#perhaps i was expecting too much from a book about the us government managing time travel

[kazz-brekker]

i read the rise and fall of d.o.d.o. recently and it was not like. the best time travel book i have ever read but i am particularly hung up on a part where they are trying to stop one particular business in the past from being created for ~reasons~ but the way that they do this is by traveling back in time and trying to convince a guy in elizabethan england to invest in the east india company instead and at no point do any of characters acknowledge that the east india company is like. evil.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: Something causes Lan Qiren to just SNAP, go absolutely fucking feral, and run off to become a rogue cultivator.

Beautifully Spent

- Chapter 1 -

aka Five Times Lan Qiren Left The Lan Sect Behind

“It is your duty, Qiren.”

“Is it?” Lan Qiren asked coldly. “I believe you’re thinking of my brother. You might remember him – the sect leader?”

He’d never spoken that coldly to anyone, least of all an honored elder, one of his own teachers, but he had no choice.

Ever since he was young, Lan Qiren wanted to become a traveling musician - to wander the world freely, without the burdens that would fall on his older brother, the prospective sect leader. Even as he got older, he'd never quite let go of that ambition, refining it until it had become not only a dream but a plan.

He would see that plan come to fruition, no matter what it took.

His teacher looked at him helplessly. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “You know your brother has chosen seclusion –”

“I know that in the eyes of the sect I have never been a quarter the man he is,” Lan Qiren said quietly. “I know that in each instance that we have argued, you have all taken his side. I know that I was asked, time and time again, to yield – because he is the elder, because he is the heir, because he is the more talented of us two. I have always yielded, because I am a filial son, a good brother, and I love my sect. I have always yielded.”

His teacher cast his eyes down to the ground.

An acknowledgement of guilt.

“I will not yield this time,” Lan Qiren said simply. “This is the rest of my life, honored teacher. This is my entire life. For once, let himbe the one to yield – to do his duty to his sect, as he was always meant to.”

“But –”

“I have always been here for him.” Lan Qiren did not allow him to interrupt. “I have been his scapegoat when things have not gone his way, I have been his pawn in political games, I have even been his punching bag when he needed to vent his irrational anger. Everything he has had the freedom to do, he has done because he has had me here. If I were not here, would he be able to go into seclusion?”

His teacher was silent.

“He would not,” Lan Qiren concluded. “To go into seclusion when you are the only option to lead the sect is to be an unfilial descendant of our ancestors. And so, if I am not here, he would be obligated to live up to his duties.”

“His heart has just been broken. Do you have no empathy for him?”

“As much as I do for the woman who was forced by circumstances to agree to marry him, and no more.”

“Qiren…”

“Think of it as me being dead, honored teacher,” Lan Qiren said, and ignored his teacher’s flinch at such inauspicious words. “Do you need me to remove my forehead ribbon before I go?”

“Qiren! Of course not!”

“Ask my brother,” Lan Qiren said dryly. “He will have the final word, as usual, and he does not like not getting his way.”

He left that day, his head held high.

He did his best not to think of his brother, who had, in his own way, wanted freedom, too.

Lan Qiren travelled, after that. It was just as he’d always planned it: quiet nights along forest paths, visits to small towns in out-of-the-way corners of the world – inquiring and then solving any issues they had that required a cultivator, and playing for them when no such issues remained. He had anticipated hardship, knowing himself to be a rich young master who’d never really faced the world; he hadn’t anticipated kindness: a few married women in one town taking the time to show him how to do laundry, giggling at him all the while, a group of young woodcutters in the next the best way to forage and cook food when one was hungry, a merchant and his wife teaching him how to bargain to avoid getting cheated…in time, through the generosity and enthusiasm of others, he learned all the skills he needed.

He refused payment for night-hunts – amazingly, his sect did not cut him off as he’d almost expected them to, and he was still able to collect his usual allowance – but accepted it for his music, and from his place behind his guqin he watched, quiet and content, as life swirled around him in all its myriad forms.

In between music and night-hunts, he idly taught some skills to the children in the towns he passed through – the vast majority were common people, completely lacking in cultivation skills, but his sect’s rules and the philosophy behind them were applicable in far more situations than that, and basic martial skills in even more. Whenever he stayed somewhere for more than a few days, he added in lessons in basic literacy, mostly because the idea of not having books at hand was abhorrent to him; the parents involved were generally more grateful that he was keeping their children out of trouble than especially interested in what he was teaching them, but it’d never hurt anyone to know a little bit of reading.

When he happened upon a place already governed by another sect, he did not take particular care either to avoid or to approach them; if they happened to meet, and to invite him to stay with them, he would. Lao Nie tracked him down six times for that very purpose, citing increasingly less plausible excuses, before Lan Qiren finally agreed to make the Unclean Realm a regular stop on his travels just to make him stop; in contrast, Cangse Sanren just showed up at the camp he had made for himself one day, her husband as always by her side, and simply refused to leave for the next three months.

He did not visit the Cloud Recesses.

Not when he heard about how his brother had, however reluctantly, come out from seclusion and begun to do the work of sect leader, and do it well, the Lan sect prospering under his leadership as they had always expected to. Not when he got news that his nephew was born; not when he heard that one nephew had become two. Not even when he heard that his brother’s wife had died, though the thought of that miserable woman’s self-inflicted fate had moved him enough to write a letter of condolence to his brother – their first contact in seven years.

Lan Qiren did not expect anything to come of that impulse, though perhaps he should have known better: it wasn’t more than a week later that he received a letter in return, the heavy formal parchment used by the Lan sect as familiar to him as the back of his hand, his brother’s equally formal calligraphy very nearly as familiar.

The words on it weren’t familiar at all.

I have made a terrible mistake, his brother wrote. I need your help.

Lan Qiren was perhaps not especially filial to his sect, having abandoned it as readily as he did – but despite everything, he did love his brother.

He went home.

“Lan Huan, courtesy name Xichen,” his brother said, nodding at the small child, pudgy and fat and adorable, quivering like a pudding even as he tried to force a smile onto his face, clutching onto a baby only a few months old, the little one strangely solemn despite the inexpert manhandling. “Lan Zhan, courtesy name Wangji.”

Lan Qiren was not as shy as he used to be, and he had gotten better at dealing with children. He knelt down until he was level with them, though he did not force himself to adopt any expression that did not come naturally. “Hello,” he said. “I’m your uncle.”

“Hello, uncle,” Lan Xichen said.

Lan Qiren held out a hand and waited, even as his brother took his leave, busier than ever. It took a little while, but Lan Xichen eventually put his own hand in his, and walked with him; after a little while, he even entrusted him with little Lan Wangji, fussing until Lan Qiren had tucked him into the corner of his arm in a manner he found appropriate.

By the time his brother found them again, Lan Xichen was chattering on and on about his xiao lessons, while Lan Qiren nodded along and added his own observations – he was decently skilled at the xiao himself; while it was not his preferred instrument, there were times when it was easier to carry than a guqin, and he had had time, when he was younger, to indulge himself in learning more than one instrument.

When Lan Xichen saw his father, he fell silent at once. He did not hide behind Lan Qiren’s robes, though Lan Qiren half-thought he wanted to – his little hand trembled in Lan Qiren’s palm.

“Would you like to take your brother back?” Lan Qiren asked him. Lan Wangji was a good baby, crying only a few times, each time responding well and easily to the usual things a child his age wanted – milk, a burp, attention. Moreover, Lan Xichen was good with him, thoughtful and careful; Lan Qiren had no concerns entrusting the baby to him, and Lan Xichen brightened a little when he realized that, nodding happily and taking Lan Wangji, pausing only a moment to glance worriedly at his father before scurrying off.

Lan Qiren looked at his brother.

“He’s afraid of me,” his brother said. “You can tell, can’t you?”

A blind man could tell. Lan Qiren said nothing.

“Wangji cries whenever I hold him, too, even though he almost never cries the rest of the time. He’s not even a year old, and he already knows.”

“Knows?”

His brother looked out into the horizon. His hands were behind his back, clasped in a formal pose. “That I’ll ruin them, too.”

Lan Qiren put his own hands behind his back as well. After a few moments, he said, “You care for them both. That’s not nothing.”

Their own father hadn’t managed even that. He had treated Lan Qiren with utter indifference, while treasuring his eldest beyond the point of reason, encouraging him to always think only of himself; the seeds of their estrangement were planted long before either of them knew it, each of them learning different lessons from their father’s mismanagement – Lan Qiren how to be inferior and doubt himself, his brother to be self-absorbed and careless with the feelings of others; Lan Qiren to bend himself to the point of breaking, his brother to refuse to bend at all.

It had served neither of them well.

“I don’t know what love is, except possession,” his brother said. “Xichen torments himself to try to live up to my expectations, and all I’ve managed to teach him, other than fear, is how to say yes to everything just to make people go away. I find myself falling into the habit of thinking of him as an extension of myself, which is still more than I can do with Wangji, who doesn’t even cry like a regular child should…” He paused. “You didn’t cry much as a child either.”

Lan Qiren glanced at his brother, surprised. He hadn’t known his brother had paid enough attention to him back then to even notice.

His brother smiled thinly. “Our family is known for its quiet children, did you know? I hadn’t, but they told me after Wangji was born. Apparently, there’s a few in every generation: a little slow, a little strange, with minds that don’t work quite the same way as the rest of us. The ones that don’t like to look you in the eye – sometimes they learn to speak, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they’re brilliant. As babies, they’re generally a little too quiet. There were three in our father’s generation, but in ours there was only you. And now, there’s Wangji…”

He shook his head.

“I wronged you before, Qiren. I don’t want to do it again – I don’t want to know what sort of father I’d be to a child like you. I’m not willing to risk waiting to find out, either.”

When Lan Qiren left the Cloud Recesses, he took with him a qiankun pouch weighed down with more money than he’d ever had in his life, two children, one smiling happily as the other burbled quietly, and his brother’s trust.

He had no idea what to do with any of it.

[scintillasofbeomgyu]

-ˏˋ⋆ ̥ 𝗳𝗼𝘅'𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗲𝘁𝗵 – part one: the beginning (cyj)

pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader x kang taehyun

genre(s): fantasy, period!fic, nine-tailed fox!yeonjun, crown prince!taehyun, angst, fluff here and there

word count: 4,1k

the spirit who had been guarding the south side of the mountain, a nine-tailed fox, is requested by the crown prince of Joseon to make an appearance before his betrothed. though reluctant at first, he agrees on condition that their meeting is fleeting and under the guise of a mask.

an: this was inspired by the kdrama ‘tale of the nine-tailed’, hence the similar elements. events may or may not be historically accurate. ++ i’m really anxious about how this fic will be taken, but i’ve put too much effort in to let it sit in my drafts ksks. might post the part 2 if you want! let me know what you think!

(finally posting this as a gift for the immense support i’ve been receiving! thank you! ❤️ and low-key bc sumi has been thinkin about kitsune yeonjun)

Sealed by the promise of two youths many moons ago, your betrothal to the crown prince of Joseon was something which was not unbeknownst to anyone in the country. Many young ladies, noble and common alike, coveted your fortune and would make desperate pleas to the gods to have half the luck you did. And perhaps anyone else would have boasted about how fate had favoured them, but you didn’t.

“(Y/n)? Are you listening?” his highness asked, raising an eyebrow as you continued to flip through the pages of a book you had picked up from his desk. You placed the book back where you found it and turned to look from the pavilion, out across the pond and above the canopy tops to the mountains in the distance.

What had intrigued you about the palace was not the status, nor the riches, nor the people who dwelt within it. After all, you preferred to be neck-deep in books of history and literature, poetry, and volumes which questioned which was myth and which was reality. Your father, though, was as open-minded as anyone else was about the education of women at the time – not at all. So you had resorted to killing two birds with one stone; appeasing your father by agreeing to meet with the prince meant getting your hands on books you wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else.

But today, you had an entirely different motive.

“Do you believe in mythical beings, your Highness?” you asked, turning to face the prince who stared back at you, wide-eyed.

The seemingly sudden question had him taken aback.

From the very first meeting, you had puzzled Taehyun. Like you, although he knew he had to do it some day, the topic of his marriage hadn’t interested him. Or rather, it was more important to him that the person he would one day wed had the same interests as he did – the good of the people and the flourishing of the country.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t expect you to be as crazed about love and titles as the other noblewomen of Joseon were, at first. So he was pleasantly surprised when you had arrived at Gyeongbokgung, not batting an eyelash in his direction. But when he had attempted to open discussions about politics and solving the exorbitant taxes expected from the people, he’d find your nose buried in one of the books from the pile you sifted through by his desk.

Taehyun was already struggling to figure you out, and now you asked him this.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he cocked his head to the side, folding his hands behind his back. “have you come across something thought-provoking?”

“It’s quite straightforward; a yes or no question.” you shrugged, smirking as your eyes caught the not-so-discreet glances his personal guard and the eunuch had given one another.

Ultimately, to have relations with the throne was not all sunshine and roses. For your own protection, and to ensure you were not used as leverage against the king, your father had sent you very far from home – to Southern Jeolla. And it was upon your arrival back in Hanyang, after many years away, that you had come to hear the rumours which had surrounded the royal family.

A gumiho. A nine-tailed fox. The spirit which protected the forest. A being which could not be trusted. The one to whom the country owed it’s prosperity. The one at whose hands the country could fall into havoc.

You knew better than to believe the words of storytellers and self-proclaimed chroniclers. It was the fact that they had all said the same thing which had perturbed you. It left this unsettling feeling, which just wouldn’t fade away. So you read book after book, folklores and retellings, each and every documented account of those who had insisted they had seen the man with ‘eyes which glowed like hot embers even in the light of day’. It nearly drove you insane.

That was, until just this morning, when you had overheard the court ladies chattering away in hushed tones about how so-and-so had come to see the prince again, how much so-and-so frightened them, and how they wondered for how much longer the king would leave the future of the kingdom in the hands of such a wild-card.

You turned to look out beyond the trees again, a sudden gush of wind rattling their branches and sending their leaves sailing through the air. “Let me meet him. This... friend of yours, your Highness.”

“No.”

Taehyun nodded, taking a leaf from the shrub in front of him between his fingers, “I thought you’d say that.”

Yeonjun huffed, taking a bite out of one of the freshly picked apples the prince had brought along with him on his visit (as some sort of incentive, he supposed). The scowl he had adorned etched deeper into his face as Taehyun’s proposition crossed his mind a second time. He should have left the boy to the wandering spirits all those years ago, is what he thought. The fact that Yeonjun had allowed him to follow him around and meet with him must have made him cocky.

In the beginning, he trusted them. Yeonjun had spent thousands of years cultivating the forest and protecting those which lived beneath it’s canopy. He had taken an oath to never allow any harm to come to it, and as a sort of by-product, had taken up an arrangement with the king to hand over to him any miscreants who chanced into his territory. And for hundreds of years, this agreement was honored. King after king had revered the spirit who protected the people, throwing grand festivals in his honor.

Until humans did what they always do. They became consumed by greed and corrupted by power. They feared that the existence of a powerful being, and the esteem in which the people held it, threatened the very authority of the throne.

On a night which felt like yesterday to Yeonjun, the then king had convinced him to appear before the people, reasoning that he deserved to be celebrated and loved; not lurking in the depths of a forest where he wondered alone. His yearning for family provoked, he had left, only to return to enormous crackling fires which devoured everything in their path.

Now he was being asked to entertain the likes of one of them again? An insolent, entitled woman who was probably the daughter of some power-hungry government official nonetheless? He wouldn’t allow himself to be made a fool out of again.

“I’m aware you cannot leave the forest unguarded for long periods of time, especially at night,” Taehyun said, brushing the bits of earth from his hand onto his silk garment. “which is why I want to bring her here.”

The half-eaten apple hit the forest floor with a thud.

“What did you just say?” the same incredulity written on Yeonjun’s face, embedded into his voice.

Taehyun grinned sheepishly, “Hyung, can’t you do me this one favour?”

Quickly taking a seat beside him, the crown prince of the Joseon dynasty grabbed onto the sleeve of Yeonjun’s black robe and tugged at it. Yeonjun sucked a sharp breath of air through his teeth and slapped his hands away. The memory of a scared little boy in disheveled clothes, sobbing as snot ran down onto his lips crossed Yeonjun’s mind. He bit back the grin which fought to pull at his lips.

“I thought you weren’t interested in love? Why all the effort then?”

Taehyun dropped his hands from where they had been grappling at Yeonjun’s robe and stood up, clearing his throat before folding his hands behind his back again. Yeonjun smirked. “It’s not by choice, the woman in question is frightening. Only the gods would know the lengths she would have gone to had I refused her.”

Many minutes of back and forth bickering had passed before Taehyun managed to convince Yeonjun to appear before you. This reluctant agreement came with conditions, however. Leaving the mountain for even a moment during nightfall was out of the question, but that didn’t mean that he was okay with some suspicious woman wandering into his home. So, they had settled on the foot of the mountain closest to the north side. Yeonjun had also made sure to point out that although he had agreed to let you see him, he never agreed to introductions.

“You never struck me as the type to attend parties in the evening, your Highness,” you hollered from your palanquin which lagged behind his. When no reply came, you seethed, biting back the urge to punch a hole through the expensive wooden barrier in front of you. He had suddenly appeared at your father’s estate just as the sun had dipped beyond the horizon, not bothering to give an explanation before your father had the guards stuff you into the tiny varnished vehicle. “You haven’t yet answered me, your Majesty. The question from earlier.”

You cried out in pain when the palanquin was suddenly set down, tossing you up in the air like a shuttlecock. Hand still pressing down on your head from where it had hit the roof of the palanquin, you glared at Taehyun’s outstretched hand when the door folded open. You violently slapped the hand away and pulled back your skirt, nearly kicking his shins as you climbed out. Accidentally, of course.

Your behaviour amused Taehyun, a smirk finding its way to his lips. He whispered something to Soobin, his personal guard, who had given him a distressed look in return. He sighed as Taehyun placed a hand on his shoulder, giving a quick nod before returning to the entourage. You raised an eyebrow when Taehyun offered you a smile, gesturing his hand to the left of where the road forked into two.

The evening air was brisk; the various flora emitting a plethora of unique smells which blended together as they crawled into your nose. Leaves rustled as the forest creatures scurried across the floor; the occasional flapping of wings and hoots of the wide-eyed, mice-eating predators filling the otherwise eerie silence. The pale moon, which shone like a great halo in the sky, casted it’s light through the trees, creating beautiful natural skylights and mysterious shadows. The breeze was ever-so gentle, seemingly caressing your cheeks as you followed Taehyun down the path filled with earthy soil.

“You’re going to kill me aren’t you?” He chuckled at the question you had posed. He took a firm hold of your hand as he helped you cross the stream you had encountered, squeezing it a little tighter as your shoe glided off some algae, smiling when he heard the under-the-breath cuss.

When you had both safely crossed over into the field of long grass on the other side of the bank, he caught his breath for a moment. “My men say there came a troupe from Jeonju in Northern Jeolla a few days back,” Taehyun started, motioning for you to follow behind him as he stalked through the vegetation.

You groaned. Just how much torture was he planning to put you through? Did he find out you had ‘borrowed’ some of the books from his shelf?

After another few dreadful minutes of walking, an enormous tree came into your sights. It’s trunk looked as if it could house a small population, and it’s branches spread far across the open space; a meadow. Taehyun smiled in satisfaction and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, before placing his hands on his hips. Was this what he wanted to show you? You were far too tired, and your feet hurt way too much to enjoy the sentiment.

“Right, as I was saying,” The prince continued. You took a seat on the soft blades of grass and began pulling the shoes off your aching feet. “Despite journeying across the country to perform in gisaeng houses, I’m told the productions of this troupe were rather enthralling – ”

The sound of your snorting earned a glare from the prince. You shook your hand, “I find myself in constant surprise this evening, your Highness,” you laughed. “Hearing the term‘gisaeng’ from your mouth would send chills down anyone’s spine.”

The distant strumming of a zither whispered in your ears and your body froze. Slowly, the field, which had been lit only by the silvery hues offered by the moon, glowed in shades of green and yellow as fireflies hovered in the air. Then the zither stopped. Your neck snapped in the direction of scuffling feet by the tree trunk. Figures dressed in black placed paper lanterns varying in size at the base of the trunk, before scaling up to the branches.

A gasp slipped from your lips when the zither had suddenly started playing again; much louder this time. Ribbons dropped from different branches around the tree, carrying men and women who spun as they unravelled. Sporting white masks in the form of a fox, they danced around the tree, twirling and swinging back, dipping low before soaring through the air with such delicacy it gave you goosebumps.

“This performance is called the Fox’s Hiraeth,” Taehyun whispered, eyes fixated on the scene before of him, “you asked the other day did you not? About gumihos in Hanyang.”

His Highness’ attempt to throw you off was painfully obvious in that moment, and it did not go unnoticed. But just before you could make the remark that you had been carefully curating for exactly this situation, the zither had come to a stop once again. Leaves rustled above you and you lifted your head into a pair of the prettiest eyes you had ever seen.

They were a shade of light brown; little flecks of green and amber peeking from in-between when light passed through them. Bewilderment swam in those sparkling orbs behind the mask, it’s wearer holding his breath, not looking away for even a moment. The feeling in your chest drew a smile onto your lips, so big, it pushed up the corners of your eyes.

“Hello.”

He pulled back suddenly, and a strong gust of wind blew right through you, making you squeeze your eyes shut. The wind seemed to blow harder and harder – Taehyun had to press his hands onto your shoulders to prevent you from being gone with it. When it had died down and you opened your eyes again, you shot up, shoving his hands away.

The lights had gone out and the fireflies were nowhere to be seen. The lanterns and the troupe too had vanished into thin air; leaving not a trace. But that was not what was distressing you.

Hands clenching fists into your satin skirt, your eyes searched desperately, “where did he go?”

“Who?” Taehyun questioned, tightening the black cloth strings of his gat. He blinked, feigning innocence so professionally, it antagonised you. “The performance is over; we should leave.”

Pulling your lips between your teeth, the agonizing feeling of having lost something important tearing at your chest, you made a decision. You were positive that Taehyun knew exactly what was going on, but you weren’t about to waste any more time trying to force an answer out of the tight-lipped prince.

Where the meadow under the peculiar tree ended, the forest started again, and spread all across the mountain. You could have been mistaken, and that man may have just been another one of the performers. But it was the forest. It felt as if it was calling out to you; screaming. Every one of your limbs ached to dash into its depths.

Taehyun cleared his throat and turned away instantaneously when he noticed you hurriedly tearing off your blouse. You tossed the garment carrying the golden emblem to the ground, and slipped your shoes back on, ignoring Taehyun’s voice which bombarded you with questions.

He grabbed onto your hand before you left and you stopped, peering down at where your bodies were joined. “It’s dangerous.” he said; his voice as firm as his grip, yet eyes pleading with you like those of a child.

Despite your fathers’ lasting friendship, you had never met Taehyun until a few days ago. And if you did, you couldn’t recall. The confounded stares he had thrown at you upon your arrival had amused you; they were not contrary to that of the other noblemen and their sons whom your father had introduced you to. You didn’t act like the prince’s woman – they had probably expected someone who they could easily manipulate and bribe to their liking – but you were very much the opposite.

It was his behaviour in the days that followed which had taken you by surprise. He’d have books stacked up all around his desk which varied in genre, and were organised by author and publication date, whenever you visited. He seldom spoke and never forced conversation with you, but he’d call for tea and sweets then leave them at a certain place on the tabletop untouched. You’d catch his eyes glancing up at you every once in a while in your peripheral vision, and a smile would find itself to your lips.

He cared for you and you had grown to care for him as well. But you knew that if you left with him right now, your insatiable curiosity would only grow and you’d just end up returning here anyway.

Placing your hands over his, eyes asking him to forgive you, you slipped out of his grasp.

“I’ll be okay.”

Yeonjun paced up and down the cliff once more. He glanced over his shoulder at the mask resting against a boulder behind him, then slapped his hands onto his face and lamented. He couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. Everything was happening exactly as he had planned – the dokkaebi had put on their show, relishing in the fact that they were pranking humans; the trees, the breeze and the critters had agreed to set the mood for what he had intended to be your heart being won over by the Taehyun.

He peeked through the spaces in his fingers at the wooden guise, and proceeded toward it. He knelt down and picked it up, eyes fixating on the slots where they were housed previously. He was certain he had prepared for everything, but that all changed when his eyes met with yours.

They stared back at him in surprise, but that surprise slowly transitioned into a warmth which enveloped him; the light of the lanterns which reflected from them, inviting him closer. They scared him, too. Under the mask he had given himself the appearance of one of the lumberers who frequented the forest, but your eyes seemed to stare right through him. They reached into his depths, baring him before you.

Yeonjun glared, irritated with how foolish he had been. He should have trusted his instinct and refused Taehyun no matter how much he insisted. It was absurd that after all these centuries he still let himself fall prey to the ludicrous fantasy he would ever be able to live and feel as they do – he knew that was the real reason he had gone along with this preposterous idea.

His grip on the mask tightened before he hurled it into the bushes. Your voice exclaimed an ‘Ow!’, making him topple over in surprise. The golden rays of sun spilled over the summit just as you stepped out from the flora, bathing you in it’s warmth and highlighting your features as it chased away the night. You rubbed your head profusely where the mask had hit you, pausing when you noticed Yeonjun’s figure on the floor.

Hands on your hips, smiling in triumph, you blew the stray strands of hair from your face. “Found you.”

He had never in his life met such a vivacious woman. Your hair looked like a bird’s nest; tiny twigs and leaves buried within the now tousled black locks. There were tears in your hanbok. Stains of dirt, grass and mud soiled the skirt. Alas, you still had a stupid smile plastered across your mucky face. He caught himself before he started grinning like an idiot too, shuffling amongst the earth before rising with his back turned towards you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest. Was he looking down on your intellect?

“You’re not very clever for an ancient spirit,” you remarked, tossing the mask at his feet. His frame froze, making you scoff.

The hair cascading down his back was a pale shade pink which shimmered under the light. It contrasted the pitch black robes he adorned, which were embroidered with silver. When he turned around to give you a look of wry amusement, you noticed the bangs which framed his face were more washed out in colour compared to the rest of his head. His slanted eyes were mono-lidded, and they glistened as beautifully as the night before. His lips were plump; it’s colour reminded you of the strawberry tanghulu you had seen in the market.

He stepped closer to you, smirking at the way you were entranced by his beauty, until his face stood only inches away from yours. You cast your eyes away from him, gulping as you took a step back. His eyebrows furrowed when you cringed, staggering before you fell to the ground.

“Are you alright?” he fretted, the role of the charismatic flirt quickly abandoning him as he helped you to your feet. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you into his arms, and carried you to a place where you could sit comfortably. You gripped only his garments tightly, eyes still refusing to meet with his; the scent of flowers lingering on your clothes as he set you down. “His Majesty did not accompany you?”

He knelt down beside you and pulled off your shoes. Blood had soaked into your socks from all the hiking you had done the night before – the back of your shoes had cut deep into your heels; climbing over boulders and through thick vegetation had made the soles of your feet sensitive and prone to cuts and scratches. He pulled his lip between his teeth, eyes shooting daggers into yours.

He poured some of the alcohol he had been storing over your wounds, and massaged in the compound he made of medicinal herbs he had momentarily disappeared to go and find. He tore pieces of his robe to bind them when he was finished, then folded his arms over his chest. “I’m taking you back to the palace.”

You jolted up from where you were seated; Yeonjun pushed your shoulders back down. “None of my questions have been answered, I’m not leaving until they are.”

“Don’t you have a prince to marry?” he contended, tapping a finger on his chin, “they’re not going to be impressed when you return looking like this.”

“What’s your name? Are you really a nine-tailed fox? How old are you? Do you eat human livers? If so, why? Is it true that you are only able to receive titles like the ‘Spirit of the Mountain’ when you don’t feed human on livers? Are you actually a woman? Do you really want the best for this country? Do you wish to bring it to ruin for your own pleasure? Is it true that – ”

He took a step closer to you, and lifted your chin with his finger, closing your mouth. You held your breath as his eyes flickered to your lips, and he smirked noticing the blush spread across your face. He reached behind you and pulled the jade pin from your hair, the tresses falling gently down your back. Bringing the hairpin before you, and his lips to your ear, he whispered, “I dare not rob the future king of his woman, my lady. You should return home for your own safety.”

His hand travelled down the length of your arm, trailing goosebumps and setting fire to your skin. He placed the pin into your hand and lifted it, brushing his lips across your knuckles. His eyes locked with yours and you gasped as they glowed like a setting sun.

A horse whinnied as it strode into the area, making you tear your eyes away from Yeonjun’s. Taehyun slid off it’s back, rushing to your side. He grabbed onto your shoulders brows furrowing as he examined you from top to bottom. “Are you alright, (Y/n)?”

You nodded absent-mindedly, searching for where he had gone. Taehyun led you to his horse, and lifted you onto the saddle, sighing as he found you still trying to see past the trees and their leaves. You squeezed onto your chest as you rode away, an inexplicable feeling overtaking you. You had to see him again. Not out of curiosity. No, you – you just had too.

Yeonjun held onto the trunk of the pine tree and swung his body around from the backside. Watching you ride off into the distance, eyes still set on finding him, he sighed, twirling the ring he had slipped off your finger around his.

“(Y/n), huh?” he muttered under his breath, exhilarated by the way it rolled off his tongue.

[cinaja]

Before the Wall Epilogue

Masterlist

----

Ten years after the Wall

 The crops have been coming along well this year, just the right balance of sun and rain and wind promising a rich harvest. It leads to a good mood throughout the human parts of the Continent. In the aftermath of the war, they have all made their experiences with food shortages, and so everyone is relieved that they seem to have moved past these times. All the bigger is the shock when, only a week before the grain was meant to be brough in, heavy thunderstorms with rain and hail ruin most of the harvest in one of Angolere’s northern provinces.

Andromache spends two mildly exhausting days visiting the region, travelling from city to city and offering reassurances that everything is under control, there are no risks of food shortages. Her presence has no practical purpose, the local authorities are more than capable of handling the situation, but everyone is nervous enough that they need someone to reassure them that all will be well.

By the time she reaches the last village, she is drained, although she is too well-trained to show it. As patiently as in the first village she visited yesterday, she listens to the town spokeswoman describe their situation, allows her to show her the village and the mostly-ruined regions.

“We will send grain from other regions,” she promises, as she did in every place she visited so far. The south of Angolere had rich harvests these years, and the other queens have already promised to send food as well should we not get by after all.”

She accepts an invitation for dinner and spends a few hours sitting in the townhall together with most of the village, making pleasant conversation, before she excuses herself. When she steps outside, she expected to be greeted by one of her guards. Instead, Yanis is waiting for her, leaning against a fence.

When he sees Andromache, he offers an exaggerated bow, grinning broadly as he straightens. “Good evening Your Majesty. May I be your escort for the evening?”

Andromache grins back. “I don’t know. You see, I have a husband who is waiting for me at home with our children.”

“I hear those children are sleeping already, and your husband missed you terribly these last few days and thought he’d pick you up.”

Andromache laughs and leans over to kiss him.

“How did it go?” he asks, wrapping an arm around her middle.

“All good,” Andromache says. “I barely needed to do anything, just reassure people a bit.”

These days, all problems she has to deal with seem easy. There is still a lot of work – drafting laws, dealing with arising problems, day-to-day governing work – but it only ever seems pleasant. What is a disagreement over a new law compared to the horror of war? Or to the initial years afterwards, when there were millions of displaced, traumatized people to deal with and they came close to starvation almost every year. Six years ago, a loss of harvest like this would have meant famine and deaths. Now, all she has to do is organize for food to be sent over from different provinces.

Things are good.

“I’m sure you were brilliant,” Yanis says with a broad smile. “Meanwhile, I have won a significant victory in the never-ending battle of convincing Leli that when her teachers tell her something, it is not a suggestion but an order, and I managed to keep Tano from breaking any priceless artifacts while running through the palace.”

Andromache laughs. “You’re my hero,” she says, half-teasing and half-sincere.

Yanis quit his work in the palace guard when Andromache got pregnant with Leli six years ago and has been staying at home to raise her and – three years later – Tano ever since. He could have kept his job had they hired someone to look after their children, but for Yanis, there was never even a question in that regard: He wanted to be there for their children as they grew up. It makes it easier for Andromache to know that even when she is busy at work, sometimes for days at a time, he is home with their children.

“My first meeting tomorrow is at eleven,” she says. “That ought to leave plenty of time for a nice family breakfast.”

----

Mor spends her days travelling the Continent, dealing with anyone her uncle currently wishes to improve relationships with. She has yet to decide whether she loves or hates her new position. Both, perhaps. She loves that it allows her to travel far and wide, to leave the Night Court and its restrictions behind, if only for a few weeks at a time. She loves the protection it gives her.

She hates the memories it brings up, though. For her, the Continent is full of memories of happier times. (No, that is not right. She shouldn’t think back to the years of war and wish herself back into that time. But then, to go back would mean getting Andromache back, and for that, she would accept a hundred years of war. But Andromache is on the other side of the Wall, married now and forever lost to her.)

Sometimes, Mor also hates the people she has to deal with. Today, it is Shey, who has been loosely allied with the Night Court ever since the war ended. Mor doesn’t know exactly how that came about, but her uncle exports iron for weapons and armour to Shey and he sends Mor to visit the emperor at least once a year.

Today is the first day of that annual visit and Shey is holding a welcome-celebration for her. It is a huge honour – Shey is easily the most important person on the Continent now, and him holding a celebration in honour of the emissary from a tiny Prythianian court is very unusual.

If Mor had been stupid enough to think it is for her sake, she might have actually felt honoured. But this celebration isn’t because of her, none of this is because of her at all. It’s all about Miryam and the fact that everyone knows that Mor was friends with her. That is why there are no doors locked to her on the Continent, why everyone so readily meets with her. Because Miryam and Drakon were her friends, and so to host her is to flaunt some sort of connection to them.

No, Mor does not enjoy the party at all, even if the music is brilliant, as is the food. She just makes conversation because it is what is expected of her and downs glass after glass of the clear, sparkling wine favoured here in the north to make it bearable.

She wonders what they would all say if they knew how things ended between Miryam and her, that she abandoned her before the end and left her to die. If they knew that she was so terrible that Andromache could no longer bear to so much as be around her anymore. If they knew about the charmed necklace that still lies unused at the bottom of some drawer in her rooms in Velaris.

No one knows about any of that, though. And no one ever will. Maybe one day, Mor will even be able to fool herself into believing that the sole reason her and Andromache split up was the Wall, that she never argued with Miryam and the only reason she isn’t visiting her is out of worry for her safety. It is not today, though, and so she downs another glass of wine and smiles at the nearest dignitary and allows him to pull her to the dance floor.

----

No one is coming for him.

Jurian fought against that truth for years, but he has given up on denying it for a while now. What use is it to lie to himself? No one is coming to save him. His allies, his friends, seem to have forgotten entirely about him. They moved on with their lives and likely never thought of him again, didn’t care enough to bother freeing him from that terrible nightmare his life turned into.

Jurian hates all of them. Andromache and Nakia and all the others for leaving him behind. Drakon for pretending to be his friend and then betraying him and making Miryam turn away from him. Miryam for turning against him. For not saving him. For dying. Her, he hates most of all.

----

Drakon puts down his quill and scans the contents of the text he just finished once more before putting the paper on the stack with the other usable results. That stack is the only tidy part of the table he was working on, the rest is a mess of books, most of them lying open on the relevant pages, and crumbled papers filled with ideas he dismissed as useless already. A few of those even ended up on the floor.

Well, that ought to be enough for now. He’s done with his edits on the draft for the new tax law they will be discussing later today. He still wants to show his edits to Miryam before then, but he still has plenty of time left for that.

Rising to his feet, he sets about cleaning up his mess. The papers he doesn’t need anymore go into the fire, he closes the books he used for reference and puts them on a second stack next to the one with the finished edits. He will be taking them with him, just to be sure.

Carrying the eight books as well as the stack of papers is a difficult task, given that he still doesn’t have proper use of his right arm. He has to carry the books with his left hand, the papers stuck between his useless right arm and his body. That movement alone hurts, but he is used to it by now. (There are magical prosthetics that function almost as well as an actual limb. But… well, Drakon hasn’t decided yet.)

A look at the clock reveals that it is almost seven. Drakon was in the library for the last four hours, and by now, Miryam should probably be awake. (Their sleeping schedules do not align very well lately. They usually go to bed together, but Miryam rarely manages to sleep more than half an hour before waking up again and then spends most of the night working, going to bed only in the early hour of the morning, while Drakon generally manages to sleep for a few hours but then cannot go back to sleeping when he wakes up. Miryam sometimes jokes that at least their inability to ever sleep through the night makes them both very productive rulers.)

Books balancing on his left hand, he walks through the halls of the library and out into the city. They founded their new capital nine years ago, and everything about the city still screams new. Many houses are only half-finished, as are all government buildings. Right now, their government meets in an improvised city hall and most of the high-ranking government members (including Miryam and Drakon) live in nearby houses. The council insisted that they start building a palace sometime, but that hasn’t been a priority yet.

The city Drakon is walking through now is nothing like Sajeo or any of the other cities in Erithia, all of whom were old, each building full of history. Drakon does miss Erithia, but he doesn’t think that difference is necessarily a bad thing, at least for their purposes. Not all history is good, after all, and in their situation, it certainly isn’t helpful. As it is, they all get a fresh start. There are human houses being build next to faerie ones, and all of them are equally new. They are all starting over together, and in a few centuries when this city has matured a bit, that will be the history the people living here will be able to look back upon. It will be one of unity, Drakon hopes.

----

Miryam frowns at her reflection in the mirror. Hair mussed from sleep and still wearing her long nightdress, she doesn’t look particularly dignified, but that is not what she has a problem with right now. No, the problem is that she looks young. It’s like she hasn’t aged at all in the last ten years. If she is being honest, the years of peace actually make her look far younger than she did at the end of the War. Then, at twenty-five, she looked more like thirty-five than she does now.

“Would you say,” she asks, turning to look over at Daín who is floating over her bed, “that I look my age?”

Daín is silent for a moment, cocking his head to the side to study her. “Now?” He asks. “You want to talk about that now?”

Miryam shrugs.

“Mortal ages are terribly hard to tell just by looks, really. There is no telling how old anyone truly is, as evidenced by you now looking younger than you did when we first met,” Daín says. When Miryam gives him a flat look, he quickly adds, “But in your case, I would say that you look twenty-five, for the simply reason that you haven’t aged a day since you were resurrected. Which is what you were getting at, isn’t it?”

Miryam glares at him, trying to ignore the sting of the words. “You knew the entire time,” she says, more statement than question. “And you never thought to tell us? Even when we spent the last five years trying to figure out if I was aging or not?”

“And yet, through all that time, you never thought to ask me,” Daín says with a sharp smile. He has been getting better at mimicking precise expressions lately. “You ask about everything – history, human culture, magic, the other worlds. Yet this one thing, you never brought up, not once in the four years since you decided to talk to me again. Neither did Drakon.” He shrugs. “I figured you didn’t want to know.”

Like it or not, he might have a point. Miryam didn’t want to know. If she is entirely honest, she still doesn’t. She never wanted to be immortal, not even in the not-actually-immortal way the Fae are. She always thought that having a limited number of years made those years more precious.

“Resurrections are a tricky matter,” Daín offers. He actually manages to sound comforting. “There is no telling what side-effects there might be. Even I still cannot tell exactly how it works.”

“Well.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself. “I suppose the alternative was to be dead.”

She doesn’t like the idea of being immortal. Not at all. But if there is one thing she knows for sure, it’s that she prefers it to having died and stayed dead at the end of the war. These last ten years certainly weren’t easy, but they were good. The best ones of Miryam’s life, probably. She wouldn’t have wanted to trade them for the world.

“So you’re alright with it?” Daín asks.

“I guess I’ll have to be,” Miryam says with a shrug. At least it doesn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. It isn’t ideal, but she would rather have a too-long life than a too-short one. She smiles at Daín in a way that is hopefully reassuring. “And now, I need to get dressed. So, you know.”

“I’m already gone,” Daín says, winks at her and vanishes.

Miryam glances at her reflection once more before turning to her wardrobe. She sincerely hopes that she is at least only “immortal” in the way the Fae are, which isn’t so immortal at all. But well, that is a question for later. For now, she has other things to worry about, and for those, she needs to dress.

Drakon barges into the room just as she buttons up her jacket. He doesn’t look at Miryam – cannot, because he is balancing a stack of books on his left hand, it swaying dangerously with each step.

Miryam picks up the four books at the top and stands up on her toes to kiss him over the now-smaller stack of books he is still holding. “Busy morning?” She asks, smiling softly.

Drakon smiles back and manages to place the rest of his books as well as the stack of papers he was holding under his right arm on the nightstand without any incidents.

“Yes,” he says, turning back to Miryam and wrapping an arm around her. “Very productive, though. I reviewed the new tax law we were drafting, and I think it should probably work out. Maybe you could read over it once more before the meeting later, though. And I brough along the books I used for reference, just to be sure.”

Miryam’s smile deepens. Of course be brought the books, as if there will be anyone but him at the meeting who read all of them.

“Sure,” she says, although she doesn’t think her reading over it will accomplish anything but making Drakon feel more secure about it. “I’ll read them right after breakfast.”

That way, they will still have time for small changes before the meeting, even if Miryam doubts she will find anything of note. She learned a lot about law-making in the last years and she would say that she is decent, but especially when it comes to the small details (which is what they are dealing with at this stage), she’s nowhere near as good as Drakon.

They go have breakfast on the small balcony belonging to the set of rooms they share. It is Miryam’s favourite place in the entire city, high enough that she can overlook the square below as well as some of the nearby streets. As her and Drakon eat and discuss the things they both worked on during the night (the tax laws for Drakon and a logistic issue with distributing food for Miryam), Miryam looks out over the city.

By now, the city has awoken and the square is full with people rushing about, going about their daily activities. Humans and faeries, all living together in peace. A woman is hurrying along, trailing two small children behind her. A young Seraphim girl and a human boy are playing together by the fountain. Next to them, a group of adults sits and eats a quick lunch, likely before going to work.

Miryam could spend hours watching them. On bad days, when her nightmares are worse than usual and the shadows of what happened chase her, she sometimes does. Watching the people down there go about their lives, happy and free and at peace, always makes the guilt and pain easier to bear. These people will have good lives, they and their children will be free, and that alone makes all that it took to get them here worth it. It makes everything worth it.

----

A/N: So, this is the final chapter. After over a year and 370k words written, I can't quite belive that this story is actually over. Writing this story has been lots of fun (and I might revisit it for a few oneshots sometime), and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

At this point, I'd also like to thank everyone who read this story and left comments or likes - all of you have really made my day every time. A special thanks goes (once again) to @croissantcitysucks for all the wonderful conversations we had about this story, for all the great feedback and help when I had problems, and, of course, for all of the backstory surrounding Daín and the Mother (also, I'm looking forward to you acotar rewrite so much and I can only recomment everyone read it when it comes out!) It's really been so much fun!

Tags: @femtopulsed @aileywrites

[tlbodine]

The Great Content Warning Debate

Horror Twitter has been aflame for a few days now with heated discourse about trigger/content warnings, and I keep seeing the same arguments and questions and points come up repeatedly so I wanted to collect all of it into one place because I feel like discourse can only get so far if people keep reinventing the wheel -- so perhaps having the full discussion laid out in one place could be helpful.

Of course, the folks arguing probably won’t see this post, but perhaps there can be some benefit from talking about it anyway. This is intended to be more of an overview of arguments and counter-arguments, collected and displayed as impartially as possible, but of course my own opinions are going to leak in and color some of this. 

NOTE: This is written specifically from the perspective of the horror book community, a genre that traditionally is associated with troubling, transgressive, risk-taking and shocking works. There are discussions to be had for content labels on other types of fiction, but as I’m unfamiliar with the norms and expectations of, say, romance, I’m not going to wade too deeply into that here. 

So without further ado, the arguments and counter-arguments and discussion points that I keep seeing hashed and rehashed and circled around when the issue of trigger warnings comes up! 

If you’re sensitive, you shouldn’t be reading horror 

“Horror is supposed to be horrifying! It’s not fluffy bunnies and kittens! You’re supposed to be made uncomfortable!” 

There are a few problems with this: 

“Uncomfortable” is not the same as “Sent into a panic attack/flashback/relapse” (ie, triggered) 

People with PTSD and other issues can and do engage with horror all the time and often love the genre for entertainment or therapeutic purposes

Many people are fine with some types of content but not others; blood and guts won’t affect them the same as rape, or they’re fine with adults dying but can’t handle child death, and so on and so forth 

Knowing what you’re getting into can help you prepare/brace yourself so you’re not taken unaware; people with the right warnings can mentally prepare themselves and enjoy a book that they would not have been able to read if they were confronted with it unexpectedly

Trigger warnings are censorship 

Some folks have an implicit/kneejerk reaction that “trigger = bad thing” and respond to the request to put warnings on a book as a moral value judgment on the book’s contents. I can see why they might fear that, especially because at a glance it’s easy to conflate the groups asking for warnings with the groups who say things like “if your characters have underage sex then you the writer are literally a pedophile.” But by and large the folks asking for warnings do not seem to be asking for folks to stop writing certain difficult themes, only to provide a heads up for readers about the type of experience those readers can expect from the book. 

There is an argument to be made that warnings could affect the sales of a book, in much the same way that an NC-17 film doesn’t get the same distribution opportunities as an R-rated or PG-13 film, and that authors/publishers will make marketing decisions to include or exclude certain types of content in order to avoid this. 

Trigger warnings will spoil the book 

While some readers will benefit from content warnings, others might have their reading experience ruined by knowing about major twists. This seems especially relevant with a warning like “child death.” It’s very important that people who have, for example, recently lost a child not be unexpectedly re-traumatized by reading about a child dying without warning. But it’s also important that people who want to enjoy the full, shocking impact of such a scene have the opportunity to do so without having it dulled by forewarning. 

Any kind of warning system needs to be opt-in for a reader. Some suggestions include: 

Placing warnings at the end of a book, where readers can flip to that page to look (not helpful if you’re ordering online) 

Placing warnings on the author’s website, where readers can search (not helpful if you’re buying in person)

Given the limitations, a combination of those strategies seems to make sense. It may also be unfortunately true that someone looking for one type of warning (ie, rape) will have their experience ruined if they spoiler themselves for another warning (child death). This may be unavoidable collateral damage. 

Authors/Publishers should be responsible for putting warnings in their books

There seems to be some debate over whether the onus of responsibility for providing warnings rests on the author or the publisher. It should be acknowledged that authors may not always have the power to make this choice -- and if the presence or absence of warnings becomes a factor for judging the quality/moral fiber of authors, those authors could be punished by the reader community for a choice that was largely out of their hands (although, there’s still nothing keeping the author from hosting those warnings externally - how successfully that is implemented is another matter). 

Additionally, the demand for warnings will be placed more consistently on small presses simply because those presses are more likely to heed the request. This could create a double standard where readers might be more forgiving of large pub works that forego warnings because there’s no expectation that they would have implemented them anyway. On the other hand, this could be a way for indie publishers to differentiate themselves on the market and appeal more to certain subsets of readers. 

External groups or communities should be responsible for warnings

There’s a line of reasoning that an author or publisher may not be sensitive to the potentially triggering/damaging things in their work, and some kind of external governing body should manage this work instead. This does sound a lot more like the censorship argument that people are worried about. 

Wiki-style sites and places where people can freely tag books (such as Storygraph) also fit this bill to an extent. They would presumably have less power over the market than a ratings board like the MPAA, but could still exert influence over how a book is received. 

Demanding warnings will negatively impact marginalized authors 

We’re already seeing some evidence that BIPOC and LGBTQ authors are affected more by user-generated trigger warnings on sites like Storygraph, and that these warnings can be weaponized against marginalized authors. Much like review-bombing a book before it comes out can affect its launch, labeling a book with inaccurate trigger warnings could damage its sales. 

Similarly, lists of “safe” and “unsafe” authors have already begun to circulate among some groups, and there seems to be a disproportionate number of marginalized creators on that “unsafe” list -- at least according to the anecdotal reports I’ve seen. 

Historically, it is true that any attempts at censorship or content moderation will be more harshly applied to marginalized groups (see: film ratings for gay sex vs straight sex). 

It’s impossible to warn for everything

One hesitancy that some authors have with tagging their work is they’re not sure what to tag for. Triggers are highly personal, and there’s no way you can possibly guess what might upset a reader. 

Here’s a list of commonly agreed-upon things that might make sense to tag for in a given work: 

Violence/gore 

Suicide/self-harm

Rape/sexual assault

Domestic violence

Child death/endangerment

Animal death/abuse

Drug use/substance abuse 

Racism/slurs 

That said, it’s still difficult to account for context. At what stage do you warn for something? If a character is drinking a beer, do you need to tag for that? Do you distinguish between the tone things are written in, such as being played for laughs vs seriously? If the rape scene is written artistically/metaphorically, does the same warning apply as if it were described act-by-act in a clinical sense? What if your blanket list of warnings gives readers a false sense of what the book will be like -- is it actually helpful at all, or is it just posturing/virtue signaling to include warnings that won’t actually be effective?  

Some would argue that this is dramatically overthinking it, but this does seem to cause a great deal of distress to authors who want to do the right thing but worry about getting it wrong. An argument could be made that trying and failing might be worse than doing nothing, especially if your attempts get you labeled as a “trustworthy” or “safe” author only for that trust to be “betrayed” by a warning you used incorrectly. 

On the other hand, many would argue that we all “pretty much know” what needs to be warned for, and that warnings are intuitive. These granular questions could be viewed as a distraction from more common sense issues. 

Readers are responsible for managing their own safety

Ultimately, because it’s impossible for every potential trigger to be identified and warned for, readers will need to remain vigilant. Of course, there are already ways to identify the content of a book without any kind of established warning system -- such as, for example, reading posted book reviews, asking a question on a book’s Goodreads page, reaching out to the author directly, asking about the book in a reading group online or having a friend/parent/spouse/trusted person read the book first and report back with their findings. 

This is the system we’ve pretty much used as readers for years, before “trigger warning” became part of the common vernacular, and it does have some distinct advantages just because you can get a lot more specific information this way. 

It is possible that if warnings become more commonplace for books that readers may become less vigilant about their own safety, which could paradoxically put them at greater risk of finding troubling content unexpectedly. 

There’s also the issue of “safe” and “unsafe” author lists. At the moment, while the discourse is hot, it’s perhaps more natural to pick sides and disregard some authors for reasons that may be unfair -- for example, marking an author as unsafe or boycotting her work because she doesn’t want to include warnings, but she wants to avoid warnings because she strongly believes they will be detrimental to a reader’s safety. A reader may or may not agree with that perspective, but it’s certainly not the same motive as an author who would do something actively malicious to a reader (like, idk, emailing a screamer to a reviewer or something. that’s a made up example.) 

In the end, trigger warnings are a good idea, but the issue is complex to implement and some people do still have reservations about their overall efficacy. 

We simply won’t know one way or another until we try to implement it. But in the meantime, I do think it’s valuable to continue talking about this, as long as everyone involved remains civil and engages in good faith. Once people’s perspectives start getting thrown out the window in the heat of the moment, or strawmen arguments are erected that don’t reflect what anyone involved actually believes, the discussion ceases to be helpful. 

[petri808]

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— I just wanna say thank you so much to everyone who followed along, your comments and suggestions along the way really helped to bring this story to life! It’s my longest fic to date, and to think it started as a one-shot for nalu day 2020 lol. YOU GUYS HELPED MAKE THIS HAPPEN! 🥳🥰🥰 ILY YOU ALL!💜💜💜💜

@mcornilliac special shout out for you help with the toughest part 😘

Even after all these years, riding on a train still brought a small flutter to Lucy’s stomach as she remembered the long ago evening when she’d met her husband. From an innocent meeting to a death defying experience, talk about a roller coaster ride. And yet, if she had to do it all over again, Lucy wouldn’t change a thing. Crazy sounding yes, for why would anyone not want to avoid what she’d gone through? Touka had truly pushed her sanity to the breaking point, but well, the therapist was right in the end and Lucy felt almost invincible now. All that pain, all the struggle she’d pushed through had made her the strong and resilient woman she was today. Happily married to Natsu with their fraternal twins Nashi and Ryuu. Mrs. Natsu Dragneel, Lucy smiled to herself, there was no way she’d change a thing.

Of course, it hadn’t been easy. After Natsu proposed and Lucy had accepted, there were still a lot of work to be done. But that measure of acceptance and affection did wonders. Any worries she’d had that he wouldn’t want a broken woman melted away and gave her the confidence to get better. With each passing therapy session, her strength grew, and by the time they graduated college, Lucy could honestly say she’d been cured to a functional degree. No longer struggling through nightmares and panic attacks, her anxieties were under control and the debilitating depression a distant memory where it belonged.

Yeah... Lucy sighed happily as she watched the landscape pass by from her train seat. Meeting Natsu was the best thing to ever happen in her life, well, aside from the kids. They’d married about a year after graduation on the anniversary of their meeting. It was a beautiful affair at an indoor venue, with close friends and family to join them. They’d gone a more modern route for the ceremony but did take pictures at a garden dressed in the traditional attire for sentimental reasons. Lucy wore the shiromuku white kimono while Natsu a montsuki haori hakama. And no, it wasn’t train themed! Levy was the Maid of Honor and Gray was the best man. By then, Levy and Gajeel were also married and Gray in a serious relationship with a girl named Juvia Lockser. Lucy was so happy for them both. All of their lives were moving in the right direction.

Everything was perfect. Great jobs in their fields of interest, lives settled into a comfortable routine, when 5 years later Lucy was pregnant with fraternal twins. It was a total surprise since twins didn’t run in either of their families. Always the jovial optimist, Natsu joked that they’d been doubly blessed because of what they’d gone through, and Lucy couldn’t help but love such a concept. Of course, once the euphoria of the motherhood prospect waned, reality set in that she was having twins! Two! Double the babies meant double of everything, from the pregnancy concerns to raising them. Growing up without a mother and as an only child, Lucy didn’t have a lot of experience with small children. But Natsu patiently assured her, that she’d do just fine. Think of it as a new challenge, and after overcoming one pretty tough situation, this would be a walk in the park. On the bright side, Levy was also pregnant with the couple’s first child so the two best friend’s kids would grow up together.

And Natsu was right, there were a few bumps in the road but nothing too difficult. During her fourth month Lucy was diagnosed with gestational diabetes as well as some minor gastrointestinal issues, so Natsu swayed the doctor to put her on bed rest. Better safe than sorry. The babies were healthy, but by the 7th month, she really couldn’t move much, and she was miserable being stuck at home all the time. Lucy missed her job because she genuinely enjoyed working for the magazine. But in the end, it had been a good thing. She could manage her health easier that way and it gave her time to do something she’d thought about doing as part of the healing process. With Natsu’s support and permission, it was time to put her writing skills to good use and write a book about their experience.

It became an instant hit, especially with female readers. The book was not only an autobiographical reflection of what had happened to them but focused on shining a light on the dangers of stalkers, as well as the importance of taking the warning signs seriously. Lucy didn’t hold back in her re-telling, even pointing out the serious flaws in Japan’s laws in protecting citizens from stalkers which at the time were nonexistent. Feminist organizations working to change those laws used her story with permission for their cause. She had no intentions of becoming a poster child for the movement, but in the end her role may have played its part, because 2 years after the publishing, Japan finally adopted anti-stalking laws making it easier for police to string together harassment cases, as well as for victims to get the help they needed.

Her life was nothing but exciting to say the least! And with two young children, now age 10 certainly kept them on their toes. Their daughter Nashi was just like Natsu, very outgoing, friendly, but a bit of a daredevil while her brother Ryuu born 4 minutes after her was the quieter of the two. He preferred books like his mother to adventure. Of course, that never stopped Nashi from dragging him into shenanigans! But the best part was how close they still were and fiercely protective of each other. Lucy and Natsu couldn’t be prouder of them and hoped this would continue throughout their lifetimes.

Fifteen years... come to think of it, their wedding anniversary was coming up shortly. With Natsu now a senior fire inspector for the Tokyo prefectural government, he was often busy. Lucy did mind it, because frankly it gave her some peace and quiet. She chuckled at the thought. Not that it was all that peaceful with the twins. But she digressed. His success meant their lives were very comfortable, and her own journalism successes while not as financially based, were still celebrated in their relationship. Natsu never waned in being the dutiful and supportive, always loving husband that Lucy felt blessed to grow old with.

‘Two more stops, pick up the kids from school, stop at the grocery store for dinner...’ Lucy tapped out on her phone a to-do list of ingredients to pick up at the store. Perhaps katsudon... ‘Mmm, or maybe nabe,’ hot-pot soup since it was expected to be a bit chilly that evening.

Lucy looked up briefly, really just spacing out in thought when someone catches her eye. At the other end of the train car, she noticed a woman facing slightly away, but enough to where she couldn’t quite see a face. It couldn’t be... Lucy looked away not wanting to stare, but somehow... for some reason the woman was awfully familiar... looking exactly like Touka. Well, not exactly, but enough to make the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It was a blonde, with a different hair style— and that could always be changed. Similar body type, the facial side-profile features that Lucy could see resembled Touka...

Now despite being better, her anxieties still bubbled up from time to time, so she immediately switched to her coping techniques to calm them down. ‘You’re fine,’ Lucy talked herself through it, ‘no point in getting riled up.’ The woman hadn’t done so much as looked in her direction, so it must be okay. Contrary to popular belief, things like depression and anxiety never fully goes away, especially when someone has experienced a severe level of it. Those emotions and irrational thoughts are forever programmed into the brain, but there are ways to keep them at bay and Lucy’s successfully done just that for 15 years.

‘Just go back to what you were doing. Katsudon or nabe? And don’t forget you need to pick up milk...’ But, fifteen years... could Touka have been released by now? Lucy shook the thought away again. ‘Stop it! Everything is fine. It’s not her!’ The train was semi-full of passengers all minding their own business... including the woman. There was no reason to start panicking now. Lucy adjusts her position on her seat away from the woman’s direction. If she couldn’t see her, she could pretend she didn’t exist. ‘Maybe I should pick up ingredients for both, that way I don’t have to shop tomorrow.’ Lucy thought to herself, and with the kids with her, they could help in carrying the shopping bags. ‘Yeah, we’ve got a plan…’

After figuring out her shopping list, Lucy pulled up social media to keep herself distracted and for a few minutes it did the trick. Silly videos of entertainers never got old. The train reached the next stop and she felt it come to a stop. Since it wasn’t hers, she didn’t pay it any mind as she scrolled through her feed. But as the disembarking passengers funnel past Lucy, her eyes pick up on a pair of pink high-heels peeking from over the edge of her phone. Her body instantly stiffened up from the similarity to the ones worn by the woman, while her curiosity slowly got the better of her. ‘Breath, act nonchalant!’ Lucy’s eyes tracked the high-heels moving past her until they left her periphery. She then slowly sat back up, pretending to readjust her position, when she caught a pair of eyes looking back. Lucy’s breathing hitches with a shaky exhale. “Oh, my god—"

Standing at the doorway with one hand on the frame, the blonde woman smiled at Lucy then winked before stepping off the train.

It was Touka!

[tdcloud]

Corbet Valentine’s Day Lore Drop (Blog#3)

So, there was enough interest in our last blog post to necessitate a special extra post this month! Just in time for Valentine’s Day as well. Unfortunately for us—or perhaps just Corbet—I don’t think the contents are going to be all that romantic. Any reader of mine will know I love my protagonists sad and tortured, and Corbet, proto-protag that he is, isn’t any different when we really get down to it. I’m not sure if this will enhance anyone’s experience reading The Tempest Series, but I hope maybe it’ll add some relevance to the few lines I was able to slip in over the course of the later books while I desperately tried to make up for my shoddy execution in Brontide.

With that said, let’s get to it!

I suppose the best place to begin with Corbet is in the beginning—meaning who his parents were, and how he came into being. I think there’s always one or two central things that impact a character’s behavior and mentality when it comes to a backstory, and for Corbet, all of his “things” center around his family. I never came up with names for his father, mother, or step-mother, or for any of his half-siblings. I know their surname is du Roux, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten when it comes to naming them. It didn’t seem all that important after the fact, but I probably did too much thinking about them regardless. For some preliminary context, the events of Brontide take place in the mid 1500s. That’ll color a lot of this family dynamic, so keep it in mind.

His dad was a landowning noble with ties to the French government. He had fought in a few wars, earned his renown, and enjoyed his life away from home far more than he did at home. He hated the sedentary lifestyle that came with managing an estate and he found his own fun in his family, which means he was a huge instigator and enjoyed pitting his family against each other just to watch the carnage ensue. Corbet was born when his father was in his mid-forties after he had an affair with a young maid in the household. Corbet’s mom was probably seventeen or so when she had him, and was pressured into the relationship. His mother didn’t have much agency during any part of it, something that was compounded, unfortunately, by the fact that the dad already had two sons and a wife who was pregnant with a third and fairly far along at the time of Corbet’s conception. 

The father’s wife—who is Corbet’s step-mother—was the middle child of another proud noble family, though hers was far less wealthy than that of her husband. She was married off as soon as she came of age in hopes of granting her family more prestige to add to their title, and she lived her life in pursuit of rising higher in the social strata. She suffered through a few miscarriages and rough pregnancies took their toll on her health and mindset. When the young, fresh-faced maid got pregnant easily after her husband’s adultery came to light, she took it poorly, and reacted even worse.

I’m pretty sure those of you who have read Deluge have gathered that Corbet’s mom didn't survive the birth. There are a few reasons for this, ranging from her age to the time period to the accessibility of medical care during the time, but the largest contributing factor was the wife. She made it her goal in life to be as cruel to Corbet’s mom as possible—after all, she could hardly take it out on her husband, and even if she had some recourse available to her at that period in time, it wouldn’t have affected him much anyway; he just didn’t care. Her cruelty came in the form of neglect. She did not account for added food, warmth, or care during Corbet’s mother’s pregnancy, and she still expected Corbet’s mother to do her usual duties regardless of her health or the health of her baby.

Now, you would think that the father of this child would care to intervene, wouldn’t you? Any decent human being would try to give some help to the woman he had coerced into sleeping with him and then knocked up, but unfortunately, the dad wasn't much help in improving Corbet’s mother’s situation. Countless times she went to him begging for help or for him to talk to his wife but, well… he’d already used her and considered the matter through. What happened after was on her to deal with, not him. He expected her to be grateful that he hadn’t thrown her from the house after she began to show—further kindness after that didn’t seem necessary to him.

The other servants in the house are the only reason why Corbet’s mom made it as long as she did. They did their best to tend to her and they were the only ones there at Corbet’s birth and her death. They had called for the master of the house but he didn't come. He was off hunting, and ultimately he didn’t care one way or another. His mother never got to hold him. Corbet doesn't know it, but he looks like her far more than he looks like his father. 

It fell to the servants to name him. It fell to the servants to do a lot of things when it came to Corbet. They decided upon his name after a crow perched on the window sill at the time of his birth. He was raised alongside the youngest sibling for a time, up to the point of weaning. The servants were the ones who implored the master of the house to allow Corbet to receive lessons alongside the others once they found Corbet tracing out letters in the dirt that he'd seen his siblings scribble in their textbooks. Corbet was smart and the dad saw that. He allowed the lessons to be given but it was mostly to provide competition for his real sons, not so much to educate Corbet. It added another thing for Corbet’s half-siblings to resent him for when he excelled past them, but honestly, they didn’t need much of a reason given their mother’s vehement hatred. 

The older two siblings were old enough at his birth to have picked up on the mood of their mother fairly well and that distaste was something they found childishly cruel and fun. They hated Corbet from the start. The youngest was friendly with Corbet at first since they were raised in close proximity, but once a certain point hit, the kid started to really pick up on the reality of the situation and swiftly turned to add onto the abuse. Corbet developed thick skin quickly and grew used to being picked on. His siblings would often steal his food. Corbet grew up malnourished and learned early on to hoard what food he could find, and also to not complain about what he was given. His thief skills developed as a means of survival and only grew sharper once he left home with no money to his name. 

As for religion, they were all staunch Catholics, even during the time of Reformation. The monarchy was Catholic and they didn't dare try to break away like other nobles did for fear of potentially losing what they had built by something as pointless as conversion. Corbet was pretty disillusioned with religion since his stepmom spent most of his childhood telling him that he was the physical embodiment of the sin his mother had committed against God, encouraging him to believe that he was already damned by the choices she had made. Corbet didn’t buy into it much but he was left with the feeling that perhaps he doesn’t deserve to be happy, that there is something fundamentally wrong with him as a person and that’s why his life is the way it is. He left that household around age sixteen or seventeen after the death of his father. He would try to leave before, many, many times, but every time he thought about leaving his dad would come to him or call him to his office and tell him, “You belong here, you’re family." And Corbet, starved as he was to belong, would believe him and stay a little while longer. It was only when his dad died that the will was made clear and Corbet’s name was nowhere to be found on it. He was to be left at the mercy of his stepmother and brothers, with no claim to anything and the message, loud and clear, that he was as good as chattel in the household. Free labor and decent competition to sharpen his half-siblings teeth on—that was all.

So, he left. He knew the truth, and he left.

From there, it’s more or less history. He traveled all around and eventually made his way to Ireland. Ruari wasn’t his first sexual experience, but it’s very likely that Ruari was his first actual kiss and definitely the first person to ever make love to him. I guess that’s kind of romantic? Maybe not romantic enough for Valentine’s Day, but it is what it is, and it’s what I’ve got.

Now, for some Corbet speed-trivia:

His birthday is November 21st. He’s a scorpio, and I think that suits him.

His favorite food are berry tarts

He prefers non-fiction to fiction but when it comes to Fae literature, he’ll read anything

Because someone on Twitter asked, he once had to dispose of a horse who died giving birth by himself while working in his family’s stables. The scent and experience really fucked him up and to this day he can’t be around decomposition without heaving. Even remembering it will make him gag

He’s 5ft 7in

He never got to truly be a child, so he’s fairly serious by nature. His time with the fae is probably the first time he’s ever been able to show some levity 

Well, that’s the long and short of Corbet’s tragic backstory. Was it what you expected? Curious about more? Let me know and I’ll see how much more lore I can scrounge up on him. To be honest, it’s been long enough since I’ve looked back on these books that I don’t exactly recall how much of this I managed to incorporate into the narrative. The family dynamics definitely didn’t get articulated in full, but I wonder how much of this came through, how much of this resonates with all of your reading experiences. 

At his core, Corbet has always been someone searching for a place to belong, and, once he’s found that place, does everything in his power to maintain it—even if it means killing a monarch. Looking back on his previous life before Ruari, I think it’s easy to see why. He’s always done what he has to do. He was lost from the start and only found once he met someone who cared to see him stay. I hope you all enjoyed learning some more about him! This was a lot of fun to pull out of my dusty old character profile folder, and I hope it’s helped more of you appreciate what has to be my least in-book developed protagonist. Who else would you like to learn more about? Let me know in the comments!

Until next time,

T. D. Cloud

[jenniferisacommonname]

Bonus Level Unlocked

This week marks the release of Jason Schreier’s Press Reset, an incredibly well-researched book on catastrophic business failure in the gaming industry. Jason’s a good dude, and there’s an excerpt here if you want to check it out. Sadly, game companies going belly-up is such a common occurrence that he couldn’t possibly include them all, and one of the stories left out due to space constraints is one that I happen to be personally familiar with. So, I figured I’d tell it here.

I began working at Acclaim Studios Austin as a sound designer in January of 2000. It was a tumultuous period for the company, including a recent rebranding from their former studio name, “Iguana Entertainment,” and a related, ongoing lawsuit from the ex-founder of Iguana. There were a fair number of ghosts hanging around—the creative director’s license plate read IGUANA, which he never changed, and one of the meeting rooms held a large, empty terrarium—but the studio had actually been owned on paper by Acclaim since 1995, and I didn’t notice any conflicting loyalties. Everyone acted as if we always had been, and always would be, Acclaim employees.

Over the next few years I worked on a respectable array of triple-A titles, including Quarterback Club 2002, Turok: Evolution, and All-Star Baseball 2002 through 2005. (Should it be “All-Stars Baseball,” like attorneys general? Or perhaps a term of venery, like “a zodiac of All-Star Baseball.”) At any rate, it was a fun place to work, and a platformer of hijinks ensued.

But let’s skip to the cutscene. The truth is that none of us in the trenches suspected the end was near until it was absolutely imminent. Yes, Turok: Evolution and Vexx had underperformed, especially when stacked against the cost of development, but games flop in the retail market all the time. And, yes, Showdown: Legends of Wrestling had been hustled out the door before it was ready for reasons no one would explain, and the New York studio’s release of a BMX game featuring unlockable live-action stripper footage had been an incredibly weird marketing ploy for what should have been a straightforward racing title. (Other desperate gimmicks around this time included a £6,000 prize for UK parents who would name their baby “Turok,” an offer to pay off speeding tickets to promote Burnout 2 that quickly proved illegal, and an attempt to buy advertising space on actual tombstones for a Shadow Man sequel.)

But the baseball franchise was an annual moneymaker, and our studio had teams well into development on two major new licenses, 100 Bullets and The Red Star. Enthusiasm was on the upswing. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention when voice actors started calling me to complain that they hadn’t been paid, but at the time it seemed more like a bureaucratic failure than an actual money shortage—and frankly, it was a little naïve of them to expect net-30 in the first place. Industry standard was, like, net-90 at best. So I was told.

Then one Friday afternoon, a few department managers got word that we’d kind of maybe been skipping out on the building lease for let’s-not-admit-how-many months. By Monday morning, everyone’s key cards had been deactivated.

It's a little odd to arrive at work and find a hundred-plus people milling around outside—even odder, I suppose, if your company is not the one being evicted. Acclaim folks mostly just rolled their eyes and debated whether to cut our losses and head to lunch now, while employees of other companies would look dumbfounded and fearful before being encouraged to push their way through the crowd and demonstrate their still-valid key card to the security guard. Finally, the General Manager (hired only a few months earlier, and with a hefty relocation bonus to accommodate his houseboat) announced that we should go home for the day and await news. Several of our coworkers were veterans of the layoff process—like I said, game companies go under a lot—and one of them had already created a Yahoo group to communicate with each other on the assumption that we’d lose access to our work email. A whisper of “get on the VPN and download while you can” rippled through the crowd.

But the real shift in tone came after someone asked about a quick trip inside for personal items, and the answer was a hard, universal “no.” We may have been too busy or ignorant to glance up at any wall-writing, but the building management had not been: they were anticipating a full bankruptcy of the entire company. In that situation, all creditors have equal standing to divide up a company's assets in lengthy court battles, and most get a fraction of what they’re owed. But if the landlords had seized our office contents in lieu of rent before the bankruptcy was declared, they reasoned, then a judge might rule that they had gotten to the treasure chest first, and could lay claim to everything inside as separate from the upcoming asset liquidation.

Ultimately, their gambit failed, but the ruling took a month to settle. In the meantime, knick knacks gathered dust, delivered packages piled up, food rotted on desks, and fish tanks became graveyards. Despite raucous protest from every angle—the office pets alone generated numerous threats of animal cruelty charges—only one employee managed to get in during this time, and only under police escort. He was a British citizen on a work visa, and his paperwork happened to be sitting on his desk, due to expire. Without it, he was facing literal deportation. Fortunately, a uniformed officer took his side (or perhaps just pre-responded to what was clearly a misdemeanor assault in ovo,) and after some tense discussion, the building manager relented, on the condition that the employee touch absolutely nothing beyond the paperwork in question. The forms could go, but the photos of his children would remain.

It’s also a little odd, by the way, to arrive at the unemployment office and find every plastic chair occupied by someone you know. Even odder, I suppose, if you’re actually a former employee of Acclaim Studios Salt Lake, which had shut down only a month or two earlier, and you just uprooted your wife and kids to a whole new city on the assurance that you were one of the lucky ones who got to stay employed. Some of them hadn’t even finished unpacking.

Eventually, we were allowed to enter the old office building one at a time and box up our things under the watchful eye of a court appointee, but by then our list of grievances made the landlords’ ploy seem almost quaint by comparison (except for the animals, which remains un-fucking-forgivable.) We had learned, for example, that in the weeks prior to the bankruptcy, our primary lender had made an offer of $15 million—enough to keep us solvent through our next batch of releases, two of which had already exited playtesting and were ready to be burned and shipped. The only catch was that the head of the board, company founder Greg Fischbach, would have to step down. This was apparently too much of an insult for him to stomach, and he decided that he'd rather see everything burn to the ground. The loan was refused.

Other “way worse than we thought” details included gratuitous self-dealing to vendors owned by board members, the disappearance of expensive art from the New York offices just before closure, and the theft of our last two paychecks. For UK employees, it was even more appalling: Acclaim had, for who knows how long, been withdrawing money from UK paychecks for their government-required pension funds, but never actually putting the money into the retirement accounts. They had stolen tens of thousands of dollars directly from each worker.

Though I generally reside somewhere between mellow and complete doormat on the emotional spectrum, I did get riled enough to send out one bitter email—not to anyone in corporate, but to the creators of a popular webcomic called Penny Arcade, who, in the wake of Acclaim’s bankruptcy announcement, published a milquetoast jibe about Midway’s upcoming Area 51. I told Jerry (a.k.a. “Tycho”) that I was frankly disappointed in their lack of cruelty, and aired as much dirty laundry as I was privy to at the time.

“Surely you can find a comedic gem hidden somewhere in all of this!” I wrote. “Our inevitable mocking on PA has been a small light at the end of a very dark, very long tunnel. Please at least allow us the dignity of having a smile on our faces while we wait in line for food stamps.”

Two days later, a suitably grim comic did appear, implying the existence of a new release from Acclaim whose objective was to run your game company into the ground. In the accompanying news post, Tycho wrote:

“We couldn’t let the Acclaim bankruptcy go without comment, though we initially let it slide thinking about the ordinary gamers who lost their jobs there. They don’t have anything to do with Acclaim’s malevolent Public Relations mongrels, and it wasn’t they who hatched the Titty Bike genre either. Then, we remembered that we have absolutely zero social conscience and love to say mean things.”

Another odd experience, by the way, is digging up a 16-year-old complaint to a webcomic creator for nostalgic reference when you offer that same creator a promotional copy of the gaming memoir you just co-wrote with Sid Meier. Even odder, I suppose, to realize that the original non-Acclaim comic had been about Area 51, which you actually were hired to work on yourself soon after the Acclaim debacle.*

As is often the case in complex bankruptcies, the asset liquidation took another six years to fully stagger its way through court—but in 2010, we did, surprisingly, get the ancient paychecks we were owed, plus an extra $1,700-ish for the company’s apparent violation of the WARN Act. By then, I had two kids and a very different life, for which the money was admittedly helpful. Sadly, Acclaim’s implosion probably isn’t even the most egregious one on record. Our sins were, to my knowledge, all money-related, and at least no one was ever sexually assaulted in our office building. Again, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure we remain the only historical incident of corporate pet murder. The iguana got out just in time.

*Area 51’s main character was voiced by David Duchovny, and he actually got paid—which was lucky for him, because three years later, Midway also declared bankruptcy.

[reading-while-queer]

Ninth House, Leigh Bardugo

Rating: Mixed Review Genre: Fantasy, Mystery, Dark Academia Representation: -Bi/pan protagonist -Jewish protagonist -Latina mixed race protagonist Trigger warnings: Sexual assault (in scene), rape (in scene), CSA (in scene), graphic violence, murder, drug use, drug abuse, drugging of another person, overdose, domestic abuse, medical abuse, violence by dogs Note: Not YA

Why is it that every time I read Leigh Bardugo, I love the book with a passion...except for one thing that makes me want to tear my hair out?

Here’s what seriously impressed me about Ninth House, Bardugo’s entry into New Adult. The pacing was phenomenal. The measured, perfectly timed revelations of information had me finding excuses to listen to the audiobook - taking extra neighborhood walks, doing extra loads of laundry - because I was so hooked. Then, there’s the worldbuilding. Bardugo managed to walk a delicate line, successfully suspending disbelief while still asserting that eight Yale secret societies do secret magic rituals to the benefit of the oligarchical capitalist machine (we all kind of suspected this was the case, right?). But the best part of the book, the part that had me recommending Ninth House in more than one group chat, was, of all things, the point-of-view jumps.

Rarely are point-of-view switches the star of the show, but I was so excited to see a genuinely original, intrinsic-to-the-heart-of-the-whole-novel use of that technical tool. The point of view jumps crank the volume up on the theme of the whole book. We start with the main character, Galaxy “Alex” Stern; she is the point-of-view character for the present semester during which the principal action of the novel takes place. Her upperclassman and mentor Daniel Arlington (or “Darlington”) is the point-of-view character for the semester before - all because something happened to Darlington. Alex is telling people he’s doing a “semester in Spain,” and all the reader knows is that her explanation isn’t strictly true. The point-of-view jumps being so strict (there is never an Alex perspective chapter during last semester, and never a Darlington perspective in the present) serves to separate the two characters from each other with a really incredible emotional effectiveness. The heart of the novel, for me as a reader, was yearning for these two to be reunited - and all because Bardugo holds the two character points-of-view separate across an unbreachable temporal divide. It’s a powerfully effective technique.

But let’s backtrack. Alex is a 20-year-old high school dropout from the west coast. As the story progresses, we learn that Alex can see ghosts, which is why, despite never finishing high school or getting her GED - or even applying - Alex is a freshman at Yale - contingent on her joining the secret society called “Lethe House” as apprentice (“Dante”) to the current leader of the society, Darlington (the “Virgil”). Lethe House is the governing body of the eight Yale secret societies that practice the magic that keeps the elite in power. These secret societies make books sell, make T.V. anchors charming and compelling, and open portals to other parts of the world - when they aren’t throwing over the top Halloween parties with magic designed to alter one’s perception of reality.

Darlington, by contrast to Alex, seems to belong at Yale. He’s from an old family, and he’s preppy and well-read. Most of all, he loves Lethe House and its history of keeping the secret societies from harming people in their pursuit of magic and power. That is, until he disappears just in time for Alex, only half-trained, to investigate the murder of a girl on campus.

The first three quarters of the novel are fantastic for the reasons stated above. Bardugo’s approach to mystery writing is effective. We have half a dozen suspects, most of whom, as elite ivy league magicians, are at least guilty of some misdeed. Having all your red herrings end up somewhat culpable anyway is a good way to keep your mystery difficult to solve until the end. We were off to a good start.

Unfortunately, in the end, Bardugo made the all-too-common choice to value “surprise” over the most compelling, satisfying solution. So while the reader doesn’t see the ending coming, that is at the steep cost of the ending not being justified by the rest of the book. Bardugo even has to invent new rules of magic off the cuff to justify the ending. When the rest of the book so painstakingly developed the rules of magic in a way that made sense and never felt overly expository, undoing all that effort feels like a monumental waste. And for what did Bardugo undermine all her hard work? A mystery that the reader won’t have all the clues to solve? It’s really okay - in fact, good - if the reader can puzzle out your story. It means your story has symmetry, internal logic, or perhaps, some sort of message.

This is what had me tearing my hair out. I know exactly how I would have written the ending of Ninth House to be the perfect conclusion to a stunning book. I know exactly what the message should have been. Is it somewhat ridiculous to say that Bardugo misinterpreted the message of her own book? Perhaps. But given the out-of-left-field-ending, the theme of the book ends up being a rather cheaply bought “No matter how traumatized you are, you can be a girlboss” instead of the message that the very structure of the novel itself was pointing to since page one: one of companionship, trust, and restoration (frankly, a better message for a novel with a main character who suffers so much loss and trauma. But, sure, “girl power” is a theme...I guess...)

Here’s what I mean by the structure of the novel itself pointing to a different theme. (Spoiler warning for the rest of this paragraph). Because the point-of-view switches in the first two thirds of the novel were used by Bardugo like two magnets being held apart, the only way to create a feeling of resolution was, so to speak, putting the magnets back together: getting Darlington back into the “present.” The degree of disconnect between reader expectations and the reality of the book is comparable to picking up a romance novel only to have the two leads decide to just be friends at the end. Bardugo set expectations - akin to genre expectations - but unfortunately Bardugo kneecapped her first book in the service of the sequel.

And then there’s the trauma. Alex’s backstory wouldn’t be the same without some level of trauma; it’s an important part of her character arc. Even the explicit presence of sexual assault on the page was justified in the case of Alex’s backstory - and I think that is rarely true. But when it came to a side character’s explicit in-scene rape, which was used as a clue in the broader murder mystery rather than treated as a crime in its own right, that tipped me over into feeling the trauma in Ninth House was more excessive than necessary for character development. The resolution to that side character’s rape is oddly cartoonish - like an over-the-top prank rather than justice - and again, the only reason the rape happens to the character is to give Alex more information she needs to solve the plot. Maybe that wouldn’t bother some readers, but for me, a book has to bend over backwards to justify showing me a character being raped. Bardugo does well earlier in the book when depicting Alex’s assault; the assault is the explanation for why Alex doesn’t view magic with the same childish excitement as the rest of Yale, and it’s part of what holds her apart from the entitled secret societies. It needed to be in the book. Everything else was gratuitous.

That said, there’s one thing still to address in this roller coaster of a review, and that is: wait, is this a queer book? I had gone into it assuming that it would be, mostly because all my queer friends were reading it. And the answer is….kind of? Knowing Bardugo’s history with putting queer characters in her books, I’m going to assume she wasn’t baiting when she had Alex claim to have loved a girl in her backstory. Which, in the context of the rest of the novel, would make Alex bi or pan. As a book that a lot of queer fans of Bardugo’s YA have read, or will read, it feels appropriate to review it here.

This was a mixed review from start to finish, but to finish up: if you are thinking about reading Ninth House, go for it! There is so much to like about this book. Take to heart that if you read and liked Bardugo’s handling of sexual assault in her YA titles, you should be prepared to be surprised by Ninth House. It is not the same. I would not have called her handling of sexual assault in Six of Crows, for instance, restrained - but compared to Ninth House, it absolutely is. Despite my strongly worded feelings about the ending, Bardugo left room to redeem herself in the sequel (which, if you ask me, is why the ending was so bad in the first place...). I for one will definitely be reading the sequel the second it comes out.

[7wanderingpaws]

Burn Your Bridges 01

(moodboard: bbyunz)

story masterlist

Main masterlist

A/N: sorry I am unable to put a “keep reading” divider on my phone as I am out of home for a trip. Sorry about that! Once I’m back I’ll edit it in! ❤️ hope you are all doing well and safe!

Tags: @junmyeonnoona @blanknearvana @to-all-the-stories-i-love (if you want to be un/tagged please let me know!)

>>> First <<<

DAILY BUCHEON MAIL

Special Column: Bucheon Robberies

Thefts in Bucheon are still going strong. This time, a robbery happened in a bookstore not far from the local high-school. The book's title, “How to Lie Like a Pro” was banned by the Korean government last month for spreading content with negative influence, and it was the only title that had been stolen. The bookstore is also under fire for not taking down the title after receiving multiple warnings from the Bucheon City Hall.

You were in a bar on a Friday night. Of course you would go, you considered yourself an adult and you were pretty sure the vibe you gave off was pretty adulty, too.

“Let’s have a shot!” You suggested, leaning close to your good friend’s, Yuyeon’s ear. She nodded eagerly and once you ordered and settled down at one of the tables, you got to have a proper look of your surroundings, the red and orange lighting in the room giving you a sense of excitement.

“What grade did you get for the math test?” asked Yuyeon, sipping her cocktail, her eyes big with curiosity. Although you attended the same high school, you were not in the same class, so besides chit-chatting on the school’s corridor, you made sure you hung out every weekend so that you could catch up and talk about your crushes.

You faked a smile. “I received a C with warning,” you sing-sang, trying to impersonate your teacher's voice. “The warning because apparently I’m not attentive enough.”

“Ugh. He hates everyone who is bad at math, but nice! Congrats on the C!” She raised her glass and you clinked it with yours, happily taking another generous slurp from your cocktail.

“What about you?” You asked, smiling widely as you swayed your head to the beat of the music. “You’re such a math nerd.”

“Yeah, managed to get an A but it’s still not the final mark so...” she trailed off, shrugging. “As much as I want to do well- if the teacher hates you, you don’t stand a chance.”

You scoffed, annoyed at the reality and atrocity that were high school teachers. It was safe to say you couldn’t wait to get out of high school and start a, hopefully, more free life in university.

You let your eyes wander a bit around the people’s faces, no doubt you were the youngest there. Yuyeon proceeded to talk about a friend of hers and yours, Sehun, who was already two years ahead at the Bucheon university.

“He says it isn’t easy,” she whined, “and you know he barely has time to hang out these days!”

You nodded, serious face painting your face because the heaviness of your problems was severe and you needed to drink another cocktail to tone down the bubbling anxiety.

Which you did.

“My parents would kill me if they knew where I’m spending my allowance,” you grumbled but giggled anyway as you settled down with freshly made cocktails.

Since you weren’t a drinker (yet) you already felt the slight buzz that you grew familiar with over the weeks as you started to frequent this bar. It was a good place, because if you dressed up a bit more maturely with good make up, they wouldn’t bother with asking for an ID card.

“It’s just ’cause your chest doesn’t fit our society’s standards,” Yuyeon would point out, shamelessly throwing wide eyes at your chest which would lead you to groan in dread. You hated your chest. Not understanding where you were this “gifted” from, it made it more difficult to hide yourself even in a comfy hoodie. Your mother used to remind you that she had the same chest size until she gave birth to your brother and then you. The idea of pregnancy made you always visibly shudder.

As you chatted away, you noticed your eyes meeting more than once, twice, thrice with a handsome stranger who was standing at the bar, his attractive figure leaning on one elbow while his free hand was swirling a glass with what seemed like strong liquor. Occasionally his eyes would wander over to you, and every time they did, your heart would involuntarily jump.

He was casually talking to a man standing next to him, sometimes chuckling and sometimes nodding attentively before his gaze would slip to you, seated across the room.

As you grew to be extremely conscious of your body language, you straightened up and made sure to smile more at Yuyeon in hopes to give an impression of a grown, put-together woman that you had yet to grow into. But, of course, you wouldn’t admit that, ever.

“Want to grab another one?” asked Yuyeon, her cheeks flushed red, obvious tipsiness in her eyes and voice. “I saw some handsome men in the corner, we could totally try to swoon them.”

You gave her a distracted smile, already having a plan of your own made up clear in your mind. “I already found a guy,” you said, wiggling your eyebrows at her just in time to make another eye contact with the stranger.

She hollered unnecessarily loud when the both of you stood up at the same time, heading to the bar.

You took notice how the guy gave you a look over, up and down which made your body tingle with anticipation, though to your disappointment he didn’t do anything afterwards, simply going back to his conversation with his friend. Making sure you were as close to him as possible, you pressed yourself to the bar table on your tiptoes and said your order to the waiter.

“Hey,” whispered Yuyeon, nudging you gently with her elbow to get your attention. “That guy on your left— he is so darn cute and I think he likes you. He keeps looking at you.”

Your heart giving another elated jump, you giggled, covering your mouth and turning slightly to see him flickering his gaze between you and his friend since both of him and you were in the line of his vision. “If he doesn’t come and talk to me,” you said, nodding to yourself, “I’ll go and talk to him.”

Yuyeon clapped, smiling happily. “You’re so brave. And I will follow and take his tall friend. He is, like, super tall.”

Looking back at the two males, you only took notice now of his companion who still managed to tower over everyone despite leaning down on the table. “Whew, smoking hot for sure,” you whispered excitedly and took the cocktails the bartender prepared.

Just when you turned, the tall man was leaving, swinging another shot before shaking hands with your Adonis. What you didn’t expect was for Yuyeon to follow the tall male and therefore leaving you completely alone, and now standing right in front of him, since the tall man couldn’t be the barrier anymore.

You met his eyes, and you swore your cocktail shook in your hand as he straightened up and reached for his glass, his eyes curiously gazing at you.

Gulping, you walked ahead and stopped right in front of him with a, what you thought, was a suggestive smile while he swallowed the liquid, putting the cup back down on the sticky surface of the bar table. “Hey.”

He tilted his head on you; there was something that you really liked sparkling in his eyes, perhaps interest? Oh, he was definitely interested. “Hey.”

><

Next part out on October 6th! ^^ thank you for reading and please leave me a feedback!🌻

[96thdayofrage]

Baseball was warned. In a 1974 article about the lack of Black MLB managers, the Sporting News pointed to an equally pressing concern: the decline of the Black player. Editor C.C. Johnson Spink wrote that over the previous five years, there had been a significant drop in the numbers of African-American players drafted, from 40 percent to roughly 15 percent. Spink also wrote that, statistically, Black players had outperformed their White counterparts.

If Black players left baseball, he concluded, then the game would suffer.

Three years later, Atlanta Braves general manager Bill Lucas, the league’s first Black GM and also the highest ranking Black official in MLB at the time, sounded a similar alarm, telling a reporter, “I’ve noticed a decline of Black ball players drafted and being funneled into the minor leagues and a decline in the number pursuing the major leagues. It’s an indication we may be losing some good athletes to other spring sports.”

Lucas wasn’t alone. The popular Black sportswriter Doc Young wrote numerous editorials about the decline of the Black superstar. Investigative pieces in newspapers across the country highlighted the general decline of Black American players. MLB officials publicly stated there was a problem. Monte Irvin, who integrated the New York Giants in 1949 and was at that time working in the commissioner’s office, said, “Black kids are not just playing as much baseball as they used to.” His solution? Get the kids when they were young. As he put it, “in the inner cities, a kid may have baseball ability right after he gets out of grade school but doesn’t know what to do with it. We have to get scouts to dig him out, to tell him where to play.”

The numbers told the story: From 1947, the year Jackie Robinson broke into the major leagues, to 1973, the number of Black players in MLB increased. But from 1973 to 1976, Black participation dropped from 144 to 109 players, or from 24 percent to 18.2 percent of the league.

Still, Lucas seemed largely unfazed. “I don’t think it’s serious, though,” he said. “The Black ballplayer’s not becoming extinct, or anything like that.” MLB lacked urgency, too. Perhaps the sport’s leaders were blinded by the fact that, in 1977, Black superstars were still prominent. Though Henry Aaron, Willie Mays, and Jackie Robinson were gone, players such as Joe Morgan, Reggie Jackson, Willie Stargell, and an aging Lou Brock were thrilling fans. MLB had two Black MVPs in George Foster and Rod Carew; two Black Rookies of the Year in Eddie Murray and Andre Dawson; a host of rising Black talents including Dave Parker, Dave Winfield, and Willie Randolph; and a Black No. 1 draft pick in Harold Baines.

That year, the most MLB did to reconnect with Black youth was to use Jackie Robinson Week – the 30-year commemoration of his breaking the color barrier during All-Star Week – to, as Irvin put it, “make them (young Blacks) aware of Robinson’s contributions.”

That would not be enough.

At the game’s lower levels, the Black talent drain already was underway. For years, Black players had argued that teams had unwritten quotas governing how many Black players they would have on their rosters. Because of these quotas, they believed that Black players had to be great – or else they would never get a real chance to carve out playing careers. Black kids believed this, too. Gates Brown, a former Detroit Tiger who worked in the organization after his retirement, said in 1977 that when he tried to recruit Black kids, “you still get the same line: you got to be twice as good as the White kid.”

Brown had no remedy except to say, “Be tough, hang in there.”

Crucially, baseball’s scouting system had changed. According to Hall of Famer Frank Robinson, when barrier breakers like Jackie Robinson came in, most teams started to sign Black talent, believing that was the best and cheapest way to compete. A generation later, however, scouts felt that they had tapped that mine. So they stopped looking for Black gems – or even showing up at all. One Black player concluded that White scouts refused to go to the inner city and scout Black players because they were afraid. Meanwhile, Black scouts were disappearing. Of the 566 official MLB scouts in 1982, only 15 were Black. Fourteen teams did not have any full-time Black scouts. That led the great Joe Morgan to ask, “How can you expect to sign a lot of Black players if you don’t have a lot of Black scouts?”

This lack of Black scouts coincided with teams’ increasing dependency on drafting college players. From 1972 to 1982, MLB teams went from drafting 334 collegians to 615, a near reversal of numbers when compared to high school players. Pittsburgh Pirates player Bill Madlock believed that this was intentional, done because fewer Black players played in college. Purposeful or not, the change had a huge impact on the Black talent pool for two reasons. First, by the 1970s, a number of Historically Black Colleges and Universities, or HBCUs, had begun dropping baseball. As Black Sports reported in a 1971 article, these schools lacked the resources to field teams. Most did not offer scholarships. Without that, many potential players instead chose to concentrate on their books. Second, the predominantly White institutions that could offer baseball scholarships were limited to only 13 per team. As a result, a host of young Black athletes who looked to college sports for potential economic mobility saw limited chances in baseball and so tried their luck with football and basketball, "They seemed to be turned off by baseball,” said Brown, the Tigers lifer. “More concentrate on football and basketball. There's more money, and they get to the big-time quicker."

Baseball also lost Black talent because America’s structural inequalities had taken their toll on the inner city game. In the late 1970s, youth coaches noted that while the sport was doing fine in the mostly White suburbs, inner cities struggled to field teams from the Little League to high school levels. As one youth leader in Miami put it, they lacked money for league sponsorships, kids couldn’t afford equipment, and the facilities were neglected. MLB officials understood this, and, Irvin concluded, “they don’t have the wide-open spaces for baseball anymore.” But the sport didn’t do anything about it.

With MLB unwilling to truly step in, it mostly fell on individual Black players to do what they could. In the late 1980s in Los Angeles – a city that had a rich history of producing Black talent – Black stars such as Darryl Strawberry and Eric Davis saw the warning signs. They returned to practice at Harvard Park, a public gathering place in the middle of one of the most dangerous sections of the city, the type of place where you were more likely to see someone struck by a bullet than struck out by a pitch. They helped youngsters with tips and gear and otherwise remained a presence, letting Black kids know that baseball could be a future home for them, too. Soon, programs like Reviving Baseball in the Inner Cities, which is run by MLB and still exists today, would follow their lead to provide kids with opportunities to play ball.

But by then it was too late. Baseball’s failure to get out in front of the problem in the 1970s and early 1980s had real and lasting consequences. The number of Black players in MLB remained relatively stable from 1977 to 1987 – and then the well nearly dried up. Today, the number of African-American players sits at an all-time low of roughly 7 percent. If MLB wants to increase Black American participation in the game, the league will have to make massive investment in youth baseball, bring more Black decision-makers into the fold, and stop repeating the same tired lines that the game isn’t as cool or appealing as basketball and football.

Today’s baseball fans, a demographic group that itself is also shrinking, have far fewer Black stars to get excited about. Yesterday’s icons warned us this day was coming. But the league never righted the ship. And that makes it fair to ask: Even now, is the league truly dedicated to fixing this problem?

[halothenthehorns]

TLTNL- THE OTHER MINISTER

Remus wasn't really asleep. Sirius had shared a dorm with him for seven years and a flat for the past two years already, he knew how he slept as well as any of his mates, far better than anyone from his own house, so those little snorts he was trying to pass off as his real sleep wasn't fooling anyone, especially not Sirius. He let him keep going though, in hopes that he actually would fall asleep soon. Sirius, for once, was not in a very talkative mood tonight. None of them really were, which is likely why the other three had gone to bed so early after an equally timely supper. The curiosity lingered of course, to ask why Moony would feign sleep instead of staying up for whatever time they pleased, chatting away about nothing. Both of them were night-owls by nature, easily staying awake the latest without even realizing it. James had more been the early riser, bounding out of bed with the most energy easily and whipping them all up for the morning.

Sirius had to force his mind to cut off there, to remind himself again why he couldn't just go out right now and fix this problem that had lead to more awkward silence between them than even Sirius had ever caused. So instead he sat there, stirring his cold tea and gazing out the back door at nothing and forcing himself to remain on an issue he could pick apart. Normally Remus only feigned sleep the night before a full moon, he was usually least talkative those days and still no matter what tried to put a bit of distance between himself and everyone else. This clearly wasn't it this time though. Perhaps he was just dreading what they were going to hear next like they all were, no one wanted to keep going and hear more of Harry's life after what he'd last been through. It grew harder by the day to pretend like this future was fixable, now even he wasn't around to help Harry anymore. Remus was the last of James' friends who stood any chance in staying in Harry's life, and his track record wasn't stellar for doing that so far. Remus likely no more believed than Sirius it would change now.

By far the most agitating part of it was that Moony hadn't just come and talked to him about it. Sure he feigned normalcy earlier when they'd been reading those Beedle tales with Harry, but Sirius had still been waiting at any moment for Remus to turn around and tell him what was really on his mind. He hadn't, and he still wasn't now at the most opportune time.

  He was trying to be mature about this, not let the idea his future would cease after so many terrible and long years crush him into a weeping mess. So he wouldn't go in and bother Moony if he didn't want to be, but also the idea of being shut up in a room alone was just too repellent right now, even in a house he actually liked. What he wouldn't give just to leave, for ten minutes. To be back in the Forbidden Forest where their biggest worry was which direction Moony was headed in, the moonlight bathing everything with a mysterious glow they understood better than anyone, just running to run and caring for nothing more than each other...

James came down the stairs next morning and frowned with concern. Remus was face down into the couch cushions like always, but Sirius seemed to have passed out at the table right where he'd left him last night. He'd fully expected Padfoot and Moony to be up for hours chatting away like he and Lily had, but clearly neither had moved an inch.

With a heavy sigh he went to work getting his infant's morning bottle ready, and settled in the seat next to his best man, sitting contently as his charge at his breakfast. James couldn't sit in silence for long though, so as soon as the baby was done he set him in his highchair and reached over to prod Sirius awake.

He merely groaned and buried his face into the crook of his arms, the cup of tea coming dangerously close to being knocked over in the process. James scooted this farther away from him before doing it again. "You're an idiot."

"Always a lovely thing to hear first moment of the day," he muffled around a yawn.

"Then don't be an idiot and fall asleep in a position that we're going to have to hear about all day," he returned much more pleasantly. It wasn't that unheard of, Sirius had been known to fall asleep over his homework a few times in their sixth year, but they'd learned the reason for that later, at the time they just hadn't realized how right they'd been in mocking him for trying to impress someone.

"Why's he slumped over the table this time?" Lily yawned her greeting as she passed by.

"I'm working up to that," James promised.

She stopped and greeted her infant before giving her husband a quick kiss and sitting down on his other side. Sirius still had his face buried away, but the scent of the bacon and eggs she'd started had his nose finally twitching towards the surface.

It wasn't until Harry came down the stairs that Sirius forced himself to wake fully, rousing by shaking himself and blurry eyes focusing on nothing.

"I volunteer Sirius to be the one to wake up Moony," James said around a full mouth, runny egg still going down his chin.

"I say we leave him there, if he wants to sleep through breakfast that's his problem," Sirius huffed while ripping bacon apart and managing to fit more in his mouth that way.

Lily turned with the same napkin she'd just used on her infant to plop onto James' face as a hint before going up to do it herself while the boys hardly noticed as they kept bickering.

Even as Remus joined, stirring brown sugar into his eggs but still mixing more than eating them, Harry seemed the last to really wake up. Who would have thought he'd long for the dreams of the graveyard back, yet the replay of watching Sirius fall through the veil all night had been more a stab to his soul than Voldemort could ever do to him.

He would have thought coming down here and finally interacting with him would help, but even watching that color on his face, hearing him chat animatedly with his dad, watching him shift his weight restlessly as even food couldn't contain all of his energy, it only made the feeling he'd been suppressing the past day double. This wasn't his Sirius, the one he'd lost fourteen years from now. So how then was he supposed to cope with a loss when it kept making jokes in his face?

Lily had to wrangle all of the boys to get into the living room so they could start Harry's next year, if she had to see her boy with half-lidded eyes much longer she would have tucked him back into bed herself, yet just as much she couldn't have stood hearing the sounds of his nightmares through the walls. She and James had gone in there through the night to soothe him, but he'd hardly seemed any better in their presence.

She'd even seen Sirius duck out, but his presence seemed to have helped no more. Their ability to comfort him had lasted no longer than his childhood innocence, and it was quickly growing worse by the hour as he continued to pull away from them, absorbed more than ever in memories of pain. So she went back to reading, determined more than ever to help him have all of those moments from his past back, so that he could start focusing on his future. 

The book was a gossamer silver, with a little green six on the spine. Its length hadn't lessened any since Harry's fourth year, and cracking open the spine new to the first page still felt like a bad omen.

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind.

Sirius had been fully prepared to start back in Privet Drive, hearing of Harry's suffering there again somehow worse than ever, so the response on the tip of his tongue fell flat and instead they all gave mutters of confusion, and some relief. They had no clue what a Muggle Prime Minister had to do with anything, but honestly the fact that they weren't focusing on Harry right now was a bit of relief considering where they'd left him.

Lily took this in stride though. The fact that it wasn't starting on Voldemort was as good a note as she could ask for considering previous times these books had gone off Harry, so she happily asked of him, "oh, do you know who it is?"

"No," Harry answered with a shrug. He hadn't done a very good job of keeping up with Muggle politics.

Lily went back to the book in slight disappointment. Her father worked in the current Prime Ministers' office as the secretary, and it would have been interesting if Harry knew anything about the future of the position.

He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents.

"It's good to know Muggles struggled with their homework as much as we did," Sirius snickered.

James continued listening with high curiosity, he had not a clue how the Muggles government worked, he'd never really asked Lily about it, but this wasn't starting off very interesting.

This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government's fault.

"Ugh, politics," Remus made a face.

The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below.

All five of them lost a shade in color of shock for that. Maybe it was because of their, better knowledge, but Harry most of all shivered at what could really be implied with this. All last summer he'd been begging for this kind of news, now he seemed to be getting it.

To the others it just explained why this was being shown at all, though clearly it had nothing to do with Harry. Perhaps now that the Ministry had no choice at the end of his last year to acknowledge Voldemort's return, they were given the greater impact of this on the Muggle world before going back to him. Not something they really wanted to hear, they could get all they liked of this from their own time.

And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?

His opponent had concluded what a grim mood this left the country in with a broad grin.

Sirius gave a bleak laugh before saying, "aw, look, the whole country's feeling the same way I am." He waited patently for Prongs to reach over and smack him, but his own smile didn't dim.

And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... It wasn't right, it wasn't normal...

"Speak of the You-Know-Who," Remus muttered snidely.

Lily tried for a smile, but it was flimsy at best.

He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.

He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.

He called out, trying to sound braver than he felt.

Lily shifted uneasily in place. This wasn't even about Harry, but if this book started off with anther murder of a stranger being described like Harry's fourth year had, she'd start screaming already. Was it so impossible to keep going without all of this fear smothering them through these words.

For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming - as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough - from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.

"Ah," they muttered, mostly in further confusion. This man was a Muggle, what was he doing with a Wizards painting? And the description wasn't one they exactly enjoyed, it reminded them far to much of pink, a reminder no one needed as of now.

The painting stated of the urgent business from Fudge and if he could be seen now? After a tiff about his phone call being rearranged against his wishes by this Other Minister, the Prime Minister agreed to see Fudge.

"What was the point of posing it as a question if he was just going to barge in anyways?" James said through gritted teeth, all of them red faced with anger. They'd rather focus on just about anything than hearing more of that dunderhead.

No one responded, but Lily wasn't surprised. It seemed just like Fudge to find himself important enough to rearrange someone else's life for whatever this was that involved him.

He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece.

"Better than apparating I suppose," Remus couldn't help but grudgingly give credit for this. "Least the flame's a bit of a warning, would have given the man heart failure to just appear out of nowhere instead."

He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand. He greeted it was good to see the Prime Minister again, but he could not honestly return the compliment,

None of them could help a little snort of laughter, honestly they all agreed with that.

so said nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his face had a crumpled look.

Harry frowned, though not in sympathy. It was about time someone other than him felt the pressure of what was going on, and if Fudge had only listened sooner maybe he wouldn't be looking so bad.

He shook Fudge's hand very briefly and gestured toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Man knows how to send a message," Sirius said after a heavy chuckle.

The Prime Minister asked how he could be of help, while making it clear as possible he wanted to do no such thing after the week he'd had. Fudge pointed out they'd been having the same bad week. The Brockdale Bridge collapse, the Bones and Vance murders,

Lily couldn't help but pause at the last name Vance. Emmeline was one who'd actually survived through the first time in the Order, and it would truly be tragic for her to lose someone else now, yet she'd wish that fate upon no one, especially not Emmeline's niece or any other member of her family that could apply to.

not to mention the ruckus in the West Country.

The Prime Minister had to confirm some of Fudge's people were involved in those?

"I do like that he didn't automatically blame us, considering he knows of us," Lily said with a small smile.

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look, stating of course they were, surely he'd realized what was going on?

"Why would he do that? You certainly didn't," Remus snapped.

It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until his dying day.

James knew that feeling all to well, he'd had several of them in the past week alone, since Harry had arrived here a grown man.

He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive and introduce himself.

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election had caused him to go mad.

"Naturally," Sirius giggled.

"Actually, I've never thought about this," James still had that interested smile in place. "I knew that the Muggles often reported our news, usually to keep them aware of...well anything majorly bad going on, but it never occurred to me who told them, or how they knew."

"Hooray for answers you never asked," Remus rolled his eyes.

He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at this point).

"Can't even blame him there," Sirius shook his head in sympathy, he knew he still wanted to duck and cover at the mention of those beasts, imagine that being one of the first things you heard.

Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.

Harry twitched in agitation, remembering that all to well, and knowing what Fudge would really be like in a matter of years.

He'd concluded this was nothing to worry about, he'd only see Fudge again if something serious was going on,

"He wasn't kidding," Sirius stated with a bleak smile, that turned into a true one when Harry still managed a slight giggle at this never ending joke no matter how much the others groaned in misery.

something that's likely to affect the Muggles. Otherwise, it's live and let live. He even congratulated the man on how well he was taking this, his predecessor had tried to throw Fudge out the window, thinking him a hoax.*

"I'd do it for an entirely different reason, but to each his own," Remus pleasantly informed.

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. It had been his last, desperate hope this wasn't a joke.

Fudge gently told it wasn't, and proved as much by changing a teacup into a gerbil.

"Honestly the perfect amount of flamboyant," Lily couldn't help but smile, knowing certain others who would have gotten carried away proving what they were saying.

The Marauders had the decency not to bother denying what she was implying.

The Prime Minister watched his teacup chew on the corner of his next speech,

"Please tell me he named it Teacup?" Sirius chuckled.

while demanding why no one before had told him of this?

Fudge laughed at this, and asked, would he be telling anyone?

"He's got him there," James chuckled.

Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound.

"Rude," Lily sniffed, wishing he'd stuck around encase the poor man had more questions, but at the same time she could understand anyone not wanting to linger, the Muggle needed a chance to recharge after an encounter like that.

The Prime Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world would believe him?

"Another wizard," Sirius said in a duh voice.

"What are the odds he would run into one while sharing this?" Remus rolled his eyes.

The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the Prime Minister's dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove.

"I wonder how that conversation went," James ruffled his hair curiously, imagining Muggles trying to explain away permanent sticking charms and the like.

When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to prise it from the wall,

Lily groaned and grumbled a bit. She wasn't even that high in the Ministry yet and could imagine all the paperwork that would have caused to help smooth those things over, Fudge really should have at least explained that!

the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when anything like this happened.

"That sounds far more like he'd be going mad than anything else," Sirius said in exasperation. He certainly knew the more you tried not to do something the more tempting it became.

Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named

Lily paused with some torn expression on her face. It was part tight lipped pain for something, and part long exasperation for an overplayed joke that they didn't understand until Lily spelled out the word,

"Serious" Black,

Sirius at least burst out laughing the Muggle had no clue of what had been going on, but the others couldn't muster up the same. Who knew hearing of Sirius getting out of Azkaban would be the highlight when it came to what his life would hold.

Harry in particular shivered and leaned just a bit closer to his godfather for the reminder he would have been all to happy to forget all over again of the travesty, but Sirius just threw an easy arm around him and happily encouraged Lily to go on like he was hoping more name puns would appear any moment.

Lily admired his optimism even as she wished James would smack him again.

something that sounded like "Hogwarts," and a boy called Harry Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.

Harry at least got a smile for that, always enjoying the phenomenon of someone not knowing who he was. Maybe he should spend more time in the Muggle world.

Fudge's explanation about coming from Azkaban was not pleasant, nor the information he shared about Black being a known Muggle killer and planning to rejoin You-Know-Who.

Lily only got that out through heavily gritted teeth, the pain and anger still lingering of all the things surrounding Sirius, and just because he wasn't around to suffer this injustice anymore didn't make that slight any better in this time!

But of course, the man didn't even know who You-Know-Who was.

Remus clucked his tongue in agitation. He'd always found it stupid to refer to Voldemort as that, and this was a prime example of why. That was a ludicrous sentence if ever he'd heard one.

He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then offered some whiskey while he explained.

The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair.

Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.

He tried to paraphrase the whole thing, saying this Lord Vol-

"Honestly though, why the title again?" James snarked rather than thinking about whatever else was shared that night, as if he needed more of a reminder of all Harry went through.

Fudge cut in with a snarled reminder he was to be called He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!

The Prime Minister corrected himself this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was alive.

Fudge said Dumbledore certainly thought so,

"Which will apparently mean nothing in a very short time," Sirius snarled what no one needed reminding of.

but he wasn't dangerous until he had support.

Remus looked a tad interested at this line of thinking on the mans part. He wasn't wrong of course, but also it was a useless statement as a madman would always have power, and therefore would always have those seeking it and therefore support.

so it's Black they ought to be worrying about.

Sirius flinched that Lily could hardly say his name without a bit of a hitch in her throat. It was like that first book all over again, and now his own name would feel as terrible a constant reminder as her own.

He of course couldn't stand for that, so told her, "what's with the tone Lils? I know you worry about me on a constant basis without anyone telling you to."

Her nostrils flared for a moment as she eyed him, but couldn't quite hide a smile either when she snapped, "then stop giving me reasons to you idiot."

He encouraged a warning to be put out before hoping they never had to see each other again,

"You and me both," James snapped.

and vanishing back into the fireplace.

But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like)

Lily's mouth twitched in a smile again, she didn't even need to look up to visualize the four agitated expressions for the butchering of that word.

World Cup and that several Muggles had been "involved," but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-Know-Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke.

Oh, and because of the Triwizard Tournament, the one tiny detail that they were bringing dragons into the country should be told according to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical creatures.

"Thank you for summarizing all of my hatred for that year in one sentence, much easier that way," James scowled.

Despite the Prime Minister stuttering in surprise, Fudge merely repeated himself before vanishing again.

Remus couldn't help but snicker just a bit, Fudge really had always been terrible at his job.

The next visit less than two years later was no more pleasant. He stepped out of the fire long enough to announce a mass-breakout from Azkaban before already putting one foot back in to depart,

Lily couldn't help but scowl at bit, this man was just useless.

promising they'd have them rounded up in no time!

"He hadn't even caught the last one yet!" Sirius threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, though he threw his voice like he was trying to mimic this Prime Minister instead to further put on a joke instead of reminding them all of how not funny all of this was.

And before the Prime Minister could shout, Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.

Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still.

Harry couldn't help a sigh while rubbing at his scar already. It hadn't escaped his notice he'd been involved in every instance Fudge had appeared for, clearly his hope from before was already eradicated, he couldn't even get by in the Muggle world.

The site, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week.

He demanded how he should know anything about the Wizarding community in relation to his concerns-

Fudge cut him off to again point out they were all the same concerns, every instance the Prime Minister was dealing with were all magically done. Even Herbert Chorley was safer with them for now since he was suffering from a poorly done Imperius curse.

The Prime Minister could only bluster in surprise for a moment.

"That poor man," Lily couldn't help but mutter, suddenly seven years old again and having far to much explained to her all at one time.

Fudge took a breath and then parted the news that You-Know-Who was back. He couldn't even properly explain how he was alive, Dumbledore wouldn't explain properly,

"At least it's not just us," Lily grumbled, or Harry, more accurately, but the point still stood.

but for the purposes of this discussion he was walking, talking, and killing.

The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations.

"I really do like him. Muggle or no, can we have him as Minister," James sighed.

He began to ask if

Lily couldn't help but stop and giggle this time before spelling out again the Muggle's misuse of Sirius' name, causing the man to preen and his friends to roll their eyes yet again.

Serious Black was with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

Their amusement died that instant though, this was just something they could never joke about considering all there was to be said on the subject.

Fudge distractedly informed that Black was dead.

Lily's voice hitched hard, she could hardly say the word without flashing back to that dark room, that veil, and this time Sirius was all out of breath right with her.

Turned out they'd been mistaken, he was innocent.

James's lip curled, the vicious comment on the tip of his tongue of how at least he could say that at some point...even when it was too late!

He hadn't been in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either.

"Headliner news, honestly," Sirius snarked.

Fudge defensively pointed out they'd had fifty eyewitnesses saying otherwise, but the point was he was dead now.

Lily couldn't stop her voice hitching any harder the second time she was forced to say that, it wouldn't get any easier to think of anymore than her own.

Murdered, as a matter of fact.

Harry tensed at his side, his face set with that scary calm expression of just who he owed for this fact.

On Ministry of Magic premises.

"Right under their noses," James stated, keeping himself carefully neutral or he'd start screaming again.

There's going to be an inquiry in fact.

Remus made an annoyed little huffy noise that of course this was what mattered most to Fudge.

To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for Fudge at this point.

"Far more than I'd give him," Sirius huffed.

It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow of smugness at the thought that, deficient though he himself might be in the area of materializing out of fireplaces, there had never been a murder in any of the government departments under his charge... Not yet, anyway...

Lily couldn't help but stop for just a moment, honestly hoping one of her boys would further that with a joke, but none did. They just couldn't make light of any of this when they kept being reminded of far worse things.

While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk, Fudge continued, that Black was by-the-by now.

"The most tragic thing anyone could have said about my life, I was forgotten!" Sirius declared.

He got a real smile for his comment all for himself when he saw Remus and Harry try to glare at him proving otherwise.

The point was they were at war, again reminding of the incidents as facts. The Brockdale Bridge, You-Know-Who had done it in retaliation for Fudge not stepping down for him.

While surely this was not the first time something like this had happened, Lily still froze for the position Fudge had been put in. She couldn't imagine what the right answer to that was, and wished the question on no man.

The Prime Minister was in shock it was his people at fault for that!

"Fault," Remus repeated with a heavy sigh. "Must there always be fault."

Fudge was clearly agitated at this, saying would he have caved to blackmail?

The Prime Minister agreed not, but he would have put all his efforts into catching the blackmailer before it went as far.

"Well sure it's obvious enough to say," James grumped, not nearly as enamored with this Muggle minister anymore. While not as annoying as Fudge, yet, clearly all politicians really were the same, speaking the obvious answer and expecting someone else to do the hard work.

Fudge snapped right back they'd certainly been trying, but he'd already been alluding capture for three decades!

"I mean, he actually was dead for some of that," Sirius did offer, whatever form of not around Harry he was anyways for eleven years.

It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters and not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the government's fault after all.

"Why are we passing this news along to him then?" Sirius huffed. It wasn't doing the man any good.

"I'm confident he was there to deliver the message about Voldemort and got sidetracked into this," Lily reminded.

He asked how the hurricane was involved, and Fudge explained that was no hurricane.

The Prime Minister barked his confusion while nearly stamping in place at this point.

"Thank you for the mental image though," James tried for a smile again, and Sirius was snickering so much in agreement he didn't even make a dog joke.

Fudge impatiently explained it was giant involvement that had ripped apart those houses. They had the whole Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset,

"Good to hear they're actually doing something of use," Sirius muttered, shifting restlessly at mention of that Department and glancing at Remus who still tried to force himself not to flinch at the name.

but it wasn't doing much good. Morale was already even lower with the loss of Amelia Bones.

The name had niggled at something in Harry before, but now he heard the first name he recognized one of the few people at the trial who'd given him a chance. To hear she'd now been lost as well was still yet another blow, as if no decent people had a chance at living through this.

They were under the impression He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person, all the evidence was that she put up a real fight.

The bit of Voldemort doing it personally was sadly the only shocking part to them, they'd heard this far to many times in multiples over their time with the Order. It just never made the news easier to hear.

Then there was Emmeline Vance,

Lily felt as if her feet had been knocked out from under her, the room spun crazily for a moment and she had to shake her head hard to keep focus. How was it that every time she pictured all the faces of the Order, another was left out...

maybe he hadn't heard about that one-

Oh yes the Prime Minister had! It had happened around the corner from his office! The press had been having a field day with it happening in his backyard-

"Next time we'll have it done a few dozen blocks away, make it more convenient!" Lily seethed, such anger coming from her words they expected her to spit fire next.

Fudge hardly heard him as he concluded all this mist was because of the dementors attacking everything at every opportunity.

Harry shifted restlessly, clutching his wand tighter to him for a moment as if preparing to throw up a Patronus now at just the thought of those things. He had no want for those to be back in his life, to have Sirius' final words to him play out in his head again, and again...

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

James made a little humming noise, like he wanted to chuckle at that but the mood was still beyond him.

He reminded he'd been told dementors were prisoner guards,

"Credit to the man remembering that so many years later," Remus forcefully tried for a pleasant comment.

Sirius ruined it at once by hissing, "not a conversation easily forgotten."

but Fudge explained they'd deserted the place.

The Prime Minister was in shock, recalling that these things drained happiness!

Fudge agreed that was true, and they were breeding.

Harry gagged in shock, never before having wanted to question how the things came into existence, and no happier to hear an explanation now!

Remus eyed him for a moment but kept details to himself, for once, he could tell Harry wanted to hear none of them.

That's what was causing all this mist.

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

"Well that was, almost sweet," Lily muttered, her nails nearly breaking through the page already and having to force her hand to relax. They were only a few pages in and this was already relentlessly depressing!

He demanded that this was Fudge's responsibility as Minister of Magic to do something-

but Fudge cut him off he really thought he still held that position after all this?

Finally, all five of them had a reason to perk up with interest, actual excitement for the prospect of news that didn't create more gloom for them!

He'd been sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has been screaming for his resignation for a fortnight. He'd never known them so united in his whole term of office! Fudge concluded with a brave attempt at a smile.

"The man still has a sense of humor!" Sirius yelped, that was the first bit of good news he'd ever heard about him.

"Wish we'd seen more of that than his blithering ways," James agreed, but quickly waved Lily on to hear of a replacement who hopefully wasn't such a dunderhead.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

Remus was saddened at the display of empathy, as if they needed more people understanding the woes of their world.

He'd tried of course to hang on, though Dumbledore had been no help.

"Can't even blame the man," James said scathingly. Even with all Dumbledore had done to them recently, he could still understand being like this to someone at least minorly responsible.

If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, he might still be...

Lily's brows shot up in confusion for that, but Harry just shrugged with as much knowledge as anyone for what that could have meant.

Well, maybe Scrimgeour would have more success.

"Finally a man that makes sense." Even at his words James was blinking in mild confusion why Scrimgeour had gotten the job. He was a high end Auror now, not quite as well known as Moody, but certainly none to be trifled with. Yet he'd never seemed one for politics that they'd known of, clearly something had changed though for this kind of step to be taken, not at all a bad thing considering what Harry had been putting up with.

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice to announce the arrival of the very man.

Harry's brows ruffled as he picked upon this name that shouldn't be so new to him. Considering his interactions with Fudge, he supposed not feeling black anger for the man was off to a good start, but he wasn't really sure what he felt either.

The Prime Minister distractedly agreed to see him,

"Would he really say no at this point?" Sirius muttered.

and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again,

"Adapting," Remus tried to say in a chipper tone of voice, but they were already exhausted and wanted this to be done with. They'd had enough of hearing about Ministers already, another arriving wasn't going to give them much heart.

rose up, and revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later onto the antique rug.

The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion.

That at least gave them a small laugh for such a description arriving, clearly Scrimgeour had gotten on in years more than they'd initially thought.

There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times.

"I can't say another solider pushing for firepower will make it better though," Lily argued what she'd said many times in the past few weeks as the change was coming for a new Minister soon.

"Can't hurt either," James disagreed.

The two met eyes with a smile just for each other.

The Prime Minister greeted him politely enough, but Scrimgeour hardly had a care for formalities, at once locking the door and shutting the curtains against the Prime Ministers wishes.

"I don't blame the man needing an escape from these two," Sirius agreed.

His only response was to say he didn't want to be watched, or interrupted.

"Well he certainly makes an impression," James couldn't help but agree with this logic right off the bat.

He began ticking off a mental list it seemed, starting at once that the man needed better security-

The Prime Minister cut in he wasn't getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt!

The lot of them snorted in surprise at Kingsley showing up again like this, though it was just a bit more forced than they would have liked...considering his last assignment was no longer needed.

He's highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them-

"Humm, I wonder why," Sirius said dryly, his voice far more high pitched than he'd meant from continued stress watching everyone around him fidget with unease that even a person once associated helping him now doing something else could still so easily upset.

Scrimgeour cut in that was because he was one of their wizards, an Auror and the very protection he'd been speaking of.

"I wonder how often that happens," James muttered without much care for an answer this time. He wasn't surprised when no one knew.

The Prime Minister furiously tried to refuse these people couldn't just place others in his office!

"Bit of a tail chaser this one is," Remus got a half smile for that, this Muggle really had a problem picking a side, but then, who could blame him with who he was dealing with.

Scrimgeour coolly reminded he'd just been defending this, and the Prime Minister lamely had no choice but to admit-

"I can tell how well this relationship's going to go," Sirius snorted.

Scrimgeour just kept plowing on into the topic of Herbert Chorley's poorly done Imperius Curse-

"Clearly," Lily repeated snappily, she already wasn't having to high an opinion for this new Minister, a little sympathy wouldn't kill the man fighting this war.

the Prime Minister tried to defend he was only quacking.

"Not much of a problem at all," Sirius agreed, smiling much easier at a pun he would have loved to insert about barking being much harder to cope with, but Lily wasn't waiting around for it.

Scrimgeour pointed out he'd already tried to strangle three Healers at St. Mungo's, so it was best to keep him where he was sedated.

"Eesh," Harry winced, rubbing at his neck. He'd never thought of Healers having to restrain violent patents and wasn't happy doing so now.

When the Prime Minister asked if he'd be alright, Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace.

Lily scoffed heavily now with a nasty catch in her throat. How was a lack of caring for the people better than Fudge's lack of caring for the truth?

That was everything, if there was more he'd likely send Fudge along, who had agreed to stay with the Ministry in an advisory capacity.

While none of them carried much for Fudge after all he'd done to Harry, they certainly didn't hate him enough to laugh at this predicament of being demoted like that, it was just insulting the way Scrimgeour put it.

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

They were wizards! Couldn't they solve all of this with a simple wave!

"Ah the ignorance of Muggles," James sighed, twirling his wand around with loaded eyes out the window.

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, that the trouble was, the other side could do magic too.

"What's worse, magic we can't use without turning into them as well," Sirius added on quietly for Harry, who only nodded without surprise. Gone were the days where he was confused at comments like this.

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.

"Well that was a terribly depressing way to start," Lily snapped, shoving the book towards James with such force he let out a woof of air when it hit him.

She uttered a genuine apology which he gratefully accepted, kissing her temple before flipping to the next one.

HPHPHPHP

  *Fun fact, the Mayor being spoken to may have been John Major according to the timeline, but the misstep is that the Minister before would have been a she, Maggie Thatcher, making this statement of the previous also being a male clear that JK had no intentions of basing this off of real Muggle Prime Ministers.

[writeyouin]

OOOOOO could you bless us with Medical!Reader?!?!? Like V comes back - ALSO COULD IT BE FOR V?!? sO V comes back to the gallery all limping and shit and like reader rushes to get a first aid kit and it’s all sweet and nice and a lil angsty cause V doesn’t wanna show his body and I’m rambling. YOU GET JAZZY WIT IT I LOVE YOU BYE.

V X Reader - Medic

A/N – I hope you find this jazzy enough. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Warnings – None.

Rating – T

You sat on the floor where the Shadow Gallery met the abandoned London underground which V had spent years digging out. Although your voice had long since left you, you still managed to sob. You had begged V not to leave but he had been unable to end his vendetta against Chancellor Sutler who was supposedly going to be delivered to V for execution by Creedy.

You knew Creedy was going to kill V. Even V knew, yet he still went anyway, leaving you instructions on how to work the train laden with explosives should he not be back by midnight. Now, parliament was in flames, you were alone, and V was probably dead. Before he had left, you had told him that you loved him. V had warned you once before that he didn’t have room in his heart for anything more than vengeance, but still you had dared to hope and as usual, hope was the cruellest player that fate had to offer.

Why did V have to kill Sutler? Wasn’t blowing up parliament enough? Weren’t you enough? Your logical mind knew why V had to have Sutler; he would not be able to rest without killing him. However, your heart remained stubbornly illogical; you didn’t want V to go.

Nearby, you heard an awful sound, like a body being dragged against the concrete. You supposed that must be Creedy, or perhaps one of the Fingermen. It seemed that even with parliament in shambles, they would want to find the Shadow Gallery and destroy any trace of V’s existence.

‘Let them come,’ you thought bitterly. Without V, what was there left to live for anyway? You had been his prisoner, his victim, his redemption, and maybe even his love. What were you without him?

You glanced morosely to your left where the sound was coming from, expecting to see a member of the militia. Instead, you saw V slowly limping towards you, leaning against the wall for support.

“V,” You cried out hoarsely, running to grab him.

“Oh my God,” You exclaimed while pulling his arm over your shoulder so you could walk him closer to the Shadow Gallery. “You came back… How? I-”

“You-” V groaned in pain. “You gave me something to live for. I’d forgotten what that felt like- ARGH!”

V held his ribs and even through the black material you could see blood seeping out from under his hand.

“Oh God,” You sat V down against the wall where you had been only moments ago. “Wait here.”

Without explaining further, you ran off to fetch your medical bag. Before you lived in the Shadow Gallery, you were in training to become a surgeon. In the Shadow Gallery, with access to hundreds of banned books pertaining to medicine, you had actually learnt more than you ever would have under normal circumstances; it was awful to think that the government wanted to hide such valuable information in their attempt at totalitarian control.

Running back to V with your bag and a pillow in hand, you laid him down. Placing the pillow under his head, you asked if he was injured anywhere else. Without waiting for the response, you reached down to unbutton V’s shirt. He grabbed your hands with the little strength he had left.

“(Y/N),” He breathed raggedly, “Don’t. That skin is not me. You shouldn’t see it. I just- I just came back to say- to say goodbye.”

“No,” You growled. “You are not leaving me. I won’t let you.”

“Please. Please don’t- Ah-”

“I get it, the flesh isn’t the man, but it does hold you together and I will not lose you again. Now shut the hell up and let me work.”

V would have continued to fight you but he was too weak. He could barely breathe, and any movement now only caused more pain. If only you knew he had so much to say to you, and not enough time left on Earth to say it. He was wrong when he said that he had only room in his heart for vengeance. As it turned out, even someone as warped as him could find love, and apparently have it returned; it was more than he deserved.

You gasped as you removed V’s shirt. It wasn’t the burns which disturbed you, but rather the sheer amount of bullet wounds which he had survived. You were relieved to find that none of the bullets had hit major organs, but horrified to find that most of the bullets remained inside of V instead of passing through him. Removing the bullets could cause irreparable damage to V’s nervous system if you weren’t careful, and that was only if he didn’t die of blood loss first.

You used all of the medical kits adhesive bandages to cover the bullet wounds and stem the bleeding. Then, you set about taking just one bullet out from the only uncovered wound and then cauterising it with a flare you had found. V screamed and you had to fight of tears that threatened your resolve. If only it was anyone else… but it wasn’t; it was V and if you didn’t pull yourself together quickly, he would die.

So, that was how you continued to work. Remove a bandage, extract the bullet, cauterise the wound, listen to the screaming, repeat. If you had counted, you would have found that you had removed twenty-three bullets from V’s torso, but you didn’t count. Instead, you spent the time muttering instructions to yourself and occasionally lapsing into brief monologues to V. You didn’t really care if he was listening or not, just so long as he knew you were there, working ceaselessly to save his life.

“Careful,” You warned yourself. “Take it nice and slow- We should go up top and see the weather after- No, no, don’t hit that or he’ll bleed more and- We could watch a movie together if we- Got to fix that.”

Although your monologue made little sense, it did calm you and help steady your hand.

Finally, all the bullets were out and most of the wounds cauterised. Your work was far from complete however, for some of the wounds were too large to burn shut. Fortunately, V had passed out from the pain which meant you didn’t have to hear him suffering as you set about stitching the remaining injuries shut.

“Careful with the Lembert stitch,” You warned yourself. “Can’t be sloppy.”

While V was still unconscious, you searched the rest of his body for injuries you might have missed. It was hard to tell without an X-Ray but you thought that V had around five broken ribs. Using the non-adhesive bandages, you bound his torso tightly.

Too afraid to move him in case any complications arose, you laid down next to him, listening to his shallow breathing. You wondered whether you ought to remove his mask to aid his air intake, but decided against it, leaving him with the face he had chosen; you could always change your mind if he took a turn for the worst. With a heavy heart, you waited to see if V would survive his trip to Limbo.

Normally, you wouldn’t have expected anyone to awake from such a traumatic event for days, if at all. V however, was a law unto himself and regained consciousness mid-day on the sixth of November, just as you were wondering whether you ought to search the Shadow Gallery for an IV drip.

The first thing he did was slowly reach up to check that his mask was still on. With a sigh of relief, he lowered his hand.

“Try not to move too much,” You said quietly.

V turned his head just enough to see you squatted next to him. “You really did it,” He rasped. “I didn’t deserve to live and yet I was granted you.”

You ignored the self-depreciating comment, instead choosing to ask V how he was feeling.

“Under your care, I feel protected. A little sore perhaps, but nothing that I cannot handle without you to help me… That is, if you still feel the same way about me.”

Gently, you held V’s hand in your own. “Of course I do. I love you. I will always love you.”

“Always is an awfully long time. I could disappoint you yet,” V replied, thinking of how callously he had left you to chase down Sutler.

As if sensing his thoughts, you caressed V’s mask. “You came back for me.”

“I had to. I never got to tell you… I love you too. I didn’t think it was possible and yet I have found that you have warmed my heart. (Y/N), you brought me back to life long before now.”

You took a deep breath, thinking about the future, “V, where do we go from here? We changed the world by sending that train to Parliament.”

V honestly didn’t know what the future held, but he felt that as long as you were by his side, he could brave anything. “I’m afraid I don’t know what is in store for us. Nothing will be the same as before. The world will attempt to find a new normal, I suppose. I would like you to stay with me through that, if that is your desire.”

You lightly kissed V’s mask, knowing that even if it was just metal, it was still his lips.

“I can’t thing of anywhere I would rather be.”

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[writing-radionoises]

encouragement

ship: pre-relationship beast! shin soukoku

genre: post-canon hurt/comfort

prompt: after dazai's death, atsushi is picked up by odasaku and temporarily lives with odasaku and akutagawa. akutagawa attempts to encourage some healing in atsushi.

notes: i want to kiss beast atsushi so bad and so i threw all of that onto akutagawa. there's not enough soft beast shin soukoku so of course, i provide enjoy!

“So, he’s staying with you?”

Akutagawa nods at the brunette at the door. Ango Sakaguchi, a government worker and a good friend of Odasaku’s. By default, this makes him a good friend and probable father figure to Akutagawa.

“The mafia disbanded and scattered to the wind, most of the executives have abandoned their posts and gone into hiding,” Akutagawa explained, “Odasaku-san found him half-dead in an alleyway, and you know how he is about kids.”

“No trouble with his ability or anything of the sorts?”

Akutagawa nods a no.

“He’s under control, kids don’t mind him. Don’t worry about Nakajima, we’ve got it under control.”

“Are you certain?” “Yes. I have a child to tend to, out with you,” Akutagawa shoos the government worker with a stern look as a toddler calls out for him in the background.

Ango gives him a strange look before hesitantly waving a goodbye, and Akutagawa closes the door behind him.

Akutagawa lets out a sigh, grabbing his tattered coat from off the coat hanger and throwing it over his shoulders as he picks up the small child calling for him.

She’s a new child Oda has picked up, no older than three or four. However, Oda unexpectedly went out of town, and so Akutagawa is stuck playing babysitter for two children.

Nakajima has proven himself to be a child at times.

The small girl clings to Akutagawa’s jacket, mumbling something softly to herself as Akutagawa gently bounces her, heading towards the kitchen to find Nakajima already at the table.

Most days were the same. Nakajima awakes late, enters the kitchen, sits at the table and spaces off for most of the day. He’s not talkative, though Akutagawa can’t say he is, either.

The tension between them is strong after what Akutagawa had done to Nakajima, though also because of their shared experience of the death of Osamu Dazai.

The shared knowledge of the book, which is held within Akutagawa’s possession.

He thought about using the book over and over again, though never quite goes through with it.

The truth is, Akutagawa finds himself not upset with his life.

Outside of Gin’s sudden hatred and distance from him, his life is rather good.

Odasaku is a good man who cares very much for him.

The agency serves as a family, they all care for Akutagawa more than anything.

He’s developed a knack for caring for children, helping them come out of their shells.

He  can cook and function like most of any normal human being these days.

There’s no telling what his life would look like if he tried to change it.

“Who was at the door?” Nakajima deadpanned from the table.

Akutagawa glanced over, almost surprised at the other’s voice.

“A man, don’t worry about him. He’s a friend of Oda’s.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing special,” Ryuunosuke replied, “As I said, don’t worry about it.”

Nakajima falls silent once again as he sets the toddler in a highchair, grabbing a fold out stool from beside the fridge to reach up and grab the cereal for the toddler.

The toddler seemed calm and happy now with a tray of Cheerios in front of her as Akutagawa sits beside her, across from Nakajima, and watches the child half-mindedly.

“He’s a clever man, I bet he works for the government,” Nakajima continued, his eyes glued to the table as he pulls his jacket a little closer to his face.

“Clever…” Ryuunosuke mused, “You could say that. He is a government worker, he mostly just checks in on the agency every once in a while. I suppose he got word that you’re staying here.”

“... He should’ve arrested me.”

“Perhaps, but I think he has bigger fish to fry.”

The two fall silent once again as the toddler crunches down on the cereal happily. Akutagawa runs his hands through his hair. He can only wonder what’s going through Nakajima’s head, he hasn’t been the same since he witnessed Dazai’s suicide. Though, it’s understandable. Akutagawa struggles to remember that Dazai was not pure evil like Akutagawa remembered. In Atsushi’s eyes, he was a good man and mentor.

Akutagawa would argue, based on what he had seen Dazai do to Atsushi, though it’s not a fight worth picking.

Nakajima looked up from the wooden table, looking at Akutagawa with curious eyes.

“Why do you let me stay here, after everything I’ve done?”

Akutagawa glanced back over at Atsushi from the toddler, shrugging.

“I believe everyone needs some encouragement.”

Nakajima’s brows furrowed in confusion, looking away from Akutagawa as the conversation ends.

Akutagawa isn’t certain if he brought clarity to Nakajima’s mind, or confused him more.

“Go out and do something with him, something fun. Bring some life back to that boy for me, I’m getting worried for him.”

That’s what Odasaku had said to Akutagawa a day prior. Akutagawa had expected this to happen eventually, Odasaku always had him handle the tougher children.

Though, Nakajima wasn’t necessarily a child.

Akutagawa wasn’t quite sure how this would work out, he rarely interacted with adults like this, he had only a handful of friendly encounters with Nakajima.

One way or another, Akutagawa managed to get Nakajima in the car to drive off. Nakajima didn’t ask many questions, and accepted the answer of “it’s a surprise” when it came to where they were going.

Nakajima sat beside him in the passenger seat, watching cars and pedestrians go by as Akutagawa drove out towards a park, a rather empty one as he parked along the side, climbing out of the car to get into the backseat to get out a bag of frozen peas and lettuce no one in the house was going to eat.

Nakajima’s brows furrowed as he followed suit, looking around the park cautiously. Akutagawa led the way towards the duck pond, he thought about offering his hand out to Nakajima, though he decided against it.

It was trying maybe a little too hard to not baby Nakajima.

Nakajima followed behind Akutagawa like a lost child, his hands laced together as he looked around the empty park. He sat beside Akutagawa on a park bench in front of the duck pond, he seemed to grow more and more confused by the minute.

As Akutagawa fumbled with the bag of frozen peas, Nakajima finally spoke up.

“What… Are we doing here?”

“Feeding the ducks,” Akutagawa replied simply, holding out a small handful of peas for Nakajima to take.

Nakajima took them hesitantly, looking over them before tossing them out to the ducks beginning to crowd around them.

Akutagawa did the same, the silence between them filled with the quaking of happy ducks. Akutagawa resisted a smile, instead opting to bounce his left leg.

“Are you trying to get information out of me?” Nakajima asked, looking over to Akutagawa.

Akutagawa nodded a no, “I’m getting you out of the house.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“What, and let you sit there and rot away? I think getting out might’ve been the best for you, it’s easier to get over things when there’s more going on around you,” Akutagawa explained.

Nakajima looked down at his lap, falling silent as he nuzzled into his coat once more.

Akutagawa didn’t push for more answers, continuing to watch the ducks as he shifted his head from side to side half-mindedly.

“... If you’re trying to get me to talk more, it’s not working,” Nakajima hummed, brushing his bangs out of his eyes as he fidgeted with his fingers, “I don’t like talking.”

“I don’t either,” Ryuunosuke replied, “Though, I suppose I can talk enough for the two of us. Kenji-kun tells me getting to know someone is a give and take thing, I’m working on it, however… I’m much more used to talking to children than people my age.”

“You… Work with children that often?” The silver haired boy asked, hesitantly, to which Akutagawa nodded.

“Yes, I work under Odasaku, so it’s natural. My past makes me relatable to children we help, my background as an older brother usually makes me likable to younger children. I don’t mind it, talking to children is… Easier than an adult. Children only understand so much, they lack the knowledge of social normalities most of the time, it’s easier for me…” Ryuunosuke explained, “I grew up with very little social interaction, I spoke with my sister and a few other orphaned children, though that was about it. I never learned how most people communicate.”

“Your sister…” Atsushi mused, eyes glued to the ground.

A slight pain made its home in Akutagawa’s heart from the mention of Gin. Even now, it’s difficult to think about her. He’d never let her go, and never love anyone quite as much.

He isn’t sure if anyone would quite understand how he felt about his little sister, not even Tanizaki could quite understand. Akutagawa grew up alone, raising Gin himself up until Dazai stole her away.

It was less of a typical brother-sister relationship and more of a father-daughter relationship.

“Her name is Gin, right?” Atsushi asked, breaking Akutagawa out of his thoughts.

He nodded, “Yes, her name is Gin… She’s a sweet girl at heart, I’m not sure how she really lasted in the mafia…”

Akutagawa propped his head up in his hand, trying to take his mind off of whatever pain he was feeling. This wasn’t supposed to be about him, he shouldn’t dump his baggage on the other.

“... She was strong,” Nakajima commented, “I only met her a few times, but she was strong, physically and mentally. I don’t quite get how she survived Dazai, either, especially now… I barely survived Dazai…”

Akutagawa looked over to Atsushi, watching the boy continue to feed the ducks, a little more confident and out about himself.

“For the sake of my sanity, did he ever hurt Gin?” Akutagawa asked.

Atsushi paused, looking up in thought before eventually nodding no.

“Not to my knowledge. He didn’t hurt physically most of the time, he would manipulate you into hurting yourself,” Atsushi explained, “I’m sure… I’m still under some of his manipulations, but I’m not ready to address that…”

Akutagawa knew he was referring to the collar, though decided not to comment on that.

“That’s alright, address it when you’re ready. Healing is a long process,” Ryuunosuke reassured, “We’ll be here when you are ready to address it.”

A slight smile came to Atsushi’s face.

“Thank you, I’ll try my best.”

Akutagawa smiled back, watching the other happily watch the ducks.

A part of Ryuunosuke thinks Atsushi’s smile might be the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

[anxiouslyfred]

Moss Graffiti

Summary: Virgil was convinced his soulmate worked in nuclear power from the poem he got describing them. He’s about to learn how wrong that is, and how weirdly some corporations view graffiti.

/\/\

Virgil's soulmate had to do something in nuclear power. He was certain of it. Why else would his poem include the line 'Green pollution close to hand'?

Really he'd taken decades to reach that conclusion, trying to decide what it could mean. Pollution usually wasn't anything green at all, but from those Simpsons opening credits, to the glow shows always used for nuclear radiation, that had to be what was intended. Unless there was something else being done that corporations would try to claim as pollution, but that just opened too many trails for his thoughts to follow.

“Uneven floors present a trip hazard and either need indicating or fixing. That's the most important issue, I've found, shall we continue through the rest?” Virgil shook the momentary thoughts of his soulmate from his head, focusing back on the Health & Safety inspection he was doing.

The offices were just waiting for an accident to happen in a lot of places, and if he had to yell to actually get the manager to come over instead of the receptionist, he would be. There's no point booking him to conduct the inspection if they just wanted to ignore the issues raised in his report.

“Mr Furniss has requested you confirm if the pollution on the outer walls will need a specialist to remove.” The receptionist, Miss Mauby, asked, noting down his comments.

“I haven't noticed any pollution. Do you mind showing me the section he's referring to?” Virgil raised an eyebrow. There had been some graffiti on one of the walls near the entrance, but it hadn't looked like anything he'd need to take note of.

The wall he was led to pretty much guaranteed he would be storming back into the manager's office to give his report. Wasting his time demanding answers that a fool could tell was simply moss was absurd, despite the design and words showing it was all deliberately placed. Virgil already agreed that the company had a lot of issues it needed to be addressing, especially regarding the waste products being incorrectly disposed of at the factory site.

Turning to Miss Mauby he nodded, “I believe it would be best for me to give my initial review to Mr Furniss directly, and I'll send the report over in a matter of days.” He didn't wait for a reply, already returning to the building and the office that was indicated to belong to the site manager.

By the time Virgil was leaving the site, he'd begun to calm down and find it amusing. The manager of the place really did think that graffiti was pollution and not just unauthorised artwork. Perhaps they needed some language lessons to clear up the definition and impact of using the wrong terms. Science classes could help more though.

When he glanced back towards the moss words, he had to call over, “Better get away from there. I think Mr Furniss mentioned getting cameras set up to monitor their walls.”

“I'll find some other wall to protest on then. He can't monitor them all and ignores any emails or government mandates to follow the laws for disposal of contaminated waste.” The person called back, voice shrill and uncaring.

Virgil wandered closer, a little curious to know more. “How did you even manage it anyway? I didn't think you could control where or how moss grows.”

“I made moss paint and spray with water each afternoon. For this lot at least. I've got twenty other sites I do this too and commissions to take for peoples gardens occasionally.” Virgil began to worry he'd asked the wrong thing with the lack of energy compared to the person's original response before they jumped to face him, “I'm making nature fight back for itself when it can't speak. The moss, lichens and plants shall rise to destroy humanity with my aid!”

“Okay, cool, erm good luck with that. I'll leave you to it then.” Virgil backed away at the yell, startled and very concerned that if someone in the office came out to see him talking with the moss graffiti guy he could lose payment for his services.

It was only once he got home that Virgil thought whoever it was looking after that moss seemed to fill 3 of the 4 lines in his soul poem, especially with that companies boss claiming graffiti was pollution.

He checked while swapping his jacket for a hoodie and the idea only grew at the familiar lines:

Uncontrolled by any rule,

Dangerous Attitude, surface cool.

Green pollution close to hand.

Trust fleeting as the sand.

Virgil had gotten the poem as a tattoo as soon as he was old enough to. He didn't want anybody finding out what his poem was and the easiest way to ensure that was to keep the only record of it literally on him.

Perhaps they'd encounter each other again in the city. Virgil did have other gigs coming up for offices of corporations known to be major polluters.

/Over to the Graffiti Artist\

Remus had been curious about the guy who'd come over asking about his graffiti, but he got people running away from him. It happened often enough pretty much anytime he tried to make friends.

He pushed the curiosity out of his mind though, focusing on that morning's project. He was still cultivating the moss on the edge of an animal testing lab for a soaps company and needed to make sure he was using the right mosses so the creature yelling at the company was recognisable.

“Get Away from there! I'll call the police on you for doing-” The angry yelling cut off when the woman got close enough.

Remus smirked, not turning around, but well aware it looked like he was just painting water onto the wall with how diluted he'd made the moss-paint today. He'd expected someone to try and stop him and wasn't going to give away what he was doing, including the fact these were rare mosses that if it got out the company had removed would enrage some environmentalist charities.

“Well isn't this fun. Do you often greet contractors by yelling at someone painting the walls with water, or am I just special?” The curious guy from yesterday was back, and apparently ignoring Remus in favour of greeting the woman. It was an interesting way to try and stick up for him though.

None of the apologies she was now stuttering out got directed to him either, and Remus finally realised this was one of the managers of the building and the guy had to be some sort of contractor. Not that it mattered to him of course, guy got scared off by a tiny bit of excitement.

He was humming while working on an established moss garden that evening when the guy walked passed again, and seriously Remus was beginning to think some cosmic force wanted them to talk.

“How'd you get the different colours?” The guy actually stopped to ask, glancing over the patterns. Dull, boring spirals. Remus had a far more interesting moss garden on the outer walls of his apartment.

“Different mosses.” He replied, turning to get more water for his spray bottle. It wasn't necessary, but he didn't feel like watching someone try to escape him currently.

The guy stayed waiting there, long enough Remus couldn't avoid returning to his work. “I'm Virgil by the way. He/Him. Sorry about that bitch this morning. She really needs to focus more on adequate safety railings and less on how the building looks. Aesthetic is not worth health hazards!” He sort of ranted, definitely trying to make conversation.

“I'm Remus and you're already scared of me, so I don't think you want to hear my actual views. Bugger off to screw in a H&S approved fallout bunker or something.” Remus interrupted before he could say anything else.

“No need to be a jerk, and sorry I'm not interested in losing a paycheck because the boss of a building is an asshole. Yelling and getting attention when I've just finished a place that specifically tried to call your work a biohazard could easily have the company finding some way out of paying for aiding a vandal or whatever.” Virgil snapped back, glaring. “I just wanted to know more because your work looks awesome, but fine, I'll leave asking more for some other day.”

Remus scoffed, throwing his spray bottle to one side and turning, “Yeah, when you decide I'm invisible again because I'm near one of those building's that's contracting you to yell at them. Fantastic chance to ask questions when you won't even glance my way.”

His words must have trigger some confusing thought process for Virgil as his right hand jumped to covering his left forearm, almost brushing over it in an odd pattern. He watched for a moment before turning back to checking the outlines were still clear.

“I can't put my chances of making the rent at stake, but fine, next time I see you I'll find time to stop and at least say hi. I'm going to get to know you, Remus. You can trust me on that, whether you believe it or not.” The words were threatening, and Remus wanted to come up with some actual threats Virgil could have used, but still didn't want to watch him run away.

“Only the naïve trust people instantly. Or the people wanting to use you and twist you into a different shape. I'm neither of those and the only time someone else controls how I twist is when they're bending me over.” He dismissed the promise and started humming again, pretending to focus on his work.

If they spoke for much longer of course he'd say something to have this brittle connection thoroughly sever.

That night Remus was still wondering about Virgil. How concerned he sounded over losing pay, and some vague terrible happening that could follow it.

There was definitely something of his soulmate poem in how the man was speaking and acting, but it just felt like another thing for Remus to hope for and end up destroying.

He had to listen to that old song again, if only to confirm it couldn't be Virgil at all:

Lashing out just to be heard

Worry infusing every word.

Cautious but convinceable,

Dreams their friends invincible.

/Days passing by\

The warning Virgil had given on the first time they encountered each other had been proven right. That company had put up cameras over the footpaths on the buildings, with only a few sections left clear of surveillance.

Remus had refreshed his free-running skills enough to get up onto one of the ledges. He wasn't expecting to get yelled at to get down and that it wasn't safe while checking if there was another layer of moss-paint needed or not.

“Virgil, you're really going to attract attention if you don't quiet down.” Remus sing-songed, leaning to look down from the ledge he was stood on, and grinning at the glare he was being given.

He wasn't expecting Virgil to walk a few steps back before launching himself up the wall. “And you're going to do yourself a freaking injury. Is constantly climbing up here really necessary for you to get the message across?”

“Yes, they're going to keep having the message painted until the listen and actually sort out the waste disposal of the factory.” Remus nodded. Virgil had been speaking to him, and actually seeking out the places Remus would turn up ever since threatening to get to know him. “Besides, a suicide on the property with this message growing afterwards would definitely make the news, get public interest sparked over everything they're doing wrong. Sounds like the perfect storm for them to face.”

“Except the part where you die. Not allowed. You act like you're invincible and I wish to whoever's listening you were.” Virgil snapped, and snatched the brush from Remus's hands for some reason. “Come on, tell me where I'm painting this one, and I'll help. Sooner you get this done, the sooner I can get you safely down from here!”

Remus blinked at the change, wondering whether this was what 'cautious but convinceable' meant before shaking it off. “That's for the darker bits. Currently just look like some discolouring. I'll do the pale bits since the difference for those can't be made out yet. Why would you want me to be invincible anyways? Most people would be glad to see something break me, even if they wouldn't wish me dead. A sever injury, maybe causing paralysis, and they'd all sigh knowing where I am and thinking they could control how much trouble I cause.”

“Sounds like you know a ton of jerks then. You're my Friend Remus. Not many people can say that and I'm not going to let you jeopardise my friend's life all to make a point against horrible business practices.” Virgil lectured, already following the lines, although his shoulders were so tense Remus wondered how his movements with the brush could be so fluid.

In more interesting news that literally sounded like the 2 lines Remus had mentally been insisting couldn't relate to Virgil had fallen into place and suddenly fitted him perfectly. He was singing the soul poem without thinking it, performing a short dance when he realised Virgil was staring.

“So are you writing poems about me now or is that, you know?” Virgil muttered a few moments after he finished singing.

“My soul Poem!” Remus squealed and the only thing that stopped him bouncing was Virgil's eyes quickly falling to his feet. The edge was close behind him and he wasn't going to fall after deciding that Virgil was his soulmate. “Seems to be perfect for you, right?!”

Virgil just nodded, shoving up the sleeve of his jacket and holding the arm out to Remus. “Get away from the edge, read this and have a laugh at what the manager of this place called your art.”

The tattoo was brilliant, with letters that looked like they were bleeding, and thorns twisting together to frame it. Realising the poem actually did describe him only made it better.

“So we are simply meant to be.” Remus grinned.

At least he knew this health and safety inspector wasn't completely against breaking the rules occasionally, at least if it meant they could keep each other safe instead.

[nellie-elizabeth]

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Truth (1x05)

Well, okay then.

Cons:

I've complained about the uneven time given to Sam and Bucky, and while I appreciate where this episode went with everything, it did shine a further light on how little Sam has had to do all season. How his growth has been happening in the background to other things. I wish the balance could have been changed a little.

I also continue to be less interested in the Flag Smashers than I am in anything else in the show. Not the ideology or how they function politically in this world, but the actual individual characters. Spending time getting to know them makes sense, it humanizes their struggles and what they're willing to sacrifice for their cause. But I just don't find Karli to be a particularly compelling individual, so it makes those scenes a slough to get through.

The opening fight scene between Sam, Bucky, and John Walker was good, but it wasn't great. The whole time I was watching it I kept thinking about the Tony/Steve/Bucky fight at the end of Civil War, three men fighting, the shield pinging between them. So much angst and desperation and history and weight to the whole thing. This fight should have been like that, but instead it felt a little more measured. Sam and Bucky are fighting to take the shield away from a dangerous man who has clearly lost control. It almost felt like they were just doing a job. Their connection to the shield was muted during the fight itself, which made that final beat, when Bucky throws the shield down at Sam's side and walks off, hit a little less hard.

And that's one other thing - I loved the Sam and Bucky talk, of course I did. Bucky needed to apologize and it was great to see. But what changed Bucky's mind? We see Sam's journey, but Bucky starts the episode still in that mindset of blaming Sam, and then he comes and helps with the boat, and then he apologizes. What made him realize that he needed to adjust his perspective? I wish I could have understood that a bit more. The only scene we get of him on his own is with Zemo, and that bit of closure seems wholly disconnected to the stuff with the shield.

Pros:

This is a small thing, but I've gotta bring it up: when Bucky is apologizing to Sam, he says "when Steve told me what he was planning"... and when I tell you I screamed... this is literally so important to me. I hate the end of Endgame for Steve. I truly do. The one thing that makes it bearable is the head-canon that he cleared it with Bucky first, that Bucky knew, before Steve left to go return the stones, what he was going to do. And now we have actual canon confirmation that that was the case! I am so incredibly moved by that, I can't even tell you.

But let's talk about that whole scene, shall we? I feel like I could ramble on about it for quite some time, but I'll just say that seeing them throw the shield around like a damn football was so... funny? But also sweet? There's something here about men and how they communicate and how hard it can be to break down the walls and be vulnerable. They manage it because they frame it around a physical activity, with the shared symbol of complicated national loyalties bouncing around between them. Also, the shared symbol of their dead friend Steve. It opens up something between them, allowing Sam to give his "tough love" advice. Allowing Bucky to give a heartfelt apology. It's the stuff they never would have said to each other in that therapy session, but they can say it now, and that's beautiful. The best moment for me, and it was really subtle, was Bucky handing the shield to Sam, saying sorry. Then Sam continues to throw it against the trees and let it bounce back, and he does it specifically so Bucky can catch it again. So there's this almost ceremonial hand-off, and then Sam, magnanimous, lets Bucky know it's still a part of him too.

And Bucky talking about the shield as his family? Yes please. I love it so much. This scene really wrapped up Bucky's arc for me on this show, in a way I hadn't known to expect. Sam tells him that Steve is gone, and that it doesn't matter what Steve thought, or what he meant. Bucky needs to stop defining himself solely by other people. This doesn't mean the struggle is over. Bucky's got a long road ahead. But he understands that road now, and Sam helped him to find his way, which I think is just the loveliest thing.

Another thing about the way these men communicate, is that the apology was necessary, and it was good that it happened, but even before that apology, Bucky showed up and helped with the boat. He fished for an invite to stay, and Sam gave it without question. They joke about being "partners", no, "co-workers," "just two guys who had a mutual friend," but the fact is, they're a part of each other's lives, and they come through for each other. Even with lingering resentments.

I'll talk briefly about Zemo here before we get into the Sam stuff in this episode... I kind of love that he went gently with the Wakandans. It was so different from what I expected, and yet it also followed logically from everything we knew about him from Civil War. It felt like a natural button to his arc on this show. And him telling Bucky that there's no resentment on his end... I mean, on the one hand, I sure as fuck would hope not, given what Zemo tried to do to Bucky. But also that's the point, isn't it? Sam says as much during the tough love speech. Bucky needs to make amends by being of service, by giving closure to the people he hurt as the Winter Solider. Even if they were bad people. Even if they don't "deserve" it.

I still worry about the optics of Sam taking on the shield instead of retiring it permanently. But I was impressed by how far the show was willing to go in explaining the weight of that choice. Isaiah doesn't say some party line like "I love America but these were some bad people." He doesn't say "things were bad then but they're better now." No. He says the truth, which is that America did this to him. It wasn't one bad actor sneaking through an otherwise benevolent system. It was a corrosive, systemic issue that ruined his life, separated him from his loved ones, forced him to hide away and live as a dead man. And he's telling Sam that it's still like that. Oh, sure, things have changed. But not as much as they need to, and not in the ways that really count for a lot, a lot of people.

I respect that the show laid this out, didn't pull its punches in stating this reality. Sam is being positioned as perhaps naïve, overly optimistic, in still wanting to take that pain and make something good from it. Overly optimistic? Willing to jump into situations that are too big for any one man to manage, no matter what? Well, if there's a list of qualifiers for Captain America, I'd say Sam fits the bill just as much, if not more, than Steve did.

And we see that Sam has a community, a history, a deep connection to his sister and his nephews and all the people his parents knew back in the day. I'm a sucker for a good moment like the one we got with the boat, everyone turning up to help. And then Sarah saying that they can't sell it after all... it's just so moving. Sam's fighting the big fights and the small ones, and that makes him worthy of being an exemplar of human excellence. If he wants to fight that fight while holding the shield, I would trust him to try and turn the symbol into something worthy.

Briefly, I want to talk about Lemar. That scene where John went to his parents was really interesting, because it showed that opinions on these very serious issues are by no means shared universally. You've got Isaiah saying that no black man with any self respect would ever take up the shield. Then you've got Lemar's parents saying how proud their son was to be Captain America's partner. It's a lot more complicated than people want to make it. Things would be simpler if we all agreed that America sucks and its history and legacy is negative and racist and therefore let's burn the whole thing to the ground. But there are a lot of people, a lot of black Americans, who like being Americans, who are proud to serve their country. It's not an attitude I know how to understand, but pretending it doesn't exist isn't doing anyone any favors. I like that we saw this aspect of it, too.

A couple last tidbits, moments I really enjoyed.

- Bucky flirting with Sarah.

- Sam's nephews playing with the shield, Bucky waking up and smiling at the sight.

- The super relevant, super hard to hear scene at the end of all the government officials getting ready to round up refugees and march them back across borders... like, damn.

- Bucky forgetting he has a metal arm, but then later using it to save Sam some trouble on the boat.

This was a great episode. Do I have qualms about the arc of the series as a whole? Yes I do. I'll be very curious to see where everything lands in next week's finale. But in all, this one was a winner in my books.

9/10