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enchanted-prose · 5 years ago

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#13 Feall’s Deadly Dance

I just-

this is chOnky im sorry

Word count: 6, 991

Characters: Imogen, Jaron, Mott, Harlowe, Tobias, Commander Regar (Original character), Feall Cormeach (original character), the Faola (original character)

Notes: my beautiful editing beta fish said this one was a blast so you have that to look forward to as you read 25 pages worth of ascendance content.

Enjoy!

"I brought you something, Jaron."

Oh, did she now?

His interest was captured. Jaron sat up from where he was lying on the floor. "Imogen, I'm-"

"It's alright, we all have bad days," Imogen said, she handed him a mug, and sat down beside him.

Did he have a good enough excuse for what he did? Probably not. Too much energy pulsed through Jaron's body. It was time to escape. Time to get out.

Taking it out on Roden was all too easy.

It was easier to throw a punch than discuss tender topics.

He was coming to terms with his anxiety by ignoring it. His palms were always sweaty, and his stomach was constantly being squeezed. Something was staring at him right in the face. Jaron scratched the back of his head.

Imogen's hand was on his shoulder, she was there to listen.

"I'll be meeting with Lord Row this afternoon," Jaron muttered. "I have a plan for whatever he asks. A way to help Avenia in any way we can."

"Good, a plan is always good," said Imogen, a tiny smile fluttering across her face.

Jaron lived for those tiny butterfly smiles.

"There's too much waiting in the future. I don't like that I've once again had to bargain with a criminal and I don't like all of this pressure to find Mireldis Thay. I know how it feels to be the lost

royal, and even if she's alive, I'd rather respect her choice to remain hidden. Her name is being

used as a scapegoat, and it's not fair."

Silence settled in. Jaron sipped from his mug; Imogen had brought him some sour tasting tea. The warmth spread through his throat, threatening to overtake the chilling anxiety that hadn’t quite left since he’d returned to court so long ago.

Even if he couldn’t save everyone, he could do what he could to help.

“Do you think I should apologize to Roden for what I did last night?” Jaron mumbled.

A dark curl fell across Imogen’s nose as she shook her head. “I think you might make him mad. Give him a little space, and then apologize.”

An apology was due this time. Jaron had been the one to start their fight.

Uncomfortable emotions tugged at his false sense of normalcy.

He chose to run from what he felt. “Did you know that Jolly has quite the network of people?”

“I did, actually. Amarinda was a little upset when she found out he’d be staying in Drylliad,” Imogen squeezed Jaron’s shoulder. “She fears that many of the people we’ve met aren’t who they say they are.”

“Nobody is who they say they are. We tell people what we want them to think and only show our true faces when we’re alone.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“Oh yes it is, Imogen.”

Anger was rising up in his lungs. Drink the tea, drink the tea. Jaron tipped his head back and didn’t stop drinking the scalding liquid even as it seared down his throat.

It was still hard to accept that no matter how hard he tried to hide, Imogen was there. She was always there with a kind word, and always there with a biting word if he did something dangerous.

But she was welcome.

Everyone’s filled with holes.

When he was removed from his family a decade ago, a Mother sized hole tore through his heart, followed by a Father shaped hole, and a Darius shaped hole.

No, no. It wasn’t a hole, it was a hollow. Hollows could be filled, but not every hole could.

Jaron had a family hollow in his heart for too long.

He was still getting used to having that hollow filled. Still getting used to how Imogen had stepped into his hollow, hollow heart and filled him with warmth.

Sometimes that warmth burst, and he always gave into it.

Emotion was a curse that plagued his family. Too much sympathy, too much energy, too much of everything.

It wasn’t very often that he lost control. In fact, Jaron prided himself on his ability to hold his head high in the face of condescending nobles. They tried their best to use his unorthodox tendencies against him, and he responded with a ferocity that his father, King Eckbert, had lacked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said,” Jaron dragged his hand over his face. “I haven’t been feeling as prepared as I’d like to be.”

Imogen was silent for several moments, then leaned over, and smoothed down Jaron’s hair. “Is there anything I can do to help? As your friend, and your wife, I want to support you however I can.”

There were so many things he needed, but the second somebody asked, he didn’t want to speak of them.

With Imogen, it was different.

She’d seen him at his very best and very worst, there was nothing he could willingly hide from her.

“I, ah, I’m having trouble picking my battles.”

“Which battles? We’ll go through them together.”

Go through battle together. With Imogen at his side, Jaron could do anything. He set down the mug, and reached for her hand. “I’ve been considering my deal with Ayvar, about catching the patched Faola who nearly butchered Feall. There’s too many things I can’t figure out, too many details are missing, and I can’t make a gamble without them.”

“Are there connections you’ve made?” Imogen asked, her head tilting ever so slightly. “There’s more to this than just an attack on a military leader. It reeks of something worse. I think the attack on Feall was very much on purpose; I think it was an assassination attempt.”

“But the motive? What was the motive? Feall has charmed everyone at court, he’s very well liked. It’s very difficult to get a large group of people in on an assassination attempt, and Ayvar’s resistance only proves that.”

“Are we ruling out money as a motive?”

Jaron drummed his fingers against the back of Imogen’s hand. “I think so. Too expensive for a group that large to attack one man. I’m also ruling out robbery, as Tobias, Renlyn, and Mott weren’t harmed on purpose. Any injuries that came were because they fought back.”

The most obvious remaining motive held the lowest moral ground.

Perhaps Feall had been attacked because somebody wanted his head on a pike, because somebody hated him with a fire that could only be put out with Feall’s death.

An attacker thinking like this would find a way to take their revenge, or die trying.

“I’m sorry, I have to stand, it’s hard to-” Jaron began, but Imogen had already sprung to her feet.

She’d extended her hand. “You don’t have to apologize. We’ll walk to the atrium.”

His heart was going to burst.

Imogen didn’t need to hear his excuse. She just knew. She’d grown to accept that his mind worked best while he moved.

There were times when he questioned why he prayed to the Saints, as it was very clear that he was married to one of them.

Arm in arm, Jaron and Imogen left the office, their pace gradually quickening. Fast walking made for fast thinking.

Who on earth would want Feall dead enough to follow him to Carthya?

Memories, memories. Jaron wrinkled his nose as he thought back to when Feall first arrived so many weeks ago.

The Faola had attacked him then too, called Feall by name, who responded in turn. Jaron hadn’t noticed it then. Hadn’t notice how casual the exchange was despite lives being on the line.

Feall knew who his attacker was.

"What are they calling you here? Shrike? The Black Knight?"

"Fight me like a man, Feall. There's a score to be settled."

"Many people want to settle scores with me, you'll have to tell me your name first.”

"Rot in Hell."

“You know that I’m not the one who’ll be rotting with the Devils.”

“Feall insists that the attacker was Mireldis Thay, but I didn’t think it was true. People take powerful names all the time,” Jaron mused, shifting his hand to the small of Imogen’s back. “I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I was wrong.”

The movement was subtle, but Jaron had a trained eye. He saw the tiny flicker of Imogen’s hand as it brushed her left collarbone.

Though her wound had healed long ago, Imogen’s shoulder could never quite forget the pain of an arrow wound. Her ghost pains made the occasional appearance. Jaron trained himself to catch the signs of their return.

He guided her away from the busy hallway, and kissed her fingertips, “Are you alright?”

The smile on Imogen’s face was sharp and bitter, nothing like the shy butterfly smiles she’d been flashing not long ago.

She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over her collarbone. Her hand fell to her side. “I can think of quite a few reasons why- if Feall’s claims are right -Thay would want him dead by her own hand.”

Was it wrong that Jaron nodded his head?

Was it wrong that he knew what that lust for revenge tasted like?

Revenge was easy to justify, it was easy to die for, and it was easy to spiral down the wrong path because of it.

Jaron touched Imogen’s face.

“I don’t want to be coddled, Jaron, I want to continue this conversation,” Imogen rolled her shoulders back. “If Feall is right, then we have to consider where Mireldis is coming from.”

“Mireldis might not be alive, too,” Jaron noted, taking great care to keep his pace slow and even.

“Then we find somebody who’s seen her. Who knows her.”

“I, ah, I can think of somebody who might have our answers.”

“Are we thinking of the same person?” Imogen arched her eyebrows.

He made a face, desperate to distract Imogen from feeling her ghost pains again.“Possibly, but just in case, you say your answer first so I can agree with you.”

“Jolly may have what we’re looking for. He seems to know everyone who ever lived.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Jaron grinned. He looped an arm around Imogen’s waist. “Perhaps we could pay him a visit. With a list of ballads, of course, I have no intention of listening to Ingrithay ever again.”

“Catchy ballad?” asked Imogen, her hand settling atop Jaron’s.

“Catchy and creepy.”

There was blood in the kitchen,

There was-

No! Not again!

There was a time from long, long ago when Jaron’s father would let him play in the corner of his study. . . If Jaron agreed to be quiet. Eckbert had a fondness for yellow citrus in his tea, and Jaron had a fondness for biting into whatever food he could. There would be no forgetting the way that slice of lemon tore through Jaron’s child mouth.

The expression he wore was the equivalent to the face he’d made after realizing how big of a mistake it was to bite into a lemon.

“Careful dear, your face will freeze that way,” Imogen said, patting Jaron’s cheek.

“But would you still love me if my face looked that way? That’s my real concern,” countered Jaron.

“I’d still love you no matter what way your face freezes.”

“Imogen, you’re implying that my face is going to freeze.”

“I’ve seen the expressions you make while explaining what the nobles request.”

Jaron chuckled, he couldn’t deny that. He’d considered becoming a model for gargoyle expressions. They could learn from the deep grimaces he made when reading over suggested policies.

“Would you still love me if I were a miniscule beetle?” He stepped ahead of Imogen, and held open the door to the massive atrium.

She nodded, “I would, in fact. I’d take care of you and make you a little beetle house and give you little crumbs of cake.”

“Promise me you won’t give me lentils. They’re disgusting and bad for beetles.”

“I didn’t realize beetles had specific diets.”

“They don’t, I just don’t want you to feed beetle me any lentils.”

Imogen set her hand over her heart, “I swear I won’t feed you any lentils in the event that you are magically turned into a bug.”

“A beetle Imogen. There’s a difference.”

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

Gold sunset light saturated the entire castle. It almost lifted Jaron’s spirits as he looked over each of his regents.

They all stood as he walked into the throne room, flanked by Mott and Harlowe. He held out his hand, prompting them to sit, and sat down in his cushioned chair. Gold sunset light saturated the throne room. One man remained standing. He flashed a small grin at Jaron.

Lord Thomas Row was wearing a splendid hook, but aside from that, wore almost the same clothing that he’d worn the day before. His braided black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and adorned with a series of elegant beads.

He stood out among the richly dressed regents.

“Your Majesty, I once again must thank you on behalf of Avenia for assisting us during this time,” Row said, bowing deeply.

Jaron dipped his head, “It’s what anyone would do for an ally; for a friend. I’m prepared to hear what you’ve come to say, and I’m prepared to give Avenia aid in any way possible.”

With some exceptions, of course. Jaron refused to turn to dishonesty for as long as he could, he’d seen what happened when somebody was afraid to face the truth.

He’d been a victim of what happened when somebody was afraid to face the truth.

“We pray that all is well in Avenia,” Harlowe said. “Please, tell us of Avenia.”

The regents leaned forward in their chairs; Row rolled his shoulders back. “Your Majesty, regents, Sir Mott, I bring news of mixed success. I am proud to say that the southern region is doing well, we’ve allowed everyone an opportunity to learn to read, and in turn, our now literate farmers have been able to bring us economic success with their imports and exports.

“We’ve seen this pattern throughout the entire country, although this progress hasn’t spread easily through the northern regions. This is where we come for Carthyan aid, King Jaron. There are rumors of revolution in Isel. We haven’t found the cause of these rumors, though we suggest they were put into Iseli heads by an outside source, likely Gelynian or another outside source.

“King Aranscot has long envied Isel and its value. King Kippenger’s reign is still much like an unsteady colt stumbling through its first day, it wouldn’t take much for King Aranscot to topple the entire regime, and plunge Avenia into darkness once again.”

“Are you requesting military assistance, Lord Row?” Jaron asked, his hands clasped in his lap.

Row shook his head, “Not to that extent, your Highness. King Kippenger would feel much better knowing there is at least a small Carthyan presence in Isel.”

Ah, yes, Carthyan influence.

If Jaron played his cards right, he’d be able to fulfill Kippenger’s request without causing any offense. He wouldn’t be able to send Roden, his reputation preceded him, and Roden’s presence would likely invoke more fear than peace.

But if he placed a noble there, one with enough popularity, that could bring Kippenger a new sense of ease.

Renlyn Karise’s name bounced around in his head.

She’d be a valuable asset to Isel, she had property there, and enough power to hire her own army if needed.

However, Renlyn was a good friend to Imogen, and Jaron didn’t have the heart to sever that relationship.

Jaron felt a frown tug at his lips. He scanned the regents, trying to find Tobias for support. “Could you see this unease growing into a call to arms against King Kippenger?”

Tobias gave the slightest nod of his head.

“Perhaps, although we’d rather be safe than sorry, Avenia’s armies would be able to handle the insurgents should any fighting arise,” explained Row. “We hope that Carthya’s presence would be enough to stifle any more talk of revolution.”

“Hope might not be enough, but I am willing to take that risk in order to keep the peace.”

“Your Majesty, please understand that Avenia wants no more war, we fear bloodshed, and we fear the implications it would bring to every realm near the Eranbole sea.”

“I see your concern, Lord Row, and I will do my best to ease this fear,” Jaron held his hand over his heart. “I sense there’s more you have to say?”

Row shifted on his feet. “We’ve heard rumors that Mireldis Thay is in your custody, and though King Kippenger finds chasing rumors the work of a child, he does like to be informed. Is this true?”

Now it was the regents’ turn to all shift in their seats. Harlowe looked to Jaron for permission to speak, “I’m afraid we have only rumors about Lady Thay. There is nothing to fear, the young woman in Carthya’s protection is a bandit named Ayvar.”

“Ah, what a pity, I suppose,” Row sighed, and he held his hook in his hand.

Mott frowned, “Your reaction is vastly different from what’s common.”

“I’ve never been one to accept information without picking it apart.”

“If only more people were like you then, Lord Row,” Jaron said. “However, we are here for Avenia’s sake, not Mireldis Thay’s.”

“You are correct, your Majesty.” Once again, Lord Row bowed. “I shall leave you to discuss my nation’s matters with your regents, but I must ask that you do so with speed. I will not see my people suffer and a nation overthrown because of bureaucratic loopholes.”

Jaron didn’t bother hiding his smirk. It was no secret that Carthyan kings rarely got along with their regents. “My word is final, and my regents understand that.”

“I trust your judgement, King Jaron. If you would wish to speak with me, you know how and where to find me.”

“We will send for you the minute the King’s council has come to an agreement,” Harlowe promised. “Thank you for your time, Lord Row, and take care.”

“Your concern is reassuring, Lord Harlowe. I eagerly await the King’s response.”

The throne room remained silent as every pair of eyes watched Row walk away from them. He might not have been born into his title, but he carried himself with pride.

He carried himself with dignity.

“Your Majesty, I know we have an agreement with Avenia, but-,” began the infamous Mistress Orlaine, who would’ve lost her position as regent ages ago if Jaron didn’t care for his public image. She had the means to turn people against him, and Jaron couldn’t have that.

“But nothing, they are our ally, and if they need help, we will help them,” Jaron cut in. “If my father had been more willing to take action, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. We will stand united in kindness and honesty, not through going back on our word.”

“We can’t send military aid, not without angering King Aranscot, he would think that we are preparing to rise against him,” Harlowe mused. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, obviously thinking of a solution.

Jaron drummed his fingers on his knee, “I will think of something, but whatever we do, we must do what we can to help King Kippenger.”

“Why be kind to them? They’re a nation of thieves,” spat another regent, Master Termouthe. “We must honor tradition, your Majesty. Without tradition, we are nothing.”

“And I acknowledge that, Lord Termouthe, I do, but traditions and times change. A nation of thieves cannot change on its own, King Kippenger deserves our support, and it would be selfish of us not to share what we have.”

The regents were becoming fussy. Another elderly mistress grunted. “We could be sharing what we have with our people. Your disregard for royal luxury is fuel for gossip.”

“And yet, I find that facing gossip is much better than leaving men and women to starve in the streets,” Tobias butted in. “This is a matter of Avenian policy, not an opportunity to scrutinize personal choices.”

“Bold words coming from-,” Termouthe’s sentence never finished.

People rarely finished insulting statements when Mott fixed a glare on them.

“Then it’s settled,” Jaron stood up from his chair. “We are sending somebody to Isel to keep the peace. I will call another meeting when I have made my choice.”

Termouthe, Orlaine, and the other dissenters kept their eyes glued to the ground.

“Lord Harlowe, Lord Branch, Sir Mott,” said Jaron, clasping his hands behind his back. “I would very much like to discuss our options in private.”

“You are dismissed,” Harlowe gestured from the regents to the wide, open doors.

Each regent stood, bowed, and walked out a little too slowly for Jaron’s taste. They were trying to stay and hear what he had to say.

But they would hear nothing that would advance their agendas.

“Mott, do you know anything about Commander Regar? Did you talk to him at all?” Jaron asked, pacing from his throne to Tobias’s chair, to Harlowe, and back to his throne. “Is he still here?”

Mott set his ankle on his knee, leaning back into his charge in the process. “I spoke with him as best I could, but I know him, Jaron. He’s clean.”

No matter how much time Jaron spent with Mott, there were still so many things he didn’t know about him.

“Don’t you find it odd that Lord Row asked about Mireldis Thay?” Tobias pointed out. He was sitting almost as straight as the back of his chair. “I doubt Row has ever met her.”

Commander Regar.

Regar, Regar, Regar.

Saints be cursed, something was staring at him right in the face. Jaron was smart, why was he still struggling with this puzzle?

“I’ll have to add that to my list of questions,” Jaron grunted.

Tobias shifted, “List of questions?”

“Imogen and I have an idea that a mutual friend of ours may know more than we’d expect. We’re going to pay him a visit.”

“He plays a lute and wears colors that murder the eyes, doesn’t he?”

Jaron nodded, “You’re correct, and I will come back with answers, or I won’t come back at all.”

A bold promise, but Jaron knew what he was capable of. His mind was beginning to get ahead of him, he was dreaming of all the possibilities awaiting him.

Perhaps he was wrong about everything, and there was no need to have an entire gang of morally grey thieves be thrown into the dungeon.

Or maybe he and Imogen were right. Maybe Mireldis Thay had come to Carthya with every intention to slaughter Feall, or die trying.

A crime punishable by death.

“Jaron, I do hate to backtrack,” Harlowe inhaled. “But I would propose that we station a small company of soldiers in Libeth, just in case the situation in Avenia goes wrong. It would be much easier to mobilize forces from there than from here.”

“That-, that’s not a half bad idea, actually. Ah, Harlowe, you’re far too brilliant to be working with these regents.”

“As are you, my king.”

Jaron waved the comment away, “I’ll speak with Roden about moving soldiers. Aranscot will likely figure our movements out, but he has nothing to do with the unrest in Isel, then he’ll leave us alone. If he does have something to do with the unrest, then we have our answer.”

“Isn’t it nice when things are straightforward?” Hummed Tobias, who’d begun rubbing his temples. “We’ll be able to move onto our next item of business once the troops are placed, there won’t be any secrets about it.”

Any secrets.

Several of Jaron’s policies were ridiculed by many of the regents. They mocked the way he kept things in the open. But it was because of honesty that Carthya was beginning to thrive.

“Is the castle going to be involved in this year’s Blackberry Night?” Tobias was chipping away at every detail he could.

“I’ll think about it,” Jaron shrugged. “We’ve had a festival already, and Blackberry Night gets a little too wild for my taste.”

“The festival was weeks ago, Amarinda and I could coordinate it, and maybe it’ll draw in-“

“I said I’d think about it, Tobias.”

There were grander things to worry about than a party. Things with more benefits than gaining favor with regents who’d hate Jaron til either he died, or they died.

Mott accompanied him as he excused himself from the tiny meeting. They’d formed a pact in the dead of night not long ago to check in on Feall after the recent attack. They’d also both agreed to keeping Tobias indoors for a few days. Both Mott and Jaron clung to their promises for as long as they could, but eventually Amarinda left with Queen Danika’s investigators to search for Mireldis Thay, and nothing on earth could keep Tobias from going with her.

Mystic and Mott’s mare were already saddled and waiting to be ridden.

“Market day is going to happen shortly before the Morning of the Saints,” Mott said as he and Jaron stepped into the castle courtyard.

“Are you trying to start a debate about my church attendance with me?” Jaron countered. He had enough on his mind. Mystic stamped his foot as Jaron swung into the saddle. “You’re just like Imogen.”

“On the contrary, I’m only stating a fact. Market day technically is starting before the Morning of the Saints.”

“Too many holidays, too little time. I’d like to take a nap for a month or two.”

Mott clicked at his mare, leading the way out of the courtyard. “You’re doing a good job, Jaron. There’s a lot to deal with, and you’re doing your best.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

He didn’t want to admit how much he valued Mott’s approval.

Jaron uttered a silent prayer of thanks; he’d left his circlet behind, which meant he didn’t need to nod at each person who bowed to him. The streets were almost crammed, but not enough to render travel useless.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about all of these holidays,” Jaron grinned. “Maybe I should set aside a day where I can forget about my duties and remain calm.”

“There’s nothing stopping you from doing that now,” Mott guided his horse a few steps closer to Jaron. A carriage thundered past.

They were nearing the middle level of Drylliad, it wouldn’t be long until they were at the lower levels. Feall would have to be there somewhere.

“You know what, you’re absolutely right.”

“I typically am, people don’t like listening.”

“That’s because your version of ‘right’ isn’t nearly as fun as mine.”

“Strange, I’d thought my version of ‘right’ was better than yours because it typically means you don’t return to the castle with a black eye.”

Jaron inhaled deeply and leaned as far back as he could, his face turned to the sky. He couldn’t think of a response, as Mott’s argument couldn’t be countered without sounding like a blithering fool. Instead, he groaned.

“That’s what I thought,” Mott chuckled.

Children with bandages on their feet darted across the cobblestones, chasing after a striped lizard. A woman’s fashionable right boot flew through the air, caught by a pair of grubby child’s hands. Girls in tattered red rags waved from shattered windows. Lower Drylliad was often forgotten by nobles.

They didn’t want to get their hands dirty.

Didn’t want to help those born into a pigpen.

Mott sat a little straighter in his saddle. “This seems more like Roden’s route.”

“I think they switched patrol times,” Jaron racked his brain as he struggled to remember the last time Roden had told him about what he was up to. “With Feall patrolling during the day, it keeps him safe from his attacker. And Roden was very keen on being able to spend his afternoons either beating me at sparring or teaching Nila how to properly use a sword.”

“Probably makes it easier to avoid you, too.”

“Very true, which isn’t really that great, as I’ve been meaning to-,” Jaron gagged, “-apologize to him.”

“Consider me impressed, I know how much you hate doing that.”

Feall wasn’t far ahead, his jacket rested on his shoulders, dirt stained his white shirt. He waved. A large man with a full scarlet beard was gently tossing some of the children into the air. Jaron recognized him; Commander Regar was too massive to forget

“Have you come to visit me?” Feall joked. “Commander, show some respect to the king.”

Regar nodded his head to Jaron and Mott, nodded to the children he’d been throwing, and stood by Feall.

A man sized like Regar would have no problems holding his own against three men.

“We did, but unfortunately, I forgot to bring you flowers,” Jaron wiped away an imaginary tear. “Have you had any trouble, Feall?”

He shook his head, “Not exactly, I did have to separate a pair of urchins as they fought over a shoe.”

Regar gave no comment, which annoyed Jaron to no end.

What was it with people and not reacting to anything?

“Was it a woman’s shoe?” asked Mott, gesturing to the howling children several steps away.

“Yes, yes it was. I suppose if they aren’t bashing heads into the ground over it, they can play with it. Did you really come to check in on me, or is there something wrong?”

Jaron frowned, “Have you done something wrong?”

Ha! Regar coughed! That was almost as good as a biting comment!

“Not that I can think of,” a strand of long, dark hair fell across Feall’s forehead.

“Then we came strictly to check in on you, I’d hate to see a friend of mine come to harm. Again.”

Mott scoffed something about friends and harm, but his statement was almost too quiet to hear.

Feall raised his eyebrows, “Is that true?”

“Is what true?”

“Am I your friend, King Jaron?”

“I suppose so. Be careful, though, I do have bold requests of my friends. Mott thinks they’re ‘a danger to everyone’, and that I’m ‘going to chip somebody’s tooth’,” Jaron made sure to look Mott in the eye as he said so. “Consider yourself invited the next time I try to use a shield as a sled.”

“I’ll make sure to be-,” Feall stood straight, his sentence trailing off.

“Your Majesty, you may want to get away from here,” Regar muttered.

There were no more children shrieks.

His hand was resting on his sword hilt seconds after he recognized the unnatural quiet. Jaron squinted at the alley nearest to him, struggling to decide if the shadow he saw was because of a pile of trash or a lurking person.

“Where’s your horse, Feall?” Jaron murmured, his eyes locked on the shadow.

“Tied up in a stable, wasn’t in the mood to have her stolen from me,” Feall slowly unsheathed his sword. “I’m sure there’s a reason for the sudden silence.”

Jaron rolled his shoulders back, “I’ll dismount, Mystic won’t fit both of us.”

His feet hit the solid cobblestones, the sound echoing across the street. The only sound accompanying them through the streets was the constant clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

What a foolish idea, riding out to lower Drylliad.

What an even more foolish idea, letting Feall continue to patrol the streets despite having a target on his back.

A familiar sensation bubbled in his stomach. He’d grown up on tales of witches and their poisonous brews. Perhaps there was a tiny witch hiding inside him, using his insides as ingredients for her malicious magics.

Every so often, Jaron glanced back over his shoulder. There were too many things that could’ve caused the sudden wave of silence. Too many reasons why the street was suddenly lifeless. There were no girls in red waving from their windows, no children throwing discarded boots at each other, and no men with dirty blindfolds begging for money.

It was bad news when children hid.

It was even worse when the beggars vanished.

Mott scanned each alley. Jaron looked over his shoulder. Feall checked both sides of the street.

But nobody looked ahead to see the patched bandit in front of them.

“A pity, you should’ve told me there was a gathering!” Called out the patched Faola. His voice was rougher than before, and his saber looked a little worse for wear. “I’ve been told I’m the life of the party!”

Jaron’s hand shot out, gripping Feall’s upper arm as hard as he could.“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I know it’s you, Mireldis Thay!” Feall stepped forward, breaking out of Jaron’s grasp. “I had my doubts, but your foolish note to Oberson confirmed my suspicions!”

“I wear only my name, and nobody else’s.”

Feall’s face fell.

The Faola bowed, “Your Majesty, Sir Mott, I humbly ask that you step away. This is, well, a matter of personal business. Don’t take offense when I say I don’t know you well enough to clash swords with the pair of you two.”

“I have to humbly ask you to step away,” Jaron countered. “It’s rude that you haven’t told me your name yet, I’m reduced to calling you Patches as your friend Ayvar does. Patches is the name for a household cat, not a sadistic murderer.”

“Sadistic? You’d see things differently if you asked the right questions.”

Mott dismounted as the banter continued, he too had drawn his sword. “What right questions?”

“Questions like-,” the Faola shrugged, his hood drawn low over his face. “Questions like why- ah, they don’t matter. Nothing will distract me from my chosen path.”

“Disappointing, I do love to talk,” Jaron frowned.

“Coincidentally, I do too when the cards are right.”

“Then maybe we should deal out new hands.”

It was unnerving, watching the Faola press a hand to his stomach and cackle. “You can’t get a new hand in this game.”

“Says who?” Jaron dug his foot into the cobblestones, risking a tiny glance at Mott.

The Faola only appeared to be one person, it was all too likely that there were multiple hiding in the alleys. There was a tiny chance that Roden had begun patrol early, and would come galloping to the sounds of a sword fight.

However, that had already worked once, and it was unlikely that the Devils wanted to play the same trick.

“Buy time,” Mott hissed.

Jaron stepped forwards again, “I don’t know your quarrel with Lord Feall, but I won’t let you shed any more blood in my city.”

Was it a coincidence that the Faola took a step back each time Jaron took one forward?

“You’re no king of mine,” barked the bandit.

“Then why are you retreating?”

He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned the Faola’s subtle retreat. The Faola roared, and flung himself forward, his saber moving with blinding speed. Jaron bellowed back and parried one of the Faola’s blows.

Though the saber was a slimmer weapon, the Faola’s tendency to leap out of the way kept Jaron from landing any debilitating blows. He lunged forward, and the Faola scurried backwards. With his sword raised, Jaron gathered his strength, preparing to sweep across the Faola’s middle.

That would put an end to things.

Feall and Mott were rushing to assist him. Regar, however, stood by Mystic and Mott’s horse, watching the fight from afar.

He wasn’t expecting it when the Faola pressed the inner curve of his saber to his leather gauntlet, and charged forward.

Jaron brought his sword crashing down on the Faola’s saber, locking both of their blades together. Mott and Feall were almost near enough to land a-

The world around him turned to pudding. Where was Commander Regar? Where was his mighty longsword and his skull crushing hands?

The Faola had delivered a sharp kick to Jaron’s upper right leg, sending stars across his vision. Where was Commander Regar? Where was his mighty longsword and his skull crushing hands?

“The King!” Feall shouted. “Mott! Regar! Get the King!”

“I can hold-!” Jaron tried standing on his right leg, but the overwhelming urge to vomit his entire day’s worth of food forced him into a loss.

Regar bounded away from the horses, his longsword in both of his huge hands. The Faola only ducked under his mighty arms, and did his best to strike a blow at Feall.

The Faola froze at the sight of Regar, the tip of his saber clinked against the ground.

Mott held his sword extended as he dragged Jaron back to Mystic, “We have to get you out of here!”

“Let me go!”

“You hold priority!”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Jaron roared, shoving himself away from Mott. If he just stood with all of his weight on his left leg, he could still fight!

All it took was a step closer to Feall and the Faola to make his vision burst with white lights.

The world had turned to jelly, to pudding, to sludge. All Jaron knew was that he no longer retained a crisp sense of the air around him. Everything was too warm, too sticky.

His hair was sticking to his forehead. His insides were sticking to each other. His hands were sticking to his sword.

Was he going to be sick all over Mott?

The sword fell from his hands; Mott was shoving him onto Mystic. Bits of conversation drifted through his cotton hearing. He could sometimes see Feall and the Faola’s outlines against his holy-white vision.

It was almost like they were dancing together.

Feall was ever the gentleman, allowing the Faola to always strike at his head. He always returned the gesture with a hard swipe to the Faola’s middle.

“This is a bit-!” Feall ducked. “Below the-!”

The Faola jabbed his sword low, and sadly, Jaron didn’t catch the last part of Feall’s witty retort.

He clung to Mystic’s reigns, his eyes searching for Mott. The whiteness was fading, replaced with unnatural blues.

Mott would guide him to safety. Mott would keep him safe.

“Jaron, ride ahead,” Mott urged. “Keep it slow, I’m going to get Feall out of his mess. Blink if you-”

Jaron didn’t need to blink, he only urged Mystic forward and tried not to vomit into his own lap.

Horse hooves clattered against the pavement in an odd compliment to clashing swords. Somebody was ordering Mott away; ordering him to consider himself and that he’d only make the close fighting quarters even tighter.

The Faola ducked beneath feall’s blade, twirling away from both Mott and Feall like a little girl in a new dress. Sounds of battle were dying. The fight was a music box, twinkling down to its last plink of a note.

Mystic tottered forward.

Straining, Jaron peered over his shoulder, looking just in time to see the music box’s final plink.

The Faola swiped the saber across Feall’s chest, missed, and kicked him in the stomach. Feall went tumbling to the ground. The Faola stood above his opponent, gloating words lost to Jaron’s pudding hearing.

But it was Regar who earned the last plink.

Tossing his sword to the side, Regar barrelled into the Faola. “Get them to safety! I’ll cover you!”

“Let me go!” The Faola shrieked, pounding his fists against Regar’s back

Regar let the Faola slide down his back. The Faola anticipated the fall, and rolled to his sword. He swung as hard as he could, but Regar caught the saber blade with his gloved hand.

Mott tugged Feall onto his saddle, leaving the Faola to his fate.

A sad finale to a short dance between Feall and his lethal partner. Jaron leaned over and vomited. He didn’t hear whatever it was that Mott was saying as he limped them all back to the castle.

All he could think about was that dance of life and death. It was a dance he’d performed himself. He’d seen somebody dance that way before- all jumping and twirling. The dancer’s name was just out of his reach. Knowing that the name was there was enough.

They were strange musings, but it was worth it to avoid vomiting again.

It was the musings of a man in too much pain to see straight.

#its real Mott Saves the Day Hours #and bully Jaron hours #sorry kiddo #this was #uh #too fun sorry #regar is just the dad from brave except hes a grumpy man who likes throwing humans #the ascendance series #mott #prince jaron #imogen #harlowe #tobias #ocs #chaotic #fic friday #fic Friday except its a tuesday #time isn't real

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ralfstrashcan · 6 years ago

Text

3x11 Reaction / Commentary

So I haven't even started the episode and I'm already confused.

Why did Netflix put 3B in a separate folder? I mean, they didn't with 2B. What's the matter with that. Or is this just the German Netflix??

Smoooooothe move. Somewhere Derek Hale is smiling proudly.

Wtf why they so slow. I was half expecting this to be a simulation or sth because they took ages to arrive and then were walking super chill???

Seelie guy doesn't use this obvious distraction of the others to try and escape, since he knows he's just a minor character and shouldn't interfere.

Beautiful grieving sequence, especially Jace with the sketch of himself. I knew there would be a portrait of him in there before he even turned the page, I could feel it. I love how sensitive and therefore predictable the show is.

Ooooh nooooo Clary is still aliiiiiive, who whould have thought?!?!?! Okay sorry haha I had to.

lol didn't he look in a mirror recently and realize there's still no real resemblance? I mean, at least now he's not charred anymore, so I guess there's more resemblance than before, but you know what I mean. And I get it, this is supposed to be a parallelism to Lilith saying the same thing, but if memory serves right, at this point in time Jonathan was a) in a thick glass casket and b) dead so I'm wondering how he could have heard that.

wtf I'm getting sooo mixed signals from him. Does he want to give off creeper vibes or play house? Because he's kinda doing both?? Play Creeper House???

YEAH LITERALLY I WANT TO SEE THEIR HEATING BILLS

This...... doesn't sound as reassuring as it sounded in your head, Jonathan.

So, points for Clary for that ploy, but my heart is already pre-emptively breaking for Jonathan when he finds out she's playing him. The poor guy just wants family after being used and abused his whole life, man. Is that too much to ask.

More points for Clary for being sensible and grabbing a coat!!

“Clary, come on. You can't go out there. You're never gonna survive.”

Hahaha that had me laughing out loud. So Clary.

Okay, minus points for Clary for not actually wearing the coat. You had a winning streak of common sense but all good things must end, I guess.

Picturesque. But, uh, since Jonathan isn't following her she could slow down. And if she was a Slytherin, she would have waited til after breakfast with her daring escape.

LISTEN I LOVE THIS CASUAL DOMESTICITY

Also if you're more make-up versed than I am (which, admittedly, isn't very hard) and realized something was off about the way Magnus held that eyeliner stick (?) then check lynne-monstr's eyeliner salt club tag because it's hilarious. I also want to rec volunteer_of_hufflepuff's fic smile even though your heart is breaking because it's awesome.

...........................really. Really. That's how they want to play it? Ugh, okay. Ugh.

You know, I've had a whole lengthy extensive (dare I say exhaustive) rant ripening in my head since I saw this bit in the sneak peek but I'm just not in the mood, so let me cut it short: I get Simon's reaction emotionally, since losing Clary must be a horrible experience for him, but I'm still bitter about early 3A where blasting that werewolf across Taki's yard and knowing he might never walk again didn't bother Simon for one second. Repercussions should always matter, regardless of how close you are to the person affected.

Oh dear, she's still running. And her hair still looks like that?

Sure. Also

How can he keep up with her when he's walking and she's running? I mean he's not that much taller than her. Or does she run ten feet, pause to gasp and pant a little, runs again, stop and go, y'know? So on average she's just powerwalking.

Ok srsly I need to stop this nonsensical commentary.

Yeah and I guess he didn't notice the Clave-approved vampire-torture-sunlight construction Aldertree installed in this very same office (shown in 2x04 if you care to remember).

........who are you and what did you do to Alec Lightwood? You seriously want to tell me he'd consider not bringing up a violation of the Accords, and more importantly power abuse and torture, because of political reasons and he's “scared” to lose his standing with Jia? Please. He'd be enforcing Clave law. He'd be well within his right. We're talking about the guy who flat out refused to do the Inquisitor's bidding because it went against his moral code. Compared to that, this is a walk in the park. So. Please.

“I understand the kind of pain you're in, Jace.”

“No you don't. I'm sorry, you don't.”

“You're right...

Oh my god this isn't about Clary, or at least not for the most part. Jace is frikking traumatized because he wasn't in control of his body or his actions or his frakking mind for days. Btw I'm actually impressed and surprised they bothered to focus on anything but the Clary-Drama, namely Jace second-hand-killing like 33 people. And Imogen. And almost Alec. The way I see Jace he'll focus on his guilt, not the pain he feels over Clary's loss. Clary will be on his mind and that's one more thing to feel shitty about, because how can he be so selfish and think about his own pain when he brought so much more pain on other people? Jace has an incredibly intricately self-destructive mind and I love how it was portrayed here. Also loved the scene in general with some Izzy&Jace sibling feels, the tender way she talks to him, his kiss to her hand. But the focus (mainly because of Izzy) returning to Clary annoyed me a little.

And by the way, there is one person who can understand Jace. Alec. Because he was possessed by a demon and forced to kill someone, too. Granted, he doesn't have the memories of the action itself, but he saw it on tape. He blames himself because the demon fed off his own hate against Jocelyn. So I would really really love to see those two talking about it. I'm extremely thrilled to watch on and see if they do (but lol kinda hoping they don't because then I can finish writing my ficlet about it, which I sadly didn't manage to before 3B aired).

MY LIFE EXPECTANCY JUST INCREASED BY AT LEAST FIVE YEARS OKAY

Also what a damn badass nightlight, I want one as well even though I hate not to sleep in absolute darkness, that's how pretty this is.

HAHAHAHHAHHAHHAHAHA I C A N ' T

ALEC'S OFFENDED FACE AS IF THIS IS NEWS TO HIM

Wow I'm so glad they didn't forget about Iris. I was scared, not gonna lie.

Tbh I don't find Madzie's reaction that realistic. I mean, Valentine – the first person to talk to her after she got ripped from her normal life in her normal home – told her Clary got Iris into trouble. At some point they must have told her that Iris isn't coming back. But did they really tell her Iris was breeding warlocks? I highly doubt that. At most they told her Iris did some bad things. But, since they probably said the same thing about Valentine (and he was always “nice” to her) and told her Clary wasn't in fact evil, that kind of loses its meaning. And let's not forget, she is a child. A probably traumatized child, I might add, since Valentine used her to literally kill at least ten Shadowhunters that we see on screen, likely more. Her perception of what is right and what is wrong is easily swayed. And personally I think she neither really registered that Iris is supposed to be the bad guy now nor that living with Catarina / Magnus and Alec is sooooo much better than living with Iris ever was, so her having such a strong opposition against going with Iris seems unrealistic to me.

Love this. So good.

This is actually really beautiful

This is actually really dramatic for no reason and I'm soooo here for it.

Soooooo am I the only one wondering why the F Cat didn't put some wards on Magnus's place? I mean????? There is no explanation given for that, and frankly I can't come up with one. If not for Magnus, then Cat would at least put wards there while Madzie stays with him. Or....... do they want to imply Cat doesn't know that he lost his magic?? Hä?! If so, who the hell patched Alec back up from his neat little life-threatening arrow wound? Cuz I had assumed it was Cat. Since, y'know Jace pleaded with Magnus to help Alec, implying (to me at least) that an iratze alone wouldn't cut it this time. Except of course, if he asked because he didn't want to be bothered with taking out his stele and activating Alec's healing rune, but when Magnus refused because no magic he had no other choice.... and let's be real, the first scene of this episode heavily implies that a healing rune can cure just about anything in 0.3 seconds flat.

Alec wanting to bench Magnus makes no sense. Keeping him around and/or at the Institute makes more sense than, oh I don't know, telling him to stay in his loft where there are no wards. Wtf is logic anyway, right?

I liked this scene, don't get me wrong but... what's with the tough love? Alec isn't usually like that?? He's soft and firm reassurance, not aggressive and authoritative reassurance. Did he try that route before and it didn't work?? I need some answers.

“I had no idea.”

“How could you? You weren't there.”

“Me leaving had nothing to do with Simon. I just needed to be alone.

Okay, what, am I supposed to blame Maia now for needing time for and taking care of herself? She's so defensive as if her leaving was objectively wrong, and it wasn't.

“I guess when times get tough, some people need to be alone. And others need to be around other people.

Please, this is a dirty lie. Remind me again, who was it that pushed Alec away after he found out about her yin fen addiction, insisted she could handle it on her own, ran away and finally confiding in some random stranger she had just met? It wasn't Maia. Who stayed up late all night, disregarding her own emotions and rather tearing herself apart trying to fix the drama of her brothers than to mention to anyone she wasn't alright? Wasn't Maia either.

I feel strongly about this because this seems like a really cheap way to break up Saia and set up Sizzy and I don't like cheap things. I don't like Sizzy either, but my main demand is quality, not a certain content. I'll accept Sizzy if it's done correctly. But this isn't it. This is laying blame on a character who's not to blame, and making claims about another character that are plain untrue if you look at the last three seasons.

I've said it before, there would be good ways to break up Saia. For example their attitude to violence differs greatly from one another. Maia is trigger-happy and sees no harm in it, Simon is more or less pacifistic (at least when he's not having his I-don't-care-about-anything-but-my-gig-mood). Creating a conflict out of this would have been in character. Claiming Maia is somehow to blame because she wasn't there is not only unfair, but also invalidating all Maia has done for Simon before, and that was a lot. Putting up with her shitty ex, helping him search for Lilith, fighting her own pack so they don't bully him. She was about to have a face-off with the Seelie Queen – the very same creature that held her hostage not too long ago – just to be by his side. Is that all suddenly not worth anything anymore, just because she had the audacity to take a little time for herself, to sort through her own issues?

Seriously, he let her walk in that? No wonder she collapsed. Jonathan should have gotten her nice hiking boots.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS

CAN WE JUST.... CAN WE...... APPRECIATE.......... HOW HE BATS ALL HER MAGIC ATTACKS AWAY....... LIKE............ MAGNUS................ H O W

Btw if this is supposed to sway me and make me see that benching Magnus would have been the right call, then it's not working, because fine, let's assume Magnus had gone home. Then Iris would have had an even easier job to snatch him away, because a) no wards and b) no sword. And on top of that Alec wouldn't have had a way of knowing that Magnus was even taken, since I doubt Iris would have let Magnus call or text him.

Do you even know that? I'd like to see what you're willing to do after being tortured for ten years. Just saying. But fine. Stay there on your high horse.

Ohmygod I am stunned. I couldn't have written that summation any better and to be honest I had assumed the show would just blackpaint Jonathan as evil villain and be done with it. This is so much more than I expected. I am impressed. (And of course now I hope that there will be a redemption arc for Jonathan, but I'm afraid I'm setting myself up for heartbreak with this one.)

Do they intend to tell me that this whole place is warmed by the fireplace? Why not by a heater? Since the three billion lamps

imply there's electricity somewhere. Or was that line about firewood just Jonathan's way to exit the scene? Who knows.

“Ollie? Doesn't remember a thing. Praetor was good about getting her and Samantha relocated. New identities. They're safe now, like everyone else.”

I'm still high-key bitter about this. I love Ollie a great deal, okay, so this is a pretty disappointing solution to outsource her from the plot. Just let her forget all the shit so she doesn't have to deal with trauma. Guess she thinks now her mother died in an explosion caused by a gas leakage or something. I wonder what the mundane police has to say about that and how long it'll take them to find her, since, y'know, they have evidence against her and all that.

Edit: This doesn't actually make sense if you think about it. Did Ollie just get dropped into a witness protection program for no reason she can remember? Or does that “new identities” actually mean they have completely new identities because they don't remember ANYTHING from their old life?? I need answers.

I get it. This is supposed to make me see how rundown and wasted Luke is. But is he purposefully trying to make himself look like a confused hobo? I mean couldn't he like, prepare the notes he wanted to show Jace? It's like he's trying to reinforce to Jace he shouldn't listen to a thing Luke says because these are clearly the actions of a desperate man. Presentation is half the battle man, man.

Hah, badass. There's a reason I love him.

I totally dig Magnus in his kiddie clothes, but I also need a lot of answers because there's blood on his hands and bodies at his feet and this doesn't look like magic gone haywire, this looks like a massacre and I need answers. I wonder if they're gonna explain this flash or just let it sit there uncommented. (I hope they address it and I hope it has something to do with Asmodeus and their time together.)

Ugh do I honestly have to reiterate that parking Magnus in his ward-less loft wouldn't have helped? Also, he's a grown-ass man and can make decisions for himself, dammit.

Owning up to his mistakes unrestrainedly. There's a reason I have a soft spot for Raphael.

New York, huh? What a coincidence. Wouldn't want him to live somewhere else and have Maia burn through the other half of her paycheck to pay some warlock to portal them again, right?

Also, not to be controversial, but why don't they ask the Praetor first? Since they had a whole ass book on the mark of cain and everything. And figured out what it is. And getting rid of something so dangerous is basically their job. I mean. Just saying.

You know I always marvel at this. Just because he's old he knows shit? Is there really an age where knowledge pops into your head just because? Because I'm still waiting for that to happen to me, let me tell you. Just like being immortal somehow grants you immediate access to celebrities and the questionable honor to be in the midst of all historical events of the slightest relevance? Srsly if I was immortal I'd still be glued to my lappy and hate going out.

LOL give Iris a front row seat on how you smashed her XD XD XD

IT'S SUPER EFFECTIVE

<3 <3 <3

This exchange thing is a ploy, and to be honest, a painfully obvious one. I find it really kinda hard to believe Iris falls for it. What I've been asking myself since this plot line started is, why didn't Iris have that idea herself? Like, I honestly expected her to use Magnus as a hostage and tell Alec he either hand over Madzie or she'll kill Magnus. Makes way more sense than her just trying to find Madzie herself and then what, try to break her out again? That didn't work last time, and since the warlocks are warned by Magnus's abduction it'd be even unlikelier to work now. I get it plot-wise since it'd be a little awkward if Iris out-blackmailed the Shadowhunters, but like. Seriously. What's the in-universe-explanation for this???

I don't know why, but Magnus looks super cute in this shot.

Five bucks say this is Izzy with a shapeshifting rune, and ISTG if this is actually Madzie then I can just shake my head at them.

Okay, I totally dig Lightwood siblings working together but. Why do you have to simultaneously hurt me with plot holes.

1) Where did they get Seelie Magic? Did they employ Meliorn? Srlsy. Also, the Seelie Magic at the beginning of the episode could move so why was Illusion!Madzie standing there like a display dummy? That was super suspicious.

2) Why didn't they use a shapeshifting rune? The illusion would have held longer, Izzy could have gotten closer and tied Iris up more easily, without Magnus getting smashed first. But, drama I guess.

3) Where the f is Catarina? Please. Her ward almost gets kidnapped and all she does is go “Oh shit, gotta relocate her to some other High Warlock lol.” Her best friend gets kidnapped and all she does is go “Oh shit, but whatever, here have a fake ransom note but don't think I'll move my ass from this super important Bitching and Drinking Conference. I payed like 200 bucks to get in.” Wtf. This is shitty ooc behavior from her. Wtf. She's either suuuuuper confident that Alec and Izzy will get Magnus back no problem, or she doesn't give a shit about him, and sorry, I don't believe either of those two options.

HAHAHA I'M SCREAMING LOOOOOL!!! Is this code for “We wanted to kill her but Lilith was quicker so we'll pretend we weren't even interested in killing her in the first place”? The Clave, man. Always good for a laugh.

No, dummy, this is their R&D Department.

I'm not even kidding, remember 2x04:

Oh the good old times.

This was. Really good. Really. I'm like, reeling. I feel like show writers read too many fanfics and therefore the Malec scenes this ep were exquisite. Magnus evasively running around and not liking his “powerlessness.” Alec there to reassure him with the sweetest of words. Their kiss, not to short, but hard and determined, with feeling. Top tier shit.

Wow, even though the words that left their mouths were reassuring and good it still feels like their relationship is suddenly dying. I wonder why that is? Oh, right. Because Sizzy, that's why.

I love.

Ooooh guess the residual electricity finally ran out. And I guess Clary turned all the candles off to match the mood? Also, since it was dark outside before and now isn't anymore.... was Jonathan out collecting firewood the entire night? That's dedication, man.

.......what a coincidence that their healing rune is in the exact same spot. On that note, I've been wondering.... if the ressurection resetted his skin to a state it hasn't been in for ten years, effectively un-charring it, shouldn't his runes have disappeared as well? Did he spend the “days” Clary was sleeping with putting runes all over himself?? On that note, why the hell did Clary have to sleep for days when Jonathan was the one who came back from the dead? All that Clary did was running at Simon in slow motion. I mean, I know what I would find more taxing.

I soooo appreciate the blood on her teeth. Such care for detail <3

Okay, so I realize that this makes Jonathan look like a fanatic, but I actually understand this scene like this: He's not an idiot. He knew Clary wasn't really going to give him a chance. But this, this is his chance, because now she has no choice but to stick with him and see for herself.

Btw if you're wondering why I'm so pro Jonathan, you can read the beginning of this post where I got out all of my Jonathan Feels. Basically, until I actually see him act intrinsically evil I refuse to believe all hope is lost for him. He did terrible things, yes, and he's aware of that, but the way I see it he did them because he wasn't ever presented with an alternate choice. And now that he has one, he's holding onto it tooth and nail. He wants to leave all the pointless violence behind.

I'm aware he's a sadistic psycho in the books, but this wouldn't be the first time the show gave a character a make-over (for the better) and so far the only compelling piece of evidence on the show in favor of Jonathan's demon blood causing him to be unsavably evil was Jocelyn's vision of him killing a flower as a baby, and it's not even clear if that was intentional. So excuse me if that's not enough for me to write him off.

Gif Sources: Malec cheek kiss, Magnus being cutesy with his croc impression, Magnus brandishing his sword *facepalm* you know what I mean, Magnus batting Iris's magic away

#shadowhunters #alec lightwood #magnus bane #jace wayland #clary fray #isabelle lightwood #jonathan morgenstern #simon lewis #maia roberts #luke garroway #jia penhallow #raphael santiago #malec #magnus is badass #reaction

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monstersarealwayshungryrpg-blog · 8 years ago

Photo

Congratulations Imogen! You have been accepted as Strength (FC: Caitriona Balfe)

Wow - this bio was incredibly detailed and amazing! You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into Althea’s past, and we absolutely love that. We’re looking forward to seeing how she fits into the Ring as something of an outsider. Make sure to follow the checklist and send us your account within 48 hours! WELCOME TO THE ARCANA RING, IMOGEN. WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY.

Out Of Character Information

Name: Imogen

Pronouns: She & Her

Age: Twenty-Two Years

In Character Information

Skeleton Applying for: Strength

Faceclaim: Caitriona Balfe, Alexa Davalos or Ruth Wilson

Character’s Full Name: Althea Louise Sullivan

Age: Thirty-Six Years

Gender and Sexuality: Cisgender female ( she & her pronouns ) & Grey-romantic/Bisexual

Character Bio:

PAST & PRESENT: “Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.” / “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”

( TW: Sexual Abuse & Infant Death )

i. Althea came into this world like most children did; all doe-eyed and soft, untouched by the harsh currents life had to offer and guarded by innocence and nativity. She had two older brothers and one younger sister, Alister “Ailbe”, Aidan and Aileen. Alibe was the jock of the family, trying just about every sport their quaint high school had to offer. He finally settled on rugby and swimming, being captain of both teams. His apparent athleticism and god-like physique left his parents extremely proud, later on getting a full scholarship to university. Aidan was the so called “bad boy” of the family, usually ending up in the principal’s office, sporting a black eye. His temper was one that matched a raging fire and control was a four letter word. Aileen, oh sweet Aileen, the baby of the family was the self-proclaimed princess of the four and rising star. She was in every play, musical and showcase the school put on. Her talents were a thing of beauty, lively and passionate, that often landed her the title roles in most productions. So being the middle child and lacking a title meant she was often forgotten and blended into the background easily. Althea didn’t mind though, she was a quiet, well-behaved child that her parents didn’t have to worry about; which they were silently grateful for. Whilst her siblings were out doing their extracurricular activities, she found solace in between the pages of books. But not the fairy tales most little girls dreamed of. No, she got ahold of her mother’s history books and nestled in between sturdy oak branches to try and make sense of it all. Growing up, she was was neither a tomboy or girly-girl. Her brothers tried to teach her how to fight, but she didn’t need to “punch like a man” to win a battle. She had her wits about her and could talk circles around almost everyone. She learned very quickly the effect her words had on people and could convince her brothers who were, plainly put, simple-minded, of anything. Though she would rather play the part of knight in shining armor than damsel in distress for she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. She wanted to play a character with a strong moral background, usually annoying her brothers with the logistics of it all. The young lass adored nature, feeling a certain serenity when she was hidden among the greenery. And Ireland housed many rolling foothills and open fields for the children to play in. The siblings spent hours playing make believe in their own little corner of the world. The sky closely resembled a painting, that by Monet and the mist that loomed around the plains curated the perfect atmosphere for their games.

ii. Her father, Thomas Sullivan was a middle-class firefighter who barely finished high school because of his temperamental issues. Because of this issue, he was left with a certain cynicism towards the wealthy and educated, sticking his tongue out at such class of people. Her mother, however, graduated from a small private liberal-arts university in England with a degree in nursing. The family quickly settled down in Ireland, where both sides of the couple were originally from and began working. Yes, Althea was Irish through and through, though her first name suggested otherwise. Althea was named after her great-grandmother, a bitter woman who hated animals and children. Nonetheless, the name was of Greek origins and meant “to heal”. The name also had a variety of spellings, one being Althaia, which was the name of a marshmallow plant that was said to have healing powers. Though at the time of naming their first daughter, they did not know that she would go on to later prove herself worthy of such a name. When she was six, her mother enrolled her in piano lessons and the girl picked up on the instrument almost instantly. It was no surprise, for she had unusually steady hands, smoothly did they dance across the ivory keys; unlike most kids that fidgeted to no end, Althea made it clear that she was not like most kids. Growing up, nothing “spectacular” happened to Althea, although she breezed through primary school – skipping second grade all together. She piqued an interest in her professor’s academic radar, doing rather well in all fields of study. When she got to high school, she was deemed “the smart one”, the one that her siblings usually copied their homework off of, despite being in different grades. She was the nerd, the polymath but most importantly the loser. She was tall, pale and awkward, having little to no figure and sullen, grey eyes. She didn’t take after any of her mother’s traits, lovely Mary with freckles abound, long flaming hair and piercing green eyes. Her siblings used to joke she was adopted and for a second, Althea almost believed it. She felt different, lost – lonely even. But her mother always had a soft spot for her first born daughter and filled her with all the nurture and support a high school girl needed. Her confidence was dwindling, but her mother’s wise words, “always look to the future and find the lightness in your heart,” comforted her. And as she got older, Aileen started coming to Althea for advice and to the girls surprise, she knew a lot more than she led on. She was wise beyond her years, having an opinion on most everything and always willing to lend a helping hand. Aileen was popular amongst the masses at their school, for she had an outgoing, adventurous spirit that attracted most. So Althea lived vicariously, watching her sister grow into an ardent soul. And she was happy to take on the role of the older sister that knew everything and could be consulted on just about any matter. The pair weren’t sure where Althea got the information since no textbook could teach one how to talk about to boys, but the younger of the two followed the advice willingly and took off from there. Having someone to guide gave Althea a purpose, a sense of belonging in a sea that didn’t seem to need her.

iii. When she graduated high school with blazing colors and two years earlier than most, she racked up a pretty good resume already. She was debate team captain, class president and lastly, valedictorian. When she was a sophomore there were rumors that she was already Oxford bound; the first of her kind. Going to the prestigious university and graced with a full scholarship, Althea wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to study, but she took as many general education courses time could afford. She had a thirst for knowledge, something that didn’t quite quench back in her small Irish town. On paper, she looked fine, perfect even – but there were about a thousand kids out there with the same accomplishments as her. That was, until she found medicine. Althea always wanted to help people, she just wasn’t sure how. Like most children, a ray of professions crossed her mind, but for some reason, doctor never did. Sure it was an old pipe dream, but she had made it this far, so why not at least try? And the moment, no the second she stepped into that lecture hall, she knew that’s all she wanted to do. It was as if a hero was going out to proclaim their title and find their glory. A light shown upon the young university student and showed her the way of natural stability. This was her instinct, her passion – her drive and Althea was nothing, if not ambitious. She was everything good and wholesome in a tremulous line of work, every syllable in the words fitting her like a dress, for she knew with hard work, she would get by. She didn’t need to be ruthless and cunning to get ahead, she didn’t need anything but her senses.

iv. Graduating university in three years, Althea went onto medical school, albeit her age. And because she was younger than most, she once again felt left out. It wasn’t until her second year of medical school people began noticing her. It wasn’t everyone, she certainly wasn’t the girl to turn heads as soon as she walked into the room; but she wasn’t that dangly, lonesome girl waiting to be asked to dance either. The first person to truly notice her, was the wrong kind of attention, to say the least. It was from her professor, a man ten years her senior and unaware of the girl’s actual age. It started as a casual comment after class, about her work or how nice she looked. And she took the compliments as a passing thought. The man was married, though she had heard rumors of him seducing young medical students and taking them as mistresses. But she disregarded these whisperings and began talking with him more and more. She stayed after class and they chatted for hours and perhaps a slight flirtation was arising. But Althea didn’t mean to cast any signals other than a strictly professional relationship. She was glad that someone was finally paying attention to her, even if she was blind to the fact of why he was showing interest in the first place. But one day, he took things a little too far and so did his hand, steadily creeping up her thigh. Althea was acutely aware that what he was doing was wrong, so she immediately stopped it; horrified that she didn’t see his true intentions. That it had to go this far for her to finally stop it because perhaps, somewhere deep down inside, she did know what was happening. And as long as nothing serious progressed between them, a flirtation that kept him at bay didn’t hurt. Dropping out of his class set the girl back a little in her studies and her confidence was once again, declining into a vast oblivion, but nonetheless, she persisted. After medical school, she graduated with high honors, choosing her professional life over her personal. She wasn’t the type to get drunk at parties anyway, afraid of something she didn’t understand. Feelings. She had never been in love, or even had a steady boyfriend or girlfriend. She knew sexuality was a spectrum and she fell somewhere on it, but a chance to explore her options were non-existent. Bringing someone into her life, when she wasn’t ready to commit, or divulge any sort of affectionate emotions would make both parties suffer. She was then accepted into Massachusetts General Hospital, one of the best medical residency programs in America. So she packed her bags and headed for America. Residency was exactly like Grey’s Anatomy, sans the making out with hot doctors in elevators. Plus medicine was less glamorous than television made it out to be. Of course Althea knew all this, but her coworkers did not. Most of them were affluent kids that got here through connections, not work. That didn’t mean they weren’t dedicated to their work, they just sought after the money and gratitude that filled one’s ego. They were in it for the wrong reasons. But the program only accepted four residents, due to the many years of training it took to become a neurosurgeon. Not that it really mattered, she wasn’t there to make lifelong friends. Yes it would help to have some semblance of companionship, someone to help her study, but her main focus was on her work. But her peers were quickly disappointed when they realized they would not be doing tricky surgeries or diagnosing rare diseases. The reality of the matter was, they were on seventy-two hour shifts, doing rounds of patients who were ungrateful and unwilling. Residency was hard but despite her Irish roots, she didn’t inherit her family’s bad temper. She was practical, level-headed and always the face of elegance and grace whilst dealing with difficult patients. While most doctors almost bit their heads off, Althea understood that it was frustrating, waiting for recovery and not having all the answers.

v. It wasn’t until her second year when she got her chance to shine. There was a teenager, Dalton Wu who came into the hospital with a sharp pain in his side. Althea was the resident in charge of her case, but her superior’s were convinced it was nothing; they claimed they had better things to take care of, patients that were in dire need of their attention. “Check him out, sign his papers and send him out,” were her instructions. There was really nothing they could do in his case, but once Dalton continued to describe his symptoms, it sounded vaguely familiar. After that, Althea begged her attendant to give her twelve hours to come up with a better explanation for Dalton’s pain. And because she wasn’t an obnoxious kiss ass like most of the others, he obliged. Pouring over charts, medical history and every textbook the library had to offer, Althea finally found the answer she had been looking for. It turned out the boy had a rare type of cancer that hadn’t been seen since the 19th century. If it had been caught later, he surely would be untreatable and died instantly. But because of Althea and her efforts to diagnose him correctly, he was assured proper treatment and a full recovery. After that, it was smooth sailing for the young resident. Most of her fellow interns started to take notice of the girl behind the curtain. The one that seemed to have all the answers, but never really spoke up. They sat with her at lunch, helped her study and took her shifts when need be. They actually became friends, almost like a team which was something she always longed for. People around the hospital came to her with their questions and Althea felt needed again; much like her adolescent years with Aileen. Things were going good and Althea soon began to peer out of her shell. She was tired of waiting on the sidelines, watching the world go by. She was restless for the opportunities to come her way so she could grab onto them and never let go. But the young Irish Woman quickly realized that she couldn’t just wait patiently anymore; that she had to go out and go after what she wanted and that was exactly what she was going to do.

x. But her last year of residency, a five-year-old little girl by the name of Sarah Quentin – that reminded Althea a lot of her baby sister, came into the emergency room, complaining of a headache. Working with the Chief of Staff, a famed neurosurgeon who hand picked the intern, Althea studied the chart and realized the girl had a brain tumor pressing to her skull. It threatened to crack through the bone and lead the girl to an early grave if they didn’t do anything. Her attendant explained that they could operate, but there were no guarantees. Althea waited, anticipating dripping in form of perspiration as she waited for the news. The surgeon in charge then asked the young doctor to come in for a consultation against his better judgment and Althea, high off the prospects of another win, let something slip. And something went wrong, to be honest, that whole night seemed like a blur to Althea; a blur of shudder inducing apprehension that could only be characterized as an anxiety attack. And she knew it was mostly her fault, no matter how many excuses the hospital made. The whole series of events ended the little girl’s life and her parents, wealthy business tycoons, threatened to sue. The doctors, the hospital, someone must pay for their loss and it was not an easy price. That was the toughest thing about the job, staring death in the face, almost like staring into the abyss. It wasn’t darkness, no darkness was vaguely tangible. One could feel their own hand moving in the darkness, but the abyss, the void was inevitable and quickly threatened to consume the girl. Engulf her until there was nothing left. As the trials went on, court hearings began dragging out and Althea saw the look of sullen gray in the parent’s eyes. The hurt and loss they felt and Althea would give anything to understand their pain. She had such intense compassion she felt for her patients, the pain surely left her hollow. But they weren’t in it for the money, they just wanted their little girl back, so they took out their hurt the only way they knew how. After a long case, the parents decided to withdraw their suit, but only because Althea went against her boss’ instructions once again. She made contact with the couple and tried to make amends and to her surprise, they understood. Their conflicting emotions would always be present, but they decided to move on with their lives instead of growing bitter by the experience. In her whole residency, she was lucky enough not to lose a patient. But this, this hurt the most. Despite the fact that she didn’t get in any legal troubles, she on was probation at work and her confidence in her own abilities soon deteriorated. After that, Althea reverted back to her recluse ways and when her studies were up, she got out of Boston. Death, when thought about long enough left everyone trembling and doctors were no different. People looked to doctors to have all the answers, a beacon of hope in a world faced with uncertainty. Althea was governed by facts, not fiction because that was the only way she knew how to explain an uncertain future. She felt safe, knowing she could fall back on figures and numbers. But these weren’t buildings, or cars, or even companies. These were people.

xi. After her residency, she could be admitted to just about any hospital she wanted to work at, but she came back to the United Kingdom. When she moved back to the U.K, she spent a long time, trying to get to know the girl inside the frame. She realized that there were two types of people, who you were and who you were meant to be. She had spent so long hiding behind her job and pretending she was actually okay with the prospect of ending up alone. But in reality, no one wanted to be alone, no matter how much they blinded themselves to societal norms. The surgeon became more confident in her stride, but it was when she was staring at the bottom of a whiskey bottle when she noticed her fatal flaw. There was a tremor in her hand, one that threatened to end her career before it even started. No, this couldn’t be, not after everything, her body could not, would not fail her. She practiced for hours, days, weeks and then months to perfect it because no one in their right mind would let the woman operate if they knew she was suffering from such a thing. It accompanied the night terrors that kept her awake at night, afraid of her own mind. Something she held in such high regard, something that was her most valuable asset, become her worst enemy. After her stint at Boston General, her mortality rate was the lowest the hospital had ever seen and she worked hard to keep it that way. As she was praised by peers and superiors alike, she started to feel a god-complex arising, people she admired heavily complimenting her steady hands, the hands God had sent to heal the world. She was fresh out of school, her education having stripped sixteen years of her life and by that time, she was thirty-four. At this age, most women were settling down with husbands, kids and a house in the suburbs. But Althea was excited at the prospects of starting her professional career. Her schooling was her baby and she raised it well. Taking the holidays off, Althea took a trip around Europe, seeing sights she dreamed off as a poor college student. The last stop was Paris, the city of love. She wasn’t expecting anything to come out of it but she saw the way most couples looked at the sorrowful girl. Almost as if they pitied her for being alone. But there, she met her. Love was never something Althea thought about, perhaps just a crossing thought whilst she watched the latest romantic comedy. But she always told herself she didn’t have time, or that no one could truly think of her in that way. Self-doubt had crept into her mind, soaking into her skin and leaving her half. She couldn’t read or study love in a textbook, therefore could not understand the workings behind it. But feelings looked good on Althea and she felt almost new, reborn. She had always been a very practical person and residency taught doctors to lead with facts, not emotions. But she was no longer a shy girl, she was a woman, full of coy meekness. This love, or what she construed as love opened her eyes to a completely different world. This world was The Arcane Ring. It had a familiar sense of belonging and Althea still classified herself as eternal optimism, that anything was possible. The Ring brought out a more, colorful side to her, one she didn’t even know existed. The group challenged her in all the right ways, pulling out a side she wished she had been all along. But love was a ruthless game and the rules were lost on her and in the end, she looked like a sore loser. She wanted the girl, longed for her lover, but it was not meant to be. The woman was forced to move on, for she knew better than she lives in the past, but she felt almost trapped. Almost as if she couldn’t move forward, nor backward. Despite the heartbreak, the woman found herself drawn to the city and all it had to offer. It was a promise that seemed too good to be true, yet she still found herself in search of a loft and a job.

PERSONALITY: “To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

(+): Ambitious, Ardent, Compassionate, Intelligent, Levelheaded, Practical, Resourceful

(-): Elusive, Obsessive, Reticent, Sullen, Timid

i. Althea is a plethora of paradoxes, like most human beings, she is flawed and shattered after years of all life throwing all it’s had to offer her. She is a woman of science, preferring facts to anything else making her very practical and levelheaded. She is very opinionated, but willing to listen and learn from others. She is also fiercely independent, but knows the value of working in a team. The doctor is not one to make reckless decisions, but she truly believes in trial and error. Without mistakes, one can not learn but she is very intolerant to the same mistake repeated. She is a cool, calm and collected on the outside, but she feels the darkness creeping in and she doesn’t know how much longer she can go without letting it seep through the cracks.

Extra: N/A

Anything Else: *DISCLAIMER that I am terrible at writing biographies so I apologize in advance if this like the worst thing you’ve ever read. I probably rewrote this at least ten times and this is what I came up with, what a hack. ( I WROTE TOO MUCH I’M SORRY??? )

#accepted

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