#or maybe a forest fire where you have to go scorched earth and destroy it all to be reborn anew

[caestusvulpes]

playing with hikari's color palette will never not be fun for me personally. I dig pretty deep into her color associations. She surrounds herself in colors that are bright and soft. Pastel oranges, purples, and occasionally greens. Shades like tangerine, lavender, seafoam/mint. Secondary colors are usually associated with villains opposite of the heroes which are mainly primaries like yellows, reds, and blues. This dichotomy ( soft but bright / secondary villain coded colors ) is just another facet into how her character Just Kinda Works. Foot in two worlds you say? Do go on.

[essays-for-breakfast]

Final Push

Melizabethweek Day 4: Broken (no salvation here)

This piece includes not so subtle mentions of blood and death. This is your warning to turn somewhere else.

The dice had been rolled, fate decided, and all Meliodas had hoped for had revealed its true nature: an elusive hope. Intangible. Never real in the first place. The hope of a younger, more naïve man who had believed that two people could turn the tides of war. Could end the reign of the Demon King.

Now little more than smoke and ruins remained.

Blazing fires still smoldered in heaps across the forest. The acerbic stench of ashen plant life bit into Meliodas’ nose, a taste that would haunt his nightmares in the centuries to come. The herald of the end.

The alliance had failed. Stigma, this brittle bond between Goddesses, Fairies, and Giants, was no more. Drole and Gloxinia had joined the enemy, Mael’s blood stained the earth of some far away battlefield, and the Ten Commandments had sown gory vengeance for the Demons Ludociel had executed. The casualties surpassed the hundreds. More if one counted the Stigma members killed by Rou and the human traitors.

Meliodas had arrived too late. Severed limps and shredded wings, some feathered, the others transparent like dragonflies – those were the fruits of their efforts. The grandiose Stigma alliance wiped out by a handful of humans.

The moans of the survivors had followed Meliodas into his dreams for the past restless nights. When he closed his eyes, the sickly-sweet iron taste in the air around Stigma’s destroyed headquarter resurfaced until it suffocated all other thoughts under a thick blanket.

Elizabeth squeezed his hand. But the encouragement she wanted to transmit never reached the blue of her eyes. The tears from yesterday and the day before had dried up, but the well of sorrow still held another wave. Once realization would hit her, truly sink its teeth into her, her walls of composure would topple. Meliodas had given up the construction of walls like these. They had little point to them with how little time was left.

Beyond the forest’s borders, beyond the tapestry of light and shadow cast in deep green hues, the plains of northern Britannia stretched to the horizon. The slender grass blades danced in a wind filled with blissful ignorance of the fires yet to come. War would soon consume the peaceful scenery, its bloodstained fingers stretched towards these hills already. Towers of clouds, dark from the smoke rising into the air, filled the sky, and the sun remained hidden behind the tall walls.

Meliodas stole one final look over his shoulders. From here, the leaves of the Fairy King’s Forest looked almost untouched. Only a tiny layer of ash covered the green here and there. If he had cared to listen when there had still been someone to listen to, Meliodas could have associated names to the individual trees, to the shape of their leaves or the contours of their bark. But he had paid the trees no mind. And as he did now, blankness filled his mind instead of their names.

Gloxinia had shared his passion for the tiniest plants so often. Yet it seemed Meliodas was forgetting already.

From the shadows of the last outer tree, two Fairies and a Giant followed Meliodas and Elizabeth with their eyes as they departed. The last embers of Stigma. They bared the expression of the hopeless. Their loss and their injuries had stolen the energy from their posture, and the younger Fairy stared at Meliodas as though these eyes alone could pull him back.

And for a moment, Meliodas hesitated. He imagined to turn around and hide in the forest and pretend the world was intact, pretend the hammer blow of war hadn’t struck already.

But the moment of weakness passed when he remembered Elizabeth’s hand in his own. They had agreed to fight their parents and win the war. Even if one of them died. Holding onto this promise was the only directive Meliodas had left to follow.

He fastened the grip around his sword and called forth his wings. The obsidian manifestations of his Demon magic swallowed what little light had been left. With a last look of confirmation at Elizabeth, Meliodas kicked from the ground and pivoted into the high heavens above. Hand in hand, Meliodas and Elizabeth rushed towards the cloud fortress where the last battle would take place.

Thunder growled. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Heaven and hell collided and combined their forces into an unstoppable maelstrom in which the only escape routes read victory and death. 

The Demon King and the Supreme Deity awaited the return of their children. Awaited their surrender.

Or one last stand born from the desperation of defeat.

Meliodas had made his decision long ago. And judging from the bright light of the Goddess triskelion in her eyes, so had Elizabeth.

Even if one of them died.

They were about to find out how far this vow alone would take them.

 Light and darkness rained upon the sky island. Each blow shook the stone, the cracks grew, and more and more boulders broke from the very ground Meliodas was standing on. Or, rather than standing, he was barely holding on.

With one hand clawed around the bloody hilt of his sword, Meliodas glared at the towering shape of his father through the fog of near-death. The Demon King had waved aside any and all of Meliodas’ attacks like humans did with flies, unworthy of his effort. A mere turn of the massive hand sent a black tidal wave towards Elizabeth.

The white orb of her Arc looked laughably brittle by comparison.

She deflected just as a volley of divine light spears bolted towards Meliodas. One of them pierced his leg. He lost sight of Elizabeth.

Blood clogged his throat, roared in his ears, and rushed through his seven hearts; each of them struggled to keep going and defy the power of gods.

To no effect.

White feathers drifted into his shrinking field of view; Elizabeth had taken a brutal hit. She trembled, barely stood upright, and crimson discolored her hair. But the resolve in her eyes burned on.

They had sworn to fight. For the friends they had lost and those who still struggled against the flames of the Holy War. For Merlin, for Gowther, for Dahlia and Gerheade, for Jenna and Zaneri, and everyone else on the forsaken ground of Britannia below, for them they would fight and maybe even win.

Even if one of them died.

Meliodas stumbled to Elizabeth’s side and they joined hands. Despite the thunderstorm around them, she sent him an encouraging smile. He would go to any lengths for this smile. And although he stood on death’s door, his own mortality seemed like a matter of secondary concern, little more than the life of a butterfly on some nameless hill.

If he faced the end, at least it would be with her.

He squeezed her hand, and she returned the favor. How very selfish of them to drag the other into this hell.

“Do you regret it?” Meliodas asked between haggard breaths.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Not one bit. All this gave me the chance to meet you.”

“I love you.”

“And for this sin you both shall pay. For all eternity,” the combined voices of the Demon King and the Supreme Deity roared, a sound like organs and bronze bells in a twisted heavenly orchestra.

Another tremor rocked the floating island and pebbles flew high into the tortured sky. To the right, a miasma of darkness swirled around the Demon King’s claw. To the left, a blinding light escaped the Supreme Deity’s fingertips.

After all the slaughter, heaven and hell had united for a shared goal. The irony could almost make Meliodas laugh.

The air crackled with energy, and the heat from the magic forces at display scorched the skin of Meliodas’ bruised forearms. But he stood his ground, side by side with Elizabeth. And if his final moment was with her, could he really call himself misfortunate?

The last thing he felt before the combined forces of their parents struck them down was the softness of Elizabeth’s slender hand in his.

He would later wish to have died that day.

[thetrailofyourbloodinthesnow]

anon requested: Rama Setu as a Symbol of Love

(tagging some mutals that might like this: @incurablescribbler @1nsaankahanhai-bkr @soniaoutloud @panchali @chaanv) (Also in AO3)

Rama had never seen the sea before. He'd grown in faraway Ayodhya, in the kingdom of Kosala, that had no exit to the sea. Later, during their exile, he'd crossed plains, mountains, and jungles, but the largest bodies of water he'd come across had been rivers. As they started making their way southwards, Lakshman had once asked how much farther south were they planning to go. The terms of their exile hadn't been clear in that regard. "As far as we can," Rama replied. "Maybe we'll reach the end of Bharatavarsha and find the sea," Sita added, trying to infuse a sense of adventure to a journey that none of them had wanted. Rama smiled at her fondly, "Maybe."

Back then the prospect seemed nice – to take a walk on a golden beach, leaving footprints in the sand and watching the gentle ebb and flow of the tides – but as with everything else, there was no joy in it without Sita.

The sight of the sea, in all its unimaginable vastness, only filled him with a terrible sense of helplessness. The vanaras, who had also never seen it, trembled in fear and despair when they reached the shore. "We've reached the edge of the world!" they cried. Rama knew from his lessons at Rishi Vasishtha’s gurukula that such thing was ridiculous, the world didn't have an edge. But it could may as well had been true. It seemed they had reached the end of their search, without having found Lanka, and Sita.

Then, an old vulture called Sampati heard them mention his brother - the valiant Jatayu who'd been mortally wounded trying to save Sita, but lived long enough to point the direction she'd been taken - and offered to help. His atrophied wings couldn't lift him up anymore, but with his sharp eyesight, he looked beyond the horizon and at the distance he saw an island, and in that island, a golden city: Lanka. "If I still could, I would go there myself and find her for you," he told Rama. "But as you see, I cannot fly." And neither can bears or monkeys, Rama thought dejected.

He'd been wrong, though. As it turned out, there was one monkey that could. A monkey that could do the impossible, but couldn't remember his greatness until it was needed the most. When everything seemed lost, Hanuman did a miracle. He increased his size, becoming bigger and bigger until he towered like a mountain, his head scraping the clouds. Then, with a great leap that shook the earth, he rose to the sky, casting his large shadow over the entire beach bellow, and flew off towards Lanka, carrying all of Rama's hopes with him.

~•~•~•~•~

A full day passed without Hanuman returning, and Rama was growing more and more anxious. All his life he'd believed himself to be a very patient man, but this ordeal was greatly testing his limits. He sat by the shore, staring into the distant line where the ocean met the sky. He longed for Sampati's vision, to see beyond that limit, and know what had come of his vanara friend.

More than ever, his thoughts kept returning to his wife. He hadn't known - he'd thought he did, but truly he hadn't - just how much he loved her. How much better her presence made his whole existence. In the hardest of times, she'd given him a reason to laugh, to hope, to dream. She turned an exile that should have been the worst years of his life, into some of the best. And now she was gone, and he felt so utterly lost and lonely. And guilty as well, for having failed to protect her, for having brought her with him in the first place. Although he knew that he couldn’t have stopped her from following him.

Not that he hadn't tried, but she was a stubborn one. She rebuked every argument, rejected all reasoning, and stayed firm in her conviction that her place was at his side, no matter where he was. She promised she would take care of herself, not burdening him at all. And when he still argued against it, she reached the heart of the matter: “Is it that you don't want me at your side?”

No. It was exactly the opposite. He desperately wanted her at his side. The harshness and danger of the forest life didn't strike him as bad as the loneliness of it. But that wasn't a good enough reason to drag her along, like a child dragging along his favorite blanket to give him comfort. She wasn't his property, she was his responsibility. At least he knew Lakshman could defend himself, but he didn't know if he could ensure her safety out there.

"What if you get hurt? What if you get lost?" He insisted. "I'm not so delicate. Don't expect me to trip with every pebble on the way. And if I got lost, then I would find my way back to you." She locked eyes with him. "I would go through hell to find you." At that, knew nothing would stop her from follow him, because she wasn't just doing it out of duty. He realized then the deep of her love for him.

Did she know the deep of his love for her? Hard to say, since he wasn't one the show it. He was always keenly aware of their station in life, even in the forest. They were the rightful king and queen of Ayodhya, and he considered the overemotional display of romantic affection to be below their dignity. And in any case, it wasn't in his nature. He'll rather show his love through respect, through service, through protection (although he'd failed miserably at the latter).

But when he lost her, something broke inside of him, shattering his composure. He'd wept and despaired, wandering the forest crying out for his beloved like any forlorn lover. In an ironic reversal of roles, Lakshman had to ask him to remain cool-headed. Falling into desperation wouldn't get him closer to Sita.

He listened to his little brother, and focused instead on the single-minded goal of getting her back – and of slaying the trice-dammed rakshasa that had kidnapped her. He'd taken all that anguish and buried it deep within himself, but with every day that passed without her, it threatened with bursting out. He could feel it eating at his gut now, as he looked at the distant line where the ocean met the sky and waited for a sight of his vanara friend.

And sooner rather than later, he got it. First, it was a tiny spot in the sky that grew larger and larger as it approached, until he could clearly see Hanuman returning.

~•~•~•~•~

Hanuman didn't disappoint him. He'd found his wife and even managed to speak with her. And he brought her hairpin and a story known only to the couple as proof of the meeting. But all the proof Rama needed was the reverence and admiration with which he spoke of her. Nobody who had known his Sita could fail to admire her.

Hanuman told him of his Sita: sited in a garden of Ashoka trees, refusing to enjoy the luxury of her captor's palace, bullied by her guards and harassed by Ravana, but unyielding to any threat. Showing her fortitude while waiting to be rescued, growing sadder by the day, but never letting it show, and never losing hope that her Rama was coming for her. And he was. Now that he was certain that Sita was beyond the sea’s great expanse, nothing was going to stop him from reaching her.

He regretted that he didn't have anything – not even words – to give Hanuman that would demonstrate his gratitude for what he'd done for him. So he simply embraced him, like a brother. For the vanara had become as dear to him as one.

Now it came the matter of how their army would cross the sea to Lanka. Rama sat in council with Lakshman, Sugriva, Jambavan, Angad and Hanuman to discuss it. The most obvious option was to build boats, but doing so would require a lot of time and expertise that they simply didn't have. Other options were proposed – some plausible, other fantastical – but at the end Rama decided that if they couldn't find a way across the sea, then maybe the sea could make way for them. The most fantastical of options, perhaps, but he could try asking.

For several days and nights, he sat upon the beach fasting and reciting mantras, praying to Varuna, the Lord of the Oceans. But the only answer he received was the roaring of the waves. His frustration began to mount. Where before the sea seemed like an endless stretch, now he saw it as an irritating block in his path that only serve to keep him idle when he could have been battling Ravana and his army. A burning rage began to boil inside him, and at last reached the end of his patience.

He commanded Lakshman to bring him his bow and quiver, and began firing burning arrows at the sea. Those terrible ashtras caused the water to steam and boil, filling the surface with the dead carcasses of aquatic creatures. He placed one last arrow on his bow. "Varuna!" He shouted. "This arrow of mine will scorch every drop of you, until the oceans of these earth turn into barren deserts! Unless you come and face me!" He took aim, ready to shoot. "Well?!"

The sea swelled and swirled, spiralling inwards into a whirlwind, and from its midst he appeared. Lord Varuna rose from the waters with a great makara as his vahana; his skin was of a bright cerulean hue, his ornaments were made of seaweeds and pearls and seashells, and in his hands, he carried a noose and a fishing net.

"Lord Ramachandra," his voice boomed over the clashing of the waves. "Don't act rashly. From the ocean comes the salt, the fish, and the rain. If you destroy it, the whole of creation will suffer. "

Rama kept his arrow pointed at the ocean. "If you part the sea for my army to cross, then I'll have no reason to destroy it."

"The fire's nature is to burn, the wind's nature is to blow, and the nature of the ocean is to be deep and expansive and impassable. I cannot change my nature for you." Lord Varuna sounded apologetic enough to compel Rama to lower his bow with a sigh. "There is another way, however. Amidst your army, there is a vanara named Nala, rocks thrown by him into the ocean cannot sink. Have him built a bridge over me and I will hold it afloat. May victory be yours." And with that he disappeared back into the waters.

Rama called on Nala to prove Lord Varuna's words. The monkey picked up a stone and hurled it into the sea, and sure enough it floated. Small ones and big ones, every stone he touched before being thrown stayed on the surface of the water. But another problem soon became clear: although the stones didn't sink, they drifted away from each other. The army began racking their brains for a solution, when Hanuman got an idea.

He carved the name 'Rama' into one stone and handed it over to Nala. The stone stayed put, unmoved by the tide. Another stone with Rama's name was thrown into the water and it stuck to the other like a magnet to metal. Rama was impressed. "How did you know it would work?" he asked Hanuman. "Because your name has become my mantra. It was by chanting your name that I could fly over to Lanka, and overcome every hardship I founded there. It's your name that gives me peace, comfort, and clarity whenever I need it." Rama didn't know what to respond.

So it began the construction of the bridge. The bears and monkeys divided themselves into groups with different jobs assigned to them. Some scoured for stones and boulders from the nearby mountains, others carved Rama's name into them, and others passed those stones in a long chain to Nala, who hurled them into the sea. Jambavan and Sugriva organized the groups, Sampati - perched on a great rock - supervised the works, and Hanuman flew all over, doing the job of a hundred workers all by himself.

Now that they had a clear goal to work for, the troops were full of high spirits, and the sound of happy chatter was almost as loud as the ruckus of the construction. Rama saw Lakshman laugh for the first time in months as he competed with some of the bigger vanaras to see who could lift the bigger rock.

And Rama saw them work amazed by the fact that while he was doing it all for Sita, they were doing it all for him. They spoke eagerly of reaching Lanka and fighting the rakshasas to recover their Lord’s wife, and his honor. And, whenever a particularly big boulder was put in place, or whenever some difficulty in the construction was overcome, the workers would shout in unison "Jai Sri Rama."

And it wasn’t just the bears and monkeys, but also other animals who joined the efforts. Once, Rama spotted a little squirrel scurrying between the feet of the bigger workers. He would wet himself in the sea, and then roll on the sand, sticking the sand grains to his fur. Afterwards, he would run to the bridge and shake the grains off, filling the gaps between the rocks. Rama pick up the little one in his hand, and ran his fingers through his back, saying: “Thank you.”

What he had done to have these animals act so oddly against their nature, and to command such loyalty from them, he couldn’t say, but he felt immensely grateful anyway.

And as the days passed, their labor bore fruit. The great bridge began stretching towards to horizon, glistering in the sunlight like the Milky Way across the night sky. Rama worked strenuously along with the vanaras, knowing every stone, every boulder, every pebble, brought him a step closer to her.

“Bhaiya, look!” Lakshman pointed him to the horizon that he hadn’t glanced at for some time, so fixed was he on his labor. In the distance, faintly visible, was a stretch of land. Rama smiled. I’m coming Sita.

[one-leaf-grimoire]

“triad”

Chapter 14: the sleeping world

Shorter chapter than usual, but get ready to see the result of all that secret true time magic training!

“Jesus Christ, you’re with a WOMAN now?!” Both Augustus and Sekke look like their eyes are about to bulge out of their faces, gazes snapping back and forth from me and Adeline’s clasped hands and our faces. Augustus splutters incoherently before pointing his sceptre at me accusingly. “I knew it! I knew  you were just using Julius for the power! And now that he’s gone-”

“Your majesty-” I cut him off before he can actually start to upset me. “There’s such a thing as bisexuals, you know.”

“JFDSKL WHAT ON EARTH-”

Adeline bites her lip to suppress her words, and gives my hand a squeeze. I glance up at her, noticing that she’s starting to get a little uncomfortable. It’s fair, given that her history with Augustus is less than pleasant. I smile and squeeze back before continuing to walk past Augustus as he has his tantrum. We’ve just arrived on top of a large overlook, in the same area where the Royal Knights exam took place months and months ago. I had some of the royal mages terraform it, creating a large lake, plain, and forest. But from up here, we can see it all perfectly. What is this all for, exactly?

In order to increase morale and get some intense training in, I decided to make the Captains fight each other in a crystal destruction tournament. Not the most original idea, I must admit, but it will do its job. These last few weeks have been absolutely insane. The Devil Banishers/Believers incident was a real hassle to get through, and ended up costing us more than we thought. But it’s all over now, and it’s time to get some real work done before we send our representatives over to the Heart Kingdom.

And for me… 

Today, I’ll see if my own intense training has paid off.

“Hey, where’s Fluffy?”

Yami crosses his arms before looking around. He and the other captains are already here, milling around awkwardly. I haven’t told them their teams yet, but everyone is already shooting each other dirty looks. “Huh, that’s weird, Rill didn’t tell me he was skipping.”

“Of course that brat skipped! At his age, he’d be skipping school, too, Keh Keh!” Jack cackles, licking his lips. “I was looking forward to slicing him up…”

“Well, what if he ended up on your team?” Charlotte points out.

“... did I stutter?”

“Please, save the fighting for the battlefield,” Nozel steps in before Charlotte can retort. “You’re going to need all the energy you have.”

Fuegoleon looks very eager to go, bouncing on the balls of his feet and flexing his fiery arm across his chest. I eye his movement suspiciously, getting distracted. “How come your shirt doesn’t catch on fire too?”

He shrugs, but gives me a grin. “Maybe today will be the day I burn so hot it does char my clothes.”

I clear my throat awkwardly before turning away to look at everyone. “Anyway- if Rill is a no-show then it’ll be 4 on 4. Now…” Admittedly, this changes my plans a little, but no matter. “Team one will be Yami, Jack, Nozel, and Kaiser.”

“WHAT? I have to be on a team with this stinkbug-” Yami immediately objects, but cuts himself off as I shoot him a glare. “Fine, whatever.” He catches Charlotte’s eye and suddenly grins. “Heh, looks like you’ll have to fight me, prickly-queen.”

“Good. I’ve been looking forward to teaching you a lesson.” Charlotte’s eyes only harden.

“Ooooh, why do I kind of like the sound of that?”

“Why-” Charlotte quickly turns pink. “You vulgar-”

“SO! Those are the teams!” I step in between them, smiling brightly despite the mounting tensions. “Marx just gave me the go-ahead for the broadcast, so I want you all to go down there-” I gesture out onto the plains. “-and await my signal!”

“Thank you.” Without another word, the eight of them split apart and jump down to their stations, gearing up for what promises to be a spectacular fight. I let out a sigh before turning to walk back to my chair, where Adeline, Augustus, and Sekke are waiting. William didn’t say a word… I don’t even remember him looking me in the eye while I was talking to the captains. Well, that’s just another thing I’ll have to do today.

“Hello?” A screen suddenly opens up next to me, and I see Marx’s face appear. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yep!” Before I sit down, I turn back to the arena. I raise my arm, two fingers pointing up, and set off a powerful blast of magic, a bolt that goes careening into the air with a loud whoosh. It’s the signal to go, and boy… do they GO! 

The battle that commences is like nothing I’ve seen before. Each of them knows they’re being watched by the entire kingdom via Marx’s communication magic, so they hold nothing back. Fire, mercury, darkness, plants, and everything in between goes flying, each of them desperately reaching for the other’s crystal while keeping theirs just out of reach. Half of the fight moves into the forest, the trees warping and billowing as William builds his own path out of his magic. Nozel and Fuegoleon only have eyes for each other, Salamander burning so hot that the lake starts to evaporate and steam up underneath it and Fuegoleon.

Their magic heats the air, sends vibrations through the earth, and towers high into the sky.

For a moment, I can’t help but feel guilty.

All three of them… would have made wonderful Wizard Kings. They are men who put their duty first, men who wouldn’t get caught up in the cycle of grief and greed like I would.

They are human men… they could care for this Kingdom far better than I could.

A soft hand squeezes my shoulder. Somehow, Adeline always knows what I’m thinking.

But… at the end of the day… the responsibility falls to me. Maybe I’m running out of time, maybe I’m compromised emotionally, but I made a promise, to Julius, to Adeline, and myself. 

I am the Wizard King… and today, I’ll show everyone why!

Right then, without warning, the entire earth rumbles. I reach up and grab Adeline’s hand with one of my own, the other grasping the arm of my chair. Augustus yowls with fear, and Sekke goes tumbling to the ground. “What on earth is that?!” Adeline gasps.

My eyes widen, and I quickly point out into the forest. “Look!” A giant slash of darkness appears, tearing through the trees. A chill shoots through the air, causing every hair on my arms to stand at end. Oh shit! That’s Yami’s Dimension Slash! A grin grows on my face as it dissipates as soon as it appeared, leaving nothing but an eerie silence in its wake.

“Um… are they okay?” Adeline asks, narrowing her eyes as she scans the area. “I can’t hear any more fighting?”

“Huh… did Yami kill everyone?”

Just as I ask the question, I spot a group of people emerge from the forest. A few minutes later, they’re back up on the platform, and drop the shards of their crystals at my feet. I arch a brow, glancing between their faces. “What happened, exactly?”

“It’s no fair!” Dorothy grumbles. “I had Yami trapped in Glamour World, but then he just cut his way out!”

“And he destroyed both crystals while he was at it.” Kaiser gives Yami the side eye.

“Hey! I think our team should win. I did destroy the enemy’s crystal, after all.” Yami looks terrible; he’s covered with bruises and his white shirt is stained with what looks like dirt. His hair is so out of place he looks like a different person.

“BUT! You destroyed your own as well,” Fuegoleon objects loudly. “That lack of care should lead to a loss for your team!”

I can’t help but laugh, drawing their attention back to me. “This sure is a weird circumstance that I didn’t see coming… but…” I smirk as I start to realize my plan. “Maybe we should do a tiebreaker instead?”

“What is she doing?” Augustus was watching from his chair, talking to no one in particular. He glanced over at Adeline for a moment, who started to look very worried.

What is she up to?

“A tiebreaker?” Yami almost laughs at the suggestion. “Do any of us look like we’re ready for a tiebreaker?!”

“For once, I agree with him,” Nozel adds. He doesn’t look as bad as Yami, but his trademark braid is barely holding together after the furious exchange he and Fuegoleon just traded. Fuegoleon’s clothes are crisped at the edges, soot and smoke clinging to every part of him. During this tournament, even his own flames scorched through whatever usually protected him.

“I know you’re all exhausted! At least, you look exhausted.” I smile cheerfully between all eight Captains. “But, like I said, ending this with a tie isn’t all that satisfying… but!” I hold up a finger, finally getting to the point. “You’ll like what I have in mind! It’s easy!”

“Oh yeah?” Despite how tired he looks, Yami manages to grin, his hand already moving to the handle of his katana. “Spit it out, then.”

I keep smiling, almost giggling at his eagerness, but when I speak, my words are deadly serious.

“All you have to do to win… is make me move from where I’m standing.”

The earth stands still for a moment as my words sink in. Yami’s lighthearted expression suddenly fades into worry. Out of everyone here, he’s the only one who knows I’m pregnant, I think, maintaining my smile. He’s probably a little hesitant about attacking me… but the others…

“So…” Fuegoleon frowns. “We just… hit you? Knock you down?”

“If you want!” I reply cheerfully. “I’m sure some of you are angry at me for one reason or another, so…” My gaze sweeps over and lands on William. His eyes widen just the tiniest bit, but for once he doesn’t look away.

“Take out your anger. Make me move, if you can.”

Each of them is tired, exhausted, beaten and bruised, but that gleam enters their eyes as I tell them to come at me. That gleam comes back into William’s eyes. Because, above all, these Captains are the best in this Kingdom… and they want nothing more than to prove themselves. For glory, and for death.

All at once, their Grimoires are out, their faces shining with determination. Spells are being cast, and eight bodies move towards me with as much speed as they can muster. A moment of frenetic fury, because the first of them to hit me will be crowned the victor.

If they can hit me. This is my time to prove myself.

With a deep breath, I close my eyes before any of them can reach me. As soon as darkness falls, I can feel it; mana pulsing from the earth, up through my legs, and out with each breath I release. 

The laws of nature… Time is at the center of them all.

I open my eyes, and the spell activates. Mana words, glowing whitish-blue, burst to life around my head in a spectacular double halo. Mana courses through my body; a body that was made for the purpose of holding mana. The body that deems me as inhuman, that houses a broken, dying soul, yet gives me the power I want more than anything.

“True Time Magic… Domain of Thanatos.”

Each rune circling my body spells out the same word: Stop.

And that’s exactly what happens. 

------

This ability is True Time Magic: Domain of Thanatos.

Thanatos… the god of peaceful, non violent death.

Julius’s Time Magic had the power to steal and give time as he wished, from any object that he could please. But he could not control TIME itself. Time as it exists in nature, a rushing river, always moving forward.

But even a river can freeze.

This magic gives me control over that river, over the speed that it flows. Although I cannot force it backwards… I can slow it down until it stops.

With this ability, I put the entire world to sleep.

With this ability… no one will ever stop me.

-------

The moment my spell activates, all eight of the captains freeze, and their attacks become suspended in midair. I let out a slow breath, allowing a smile to grow on my face. My hand stays frozen in the air for the time being, because I have to calculate every single move with the upmost precision.

See, the catch to stopping time is that it doesn’t last very long if I just start moving. Maybe two or three seconds at most. However, I managed to find a condition where I can stretch the length of time within Domain of Thanatos; I allow time to start to flow with my movements, so slow and smooth, but just fast enough that I can do what I want.

So… easy now…

One finger. Then the next. And another. Until I’m no longer reaching out; I’m pointing. My first target is Yami.

Sorry… this’ll only hurt for a second.

With each finger, he only twitches slightly, moving forward a mere millimeter. 

Flame magic: Solar Bolt.

My attack shoots through him, as fast as outside of this spell.

And now… the others… 

I move in a half circle, one by one, casting my bolt and watching them fail to react to being hit. It’s surreal, being here all alone in some weird little world. But I remind myself that this solitude is because I am in control. 

Finally, William is hit, the last of my eight targets. I let out a shaky breath, my smile widening. So… now I just have to worry about their spells. Each of them have only moved a few inches, but are now getting dangerously close. With each Solar Bolt I fired, they clipped closer, sped up in time with my spell. I can feel my control weakening, and something that smells like blood is starting to bubble up in my nose. Despite that, I stay calm, letting Blazing Spear materialize in my hand. 

And…

I take one last breath of air within Domain of Thanatos. 

Release.

My arm swings through the air, bringing the spear along with it, and I slash through the spells, my trajectory carefully calculated due to the observations I made earlier. I have to duck once though, avoiding Yami and Dorothy’s spells. I look up just in time to see the eight of them stumble back and fall, stunned by the instant attack that came from seemingly nowhere. 

“Look at that… I’m still standing.”

Yami groans and rolls back up into a sitting position, a curious glint in his tired eyes. “What the Hell was that?”

“I’m wondering the same thing.” Nozel winces, clutching the spot where my bolt hit him. “How fast did you just move?”

I let out a little laugh, a twinkle in my eye. “Actually, I moved very slow… I made everything move very slow.” 

Most of them have sat up by now, all of them still shocked and disoriented, but now they’re looking at me in a new way. The look in their eyes is familiar; it’s the same way they all used to look at Julius in battle. The shock, the awe… the admiration.

Are they really looking at me?

In that moment, my pride deflates. Despite the fact that now, maybe, they can see me as more than just Julius’s replacement, I feel so… humbled. These eight amazing people accept me.

Even William, the one I manipulated and betrayed, sits there with a smile on his face. An easy, happy smile that I remember from our days together long ago.

Finally, I clear my throat.

“That… that was true time magic.” I take a step towards them as I explain. “I developed it by applying the Heart Kingdom’s methods to my Time magic. There’s still a lot to explore, but one thing is certain.”

I come to a stop in front of William, then hold out my hand.

Please William… forgive me.

“We can all get stronger… think carefully about who you send to the Heart Kingdom.”

William’s smile fades, but the expression on his face is one of understanding.

Of course I forgive you. You’re my friend.

“This magic is our hope.”

He takes my hand, and I pull him to his feet.

NEXT TIME!!!! Chapter 15: the devil comes knocking. A short time skip into the future, and shit is about to go DOWN.

[teacupfulofstarshine]

the crossroad of our destinies book one: earth

summary: virgil isn't sure how he got roped into this crazy adventure. somehow, he's traveling around with the avatar, his blind earth bending younger brother, a chipper air bender, and a banished fire bender prince, and they're supposed to save the world? virgil can't even tell them he's a water bender. he's not cut out to save anyone. little did he know, they're cut out to save each other - and maybe the whole world in the process. 

(OR: an avatar the last airbender!au, centering around a water bender virgil)

a/n: i . . . wrote the entire first chapter in one day . . . how i still do not know . . . the confusion is real. huge, huge, HUGE amounts of thanks goes to @lovelylogans for cheerleading me through this and also beta reading the first chapter. this wouldn't exist without her, and i love her, and i am so eternally grateful 

CW: atla-typical fantasy violence, brief nonspecific allusions to child abuse, angst, background death of minor unnamed OCs, family angst, mentions of burns

wordcount: 5882

read it on ao3! 

“This is gonna be so interesting!” Patton says, draping himself on his belly over the ball of air beneath him. “I’ve never seen real earth bending before!”

“That would imply that there’s such a thing as fake earth bending, which there decidedly is not,” Logan says, adjusting his shirt with a huff. Virgil glances up from where he’s sharpening his knife next to the fire, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’ve done all kinds of reading about earth bending!” Patton says, seemingly oblivious to Logan’s indignation. “There are scrolls about it all over the Air Nation temples, but I’ve obviously never seen one! Earth benders went extinct so long ago that -”

“What?” Thomas says, lifting his head to stare up at Patton. 

“The Fire Nation desecration reaches beyond our home?” Logan asks, one hand curling into a fist at his side. “They have burned more villages to the ground than ours?” 

Roman pokes at the campfire with a stick, keeping his eyes cast to the ground. “The Fire Nation is trying to wipe out all other benders. They don’t want anyone left but us. Why do you think I ran away from home? My father told me that the other nations attacked us first, but . . .” 

“Falsehood,” Logan snaps. The earth begins to shake beneath him. “We would never do something so horrendous! The Earth Kingdom is a peaceful settlement, we - we would never -”

“Calm down, Rocky, I’m not accusing you,” Roman says. The campfire flares up, and Virgil’s eyes flicker to the waterskin at his side. His hands won’t move fast enough if Roman’s temper causes him to lose control. Something else might, but he refuses. “I’m just saying, there’s a lot of propaganda in the Fire Nation. We’re not all heartless evil bastards. Some of us are just trying to protect our homes. I abandoned a lot when I saved you and your brother from my father’s army.”

“Oh, yes, like what?” Logan snaps. “Like a cushy life in the palace? Like your status as the next in line for overlord of us all and destroyer of my people? Like -”

“Like my twin brother,” Roman says coolly, tone betraying the way the fire surges and sinks in time with his heavy breathing. “Like my best friend, the boy I was to marry. I loved him so much, and he helped me escape, and - and my father probably killed him for his insubordination. I’ll never see him again, and whose fault is that? Mine!” 

The fire surges up in a pillar. Before anyone can react in a meaningful way, a vortex spirals to life around the flames. In a flash, all the oxygen is sucked out of the fire. It dies instantly, leaving a pile of half-charred twigs. Patton lets his bending stance drop, and the vortex falls away. 

“Everyone,” he says quietly, “needs to take some deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. Everyone here has suffered at the hands of the Fire Nation. Everyone here has lost something. It’s okay to acknowledge that pain, and hurt, but it’s not okay to blame each other or ourselves. Roman, you can’t control what your father did to you any more than Thomas and Logan can control the fact that they’re earth benders.” 

“I am an earth bender,” Logan says quietly. “Thomas is -”

“The Avatar,” Thomas says. He studies his hands in silence, and Virgil slides his knife into his boot. 

“Yeah, well, Avatar or not, you were born an earth bender,” he says. Everyone looks at him in a surprise that he mirrors internally; he’s not really one for speaking up during moments like this. There have been plenty since they all started traveling together, but Virgil typically keeps his mouth shut. 

“What?” Thomas asks. Logan turns his head towards Virgil’s voice. His unseeing eyes bore right through Virgil, as though they’re peering into his soul. 

“You were born an earth bender,” Virgil repeats. “That’s the whole damn point of the Avatar cycle, isn’t it? The Avatar spirit gets cycled through all the nations so that each Avatar gets a new and different experience to the one before. No matter what anyone says, you’re an earth bender. Just ‘cause you’re the Avatar too, that doesn’t change your birthright.”

His voice slips away from him, falling into the familiar cadence of his grandmother telling him stories as a young child. “You are an earth bender. You were born with the pull of Mother Earth in your bones. The Lion-Turtles have gifted you with an awareness of what is beneath us, always, a firm and unyielding constant in a world too fluid to appreciate it. You must hold steadfast to what is right and true, because no one else will do it for you. Air, flighty and fluid; fire, scorching and shifting; water, rapid and raging; all these will move from one form to the next as it suits their needs. You must anchor them, or no one will.” 

He blinks, snapping himself out of the strange trance he lulled himself into, and becomes aware of the other three staring at him. “What?” he snaps defensively. 

“That was . . . something,” Thomas says. “Where’d you get a story like that?”

“My grandmother,” Virgil says, pulling a knife from inside his robe. He makes sure that everyone catches the sharpness of its edge glinting under the half-full moon before he goes back to sharpening it. “She would tell me stories of the other benders all the time, how every element has its strengths and drawbacks. She told me that every element plays a role in keeping the world balanced, and that someone would have to repair what the Fire Nation was breaking without destroying the Fire Nation in the process.”

“And why not?” Logan asks - not accusing, genuinely curious. He shifts one foot a couple of inches and a rock springs from the ground next to Thomas, allowing Logan to sit down. 

“Because if we lose fire benders completely, we lose everything we worked to rebuild. We need harmony between all four elements. That includes Princey and his fire bending.” 

Roman thrusts a fist forward, and the campfire reignites itself as a small fireball bursts from his fist. “Thanks, Waterboy.” Virgil flinches a little. “What? You’re from the Southern Water Tribe, aren’t you?”

“What? Yeah. What about it?” 

Roman just shrugs and goes back to the campfire. 

*~*~*~*~*

Logan is amazing at earth bending. 

Granted, Virgil knows next to nothing about the techniques, other than the fact that they involve a lot of foot movements and heavy grounding. It seems to be the complete antithesis of Patton’s air bending and Roman’s fire bending, both of which appear to center heavily on movement. Still, it’s plain to see that Logan is something of a prodigy. He moves as though the earth he bends is an extension of his own body, controlling it with an easy, fluid grace that belies his solid stances. 

It’s hard to believe, watching him, that he’s the younger brother. It’s hard to believe that he can’t see anything. Roman comments as much, and Logan sends him flying with a blunted earth spike without so much as turning to face him. 

“Ow!” Roman shrieks. He’s unharmed, of course; Patton had swiftly leapt into the air to catch him and return him to the ground. “What was that for?” 

“I can so see,” Logan retorts. He barely comes up to Roman’s shoulder, but he’s solidly built, despite his young age. 

“I thought you were blind!” 

“I am. My eyes have never seen a day of my life. That does not mean I cannot see, you moron. I simply do not see with my eyes. I use my feet to see. The ground tells me everything I need to know. You, for example, are currently clinging to Patton like a terrified lemur, and he is hovering approximately as far above the ground as my forearm is long.” 

“How do you do that?!” Roman says, dropping from Patton’s arms to land on the ground. “Also, there’s no way that you’re strong enough to take me down.” 

“And why not?” Logan asks. “I could so take you down.” 

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil says. 

“You could not!” Roman boasts. 

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil repeats. 

“That sounds like a challenge,” Logan says, turning in Roman’s direction and tilting his head in a clear act of dismissal. “Unless you are afraid to face a young, blind earth bender, Prince Roman?”

Roman’s face changes from pride to ice in a split-second. He’ll tolerate Virgil’s “Princey” jabs, but he hates being called by his proper title. “You’re on.”

“Not here!” Thomas yelps. “We are standing in a very flammable forest, and none of us can water bend!” 

“Aren’t you the Avatar, master of all elements?” Roman says testily.

“Only in the Avatar state, at the moment, which I cannot trigger on my own! If you guys set the whole forest on fire, people will come and investigate! We can’t risk being found - I can’t risk being found!” 

The sound of his older brother’s voice seems to snap Logan out of it, at the very least. He shifts his left foot, and Virgil shivers as a small earthquake rumbles through the ground. It’s low-scale enough that anyone else who notices it will pass it off as normal seismic activity. For their little group, however, it’s much more than that; it’s Logan checking the nearby terrain. 

If that isn’t enough to terrify Roman into surrender, Virgil seriously worries about the state of his brain. 

“There is an isolated rocky plain not far from here,” Logan says. “I suggest that we have our battle there. Will tomorrow suffice?”

“Fine by me,” Roman spits, stalking away. Patton drops to the ground and begins to croon to his giant sky bison Remy, stroking his nose. Remy huffs out a breath that rustles the trees around them. Virgil is inclined to agree. 

*~*~*~*~*

“I have said it before, and I will say it again. This is a BAD idea.” 

Virgil tugs his thick jacket on over his loose tunic and pants. Logan sits next to him, controlling a small mound of earth like it’s wet clay. With every shift of his perpetually-bare feet, he changes its shape. 

“I will not be injured,” Logan says. “Roman will not intentionally injure me. He considers me an opponent beneath him, and he is too gallant to harm a child.” 

“How old are you, anyway? Not judging or anything, I’m just . . . curious.” 

Logan’s earth mound trembles. “I am . . . twelve years and six months old.” 

Virgil just blinks at him. He’d thought that Patton, newly fourteen, was the youngest member of their crew; he and Roman are both sixteen, and Thomas is seventeen. He’s assumed this whole time that Logan is around Patton’s age, maybe a few months older, despite his slight stature. “That’s . . . younger than I was expecting.” 

“Are you going to remove me from your expedition?” Logan challenges. He clenches his fist, and the earth mound shatters into dust. “I will not abandon Thomas. He is my brother, the only remnant I have of my family. Of my village, my people, my culture. He is everything to me. I will not return to an ashen husk of my home because you do not consider me mature enough for this journey.” 

“You’re the most mature person here, and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot,” Virgil says, holding up his hands in an “I-mean-no-harm” gesture. He says it because it’s true, because he believes it, but he also says it because he can see the way the earth trembles below Logan. It reminds him of the sea, in a way - calm and quiet, but constantly roiling beneath the glassy surface. 

Logan takes a deep breath, air in and out, and the earth calms to stillness on his exhale. 

“Thank you, Virgil.”

“You’re welcome. Now that the mushy shit’s out of the way - this is a terrible idea and you shouldn’t fight Roman. Not because you’re young or weak or anything like that, but because if one of you gets seriously injured, it’s not like we can waltz into the nearest village and ask for help.” 

Logan shakes his head, smiling. He looks much older than twelve and a half. 

“Trust me, Virgil. This will not be much of a fight.” 

*~*~*~*~*

“If I could talk him out of this, I would,” Thomas tells Virgil. They’re sitting on a tall mound of earth that Thomas had bended up from the plain. Patton hovers casually behind them, sitting cross-legged on a ball of air. Logan and Roman stand facing each other, arms at their sides. 

“The duel will end when one of the participants is unable to bend, or when one participant cedes to the other,” Virgil announces. He’s still not sure how he got roped into refereeing this crazy death match. Patton bends the wind so that his voice carries down to Logan and Roman, but he doesn’t have to. It’s so silent that Virgil could hear for miles. “No attacks shall be permitted which may result in death or grievous bodily harm. Are these rules understood by the participants?” 

“They are,” Roman says. They’re different than the rules to a Fire Nation duel, Virgil thinks, judging by the slight confusion that crosses Roman’s face before he settles back to cool indifference. 

“They are,” Logan says. He and Roman are an arm’s-length apart. 

“Bow!” Virgil calls. Logan and Roman each take a step backward and bow from the waist, a sign of respect between duel participants. Despite their bickering, they do respect each other. (Virgil thinks.) 

“Turn and walk! Ten or fifteen paces!” The traditional standard is ten paces, but Logan’s legs are much shorter than Roman’s, so he has to walk fifteen paces to cross the same amount of ground that Roman does in ten. They turn around and walk, and once they’ve made it the designated distance they turn back to each other. 

“Ready your bending stances!” Roman squares his shoulders and lifts his hands, curling them into fists. Logan spreads his feet apart, planting them shoulder-width apart. Virgil raises a hand up high, bringing it down sharply to connect with his palm like a knife slicing through a fresh kill. 

“Begin!” 

Roman immediately launches a huge fireball at Logan. It’s red, the lowest intensity Roman is capable of producing. Virgil laughs internally; Logan was right. Roman is holding back. Thomas makes a worried noise, but Logan is unaffected. He shifts one foot, thrusts his hands out and flicks them up, and suddenly a massive wall of earth rises in front of him. Roman’s fireball slams harmlessly into it, singing the upper layer of dust but otherwise having no effect. 

“I knew you would temper your attacks for me!” Logan shouts, dropping his wall. “If that had been your usual strength, my wall would have disintegrated!” 

“And you took that risk?!” Roman says. 

“Because I knew you would go easy on me! That is not the point of this duel, Roman! Fight me like you mean it!” Logan stamps his foot, and two massive pillars of earth rise up beside him, one on either side. Another stamp, and the pillars segment into disks. Logan begins to move, still between the pillars as he hurls the disks of earth at Roman. 

Roman dodges the first few disks easily, but Logan is relentless. For every few disks he throws, he stamps his food again, and the pillars rise up again. He draws more and more earth up from beneath him, and it’s all Roman can do to keep himself from being crushed. 

“Are you trying to kill me?!” 

“I thought you were a prince! You should be stronger than this!” 

Roman stands perfectly still, and Logan sends a disk hurtling towards him. Roman screams and throws his hands forwards, and a massive burst of golden-orange fire roars out. It engulfs the disk, pushing it backwards and melting it. Molten rock splashes to the ground, and Roman runs forward. He has twin flames clenched in his fists, like knives, and Logan grins wildly. 

“Finally!” 

The ground grows soft beneath his feet. Roman yells, thrusts a fire-knife forward like he’s going to stab Logan in the head, and Logan vanishes. He drops down, sinking below the earth, and Roman whirls around, confused. The pillars sink down into the ground, and Roman growls. 

“Get up here and fight like a man!” 

The ground rumbles beneath him, almost like Logan is laughing, and then a pillar of earth bursts up beneath Roman and sends him flying into the air. As he falls, another pillar flies up, smashing into him, and then another and another and another. Roman is knocked around like a ragdoll; he fire bends in the air, hurling jets of flame at the earth, but Logan is apparently so far underground that he is unaffected. 

Finally, he slams onto the earth, flat on his back. Logan pops up from underground, covered in a layer of dust, breathing heavily. He takes a single step towards Roman and collapses. 

“Logan!” Thomas shouts. Roman pushes himself to sit up, placing a hand along Logan’s neck. The earth bender doesn’t stir. Roman says something, but it’s inaudible. “Patton, please!” 

“On it,” Patton says, bending Roman’s words toward them. 

“He’s alive,” Roman rasps in their ears. Thomas stands, slamming his foot into the ground, and a curved chute carves itself into their observation mound. Another stamp, and a flat piece of earth appears at the mouth of the chute. Thomas leaps onto it and begins to surf down towards Roman and Logan. 

“A little help?” Virgil asks Patton dryly. Patton offers his hand, pulling Virgil up into his arms, and then they’re flying.

*~*~*~*~*

Logan sleeps for about six hours before sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. “What hit me?” he groans. “Did I lose the duel?”

“You both lost, morons,” Virgil says shortly. 

“You and I are the only ones here - no, wait, someone else is laying by the fire. Roman?” 

“Yeah. He’s sleeping off what you two did to each other. Patton and Thomas are off by the river getting water, because if I have to watch Thomas mother-hen over you two anymore I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.” He stabs angrily at the fire. “You over-exerted yourself with that crazy tunneling move.” 

“I . . . have never tried it on that large a scale before,” Logan admits, shakily sitting up. “Even now, my bending feels . . . exhausted. My vision is foggy. I - for the first time since I learned to bend, I feel truly blind.” He sounds like a scared kid, and it’s enough to evaporate what’s left of Virgil’s anger. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” he says gruffly. “No one’s dead, and you two hopefully have a better understanding of each other’s power now, right?” Logan nods, silent. “Good. Just know that if you ever scare your brother and Patton -” ( and me, he doesn’t say) “- again, I’ll drown you in the fucking river.” 

Logan cracks a smile at that, and it doesn’t fade, even when Thomas returns from the river and practically tackles him into a tearful hug.

*~*~*~*~*

Sometimes, Virgil has regrets. 

Remy coasts through the sky, Patton seated on his head with a loose grip on the reins. Logan, Thomas, and Roman all huddle together, Roman in the middle so that his warmth exudes out to encompass them like a bubble. Virgil is starfished on his back, staring up at the sky. It’s so different to the one that he’s used to seeing over the Southern Pole. 

He misses home. 

He misses the familiar sting of ice and snow against his skin. He misses the scent of seal jerky drying out next to the campfires. He misses packing down the firm snow to create walls for the igloo, misses hunting with his friends and family. 

He misses bending. 

The Fire Nation thinks that they have eradicated water benders from the Southern Pole. They believe that Virgil’s father, whom they cruelly killed on their last raid, was the final water bender. 

They think incorrectly. 

Virgil’s father sacrificed himself to save his son. The pendant Virgil wears around his neck, carved from the rib bone of an ancient and mighty Lion-Turtle, was the only thing he was allowed to keep when his father’s body was prepared for burial. His mother gave it to his father when they were married. She died bringing him into the world, and the Fire Nation made him an orphan. 

“Virgil?” Thomas asks, shifting on Roman’s chest. “Are you okay?” 

Virgil exhales, rolling over so that he’s facing his sleepy friends. “Yeah, Thomas, I’m okay. Just homesick, you know?” 

“I get that,” Thomas says. He reaches over and gently touches his sleeping brother. “At least I have Lo with me, to remind me of home. You don’t even have that. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Virgil says easily. “It’s not like I have a family to go back to, anyway.”

A sad look crosses Thomas’s face, but he doesn’t push. Virgil can’t decide if he’s grateful or disappointed. 

*~*~*~*~*

It’s amusing to watch Logan drill Thomas in earth bending. Every time Thomas messes up, Logan throws a pebble at him, and not with his earth bending, either. He will literally pick up the nearest chunk of rock and throw it at Thomas. He hits him in the arm without fail. 

Virgil snickers from where he’s darning a tear in his pants. He has a bone needle in his pack, and it doesn’t take a lot of skill to find plants that he can twist into sturdy fiber thread. He’s already got a pretty sizable ball of thread rolled up beside him. 

“You can sew?” Roman asks. 

Virgil flinches at the sudden noise, nearly pricking his finger with the needle. “Don’t scare a guy like that, Princey!” 

An upset expression crosses Roman’s face, but he brushes it off. “Still!”

“Yeah, I can sew. In the Water Tribe, you have to learn to do stuff for yourself.” Especially when the Fire Nation kills your parents, he doesn’t say. 

Roman bounces eagerly. “Do you think you could teach me to do that?”

“Why the hell do you wanna know how to sew?”

“If something rips, I have to be able to fix it myself,” Roman says firmly. “Teach me, please?” 

Virgil sighs. “I only have one needle, so you have to wait until I’m done with this actual work before I start teaching you. You will prick your fingers a lot, and you are not allowed to bitch at me for this. You brought this upon yourself.” 

Roman just grins, sharp and wild. It’s the grin of a Fire Nation child, and it should strike terror into Virgil’s heart. He’s almost more terrified by the fact that it doesn’t.

*~*~*~*~*

Virgil quietly creeps away, after ensuring that everyone else is soundly asleep. They’re fortunate enough to have camped near a river this time, despite the fact that they’re still in the middle of the woods as they travel. What their endgame is, Virgil doesn’t know. For now, they’re just traveling so that the Fire Nation doesn’t catch them off guard, complacent in one place. 

He steps into the river, and the feeling of water around his ankles is soothing. “Hello,” he breathes. 

Virgil knows that his father wasn’t a water bender. He doesn’t think his mother was a water bender, either, although it’s impossible to say. The pendant that she gave his father was carved by water bending, tiny thin streams of water manipulated skillfully along the surface until they etched grooves. It doesn’t make sense that she would have trusted its creation to someone else, but if she had no choice . . .

Despite his insecurities, being in the water always makes him feel closer to both of them. 

He slowly lifts a hand, and a stream of water coils up to meet him. It wraps around his wrist, like a vine, like a friend, coiling up towards his neck. Virgil exhales, tips backwards, and lets himself fall into the water. He moves his hands as he falls, bending the river water so that it flows around his head. The water rushes through his ears, and Virgil is at peace. 

He stares up at the full moon, pretending he can see his father’s smile staring back at him in the craters on its surface.

*~*~*~*~*

“There are spirits in this place,” Thomas says. His eyes aren’t glowing the way they do when the Avatar State overtakes him, but there is an unnatural shine to his irises. “They are here, and they are angry.”

“Why?” the village leader asks. Thomas turns his head towards the village leader’s young daughter, sees the way she cowers away from her father. Virgil doesn’t have whatever supernatural perception Thomas does, but he doesn’t need Avatar State eyes (or whatever the fuck is going on) to see the bruises that litter her arms under her tight sleeves. 

Thomas takes a step forward. The earth shakes beneath him. Logan shifts to a bending stance in a single breath, but Thomas puts a hand out to stop him. Ice-blue wisps of fog coil up around him, and Virgil takes a step backwards as a massive spirit-dragon appears in the village square. 

“They are angry,” Thomas repeats, and his voice reverberates with a power well beyond his years.  

Yeah. Virgil’s pretty angry, too.

*~*~*~*~*

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Logan comments idly, as they fly away from the village. He’s holding tightly to his brother; without the ground to, well, ground him, he tends to cling to Thomas. “With the spirits.” 

“You could sense them?”

“Not with my earth bending. They’re not solid. But I could feel them. I knew they were there, and . . . and once you spoke, I knew they were angry.” 

“No child should be hurt,” Roman says darkly. He’s slumped over the side of the saddle, watching the ground pass by below him. “No - no child. No child should be hurt.” 

Patton is silent, clutching Remy’s reins with white knuckles. He’s been silent since they left, but Virgil is too attentive to miss the tears streaming down his face. They’d saved the day, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a pit in all their stomachs.

*~*~*~*~*

When the Fire Nation soldier bursts through the bushes, everyone moves in an instant. 

Patton and Logan spring in front of Thomas immediately; Logan is in an earth bending stance and Patton has wind spiraling around his fingertips. Virgil draws a knife from his sleeves and grips it tightly. The soldier looks to be in his mid-sixties or so, with gray-white hair pulled back in a topknot and a beard flowing down his front. He has a round potbelly, but there is something sharp and militant in his eyes. 

Roman is the only one who hasn’t moved. “U - uncle?!” 

Everyone stops and stares at him. “Uncle?” Patton echoes. The Fire Nation soldier blinks at Roman, and his entire face softens. 

“My beloved nephew.” 

Roman throws himself at the strange soldier, and the soldier catches him, hugging him and holding him close. “Uncle! Uncle, you - what happened?! After I left, Remus, Dee - what happened to them?!” 

“I will explain all in time,” the soldier (Uncle?) says. “But first, perhaps you should tell your new friends that I am not a threat before they kill me?” There’s a wry smile on his lips as he looks at them all, a bedraggled group of teenagers ready to fight and kill. 

Roman just hugs the strange man tighter, and Virgil sheaths the knife when he hears Roman’s muffled sobs. Despite their constant bickering, he knows that Roman really, truly does miss his home, and now he has a small piece of it back. Virgil imagines he’d react in a similar way if a member of his family showed up right now (even though he has no one to show up). He can’t begrudge Roman this little scrap of comfort.

*~*~*~*~*

The Fire Nation soldier is revealed to be Roman’s Uncle Emile, brother of the current Fire Lord. “My brother,” Emile says, stroking his beard slightly, “can only be described as . . . a little bitch.” 

“Remus,” Roman repeats, sitting next to his Uncle and gripping his hand. “My brother, Uncle, what happened to him? What happened to Dolos?” 

“Your father was furious at them for letting you and the young earth benders escape the capital,” Emile says. “He dared not wound Prince Remus, but Dolos is only a noble’s son. He was spared no such courtesy.” 

“Is he dead?” Roman whispers. He’s shaking; Virgil wonders if he should attempt to offer some sort of comfort. 

“He is not dead,” Emile says. “Your father challenged him to an Agni Kai - a traditional fire bending duel. Dolos barely fought back. He knelt, prostrated himself, begged for forgiveness. The Fire Lord did not grant it. The left side of his face and torso are badly burned. But he will survive.” 

Roman blinks, and tears pour down his face. 

“Your father banished him, and you as well,” Emile says. “Remus has been sent on a mission to capture the Avatar - to capture you.”

“Where is Dolos?” Roman rasps. 

“Remus insisted on taking him with him. He told your father that he would leave Dolos in an outlying colony somewhere, but he remains below deck on the ship. He is healing from his wounds. He will be scarred for life, but he will still have a life.” 

“I want to see them,” Roman says. 

Emile shakes his head. “Prince Roman, no. It is a bad idea.”

“Why?” 

“If you are spotted on board the Fire Nation ship, the crew will have no choice but to take you back to the Fire Nation as a prisoner. You are a fugitive. It cannot be risked.”

“I’ll risk my own safety if I damn well please!” Patton flinches at Roman’s shout, but Emile remains calm. 

“I will not risk your safety, Nephew. Will you risk the safety of your twin? Your betrothed? Your new friends?” 

Roman’s fire-angry glare shifts to them, to Virgil, who meets his eyes coolly even despite his terror. He won’t let Roman know that he’s afraid. He knows how much Roman hates it when they look at him as though he’s a fire bender to be afraid of. Roman exhales, and the campfire flares but he remains calm. 

“I . . . I won’t. But I miss them, Uncle.”

“I know you do,” Emile says. “My status as a disgraced general has finally come in handy, for I have been assigned as your brother’s advisor on this so-called fool’s errand. I will do my best to keep him safe and out of trouble.”

Roman fidgets with his hands. “Could . . . could I write them a letter?” 

Emile hums, considering. “I suppose that could be arranged.” 

Roman scribbles down two scrolls and passes them to his uncle. “Please take care of them for me, until - until I can come back and take care of them myself.” Emile nods, kissing his forehead. 

“I am proud of you, my nephew.” 

He disappears back through the bushes he came from, and Roman stares longingly after him. “Roman?” Patton asks. “Would - do you want a hug?” Roman stands stiff, back straight, shoulders pushed back. For a moment, he doesn’t look like their friend. He looks like a soldier. 

Then he turns around, and his eyes are wide and wet, and there’s snot dribbling down one corner of his face. “ Yeeeeeeeees,” he wails. Patton smiles, opens his arms, and lets Roman come crashing into them. 

*~*~*~*~*

Before they head out the next morning, a bird flutters down to land in front of Roman. He gasps when he realizes what it is, gathering the sharp-taloned bird into his arms and crooning over it. He showers its head in kisses. Virgil is lost. 

“This is Dragon! He was my pet back home, he’s a messenger hawk!” The bird chirps, nibbles on Roman’s ear lobe, and presents him with the parchment tied to his leg. Roman snatches the scroll, unrolling it eagerly, and Virgil peers over his shoulder. 

The upper half of the scroll is a near-illegible scrawl, with a splotched signature that Virgil can barely make out as “Prince Remus” accompanying some doodles and a splatter that looks almost like blood. The lower half is in shaky but beautiful calligraphy. The opening address is “My darling flower,” and the ending signature reads “Yours forever, Dolos.” 

“My love,” Roman whispers, tracing his fingers over Dolos’s signature. “And my brother . . . I love them . . . so much.”

“You gave up a lot to be with us,” Thomas says. “I appreciate everything that you’ve sacrificed. Logan and I would be dead without you.” 

“I’m glad no one is dead,” Roman says softly, voice wavering. “I just . . .”

“You love them,” Patton says. “We understand.” 

Roman strokes the parchment. His fingers come away slightly black with ink from the upper portion that his brother scrawled, and he exhales. “I am going to write them back. I’ll send Dragon to them. I’m not losing touch with my family, not again. Not this time. Remus and Dolos aren’t going to leave my life, not this time. They’ve got just as big a bone to pick with my father as we do. They can give us usable information.” 

“Will that endanger them?” Logan asks. 

“Uncle Emile is there, too. He can help them be discreet. I’m not abandoning my old family for this one, but - but I won’t betray you to my father, either. That’s not what a prince does.” Roman squares his shoulders again, and Virgil blinks in surprise. Roman doesn’t look ridiculous, like a child-soldier, or militant, like an enemy. He looks proud and strong and regal.

He looks like a real prince.

“I support you,” Logan says, startling all of them. “You are a prince, even if you are not our prince. I trust your judgement.” Roman seems the most shocked of all of them by Logan’s bold proclamation, especially considering the heated duel they’d had just three weeks ago, but Logan’s milky grey eyes look like they’re staring into Roman’s soul. 

Virgil is familiar with that look. 

“If Lo trusts you, I trust you,” Thomas says, and he smiles widely. Patton nods, smile bright and bubbly, and Roman looks to Virgil. He offers a thumbs-up and ruffles Roman’s hair. Roman squawks and bats at him, pushing him away. Virgil laughs and falls over easily into a back-bend. 

“Once you’re sure Thomas is solid on his earth-bending, we’re going to a sacred Fire Nation site on the fringes of the empire,” Roman tells Logan. “Fire comes next in the Avatar cycle, right? After earth?” 

“I think so?” Thomas says. 

“I know so,” Logan confirms. “And I think he’s ready.”

Roman nods, and the fire blazing in his eyes is the most reassuring thing Virgil’s seen in quite a while. (It’s strange to say, considering Roman is a Fire Nation prince, but Virgil’s used to people judging him by appearances. He’s learning to reconsider his assumptions.) 

“Alright then,” Roman says. “I’ll write back to my brother, try and find out what sites might be relatively empty so that we can camp ourselves out there. Fire Nation, here we come.” 

[soul-eater-novel]

«-first // archive // Ramsus-kun Scanslations

★ Chapters 0-1 complete translation

★ Chapters 2-3 complete translation

★ Chapters 4-5 complete translation

★ Chapters 6-7 complete translation

★ Chapters 8-9 complete translation

★ Chapters 10-11 complete translation

For your reading pleasure and enjoyment, below the cut are the full rough English translations of chapters 12 and 13 of the official 1998 Suikoden I Soul Eater novel (volume 2 of 3). Individual page translations can be found in the chapter 12 and chapter 13 tags.

Chapter 12: Hope Remains

They hurried along the dwarven mountain road. After leaving the Village of the Elves, they had ridden for one full day then spent another crossing over the mountain on foot. In this way, it had taken two days total to reach the wide basin that comprised the Dwarven Village. Their party of six was now returning back along this same route after meeting with the chief elder of the dwarves.  

The burning mirror was indeed a weapon invented by the dwarves. The elder had told them that the dwarves believed the blueprints for it had been stolen from their large vault⁠—normally a source of pride⁠ for its impenetrability—but the identity of the thief or thieves was as yet unknown. 

When Valeria noted that she had heard a man named Kage had stolen the blueprints on General Kwanda’s orders, the elder was livid. “Kwanda! That insolent bastard! We won’t stand our blueprints being stolen, or shoddy knockoffs of our work!” His eyes burned with rage. “The burning mirror is a terrible weapon, immensely powerful. It cannot be destroyed by ordinary means... but our windfire cannon can be used to shatter it in an instant. We’ll get to work constructing the cannon right away to show that bastard what happens when you mess with the dwarves. It would besmirch our good name to let some sneak thief just get away with this!” 

Although they had not been able to obtain any reinforcements, they had been promised a means to destroy the mirror. So they hurried on their way without a moment’s pause to rest. 

“Young Master…” wheezed Gremio miserably. “Couldn’t we take a break? This mountain path is… just a little… too much for me…” 

“Sure, take a break!” Valeria spat, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “As long as you don’t mind being left here.” 

“I-I could live with that…” 

“Hang in there, Gremio!” Tir cheered him on kindly.  “Everyone is toughing through this together.”

“We need to get back to the elf village to evacuate everyone immediately. The dwarf chief said he could destroy the mirror, but we have no idea when the cannon will be ready.” 

“You gonna beg that old man to evacuate the elves?” asked Viktor. “He didn’t seem too keen on cooperating last time.”

“Oh, please don’t talk like that.” Kirkis replied forlornly. “He may be hardheaded, but the elder chief has done everything in his power to protect our village.”

“Ah, point taken. Sorry, Kirkis.” Viktor shut his mouth and they hiked up the mountain path in silence. 

When they finally reached the summit there was no time to enjoy the beautiful view from the mountaintop and they all hurried on. But no sooner had they begun their descent than Kirkis stopped cold. 

“What is that?” He pointed toward the wide swath of forest to the southwest. Surrounded on all sides by the forest, something gleamed atop the roof of Pannu Yakuta castle. 

“It can’t be! The burning mirror?!” shouted Valeria. “They’ve completed it already?!” Everyone tensed. 

“Hurry!” 

The six of them tore down the mountain path at full speed. But even when they reached their horses at the foot of the mountain, they would still need half a day at minimum to reach the elf village. Tir stole a glance at the burning mirror. It sparkled with even more intensity than it had just moments before. 

There’s no mistaking it—the mirror is already gathering heat from the atmosphere. 

“Damn it!” Tir swore. “Will we make it in time?!” 

Running, Viktor called, “It’s autumn, ain’t it?! So maybe it’ll take longer for it to gather heat!”

“But look!” 

Gremio pointed to the sky. The sun broke through a gap in the clouds and shone upon Pannu Yakuta castle. Receiving the light of the sun, the mirror sparkled brighter than ever. 

“Shit!” groaned Viktor. “It’s gathering heat from the sunlight?!” 

Kirkis screamed as a dazzling light shot out of the mirror. It all happened in an instant. The light hit the western forest, reached the elf village, and the center of the village exploded violently in a pillar of flame. The flames roared. Only later did the thunderous roar of the explosion and the pillar reached their ears—as they stood stock still, dumfounded. To Tir it sounded as though the very trees themselves were screaming. 

“This is crazy… it’s crazy!” Kirkis mumbled. The tragedy was so great it left the rest of them speechless, and all the while the flames spread across the forest. Black smoke billowed into the sky. 

“You musn’t give up hope, Kirkis” said Tir, gazing intently at the spreading flames. “Some elves may have escaped the fire. Let’s hurry!”

Kirkis gritted his teeth. “You’re right.”

The band of six galloped onwards, hoping against hope for the safety of the elf clan with all their hearts.

- - -

“This is horrible…” Valerie’s voice echoed hollowly among the trees reduced to scorched earth. 

They pushed their horses, and by the time they arrived at the forest, the fire had burnt itself out. No trace of the forest remained; only scorched fields stretched out around them. 

As they moved forward, the ground grew harder in spots beneath their feet—Tir guessed they were stepping on the roots of the elves’ giant tree.

Because the tree had borne the full brunt of the mirror’s onslaught, it hadn’t been so much burnt down as it had been completely obliterated. It seemed that some scorched sections of its root system were all that remained. There was no sign of a single elf—the acrid stink of charred tree and the wind whistling were all that surrounded Tir and the others. 

“If the forest looks this bad, then the elves must have all...” Gremio murmured and trailed off, dismounting. The others also dismounted but no one else said a word. Kirkis walked across the scorched earth and up to the roots of the great tree. 

“Why...” Kirkis slowly sank, his knees on the ground. His slender shoulders shook, and his weeping dyed the burnt field in shades of sorrow. “Why did this happen…?” He sobbed. “Was everything we did in vain?” 

Gremio stood by his side. “Kirkis…” 

“We did everything we could... but there’s nothing left here...

Everyone and everything I wanted to protect is gone…” 

He stood, wiped his tears, fumbled in his pockets, then took something out. Seeing the glittering object in the palm of Kirkis’ hand, Gremio started. “Oh. That’s...”

“I was planning to give this ring to her once the war was over… and now... she'll never wear it. Oh, poor Sylvina…”

It fell from Kirkis’ hands and struck the roots of the great tree.

Tink… 

The ring that should have adorned Sylvina’s pale, beautiful fingers tumbled along the charred forest floor and was lost amidst the dark ashes of the trees charred by the Empire’s attack.  

Tir gripped his staff tight in his hands. 

Even if he tries to bury his feelings beneath the ashes, Kirkis must be so angry with us for not being able to help him like he asked us to. 

Gremio picked up the ring. “Kirkis… you mustn’t throw this away.” He took Kirkis’ hand and placed the ring in it, his voice gentle. “This ring represents all your hopes. And you mustn’t ever throw hope away. As long as you have even just a little hope, you can go on living… I think elves and humans are the same in that regard, don’t you?” 

“Gremio…” Kirkis gazed at the ring now back in his hand, then looked up at him. “Yes… yes, that could be true.”

“It is. Please, as long as you draw breath, always remember what it feels like to hold hope in your heart.” 

Kirkis rubbed his eyes dry and raised his head. “W-would it be all right if we stayed here just a little longer? If any of my friends managed to escape into the forest, I want to be here for them…”

No one was going to refuse Kirkis’ request. Listening to Kirkis’ footsteps as he walked out of the burnt forest, Tir and the others surveyed the forest and the surrounding fields.

The setting sun cast an orange glow over the blackened forest. Eventually Tir and the others returned to the remains of the forest once the sun had set, and rested among the great tree’s roots. Kirkis was also tired from walking the forest, and was resting against a fallen tree in a stupor. But it seemed like no matter how long he waited, his fellow villagers were unlikely to reappear. 

“Kirikis…” Valerie began somberly. “We’ve waited here but no one’s come. That probably means there are no elves nearby. Unfortunately we don’t have time to wait for any elves who were far away enough to avoid the attack.” 

Kirkis stood. “Yeah…” 

“Please don’t lose hope, Kirkis...” Gremio urged, his voice kind as could be. Then he turned to Tir.  “Young Master, let’s return to headquarters. We can no longer decide how to proceed in this fight on our own.” 

Viktor grinned in response. “No need fer that—look!” Viktor jerked his chin up, pointing to the northwest where a group of horse riders were galloping towards them, weaving their way through the trees that were now little more than charcoal. 

“Lord Tir! Are you unharmed?!” Called the man in the white halfcoat, waving his arm. 

“Mathiu!” 

Tir leapt on his horse and raced towards the riders. Mathiu was galloping their way, with Pahn, Lepant, and Varkas following close behind. 

Mathiu looked around them, aghast. “Lord Tir, what in the world happened here?” 

“It’s a long story...” 

Tir relayed the events at the elf village, the dwarven village, and told them all about the burning mirror. 

“I see… So that’s what happened...” Mathiu looked down at the ground for a time, but then spoke to Tir in gentle tones. “You did everything you could do, Lord Tir. Thank you.”

“I really didn’t accomplish anything. It’s still uncertain whether or not we can get the kobolds to lend us their strength, and neither the elves nor us are strong enough to face the Empire on our own.” Tir hung his head.

“What happened to the elves is truly saddening.” Thundered Lepant in his robust voice. “But, Lord Tir, you have no need to worry about the size of our army!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Master Tir,” explained Pahn, “right before we left the castle, Humphrey and Sanchez arrived, leading  a bunch of soldiers.” 

“Aha! So they’re finally here!” boomed Viktor behind them. Tir turned to look and saw that everyone had lined up on their horses without him noticing. 

Viktor grinned happily. “So, how many troops did they bring?” 

“About 5,500.” Varkas answered cheerfully, looking at Tir. “They met others along their way, and now their ranks exceed 6,000.”

“Master Tir, that’s more than enough to take on Kwanda! We’ll leave ‘em in the dust!”

“Um, I’ve been wondering…” interjected Gremio. Just how did you all get through the Lost Woods? I thought it was impossible to find without a guide or someone to lead you.” 

“Quite so. We were actually entirely flummoxed, stuck on the other side of the Lost Woods…” replied Mathiu. “...until two elves who came out of the wood kindly offered to guide us.”

“Two elves?!” Kirkis exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly. “Where are those elves now?!

“I believe they are waiting in the Kobold village—” Mathiu started to say, but was cut off by a voice distantly calling from the north. 

“Heeeeeey! Kiiiirkiiis!!”

A figure came racing across the burnt fields at an unbelievable speed. He sped along faster than a horse, quicker than the wind, blue clothes and long azure hair whipping in the wind. As the elf drew closer, they could also see someone on his back, long purple hair streaming out behind them. 

“That’s Stallion—and he’s got Sylvina with him!” Kirkis turned to everyone, his eyes shining. “Stallion is the fastest elf in the land… and to think we always made fun of him for only ever using that speed to run away...!” Kirkis choked up. Tears welled in his green-blue eyes. Even though tears wet his cheeks, Kirkis laughed and spurred his horse forward into a gallop. 

When they were only a short distance away from each other on that burnt plain, Stallion let Sylvina down off his back at the same instant that Kirkis leapt off his steed. And so, the two embraced. 

“With speed like that, I can certainly see how he could escape the burning mirror…” Gremio said, his voice filled with admiration. As everyone watched, Kirkis took Sylvina’s hand and slipped something into it. Tir and the others had a good idea as to what that something might be. Everyone’s hearts were warmed at the sight.

Mathiu turned to Tir. “What next, Lord Tir?” 

For a moment, Tir couldn’t answer. But it wasn’t because he was uncertain—it was because he was so happy he could hardly speak. 

We have a glimmer of hope after all. 

He raised his face and answered. “Okay! We march on Pannu Yakuta!”

Chapter 13: The Big Battle

At Tir’s order, the Liberation Army began to move. They all drew courage from Humphrey and Sanchez joining in the fight against the Empire. The Liberation Army’s spirits rose even higher when Kirkis, Sylvina, Stallion and Valeria also volunteered to fight alongside them.

Nevertheless, the fact that Kwanda Rosman had completed the burning mirror instilled a deep unease in their hearts as battle drew nearer. Tir was especially worried that if their army made a misstep, they would meet the same fate as the elf village. 

That was when Valeria proposed her plan to Mathiu. 

“Once every three days, General Kwanda sends out a patrol to check on the status of the surrounding area. It takes five days for the patrol to circle the forest and their route is predetermined, so we could lie in wait to ambush and capture them without giving away our own position.”  

It was decided that Mathiu would send out Varkas to capture the patrol at once. The main force lay concealed in the forest that ran along the base of the mountains to the east and they set up camp in the forest near Pannu Yakuta castle. Mathiu called everyone together at the camp for a war council meeting while their main force got some rest. 

Pahn, Lepant, Gremio, Cleo, Viktor, Humphrey. These brave leaders of the Liberation Army met with Mathiu and Tir, along with Valeria and Kirkis, which made ten altogether. They had all sat down at the big table. Everyone looked around at each other. Mathiu spoke first. 

“It is imperative that we capture Pannu Yakuta, but of course the burning mirror prevents us from doing so. As we’ve seen from what befell the elf village, the mirror’s power is absolute. If they turn the mirror on us, that’s the end⁠—us and our army will be ashes in seconds flat.”

“Hrm…” rumbled Lepant thoughtfully. “How can we deal with the mirror?”

“I’ve got an idea!” Kirkis quipped cheerfully and took a stand. “I think the mirror’s weak point is how it collects heat from the atmosphere. If it’s unable to do that, then they can’t use it.”

“But, Kirkis…” This time Gremio piped up. “Since it’s autumn, it certainly is difficult to gather heat from the atmosphere, but they can still use the mirror by harnessing the power of the sun.”

“Yeah, what do we do about that?” wondered Cleo. "It would be best to do battle when the temperature is low and the sun is not shining, correct?"

Mathiu nodded. “Yes. That iss what I was thinking as well. Waiting for the weather to grow colder only gives our enemy further opportunities to go on the offensive. Let’s attack the castle tonight. What do you say, Lord Tir?”

“I think that’s a good plan.”

“Then just leave the tactical side of things to me.”

Mathiu stood and briskly assigned everyone their duties. Lepant was in charge of the advance team. Forest surrounded Pannu Yakuta castle, but it seemed there was a path to the northern side where they could move their troops through quite a wide swath of the forest. Lepant would take up position there and challenge Kwanda to do battle. Pahn and Valeria would each lead a group of soldiers and lay concealed on either side of the forest. Lepant would lose to Kwanda’s army on purpose and then retreat, luring Kwanda and his forces out into the forest, where the other two parties would make their move, cutting off Kwanda’s retreat. Humphrey would act as commander of another party, playing things by ear and acting as needed as the plan unfolded.

“I see. What a splendid plan. Just as I’d expect of our tactician!” Lepant cried in apparent satisfaction, but Kirkis hadn’t been assigned a role, and his expression grew stormy.

“Lord Mathiu, what shall I do? I want to help out, too.”

Mathiu did not sugarcoat his answer. “Kirkis. I’m grateful you feel that way, but I am afraid I cannot use you in this battle.”

“Why not?!” shouted Kirkis. 

Tir didn’t understand the reasoning behind Mathiu’s words, either. 

Of course Kirkis would want to fight against Kwanda Rosman, the man who destroyed his entire clan…

“Is there some reason we can’t use Kirkus in this battle?” Tir asked, bewildered.

“Yes, just one…” Mathiu placed both of his hands upon the table and stared at Tir. “Lord Tir, before you departed the castle you and I spoke about Kwanda Rosman. We both agreed that he is not a man inclined to senseless slaughter...”

“What?!” cried Kirkis, his voice filled with grief. "How can you say that?! He just used the burning mirror to destroy my entire village!”

“I am well aware,” said Mathiu, now holding Kirkis’ gaze. “I understand your feelings. Painfully so. But, Kirkis, grudges have no place in this battle. We intend to capture General Kwanda without killing him to find out what drove him to this atrocious act, whether it was by order of the Emperor, or by his own design. We must first establish that before taking any further action.”   

They all fell silent, then, admiring Mathiu’s ability to believe in the humanity of others, even enemies.

“I understand, Mathiu...” Kirkis said quietly. “I despise Kwanda. Words are not enough to describe how much I hate him. But I am a member of the Liberation Army now. If you say we are to capture him alive, then I will abide by that.”

Mathiu smiled, bowing his head. “Those are the words I’ve been waiting to hear. Now that that’s out of the way, I will assign five hundred archers to you. Please hide in the forest with Lady Valeria, and let loose volleys of arrows immediately after we have cut off Kwanda’s army’s line of retreat.”

“Yes, sir!” Replied Kirkis, his spirits back at full force.

Now that all the roles were divided up, the war council was over. Mathiu dictated that Cleo and Gremio’s units would cover their bases by protecting the rear and that Viktor’s unit would stay with Mathiu on standby.  

The camp burst into activity. The soldiers were pumped up for the oncoming battle. This was Tir’s first campaign and electric energy coursed through his veins.

Night fell at long last, a pervasive chill invading the forest. 

To avoid detection by the Kwanda army, they lit no fires in the camp. Under the cover of night, the troop of foot soldiers led by Pahn left the camp first. Then went Valeria's calvary unit and Kirkis’ archers. Once the night had worn on, Humphrey’s raiding party and Lepant, leading the main body of soldiers, also left the camp.

- - -

“Show your face, Imperial General Kwanda Rosman! You will pay for your crimes!" roared Lepant. He had gathered his troops at the front gates. If the impressive formation advancing out into the field with blazing torches was any indication, Kwanda Rosman was also preparing for battle.

Braziers burned here and there and on the other side of the sturdy, high stone walls of the castle, the whinnies of horses could be heard.

“You hear us, Kwanda?! Or are you pissing yourself in your bed, scared shitless ‘cuz we’re out here?!” Shouted Lepant again, earning laughter from the soldiers. 

Perhaps no longer able to endure these insults, Kwanda appeared above the gate of the multi-storied castle. “Just who do you think you are? Are you aware this castle you’re causing a ruckus at is under the protection of one of the five imperial generals, Iron Wall Kwanda?!”

In line with his nickname, Kwanda’s entire body was covered in sturdy armor. Even his head was protected by a helmet, only allowing a portion of his face to show. He wore the title of imperial general without shame. The brazier fires glinted off his silver armor, turning it red. 

Lepant, however, continued unleashing his torrent of abuse upon the unflinching Kwanda. Mathiu’s strategy was to turn Kwanda’s quick temper against him and, of course, lure him out of the castle.

“Here he is at last! The cruel demon who exterminated the elf tribe! I am Lepant of Kouan, now leader of the Liberation Army vanguard! The autumn breeze carried the ghosts of the elves to our doorstep, where they whispered in our ears their desire for revenge. Resign yourself to death, for we bear the grudge of the elves, and we will destroy you!”

“Liberation Army? You’re nothing but rebels! Perfect. I’d been meaning to squash you like the bugs you are sometime...” Guffawed Kwanda as he descended the stairs. “Thank you for saving me the trouble of tracking you down. Prepare to face Kwanda Rosman’s wrath!” 

At that moment Lepant also brought out his unit in order to draw out Kwanda’s forces.

The castle gates opened with a grating sound. Kwanda was framed by the gates for a moment, astride his horse with his long-handled battleaxe at his side. Without waiting for his regiment, Kwanda leapt through the gates alone.

“Damned Kouan bumpkins! You’ll help me clean the rust off this axe of mine!”

“Bastard! You’ll bow before my gleaming blade Kirinji and beg the elves for forgiveness!” shouted Lepant, pushing his horse into a gallop. The two men collided with the electric force of a lightning bolt. The flames glinted from their raised blades as they dueled, the sounds of their clashing blades echoing in the night.

“Take that!”

Weaving through Kwanda’s assault, Lepant lunged with his blade, stabbing it towards Kwanda’s flank. But Kirinji was repelled, ricocheting off Kwanda’s golden armor. He wasn’t even scratched.

“Fool! This armor was hand-forged by the dwarves! Your dull blade couldn’t even hope to dent it!” Bellowed Kwanda, raising his battleaxe. Flustered, Lepant turned his blade to the side and it bit into the handle of Lepant’s axe, halting the blow.

“Guh!”

Lepant was hit by the full force of the weight of the battleaxe coupled with Kwanda’s physical strength. He managed to somehow stop the blade of the axe, but his horse could not bear the weight and abruptly dropped to its knees.

“Oh no, Lord Lepant!”

Perceiving he was at a disadvantage, Lepant’s unit surged forward as one at the same moment that Kwanda’s soldiers also moved to the front. The two sides clashed and erupted into chaos. The soldiers’ roars, screams, and the pounding of the horses’ hooves filled the grasslands. 

Finally, Lepant called out to his soldiers. “Retreat! We’re pulling out!”

“Running away, are you?!”

Lepant retreated from the battle on the field, fighting as he withdrew. Kuwanda’s assault had left many soldiers injured and now the only thing they could do was believe Mathiu’s plan would work.

Lepant’s unit eventually retreated down the path that ran through the forest. Kwanda’s large force followed them right in, torches blazing.

“Kwanda Rosman! You razed the Elves’ sacred forest to the ground and that is a grave crime indeed!”

Valeria’s mounted unit chose that moment to leap out of the forest to Kwanda’s right. Pahn’s foot soldiers also came rushing out of the forest to the left at the same instance.   

“General! Surrender quietly!”

They had swooped down and attacked Kwanda’s two units at the rear of his forces, but Kwanda had been chasing Lepant so eagerly that he did not seem to realize he had been ambushed. As the sounds of the commotion reached him he finally turned to his aide and demanded, “What’s going on back there?!”

“They’ve ambushed us and cut off our path of retreat!”

“Wh-what...?!”

Kwanda turned back to break through the enemy ranks. Lepant knew as soon as Kwanda turned away from him that Valeria and Pahn had launched their attacks.

“You’re caught in our trap! You’re such a short-sighted fool you can only see what’s right in front of you!”

He launched a counterattack with his entire unit. Pressed at the front and the rear, Kwanda’s movements grew limited. Adding to his misfortune, a rain of arrows fell on his forces from an unknown source. Soldiers fell in droves. Amid the chaos, Kwanda ground his teeth in anger and bellowed, “Not yet! We haven’t lost yet! Hey, you! Use the you-know-what! Three shots!”

“Yes, sir!”

His aide took some sort of tube out of his backpack and pointed it toward the sky.

Pshhew!

Three balls of fire shot out of the tube and into the black night sky, turning the sky white in their brilliance. 

Staring up at the flashes in the dark sky, Tir murmured, “What are those, Mathiu?”

He and Mathiu were leading their unit toward the tail end of Lepant’s forces.

Mathiu groaned softly. “I should have expected no less from Kwanda Rosman... He is one of the Empire’s generals, and apparently not your average foe.”

Viktor snorted, leading his horse beside Mathiu. “Ya mind breakin’ that one down for us, Mr. Tactician?”

"Those flares are a type of signal used by the Imperial Army. The number of flares determines the meaning. One flare is an order to advance, while two indicates standby."

"And three?" asked Cleo.

Glowering at the sky bathed in white, Mathiu answered. "Three is a call for reinforcements."

- - -

"Damn!” Shouted Valeria, who was intimidating Kwanda’s flank but stared in dismay as another wave of soldiers poured out of the opened castle gates. “Kwanda's still got more soldiers?!"

As she and Pahn pressed Kwanda’s rear flank, Pahn realized that one of the new enemy units was advancing on them from behind.

“Lady Valeria, will you take care of the castle soldiers? I’ll handle Kwanda!”

“Got it!”

Valeria and Pahn quickly reorganized their troops into two separate groups and both clashed with the enemy Imperial Army forces. As the ranks of ambushed soldiers fell their strength dwindled as well. However, now Pahn and Valeria’s two units were trapped between Kwanda's forces returning to the castle and his reinforcements exiting the castle, forcing them into an awkward position.

"These bastards just don’t let up!"

Soldiers appeared in front of Pahn and attacked him. It was all he could do to hold them back. It seemed only a matter of time before Valeria's unit would also be crushed by the soldiers from the castle.

- - -

"We need more arrows! Up and at ‘em, people!"

Kirkis did everything he could to rouse his archers to aid Pahn and Valeria, caught in Kwanda's pincer attack, but it was difficult to tell friend from foe in the dead of night and the fighting on the forest's pathways had descended into chaos. This was no time for an arrow to go astray. Kirkus and the archers grew impatient.

“Can’t we shoot yet?! Kwanda’s winning, isn’t he?!”

Kirkus clenched his fists even tighter.

“Hey, Elf!” a cheerful voice called from within the forest. “Don’t screw up, now!”

When Kirkis and the archers peered into the rustling bushes, a pair of gleaming eyes appeared, glinting in the dark.

“Looks like a close fight. But everything’s all right now. Us kobolds have come to back you up!” As he spoke, the kobold soldier Kuromimi materialized from the pitch-black woods.

“Kuromimi...!”

Kirkus was still reeling in surprise at Kuromimi’s sudden appearance, but Kuromimi licked his chops and laughed. “You Liberation Army guys really kept your word. The Imperial Army hasn’t shown up in the north forest this whole time!”

“S-so that’s why you’re here to help us?”

“I hate liars. But I love people who keep their promises. We got you covered!” Shouted Kuromimi, and leapt onto the meadow, his tail bristling. Behind him followed all sorts of kobolds waving their swords - burly, strong kobolds, slim, clever kobolds, and on and on.

- - -

“What the?!”

Valeria stared in amazement at the unit that came charging out of the woods. She had been born and raised in the forest, so kobolds were nothing new to her. She inferred in a flash that they were allies because they had appeared from where Kirkis was concealed.

“Reinforcements are coming, everyone!” Valeria raised her sword high. “Don’t fall behind, kobolds! Give it your all!”

Amid the bloody battle, the soldiers once again regained their fighting spirits. The kobold clan charged into the soldiers from the castle. The imperial soldiers, under attack from Valeria on one side and the kobold clan on the other, prepared to flee. At the moment Pahn’s unit began to move, having received notice of the reinforcements, another unit flanked them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting...”

It was Humphrey, accompanying the commando unit.

“You’re late, ya bastard!” cried Pahn as they shifted ranks and Humphrey’s unit switched with his, allowing injured soldiers to pull back from the battle.

Humphrey’s uninjured unit pressed Kwanda once more. Watchinging as Humphrey’s huge sword and Kwanda’s axe clashed, sending sparks flying, Pahn reorganized his unit and struck the soldiers from the castle opposite the Kobold clan’s attack.  

- - -

“Hey, tactician!” roared Viktor, turning to Mathiu, drawn sword in hand. “Ain’t it our turn yet?!” 

He had readied his unit for battle the minute Kwanda’s reinforcements had come out of the castle. A subordinate came running up to Mathiu and reported on the state of the battle. It only took a second, but to Viktor it felt like an eternity. 

At last, Mathiu shouted, “Viktor! Provide support to Pahn’s unit as Lepant’s unit falls back!”

“Whoo! Finally! Head-bashin’ time!” Viktor turned to his soldiers. “Let’s go! We’ll show ‘em just how stubborn the Liberation Army is!”

The soldiers, who were tired of waiting, all at once gave a great battle cry. Viktor’s horse broke into a gallop. The moment his unit slipped in beside Lepant’s, the screams of the Imperial soldiers noticeably ticked up a notch.

- - -

The battle between the two armies raged seemingly without end. The land was soaked with blood, the field covered with corpses, with no clear victor in sight. Mathiu had ordered an all-out offensive attack on the all-powerful Kwanda’s army.

Along with Gremio and Cleo, Tir had joined and were fighting beside Lepant’s unit. It was Tir’s first large battle and the unimaginably gruesome sights made him sick to his stomach, but he gritted his teeth and fought on.

We need to settle this fight immediately.

“Young Master! Let’s hurry and capture General Kwanda!” Shouted Gremio, swinging his axe. The sky was beginning to turn violet—dawn was not far off. When the sun rose, Kwanda would be able to use the burning mirror. Impatience burned in Tir’s breast.

Suddenly Kwanda’s unit gave cheers of joy. Kwanda was unmistakably penetrating the space they had carved out between Valeria and Humphey’s unit. At that moment the soldiers Tir and the others were fighting turned and fled.

“Don’t let him escape! Don’t let General Kwanda get away!” Tir shouted as loud as he could, but imperial soldiers blocked his way and he couldn’t give chase.

Kuromimi, Pahn, and Viktor all launched incessant attacks from the sides but the imperial army merged to form one huge unit, impossible to smash.The imperial soldiers and Kwanda made a mad dash toward the castle gate. Tir and the others flew right behind them on their steeds, but the castle gate smashed closed right in front of their noses. The enemy soldiers were amassed beyond the gates with no way for the Liberation Army to get at them. Slowly but surely the sun began to rise over the eastern mountains.

“Gh...” Tir bit down hard on his lip without being aware of it. 

We sacrificed so much in this battle, only to lose now...?

“That’s what you get for rebelling against the Empire, fools!” Kwanda suddenly called from above. He stood on the castle roof. Set up beside him was the huge, elliptical shape of the burning mirror.  

“This farce ends here! Let’s settle this once and for all!” Kwanda sneered. “I’ll give you a taste of the burning mirror’s full strength!”

The burning mirror glinted. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the mirror shone all the brighter.  

They were out of time.

“Young Master...” Gremio looked up at the mirror, mortified. “We can’t fight this. We’ve got to pull our forces back.”

“I know...” Tir gripped his staff hard, looking back at the soldiers. He kicked his horse into a gallop. “Everyone, spread out!” he yelled. “Spread out as much as you can to minimize casualties!”

Valeria and Viktor’s units as well as Pahn and Lepant’s units carrying the wounded soldiers all obeyed his orders and the soldiers scattered in all directions.

“Ooh, spreading yourselves thin to make it harder to aim, are you? But you’re too late!”

Kwanda’s scorn reached Tir’s back. Urging his horse forward, he looked over his shoulder at the burning mirror. It was already emitting a glaring light—any moment now there would be a flash and....

“Hurry! Hurry, everyone!” 

No sooner had the words left Tir’s lips than the burning mirror was enveloped in a dazzling light.

“Woah...?!”

An intense wind suddenly sprung out of nowhere ahead of Tir. With a dreadful groan, the wind whooshed over his head roaring like a wild beast and flew toward the castle. Immediately afterward came the violent sound of an explosion on the castle roof. The noise rippled out in a shockwave across the plain, setting the trees in the forest swaying. Simultaneously, from the burning mirror on the roof a pale light seeped out, closing around Tir and his comrades.

Tir looked back once more and saw the burning mirror was no longer emitting light—it was only the surface of the mirror smashed into a million pieces, leaving the roof of Pannu Yakuta castle fully exposed.

[terranoctis]

Dreams of Orpheus

The illusion you have of me is an ethereal portrait of a truth and lie, a little perfection held together in kindness. My anxieties run far deeper than you could ever imagine, but I suppose my role was the anchor of serenity for you. I was drawn the center of reason and a safe place for you. I took your perception seriously. I took the ballads you had of me to heart because I watched the glass break around us. I believed your lyrics because you did everything you could to shield me from seeing the glass shards go straight through your skin. You did everything to hold me tight as the broken windows came our way, scars covering us both in a river we followed.

So I made home a place you could always come back to. Your home was broken, so you made your home in me. Maybe it was my mistake, because homes can never be in another person. It was my mistake to believe that I could be. I thought so even hearing your voice in the middle of the night, singing me to sleep. 

I watched you burn a forest around me, believing it was love. What an all-consuming love wrenching me from any roots I had and making them your own scorched earth. I held you in my arms as you buried your heart with me. I held you even knowing that this couldn’t last and that there might be nothing left in me at the end of this story.

I watched it burn alive, ashes in a tub and so much-- 

He and I buried yellow flowers in a pothole for you--and we couldn’t move. An image of perfection and innocence marred. It took me awhile to piece myself together.

I watched you flicker away like the light in a candle whisked away. You were a sun reduced to nothing more than a small ember. It took everything in me not to follow after you into the dark. I was always aware, like Orpheus leading Eurydice out of the depths of the underworld, that I had to find the way back for both of us if we’d ever make it at all. My luck with Hades only lasted so long; I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t, or I’d damn us all, even knowing that you’d call my name so that my eyes were always on you. 

But I’d always look back, thinking that maybe there was something else I could’ve done. Your silence hurts more than your words. No matter how many times I understood that this thing called human nature drives people apart, I’d play with the fires of hell to make this right. 

All of us have our vices; all of us have our ghosts. If I’d give in, I’d fill the air around me with smoke and destroy my lungs.  All that ash in my lungs ruining my pretty voice might have made you cry. 

I run my fingers over scars you left on me and wonder when you’ll be back next. Are you still lost and alone? Is it enough to be here in the mouth of this world and yours? 

Some nights I still turn back, thinking that I might go find you after all. Most days, I never look back and look for a place to sing far beyond the depths of the world you’re in. I see someone running in an open field where it’s still spring and I know that it’s my place here. I want to run with him, with her, with whoever I find along this path next, no homes to be had but in the person I became after the fires had died and trees began to grow again. No homes to be had but in the person who could truly smile at someone else again. I’m more marred than they know, but even so, something in me is growing when they find the scars on me and still hold me close. 

There’s a kindness in the role I play for others. I repeat our story sometimes, but I’ve learned to show my scars to those that matter. I don’t love in the way where ashes fill up my lungs like with you, because I want to sing again. Some nights, the moment shatters and I cry like I’m in your arms again. My voice never seems to reach anyone then. I wake up even so, at dawn and find a daylight outside that is mine, and no one else’s.

Love isn’t about watching the world burn away for just the two of us, I tell you. I tell you as you’re dancing in the field with the nymphs. A snake finds its way to you before I can stop it. You’re lost to the depths of some place I can never find. 

You’re lost to me forever. And I am lost to you.

I could travel back through the mouth of your world and mine, but the thought of it makes my heart hurt more than you could ever know. A part of me almost does, but I don’t pick up my vice or touch the doorway to the underworld. Instead I look for soft daylight and the voice of someone new. Instead of smoke and a scorched earth and a river of souls that pushed you and me together, I trade our tale for gentle touches and laughter in an endless field of blue skies.

I find myself, as you have on your side of the universe.

[threadsketchier]

Glimpses - a time to gather stones together

My bad - I forgot to post the next chunk of this schmoop last weekend.

@kaelinaloveslomaris @littlesparklight @culturevulture73 @onwardintolight @azalea-scroggs meep

Read it at AO3 instead

Han generally wasn’t in the business of being grateful to have preposterously large and aggressive predators around, but he had to admit, if it wasn’t for the Gorax, the Ewoks wouldn’t have had an extremely handy bunch of booby traps lying in wait for Imperial troops.  Resetting those traps was an unexpected chore amongst the various other clean-up tasks the Alliance had on the forest moon, but he figured they couldn’t complain much when they’d scored victory because of them.  Once Han and the others had realized that’s what the Ewoks were up to, they’d volunteered to help them, despite the tribe’s initial insistence they could do it themselves.  It was the least the Alliance could do to repay them.

You guys ever considered moving? Han had asked Wicket through C-3PO.  Unfortunately the Gorax existed across the entire moon.  While not prolific, their sheer size and appetite meant each one had plenty of territory to claim.

Hopefully they’d all be moving on before one of those things showed up.

Luke had disappeared at some point, and after he’d been gone for a couple of hours Han decided to track him down in the direction he’d last been seen walking.  Maybe it was an intrusion, maybe it wasn’t, but he wanted to make sure he was okay.

He had to wander a long distance through the forest before the brush and trees cleared again.  As he reached the edge of the glade he heard the sounds of digging, and sure enough, he found Luke spreading and smoothing dark earth on a bare patch of ground.

“Hey, kid,” Han announced himself quietly, trying not to startle him.  Luke still turned abruptly, self-conscious for a moment before he relaxed. Breathing heavily, he wiped sweat from his brow and plunged his makeshift shovel into the dirt to keep it upright.  Han squinted at the tool – it was one of the steering vanes from a speeder bike sheared off with most of its length left intact as a handle.  Luke must have cut it free from one of the wrecked vehicles with his lightsaber.  Pretty ingenious.

“Need a hand?” Han asked, getting an inkling of what this was all about and trying to be diplomatic about it.  Leia would be proud.

Luke studied him a little dubiously, then burst out laughing and wriggled the fingers of his right hand – thankfully repaired now and no longer hidden by a glove.  “Thanks, but I’ve already got one,” he replied cheekily.  Han scowled at him, and it just made him laugh harder.

“You’re terrible, kid.”

“You walked right into that one, Han.”

Han held up a finger at him.  “Just for that, I’m never letting it go.  You’re gonna regret this day for starting this.”  Luke tilted his head back and cackled.

When his laughter began to die down Han regarded the ashy dirt pile next to them.  The blackened remnants of scorched logs had been pushed away to one side in an orderly heap.  “Is this what I think it is?”

Steadying himself with a deep breath, Luke nodded.  The two of them stared at it silently for a few minutes, and Han wondered if anything would ever grow on that patch again.

“I asked him to come with me, before he took me up to the Death Star,” Luke said softly.

Han’s gaze darted aside to him in astonishment.  “And you would’ve left with him, if he’d went along with it?”

“Of course,” Luke replied without hesitation.  “I wouldn’t have made an offer like that if I didn’t mean it.”

Something close to betrayal knotted Han’s gut, despite knowing how difficult this was for Luke.  Imagining him running away not only from the Rebellion, but from them, for the sake of Vader was galling.

The hurt and disgust had to be plain on his face, for Luke to add, “Han, he knew he didn’t deserve it.  He said it was too late for him.  He felt there was no other way out than to just ‘obey his master.’”  There was venom in Luke’s voice under those last words, and Han knew that animosity wasn’t directed at Vader.  But instead of being provoked, Luke continued in a calm, questioning tone, “How many times in your life did you turn your back on doing the right thing because you thought there was no point, that there wasn’t anything else to this life but misery and corruption?  And when you did that once, then twice, then more, the deeper you went, did you think you could ever stop?  How many others did you know who felt like that?”

Han looked him square in the eye without flinching with a knee-jerk thought of you can’t compare me to Vader, but the heat was rising in his neck and ears because he knew the point Luke was trying to make.  He’d enlisted with the Empire not out of any sense of patriotism, but to claw his way out of the slums and make a better life for himself.  He’d refused to turn a blind eye to Chewie’s abuse, but then smuggling was the only means he’d felt was viable to keep the two of them fed and surviving.  He wasn’t a trafficker, but he’d done nothing to help the poor wretches he’d seen along the way, and he didn’t turn down jobs from slavers.  Time and time again those he thought were friends stabbed him in the back and left them high and dry. Everyone had an ulterior motive, and it usually revolved around money or power, no matter how pathetically small that gain sometimes was.

The galaxy was an ugly place and it wasn’t up to him to fix that, until these two idealistic idiots careened into his path.

“What do you think drove a man like Anakin Skywalker to become Darth Vader?”

Han grimaced.  “I don’t wanna know.”

Luke’s eyes fell to the soft moss under their boots.  “I’m afraid to find out too.  But I hope I could someday, so that I can understand.  And not make the same mistakes.”

“Y’know what they say, kid, about not needing to set yourself on fire to know it burns…”

Luke pinned him with a stare that somehow managed to look offended and forgiving all at once.  “I’m pretty sure that had something to do with the reason why my father was in that suit.”

Han blinked, then marveled anew at his remarkable ability to swallow his boot whole.  Kark.  Recovering, he held out a hand toward the fresh grave.  “And you roasted him again?”  He’d already made a nerf of himself, so he might as well spit that one out too.

“His body was gone, Han,” Luke said, almost in a shy and reverent whisper.  “He became one with the Force when he died.  All that was left was his armor.  It felt…right to dispose of it this way.”  He released a slightly shuddering breath.  “The same man that was a slave and a Jedi wore this suit, so I wanted to honor what was left of him, but I wanted it destroyed too.  Because this thing was his prison.  It felt like…releasing him.”

Chagrined, Han nodded silently.  As hard as this was on Luke – to not only inherit the Empire’s butcher as a father, but to lose him almost immediately – Han thought it was far better for him.  At least he could begin to move on and not continue facing the ordeal if Vader had lived, even if he’d supposedly changed.  The emotional burden wasn’t going to disappear as easily, but the physical one was no longer present.

Luke wrapped an arm around the steering vane embedded in the ground and leaned on it.  “I just came to bury what didn’t burn up.  There was more left than I thought.  Didn’t want that lying around.”

“Not unless you wanted them added to the village décor.”

That elicited a surprising chuckle out of Luke.  “Oh boy.  No.  Definitely not.”

While he’d somewhat managed to lighten the mood, Han understood he was an interloper here; his opinions on Vader weren’t relevant or welcome in the space Luke needed for himself.  “Uh…well, I’ll, uh…I’ll head back and – ”

Luke’s head snapped up from where it had dipped in contemplation.  “Wait, it’s – ”  He gazed at the bare patch again, one last time, and sighed. Squaring his shoulders, he pulled the steering vane from the ground and turned toward Han.  “I’m done here.  I’ll go back with you.”

Han held his eyes for a moment as if asking, Are you sure?  Luke just nodded and fell in step with him, and Han stretched out a hand to the nape of his neck, gripping him in consolation.

[courtorderedcake]

Untitled, Double Dark Ones drabble

Found in my "WIP - untitled" folder.

Blame this completely on @thisonesatellite who had me searching for my illusive prompt list, or billions of things that I will never write.

No beta, so no better than my usual junk.

Rated M, for gore, multi character death, OUAT forgiveness of everything, a mention of sex, and whump. Would you like fries with that?

Tagging whump machines.

@hollyethecurious @doodlelolly0910 @sherlockianwhovian @killian-whump @artistic-writer

--------------------------🌹----------------------------

Neither of them can destroy the other, without ending their own selfish needs as well. It frustrated both of them, but both of them are happy to use each other in the less contentious moments.

So, the games of torment, of pure hatred that true love bore, carnal needs satisfied in brutal couplings just to forget the names of so many who have died in their war. To drown out the darkness, it's voice no longer the crocodile or Nimue, but their own.

His strikes have an easier grace to them, maybe because he's simply been so deep in revenge before, his teeth and claws easier to sharpen. The Darkness was an old friend made captain.

She does not take to it easily, fighting their purported nature. The Dark Swan cried when he held her Father by the neck, and begged for his life when he bled slowly to death from nightshade. The man had stabbed him. Stabbed the Dark one. Revenge was the expected outcome. A pity that her mother, the queen, had gotten in the way. Respect was difficult to earn without some bloodshed.

Even if part of him dies with David, and another as he watches Snow struggle towards her family. Snow held her husband's body, and Emma both, forgiveness on her lips for the Dark One and her daughter.

“Emma… Don't give in. Don't do it. It isn't him. Fight for your true love.”

Last words whispered to two beings that could never feel anything again. Or, that's what was easier to pretend, at least.

Killian can only watch, the Darkness bemused as Emma ran, fled to lick her wounds until their next encounter. As she steeped in revenge. It doesn't take long.

She burned the harbor, burned his sanctuary and every vessel seaside for miles, the sea a blanket of fire. The fire burned his trunk, the home of every piece of Liam and Milah he'd replaced with Emma's pretty face.

He razed The Enchanted Forest as her subjects flee in terror, and only stops when it's her boy, her son, he's almost burning to death. Her adopted son, the darkness tried to taunt, but her son and the boy Killian returned to raise. Henry's eyes barely recognize him, and Killian feels the recoil, the man who saw this boy as close to his own son surfacing in haste.

Emma doesn't show emotion in her eyes, the tilt of her shoulders, or hard won smile anymore. The surprise on her face is an arched eyebrow, a look of resigned relief, a little give in the tight lines and angles that she is as this dark queen.

“Thank you.” She whispered softly, Henry resting with a doctor. Handing him a glass, she sat by the fire with her own goblet resting on the black of her dress. The distance is purposeful, her pensive frown in it's crimson color like the red of forbidden fruit.

“If that's all his life means to you,” He swaggered towards her, throwing back his drink. “or is another form of gratitude in order?”

Their kisses are frantic and so is their fucking, peace restored for another set of years until the next wars. It's an uneasy truce and forgiveness in quarters that doesn't come without quarrel. It is something.

They watch the world move by, the same mistakes made with or without their touch.

They took no part in the attacks themselves, instead wreaking havoc and sowing mischief in small ways, changing the odds of battle and tipping the scales of fate.

They forget in the terrible lull of almost humanity that magic always comes with a price.

The war spread, closer and closer, until the sea burnt and shipwrecks littered the shoals and shores. It crawled at first then dug in its claws to sprint, blood shed like brush fire. One of Killian’s men made mad with his own strength, pulled his sword from King Henry's chest, Queen Jacinda and the princess slaughtered in the siege.

Emma did not run. She raged, burned as bright as a second sun. The war is over in a blast that is indiscriminate in its destruction, but this is not enough, and the Dark Swan is not nearly done. Killian, the Dark One, knew true pain and true fear for the first time as Emma destroyed him and put him back together again. The darkness in him echoed his own screams, and they are turned inside out, burnt, frozen, tortured in new ways that only another with darkness inside them could create.

In a sudden moment of weakness, Emma shrieked to the skies; they are unable to die, she cannot join her family, she cannot disappear, cannot escape her thoughts.

Killian understood.

Killian ran, for her sake, across the ruined world. Another chase, a hunt that kills both prey and predator. As the years pass, the few people remaining rebuild, trees grow, plants sprout from scorched earth, green returning to a world of charcoal and embers.

Killian studied the old texts, any that are left, and continued to flee from Emma's grasp. They danced around each other, ships in the night passing ever closer. There are times when the attempts were sloppy, as if she's bored, and others where he can see the fire behind glassy eyes. Her attacks were precise and her accuracy frightening. Killian licked his wounds after barely escaping more than a few times.

They both wondered what they will do if Emma does manage to capture him again.

She appeared, eyes full of that flame, and this time Killian was ready with determination of his own. Emma was brutal, speed and hatred, tears streaking across her cheeks as she lept toward him.

It doesn't matter what she does to him.

Killian managed to hit her on the neck, and her surprise echoed through the woods. They are right where he has planned, the clearing full of pink flowers that sway in the breeze, that make the blood coming from her neck look dark against their brightness. Wine on blush lips, deep crimson on soft petals.

Clutching her neck, Emma stumbled toward him, and he caught her with the same grace that they danced with all this time. The sword was thrown aside as he lays her down, carefully, holding her delicately as she looks at him with sad adoration.

“I'm sorry.” The gurgled whisper startled him, but Killian laughed gently at her, finally pushing her hair away from her face to see her eyes. There's no more anger held there, only the tiniest flicker of hope. “Killian, I -”

“Hush, love.” Stroking her cheek soothingly, Emma reached to touch his hair, tracing the lines of his face, gently skimming over his scar. When she rested her thumb on his lips his own tears started to fall. His hand gripped the pommel of the discarded sword. “It's not going to hurt you, is it?” his words are strangled, but Emma made soft noises to quiet him, gently wiping at his eyes.

“If it does, it will only be for a moment. Like ripping off a dressing.” Killian felt himself chuckle despite himself, a sob catching in his throat as he gripped the sword. “Will you…?”

An unspoken question that was understood immediately. He nodded.

“Yes. I'd follow you to the end of the world, or time.” She sighed in contentedness, almost looking as she did when they met.

“Do it.”

Killian leaned forward, letting their foreheads touch. After a moment, he kissed her softly, and pulled away. Gazing into her eyes one more time, he whispered hoarsely into the quiet glade, raising the sword above her chest.

“As you wish, my love.”

Emma was right, her pain lasted only a moment before her face stilled into what looked like a peaceful slumber. Color returned to her, as the darkness was rinsed away by the pallor of eternal rest.

Laying next to her after carefully setting up his rig, Killian interlocked his fingers in the lingering warmth of hers. He looked up at the sword, the darkness in him caged, giving a quiet protest. Looking at Emma, his Emma, before names on swords and swirling ink, he cut the rope with his hook.

The sword burned in his chest, all but forgotten by the blackness that encroached on his view of his love.

The darkness that held him for the last time was different than what dwelled inside him for so long. It was warm, fluid and gentle, guiding him towards something he could not see. Her fingers in his again, Emma pulled him into color and light. There a crowd of people waited who forgot owed apologies, in lieu of welcoming him home.

[felineevil]

The worms remember Mallory Westbrook

(Tw for general horror, death and violence. And bugs.) This was just an attempt at writing out a new oc, but i havent written properly in ages soooo aksjdjdjsjsksm

It had happened so long ago, nearly nobody knew it as more than folklore- the tragedy now nothing more than an urban myth to scare children, no mourners left to weep for what had really happened.

It had become twisted, warped over the years- we all yearn for a scarier, more brutal story, enough so that the truth becomes buried under speculation and embellishment.

First they said she'd eaten someones dog, then soon it changed to somebody's baby- every new person telling the tale adding a new, more shocking reason for the violence that had been enacted.

Nobody could blame them, they didn't know the truth to their myth, but perhaps the first to tell it had other motives for changing it- perhaps they needed to make it more palatable on their own consciousness than the truth.

Because one could forgive the terrible, terrible things that happened that night if it had been to protect the community, surely?

But of course, like most the story, it was all lies.

The story started, in it's newest incarnation, on a still summer evening in the small, peaceful village community- life as normal rolling on at it's meandering pace.

Everybody knew everybody here and gave a smile and a 'hello' as they passed on the street, going to and fro about their business.

Little Toby Gunsen was the cheeriest villager to walk the street that day, skipping passed the butchers with a gleeful wave to all inside, stopping to smell the beautiful flowers at the florists- the very image of childhood innocence.

As he skipped and pranced his way onwards nobody thought to ask him where he was going, nobody thought it'd ever be important- but as the young boy reached the villages edge, how could anyone have known that would be the last they'd ever see of him alive?

Outside the village lay a vast forest, it's oppressive darkness matched in uneasiness only by it's eerie maze-like nature- but that did not bother the boy.

Despite parent's warnings against it the village children still came to play here, darting between thick, dark trees in their innocent games- not a fear in the world.

But there was one place even the children would not venture.

In the middle of the deep woods lay a small clearing, and in that clearing sat an old, rotting cabin- it's ghostly creaks and moans heard late at night sometimes as the wind blew through it.

The witch who resided inside was talk of the village come halloween, the only day she could be seen away from her cabin- wandering the village streets, cowled in black.

She never spoke nor looked a soul in the eye, just walked in a sombre pace to the church graveyard- bundles of little wooden dolls in her arms.

Curses, for sure, the people said- or talismans to raise the dead.

Either way she was no good.

But it seemed as little Toby played and ran fate had dark plans for him and the witches path to meet, for the maze of tree's soon lead him straight into the dark clearing- where not a bird nor bug could be heard.

It was still there, as if time had stopped and the only living things present being Toby and the tall figure of the witch, standing in her doorway- beckoning him close.

That night Toby did not return home, nor the morning after- his parent's panic building as it became clear their precious son was missing.

A search party set out and soon found a scrap of his woollen jacket on the forests fence, dread setting in as all began to suspect what had befallen the poor boy.

It seemed like they trekked for days amongst the tree's, dark magics turning them about and confusing them as they called out his name- fearing the worst.

Their fears were only strengthened with the discovery of a small, wooden doll carved in the likeness of Toby.

The witch had him, that was for sure.

By next nightfall they retreated, it was too dark to carry on.

The next day the villagers returned in strength, spurred on with rage.

Flaming torches and weapons in hand they returned, marching with determination and slicing through the undergrowth that blocked their path.

By the time they reached the cabin all hope had vanished from their hearts.

It was here that they saw her, standing as still as a statue with her head craned back to stare at the sky, arms outstretched- her body clad in a soft, silken gown that flowed in the slow breeze, soaked in rich red blood.

It dripped from her long, claw-like fingernails and dropped onto the sodden earth below, the villagers stomachs turning as their gaze fell behind the foul witch.

Screams of horror rang out, Toby's parents fell to the ground in grief- for there, barely recognisable as anything more than a hanging slab of meat at the butchers, was there son.

Skinned, eviscerated, but undeniably his frail form.

The villagers wasted no time in exacting justice, they tied the witch to the nearest gnarled tree and made her watch as they burnt her cabin to the ground, cursing her name as the flames roared on.

The witch never struggled once against her tight bonds, simply watching with blank coldness as they approached- torches and knives in hand.

By the time they were finished there was barely a recognisable corpse, just a burnt, mangled body that had long stopped twitching, held up only by the scorched tree.

They buried her remains then and there, spitting on her crude grave and destroying what was left of her belongings in the smouldering bonfire that was once her house.

Toby was buried at the church yard, his family's grief would never end- the terror of their sons last day haunting their every moment.

And, on every halloween a reminder would come knocking, a cold, chilling ghost from the past- for every grave in the churchyard would be found with a little, crude wooden doll placed upon it with no explanation.

Except for Toby's.

On his grave, every year without fail, would be a pig's head- freshly butchered.

Now, while this story might chill you it must be noted that nearly nothing is true- there was no Toby Gunsen or any murder at all, but the truth would be much harder for those involved to stomach.

There was a village surrounded by a forest, and in that forest there was a cabin- but the lady who lived inside was no witch, her name was Mallory Westbrook and she was the daughter of the vicar's son.

Mallory was a sweet and gentle soul, born mute and, in the words of the vicar, 'unusual' she had been hidden away- some suspected her to be cursed, disfigured, but that was fine by the vicar.

The more they speculated the less anyone suspected the truth, that Mallory was the child born of his illicit affair with one of his flock- a truth that would ruin his standing forever.

Mallory grew up isolated and unsocialised, once old enough to leave the vicar's home and wander the village she was treated to stares and gossip- nobody had a kind word to say about the pale, frail young woman.

Children started whispering that she was a witch, a vampire even- Mallory never responded to their mockery or taunts, not once defending herself from the village's cruelness.

After the vicar's passing Mallory moved into the woods, hiding herself away from those who seemed to hate her- this seemed a solution for quite some time, Mallory left the village alone and the villagers returned the favour.

That was, until Bobby Mcgorin.

Bobby was a mean, mean man with a temper as hot as a branding iron, though usually that temper was directed towards his wife.

He drank like there was no tomorrow and thought himself king of the world, ruler,of the roost and top dog in the village's quiet community.

It had been a baking summers day when Bobby decided to cause the single greatest dark act the village had ever seen and nobody really ever knew why, there was speculation he'd tried it on with Mallory and she'd pushed him away- or that he found her tending to his wife's wounds after she'd ran away one night.

But no matter the reason, if there even was one, what Bobby did was unspeakable.

He waited for night to fall before making his way into the woods, easily following the trail up to the small cabin in no time.

He broke in, beat Mallory senseless with no resistance and, once she lay unconscious, twitching in a pool of her own blood, he torched her cabin with her inside.

The flames could be seen for miles around as the fire spread to the nearby trees, Bobby staying for some time to watch- perhaps to make sure Mallory didn't escape.

She never even screamed or struggled, simply looked at her murderer with solemn eyes- Mallory died in a violent act of injustice that night and not a single soul mourned her.

She was different, not a part of the village and uncared for by anyone in it's community- the rumours soon started that she'd deserved it somehow, that she was a witch, that she'd cursed Bobby's wife and he'd simply been breaking it.

Mallory's body was buried under the ashes of her home, with not even a headstone to mark her place- the blackened tree's the only sign of what horror had befallen her.

Bobby walked free and Mallory became just a folklore story passed down by campfires, nobody to mourn her violent passing- nobody to stand up for her spirit.

It was not the last time Bobby acted in such a gruesome manner, and the next time he would be brought to justice- the murder of his wife not flying so easily by the village community, but never were charges mentioned for poor, forgotten Mallory.

She simply lay in the ground, rotting as worms squirmed through her eye sockets and beetles devoured her flesh- her frail form now nothing but a mass of insect life, feasting on her remains.

But perhaps insects can taste violence when they strip flesh from bone, perhaps they saw the spirit of Mallory rotting in her skull- maybe the anger of injustice that should've come from the villagers instead echoed through the ground, the earth itself mourning the loss of such an innocent life.

Because, many years later, as Bobby lay in a jail cell something quite unexplained happened.

Other inmates sounded the alarm, reacting in horror to the sound of howling shrieks echoing through the night- the sound of a man screaming for help, begging to be spared.

The guards couldn't get there in time, they found him slumped in a corner in a state unlike they'd seen before- bile built in their throats as the impossible scenario sat glaringly real and present.

Bobby's dead body, limbs twisted and frozen in a horrific tangle, fear still on his face- his mouth hinged wide open, filled with dirt and squirming worms, and his stomach gutted wide open.

The contents of his stomach spilled onto the floor and the blood almost filled the space, lapping against the guards boots as they stood in terrified silence.

There was no sign of entry, but how could Bobby have done this to himself?

All the evidence there was were two, ashen footprints and an ungodly amount of insects manifesting along the cell walls.

Nobody ever really knew what happened to Bobby, the official report was chalked up to suicide and hidden away as best as possible- but people gossip, as they always do and rumours began that the witch had returned for revenge.

I would like to say they were completely wrong, after all there was never any witch, but something happened to Mallory as she lay in the ground all those years- something whispered to her, a million tiny voices from those who'd seen the death of millions, who'd feasted on the flesh of the innocent more times than they could count.

They filled her every cavity and replaced her organs with their writhing bodies, reanimating her as a godless corpse- rotted and decayed but somehow now living once more, not undead but something entirely new.

When they feasted on her brain they must've listened, remembered, absorbed more than just nutrients- for Mallory was more than just a puppet, her mind while absent physically lived on in that putrid shell in the mind of a million others, their pulsing forms replacing her soft matter.

She dug her way out of the grave she'd sat in for years, stumbled into the village and began searching for what she needed.

Her body was loose, just a mass of bugs surrounding a skeleton, she needed a shell- an exoskeleton, something to contain her so she would not spill across the ground.

A biker's leathers were what she settled on, fitted to the squirming mass of her new form it held her together perfectly- It did not matter that it was bigger than her tiny frame, for she could simply fill it with her multitudes, changing her own silhouette to match the much taller, broader one she'd acquired.

Her new second skin was beautiful, jet black and tough- hiding the decay of her body so wonderfully, she could almost forget what she was.

The helmet hid her face and she finally felt complete, the worms and centipedes stretching out to fill the cavities of the space and letting her breath- for the first time since she'd hit the ground so long ago.

It had been easy from there on to reach the prison, the worms spoke to the earth and the earth told Mallory where to go- the cockroaches in her throat hissing in anticipation as she travelled to find the man who'd desecrated and destroyed her first body.

Mallory had unfortunately needed to abandon her new skin for a moment, just long enough to commit the deed she'd been reborn for- she couldn't just wander into a prison afterall, so she squirmed out of the leather and let her body separate, becoming nothing but a writhing mass of tiny living things as they swarmed onwards, Mallory's mind spread out amongst them all.

It would be over soon, Bobby could never hurt anyone again- he'd never get out and he'd never turn his hand to another woman, no-one like her or his wife.

Mallory could be at peace.

Bobby had been asleep when it happened, a thin black worm falling onto his face waking him his nightmares- had he been dreaming of her? Had he sensed her?

His eyes snapped open and he brushed the bug off him with a tired confusion, settling back down to go back to sleep.

Squelch.

Another worm, a fatter one.

Bobby jerked awake again, shaking his head free of the slimy thing- watching it squirm across his bedclothes.

Before he could lay back down another fell upon his shoulder, then another, soon a whole cascade tumbled onto him from above- Bobby let out a shriek and stared up, his screams only growing louder and more frantic as he saw her.

There, like a smear across the ceiling, was a pulsing mass of insects with a single, fetid skull in the centre- as Bobby howled and shrieked the worms took form across the skull, moving like tendons and muscle forming as it leaned closer to him.  

Mallory smiled, maggots spilling from her form as she reached out to Bobby- the stench of dirt and death the last thing he had time to register, before nightmarish revenge was enacted.

Mallory was not a violent nor cruel person, but the insects of the ground had only ever known death and decay, they saw not a living and precious life but simply a corpse that had yet to drop- and they knew where all the softest, best flesh lay hidden inside.

The coroner's who examined Bobby's corpse said he decayed at a faster rate than they'd ever seen, his body constantly full with ravenous maggots and beetles- by the time he reached his grave there was barely anything left of him.

After the act of revenge had been fulfilled one might expect Mallory to have fallen apart, returned to a lifeless corpse now her purpose was gone- but no, Mallory wasn't ready to go.

She wanted to live, something she'd not managed to do even when she was alive.

She crawled back into her new second skin, zipped herself up and placed the helmet on, letting the many wriggling parts of her form ease into the shape she would now inhabit- Mallory was long dead, but this new body was filled with millions of tiny lives.

She was animated, conscious, free.

And so Mallory walked on into the night as something entirely new, not as a monster hell bent on murdering more, but as a lost woman now free to see the world as she never had before.

Many people have mentioned seeing an unusual biker arrive at their cafe's and shops along the roads, never taking off their helmet or talking- just buying flowers snd trinkets and disappearing off into the world, usually never to be seen twice.

Some say they spot the leather clad figure at their houses, tending to their gardens or simply wandering peacefully- it seems most sense something macabre from the mysterious visitor and leave them be, probably a wise choice.

Those worms do get hungry afterall, and one wouldn't want to see Mallory have to defend herself..

But perhaps if one day you find your senses twinged by the smell of death and dirt, or the sound of a cockroaches hiss, you will turn to see that leather clad figure standing nearby, and perhaps you'll offer her a smile and a kind hello- you won't see the worms turn and twist into a mimicked grin, nor understand the clicks and hisses as a response, but Mallory will appreciate the kindness.

And if ever you find yourself threatening by a man with dark intentions, i'm sure Mallory will remember you and you'll find that man no longer bothers you again.

You'll find your gardens soil unusually rich with nutrients and healthy worms afterwards i'm sure, perfect for whatever you wish to grow- perhaps leave a few carrots out the front of the house, she might come by to pick them up.

[pajamaplants]

Michael: 1, 3, 4, 7, 11, 12, 14, 16, 19. // Ian: 2, 16, 19. // Charley: 4, 5. // Dahlia: 10, 11. // Rosie: 1, 8. // Bia: 9 (specifically her interactions with Ian before vs. after their breakup). // This is a lot so you don't have to do long descriptions but yeah! Love you lots

sorry for the long post to everyone who isn’t anna, the only one who will know or care about any of these characters......... lol but anyway anna none of these are in the actual book 1 story, it’s all either prequel/flash backs or book 2 stuff (and also i skipped some prompts bc this is already a lot and i want your input, i craaaaave it, love you so much thank you for sending me these and kickstarting a writing mood <3)

Michael

1. Them as a child:

He’d had trouble falling asleep, and now the forest was on fire. Michael had only wanted to go back to the lake shore for a bit, and sit by the waves to settle his racing thoughts, but he’d gotten lost on his way there and wandered down a too dark trail. Narrow flashlight beam the only light a head of him, he prayed he was going the right direction back to his family’s campsite. It was dark and freezing and Michael’s eight year old limbs were getting sore, when suddenly he smelled the thick smoke of burning wood in the breeze. A campfire, he thought. Good, he must be getting close. But as Michael traveled closer a hazy fog surrounded him and the nearby trees, his flashlight beam illuminating the smoke. He saw light ahead, fire glowing through the trees, but no wait, this was much too much flame to be a campfire. Michael stopped walking and watched bright clumps of fire crackling in the underbrush. This is really bad, his tired mind registered. Nervously he tried to move down wind away from the fire, coughing as he went, but the fire grew faster than Michael could walk. He hurried through he underbrush now, chest feeling heavy and head dizzy from inhaling smoke. Suddenly Michael had run himself into a rocky cliff face, the fire sparkling dangerously at his back. What do I do? he panicked. I don’t want to die, please. Michael moved around the rocks until he saw a natural crevice traveling back into the earth. Was that a cave? Fire could burn wood, he reasoned. But probably not stone. He crawled in between the rocks, shining his flashlight as he entered to check it was uninhabited, and saw it went back a few feet. The air in here was clear of smoke and much easier to breathe. Crouching in a small cave wasn’t ideal, but it was better than burning to death. Outside Michael saw the wildfire grow in intensity slowly. As it crawled along bark and dry leaves, a soothing crackling noise came from the charred forest. Tucked safely in his cave, Michael watched, cinders in the air reflecting on spellbound eyes. The blaze passed him by and devoured entire trees, cracking apart branches. Somehow now Michael felt less afraid; the air was warm, the fire’s glow bathing the opening of the cave in a lulling orange gleam. Eventually, Michael fell asleep lying curled in place on the rocks, the wildfire’s presence helping him find sleep better in a cave than back in a sleeping bag in a dark tent. In the morning he awoke, crawled out into the ashy remains damp with smoke, and traveled by the morning light through the destroyed forest until he found a path back to his family.

3. Their parent(s) (ok listen, this post is long enough, i going to just split all the ones i didn’t do here in another part 2 post later okay? so i’ll do this one later)

4. Their laugh: (and i’ll do this one later )

7. Their interactions with their pets, if they have them:

Every night his cat played a game with Josh, a one in which Josh always ended up losing as yet again Cannelle settled innocently on Josh’s chest or kneaded her way to resting on his legs and he felt too bad to disturb her. “Well, once she’s comfortable, what am I supposed to do?” Josh told him once. Now in bed trying to fall asleep, Michael rolled over, and with a lurch his heart beat rose sharply in distress, realizing there was his cat, lying in the same space as his space. The left side of the bed, that had once been Josh’s. The left side that Michael still some how always managed to sleep to the right of, despite the bed being his alone now. Michael pulled his blankets up. “Cannelle, c’mere, c’mon girl.” he called. He’s not there, I’m so sorry, and you can’t understand why, I’m sorry. He apologized silently to the cat. She blinked her brown eyes, then rose, tail in the air, and settled down under the tent of the comforter Michael kept open for her. He stoked her fur for something, anything, to latch on to other than the buzzing ache that settled into his muscles. The first week is the hardest, he’d been told. That’s a lie, he thought. It doesn’t really get easier. Michael counted her exhales, inhales, exhale, inhale, exhales; until his eyes finally closed and he slept.

11. Their interactions with a stranger (feel free to say who the stranger might be! wink wink):

Michael stepped casually from the elevator, fidgeting hand needing to readjust the fake access badge clipped to his chest. Bia gave it to him, had it forged for him to blend in better, and Michael appreciated the way eyes never stayed on him long. Down the hospital’s long corridor of drywall-white patient rooms he stopped when he found the one he sought, slipping inside. Michael had read this man’s profile. Daniel Keaton, 25, paralyzed from the waist down, the loss of total lower motor control result of a nasty accident. Bia gave him information on a couple of her patients that were in conditions no amount of surgery would help. Understand me, she had said, when she handed him the ID. I’m not letting you do my job for me, since I am more than capable. But not everything has a cure. The man in the bed looked away from a bland television program, saw the hospital staff badge, brown leather jacket, and the lack of any hospital scrubs and asked, “Hi, are you my new counselor? I don’t feel like talking, sorry.” “No, I’m a... physical therapist.” “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re kinda useless at this point. Maybe you’re in the wrong room but I’m past the point of ever using my legs again, the doctors already told me.” ”I know. There’s a method that might bring you some relief, at least. Will you let me try?” “Knock yourself out.” Daniel sighed, closing his downbeat eyes in resignation. Michael carefully helped Daniel into a seated position in the hospital bed and proceeded to gently knead over the dead spinal nerves of his lower back. The accustomed electric warmth pulsed through Michael’s core, seeping up from his bones into the tissue, a faint glow emanating from the flat pressed palms on Daniel’s back. “Wait,” Daniel said suddenly, registering the strange sensation. “What are you doing?” “Don’t worry,” Michael assured. “It’s safe. This will help.” Daniel looked over his shoulder at Michael, slack jawed. “But... I shouldn’t be able to... why can I feel my legs?” Michael sensed his repair work was finished. He backed up a few steps. “Stand up.” “I can’t.” Daniel helplessly shook his head. “Can’t you?” Michael raised an eyebrow. Hesitantly, Daniel pulled his knees up and then gasped. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, devolving into startled tears as he did so. “I-I don’t understand. How? What are you?” “Just a man trying to help.” “What’s your name?” Michael held a finger to his lips. “Lie back in bed, Daniel. When asked, say it was a miracle recovery. You never saw me. Take care.” Before speechless Daniel could utter a question or thank you, Michael left the hospital room.

12. Them in their favorite outfit (i’ll do this one later)

14. Them in an uncomfortable outfit (i’ll do this one later)

16. Them sleepy (i’ll do this one later)

19. Them drunk:

One moment Michael was hiking side by side with Josh on the edge of a hilly forest trail, drunkenly laughing at something, but what he couldn’t remember, Josh had said something funny— when a pile of trail rocks under his feet slid loose and the world hitched violently sideways and down. As if his coordination wasn’t impaired enough by his boozy afternoon at their secluded campsite, all he saw as he tumbled down the leafy slope was green and browns, no sense of up or down. He yelped rolling on his back until he landed face first on something sharp in the creek bed that scorched his lips and face with pain. His hands clamped to his face in shock. Josh shouted something indistinguishably after him, clambering down the side of the ravine a lot more gracefully to the stony creek shore below. Michael covered his left cheek with a large hand, palm pressed to his mouth, and when Josh reached him and moved his hand to see, it came away red. “Tabernac, tabernac, tabernac, Josh cursed under his breath, quickly shedding his coat, stripping away his own t-shirt, and folding it over as a makeshift bandage to the jagged diagonal cut on Michael’s face. Tears welled in Michael’s eyes but Josh was quicker, wiping away the wetness and applying pressure to his stinging split lip. “Look, it was this broken glass right here you fell on. What the fuck is that, someone’s beer bottle?” “Fuckin’ bottle, why’s that there? ‘S not the brand you drink.” “Don’t speak Michel, god you’re sure bleeding a lot,” He paused. “I think we need to go to a hospital.” Michael was preoccupied with the trail of blonde hair traveling up Josh’s naval. He reached out and smoothed his thumb and forefinger down Josh’s naked chest. “You look... good like this.” “Ce n'est pas le moment pour ça!” his boyfriend chided. “Tabernac, you’re lucky that wasn’t your eyes!” “But...” It wasn’t supposed to go like this, they were supposed to be at camp tonight, where Josh would eat those cheap grocery store cherry danishes he liked while Michael would build a good fire for their dinner. Josh gently stood up. “No buts. I know you’re hammered but get up please, you gotta get stitches, there’s no way you couldn’t with a cut that deep,” Michael held Josh’s shirt in place over his copper-tasting mouth and Josh helped him to his feet. “Might even have a scar.” he continued. “Would you, y’still love me if I did?” “Obviously, now c’mon cher, we’ll go back and pack our things and take my bike into Fredericton.”

Ian

2. Them several years past their main adventure: (not gonna do years later, just making this book 2 Ian lmao)

Ian traced wandering lines in his sketchbook, taking his restless energy and channeling it into activity, distraction; one of the little tricks gained in the rehab center. Sobriety had been a bitch to learn, and often Ian flexed a muscle of self control he’s carefully crafted to hold him steady. Temptation tickled the back of his neck in his most stressful moments, and the times Michael left him alone for too long. And Michael, the man who took him to rehab, who brought art supplies to his room at the clinic For something nice to do, he had said. Ian had never loved a set of pencils so dearly. Michael had visited daily, talked with him about his therapy as he sat still in his chair and let Ian draw him. Ian never took Michael’s presence for granted, it was familiar and warm, a stark contrast to the first night they met. Time does strange things to people, Ian decided. But... Ian had to appreciate the change. Michael managed his medicines for him, took care of him with every meal he made for the two of them, and he made Ian laugh even in a dark moment of handling some sticky Orion business. Gradually he’d become his foothold in sobriety, his anchor point. His Michael. Ian shook the idea away. No, Michael’s not mine to have, Ian thought. Michael surely didn’t get the pesky flashes of impossible possibilities like the kind that plagued Ian’s headspace lately, of... more. He disdainfully flipped to a new page in his sketchbook, landed on a page of Michael sketches he’d drawn secretly and quickly ignored them by flipping to a fresh sheet. Ian settled back in his chair, and argued back and forth silently until he’d convinced himself Michael was his friend, his partner in literal crime, and that was enough. That had to be enough.

16. Them sleepy:

Michael returned home in the early morning, only to discover his bed was occupied. Ian was in boxers and nothing else, sound asleep. His partner’s limbs were bent up among his blankets, mouth puffing open slightly whenever he breathed out. Used to seeing Ian sleep in odd positions on the couch, Michael knew the way he tucked his arms under himself in his sleep. But it was strange to see him in here. How often did he come in here, even when Michael was awake? Michael stood silent by the bedside and watched Ian snooze peacefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. Did he miss me? This time, instead of dismissing it immediately, Michael let this thought settle. Michael imagined the way Ian must’ve been up waiting for him, maybe even worrying about him, before coming to open his bedroom door. Michael How Ian must have settled his head, nose against the pillow, and arranged the comforter Michael slept with over himself. And then his hand slipped, drifted downward, sinking down into Ian’s hair. Soft and thicker than he imagined, he combed through the wisps of black lightly enough to not disturb him. Missed you, came a hushed sentiment in his mind. Michael swept the bangs that fell messily over Ian’s forehead when his hand grazed across Ian’s temple. There had been times Michael touched Ian before; when injured pieces were in play and Michael stitched up the wounds. The burst of warmth when fingertips brushed Ian’s skin took him by surprise. Ian stirred from this touch however, and Michael’s hand flew to his side. Extending his arms, green swatches fluttered open; Ian stretched his legs and flopped his head on the pillow. “Hi, you’re back,” he mumbled, words languid like the hand that rubbed at his eye, then curled loosely on the sheets. “Hi,” Michael replied, the way Ian looked up at him striking some tender feeling in his throat. “What are you doing in here?” Starting to understand his indications, Michael saw the light flush of embarrassment rise as Ian rolled into sitting. “Did I fall asleep in here? Sorry man, my mistake. Been pretty tired lately,” he explained, kicking away the sheets and getting clumsily out of Michael’s bed. “I had all the lights off and must’ve walked in here instead of my room. Didn’t think twice, my head just hit a pillow.” “S’alright. You looked comfortable.” Michael smoothed his hand over the blanket and Ian’s eyes followed it. “... I was.” Ian shrugged before sheepishly fleeing the room for his own bed.

19. Them drunk:

“Hey, buddy.” A firm hand nudged Ian's shoulder. “Buddy.” The faint sounds of a bar swam to his ears; the clink of glasses against wood, quiet voices agreeing to go home, chairs scraping and the drone of a late night talk show host floating somewhere above him. “C’mon Ian, you need to get out of here.” With a soft sigh that left his chest slowly, he knew where he was. He sat on a stool in his favorite local dive, his body glued to the counter in his usual spot. Graham the bartender, to his credit, waited a full minute before poking Ian in the shoulder. “Mm, can I get one to go?” Ian’s voice came muffled from the crook of his arm. The sticky countertop was a comfortable place to lay his head and he liked the support it gave his loose limbs which currently felt curled up on each other. “No,” the barkeep responded firmly. “And you’re not staying the night… I’ll call you a cab.” Ian’s head popped off the counter, fingers clinging to the glass in his hand. “Don’t have to.” Ian stood, waiting for the lightheaded rush that made his knees wobble to pass before knocking back the dregs of his screwdriver and slipping a few crumpled bills under his glass. “Someone’s coming to get you?” Graham asked. Ian basked in the heat lingering in his throat, he swallowed. “H’yeah, sure.” He waved off the question with a flip of his hand and ambled outside.

Charley

4. Their laugh:

Samuel pulled through the discount rack, casting coat hanger after coat hanger aside flippantly and frowning. “Why’s this all ugly?” she lamented. Charley shrugged, back against the wall, eyes trained on the crummy mall clothes outlet across the way from the display window of theirs.  They did this as part of their job sometimes, building profiles. It helped understand daily routines a target had and was the best way to learn potential vulnerabilities. “Oh, now this is good,” Samuel piped up. “I should get these Dahlia for her next birthday.” Charley turned and saw her considering a set of women’s pajamas, with blue penguins printed on the pants and another pudgy penguin on the shirt with a speech bubble saying ‘Out Cold’. Charley took one look at the pajamas and burst out laughing. “Are you fuckin’ kidding?” he snickered, gesturing. “These? With these cute little bastards on them? Are we thinking of the same woman?” He deemed Dahlia maybe a little too serious and brooding.  “She could use these, I hate seeing her going to sleep in just whatever outfit she’s got on. She actually would like something goofy like this, she just doesn’t say so.” Samuel held the shirt and flipped flopped the long fleecey sleeve, before then using it to wave to Charley. He chuckled and checked his watch. “You’d know better than anybody, I suppose.” “There’s a lot of things about Dahlia you don’t know.” “Really?” Charley asked interested, hands busy tying long black dreads into a bun at his neck. “Care to share with the class?” Samuel shook her head. “I don’t betray her trust like I promised I wouldn’t betray yours.” Aside from the very first time, he thought. Samuel hadn’t broken her promise to him since. “I respect that,” Charley rolled his shoulders and glanced over into the clothing store opposite the one they stood in. An unassuming young man with green sneakers had just entered it.“Spotted him. Do your thing.” he said to his partner. The two watched him moving around the counter of the neighboring store. “He’s late for work,” Samuel said. “That’s why he’s rushing. He’s nervous his manager might be annoyed with him... here she comes. And he’s very attracted to his boss, he’s thinking about her...” her nose crinkled. “I’m not relaying that.” Samuel watched the manager cross her arms as the man blabbered on. “She thinks he’s nothing but a tiny-dicked idiot. Got him.” she concluded and Charley laughed again.  

5. Their crying:

Charley sat across from his partner Samuel at a cafe table in Ireland. His panic had brought them far across the ocean, further than he meant to travel but Charley chalked it up to stress and a need to just run. Their mission to hunt a certain target ended successfully with the target’s death, but included the death of an innocent bystander. Just thinking about it made Charley’s guts coil. He fucked up bad this time, he lost control and a man lost his life because of the mishap. “You’re still learning control over your power, you did not abuse it, the reins slipped from your hands. An accident, Charley. That’s all it was.” He wiped a stubborn tear from the crease of his eye. Samuel’s brow furrowed. “You don’t need to be brave in front of me,” she murmured, reading the shame and denial of his emotions from his mind. “I’m not like him.” Charley blinked his chestnut eyes, the sour rise that made his nose tingle bringing more tears as he thought of the man who had turned him this way. His partner saw through him like tissue paper, and she saw the replaying memories; the way his face had looked, the reason he hated to let anyone see him cry, and the way that the innocent man had been knocked below to his death. He reached for her ivory hand and she took it supportively, politely looking to the far end of the cafe while Charley mopped his brow with a cloth napkin, the older man’s torso shaking with low rumbles and sniffs. A couple other lunch goers nearby looked in their direction a few times, but left them undisturbed. “... We need to see Meissa.” Samuel said finally. Charley wiped his eyes once more looked morosely at his untouched scone. “What do I tell her?” “The truth.” she suggested, wrapping her coat a little closer to her. “I’ll vouch for you, I saw them both die. The other man was not supposed to be there. It’s unfortunate, yes, but we live in the present and must go on.” Charley thought that seemed a bit harsh. “It’s survival,” Samuel added gently. “You had to change to survive and here you sit. I survived the bear trap of my childhood and here I sit. This doesn’t end here,” She retrieved her wallet and left some money on the table. “Ready? We’ll make it through this too.” Charley nodded, took a deep slow breath to collect himself. Then Samuel placed her hands in his on the table and the two vanished from their seats.

Dahlia

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

Dahlia kept certain rooms in her house well furnished and comfortable, and others purposefully devoid of distractions. She was leaning against her desk in such a room now, desk and a single bookshelf holding some of her dream journals the only objects beside bare floor and walls, with of course, the projection system. Projected on the walls all around her was a calming cloudy ocean scene with the horizon stretched before her. She lit a cigarette, smoke curling bright in the projection light. She glanced at her watch. The chair and the man tied to it materialized a half second later. Dahlia didn’t bat an eye. Charley stood behind the chair, palms flat on the grizzled older man’s shoulders. “I appreciate the trouble,” said Dahlia. “I know you could’ve handled him alone.” “No trouble, and thank Sammy, she lured his greasy ass into the motel room. In fact, thank her yourself.” He disappeared and within five seconds he reappeared, this time hand in hand with Samuel. Her peacock blue heels clicked on the hardwood as she moved concentric circles around the man in the chair. “Still out cold, I’m impressed Charley-boy.” “Pleasure, I’ve been practicing my right hook. It’s nice to test it out on this freak. A five year old kid, that’s sick.” he shook his head. ”Good work both of you,” Dahlia hummed approvingly. “Now we wait.” “Mind if I bounce?” Charley asked. “Gotta teach my class in an hour.” “Go right ahead. Just be back here after for disposal.” Charley nodded and vanished. Dahlia coolly regarded the unconscious man, puffing on her cigarette, lost in thought. Samuel silently watched Dahlia thinking. Samuel became a usual presence to Dahlia in this way, like a friend sitting beside her on a windowsill, simultaneously looking out the same window as herself, seeing the same vivid world outside. At last, the large man stirred, opened his bleary eyes. “The hell?” he groaned, then his eyes fell on Dahlia, then Samuel. “Who are you people? Where the fuck did you take me, you pasty bitch?” Dahlia didn’t waste time. “Mr. Clark, you don’t know me and I certainly don’t care to know you, but I do know what you did to the five year old son of your next door neighbors.” The man tried to wiggle out of his restraints. “You’re crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about, let me fucking go!” “Take a look around Mr. Clark, this is the last room you’ll ever see.” “What?” he froze mid struggle and stared at Dahlia, who tapped her cigarette calmly in a porcelain teacup on the table. He looked to Samuel whose pallid eyes pierced daggers in his direction. “You’re not serious... I’m not scared of some dumb bitches.” “He’s lying.” Samuel contributed. “Choosing to pursue that particular disgusting fantasy of yours was the wrong choice.” Dahlia said, then extended her arm into the blue projection light and Samuel handed her a bottle of liquor from a shelf. Dahlia uncapped it and poured amber liquid into a large glass. “What are you doing?” Mr. Clark clamored as Dahlia approached him with the glass. “I swear I didn’t do it! I never touched the boy!” “It’s tacky to lie,” Samuel commented, watching as the man squirmed in place. Dahlia grabbed him by the hair, yanked his jaw up in the air, and poured the cup down his throat. The liquid spilled over the mans chin and down his shirt as he spluttered and fought, but Dahlia made sure some went down his throat. “How does it feel to be robbed of your agency?” Dahlia asked, stepping back. “I want you to meditate on that while the darkness comes. To feel like– what was his name?” she asked the man. “Evan Watson.” Samuel supplied when the man kept quiet. “Yes, like Evan when you raped him.” The man coughed out a sting of curses at Samuel and Dahlia, but the words quickly subsided until both the room and the man were still. Dahlia shuddered and turned away. “You know I like to stay distant and trust you and Charley and the others to handle this part,” she said to Samuel. “But I hated the dreams I saw. The ones with kids are the worst.” “You don’t need to explain to me, I’ve seen the way it hurts.” “Right.” Her friend’s view into her mind let Samuel understand best, but that didn’t stop Dahlia from wanting to explain things to her anyway. I appreciate you Sam, she thought. In all the ways you help me stop these people. I’d be lost without you. Samuel smiled her pearly teeth at Dahlia and Dahlia wished then that she could also see into Samuel’s innermost thoughts.

11. Their interactions with a stranger (feel free to say who the stranger might be! wink wink)

Dahlia was an early riser, and like clockwork every morning she went to her chair on the front porch and smoked under the morning sun. But this spring morning she waited to receive her brother visiting for Passover, and this morning’s cigarette was interrupted by the arrival of Michael and his boyfriend Josh with suitcases in tow. She ran down the steps to hug her brother, and then shook Josh’s hand, thinking he somehow wasn’t what she was expecting. Not that she had any big expectations but she wanted only the best for her brother. She thought he was ordinary but handsome, with a wide friendly smile, crooked at the edges. He looked eager but nervous as Dahlia introduced herself. “So you’re the mysterious Canadian man my brother’s been dating huh? Good to finally meet you. I hope you’ve been keeping him out of trouble.” Josh laughed, a bright pleasant sound. “I’m studying criminal justice actually, if anyone will be keeping him on the straight and narrow it’s me.” His accent was noticeable and musical, and Dahlia saw Michael’s eyes shining as he glanced over at Josh. Her brother looked proud and happy she realized, happier and younger looking than when she’d last seen him. “Good, well we have some lovely matzo brei mom made on the stove, you’re welcome to it for breakfast.” “Thank god, I’m starving,” said Josh. “We left too early to have breakfast and nothing at the airport sounded good.” Josh left to go bring their luggage inside, and Michael stayed out on the porch with his sister. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” Dahlia remarked. “What makes you say that?” Michael wondered. Dahlia offered him her cigarette and he took it. “You’ve got a love glow about you.” “I do not have a ‘love glow’,” he grumbled, blowing smoke through his nose. She laughed and took the cigarette back. “No, but seriously, you look really happy with him, not like with anyone else before. Seems like the real deal.” “Maybe. I hope so. I want mom and dad to like him.” He’s serious with this guy, Dahlia mused. Her brother caring about his parents opinions? That was a first. “I’m happy you’re home, Mike. And I wouldn’t worry about what mom thinks at least,” she said, peering into the doorway. “Look at her, she’s already fussing over him in there getting him enough on his plate.” Michael chuckled. “Better get in there and rescue him before he’s overfed.”

Rosie

1. Them as a child (i’ll do this one later)

8. Their interactions with their significant other(s), if they have them (the significant other is outta the picture, so you get Rosie and her daughter instead)

Bia clinked her raspberry gin lemonade against her mother’s glass. They sat in a private VIP room at the King’s Throne, celebrating Bia’s acceptance into one of the top medical schools in the country. Rosanne frequented this particular night club for abundance of potential customers and good relations with the owner. They were on their second round of drinks. “To the start of your career! This is all for you sweetie, enjoy yourself.” Rosanne toasted her glass and took a long sip. Bia followed suit. “Honey, I want you to know I’m proud of you.” “Thanks mom.” “I’ve been proud since the first time I held you crying in my arms.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but Bia felt a lump rise in her throat. "Even if... I turned out differently than you expected?” Rosanne set down her amaretto sour. “You’ve surprised me a lot as you’ve grown,” she started. “But never negatively. Never wanted you to work in my trade, and you surprised me by never wanting to follow in my footsteps, by picking medical school and gettin’ accepted. I’ve watched a little boy grow into a wonderful, resourceful, fucking intelligent, brave and beautiful woman. Nothing could make me prouder.” Happy tears dripped down over Bia’s expensive make up but she didn’t care. Her mother pulled her into a hug and Bia let her mascara disintegrate.

Bia

9. Their interactions with their best friend

“Your quiet magical friend told me you were here in rehab. I’m really proud of you for being here Ian.” Bia sat beside him on the edge of his bed in his room at the inpatient rehab center. She looked much healthier now, but a different version of the woman he’d known once, before Phil Lancaster had ever touched her. “Thank you Bia, and you haven’t told anyone else about what Michael can do, have you?” “No, you made me swear.” “Okay, cool.” “But listen I... I’m not the reason you’re in here now, am I?” “What do you mean?” Bia shifted her shoes on the carpet and smoothed her hair. “Well, you and me were trying different shit a lot when we were together and I’d feel terrible if I–” “No,” Ian interrupted. “Trust me, you’re not the reason I’m here. I was an addict before I met you.” Bia sighed, still looking concerned. “Okay, just wanted to apologize for ever turning you onto it.” His time dating her had been comfortable and some brief, needed stability. They spent it trying drugs and having sex, but Ian’s favorite memories had been the late hours of the night when they lay beside each other and she shared stories; these including tales of her life as a surgeon and her wild experience of growing up with a drug mogul mother like Rosanne Madaki. “I’m the one couldn’t stop Bia, and you never forced me. You were one of the few things keeping my head above the water. Taking Xanax was my own choice and so is quitting it.” She smiled meekly. “That’s the spirit.” “So, how have you been recently?” “In constant therapy for... y’know, what he did. There’s no better relief than waking up in my mother’s house and remembering he’s dead and will never be anything but dead. Mom’s barely let me out of her sight, and when she does she has one of her bodyguards tail me around, she thinks I don’t notice.” “She loves you.” “I know, she just blames herself for everything still.” “We’ve all got our struggles,” Ian said patting her arm. “We’ll try and get better together, okay?” Bia nodded and smiled at him. “I’d like that.”

sorry for the long post to everyone who isn’t anna, the only one who will know or care about any of these characters……… lol but anyway anna none of these are in the actual book 1 story, it’s all either prequel/flash backs or book 2 stuff (and also i skipped some prompts bc this is already a lot and i want your input, i craaaaave it, love you so much thank you for sending me these and kickstarting a writing mood <3)

Michael

1. Them as a child:

He’d had trouble falling asleep, and now the forest was on fire. Michael had only wanted to go back to the lake shore for a bit, and sit by the waves to settle his racing thoughts, but he’d gotten lost on his way there and wandered down a too dark trail. Narrow flashlight beam the only light a head of him, he prayed he was going the right direction back to his family’s campsite. It was dark and freezing and Michael’s eight year old limbs were getting sore, when suddenly he smelled the thick smoke of burning wood in the breeze. A campfire, he thought. Good, he must be getting close. But as Michael traveled closer a hazy fog surrounded him and the nearby trees, his flashlight beam illuminating the smoke. He saw light ahead, fire glowing through the trees, but no wait, this was much too much flame to be a campfire. Michael stopped walking and watched bright clumps of fire crackling in the underbrush. This is really bad, his tired mind registered. Nervously he tried to move down wind away from the fire, coughing as he went, but the fire grew faster than Michael could walk. He hurried through he underbrush now, chest feeling heavy and head dizzy from inhaling smoke. Suddenly Michael had run himself into a rocky cliff face, the fire sparkling dangerously at his back. What do I do? he panicked. I don’t want to die, please. Michael moved around the rocks until he saw a natural crevice traveling back into the earth. Was that a cave? Fire could burn wood, he reasoned. But probably not stone. He crawled in between the rocks, shining his flashlight as he entered to check it was uninhabited, and saw it went back a few feet. The air in here was clear of smoke and much easier to breathe. Crouching in a small cave wasn’t ideal, but it was better than burning to death. Outside Michael saw the wildfire grow in intensity slowly. As it crawled along bark and dry leaves, a soothing crackling noise came from the charred forest. Tucked safely in his cave, Michael watched, cinders in the air reflecting on spellbound eyes. The blaze passed him by and devoured entire trees, cracking apart branches. Somehow now Michael felt less afraid; the air was warm, the fire’s glow bathing the opening of the cave in a lulling orange gleam. Eventually, Michael fell asleep lying curled in place on the rocks, the wildfire’s presence helping him find sleep better in a cave than back in a sleeping bag in a dark tent. In the morning he awoke, crawled out into the ashy remains damp with smoke, and traveled by the morning light through the destroyed forest until he found a path back to his family.

3. Their parent(s) (ok listen, this post is long enough, i going to just split all the ones i didn’t do here in another part 2 post later okay? so i’ll do this one later)

4. Their laugh: (and i’ll do this one later )

7. Their interactions with their pets, if they have them:

Every night his cat played a game with Josh, a one in which Josh always ended up losing as yet again Cannelle settled innocently on Josh’s chest or kneaded her way to resting on his legs and he felt too bad to disturb her. “Well, once she’s comfortable, what am I supposed to do?” Josh told him once. Now in bed trying to fall asleep, Michael rolled over, and with a lurch his heart beat rose sharply in distress, realizing there was his cat, lying in the same space as his space. The left side of the bed, that had once been Josh’s. The left side that Michael still some how always managed to sleep to the right of, despite the bed being his alone now. Michael pulled his blankets up. “Cannelle, c’mere, c’mon girl.” he called. He’s not there, I’m so sorry, and you can’t understand why, I’m sorry. He apologized silently to the cat. She blinked her brown eyes, then rose, tail in the air, and settled down under the tent of the comforter Michael kept open for her. He stoked her fur for something, anything, to latch on to other than the buzzing ache that settled into his muscles. The first week is the hardest, he’d been told. That’s a lie, he thought. It doesn’t really get easier. Michael counted her exhales, inhales, exhale, inhale, exhales; until his eyes finally closed and he slept.

11. Their interactions with a stranger (feel free to say who the stranger might be! wink wink):

Michael stepped casually from the elevator, fidgeting hand needing to readjust the fake access badge clipped to his chest. Bia gave it to him, had it forged for him to blend in better, and Michael appreciated the way eyes never stayed on him long. Down the hospital’s long corridor of drywall-white patient rooms he stopped when he found the one he sought, slipping inside. Michael had read this man’s profile. Daniel Keaton, 25, paralyzed from the waist down, the loss of total lower motor control result of a nasty accident. Bia gave him information on a couple of her patients that were in conditions no amount of surgery would help. Understand me, she had said, when she handed him the ID. I’m not letting you do my job for me, since I am more than capable. But not everything has a cure. The man in the bed looked away from a bland television program, saw the hospital staff badge, brown leather jacket, and the lack of any hospital scrubs and asked, “Hi, are you my new counselor? I don’t feel like talking, sorry.” “No, I’m a… physical therapist.” “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re kinda useless at this point. Maybe you’re in the wrong room but I’m past the point of ever using my legs again, the doctors already told me.” ”I know. There’s a method that might bring you some relief, at least. Will you let me try?” “Knock yourself out.” Daniel sighed, closing his downbeat eyes in resignation. Michael carefully helped Daniel into a seated position in the hospital bed and proceeded to gently knead over the dead spinal nerves of his lower back. The accustomed electric warmth pulsed through Michael’s core, seeping up from his bones into the tissue, a faint glow emanating from the flat pressed palms on Daniel’s back. “Wait,” Daniel said suddenly, registering the strange sensation. “What are you doing?” “Don’t worry,” Michael assured. “It’s safe. This will help.” Daniel looked over his shoulder at Michael, slack jawed. “But… I shouldn’t be able to… why can I feel my legs?” Michael sensed his repair work was finished. He backed up a few steps. “Stand up.” “I can’t.” Daniel helplessly shook his head. “Can’t you?” Michael raised an eyebrow. Hesitantly, Daniel pulled his knees up and then gasped. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, devolving into startled tears as he did so. “I-I don’t understand. How? What are you?” “Just a man trying to help.” “What’s your name?” Michael held a finger to his lips. “Lie back in bed, Daniel. When asked, say it was a miracle recovery. You never saw me. Take care.” Before speechless Daniel could utter a question or thank you, Michael left the hospital room.

12. Them in their favorite outfit (i’ll do this one later)

14. Them in an uncomfortable outfit (i’ll do this one later)

16. Them sleepy (i’ll do this one later)

19. Them drunk:

One moment Michael was hiking side by side with Josh on the edge of a hilly forest trail, drunkenly laughing at something, but what he couldn’t remember, Josh had said something funny— when a pile of trail rocks under his feet slid loose and the world hitched violently sideways and down. As if his coordination wasn’t impaired enough by his boozy afternoon at their secluded campsite, all he saw as he tumbled down the leafy slope was green and browns, no sense of up or down. He yelped rolling on his back until he landed face first on something sharp in the creek bed that scorched his lips and face with pain. His hands clamped to his face in shock. Josh shouted something indistinguishably after him, clambering down the side of the ravine a lot more gracefully to the stony creek shore below. Michael covered his left cheek with a large hand, palm pressed to his mouth, and when Josh reached him and moved his hand to see, it came away red. “Tabernac, tabernac, tabernac,” Josh cursed under his breath, quickly shedding his coat, stripping away his own t-shirt, and folding it over as a makeshift bandage to the jagged diagonal cut on Michael’s face. Tears welled in Michael’s eyes but Josh was quicker, wiping away the wetness and applying pressure to his stinging split lip. “Look, it was this broken glass right here you fell on. What the fuck is that, someone’s beer bottle?” “Fuckin’ bottle, why’s that there? ‘S not the brand you drink.” “Don’t speak Michel, god you’re sure bleeding a lot,” He paused. “I think we need to go to a hospital.” Michael was preoccupied with the trail of blonde hair traveling up Josh’s naval. He reached out and smoothed his thumb and forefinger down Josh’s naked chest. “You look… good like this.” “Ce n'est pas le moment pour ça!” his boyfriend chided. “Tabernac, you’re lucky that wasn’t your eyes!” “But…” It wasn’t supposed to go like this, they were supposed to be at camp tonight, where Josh would eat those cheap grocery store cherry danishes he liked while Michael would build a good fire for their dinner. Josh gently stood up. “No buts. I know you’re hammered but get up please, you gotta get stitches, there’s no way you couldn’t with a cut that deep,” Michael held Josh’s shirt in place over his copper-tasting mouth and Josh helped him to his feet. “Might even have a scar.” he continued. “Would you, y’still love me if I did?” “Obviously, now c’mon cher, we’ll go back and pack our things and take my bike into Fredericton.”

Ian

2. Them several years past their main adventure: (not gonna do years later, just making this book 2 Ian lmao)

Ian traced wandering lines in his sketchbook, taking his restless energy and channeling it into activity, distraction; one of the little tricks gained in the rehab center. Sobriety had been a bitch to learn, and often Ian flexed a muscle of self control he’s carefully crafted to hold him steady. Temptation tickled the back of his neck in his most stressful moments, and the times Michael left him alone for too long. And Michael, the man who took him to rehab, who brought art supplies to his room at the clinic For something nice to do, he had said. Ian had never loved a set of pencils so dearly. Michael had visited daily, talked with him about his therapy as he sat still in his chair and let Ian draw him. Ian never took Michael’s presence for granted, it was familiar and warm, a stark contrast to the first night they met. Time does strange things to people, Ian decided. But… Ian had to appreciate the change. Michael managed his medicines for him, took care of him with every meal he made for the two of them, and he made Ian laugh even in a dark moment of handling some sticky Orion business. Gradually he’d become his foothold in sobriety, his anchor point. His Michael. Ian shook the idea away. No, Michael’s not mine to have, Ian thought. Michael surely didn’t get the pesky flashes of impossible possibilities like the kind that plagued Ian’s headspace lately, of… more. He disdainfully flipped to a new page in his sketchbook, landed on a page of Michael sketches he’d drawn secretly and quickly ignored them by flipping to a fresh sheet. Ian settled back in his chair, and argued back and forth silently until he’d convinced himself Michael was his friend, his partner in literal crime, and that was enough. That had to be enough.

16. Them sleepy:

Michael returned home in the early morning, only to discover his bed was occupied. Ian was in boxers and nothing else, sound asleep. His partner’s limbs were bent up among his blankets, mouth puffing open slightly whenever he breathed out. Used to seeing Ian sleep in odd positions on the couch, Michael knew the way he tucked his arms under himself in his sleep. But it was strange to see him in here. How often did he come in here, even when Michael was awake? Michael stood silent by the bedside and watched Ian snooze peacefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. Did he miss me? This time, instead of dismissing it immediately, Michael let this thought settle. Michael imagined the way Ian must’ve been up waiting for him, maybe even worrying about him, before coming to open his bedroom door. Michael How Ian must have settled his head, nose against the pillow, and arranged the comforter Michael slept with over himself. And then his hand slipped, drifted downward, sinking down into Ian’s hair. Soft and thicker than he imagined, he combed through the wisps of black lightly enough to not disturb him. Missed you, came a hushed sentiment in his mind. Michael swept the bangs that fell messily over Ian’s forehead when his hand grazed across Ian’s temple. There had been times Michael touched Ian before; when injured pieces were in play and Michael stitched up the wounds. The burst of warmth when fingertips brushed Ian’s skin took him by surprise. Ian stirred from this touch however, and Michael’s hand flew to his side. Extending his arms, green swatches fluttered open; Ian stretched his legs and flopped his head on the pillow. “Hi, you’re back,” he mumbled, words languid like the hand that rubbed at his eye, then curled loosely on the sheets. “Hi,” Michael replied, the way Ian looked up at him striking some tender feeling in his throat. “What are you doing in here?” Starting to understand his indications, Michael saw the light flush of embarrassment rise as Ian rolled into sitting. “Did I fall asleep in here? Sorry man, my mistake. Been pretty tired lately,” he explained, kicking away the sheets and getting clumsily out of Michael’s bed. “I had all the lights off and must’ve walked in here instead of my room. Didn’t think twice, my head just hit a pillow.” “S’alright. You looked comfortable.” Michael smoothed his hand over the blanket and Ian’s eyes followed it. “… I was.” Ian shrugged before sheepishly fleeing the room for his own bed.

19. Them drunk:

“Hey, buddy.” A firm hand nudged Ian’s shoulder. “Buddy.” The faint sounds of a bar swam to his ears; the clink of glasses against wood, quiet voices agreeing to go home, chairs scraping and the drone of a late night talk show host floating somewhere above him. “C’mon Ian, you need to get out of here.” With a soft sigh that left his chest slowly, he knew where he was. He sat on a stool in his favorite local dive, his body glued to the counter in his usual spot. Graham the bartender, to his credit, waited a full minute before poking Ian in the shoulder. “Mm, can I get one to go?” Ian’s voice came muffled from the crook of his arm. The sticky countertop was a comfortable place to lay his head and he liked the support it gave his loose limbs which currently felt curled up on each other. “No,” the barkeep responded firmly. “And you’re not staying the night… I’ll call you a cab.” Ian’s head popped off the counter, fingers clinging to the glass in his hand. “Don’t have to.” Ian stood, waiting for the lightheaded rush that made his knees wobble to pass before knocking back the dregs of his screwdriver and slipping a few crumpled bills under his glass. “Someone’s coming to get you?” Graham asked. Ian basked in the heat lingering in his throat, he swallowed. “H’yeah, sure.” He waved off the question with a flip of his hand and ambled outside.

Charley

4. Their laugh:

Samuel pulled through the discount rack, casting coat hanger after coat hanger aside flippantly and frowning. “Why’s this all ugly?” she lamented. Charley shrugged, back against the wall, eyes trained on the crummy mall clothes outlet across the way from the display window of theirs.  They did this as part of their job sometimes, building profiles. It helped understand daily routines a target had and was the best way to learn potential vulnerabilities. “Oh, now this is good,” Samuel piped up. “I should get these Dahlia for her next birthday.” Charley turned and saw her considering a set of women’s pajamas, with blue penguins printed on the pants and another pudgy penguin on the shirt with a speech bubble saying ‘Out Cold’. Charley took one look at the pajamas and burst out laughing. “Are you fuckin��� kidding?” he snickered, gesturing. “These? With these cute little bastards on them? Are we thinking of the same woman?” He deemed Dahlia maybe a little too serious and brooding.  “She could use these, I hate seeing her going to sleep in just whatever outfit she’s got on. She actually would like something goofy like this, she just doesn’t say so.” Samuel held the shirt and flipped flopped the long fleecey sleeve, before then using it to wave to Charley. He chuckled and checked his watch. “You’d know better than anybody, I suppose.” “There’s a lot of things about Dahlia you don’t know.” “Really?” Charley asked interested, hands busy tying long black dreads into a bun at his neck. “Care to share with the class?” Samuel shook her head. “I don’t betray her trust like I promised I wouldn’t betray yours.” Aside from the very first time, he thought. Samuel hadn’t broken her promise to him since. “I respect that,” Charley rolled his shoulders and glanced over into the clothing store opposite the one they stood in. An unassuming young man with green sneakers had just entered it.“Spotted him. Do your thing.” he said to his partner. The two watched him moving around the counter of the neighboring store. “He’s late for work,” Samuel said. “That’s why he’s rushing. He’s nervous his manager might be annoyed with him… here she comes. And he’s very attracted to his boss, he’s thinking about her…” her nose crinkled. “I’m not relaying that.” Samuel watched the manager cross her arms as the man blabbered on. “She thinks he’s nothing but a tiny-dicked idiot. Got him.” she concluded and Charley laughed again.  

5. Their crying:

Charley sat across from his partner Samuel at a cafe table in Ireland. His panic had brought them far across the ocean, further than he meant to travel but Charley chalked it up to stress and a need to just run. Their mission to hunt a certain target ended successfully with the target’s death, but included the death of an innocent bystander. Just thinking about it made Charley’s guts coil. He fucked up bad this time, he lost control and a man lost his life because of the mishap. “You’re still learning control over your power, you did not abuse it, the reins slipped from your hands. An accident, Charley. That’s all it was.” He wiped a stubborn tear from the crease of his eye. Samuel’s brow furrowed. “You don’t need to be brave in front of me,” she murmured, reading the shame and denial of his emotions from his mind. “I’m not like him.” Charley blinked his chestnut eyes, the sour rise that made his nose tingle bringing more tears as he thought of the man who had turned him this way. His partner saw through him like tissue paper, and she saw the replaying memories; the way his face had looked, the reason he hated to let anyone see him cry, and the way that the innocent man had been knocked below to his death. He reached for her ivory hand and she took it supportively, politely looking to the far end of the cafe while Charley mopped his brow with a cloth napkin, the older man’s torso shaking with low rumbles and sniffs. A couple other lunch goers nearby looked in their direction a few times, but left them undisturbed. “… We need to see Meissa.” Samuel said finally. Charley wiped his eyes once more looked morosely at his untouched scone. “What do I tell her?” “The truth.” she suggested, wrapping her coat a little closer to her. “I’ll vouch for you, I saw them both die. The other man was not supposed to be there. It’s unfortunate, yes, but we live in the present and must go on.” Charley thought that seemed a bit harsh. “It’s survival,” Samuel added gently. “You had to change to survive and here you sit. I survived the bear trap of my childhood and here I sit. This doesn’t end here,” She retrieved her wallet and left some money on the table. “Ready? We’ll make it through this too.” Charley nodded, took a deep slow breath to collect himself. Then Samuel placed her hands in his on the table and the two vanished from their seats.

Dahlia

10. Their interactions with an enemy/rival

Dahlia kept certain rooms in her house well furnished and comfortable, and others purposefully devoid of distractions. She was leaning against her desk in such a room now, desk and a single bookshelf holding some of her dream journals the only objects beside bare floor and walls, with of course, the projection system. Projected on the walls all around her was a calming cloudy ocean scene with the horizon stretched before her. She lit a cigarette, smoke curling bright in the projection light. She glanced at her watch. The chair and the man tied to it materialized a half second later. Dahlia didn’t bat an eye. Charley stood behind the chair, palms flat on the grizzled older man’s shoulders. “I appreciate the trouble,” said Dahlia. “I know you could’ve handled him alone.” “No trouble, and thank Sammy, she lured his greasy ass into the motel room. In fact, thank her yourself.” He disappeared and within five seconds he reappeared, this time hand in hand with Samuel. Her peacock blue heels clicked on the hardwood as she moved concentric circles around the man in the chair. “Still out cold, I’m impressed Charley-boy.” “Pleasure, I’ve been practicing my right hook. It’s nice to test it out on this freak. A five year old kid, that’s sick.” he shook his head. ”Good work both of you,” Dahlia hummed approvingly. “Now we wait.” “Mind if I bounce?” Charley asked. “Gotta teach my class in an hour.” “Go right ahead. Just be back here after for disposal.” Charley nodded and vanished. Dahlia coolly regarded the unconscious man, puffing on her cigarette, lost in thought. Samuel silently watched Dahlia thinking. Samuel became a usual presence to Dahlia in this way, like a friend sitting beside her on a windowsill, simultaneously looking out the same window as herself, seeing the same vivid world outside. At last, the large man stirred, opened his bleary eyes. “The hell?” he groaned, then his eyes fell on Dahlia, then Samuel. “Who are you people? Where the fuck did you take me, you pasty bitch?” Dahlia didn’t waste time. “Mr. Clark, you don’t know me and I certainly don’t care to know you, but I do know what you did to the five year old son of your next door neighbors.” The man tried to wiggle out of his restraints. “You’re crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about, let me fucking go!” “Take a look around Mr. Clark, this is the last room you’ll ever see.” “What?” he froze mid struggle and stared at Dahlia, who tapped her cigarette calmly in a porcelain teacup on the table. He looked to Samuel whose pallid eyes pierced daggers in his direction. “You’re not serious… I’m not scared of some dumb bitches.” “He’s lying.” Samuel contributed. “Choosing to pursue that particular disgusting fantasy of yours was the wrong choice.” Dahlia said, then extended her arm into the blue projection light and Samuel handed her a bottle of liquor from a shelf. Dahlia uncapped it and poured amber liquid into a large glass. “What are you doing?” Mr. Clark clamored as Dahlia approached him with the glass. “I swear I didn’t do it! I never touched the boy!” “It’s tacky to lie,” Samuel commented, watching as the man squirmed in place. Dahlia grabbed him by the hair, yanked his jaw up in the air, and poured the cup down his throat. The liquid spilled over the mans chin and down his shirt as he spluttered and fought, but Dahlia made sure some went down his throat. “How does it feel to be robbed of your agency?” Dahlia asked, stepping back. “I want you to meditate on that while the darkness comes. To feel like– what was his name?” she asked the man. “Evan Watson.” Samuel supplied when the man kept quiet. “Yes, like Evan when you raped him.” The man coughed out a sting of curses at Samuel and Dahlia, but the words quickly subsided until both the room and the man were still. Dahlia shuddered and turned away. “You know I like to stay distant and trust you and Charley and the others to handle this part,” she said to Samuel. “But I hated the dreams I saw. The ones with kids are the worst.” “You don’t need to explain to me, I’ve seen the way it hurts.” “Right.” Her friend’s view into her mind let Samuel understand best, but that didn’t stop Dahlia from wanting to explain things to her anyway. I appreciate you Sam, she thought. In all the ways you help me stop these people. I’d be lost without you. Samuel smiled her pearly teeth at Dahlia and Dahlia wished then that she could also see into Samuel’s innermost thoughts.

11. Their interactions with a stranger (feel free to say who the stranger might be! wink wink)

Dahlia was an early riser, and like clockwork every morning she went to her chair on the front porch and smoked under the morning sun. But this spring morning she waited to receive her brother visiting for Passover, and this morning’s cigarette was interrupted by the arrival of Michael and his boyfriend Josh with suitcases in tow. She ran down the steps to hug her brother, and then shook Josh’s hand, thinking he somehow wasn’t what she was expecting. Not that she had any big expectations but she wanted only the best for her brother. She thought he was ordinary but handsome, with a wide friendly smile, crooked at the edges. He looked eager but nervous as Dahlia introduced herself. “So you’re the mysterious Canadian man my brother’s been dating huh? Good to finally meet you. I hope you’ve been keeping him out of trouble.” Josh laughed, a bright pleasant sound. “I’m studying criminal justice actually, if anyone will be keeping him on the straight and narrow it’s me.” His accent was noticeable and musical, and Dahlia saw Michael’s eyes shining as he glanced over at Josh. Her brother looked proud and happy she realized, happier and younger looking than when she’d last seen him. “Good, well we have some lovely matzo brei mom made on the stove, you’re welcome to it for breakfast.” “Thank god, I’m starving,” said Josh. “We left too early to have breakfast and nothing at the airport sounded good.” Josh left to go bring their luggage inside, and Michael stayed out on the porch with his sister. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” Dahlia remarked. “What makes you say that?” Michael wondered. Dahlia offered him her cigarette and he took it. “You’ve got a love glow about you.” “I do not have a ‘love glow’,” he grumbled, blowing smoke through his nose. She laughed and took the cigarette back. “No, but seriously, you look really happy with him, not like with anyone else before. Seems like the real deal.” “Maybe. I hope so. I want mom and dad to like him.” He’s serious with this guy, Dahlia mused. Her brother caring about his parents opinions? That was a first. “I’m happy you’re home, Mike. And I wouldn’t worry about what mom thinks at least,” she said, peering into the doorway. “Look at her, she’s already fussing over him in there getting him enough on his plate.” Michael chuckled. “Better get in there and rescue him before he’s overfed.”

Rosie

1. Them as a child (i’ll do this one later)

8. Their interactions with their significant other(s), if they have them (the significant other is outta the picture, so you get Rosie and her daughter instead)

Bia clinked her raspberry gin lemonade against her mother’s glass. They sat in a private VIP room at the King’s Throne, celebrating Bia’s acceptance into one of the top medical schools in the country. Rosanne frequented this particular night club for abundance of potential customers and good relations with the owner. They were on their second round of drinks. “To the start of your career! This is all for you sweetie, enjoy yourself.” Rosanne toasted her glass and took a long sip. Bia followed suit. “Honey, I want you to know I’m proud of you.” “Thanks mom.” “I’ve been proud since the first time I held you crying in my arms.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but Bia felt a lump rise in her throat. “Even if… I turned out differently than you expected?” Rosanne set down her amaretto sour. “You’ve surprised me a lot as you’ve grown,” she started. “But never negatively. Never wanted you to work in my trade, and you surprised me by never wanting to follow in my footsteps, by picking medical school and gettin’ accepted. I’ve watched a little boy grow into a wonderful, resourceful, fucking intelligent, brave and beautiful woman. Nothing could make me prouder.” Happy tears dripped down over Bia’s expensive make up but she didn’t care. Her mother pulled her into a hug and Bia let her mascara disintegrate.

Bia

9. Their interactions with their best friend

“Your quiet magical friend told me you were here in rehab. I’m really proud of you for being here Ian.” Bia sat beside him on the edge of his bed in his room at the inpatient rehab center. She looked much healthier now, but a different version of the woman he’d known once, before Phil Lancaster had ever touched her. “Thank you Bia, and you haven’t told anyone else about what Michael can do, have you?” “No, you made me swear.” “Okay, cool.” “But listen I… I’m not the reason you’re in here now, am I?” “What do you mean?” Bia shifted her shoes on the carpet and smoothed her hair. “Well, you and me were trying different shit a lot when we were together and I’d feel terrible if I–” “No,” Ian interrupted. “Trust me, you’re not the reason I’m here. I was an addict before I met you.” Bia sighed, still looking concerned. “Okay, just wanted to apologize for ever turning you onto it.” His time dating her had been comfortable and some brief, needed stability. They spent it trying drugs and having sex, but Ian’s favorite memories had been the late hours of the night when they lay beside each other and she shared stories; these including tales of her life as a surgeon and her wild experience of growing up with a drug mogul mother like Rosanne Madaki. “I’m the one couldn’t stop Bia, and you never forced me. You were one of the few things keeping my head above the water. Taking Xanax was my own choice and so is quitting it.” She smiled meekly. “That’s the spirit.” “So, how have you been recently?” “In constant therapy for… y’know, what he did. There’s no better relief than waking up in my mother’s house and remembering he’s dead and will never be anything but dead. Mom’s barely let me out of her sight, and when she does she has one of her bodyguards tail me around, she thinks I don’t notice.” “She loves you.” “I know, she just blames herself for everything still.” “We’ve all got our struggles,” Ian said patting her arm. “We’ll try and get better together, okay?” Bia nodded and smiled at him. “I’d like that.”

[gamerwoman3d]

100 Lifetimes 7/100

Spider wove words into the smoke.  Spider was thinking of a story, and as she thought the story, the story manifested itself into reality. The smoke from the elders prayer fires lifted into the ominous cloud of black smog, bringing their words and pledges with it.  When the last fires extinguished, and the last thinning snake of smoke sputtered to nothing, the sun set red upon the bloodlusting sky.  The Three Great Wolf spirits slowly swirled within the cloud, surrounded by the wounded and angry spirits of their tribal family.   “We are all together, again,” the three wolves said, “It is the three of us, together, once more!” "If there are any of our family that does not wish to take the warpath with us, let them return to white smoke and fade away," said Black Smoke Wolf. "No," said White Smoke Wolf, "let them go in peace." "None of our family wishes for any path but this, the warpath," Gray Smoke Wolf said. Gray Smoke Wolf had spoken with the spirits in the smoke.  He spoke with the spirits of the trees that were decimated. He spoke with the bees.  He spoke with the animals.  He spoke with the men and women of the village.  All of these were family, every animal and plant and scorched lichen a beloved family member.  The crops destroyed were family.  They inhabited the spot on their mother earth where wolf shaped rocks formed.  These rocks, and the smoke, and the sky, were all family.  They all worked together.  None would take the warpath unless it stood for the benefit of all our relations.  And all our relations agreed that in this case, it was better for all if these strangers paid for their trechery with their lives, to prevent such a fate from happening in the future.   "How should we proceed?" Gray Smoke Wolf asked.

"We will rain into the ground, marry our anger with the rocks below.  Our Mother Earth will not weep for us, but fight for us, this one time," Black Smoke Wolf said. "We must wait," White Smoke Wolf said, "We must wait for the thunder spirits to join us.  We dare not take the warpath without their chaos." Below, a young two spirit named Singing Frog On The Oak, stood in the center of the scorched prayer circle, barefoot, and pulled her blue and green shawl around her yellowish shoulders.  She lifted her broad chin to the heavens and sang out.  Her eerie, mournful song resonated across the desolation.  She howled and trilled and moaned, and begged the thunder spirits to come close, to bring rain.  She sang that her tiny feet were dry and covered with black soot.  She sang that the smoke in the sky must be pushed back into the earth. Upon the wolf shaped rock where Howls with Mosquito perished, a young two spirit sat in the snow and drummed upon the ground.  He murmured low notes and called for the brothers of the earth to hear him, called to the brothers of the earth to tell them that the wolf rocks who slept here were attacked in their slumber.  He called the spirits of the earth to watch over the wolf shaped rocks, and alert them if any were to tread upon them, for the tribes would take the warpath with any who set foot on the wolf shaped rocks.   The earth spirits, in concern, tempered the rocks.  The thunder spirits, in rage, charged forth and engulfed the cloud of smoke.  The thunder and lightning danced with the spirits in the smoke.  All came roaring down into the stones in a deluge of rain, to fill the wolf shaped rocks with warrior spirits.  Each wolf laid itself down in the wolf shaped rock, and laid there in silence for a year.  They felt the rain and snow and cold and sun across their backs.  They felt new worms burrow into the dirt around them.  They felt the spin of the earth and pull of the moon.  They heard all the music one could hear by putting their ear to the stone, the music of growing roots, the music of shifting tectonic plates thousands of miles away.  They heard the clicking of beetles, the thudding thump of skipping deer hooves.  They heard the pitter pattern of rain, and the low roar of the aquifer beneath them as the water table rose.  The three wolf shaped rocks talked to each other; this was the most connected they had ever been.  The noise upon one rock sang throughout all the stone and vibrated into the rest of the surrounding earth.  And so each wolf sang to itself and each other.  And life grew once more upon the site the heathens burned.  But no tribesmen would set foot upon that sacred land, after all the ceremony they performed there. And one day, at the end of fall, when the snow threatened to fall and blanket the land in freezing white, a human foot trode upon the sacred stone, and the three wolves stopped their song.  Every bird took to the sky, the deer rushed from the forest, every being or spirit that could leave, did so; except the human invaders.  The plants themselves grew quiet, their leaves grew fragrant with defense.  The mushrooms and ferns shrank into themselves.  The invaders had not noticed the quiet; but their horses had noticed, and refused to go further.  The horses kicked the invaders, and fled.  They bucked the invaders off their backs.  They wanted nothing to do with the sacred lands or its eerie quiet.

The invaders continued.  Tiny pebbles shifted under their feet.  Pebbles tumbled downhill, seemingly of their own will.  There was a secondary silence, before a wolf like grumble heralded the skittering of a great many pebbles.  A crack opened in the earth to swallow an invader.  An avalanche buried seven more.  The rest ran from the falling rock, took shelter under the overhanging bluffs.  The bluffs themselves growled and snapped, and collapsed upon the invaders.  The spirit of the black wolf chewed, pinned the invader to the earth. The sun set.  The moon set.  The sun set again.  Many invaders died, and Black Rock Wolf chewed his prizes while Grey Rock Wolf stood vigilant for invaders.  Black Wolf Rock's prize squirmed beneath the weight of his jaws, surrounded by the corpses and drenched in the blood of his comrades.  The tribesmen came to the scene as the sun rose on the third day; All the tribes felt the earth shake, and knew that the invaders returned.  They were unsuprized to see the damage, and the invaders crushed in the rubble.  They pulled the bodies from the rubble and washed the blood away.  They left all of the bodies at the mouth of Black Wolf Rock. "Bring back the ones who fled, and feed them to me," Black Wolf Rock demanded.

"Bring back the ones who fled, and feed them to White Wolf Rock," Grey Wolf Rock corrected. The villagers did as requested.  They tracked down the invaders, dragged them back to the edge of the bluff of White Wolf Rock.  They pushed them.  The invaders plummeted to their deaths.  White Wolf rock rumbled, and the tribesmen fled to Gray Wolf Rock.  White Wolf Rock crumbled atop the corpses of the invaders and drank her fill of their blood.

"We cannot stay in the rock," Grey Wolf Rock said, "you both have crumbled, you are too far gone."

"We will not leave you," White Wolf Rock and Black Wolf Rock sang out in tandem.

The spirits of all their relations stirred within the rubble, in celebration.  They were no longer on the warpath, but could not rise to heaven again without another ceremony.  The tribal elders agreed to do the ceremony, but the spirits wished to stay within the rocks, until the end of time, ready to help their descendants take the warpath when the warpath became the only path left. The spirits of White Wolf Rock and Black Wolf Rock began to fade, their rage slaked on blood.  The elders said they must hurry to send the wolf spirits back.   "I must go with them," Grey Wolf Rock said, "I cannot bear to be apart.  I will crumble." "Another ceremony then, for Grey Wolf Rock, is needed," their medicine man said, "but the rock needs a spirit, or it will crumble."

"What about all of our spirits?" said the spirits of the animals and plants and people destroyed by the invaders. "That, I think, will do," the medicine man said, "if you stand together as one unified force, a unified people, a unified spirit."

"We will do this, so that Grey Wolf's spirit can ascend with its brothers," the spirits said.

And so the ceremonies were performed.  Black Wolf Spirit, White Wolf Spirit, and Grey Wolf Spirit were released from the rock.  The community coalesced into one spirit in the large grey stone.  This spirit, they once called Grey Wolf Rock, they began to call Standing Rock.  

Once released, the three great wolf spirits spoke.

"Where should we go now?  What should we become?" they all wondered.

"We could become tribesmen of a different tribe," White Wolf Spirit said. "We could become wolves again," Grey Wolf Spirit said. "We could become the invaders," Black wolf spirit said. "No!" said Grey Wolf and White Wolf. "Yes," said Black Wolf Spirit, "I want to know why they are the way they are.  I want to know what it is like to live as an invader." "But we would be giving them too much power," White Wolf Spirit said. "Maybe we could teach them the way of the wolf, if they do not know it," Gray Wolf Spirit said, "and maybe they will learn not to destroy the sacred." "Fat chance," Black Wolf Spirit said, "But we can try if you like."

[liv-andletdie]

Zelink Week 2018: Finale

Author: liv-andletdie 
Rating: teen and up 
Words: 1200+ 
 Pairing: BOTW Zelink, Hylink 
 Notes: The hero had reached his inevitable end. He had fought bravely and loved dearly but at the finale it was all for naught. He would receive no reward, no accolade, no grand happy ending. It was his destiny to give his life to the land.

Available on Ao3

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Everything hurt.

Words were impossible in that moment, that moment hovering between the end and the beginning. An incredible heat bore down on him as he was blinded by ash and blood. The scorching sun caused his lips to splinter, the metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth, and with every breath Link could feel his ribs cry out in pain.

He would scream if he could. If there was anyone who could hear him still left on the surface. He had sent his people skyward, followed his heavenly orders and protected the ones the Goddess loved most. They were safe now, he knew, and as bitter tears welled up in his eyes he tried to be grateful for that.

At least I did something right, he thought as tears began to trail down his cheeks.

In the distance he could see a shadow, looping through the sky like the ash from a fire. He could feel his heart slow in his chest as he watched it, trailing it’s path with clouded eyes. The shadow passed in front of the sun, suddenly lost to him, snuffed out like a candle on a dresser. Shutting his eyes to the sunlight he let himself drift, resting on the burnt out ground of what was once a forest.

Demise had set it aflame. Taken everything he could and destroyed what he wanted. The people had put out the flames as best as they could, but still the trees had withered and died. It had been too little too late. The world he had once loved was gone.

Footsteps like thunder shook the ground and suddenly She was there beside him. White hair flowing around her shoulders as she knelt next to him, hands clawing at his tunic and hair. Cold fingers trailing over his cheeks and neck as he lay before her, a tangled broken shell of who she loved.

“Hylia” he breathed, his throat dry and aching. He felt her pull him into her lap, the dusty earth leaving his back as she pressed his head against her shoulder.

“My Love” she whispered, her hand trailing down to his side. He wanted to scream when her hands found the wound in his abdomen, but his voice failed him. Hylia pulled her hand back from his side, crimson as bright as her loftwing stained her skin. “You’re hurt” she choked out, her body shaking at the sight of his blood on his skin. “You were meant to be on the island with the others!”

“I wasn’t….fast...enough” he panted. He cursed the Demon who had wounded him, cursed himself for getting distracted, cursed himself for letting her down, “I’m so s-sorry” he murmured, pressing his face against her neck. Hylia threaded her hands through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp.

“It’s alright” she murmured, rocking him gently in her arms. “It’s alright it’s going to be alright” silver tears pricked at her eyes. He was getting colder, the strength seeping from his bones as his blood soaked into the earth beneath them. “It’s all going to be alright” she clung to him, his body shaking in pain.

“H-hylia” he choked, blood clogging his throat. She pulled back to rest her forehead against his, his blue eyes weak and almost unseeing as redness coated his teeth, “It hurts” he whispered as crimson dribbled down his chin. Hylia reached out to wipe the blood from his skin, her fingers almost burning him. Link held a fragile hand against hers, keeping her fingertips against his cheek. “I’m scared”

He was dying.

The hero had reached his inevitable end. He had fought bravely and loved dearly but at the finale it was all for naught. He would receive no reward, no accolade, no grand happy ending. It was his destiny to give his life to the land.

Oh how she cursed destiny.

Hylia pressed her lips to his head, his skin burning under her touch. He felt a shiver of pin run through him, it was getting harder to stay awake, to stay present. He tried to focus on her, picking out the silver scars that shone in the dying light of the sun. He tried to focus on the way her hair fell over her shoulder, tried to focus on her hand against his cheek. He tried to remember lying in their bed, wrapped in each others arms as the moon sailed past the stars. He tried to hold on as long as he could.

She was talking, words lost to the evening sky as she whispered and breathed. She seemed to be telling him that he was going to be okay, that he would see the next sunrise. She tried healing incantations, prayers and curses, but nothing could stop the bleeding. Nothing would save him. Link felt his heart calm as he watched her, using his last strength to squeeze her fingers in his.

“Thank you” he breathed, crystal tears trailing over his cheeks.

“You have nothing to thank me for Link” She bit, silver streaking down her cheeks. Her eyes began to turn gold as she watched him fade, all strength leaving him, all fight gone. He became heavy in her arms as he tried to shake his head. His chest heaved with each laboured breath, the wound in his side growing larger.

“Thank you” he said again, his eyes growing clear. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, mixing with his tears as he gazed on her. “Thank you for giving me the chance to love you”

She was silent. A single tear fell from her eye, landing on the apple of his cheek. She watched as it seemed to wash away the dirt and blood on his skin leaving him fresh and healed and whole. Link’s breathing slowed, his eyes became unseeing as his head drooped back.

Hylia looked away for a second, surveying the burnt out remains of the forest. The large smouldering tree trunk still shone red with the embers of a long dead fire. She recognized it, letting a sad smile curl at her lips. Only he would choose this place to die.

“Look Link” she tried, tears flooding her throat as she pulled him closer to her. “This is where we first kissed” Link was silent, heart thumping weakly against her. A steady drumbeat that told her she still had a few moments left, a few fleeting seconds

And then it stopped.

His eyes had slid shut, no more pain or suffering marred his features as his head rested in the crook of her elbow. He looked like he could be sleeping. Hylia wanted him to be sleeping. More tears began to flood her cheeks, molten silver clogging up her throat.

“Look Link” she tried again, vainly begging for some response, “please look… open your eyes. Wake up Link please” Her sobs grew as she buried her face in his neck, all warmth and life gone from him now.

“Please Link”

“Open your eyes”

“Wake up Link”

The young man opened his eyes to shining blue lights. A voice, faint in the back of his memory beckoning him to awaken from his slumber. A voice that was so familiar, he must have heard it before… maybe in a dream. Silver hair and golden eyes came to mind but before he could remember a face or a name they were gone.

It must have been a dream, He thought, wiping agonized tears from his cheeks. It couldn’t have been anything other than a dream.

~Fin~

Notes: ZELINK WEEK IS DONE AND I’M PROUD OF MYSELF. I finished of the week the way I started it, with BOTW Zelink angst this time with a Hylink flavouring. (I’m sorry I had too, the parallels between BOTW Zelink and Hylink were to strong for me to ignore!) I want to thank everyone who has stuck by me this week and who has supported my writing. I couldn’t do this without you x Keep your eyes peeled for future projects. Like a Modern TP AU, a Smutty Sequel to “Water”, and a little bit more Hylink x

[starlistic]

laughs nervously hey all you be thou for the people folks

well the most recent episode means that I actually Cannot restrain myself, so! spoilers for my fic under this cut. it may not be the exact thing but it is still the thing. also... some mustang-esque use of alchemy. and broken automail.

you have been warned.

Kouta is terrified.

He sees smoke and steam and something that’s neither rising from the treetops, and he knows that something is wrong.

The wind carries to him the acrid tang of burning and ash. Around the corner, a cloaked figure approaches.

By the time Mandalay’s voice comes echoing into his thoughts through her quirk, begging him to run, it’s already too late; he begins stumbling towards the little path back to the camp but stops, fear clutching at his heart with ice-cold fingers, because there is a shadow over him and footsteps behind him and he turns—

“Look what we have here,” the cloaked villain drawls, and Kouta slowly backs away another step, limbs shaking. “I just wanted a decent vantage point, and here I’ve found you. A face that wasn’t on the list.”

Kouta thinks that under that hood and under that mask, the villain must be grinning. He cannot see it, but he can hear it.

Tears well up in his eyes, hot and frustrated and fearful.

“Hey, your hat’s pretty cool, kid!” the villain continues, apparently completely ignoring Kota’s discomfort. He points at his mask. “Wanna trade? I’m new, so they gave me this lame-ass mask because they didn’t know if they’d be able to ship it in on time.”

Move, Kouta thinks to himself, move! And this time he wrenches himself free of fear’s paralytic hold and runs, feet pounding the ground. His legs are shorter but he’s smaller, more agile, so he should be able to duck and dodge. ( He is the son of two heroes and the cousin of another and he knows how to get away from someone dangerous. )

Except the villain is faster.

Rock cracks and Kouta skids to a messy stop as the villain rebounds off the wall to land in front of him.

The mask clatters the the ground behind him.

He sees the punch winding up, the arm drawn back to pummel him into the ground. He realizes he can’t avoid it. The villain is too fast to dodge, for a little boy, but then he sees the hood flutter and reveal a prosthetic eye and suddenly he remembers the news on That Day, the fact that the villain who killed his parents is still free, the fact that the villain who killed his parents has a strength-augmenting quirk, the fact that the villain who killed his parents suffered damage on the left side of his face because of his parents, the fact that this is that villain and Kouta chokes when he inhales for a scream.

Papa! Mama!

He does not duck his head but watches the punch come for him like death rushing headlong, tears streaming down his cheeks, thinking of his parents.

But then lightning flashes over the ground and the earth groans and splits apart and Kouta falls to his knees as the earth bucks and hurls him backward, just barely out of range. A line of spikes jut upward, cutting the villain (murderer) off from Kouta.

For a second he wonders if Pixie-bob has somehow managed to find him, but it’s a blur of green that hauls itself over the cliff edge, not the familiar pro hero.

“Kouta-kun!” Midoriya Izuku shouts, lighting still crackling around his mechanical fingers, his prosthetic palms glowing with etched-in circles. “Kouta-kun, come here!”

Kouta runs but the villain jumps, and Izuku swears before lurching forward, wrapping his arms around Kouta and rolling out of the way when the villain crashes into the lip of the cliff and cracks it.

The abrupt movement startles a half-sob out of Kouta, and Midoriya glances at him before pulling his expression into a tight smile, teeth bared in defiance. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Midoriya seems to deliberate whether or not to set Kouta down, glancing at the villain and then at the forest, and then he grimaces.

(The forest is beyond the villain, now, and Izuku does not think he is fast enough to get around him. Which is unfortunate, and possibly damning. But he does not tell Kouta.)

“Ah,” the villain says, grinning. “You must be Midoriya Izuku. Perfect, that saves me the trouble of finding you.”

Being so close, Kouta feels more than sees Midoriya stiffen. And then he feels himself being set down slowly, and quickly regains his footing to back away. Midoriya discretely positions himself between Koutan and the villain. “What are you talking about?” Midoriya begins, but then stops. His expression hardens, and he claps his hands together — as though he’s just decided that he doesn’t care enough about the answer to hear it.

Something rings into the air like a bell, but the villain is already moving, red fibrous material swarming his arm. Kouta blinks and the wind pressure hurls him backward, sending tumbling him head over heels, and precious seconds pass before he can scramble back to his feet.

Midoriya is gone.

—No, Midoriya is in a new crater in the rock wall, and one of his arms is falling apart, wires hanging out and joints snapped. The hand is gone, blown clean off, but the rest at least seems to be capable of moving.

Not capable of surviving another blow, however.

Kouta grits his teeth against a whimper and hears the villain ask about some Bakugou (which sounds familiar... one of the heroes-in-training, maybe?). But he can’t do anything. 

He tastes salt on his lips and doesn’t know if it’s his tears or Midoriya’s blood or both their sweat.

Midoriya calls up a wall of rock to soften the villain’s following blow, energy buzzing through the air, and Kouta covers his head as the wall is immediately blown apart and the debris scatters everywhere. He misses the moment the villain kicks Midoriya down, but when he looks up, he sees the result with horrible clarity.

Midoriya is on the ground, grimacing and struggling to push himself up with his broken prosthetics. It looks like his other arm’s palm has been scraped off.

The transmutation circles have been destroyed.

“That’s right,” the villain says casually, looming over Midoriya. “You’re the quirkless one. No wonder you’re so weak; my muscle enhancement quirk means I can break anything you think you can create.”

Midoriya spits blood and glares. “I,” he grinds out, rasping, “am an alchemist.”

“And I am bragging,” the villain says. “Everyone knows about how useless alchemy is. What did you claim, just moments ago? That it’s okay? I’d say don’t make me laugh, but I’m already laughing!”

Kouta crouches, and his fingers close around one of the pieces of debris. A small stone, jagged-edged. He imagines that he can still feel Midoriya’s alchemic sparks writhing around the rock, and imagines it as courage.

“Don’t say things like that if you can’t back it up,” the villain says, and his quirk surges to life, encasing him in muscle.

Midoriya is still on the ground, so Kouta sets his feet in and throws.

The pebble knocks on the back of the villain’s neck like a gentle tap, and he turns his head.

Kouta’s shaking from head to toe, but he manages to pull the words out of his thoughts and force them out of his mouth. “The Water Horses,” he says, trembling. “Mama and papa — did you torment them like that before you killed them, too?”

Silence.

And then the villain turns and grins, advancing on Kouta, and Kouta stumbles back fearfully, eyes wide and vision wavering with tears—

The air rings in an odd echo of a clap, and Muscular pauses for a split instant in confusion before everything explodes into fire and Kouta screams as he’s tossed backward again by the force of the blow, rolling across the ground until he feels the edge of the cliff stop beneath him and terror claws its way into his throat as he begins to fall—

Another ringing clap, and suddenly the cliff’s steep face comes alive and curls through the air to catch him safely and bring him back to the top again, where Midoriya has his broken prosthetics pressed to the ground. Relief floods his expression when Kouta comes into view.

“Sorry,” Midoriya says. “You weren’t burned, were you?”

“N-no.”

“Good. I... Can you get on my back? We need to get out of here—”

The scorched debris is shoved aside and Midoriya staggers back when the villain hauls himself up with a dangerous scowl.

Midoriya claps again and — to Kouta’s confusion — clips one hand against the other like striking flint. A spark flares to life and the villain seems to realize what happens just an instant before it strikes, but even that is too late.

The spark zips to him and ignites in a howl, and the villain roars in pain as he burns.

“It’ll only scorch him a little,” Midoriya says, breathless and pained, and tips his head for Kouta to grab on. Kouta does as instructed, clinging to Midoriya’s torn shirt as tightly as he can.

The fire dies out quickly and the villain fixates Midoriya with a terrifying glare that could kill heroes all on its own. “Fuck orders,” he snarls, “I’m going to smear you into the ground for that—”

A clap, and the villain lunges at him, apparently trying to close the distance and avoid the incoming fire at the same time.

“Bye,” Midoriya tells him, and touches the ground.

Kouta gasps as the earth drops out from beneath them, plummeting them below the villain’s punch.

[aroacehogwarts]

Grayro asexual Helga in a qpr with quoiro aceflux Rowena - h

Helga walked in the pile of rubble that was going to be their Great Hall, and her heart melted. “Oh, Rowena.”

The candles were hardly necessary under the brilliant starlight, but still they flickered on the small, two-person table filled to the brim with food. Rowena stood to its side with a smile as wide as her queerplatonic partner’s. “A night just for the two of us, I promise ye that.”

Helga hurried over to the table to embrace her best and closest friend and qpp. “Thank ye. And this smells delicious. I’m duly impressed!”

The past weeks had been busy and exhausting. The four of them - Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin - had been in and out of the area they’d picked to build their school. Back and forth for supplies, busy setting up wards and enchantments and leaving to check them, going out to recruit future staff, etc. And when they were on the school grounds, they were often all separated and working on different parts of their grand castle. The four had been close friends for decades. Building the castle was the most they’d been apart for a while now.

It was particularly hard on the two witches, who had immediately clicked upon meeting and only grown closer with everyday they knew each other. Their bond was only strengthened when Helga came out as asexual and Rowena as quoiromantic, then helping each other to realize the other part of their identities. Helga was also gray-aromantic and Rowena aceflux. No matter what happened with dates or family or friends (especially Godric and Salazar), the two always had each other to lean on.

They were halfway through a lovely dinner of reminiscing when a ground-shaking roar rattled the ground, knocking a couple dishes off of their table.

Rowena raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. 

“I suppose we should go see what that was about before it finds us on its own.”

With a heavy sigh, Rowena got up and lifted her wand to the ready. “Fortunately, it was loud enough, we should not have a hard time tracking it down.”

Despite herself, Helga laughed. “So, any guesses?”

“Sounded large. Dragon was the first thing to cross my mind.”

“Yes, I was afraid of that.”

As if on cue, the light of the stars was momentarily drowned out by a large swath of fire cutting across the night. Hela and Rowena broke into a run. Helga finally drew her wand as well.

The sight they came upon might have been terrifying for lesser wixen. A large dragon, at least twice the size of what seemed to be average, was stomping around the grounds. The beginnings of a mighty tower had been stomped to the ground and destroyed. Scorch marks ran across the earth where it was no longer on fire. Flames blazed at the edge of their forest, yards away. Looking like specks next to the dragon, two figures ran around its feet, dodging the dragon’s angry path and shooting spells at its underbelly.

“Oh my,” Helga said, then doused the forest as Rowena shot a stunning spell at the beast.

“Ladies! Glad you could join us,” Godric bellowed, narrowly missing getting cuffed by the dragon’s tail.

“What did ye do!?” Rowena demanded, throwing up a shield as the dragon roared fire towards her and Helga.

“Ye do not want to know,” Salazar yelled, sounded quite angry himself. Helga wondered if the anger was towards Godric or the dragon.

“Godric, move!” Helga screamed, then knocked him back a few feet with her magic when he didn’t move fast enough to avoid getting smashed under a large, dragon foot. Then she conjured water again and shot it towards the dragon. “And ye, cool down!” she demanded, as if the dragon might listen to reasoning.

The dragon swallowed the water and smoke billowed from its mouth. Its roar deafened them. With a quick flick of his wand, Salazar cast shields around all of their heads, and their hearing cleared slightly.

“I believe a plan is in order,” Rowena shouted.

“We had one - aim for the weak spot!” Godric replied.

“With what?” Helga asked. “Stunning does not appear to be working.”

A look of revelation mixed with resignation crossed Salazar’s face. “Follow my lead,” he said. “Rictusempra!”

Without missing a beat, Godric followed suit. Rowena and Helga shared a look.

“Just for once, I do think a quiet dinner might be nice,” Rowena murmured.

A snort, then a giggle. “Oh, ye would get bored with that and ye know it.” Helga threw an arm around her qpp and took a moment to savor their togetherness.

Then, together, they shouted, “rictusempra!”

The dragon shook and roared, then plopped on the ground to roll around. None of them let up on their tickling spell. Finally, as if of one mind, the four lifted their wands and broke the spell. The dragon shook itself off, gave them all a glance, then unfurled its wings and shot off into the sky.

“What exactly was that?” Rowena demanded, looking directly at Godric.

“Never tickle a sleeping dragon,” Salazar intoned flatly.

“Godric!” Helga exclaimed, aghast.

Godric shrugged sheepishly. “Well, apparently you should tickle a dragon that’s awake! Quite useful. Quick thinking, Slytherin, mate.”

Rowena shook her head in disbelief. Deciding it wasn’t worth the energy, she turned away from the two wizards, slipped her arm around Helga’s, and started back towards their abandoned feast. “Never tickle a sleeping dragon,” she muttered. “I never.”

Helga grinned and lightly bumped her hip into Rowena’s. “Maybe we should write that onto the school somewhere so he never forgets it.”

Rowena’s laughter echoed into the night.

~Hufflepuff Mod

[biofunmy]

Arsonists are torching the Amazon. This elite team of firefighters stands in their way.

NOVO SANTO ANTONIO, Brazil — No one could stop the fire. It had burned for 10 days already, across 25 miles, when the rancher made the desperate call to the only person he thought could still help.

“Let me ask a question,” Edimar Santos Abreu responded. “The fire — is it happening in the forest?”

“The forest!” the rancher said.

Abreu, 45, put down the phone. Little forest remained in this corner of the Amazon basin in Mato Grosso state. What was once a blanket of continuous green foliage is now a checkerboard of arid and dusty farmland.

One of the only things keeping the last shards of forest here from getting torched and bulldozed into cattle and soy farms is Abreu’s team of firefighters: the Alliance Brigade. Known locally as the “guerreiros de fogo” — the “fire warriors” — they spread across hundreds of miles each day to contain blazes lit by land grabbers trying to burn, claim and develop the forest.

[Why the Amazon is burning, and what it means for climate change]

The daily battle — between fire and nature, conservation and development — is intensifying across the Amazon. Since the inauguration of Brazil’s pro-development president, Jair Bolsonaro, deforestation has soared. Fires now rage across the Amazon. In August, officials counted nearly 31,000, a nine-year high. The number fell in September, but the year-to-date total remained up for 2019.

They’re burning in public parks. On private ranches. On government land. On Indian reservations. In so many places, and across such an immense sweep of forest, that stopping them all can seem impossible.

But perhaps here, in northeast Mato Grosso, the forest could still be defended. Where the brigade is active, the burn rate has plummeted. Some describe the team as a potential model for the rest of the Amazon.

The challenge, however, in a land this remote, with few people and little infrastructure, is obvious — reaching the fire in time.

Abreu drove hours down pockmarked dirt roads, past towns cloaked in red dirt, to discover an apocalyptic scene. Cows had died of smoke inhalation. An expanse of charred earth reached toward the horizon. The farmworkers had thrown nearly everything at the inferno, from water to heaps of dirt. Most of it had been defeated.

Abreu had to finish the job.

He peered into a quiet patch of trees.

“Do you hear that?” Abreu asked. “Fire.”

He pulled on his cap. He unsheathed his long knife. Then he hacked into the foliage and disappeared into the trees, in search of the fight.

[Brazil’s Bolsonaro says he might accept G-7 offer to help fight Amazon fires — if Macron apologizes]

A violent struggle for land fuels the fires

Mato Grosso means “thick bush,” and until recently the name fit. The last asphalt road ended long before this corner of the state. The only reasonable way in was by plane. And the humidity of the trees was a natural flame retardant: Fire dissolved at the forest’s edge, like magic.

This was the land that John Carter, the former U.S. Army paratrooper who founded the Alliance Brigade a decade ago, came to know when he moved here from Texas in 1996.

“An island in the forest,” was how he described his ranch then. Now, looking out at the Araguaia State Park, he could see that it was the forest that had become the island.

“This wind,” he said, feeling it pick up. “It’s going to burn today.”

“Uncontrollable,” Abreu agreed.

They boarded Carter’s aluminum boat and chugged out onto the River of the Dead. Carter, a compact man in a cowboy hat and boots, scanned the scorched coastline for plumes of smoke.

When he first piloted his single-engine down here, he had no idea why there were so many fires. But he would learn.

There was big money in “flipping” the forest — burning it, then selling it as farmland — and squatters and speculators wanted in. A Brazilian law allowed the purchase of uninhabited public land here at deep discounts. Then agrarian reform efforts made private land a target for landless poor.

[The Amazon isn’t on fire, Brazil’s Bolsonaro tells the U.N. General Assembly; it’s full of riches]

The result was a violent struggle involving ranchers, indigenous peoples and squatters in which the best way for settlers to claim forest, no matter the owner, was to burn it.

“There!” Carter said, pointing at rising smoke. “They’re lighting it everywhere!”

The boat sped toward the plume.

Former U.S. Army paratrooper turned rancher John Carter started the Alliance Brigade in 2009 to combat fires in the Amazon. He still journeys into the rainforest with the firefighters. (Terrence McCoy/The Washington Post)

Members of the Alliance Brigade travel the River of the Dead in search of fires last month. (Terrence McCoy/The Washington Post)

Fire so defines Carter’s life that it’s difficult to remember a time when it didn’t. In 1999, squatters started burning a neighbor’s forest. In 2008, they came for Carter’s land, torching the 50 percent he had preserved — more than 10,000 acres.

Enraged, and fearful of what he might do, he gave away nearly all of his guns. But the anger — that he couldn’t dispose of.

“I can’t even see the beauty anymore,” he said. “I just see rage. Because we know what the future holds.”

To Carter, the future: the entire Amazon transformed by an avalanche of development and deforestation. It was a scenario he once couldn’t envision. But he has seen it happen in Mato Grosso, on his land, and now again on this river.

Araguaia State Park, half the size of Rhode Island, doesn’t have a single patrol officer. Squatters are exploiting the void by lighting fires to destroy the forest so there’s no choice but to develop it.

Three fires now flared along the river. Smoke filled the sky. The boat hit the shore.

“Let’s see if we can catch them,” Carter said, charging into the forest.

A plume of smoke rises over the River of the Dead. Authorities believe the fires are lit by land grabbers. (Terrence McCoy/The Washington Post)

Ranchers could be part of the solution

Kika Carter couldn’t get her husband to calm down.

The smoke had grown so thick they couldn’t see across the river. They could barely drive. Barely fly. Barely breathe.

She told him to do something about it. They had launched a partnership that used market incentives to encourage sustainable ranching, garnering international attention. Maybe they could do something about the fires, too.

“This frustration,” she recalled telling him. “You just need to get it done.”

He wrote a letter asking the Smokejumpers — the highly trained first responders who parachute into remote areas to fight wildfires — to train some locals here. To his surprise, they said they would do it.

The result, according to Douglas Morton, a NASA official and Amazon expert, was “the best-equipped and -trained” privately organized brigade in the basin. The eight initial members roved, fighting fires and championing a counterintuitive premise: Ranchers were less a cause of the fires than part of the solution. They could be trained, too.

On nearby ranches, fires plummeted. In the forest of Alto Xingu, fires fell 77 percent where they patrol. Smoke diminished around John Carter’s ranch, and local health officials registered a 25 percent drop in hospital visits for breathing problems.

Alliance Brigade commander Edimar Santos Abreu uses a blower to create a fire break around the flames in Araguaia State Park. (Terrence McCoy/The Washington Post)

“This could be a model,” said Britaldo Silveira Soares Filho, a researcher at the Federal University of Minas Gerais. “When a firefighter is not someone you can go summon to go there and fight the fire, you have to train someone there.”

Or it will burn.

Carter and Abreu hurried into the forest, dodging thorned fronds. They spotted horse tracks and followed them. But what they found a mile into the forest wasn’t a squatter. It was a fire, burning low and hot.

They stared at it, wordless. They had called federal park authorities but were told the problem was the state’s. They had called state park authorities but were told the Araguaia didn’t have a patrol officer, let alone firefighters. They had called the police but were told an arrest could be made only if the arsonist was caught in the act.

“We don’t have the people or the knowledge to deal with this in the park,” said Mariano Neto, the local police chief.

The only thing left was to put it out themselves.

[Why Brazilian farmers are burning the rainforest — and why it’s so hard for Bolsonaro to stop them]

The Amazon is burning

Back at his house on Carter’s ranch, Abreu pulled on his khaki coat, slid on his boots and tied his long knife around his waste. He was furious. Not only at the arsonist but also at how the broader story of the fires was being told.

The international outrage to him was artifice, whipped up to delegitimize Bolsonaro. Every year the forest burned, and every year more of it was knocked down. Where was the anger in 2007, when far more fires burned than this year? Where was it in 2010, when Mato Grosso was positively flammable, hitting double the number of fires as this year?

To Abreu, this year is barely discernible from most. All that’s different is who’s in power.

One of the most important tools of the jungle firefighter has is the long knife, for cutting through dense foliage to reach remote fires. (Terrence McCoy/The Washington Post)

That was why, when people mocked Bolsonaro for saying his critics had started the fires to make him look bad, Abreu didn’t join in. On the frontier, with its endless cycle of violence and retribution, it made sense. Bolsonaro, in his calls to develop the Amazon, had “assaulted with words” the environmentalists and indigenous people. Some of the fires, Abreu believed, were payback. Others were deforestation. Others were simply to watch a beautiful thing burn.

[Putting out the Amazon fires isn’t just a physical challenge — it’s a political one]

He grabbed his hat. He climbed back onto the boat, picked up two other firefighters, crossed the river and went into the forest. The men carried nothing but machetes, a few jugs of drinking water and a leaf blower. Up ahead, smoke was rising. The sound of popping and crackling was everywhere.

The fire was now sweeping in length, the height of its flames reaching 20 feet — and growing.

“Strategy,” Abreu said. “Lots of strategy.”

He had no chance of extinguishing it. The fire was too big; the firefighters too few. The only option was containment. He would build a fire break — a gap in vegetation around the edge of the blaze — to box it in and let it burn out on its own. But when he charged toward the numbing heat, the flames lashed unpredictably.

“Too much!” another firefighter yelled.

They retreated, fanning out across a half-mile front of fire. Abreu used his leaf blower to create the fire break. The others slashed at the brush with their machetes.

They battled until the sun was gone and the fire was no longer the hot orange of flame but the deep red of ember.

What had taken one person seconds to light had taken three men hours to quell.

They started for Carter’s ranch, exhausted, silent. They needed to rest. It wouldn’t be long before the next fire was lit.

A fire burns in Araguaia State Park. (Terrence McCoy/The Washington Post)

Read more:

This Brazilian island wants to show the way to a green future. Businesses, backed by Bolsonaro, see the next Cozumel.

As police shootings in Rio rise, children are caught in the crossfire

The dog is one of the world’s most destructive mammals. Brazil proves it.

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