#orange tones cannot be defeated by color alone

[deadrocks]

What I need: enough money to bring my car payment up to date.

What I desperately want: enough money to get a proper haircut and color correction.

[sol-the-otter]

Sol'oya - part 2

PHYSICAL PRESENCE AND GESTURE.

1. How do they move and carry themselves?  Pace, rhythm, gestures, energy?  

Have you ever seen a curious otter? Or cat?

They move decently confidently, and a little bit swirly. They walk mostly on their toes and the balls of their feet, so they tend to dance a bit with smooth movements. 

2. How much physical space do they use, active and at rest?

Despite trying to make themselves small, they take up a fair amount of space. They exude a lot of energy nearly all the time.

3. How do they position themselves in a group? Do they like to be the center of attention, or do they hang back at the edges of a crowd?

They prefer to be on the edge, never the center of attention. 

4. What is their size and build? How does it influence how they use their body, if it does? They are thicker and heavier built,  though they don't often move like it. Muscular, but fairly light on their feet. Not necessarily fast, but fairly mobile.

5. How do they dress? What styles, colors, accessories, and other possessions do they favor? Why?

Well. armor of course. But when not in armor, in jedi-ish robes. Flowy bottoms and tight tops. Fur. bone. Leather. Their armor is based off of xeno’jiiva, in shades of blue and grey with bright orange and pink accents. 

Most of the rest of their clothes are black or earthtones. With orange accents.

6. Where and when do they seem most and least at ease? Why? How can you tell? Most at ease? On their ship (a kom'rk class called the Saber), on/in the water or with animals. Least at ease? In a crowd, with attention on them. In places where they have no escape. Places they feel trapped. And you can tell because they cannot hide their emotions or anxieties.

7. How do they manifest energy, exhaustion, tension, or other strong emotions? Generally very obviously and very expressively. They are incapable of hiding any emotions, let alone strong ones. Heart on their sleeve at all times, and they generally care too much for their own good.

8. What energizes and drains them most?

Energizes:  caf. flying . fighting. Laughing with those they love. Running water. open spaces.

Drains: other people. crowds. cities. small spaces. bureaucracy and politics.

9. How are they vocally expressive? What kind of voice, accent, tones, inflections, volume, phrases and slang, and manner of speaking do they use?

Adhd incarnate. Spits out questions and comments about things that they are interested in at random. Loudly. Especially when animals are involved. Their brain is like a ping pong ball just bouncing from subject to subject, often without much actual functional train of thought.

When they are exciteable, they are loud and expressive and there is a twinkle in their eye and a fire in their soul and you can see it in their movements.

When they are sad/tired/defeated/etc, they are silent and small. and it feels wrong on someone who is generally so expressive.

10. How are they bodily expressive? How do they use nonverbal cues such as their posture, stance, eyes, eyebrows, mouths, and hands?

Constantly in motion. Always looking around, very curious about everything and also very emotive when they are speaking. If their body cannot be in motion, their hands always are. 

They project love and a love for life and an energy towards the world that is rarely matched, and it shows in their movements and their excitement for nearly everything that they see.

If they are interested in you and what you have to say then they will completely focus on you, but if they aren't you can automatically tell because their attention will be literally anywhere else.

Now, if you have caught their attention, then their loyalty is unmatched and they will defend you till their death.

someday i'll actually color this. Sol and Talyn. An inseparable bond. this is an older picture so the armor isn't updated yet lol.

[ristoranteivorykeys]

sanctuary — oneshot

amidst a burning city, you try to find sanctuary using the woven band azul gifted you. ft reader x azul ashengrotto

╰┈➤ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: masquerade event definitely bonked me in the head for the past two weeks 🧍 i wrote this based on the idea that azul bought the twins esmeralda's charm as a symbol of him telling the twins how to always find him. except make it delusional and imagine if he gifted that same charm to reader. ╰┈➤ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: spoilers for glorious masquerade event pt 2

Scent of smoke, orange light, burning stone. 

Where music and merchant voices used to be, sputters and crackles of fire take their place. You crawl on the pavement, seeking cooler grounds, midnight skies, a place to breathe. Your skin is most probably blistering, but you feel no pain. Not while you’re trying to escape.

The stone feels colder. You stand. Almost there.

The air feels lighter. You run. Almost there.

That looks like the river. The outskirts of the City of Flowers. No fire perturbs its peace. You gasp. 

Sanctuary.

You collapse to the ground, weak from relief. You cough, you pant, but you breathe. Your skin is red and dry and starting to ache, but you can feel it. You can feel the pain. You made it out alive. 

A smile blooms on your face. Laughter soon replaces the coughing as tears spill from your eyes. You don’t trust your voice yet to speak, but the thought rings clear as the clink of colored glass. I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.

Boom! Your laughter halts, and your body freezes from the explosion in the distance. The relief that brought you to your knees leaves you, replaced with panic. Except now, you’re looking around the area, and the realization that nobody is around hits you like a spear to your head. 

“Oh my God,” you breathe out as you fumble for your phone in your pocket. With shaking and aching hands, you hastily click Professor Trein’s phone number, and you press your phone to your ear firmly, anxiously waiting for the dial tone.

“Hello? Hello?” You say as if hello would summon his voice. Alas, all you hear on the other end is silence, no dial tone to be heard. 

You put the phone down, only to be met with a black screen. You frown as you click and tap the phone. But no light shone. “No, no no no…” Dread fills your gut. You shake your head in denial, but it can’t change the fact that the phone in your hand is dead. 

Once more, you look around, hoping for a new face to appear from the furnace. But you’re still alone. 

“Professor,” you scream out loud. You stand up from the ground and cup your lips. “Grim! Deuce!” You scream louder.

But only a faint explosion and the continuous crackling of flames answer your calls.

Shoulders slacking, you let out a defeated sigh. The dread in your stomach continues to weigh you down, feeding you thoughts that leave you shuddering. Your friends and schoolmates crawling like you did, running like you did. Except that the fire consumes them before they flee. Except that the manic eyes of Noble Bell’s president spots them before they can escape. 

“No, no,” you tell yourself. “They’re definitely alive. They’re too stubborn to die like that. They’re alive, they should be alive.”

You lean on a wall, looking down to your phone and tapping it like it would miraculously turn on. In looking at your phone, the charm on your chest dangles and enters your field of vision. Amidst the growing panic and dread, somehow, the woven band coaxes a butterfly or two to flutter in your gut. 

After all, Azul gifted that to you, and you definitely cannot forget the charming smile on his face or the way he put it on you.

You gasp. Hold on.

“Excuse me, Professor Trein, I apologize for the suddenness, but I need to use the restroom,” Azul says, just as the group prepares to return to Noble Bell College. 

Trein sighs, crossing his arms. “We are about to return to Noble Bell College. Can it not wait?”

“No, Professor. I apologize for not going sooner, I was absolutely taken by the culture of the city that the need only hit me now,” Azul answers with a slightly more desperate tone. 

He hums, frowning in thought. 

“If it reassures you, Professor, [Your name] can go with me.”

The statement startles you. Suddenly, all the butterflies in your stomach are let loose. You swear you want to jump into the Soleil River right now to prevent the blood from rushing to your cheeks.

“Hmm…” Trein turns to you. “Are you alright with that?”

“O-oh um, yeah!” You nod, probably a bit too quickly and a bit too much. But you don’t care. You’ll take any opportunity to spend time with Azul. 

He sighs. “Alright. But make it quick.” 

“Ah, thank you very much,” Azul beams. Then his gaze turns to you, and the momentary eye contact makes you want to melt on the spot. “Come now, let’s make it quick.”

You don’t need to be told twice to follow him. 

The two of you walk to the nearest building, but you immediately come to realize that Azul may not have needed the washroom. Azul casts glances behind him, compelling you to turn your head to see what he’s looking for. But before you can find anything, he takes a hold of your arm and pulls you to a quieter area. 

God, help the outcasts your soul right now. 

“Sorry for pulling you away from the group, but there is something that I need to show you,” Azul says. 

“Oh sure, what is it?”

From his pocket, he pulls out the woven band that he purchased from the seller you encountered a while ago. “I was taking a look at this protective charm when I realized something,” he says, showing the front of the band to you. “See those blue lines running across the charm?”

“Mhm, yeah?”

“Check your map of the city now and compare it with the charm.”

You do so, pulling out the map that Trein gave to you a while ago and unfolding it. Your eyes widen. “Holy shit, the river.”

“That’s right,” he nods with a proud smile. “Thank goodness you’re smart enough to catch on quickly.” 

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly his compliment made you smile. 

“What that merchant seller said, I’m guessing that it means that this charm is actually a map of the city,” Azul continues. “Hence, the city is in your hands.”

Your eyes widen in awe. “That could be!”

“I know you said that you wanted to buy this as a souvenir for friends,” he says. 

“Yeah, and you questioned me about it and called the charm boring.”

“But you continued to stare at it like you wanted to buy one for yourself.”

Your eyes widen once more but this time in shock. He noticed that?

He smiles amusedly. “So I was right. It’s a good thing I bought a third one, then.”

“Wait, what?” Your heart hammers in your chest. You tell yourself to calm down, but the suggestion that he bought a gift for you starts a fire in your chest. 

Azul holds out the thread of the necklace. “Here, let me put it on you.”

You don’t fight him or anything. You let him put the necklace on you, relishing the feel of his hands brushing the sides of your face and your neck. Even his lightest touches set your skin on fire, fanning the flames of your feelings for him further. 

“There.” He steps back slightly to gaze at the necklace, smiling as he does so. “I imagined such a necklace would look stunning on you, [Your name]. I’m glad I acquired one for you.” 

The word stunning replays in your head like a broken record. “Th-thank you, Azul,” you manage to utter. “I didn’t think, well, I knew you bought souvenirs for Jade and Floyd and even for Deuce and Epel, so well—”

“Why, did you think I would forget about you,” he asks. “Of course I want to give you something to remember this day.” 

This man. 

The necklace on your chest, the charming smile on his face, the sweet words on his lips, it’s infuriating that he can sweep you off your feet so easily even when you know there’s a catch to what he says and does. And yet, you love the way you shiver from the warmth his words and actions give you. You really want to jump in the river now just to cool down your heated cheeks and slow down your racing heart. But simultaneously, you want time to stop and leave you in the moment with him. A moment when you can tell yourself that he is yours.

“... On that note, there is something I want you to do with that charm,” Azul adds. 

You snap back to reality. There’s the catch you’ve been expecting. 

“See, I need to check out a certain store that is a bit far from here. In the charm,” he lifts up your charm to point at a purple circle marked with a diamond, “the store is located on this circle. In case anything happens, I need you to use this charm to find me.”

You raise a brow. “Can’t you just get my number so that I can contact you?”

“We can’t be sure that our phones are always fully charged,” he replies as he lets go of the necklace. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

“But why trust a charm?”

“Simply put, there must be a reason why it is called a protective charm,” Azul says. “I trust that it will fulfill its purpose. But most importantly, I need you to trust in me.” 

You say nothing. You look at the charm then to his face, glancing at those smoldering eyes that look so confident. You have your worries. What if the charm won’t fulfill its purpose? What if you can’t find Azul?

But on the other hand, you remember how you trusted him back in Scarabia, when he let himself play victim to Jamil’s magic and come out successful. You trusted him then. And Azul wants you to trust him now. 

And that was enough reason for you to nod at him in reply. 

You pant as you lean on the balcony rail of a high building. Hand covering your nose, you squint and pull out your map and hold up your charm. You scan the area. Much of the central area has been consumed in fire. Few people below you are running from the flames, finding refuge from the mad president that started this hell.

“If I’m here, then the place should be…” You lift your head from the map. At the direction your gaze turns to, that area of the city has yet to be touched by a single spark. 

“Oh please please let that be the place,” you quietly beg to no one as you start running out of the building and back to the city.

Scent of smoke, orange light, burning stone. Where music and merchant voices used to be, sputters and crackles of fire take their place. You’re far enough from the flames that you can run without worry, seeking sanctuary, midnight skies, a person you care about. Your lungs and legs ache, begging for respite. But you don’t let that stop you. Not when you need to find at least one companion who’s okay.

“Azul!!” His name may have been the loudest word you ever shouted. “Azul!!!” Your voice echoes throughout the street, but no one responds. 

You check your map. Still a considerable distance from where Azul should be. It almost makes you succumb to your exhaustion. Almost being the keyword.

“Over there!”

The loud voice causes you to stop. Your skin turns cold from terror. 

You look around. To your right is another path, illuminated by a faint yellow glow. Horses neighing and clopping reach your ears. In shouting for Azul’s name, you called the attention of the guards. 

Without hesitation, you start running. 

You dare not look back, nor do you bother to check your map. You care not for the turns you make. You know not the direction you’re going. All you can think is run run run. Faster faster faster. 

The horse clops can’t be heard. You slow down. You’re far from them.

The guards can’t be heard. You breathe. You’re far from them.

The streets are clear. You’re far from them. 

Sanctuary.

Just as you think you can stop, a hand takes hold of your arm. The fear you feel is like no other. It’s an arrow to the heart, a fall to cold waters. You can’t fight or scream. You have no time to, as you’re yanked to the shadows of an alleyway. 

You’re pulled to an embrace. It’s firm, strong. It terrifies you. You start to struggle to get out.

“Hey, hey.” The person whispers. “It’s me.”

You immediately stop struggling. Craning your head upwards, you find yourself gazing at familiar blue eyes behind a dark mask. 

You gasp. “Azul!” you exclaim in a whisper as you wrap your arms around him. “Thank fuck, you’re alive.”

And you continue to repeat it like a mantra. He’s alive, he’s alive. You hold onto him tightly, as if he might disappear if you let go.

“Yes, I’m alive,” Azul says almost exasperatedly. “You don’t need to keep on saying it.” But he smiles with relief while keeping his hold on you. 

“I-I’m so so-sorry, it’s just, I-I was so scared, and and…” Perhaps it’s because you stopped running that you can finally let your guard down. You can shudder and stutter, and shed the tears made from earlier fears. You can breathe, knowing that someone you care about is alive. 

Sanctuary. You finally find sanctuary.

[scaramoucheslove]

PLEASE expand more on that Zhongli brat tamer thing you posted 🥺

Brat Tamer! Zhongli x Brat!Reader (GN)

Listen to me

What to expect: Spanking, Size kink?(a bit), Choking, Teasing in public, Getting called “whore” once I swear, Zhongli as ur god, fingering? lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: AAA BRAT TAMER ZHONGLI NEEDS MORE APPRECIATION </33

(also im so sorry if this is shit even tho i spent so much time writing it?? hurr i apologize and i tried to make it as gn as possible! <33)

Zhongli loves an obedient sub that listens to him and obey his rules. You, were the perfect little baby for him. You were his obedient, perfect little baby. Sure, you’ve been accidentally bad a couple times here and there. But imagine if someday, you were curious enough to see what’s it like to test his limit. So, when you were acting out of the ordinary, of course he’d be suspicious.

It all started when you both woke up. He’d always wake up first, usually drinking tea at the dinner table and you’d always greet him. But today, you felt a little braver than usual and decided to just ignore him and went ahead to the kitchen to grab your breakfast. He raised his brow, but thought nothing much of it. You put your plate on the table and played with your phone while eating your food.

Zhongli cleared his throat, causing you to look at him with a confused look on your face. “Good morning” he said with a smile, a fake one if I may add. You ignored him and continued to play your phone and eat your food. You could see his smile fade away in the corner of your eye. “I expect a response, no?” you looked at him, and his expression seems blank. “Uh, morning?” you answered blankly before continuing to ignore him. He sighs in defeat, standing up to prepare a hot shower to cool him off.

Zhongli said he’ll be meeting up with a few people for a while, and of course you being you, decided to tag along. You were confused on what to wear—until you remembered your little plan to push his buttons. You smirked at yourself before thinking. You had an idea. You put on the most revealing clothes you’ve ever worn out in public just to mess with him. Once you were done getting ready, he doesn’t say a single word. His gaze was enough to make a person tremble, thus why you were averting his eyes the whole time. He simply grabs your hands and wrapped it around his and said nothing more than a simple “Let’s go.”

You finally arrived at the Teahouse after quite some time. The moment you two opened the door, all eyes were on you. You looked absolutely stunning. Your looks may even be enough to tempt a god. Zhongli clearly tried to ignore the situation and dragged you to the back and seated you both at the corner of the Teahouse.

The meeting overall was boring. Although it was pretty boring, you had to admit that hearing people talking about Morax and acting as if they know more than Morax himself was kind of funny. You yawned in boredom and continued to look around before your eyes landed to your boyfriend’s figure that was sitting right beside you. His eyes that are completely focused, the way he talks, and the way his tall figure is sitting straight, asserting dominance through small, simple things. You couldn’t help but feel excited just by looking at him. Your excitement caused you to land your hand on your boyfriend’s thighs as he was listening to some people talking and discussing about the geo archon. He looked at you, confused and you gave him a small, sweet innocent smile, in which he returned.

But what he didn’t expect was for your hand to go higher and higher, until he realized that your hand was basically almost touching his dick. Before you could do anything further, he slapped your hand away and came closer to your ear to whisper, “Behave.” That action alone caused you to shiver and it tempted you even more. Biting your lower lip, you decided to wait for the right moment. After everyone was done talking and discussing, they asked for Zhongli’s opinion. And just right before he gets the chance to talk, you took the chance and managed to place your hand between his pants without raising any suspicions. He flinched slightly, earning worried looks from other people and workers. “My apologies, I thought I saw something.” He said as he kept his composure. And surprisingly enough, they believed him. Thank god you were seated in the corner so that no one could see what was actually happening between the two of you. You palmed him through his pants slowly as he explained about his opinion. You could hear the slight shake on his voice and clearing his throat way more than he normally does, even though he looked completely focused and well composed. “Mr. Zhongli? Are you feeling alright?” someone said in which he responded with a slight nod, and a pinch to your thighs as a warning. You gasped quietly in surprise and stopped your ministrations before looking at him. His stare was menacing, daring you to make another move. In which you responded by looking the other way and pouting as you rest your hands that was palming him a few seconds ago on the table.

The trip back home was silent. You didn’t dare utter a word, not after all that. You looked fine and chill on the outside, But inside? You were trembling. Was it really a good idea to make your god angry? Is it even worth it? Your thoughts were racing as you asked yourself. But there was no turning back.

You walked inside the house slowly, trying to keep calm and collected. You knew you were in deep trouble the moment he shuts the door with a slam. You saw a glimpse of his beautiful, black hair with a gradient, glowing, neon orange color near the ends of his hair, which usually occurred where he’s focused like in battles, or if he’s really pissed. You didn’t really want to test him any further, so you just decided to follow his next commands and obey him. “What has gotten into you?” He asked, voice demanding for an answer. You turned to him, looking to the ground instead while fiddling your hands. He clicked his tongue and forcefully held your chin so you were met with his amber colored eyes. “Talk” He demanded. You were unable to form coherent words and ended up stuttering on your words. He shakes his head in disapproval and practically dragged you into the bedroom.

He lets you go once you’ve both reached your shared bedroom. You watched as he sat himself on the edge of the bed, looking down and letting out a sigh. The moment his eyes met yours, you immediately looked down, not prepared for his eyes to pierce through you so sudden.

“Strip.” He said lowly. Calmly. But you knew him. It’s always the calm before the storm. You stood there, silently, not moving in the slightest. You could feel the tension in the room. He was disappointed. Of course he was! He had all the reasons to be. He walked towards you slowly, observing the outfit you wore. One of his gloved hand stroking it smoothly as his other hand gripped your jaw gently and made you look into his eyes. “Tsk, I have given you such a simple task. But I know you humans simply cannot do anything yourselves.” He practically spat as he tore your clothes off with both hands. Your eyes widened, mouth slightly opened and you froze due to shock as he chuckled at your reaction.

His two hands grabbed you by the shoulders and threw you onto the bed roughly, a contrast to his gentle grip on your jaw earlier. You continued to freeze in your place and he took the chance to pin both your hands with one of his, as his big and strong body kept your smaller one caged. You tried to get out of his grip. But it was no use. No matter how much you try, he will always overpower you.

“Tell me, love. Were you being a brat on purpose?” He asked you with a teasing tone on his voice. You closed your eyes and gave up, exhaling the breath you didn't notice you've been holding while nodding your head slowly in shame and embarrassment. He chuckled lowly as he lets both of your hand go and flipped you over. You yelped in surprise as he positioned himself so that your stomach was on his lap and he places his hand to rub gently on your ass.

You cried out, “Zhongli please I’m sorry-“ “Now, now. It’ll hurt a bit. But you mortals really need to be taught a lesson to know their place.” He says as one of his hand stroked your hair and the other continued to move gentle motions on your ass. “Zhongli pleas-“ Smack. A loud noise echoed across the room as you jolted forward and you felt your eyes beginning to water. “Can you just listen to me, brat?” his voice sounded clearly annoyed. The room was quiet for a while, until he broke the silence. “Stay silent and take it like the good pet I know you are.”

The sound of your cries and sniffles could be heard in the rather silent room. You were sobbing, hands starting to go numb as you gripped them onto the bedsheets, your ass sore and red from all the painful and harsh smacks Zhongli has delivered. You were trembling. It felt like hours since he started and it never seemed to end. He eventually stopped and started caressing the spots he had abused minutes before. “I’m sorry my love, but If I don’t do this then… you’ll never learn from your mistakes.” He explained. You were still sobbing, but a part of you was relieved that it was over.

He got you off his lap and laid you down carefully onto the bed as you finally closed your eyes, trying to calm yourself down. That is until you feel a hand tracing your back and onto your underwear. You felt him come closer as he whispered in your ear “Seems like someone got excited. Well, it isn’t really a punishment if you enjoyed it. Don’t you agree?” you can feel his hot breath fanning your ear.

He flipped you over, your back now facing the bed. You hissed slightly at the sting because your ass still hurts from his ministrations. He gently spread both of your legs apart as he sat himself in between your now-parted thighs and pulled your underwear down, in which he threw across the room. You tried to cover yourself up but again, it was no use. You were now exposed for him and his eyes to devour. “But I’ll have to admit, seeing you in that revealing outfit where everyone can see really makes me…” he paused as he searched for the right word before continuing. “Jealous.” You prayed to the archons to make it out alive before answering him. “Oh? M-maybe you’re just mad they can probably fuck me better than you.” You’ve done it. You took back what you said about obeying him, but at the wrong time. “Getting brave now, are we? How ironic for someone who cried over a punishment moments ago.” he bitterly chuckles. “Well then, we’ll just have to see how hard I’ll break you tonight.”

He took off his gloves and immediately gathered some of your wetness on his fingers, combining it with the drool he managed to get at the corners of your mouth. He wastes no time as he inserts one finger into your needy hole. You gasped and held onto the bedsheets once more, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. God, his fingers were long. You can feel him filling you up as he kept pistoning one finger in and out of you. But then you started to whine for more. For him to fill you up more. “Humans are indeed greedy, but you’re my greedy little human, aren’t you whore?” you scrambled over your words before he used his free hand to wrap it around your throat and tightening his hold around it. “Answer.” He stopped moving completely and you whined as you finally managed to answer. “Y-yes!” “Yes what?” “Yes, my lord.”

[elysialm]

@stellaxvoid​

A star that shines so brightly and beautifully, the very flame of hope that did not burn away the world but keeps it warm and protected. The Kaslanas, huh? She has Kevin’s looks when he was still hopeful and bright, when she first met him, and the memory makes the 2nd of Flamechasers smile softly to herself as she approaches forward. It’s a delight to meet those who would pave the path towards hope. There were countless of them who failed, it wasn’t strength that was needed to defeat Honkai. Well, not only ‘strength’. Their generation proved it. Their failures showed it. Their deaths were the consequence of only relying on power alone. 

“ Hi! ” She sings the greeting as usual, her tone is musical and cheerful. Her hand is raised to wave with friendliness written all over her face, actions, and her posture. Open and cheerful, the traits that cannot really be attributed to those of World Serpent and those like the current Kevin, she was sure of it. The ice of the one who was the Leader of Flamechasers became too frigid for any memory to bring back any hesitation. “ I have not seen you before! What is a cute girl like you doing here alone? Haha, my name is Elysia. Are you looking for someone? ” This hair, this gaze, these colors. The colors that Mei mentioned to Griseo. Orange and red. The warmth of flames and the colors of hope that stands before her. Kiana Kaslana. What a delight to finally meet the one who bears hope as she did in the Previous Era.

[silkling]

Of Mistakes Past and Missing Home

Of Moments of Life AU

———————————————————————————————————

“You enjoy painting.”

The voice came from behind Boulder, and the unexpectedness of it made him startle. Which, in turn, made him jerk and drag his paintbrush across his canvas. The result of which was him turning a small cloud above a red and orange flower field into a streak that cut through the whole picture. Oops. That wasn’t what he’d been intending.

He turned to see who had spoken, his optics shuttering with surprise when he realized it was Dreadwing. He was quick to realize that the Seeker’s expression had quickly shifted to one of regret.

“I apologize, youngling. It seems I caused you to ruin your art.”

Boulder only smiled, shaking his helm. “It’s no big deal.” he assured. “Part is the artistic process is making mistakes and having to start over. I did it a lot, in the beginning.” He glanced at the canvas, tilting his helm. “But that doesn’t mean every mistake requires you to start over from scratch. That’s the great thing about painting.” he remarked distractedly, tilting his helm in the other direction. “Sometimes, a mistake can be turned into something new, maybe even something better.” he narrowed his optics, then they lit up with a realization. “Sometimes,” he repeated. “All you need,” he reached out, then turned the canvas around so what had once been the flower field was now at the top of the painting. “Is a new perspective.”

When he glanced back, Dreadwing didn’t seem to understand. Boulder smiled. “Let me show you.”

He picked up his paintbrush again, then lifted it and in a few short strokes he added to the stripe that sliced through the picture he’d been painting. He changed colors, adding some more careful strokes around that, and stepped back. It would need refining, but the shape and idea of what he was going for were there.

“See? It’s a feather in the sunset, now.”

Dreadwing only blinked. “I suppose, though I’m afraid I do not much understand art. I always preferred to read data pads and learn about various fields of study.” There was a pause. “Skyquake enjoyed art.” It was a quiet addition.

Boulder found his smile softening. “Yeah? You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.” he encouraged. He glanced at his canvas. “I like art. There’s no set way to do it and there’s not much penalty for making mistakes. It’s nice.”

The Seeker hummed. “Do you believe most mistakes can be fixed with a new perspective?”

Boulder blinked, frowning. There was something off in Dreadwing’s tone. The others might not pick up on it, but he was good with other bots. He always had been. “…this isn’t just about painting anymore, is it?”

Dreadwing startled, surprise making his field flare. “You are far more perceptive than your teammates.” he said after a moment.

Blades smiled, turning to fully face the flyer. “Blades gets too anxious and wrapped up in his own helm to really pick up on more subtle emotions, Chase can barley understand the complexities of his own feelings, let those of alone others, and Heatwave is too proud and headstrong to really know what to look for. They’re all good bots, and I care about them a lot, but they aren’t the most..”. he searched for the right word. “Emotionally intelligent. Blades can read others really well when he isn’t swept up in his worries, but the other two are a bit hopeless.” He wasn’t saying it to be mean or to criticize. It was just the way his friends were wired, he knew. They were naturally better than him at a lot of other things. It was just how things were.

Dreadwing nodded, acknowledging his words. “You are correct. It is not just about painting. But it is my burden to bare, and I will not trouble you with my struggles.”

Boulder chuckled. “Well that’s a bad idea.” he said lightly. “You’ve already helped us a lot. Chase told the team what you did for him. We’ve all seen what you’ve done for Blades. Why don’t you let us help too? You’re one of us now, it’s gotta be about give and take.”

Dreadwing stared. “Wise words for one so young.” he sighed. “Very well, I will share my thoughts.” he vented harshly, then stared intently at the painting Boulder had been working on. “My mistakes are many, and brutal, and not nearly as neat or benign as a misplaced streak of paint. I suppose I merely cannot see how a new perspective would fix them.” he said after a moment.

Boulder was quiet, before he lifted his gaze. “Can I offer my thoughts?” At Dreadwing’s nod, he continued. “You’ve made a lot of mistakes. You’ve done a lot of terrible things. I don’t doubt that. And I know there are a lot of Autobots who would want to see you pay for those mistakes.” he tilted his helm. “I don’t know the full scope of the War. I don’t know everything you’ve done. But I do know how bad off Cybertron was before we left it.” The Seeker shot him a startled look, and he smiled a little sadly,

“I didn’t join the Rescue Force just because I wanted to help others, Dreadwing. In fact, in the beginning, my motives were entirely selfish.” he explained. “When I got to the age where I’d be expected to work, I was told that my first shift would be at a construction site in Kaon. It scared me. I knew how dangerous construction work was and I knew that even if it didn’t kill me it would kill my spark to be forced into something I hated so much. The only escape, the only chance I had at something different, was the Rescue Force. So I signed up to the Academy, and the day I got in was the day I escaped what I would have suffered through otherwise. The others may not have been as aware of just how bad things were, but…I was from the lower castes, Dreadwing. I knew.” he said quietly.

The Seeker was surprised, his optics wide. He saw how Boulder gradually shrunk in on himself as he spoke, and it made something unpleasant twist in him. The bulldozer was usually more at ease and bright, it didn’t suit him to look so…defeated. After a moment of thought, he put a hand on Boulder’s back and stepped closer. He knew Chase would not want more than this, but Blades preferred hugs as his method of comfort. Dreadwing didn’t know what the little green bot preferred so he wanted to play it safe. His bid seemed to pay off, because Boulder shot him a faint smile.

“What I’m getting at is, I know how bad off Cybertron really was. So even if I don’t know your exact circumstance, I do have an idea of what might have pushed you over the edge. I did originally come from Nyon, after all. Granted, I came from one of its nicer quadrants, but…it was still Nyon.” Boulder sighed. Nyon, at one time, had been the cultural and religious center of Cybertron, rivaling Praxus in beauty and grandeur. But under Zeta Prime, Sentinel’s predecessor, it had fallen into near-total ruin. “You made mistakes, and some bad choices, but you only did it in the end when you were backed into a corner and had nowhere else to go. Your choice was the only one you had that would let you remain alive, and that was wrong. No one should have to choose between death and living life serving a tyrant.”

Dreadwing hadn’t explicitly said any of this, of course. But Boulder was perceptive, like the Seeker himself had said. He’d read between the lines. He had understood what Dreadwing hadn’t been saying. It was one of the reasons he’d so quickly accepted the large bot as a new fixture in their lives. In his optics, this was Dreadwing’s chance at a life he should have had to begin with.

“That doesn’t change what you did, but it adds context. And given that the War destroyed Cybertron and decimated our people…” Which had been another thing Optimus had opted not to tell them. Dreadwing had had to share that particular tidbit. “Well, the War has to end someday, and if it ends in Autobot victory then we can’t afford to lock up every ‘Con. I don’t think there’s enough Cybertronians left for that.”

He realized he hadn’t yet gotten around to answering Dreadwing’s statement, and embarrassment flushed through him. “You made mistakes. That’s true. But context adds perspective. And you have a chance here to prove to anyone in the future who would want to hold your past against you that you can do better. Griffin Rock is your trial run. Heal, relearn how to live without War, and make amends while you’re here. Then, when everything comes to an end and the dust settles, it’ll be a lot harder for people to say that you never tried to make things right or that you’re unwilling to change.” he looked up to meet Dreadwing’s gaze. “Prove to yourself that you can be better than who you used to be, and when the time comes for you to face your mistakes, everyone will see that you have what it takes to make it right.”

Dreadwing was frozen, and Boulder found himself smiling at the hints of shock in his field and gaze. “I…had not considered those points.” the Seeker admitted after a long minute.

Boulder chuckled. “New perspective, remember? I just so happened to be able to provide it. That’s part of the benefit of letting yourself trust and rely on others.”

The flyer shot him an indecipherable look, and nodded. “Thank you for reminding me of that, young one. I have not been able to put such faith in another since I last saw my brother. It is good to be reminded that I do not have to handle my burdens alone.”

Boulder beamed, nodding. His somber mood was seemingly forgotten and he gestured to his painting. “Glad I could help! Now, if you don’t mind, I have sudden inspiration for this and I’d like to finish it.” he said, stepping towards the canvas.

Dreadwing let his hand drop, head tilting. “May I watch?” At Boulder’s nod, he settled on a nearby crate and watched the bulldozer work. It was oddly soothing, seeing the colors go down on the canvas, watching the patterns and shapes form into a familiar image. Into…a very familiar image.

After Boulder finished the sunset and feather, he had begun painting…the Rescue Force Headquarters. And Dreadwing picked up the longing and melancholy in the youngling’s EM field. The Seeker’s spark ached at the bulldozer’s visible grief, and he frowned. So Boulder hadn’t so easily shrugged off his earlier memories of home and his life on Cybertron. Dreadwing was not surprised to see him painting the Rescue Force HQ. From what the youngling had said, it would have been the first place he was truly free of the shackles that had threatened to bind him.

Dreadwing said nothing until Boulder finished and stepped back, and it seemed he hadn’t realized what he’d been painting until then, because when he took in the whole painting his only reaction was to let out a quiet, surprised “Oh.”

Dreadwing stepped closer, letting his own field nudge at Boulder’s, and upon finding no protest he let it curl around the youngling. Boulder’s vocalizer clicked and reset itself before he was able to speak. “I hadn’t realized…”

Dreadwing hummed softly. “You miss it.” he could tell in the aching and longing that all but swamped the bulldozer.

“I don’t know why. Like I told you, I didn’t have the happiest beginnings back on Cybertron. But I still miss it. All of it, not just the Rescue Force. Nyon, too.” he said in a whisper.

Dreadwing put a hand on his back, keeping his field soft and soothing. “It is only logical. It was your home. It shaped you and created the foundation for who you are. And I doubt all of your young life was horrible. You said you came from the better areas of Nyon.”

Boulder nodded. “Yeah.” he admitted. “The All Spark Day celebrations were always amazing. And the bots were great. We all had the same origins and the same troubles so we all just…came together. We were…like a community.” he said softly. “We all took care of each other and helped each other and even if the city wasn’t always the best, the neighborhood we lived in was actually alright, for Nyon anyway. I never starved, even if I didn’t always have the best fuel. My life wasn’t great, but…it wasn’t horrible either. I miss all the good things.”

Dreadwing bowed his head. He couldn’t fully relate. He had had no such struggles in Vos, at least not until the Senate had banned any from leaving the city, but he could understand the longing. “Cybertron is dead, but it’s children are not. And hope for our home is not gone either. Perhaps one day there will be a way to return, and even if not, we still live. Once this War ends, it will be possible to keep the life of Cybertron’s heart and culture alive, even if the planet itself cannot be repaired.” he said softly. “You did not get to know Cybertron’s death as the rest of us did, for we knew our home was dying with each day the War dragged on. We had time to come to terms with the loss. You were forced to be confronted with it in a single, harsh day. The rest of us lost Cybertron in pieces, and you lost it all at once. The loss is harder on you than it ever was on me, or any other Cybertronian involved in the War.”

He paused to let the youngling take in all he was saying, the hand on his back smoothing up and down his tightly clamped armor plating. His tone gentled. “I cannot give you back your home, and I know that reminding you of your new home here on Earth will not make the ache go away. So I will only say this: grieve as much as you want for what you lost. Mourn what you were not able to have and the things you will never get back. If you deny yourself that much, you hurt only yourself.”

Boulder was shaking faintly, his frame just a few degrees too warm from the overwhelming force of the grief was processor was buckling under, and his optics threatening to leak cooling fluid in response. He turned a wide, shining look on to the Seeker. His field probed at Dreadwing’s as if asking for comfort, and his vocalizer clicked and reset itself before he actually was able to speak. “…Blades said you give good hugs.” he said quietly, his field holding the softest undercurrent of hope.

Dreadwing only hummed, gaze softening. So that was Boulder’s preferred form of comfort. He nodded, then wrapped his arms around the shaking youngling and pulled him close to his chest.

As Boulder trembled and let himself finally mourn the loss of his home, he found only one thought on his mind.

‘He really does give good hugs.’

———————————————————————————————————

And here’s the next installment in the “of moments in life” AU! I hope everyone liked it! This was fun! I have so much inspiration for this AU you have no idea.

Boulder is the most well adjusted of all the Rescue Bots. That’s why I figured he’d be the best one to help Dreadwing with his own issues. But, even then, he’s still just a kid! A kid who woke up out of a very long nap to learn that his planet is dead and everything he’s ever known has been destroyed. He hid it well, but that shook him hard.

Dreadwing now has THREE children! All he needs now to complete the set is the fire truck! He also needs proper one-on-one bonding time with his helicopter child because their first real binding experience was with everyone watching. So there is that!

Until next time, friends!

[salthaven]

What do you think of this marinette is with both luka and kagami, she decides to use the fox to fake a short akuma battle where ladybugs defeats the villain and it turns into her so people don’t suspect she is ladybug; it backfires when both her loves once they end learn the news won’t let her out of their sight and keep asking if she was alright and they are now out for blood against hawk moth

Wow, that’s an interesting idea! I have a little drabble idea, so I’ll take it for a spin~

~~~~~

   She just wants a break. A chance to keep prying eyes away, to relax, knowing that no one (cough cough Alya) will assume she’s Ladybug. After all, how could Marinette be Ladybug if she was an Akuma?! That’s like assuming Gabriel was Hawkmoth- a viable option, but then he became The Collector.

    (Marinette does not see the irony.)

    It all seemed so simple. All Marinette had to do was borrow the Fox Miraculous from Master Fu. Simple, easy peasy, unlike most things in life. Then she just had to wait, to find an excuse to use her powers, to find something that would upset her enough that she could even trick Hawkmoth himself.

    The day came soon after she made her plan. It comes in the form of Lila Rossi, getting up to her usual antics. Marinette is easy to provoke, she let the Italian pull her woe is me act, let the girl bring up her lies, her friendship with Ladybug- and then she snaps.

    Marinette lets out all the tears she’d held in the past, all the tears she’d hidden from her boyfriend and girlfriend when they’d tried to comfort her, and then she darts out of the school.

    And then she hides, going straight to the park. It is silent. It is calm and empty and Marinette can only hear the breeze as she forced her enemy’s face into the forefront of her thoughts, can only hear her trembling breaths as she remembered the prideful smirk that quickly turned into a pitiful frown, can only hear the soft flapping of butterfly wings.

    Marinette slips a necklace off of her neck, a beautiful, sweet, heart-shaped pendant that her beloveds, her dear Kagami and Luka, had gotten her recently-

    She throws it at the Akuma. It catches, turns purple.

    Marinette breaks down beside it. She sits beside it, lets it hear her woes, her thoughts.

    “Yes, Hawkmoth,” she says, but it doesn’t do a thing. 

    Marinette runs away, runs away from the Akuma she should be...and makes up her own.

    She dons the Fox Miraculous, and Trixx pops up.

    “Ready?” He asks, and she is.

    “Trixx, let’s pounce.” Then she smiles, letting her sadness fade away. “Tikki, spots on!”

    She catches the Akumatized object in her yoyo, and stores it away for later.

    Red and orange darts through the trees, elusive and fast, slipping through the city without anyone noticing. She’s agile, more so than before, and power courses through her. She’s ready, and eager to work her magic.

    She lands in a tree outside of the classroom. And then she whispers a single word.

    “Mirage.”

    A ball of light hits the ground, but in the daytime sun no one sees it. They do, however, see the dark colors that contrast with the sky, the bold pinks and deep purples and flowing gowns. They see Marinette, no, Princess Justice, clutching her dear necklace and shouting at the school.

    The window is shoved open, Alya sticking her head out and recording on her phone. It’s all perfect.

    “And I’ll get my revenge!” Princess Justice is screaming by the time her class can hear her. “I’ll prove to you all that she is nothing but a liar, that she deserves to be punished for hurting you all, for lying and betraying your trust-”

    “I’m not a fan of liars, either, but this isn’t the way to solve your problems,” Ladybug says, swinging in. “I’m sure I can help you, if you’re willing to-”

    “What, talk?” Princess Justice scoffs. “I tried! I tried to tell them! I tried to let them know, but they refused to listen! My best friend is so hypnotized, so drawn in that she believes I’m simply jealous.”

    From the trees, Scarlet Fox sees the way Alya flinches. She smirks, then glances back to her creations.

    “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding-”

    “Exactly!” Princess Justice nods eagerly, ever the optimist. “She’s confused, so I’m here to show the truth! To bring justice. And I don’t want to hurt you, since you’re a victim of Lila’s lies, too, so-”

    “Who?”

    Princess Justice goes silent, then laughs. It’s broken and overjoyed, full of hope. “Who? Who?! Lila Rossi, your infamous ‘best friend’, that’s who!”

    “I don’t know a Lila Rossi?” Ladybug shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here to help you, so if you don’t mind-”

    Ladybug lunges forwards, Princess Justice goes backwards. They leap and tumble and dance across the grass, and Miss Bustier’s class watches in fear, sees the battle with growing tenseness. 

    And then Princess Justice stumbles, her clumsiness shining through even now. And Ladybug snatches her necklace and breaks it.

    In the trees, Scarlet Fox unlocks the yoyo, lets the necklace fall out. It shatters when it hits the ground. The illusion and reality merge, and an invisible yoyo, Scarlet’s, catches reality just as Ladybug catches the fake. They cast the purifying spell.

    Scarlet hears the telltale beep, and wraps everything up.

    “Where am I?” Marinette asks, then frowns. “Wasn’t I in the park?”

    “You were Akumatized,” Ladybug says, “but it’s alright now.”

    “But my friends, they still believe Lila!” Marinette protests. “I can’t let them be toyed with, it’s not fair to them!” 

    Scarlet can see their guilt.

    It worsens when Ladybug says, “Speaking of which, I have to talk with your blogger friend.” She looks up at Alya and says, “Alya! I’ve seen your blog, and I’d suggest that you take the fangirl and her ‘interviews’ off of it! I have only ever spoken to that girl when she was saved from Akumas, and I’d rather not be associated with someone who lies as much as that one.”

    “You- you knew?” Marinette asks with wonder, and Ladybug nods.

“If I had known she was lying about more, I would’ve spoken up, but really! Her lies aren’t even obvious.” Ladybug laughs, then gasps as her earrings beep. “Oh, I’ve got to go.”

“Can- can you take me to the park?” Marinette asks. “I think I need a moment alone.”

“That I can do! Come on!”

    Then they’re gone, and no one sees the way they disappear into thin air. Nor do they see Scarlet Fox, who races to the park before detransforming.

    She’s met with teary smiles when she returns. Her ears are filled with apologies, all of which she accepts without hesitation.

    And then she thinks it’s over. Lila is dealt with, her classmates believe her again, and no one will ever assume she is Ladybug again. Indeed, Marinette is happy, and she gives herself a mental pat on the back as her classmates lead her back to her spot, leaving Lila to fume in the back.

    She didn’t expect such a reaction.

    She should have calculated this into her results, should have foreseen this.

    But how could she have known how much love her dear amours have? How could she have predicted the protectiveness in her parents?

    This is how Marinette finds herself surrounded by those who love her whenever Akumas attack, all four angry at Hawkmoth- no, they’re downright pissed at the villain- for Akumatizing her.

    Maybe Marinette shouldn’t have let Alya record?

    She loves them all, of course, but it does get annoying when she has to, you know, de-evilize the Akuma victim and all, but she’s not allowed to leave her parents’ sights. And if not her parents, Kagami or Luka is always nearby, always waiting patiently.

    They refuse to let Marinette be hurt ever again.

    And it doesn’t matter where Marinette is. In the bathroom? Her mom is on the other side of the door, forcing Marinette to keep conversation. In class? Kagami just had to run an errand for her teacher- scratch that, she got permission from her teacher. Marinette doesn’t know how. Walking through the halls? Marinette will hear the telltale sounds of guitar strings, and she knows plenty. 

    Actually, it’s...it’s not even about Akumas anymore, is it? Marinette sees how angry they get when she’s upset in any way. Frustrated with homework? Kagami is there to help. Mentions Lila offhandedly? Tea with her mother, calm guitar lessons with Luka.

    Marinette doesn’t get it. How did this backfire? Now it’s practically impossible to sneak off, to save the day. All because she was Akumatized?! SHE WASN’T EVEN REALLY AKUMATIZED!!!

    But then the world stops, and that’s when Ladybug is greeted by her parents and her loves.

    “We’re helping you,” her maman says, and Ladybug stills.

    “I’m sorry?”

    “We’re taking down Hawkmoth with you,” her father explains. “Our daughter is unsafe, and we’re going to get rid of him so she can finally relax.”

    “She’s always stressed, her heart sounds like this.” Luka plays a chord, electric, rampant, angry. 

    “She always hides everything inside, so we need to get rid of Hawkmoth so she feels safe enough to let her walls down,” Kagami concludes, and Ladybug feels touched. She blinks her eyes, trying to hide her tears, trying to hide how moved she is.

    (Even if they have the reason for her stress completely wrong.)

    “That is very noble,” Ladybug starts, “and I’m sure this girl is very grateful to have all of you in her life, but I cannot put such a responsibility on you all. This is dangerous work, and I can not allow myself to force you into this mess.”

    “We know,” her maman says, voice gentle but tone firm. “But you’re not forcing us, you’re allowing us.”

    And that’s how Ladybug ends up with a permanent team of six. Chat Noir was surprised to see that the Dragon and Snake were no longer temporary, and even more startled by the introduction of the Ox and Mouse heroes.

    But his surprise can’t match the shock Ladybug feels when the new four bring her Hawkmoth and Mayura’s brooches. 

    Well...it seems she’ll finally get her break?

[thenewnio]

My favorite chapter of The Last Unicorn

He was the color of blood, not the springing blood of the heart but the blood that stirs under an old wound that never really healed. A terrible light poured from him like sweat, and his roar started landslides flowing into one another. His horns were as pale as scars.

For one moment the unicorn faced him, frozen as a wave about to break. Then the light of her horn went out, and she turned and fled. The Red Bull bellowed again, and leaped down after her.

The unicorn had never been afraid of anything. She was immortal, but she could be killed: by a harpy, by a dragon or a chimera, by a stray arrow loosed at a squirrel. But dragons could only kill her‌—‌they could never make her forget what she was, or themselves forget that even dead she would still be more beautiful than they. The Red Bull did not know her, and yet she could feel that it was herself he sought, and no white mare. Fear blew her dark then, and she ran away, while the Bull’s raging ignorance filled the sky and spilled over into the valley.

The trees lunged at her, and she veered wildly among them; she who slipped so softly through eternity without bumping into anything. Behind her they were breaking like glass in the rush of the Red Bull. He roared once again, and a great branch clubbed her on the shoulder so hard that she staggered and fell. She was up immediately, but now roots humped under her feet as she ran, and others burrowed as busily as moles to cut across the path. Vines struck at her like strangling snakes, creepers wove webs between the trees, dead boughs crashed all around her. She fell a second time. The Bull’s hooves on the earth boomed through her bones, and she cried out.

She must have found some way out of the trees, for she was running on the hard, bald plain that lay beyond the prosperous pasture lands of Hagsgate. Now she had room to race, and a unicorn is only loping when she leaves the hunter kicking his burst and sinking horse. She moved with the speed of life, winking from one body to another or running down a sword; swifter than anything burdened with legs or wings. Yet without looking back, she knew that the Red Bull was gaining on her, coming like the moon, the sullen, swollen hunter’s moon. She could feel the shock of the livid horns in her side, as though he had already struck.

Ripe, sharp cornstalks leaned together to make a hedge at her breast, but she trampled them down. Silver wheatfields turned cold and gummy when the Bull breathed on them; they dragged at her legs like snow. Still she ran, bleating and defeated, hearing the butterfly’s icy chiming: “They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them.” He had killed them all.

Suddenly the Bull was facing her, as though he had been lifted like a chess piece, swooped through the air, and set down again to bar her way. He did not charge immediately, and she did not run. He had been huge when she first fled him, but in the pursuit he had grown so vast that she could not imagine all of him. Now he seemed to curve with the curve of the bloodshot sky, his legs like great whirlwinds, his head rolling like the northern lights. His nostrils wrinkled and rumbled as he searched for her, and the unicorn realized that the Red Bull was blind. If he had rushed her then, she would have met him, tiny and despairing with her darkened horn, even though he stamped her to pieces. He was swifter than she, better to face him now than to be caught running. But the Bull advanced slowly, with a kind of sinister daintiness, as though he were trying not to frighten her, and again she broke before him. With a low, sad cry, she whirled and ran back the way she had come: back through the tattered fields and over the plain, toward King Haggard’s castle, dark and hunched as ever. And the Red Bull went after her, following her fear. Schmendrick and Molly had been spun away like chips when the Bull went by‌—‌Molly slammed breathless and witless against the ground, and the magician hurled into a tangle of thorns that cost him half his cloak and an eighth of his skin. They got up when they could, and went limping in pursuit, leaning on one another. Neither one said a word. The way through the trees was easier for them than the unicorn had found it, for the Red Bull had been there since. Molly and the magician scrambled over great treetrunks not only smashed but trodden halfway into the ground, and dropped to hands and knees to crawl around crevasses they could not fathom in the dark. No hooves could have made these, Molly thought dazedly; the earth had torn itself shrinking from the burden of the Bull. She thought of the unicorn, and her heart paled. When they came out on the plain, they saw her‌—‌far and faint, a tuft of white water on the wind, almost invisible in the glare of the Red Bull. Molly Grue, a little crazy with weariness and fear, saw them moving the way stars and stones move through space: forever falling, forever following, forever alone. The Red Bull would never catch the unicorn, not until Now caught up with New, Bygone with Begin. Molly smiled serenely. But the blazing shadow loomed over the unicorn until the Bull seemed to be all around her. She reared, swerved, and sprang away in another direction, only to meet the Bull there, his head lowered and his jaws drooling thunder. Again she turned, and again, backing and sidling, making crafty little dashes to this side or that; and each time the Red Bull headed her off by standing still. He did not attack, but he left her no way to go, save one. “He’s driving her,” Schmendrick said quietly. “If he wanted to kill her, he could have done it by now. He’s driving her the way he drove the others‌—‌to the castle, to Haggard. I wonder why.” Molly said, “Do something.” Her voice was strangely calm and casual, and the magician answered her in the same tone. “There is nothing I can do.” The unicorn fled once more, pitifully tireless, and the Red Bull let her have room to run, but none to turn. When she faced him for a third time, she was close enough for Molly to see her hind legs shivering like those of a frightened dog. Now she set herself to stand, pawing the ground wickedly and laying back her small, lean ears. But she could make no sound, and her horn did not grow bright again. She cowered when the Red Bull’s bellow made the sky ripple and crack, and yet she did not back away. “Please,” Molly Grue said. “Please do something.” Schmendrick turned on her, and his face was wild with helplessness. “What can I do? What can I do, with my magic? Hat tricks, penny tricks, or the one where I scramble stones to make an omelet? Would that entertain the Red Bull, do you think, or shall I try the trick with the singing oranges? I’ll try whatever you suggest, for I would certainly be happy to be of some practical use.” Molly did not answer him. The Bull came on, and the unicorn crouched lower and lower, until she seemed about to snap in two. Schmendrick said, “I know what to do. If I could, I’d change her into some other creature, some beast too humble for the Bull to be concerned with. But only a great magician, a wizard like Nikos, who was my teacher, would have that kind of power. To transform a unicorn‌—‌anyone who could do that could juggle the seasons and shuffle years like playing cards. And I have no more power than you have; less, for you can touch her, and I cannot.” Then he said suddenly, “Look. It is over.” The unicorn was standing very still before the Red Bull, her head down and her whiteness drabbled to a soapy gray. She looked gaunt and small; and even Molly, who loved her, could not keep from seeing that a unicorn is an absurd animal when the shining has gone out of her. Tail like a lion’s tail, deerlegs, goatfeet, the mane cold and fine as foam over my hand, the charred horn, the eyes‌—‌oh the eyes! Molly took hold of Schmendrick’s arm and dug her nails into it as hard as she could. “You have magic,” she said. She heard her own voice, as deep and clear as a sibyl’s. “Maybe you can’t find it, but it’s there. You called up Robin Hood, and there is no Robin Hood, but he came, and he was real. And that is magic. You have all the power you need, if you dare to look for it.” Schmendrick regarded her in silence, staring as hard as though his green eyes were beginning the search for his magic in Molly Grue’s eyes. The Bull stepped lightly toward the unicorn, no longer pursuing, but commanding her with the weight of his presence, and she moved ahead of him, docile, obedient. He followed like a sheepdog, guiding her in the direction of King Haggard’s jagged tower and the sea. “Oh, please!” Molly’s voice was crumbling now. “Please, it’s not fair, it can’t be happening. He’ll drive her to Haggard, and no one will ever see her again, no one. Please, you’re a magician, you won’t let him.” Her fingers struck even deeper into Schmendrick’s arm. “Do something!” She wept. “Don’t let him, do something!” Schmendrick was prying futilely at her clenched fingers. “I’m not going to do a damn thing,” he said through his teeth, “until you let go of my arm.” “Oh,” Molly said. “I’m sorry.” “You can cut off the circulation like that, you know,” the magician said severely. He rubbed his arm and took a few steps forward, into the path of the Red Bull. There he stood with his arms folded and his head high, though it drooped now and then, because he was very tired. “Maybe this time,” Molly heard him mutter, “maybe this time. Nikos said‌—‌what was it that Nikos said? I don’t remember. It has been so long.” There was an odd, old sorrow in his voice that Molly had never heard before. Then a gaiety leaped up like a flame as he said, “Well, who knows, who knows? If this is not the time, perhaps I can make it so. There’s this much of comfort, friend Schmendrick. For once, I don’t see how you can possibly make things any worse than they already are,” and he laughed softly.

The Red Bull, being blind, took no notice of the tall figure in the road until he was almost upon it. Then he halted, sniffing the air, storm stirring in his throat, but a certain confusion showing in the swing of his great head. The unicorn stopped when he stopped, and Schmendrick’s breath broke to see her so tractable. “Run!” he called to her. “Run now!” but she never looked at him, or back at the Bull, or at anything but the ground. At the sound of Schmendrick’s voice, the Bull’s rumble grew louder and more menacing. He seemed eager to be out of the valley with the unicorn, and the magician thought he knew why. Beyond the towering brightness of the Red Bull, he could see two or three sallow stars and a cautious hint of a warmer light. Dawn was near. “He doesn’t care for daylight,” Schmendrick said to himself. “That’s worth knowing.” Once more he shouted to the unicorn to fly, but his only answer came in the form of a roar like a drumroll. The unicorn bolted forward, and Schmendrick had to spring out of her way, or she would have run him down. Close behind her came the bull, driving her swiftly now, as the wind drives the thin, torn mist. The power of his passage picked Schmendrick up and dropped him elsewhere, tumbling and rolling to keep from being trampled, his eyes jarred blind and his head full of flames. He thought he heard Molly Grue scream. Scrabbling to one knee, he saw that the Red Bull had herded the unicorn almost to the beginning of the trees. If she would only try one more time to escape‌—‌but she was the Bull’s and not her own. The magician had one glimpse of her, pale and lost between the pale horns, before the wild red shoulders surged across his sight. Then, swaying and sick and beaten, he closed his eyes and let his hopelessness march through him, until something woke somewhere that had wakened in him once before. He cried aloud, for fear and joy.

What words the magic spoke this second time, he never knew surely. They left him like eagles, and he let them go; and when the last one was away, the emptiness rushed back with a thunderclap that threw him on his face. It happened as quickly as that. This time he knew before he picked himself up that the power had been and gone. Ahead, the Red Bull was standing still, nosing at something on the ground. Schmendrick could not see the unicorn. He went forward as fast as he could, but it was Molly who first drew near enough to see what the Bull was sniffing. She put her fingers in her mouth, like a child. At the feet of the Red Bull there lay a young girl, spilled into a very small heap of light and shadow. She was naked, and her skin was the color of snow by moonlight. Fine tangled hair, white as a waterfall, came down almost to the small of her back. Her face was hidden in her arms. “Oh,” Molly said. “Oh, what have you done?” and, heedless of any danger, she ran to the girl and knelt beside her. The Red Bull raised his huge, blind head and swung it slowly in Schmendrick’s direction. He seemed to be waning and fading as the gray sky grew light, though he still smoldered as savagely bright as crawling lava. The magician wondered what his true size was, and his color, when he was alone. Once more the Red Bull sniffled at the still form, stirring it with his freezing breath. Then, without a sound, he bounded away into the trees and was gone from sight in three gigantic strides. Schmendrick had a last vision of him as he gained the rim of the valley: no shape at all, but a swirling darkness, the red darkness you see when you close your eyes in pain. The horns had become the two sharpest towers of old King Haggard’s crazy castle. Molly Grue had taken the white girl’s head onto her lap, and was whispering over and over, “What have you done?” The girl’s face, quiet in sleep and close to smiling, was the most beautiful that Schmendrick had ever seen. It hurt him and warmed him at the same time. Molly smoothed the strange hair, and Schmendrick noticed on the forehead, above and between the closed eyes, a small, raised mark, darker than the rest of the skin. It was neither a scar nor a bruise. It looked like a flower. “What do you mean, what have I done?” he demanded of the moaning Molly. “Only saved her from the Bull by magic, that’s what I’ve done. By magic, woman, by my own true magic!” Now he was helpless with delight, for he wanted to dance and he wanted to be still; he shook with shouting and speeches, and yet there was nothing that he wanted to say. He ended by laughing foolishly, hugging himself until he gasped, and sprawling down beside Molly as his legs let go. “Give me your cloak,” Molly said. The magician beamed at her, blinking. She reached over and ungently pulled the shredded cloak from his shoulders. Then she wrapped it around the sleeping girl, as much as it would wrap. The girl shone through it like the sun through leaves. “Doubtless you are wondering how I plan to return her to her proper shape,” Schmendrick offered. “Wonder not. The power will come to me when I need it‌—‌I know that much now. One day it will come when I call, but that time is not yet.” Impulsively he seized Molly Grue, hugging her head in his long arms. “But you were right,” he cried, “you were right! It is there, and it is mine!” Molly pulled away from him, one cheek roughed red and both ears mashed. The girl sighed in her lap, ceased to smile, turned her face from the sunrise. Molly said, “Schmendrick, you poor man, you magician, don’t you see—” “See what? There’s nothing to see.” But his voice was suddenly hard and wary, and the green eyes were beginning to be frightened. “The Red Bull came for a unicorn, so she had to become something else. You begged me to change her‌—‌what is it frets you now?” Molly shook her head in the wavering way of an old woman. She said, “I didn’t know you meant to turn her into a human girl. You would have done better—” She did not finish, but looked away from him. One hand continued to stroke the white girl’s hair. “The magic chose the shape, not I,” Schmendrick answered. “A mountebank may select this cheat or that, but a magician is a porter, a donkey carrying his master where he must. The magician calls, but the magic chooses. If it changes a unicorn to a human being, then that was the only thing to do.” His face was fevered with an ardent delirium which made him look even younger. “I am a bearer,” he sang. “I am a dwelling, I am a messenger—” “You are an idiot,” Molly Grue said fiercely. “Do you hear me? You’re a magician, all right, but you’re a stupid magician.” But the girl was trying to wake, her hands opening and closing, and her eyelids beating like birds’ breasts. As Molly and Schmendrick looked on, the girl made a soft sound and opened her eyes. They were farther apart than common, and somewhat deeper set, and they were as dark as the deep sea; and illuminated, like the sea, by strange, glimmering creatures that never rise to the surface. The unicorn could have been transformed into a lizard, Molly thought, or into a shark, a snail, a goose, and somehow still her eyes would have given the change away. To me, anyway. I would know. The girl lay without moving, her eyes finding herself in Molly’s eyes, and in Schmendrick’s. Then, in one motion, she was on her feet, the black cloak falling back across Molly’s lap. For a moment she turned in a circle, staring at her hands, which she held high and useless, close to her breast. She bobbed and shambled like an ape doing a trick, and her face was the silly, bewildered face of a joker’s victim. And yet she could make no move that was not beautiful. Her trapped terror was more lovely than any joy that Molly had ever seen, and that was the most terrible thing about it. “Donkey,” Molly said. “Messenger.” “I can change her back,” the magician answered hoarsely. “Don’t worry about it. I can change her back.” Shining in the sun, the white girl hobbled to and fro on her strong young legs. She stumbled suddenly and fell, and it was a bad fall because she did not know how to catch herself with her hands. Molly flew to her, but the girl crouched on the ground staring, and spoke in a low voice. “What have you done to me?” Molly Grue began to cry. Schmendrick came forward, his face cold and wet, but his voice level. “I turned you into a human being to save you from the Red Bull. There was nothing else I could do. I will turn you to yourself again, as soon as I can.” “The Red Bull,” the girl whispered. “Ah!” She was trembling wildly, as though something were shaking and hammering at her skin from within. “He was too strong,” she said, “too strong. There was no end to his strength, and no beginning. He is older than I.” Her eyes widened, and it seemed to Molly that the Bull moved in them, crossing their depths like a flaming fish, and vanishing. The girl began to touch her face timidly, recoiling from the feel of her own features. Her curled fingers brushed the mark on her forehead, and she closed her eyes and gave a thin, stabbing howl of loss and weariness and utter despair. “What have you done to me?” she cried. “I will die here!” She tore at the smooth body, and blood followed her fingers. “I will die here! I will die!” Yet there was no fear in her face, though it ramped in her voice, in her hands and feet, in the white hair that fell down over her new body. Her face remained quiet and untroubled. Molly huddled over her, as near as she dared, begging her not to hurt herself. But Schmendrick said, “Be still,” and the two words cracked like autumn branches. He said, “The magic knew what it was doing. Be still and listen.” “Why did you not let the Bull kill me?” The white girl moaned. “Why did you not leave me to the harpy? That would have been kinder than closing me in this cage.” The magician winced, remembering Molly Grue’s mocking accusation, but he spoke with a desperate calmness. “In the first place, it’s quite an attractive shape,” he said. “You couldn’t have done much better and still remained human.” She looked at herself: sideways at her shoulders and along her arms, then down her scratched and welting body. She stood on one foot to inspect the sole of the other; cocked her eyes up to see the silver brows, squinted down her cheeks to catch a flash of her nose; and even peered closely at the sea-green veins inside her wrists, themselves as gaily made as young otters. At last she turned her face to the magician, and again he caught his breath. I have made magic, he thought, but sorrow winked sharp in his throat, like a fishhook setting fast.

“All right,” he said. “It would make no difference to you if I had changed you into a rhinoceros, which is where the whole silly myth got started. But in this guise you have some chance of reaching King Haggard and finding out what has become of your people. As a unicorn, you would only suffer their fate‌—‌unless you think you could defeat the Bull if you met him a second time.” The white girl shook her head. “No,” she answered, “never. Another time, I would not stand so long.” Her voice was too soft, as though its bones had been broken. She said, “My people are gone, and I will follow them soon, whatever shape you trap me in. But I would have chosen any other than this for my prison. A rhinoceros is as ugly as a human being, and it too is going to die, but at least it never thinks that it is beautiful.” “No, it never thinks that,” the magician agreed. “That’s why it goes on being a rhinoceros and will never be welcome even at Haggard’s court. But a young girl, a girl to whom it can never mean anything that she is not a rhinoceros‌—‌such a girl, while the king and his son seek to solve her, might unravel her own riddle until she comes to its end. Rhinoceri are not questing beasts, but young girls are.” The sky was hot and curdled; the sun had already melted into a lion-colored puddle; and on the plain of Hagsgate nothing stirred but the stale, heavy wind. The naked girl with the flower-mark on her forehead stared silently at the green-eyed man, and the woman watched them both. In the tawny morning, King Haggard’s castle seemed neither dark nor accursed, but merely grimy, rundown, and poorly designed. Its skinny spires looked nothing like a bull’s horns, but rather like those on a jester’s cap. Or like the horns of a dilemma, Schmendrick thought. They never have just two. The white girl said, “I am myself still. This body is dying. I can feel it rotting all around me. How can anything that is going to die be real? How can it be truly beautiful?” Molly Grue put the magician’s cloak around her shoulders again, not for modesty or seemliness, but out of a strange pity, as though to keep her from seeing herself. “I will tell you a story,” Schmendrick said. “As a child I was apprenticed to the mightiest magician of all, the great Nikos, whom I have spoken of before. But even Nikos, who could turn cats into cattle, snowflakes into snowdrops, and unicorns into men, could not change me into so much as a carnival cardsharp. At last he said to me, ‘My son, your ineptitude is so vast, your incompetence so profound, that I am certain you are inhabited by greater power than I have ever known. Unfortunately, it seems to be working backward at the moment, and even I can find no way to set it right. It must be that you are meant to find your own way to reach your power in time; but frankly, you should live so long as that will take you. Therefore I grant it that you shall not age from this day forth, but will travel the world round and round, eternally inefficient, until at last you come to yourself and know what you are. Don’t thank me. I tremble at your doom.’” The white girl regarded him out of the unicorn’s clear, amaranthine eyes‌—‌gentle and frightening in the unused face‌—‌but she said nothing. It was Molly Grue who asked, “And if you should find your magic‌—‌what then?” “Then the spell will be broken and I will begin to die, as I began at my birth. Even the greatest wizards grow old, like other men, and die.” He swayed and nodded, and then snapped awake again: a tall, thin, shabby man, smelling of dust and drink. “I told you that I was older than I look,” he said. “I was born mortal, and I have been immortal for a long, foolish time, and one day I will be mortal again; so I know something that a unicorn cannot know. Whatever can die is beautiful‌—‌more beautiful than a unicorn, who lives forever, and who is the most beautiful creature in the world. Do you understand me?” “No,” she said. The magician smiled wearily. “You will. You’re in the story with the rest of us now, and you must go with it, whether you will or no. If you want to find your people, if you want to become a unicorn again, then you must follow the fairy tale to King Haggard’s castle, and wherever else it chooses to take you. The story cannot end without the princess.”

The white girl said, “I will not go.” She stepped away, her body wary and the cold hair falling down. She said, “I am no princess, no mortal, and I will not go. Nothing but evil has happened to me since I left my forest, and nothing but evil can have become of unicorns in this country. Give me my true shape again, and I will return to my trees, to my pool, to my own place. Your tale has no power over me. I am a unicorn. I am the last unicorn.”

Had she said that once before, long ago, in the blue-green silence of the trees? Schmendrick continued to smile, but Molly Grue said, “Change her back. You said you could change her. Let her go home.” “I cannot,” the magician answered. “I told you, the magic is not mine to command, not yet. That is why I too must go on to the castle, and the fate or fortune that waits there. If I tried to undo the transformation now, I might actually turn her into a rhinoceros. That would be the best thing that could happen. As for the worst—” He shivered and fell silent. The girl turned from them and looked away at the castle that stooped over the valley. She could see no movement at any window or among the tottering turrets, or any sign of the Red Bull. Yet she knew that he was there, brooding at the castle’s roots till night should fall again: strong beyond strength, invincible as the night itself. For a second time she touched the place on her forehead where her horn had been. When she turned again, they were asleep where they sat, the man and the woman. Their heads were pillowed on air, and their mouths hung open. She stood by them, watching them breathe, one hand holding the black cloak closed at her throat. Very faintly, for the first time, the smell of the sea came to her.

[nekocosmicgalaxygirl]

☀️KIMETSU NO YAIBA OC☀️

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• ~ ✧ Give up? I'm sorry but that's not in my vocabulary ✧ ~ •

      ≫──── ·· ••• ·· ────≪

☀️NAME

=Karui (First Name) Seimei (Last Name) The meaning of his full name is "light of life". It was given by his family, why during his presence is the only light that gives him reason to live for her.  

☀️ NICKNAME

=Ray of light (For his elder brother Taiyo Seimei) Kitsune (For the townspeople because of the fox mask) Dead eyes (for Fuku Saikō) Angel of light (Ryūsa Aisuru)

☀️ AGE

=He is 19 years old, was born on October 29.

☀️ BREED

=Semi Human, because you experienced it with demon parts, you don't even know what it really is.

☀️ GENDER  

=Female.

☀️ SEXUALITY

=Heterosexual.

• ~ There is no doubt that there are stupid people here. ✧ ~ •     

 ≫──── ·· ••• ·· ────≪

☀️APPEARANCE

=She measures 1.71 cm, her weight is 48 kg (She eats a lot of meat because she has a demon stomach since, she never tires of eating)

= Its appearance is light brown skin with a light red tone

= Her eyes are yellow with a shade of orange, many seeing her coldness give her an absolute fear, but she smiles a few times only when seeing her like this one is surprised and causes her tenderness.

=Her hair is of a mixture between yellow and light orange and in her very dark orange tips with a mixture of blood of a crimson red color due to a certain amount of demons that she murdered according to the people of other villages oh other hunters but in reality she was born like this with a strange but striking color  

☀️ CLOTHING

=During her missions, she wears the dress of a demon hunter, apart from the fact that she wears a sun Haori from a sunrise to which it is very striking from time to time she occupies her fox mask of disaster prevention, in her spare time she occupies a kimono of a pastel orange and the middle part of the hair is tied

☀️DISABILITIES

=He has a Scar on the abdomen due to an experiment she suffered.

☀️ IRREGULARITIES

=Since her childhood she had been born with fangs as other children bothered her, treating her like hell

• ~ ✧ I don't know why, but I really get happy when I make others feel good ✧ ~ •

「Psychological aspects」

☀️PERSONALITY

=Karui is a very cold Girl with other people, represses her emotions through a mask, rarely demonstrates her emotions to others, because if it is in an extreme situation or if there is something that at that time can express what she feels doing something that makes her feel good but, almost most of the time she demonstrates seriousness without even having a kind of comparison against a demon because she is still frustrated that she will experience it with demon organs and let her live, after her childhood was a Real nightmare

=In situations of her personality, when she is angry but she is not demonstrating it, what she does is give a knee in the face oh a kick in the stomach, she has a lot of patience but if they annoy her all the time she can get angry.

=But in extreme situations, if a demon manages to get Karui out of his boxes, he may show his true self by turning his eyes a crimson red by releasing his half demon.

=There are times when he can no longer bear the pain of the loss of his loved ones, he begins to cry, releasing all his sorrows.

☀️ LIKES

= Meat and vegetables

=To train

=Cheer on others  

=the animals

☀️ DISLIKES  

=Cockroaches

=The womanies

=The demons

=Be Makeup

☀️ DISORDERS

=For having parts of the devil because of that at night she has nightmares where she loses the beings she loves most, there are times that she cannot wake up because the demon that lives inside her tortures her own need.

☀️ FEARS

= He is afraid of becoming fond of other people who he meets along the way Why after a while he suffers witnessing the raw death of what she has loved.

• ~ ✧I won't stop until that demon is totally eliminated✧ ~ •

「Personal issues」

☀️HISTORY

= At the time the tragedy had arisen, it was at the time that Karui was 6 years old, in her childhood she was very happy, she remained happy, but the other children bothered her by calling her a phenomenon or demon just to be born with fangs, there are times that He witnessed those raw scenes that his beloved older brother was beaten by those children just for defending him.

He didn't care if he was beaten because he was immune to pain but she does care, he hates that his brother is seriously hurt, other than that. that he couldn't do anything to avoid it because he didn't have enough courage to face them and protect his brother, it hurt even his soul There were times when Karui wished she hadn't been born in this world with a lot of cruelty.

She felt a lot of guilt that there are people who belittle her parents, but the strange thing for her is that they didn't care at all at all, all they cared about is that she was happy, they did it so that she was not sad and that she continued to draw a beautiful and radiant smile One day she and her older brother were walking through the forest places collecting peaches until they had suddenly witnessed an appearance of a three-eyed demon and had an ax in a rare way in his hand, the demon noticing the presence of the children were heading quickly to kill them and then eat them, but hopefully they had been saved by a demon hunter who was supposedly a member of the pillars, the pillar of the flames, after a few minutes of making sure she and her brother were Well and that will guide you to your home, it was gone.

A few hours later Karui was alone sitting in the forest of plum blossoms where she was before collecting the fruits together with her brother she knew perfectly that it was dangerous to be alone and just when they had seen a demon in these places but she was quite stealthy at Listen to someone approaching her sense of hearing and apart that at that time there was no sun during the apparition of the devil, she was pondering what happened about what her older brother said about being demon hunters and on what breath, when the child returned home for the time the sun was already setting, when she returned home she witnessed the harsh death of her family among the flames, and the townspeople blamed her that she was responsible from the fire of the other houses, for being a demon, treating her as a murderer, she was in a panic, she had not done anything, she simply did nothing and falsely blamed that she was the monster here, she was thrown into a 3-meter cliff to die .

She thinking that she was going to die giving her last breaths had suddenly woken up in a different place, she was lying in a nursing class but with many damages she realized that she had tubes in her arms and in her abdomen She even had a big scar in that place that suddenly started to hurt, she felt weak because she could not move, unknown men approach her saying that she has a very strange blood, she had saved her life because they introduced organs of hell, they wanted to use it as a weapon against the other demons, Karui felt very badly surprised and scared He wanted to escape from here but he could not, why did he realize that they were using it as an experiment since they had not yet finished with her one day he had heard screams and supposed that there was a demon, she finally asked to move escape from the place and The only one she saw before she could leave here was a stranger with a formal suit and red eyes who looked at her from that place, Karui, for the days she had been hungry, she walked aimlessly weakly while the people looked at her for sorrow, she was saved by Tamayo who was in those places at night.

He had healed her wounds and even injected some vaccines so that the demon cells would not have an effect on her, he had taken care of her for 5 years until she considered her as her own mother, made a hairstyle with a tape that matched her his eyes and hair that had kept him with love Karui at the age of 11 Tamayo had told him the descriptions of the demons due to his demon blood, his power, even the 12 demonic moons along with the very person responsible for the appearance of demons and the most powerful, also He said that the death of his father had not been by a simple accident but by the work of a demon who possesses a fire ability, says goodbye to him thanking him for taking care of her since he was leaving the place on his own to be a demon hunter, to find that demon responsible for the death of his family, also defeat the creator of demons called muzan kibutsuji.

☀️ EXTRA

=He is afraid of Tomioka when he gets angry at her when he is seriously hurt due to his stubbornness for his confrontations with demons, because he does not want anything bad to happen to her.

=He takes pity on the pillar of sound and the pillar of the wind as he always discusses with them even hits the blows with sanemi when his patience runs out.

=He doesn't get along with Shinobu, because Karui is annoyed that he insults giyuu that everyone hates him even the annoying he likes and is ashamed of that.

=He hates to remove the tape from his hair since it is of sentimental value.

=When he entered the group of demon hunters he fainted by using concentrated breathing.

=When he met Tanjiro and the others, Tanjiro saw him as the Frenton steel boy, Zenitsu was sad to see him cry and that he needed help from Inosuke with the wild boar mask he looked like a strange semi-human animal that speaks and is a hunter of demons but without the mask she had eyes of a girl and with a bad character, she does not care why she shows potential and motivation but when she met Nezuko she does not decide to kill her because she had a bad time in her past and she is aware own what is right and what is wrong apart that the pink-eyed demon girl gets along very well with karui.

=She rescues children who lost their families by giving home on her teacher's farm that she and her husband welcome them with pleasure treating them like their children.

=Karui is not drinking Sake because when she takes a drop she falls asleep deeply and the next day she gets up with a headache. she is ashamed or blushes when she is praised for the good things she does, such as trying to cheer up others.

=His raven is very disturbing apart from that he insults other people and also says macabre threats, there are times when Karui wonders why the hell this crow touched him.

=Karui almost always occupies a combat at hand to prevent him from breaking his sword, since she is a good example for the blacksmiths of the town.  

=The patron asks Karui to be the pillar of light, for the moment he is thinking about it.

• ~ ✧I express my emotions with the people that matter most to me, not to damn slags like you✧ ~ •

「Battle Info」

☀️SIDE

=Karui fights for his group of demon hunters, wants to defeat Muzan to find a way to return to normal

☀️RANGE

=Kinoe

☀️EQUIPMENT

=His sword is a style of a rod to which the sword handle is a bit long, but for her he can move it easily without any problem, the handle of his sword is rolled up by a black ribbon and a space has written " Sword of light "and a golden handle that is sturdy, has a white sheath.

☀️SKILLS

= At the moment it has Twelfth positions of the breath of light only that in the Twelfth it still does not manage to dominate it

-First form of light illusion: She quickly attacks her opponent with serious damage due to her breath without being able to react to such an attack.

-Second Form Side Illumination: She attacks in multiple ways confusing her opponent by pushing herself with something resistant, to finally cut the head of the demon is like a light passing through several mirrors.

-Third Backlight Form: She attacks from above where the demon is without noticing its presence

-Fourth Form Diffraction: With just one movement of his sword, the demon's head can be cut despite the long distance due to the rapidity of the attack.

- Fifth form dance of light: Through the dance a quantity of light accumulates in your sword by the movement avoiding the attacks of the demon that can be powerful that of a step followed when cutting the head instead of disintegrating in ashes disintegrates disappearing with small lights but in a very painful way for the demon that is burning while it reaches hell.

- Sixth form Dragon of light: within a battle, when making the attack his sword is formed a dragon thus attacking directly

-Seventh form Solar Eclipse: A ray of light is caused that from a distant battle a rotating attack with a glow ends the demon.

- eighth shape fire light twist: Like the seventh way but a close battle, with a surprise attack by the effect of light on the sword but unlike multiple turns before the demon will make its attack

- Ninth Form dazzling lights: She occupies that form if she is in a severe extreme squeeze during a powerful demon that she avoiding the attack by teleporting as small lights arrives on the other side of the battle closely with the enemy.

- Tenth Shape rotating lights: if the enemy attacks it from above or diagonally, avoid the attack with several lights around it that forms a turn of Fire.

- Eleventh Wings of Light Form: A simple illusion is propelled by propelling from the air to avoid a fall of several meters or in a battle.

- Twelfth Angel Guardian of Light Form: In a severely extreme situation a glow is caused in it rising from the air turning its eyes with illumination just like its sword forming the Sun Mark on its forehead, she as a ray of light destroys the demon due to a light of fire caused by the sword, only for the moment he still cannot control it.

- Karui has a good sense of sight that can see the enemy from afar or even in battle see the movements of the attack, also has a good sense of hearing, because he can hear someone approaching from afar

☀️ WEAKNESSES

=She can withstand many attacks by demons, but her weakness is the large scar on her abdomen that if she was hit hard in that place, she would be unable to move.

☀️ STATISTICS

≡ Strength: 10/10

≡ Dexterity: 10/10

≡ Agility: 10/10

≡ Luck: 7/10

≡ Charisma: 6/10

≡ Speed: 9/10

≡ Intelligence: 9/10

• ~ ✧There are certain difficult, complicated and sad moments that there is a certain time that you have to cry to avoid this discomfort✧ ~ •

────────────────────

────────────────────

│││ . . . .

││✧ . . .

│✧ . ︿︿︿︿︿ • • .

✧

Good bye

[angelpancakes]

Flirt Right Back - Mikey x Reader.

sUp, it’s me, your regular stupid gurl, back wiTh some shitty story.

Title; Flirt Right Back.

Type; (2014/16)Mikey x FemReader.

Inspiration; Flirt Right Back - Blackbear.

Not actually warning lol, just fluff, again I changed a little bit the lyrics.

• • •

“Give me back my phone!” Mikey chased Raph across the Lair.

“Leo! Mikey has an internet girlfriend!” Leonardo popped out from the kitchen and Donnie from his lab. “Catch!”

Mikey’s phone was flying through the air and now was in Leonardo’s hands.

“Mikey, what’s going on? Who is this girl?” Leonardo started reading the conversation.

“Technically, if it is internet dating we cannot assure it’s a woman.” Donnie walked his way to Leo and started reading with him.

“He is my girlfriend!” Mikey took away his phone from his brother’s hand.

“Since when ya have a girlfriend?” Raph sat down on the couch and laughed.

“We’ve been talking for five years now.” They all chocked.

“You been talking to this girl for five years and we never noticed it?” Donnie wasn’t actually buying this.

“Yeah! and give me that.” Mikey grabbed his phone and walked to his room.

“How do you discovered it?” Leo asked to Raph.

“His phone was buzzin’ nonstop. And well, it wasn’t hard to figure out his password. ‘74992.’, and well the conversation just popped out.”

“74992?” Leo was confused.

“Means Pizza.” Donnie clarified.

“Of course it means Pizza.” Leo sighed.

In Mikey’s room, he locked his door and called his Babe.

“Little Peachy thing.” He called her with a smile.

“What’s wrong?” Through the phone line, his girl noticed something was wrong.

“My brothers already know ‘bout us.”

“It’s that a bad thing?”

“No Peachy Babe, just, They don’t think you’re really a girl.” Mikey closed his eyes.

“Well, guess who’s moving to New York.” She said with an excited tone.

Mikey almost faints from excitement.

“Why you didn’t told me!” He almost screamed.

“Well, it was a surprise!” Y/N giggled. “I got a job too! 12 to 3 in a small coffee place.”

“We are finally gonna see each other!” He said almost crying of happiness, they talked a little more but she needed to go.

And then, it happened, he realized, he remembered; He was a mutant turtle, how she was going to be in a relationship with a mutant turtle! After those five years talking, I know it sounds delusional but he actually loved her, he knew about her but this time he was going to see her in person, and he was scared. Maybe after seeing him, she would run away scared and never talk to him again. All of these doubts were running inside his head, and he genuinely looked worried; Y/N was moving to New York in less than a month for him, for him.

“What’s wrong with ya?” Raph asked him. “Ya barely touched the pizza.”

“She’s moving to New York, she’s from East Atlanta,” Mikey confessed to his big brother. “And I’m nervous she wouldn’t like me.”

“She had seen ya before, right?” Raph smirk a little, he understood his brother being nervous.

“Actually... No.” Mikey murmured softly, and he looked Raph’s angry grin.

“Are ya kiddin’ me?” When Mikey looked down embarrassed, he sighed. “And what’s the problem?”

“I’m afraid she won’t like me anymore.” Poking the pizza, Mikey sighed as well. “When you meet your girl she was scared?”

“Ya bet, that shortie almost died.” Raph giggled. “But if she likes ya enough, she won’t care how ya look, I say that from experience.”

Probably Raph was right, after five years of talking, phone calls and telling secrets, he loved her, and he was pretty optimistic, and who wouldn’t love a sweetheart like him! Five years doesn’t go easily, so if he was going to do it, he was going to do it right; His month passed quickly, he was excited, and he planned everything. Let’s check out the plan again:

Step 1: Y/N (little hearts around the name.) Will arrive to New York at 9:00 am.

Step 2: April and Casey are going to pick her up from the airport.

Step 3: April and Casey will distract her and take her to look around the city.

Step 4: MCMikey appears (little stars around the name.) and with his brothers help he cleans up April’s apartment.

Step 5: He will wait for Y/N to arrive at April’s apartment and they will be alone.

Step 6: He will meet her.

Step 7: Y/N will love Mikey.

“The last step doesn’t look trustworthy.” Donnie gave Mikey a weird look, he was actually impressed his brother planned everything.

“Please.” Mikey’s puppy eyes were just too much.

Everyone was ready, except Mikey. The moment was here, he was beyond nervous, he managed himself to act cool, but inside he was like a high school girl in prom. April texted him, saying Y/N was with her and Casey, he sighed in relief. The day was so long! If everything went as planned, Y/N should be arriving at April’s at 8:00 o’clock. And for his good luck it did, lighting up the candles all around the room, he decided it was time to hide. Mikey heard the door being open, and Y/N’s voice! It was even sweeter in person, he resists the urge to run, he needed to be patient.

“So, guess who’s waiting for you in here.” April hugged Y/N and walked towards the door. “Good luck.” She and Casey disappeared.

“Mikey?” Y/N asked, she was nervous too!

Her friends kept saying her he was going to be a serial killer or something, but she knew it wasn’t true, she loved him, and he loved her.

“Y/N.” His voice sounded close.

“Where are you?” She asked to the almost dark room. “I want to see you.”

“You will, just, please don’t run away.” Mikey walked silently.

“Why should I run awa...” Uh oh, and then our Orange boy popped out.

Her eyes widened, she looked at him up and down, but finally staring at his Baby blue eyes. Mikey looked at her as well, she was such a Beauty! Her legs looked so hot in that orange dress! Orange! She remembered his favorite color! Their eyes meet, he saw many emotions in those cute eyes, but he never sensed fear.

“I’m sorry, if i’m not what you wanted.” He looked to the floor, feeling defeated.

“You are even better than I expected.” Y/N smiled, walking towards him, and placing one hand on his cheek.

“I thought you will hate me.” Mikey placed his hand on top of her, watching how she looked at his three-fingered hand. “I thought you will hate me for being a freak.

“Hey, you’re not a freak, you’re my boyfriend, remember?” She giggled, She was right, she didn’t expected that his internet boyfriend was a Mutant Turtle.

But she definitely didn’t mind.

“We’ve been talking since I was 18, and I just turned 23, so.” Those beautiful eyes looked at him, without judging him. “I gave you five years of my life and time, and I fell in love with everything I knew about you, I heard you fighting with your brothers, and I heard you laughing, crying, and you know.” Mikey blushed, phone sex? Hell yeah. “I’ve learned to love everything about you without seeing your face.”

“My precious Peachy thing.” He hugged her, finally having her in his arms. “I love you, and thank you for loving me the way I am.” Now, he was crying, tears running down his cheeks, but they were tears of joy, she loved him.

She really did.

He kissed her, after five years, she was in his arms, and he was never going to let her go. She kissed back, feeling happiness running through her veins, it was real, they were together, and she loved everything about him.

They both did.

•••

aA Hi.

I know nobody cares about my shit xd, but, I actually struggled to do this cuz I tried to not make it a complete smut. So, yeah, I actually don’t see many things ‘bout BabyMikey, so I thought this will be nice.

But the smut its coming soon.

[gorjee-art]

Advice

This is just a short story I’ve made for classes and whatnot, but I ended up liking it as a story so, for good practice and a lil bit of fun, I give you this. Hope you like it! Feedback is appreciated! 

Through twisting and turning hallways of a castle, echoed a voice of a giggling woman, as a light beams through the darkened tunnels, shining like a heavenly gateway. Inside was a royal bath, bubbles floated everywhere in the room with a ceiling revealing the night sky, lit by hundreds of warm candle lights dancing on the marble walls decorated with potions and bottles meant for cleansing, with a heated pool in the center, bubbling with suds. A slim woman with fair skin and hair made of a twilight sky swirling with pink and purples shimmering with starlight, cupped a handful of the foam as set her palms near her pink lips and blew to make the foam break apart into a cloud of bubbles to make it all float back in the skies above her. She giggled once again, seemingly amused with floating spheres above her, legs splashing in the warm waters, happy like a child to be observing what was above her. As she gazed, she lost herself in thought and had an idea to spin herself a tale.

“At last, the Sandman sets his stage, the scene framed with curves and twists of shimmering gold. Upon the rooftops, his foot placed on the tops of chimneys like a marble statue, the moon shining down on his porcelain skin, a spotlight made for the star, in a galaxy of his own childish mind.”  

Her tone was almost as though she was entertaining an audience, her voice dancing with energy and whimsy, with her hands playing along with setting a scene; her body spoke more than her voice for what she told.

“A mischievous creature, his aura demanding attention for those who saw him in their dreams, staring with eyes filled with curiosity and whimsy for he meets them with his own maddened gaze, a Cheshire in their wonderlands, painting his own twisted versions of fairytale and myth. For the fools that dare come closer to the man encrusted with gold, would lose their minds as he once did. For the King of Dreams never liked the concept of order, but would rather prefer the beauty that is chaos, and as a man that starved affection and attention, with an innocent smile, he’d display his work with pride, with the feeble mind of humanity that couldn’t bear to look away. His subjects would forever be in his imagination, keeping him company as they slept their days away. Henceforth, he was known by his name, for they took his title as “The Sandman”, he kept his audience, that cherished the thought of Willing Madness and welcomed them with open arms, with a promise of tea, sweets, and tales told by bold men and a man of his word, many have awoken happily. For each morning, the curtain will close, leaving the King of Dreams to sit alone in his throne…”

She finished, her hands laid on her chest and bowing her head with her eyes shut closed as if to end a scene.

“Ahem,” Her purple eyes shot open to focus upon a young lady, clasped hands hiding away her blacked claws posed in the center of a golden Victorian dress, her face bitter as her frown revealed orange tusks. The pair locked eyes, the lady’s own amber stained spheres met of those belonging to a goddess.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Gorjina.”

Her voice was filled with grace and patience but a hint of strictness and a respect for her ancestor. That seemed to please to whom was “Gorjina Star Nebula”.

“Not at all, dear.” She said with a smile “What is it you need? Or, would you rather join me for a bath, you look…tense.” She eyed the maiden with a cunning grin, making it well known to her that she was teasing the girl’s stress ”Every girl needs a spa day these days, especially you, Norma.”

Norma rolled her eyes at the remark and raised a brow,

“I’m not interested, I just-“ she paused, a moment of silence to chase her train of thought. Her expression faded from an annoyed sneer to a look of worry but quickly shook it off to set back to a tone of professionalism “I just need some advice.”

Gorjina stared and questioned her moment of silence. Concerned, she waited to hear her darling descendant’s woes, raising her hand and fluttered it as if to say, ‘go on’. Norma neared closer to the pool her eyes jutting away from side to side.

“Be honest…” Her voice softened “ do you… consider me as an awful person? Are you haunting my mind as a punishment?”

The final word was said with hesitation, as if it was a truth never meant to be revealed, with guilty eyes she struggled to look Gorjina face to face. However, the goddess stared back with shock,

“She couldn’t have, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t be this…moronic” she thought to herself.

With eyes wide and jaw agape, she laughed a wicked laugh, it was so loud that it screamed up to the heavens above, Norma quickly shut her ears closed and her face crinkled with anger and fury, black smoke spilling out from her gritting teeth.

“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” Norma spat with clear insult.

“You are merely pathetic! Not a monster! If you so consider your misdeeds as sin, then I would be Lucifer himself! You haven’t killed, stole, lied in front of a crying child, do you even HEAR yourself?” Gorjina continued to giggle, gasping for breaths of air as she fanned her weeping tears away

“A punishment? A PUNISHMENT? How low do you think of me Norma? I would be insulted and turn you into a useless doll if wasn’t so funny. Please, you’re only but a serpent living in the caves on top of a pile of gold you so greedily keep to yourself, yet you never bother anyone and they don’t bother you. How could you be horrendous, Norma? Please, I’d ADORE to hear how your mind would come up with this idiocy.”

Norma continued to sneer and growl at the woman who lived in her mind, with anger blinding her judgement.

“Then why does no one come over? Why is everyone that surrounds me takes a good look at me and runs away in a couple of seconds, look at me Gorjina I’m a freak! They’ve hurt me! I’m nothing but a parasite amounting to NOTHING!” As the outburst ends Norma heaves for breath as the smoke subsides, with a few tears sliding down her cheeks.

“What is… my purpose? Who am I? What’s the point in anything? Was I really meant to be an artist? Does my life have meaning?“ “Slow down, dear.” She lets out a sigh, letting the tips of her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose as she processed the questions given,  “Your purpose is achieving your goals and making yourself happier and more fulfilled as a person. You are Norma Kit; you decide what is the point. You’ve already gone this far, why stop doing what you love? And everyone has some meaning and impact on the Earth so long as you’re not some parasite more useless than the ground you’ve walked on, by which you’re not. What’s gotten into you? These are idiotic sentiments; they have no use for you.” She hissed.

Norma sighed, with a look of defeat she buried her face in her palms. With a flick of a wrist Gorjina fashioned her a couch before Norma could sit down. Gorjina with a feeling of pity, swam across to her broken apprentice to make sure that she is comforted. She rested her arms on the edges of the pool and looked up at her.

“That’s it, let it all out…” Gorjina said in a soft whisper, with a snap, her own sorcery made fictional “servants” come to life, made with odd shapes and colors they had no identity besides being what Gorjina meant for them to be. One pet Norma’s caramel hair to soothe her woes the other released the bow that kept her hair in a bun and tidied it up.

“You should cease your little habit of hiding away what makes you human, you could burst one day.”

“I know.” Norma said admittedly.

“Then why continue dear? I’m tired of reminding you that you are my flesh and blood, yes you may be strong, but you are also fragile, I’m here to aid my family and these choices you make in life are…”

Gorjina bit back her tongue and re thought her choice of wording

“…silly. Why close the doors of which are in front of you?”

“I don’t know.”

Feeling slight disappointment for her descendant, she sighed, rolled her eyes and asked a simple question.

“Why are you really here, Norma?”

“I just wanted to be sure, I suppose. It’s been getting to me again. It bothers me that these thoughts come around so…often. I needed just, an answer I can be sure is true.”

“It’s normal, darling. Humanity is known to push themselves and question life to do remarkable things. However, these questions about yourself will grant you these thoughts, and it has simple answers. So stop it before you waste anymore of my time.” She said with a huff and a raised nose, as she turned her back to Norma, sinking into the bubbling water submerging her body. The servants disappeared with her, fading into colorful bits of shimmering smoke, as Norma realized this, she fell on to her knees to call for her.

“Wait, wait, wait! No, you get back here! At least tell me how I stop it!”

Gorjina stopped for a moment, and looked up at her young apprentice, raising her hand so her chin may rest on it, and with no amusement she asked:

“-And what do I get in return for this favor?”

Norma thought for a moment and reached for her ears, removing two pearl earrings and set them in the palm of her cupped hands. “Here, you can have them. Just fix me.”

Gorjee stared at what she put in place, chuckling to herself, “I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer.”

“What?! But these are real pearls! Don’t bail out on this!”

“Oh, I know they are, and they are quite lovely,” She raised her hands from the water to shut Norma’s cupped hands, “but you need to keep them.”

“I’m…confused.”

“You need to keep those that simply cannot have a price. That should end your troubled thoughts. Look how you gave them away with no thought, no love for these lovely treasures. So desperate to let someone fix you, when the answer was right in front of you.” After a bit of thought Gorjina raised a brow and chuckled. “Besides, dear. I’m an artist.” With a quick flick of a wrist and a sudden puff of smoke, she was covered in encrusted jewels, pearls, gems, and treasures alike. “I can make my own, don’t you know…?”

“But- But you- I.”

Gorjina quickly hushed Norma, “To put this simply, you focus on those that don’t desire your presence, and you get hurt by it. So you hide away to a place that you believe no one will ever harm you, when your mind is your worst enemy. Thus, I stay here and you’re not alone, and many of us would be delighted to help you with your journey of life, and I’m afraid you don’t have much time as you think you do. You’re fragile, stop making these gray hairs for yourself.”

Norma looked at her earrings and looked back at Gorjina with a smile and an eased expression, as Gorjina looked back all the same. Displaying a love only a mother can have for their child.

“Now shoo, I’ve done enough for you.” As Gorjina turned away and exited her bath, quickly covering herself in robes of silk, both looked up to see the moon starting to set and the sun rising with birds beginning to chirp their own songs.

“It’s time to wake up, dear. It’s going to be a beautiful morning” she chuckled, and snapped her fingers.

Suddenly, Norma was in a modern room, laying on her bed and staring up at the ceiling. No dress except for a t-shirt and hair a ratty mess she groggily, turned her head to look at her clock for it to be 10:34 am.

“Not so bad.” She thought to herself,  with a few stretches and popping bones she sat on the edge of her bed to face her window. A beautiful day, as Gorjina had predicted…

“Meh.” she said with a gruff and closed the curtains and buried her face on the pillow with a smile.

“You’re an absolute disgrace, you understand that right?” her head echoed.

“Mm…you love me.”

The voice sighed and chuckled “You at least understood something, Norma.”

[arcticdementor]

In yet another sign of our tortured political moment, the most meaningful civic discussion currently raging is being waged not by our elected officials, spiritual leaders, novelists or celebrities, but by two writers engaged in what may appear to be an intramural intellectual quibble in niche publications.

It began last week when Sohrab Ahmari, the op-ed editor of the New York Post, took to the journal First Things to point out what he believed was wrong much of American conservatism, a bundle of self-contradictory tics embodied, he argued, by National Review writer and dedicated Never Trumper David French. It didn’t take long for French to jab right back. A host of other pugilists, including New York Times columnist Bret Stephens, soon entered the arena, framing the argument in personal, sometimes quasi-slanderous terms.

…

Even worse, today’s social justice warriors, Ahmari continued, see any dissent from their dogmas as an inherent assault. “They say, in effect: For us to feel fully autonomous, you must positively affirm our sexual choices, our transgression, our power to disfigure our natural bodies and redefine what it means to be human,” Ahmari wrote, “lest your disapprobation make us feel less than fully autonomous.” This means that no real discussion is possible—the only thing a true conservative can do is, in Ahmari’s pithy phrase, “to fight the culture war with the aim of defeating the enemy and enjoying the spoils in the form of a public square re-ordered to the common good and ultimately the Highest Good.”

…

Almost immediately, French delivered his riposte. Ahmari’s call to arms, he wrote in his response, betrayed a deep misunderstanding of both our national moment and our national character. “America,” French wrote, “will always be a nation of competing worldviews and competing, deeply held values. We can forsake a commitment to liberty and launch the political version of the Battle of Verdun, seeking the ruin of our foes, or we can recommit to our shared citizenship and preserve a space for all American voices, even as we compete against those voices in politics and the marketplace of ideas.”

Which means that civility is not a secondary value but the main event, the measure of most, if not all, things. Bret Stephens agreed: In his column in The New York Times, he called Ahmari—who was born Muslim in Tehran and had found his path to Catholicism—“an ardent convert” and a “would-be theocrat” who, inflamed with dreams of the divine will, had failed to understand that it was precisely the becalmed civilities of “value-neutral liberalism” that has made his brave journey from Tehran to the New York Post possible.

…

You don’t have to be conservative, or particularly religious, to spot a few deep-seated problems with the arguments advanced by French, Stephens, and the rest of the Never Trump cadre. Three fallacies in particular stand out.

The first has to do with the self-branding of the Never Trumpers as champions of civility. From tax cuts to crushing ISIS, from supporting Israel to appointing staunchly ideological justices to the Supreme Court, there’s very little about the 45th president’s policies that ought to make any principled conservative run for the hills. What, then, separates one camp of conservatives, one that supports the president, from another, which vows it never will? Stephens himself attempted an answer in a 2017 column. “Character does count,” he wrote, “and virtue does matter, and Trump’s shortcomings prove it daily.”

To put it briefly, the Never Trump argument is that they should be greatly approved of, while Donald Trump should rightly be scorned, because—while they agree with Trump on most things, politically—they are devoted to virtue, while Trump is uniquely despicable. The proofs of Trump’s singular loathsomeness are many, but if you strip him of all the vices he shares with others who had recently held positions of power—a deeply problematic attitude towards women (see under: Clinton, William Jefferson), shady business dealings (see under: Clinton, Hillary Rodham), a problematic attitude towards the free press (see under: Obama, Barack)—you remain with one ur-narrative, the terrifying folk tale that casts Trump as a nefarious troll dispatched by his paymasters in the Kremlin to set American democracy ablaze.

…

Conspiracy-mongering doesn’t seem like much of a public virtue. Certainly, the Never Trumpers should have known better than to join in the massive publicity campaign around a “dossier” supposedly compiled by a former British intelligence officer rehashing third-hand hearsay and paid for by Hillary Clinton’s campaign. You can still find many faults with Donald Trump’s behavior in and out of office, including some cardinal enough perhaps to merit impeachment, without buying in to some moronic ghost story about an orange-hued traitor who seized the highest office in the land with the help of Vladimir Putin’s social media goons. All that should go without saying, especially for people who ostensibly devote their lives to elevating and enriching the tone of our public discourse.

…

It is true that French took care to sound unfailingly fair, a lone voice for reason in a political reality inflamed by lunatics left and right. The thing he was being reasonable about, however, was an FBI investigation that emerged out of a blatant politically motivated forgery. Now, it’s perfectly plausible that French was carrying on his arguments in good faith, even when overwhelming evidence to the contrary was always there for a slightly more curious or skeptical journalist to discover. What’s disturbing, from the public virtue standpoint, is that French has yet to admit his own failings, which are compounded by his less-than-courageous misrepresentations of what he actually wrote: In his reply to Ahmari, he strongly denied he had promoted the collusion story, a point of view that’s difficult to defend when your byline appears on stories like “There Is Now Evidence That Senior Trump Officials Attempted to Collude with Russia.”

French and the other self-appointed guardians of civility, then, should do us all a favor and drop the civic virtue act. They’re not disinterested guardians of our public institutions; they are actors, working in an industry that rewards them for dressing up in Roman Republican drag and reciting Cicero for the yokels. This is why Bill Kristol, another of the Never Trumpers, could raise money for his vanity website, The Bulwark, and why he could expect his new creation be lauded on CNN as “a conservative site unafraid to take on Trump,” even as the site was staffed by leftist millennials and dutifully followed progressive propaganda lines. Like anyone whose living depends on keeping on the right side of a leftist industry, they understood that there’s only so much you can say if you care about cashing a paycheck—especially when the president and leader of your own party won’t take your phone calls.

…

To tell an Iranian immigrant that he doesn’t understand the way American liberalism works because he ended up on the side of faith rather than on the side of deracinated cosmopolitan universalism isn’t just an impoverished reading of America’s foundations or a blatantly condescending comment; it’s also indicative of a mindset that seeks to immediately equate any disagreement with some inherent and irreparable character flaw.

…

So much for the cocktail party chatter. The larger problem here is that at no point do Stephens, French, et al. deliver a concrete explanation of how they propose conservatism go about opposing, to say nothing of reversing, the new social and moral order that the progressive left has been busily implementing in America for a decade or more. At best, they claim that there’s no real crisis after all.

…

Ahmari, not unlike the zealous left he opposes, has a very distinct idea of where he wants the country to go. He doesn’t want it to end up where objecting to lunatic theories, forged by crackpot academics and defying millennia of lived human experience, gets you called a bigot and fired from your job. He doesn’t want to try and engage in dialogue with people who believe that disagreeing with their opinions causes them some sort of harm and that speech must therefore be regulated by the government or large tech companies. He doesn’t want an America in which color of skin and religious affiliation and sexual preference trump or mute the content of your character. Looking at public schools and private universities, Hollywood and publishing, academia and social media, Ahmari sees the threat posed by progressive doctrine to established American norms and values as entirely real. That he wants to fight it doesn’t make him, as Stephens suggested, a Catholic mullah-in-waiting. It makes him a normal American.

Which is why American Jews, too—whether they identify as liberals or conservatives—would do well to take this squabble seriously. The liberalism that American Jews have defended so ardently, the reason so many of us ended up voting for the left and supporting organizations like the ACLU and cheering on firebrands like Bella Abzug, was geared to secure precisely the values and rights that Ahmari champions, without which it would have been impossible for us to survive, let alone thrive, as immigrants to a white, Christian-majority culture.

A religious minority cannot expect to last very long in a society, like the one the progressive left advocates, that is allergic to tradition and intolerant of dissent. Only in an America that takes faith seriously, that respects and empowers community, and that shudders at any attempt to censor wrong beliefs and incorrect thinking, can Jews hope to thrive.

[ryqoshay]

How to Handle a Nico: Rhythm Game

Primary Pairing: NicoMaki Words: ~2.3k Rating: G Time Frame: Late in Maki’s 1st year and Nico’s 3rd year in high school Story Arc: Stand Alone

List of all HtHaN scenes

Author’s Note: It wasn’t exactly my intent to write a scene for this adorable pic, but after I wrote the last one, I couldn’t help it. @lolitomatobunny has really made some good works. Who could blame me for being inspired by such wonderful images?

Also, double woo!  ♡ ＼(≧▽≦)／ ♡ Not only does this make my fifth chapter posted in as many days, but it’s 2k words, not just 1 or less.

“Ughn… Not again, nya!” Rin cried, tossing her phone, rather carelessly onto the table.

“Failed another song, Rin-chan?” Hanayo asked with a sympathetic tone as she moved over to her friend’s side.

“The beatmap just doesn’t make any sense!” The cat-like girl complained. “And the notes that require special gestures are just nyannoying!”

“Well, you did just start playing a few days ago.” The youngest µ’s member assured. “I didn’t figure things out right away either. And there are plenty of Expert level songs I still cannot complete, much less Full Combo.”

“But that was only Hard!” Rin whined, dropping her forehead onto the table in defeat.

“You’ll get the hang of it in time.” Hanayo patted her friend’s back. “You still like the game, right?”

“Of course.” Rin admitted with a sigh before pushing herself back up enough to prop her head on her hands. “The music is really good and makes me happy listening to it.”

That got the attention of a certain redhead sitting across the table, though she did not look away from the book in her hand.

Rin tilted her head onto one hand before reaching out with the other to retrieve her phone. As soon as the screen was unlocked, a peppy tune began to play through the speaker.

Maki blinked. If Rin had been playing earlier, why hadn’t she noticed the music before? Had the other girl been wearing headphones? Maybe said device had been disconnected when she tossed her phone away? Maybe she had just ignored it because it sounded like the music to which Nico was always listening. It was just another embarrassingly happy tune, the likes of which A-RISE might create. Or East Heart. Or Midnight cats. Or µ’s… Well, it wasn’t like Maki hadn’t helped create pieces like that herself. Quite a few, actually.

“Does that interest you, Maki-chan?”

“Buweeh?” Maki balked back to reality and looked up from her book.

Rin grinned at her friend.

“W-what?”

“You can’t fool Rin, Maki-chan!” Rin jumped up from her chair and practically skipped around the table. “I could see that you were interested even though you tried to hide it.”

“I wasn’t really…”

“It can be a little hard at times, but it really is a fun game.” Hanayo explained.

The orange-haired girl held her phone out in front of the redhead. “I’ll do an Easy song as an example.” She explained before hitting Start.

“Hmmm…” Maki watched with more interest than she was willing to admit.

Rin’s thumbs tapped certain points on the screen as moving circles crossed a threshold. In the background, various girls popped up occasionally to say something encouraging, though Maki couldn’t quite tell if the lines were supposed to be directed at the player or to the other girls in the group.

For some reason, Maki found herself paying more attention when a dark-haired girl sporting twin-tails came on to the screen. Not that she reminded Maki of anyone, of course. The character’s eyes were a different color, there was no pink to be found in her outfit, and her smile was nowhere near as brilliant. Yes, there was no way the character in the game was anything like her. Not that Maki was thinking about her, of course.

“And that’s how you play, nya!” Rin proclaimed proudly as the English words, Full Combo! appeared across the screen.

Shortly after, a girl with a reasonable resemblance to Hanayo appeared to give one final congratulatory line. Wasn’t that the girl who had been in the center of the group? Of course, Rin would set things up that way. Maki couldn’t help wondering if the twin-tailed girl ever mentioned wanting to be the center. Oh, what the heck. She shook her head. She was definitely thinking too much about this. It was just a silly mobile game.

“Bet you wanna play now, huh, Maki-chan?” Rin asked after a moment.

“Not really…”

“Hmmm, maybe if they included some classical music, then Maki-chan might be more interested.”

“I doubt it…”

“Are there classical songs that have lyrics for the girls to sing?” Hanayo wondered out loud.

“There are a lot of songs with lyrics.” Maki stated. “Though sometimes the lyrics are written at a later time by a different individual.”

“So maybe someday they’ll make a classical themed rhythm game.” Rin seemed excited about the concept.

“Probably not.” Maki shook her head as thoughts of a group comprising Bach, Mozart, Chopin, Rossini and Tchaikovsky wearing stylized outfits danced through her mind.

“Rin-chan.” Hanayo spoke up as she glanced her phone. “We should probably get going if we want to beat the rush at the ramen shop.”

“Iku-nya!” Rin cheered, running over to grab her bag.

“Do you want to come with us, Maki-chan?” The brunette asked.

“Thank you for the offer.” Maki replied. “But, I already have plans for the evening.”

“Oh? Wha’cha doin’?” Rin asked.

“Uhm, Nico-chan asked if I would help her study for an upcoming… What?” Maki stared back as her fellow first years smiled at her.

“Nico-chan’s lucky to have someone smart like Maki-chan help her, nya.” Rin explained. “And Rin is lucky to have someone as amazing as Kayo-chin to help her!” She grabbed the arm of the girl in question.

“Rin-chan…” Pink dusted Hanayo’s cheeks, though she continued to smile.

“You two have fun.” Maki nodded toward the door. “Nico-chan should be done with cleaning duty soon, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

After saying their goodbyes, the other two girls departed, leaving Maki alone in the clubroom. She was just about to go back to reading when her phone vibrated.

NicoNii: Sorry, going to be delayed a little bit

NicoNii: Eli and Nozomi need me to do something

NicoNii: I’ll try to make it quick

NishikinoMaki: That’s fine

NishikinoMaki: I’ll see you when you get here

Maki returned to the home screen and was about to turn off the screen when the icon for the app store caught her eye. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to take just one more quick peek at that game, right? Downloading it didn’t mean she was really interested, right? After all, the music was in the same genre of everything she had heard from school idols, µ’s included, so if anyone asked, she could just pass it off as research and inspiration. Yes, that was it; research and inspiration. Those were the only reasons.

Apparently, the initial download wasn’t enough, and more data started loading once Maki had opened the app. However, chibi versions of several of the girls appeared on screen, including the twin-tailed girl she had noticed before. Out of curiosity, she tapped the character and jumped when a voice came out of the speaker telling her to stop touching her. That was her voice? It was actually… kind of cute. Kind of. Not as cute as someone else’s though. Not that Maki was thinking about her, of course.

After finally getting to the game itself, an opening scene began that introduced what Maki assumed were the main characters. For some reason, she found herself relieved that the twin-tailed girl was among the main cast. The characters talked, explained the player’s role in the story and then walked her through a quick tutorial concerning gameplay. And finally, it was time to play her first song. She pressed Start and…

“Buweehh?!” Maki practically jumped out of her chair as arms draped across her shoulders from behind.

“Maki-chan plays that game?” A voice asked from next to her ear.

Pause! Pause! Where is the pause button?! Surely there is a Pause button, right?

The notes scrolled down the screen and with hands trembling, Maki began to tap at the screen.

Maybe… Maybe this isn’t so bad. Actually, even with Nico-chan scaring me, this is pretty ea… What?

The game made a dissonant sound as it did not accept Maki’s attempt to tap one of the special notes.

Maki grimaced as she heard Nico giggle, but continued to hit the normal notes with perfect timing. Nico giggled again when another special note was missed and Maki held back a growl. Finally, the song ended and the game tallied her performance; all Perfects, sans two Misses for the special notes.

“Still learning those notes, eh?” Nico asked.

“I… I only missed them because you scared me.” Maki grumbled.

“Uh-huh. Look here.” Nico held out one hand flat to mimic a phone before holding it with the other. “For those notes, you have to make this kind of gesture” She moved her thumb across her other hand as though it was a screen. “And for the other type you will see, you do this.” She moved her thumb again. “The tutorial doesn’t really do a good job of explaining them. Even Nico had to look it up online.”

“Hmmm...” Maki mimicked the gestures she had seen.

“Yeah, like that. That’s good, Maki-chan. Practice that for a few more songs on Easy.”

“Easy?”

“Yeah, I can see you got the normal notes down, but that was still on a slower speed. And the real world is full of distractions so you’ll have to learn how to do the special notes even if someone scares you.”

“Hmmm…” Maki wasn’t quite sure if she detected teasing in that tone.

“Maki-chan may be a prodigy with the piano but it will be years before she catches up to Nico-nii on rhythm games.”

Now that was definitely teasing. Maki’s brow furrowed as she tapped the screen again.

“Wha? Maki-chan that’s…”

“Mmph.” Maki grunted.

The song started again, but this time there was a significant increase in the number of notes cascading down the screen. And their speed had at least doubled. But Maki didn’t care. She knew the rhythm of this song now; it wasn’t overly complex. And as expected, the notes matched perfectly, meaning the only thing she had to watch was placement. Well, and the special notes, but Maki was confident she knew how to handle those, so long as Nico’s demonstration was accurate.

As her thumbs danced across the screen, Maki wondered if it might be easier to hold her phone in one hand and play with the fingers of her other. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her thumbs to keep up, just that she was more accustomed to using all of her fingers in tandem.

“Wow…” Nico breathed, about halfway through the song.

Almost there. The end was in sight. Maki felt her jaw clench as she concentrated on the last few… the arms around her shifted ever so slightly. A finger barely brushed her arm.

Maki’s breath hissed with a rapid intake through her teeth as the game released another discordant clash and her combo was shattered. With her concentration in shambles, her saving grace was that the remaining notes that were missed were not enough to completely deplete her stamina.

“Oh! Oops… Sorry, Maki-chan!” Nico pulled away quickly. In her haste she ended up backing straight into the bookshelf behind her. “Keh…”

“Nico-chan…” Maki griped, turning toward her senior.

“I’m sorry!” Nico repeated, throwing up her hands defensively. “Really, I am! I-I-I was just so impressed with your skills that I didn’t realize what else I was doing and… and… I don’t know! I’m sorry!”

Maki paused. She couldn’t recall seeing Nico like this; truly repentant. She wasn’t apologizing, grudgingly, because she was told she had to. She also wasn’t pulling the puppy dog eyes or falling into her idol persona. Rather, she seemed honestly upset after having disrupted Maki’s game. Was a mobile game really worth such a reaction?

And sure, Maki was annoyed, but she wouldn’t say she was actually angry with Nico. As such, she let her posture relax and opened her mouth to speak.

“That really was impressive, though.” Nico probably didn’t realize she was interrupting, as technically, Maki hadn’t actually spoken yet. “How long have you been playing?”

“I just downloaded it before you got here.”

Nico blinked. “Really? That’s impressive, Maki-chan.”

Maki felt a smile tug at her lips. “Thanks.”

“So, uhm… you aren’t… actually mad at me, are you?”

“Not really, no.” Maki admitted. “Just… don’t do that again.”

“You don’t want me to hug you anymore?” There was no mistaking the concern in Nico’s voice.

Ah, so that’s what she was worried about. Maki couldn’t help laughing a little. If she were being completely honest, she knew she would miss the hugs if Nico actually stopped.

“No, that’s not it.” Maki shook her head. “Maybe just not while I’m trying to concentrate on something?”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Nico said earnestly. “But Maki-chan is really cute when she’s focused and Nico can’t help wanting to hug her…”

Maki felt heat building in her cheeks. “W-well just t-try, alright?” Geez, why was she stuttering?

“Alright.” Nico smiled, finally. “So, uhm, we never did decide if we were going to your place or mine.”

“Either is fine, though it might be quieter at my place.”

“Sounds like we’re going to your place.”

“Alright.” Maki nodded.

“Oh, and maybe when we take a break, we can play together?”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a function that lets you set up private rooms, so you can play in a team with your friends to get higher scores and better rewards.” Nico explained. “And since you’re a new player, your teams won’t be that strong, even if Maki-chan’s skills are amazing, so Nico can lend you the strength of her teams and get you some nice early bonuses!”

“Sounds fun.”

“Then let’s get going!” Nico cheered with renewed vigor. Her smile was now as brilliant as... no, more brilliant than that of the character in the game as she held out a hand to her junior.

“Alright.” Maki agreed, grabbing her bag before taking her senior’s hand and letting her lead her out of the clubroom.

Author’s Note Continued: No, the game in the scene is not SIF. I still maintain that SIF does not exist in HtHaN. However, with as many mobile rhythm games as there are in the real word, it’s not hard to imagine some iteration of them occurring in this world. And since at least one is themed around idols, of course Nico and Hanayo play that one. However, just because the game isn’t actually SIF, or any other game from our world, doesn’t mean I can’t reference certain parts from any real world game. So, I’ll see where things go.

So, HtHaN has a rhythm game in it now. I guess I’ll probably want to bring it up again at some point. More notes for the collection!

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Bog Girl

Karen Russell (2016)

The young turf-cutter fell hard for his first girlfriend while operating heavy machinery in the peatlands. His name was Cillian Eddowis, he was fifteen years old, and he was illegally employed by Bos Ardee. He had celery-green eyes and a stutter that had been corrected at the state’s expense; it resurfaced whenever he got nervous. “Th-th-th,” he’d said, accepting the job. How did Cillian persuade Bos Ardee to hire him? The boy had lyingly laid claim to many qualities: strength, maturity, experience. When that didn’t work, he pointed to his bedroom window, a quarter mile away, on the misty periphery of the cutaway bog, where the undrained water still sparkled between the larch trees. The intimation was clear: what the thin, strange boy lacked in muscle power he made up for in proximity to the work site.

Peat is harvested from bogs, watery mires where the earth yawns open. The bottom is a breathless place—cold, acidic, anaerobic—with no oxygen to decompose the willow branches or the small, still faces of the foxes interred there. Sphagnum mosses wrap around fur, wood, skin, casting their spell of chemical protection, preserving them whole. Growth is impossible, and Death cannot complete her lean work. Once cut, the peat becomes turf, and many locals on this green island off the coast of northern Europe still heat their homes with this peculiar energy source. Nobody gives much thought to the fuel’s mortuary origins. Cillian, his mother, and several thousand others lived on the island, part of the archipelago known to older generations as the Four Horsemen. It’s unlikely that you’ve ever visited. It’s not really on the circuit.

Neolithic farmers were the first to clear the island’s woods. Two thousand years later, peat had swallowed the remains of their pastures. Bogs blanketed the hills. In the Iron Age, these bogs were portals to distant worlds, wilder realms. Gods travelled the bogs. Gods wore crowns of starry asphodels, floating above the purple heather.

Now industrial harvesters rode over the drained bogs, combing the earth into even geometries. On the summer morning that Cillian found the Bog Girl, he was driving the Peatmax toward a copse of trees at the bog’s western edge, pushing the dried peat into black ridges. True, it looked as if he was pleating shit, but Cill had a higher purpose. He was saving to buy his neighbor Pogo’s white hatchback. Once he had a car, it would be no great challenge to sleep with a girl or a woman. Cillian was open to either experience. Or both. But he was far too shy to have an eye-level crush on anyone in his grade. Not Deedee, not Stacia, not Vicki, not Yvonne. He had a crush, taboo and distressing, on his Aunt Cathy’s ankles in socks. He had a crush on the anonymous shoulders of a shampoo model.

He had just driven into the western cutaway bog when he looked over the side of the Peatmax and screamed. A hand was sticking out of the mud. Cillian’s first word to the Bog Girl required all the air in his lungs: “Ahhhhhhfuuuuuck!”

Here was a secret, flagging him down. A secret the world had kept for two thousand years and been unable to keep for two seconds longer. The bog had confessed her.

When the other men arrived, Cillian was on his knees, scratching up peat like a dog. Already he had dug out her head. She was whole and intact, cocooned in peat, curled like a sleeping child, with her head turned west of her pelvis. Thick, lustrous hair fanned over the tarp, the wild red-orange of an orangutan’s fur, dyed by the bog acids. Moving clouds caused her colors to change continuously: now they were a tawny bronze, now a mineral blue. It was a very young face.

Cradling her head, Cillian lost all feeling in his legs. A light rain began to fall, but he would not relinquish his position. Every man gathered was staring at them. Ordinarily, their pronged attention encircled him like a crown of thorns, making him self-conscious, causing red fear to leak into his inner vision. Today, he didn’t give a damn about the judgments of the mouth-breathers above him. Who had ever seen a face so beautiful, so perfectly serene?

“Mother of God!” one of the men screamed. He pointed to the noose. A rope, nearly black with peat, ran down the length of her back.

Murder. That was the men’s consensus. Bos Ardee called the police.

But Cillian barely heard the talk above him. If you saw the Bog Girl from one angle only, you would assume that she was a cherished daughter, laid to rest by hands that loved her. But she had been killed, and now her smile seemed even more impressive to him, and he wanted only to protect her from future harm. The men kept calling her “the body,” which baffled Cillian—the word seemed to blind them to the deep and flowing dream-life behind her smile. “There is so much more to you than what they see,” he reassured her in a whisper. “I am so sorry about what happened to you. I am going to keep you safe now.”

After this secret conversation, Cill fell rapidly in love.

Cillian was lucky that he met his girlfriend on such a remote island. When these bodies are discovered in Ireland, for example, or in the humid Florida bogs sprinkled between Disney World and Cape Canaveral, things proceed differently. The area is cordoned off. Teams of experts arrive to excavate the site. Then the bog people are carefully removed to laboratories, museums, where gloveless hands never touch them.

Cillian touched her hair, touched the rope. He was holding the reins of her life. Three policemen had arrived, and they conferred above Cillian, their black boots squeezing mud around the bog cotton. Once it had been determined that the girl was not a recent murder victim, the policemen relaxed. The chief asked Cillian a single question: “You’re going to keep her, then?”

Gillian Eddowis was on a party line with her three sisters. She tucked the phone under her chin and took the ruby kettle off the range, opening a window to shoo the blue steam free. In the living room, roars of studio laughter erupted from the television; Cillian and the Bog Girl were watching a sitcom about a Canadian trailer park. Their long silences unnerved her; surely they weren’t getting into trouble, ten feet away from her? She had never had cause to discipline her son. She wouldn’t know where to begin. He was so kind, so intelligent, so unusual, so sensitive—such an outlier in the Eddowis family that his aunts had paid him the modern compliment of assuming that he was gay.

Voices sieved into Gillian’s left ear:

“You want to warn them,” Sister Abby said.

“But, Virgin Mother, there is no way to warn them!” Sister Patty finished.

“We were all sixteen once,” Cathy growled. “We all survived it.”

“Cillian is fifteen,” Gillian corrected. “And the girlfriend is two thousand.”

Abby, who had seen a picture of the Bog Girl in the local newspaper, suggested that somebody was rounding down.

A university man had also read the story of the Bog Girl’s discovery. He’d taken a train and a ferry to find them. “I’ve come to make an Urgent Solicitation on Behalf of History,” he said. He wanted to acquire the Bog Girl for the national museum. The sum he offered them was half of Gillian’s salary at the post office.

In the end, what had happened? Christian feeling had muzzled her. How could she sell a girl to a stranger? Or pretend that she had any claim to her, this orphan from the Iron Age? Gillian told the university man that the Bog Girl was their house guest, and would be living with them until Social Services could locate her next of kin. At this, all the purple veins in the man’s neck stood out. His tone sank into petulant defeat. “Mark my words, you people do not have the knowledge to properly care for her,” he said. “She’ll fall apart on you.” The Bog Girl, propped up next to the ironing board, watched them argue with an implacable smile. The university man left empty-handed, and for a night and a day Gillian was a hero to her son.

“So she’s just freeloading, then? Living off your dime?” Cathy asked.

“Oh, yes. She’s quite shameless about it.”

How could she explain to her sisters what she could barely admit to herself? The boy was in love. It was a monstrous, misdirected love; nevertheless, it commanded her respect.

“The Bog Girl is a bad influence on him,” she told her sisters. “She doesn’t work, she doesn’t help. All day she lazes about the house.”

Patty coughed and said, “If you feel that way, then why—”

Cathy screamed, “Gillian! She cannot stay with you!”

It was gentle Abby who formulated the solution: “Put her back in the bog.”

“Gillian. Do it tonight.”

“Who’s going to miss her?”

“I can’t put her back in the bog. It would be . . .”

Silence drilled into her ears. Her family had a talent for emitting judgment without articulating words. When she was Cillian’s age and five months pregnant with him, everyone had quietly made clear that she was sacrificing her future. She’d run away to be with Cillian’s father, then returned to the boglands alone with a bug-eyed toddler.

“I’m afraid,” she confessed to her sisters. “If I put her out of the house, he’ll leave with her.”

“Oh!” they cried in unison. As if a needle had infected them all with her fear.

“Do something crazy, stupid . . .”

Silently adding, Like we did.

“Now, be honest, you little rat turd. You know nothing about her.” His uncle put a finger into his peach iced tea, stirred. They were seated on a swing in the darkest part of Cillian’s porch. Uncle Sean was as blandly ugly as a big toenail. Egg-bald and cheerfully unemployed, a third-helpings kind of guy. Once, Cillian had watched him eat the sticker on a green apple rather than peel it off. Sean was always over at the cottage, using Gillian’s computer to play Poker 3000. He smeared himself throughout their house, his beer rings ghosting over surfaces like fat thumbs on a photograph. His words hung around, too, leaving their brain stain on the air. Uncle Sean took a proprietary interest in anything loved by Cillian. It was no surprise, then, that he was infatuated with the Bog Girl.

“I know that I love her,” Cill said warily. He hated to be baited.

Uncle Sean was packing his brown, shakey weed into the rosy crotch of a glass mermaid. He passed his nephew the pipe. “Already, eh? You love her and you don’t know the first thing about her?”

What did he know about her?

What did he love about her?

Cillian shrugged, his body crowding with feelings. “And I know that she loves me,” he added, somewhat hastily.

Uncle Sean’s pink smirk seemed to paste him to the back of the wicker seat. “Oh?” His grin widened. “And how old is she?”

“Two thousand. But she was my age when they put her in the bog.”

“Most women I know lie freely about their age,” Uncle Sean warned. “She may well be eleven. Then again, she could be three thousand.”

Gillian, plump and starlit, appeared on the porch. A pleasant oniony smell followed her, mixing with the damp odor of Sean’s pot.

“Are you smoking?”

“No,” they lied in unison.

“Tell your . . . your friend that she is welcome to eat with us.” With a martyred air, Gillian lifted her kitten-print pot holders to the heavens. Cill smiled; the pot holders made it look as if she approved of the situation—two big thumbs-up! His poor mom. She was so nervous around new people, and the Bog Girl’s silence only intimidated her further. She was insecure about her cooking, and he knew she was going to take it very personally when the Bog Girl did not touch it.

Dinner was meat loaf with onions and, for Sean, a thousand beers. It was not a comfortable meal.

Gillian, stirring butter into the lima beans, beamed threats at her son’s new girlfriend: You little bitch. Crawl back into your hole. Stay away from my son.

“Biscuit?” Gillian asked. “Does she like biscuits, Cill?”

The Bog Girl smiled her gentle smile at the wall, her face reflected in the oval door of the washer-dryer. Against that sudsy turbulence, she looked especially still.

Three drinks in, Uncle Sean slung an arm around the Bog Girl’s thin blue shoulder, welcoming her into the family. “I’m proud of my nephew for going after an older woman, a mature woman . . . a cougar!”

Cillian fixed his uncle with a homicidal stare. Under the table, he touched his girlfriend’s foot with his foot; his eyebrows lifted in apology. His mother shot up with her steaming cauldron of beans, giving everyone another punitive lima ladle and removing the beer from the table. Their dog, returning from her dusk mouse hunt, came berserking into the kitchen, barking at a deranged pitch. She wanted to play tug-of-war with the Bog Girl’s noose. “Puddles—_no! _” Cillian’s vision was swimming, his whole body overheating with shame. He relaxed when he stared into the Bog Girl’s face, which was void of all judgment, smiling at him with its mysterious kindness. Once again, his embarrassment was soothed by her infinite calm. His eyes lowered from her smile to the noose. Of course, she’s seen far worse than us, he thought. Outside the window, insects millioned around the porch light. The bog crickets were doing a raspy ventriloquy of the stars; perhaps she recognized their tiny voices. Soon Uncle Sean was snoring lightly beside the pooling gravy, face down in his big arms. Cill sat slablike in the moonlight. The Bog Girl smiled blindly on.

For the first two weeks, the Bog Girl slept on the sofa, the television light flickering gently over her. That was fine by Gillian. She wasn’t about to turn an orphan from the Iron Age out on the street.

Then, on a rainy Monday night, without warning or apology, Cillian picked up the Bog Girl. He cradled her like a child, her frondy feet dangling in the air. Gillian, doing a jigsaw puzzle of a horse and colt in the kitchen, looked up in time to see them disappearing. She felt a purple welt rising in her mind, the revelatory pain called wonder. Underneath the shock, other feelings began to flow, among them a disturbed pride. Because hadn’t he looked exactly like his father? Confident, possessed. He didn’t ask for her permission. He did not lie to her about what he was doing, or hide it, or explain it. He simply rose with the Bog Girl in his arms, nuzzling her blue neck. The door shut, and he was gone from sight. Another milestone: she heard the click of the lock.

“Good night, son!” she cried after them, panicked.

She could not reconcile her knowledge of her sweet, awkward boy with this wayward, confident person. Was she supposed to go up there now? Pound on the door? Oh, who could she call? Nobody, not even her sisters, would take a call about this problem, she felt quite certain. Abby’s son, Kevin, met his girlfriend in church. Cathy’s son, Patrick, has a lovely fiancée who teaches kindergarten. Murry’s girlfriend is in jail for vehicular manslaughter—but at least she’s alive!

In the morning, she watched the mute, hitching muscles of his back as he fumbled with the coffeepot. So he was a coffee drinker now. More news. He kissed his mother’s forehead as he left for work, but he was whistling to himself, oblivious of her sadness, her fear, completely self-enclosed in his new happiness. It’s too soon for this, she thought. And: Not you, too. Please, please, please, she prayed, the incomplete prayer of mothers who cannot conceive of a solution.

That evening, she announced a new rule: “Everyone has to wear clothes. And no more locked doors.”

That Saturday, Cillian took the ferry three hours to a mainland museum. Twelve bog bodies were on display, part of a travelling exhibition called “Kings of the Iron Age.” The Bog Girl had met his family—the least he could do was return the favor. Cill sneaked into a tour in progress, following a docent from sepulchre to sepulchre. Under the glass, the Kings of the Iron Age lay like chewed taffy. One man was naked except for a fox-fur armband. Another was a giant. Another had two sets of thumbs.

Cillian learned that the bogs of the islands in the cold Atlantic were particularly acidic. Pickled bodies from the Iron Age had emerged from these deep vats. Their fetally scrolled bodies often doubled as the crumpled maps of murders. They might have been human sacrifices, the docent said. Left in the bog water for the harvest god. Kings, queens, scapegoats, victims—they might have been any of these things.

“From the contents of his stomach, we can surmise that he last dined on oat gruel. . . .”

“From the forensic analyses, we can surmise that she was killed by an arrow. . . . ”

“From the ornaments on this belt buckle, we can surmise that these were a wealthy people. . . . ”

What? No more than this could be surmised?

The docent pointed out the dots and stripes on the potsherds. Charcoal smudges that might be stars or animals. Evidence, she said, of “a robust culture.” Cillian took notes:

“they had time to kill. they liked art, too.”

Back on the ferry, he could admit to his relief: none of the other bog bodies stirred any feeling in him. He loved one specific person. He could see things about the Bog Girl to which this batty docent would be totally blind—for example, the secret depths her smile concealed. How badly misunderstood she had been by her own people. She was an alien from a planet that nobody alive could visit—the planet Earth, in the first century A.D. She felt soft in his arms, bonelessly soft, but she also seemed indestructible. According to the experts, a bog body should begin to decompose rapidly when exposed to air. Curiously enough, this Bog Girl had not. He told no one his theory but polished it inside his mind like an amulet: it was his love that was protecting her.

By August, their rapport had deepened immeasurably. They didn’t need to say a word, Cill was discovering, to perfectly understand each other. Falling in love with the Bog Girl was a wonderful thing—it was permission to ignore everyone else. When school started, in September, he made a bespoke sling and brought her with him. His girlfriend, propped like a broomstick against the rows of lockers, waited for him during Biology and Music II, as cool and impassive as the most popular girl the world has ever known.

Nobody in the school administration objected to the presence of the Bog Girl. Ancestral superstitions still hovered over the islanders’ minds, exerting their quiet influence, and nobody wanted to be the person responsible for angering a visitor from the past. Soon she was permitted to audit all of Cillian’s classes, smiling dreamlessly at the flustered, frightened teachers.

One afternoon, the vice-principal called her into his office and presented her with a red-and-gold badge to wear in the halls: “visiting student.”

“I don’t think that’s really accurate, sir,” Cillian said.

“Oh, no?”

“She’s not a visitor. She was born here.” In fact, the Bog Girl was the island’s oldest resident, by at least nineteen hundred years. Cillian paused. “Also, her eyes are shut, you see. So I don’t think she can really, ah, study. . . .”

“Well!” The vice-principal clapped his hands. He had a day to live, quotas to fulfill. “We will be studying her, then. She will give us all an exciting new perspective on our modern life and times—Oh my! Oh dear.” The Bog Girl had slumped into his aloe planter.

Cillian put the badge on her polyester blouse, a loaner from his mother that was vintage cool. Cillian—who never gave a thought to his own clothing—enjoyed dressing the Bog Girl for school in the morning. He raided his mother’s closet, resurrecting her baby-doll dresses. The eleventh-grade girls organized a clothing drive for the Bog Girl, collecting many shoplifted donations of fall tunics and on-trend boots.

Rumorsprawl. Word got around that the Bog Girl was actually a princess. A princess, or possibly a witch. Within a week, she was eating at the popular girls’ table. They’d kidnapped her from where Cillian had positioned her on a bench, propped between two book bags, and taken her to lunch. Already they had restyled her hair with rhinestone barrettes.

“You stole my girlfriend,” Cillian said.

“Something awful happened to her,” Vicki said reverently.

“So bad,” Georgette echoed.

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Priscilla said, looping a protective arm around the Bog Girl. The girls had matching lunches: lettuce salads, diet candy bars, diet shakes. They were all jealous of how little she ate.

How had Cill not foreseen this turn of events? The Bog Girl was diminutive, wounded, mysterious, a redhead. Best of all, she could never contradict any rumor the living girls distributed about her.

“She was too beautiful to live!” Priscilla gasped. “They killed her for her beauty.”

“I don’t th-th-think,” Cill said, “that it happened quite like that.”

The popular girls adjusted their leggings, annoyed. “No?”

Cillian was dimly aware that other tables were listening in, but the density of the attention in no way affected him. “I am hers, and she is mine,” he announced. “I have dedicated myself to learning everything about her.”

A sighing spasm of envy moved down the popular girls’ table—what boy alive would say this about them? A miracle: nobody mocked Cillian Eddowis. They were all starving to be loved like this. The popular girls watched him avidly as he ate a grilled cheese and waffle fries, his green irises burning. Between bites, his left hand rose to touch the Bog Girl’s red braid, tousling it like the pull-chain of a lamp.

Gillian couldn’t help it: she was heartbroken. The past that was most precious to her had filtered right through her son. The songs she’d sung to him when he was nursing? The care with which she’d cut the tiny moons of his fingernails? Their 4 a.m. feedings? Erased! Her son had matured into amnesia about his earliest years. Now her body was the only place where the memories were preserved. Cillian, like all sons, was blithe about this betrayal.

“There is so much about yourself that you do not recall,” Gillian accused him after dinner one night. Cillian, writing a paper about igneous rocks at the kitchen table, did not look up.

“When you were my boy, just a wee boy,” Gillian said in a voice of true agony, “you used to be terrified of the vacuum cleaner. You loved your froggy pajamas. You used so much glue on your art projects that your teachers—”

“Quit it with these dumb stories, Ma!”

“Oh, you find them dumb, do you? The stories about how I had to raise you alone, without a penny from your father—”

“You’re just trying to embarrass me in front of her!”

The Bog Girl smiled at them from the amber armchair. Her leather skirt was outrageously short, a donation from tall Bianca. Decorously, Cillian had draped the cable guide over her lap. Bugs spun in her water glass; mosquitoes and dragonflies were always diving into the Bog Girl’s food and drink, as if in strange solidarity with her.

Cillian drew himself up triumphantly, a foot taller than his mother. “You don’t want me to grow up.”

“What? Of course I do!”

But Cill was ready with his rebuttal: “You gave us rhyming names, Ma!”

This was true. Gillian and Cillian. She’d come up with that plan when she was a teen-ager herself, and pregnant with a nameless otter, some gyring little animal. A rhyming name had seemed just right then; she couldn’t have said why, at seventeen. Had Cillian been a girl, she would have named her Lillian.

“You’re so young, you can’t know . . . ” But what did she want to tell him?

Her body seemed to cave in on itself then, becoming smaller and smaller, so that even Cillian, fortressed behind the wall of his love, noticed and became alarmed. “Ma? What’s wrong?”

“It’s changing all the time,” she murmured ominously. “Just, please, wait, my love. Don’t . . . settle.” What a word! She pictured her son sinking up to his neck in the reddish bog water.

She was hiccupping now, unable to name her own feelings. Without thinking, she picked up the murky water glass, drank from it. “Your potential . . . all the teachers tell me you have great potential.”

Just come out and say it. “I don’t want you to throw your life away on some Bog Girl!”

“Oh, Ma.” Cill patted her back until the hiccups stopped. Her face looked crumpled and blue in the unlit room, hovering above the seated Bog Girl. For a second, they might have been sisters.

The Bog Girl floated, thin as a dress, on the mattress. Barrettes, pink and purple, were scattered all over the pillow. She smiled at Cillian, or beyond him, with her desiccated calm. Downstairs, Gillian was making breakfast, the buttery smells threading through his nostrils like an ox ring, tugging him toward them. But when she called up for him he was barely in the room. He was digging and digging into the peat-moss bog again, smoothing her blue cheeks with both hands, spading down into the kingdom that she comes from.

“Cillian! The bus is coming!” It should have taken him twenty seconds to put on pants. What was he doing in there? Probably jacking off to a “meme,” whatever that was, or buying perfume for the Bog Girl on her credit cards.

“Coming, Ma!”

Cillian was always learning new things about his girlfriend. The longer he looked at her, the more he saw. Her face grew silty with personality. Although she was young when she disappeared into the bog, her face was plowed with tiny wrinklings. Some dream or mood had recurred frequently enough to hammer lines across her brow. Here were the ridges and the gullies her mental weathers had worked into her skin.

Cill studied the infloresences on her cheeks. Her brain is in there, the university man had said. Her brain is intact, preserved by the bog acids. Cillian spent hours doing this forensic palmistry, trying to read her mind.

“Will you have a talk with him?” Gillian begged Sean. “Something is going really, really wrong with him!”

“First love, first love,” Sean murmured sadly, scratching his bubonic nose. “Who are we to intervene, eh? It will die of natural causes.”

“Natural causes!”

She was thinking that the poor girl had been garroted. Her bright-red hair racing the tail of the noose down her spine. You could not survive your death, could you? It survived with you.

In mid-October, a stretch limousine pulled up to the cottage to take Cillian and the Bog Girl to the annual school dance. A techno-reggae song called “Bump de Ass!” filled the back seat, where half a dozen teen-agers sat in churchlike silence. The Bog Girl’s reticence was contagious. Ambulance lights sparkled through the tinted windows, causing everyone to jump, with one exception: Cillian Eddowis’s date, the glamorous foreigner, or native—nobody was sure how to regard her.

Since acquiring his far older girlfriend, Cill had begun speaking to his classmates in the voice of a bachelor who merely tolerates children. “Carla,” he said, clearing his throat. “Would you mind exhaling a little closer to the window? Your smoke is blowing on us.”

Two girls started debating whether or not a friend should lose her virginity in a BMW that evening. What was the interior of the car like? This was a very important question. The girl’s boyfriend was a twenty-six-year-old cocaine dealer. Prior to the Bog Girl’s arrival on the scene, everyone had found his age very impressive. The dealer boyfriend had been unable to accompany the girl to the school dance, so she had taken poor Eoin, her sophomore cousin, who looked near fatally compressed by his green cummerbund. The twenty-six-year-old would be waiting for her in the BMW, post-festivities. Should she deflower him?

“Wait. Uh. I think he’s deflowering you, right? Or maybe you’re deflowering each other? Who’s got the flower?”

“Just do it, and then lie about it.” Carla shrugged. “That’s what I did.”

“My advice,” Cillian said, in the unfamiliar voice, “my advice is, wait. Wait until you find the person with whom you want to spend all your earthly time.” The Bog Girl leaned against his shoulder, aloof in her sparkly tiara. “Or until that person finds you. If that’s this guy, well, kudos. But, if not, wait. You will meet your soul mate. And you will want to give that person every molecule of your life.”

The attempted conversion of the high-school gymnasium into an Arabian-themed wonderland had not been a success. Cill and the Bog Girl stood under a palm tree that looked like an enormous toilet brush, made of cellophane and cardboard tubes. Three girls from the limo came up and asked to dance with Cillian, but he explained that his girlfriend hated to be left alone. All were sulkily respectful of her claim on him.

The after-party was held in an old car-parts warehouse on the west side of the island, where everything was shut or abandoned; the population of the island had been declining steadily for three decades. The music sounded like fists beating at the wall, and the floor was so sticky that Cillian had to lift and cradle the Bog Girl, looping her silver dress around one arm. Cillian had never attended an after-party before. Or a party, for that matter. He surveyed his former tormenters, the seniors, with their piggish faces and their plastic cups. Some were single, some had girlfriends, some were virgins, some were not, but not one of them, Cillian felt very certain, knew the first thing about love.

Eoin the sophomore came over, his date nowhere to be seen. He was breathless in the cummerbund, in visible danger of puking up Bacardi. He rolled a bloodshot eye in Cill’s direction, smiling wistfully.

“So,” he said, “I’m just wondering. Do you guys—”

Cillian preëmpted the question: “A gentleman never tells.”

It was a phrase he’d once read in a men’s magazine, while waiting to get a root canal. In fact, his mother needn’t have lost so much sleep to this particular fear. At night, Cillian lay beside the Bog Girl, barely touching her. A steady, happy calm radiated from her, which filled him with a parallel euphoria.

Cillian carried the Bog Girl onto the dance floor, her braided noose flung over his shoulder. And even Eoin, minutes from unconsciousness, could hear exactly who the older boy believed himself to be in this story: Cillian the Rescuer.

“Oh, damn! Wise up! She’ll make you wait forever, man!” The lonely laugh of Eoin died a terrible death, like a bird impaled on a spike.

At 3 a.m., the lights were still on. Uh-oh, Cill thought. Mom got into the gin again.

Drinking made her silences bubble volubly. He almost got the hiccups himself, listening to her silences. Oh, God. There was so much pain inside her, so much she wanted to share with him. Cillian and the Bog Girl tried to tiptoe past her to the staircase, but she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Cillian?” She looked child-small in the dark. Her voice was tremulous and young, and her slurring reminded him of his own stutter, that undead vestige of his early years. His mother sounded like a sleepy girl, four or five years old. Her feet were bare, and she rose onto her stubby toes to grip his arm. “Where are you coming from?”

“Nowhere. The dance. It was fun.”

“Where are you going?”

“Aw, Mom. Where do you th-th-think?”

“Good night!” she called after him desperately. “I hope you had a good time! You looked so handsome! So grown up!”

By early winter, the Bog Girl’s stillness had begun to provoke a restlessness in Cillian, a squeezed and throbbing feeling. He was failing three subjects. His mother had threatened to send him to live with Aunt Cathy until he “straightened out.” He didn’t care. Waiting for the bus in the freezing rain, he no longer dreamed about owning a car. He knew what he would do with the summer money he’d earned from Bos Ardee: run away with her.

He’d flunk out of school and take the Bog Girl with him to the mainland. She’d be homesick at first, maybe, but they’d go on trips to urban parks. It was the burr of peace, the burr of happiness, goading him on to new movement. Oh, he was frightened, too.

In his fantasy life, Cillian drew the noose tighter and tighter. He imagined, with a strange joy, the narrow life they would lead. No children, no sex, no messy nights vomiting outside bars, no unintended pregnancies, no fights in the street, no betrayals, no surprises, no broken promises, no promises.

Was the Bog Girl a co-signer to this fantasy? Cillian had every reason to believe so. When he described his plans to her, the smile never left her face. Was their love one-sided, as the concerned and unimaginative adults in his life kept insisting? No—but the proof of this surprised no one more terribly than Cillian.

One night in mid-December, lying in bed, he felt a cobwebby softness on his left cheek. It was her eyelashes, flicking over him. They glowed radish-red in the moonlight. Cillian swatted at his face, his own eyes never opening. Still sunk in his dreaming, he grunted and rolled over.

Cillian.

Cillian.

The Bog Girl sat up.

With fluttering effort, the muscles of her blue jaw yawned. One eye opened. It studied itself in the dresser mirror for a long instant, then turned calmly back toward Cillian. Very slowly, her left arm unhinged itself and dropped to the plaid bedspread. The fingers curled around the blanket’s edge, and drew it down. A blush of primal satisfaction colored the Bog Girl’s cheeks as the fabric moved. She tugged more forcefully, revealing Cillian curled on his side in his white undershirt. Groaning in his sleep, he jerked the covers back up.

“Cillian,” she said aloud.

Now Cillian was awake—he was irreversibly awake. He blinked up at her face, which was staring down at him. When they locked eyes, her frozen smile widened.

“Mom!” he couldn’t help screaming. “Help!”

The Bog Girl, imitating him, began to scream and scream. And he could see, radiating from her gaze, the same blind tenderness that he had directed at her. Now he was its object. Something truly terrifying had happened: she loved him back.

For months, Cillian had been decoding the Bog Girl’s silences. He’d peered into her dreams, her fears, her innermost thoughts. But her real voice was nothing like the voice that he’d imagined for her—a cross between Vicky Gilvarry and Patti LaBelle. Its high-pitched ululations hailed over him. In the kitchen, the dog began to bark. The language that she spoke was no longer spoken anywhere on earth.

He stumbled up, tugging at his boxers. The Bog Girl stood, too. The past, with its monstrous depth and span, reached toward him, demanding an understanding that he simply could not give it. His mind was too young and too narrow to withstand the onrush of her life. An invisible woods was in the bedroom with them, the scent of trees multiplying. Some mental earthquake inside the Bog Girl was casting up a world, green and unknown to him, or to anyone living: her homeland. Her gaze drove inward, carrying Cillian with it. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed her parents. Her brothers, her sisters, a nation of people. Their cheeks now beginning to redden, every one of them alive again inside her village. Pines rippling seaward. Gods, horned and faceless, walking the lakes that once covered Cillian’s home. Cillian was buried in water, in liquid images of her; he had to push through so many strata of her memories to reach the surface of her mind. Most of what he saw he shrank away from. His mind felt like a burned tongue, numbly touching her reality.

“W-w-who are you?”

“Heartbreak” is the universal diagnosis for the pain that accompanies the end of love. But this was an unusual breakup, in that Cillian’s mind shattered first. The love that had protected him began to fall away. Piece after piece of it clattered from his chest, an armor rusting off him. What are you?

The Bog Girl lurched toward him, her arms open. First she moved like a hopping chick, with an unexpected buoyancy. Then she seemed to remember how to step, heel to toe. She came for him like an astronaut, bouncing on the gray carpet. The only English word she knew was his name.

Almost weightlessly, she reached for him. For wasn’t she equally terrified? There was no buoy other than this boy, who had gripped her with his thin, freckled arms, bellying her out of the peat bog and into time.

Cillian hid behind the dresser.

Her fingers found his hand, threaded through his fingers.

He screamed again, even as he squeezed the hand back.

Her words rushed together, a thawing waterfall, moving intricately between octaves; still the only word he understood was his name. Perhaps nothing he had said to her, in their six months as a couple, had been comprehended. Cillian worked the levers in his brain, desperately trying to find the words that would release him.

“Unlock the door,” his mother’s beautiful voice called.

Cillian was frozen in the Bog Girl’s grip, unable even to call out. But a moment later he heard the key turning in the lock. Gillian stood in the doorway in her yellow pajamas. With a panoramic comprehension, she took in what had happened. She knew, too, what must now be done. If she could have freed these two from the embrace herself, she would have done so; but now she understood the challenge. The boy would have to make his own way out. “Take her home, Cillian. Make sure that she gets home safely.”

Cillian, his eyes round with panic, only nodded.

Gillian went to the Bog Girl, helping her into a sweater. “Put a hat on. And pants.”

His mother shepherded them downstairs and onto the porch, switching on every yellow bulb as they moved through the cottage. It was the warmest December on record, rain falling instead of snow, the drops disappearing into the rotted wood. Cillian carried the Bog Girl to the edge of the light before he understood that his mother was not coming with him.

“Let her down gently, son!” his mother called after them.

Well, she could do this for him, at least: she held a lantern steady across the rainy lawn, creating a gangplank of light that reached almost to the larches. She watched them moving toward the inky water. The Bog Girl was howling in her foreign tongue; at this distance, Gillian felt she could almost understand it.

Oh, she hoped their breakup would stick. She had divorced Cillian’s father, then briefly moved into his new house; it had taken years before their affair was truly over. You had to really cultivate an ending. To get it to last, you had to kneel and tend to the burial ground, continuously firming your resolution.

This was a bad breakup. A quarter mile from the cottage, under a bright moon, Cillian and the Bog Girl were rolling in the mud, each screaming in a different language. Their screams twined together, their hands reaching for each other; it was during this undoing that they were, at last, truly united as a couple. His flashlight rolled with them, plucking amphibious red and yellow eyes out of the reeds. “It’s over. It’s over. It’s over,” he kept babbling optimistically, out of his mind with fear. Her throat was vibrating against his skin. He could feel the echo of his own terror and sorrow, and again his mind felt overrun by the lapping waves of time. She clutched at the collar of his T-shirt, her body covered in dark mud and cracked stems of bog cotton, blue lichen. At last he felt her grip on him loosen. Her eyes, opaquely glinting in the moonlight, liquid and enormous, far larger than anyone could have guessed before their unlidding, regarded him with what he imagined was a soft surprise, and disappointment. He was not who she’d expected to find when she opened her eyes, either. Now neither teen-ager needed to tell the other that it was over. It simply was—and, without another sound, the Bog Girl let go of Cillian and slipped backward into the bog water. Did she sink? It looked almost as if the water were rising to cover her. Her cranberry hair waved away from her scalp. As he watched, her body itself began to break up.

Straightening from where he was kneeling on the ledge of mud, he brushed peat from his pants. His arms tingled where her grip had suddenly relaxed. The clear rain drenched his clothing. The bog was still bubbling, pieces of her sinking back into the black peat, when he turned on his heel and ran. For the next few days, he would be quakey with relief; he’d felt certain, watching her sink away, that he would never see the Bog Girl again in this life.

But here he was mistaken. In the weeks and years to come, Cillian would find himself alone with her memory, struggling to pay attention to his droning contemporaries in the cramped classroom. How often would he retrace his steps, wandering right back to the lip of the bog, peering in? Each dusk, with their primitive eloquence, the air-galloping insects continue to speak the million syllables of her name.

“Ma! Ma! Ma!” That night, Cillian came roaring out of the dark, pistoning his knees as he ran for the light, for his home at the edge of the boglands. “Who was that?” 

[patheticnugbaby]

Hunting Ground III

Yesterday I fucking pounded out almost thirty pages of this monstrosity and I spent thirty minutes going over and over the fucking dance with Florianne just to write in Adahla counting the steps because there’s no way in hell a dalish hunter knows human dances, let alone Orelesian dances.

I wanted to highlight the current relationship with the advisors, Adahla being generally dismissive of Cullen outside military matters, adoring Josephine to little bits and prior to a softer Leliana a very antagonistic relationship when it comes to Leliana being extra stab happy.

Editing the other two segments today, hope you enjoy.

“Inquisitor Lavellan?” A tall woman with short cropped hair the same color as Celene’s greeted Adahla as soon as she stepped back into the ballroom, “We met briefly. I am Grand Duchess Florianne De Chalons. Welcome to my party.”

“Thank you. It is a splendid affair.” Adahla slightly inclined her head, “To what do I owe this pleasure, Grand Duchess?”

“I believe tonight you and I are concerned with the actions of... A certain person,” Florianne took her arm firmly, leading her around the edges of the ballroom, “Come, dance with me. Spies will not hear us on the dance floor.”

“Of course. Shall we dance, your grace?” Adahla slipped her arm free to take the other woman’s hand, through her gloves she could feel a soft callous, not unlike her own.

“I’d be delighted.”

They walked down the stairs, Florianne’s hand on top of Adahla’s. The Grand Duchess expected her to lead and she internally whispered a soft prayer to all the Creators that she not forget any of the shemlen dances Josephine spent weeks teaching her. They took a place near the back of the dance floor, arms outstretched and lifted to the height of her shoulders, feet together, Florianne’s hand hovering over hers.

“Have the Dalish gained a sudden passion for politics? What do you know about our civil war?” Floriannes tone was dismissive, cold, like she didn’t expect a real response.

“I assure you, You Grace, the effects of this war reach beyond the borders of Orlais,” Adahla replied, hoping that flattery would warm the duchess a little.

A long, graceful step forward, then a second, she needed to take ten of these, right? Or was it eight? No, ten.

“Perhaps it does, I should not be surprised that the empire is the center of everyone’s world.” Four, five, “It took great effort to arrange tonight’s negotiations, yet one party would use this occasion for blackest treason.” Eight, nine, “The security of the empire is at stake, Inquisitor,” Ten and turn, gather your arms to your chest, sway forwards, then back, “Neither one of us wishes to see it fall.” A low bow, eyes to the floor, then to your partner.

“Do we both want that, Lady Florianne?” Adahla asked, previous to the Inquisition she didn’t give a nug’s stinking ass about the empire; even now she was only here to foil Corypheus.

She stood, stepping right with the back of her left hand against Florianne’s, sway back and left, touching the back of her right hand to the duchess’s, then the right again.

“I hope we are of one mind on this,” Now for the part she’d struggled with, take her hand, spin her gently to stand just in front of you, right hand down her arm to take her waist, left hand in hers.

“In times like these, it’s hard to tell friend from foe, is it not, You Grace?” A swell of pride as Florianne spun back to her, Adahla’s hand on her waist, Florianne’s resting delicately on her shoulder.

“I know you arrived here as a guest of my brother, Gaspard, and have been everywhere in the palace,” Spin in tight circles, all the while dancing in a larger one, “You are a curiosity to many, Inquisitor... And a matter of concern to some.”

“Am I the curiosity or the concern to you, Your Grace?” Adahla allowed herself a hunter’s grin, one eerily mirrored by Florianne.

“A little of both, actually.” She felt the other woman rushing her steps a little and pushed gently, but firmly back, Florianne expected her to lead and lead she would, “This evening is of great importance, Inquisitor. I wonder what part you will play in it. Do you even yet know who is friend and who is foe? Who in the court can be trusted?”

“An excellent question. I might ask the same of you, Your Grace,” Adahla let her go, circling her with the anchor-marked hand holding Florianne’s, her right arm extended to press the back of her hand to Florianne’s shoulder blade, something sharp through the fabric of her dress. A corset or something else?

The grand duchess spun back, Adahla put her right hand lightly back onto the other woman’s waist, “In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone.” Florianne paused, just for a breath, “It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight.”

“I thought ‘dangerous machinations’ were the national sport in Orlais,” She smiled a little at her own joke, eyes flicking to the dancers leaving the floor.

The other woman turned and started to bend back, Adahla managed, just barely, to catch and support her. She idly entertained the idea of dropping the duchess before drawing her back up to stand. Florianne was heavier than she appeared, or her dress was made of iron.

“You have little time,” She turned away, arms outstretched to take more of those long, dipping steps, “The attack will come soon. You must stop Gaspard before he strikes.” The grand duchess tilted her head emphatically at Adahla, “In the Royal Wing Garden you will find the captain of my brother’s mercenaries. He knows all of Gaspard’s secrets. I’m sure you can persuade him to be forthcoming.”

They bowed to each other, Adahla titled her head to the right, reflecting orange candlelight in her eyes, “We’ll see what the night has in store, won’t we?”

Adahla left the dance floor without looking back, through she heard the light tapping of unsure feet retreating across the marble. She allowed herself a small smile before she ascended the stairs, Josephine waited at the top of them.

“You’ll be the talk of the court for months! We should take you dancing more often,” Josephine gushed, gently grabbing her gloved hands for a giddy squeeze.

“Thank you, Josie,” Adahla smiled, squeezing her hands back, “The duchess certainly had a lot to say.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Josephine let go of her hands, turning to find a slightly more secluded part of the ballroom.

Behind them, she heard the near-silent sound of Leliana’s footsteps, and the irritated thumping of Cullen’s, “Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?”

“More importantly, what happened in the servant’s quarters? I heard there was fighting.” Cullen folded his arms almost petulantly, Adahla patted his shoulder.

“Sorry, Commander, but the Orelesians would’ve noticed your absence,” She giggled, “Tonight, just look pretty.” A vivid pink blush rose to Cullen’s cheeks and he cleared his throat, drawing laughter from the three women.

“I hope you have good news.” Josephine cleared her throat, her face serious again, “The peace talks are crumbling.” She folded her hands nervously at her waist before brushing imaginary dust off her trousers and holding them at her sides.

Adahla put a reassuring hand on Josephine’s shoulder, “It’ll be alright. The Grand Duchess threw her brother out as a suspect, but I don’t think I buy it.”

“Florianne and her brother are thick as thieves, though Florianne would give him up in an instant to save herself.” Leliana replied, touching her chin thoughtfully.

“Then... The attack on the Empress will happen tonight,” Cullen unfolded his arms, unconsciously shifting his feet.

“Yes, but warning Celene is pointless. She needs these talks to succeed, and to flee would be to admit defeat.” Josephine had folded her hands again, squeezing tightly enough to make the leather of her gloves creak.

“Perhaps we should let her die,”

“I’m sorry, Leliana, I thought we were here to stop an assassination?” Adahla snarled, taking an aggressive step towards her spymaster.

“Listen to me carefully, Inquisitor.” Leliana said quietly, her voice sharp, like a razor, “What Corypheus wants it chaos. Even with Celene alive, that may still happen. To foil his plan, the Empire must remain strong. This evening, someone must emerge victorious.”

“And it doesn’t have to be Celene. She’s right.” Cullen agreed, giving Josephine a sidelong glance.

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting, Leliana?” Josephine’s voice, though whispered, had climbed several notes higher.

“Sometimes the best path is not the easiest one.”

Adahla wrinkled her nose, unable to stop her voice going hard, like daggers, “You’re asking me to decide what’s best for Orlais. For Thedas! I cannot decide this. Not yet.”

“You must,” Leliana snapped, “Even inaction is a decision, Inquisitor.”

“You could speak to Celene in the ballroom, but she won’t act. Not without proof.” Josephine took a small step, putting herself between Adahla and the spymaster.

“If Gaspard is guilty, he’ll admit nothing. If he’s innocent, he knows nothing. We need the truth.” Cullen grumbled.

“What did Duchess Florianne tell you?” Leliana’s tone settled a little, prompting Josephine to step away again.

“She said Gaspard’s mercenary captain is in the Royal Wing. That he knows about the assassination.”

“Which could be a trap.” Cullen shuffled his feet again, like he was fighting the urge to pace.

“Or a lead,” Josephine countered, grabbing Cullen’s upper arm to keep him still, “Either way, you should search the private quarters in that wing for clues.”

“Then get me access. Meanwhile get your soldiers into position.”

“At once,” Cullen curtly bowed his head, seeming grateful for something to do, “Be careful, Inquisitor.”

[ericjuneau]

Reprise (Chapter 38) [Frozen/Tangled/The Little Mermaid]

CHAPTER 38: What You Did in the Dark

The restoration of Arendelle's proper regime would take days. But the first priority was dismantling the resistance, which offered resources they could use. Plus all the men and women involved were eager to get the kingdom back on its feet. It was what they had worked for, after all.

That meant many trips back and forth between the ice palace and the castle. Thankfully, they didn't have to use the secret tunnels anymore. Thanks to Sven, the ice harvesters, and many other volunteers, plenty of vehicles were available to take them up and down the mountain.

The first room they cleared out was the command center. And this was purely Elsa's request. The maps, books, and weapons were no use to citizens who needed food, clothing, and reassurance that Arendelle was no longer under martial law. But Elsa insisted and Elsa was queen. Once the room cleared, Elsa sat upon her throne. And had been there ever since.

But the door was not locked. Elsa and Ariel pulled open the door and peeked in. She was sitting, propping up her chin with her fist.

"Elsa?" Rapunzel said. "Can we come in?"

"Sure," she said.

Ariel and Rapunzel approached the throne. "What are you doing?"

"Just thinking."

Ariel grimaced. Why did she need to spend so much time alone? And what was there to think about? There was so much to do now that Arendelle was free.

"You've been thinking a while," Ariel said. "Why are you here? You helping out at the beginning. Then Anna told me that you went in here."

Specifically, Anna had said that "She does this sometimes. She says she wants to be alone, but she really doesn't. I have to go in and pull her out of her funk."

"I know," Elsa said. "I was going to help more, but... I was afraid they'd ask me to use my ice powers. And I didn't want to. Not yet. I don't... I don't think that would be appropriate."

"Elsa, we forgive you. We already said that. You weren't your right self. But you're back now," Rapunzel said.

"But for how long? The same things keep happening. Winter keeps coming back, because of me. I can't seem to use my powers without people getting hurt. I keep losing control. And men keep using that as a chance to seize power."

"There's always people like that," Rapunzel said. "And you're not crazy. If anything, you should be crazy after everything we've gone through. Ancient sorcerers and bandits and gypsies and pirates. We literally became mermaids and lived under the sea. And we just ended a war we accidentally started. I think you're allowed to be a little bit crazy."

Elsa made a slight smile. "But still, I keep alienating people."

"We're still here. We came in without being asked," Ariel said.

"Everyone else then," Elsa said, her tone rising. "The whole kingdom. How can I be queen if the same things are going to keep happening?"

Rapunzel pointed at her. "You didn't cause this winter. Arcius did."

"Arcius wouldn't have caused it if I wasn't here. Just my presence causes trouble."

"Is that why you never tore down this ice castle?" Ariel asked. "I mean, it was good for us. But there didn't seem to be a reason after you opened the gates."

Elsa nodded. "I kept it in case I needed somewhere to escape to. If things went wrong for me again, like they did on coronation day. But all I did was trade one prison for another. As long as I'm alive, Arendelle is doomed."

"Elsa," Rapunzel said. "You say you keep alienating people. Then why are they all helping return you to your castle? Why are they excited to have you back? Not me, not Anna--you. They're not doing it because they expect it, or because they're your friends. They want you to be queen."

Ariel said "As long as you recognize that you're making mistakes, you can fix them. You can learn from them. It's the people who don't believe they're doing anything wrong that can't be helped."

"People like Arcius," Rapunzel added.

Elsa paused. "I guess so. But we haven't seen anything of him so far."

"He's not going to stop, no matter what," Ariel said. "It's only a matter of time until he finds us again. Or finds someone else to give him the power he needs."

"Which is why we came in. Pabbie and the trolls have been talking about the grain of time, seeing if anyone knows how to deal with it."

Elsa stood up, her dress swishing around her ankles. "Then let us go," a few seconds passed, "and see what he knows."

Rapunzel furrowed her brows. That was weird.

The three of them exited the throne room. Kristoff, Flynn, and Pabbie were standing by the frozen fountain in the main entrance hall.

Flynn said, "Queen Elsa. Don't you have any snow-heralds to announce your presence?"

Elsa smiled. "There's no need for formalities like that here." She frowned at Kristoff. "When did you get a beard?"

Kristoff looked confused. "I've always had a beard. Keeps my chin warm." He brushed at the yellow fuzz. Elsa shrugged it off.

"Pabbie, did you find out anything?" Rapunzel asked.

"I believe so, child. I am old, but there are many antiquities of the Earth more ancient than me. Still, based on what you told me, there may be a way to defeat your sorcerer."

"Really?" Rapunzel's eyes widened. "Then can we destroy the grain of time?"

"Ehhh," Pabbie wavered. "We're talking about an relic that existed before anything existed. Nevertheless, it can be sapped of energy."

"That's why Arcius wants us. Is there a way to..." Ariel paused. She stared blankly at Pabbie for several seconds, as if finding the right words. "Know how much he has left?"

"I'm afraid not. Even so, there is a basic principle that any action can be foiled by its opposite. The way to conquer your fear was with love," Pabbie said to Elsa. "Each of your powers originated in divine magicks. Perhaps as old as the Earth. The sun drop," he said to Rapunzel. "An ancient curse," to Elsa. "And the might of the sea god," to Ariel.

"So there's a way to counter his magic?" Rapunzel asked.

"Maybe," Pabbie said.

"What about the morimema? Any way you can use that?" Ariel asked.

Pabbie brought out the sapphire eighteen-pointed crystal.

"The mor... the whaty-whata?" Flynn asked.

"I saved it from Lowther's castle. It's the thing that stopped anyone from knowing where he was."

"It is ancient, but I know this kind of power," Pabbie said. "Right now, it has no focus, hence the color change. But whatever that focus is, the crystal renders memories of it unable to form."

"So it's like being invisible?" Flynn asked, eyes sparkling.

"Not invisible, but unable to be recognized. It could be standing right in front of you and you couldn't perceive it. No memories would set in the mind. Like how water cannot be absorbed by a rock."

"And it affects everyone. Worldwide. It might be the most powerful magic we have right now. At least for stopping Arcius," Ariel said.

"You may be right, child. But I haven't convinced myself of a way to use it. Arcius's magic is more powerful than anyone's. It's no doubt he can see through this illusion."

"Oh... right." Ariel's eyes dropped. "If he was able to send that message to Lowther, it won't affect him."

"How are we supposed to defeat him if he has no limits. We might as well be trying to stop a god," Elsa said.

"Arcius, for all his power, is still a human. And you were able to defeat one of the sorcerers using only your talents."

"I think I know what Pabbie is saying," Rapunzel said. "Maybe we can get him to believe that we're there to help? Even if it's just to get close to the grain?"

Everyone looked at her strangely.

"What?"

"You stopped," Ariel said. "Just now."

"Like, you paused in the middle of a word," Flynn said.

"No, I didn't," Rapunzel said.

"Yes, you did," Flynn said. "You said 'Maybe we can get...' and then you stopped moving for like five seconds."

"Something weird's going on," Rapunzel said. "I thought I saw Elsa do the same thing."

"I knew it. Kristoff doesn't have a beard," Elsa said. "He never had one. And Anna hates facial hair. She says it tickles her."

Pabbie glanced between all of them. "Girls, hold each other's hands."

Ariel, Rapunzel, and Elsa did so, looking at each other nervously.

"Pabbie, what are they talking about?" Kristoff asked. "Who's Anna?"

Elsa's eyes widened.

"Calm down," Pabbie said. "I think... what's happening... is..."

Pabbie's voice deepened like a gramophone unwound. He closed his eyes very slowly, then opened them again. A blink.

Then all time stopped. The room was still. Not like the calm of winter--even frozen air still moved. This was static. Lifeless. Like a desert, but without color.

"Elsa," Ariel whispered, gripping her hand tightly. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Elsa whispered back. "But don't let go."

Suddenly, the world around them dropped out. The ice palace deliquesced like a melting painting. Azure blended into nothingness. The floor disintegrated like paper, until they stood in a black void.

The sensation of falling gripped them. They screamed and lost each other's hands. Terrified, they tumbled into nothingness. The blackness became a mix of orange and teal. Giant bright globules passed by like bubbles.

In each of them, they could see still images--a beach, the ice castle, the cliffs and forest where Rapunzel's tower stood, a glowing seashell necklace, the giant snowflake over Arendelle, the light festival over Corona's waters, a bright pink dress, the ochre chandelier dropping straight towards her, a set of cutlery in a candelabra, a puzzle on an old pink rug, a brass orb and scepter with a patina of frost, the seven-person vanity where Ariel's sisters made themselves up every day, sunflowers everywhere, laser light bursting through a statue of Eric, Corona's castle's balcony, a boulder by the shore.

As the world lightened, a surface above was closing in, like a falling ceiling. It undulated and the bubbles spread away as they neared. The three ducked their heads as they burst through the other side. It was the ocean. They had fallen up through the ocean. And were still falling. Or rising?

The ocean faded away, too far to see, and all around was marigold sky. Orange swirled into the dark void. A portal. All was weightlessness. They flew through a swirl of prismatic clouds, every glint flashing red or green or blue. The tunnel ended in a black and red vortex. They punched through into nothing.

Something touched their feet. The weight settled--they were standing on something again. And though there was no light, they could see each other.

An apparition walked toward them, blurred and devoid of any color but white. Greys and blacks filtered in, giving depth. The other colors after that, giving definition. He clapped his hands.

"Well done on that rebellion," Arcius said. "Good decision-making on your part."

"You," Ariel hissed. "You did this?"

"I knew one of you would return to your point of formation. I apologize for everything that had to happen to get you there though. Quite a sudden war. I do hope the casualties were minimal."

"You need to leave us alone," Elsa said. "We're coming to get you."

Arcius snickered. "How are you going to do that? You can't even control where you are right now."

Rapunzel stepped in. "We're not anywhere. And you're not either. Otherwise, you'd be trying to capture us. This is all some kind of mirage."

She approached Arcius and passed her hand through his head.

"Reality and energy turn out to be less manifested under the power of time," Arcius said. "This is the power you keep rejecting. This is why I'm here. I don't think you quite realize what it is you're denying."

The blackness lifted. They were in Elsa's castle. It was wintertime, but a natural winter. And at Christmastime, with candles and small paper baskets. The room smelled of roast mutton and vinegar cabbage. Elsa's brain sizzled as the emotions came back to her. But this wasn't a past, this was a future.

Anna was kneeling by the Christmas tree. So was Kristoff. They had a baby wrapped in a blanket. All three of them had red noses and cheeks.

"They just showed him his first winter," Arcius said. "He giggled when snowflakes landed on his nose."

"If you're going to show us a bleak vision of our futures, it's not working," Elsa said.

"Who said it was bleak?" Arcius said. "Arendelle is prosperous. You are a fine queen, and an aunt. And Anna has everything you ever wanted while you stand on the sidelines. You have the people's allegiance but not their respect. And you spend the rest of your life trying to get it back. Days upon days in council meetings and document readings, neglecting your sister and friends. You slave and toil for a kingdom in perpetual terror. A kingdom waiting for the day you perish so they can sleep peacefully again. She moves on and marries. Oh, you pop in once in a while to their lives. But you are forever off to the side, watching her get everything you ever wanted--a close loving family."

"You're undermining your own point. By telling us the future, it can be changed," Elsa said.

"Kid, I OWN the future." Arcius stepped back, letting the temper fade away again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to erupt like that. But this is not some premonition. This is real. You are seeing the power I'm talking about. This is the fate that is written. And yours is the most comforting of the three of you."

The lights went down to pitch. Like a theater, they rose up on a castle balcony. Corona's castle. The sky was on fire, sunset orange and charcoal gray. The ocean roiled like a sea of blood. Hissing explosions popped with balls of smoke.

And overlooking it all was Queen Rapunzel. She was older. Her eyes were sunken in and rimmed with sickly mauve. She wore a drab mulberry dress with thick cuffs. Her gray hair was tied in a bun, except for the wispy strands that had gotten loose.

"What happened to me?" Rapunzel asked.

"What happens," Arcius said, "is that you are a conqueror. Corona became mighty attractive to your neighboring countries, with an inexperienced ruler and singular access to water. They try to take the kingdom of the sun. First through politics, then by deception, and finally by force. The years of war harden you, Rapunzel."

Her breath caught in her throat at the mention of her name.

"Though you are inexperienced, Corona does not fall. The lessons you learn discipline you. The betrayals you have to make, the games for power, sacrifices and under-the-table deals. And your kingdom goes from defender to attacker. Never again will Corona be taken advantage of, that's for certain."

"No," Rapunzel whispered.

"Still," Arcius said, turning to Ariel. "It's a better fate than what happens to your kingdom."

The light faded again. When it returned, they were on a beach. Ariel's beach. She turned to face the castle.

The roof of the tallest tower had been ripped away. Ivy covered the walls near the land. Near the sea, whole partitions had fallen away. Barnacles stuck to the pock-marked walls.

"Your land simply deteriorates. A slow, gradual decline. Very painful for the people. Those who stayed that is. Everyone fled once they saw which way the wind was blowing."

"What... what did this?" Ariel asked.

"A weak queen. Indecisive. Never there when needed. Avoiding accords that would have impact. Her husband works himself into an early grave trying to compensate. And once she takes power, she instantiates silly rules, ratifies all requests, ignores the consequences."

"No, that's not going to happen," Ariel said. "I've already learned that lesson. This is not what my life turns out to be. For any of us."

"Don't you get it? This is exactly what happens. I know it because I've seen it. That's the power of the grain of time." Arcius sighed. "I would think you'd be a little more appreciative of what I'm demonstrating. I offer these images freely, using the last of the grain of time's power. You cannot let it die, it's too important to let it fade into the aether. You can change deserts into forests by planting a single seed. Have the childr- the life you were meant to have."

"Wait, what?" Elsa stood up. "What did you say?"

"You didn't show any of us with children," Ariel said. "How do you know what we're meant to have?" She paused. "Our fates used to be different, weren't they? Something changed."

Arcius's voice thinned. "You must understand. It's the only way I can interact with the world anymore. I cannot simply leave my lair. The grain of time is too precious to leave alone."

Rapunzel wiped her eyes. "But you have changed things. Just how much have you changed?"

"It's nothing devastating. Like I said, plant a tiny seed here and a whole forest grows."

"Or remove a seed and a wasteland appears," Elsa said angrily. "You've already been altering our lives, haven't you? Messing with our past to... to what? Just how much can you change? Did my parents die so you could have-"

"No." Arcius held out his hand. "I assure you, I've done nothing to affect your lives beyond the past year. And even then, only in the smallest of ways. Little changes, nudges in a certain direction. The most difficult part is revising the mistakes. And maintaining the minimal amount of reform possible. Humans are so unpredictable. It took so many corrections until you would find your way to me. And I'm still not happy with how events turned out. Not to mention each reduced the potential of the grain of time. Now you see why I need your power?"

"The birds," Elsa said. "You did that."

"What birds?" Rapunzel asked. At the same time, Ariel gasped.

"When my ship wrecked, Ariel dragged me to a shoal. This was before I knew who she was. We started fighting, but a bunch of birds attacked us and drove us to shore."

"You see how hard it is?" Arcius asked. "It is an easy thing to join two diametrical parties against a common foe. But one must make preparations. To train and breed those birds to be territorial, relocate their home to that specific rock, mend their behavior for the right circumstances."

"Hans's armada. You arranged that," Elsa said. "And the three messages for us."

"And the guy who attacked me in the night," Rapunzel said. "The one using Ravir's name. He was sent by you!"

Arcius said "I needed to get you to Arendelle. I needed you alone, without any spouses to affect your decision or armies backing you up. Any one of you could serve as a source, but it was easier if all three of you arrived together."

"And Ansel. Somehow you made it so he rose through the ranks and became the commander. And-" Rapunzel gasped. "The library! The explosion! You did that!"

"You should have seen yourselves, squabbling over such petty contrivances. Only a significant distraction could have reunited you. Do you know how many tries it took to get that right? Too many people kept dying and left you too demoralized to continue. You kept splitting away to reinforce your kingdoms. I had to create a disaster with enough sentimental impact but no casualties. Do you know how hard that is?"

"You've been changing events this whole time," Ariel said. "So that circumstances would be perfect for all of us to find each other. Do you know how much we suffered? What about that?"

"Do you think this is the first time we've had this conversation?" Arcius let a moment pass for that to sink in. "We've met dozens of times. The reason you don't remember is because I've adjusted events that erase it.

"How could you?" Elsa growled. "These are our lives. You don't get to maneuver them to serve your own goals."

"At any point, did you have a clue that your life's path had been diverted? No. You stayed in blissful ignorance, continuing a single unbroken track. And what worse were you for it?""

"You don't have the right-"

"I have EVERY right." The girls drew back. "Don't you get it yet? I have the power. The person with the power gets the right. That's why he has the power. He earned it. He deserved it." Arcius's chest and shoulders heaved with each breath.  

"Which one of us?" Ariel asked quietly.

"What?" Arcius answered.

"Which one of us has the child? Me? Rapunzel?"

Arcius paused before answering. "You did. A daughter. Named Melody. She looked like her father."

Ariel nodded. "But that's not going to come to pass, is it? Now that you've changed things. It's so far gone it's never going to happen."

Arcius stiffened. "My patience has worn thin. You have forced me from persuasion to threat. Either join me or I will manipulate your lives so you will have no choice."

"We said no. And we mean no," Rapunzel said.

"You must think carefully about your words, young one," Arcius growled. "The magic must be of free will. But free will can be manipulated."

"What free will do we have when you've been tearing our lives apart?" Elsa asked. "We're coming for you. And we're going to stop you."

"My power is not unlimited, but I will use what I have to bend you to my will. Perhaps it will be such a diversion that none of you would know you had lives to begin with. If you do not come to me, I will come to you."

Arcius stepped back. Darkness swallowed his body.

Though they couldn't see it, something pulled them away. The world stretched, contorted towards a single focal point. Vertigo made their eyes shut. When they opened them, they were in the ice castle, still holding hands. Pabbie, Flynn, and Kristoff were staring at them, slack-jawed. Kristoff was beardless again.  

Flynn leaned into Pabbie. "What are we waiting for?" he whispered.

"You didn't see anything happen?" Rapunzel asked.

"How long we were gone?" Elsa asked.

"Gone?" Kristoff asked. "Gone where?"

"You didn't see us leave?" Elsa asked.

"Did time stop? Did we pass out?" Ariel asked.

"What are you talking about? Pabbie said you should hold hands, like something was going to happen." Flynn's eyebrows shot up. "Did something happen?"

"It's Arcius. His magic's unstable because the grain of time's losing power. That explains why you saw Kristoff with a beard," Rapunzel said.

"I had a beard?" Kristoff asked.

Ariel nodded. "A big bushy lumberjack one. It didn't look good."

"Anna! Where's Anna? Where is she?" Elsa yelled.

Kristoff reared back, afraid of Elsa's intensity. "B-back at the castle. Helping with the restoration. Did something happen to her?"

"I don't know. Arcius is messing with time. He could have done anything. He could make it so she was never born." Elsa turned on her heel. "We need to get back to the castle NOW!"

Flynn, Kristoff, and Pabbie froze with alarm. "Sven's outside, all hooked up," Flynn said.

"Let's go," Elsa said.

She was out of the castle and in the sleigh before anyone else. Kristoff jumped in before she could whip the reins and take off. He waited for the others to rush in before calling for Sven to take off.

Blustery snow pelted their faces, like a thousand tiny bullets. All but Elsa pulled up their collars, tucking in against the snow. But the queen leaned forward on the rail, as if she could will them faster. Every passing minute ate at her.

They reached the outskirts by evening and the castle at sunset. Kristoff pulled Sven to a stop at the castle gates. Elsa leapt out before the sleigh fully stopped.

"Anna! Anna!" she yelled. "Anna! Where are you?"

Her voice echoed in the empty entrance hall. Elsa ran through the corridors with madcap fervor. The occasional servant or maid looked up, confused. But Elsa would be past them before they could ask. "Anna!"

"Elsa?"

Anna stood outside the gallery, holding a portrait under her arm.

Elsa rushed and embraced her, nearly making her drop the painting.

"What's going on?" Anna said, bewildered. "Am I in trouble?"

"No. I'm just... so glad... you're my sister," Elsa panted.

"Me too," Anna said. She patted her back.

Elsa stood up. "Has anything happened? Anything strange?"

"I don't think so. Except Ansel replaced all the curtains in the study with green and yellow. Is that weird enough? I mean, green and yellow? Yuck."

Ariel and Rapunzel, who had been pursuing Elsa through the palace, finally caught up with them. "Phew, she's all right," Rapunzel said.

"All right? What do you mean 'all right'? What's going on?"

"Nothing," Ariel said. "And even if there was, you wouldn't have known it."

Anna's eyes opened even wider. Rapunzel elbowed Ariel in the ribs.

"Everything's fine." Elsa caressed Anna's shoulders. "I just wanted to make sure you were fine too. What have you been doing?"

"We're taking out all the changes Ansel made to the castle. I've been looking through the gallery. Look at this portrait he put up of himself. Bleh."

She held up the framed canvas. It was the portrait Ariel and Rapunzel had seen during Ansel's dinner. His austere visage gazed at them, reprimanding any action that did not encourage downfall of the monarchy. He held his hands in front of his snap blue uniform, not a wrinkle on it.

"Where's his book?" Rapunzel asked.

Anna peered over the top of the portrait. "What book?"

"He had a book in his hands. A big blue one with a gold symbol on it. He said he made a special point to include it in the painting. For his 'legacy'."

"What are you talking about? It always looked like this. Unless he had it painted over," Flynn said.

"Not that quick," Elsa said.

Anna chuckled. "Are you saying this isn't the same painting you saw? What do you think he did? Grab a different painting from another world?"

Anna, Rapunzel, and Elsa looked at each other.

"Where is Ansel?" Elsa asked.

Ansel was in the dungeon, nowhere near where Rapunzel and Ariel had broken in. He sat under the window on the bench opposite the bars. He clasped his hands, as if in prayer, when the three girls approached.

Ariel held up the painting.

"Explain this," Rapunzel said.

"It's me," Ansel said.

"It's you, missing one key detail," Elsa said.

Ansel, to his credit, studied the painting. He shrugged. "One of my lieutenants commissioned it. I posed for it, far longer than I would have liked. The last I saw of it was when it was to be hung in the castle gallery. Is there anything I missed?"

"The book," Elsa said. "What about the book?"

"What book?"

"When we saw this before, there was a book in this painting. It had a teal cover and a gold symbol on the cover. Like this." She pointed her forefinger in the air and made a design like an hourglass.

Ansel sat back against the wall. He said nothing.

"Why don't we see it now? Were there two paintings? Was there something special about it?" Rapunzel asked.

"There is no book in that painting because I did not pose with such a book," Ansel said.

"There's more to it than that," Ariel said. "I can see it in your eyes."

"You'd better tell us," Rapunzel said. "Or else Bad Elsa will come out again."

His eyes momentarily glanced her way.

"How do you know about that book?" Ansel asked.

"What is it?" Rapunzel asked.

Ansel stood up. He took a deep breath. "The first time I saw it was in my ship's cabin, heading from Corona to Arendelle. No one on my ship knew where it came from, who had placed it, who wrote it. As if it appeared out of thin air."

Rapunzel, Elsa, and Ariel looked at each other.

He continued, "It alarmed me. My cabin had been encroached. Posted security avoided, which is always present on my flagship. Yet, whoever penned this journal had done so."

"Journal?" Ariel asked.

"A handwritten account describing, in detail, how dangerous Arendelle's queen is." He kept eye contact with Elsa as he said this. Elsa scowled at him, a reminder that "Bad Elsa" could still come out. "All her past transgressions. Potential future ones. Detailed descriptions on how far her power could go. Her friends and allies. Strengths and weaknesses. In addition, her policies, her actions within the state. The condition of the Arendelle citizenry I would be sailing into. And how to manipulate the populace into renouncing her and accepting me as leader."

"The whole book told you how to do that?" Rapunzel asked. "Like a guide?"

Ansel nodded. "What to do, who to talk to, where to go. Almost down to the words I should say."

Again, the three girls glanced at each other. There was no need to ask who had written it.

Elsa said "And what did you stand to gain out of this?"

Ansel shrugged. "Its end justified the means. The ousting of a dangerous ruler and my own installation into power. Questionable good fortune, maybe. Perhaps I would end up owing my benefactor a favor. But the reason was sound, and I followed it." He sat back and smiled.

Ariel's eyebrows shot up. He was being way too generous with his revelations. Anyone behind bars had to be threatened or bribed to give up choice information like this. "Why are you telling us all this?"

"Because there's a reason the book you're talking about is not there." Ansel nodded toward the portrait. "It hasn't been in my possession since shortly after I arrived."

"Why not? Where is it?" Elsa asked.

"The book told me what to say to stave off the navies of Weselton and the Southern Isles... and how to affiliate with them for considerations. They never left Arendelle. They sailed deep into Odin's Fjord and are waiting there."

"Waiting for what?" Ariel asked.

"For my signal. Or lack of signal, I should say." Ansel smiled. "You could call it a contingency plan. Would that I were compromised. Which... well, look, here we are."

"Lack of signal?" Ariel asked.

"The book also included a recipe for a powerful explosive. Combining frozen hydrogen, aldehyde, and Tollens' reagent. Along with a complex mechanism for keeping these ingredient separate until a certain point. They're waiting for a coded message from me. If they receive the message, they remain. But if a certain amount of time goes by without hearing from me, they create a blockade and fire the bomb at the city."

The girls' breaths caught in their throats simultaneously.

"Arendelle should be quite ripe for annihilation. Your fleet is depleted, your soldiers are undernourished, your citizens are questioning their loyalty. No trace of this transgression should be discovered." Ansel grinned. "This kingdom will be a wasteland for cartographers to gray out and dismiss for centuries to come."

"How much time until they need the message?" Rapunzel asked.

Ansel said nothing. He grinned.

Elsa reached through the bars and grabbed Ansel's lapel. "How much time?"

Ansel grinned. "Do your worst, ice queen. I'm no longer afraid of death." He laughed. He laughed and laughed. The laugh of a madman with nothing left to lose. Who saw everything so perfectly that it gave an insane giddiness.

"Come on," Rapunzel said. "We have to take care of this now." The three of them rushed up the stairs. Kristoff, Anna, Flynn, Olaf, and Pabbie were waiting in the Queen's study.

"Well?" Flynn asked. "Was it a time thing?"

"It has to be," Rapunzel said. "Maybe all this time manipulation is letting us see the differences between what should be and what's changing."

"But it's worse," Elsa said. "Hans's navy has a bomb that could destroy all of Arendelle. And they're probably on their way now."

"Hans's navy? I thought he got rid of them," Kristoff said.

"He did. By recruiting them to his side," Rapunzel said.

"Well, we'll stop him. Can't we take out the fleet and stop him from getting close?" Anna wrung her hands.

Kristoff shrugged. "How? That blockade stretched wall to wall. And if they have any of Ansel's allies still on their side..."

"We can distract Hans-" Flynn started.

"That's not going to work a second time," Rapunzel said. "We've used up all our good will. They're only going to listen to Ansel."

"Maybe we can escape. If we go further into the mountains-" Anna said

"No," Elsa said. "I'm not escaping. And I'm not sacrificing anyone else."

Olaf shook his head. "If only you could turn yourselves invisible."

"Invisible..." Elsa turned to Pabbie. "Pabbie. The morimema. Could we use that somehow? You said it just needed something to focus on."

"That's genius." Ariel stood up. "We use it on Arendelle. They forget it ever existed."

Pabbie stuttered. "The artifact doesn't have nearly enough magic left. There's not enough to cover the kingdom."

Elsa rubbed her chin. "Maybe there's not enough to cover a city... could you cover a person?"

"What do you mean?" Rapunzel asked.

"Maybe we don't have to hide Arendelle. But if we can hide ourselves, we could sneak aboard and destroy the bomb."

Pabbie hummed. "I think I can summon enough power to focus on the three of you. But you would have to stay close to each other."

"We always do," Ariel said.

"But it's not enough to cover the boat, is it?" Flynn asked. "How are you going to float past them?"

"And there's no going around or under this time," Anna said.

"We can do it," Elsa said. "The Barefoot Maiden is sea-worthy. We just have to get past their blockade to the flagship."

"You're not leaving again without our help," Kristoff said. "You shouldn't have gone out alone in the first place."

"Same here," Flynn said. "We won't allow it. That's final."

"Well, I'm queen," Elsa said. "And only I get to say what's final. Otherwise, I can have you locked in the dungeon..." She gave her trademark smirk and cocky eyebrow.

Anna stepped forward. "Well, I'm the queen's sister. And I have the power to overrule the queen if she's doing something stupid or dangerous."

"I'm pretty sure that's not a law," Elsa said.

"It's the law of sisters," Anna said. "And you have to follow it. Or else... else..."

"Anna..." Elsa took Anna's hands in hers. "I know this is scary for you. But you need to stay. Evacuate the town. Get everyone in Arendelle to shelter."

"But..."

"If something does happen to us, I want a good ruler on the throne. A ruler who puts the well-being of her people before herself."

"We're not alone. It'll be the three of us," Rapunzel said.

"We can handle anything," Ariel said.

"They have cannons, guns. If they stop you, you're dead," Kristoff said.

"Then we'll have to make sure we're not stopped," Elsa said.