will never leave me.

This feeling, that I have felt for the past 18 days is agony. There is a hole in my chest and a pit in my stomach. I constantly feel on the verge of tears.

I mourn my brother. I mourn the life he should have gotten to live. I mourn the relationship that was torn away from us. I mourn the experiences we did not get to share. My sweet brother, who loved so fiercely, who was wild and brave. My brother whose eyes are just the same shape as mine.

I do not know how to live with this grief. I feel that it is tearing me apart. I don’t know how it isn’t written across my very body, this breaking.

[zaagis-archive]

diaspora is survival : let the dystopian morning light pour in

this is an edited version of an autobiographical essay i submitted for my pan-african geography class where the prompt was

"Using the excerpt from Stokely Carmichael’s Ready for the Revolution as a model, write a short autobiographical essay describing your own experience of “diaspora as survival.” How, in other words, did you end up here in Vancouver and at UBC? While you should describe as much as possible the migrations of your own family, you should also try to include references to those important historical markers of labor, history, race, colonialism, migration, and gender that are referenced by Carmichael." the purpose of me publishing this essay on tumblr is so i can cite it for another class, michael if ur reading this i hope u enjoy it !! i omitted some details i wasn't comfortable posting on the internet (aka not doxxing myself). also if the capitalization seems funky, it's intentional !!

I am what time, circumstance, history, have made of me, certainly, but I am, also, much more than that. So are we all.

[Notes of a Native Son – James Baldwin]

I’ve always been a bit of historian, how could I not when my own history, my own stories, have been hidden from me. To be Indigenous in a country that treats my people as a history, as no longer present, means being a historian of my own culture is a form of resistance. It doesn’t fit with the settler colonial canadian logic for my people to have a history or culture. Everyday I resist this occupation by remembering, by recreating, and continuing anishinaabek ways of living. And if Audre Lorde says, “the personal is political”, then much of what I write (both for academic purposes but also creative projects) will involve the politics of being a disabled Afro-Indigenous queer/two-spirit person living in an occupied state. Simply put, I write as a Nakawe, a citizen of Tootinaowaziibeeng, in Musqueam territory. I write from the belly of the beast and it can hard to avoid the drops of acid on these pages. 

How do you know your history? I’m not saying “ask your mom to cite her sources” but how do you know if what you’ve been told about yourself, your family, community, etc is true? I don’t believe one’s truth and what is fact are the same, at least I haven’t lived a life like that. Thus I’ll start where life starts, with the one who brought me into this world. I was born in oskana kâ-asastêki to my two adoptive parents and my biological mother tracy-lynn. I was adopted at birth, many who aren't familiar with the foster care system (the modern way canada monitors Indigenous children’s whereabouts, since the final residential school closed in 1996) would think that being adopted at birth was a good thing, I don't know if it was. You're likely wondering where my biological dad is… well that makes two of us. During conversations with her social worker she admitted to not knowing the father and regularly having casual sex with men of different ethnic origins, naming white, Indigenous, Black, and Filipino. Thus my adoptive parents (Tracey and Arlon), assumed I was Filipino based on my looks. Although strangers did occasionally throw Black microaggressions towards me, older white women wanted to touch my black curls and I was a girl who wanted to be ‘polite’. 

For the first 18 years of my life, it was my truth that I was Filipino. The guilt of my lack of connection from my Filipino friends eventually brought me to study the language as a teenager. Wanting to know what region of the Philippines my father was from lead me to doing a DNA test around age 18. Discovering the truth, for a short period of time, resulted in a what felt like a cultural crisis. I finally felt comfortable in one of my ethnic backgrounds (comfortable enough to get a tattoo of the Philippines flag within a knife, image above) so realizing the rarity of situations like this and not being able to find help online terrified me. After learning basic Tagalog, growing up with Filipino friends, and even embarking on a double major of History and Asian Studies, I had found myself in a very strange circumstance. You can find thousands of articles giving advice on how to come out as gay or transgender (as I had done so at 11 and 12 myself), but nobody really comes out as African. Honestly, I was scared that people would think of me as a liar or fraud. Like the pretendian equivalent of being Black. If the truth came to light, people would think I was intentionally lying about my race. At the same time, I was scared that if I said I was Black, but provided no proof, I was just some annoying leftist trying to claim a marginalized identity. It felt like being called to fight in a war where I'd lose on either front. 

As strange as it sounds, I can’t imagine my life without my queerness. Growing up with two older siblings that came out as queer before me allowed 11 year old me to develop language to understand myself and others. If I weren’t queer, I don’t know if I would’ve been introduced to philosophies of identity and history. Gaining a sense of self, a sense of pride in who I am and the communities I’m a part of, was integral to me discovering feminism at a young age (roughly age 13), leading me to learn from Black and Indigenous feminists/communists, many of whom I cite today in teacher education. The most important life lesson being queer has given me is that I don’t need to “know” myself, know what exact labels and identities suit me at any given moment, I just need to live. For example, I don’t inject testosterone because I feel at my core I’m a man (I don’t) or because I feel a need to prove my masculinity in a biological way (I don’t), I do it because I like the way it makes my body look. In a very Gen Z way, I decided to fuck around and find out. Thus when I had my cultural identity crisis, I realized I could just identify as mixed Black/Ethiopian/African. In the same way there’s no “true trans” person, there’s was no way for me to “truly” be African. I just am. 

As mentioned, I learnt about social justice issues and movements relatively early which was integral to my own identity development. Through learning from revolutionaries like Kwame Ture who stated “​​We're Africans in America, struggling against American capitalism. We're not Americans” and “a fight for power is a fight for land. [...] Our land is Africa. America's not our land, it belongs to the American Indians and we have a right to stand and take a moral struggle with them.” I felt empowered to describe myself as Afro-Indigenous, to bring my two sides together as one whole. Diaspora is survival can mean a lot of things at different times & places but here, it meant a member of the diaspora empowered another diaspora to take up the family name of African, within my mixed background. The name survived its travels. This is my favourite term for a few important reasons. Firstly, I’m acknowledging the lands I’m from. Both the ties I have to Africa as a diaspora and Indigenous reflecting my Turtle Island upbringing. Secondly, I’m not identifying with a colonial state as terms like Indigenous Canadian or Black Canadian would suggest. Lastly, I’m not playing into the settler idea of blood quantum. A soul cannot be divided into percentages.

It feels wrong, embarrassing even, to say I envy the classmates of mine who have the privilege of being one call or text away from a family member that can answer simple questions. I only know what someone, I assume a social worker, felt was worthy of documenting. I didn’t learn that my maternal grandmother’s brother roger was forced into multiple residential schools from tracy-lynn or her mother rita, I learnt from a fucking hydro company. How colonial dystopian is that? Hydro Manitoba did a study of the land they intended to put pipelines through, consulting the nation which neighbours my own. My nation is Tootinaowaziibeeng First Nation, physically within Treaty 2 territory but a signatory of Treaty 4. I’ve lived most of my life on Treaty 4 land, i.e. the land stolen from the Métis (michif), Cree (néhiyaw), and Ojibway (anishinaabe). My adoptive dad Arlon is a descendant of the first British & French settlers in the region and he didn’t know which Indigenous peoples lived on the land that makes up our family farm-turned-acreage until I told him. To him, the land was always in the family and was empty before, owned by the canadian government that gave it to his family. As a socially anxious young adult he was set up on a dinner date with my adoptive mom, Tracey. She was also from a white farming family, her childhood home being just 2 km down the road from where mine still sits today. Growing up she embraced the cuisine of her German ancestry, that was all her mother taught her. If I remember correctly, she’s mostly German, but had Jewish family survive the Holocaust, becoming refugees to Canada after leaving the Netherlands. I’m unsure if they were Dutch Jewish, I never asked. Despite having 3 known sides of family, I’ve always been distanced from them in some way. When I was young my mom told me the reason we didn’t spend time with distant family was because they were “mean” to her. As a teenager I learnt “mean” actually meant racist, they were upset with her for adopting an “Indian” baby.

Like Toni Morrison, much of my own literary (and musical) background comes from autobiographies. Now that I think about it, I’m surrounded by autobiographical creations. I can prove this on the spot by looking down at my phone next to me, Spotify open, playing Boujee Natives by Snotty Nose Rez Kids, a hiphop duo from Haisla First Nation. That song is on my ndn rap playlist, below it is my hiphop for sexy ppl only playlist which contains only Black/African rappers. I hit shuffle on the playlist and Malcolm Garvey Huey by Dead Prez comes on, ironic as I get to read works by/about these exact historical figures for this geography class. If I look into my backpack next to me I’ll find Dancing On Our Turtle’s Back by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg) and Creeland by Dallas Hunt (Swan River First Nation), both autobiographical works to an extent. That’s just my immediate surroundings here at a cafe near my house, I typically exist near a shelf of autobiographies at my two library jobs, as well as at home in East Van.

Where would I go? If I wrote an autobiography what section would they put me in? Would it still be autobiography if so much of my family knowledge comes from government documents like an adoption act or residential school records? Would my Indigeneity render it a historical work? If I have to rely on historical evidence to make a guess, does that make my life a fiction? Assuming an Indigenous category exists, who makes the decision on whether I’m too Black to belong? Perhaps I’ll write a biomythography like Audre Lorde. The sisters have it figured out this time, I know where’d I go. 

If past you were to meet future me, Would you be holding me here and now?

[Historians – Lucy Dacus]

References :

Afromarxist, “What's in a Name? ft. Kwame Ture (1989)” YouTube, video publication date 27 October 2019, https://youtu.be/OGcl359SMxE?si=T_bs5PKLBZuUYwZ0

Baldwin, James. Notes of a Native Son. Boston: Beacon Press, 1955. 

Chakasim, Neegahnii Madeline. “Pretendians and their Impacts on Indigenous Communities.” The Indigenous Foundation, May 10 2022. https://www.theindigenousfoundation.org/articles/pretendians-and-their-impacts-on-indigenous-communities 

HTFC Planning & Design & Manitoba Hydro. “See what the land gave us” Waywayseecappo First Nation Traditional Knowledge Study For the Birtle Transmission Line. December 2017. https://www.hydro.mb.ca/docs/projects/birtle/appendix_c_waywayseecappo_tk_study_final_report.pdf 

Lucy Dacus. Historians. Jacob Blizard and Collin Pastore. March 2, 2018. Matador Records, digital streaming.

Books / music mentioned

dead prez. Malcolm Garvey Huey. June 22 2010. Boss Up Inc., digital streaming. 

Hunt, Dallas. Creeland. Gibsons: Nightwood Editions, 2021.

*Maynard, Robyn. Policing Black Lives: State Violence in Canada from Slavery to the Present. Winnipeg: Fernwood Publishing, 2017. 

Lorde, Audre. Zami: A New Spelling of My Name. New York: Crossing Press, 1982.

Phoebe Bridgers. ICU. Phoebe Bridgers, Marshall Vore, & Nicholas White. June 18, 2020. Dead Oceans, digital streaming.

Snotty Nose Rez Kids. Boujee Natives. May 10 2019. Independent, digital streaming. 

Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake. Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re-Creation, Resurgence, and a New Emergence. Winnipeg: Arbeiter Ring Publishing, 2011. 

*Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake. As We Have Always Done. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2017. 

sources with * were in the original essay but omitted from this version

[robininthelabyrinth]

Good Help - chapter 2 - ao3 link

-

Despite the circumstances of their first meeting, Meng Yao mostly appreciated A-Jue for his quick mind and fearlessness – and, yes, occasionally for his towering height that made grabbing books from high places infinitely easier – rather than his muscles, however impressive they were. In fact, after the first few weeks, he had very nearly forgotten that A-Jue was a guard of the inner hall.

The assassination attempt put an end to that oversight.

It wasn’t that Meng Yao hadn’t anticipated such an attempt, nor that he hadn’t taken precautions. He was careful to take his meals in the communal kitchen at unexpected hours and tested even the snacks he kept with him before consuming them, and naturally avoided any unsupervised hallways or attempts to lure him outside, but he had underestimated the enmity that greeted his appointment: he had not thought that they would launch a direct attack.

The perpetrators entered his office as petitioners, posing as clerks for an influential merchant, and launched the attack just as they were settling into the rhythm of negotiations. They were hoping to catch him distracted, which they did, but Meng Yao had always had good instincts; he realized what was happening the first moment they moved. He was out of his chair and reaching for the flexible sword he stored around his waist almost at once, already calculating how many injuries he could incur and still be able to fight back enough to preserve his life – he just needed to survive until the guards came in, unless they’d somehow gotten rid of those, in which case he needed to run –

The calculations proved unnecessary.

By the time Meng Yao’s hand reached the hilt of his blade, A-Jue was already in front of him, catching one assassin the chest with a vicious palm strike and knocking him into the path of another, turning fluidly to slam an elbow into a third.

He didn’t even draw the saber that hung low at his waist, just knocked aside the assassin’s swords and daggers with his bare hands and then beating them with his fists and feet.

Meng Yao stood there for a moment, blinking, and by the time even his quick-moving mind caught up with everything the assassins all were unconscious or paralyzed, the merchant was on his knees begging for mercy and swearing to his ignorance, and A-Jue was standing there, frowning slightly at one of the still-twitching assassins like he was considering going in for more.

“Why didn’t you draw your saber?” Meng Yao asked, both because he was curious and because it was a better reaction than saying I forgot you could do that or I thought I’d be facing them all on my own again, or, even worse, thanks.

“I thought you’d want them alive to question them,” A-Jue said, blinking at him – he had the same expression of good-natured puzzlement as he did any time Meng Yao corrected him, whether as to his calculation of accounting errors or underestimating the malice inherent in mankind, which remained a subject of recurrent disagreement. “Was I wrong?”

“Not at all,” Meng Yao said, and felt once again the thrill of power when A-Jue nodded and called for other guards to enter and remove the bodies, although he crouched by each one first to check them over for any suicide pills or arrays that might interfere with an interrogation. His professional detachment and efficient resolution of events was truly suitable for a guard of the inner hall, the finest of Wen Ruohan’s soldiers; there could be no complaints.

There was something truly delightful about having a powerful man at your beck and call, Meng Yao reflected, and wondered briefly if A-Jue had been sent his way deliberately as a plant to infiltrate his confidence. It seemed unlikely, given the random nature of their meeting, and certainly A-Jue didn’t fit any of Meng Yao’s known pre-existing preferences, other than in terms of bedpartners. And yet he grew suspicious, if only because A-Jue suited him so very well, just right in every way…

Meng Yao spent the next three days conducting a series of covert tests to see if any information was being leaked from his office through A-Jue, but there was nothing. Ultimately, he was forced to conclude that A-Jue might actually just be – like that.

Straightforward and blunt, fearless in both speech and action, decisive and capable and yet willing to take orders from Meng Yao, never judging him for his birth but respecting him for his abilities…

Good help, he reminded his suddenly over-active libido. Hard to find. Don’t ruin a good thing.

It was hard to remember, though. A-Jue was just the sort of man Meng Yao liked when he went for men: handsome and powerfully built, well-born or rich or both, stern and unyielding in demeanor, the sort of man for whom life generally went the way they wanted. The sort could easily get a girl, even one of good breeding and appropriate lineage, merely by snapping his fingers. The type of man that might tempt even a practiced whore.

Meng Yao liked to break those types of men.

It was a trait he shared with Wen Ruohan, and one of the ways he had managed to get the Emperor’s attention – that first job he had taken had been in the Fire Palace, the Emperor’s torture chambers, and he had worked out a considerable portion of his anger and anxiety through the torment of his enemies, defined liberally as anyone who insulted his mother. He’d matured since then, growing calmer, but he still liked to put proud men on their knees and make them service him, to rub their faces in the fact that he was the one with the power, to make them crawl and plead and cry for him. Though he supposed for someone like A-Jue – he wouldn’t need to break him, really.

It’d be enough to see him bend. Willingly, for him.

And yet, if Meng Yao did that, wouldn’t A-Jue start to flinch from him and turn away from him – seek to preserve his injured pride by fleeing Meng Yao’s presence, the way so many others before him had? It would make working together much more annoying, and A-Jue was perfect the way he was.

Almost irritatingly so. If only A-Jue were more inclined to make errors, Meng Yao would feel freer to take advantage of him.

“Have you ever thought less of me because of my parentage?” Meng Yao asked one evening, apropos of nothing, when A-Jue was already exhausted and more than a little wild-eyed from having to review every single one of the reports on wheat yields in their northern provinces as part of Meng Yao’s random audit of the files.

“I mean, Jin Guangshan’s a waste of space, but you’re nothing like him, so not after the beginning,” A-Jue said automatically, then scowled at Meng Yao when he started laughing. “What? Give me a break, I didn’t know you then! How was I to guess that you’d actually be competent? Or – not awful?”

“I was,” Meng Yao said with dignity, even if his lips insisted on twitching, “referring to my mother.”

“But you hate it when people talk about your mother,” A-Jue said blankly, then shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, is this some sort of mind game? If so, can it wait until tomorrow? I’m going to dream in wheat prices.”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Meng Yao agreed, pretending to be solemn. He wasn’t sure if he was more amused at A-Jue’s ridiculous perspective on things or the fact that he seemed to think Meng Yao was not awful simply because he’d indulged him a few times when he was being especially insistent on doing things the soft-hearted way.

“You’re making fun of me again,” A-Jue grumbled. “I don’t know why, but you are. Fuck you.”

The next day, Meng Yao asked A-Jue if he’d ever been to a whorehouse.

“Yes, while on campaign,” A-Jue said, blinking rapidly as if he were trying to hide something, or more likely not think of something. Either he’d had a bad experience or he thought Meng Yao was going to cut off his balls for admitting it.

Which he wouldn’t, of course. There was nothing wrong with the better sort of customer, and Meng Yao felt certain that A-Jue would have been that sort, could imagine him sitting in the corner with a jar of wine and a blush until he was coaxed upstairs and then paying too much for the privilege, after...but it was cute that A-Jue worried about such things.  

Meng Yao put a friendly hand on A-Jue’s shoulder – the man flinched, briefly, but quickly mastered himself, just as he did any time anyone touched him – and said in his best sugar-sweet sympathetic tone that he hadn’t had to use on anyone in ages, “Did she touch you in a bad place?”

“The honored viceroy can go fuck himself any time he damn well pleases,” A-Jue said, and he had no idea how much Meng Yao would like to ask him if he’d prefer to do the honors himself.

“Do you know any other curses, or is it just variations on the term ‘fuck’?” he asked instead, thinking good help, good help, good help. “I know at least three dozen involving farmyard animals, if you’d like to learn.”

A-Jue’s laugh was in no way like a braying donkey, no matter what Meng Yao pretended to insist.

-

“Have you considered the benefits of a regular routine of physical exercise?” A-Jue asked.

Meng Yao glared at him.

“I’m just saying,” A-Jue said. “It would make your life easier.”

“Shut up and help me get down from up here,” Meng Yao hissed – A-Jue had taken care of the vicious snarling creatures that had somehow gotten loose, an obvious follow-up assassination attempt now that the poisoning he thought he’d identified in a late-night dessert had been demonstrably unsuccessful, even if A-Jue had insisted that they were just “sweet little puppies” and Meng Yao was “overreacting”.

“I’d be happy to help train you, if you’d like.”

“I’m far too busy,” Meng Yao said with what little shreds of dignity he still possessed. “I do three times as much work as you do, I don’t have capacity to running off to go wave a stick in the air multiple times a day like some people.”

A-Jue grinned at him, utterly unmoved, and Meng Yao huffed, rolling his eyes at him.

“If I agree,” he said, with no intention whatsoever of agreeing, “will you finally show me your saber?”

If there was innuendo in there – well. He was only a man, after all.

“Perhaps one day,” A-Jue said. “It’s not a privileged I give to everyone.”

Meng Yao tried to parse whether that was flirting. He couldn’t quite tell.

“Well, your saber is very large,” he said, probing. “Maybe you should take it out more often.”

“When I take out my saber, someone dies,” A-Jue said, and – probably not flirting, then. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally skewer you.”

Possibly very strange flirting? Meng Yao wouldn’t put it past A-Jue.

“Yes, well,” he said, straightening his robes and settling back into professional mode. “You have fun with your exercise, but leave me out of it.”

A-Jue escorted him back to his office first, conscientious as always.

Once he was gone, Meng Yao rang a certain bell and summoned Sisi, whose freedom was probably the best investment he’d ever made – she’d merged into the palace staff without leaving so much as a trace behind, acting as though the other girls were her sisters and she’d been there forever, and she was more than willing to report on everything she learned.

Also, she’d retained enough of her looks that everyone thought that Meng Yao only summoned her for sex, making A-Jue’s occasional disappearances for training purposes the perfect time for Meng Yao to meet with her without suspicion – he’d given up most of his paranoia surrounding A-Jue, but that was no reason to share all of his tricks.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he actually wanted A-Jue and Sisi to meet.

“When you’re done fucking him, can you share?” Sisi asked after she put down the tray of snacks – buns and a pot of tea, all of which she sampled before his eyes in the name of sharing food. “Man like that deserves to be common property.”

“I’m not whoring him out,” Meng Yao said, a warning in his tone, and Sisi sighed dramatically.

“Tell me you’re at least having a good time with all those muscles,” she said. “Someone ought to be.”

Meng Yao rolled his eyes.

“Where’s the trouble coming from this time?” he asked, deciding to elide the issue entirely. “I keep hearing whispers and people look nervous, the way they do before some sort of trouble, but neither gentry nor merchant class seem to have produced anything out of the ordinary, and I can’t imagine it’s the farmers again after last time.”

“You’re looking out, you should be looking in,” she said.

“The Emperor’s court?”

That could be a serious problem. Any political turmoil that happened within the Nightless City would have ramifications well beyond it.

“His harem,” Sisi said, her face alight with the pleasure of gossip. “Word’s come back from the south – turns out that the Emperor took one of the Imperial Consorts with him for his trip.”

Even Meng Yao’s eyebrows raised.

“And with the Empress in seclusion, well…”

It wasn’t as though the Empress had a strong maternal family as a backing – no one even knew what her surname was – but she’d been there for years and years, practically part of the décor. Replacing her with one of the Consorts would be…a change.

The Nightless City hated change.

“Could you ask to see her?” Sisi asked. “Just as proof of life…”

“I could,” Meng Yao said, because technically he had authority over everyone, “but I won’t. Why would I invite trouble for myself? I’d have to explain to the Emperor why I interfered with his harem.”

“Good point,” Sisi said, although she looked disappointed.

“Which Consort?”

“The rumor says A-Sang,” she said. “The one that likes to carry scholarly fans.”

“A-Sang? Really?”

“I know! We all thought that the Emperor didn’t even like A-Sang – everyone agrees that A-Sang never got any imperial visits before this; the Emperor never spent a night in A-Sang’s rooms, never even shared a meal, nothing. But why else would he take A-Sang with him on a months-long journey?”

Why indeed. The Emperor remained as unfathomable as ever. Meng Yao wondered briefly if Wen Ruohan really had murdered the Empress in her seclusion, faking her presence with a note…still, it seemed implausible. Why would he bother?

“I heard a rumor once,” he said instead. “About A-Sang.”

Like all good spies and shit-stirrers, Sisi was immediately at full attention – she knew that Meng Yao was not inclined to gossip for the pleasure of it, the way she was, and therefore he would only volunteer information if he intended for her to spread it.

“A-Sang is the Empress’ family,” Meng Yao said, and Sisi’s eyes went wide. “Younger sibling.”

Younger brother, he thought, though he didn’t say anything – he didn’t actually know for sure. It was hard to tell. Wen Ruohan didn’t lock away his wives the way some men did; on the contrary, he enjoyed bringing them out for celebrations to show them off. But the Empress was invariably veiled, swathed in silks without a hint of skin showing, always seated in her chair as if she were kneeling in penance, never moving; Meng Yao, who only saw her from a distance during the celebrations, sometimes almost thought she might not have legs. In daily life, she sometimes attended the Emperor’s court, but always remained seated behind her veils and sometimes even a screen, little more than a silhouette from which, rarely, notes emerged but no voice ever did.

Naturally, if the Empress preferred to be veiled, that meant the other wives had to at least pretend to follow her lead. And that meant veils and concealing clothing, even if some of them interpreted the concept rather loosely, with sheer veils and even sheerer clothing, meant to entice – A-Sang fell somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, wearing a veil that revealed his eyes and clothing that allowed him flexibility of movement without too much restraint, and while he was slender and delicate, Meng Yao was moderately certain that he was indeed male.

Not that it mattered.

Wen Ruohan had never much cared about that.

“Amazing,” Sis breathed. “So all these years, the Emperor has been refraining from touching A-Sang out of respect for the Empress, and now the little sister wife has finally made her move…”

Meng Yao had said none of that, but it served him to muddle the waters a little, mostly to see who would try to clear it up. Not that it could be, as his information about their familial connection was accurate – gleaned from a careless comment by Wen Ruohan himself, no less – but it interested him to know who would try regardless.

“Go,” he said, and Sisi left, all but floating, and it wasn’t long before A-Jue returned, all shiny with sweat and exertion, looking incredibly fuckable.

“You worked near the harem, right?” Meng Yao asked him, mind still focused on the bubbling little scandal that he just knew would become an issue that could wreck his thus far successful regency. “Do you have any connections there?”

“Not really?” A-Jue said. “Most of the wives are scared of me.”

Typical.

“Is there something you’d like me to find out for you..?”

“No need,” Meng Yao said. He’d never met anyone less well suited to be a spy than A-Jue. “But it may be an avenue of future threats, so keep it in mind.”

“I’m not going to let anyone from the harem harm you,” A-Jue said, oddly fierce. “Not anyone. Don’t worry.”

[c-is-for-circinate]

Ok, Hades gameplay reaction time!

(Because I have been terrible this quarantine year about posting thoughts about stories I've been invested in, and I'm really enjoying this game, and I'm playing basically blind and I have theories, and what is tumblr for if not recording those things to look back on later.)

I love this specific kind of fantasy/speculative fiction, that straddles the line between 'allegory clearly designed to explore a real-world issue' and 'the themes of this reflect real-world issues but also everything is times one million for drama and setting's sake'. I love it so much. Because, look, this is a story about a teenager/young adult trying to gather up the skills and resources and help he needs to escape his controlling, possessive, emotionally abusive father's house. That's it. Strip away all of the trappings, and that's what the story is about. By comparison, I think about Star Wars. (I love Star Wars too.) That's also a story about a dysfunctional fucked-up family dynamic. But that family is fucked up because dad went on a magic-corruption-induced killing spree, and his twin children were separated at birth to be raised in seclusion with the intention of someday taking him down, and look, that's cool, but it's definitely not how people actually are. All of the dysfunction in that family is an outgrowth of the fantastical setting, which means it is fantastical dysfunction. It can occasionally mirror or remind us of real-life interactions, but it's a fantasy. Which is great and fun to watch and very comforting and so on, but I don't necessarily want that in every story, and I love Hades because it is not that, at all. When you extend out the basic 'kid trying to escape his toxic home environment', Hades is the story of Zagreus trying to get out with the help of his dad's estranged, complicated, wealthy and powerful family, who are absolutely part of the reason why dad is Like That in the first place, and may not be any more reliable in the long run but who he needs right now. And his stepmom and teacher, who love him enough to help him leave, unconditionally and supportively (ask me how many feelings I have about 'look, Hades can't hurt me for helping you, don't worry about me, I am going to take care of you and that means helping you get out of this house' coming from an adult authority figure, ask me). And his dad's employees, who like him but also have to fear the old man's wrath, and walk that line in different places the best they can. And stepmom's long-estranged parent, because this is a story about families and how they split apart and come back together. And all of that is so real, so grounded in actual, concrete, this-is-how-humans-work family dynamics. But it's also individual. The story works so well because Hades isn't just a silhouette of the controlling asshole father; he is clearly The Way He Is for reasons, complicated ones, good and bad alike. The Way He Is has details, particularities, paperwork, a dog he pretends not to love and rely on. He is specific. Nyx and Achilles are specific, not just generic kind stepmom here to be a trope inversion and cardboard cutout teacher. Nyx has backstory and personality of her own, Achilles has a complex history, opinions, a missing lover, and they BOTH have very particular relationships with Hades that aren't just boilerplate script. Yes, there's abstraction there, you meet these characters in brief visual novel-esque three-line conversations over the course of dozens of escape runs, of course there's abstraction--but there's the very real sense that all of these people have nuance, have good and bad days, that they've made choices to be who they are, even if we don't know what those choices are yet. And, like Star Wars, some of the ways in which this story is so specific rely entirely on the fact of the otherworldly setting! I've seen stories that go the other way, that try to use their setting entirely as window dressing, and they end up feeling so flat I can't even remember them right now because they don't let the environment lend complexity and nuance to their characters at all. The environment these characters live in matters. The absolute control Hades exerts over his surroundings is a divine power. The fact that everyone Zag runs into, for or against him, is either immortal or immortally dead, changes how the react to

one another and to the situation at hand. The shape of his attempted escapes (gauntlet combat with a variety of legendary weapons) might be an allegorical construct of the genre, true, but it doesn't work in any sort of real-world setting where there exists the possibility of authority figures above or aside from Hades and his extended fucked-up family. That's part of why the family is so fucked-up in the first place. But these changes still fit well within the realm of, 'yeah, if you took this extremely real-life dynamic and added these factors to it, I can envision people doing this thing'. I can envision these specific people doing this thing. They add to the specificity of these characters. Letting them be influenced by their unreal surroundings makes them more real. So hell yes for good storytelling!!!!

I'm still relatively early in the game (by which I mean I'm like thirty runs in but only just got past Meg for the third time, because I am not good at this game, although in my defense it's only the seventh video game and second button-mashing game I have ever played in my life so there's that), but I'm starting to develop suspicions about Persephone. Because, look, outside of Persephone's absence from the underworld, this story knows its Greek mythology, uses it, revels in it. And there is some kind of mystery still shrouding Persephone leaving in the first place. She left a goodbye to Cerberus in her letter but not to her own son. Nyx has warned Zagreus multiple times not to let the Olympians know she's his mother. He literally never even knew she existed. That's complicated! Add to that, Persephone left--the exact thing we are trying and failing to do again and again and again. She left with one note, which means either she managed a one-shot speedrun out of the entire realm or she had some other way to leave, because if she'd washed up in the Styx pool to plod back to her room and try again, she wouldn't've needed to leave the note in the first place. And, you know, she's Persephone. Really quite famous for leaving the Underworld! Also quite famous for being forced back. So. I'm wondering if Zagreus, so conspicuously absent from her goodbye, has something to do with it after all. Six pomegranate seeds condemned Persephone to six months, half a year, half her life. I wonder if a child that's half of her her constitutes a fitting trade instead. Which, of course Hades would be even more resentful and dismissive and cruel to the kid he got in place of the wife he loved (who he chased away by being cold in the first place). Of course Persephone would have difficulty saying goodbye to her son in those circumstances. It would make sense. The tricky thing here is how the Olympians fit into it, because I also suspect the rift between Hades and Zeus sprang from Persephone's departure. And yet, if the Olympians never knew Zagreus existed, let alone that he's Persephone's son--how can he count as payment into the deal in their eyes? So in that case, what does Zeus think is the justification for Persephone leaving, after the pomegranate thing? Or are we just not doing the pomegranate thing at all? It would be a shame to lose it entirely, out of a story that really seems to enjoy the myths it's playing with. And there should be something complex here, something more than simply 'mom fucked off and left because dad sucked and now I'm following her because same'. It feels more complex than that. 'Mom and dad had a baby to try and save their marriage, it didn't work, but when mom left she had to leave me behind because otherwise dad would have gotten the cops and her extended family involved' feels more right, while still just as grounded in reality as the story has been so far.

I sort of want to write some meta about how each of the six legendary weapons corresponds to their original divine wielder, but I haven't unlocked all of their codex entries yet (look I am very bad with ranged weapons in this game ok, I am working on it), and I still need to think about the details. Aside from, of course, fuck yes of course Hestia's the one with the railgun. Leave drama and elegance and traditional weaponry to her brothers and sister (Demeter, who knows how to get her hands dirty, gets a pass). Hestia is out here to get shit done. With a grenade launcher.

[meggannn]

one thing that bugs me within HZD fandom—or at least in a lot of reddit threads and the occasional tumblr note—is how the discussion of Aloy as the chosen one because of the circumstances of her birth always gets reframed around [REDACTED] in a way that discredits Aloy.

I do love the “hero is a rando” stories as much as the next person, but what I like about HZD is that it sets up Aloy to be some incredible savior and then it turns out... well, she might do cool things, but she’s kind of a jerk, actually! and she has every right to not want to help most people when she’s been hurt and mistreated by them for all of her young life.

Aloy is a hero, yes, but not because of her birth, but because she chooses to be one. and it’s a hard choice for her, because her natural inclination is to help herself—which is an understandable trait now that she is old enough to try to give herself what she was denied for nearly twenty years—and I like that they keep stressing that.

now that we’re under the cut I’m gonna talk spoilers.

Aloy is a great fighter and impressive machine-hunter and she is very smart, but that’s not because she’s Elisabet’s clone, but because she had to develop those skills to survive. every part about her personality and skillset can really be attributed to a few key elements about her: being an outcast and shunned and judged for something out of her control, growing up in the wilds in a world full of dangerous machines, not being raised with any sense of family or friends or community, and her feelings of loneliness. everything about her personality and abilities has a tie back to one or several of those things, either as a way to explain them, or overcome them. those were things Aloy did because she chose to chase the mystery of her past, but her Elisabet genes didn’t do them for her.

so it really does bug me when people talk about it as if it’s Elisabet’s acumen that should be given credit when we talk about why Aloy is the hero of her own story. I think we are far enough as a culture that we can acknowledge nurture plays a much bigger role in someone’s personality than nature, even for clones. (and I think this is why the Lightkeeper Protocol was doomed to fail anyway.) I think GAIA, when awake, may eventually struggle with this initially, calling her Elisabet instead of Aloy because it’s Elisabet she misses and wants to see again, and she doesn’t know Aloy at all—but she is an AI, and can adapt quickly.

but why I think it bothers me so much is that this “she’s a natural hero” narrative goes against Rost’s last lesson that he teaches Aloy in the prologue. Aloy’s flaws are that she is selfish and often self-centered, and doesn’t rely a lot on others, often to the point of discrediting their abilities. she barges into the Hunters Lodge and demands Talanah take her on as a thrush based on her own assumption that she’s as good a hunter, if not better, than most of the people in the building. she says “I’m faster on my own” to Erend’s incredulity, implying others would just slow her down. they’re completely understandable foibles for someone who has been alone and shunned by the world her entire life and learned to survive because of it.

but Aloy isn’t strong or smart or brave because she was a clone of Elisabet. she could have walked away from seeking revenge against the Eclipse, and arguably, she might have even done it if she hadn’t had a personal interest in the matter: finding out who Elisabet was. Sylens even calls her out multiple times for her short-sightedness in focusing on “what happened to Elisabet?” instead of "what happened to the world?” (I think in ELEUTHIA-9 she says something like "This is interesting, but it's not why I'm here though" and Sylens says sarcastically "Right, what's the whole of human history compared to the origins of one girl?")

again: it’s completely understandable that the girl raised with no family is looking for, y’know, her family, but I think it’s also a pointed choice by the writers: Aloy doesn’t really feel like she belongs to a tribe, so she feels, in some sense, that she has nothing to lose by antagonizing and refusing help to anyone. what are they going to do, banish her? her one lifeline is Rost: it’s her love for him, and his last act of sacrifice for her, that propels her self-centered (though by no means wrong) desire of “I need to find where I came from” to “these people are killers who threaten what I believe in,” and “they will kill again, and even if they will hurt the people who hurt me, many of whom I still dislike, I must do my best to stop them.”

the biggest scene that shows her laser focus on her own interests to the extent of others’ is when Erend asks her for help tracking Ersa’s killer and she denies him without the player's input. I thought that was an interesting choice because the game is canonically telling us that Aloy will barge her way past allies to get what she wants, and she will not be nice about it. like, Erend, a man grieving, tries to get her to stop for two seconds to hear out his ask for help, and she says “Out of the way” and “That’s your war, not mine.” Normally games might give you a choice to say yes or no to helping an ally, even if the game will eventually force you help them to progress the story; but the writers made a choice to show her denying a friend help, just after he helped her. It shows she’s still at the point in her journey where she sees others either as allies to help her or as foes in her way, and she might help allies if she makes time for it on her own (side quests), but when she's impatient and picks up the scent of her prey, she’s willing to ignore others’ needs.

it’s honestly debatable if she would have even cared so much about seeking revenge against the Eclipse if Helis hadn’t killed Rost: certainly she may have been interested in seeing them punished for their ambush against a bunch of Nora teenagers, but she mentions Rost the most consistently when she talks about tracking down Helis, not even Vala or the other Braves (RIP). even to Sylens, who didn’t know any of them, she says “You [didn’t say you knew the man] who killed my... who almost killed me.” (also, sob forever that Aloy still can’t call him her dad even after he’s dead, only “the man who raised her.” Rost really did not teach her to ever call him “Dad.” it’s no wonder why she was so focused on finding at least one parent, a mother, who is centered throughout Nora culture.) but the Nora ambush, while a factor, is still kind of... a side thing. she is most interested in their connection to this mysterious woman-who-might-be-her-mother, and the mystery of why they tried to kill her. people just assume that she is after them out of vengeance for the Nora, and she does not correct them as she uses her Seeker title to explore her own interests.

and speaking of Sylens, I think they are great foils for each other just for this reason: Aloy immediately senses there’s something she doesn’t like about him from basically the moment he makes contact. he’s prickly, arrogant, impatient, unsympathetic, and hates to play nice or work as a team. but like... are they really all that different? I think that Aloy sees Sylens in her future if she doesn’t learn to get along with people. like Aloy, Sylens is definitely rude to you, but I hope you realize you, too, are also pretty rude to others as well! (though you could argue this is a game mechanic so she can ask the questions that the player might be wondering.)

this is not all to say that she’s dispassionate or uncaring, or that her mission isn’t sympathetic or understandable. she helps people out, but her goal driving the story, her True North in a way, is really her own interest to find out who she is and where she came from. one of the significant moments she grows in this regard is when she comes out of ELEUTHIA-9 and decides to fight for the Nora, and for the entire world. she just discovered the truth of her birth isn't what she wanted, and she even thinks afterwards that she’s ��not a person, just an instrument.” she’s devastated. what on earth does it mean, that she’s a “recreation” of Elisabet? they don’t have words for “clone” in her world—she thinks it means she’s literally not a human being. she doesn’t want a grand destiny to save the world, she just wants to find her mother and have that sense of belonging she was denied for so long, and she didn’t find that—turns out, she never had that. and now she’s being expected to take on this huge burden about restoring GAIA and fighting subfunctions that she doesn’t understand. both of her “mothers" are dead and there are a bunch of people waiting outside the bunker for her to tell them what their goddess is saying.

so when she walks out of that bunker and sees a bunch of scared, hopeful faces looking at her for answers, her decision to fight HADES—not just on behalf of GAIA but on behalf of the Nora and Carja and Oseram and all others—is her accepting that even though she isn’t what she thought and didn’t get what she wanted, she needs to help others because she is a still part of this world and can make a difference. that’s what makes her heroic. her hero-worship of Elisabet is understandable, but it’s not what’s going to get her through the next challenges in her life—only her own growth and commitment to doing good will do that.

when she tells Rost “if I’m going to fight for something, it’s going to be something I believe in,” I think that was her saying “I’ll fight for that something, but if I find it, I think I’ll end up finding it on my own, and it won’t be with the Nora.” at that time in her journey, she was running the Proving to get something for herself, not to serve the Nora, which she would have been expected to do normally if she had successfully completed it. but she does find something to believe in, and it is with the Nora, both physically in the mountain, and in the spirit of any community: it’s not Elisabet herself, like she thought, but it is what Elisabet stood for, and died for. she may not fully understand what GAIA or the subfunctions are yet, but she knows that their survival and mutual cooperation are necessary for the betterment of people now and civilizations everywhere. she isn’t really fighting for Elisabet or the Old Ones, or I don’t think so, at least—I think it is a factor to do all of this in Elisabet’s memory, in some way, but mostly I think she’s fighting for people alive today. it’s the same conclusion Elisabet came to: the Old Ones are doomed, but people of the future might still have a chance, and that chance is worth her dedication.

but how how a lonely girl ends up fighting to save the world when she barely understands it or the people in it, is an interesting challenge. for this reason I also expect to see her faults in full display in the sequels. Aloy’s tactlessness is a big flaw of hers when it comes to her dismissiveness and occasional derision toward any religion/cultural traditions she doesn’t understand or value. she works through this in some way over the course of the story, like when she decides to spare the Nora the truth of their goddess with an easy lie after leaving ELEUTHIA-9, but particularly in the DLC (which can take place at any point in the story), she challenges a werak to become the chieftan of a tribe she knows very little about, just to get something for herself: she wants to further her goal of investigating AI. I expect this trait of hers will be something we see more of in future games, her barging into a community she doesn’t know anything about and telling them how to do things for their own good. (I call it the “Solas Problem” from Dragon Age Inquisition.) she might be right most of the time, but she also needs to learn how to talk to the people she’s trying to save, and learn how to save them without changing who they are.

[lostinfantasyworlds]

Words: ~4,200

Cw for some descriptions of the pain of childbirth.

Includes my drawing of Inuyasha and baby Moroha later on in the story! (I will also post separately).

Read on AO3

A/N at the end.

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

The first of the evening’s stars twinkled against a darkening sky above Kaede’s hut, where Kagome lay inside, deep in the throes of labor. The initial pangs of discomfort had begun shortly after daybreak that morning, the recent sunset marking thirteen hours since then. Now well into active labor, Kagome braced herself for yet another painful contraction. She groaned before clenching her jaw tightly shut, feeling the muscles within her lower abdomen begin to tense.

The fingers of her right hand were laced firmly through her husband’s, who sat diligently at her side. She squeezed Inuyasha’s hand with all her strength, grateful that she could do so without hurting him too much. 

Although it was not traditional for the father to be allowed in the birthing hut, a (reluctant) exception had been made for Inuyasha. Kagome recalled the earlier scene in an effort to distract herself from the building pain.

“Kaede!” Inuyasha called out as he burst through the entrance of Kaede’s hut, carrying Kagome in his arms. 

Kaede made a sound of annoyance as she finished making her tea, her back turned towards the couple. Her lack of surprise suggested that she had sensed the half-demon’s aura approaching. “What are ye making such a fuss about, Inuyasha?”

“Kaede, the baby’s coming!” Kagome said through labored breaths. Kaede finally turned around to see Kagome in Inuyasha’s arms, one hand on her swollen belly and her face screwed up in pain. Her face softened as she realized the reason for the sudden intrusion.

“Ah, yes. Good, good,” Kaede said calmly and set her tea down to begin preparing the futon for Kagome to lay on. 

She moved slowly in her old age, and after a few minutes when Kagome cried out again, Inuyasha growled and snapped, “Would ya move it along? Kagome needs somewhere to lay down right fucking now!”

Kaede shot him a one-eyed glare as she finished placing the last pillow. She gestured to the futon, indicating that it was ready for Kagome to lay down on.

Inuyasha lay Kagome down on the futon ever so gently, making sure she was as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. Once he was sure she was taken care of, he settled onto the floor himself, sitting cross-legged by her side.

“What do ye think you’re doing?” Kaede asked as she grabbed a clean birthing robe and water bucket from a storage chest in the corner. “Fathers are not allowed in the birthing hut, Inuyasha. It is time for ye to leave.”

Inuyasha cracked his knuckles in response, holding up his claws menacingly. “You gonna make me, old hag? There’s no way in hell I’m leaving Kagome right now!”

Kaede’s tolerance for Inuyasha’s rudeness was already running thin. “How dare ye threaten me in my own home! It is bad luck for the father to - “

She was cut off by Kagome, who had just finished breathing through her latest contraction. “Kaede, please, I want him to stay. I need him here with me.”

Kaede considered her request, ultimately deciding it would be less hassle for her to just allow the exception. She nodded slightly before turning away and sighing, preparing herself for a long night ahead with a stressed and overprotective Inuyasha.

Kagome looked up at Inuyasha, who smiled slightly, seemingly relieved that she wanted him to stay. She reached out and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. She returned his smile with a warm one of her own, before abruptly dropping it and replacing it with a glare.

“I want you here with me, but if you are rude to Kaede one more time, I will not hesitate to kick you out. Now apologize!” She gave him a look that made his ears flatten against his head. 

“Fine, whatever. Sorry, Kaede,” he grumbled almost inaudibly. Kagome rolled her eyes at his immaturity, but was still thankful that he would be by her side as they welcomed their child into the world.

Kagome was brought back to the present as her contraction peaked. Her muscles tensed impossibly harder, causing her to let out a cry of agony and squeeze her eyes shut. This was the worst and longest one so far. It was so intense that all rational thought was wiped from her mind as her vision went momentarily white. Unable to comprehend anything beyond her overwhelming desire for the pain to stop, she squeezed Inuyasha’s hand with a force that probably would have broken a regular human’s hand. 

She did her best to try and breathe deeply until her body mercifully began to grant her relief. Chest heaving and limbs shaking, she savored the brief respite, knowing that she didn’t have much time to prepare for the next contraction. They were only a minute or two apart now, and she instinctively knew that their baby was very close to making its arrival.

She felt the comforting coolness of a damp cloth dab the sweat from her forehead, and looked gratefully to her left where Sango knelt beside her. Sango gave her an empathetic, encouraging smile. She had happily volunteered to assist Kagome with the birth of her child, both as an excited aunt-to-be, and as part of her midwife training. 

Kaede’s strength continued to wane in her old age, and Rin had decided to spend some time traveling with Sesshomaru again to see if she still preferred that lifestyle over living with other humans. Not wanting to risk leaving the village without a midwife, Kaede had asked Sango and Kagome if they would be willing to undergo training so they could assist with births if the need arose. Although Sango was incredibly busy with her ever-growing family and occasional demon slaying whenever she got the chance, she jumped at the opportunity to give back to the village that she had made her home for the last seven years. As a mother of five children of her own, she had plenty of experience and advice to offer new moms.

Sango put a comforting hand on Kagome’s shoulder, remembering the excruciating pain of childbirth all too well. “You’re doing great, Kagome. Let me check on your progress.” She moved down between Kagome’s legs to determine how much farther she had to go. Kaede had taught her several methods of determining the baby’s position at any given point during labor. She hoped, for Kagome’s sake, that she was nearing the end.

“Good news, Kagome, you’re almost there! When the next contraction comes, you can start pushing,” Sango said, moving back to Kagome’s side down by her feet.

Kagome nodded slightly, closing her eyes and taking a few more deep breaths to try and prepare herself. Her heart was pounding, her hands were shaking, and a layer of sweat coated her entire body. She had never experienced so much pain, not from any of the injuries she had sustained during their countless battles. Even having the Shikon jewel torn out of her body was nothing compared to this. She had to keep fighting down waves of nausea as the contractions had become more and more agonizing.

She was already exhausted, already past her limit of pain tolerance, and the thought of pushing sent her into a panic. How much worse is this going to get? What if I can’t do this? What if the pain kills me? Maybe I wasn’t ready to be a mother! I’m not strong enough…

Terrifying cynical thoughts raced through her mind as her heart pounded against her ribcage, her breaths becoming more shallow.

“I’m scared,” she admitted quietly, to no one in particular. She kept her eyes closed, feeling weak and ashamed. She had been looking forward to being a mother for so long, so why was she suddenly so afraid? 

“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. A few tears slipped out from under her shut eyelids and rolled down her flushed cheeks. She felt like she was on the brink of a complete breakdown.

“Yes you can. What you’re feeling right now is perfectly normal, Kagome,” Sango said soothingly. 

Kagome slowly opened her eyes at the sound of her friend’s voice.

 “Every mother feels the same way at this point, I promise. This last part isn’t going to be easy, but it doesn’t last too long, and then it will all be over and you’ll be holding your baby in your arms. When you look into their eyes for the first time, you’ll forget all about everything else, trust me.”

Kagome smiled down at her, thankful for the reassurance from someone who had been through this before. She then looked up to her husband who was still holding her hand and sitting cross-legged at her side. Her gaze was met with golden eyes full of concern.

Inuyasha was overwhelmed. There were so many sounds, so many smells, so many emotions. He had done his best to try and prepare himself for this day, but he had to admit that he was in over his head. It was killing him to see Kagome in so much agony, especially when there was nothing he could do about it. His instincts to protect her flooded through him with every cry of pain she let out, followed by the frustration of not being able to help. It was driving him crazy that all he could do was hold her hand and offer her words of encouragement every so often. 

He had kept relatively quiet since his earlier threat to Kaede, afraid of saying the wrong thing and upsetting Kagome. He was completely out of his element, having never witnessed a birth before. He had no idea what to do or say, or what was considered normal. All he knew was that he wanted to be by his wife’s side, and that she wanted him there as well. Now, as she looked into his eyes after voicing her fear, he knew he had to be strong for her. 

“You can do this, Kagome!” he said fervently. Hearing her say she didn’t think she could do it had made him want to scoff and call her an idiot, but he figured that wouldn’t be very helpful and might even earn him a ‘sit’ command in her current state. The idea of her not being able to do this was ludicrous to him. He had been watching her in awe all day, amazed by her strength and resilience. Since they first met, she had always been a fighter, never backing down or giving up when faced with a challenge. It was one of the many things he loved about her. 

He brought his free hand up to her cheek to gently wipe some of her tears and sweat away, letting his fingers linger on her face for a moment. 

“You’re so strong, you always have been,” he said, bringing his hand back down to grip hers between both of his own. He stared deeply into her wide brown eyes, trying to wordlessly communicate the neverending love and respect he had for her. “And I’m right here beside you.”

Kagome could feel her panic melting away at his words and the look in his eyes. She smiled a little at him before looking forward with a newly determined look on her face. That’s right, Inuyasha is with me. I can do anything with him by my side.

She felt the pain building again, but it was different from before. Somehow sharper and duller at the same time. She knew this was the final stretch she had to get through to meet their little one, so she gathered all the strength and courage she had left. 

The pain of pushing was almost unbearable, but she did her best to remain focused on the steady pressure of Inuyasha’s hand and the guidance given by Kaede and Sango. She felt every sensation in her body, her instincts kicking in to guide her through the final stage of delivery.

Over forty excruciating minutes later, a cry finally rang through the cabin, alerting all those in the area to the arrival of a new life. Kagome breathed a huge sigh of relief and fell back against the pillows. Kaede caught the crying baby and carried it over to the water basin to be bathed. Sango cut the cord and helped clean Kagome up enough so that she could comfortably lay her legs flat again. 

Kagome lay exhausted, trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. The cries of her baby echoed through the cabin, filling her with a euphoric pride. She had loved their child from the moment she knew of their existence. It felt like so long ago that she first found out she was pregnant. She could still remember the rush of pure joy she felt at the news. Finally, after so much wondering and planning and waiting, she was about to meet the one she already adored more than anything in the world. 

After giving her a few moments to catch her breath, Inuyasha helped support Kagome as Sango stuffed a couple pillows under her back so that she could sit up more. Once she was sure of Kagome’s comfort, Sango got to her feet and said, “I’m going to give you some privacy. You did so well Kagome.” She smiled warmly down at her friend, and then shifted her gaze to Inuyasha. “I couldn’t be happier for the two of you.” Both returned her smile, and Kagome reached out to take Sango’s hand.

“Thank you so much for everything, Sango. It really helped to have you here.”

Sango squeezed her hand. “Anything for my dearest friend. We’ll all come visit in the morning once you’ve had some time to rest.” She released Kagome’s hand and walked out of the hut to give a full report to Miroku and Shippo, who were waiting at home with her own children. 

As Sango walked out of the entryway, Kagome lifted her head up to anxiously look around for her baby, who was no longer crying. Her eyes found Kaede, who was wrapping the newborn loosely in a blanket. Her heart fluttered with nervous anticipation as Kaede slowly made her way over to her and Inuyasha, carrying their new addition in her arms.

“Congratulations Kagome and Inuyasha, it is time to meet your daughter,” she said with a smile. 

At the word ‘daughter,’ Inuyasha and Kagome’s eyes met, both of their mouths dropping open slightly. Their daughter. 

Kaede handed the tiny bundle off to Kagome, who reached out instinctively. As soon as the child was securely in Kagome’s arms, Kaede made her way outside to let them have their first moments as a family in private. 

A peaceful silence settled over the hut as Kagome held their baby close to her chest and stared in awe. Inuyasha moved closer to her, draping an arm over her shoulders. Kagome was overcome with emotion, an overwhelming feeling of love and warmth taking over every ounce of her being. She was still exhausted and in pain, and somewhere in her brain there was a terrifying, nagging reminder that she was now responsible for protecting this tiny being, but it all felt like dull background noise compared to the warmth that emanated from her chest as she marveled in the presence of her daughter.

“Inuyasha...she’s....” she trailed off quietly, unable to quite find the words. 

“...Perfect.” Inuyasha finished for her in a dazed tone. He couldn’t stop staring at the face of the life they had created. He had pictured the arrival of their baby many times in the months since they found out they were expecting, but he could never have imagined what he was feeling now. It was surreal and overwhelming to finally come face-to-face with the child who had only been an abstract concept in his mind until a few minutes ago.

He had struggled with the idea of becoming a father. Despite his excitement to start a family with the person he loved most in this world, he had trouble imagining himself in that role. Questions such as What if I ruin our kid’s life? What if something happens to them? Or to Kagome? How am I supposed to know what to do with a baby? had kept him awake countless nights over the last several months. Not to mention how much time he had spent worrying over Kagome. He’d had a hard time leaving her alone for more than five minutes during her entire pregnancy, constantly afraid that something could happen to her or the baby.

It was the worst on his human nights, the negative thoughts hijacking his mind and taking hold until he could think of little else. What if something attacks us when I’m in my human form and I can’t protect them? What if I’m not a good enough father and Kagome resents me? What if our kid grows up facing the same kind of discrimination I did for being part demon and part human? The questions became impossible to ignore on those nights, a couple times bubbling up to the point where his heart raced and his breath became shallow. He usually tried his best to hide his fears from Kagome, not wanting to cause her any extra stress, but those few times, it was too hard to pretend nothing was wrong. 

Kagome would try to comfort him. She would whisper reassurances into his ears. That she loved him and believed in him. That their child would be well cared for no matter what. That he would be an amazing father. She would look at him with such love and trust and warmth that he was almost able to believe that he was the person she saw him as. But it was hard to forget a lifetime of being told he was worthless, an abomination. It was hard to forget all of the awful things he had said and done in his past. How could he ever be a role model to a child? What if he had doomed them to the same lonely life of an outcast that he had?

Witnessing Kagome’s excitement to be a mother was the only thing that kept him from drowning in his anxiety. Although he didn’t know if he was cut out to be a father, he was positive that Kagome was meant to be a mother. She had always been the caring and nurturing type, and the joy she had to finally fill the role of a mother had radiated from her throughout her entire pregnancy. 

Whenever Inuyasha felt overwhelmed with doubts, he would just watch his wife tenderly rest her hands on her rounded belly, or listen to her hum lullabies to their unborn baby. In those moments, he knew that at least their child would have Kagome as their mother, and that even if he fell short, she would always be there to provide them with the care and support they needed. He vowed to match her as best as he could, all the while feeling terrified of letting her down.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed that Kagome was looking at him. She seemed to sense his inner turmoil and asked, “Do you want to hold her?” with a sweet smile.

“Uh..” Inuyasha responded stupidly, but Kagome had already extended their child towards him. 

“Just remember to support her head and you’ll be fine.”

Inuyasha took the tiny bundle ever so carefully, as if she might shatter into a thousand pieces at his touch. He slowly adjusted her position so that her head rested in the crook of his elbow and she was fully supported by his arm. He stared at her for a long minute, still unable to make sense of everything he was feeling. How could he have helped create such an incredible little human? How could he ever be a good enough father to her? She was so tiny and fragile, what if he hurt her by accident? Protecting Kagome was already stressful, but at least he knew she could handle herself in a battle. How in the world was he supposed to protect someone so small defenseless? He tried not to think about all the dangers of the world around them.

To distract from his racing thoughts, he focused on cataloging everything about her. The little tuft of jet black hair on the top of her head, her barely open chocolate brown eyes that looked so like Kagome’s, her tiny nose and mouth. Although she hadn’t inherited his eye or hair color, or his dog ears, the shape of her features still resembled his own. She was truly a perfect blend of the two of them. He inhaled and memorized her scent. It was similar to Kagome’s, with hints of his own scent, but distinct in its own way. 

Inuyasha cautiously extended one finger from his free hand to gently stroke her cheek, being mindful of his claws. Her skin was softer than the finest silk. He had never felt anything quite like it. He moved to pull away, feeling unworthy to touch her with his rough, calloused hands. At the same time, a chubby fist escaped the confines of the blanket surrounding it and waved blindly through the air. Tiny fingers found his retreating hand, and instinctively wrapped around his outstretched pointer finger. 

With a sharp intake of breath Inuyasha froze, suddenly hit with a surge of emotion so strong he could hardly breathe. His daughter gurgled and looked up at him, gripping his finger with surprising strength for a newborn. A soothing warmth began to spread from the point of contact throughout his whole body, almost reminding him of the sensation of being purified by Kagome’s spiritual powers. But this was something else, something deeper and more profound. 

Something shifted deep within himself as he felt her tiny fingers grip his own. Every priority, every feeling, every want and need he had ever had was rearranging, placing his daughter at the center of it all. The moment that she had touched him, he was forever changed. His rough edges softened just a bit, his heart grew a little larger. The world and his place in it made a little more sense. All of the doubts and insecurities he had about being a father faded to the background. He knew now that he would do absolutely anything for the little girl in his arms. 

A type of love he never knew existed rushed through him, seeping into every last crevice of his soul. It was all-consuming and indescribable. He felt as if he was staring into the sun itself, her radiant light giving him warmth and life in ways he hadn’t known he needed. All of the pain he had gone through in his life now felt worth it to be able to experience this moment. He would do it a thousand times over again as long as he got to meet her. He had known for a long time that he was born to be with Kagome, but now he knew he was born to meet his daughter as well. 

He let out the smallest of laughs, breathy and awestruck. After several more moments, he finally managed to tear his eyes away from her to look up at Kagome, who had been watching the heartwarming scene unfold. His mouth still hung agape, and as his eyes met Kagome’s, he felt a single tear roll down his cheek. The sensation surprised him, having never shed tears of joy before.  He hadn’t even noticed the wetness building in his eyes. As he looked at his wife, he noticed that tears were silently falling down her cheeks as well, though she wore a beaming smile. 

The familiar sight of Kagome’s smile made his heart swell with even more warmth. It hardly felt real that, after all the heartache and loneliness that he had endured in his life, he was here looking into the eyes of his wife and holding his daughter in his arms. He wanted to tell her how much he loves her, how thankful he was to be able to share this moment with her. He wished he had the words to explain what it meant to him to have a family of his own.

“Kagome...” he said quietly, trying to think of something else to say. How could he ever put into words everything he had just felt?

“Inuyasha,” Kagome responded warmly in a way that told him no words were needed. They had always had a quiet understanding between them, their love for each other much deeper than words could ever hope to describe. It was something he was eternally grateful for. With a smile, Kagome reached out to cover her husband and daughter’s joined hands with her own.

Her eyes drifted back down to their beloved child, and after a few moments of contemplation she asked, “Moroha?”

Inuyasha wasn’t sure where she got the name, but it didn’t matter to him. It fit her perfectly.

“Moroha,” he repeated, confirming her name.

Inuyasha rested his forehead against Kagome’s as they continued to gaze down at their daughter. He knew his fears hadn’t disappeared completely, but there would be time to worry later. For now, he simply let himself bask in the glowing happiness of this perfect moment with his family.

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

A/N (sorry it’s so long)

Hope you enjoyed the feels! I’ve been working on this for a while now, so I’m really excited to finally post it! I had originally wanted to post it before the premiere of Yashahime, but I kept nitpicking and editing it over and over. Plus I decided to add the drawing which took me forever. I also went all out and made the banner and everything, which I’m not sure if people usually do for oneshots but oh well!

This all started with me imagining that one moment of a newborn Moroha grabbing Inuyasha’s finger, and that being the moment that moved him and changed him forever. I could see him being really nervous and unsure about becoming a father, but I liked the idea of her touch causing a shift in him and basically turning him into a puddle of mush. I hope it isn’t too OOC for Inuyasha to cry at this moment, but I thought if anything would have the power to make him shed tears of joy then this would be it. Plus I saw it as kind of an involuntary bodily reaction to all of the emotion he experienced.

I tried to throw in some of Kagome’s POV, but I mostly wanted to explore Inuyasha’s conflicted thoughts and feelings about becoming a father. I hope the descriptions of pain/birth weren’t too much. I have never gone through childbirth, but it sounds ridiculously painful and terrifying so I was probably projecting a bit haha. Kagome is a badass for dealing with all of that with no drugs! 

I tried to look up real stories of how people felt when they saw their baby for the first time. There were a lot of mixed reactions, with a lot of people saying they just felt really scared or didn’t have a strong emotional reaction. This is a fic so of course I wanted it to be emotional and happy, but I tried to mix in some of the fear they must have felt also.

I didn’t want it to seem like Kagome’s strength only came from Inuyasha being there with her, but from what I read about active labor, the pain at that point can be extremely mentally and physically taxing, so I wanted her to have a moment of weakness where she felt like she wasn’t strong enough. And I always loved that Kagome and Inuyasha draw strength from each other in different ways. So I felt like she would have been able to tap into that from having him by her side.

Also, in regards to Sango and Miroku having 5 children, I find it hard to believe that they would have stopped at 3 considering how much Miroku talked about wanting to have 10 + kids lol. So that was just a little canon divergence I threw in there. This takes place about 4 years after Kagome returns to the feudal era for good. 

Anyways, I could ramble forever and over explain everything as I tend to do, but I wanted to get this out there before we see baby Moroha in Yashahime this week. I’m so excited!

[fictionkinfessions]

omg okay re /post/690073070373847040/ (the person asking if anyone else sometimes pretends their current parents r their kin parents): i dont do that exactly BUT. fuck this requires a bit of context okay. so in my kin life my mom fucking sucked + was the only birth parent i ever had + when i was like. idk an adolescent i got sort of. unofficially adopted i GUESS by ***** who was much cooler and also actually gave a shit about me + then in this life i have like. a rlly complicated relationship w my real mom (short version is she sort of sucks part time but its largely due to circumstances that fuck both of us over and im not exactly the easiest kid lmao) + like she isnt the only parent in my life but has been the only one that does actual parenting stuff since i was 7 and i also have sort of a second mom bc one of my favorite people in the world is like my baby sibling + our moms both sort of consider both of us to be their kids. and i do, OCCASIONALLY, sort of lean into the fact that second mom has some really weird similarities with ***** bc i think its kinda funny (and it makes me feel less weird about the fact that i like my siblings mom more than my own most of the time lmao). i probably would feel weirder abt doing that but it actually fits weirdly well a lot of the time? anyways yeah to answer the question finally (sorry) i dont technically do that but i DO play up the similarities between my real life + kin life non related mother figures (i GUESS) privately in my brain where nobody can hear me and have never actually told anyone that (altho the fact that theyre kinda similar came up in an ask on here one time i think and also once with my baby sibling) but i feel significantly less weird abt it now + even tho im not doing the exact same thing i think its pretty safe to say u arent the only one doin that (#🥝🖇☀️)

[littlemissinvisible101]

From Replacement to the Original pt.1

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: Gen

Fandom: Batman - All Media Types

Relationships: Tim Drake & Selina Kyle, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne

Characters: Tim Drake, Janet Drake, Selina Kyle, Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags: Tim Drake-centric, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Good Parent Selina Kyle, Somewhat good parent Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne is Tim Drake's Biological Parent, Selina Kyle is Tim Drake's Biological Parent, Selina Kyle is Catwoman, Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Child Neglect, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake Was Robin, Protective Selina Kyle, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne had just woken up on his once-a-month mandatory rest day when he saw that the Drake Family Lawyer contacted him about a contingency letter left by his mother. Apparently, word of mouth travelled fast that he had come back from his supposed soul-searching trip around his parent’s favorite dig sites.

Mr. Fletcher had asked him when he was free to come get the letter his mother had left for him. Tim had wanted to get out of Gotham as soon as he could so he set up an appointment for that afternoon.

Tim had whipped together a quick breakfast and taken his antibiotics before he spent the rest of the morning finalizing his 2 weeks’ notice since Bruce had been able get back into Wayne Enterprises for the week. It had just been a little over a month since Tim had brought Bruce home from the Time Stream and while Tim had expected things to change, he had hoped it would be for the better.

Bruce hadn’t even blinked at the sight of Damian wearing the Robin suit. Hell, he had congratulated Dick for the way he had managed to keep Gotham and everything in line. Bruce had even found the time to fix up his relationship with Jason before he talked to Tim.

He didn’t even bother to thank Tim for saving his life and for taking over his family business. Instead, they talked business and acted as if nothing was wrong in front of the WE employees. If it wasn’t in business suits, then it was in the other suits when he called in Red Robin to help with a case. Tim hasn’t stepped foot inside the Manor in months.

If this was Bruce’s way of saying he didn’t need Tim anymore, he got the message loud and clear. After all, he was just the replacement, right? The pretender who forced his way into their lives and refused to go peacefully so he had to be kicked out. Well, here he was, bowing out silently out of their lives.

Tim had planned meticulously for how he would be able to leave without them noticing. In a week, he would submit his 2 weeks’ notice to Lucius Fox before heading on business trip to Japan to finalize a deal. He would be spending the next week there before heading to Austria for another week for another business deal. After, he would simply go wherever he wanted to go.

He preprogrammed a message to be sent to each of the Bats, as a farewell of sorts because even if they didn’t think of him as family, he still loved them as if they were his family. He had even prepared a message for the Titans in case they would ever need him again. They were the only ones Tim trusted enough to keep in contact with. Everyone else, even Alfred would have to be left behind.

Tim viciously pushed these thoughts to the side as he decided to enjoy a quick lunch before he made his way to talk to Mr. Fletcher. As he mindlessly prepped ingredients for a simple salad (because his immunity was shot so he needed all the help he could get), he wondered what would be in the letter.

His mother was not the touchy-feely type. She wouldn’t put something about them loving him. Most likely, it would be business instructions to ensure that Drake Industries would still be the empire that it had been under his mom���s command. Unfortunately for his mom, his dad had been the one to wreck the empire.

Tim had thought about reviving Drake Industries but had ultimately decided it wasn’t worth it. The amount of time that went into running a business wasn’t conducive to being a teenage vigilante and Tim wanted to be free to pursue the things he wanted in life. He had more than enough money to live off on and he had invested his money wisely so it had been turning a profit since he had left Gotham the first time.

Even if he continued his vigilantism, he had more than enough money to support himself. He didn’t need their help anymore, just like they don’t need him anymore. As he started cooking his breakfast, he marveled at how he had gotten to this point of independence from the Bats.

Ever since he came back with Bruce in tow, the rest of the Bats didn’t even bother to contact him unless it was for patrol or for a case. Oracle only kept in contact for business. Dick basically ignored their issues and tried to pretend they didn’t exist. Damian liked to act as if he didn’t exist. Jason was, oddly enough, the only one he could stand even if they did only work together for cases. Cass was still in Hong Kong.

If he was being honest with himself, Tim desperately missed being home at the Manor but after everything happened, it was clear that the Manor was no longer his home. Home used to be with the Bats and occasionally, with the Titans. Now, Tim would have to find a new home for himself, hopefully away from Gotham and the Bats.

Tim ate his salad mindlessly while he let his mind wander on his active cases. He would need to tie up his loose ends before he left without the bats taking notice. He popped his next dose of antibiotics into his mouth after and finally decided that he’s wasted enough time to start getting ready for the appointment.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, Timothy Drake-Wayne was ready and presentable to the public again. Tim debated bringing his motorcycle but the address of the office was only a couple of blocks from his apartment and he could use the walk to clear his head and get some fresh air.

As he left his penthouse, Tim’s mind debated again about what his mother could have possibly written about. His inheritance had already been secured since he was born so it couldn’t be that. The business had already sunken and drowned under the guidance of his father. It didn’t make any sense for Janet Drake to write a contingency letter and yet, here it was.

Tim didn’t know why but every step felt like it was weighed down with lead and his stomach dropped as he got closer and closer. By the time he was at the office, Tim’s mind was buzzing about theories as to what could have been so important for him to know that his mother, famed Iron Dragon of Gotham wrote a letter just in case she died.

Mr. Fletcher must have been eagerly awaiting him by the looks of it since Tim had scarcely knocked on the office doors before it was opened. It’s been a while since Tim had seen Mr. Fletcher given that he had retired before the Drakes passed.

“Timothy, you’re early!”

“Mother taught me that it was better to be early than to waste other’s time. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Fletcher.”

“That does sound like something Janet would preach. I wished we’d met again under more ideal circumstances but you’ve grown into a fine young man. Your parents would be proud.”

“Thank you. Your email mentioned a letter from Mother?”

“Ah yes! As you know, ever since my son took over my position at the firm, I had relinquished all of my active duties to him but this was more of a request made by your mother to me as a confidant and friend. Jacob, my son had been cleaning out my office a few days ago when he found the envelope. He contacted me immediately about it and I remembered what it was about. I made the trip out here because I had to give it to you before I forgot again. I owe your mother that much.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I think it’s best for you to read it, Timothy. I already know what it contains but I’m here to answer any of your additional questions.”

This suddenly seemed like a much bigger deal than Tim originally thought it would be, especially since Mr. Fletcher had left his retirement in Metropolis to give this to him in person. With bated breath, Tim opened the sealed envelope and began to read.

~~~

Dearest Timothy,

If you are reading this, then there are two possible options. Either I have passed on before your 18th birthday or I was too much of a coward to talk to you about this in person and I gave you this letter instead. As I write this, your father is asleep, holding you after a nightmare from today’s ordeal at the circus. I have tried to sleep but my mind will not be quieted about the possibility of that happening to us before I could tell you the truth so I decided to make this contingency letter just in case. By the time

you’re reading this, you will have grown into an intelligent young man who I know is capable of so much more than Jack and I could have ever dreamed of, partially because you are more than Jack and I could ever produce.

Timothy, you are not our biological son. I had gotten pregnant but the child I had borne was stillborn. Jackson Timothy Drake hadn’t been able to take his first breath before it was taken away. Luckily for me, your father was out of town on business and I rushed to Gotham General against my earlier wishes and they had stuck me in a room with another woman who had given birth to a beautiful and healthy baby boy, you.

You were both born on the same day, in the same room, with different fates. Your mother was a young woman from the seedier side of Gotham and your father was out of the picture, or so she said. She was planning to give you up for adoption anyway and so I made the only impulsive decision I have ever made since marrying Jack and I told her to give you to me. I told her I would give you the life of luxury you deserved and that you would never want for anything if she gave you to me. She agreed on one condition: I tell you the truth about your parentage on your 18th birthday so that she could have the opportunity to get to know you too.  

She didn’t even let me pay for her hospital bills because she didn’t want to be indebt to me even though I was forever indebted to her for giving me you. I had John rush over to Gotham General and make a contract for both of us because I could not allow Jack and the rest of Gotham High Society to find out about this. The only ones who knew about you being adopted were me, John, your mother and the medical staff who helped us. Since Gotham General was severely underfunded prior to my intervention, it was easy to get them to change the records to make Timothy Jackson Drake be born and for Jackson Timothy Drake to disappear. I had gotten the staff involved to sign NDAs and to make sure that none of this got out.

As I write this, I have seen you grow into this absolutely marvelous and intelligent child, talented in ways I could have never expected. It is bittersweet for me because as I see you grow, I cannot help but think of what my biological son could have been had he survived. Would he be as smart and as capable as you? Would he be different compared to you? Would I have taken you in had he survived? I have never regretted my decision to adopt you but I could not stand to watch you grow when I know my biological son never will. I know I will most likely grow to be distant from you and I already regret it but I cannot stop myself from seeing my dead son in you.

However, I can already tell you will be stronger than I ever could be. You take to your lessons like a duck to water and you see a magic in the world that I could never see. I want you to know that even if you are not mine biologically, I still love you even if I cannot show it. I love you even if you cannot feel it. I love you but I also love the son that I lost and I cannot help but mourn for him while I watch you grow. Your father does not know so his love is genuine and pure for you.

I want you to know this, Timothy. I took you in on an impulsive decision but I have never regretted it. Sure, I wish with all of my heart and mind that my son had survived but I was able to have you and you more than made up for it. I know that this does not excuse my future actions, my possible neglect of you but I hope you understand why I cannot bear to be close to you. I love you even if I do not show it. I love you even if you cannot see it. I love you and I hope you can forgive me for not telling you sooner.

Love,

Mother

~~~

Of all of the possibilities Tim had considered, this was not one of them. This explained so much but also left so many questions but the only thought passing through his head was the fact that, even at birth, he was a replacement.

“I assume you have questions?”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, to be honest. You’ve known the entire time?”

“Yes. I was the one who made the contract for your mother and she swore me to secrecy.”

“So, let me get this straight. I was just a replacement for her son who died?”

“No! Of course not. Timothy, I know it must not have seemed like it but your mother and father truly did love you as if you were their own. Your mother has some leftover problems from her childhood that negatively impacted her ability to show her love even if she does. She would have never bothered to put in the effort otherwise.”

“I’m trying to believe that but my recollection of Mother is not that different from the Iron Dragon of Gotham.”

“That’s because she fought to give you the best education and care possible which she knew was not her own. That’s why she constantly changed your nannies and tutors because as soon as she felt they inadequate for you, she was searching for the next best thing for you. Janet didn’t really care in the normal ways, Timothy. I know it’s hard to see but she really did love you and take care of you in her own way.”

“I just. I never expected this.”

“I knew this day would come but I was honestly hoping your mother would be here to explain her side of the story before she told you who your birth mother was.”

“Do-do you know who my birth mother is?”

“It’s not written in the letter?” Mr. Fletcher seemed genuinely surprised at this.

“No. Mother didn’t include her name, just a vague description of her. Can you tell me who my mother is?”

“I guess by the time Janet wrote it, she had forgotten the name. I think I have the contract hidden here. Let me look for it.”

What followed was the tensest five minutes of Tim’s life. He didn’t even know if his biological mother was still alive but he wanted to find out. After all, his birth mother had wanted to reconnect when he was older. Maybe, she wanted to have him in her life, just like Mo-Janet had apparently wanted him in her life.

Maybe, she would be there with welcoming arms. Maybe, she was one of the many civilian casualties of their nighttime escapades. Maybe, she had gotten lost in the seedier side of Gotham and she had never been able to make it out. There were so many maybes that Tim wanted to figure out what was true and what wasn’t.

“Aha! Here it is. According to this, your birth mother is Selina Kyle.”

Holy shit. His mother was fucking Catwoman.

[vanessakirbyfans]

Vanessa Kirby suggests we meet on the Mall, the central location for her on-screen triumph as the young Princess Margaret in The Crown. I’m standing outside the shuttered Institute of Contemporary Arts when she strides into view, a slender, leggy figure with bleached hair and brilliant blue eyes, clad in trademark black, but for her gleaming white Converse trainers.

"I haven’t been here since we were filming!" she marvels through her mask, gazing up the processional avenue towards Buckingham Palace. "I was whizzing up the road on a motorbike, holding onto the back of Matthew Goode [as Antony Armstrong-Jones] and feeling so exhilarated about what on Earth was happening to my life – being in a job I loved, playing someone I loved."

Her ebullient mood was dented when Margaret’s handbag, into which she’d put her own phone, was blown away from between her feet, and an opportunistic passer-by ran off with it. "By the time I could check Find My iPhone, it was already in Leicester Square," she says. "Of course, the costume department were furious because the bag was vintage and a one-off." We both laugh, rather ruefully, for such anecdotes already seem to belong to a more carefree time. This bright, crisp lunchtime in lockdown, the Mall is all but deserted –there would be no need for roadblocks or filming at dawn today – while the roles Kirby is here to discuss are light-years away from her embodiment of a pampered royal party girl.

The morning of our meeting, Pieces of a Woman has launched on Netflix to rapturous reviews and critical acclaim that has seen Kirby, in her first lead role, picked as a front-runner for the award season’s most coveted best-actress gongs.

It is not, however, an easy watch. Kirby plays Martha, a first-time mother whose baby dies moments after being born; the film follows Martha’s subsequent disintegration, alongside that of her close relationships. Her labour, which comes at the start of the film, is some 26 minutes of one unbroken take that manages to be simultaneously intimate and menacing as the camera swoops around the apartment and hovers beside the traumatised protagonists.

Kirby’s performance is astonishingly unselfconscious, which is the more surprising since she never went to drama school (turning down the offer of a place at Lamda in favour of stage roles at Bolton’s Octagon Theatre) and says she couldn't bring herself to dance in front of her friends. "I’m the one who sits in the corner and watches." She describes seeing herself on-screen as "disconcerting", and "not a very natural human experience", and indeed even finds making Zoom calls a trial. "There’s nothing to hide behind!"

For Pieces of a Woman, the director Kornel Mundruczo decided that the birth scene would be the first to be shot, she tells me, as we stroll around St James’s Park, conducting ourselves like a couple of spies in a Le Carré novel. "I knew I’d have to be naked, and literally open my legs and give birth in front of a group of strangers I’d only met that morning. I was actually quite thankful – I thought, the rest of it’s going to be a lot easier."

In fact, she says, she found herself swept away by the emotion of the story. "Normally, it’s so hard to forget there are machines in your face, but I had no idea that a camera was even there." Was it traumatic to act? "The first time we shot it, I was literally sobbing for 10 minutes afterwards. I couldn’t get out of it. My brain was telling me it wasn’t real, but my unconscious didn’t know the difference, especially with having a real baby in my arms.

"Kornel came over onto the bed and held me so tight. He didn’t let go of me for five minutes, and he said, 'Just remember this feeling.' That really helped me for the rest of the movie, when the character doesn’t express anything, but almost has to be doing the howling without speaking a word."

Kirby took her research seriously, even asking a mother-to-be –a total stranger – to allow her to be present in the delivery room at the birth of her son in a north-London hospital. "I remember every single second of it," the actress says emphatically. "I was there, glued to my seat, for seven hours, not even a loo break! I was just amazed, in awe. I saw a woman completely surrender and go on this spiritual journey, which involved indescribable pain, clearly, but also ecstasy. It gave me a whole new respect for women and how powerful they are, and a new empathy for men, because they feel so helpless. And obviously, seeing the baby come out was the most incredible thing in the world I’ve ever seen, by far. After he was born, all of the mother’s colour returned, she looked like an angel, she had a kind of holy glow." Bathetically, it was only then that the couple recognised Kirby. "They were going, 'Oh my God, it’s Princess Margaret! This is so weird!'"

The experience has given her a new philosophy on life, she says. "I was watching the mother go through these contractions, which were excruciating, and the pushing, and then there was a moment of calm, and of expansion. And so, when I’m going through things in my life, I say to myself, this is like a contraction, surrender to it, because there might be something born from it. Sometimes we don’t want that; when we’re feeling something horrible, we want it to pass as far as possible. I’m teaching myself to allow it to be there and not resist or push it away, and that’s because of that woman."

But her character’s storyline also demanded that Kirby understand the experience of stillbirth. A friend introduced her to a woman who had lost her baby Luciana under eerily similar circumstances to those in Martha’s narrative. "She shared everything with me." They have become close friends, and the film’s ending is dedicated to Luciana. Kirby continues to work with Sands, the Stillbirth and Neonatal Death charity, and is voluble in her admiration of the Duchess of Sussex and Chrissy Teigen, both of whom have recently spoken out about their own experiences of miscarriage.

"I feel so close to them and so proud of them for breaking that silence," she says. "Meghan is probably the last person who would feel comfortable sharing her very personal, intimate feelings. It’s that courage that I want to continue to honour. What they’re saying is, if you’ve been through it, we have too, we share your story. I think that makes you feel less lonely. But one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, which is far more than I knew about. Society finds it difficult to hold space for that kind of pain."

Her parents, to whom she is very close, have both seen the film and wept throughout, she says. As if on cue, her phone pings, and her eyes soften when she checks the message; it’s a childhood friend who herself miscarried, getting in touch to say how much the film has meant to her.

The integrity of Kirby’s performance has already netted her the Volpi Cup for Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival. "It doesn’t seem real," she says. "I have it in its case – I wouldn’t have it on display, it looks like a football trophy – but occasionally I glance at it and think, 'Did that really happen? Or did I make it up in a weird dream?'" In a similar vein, she is reluctant to engage with the Oscar buzz surrounding her. "I don’t even know when they are," she admits. "My 13-year-old self would have a heart attack. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it!"

Kirby’s other film, The World to Come, is set in mid-19th-century America but touches on the same themes of bereavement and redemption. The central character Abigail, played by Katherine Waterston, has also lost her young daughter, and in her grief, turns away from her husband to have an affair with Tallie, her free-spirited, flame-haired neighbour. "I was glad I was playing Tallie rather than Abigail, because it might have been a bit too much," Kirby confesses – though without giving away spoilers, that role is pretty traumatic too...

The screenplay is taken from the short story of the same name by Jim Shepard, which was inspired by an entry he found in an antique diary: 'My best friend’s moved away, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.' "It was one woman’s voice, like an echo from the past, and we’ll never know who she was," says Kirby. "The World to Come really educated me about what life was like for women not that long ago. They didn’t have a choice about anything they did with their time. You were owned by the house, and the man, and you had no freedom outside that. The best thing about doing this mad job sometimes is having your ignorance illuminated. I gravitate towards things that push beyond my experience, I want to go to places I don’t know, I’m not familiar with."

The experience of making both films has changed her profoundly. "I can’t do anything unless it means something to me now," she says. "It’s a better way to work, because you’re not focused on yourself at all. So maybe I’ll only work once every 10 years!"

To ensure that this is not the case, and in order to find more untold, female-led stories, her ambition is now to set up her own production company. "Even a few years ago, a film about a woman losing a baby would have been unthinkable. There are so many voiceless people, and I have a voice in this industry, and I want to make sure the tribe is represented properly."

It is undeniably awkward, therefore, that her male co-stars in the films, Shia LaBeouf and Casey Affleck, both of whom play violent, abusive husbands, have been called out for their treatment of women. In December, the British singer FKA Twigs filed a lawsuit against LaBeouf, her ex-partner, alleging that he "hurts women. He uses them. He abuses them, both physically and mentally". While LaBeouf largely denied the accusations, he admitted in a statement to The New York Times: "I have a history of hurting the people closest to me. I’m ashamed of that history and am sorry to those I hurt. There is nothing else I can really say."

Meanwhile, Affleck was sued by two female crew members working on his 2010 film I’m Still Here, one of whom accused him of sexual harassment. He denied the allegations, and the lawsuits were settled out of court, but he later told the Associated Press: "I behaved in a way, and I allowed others to behave in a way, that was really unprofessional, and I’m sorry."

Kirby is understandably reluctant to get into any of this. "I can’t comment on a legal case that’s going on in someone’s personal life," she says. "I feel really protective of Pieces, so that’s what I want to speak about. Because it came out at eight this morning, all I can think about is the mothers I spoke to, and wanting them to be my focus. I just know my job is to honour them."

Perhaps counter-intuitively, starring in Pieces has awakened in her the desire for a family of her own. "It’s definitely made me want a baby, for sure," she says; but she hasn’t currently got a partner, having split up from Callum Turner (Frank Churchill in last year’s Emma), whom she met when they co-starred in the 2014 film Queen & Country. "This year has made me think a lot about the home I want to create. I like the idea of inviting someone into a space that’s mine, preferably before I have kids."

In the near future, however, Kirby has nothing on her plate except for getting through a third lockdown. "I’m free as a bird! I’ve read a lot of stuff, and said no to a lot of stuff..." She currently shares a flat in Tooting, south London, with her sister Juliet, an assistant director, and two friends. "I was just about to move out to live on my own in north London – my God, I would have been so lonely! My sister saved me. It was so nice to have routines together. We were trying to take a bit of exercise, cooking together, watching films that made us feel better, drinking wine on Friday nights..."

By now, having circled St James’s Park several times, we are strolling back towards the Corinthia Hotel, where Kirby has a full programme of Zoom interviews lined up for the afternoon. "That’s why I’m so happy to have actually had the chance to go out and meet you in real life," she says enthusiastically. "It’s funny when everything in your life closes down, and you have to sit with yourself, and you suddenly notice all the things you have and you’re grateful for. I hope that feeling never goes away – I will never underestimate how lucky I am."

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 22: An Offer

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Lacey has a meeting with Mayor Mills

Read on AO3

Content warning for verbal abuse and sexual fear

The clacking of Lacey’s heels against the sidewalk was music to her ears. She felt right, dressed like a whore and parading herself down Main Street. After her conversation with Mayor Mills, the stupid voice in the back of her head was quiet. Finally, things were back to normal. 

Now it didn’t matter that Mr. Gold had been acting like a stranger since October. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want her, that he was fucking somebody else. She didn’t need him. She didn’t have to be “Mrs. Gold” in order to get what she wanted out of life. All that bastard did was pay her. He didn’t own her. He’d given up that privilege months ago. She didn’t have to belong to him. There were lots of other people out there. Mayor Mills wanted to help her. Mayor Mills wanted her.

At least, she was pretty sure she did. It was hard to tell. Lacey had never had a woman look at her the way Mayor Mills did sometimes. It was a sharp, laser-focused look. A look that cut her to the bone and then began to saw into her marrow. Like everything Lacey was, everything she had ever been or had ever dreamed of being, was laid bare for Mayor Mills’ approval. 

Mr. Gold used to look at her like that.

Lacey dug her nails into her palms. Or maybe she was an idiot. Maybe she had been imagining the little signs. Maybe the mayor of Storybrooke would try to help anybody she came across in town, offer them rides in her sporty black Mercedes-Benz. Maybe she would arrange an after-hours meeting with any married woman who called her up. Maybe it was a public service.

Or maybe not.  

She remembered this feeling, this knowing-but-not-knowing. The anticipation. The unanswered questions. The tension gave her a thrill. A thrill she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Maybe that was why it was so easy to lie when she walked into the pawn shop.

Mr. Gold looked up from his inventory book when he heard her. His eyes were cautious. Afraid? Was this sad little coward really afraid of her? Maybe that was why it was so easy to grin at him, to reassure him with bright eyes and a lilting voice. 

“I wasn’t sure what you were doing for lunch,” she chirped. “Want me to pick up something from Granny’s?”

The corners of his mouth lifted up. It was almost a smile. “No thank you, Mrs. Gold. I brought leftovers from home today.”

She nodded, and tapped her fingers against the counter in front of him. How many times had he fucked her against these display cases? How many times had she dropped to her knees behind the cash register while the shop was still open? He would challenge her to hurry, to suck him off before a customer walked in on them. He told her he would beat her black and blue if she failed.

What kind of things would Mayor Mills want her to do?

“Hey, I’m sorry about this morning,” Lacey lied. “I’ve just been really stupid and emotional lately.”

“You’re not stupid,” Mr. Gold said softly. “I know I haven’t made things easy for you. I’m sorry about that.”

A plastic smile was a wonderful talent. She was used to using it on other people, but now Mr. Gold was as easy to fool as everyone else. 

“It’s not your fault,” she said sweetly, even though she was ready to spit acid in his face. “I just needed some time to myself this morning. But I feel better now. Later today I’m gonna get my hair done. I scheduled an appointment for around five.”

Easy as it was to lie, there was a specific delight in letting him get the wrong idea from entirely factual information. He had taught her how to do that. She would go to Janine’s and get her hair styled. And then she would have her appointment with Mayor Mills at five o’clock on the dot.

And he just nodded, just went along with it. Idiot. “The shop will be closed by the time you’re done. I can pick you up at the salon.”

She wrinkled her nose. Playful, casual. Not a care in the world. “No, I don’t know how long I’ll be, and the weather looks like nothing but blue skies. Besides, you’ll want to start supper. What are we having tonight?”

He began to ramble on about spring onions and fricasseeing, while Lacey counted the hours until her appointment at City Hall.   

****

Officially, the city offices closed at 4 PM, but everybody knew that Mayor Mills stayed as late as she needed to keep the town running.  Everyone admired her devotion, but pitied how often she had to leave her sweet little boy unsupervised. Rumor had it that was why Henry was so troubled, why he kept hanging around shady characters like Sheriff Swan, his birth mother. But his real mother was doing the best anyone could under such circumstances. Henry had appointments with Dr. Hopper several nights a week to keep his moods under control.

Why do you know so much about Regina’s life? Why is that woman the center of the universe in this town? Think about it!

Of course the voice was back. Lacey wasn’t sure if she wanted a stiff drink or a total lobotomy. Whatever would get it to shut up.

City Hall was quiet, that was part of the trouble. The empty hallway echoed so much she could hear her heart beating along with the sound of her footsteps. The voice always started jabbering at her during moments of stillness, moments when she should have been at peace. 

She couldn’t tell if City Hall was serene or creepy. Like most buildings in the rich part of New Town, the design was sleek and modern. The interiors were stark white trimmed in black--plaster walls and gleaming tile floors. Right now, it had the terrible oddness of a place that was supposed to be filled with people, but wasn’t. 

At this late hour, the fluorescent lights were dimmed. During the day the brightness was intimidating, but long evening shadows didn’t inspire confidence either. The doors lining the hall were a fake wood laminate, so dark they were almost black. The only other color came from the occasional piece of corporate art hanging up on the walls. Black and white photos of Storybrooke, all in frames as red as blood.

This is a bad place. You need to leave! 

“Shut up,” she hissed. She would try not to tell Mayor Mills about the voice right away. No need to let the mayor think she was crazy. Besides, if all this went right, Lacey would feel a lot better very soon. 

The door to the mayor’s office was ajar, but Lacey still knocked on the ebony frame.

“Come in,” Mayor Mills’ voice was brusque. For a split-second, fear clenched at Lacey’s stomach. She should listen to the voice in her head and run! Run away from this place that felt like a haunted house, run back home to Mr. Gold or to her father or to Sheriff Swan or anyone but Regina!  

But she didn’t. 

All Lacey did was adjust her purple bustier and walk in.

“Close the door behind you.” Mayor Mills didn’t look up from her paperwork.

Lacey did as she was asked--did as she was told. Her pulse quickened to be obeying orders again. 

Like the rest of City Hall, the mayor’s office was nothing but black and white. The only difference was the clutter of prints and patterns. The wallpaper, the curtains, the upholstery on the conference table chairs--they were all a different print, but they were all monochrome. There was no illusion of serenity here. The room looked designed to disorient.

Even the stone floor was inlaid with black and white. An outline of a circle took up most of the space between the door and the desk. The circle was black, with tapered black flags coming out from the center. It looked like a pinwheel, or a clock, or something a bad guy would use to hypnotize someone in a cartoon. 

Without any other instructions, Lacey decided to stand in the middle of the circle. She waited, at the point where black and white met and disappeared into each other.

Mayor Mills stayed at her desk. After a few more signatures, she set her pen down in a drawer and began to stack the papers neatly into a shiny black file folder. So she was meticulous. Lacey could appreciate that. 

She kept waiting. The mayor didn’t look at her until the desk--a white slab of polished stone set on top of two carved stone pillars--was empty. 

“You were seven minutes early,” she said at last. 

Lacey swallowed and kept her hands at her sides. “Mr. Gold says that punctuality is the virtue of princes, Madame Mayor.”

One perfectly outlined, jet-black eyebrow raised on Mayor Mills’ forehead. “Mrs. Gold, if you’re looking for a prince, I don’t think I can be of any help to you.”

Would it be okay to laugh? Or would Mayor Mills think that was impertinent? Lacey just pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“Do you want to tell me what you are looking for, Mrs. Gold?” 

Now she opened her mouth, but she didn’t have the words to answer.

Rumple. Rumple, help me! Rumple!

“R--r--really, I… I don’t know if I can put it into words, Madame Mayor.”

Mayor Mills gave her a considering look. She stayed at her desk, but leaned back in her black leather office chair. “Sit down.”

Two black and silver chairs sat in front of the desk. Lacey put her purse down in one and perched on the edge of the other. 

“Would you like something to eat?” Standing up, Mayor Mills went to the conference table that took up most of the space on the right-hand side of the room. A large white bowl--ceramic, and shaped so that it looked like a collection of bleached, dead coral--was full of apples. All of them were as red as blood. The mayor took two and held one out to Lacey. “I often find that when I need to think, one of my prize-winning Honeycrisp apples always helps me focus on what’s most important.”

Lacey took the apple and held it in her hands. If she had seen this in a grocery store, she would have sworn that it was a Red Delicious. But of course the mayor would know her own apples. She had grown apples since she was a little girl. The tree that grew these ones was right outside the window behind the desk. 

“Are you going to thank me?” The mayor was quiet, but it was the quiet of a viper about to strike.

“Yes,” Lacey said automatically. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Madame Mayor. Thank you for the apple. And for your time. I--I know you’re busy.”

“I am,” Mayor Mills agreed. Behind her desk, she pulled open a drawer and took out a silver knife. There was a design carved into the handle, Lacey couldn’t tell if it was an apple or a heart. After walking back to the front of the desk and leaning against the edge, the mayor began to cut into her apple. “There’s a lot of trouble brewing right now in Storybrooke. But I’ll make time for you, Mrs. Gold.”

“Why?” Lacey muttered. “I’m just a cheap, trashy slut.”

Grinning, the mayor took a slice of her apple. She chewed, swallowed, licked the juice off her red lips. “Is that what Mr. Gold told you to think of yourself?”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking down at the apple in her lap. She had said the words before to people, said them with a smile, like they were an honor. She had puffed up her own performance like a balloon. Only now she had popped, and there was nothing left of her but tattered shreds of rubber. 

Lacey felt something cold on the bottom of her chin. Mayor Mills held the flat edge of the knife against her skin and lifted her gaze until they were eye to eye. Sitting down, she was looking up at the mayor.  “Is Mr. Gold in charge of you, dear?”

She blinked. “I--He was. But I don’t want him to be anymore.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes.” Lacey wanted to look down again, but the mayor hadn’t released her yet. “He--he cheated on me. And he’s been keeping secrets from me. And--and he’s just different, I don’t know how to explain it, but I hate it. I hate it, Madame Mayor!”

Mayor Mills took the knife away, and cut herself another slice of apple. She smiled. “He’s not the man you married.” She seemed almost smug to say it. “So now you’re looking for someone who can take his place. Someone who can remind you of why you were put in this world.” 

“Yes!” Absurdly, Lacey felt her eyes begin to well with tears. Those were the words she had been looking for! She had been so right to come here. Mayor Mills knew exactly how to make everything right again! “I--I hope you’re not offended or anything. That I thought of you first when I wanted to find someone who would--would treat me the way I like to be treated.”

“The way you deserve to be treated, you mean.” Her voice was so low, so dark and so dangerous. “You cheap, trashy slut.”

It was like her heart had been ripped out of her chest and she was just perverted enough to love it. Repeating the same words that had just caused her shame, rubbing them in her face. This was exactly the kind of pain she had been looking for. Mayor Mills was brilliant.

She wanted to kiss her boots.

Lacey looked up at the mayor, at the way her crimson dress clung to her curves. Her silhouette was an absolute hourglass, tapering down into legs wrapped in tasteful nylons. So much classier than Lacey’s whorish fishnet stockings. 

Mayor Mills’ eyes were dark and intense. Black, where Mr. Gold’s were brown. Her makeup was dramatic but flawless. Her lips were as red as the apple she was eating, her teeth as white as its flesh.

Lacey had never felt so small before, not in front of another woman. Not in front of anyone but Mr. Gold. She looked down. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, a breath. “What can I do? In order to deserve you?”

The mayor’s laugh was rich and throaty. It sounded like red wine at a midnight feast. She set down her apple and her silver knife and held Lacey firmly by the jaw with her own silky-smooth hands.

“Let’s make sure we understand one another, Mrs. Gold: You don’t deserve me. You can’t deserve me. Nothing you could ever do would be enough to get you even close to my level. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Lacey whispered. She couldn’t move. Fear and arousal were too overpowering. “Yes, Madame Mayor.”

“Good.” She took her hand away and went behind her desk. “You know, you’re actually a very lucky girl. Until quite recently, I was content with the submissive I had. But then he… disappointed me, and we had to part ways.”

You killed that poor man, you vile--

“So!” Lacey said, too loudly. “Are we agreed then? Will you take me on as a ‘submissive’?”

Mayor Mills looked at her from her office chair. Her gaze was steady and unblinking. “Do you think you can submit to me? Even though I’m not your husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “At least, I’d like to try.”

“Have you ever served a woman before, dear?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, of course you haven’t, not properly. Well, I’ll warn you, we’re not like men. We’re not easy. There’s no one-and-done climax while you lie back and think of England.”

Lacey opened her mouth. Her instinct was to defend Mr. Gold, to say that sex with him had never been like that. But that wasn’t anything Mayor Mills wanted to hear. 

“I’m going to demand a lot more of you than a man would,” the mayor went on. “I’m not satisfied by anything but perfection. And the cocks I use never go soft.”

She shifted in her seat. Were these threats or promises? “I would like to satisfy you, Madame Mayor,” she said softly. “I would like to please you.”

The mayor smiled again. “Of course you would,” she purred. “I think everyone in this town understands the benefits of having a happy mayor.” Her eyes flickered over Lacey’s body. “Are you wearing anything underneath that ugly skirt?”

 A flash of heat went through her body. Partially it was the shock and pleasure at the sudden shift in the conversation. But there was also a bit of embarrassment. Lacey liked this skirt--black vinyl with blue tulle ruffles underneath. Was it really ugly?

“Well?” Mayor Mills said patiently.

“Oh! I--yes. A thong. It’s purple, like my bustier.”

“Mmm.” The mayor smiled like a cat with a bluebird in its paw. “Well, that I simply must see.”

Lacey sprang to her feet. She moved to unzip the tight skirt, but then she got an idea. “May I take off my blouse as well?”

“Oh, if you insist.” Leaning back in her chair, the mayor picked up her knife and cut off another slice of apple. She ate it, while Lacey stripped down to her lingerie and folded her clothes neatly on the conference table. 

Then she stood in the center of the circle again, in front of the mayor’s desk, wearing nothing but purple silk, black lace, high heels, and jewelry. 

Looking at her, Mayor Mills crunched into the last bite of her apple, then threw the core into the trash. 

“Turn around,” she ordered. “Slowly.”

Lacey obeyed. God, this was amazing. Under the mayor’s scrutiny, every inch of her felt alive. This was what she was made for. This was the reason she existed in this world.

“You're groomed, at least. And it looks like you have some marks,” the mayor said coolly. “Am I safe in assuming they’re not recent?”

“No--I mean yes. They are not recent. Mr. Gold hasn’t touched me since October.”

“I imagine that would be frustrating,” she smirked. “For both of you. Come closer.”

Lacey stood directly in front of the desk. It was like she was here on official business, like she was going to ask for funding to re-open the library or something.

“Bend over, with your elbows on the desk. Lean forward until that pert little ass of yours sticks up in the air like a bitch in heat. I’m sure you’re familiar with the position. Keep your head up, but your eyes lowered. Don’t look at me.”

She did the best she could, remembering that the mayor was only satisfied by perfection. Once she was settled into place, she kept her eyes downcast. Her head was spinning. For some reason, it was hard to breathe. 

Then Lacey felt the mayor’s hands on her throat. 

She gulped,  but didn’t move. Do the brave thing. And it wasn’t that she was afraid of Mayor Mills. But the movement had been so sudden, so unexpected that it caught her off guard. And the mayor did have a very tight grip.

Her hands weren’t cold, but Lacey would have been hard-pressed to call the touch warm. A better word would have been to call the touch… proprietary. Appraising. She was inspecting the goods before she made a claim on them. 

Obediently, Lacey kept her eyes down while the mayor touched her. She couldn’t see her face. She heard her chuckle as her fingers explored the skin of her neck. 

“All these little scars here look like you lost a fight with a rose bush. How did you get them?”

You gave them to me, you bitch! You and your dragon! She made thorns grow into my skin while you made me fuck you!

“I don’t remember,” Lacey said. Honestly, she didn’t remember having scars on her throat. “I don’t think Mr. Gold gave them to me.”

“Hmm.” Despite Lacey’s ignorance, Mayor Mills sounded pleased. Her hand moved from Lacey’s neck down to the upper edge of her bustier. There was enough space between the cloth and Lacey’s skin that the mayor could have slid inside and copped a feel. But all she did was trace her fingers over the mounds of cleavage and pinch.

“Ow!” Lacey yelped, but stayed braced against the desk. It was a little shameful how quickly she reacted. But a sharp pinch could hurt more than a spanking and she was out of practice. Besides, Mr. Gold always liked her to be vocal. He liked to know exactly how much pain he was causing.  

The mayor rubbed at the sore patch of skin and gradually expanded her touch so that she cupped the whole of Lacey’s breast. 

“Oh poor thing,” she cooed. “I’m just surprised to see that they’re real. Of course, it would be a waste of Mr. Gold’s money if you paid for tits and these were the best you got.” 

The mayor emphasized her words with a sharp twist, digging her long nails into the soft flesh.

Lacey gasped in pain. The heat of it started at the mayor’s hand, coursed through all the nerves in her body, and eventually settled between her legs. The gasp turned into a whine, and then a moan.

“Good girl,” Mayor Mills said quietly. “But remember, slut, this is a public building. I can’t have you defiling these hallowed halls with your grunts and groans. You disgusting animal.”

Pressing her lips together, Lacey tried to swallow her hungry noises. 

“Ugh.” She could imagine the mayor rolling her eyes. She could imagine the disdain, the contempt on her face. Lacey was so worthless. And now she had finally found someone who understood that she was worthless, who would treat her like she was worthless.

God, she was so wet.

“Here.” The mayor took Lacey’s apple from where she had set it down earlier. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you refusing to eat this. That was exceptionally rude. Ungrateful, even. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s ingratitude.” 

“I’m sor--” She began to apologize, but as soon as her mouth opened, Mayor Mills had shoved in the apple. Lacey’s teeth broke through the red skin and she tasted the sour-sweet juice on her tongue. After only a moment of having the apple in her mouth, she felt the juice dripping down onto her chin. It mingled with her saliva and made her a slobbery mess. 

“Better.” Now Mayor Mills’ voice was gentle, sweet. She was happy. It was good to make her happy. 

Lacey heard her footsteps move around the desk. She couldn’t see the mayor, and she couldn’t make any noise. Apple flooded her senses of taste and smell. All she could do was hear. And feel.

The mayor was behind her. Manicured nails scraped at the exposed flesh of Lacey’s ass. She would have made a noise, to show how much her body liked the attention, but the apple was an excellent gag.

“You know, I can smell how wet you are, you tramp.” Her hands rested on either one of Lacey’s hips. “You stink. You’re filthy. You’re a disgrace.”

Unable to moan, Lacey shivered. Her hips rocked against the desk for a minute, until Mayor Mills dug her nails in and she stopped. 

“Why do you even wear panties?” She plucked at the straps of her thong. “You always soak right through them. Every time I walk by you, you reek of pussy. You needy, greedy little cunt.”

She couldn’t stop herself. She jerked up, pushed against the desk in a desperate search for any kind of friction. 

“Wriggling like a worm,” the mayor sneered. “You’re not even really a person, are you? You’re just a sex machine, like a junkie looking for a fix. You’re nothing but your need. Just a trio of fuckholes, desperate to be filled.” 

When had Lacey started crying? She was bent face down on the empty desk. The apple in her mouth was the only thing that kept her face from pressing against the cold stone. Her hands were balled into fists on either side of her. She didn’t dare move her arms.

Everything the mayor had said echoed in her mind until she felt the vibrations of the words in her body. Her flesh trembled and shook. Her cunt clenched and it didn’t matter that it had nothing to clench against. She just wanted. Her body wanted...  

“Don’t you dare!” Mayor Mills roared. “I forbid you to come. Don’t you--”

But then there was silence.

Desperate to obey, Lacey tried to stop her orgasm. She had done that often for Mr. Gold. There was a trick to it--pretty much the same thing as stopping yourself from having hiccups. As her body calmed, she became aware that Mayor Mills hadn’t spoken. 

Then she became aware of a breeze swishing back and forth over her nearly-bare ass. It was like when Mr. Gold would pretend to spank her, just to see her jump. He would laugh at that. But Mayor Mills didn’t seem to find it amusing at all. 

“What the hell?” 

Even without seeing her, Lacey could tell that Mayor Mills was clenching her jaw. Again and again, she felt the breeze of phantom spankings. Did the mayor not want to spank her? What was going on? 

“Hands flat on the desk!” the mayor barked. “Let me see your fucking wrists!” 

Her wrists? Why? But Lacey did as she was told. Gracelessly, the mayor pulled on her hands. She turned them around and examined them. While she was distracted, Lacey dared to look up at Mayor Mills. 

She was livid. Her breath came out in huffs and her red lips snarled around bared teeth. Suddenly, she slapped her right hand beside Lacey’s left. 

“This ring,” she hissed. “That’s your wedding ring, isn’t it?”

Lacey lifted her mouth off the apple and nodded. 

Mayor Mills looked angry enough to burst into flames. “Take. It. Off!”  

Hands shaking, Lacey tried to obey. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken off her wedding ring. Mr. Gold had wanted her to wear it day and night. But what the fuck did Mr. Gold matter now?

When the ring was off, she set it on the desk next to the gnawed apple. She stood at attention, with her eyes downcast. 

The mayor took the ring and held it between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at it, and shook her head. 

“Unbelievable.” 

Yes, it was unbelievable that Lacey would go to a seduction still wearing her wedding ring. What a stupid whore she was. Thoughtless. Sloppy. Ungrateful. 

Mayor Mills tossed the ring back down on the desk, like touching it made her sick. Then she stood up again.

“Let’s try something else.”

For a moment, her anger had abated. Her hips swayed softly as she walked over to Lacey. Gently, she put one hand on Lacey’s neck, and cupped her cheek with the other. She tilted her head back. 

Lacey closed her eyes and parted her lips--but nothing happened. The mayor’s hands moved away. After another moment, Lacey opened her eyes. 

Mayor Mills had one hand extended toward Lacey’s face. It was flat and open, like she was about to slap her. But she wasn’t. She hadn’t. Aside from some pinching, Regina hadn’t been able to do anything to her.

Rumple, you genius!   

When Lacey caught the mayor’s eye, she started and looked away. Without a word, Mayor Mills walked over to the other side of the room. There was a cabinet by the fireplace, from which she pulled out a bottle and a glass.

Her back to Lacey the whole time, the mayor poured out a measure of clear alcohol and drank it in one gulp. Then she took a deep breath. 

Then she turned around. 

“Mrs. Gold, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to continue this relationship.” She gave a bittersweet smile. “You see, unlike some people in this town, I value marriage. I couldn’t possibly engage in an affair with a married woman.”

“What?” Lacey’s voice cracked. “No, you can’t mean that! I-- Mr. Gold isn’t taking care of me anymore. Our marriage is dead! I--I need you, Madame Mayor!”  

“And you can never know how happy I am to hear you say those things, dear. But the facts are facts--as long as you’re married to your husband, I can’t touch you. Not in any way that matters, at least.”

“Fuck.” Lacey put her hand over her mouth. “Oh fuck, Madame Mayor. I--I really need this, you know?”

“I know,” she nodded. She went over to the conference table and picked up the stack of Lacey’s clothes. She held them out to her. “And I am truly sorry that I won’t get to punish you the way you deserve. But this is how it has to be.” She turned back to her desk.

“Wait!” Lacey clutched her clothes to her chest. “You--you’re just doing this because I’m married, right?”

The mayor nodded again. She had pulled out a paper towel from a desk drawer and was wiping up Lacey’s spit and apple juice. 

“Well, what if--what if I left him? What if we got a divorce?”

Mayor Mills stopped cleaning mid-wipe. For the first time in a while, she looked Lacey in the eye. “Divorces can be messy. They can take a long time. I thought your issue was more pressing than that.”

“I--I don’t know what else to do, Madame Mayor.” Dumping her clothes on a chair, she got on her knees in front of the desk. “You’re right, I do need what you can give me. I need it now, and I’ll do anything to get it!”

She smiled. A light shone in her black eyes. “Anything?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Hmm.” The mayor stood. She began to walk around Lacey in a slow circle. “Well, my point still stands. I simply can’t do anything worthwhile to you while you’re married to Mr. Gold.”

Lacey opened her mouth to beg again, but Mayor Mills lifted a finger and she fell silent.

“And, as we’ve established, a divorce might take a while to finalize. Especially with your husband’s thorough approach to contracts. So I suppose I’m forced to meet you halfway. I’ll just need some proof that your marriage is dead.”

Lacey licked her lips. “Proof?”

“Yes.” When her circle was complete, Mayor Mills was in front of her desk again. The golden ring was still on the surface. She picked it up and handed it out to Lacey. 

It was a bizarre reverse-proposal. Lacey was the one on her knees. The mayor was giving her her own ring back to her, in exchange for a promise to end a marriage.    

“This is part of a matched set, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s useless on its own. Your husband wears the other one?”

Lacey nodded. 

“Alright,” Mayor Mills said. “So in order for me to have you, I’ll need both of them.”

“What?” Lacey felt her eyes going wide. “You want me to take Mr. Gold’s wedding ring?”

The mayor shrugged. “If your marriage is as dead as you say, he won’t miss it. If it isn’t, then, well, I have no power over you.”

“No.” Scrambling to her feet, Lacey took the ring from the mayor’s hand. “No, I want you to have power over me. I really do!”

A knowing, full-lipped smile. “There’s not much that would make me happier than having absolute power over you, dear. And it will happen, just as soon as I have both of your wedding rings.”

“It will,” Lacey nodded. “I’ll make it happen. I won’t disappoint you, Madame Mayor!”  

[chrysalispen]

ii : a shadow in dappled green

AO3 link HERE

More below the cut.

=======================

To the somewhat prosaic Aurelia - whose healthy wariness of magic was a product of her imperial education - the Stillglade Fane carried about it a mysterious air. Much like the Black Shroud and its eternally youthful shepherds, it seemed to move on its own and in its own time, observing the world around it as time passed but almost untouched by change. Seasons came and went and with them the cycles of novitiates, marked by the fall of leaves to give way for the growth of the new. All moved in their turns beneath the boughs of the great old-growth tree.

As ever, entering the grove felt like stepping into another plane of existence. Aside from the odd figure in hempen robes and wide-brimmed hat making the rounds between patients, it appeared as solitary and peaceful as ever.

Brother E-Sumi-Yan awaited her arrival at the guild hall entrance with a pleasant smile and the usual air of serenity about his soft and regular features. The old Padjal had never given his true age and Aurelia had never asked, though it was not necessary: she knew from his manner and from some of his recollections that he had a good century on her at least. As with all of his novices, he treated her with the amiable familiarity an old man might bestow upon a favored granddaughter.

Truth be told, it was why she looked forward to their visits.

"Well met, Aurelia. Punctual, as ever. I thank you."

"Guildmaster." She bowed from her waist, just a few ilms, enough to show a student's proper deference to her teacher. "Mother Miounne said you had need of me. Something about a request."

"I do, but it can wait for the time being. Will you take tea with me?"

“I suppose I can hardly say no if you went to all this trouble.” The modest service, Aurelia noted, was already laid out with two cups at the ready. She made her way to the empty seat at his gesture. “Please don’t say you held up your breakfast to wait on me.”

“Not at all. Please, sit. I’ll pour.”

Tea was the customary herbal offering, paired with a small plate of lavender scones and a little tin of something she thought was butter but appeared to be lemon curd upon closer inspection. Aurelia patiently cut open a pastry and helped herself to a small dollop which she spread as he filled her cup. It was a few degrees cooler here within this shaded bower than the rest of the city, and she was grateful for the boon.

“Now then,” he reached for his own cup in turn as she sipped, “how did your morning meeting fare?”

Ah, she thought. He already knows. I suppose I should have assumed as much. “I’ve been pardoned-- over the incident in Willowsbend, so Commander Heuloix said. The Elder Seedseer had them make a citizen of me. Frankly, I had all but assumed the matter forgotten.”

The words felt as strange on her tongue as they sounded in her ears, as if she were attempting to speak a language she did not recognize. But he merely nodded, not seeming even the slightest ilm surprised.

“We can be very slow and deliberate at times, but rest assured no one here would have forgotten your service. Least of all Kan-E-Senna.” Smiling, E-Sumi-Yan reached for a scone of his own. “Citizenship is among the greatest rewards in her power to bestow. In truth, I can think of precious few I would consider more deserving of it.”

“Thank you, Guildmaster.”

He made a hum of acknowledgment and took an experimental sip from his cup. For a few minutes neither spoke, busying themselves with their tea and taking in the deep quiet of the grove. She could hear the warbling of wood thrushes among the melancholy whicker of cicada calls, and the occasional warm breeze stirred the branches high overhead. Beneath the fragrance of her tea were the distinctive scents of river water and damp soil, scents and sounds with which she had grown intimately familiar in the past four years.

“The wood is recovering,” she said aloud.

“Hm?”

Aurelia set the cup aside with a small clatter. “Guildmaster, I’ve been... thinking. For a while now, if I’m honest.”

The Padjal remained silent, the tilt of his head an indication that he was content to listen. A sharp gust blew a stray wildflower, stem and all, onto her dalmatica; one of the children playing along the lanes without must have picked it and discarded it before an adult could stop them. Gently she plucked the flower from her chest and held it betwixt her index finger and thumb as she stared down at it.

“I’ve had my entire life dictated to me as far back as I can properly remember.” The star-shaped petals spun with the motion in a tiny burst of color, white tips with a red throat. With great care Aurelia tucked the wildflower stem behind one ear, where its little blossom peaked coquettishly over linen darts and golden hair. “I think the last choice I made for myself was to request a provincial posting when I enlisted, and that was a rare allowance. My family always made all the important decisions.”

“You needn't explain yourself, Aurelia. I understand your position. More than most, I believe.”

“Do you?”

“As you know, the Padjal are born to serve the needs of the forest and to act as its intermediaries. In the most literal of senses.” E-Sumi-Yan lifted his right hand to brush one of the horns that crowned his head, curving upwards from his mop of sand-colored hair. “My parents surrendered me to my compeers shortly after my birth, in order that I might learn as soon as possible those sacred duties which were expected of me. We are not given a choice in the matter. Sooner or later, we must all obey what we are called to do.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze traveled downwards into her emptied teacup. “I had forgotten,” she said. “Pray forgive my selfishness.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” He reached across the small stump that served as their table to pat her hand. “Most of us reconcile ourselves to our fate early in life and find acceptable outlets for our energies - personal pursuits that will not interfere with our charge. For you, there are no such limits.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know if I would be able to do what I want to do, if I remain here.”

“Had circumstances not conspired to bring you to Eorzea permanently, what would you have done then?”

“I suppose I would have finished out my enlistment, barring further misadventures. After that, I wanted to go... oh, I don’t know. East, perhaps, to Othard. Or south." She chewed on her lower lip in thought. "Actually, I would have liked very much to go to the southern provinces. If not Ala Mhigo then somewhere nearby- Werlyt, perhaps. I confess, I hadn’t thought too far beyond the end of my tour.”

“You have the freedom now to decide for yourself in truth,” he said gently. “A life spent healing others is a noble pursuit. There are certainly no lack of opportunities here.”

If he only knew how close his thoughts were to Keveh’to’s. She allowed herself a chuckle. “That much is certainly true.”

“But?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean precisely what I said, Aurelia." He folded his hands in his lap, calm grey eyes fixed on her face. " 'Tis quite plain to me that you harbor doubts. Are you not content to remain in Gridania?”

Unbidden she thought of her mother’s parting words. Take the new life you have been granted, Vittora cen Remianus had said, and live it.  

What shape, then, should that ‘new life’ take--

"I will take no offense if your answer to this question is 'yes,' you know. You would hardly be the first young person upon the star to be afflicted with wanderlust."

“In truth, I would like to continue my studies,” she admitted. “I’ve learned much more about botany in my time here than I would have expected, and for that opportunity, I am immensely grateful. But the gap in my education is a weakness. Eorzean alchemy appears to involve the synthesis of aether housed within appropriately aligned crystals, not only in regards to reagents but to the tools themselves. Neither of which I possess. Nor do I yet have the understanding necessary to attempt it, even if I did.”

E-Sumi-Yan’s brow knitted thoughtfully. “You raise a good point. The Twelveswood boasts skilled hedge witches and amateur apothecaries in abundance, but few alchemists of mention. If you seriously mean to enrich yourself-”

“I do.”

“-then you could do worse than to make inquiries with Frondale’s Phrontistery. They are the foremost institution of such learning here, and even if they cannot take you the Alchemists’ Guild might still prove a fount of useful information. Both are located in Ul’dah, far to the south and across the Thanalan scrublands.”

“Would they accept a late enrollment, do you think?”

“I cannot say.” He spread his hands as if to say these are not questions I can answer. “But so long as you were capable of aught your studies would require, I cannot think it would serve as much of an impediment.”

“If you think they might allow me to enroll, then I would very much like to do so.”

“You are a talented healer and I would much prefer you remain here with us- but that is not my decision to make.” His smile took on a rueful cast. “If memory serves, you will require letters of recommendation and introduction in order to enter the Phrontistery-”

“That is the way of things in the Garlean Empire as well,” she said, trying and failing to keep the eagerness from her voice. “If you would be willing to vouch for me, that is.”

“I am. If your mind is set, say the word and I shall make the necessary arrangements.”

For the first time in a very long while, Aurelia felt something in her stir with genuine excitement at the idea. Ul’dah! New sights. New land and a new city. A new school, with all the untapped possibilities that would bring.

“Before we discuss this matter further there is a small favor I would ask of you, which brings us to today’s business. The guild has had a request from the Bannock.” E-Sumi-Yan reached into the sleeve of his robe and withdrew a neatly folded square of parchment. “A missive arrived this morning from Galfrid, one of the Twin Adder’s drill instructors. There has been suspicious activity around Lifemend Stump as of late.”

“The moogles’ glade?”

“The very same. Due to its sensitive nature, I would rather not send it to Miounne. I was hoping you might be able to see to the matter in my stead."

"Of course. Should I go to the Bannock first?"

"No need. There is a witness who has been in touch about the same issue, and he should be able to provide more information directly.” He handed the parchment to Aurelia and stood from his seat, indicating their meeting was over. She took it and tucked it into her belt as she followed suit. “Should you find anything which merits further investigation, pray report to the Bannock and relay it to Galfrid before your return.”

“I will.”

“And be on your guard. Even so close to the city, the wood often cannot tell friend from foe." Abruptly, E-Sumi-Yan's easy smile faded to take on a most serious cast indeed. "Even its shepherds.”

==

The Lifemend Stump lay perhaps a half-league to the southwest of the city, nestled within the central Shroud. Despite the heat of the day, the greenery and the rushing sound of water from the nearby river made the journey a relatively short and peaceful one, and she took the opportunity to sort through her thoughts as she walked.

Aurelia thought she had made peace with the notion that her homeland was lost to her. But once one came down to it, she wasn’t sure that a quiet life in the forest was truly what she wanted. At least not for the rest of her days. Gridania was a lovely place, but she had come here as a prisoner, after all. Perhaps that circumstance was the core of her conundrum.

Just this once I would wish to be the captain of my own ship.

To her mind, E-Sumi-Yan’s very lack of resistance to her wanderlust spoke volumes. Perhaps he simply thought that some time spent away from the forest broadening her horizons in Ul’dah would change her mind and convince her to stay- or at the very least dispel any grand illusions she might have of the world without the Shroud, once the novelty of it all had worn off.

“What have we here, kupo?”

Aurelia drew short so abruptly that she nearly tripped over her own feet and over the edge of the riverbank into the water in an attempt to correct her balance. The familiar round form of a moogle floated perhaps a fulm away from her face. Its tiny leathery wings fluttered furiously, the most immediate sound by far in the still summer air. They were much smaller than the fluffy body they held aloft, and as the moogle studied her with open curiosity she watched it list to one side under its own weight. Its bright orange pom twitched atop its head.

“Good morning,” she managed. “Um…”

“So Kupto Kapp was telling the truth, kupo!” the moogle performed a triumphant spin midair, “You can see us!”

“Ah... yes. I’m- that is, my name is Aurelia. Are you-”

“Oh, I mean you aren’t supposed to be able to see us. Not unless we let you, kupo. But I guess it’s all right since he said the Elder Seedseer asked you to come here and help fix the Twelveswood and all. Usually the only ones who talk to us around here are the Padjal so this is a fun change! ...though this means I did lose my wager with him, kupo…”

“I’m sorry,” the Garlean attempted to (politely) interrupt this cheerful outpouring of words, “but I really must be on my way. I’ve been asked to-”

“Come to the Lifemend Stump! Yes, yes, I know all about it. Brother E-Sumi-Yan told me I should expect someone, kupo. If you’ve come to have a look for yourself, I can be your guide!”

“That’s very kind of you-"

"You're Aurelia, you said? I’m Kuplo Kopp! Pleased to meet you, kupo! This way, Miss Aurelia, this way!”

Once again her reply went nigh unheeded as the creature performed another circular turn of joy, this time about her head. This was clearly going to be one of those moments in which any response she might give would be meaningless, and it was just as obvious that she had a companion now whether she liked it or not.

Just as well. The entire endeavor would give her something to do other than ruminate.

So thinking, Aurelia let Kuplo Kopp take the lead. The path diverged at the river’s edge, snaking into a small cavern next to the waterfall. The well-worn rocks magnified the rush of the current into a grinding roar that drowned out all other sounds. Cool spray struck her cheeks and dewed her clothes on her passage, a welcome respite from midsummer heat- though she knew she could not linger, as tempting as the thought might be.

Beyond the rush of water upon rock the rustle of leaves reaching her ears once more. Before they could draw closer, she reached for the moogle and grasped the pom antenna on his head. The moogle let out a startled yelp.

“Ow! That hurts, kupo!” His tiny wings fluttered with wild indignation. “Didn’t E-Sumi-Yan teach you any manners? You aren’t supposed to pull on a pom like-”

“Hush,” Aurelia interrupted. She let her free hand drop to her belt. Her fingertips brushed over the stem of her wand, registering the slightly roughened texture of its bark before closing about it in a ready grip. “Let me make certain the area ahead is clear.”

“Clear?”

“Just be quiet.”

Stealthy movement was not precisely what Aurelia would have called her strong point. She was a healer, not a skirmisher. Even during the Willowsbend incident, she had relied upon her wits as much as what paltry magic she had at her disposal. But she had learned while foraging in the depths of the forest how to move quietly and avoid the notice of poachers and bandits, and she put that knowledge to use now. Each step she took, she did so at a slow and steady pace, in order that the wooden clack of her pattens upon stone would not alert a potential intruder.

Leaf-shaped patterns of shadow dappled the sun’s glare at the far end of the craggy tunnel, and Aurelia slipped past and behind the tree’s trunk to survey the area more closely. It didn’t take long to dispel her worries: the glade lay still and pristine, by all appearances undisturbed.

She let her hand fall back to her side, posture relaxing somewhat as she took in the natural beauty of the place. Shafts of sunlight poked holes in the canopy high above to shine down upon wildflowers and tall grass in the places it could touch, and small yellow butterflies drifted from bloom to bloom. Somewhere not too distant she could hear a thrush’s call.

And at the center of the clearing---

The massive breadth of the Lifemend Stump lay at the glade’s heart. Though Aurelia herself believed in no gods, she had learned much of local custom and folklore over the past handful of years, dwelling among the people of the Black Shroud in more remote settlements. This place, one the Padjal called “branch of rebirth,” was sacred to the moogles. The smallfolk left items here to be mended, usually things with deep sentimental meaning. People rarely lingered, for it was considered extremely ill fortune to do so, though on occasion some souls tried to catch a glimpse of their benefactors.

There was a blade, a very crude one, stuck into the center of the stump. Aurelia’s brow knitted into a deep frown.

This is surely not one of the locals’ doing.

Her sense of caution renewed, she drew closer to have a better look. Whomever had done the work had done so with violence and purpose; a segment of the leaf-and-acorn resin mosaic so artfully impressed into the stump’s surface had cracked beneath the force of the blow and defaced it. Broken pieces lay in sad and cracked fragments around the point of ingress.

Who could possibly have done such a thing? Surely it would have been no one from the city. She could hardly imagine the Coeurlclaws or really anyone from the local Keeper communities defacing something that belonged to the moogles. The hunters and trappers among them quite often depended upon the creatures’ largesse themselves. And precious few of the bandit crews that called the forest home would dare venture this close to a Wailer outpost, for fear of--

“Oh, look! There’s someone else here ahead of us!”

Aurelia startled at the cheerful trill. She righted herself and turned in the direction it had come: not from the mouth of the cave, but from a small stand of nearby ash saplings. The voice’s owner was waving at her: a young Hyuran woman, perhaps a year or two Aurelia’s junior. Everything about the stranger’s attire lay open and loose, from her shirt and very short pants to bright crimson plated thigh-high boots. But the most remarkable thing about her was the strange contrivance which sat atop her head and over the half-mask she wore. It looked almost like a magitek device, Aurelia thought, something an army engineer would wear. Like safety goggles, only more ponderous.

Kuplo Kopp fluttered anxiously about the woman’s willowy frame, and the movement of his wings drew Aurelia’s attention to the Lalafellin man who trailed behind. He wore the robes of a mage and the same curious headgear as the woman. His lips were pursed with something akin to displeasure.

“Yes, I can see that. Perhaps we might resume- oh dear.” He drew towards the center of the clearing, brow as deeply furrowed as Aurelia’s own. “Is that-”

“A sword in the stump? Oh. That’s… bad. Really bad.” She turned her attention away from her companion to settle upon Aurelia- or, rather, it seemed that way from her body language, given all of her face that was visible under the heavy headgear was her lips. Her chin tilted from side to side in a way that felt oddly birdlike. “Um, you weren’t… responsible for this, were you?”

Aurelia opened her mouth to answer, but in the same instant found herself surrounded by glowing pom and cloudlike fluff.

“What? Oh, no no no, Miss Yda, not even close!" cried Kuplo Kopp, with a flurry of his wings and another spin about her head for good measure. "Miss Aurelia would never do such a thing, not at all, kupo! The stranger I saw wore dark robes, and anyway, she’s been sent by Brother E-Sumi-Yan!”

“Hm,” the mage grunted. He leaned forward to peer at something through his goggles; clearly, he had taken the moogle’s denial at face value. Aurelia was relieved to find herself no longer the subject of the pair’s scrutiny for the moment. Even the girl’s attention had turned back to her diminutive companion, who now busied himself with some sort of adjustment to his goggles while he muttered under his breath.

“...How are the readings, Papalymo?” The woman Kuplo Kopp had called Yda was fidgeting, rocking idly from heel to heel in a manner that indicated she was not accustomed to standing still for long periods of time. “Do you see any disturbances?”

Papalymo tapped a small button on the outer rim of his headgear. The bottom half flipped upwards on a hinge--- not goggles, then, Aurelia amended; some kind of visor. “Yes, in fact, I do. This one is exactly the same as the last. Newly manifested, mind, but quite visible. At this rate-”

An icy chill ran down her spine in the moment before the air in the glade seemed to turn thick and heavy. Through the screen of the canopy a cloud blotted out the sun and the wind began to stir itself into a gale with increasing speed- no mild summer breeze, this. It lashed at her clothing and skin as if it were throwing handfuls of invisible needles.

“Oh hells,” she muttered, unslinging the wand from her belt. In the moment the other two moved to react in kind, the wind became a loud and throaty roar that drowned out the sound of falling water: one echoed by the lumbering movements of a large treant. The seedkin crashed into the clearing with an angry bellow. Its cry shook the surrounding leaves and rattled the broken pieces of resin upon the stump’s surface, and the grinding sound of the wind seemed now to rumble into their very bones.

Papalymo shrugged the carved bone staff from his back and offered Aurelia a briefly questioning glance. “Kuplo Kopp seems convinced of your innocence,” he said. “Thus I shall take him at his word and trust that weapon of yours isn’t ceremonial.”

“No more than is yours, I should think.”

“Excellent. Then you can watch our backs, if you would be so kind. Yda! Draw that blasted thing away from the Stump! No point in making matters worse.”

“On it!”

Yda took a running leap towards the rampaging creature without hesitation, her position marked with a bright flash of crimson and gold as her body twisted midair into a hefty kick that connected with a sound thwack against the treant’s trunk.

"Over here,” she called, dancing into stance after stance with each pace that lured it away from the center of the clearing- in time for a cluster of other, smaller seedkin to spill from the trees. They made a beeline for Papalymo, only to find themselves caught in the sudden magical pyre that surrounded him.

“Hurry up and take that thing down,” he shouted at his partner, drawing his staff back for another cast, “unless you want to be eaten!”

“All right, all right! I’m trying!”

Determined not to lag behind either of them, Aurelia called forth a condensed handful of wind-aspected aether to dance at her fingertips for a brief moment, before spinning the globe into its branches to rip at its leaves and splinter its branches. The treant yowled its rage to the skies, gnarled hand-like branches thrashing wildly. Yda wove through each attempted blow with the sinuous grace of a serpent as her brass-clad knuckles landed hit after hit. Another burst of flame made short work of the smaller creatures, and as they fought she could see the treant’s swipes begin to slow: its wrath, for a small mercy, was now all but spent. Aurelia duly turned the earth against it as Papalymo did the same with fire, stones and flame smashing and scorching trunk and branch alongside Yda’s swift fists.

Between their combined efforts, the creature finally crashed to the ground with a heavy groan and lay still. The trio stared at each other, each in various states of singed, bruised and sweaty. Without a word Aurelia reached for Yda with an outstretched hand. Cool aether suffused her skin like water as her wounds - mostly superficial - closed in the next instant.

“Thanks,” the pugilist panted, wiping at her brow with one forearm. “Erm. ...Sorry about all this.”

“It’s nothing I’ve not seen before.” After assuring herself that none of them had suffered any grievous injury, Aurelia tucked the wand back into its leather loop on her belt. “Unfortunately, the forest has been rather sensitive.”

“Ugh! I know. It’s bloody hideous.” Yda braced her hands on her hips. “One little fluctuation in the aether and you get something like this. We’re lucky you came along when you did.”

“Likewise. What brings you and your friend to Gridania?”

“Hm? Oh, we’ve come here lots over the years!” Aurelia did not miss the brief glances exchanged between the two strangers before Yda replied, perhaps a little too brightly: “...That is, we’ve come from Ul’dah-”

“Yda,” Papalymo began, his voice sharp, but she barely glanced at him before plunging on ahead.

“-to conduct our annual aetheric survey in the Twelveswood!” The fists made a clanging sound as she hastily hooked them back onto her belt before thrusting out a hand in greeting. Bemused, Aurelia accepted her vigorous handshake. “I’m Yda Hext and this is Papalymo Totolymo. Nice to meet you!”

“Yes, yes, very good,” Papalymo huffed an impatient sigh, “Now that we’ve introductions out of the way and we are no longer in immediate danger of being devoured by the local flora, might I suggest we do what we came to do and go before we press our luck?”

“Right! Right. Sorry.”

As the pair argued, Aurelia had caught the flutter of something out of place from the corner of her eye-- a feather, split and ruined at the ends, bending listless and forlorn in the cooling breeze that whispered through the cavern and into the glade. She knelt to study the corpse which the feather crowned. It was an Ixali warrior, adorned in trappings much more elaborate than she had seen before.

There were footsteps crunching through the grass at her back. Aurelia stood, dusting her hands off on the front of her dalmatica at Yda's approach.

“Oh, you've found something!"

“Yes,” Aurelia said. "Our culprit, I don't doubt."

She caught the yellow of Papalymo's robes as he joined them, squinting at the corpse through his visor lenses. “So it would seem- and that is not just a scout, either. That is a chieftain." He let out a soft whistle from pursed lips before adding: "I don’t suppose you might be able to tell us what killed him?”

“Not at a glance, no.” She looked back down at the dead Ixal. “I suppose the wood might have retaliated against him, but to be certain of that I would have to take a closer look with the proper tools. Which I do not happen to have on hand at present.”

“Pity. ...Well, I don’t suppose that is as important as the obvious fact that their war bands have ventured far too close to Gridania for anyone's comfort," Papalymo said. "It’s quite possible they’re acting under orders. Of course, that begs the question as to whose…”

“A question which I am sure the Twin Adder will be most anxious to investigate themselves,” Aurelia interjected, keeping her answer polite but brisk. This encounter was growing stranger by the moment, and as curious as it all was she knew a report would be expected soon. “Would either of you mind terribly if I take that sword back to the Bannock with me? I'll tell the Grand Company they’ve got a body to collect.”

“Hm? No, by all means.”

The Ixal's ritual blade was embedded a good few ilms into the stump’s surface, but it was not a stout thing and one good yank was enough to dislodge it. Aurelia hefted it over her shoulder; it was a bit heavier than she had expected, but she had run enough minor errands in this part of the wood on the guild’s behalf over the last few years to have a rough idea of where things were. The Bannock wasn’t far and the extra weight wouldn't slow her enough to matter.

“Please take caution while traveling through the wood,” she said. “It isn’t always welcoming to outsiders.”

For the first time since they had met, Papalymo finally offered her a genuine smile. “No," he agreed, "it isn’t.”

Aurelia raised her free hand in a friendly wave and crossed the glade towards the cavern. Had she chanced to look over her shoulder, she would have seen that the pair lingered to stare after her long after she was out of sight.