#politely asking we all pretend that the goat makes sense

[piningpercussionist]

please draw kimona and the goats <3 /p

they're real.... TO ME!!!

Just a little scribble/sketch for ya, with designs based on this art by rammyflowerz! Please consider running and giving her some love ♡ this Future Kim design is living rent free in my head at all hours...

[laequiem]

kiss you off my lips - folktober day 5

Jurdannet Folktober 2021- Day 05. She who pulls the strings @jurdannet @jurdannetrevels

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Pairing: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar but seen through Nicasia/Cardan Greenbriar? lol

Rating: mature

Word count: 2,532

The Puppet King, my subjects call me. Allegedly, the Living Council pulls the strings, controlling me from behind the scenes. They think themselves subtle, but I hear their whispers. Their words, however, slide off my armor like rain. After all, I have heard them countless times, from other’s lips or from my own mind. I was my mother’s puppet, then Balekin, and now I am Jude’s.

read on ao3

Masterlist • She kills my self-control masterpost

The Puppet King, my subjects call me. Allegedly, the Living Council pulls the strings, controlling me from behind the scenes. They think themselves subtle, but I hear their whispers. Their words, however, slide off my armor like rain. After all, I have heard them countless times, from other’s lips or from my own mind. I was my mother’s puppet, then Balekin, and now I am Jude’s.

Most days—more than a King, more than a marionette—I feel like a courtesan. Dabbling in steamy displays with courtiers I am barely interested in, all to keep the façade of the immoral king. I pretend at power, desperate for a nod of approval from my seneschal, while she does all the work. Of course, she had never asked me to whore myself out.

Until today.

I do not know who started our tumbling. Maybe I did, my anger blinding me to the foolishness of what we were about to do, in that small room behind the dais. Forgetting that touching Jude again would remind me of everything I have tried to forget since that day she rode me in her rooms. When I kissed her, that anger melted away, replaced immediately with the desire I have been helplessly fighting against for years.

Or maybe this was Jude’s plan all along. She is more faerie than she seems, at least in the way she schemes and bargains. I will charm Nicasia and get her the info she wants. In exchange, she gave me what I want: her.

Her tart taste lingers in my mouth. I did not kneel for her this time, but licking her taste off my fingers made me regret not indulging that particular thirst.

I find Nicasia easily, splendid in a pearl white gown, talking to Randalin. The small sprite does not stand a chance against her. His goat eyes shift towards me, then he bows deeply. Nicasia turns to me, unable to hide her surprise and delight that I have come to her.

“Cardan,” she croons.

Randalin chokes on nothing, animal eyes going wide. I raise a brow at Nicasia and cross my arms.

“Your Majesty,” she corrects herself, a purplish tint blossoming on her cheeks. I will never tire of this.

“Princess Nicasia.” I take her hand and kiss her knuckles. “Would you accompany me on a walk? For old time’s sake.”

“It would be my pleasure,” she beams up at me.

We make boring small talk as we walk, her arm looped around my elbow. The path leads us away from the Palace, towards the beach separating the Shifting Isles. Jude seemed to think Nicasia still liked me, and I suppose I can see it. She looks up at me with clear interest, though the conversation is as weary as can be. I work my charm up even more. A small hibiscus shrub blossoms as we walk past and I pluck a flower, tucking it in her hair with a calculated graze of my knuckles against her cheek.

The sea does not rise to greet us as we set foot on the sand.

“The sea is unnaturally calm,” I say.

I chuck off my shoes and Nicasia’s eyes dart straight to my bare feet. I hope Jude does not ask me if she was right that Nicasia still holds feelings for me, I fear I would not be able to lie.

“It is,” she says, turning back towards the sea.

I slowly uncuff my shirt for the second time today. I chase away the memories of Jude’s curious fingers on me. The way she explored and grabbed at me like she needed to figure me out, to plan out how to efficiently unravel me next time.

Next time.

I hope there is a next time.

“I must admit I am surprised,” I tell her nonchalantly, "I thought the Undersea always made true on their threats.”

I will the nearest tree to stretch out a branch towards me. I unbutton my shirt and remove it, then hang it on the branch.

“What do you mean?” Nicasia asks.

She turns to me. The way she devours me with her eyes takes me back to a time of shared wickedness and complicity. A time when it was us against the world, a time when she chose me over my siblings.

Until she chose Locke over me.

Now do you believe me that she wants you? Jude had asked. I suppose I do.

At one point, this look on Nicasia’s face would have set all my nerves on fire. Now, I feel the same as when strangers ogle me.

“Cleave together lest you face the rising tide,” I singsong, reciting the words from Queen Orlagh’s minion at the Hunter’s Moon revel in the same melody they used. “Yet the sea stays quiet. I take it your kind has another plan.”

I reach for the lace holding together my breeches and pull at the knot. Nicasia looks down at her hands, suddenly captivated by her nails.

“Perhaps,” she says too quickly. “Or perhaps we hope you will come to your senses.”

“We all hope so.”

Including me. Just not about this particular issue. My issue is of the mortal kind, the kind who deals in secrets and knives.

I hang my pants next to my shirt. Nicasia is still fully dressed, standing with her back straight and her lips tightly shut. I stop in front of her and trail a finger up her arm before slipping it under one of the straps of her dress.

“Will you not join me, Princess?”

My tail brushes up her spine and she arches towards me. I don’t wait for her to answer, though. I run into the sea.

The water is cold, unwelcoming. Before becoming High King, the salt water would not have bothered me as much. With only minor magic, only ingesting salt would have hurt me. Now, it grates at my skin like sandpaper, as if eating away my skin to get to the magic within. My magic recoils from any part of me in contact with the water. It’s heinous. I would rather take a dip in the Lake of Masks.

On the shore, Nicasia strips off her dress, hose, heels, tiara, everything. Then, she runs towards the water in a wave of blue-tinged skin and blue hair. She dives under, agile and more in her element than I could ever be.

She resurfaces next to me, a smile on her painted lips.

“Like old times,” she says.

“Like old times, but so much more complicated.” I sigh, then cast my line. “It used to be so easy.”

She takes a step towards me, biting the bait. “What was?”

And I reel it in.

“Everything,” I say with a frown. I take a step towards her, and put my hand on her cheek. “Us.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says softly.

“It does.” I sigh again. “Do you realize how hard it is to please everyone? The Living Council is always on my case. And my seneschal—”

She groans. “Why do you even keep her around?”

Because she commands me. Because she is the true ruler of Elfhame. Because I love her.

“I have to.”

Nicasia puts her hand over mine. Her fingers are webbed now, I notice. No gills, however. I suppose she knows I have no desire to ever follow her under again. Now that I am High King, I don’t have to—unlike when I was no more than the lover of the Future Queen of the Undersea.

I wonder if Nicasia notices the way I look at Jude. I wonder if I used to look at her like that, or if it was something else. I did love Nicasia, once, but it was never as labyrinthine.

I try to emulate that look just now, I try to look at her like I used to. Nicasia is still the same beautiful creature she always was: a perfectly symmetrical face composed of sharp angles and large, deep eyes. She is beautiful in the way a painting is, a piece of art to be admired. Just like art, she can make you feel things—but it’s nothing as primordial as what I feel for Jude. Like she is the beating heart I am tethered to.

“There are things I can choose for myself.”

I stroke her cheek with my thumb. She leans into my touch, angling her head towards my hand.

“… things?” Nicasia asks.

“Lovers. Consorts.” I lean in towards her ear and whisper, “A Queen.”

The words sound so wrong, they claw at my throat as they come out. I am surprised I can even say them, but they are not lies. I simply have no desire to make Nicasia any of these things.

“Ca—Your Majesty,” she gasps.

“We’re in private. Cardan is fine.”

I kiss the soft spot under her ear, then pull at the lobe with my teeth. Her skin tastes salty. Like seawater, of course, not the salty tang of sweat drying on skin after an exhausting training session. The point of her ear is unsettling, sharp like a blade.

“Cardan.” She slides a hand behind my neck, toying with my hair the way she knows I like. “Why refuse me so often then?”

I pull back to look at her, my hands roaming down to settle on her small waist.

“My subjects think me… young. Foolish.” I look towards the Palace, the grassy hill looming over the trees. “They already say I am a puppet.”

“They are the fools,” she spits.

I shake my head. “I am a fool. Regardless, if I were to marry so early after being crowned, they would think you the mother of puppets. The one who pulls my strings.”

“Especially given my mother’s insistence,” she says and I nod.

I pull her to me, her hips pressing against mine. Bone against bone. Wildly different from the soft but strong body I was exploring hours earlier.

“Politics, you know.” I sigh. “Tedious.”

I think I am overdoing it on the sighs, but what can I say? I am quite dramatic, even when I am not acting.

“Still,” I lean in, barely a hair’s breadth away from her face, “I have a say in whom I woo.”

Our lips crash together like waves on rocks. Hers are cold, which is fitting seeing how unaffected I am by this. It’s the kind of lustful kiss I give my partners, no feelings other than desire. My body is not fooled, however—kissing Nicasia has about the same effect on me as listening to Fala’s ramblings. I tip her head backward and she complies, malleable and utterly bewitched. My other hand slides from her hip to her buttox. I squeeze a barely-there cheek and she giggles against my mouth.

One of her hands is tangled in my hair while the other one slips from my shoulder down my back. As she has always done, she avoids my scars like they are made of iron. When we were together, I thought it was for my own sake that she never acknowledged them. That she was being kind, in her own way. When I had fresh wounds and I refused to take off my clothes, she understood. But when I ended it and my mind stormed to figure out what went wrong and led her astray, it started to feel more intentional. Like she sees my scars as weakness and she fears that touching them would contaminate her.

“I miss us,” she whispers against my lips.

I only hum an agreement, pulling away to kiss at her throat. Her hand continues its careful trek down my back, until she gets at the base on my spine. A dreadful shiver goes up my spine as I anticipate what she is about to do. Sure enough, her fingers circle the base of my tail. She strokes it, letting it slip between her fingers for the whole length of it. I jerk away, take a step back. As if to spite me, the sea places a slimy rock right under my foot and I slip, falling backwards into the water with the grace of a drunken redcap.

I spit out no less than a gallon of water as I resurface, choking on the salt that is sure to take days to leave my system. Nicasia’s mouth is twisted up in remnants of a smile, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“What happened?” she asks as I stand.

“Something… touched me,” I grumble, a faerie truth if nothing else.

She reaches out, moving a wet strand of hair away from my face. “The High King is afraid of a little fishie?”

I scowl, then splash her with water. “I am not afraid.”

Nicasia chuckles. I shrug her off, starting towards the beach.

“Leaving already?” she teases.

“My guards will start looking for me soon enough, if my seneschal isn’t already on her way.”

Nicasia grunts, probably rolling her eyes dramatically as she follows behind me. “That mortal has too much power.”

I stop in front of the branch I left my clothes on. I still feel the salt on my skin, drying there as the water drips away. I grab my tail and wring water from the tuft at the end of it.

“Does she?” I ask, bored.

“Yes!” Nicasia steps around and puts herself between me and the branch. “What will our world become if mortals do not learn their place? As their power grows, we ought to unite. The Land. The Sea.”

“Nicasia—” I start, but she interrupts me.

“The sea is growing impatient, Cardan,” Nicasia continues, a hint of irritation hidden under the usually pleasant lilt of her voice. “My mother thinks the Land is weak, she might act any moment.”

I inspect my nails, picking a grain of salt from under one of them. “If the Crown is so weak, why try to unite with us at all?”

“I want us to be united,” she spreads her hands, palm up.

“And I want to bathe. Your regnal birthright is quite cold.”

I step around her and start dressing up. Behind me, I hear her stop, then the rustling of fabric.

“Do not jest,” she scolds. “What she’s planning—you should take it seriously.”

“I do. And I will think it over, once I am warmed up.” I finish cuffing my shirt, then hold my arm out for her. “Will you accompany me?”

Arm in arm, we return to the Palace. Even without their High King, the Folk still partake in their traditional merriment. Unheeding of my vague promises and empty words, Nicasia spends the rest of the night at my side. We trade kisses and caresses for everyone to see. Later, we move to the rooms assigned to her to do more of the same, to bathe and exchange soft whispers. When I leave Nicasia’s chambers, she hands me notes regarding her mother’s plans to attack during Taryn Duarte’s wedding.

As I collapse on my bed, finally alone, I curse Jude’s name for being right. Still, her name is the last thing on my mind as I drift asleep.

-

tag list: @thefolkofthefic @figonas @kingandfireheart @godgavemelou @lizziebxnnet @hazelsheartsworn

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[lucyintheskywithxanax]

My Silver Screen, My Misery, My Love, My Defeat

Pairing: Billie Dean Howard x Fem Reader

A/N: I’ve been wanting to write something with Billie Dean for so long but didn’t know where to start. This lady intimidates me. I don’t know what this fic is worth, and I’m so nervous about posting it - I know it’s not particularly nice, but it’s the most personal fic I ever wrote so please be kind. 

Title is from “Pacific Coast Highway In The Movies” by AWOLNATION. This song haunts me. x

Word count: ~ 3 000

“Dear me when will my life begin?” you sighed dramatically as you gathered your things.

“Bitch, I never want to see you again,” your boss growled, pointing an angry finger at you.

“Goodbye, asshole!” you called over your shoulder as you walked out of the room.

You had never cared about that job. You didn’t seem to be able to care about anything at all. You were so bored.

Real life lacked passion and colours. You were constantly hungry for a sense of wonderment. No emotion was worth feeling if it wasn’t extreme. You wanted to know how it felt to love so deeply you would faint in the dining room like the heroines of old, drive your car off a cliff, smash the heads of your lover’s suitors. When had the world and love become so boring?

You had come to believe you would never be able to fall in love with anyone. Fiction had ruined your life. You wanted beauty, you wanted glamour, you wanted passion and murder, tears shed under the stars, diamonds on the bed. You wanted a lover who would come down the stairs in a white silk gown with lace as the music and the lighting made love to her. Cherry pink lips and wavy hair, glitter in her eyes. How could anyone settle for less?

You walked into the bright sunlight and let the flow of pedestrians sweep you away.

**

You scanned the press room and sighed. Bored, you were so bored. Luckily the couches were comfortable, and the tea was good.

You worked for the local newspaper – nothing serious, nothing you were passionate about, but you had been struggling to make ends meet. You and another journalist were covering an annual festival celebrating “everything mystical and magical!” Bollocks, as far as you were concerned. But you loved festivals, you always had. There was something almost surreal about them, how time seemed to slow down, and space to narrow. A bubble would form, a dome, a world only a few were let in. Real life would stop for a while, and you loved that, because real life was boring.

The press secretary – Leo? Theo? who cared; he was uninteresting and badly dressed – waved at you from across the room. “She’s here,” he mouthed, meaning the medium you were to interview. You gave him a thumbs-up and sighed as soon as he turned his back to you. Notebook, pen, Dictaphone. Cup of tea - empty. Another sigh. You signaled to the old lady behind the counter at the far end of the room for another cup. She pretended not to see you.  

“Asshole,” you muttered between gritted teeth. Someone on the couch next to yours – Steve? Pete? he had introduced himself the day before, he worked for a national TV channel, you couldn’t remember which one – laughed loudly at something someone else had said.

Your attention was suddenly drawn to the door. The press secretary was ushering a group of people in: a young man wearing jeans, a girl clutching files to her chest, a woman who walked in as if she owned the place, high-heels clicking, smile flashing.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Pete (Steve?) point at her. “Man, that’s Billie Dean Howard,” he said in a breath.

“Who?” asked his companion.

“Oi, Miss Howard!” someone called – a photographer, jumping to his feet with his camera in his hands.

She glanced at him, offered him a polite smile; tilted her head on one side as she took a pose.

You gazed at her.

“Make sure the lighting is good,” she told the photographer.

The young man in jeans was buzzing around her, almost shoving a notebook into her face, muttering something about a timetable and how they were running out of time. She leaned away from him, holding out a perfectly manicured hand – pale pink acrylics, thin silver rings – to bat the notebook away. You saw her mouth twist in an annoyed kind of way, and then the press secretary nodded at you, and she turned, and her eyes met yours.

Her brow pushed up as a smug smile crept up her lips – plump, glittery beige lipstick. “Are you here for me, babydoll?” she called.

And just like that you were done for. For the stars were singing, and your heart was finally. Admiring. Entranced. Alive.

Oh thank all the freaking Gods, she had finally come.

**

You turned on the Dictaphone and grabbed your pen. Your hands were sweating.

“Ur,” you said. Billie Dean crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knee, smiling.

You had prepared for this interview, vaguely, but she had stolen all the words from you. Kidnap me, was what you wished to tell her. Ravish me. Take me away with you from this grey world and fill my mind and heart with wonderment. Make me your co-star.

“So, what do you think of the city so far?” was what came out of your mouth. You could have died of embarrassment.

Fortunately for you, Billie Dean loved to talk about herself, so you didn’t have to rack your brain for interesting questions.

You told her you had waited for her your whole life. You told her you meant it. She looked genuinely surprised, but then she smiled, a smile that seemed to suggest she had already forgiven you for that mistake. You realized that, probably, your passionate childishness was very funny to her, as were all those who had succumbed to it before you.

“The scariest spirit I’ve ever met?” She leant back on the couch, eyes staring up at the ceiling, lips curling into a smile. “I don’t get scared easily,” she quipped, and her smile turned into a smirk.

“Are you planning on staying here long?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Depends if I can find a cozy bed to sleep in and a pretty girl to smooch.”

Damn her, damn her – you were about to lean in and kiss that smug smile off her lips when the press secretary – damn him, damn him – appeared out of nowhere as in an uninspired script, squeaking “Time’s up!” as if time mattered, as if time hadn’t stopped the minute you had met Billie Dean’s eyes.

The young man in jeans pressed a cup of coffee into Billie’s hands. “Cathy’s waiting for you in the VIP room,” he said nervously. He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses. “You’re done here?”

“I – “You cleared your throat. Billie Dean was standing up, rearranging her hair, ready to leave, ready to forget already –

“You’ll have us read that article before you publish it, alright?” the young man was saying.

“Oh whatever happened to the freedom of the press,” Billie retorted. Her eyes flicked to you. “Don’t mind him.”

“I have a very cozy bed,” you heard yourself say.

For a second or two, you could have heard a pin drop.

**

Billie held your face between her hands as if you were made of porcelain, the first time she kissed you. You gazed into her eyes as if you were dreaming. “Who are you?” you whispered.

She laughed indulgently. “Don’t forget to breathe, darling.”

A breath in. She smelt of cigarette smoke and sage and something else, something like… you didn’t know. There was no word for it. She smelt like Billie Dean Howard, medium to the stars.

**

Billie Dean raised a toast to you and to the sun and said she couldn’t possibly live without either of you. You scoffed, rolled your eyes at her as if that wasn’t the kindest thing anyone had ever said to you. She noticed your reddening cheeks, and let out a chuckle.

“What? It’s a sunburn,” you lied, fighting a smile.  

The midday summer sun was beating down on the Mediterranean, a soft breeze blowing and carrying the scent of the sea. You were spending the week in Monaco, a gift from Billie for your first anniversary. You closed your eyes, breathed in happily. The waiter brought your order, a bistro salad with warm goat cheese on toast for you, a slice of salmon and French fries for Billie. She flashed a smile at him, and his eyes sparkled.

“He’s in love,” you teased, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“With me?” Billie assumed an innocent expression. “Why, I could not possibly believe that.”

You scoffed again. She smiled, pinched a thick slice of lemon between her thumb and index.

“We should come here every summer,” she said in a singsong, drizzling lemon juice over the salmon. “I love it here.”

“Ghost-free?”

She laughed. “I wish. But you look so beautiful with that sunburn.”Her eyes glanced up at you mischievously; you cleared your throat. She smirked, put the slice of lemon on the side of her plate, dried her fingers with her napkin.

“You and I, lost in a foreign country,” she said.

“Luckily for you, I took French lessons in college.”

“Oh is that so?” Under the table, Billie rubbed her bare foot up and down your leg. “And how do you say ‘kiss me’ in French?”

You leaned towards her, beaming. Your gaze flicked to her lips. “Embrasse-moi.”

“Atta girl.”

She took your breath away, every day. You bent over the table, meeting her lips halfway, smiling into the kiss.

**

“I love you,” she whispered. Her eyes smiled. “Forever.”

You pressed the pad of your thumb against her brow. “Um, you can’t know that.”

“Know that I love you?”

“Know that it’ll last forever. Nothing lasts forever.”

She pouted, shifted slightly on the bed. Your thumb slid on her skin. The light streaming through the windows splashed the walls of the hotel room yellow.

“Don’t be so mean at 8 in the morning,” she whined.

You rolled your eyes at her, planted a kiss on her lips. Her skin was hot and clammy. You nuzzled your nose in her neck, blew some air to tickle her. She raised one hand to fan herself – coral acrylics, no rings.

“Call room service,” she said, stretching lazily. “I want some ice cream.”

You snorted.“Ice cream for breakfast?”

“It’s too hot.”

You reached out for the telephone and sat up, making sure your bare breasts were exposed. “Lemon?” you asked Billie. She nodded, gaze on your chest. You made a face. “I don’t understand how you can stand the taste of lemon, it’s so sour – oh, hello. Yes, could we get some lemon ice cream, please? Ice cream, yes. Room 108. And you know what, a bottle of champagne as well. Yes.” You grinned at Billie, who, face half buried in her pillow, was laughing happily. “Thank you. Muchas gracias. Yes. Bye!”

**

“Miss Howard, please.”

“Oh babe, call me Billie.”

“A little further to the left, please Billie.”

“Who’s that with you, miss Billie?”

“Be a doll and fetch me my shawl, will you darling?”

The girl – Lucy? Lily? – nodded in awe and hurried off.

“A little further to the left, Billie.”

Someone turned on a projector. You squinted, gave Billie’s hand a squeeze.

“Miss Billie, who’s that charming young woman with you? Is she your date? Miss Billie, who’s –“

Camera flashes, everywhere. You felt Billie’s lips, feather-light, brush your ear. “Relax,” she whispered. “You look beautiful.”

All around you, you could make out dark shapes, nondescript, unimportant. Spectators of the show. Come to see her, come to see you.

“Miss Billie who’s that charming –“

“Paws off!” Billie laughed. She pulled you closer, hip bumping yours. “She’s all mine, gentlemen.”

You beamed at her, brighter than the projector. Camera flashes, everywhere. To capture the moment when Billie nipped your ear lobe and you threw back your head to laugh, one hand on her arm, in love, so in love.

**

“So what are we doing this weekend?”

You glanced up at her. “Aren’t you busy this weekend?”

Billie flashed you a smile as she sat down on the couch beside you. She laid one hand on your bare thigh, nails gently grazing. “Production’s delayed. I’m all yours.”

With a wince you removed her hand from your thigh. “I’m sweating,” you whined.

Her smile faltered, just a bit. “Aren’t you happy?”she asked. And then she relaxed and shook her head. “Oh, I’m stupid. You made other plans.”

“I’ve nothing to do at all.” You stretched and winced again. “I don’t know. I’m so bored.”

**

It happened again. And again.

You caught yourself looking at other faces in the crowd. No one held a candle to Billie Dean, you knew that. But still. You scanned the crowd.

You pretended not to notice when Billie held out a hand for you to hold.

**

The glamour was fading. The twinkle of the stars was being swallowed up by the morning light.

You had once visited a house. The wallpaper was peeling off, leaving ugly streaks of dirty grey or brown. The landlady’s nail polish was chipped.  

**

Billie’s eyes were wide and rimmed red. You had never seen her look so sad.

“Wait,” she pleaded, her fingers – pale pink acrylics, vintage ring with a red stone – closing around your wrist to hold you back. “Surely we can talk – “She tried to smile, but it looked too broken, too scared.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Billie,” you said, avoiding her gaze. You hesitated. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

Her face fell. “But surely – “

“Are you here for me, babydoll?”

Her teeth sank into her lower lip and a tear rolled down her cheek, but you didn’t wipe it as you usually would. For this was how things always went. People left each other. Staying alive meant getting bored of the people you once loved. The credits roll. The movie ends.

You planted one last kiss on her lips as a sob pushed out of your throat. “Gosh but I loved you so much,” you cried. “I hadn’t been alive before you came. You taught me how to love and now I’ve died again and I’m lost without you. I’m forever lost without my love for you.”

You kept one of her scarves. It still smelt of cigarette smoke and sage and that something else – Billie Dean Howard, medium to the stars.

**

Colours faded to grey. You sank back into routine. Monotonous. Soporific. Boring. So very boring.

A year ago you would have expected the world to stop turning the minute you walked out of Billie Dean’s life. It didn’t. Days followed days, a succession of yesterdays and todays and tomorrows. Life went on, mocking you.

**

The smell of salmon filled the kitchen as you dropped the thick slices onto the burning pan. You smiled as Julie – a one-night stand that somehow had become more – made an appreciative noise. She was sprawled on the sofa, watching TV lazily, muttering “Boring” every time she changed the channel.

“Boring,” – another channel, “Boring,” – another channel, “Bo – oh hello there! Y/N, look, I spot a milf!”

You looked up as the anchorman’s face twisted into a fawning smile. “I’ve got Muriel here on the phone, from Portland, Oregon. Muriel sounds pretty worried. She wants to know if ghosts stay forever as ghosts or if they ever get to find peace.”

The camera cut to his guest – coral acrylics, no rings. The salmon’s grease sizzled on the pan.

“Nice pair of legs,” Julie was saying. “Come on, cameraman, don’t be shy, show us more!”

You shushed her.

“… some of them have been dead for a very long time, I’m afraid,” Billie Dean answered with an affected nod of her head.

Your eyes were wide.

“And what about love?” the anchorman asked.

Billie quirked an eyebrow. “Love?”

“Do you think it’s eternal?”

**

“I can’t believe we’re leaving tomorrow!” your friend Henry moaned drunkenly. He tapped his foot on the pavement like a pouting child. “Couldn’t we buy a house on one of those hills and live here? I wanna live here. I don’t wanna live anywhere else.”

“I know,” you giggled, pulling on his arm. The night was full of lights. You hadn’t expected less from Los Angeles. You hadn’t quite been able to find the angels in the sky, though. You kept an eye out for them.

“The world isn’t fair because we’re poor.”Henry walked up to the nearest streetlight and hugged it. “I’m staying here. I’m not leaving.”

You giggled again, stretching your arms as if you were about to break into dance. The air was warm. For the past few days your heart hadn’t been quite so sad.

A car honked nearby, making you jump, and just as you were about to curse a woman shot out of the hotel on your left in a flurry of yellow and blue and nearly smashed into you – “Shit, look where you’re go – “ – brown eyes, gaze terrified, shoes in her hands, cheeks pink and – “Billie?”

She slammed back into your life like the female protagonist of a Hitchcock movie, running from danger in the moonlight with her hair disheveled and her dress billowing in the wind.

“Billie?”

You caught hold of her wrist and tried to meet her gaze. “Are you alright? What – what happened to you? Did somebody hurt you? Are you alright?” You poured questions onto her as if you couldn’t stop. Her eyes focused on you, and she ran a hand through her hair, and let out a nervous laugh.  

And just like that you were done for. For the stars were singing, and your heart was once again. Admiring. Entranced. Alive.

**

“Never again,” Billie groaned into your mouth. She was holding your head firmly between her hands, devouring you, shivering, panting. “Don’t you dare leave me ever again.”

“I love you,” you moaned. You pushed her down on the bed, eyes flashing hungry and predatory as you took in the sight of her, all flushed and ready for you. “Forever.”

And as you dived in you could almost forget the taste of that one lie.

**

“What about love?” the anchorman asked. “Do you think it’s eternal?”

Billie’s smile faltered. “I’m not sure,” she answered slowly.

“Aw, poor chick got her heart broken,” Julie mocked.

“Lemon?” you asked her.

“Uh?”

“Should I put some lemon juice on the salmon?”

“I hope so,” Billie’s voice said. “I’m not sure – but I hope so.”

[alarawriting]

52 Project #24: The Princesses and the Peas

(Inspired by a post on Tumblr and if I can ever find it again I will link it here.)

(Not proofread, beta’ed, or even read through a second time because this is massively late and if I don’t post within the next hour it will officially be next week everywhere in the United States and I will have failed in my mission. I’ll try to re-read and proofread and edit next week. Also this note is highly unprofessional, but I learned my relationship to my audience through fanfic, so this is how I roll.)

***

Surely you have heard a similar tale before, almost but not entirely like this one, of the queen who sought the perfect wife for her son, the crown prince.

The queen had ruled the land alone since the death of her husband. She was praised for her wisdom and her benevolence toward her people. But she was no longer young, and it was time to make sure her son made a politically beneficial marriage, to strengthen his position when it came time for him to take the crown. Many in the land whispered that the young man would make a terrible king, and wanted him to abdicate in favor of his younger sister, who was beautiful and bright and smiling. Celia, the young sister, could look anyone in the eye and make them believe that in that moment, they were the most important person in her world. Arien, the prince… could not do that.

The prince had a talent for mathematics, and it had expressed itself very young. Some said he should be the chancellor of the exchequer rather than the king. But Queen Leyta knew her son would make a compassionate and wise ruler as well as a prudent one. He also had a gift for seeing the humanity behind the numbers he calculated, of being able to think of the impact they would have on the people he would one day rule.

Once, when he was a child of six, his nursemaid lost him. Leyta found him behind the kitchens, picking through the garbage bins to find table scraps. She would have punished the kitchen staff for allowing such a thing, but Arien insisted that she should not. “It’s not their fault, Mother. I ordered them to let me, and I’m the prince, so they had to obey me. I told them that if you became angry at them I would tell you that they were only obeying my orders. They can’t get in trouble for obeying their liege.”

Leyta sighed. She could punish them for obeying their liege, when their liege was 6 and the thing he wanted to do was eat garbage, but she wouldn’t, because she knew why they obeyed. When the prince was thwarted, he would ask why. And if he received an answer, he would argue with it and present his position. Sometimes, this debate would lead to him accepting the necessity, and calmly going about his business, seeming to forget all about what he’d asked. More often, if he didn’t get an answer to “why”, or he didn’t like the answer and thought it didn’t make sense, and he was still thwarted, he would start to scream and hide under tables, or scream and run around and break things, or scream and slam his head into the wall, and he wouldn’t stop even when offered the thing he wanted. It was very, very hard to calm him once he started shrieking. So instead of punishing the kitchen staff, she asked Arien, “Why were you eating garbage?”

“Our food is bought with the taxes we take from the people,” he said seriously. “If we wasted less food, we wouldn’t have to tax the people as sorely as we do, and they would have more money to buy things for themselves.”

So she took him aside and told him that the scraps were fed to the dogs, who helped the palace huntsmen bring down game, or the goats and fowl, who gave the palace milk, meat and eggs, or they were tilled into the ground to make the fields around the palace more fruitful. They did not, in fact, go to waste; food that wasn’t wholesome for humans to eat could still feed animals, who would turn it back into wholesome food.

Then she had a lengthy discussion with him about tax policy, and listened gravely to his suggestions as to how they could ease the burdens on the people, and told him what the problems with his ideas were. And when some of his ideas didn’t have significant problems, she told him so, and discussed them with him, and even implemented a few as policy.

Arien also had a great love for bugs. He spent much of his days wandering the grounds, sketching every insect he saw, capturing some to study them and figure out what they ate. When Leyta learned of this, she found a learned scholar of insects, and hired him to be Arien’s tutor in the matter of insects, only. The man was at first openly resentful of being required to work with a small child, assuming that Arien would be a spoiled princeling with no real interest in learning, but when he discovered Arien’s love for the tiny creatures, he embraced the boy wholeheartedly and tutored him as well as he could.

The prince had few friends. He was open and innocent, happy to make friends with any child close to his own age, but the honest children who truly wanted a playmate were put off by Arien’s tendency to talk about bugs and math almost constantly. The children who put up with Arien’s chatter were, to Leyta’s eyes, obviously coached by ambitious mothers, pretending to friendship with the strange young prince to improve their position at court. She arranged for most of these children to be sent away – either their mothers dismissed, or the family sent to one of the crown’s holdings with some duty to perform or another. Arien was saddened by the disappearance of his playmates, since he didn’t realize they saw him as mere stepping stones to power. Celia knew, and would comfort her brother as well as she could… but she didn’t have a lot of patience for math, tax policy, and insects either.

As he grew up, Arien continued to display a strange mixture of wisdom and childishness. He would run around the palace grounds, playing with children far younger than he was, and they were not old enough to try to manipulate him, so Queen Leyta left them alone. He enjoyed riding his horse and taking care of it, and was often found at the stables, for he believed his horse needed to cared for in just the exact way he did it, and he didn’t trust the stablehands to follow his instructions exactly. He would spend hours discussing the politics of the land and the problems facing various groups of his subjects with Leyta and her own advisors, and then he would scream and throw himself on the floor at dinner because a chef had put visible onions in his soup, and he would need to be put to bed with his favorite blanket and a knitted doll of a dog that he’d had when he was four.

People said that the boy was touched in the head, that he was slightly mad, and also, that a future king who threw temper tantrums over onions was not to be trusted. But they weren’t, exactly, tantrums, as Leyta saw them. They didn’t stop when the problem was solved, they usually didn’t include demands – in fact, usually it was hard to get the prince to explain what was wrong, because he seemed to lose much of his ability to speak when these fits came on him. And she could see in his eyes that he was terrified and overwhelmed, not angry and demanding. Arien needed the world to work a certain way, and when it did not, it left him adrift, frightened and lost in a world that seemed to make no sense to him anymore.

Some of these ways that the world needed to work involved food, and the importance of not being able to see onions, for an onion large enough to see was large enough to crunch in his mouth in a way that apparently was so disgusting it would make him lose his ability to eat all day. There were similar rules regarding peppers, and certain cream dishes. Other ways the world needed to work regarded his mother’s advisors treating him like their future king, not in terms of obsequious deference but in terms of actually listening to his ideas and explaining things to him – even when he was merely eight. And then there was the care of animals – his own animals needed to be cared for in an exact way, and if he saw anyone being cruel to an animal, he might actually become violent to that person. The same was true of stronger people being cruel to weaker ones. When he was fourteen, he heard a maid crying, and asked a kitchen maid to find out for him what had happened. And then, when he learned that a nobleman under his roof had ill used her and cast her aside, he went to his mother and demanded the man be whipped for his crimes. The political explanations she gave for why that couldn’t be done fell on deaf ears; he was a cruel man and he’d harmed someone he had power over, and that was all Arien cared about. Leyta only managed to satisfy him by sending the man on a probably futile sea expedition to try to find a cheaper source of rice.

This was the boy that Queen Leyta had to find a proper bride for.

Her mother-in-law, the Dowager Queen, had ideas, but it had been many years since the Dowager Queen had actually held any power; she was one of Leyta’s advisors now, nothing more. So the idea would have to be one that Leyta agreed with, herself.

A ball to introduce eligible young women with powerful families to the prince? No. The prince didn’t handle crowds or parties well, or meeting a lot of new people in one evening.

A series of daytime salons, where a small group of eligible women would converse over luncheon with the prince? No. That was still too many people and the prince  was self-conscious about people watching him eat.

Individual visits from each eligible young lady and her chaperones, to the palace, to meet with Arien, and also to be approved by Leyta? Yes! An excellent idea. Leyta had her secretary write up the invitations, to all the young women whose parents had written to her or the Dowager to express an interest.

In the palace was a suite of rooms that had been Leyta’s, once, when she’d lived in this palace to learn its ways before marrying the then-prince. She had that suite cleaned and prepared for the guests. Sleeping quarters to either side for the princess’s guards. Ladies-in-waiting to sleep in the antechamber outside the princess’s bedroom. And inside the princess’s bedroom, a bed heaped with several thick eiderdown duvets and pillows, incredibly soft, with sheets made from the finest linens.

And under the second eiderdown duvet, dried peas.

Queen Leyta tested the peas. When she sat on the bed, she couldn’t feel them. If she laid in the bed, she could barely tell they were there. But when she had Arien try it, he said, “You’re going to take them out before the guests come, right? The peas make the bed much too uncomfortable.”

“The peas,” Leyta said, “are to test whether a girl is right for you or not. It’s magic.”

Arien looked at her skeptically, unsure whether he believed in magic or not. “How are dried peas supposed to find me the right wife?”

“Magic,” Leyta said. “I can’t tell you exactly how it works. But it’s very important that you not tell them about the peas, or the magic won’t work.”

“Mother, I’m sixteen. I’m not a child. This whole story sounds ridiculous.”

“All right,” Leyta admitted. “It’s not magic, but I won’t be able to explain it to you until after it’s proven that it works, or doesn’t. But it is very important that you not tell any of your guests about it.”

Arien looked like he wanted to argue some more about it. Leyta said, “Trust me,” and he sighed, plainly remembering the number of times his mother had stood up for him or had come up with some scheme to help him.

“All right, Mother, but I’ll want that explanation afterwards.”

The Dowager Queen had her own theories. “You want to see if they can tell the peas are there?”

“To a certain extent,” Leyta said.

“You know that old wives’ tale about princesses being true and refined if they’re extremely sensitive is just a myth. I wasn’t a fragile flower who’d lose petals if you looked at her hard, and neither were you. And neither will Celia be.”

“I know that, Mother,” Leyta said – it was custom to address your mother-in-law as Mother, and Leyta’s own mother had died shortly after her wedding. The Dowager Queen had been the closest thing to a mother she’d had the entire time she was Queen. “I’m not testing for extreme skin sensitivity. Trust me.”

“It’d be hard for him to get an heir on a princess that fragile, don’t you think?” The Dowager chortled.

Leyta sighed. “No need to be crude about it. I have my reasons, and I’ll explain them to you, eventually. Let’s see if it works, first.”

***

The first princess was from the west. She had long straight hair and delicate-looking eyes with folded lids that left them shaped like almonds, rather than the eggs that the people of this realm wore in their face. She had pale creamy skin with a golden undertone, and she was demure and very polite, her etiquette perfect. She sat with Arien for hours, smiling at him with a face that expressed great interest, as he explained to her the complexities of life in a beehive.

In the morning, Leyta asked her, “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, wonderfully,” the princess said. “The bed was perfect! So soft! Your hospitality is wonderful.” She bowed her head.

Leyta saw her and her entourage off. When she returned, she asked Arien, “What did you think of her?”

“She was nice,” Arien said. “She listened to me. I’ve only had a few friends who listened to me, and they all moved away.”

Privately, without Arien present, the Dowager asked, “So what’s your verdict?”

“Unless none of them pass the test, she’s a no.”

***

The second princess was from the land immediately to the north. Her skin was tree- brown but as smooth as a tranquil lake, her hair floating around her head in a soft, curly cloud. Arien talked to her about beetles. She made excuses of not feeling well about half an hour into the beetle discussion.

When Leyta asked her how she slept, she said, “Your rooms are very nice. And the food last night was excellent, I’m so sorry I had to cut the evening short. But I feel fully rejuvenated today.”

Arien said, “She seemed okay, but she kept looking around while I was talking to her, so much that I think she gave herself motion sickness. I think that’s why she got sick.”

Leyta said to the Dowager, “A definite no.”

***

The third princess was from the far south. She had beautiful straight golden hair, cut short and asymmetrically, where it was shorter in the back than front and where it was parted on one side rather than in the middle.

She complained about her soup being cold. She complained about her roast beef being too bloody. She complained that the dessert course had small portions and also that it was too sweet. She screamed at servants for not bringing her wet towels for wiping her hands quickly enough and for refilling her wine glass too quickly. She insisted on talking to the seneschal about the servants who had served her, demanding that they be banished from the castle for incompetence. When Arien tried to talk to her, her demeanor was sweet, but every time he tried to talk to her about something he liked, she insisted that he show her another part of the castle. She made plans for room redecoration as if she had already become Arien’s queen.

In the morning, she was sickly sweet with Leyta, saying it was only a minor thing, really, but surely more competent servants could be found to make the bed? It was extremely lumpy. Leyta found out that she’d woken the chambermaids at 1 in the morning to demand an additional five featherbeds piled on top of hers.

Arien didn’t look at his mother. “Um… I don’t want to be impolite, but… I didn’t like her very much.”

The Dowager Queen said, “Please don’t tell me you’re considering that young harridan just because she could tell there were peas in the bed.”

“Oh, no. Not even for a moment,” said Leyta, and drew her quill through the name “Princess Carinna” on the list.

***

The fourth princess was actually the daughter of a powerful merchant, not an actual princess at all. She had deeply tanned skin and thick black hair, and beautiful dark eyes. She and Arien talked for hours about tax policy and accounting techniques, and she seemed genuinely interested.

She said the bed had been wonderful, and there was nothing wrong with it. Arien liked her. But Queen Leyta marked her as a provisional choice, the first on the list if no one passed her test.

***

And so it went with princess after princess. Most of them showed at least some slight sign of impatience when Arien monopolized the conversation, but none of them admitted to it, and few even tried to change the topic. No others were as rude as Carinna. No others admitted to detecting the peas, either. Leyta was on the verge of contacting the merchant to make an offer for his daughter to wed Arien. And then Princess Inaya arrived.

Princess Inaya was from further north than the second princess had been, her skin darker and her hair in braids that lay directly against her head, with ribbons and beads woven into them at the bottom. She didn’t look Leyta in the eye – or anyone else, really, keeping her head bowed demurely. She picked at her food, more or less eating only the potatoes, and she barely spoke… until she met with Arien.

He offered, diffidently, to show her the garden, and she accepted. He started to point out interesting bugs that he saw in the garden… and she began to point out interesting rocks. They soon began an animated conversation that sounded to Leyta more like two separate threads, where Arien would say a sentence or two about insects, then yield to Inaya, who would say a sentence or two about rocks. Sometimes they had a genuine back-and-forth when they talked about the habitats of pillbugs, who lived under rocks, or other areas where rocks and insects somehow intersected. Arien showed Inaya the notebook where he drew bugs and made his observations, and Inaya seemed to be thrilled with his artistic skill. She showed him her own notebook, with no art at all, where she wrote down the properties of rocks she had discovered and outlined the tests she did on stones to see what they were made of. Arien was fascinated with the efforts she’d gone to and how thoroughly she’d documented her findings; he’d never thought of doing anything to research the insects aside from looking them up in his tutor’s books.

At no point did she ever look Arien in the eye. At no point did he seem to care. He relaxed enough with Inaya to flap his hands when he grew excited; Inaya had a chain of polished stones that, instead of wearing around her neck, she tossed in the air as she paced.

In the morning, when Leyta asked Inaya how she slept, she squirmed.

“I, um. The bed was mostly very nice. Very good linens, nice soft down. But, uh. It felt like maybe there were… tiny pebbles in there somewhere? I’m not sure, I didn’t want to be rude and strip down the bed to look, but, uh. It was kind of uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Leyta said.

She made arrangements to ask Arien his opinion before Inaya’s entourage left, this time. He spoke very simply. “I love her. Pick her, she’s the one.”

“I thought you would say that,” Leyta said, and she finished drafting the offer to Inaya’s parents, and signed it. “Take this to her lady-in-waiting before they leave, to give to Inaya’s parents.”

“I can’t!” Arien said, looking all around. “I can’t be the one to do it because I have to give her a parting gift if I see her and I don’t have any nice rocks!”

So Leyta gave him a bracelet with a large inset opal, and smaller jades all around it. “Take this to her and tell her which kinds of stones are in it, and tell her she can wear it as a bracelet if she wants, or take it apart for the stones, whichever she prefers.”

Later she heard that Inaya collapsed on the ground crying when he made the offer, but that her lady-in-waiting reassured Arien that this wasn’t abnormal – that she did this whenever her emotions were too strong to control, even if they were happy emotions. Inaya confirmed that she was crying from relief and joy, because she had always thought that no man would ever want to marry her and if one did, he would hate her rocks and want her to do normal womanly things like embroidery or something, which she wasn’t good at in the slightest because her coordination was bad and she was always poking the needle into the wrong place, and she had never imagined that she would ever find a man who understood her and didn’t demand that she look in his eyes and liked to listen to her talk about what she loved. Then Arien asked her very gravely if she liked hugs, because most of the time he didn’t like hugs, especially when they were a surprise, but if she would like a hug he really wanted to give her one. They hugged, and declared mutual love (“as far as I can define the feeling of love, anyway,” Inaya said, “because I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before, so how can I know for sure that that’s what this is?” Arien had agreed with her, but said “I think that even if what we’re feeling isn’t the same kind of thing as other people feel when they’re in love, it’s close enough that we can use the same word, because who wants to have to make up a new word?” And then they spent several minutes amusing each other to the point of hysterical laughter in making up new words that sounded ridiculous, sometimes repeating them to each other ten or a dozen times.) When Inaya finally had to leave, Arien cried.

Leyta wasn’t there for any of that, but her spies were everywhere in the castle.

***

When the Dowager demanded that she explain her test, Leyta summoned Arien, who had washed his face so it looked more as if he had had a terrible runny nose and sneezes than that he’d been crying.

“You asked me about what it would prove, to put peas in the bed,” Leyta said, “and I was looking for two things, but one was more important than the other.”

“What were you looking for?” Arien asked.

“Arien… you know that you’re a special young man, and different in some ways than other people your age. I’ve consulted with many scholars. Children like you are often strangely sensitive to things that other people don’t notice… often to the point where it’s unpleasant. Such as your feelings about onions.”

He shuddered. “Please do not remind me of the existence of those devil vegetables.”

Leyta laughed. The Dowager scowled. Leyta knew she preferred that a king, or a crown prince who’d just been betrothed, have a serious demeanor. She also knew that Arien would be who he was, no matter what anyone asked him to be.

“So I thought, the peas might be noticeable to some of the girls, but they would be especially notable to a girl who was like Arien. More importantly, if a girl noticed it but claimed she didn’t… Arien, I know you are often taken off guard by lies, and you’re a very honest man yourself. I know you would prefer a wife who will tell you when something makes her unhappy, rather than her trying to guess how you feel about it and then telling you what she thinks you want to hear.”

Arien nodded. “Nobody can see inside someone else’s mind, so why would anyone even do that?”

“I wanted a girl who would be honest about something she found unpleasant, even if she had to offend her host to admit it. But, obviously, kindness and compassion and a lack of malice about it were necessary as well… we don’t want a Carinna anywhere near the rulership of the kingdom.”

“You can say that again,” Arien said. Leyta suspected he was setting her up so she could tell a joke.

“But I won’t, because I know you heard it the first time,” she said, smiling.

The Dowager frowned. “So you picked a girl who has the same kinds of problems as Arien? Was that wise? The kingdom may need rulers who understand the idea of telling lies when they must, who can be charming and adept with politics. I thought you’d pick a girl who would cover Arien’s weaknesses, not one with the same issues.”

“Your son understood me,” Leyta said simply. “It was an arranged marriage, but we quickly grew to love each other, because we respected and we understood each other. I don’t want the kingdom to have a queen who resents her husband because she thinks he’s strange… who may play politics behind the scenes to have him killed so she can take power. Or who takes lovers, so we don’t know if the royal blood is even in the heirs. It’s more important to me that Arien’s wife respects him and understands him, and that he understands and respects her, than to have rulers who can detect all the subterranean undercurrents of a conversation. That’s what spymasters are for… and Dowager mothers and grandmothers, and perhaps even younger sisters.”

“Mother,” Arien said, “thank you. I know the people think I’m strange, and maybe I am, but you’ve always watched out for me. I didn’t even know I needed to find a wife who wouldn’t lie to protect my feelings until you pointed it out, and now it’s obvious.” He looked at the Dowager. “And Grandmother, Inaya does complement me. I understand mathematics, and finance, and things like that. She was trained by her parents to understand logistics, so she could run the castle, but she went deeper with it; she understands things about what kind of weather will do things to the crops and what will happen to the farmers when that occurs, things I never even thought about asking. Together I think she and I can make our country one of the most prosperous and happy nations in the world.”

***

And so it came to be. Prince Arien and Princess Inaya were wed in a lovely ceremony that they immediately fled to go on their honeymoon as soon as the marriage vows were taken. They understood the economics of the nation, and other nations, as few kings and queens ever did, and when they needed someone to tell them that someone else was lying, they had the Dowager Leyta and Princess Celia. The country prospered as it never had before, with no beggars on the streets of the cities, because the King and Queen gave homes to those who had none, and living expenses to those too sick or weak or lacking in some ability so that they couldn’t work.

It would be a lie to say they lived happily ever after, because no human can be happy all the time, and they had arguments and problems in their relationship from time to time. But even Arien the Honest and his Queen would agree that we can say they lived mostly happily for the rest of their lives.

[enkelimagnus]

Literature

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1756 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 3 Power Broker

Sam falls asleep on the plane over to Madripoor and leaves Bucky and Zemo alone. They actually talk to each other. I would say it's nice.

TW: brief allusion to past rape, internalized homophobia, brief mention of the holocaust

Read on AO3

Part 20 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

It’s an eleven hour flight from Berlin to Madripoor, even with Zemo’s private jet. Once drinks have been served, food has been eaten and threats have been made, they all find themselves settling.

Sam has dozed off on a seat, seemingly exhausted. After all, they’ve already travelled the eight hours from the states, and the day has been stressful at best. At least, Sam trusts him enough to fall asleep while Bucky watches Zemo. He wasn’t expecting that. Or perhaps his human physiology is betraying him.

Bucky needs less sleep than a normal human on regular days, and he also can survive much longer sleep deprived. He’s well aware of the limitations of his body. Hydra tested them thoroughly and multiple times. Zemo would know as well, that Bucky might look tired but it doesn’t diminish his abilities as much as it seems.

The man in question is at his seat with his book, though he’s regularly looking up through the windows of the plane or around the cabin. There’s something quiet and wistful about the way he stares at a spot where the carpeting is not perfectly set against the wall to the bathroom.

The silence is good, especially after earlier, where Sam and Zemo somehow managed to gang up on him about Marvin Gaye of all people.

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like Marvin Gaye. He just doesn’t like much music. He’s sort of lost the taste for it. His brain is usually unable to perceive it as anything but unnecessary noise that keeps him from being completely aware of his surroundings. And at least 40s music doesn’t have death and rape associated to it.

And he doesn’t need to know what Steve thought of it, whether Steve loved it or not. He’s not Steve. Steve journeyed light into the 21st century. Everything was something new to learn and experience, it was exciting and bright. Bucky is travelling with baggage. And he has memories attached to songs and tastes and sensations and events.

Bucky simply can’t use the notebook the way Steve did.

Sometimes, he wonders if Sam forgets Bucky wasn’t simply on ice for 80 years. The issue with him is that he lived through most of it, and it was all torture.

Or maybe not all . He woke up craving Karpov’s kasha the other week, and it makes no sense. He only tasted it during one specific time of his life, when Karpov and him got stuck in a safehouse in the snow, with no way to reach the outside world, for two weeks. The Soldier’s rations and formulas ran out long before they were able to leave. Karpov was too smart to let him starve, and perhaps that time alone with the Soldier, away from the world, with no way to freeze him or unplug him had made him see he was still a man. The kasha was warm, and thick, and sweet and sometimes, Bucky remembers that feeling and craves it.

The danger with people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals.

Zemo’s right.

In all honesty, Bucky believes he’s forgotten who Steve really was.

Memories become blurry when they age and no matter how desperate Bucky is to crystalize them, to remember them, to be sure of what he lived, all he manages to do is to frame faded photographs and fill in the blanks himself.

Steve and him didn’t have time. He found him after two years of searching, only for Bucky to be back on ice within two weeks. After that, Steve visited a few times during his recovery, when he introduced him to the goats he’d named after the sisters he finally remembered. And then, there was the War, and the Snap and once Bucky was back to life, Steve was shattered. And two weeks later, he was gone.

They didn’t have time to learn each other again. Bucky doesn’t know who Steve is anymore, half of his memories feel tainted by Smithsonian explanations, and he hates it so fucking much.

He hates that he can’t remember right, he hates that Steve’s slipping away from him every second of every day, that all that is left is the fucking shield and Captain America. That Steve’s legacy doesn’t seem to run deeper than that, else Bucky would have less of a single-minded focus on that fucking piece of useless fucking metal.

It’s only been three months. Why does Steve feel like he’s been gone for a lifetime?

Bucky breathes out a shuddering breath.

When his eyes focus again, Zemo is staring at him.

The book is open on his lap. Bucky can read the title. Same Sex Fantasies in Heterosexuals. Fucking hell. He doesn’t need that right now. At all.

“You’re a different man than the one I remember,” Zemo says quietly after a moment. His voice is soft, just slightly above a whisper. He knows Bucky has sharp ears. He knows he doesn’t need to wake Sam up.

Bucky dignifies that with a huff and looks away for a moment. Zemo’s eyes don’t leave him. He can feel them on him, on his face, on his throat, on his hands, on his body. They make him itch. They make him want to punch him for looking at him like that.

Like what?

You know exactly like what.

When Bucky looks back, Zemo’s indeed still watching him.

“You’re old now,” Bucky says eventually, in a vague answer to what Zemo said earlier.

“Eight years have passed, James. You cannot blame a normal man for something he has no control over.”

Eight years. So Bucky was right. Zemo wasn’t dusted. He stayed in that solitary confinement cell for eight years as the world moved on around him, as the world fought and lost half of its people.

Had he wished to be one of the ones that were snapped out of existence? Probably. After all, every second Zemo breathes and exists is a second more he wasn’t supposed to have. He tried to kill himself in Siberia, once his mission was over.

“Do you ever read normal stuff?” Bucky asks, a bite in his words.

Zemo raises an eyebrow, head tilting slightly to the side. His eyes are still glued to Bucky’s face. He still wants to punch him.

“I would need you to define ‘normal stuff’ to answer this question.” There is a hint of mirth in those brown eyes though. He knows exactly what Bucky means.

Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes. “Machiavelli, fucking… whatever this shit is,” he makes a motion of his chin towards the book. It’s in German, something about boundaries in relationships. Hilarious, really. It’s not like Zemo has anyone to set boundaries with. Unless those eight years of solitary have somehow driven a rift between Zemo and his own dick. “That’s not normal stuff. Novels, popular stuff…”

“I wonder,” Zemo starts. “Have you any recommendations for titles of ‘popular stuff’ for me?”

Everything Bucky can think of is old. He’d told himself he’d look into acquiring books but… he hadn’t had the time or the energy.

“I see your taste in literature has elected to stay with your taste in music, then.”

Fucking ass. Bucky closes his eyes and sighs so heavily he’s pretty sure Sam’s going to wake up.

“To answer your question, James,” Zemo starts, conversationally, as if they aren’t enemies, as if they are just old friends, so old they have become strangers. “I do read normal stuff.” The phrasing is foreign in his mouth, in that accented voice of his. “I’ve read all the classics, and children’s literature. Eight years are long. I practiced my Russian with translations of Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings at first.”

Bucky hums, looking up at him for a moment. “I noticed your pronunciation had changed,” he says quietly. “Did you read it to yourself out loud? Pretended someone was telling you a story?”

It’s cheap. They’re both aware of how lonely the past eight years must have been. It’s cheap, and it’s low-hanging and Bucky almost feels guilty.

Zemo’s small smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have you read Jules Verne?” Bucky asks, trying to erase his taunt with some more literary conversation. “Was obsessed with his work as a kid. Kinda like Tolkien, but even better because it was… full of invention, not of magic.”

There’s a floating moment, a few seconds of Zemo just watching him with that slight sadness in his eyes before it is washed away and replaced by a hum.

“I’ve read those books, yes. In the original French,” Zemo points out and Bucky is almost grateful for the boasting. “You should seek a new translation, if you’re not adept at the original language. The one I assume you read was a descendant of 1870 translations, riddled with errors and political censorship. They fixed that in the 60s. You’ll like the new ones better.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take that under consideration, I guess.” He’s so sure he’ll like it.

“And if you find yourself in the north of France one of these days, you should stop by this little city called Amiens,” Zemo continues. “A fine place, old and new, in the way only Europe can be. Jules Verne died there. The city’s positively themed after the man and his work. You can even visit his house.”

Visiting a dead man’s last residence? “That’s kinda morbid,” he mutters and Zemo has a small chuckle.

“People visit Anne Frank’s house as if the walls aren’t hollowed with fear,” he points out. “Dying makes one the public’s intimate friend. You know that better than anyone else.” He gives Bucky a sidelong glance. They both know he’s talking about Steve, and the documentaries and exhibits and think-pieces.

Bucky nods quietly and looks back through the window. The sun is painted indigo and pink. It’s beautiful. He’s forgotten the sunset could be this beautiful.

When he looks at Zemo again, he notices the exhaustion written all over his face, in the small wrinkles and under eye bags and the way his eyes won’t settle on anything for too long, desperate to stay awake.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Bucky says after a moment. “We need you.”

Zemo chuckles tiredly, a soft and muted sound. “If that is the one thing that is keeping me alive… I believe I shall keep myself useful, then.” It’s almost sarcastic. A man living on borrowed time, wishing desperately he could be executed.

“You do that.”

[hermits-that-craft]

This Is Home - Nonbinary Iskall

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972159

*Laughs in agender* it’s projection time

Iskall stares into the mirror, trying to work out what’s wrong. He doesn’t understand it. Something feels wrong, and he can’t work it out. Tears well up in his eyes, threatening to fall out even as he tries to blink them away.

His hair hits his shoulders now.

Everyone says it looks nice, Stress will braid it absentmindedly if he sits down in hermit meetings, no one pokes fun at his hair. No one pokes fun at him, most of the hermits even saying that he looks really nice with it. Iskall runs his hands through it, wondering why it feels so wrong , so unnatural . He thought he liked it!

Maybe it’s too short.

---

"Your hair is looking nice today my dude!" Ren says from the doorway of The Omega Store, watching as Iskall restocks. Something eats away at Iskall's stomach, confusing him. The same thing that makes him feel bad looking in a mirror is here .

"Thank you!" Iskall tries to smile, trying to ignore the chaotic dread growing in his gut.

"You should grow it longer, it suits you!" Ren pats Iskall on the back. "Be the first man in hermitcraft with middle of the back long hair!"

Man . That's not right. Why is that not right?

---

Iskall stares at the computer screen, reading over the words. Transgender. Euphoria. Dysphoria. The words wash over Iskall. The words make sense, the words fit him - her? - situation.

She.

Iskall will try she .

---

Iskall lets her hair grow out, subtly asking Stress for help. She came out to Stress soon after, when Stress offered to cut her hair.

Stress was lovely, accepting her. So was Grian, and Mumbo. Scar too, jokingly saying that Iskall started in the body Scar should have started in.

She doesn't tell anyone else, and the jungle hermits keep their lips locked.

---

Iskall stares in the mirror, wondering why she still has dysphoria, why isn't it stopping? She thought she had it figured out.

She collapses to the floor, tears jerking out of her eyes. It isn't fair.

---

“Your hair looks nice today.” Cub says, sitting next to Iskall as the hermits slowly show up for the weekly meeting. “It’s getting pretty long, since you can put it into a bun.”

“Yeah.” Iskall looks towards the middle of the room, panic in her brain. She isn’t a girl. She isn't a boy. None of this makes sense .

Stress thinks she should come out at the meeting today.

She can’t. She cant come out, not when she doesn’t know who she is. Not when none of this makes sense . Stress sends her a thumbs up from across the room, and fear settles in her heart, digging and clawing its way into her veins. This isn’t right .

Iskall can’t hear Xisuma speak. Her - no, her isn’t right. Why aren't any of them right? They is nice, but no one will respect that. He, she, those are singular. The hermits would -

“Iskall, you wanted to say something?” Xisuma says quietly, and Iskall’s head snaps up. Everyone is looking at them, and they can’t speak, they can’t think , it hurts . None of the hermits have any eyes, it’s too bright theres too many colours here. They stand, nervousness eating at their throat.

And they run.

They can’t think, it hurts too much. There’s too much here. They can’t think , it’s too much. They run, then they fall off something and they fly. They can’t even tell what dimension they’re in, everything merges together and they can hardly see let alone think about where they are.

They crash land into the side of something, curling up into a ball where they land. It hurts . It hurts, their entire side blooming in pain. They never should have gone to the meeting, they never should have told anyone that they thought they were a girl. They aren’t a girl! They aren’t a boy! They just are .

---

They sit in Doc’s bathroom, a pair of scissors in their hands. Doc found them, shivering and bruised, on top of the Goat Mother after they flew off. Doc didn’t ask anything, didn’t judge them as they were brought into his half of the mansion, just letting them rest and heal. They stared at the ceiling of the room, tears in their eyes. They don’t want to fall asleep, not yet.

Doc didn’t ask why they left. Doc didn’t judge, just handing them a pair of scissors when they asked for them.

They bring the scissors to their hair, taking a deep breath in. They start cutting, tearing unevenly through their hair as they struggle to reach the back of their head. They don’t stop, not until the tears block their vision and their hand shakes too much to continue. They collapse to the floor, holding onto the sink as they try to stop crying.

Doc runs in, shock on his face as he sees Iskall kneeling on the floor, sobbing into the side of the sink. Doc helps Iskall up, helping them to a seat outside the bathroom.

“Is it your side?” Doc asks quietly, kneeling by their side.

“I’m not a boy.” Iskall blurts out, tears in their eyes. “I’m not a girl either, I can’t keep pretending , Doc.”

“Okay.” Doc says, smiling at them. “That’s, that’s amazing. They/them?”

“ Yes .” Iskall sobs, pulling Doc into a hug. “Thank you.”

“Does Stre- Anyone else know?”

“No.”

“That’s alright. You don’t have to tell them if you aren’t ready.”

---

Iskall stayed with Doc for a few days, ignoring the hermits and building small redstone circuits under Doc’s back garden. They don’t speak that much, getting used to their pronouns. To hear them said. It’s nice. They don’t want to leave. It’s safe, working under the garden as Doc plants bushes and flowers.

“The others are worried about you.” Doc calls down into the hole that Iskall is sitting in, trying to invent a better redstone circuit. “You need to tell them that you’re okay, even if it’s just in the group chat. I think they might raid if you don’t.”

They don’t want to. They don’t want to see the rejection in the others eyes. They haven’t even worked out what they are, though Doc suggested ‘Nonbinary’ and ‘Agender’. The first one fits like an oversized sweater, comforting and large. The second one fits better, though Iskall doesn’t know if they’ll use it. The agender flag is nice though.

“You don’t have to, I could send a picture to the group chat, but I think Xisuma will come around anyways.” Doc slides down the ladder, walking over to them. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“You sound like a Dad.”

“I’ll call you kid later,” Doc smirks, messing with Iskall’s hair, “or kiddo.”

---

Iskall hides behind a wall, trying to ignore the fear in their chest as Xisuma, Stress, Grian and Mumbo talk to Doc. They can’t breathe, not as the small group exchanges pleasantries and small talk, clearly waiting for them. They can hear someone tap their foot impatiently, either Grian or Stress, and they try to stand, to leave the wall and face the facts.

“Is sh- Is Iskall alright?” Stress’ voice is harsh, and Iskall can’t help but to flinch away. “You said that Iskall was alright, why isn’t sh-”

“I said that they’re fine.” Doc interrupts her, and Iskall can hear the eye roll. “You petrified Iskall, no wonder they’re having trouble coming out here. You can’t force someone out, Stress.”

“What?” Xisuma says, and Iskall ducks their head around the door. Xisuma is looking at Stress, who has her hands in the air. Doc has his back to the door, though he’s clearly looking at Grian. Mumbo makes eye contact with Iskall, sending them a little wave and a questioning look.

“Doc, may I use your restroom for a second?” Mumbo asks politely, a smile under his mustache.

“Go ahead.” Doc waves off the tall redstoner, who dips behind the door, offering a hand to Iskall.

“You alright?” Mumbo mumbles.

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. We all love you, ‘Skall. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I don’t think I’m a girl or a boy, Mumbo.”

“Then you’re just Iskall, unless that's not the name you want. You are you. We won’t stop supporting you because of something as simple as that .”

---

“You’re looking nice today my friend!” Ren says as Iskall restocks the Omega Store. “I like the little braids in your hair, did you do them or someone else?”

“I did them, it makes me feel nice.” Iskall smiles, a warm feeling in their chest.

Why did they think the hermits wouldn’t accept them?

They’re family.

[petitprincess1]

Good Evening Ch13 (Soft and Fragile)

AO3 Link Summary: Before the incident, Alastor has a bit more of a reflection on his "lovers" and it's quite interesting on what he wishes to do to his dolls. Words: 1,738 I AM SO SORRYYYYYY!!! I got super stressed lately and my brain just froze. I really hope this chapter is worth the wait. Once again, very sorry. Warning: Obsessive and possessive thoughts and..."knifeplay" thoughts...kinda. ~~~ Hours earlier before the “oopsie” that happened at Pentious’ house, Alastor made up an excuse to go to the kitchen just so he didn’t end up strangling Vaggie, slice her throat, or say some very mean words. The intense hatred only increased when she mentioned him bringing in gumbo that had Valentino’s body in it. He was going to bury the guy to use as manure, but he was a bit pressed for time and it was rather difficult to stuff the body with aromatic herbs to keep any stench out. Plus, he didn’t feel like draining Val’s blood. Either way, he had to take a moment to breathe before walking into the kitchen.

Al tried to calm down by taking out the tongue that he took from that dead guard. Either no one has gone into the fridge yet or no one questioned the tongue. It wasn’t like it was impossible for him to have bought a cow tongue of sorts from the store. Thankfully, idiots would do anything to justify something that’s so simple.

He meant to chop this up for breakfast in the morning, but no one said that you couldn’t have an omelette in the afternoon. Besides, he still needed to make a small meal for Charlie. Alastor realized that he was going more and more towards Charlie everyday. It was surprising that the girl intrigued him, almost as much as Anthony did. Although, he was interested in them for completely different reasons. Anthony felt the closest to what could be romantic, even if it was a bit more perverse. 

All Alastor wanted to do with Anthony was make him his and only his. Majority of the people that he came into contact with were incorrigible and absolute morons, especially that Pentious. The man had no patience with any of that and wouldn’t miss them the slightest bit if they were dead...possibly not Husker. The much older man was much more hilarious to have alive, especially whenever he was angry. It was so much fun to watch his lip curl into a snarl.

However, unless it was making him pouty, Alastor never wanted to see his ethel angry at him nor did he wish to hurt him that badly. Just the very thought sent a chill up his spine as he listened to the tongue’s muscles and ligaments making a slight squishing sound as the knife sliced through them, making him feel a nice calm about him. All he wanted to do was keep Anthony all locked up for no one else to see him. Yes, the man clearly could help himself, judging the bruising on his knuckles, but he still could have died. Keeping the little minx all tied up would clearly only benefit him.

Plus, Alastor could also easily lure those mongrels to his home and he could serve up some wonderful meat pies or casseroles to his favorite toy that he will keep all snug and cozy in his basement. Oh! That reminded him that he really needed to renovate that place back at his home. Well, temporary home in Eden. Al should also warn Anthony about the constant traveling. Alastor knew that his angel may have slight worry about his proposition, but he knew that the boy would be the one to stay.  Meanwhile with Charlie….the man longed for her struggle.

As annoying as it was to try and get the doll alone, it was also thrilling to actually have someone fight. Not that Anthony didn’t fight with Alastor occasionally, it was different with Charlie. She seemed to wish to deny all attraction towards, but he could easily tell when one has hidden desire. He has felt her heartbeat quicken on her wrist, seen the hidden passion in her eyes lying beneath the disgust, and, most importantly, he can sense the morbid curiosity in her. It won’t be too long til he finally caught her in his grasp.

Alastor scrapped the tongue off of the cutting board into a frying pan that had oil, minced garlic, and chopped onion in it. He breathed in the smell and sighed happily, “Patience is a virtue.”

Niffty came into the kitchen, carrying groceries, and gasped at seeing Alastor, “OH! You didn’t tell me you would be in the kitchen! Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude. I just went to get some extra food and-”

“Don’t worry, my dear! It’s perfectly fine. After all, this is your kitchen and I’m merely intruding in on your space,” Alastor spoke charmingly and humbly. Niffty gasped even more as she placed the groceries on the counter, using a step stool, and quickly replied, “No no no! My kitchen is your kitchen, so stay as long as you wish.”

The man smiled at her and gave a polite nod, “What a sweet lady you are. Also, do you mind helping me out? Just get some eggs and whisk them up. I’m making an omelette for Charlie~”

“Awww, you’re such a sweet man!”

“...I know.” ~~~ Later on into the day, Al had come over to Charlie’s office and knocked on the door. Charlie called from the other side, “Who’s there?”

Alastor thought of a joke for a few seconds and replied, “Adore!”

It went silent for a few seconds before the golden-haired girl asked, “Adore who? I don’t think-”

“Adore is between you and I, so please open up!” Alastor exclaimed, cutting her off on purpose. There was another brief silence before the door suddenly opened up and revealed Charlie looking away from Alastor. She seemed to be annoyed, but the small reddish tint to her pale cheeks showed her keeping a smile back. She mumbled under her breath as she walked away, “That was a terrible joke and you know it was.”

The creole chuckled as he walked into her office and saw that her office was pretty decent and cozy looking, especially with plush carpeting. He leaned up against a bookshelf behind him as he raised an eyebrow at two norwegian dwarf goats that were sleeping within a pet bed that looked like a little house. Charlie sat down on the chair at her desk and asked, “Is there something that you need, Al? Oh! Also, thank you for the omelette, it was very sweet of you to make that for me. Although, I thought we ran out of certain cuts of beef.”

She gestured to the empty plate on her desk that had bits of onion on the surface, as well as some ketchup. Al nodded and replied, “You’re quite welcome, my dear~ Also, I have my resources. Anyway, I was just asking if it was alright if I head off early. Just want to do a bit of hunting, that’s all.”

Al’s grin subtly grew a bit at seeing Charlie’s skin become slightly paler when he mentioned hunting. He could just say that he was just going to go hunt some deer, but it was hilarious to think that the girl thought he was hunting humans. No, not today. She gulped and replied, “Uh, well, I guess if you have nothing else to do, then that’s okay. Just...you know...be back around dark, just so you can have the night shift. I-If you want to, of course!”

The man couldn’t help but reach towards Charlie, making her slightly flinch, and gently caress her cheek. He brushed his thumb against her skin and almost felt aroused at the softness of it. Alastor could only imagine how nice it would be to carve through it. He was sure that he barely needed to add extra pressure to slice the skin open. He hummed and then muttered in a low tone, “Of course, Charlie.Why would I ever say no to you?”

Charlie mumbled under her breath, feeling an odd chill up her spine, “Uh...I’m sure you have, especially when I don’t want you messing with my cheeks.” She slowly lowered Al’s hand from her cheek and moved it back to his side. She then concluded, “Uh, well, if that’s all, the you’re free to go, Al.”

Alastor stared at his hand for a few seconds and then nodded absentmindedly as he walked out of the room. He felt Charlie’s eyes on him as he left out and listened to the door gently creak close before she locked it. However, Al barely cared as he felt many tingles up his hand that Charlie touched. He never liked being touched...but he was definitely craving more from her.

He began walking down the hall and was trying to clear his mind when a woman ended up bumping him from behind. Al turned and saw the woman looked distraught, almost in a daze. Before he could question her, she asked, “I’m sorry, but have you seen Angelo? I...I really need to speak to him….regarding a man that he...worked with.”

Alastor blinked at her and wondered what she could possibly want with Anthony. It made his stomach tie into a knot, but he just said, “Well, Anth- Angelo is on medical leave. He got harmed pretty badly.”

Not even the slightest bit of worry in the woman’s eyes, if anything, Al saw a bit of frustration. She nodded and muttered, “...Right. I forgot...thank you.”

The woman then silently walked away from Alastor, making the man narrow his eyes at her. He’s going to have to follow her, isn’t he? Great! Right...well, maybe Charlie was right about the human thing. He could always buy venison from the butcher. ~~~ In present time, Baxter was helping Sir Pentious roll up Traci’s body in a rug, while Alastor was braiding Anthony’s slightly grown out hair and Cherri was trying to calm down. The spunky girl washed the blood off of her face and pretended the brain bits were just chewed up wads of gum. She pulled her head out from the sink and quickly grabbed some towels, wiping her face off.

Cherri was making very quiet sobs as she kept envisioning the woman getting shot over and over again in her head. It just wouldn’t end. Angelo looked at her and asked, “Hey, ya gonna be alright, Cherri?”

She turned to Angelo and took a deep breath before glaring at Al, “What the hell is wrong with you!? Why did you do that?”

Alastor scoffed, “What? It was just a bit of hunting.”

[flibbertigiblet]

Episode 1: FORESHADOWING GALORE

Was it a perfect episode? No. The pacing is still a bit iffy, the dialogue bland, and important scenes felt rushed/undeveloped. But did it give me hope and/or satisfaction? Yes. Light on action, but heavy on foreshadowing, this episode lays the groundwork for three of our favorite theories – Dark!Dany, Political!Jon, and Jonsa.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I never thought that we would get all our theories openly confirmed in the first episode. The showrunners are giving us the last moments of calm before the storm, and it makes sense that they allow the viewers to enjoy Jon’s homecoming and the various reunions between several beloved characters before they hit us with the major twists those theories entail. What they do instead is pepper the episode with strong hints of these outcomes. In this post, I’ll be highlighting the plot points and dialogue that support these theories, rather than going through the premiere scene by scene.

Let’s jump right into it. This is a long one.

Arrival at Winterfell

After a heartfelt hug with Bran (and thank the gods that we finally get a semblance of humanity from the Three-Eyed Raven in this), Jon turns to Sansa, who had been watching their reunion with a small but fond smile on her face. As Jon rears up to embrace his “sister”, the camera makes sure to cut away from them to focus on Daenerys and Jorah, watching them from a distance. Bran is kept in frame, observing their reactions. Sansa too, turns her gaze on the newcomers, even as she wraps her arms around Jon.

I will admit to being disappointed that the reunion hug between Jon and Sansa was much briefer and less intense than what we got in the HBO trailer, but in retrospect, that fact makes me go “hmm”. After all, they chose that particular sequence to be the first and only snippet from S8 to show in that trailer, despite the episode’s truncated version of the hug (or any other scene from the season, really) being a possible option. A photo of this scene shot from yet another angle from a Spanish(?) publication was circulating the internet only days ago. D&D want us to pay special attention to the relationship between Jon and Sansa.

Podrick Dany certainly is.

Dany and Sansa eye each other from across the courtyard, before the former approaches the Starks. As Lyanna Mormont and Lord Royce stare at her with suspicion, Jon makes introductions.

“My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” Daenerys says with a fixed smile. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.” (You know, one way of interpreting this line was that it was Jon who told Dany that Sansa is beautiful. Because, well. She is.)

Sansa is not impressed by the transparent attempt at flattery. She looks Dany up and down and leans back slightly in thinly-veiled disdain, but her words and voice are perfectly civil. “Winterfell is yours, your Grace.” Take note: neither she nor anyone else in the courtyard bends the knee to their would-be queen.

Daenerys doesn’t buy Sansa’s act for a second, but Bran doesn’t have time for this catfight and tells everyone what’s what. The Wall has fallen, and the Army of the Dead (+ dragon) are marching to Winterfell. That sobers them up quickly.

Meeting the Lords

Everyone is gathered in the Great Hall. Pay attention to the framing. At the head table, Sansa has been relegated to Jon’s right, where Davos, as the Hand of the King, used to sit. Daenerys has taken up Sansa’s former seat to his left, where the Lady of Winterfell typically sits. In this first shot, however, Dany is standing by the fireplace, leaving a visual and metaphorical gap between the Northern pair and Team Dany, represented by Tyrion, who is seated at the far end of the table.

As acting leader of Winterfell, Sansa is the one running the meeting. She establishes the fact that she has called on all the banners to retreat to Winterfell, and asks for an update from Lord Umber, last of that once-mighty House. A young boy no older than Bran was in season 1 pops his head out from behind one of the nameless Lords. He is small, and cute, and has been singled out by the script, so clearly he is doomed.

He addresses first Sansa - “We need more horses and wagons, my Lady,” – then Jon – “and my Lord,” – who flashes him a quick smile – “and my Queen.” – and only then Daenerys, who does not love being third on this list. “Sorry,” apologizes awkwardly. His business is sorted out, and he is sent off.

Jon instructs Maester Wolkan to send ravens to the Night’s Watch to summon them to Winterfell. “At once, Your Grace,” says the man, out of habit, probably, but it’s all the excuse Lyanna Mormont needs to stand up to sass Jon for renouncing his crown (mostly because D&D have designated her the improbable mouthpiece of the North and have not bothered to introduce us to any of the other lords).

Jon tries to make his case, but nobody is convinced, not even when Tyrion tags himself in. As he tries to sway the Northern lords, the camera cuts to the other three – Jon in between the two women, Stark and Targaryen, black and white. They really couldn’t be more obvious about the symbolism here, but in case you missed it, the showrunners give us more evidence that we’re not about to get The Hair Braiding That Was Promised.

Sansa is facing the lords, addressing Tyrion, but is clearly speaking to Daenerys when she asks just how Winterfell is supposed to feed Team Dany’s massive armies and the dragons. Like the responsible leader that she is – take notes, kiddos – Sansa had spent the past few months stockpiling supplies to help her people through winter. Was the North expected to support these newcomers too? “What do dragons eat, anyway?”

“Whatever they want,” says Dany.

The two women look at each other with no further pretense at friendliness. Battle lines have been drawn.

(Jon sits there, pretending not to notice.)

A Proposed Proposal

Davos, Varys and Tyrion are discussing how to salvage the alliance between their respective sides. Davos tells the others that Northerners do not trust easily, that this trust needs to be earned. But he is hopeful that it can happen. “On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms, for once in their whole shit history, were ruled by a just woman and an honorable man?”

He is talking about a possible marriage between Jon and Dany, but at this point the audience knows the truth of their relationship, and by the end of the episode – spoiler – Jon does too. Whether or not the GA realizes it yet, this makes the conversation equally applicable to the Jonsa side of the triangle.

Plus, le gasp! A Stark-Targaryen marriage? How dreadfully romantic.*

*Okay, I am actually strongly anti-Rhaegar, but the show plays them as some kind of grand romantic pairing so I will try to contain my antipathy for the purposes of this review.

A Darker Turn

Down at the courtyard, Daenerys is feeling somewhat put upon.

“Your sister doesn’t like me.”

Jon tries to mollify her. “She doesn’t know you. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t like me either when we were growing up.”

“She doesn’t need to be my friend. But I am her queen. If she can’t respect me…”

WHAT, DANY? IF SANSA CAN’T RESPECT YOU, WHAT WILL YOU DO?

We’ve been saying it for a long while now, but guys. Dark!Dany is coming. While certain elements of the fandom persist in denying the obvious trajectory of her character arc, the foreboding undertone of this line is hard to ignore. What made this even more chilling was that she said this to Jon, a member of her family, who doesn’t yet know at this point in the episode what Dany’s extreme reaction tends to be for insubordination.

(Oh, but we know.)

When Sam learns of what Daenerys did to his father and brother, he could barely hold it together long enough to excuse himself from her presence before falling apart. Despite what Dany stans would have you think, this is a perfectly human and normal reaction to hearing such dreadful news. Also human and understandable? Mistrusting the kind of ruler who would execute a man for not bending the knee. Especially since Sam has personally seen a more humane sort of leadership before in Jon, who he later urges to take up his birthright as the true heir to the Iron Throne.

Other metas have discussed Dany’s approach to leadership and her increasingly draconian (an apt word, no?) attitude towards what she feels is her rightful position as Queen of the 7K. That she can and will take what is hers. A sense of entitlement not dissimilar to that which she attributed to her dragons earlier in that public display which did not endear her to her Northern subjects…

Side note: We’ve seen the indiscriminate destruction that an unchecked dragon can reap before when one of them – then only half-grown – killed the young daughter of a goatherd in Meereen. We even received a handy reminder of this straight from the mouth of Dany’s staunchest supporter and ally only in the episode before this one: “Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t. Land, livestock, children…letting them roam free around the city was a problem.” – Jorah Mormont, S07E07.

And because it hasn’t been hammered into our heads enough, we are reminded of this again later on, when her Dothraki riders list exactly how much her dragons had consumed just that same day (“only eighteen goats and eleven sheep”, which apparently means “the dragons are barely eating”). This is followed by a powerful shot of said dragons surrounded by the charred bones of the livestock that could have fed dozens of people.

The same people who cowered as the dragons flew over Mole’s Town, and whose fear she appeared to relish.

Foreshadowing much?

That Dragon Flying Scene

Oh boy. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t excited to see this one at all. In the end it was both more and less awful than I imagined it would be. The dragon riding scene is bound to be controversial. Thrilling to some, pandering of the worst kind to others. To me, it smacks of fanservice, but let’s give the show the benefit of the doubt and try to parse its storytelling purpose in the greater scheme of things.

Despite Daenerys’ unsubtle threat towards Sansa in the previous scene – which Jon was conveniently prevented from addressing due to the interruption of the Dothraki – and the sight of Drogon and Rhaegal apparently sulking whilst surrounded by the remains of the food they are “barely eating”, the showrunners made the odd decision to play this scene with a note of levity.

Out of nowhere, Dany oh-so-casually encourages her lover to try riding her dragon, a foolhardy decision based on what, exactly? The one time Jon had a moment with one of her “gorgeous beast(s)”? Dany teases him about his initial reluctance, and laughs at his ungraceful attempts to hang on as the two dragons freewheel over the snow-covered lands of the North before landing in front of a beautiful waterfall for a “romantic” moment.

In dialogue calling back to Jon and Ygritte’s famous cave scene (listen, are D&D just going to troll us by recycling  all of Jon’s best hits?):

“We could stay a thousand years, says Daenerys, looking back at Jon. “No one would find us.”

“We’d be pretty old,” says Jon with uncharacteristic humor.

I believe Jon’s lightheartedness stems as much from his being home with his family at long last as the thrill of dragonriding with a pretty girl by his side. The two flirt using cheesy lines straight out of bad fanfiction before sharing a kiss which I suppose will please the stans.

Not me, though. Romantic music playing in the background or not, like in boatbang, the supposed passion of the moment is interrupted by a third party which makes the whole thing awkward. The final shot of Jon’s eyes widening as he sees Rhaegal staring directly at him as he kisses the Dragon Queen made me snort, but it is unclear whether it was played for a laugh, is meant to underline the awkwardness of this romance, or be an ominous portent of the revelations to come.

And Now For the Good Stuff

That terrible unnecessary Disneyfied brightly lit, panoramic, even mildly comedic sequence contrasted sharply with the scene between Jon and Sansa only minutes later. We are treated to a Jonsa staple: a warm, candlelit scene full of tension, fluttering eyelashes, and heaving bosoms. This time, the air is shimmering with a new emotion – jealousy.

The two start off by discussing a message from Lord Glover, who “wishes (them) good fortune but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.” This immediately sparks an argument between them about Jon having bent the knee. They’ve had variations of this fight before, and to be honest, it’s a little tired. While I fully understand Sansa’s reservations about the presence of Dany and her armies in the North in terms of logistics, I tend to be more sympathetic to Jon’s insistence that the discussion on Northern independence needs to take a back seat for the moment given the gravity of the threats they are facing. But Sansa clings stubbornly to this old argument, and she (rather unfairly) lays the blame for Lord Glover’s desertion at Jon’s feet (let’s blame who is really at fault here, Sansa – the disloyal lord himself).

But of course, that’s not really what they’re fighting about.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown,” she says, voice shaking with anger as she turns her back on Jon.

Jon, frustrated, moves several steps closer. “I never wanted a crown. All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons.”

Sansa spins around. “And a Targaryen queen?” she spits out.

Ah, and here we come to what appears to be the true cause of her wrath. Jon reminds Sansa that without Daenerys (and her martial strength), they don’t stand a chance against the Army of the Dead. Sansa is silent. She cannot argue the need for the armies and the dragons, but she takes particular exception to the woman who leads them. Why, Sansa? TELL US WHY.

It’s in their eyes as much as their words.

Jon heaves a deep sigh, closes his eyes. “Do you have any faith in me at all?” (Y’all, this line just about broke my heart cause he just wants her to love trust him.)

Sansa’s eyes are soft and slightly glassy. “You know I do.”

Jon takes another step or two towards Sansa, never breaking their gaze. “She’ll be a good queen. For all of us.” His eyes move away briefly. “She’s not her father.”

Sansa looks down, gathering herself with a deep breath. “No, she’s much prettier.”

Jon gives a pained smile of acknowledgment. It is his turn to avoid her stare.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North?” Sansa asks him, her eyes unfocused. “Or because you love her?”

Jon glances up at Sansa, but doesn’t respond.

END SCENE.

(Let’s give a standing ovation to Sophie and Kit for acting the hell out of this scene. I want a hundred gifs of this, people. Please get on it.)

The subtext is rich, rich, rich, my Jonsas. The dream is still alive.

One Last Thought - The Importance of Sansa Stark

Nothing made me happier than seeing our Queen in the North Lady of Winterfell given all the credit and respect that is her due after seasons of anti bullshit. See:

The people’s deference to her position and the role that she plays in the North

Tyrion’s acknowledgment of her survival skills - “Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.”

Arya’s steadfast defense of her - “She’s the smartest person I ever met.” - when Jon (Jon???) himself was expressing frustration towards her (check out @athimbleful 's recent ask for an explanation for Jon’s behavior in this scene)

Even Dany’s behaviour towards Sansa (first with that cringey introduction), and later when she singles her out for not “respecting” her, despite the fact that none of the Northern lords were showing her any warmth is an indication of her awareness of Sansa’s alpha status, which is right and just and exactly as it should be.

As recent promo materials, cast interviews, etc. seem be strongly pro-Sansa, I am reasonably optimistic that this all bodes well for our girl. For that alone, I will breathe a little easier...

...at least for one more week.

[twelvemonkeyswere]

AFFC - Jaime III

aka Bear Pit Pt 2: That Time Jaime Takes a Long Ride that Proves his Compassionate Nature and That He Will Defend Brienne Even If She Is Not Around or in Immediate Danger

Thoughts on Jaime / Brienne:

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

“His hand shone dully in its light. No good for throttling eunuchs, but heavy enough to smash that slimy smile into a fine red ruin. He wanted to hit someone.”

→ HA! “a fine red ruin”. Get it, huh, huh? Because Red gets ruined? HA!

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

1/3 time Jaime actively mentions Brienne in his thoughts:

“Payne was as rusty as his ringmail, and not so strong as Brienne, yet he met every cut with his own blade, or interposed his shield.”

→ We do mention a lot how Brienne constantly says ‘he ain’t Jaime tho’ but Jaime is just the same: ‘Payne ain’t Brienne but he’ll do’

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

2/3 time Jaime actively mentions Brienne in his thoughts:

“Jaime found himself wondering if Brienne might have passed this way before him. If she thought that Sansa Stark had made for Riverrun . . . Had they encountered other travelers, he might have stopped to ask if any of them had chance to see a pretty maid with auburn hair, or a big ugly one with a face that would curdle milk.”

→ I’m a sucker for Jaime having Brienne’s same train of thought and thinking about her journey constantly. As others have pointed out, he is startled by his wondering and has to remind himself how ugly she is, right? The fact he wants to ask about Sansa (his vow) is nice, but the fact he also wants to ask about Brienne (his special interest), is very nice.

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

3/3 time Jaime actively mentions Brienne in his thoughts:

“He passed beneath the covered bridge… before he realized where he was headed.”

→ Don’t fucking @ me. The bear pit is a direct, unquestionable straight line to Brienne and as soon as he gets a chance he, unbidden, goes to her memory.

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

So Bear Pit Pt 2:

““Naked? No.” He wondered how that wrinkle had been added to the story.”

→ Kingslayer’s whore?

“The Mummers put her in a pink silk gown and shoved a tourney sword into her hand. The Goat wanted her death to be amuthing. Elsewise . . .”

“. . . the sight of Brienne naked might have made the bear flee in terror.” Connington laughed. Jaime did not. “You speak as if you know the lady.”

→ a couple of things:

what I LOVE about this moment is that Jaime is here genuinely trying to make some conversation and casually doing disrespectful impressions of the man who almost kills them and he’s actually concerned with explaining the truth and HE IS DISREGARDED by Connignton because Connington is an ass and THEN Connington disrespects his wench and it just.fucking.activates.him.

Jaime remembers the dress clear enough to describe it in material and color (this man is definitely not my father)

what was after that ‘elsewise’? ‘Elsewise, she would’ve killed it? She would’ve won? I would not have needed to jump in?’ Jaime respects (and admires!) Brienne SO FUCKING MUCH I wanna believe he was going to sing his praises here.

“That took him by surprise. Brienne had never mentioned a betrothal.”

→ He's SO OFFENDED lmao Heaven knows how much shit he talked during their walk across the Riverlands and he is like, Brienne surely would’ve mentioned something of SUCH importance but he also senses that if she DIDN’T it was because of REASONS and gosh does he make Ronnet spill the beans.

““I was the second. My father’s notion. I had heard the wench was ugly, and I told him so, but he said all women were the same once you blew the candle out.”

“Your father.” Jaime eyed Red Ronnet’s surcoat.”

→ Jaime taking notice of who Connington dad is because HE’S GONNA CUT A BITCH

→ (and also because he is trying to unravel why they would betroth Brienne to this idiot and he discovers it’s because they are poor and were going to use her to elevate his status and you can just feel his disdain, I fucking love it)

““The bear was less hairy than that freak, I’ll—”

Jaime’s golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps.”

→ the first time I read this I fucking TRANSCENDED because I wanted to smack each of Brienne’s wrongdoers myself. Jaime stood his ground as much as he could but the moment he insults Brienne with “freak” (and insults her bush, which we know he was gladly impressed by) he just fucking reacts. And my favorite bit is…

“You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.”

→ FIRST, Jaime hasn’t referred to Brienne internally as “wench” or anything else but Brienne in a fucking long time.

→ SECOND, this shows just how much he respects her as a woman, as a mf lady, and how much he’ll demand others will treat her as such.

→ And THIRD, it shows how much he respects her, PERIOD. We love a man who loves and respects his beloved.

Thoughts on Jaime:

Clearly even though Loras is young Jaime thinks he is worth his salt. And it’s not until Cersei brings up his gayness that Jaime doesn’t really anger. Even Cersei points out that Jaime’s “perception” of manhood has changed but I think it has to do more about Jaime respecting Loras and him self-actualizing his identity.

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

More on Cersei:

“Cersei slapped his face. / Jaime made no attempt to block the blow. “I see I need a thicker beard, to cushion me against my queen’s caresses.” He wanted to rip her gown off and turn her blows to kisses.”

→ this looks terribly like conditioned behaviour because Jaime previously mentions he has to “beg” for her “affections” and that means “coaxing” her into changing that. Same thing happens when they are discussing the unmentionable knife and he sits her on his lap to stop her from being angry. which actually leads me to…

“Softer words might have swayed her, yet of late the very sight of her made him angry”

→ He balked her on purpose, though he seems to miss her somehow still (he’s horny, too) he gets angry at her and doesn’t let that impulse govern him at all. But he does allow himself to anger her because he doesn’t want to have to treat her kindly. It’s almost like he’s realizing how hateful she actually is.

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

FUCKING KILL ME BRUH

“It had been long years since Jaime had named any of his horses; he had seen too many die in battle, and that was harder when you named them.”

→ Jaime: traumatized horse girl. Poor man.

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

Symbolism?

“Glory wore trappings of Lannister crimson; Honor was barded in Kingsguard white”

→ I’m sure this is symbolism but heck if I can put it into words. Like, it seems clear (?) they represent two sides of Jaime, the need to uphold the Lannister name (glory) and the dedicated vows of his knighthood (honor) but… that’s as far as I get.

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

Paralelism: 

Jaime’s “price” for going to the Riverlands is Ilyn Payne (a counterpart to Brienne’s Pod) and Ser Addam (a person from his past, like Brienne’s Hyle). I like their parallelism. Like, they’re accompanied by someone who reminds them who they were and what they have/are becoming while on a quest caused by their vows.

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

Jaime is not stupid:

“Robb Stark took me unawares in the Whispering Wood,” he said. “That will never happen again.”

→ besides this man turns trauma into learning points.

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

Jaime cares about others:

“Jaime had given stern commands that no man was to depart the column without his leave.” → He protects the land as they go, he scoffs at the “bored lordings” who could trample and attack the stock and farms along the way.

Little Lew Piper brings blackberries, Jaime orders him to share them with the other squires and fucking Ilyn Payne.

Feeling sorry for the horse and bear.

Pia!

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

More Paralelism:

I love this bit that calls back to Jaime’s first chapter ever:

“Riding at the front of the host with Ser Ilyn silent by his side, Jaime felt almost content. The sun was warm on his back and the wind riffled through his hair like a woman’s fingers.”

→ It’s like a more toned down “alive and drunk on sunlight.”. Instead of feeling alive, he feels almost content. Instead of drunk, warm. Instead of Cersei's fingers, a woman's. And it’s about being free from a former entrapment behind enemy lines.

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

Goldenhand

“Men shall name you Goldenhand from this day forth, my lord,” the armorer had assured him the first time he’d fitted it onto Jaime’s wrist. He was wrong. I shall be the Kingslayer till I die.”

→ I swear to God if they give him the nickname AFTER he dies I’m going to fucking scream (fingers crossed he won’t die)

“The golden hand was the occasion for much admiring comment over supper, at least until Jaime knocked over a goblet of wine. Then his temper got the best of him… After that there was no more talk about his hand.”

→ These fucking people omgggg fucking bootlickers. Besides he lets the common folk/his men see him as he is but has to pretend for "polite" company. I like that the hand is almost a second thought like, Well I suppose I ought to wear the hand to dinner.

→ He also says they’ll call him ‘Goldenhand the Just’ eventually because he is willing to impart justice even to the men who served his own house (he hangs a man in Lannister red for being a bandit), and if that doesn’t show AGAIN he is willing to do the right thing if necessary… well.

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

Jaime’s shames:

“They have lusty wenches in House Hayford. These are love bites, lad.”

→ Jaime Lannister, famously monogamous, thinks a fake hickey excuse is less shameful than his shortcomings. But also he needs to appear commanding.

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

Jaime, Horsegirl (contin’d):

““These are demons in the skins of wolves, sent to chastise us for our sins.”

“This must have been an uncommonly sinful horse,” Jaime said, standing over what remained of the poor animal.”

→ this line is not just funny but shows just how much Jaime has an affinity to the innocent.

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

About Hoat:

since the description of how he died (tortured, cut up in pieces, fed his own flesh, then defiled in death) happens right before the goddamn Bear Pit Pt 2 I had completely forgotten about it. Jaime hears the tale, sees the head, and hi satisfaction at his death seems to curdle. I just like that of course, we know Jaime is not cruel. And that even though Brienne told him to “live and take revenge,” he is NOT finding pleasure in a death he might have gloated on if he were different.

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

About Pia:

“She is a font of corruption,” said Ser Bonifer…

“I expect her flaunting days are done,” he said, “but if you find her that objectionable, I’ll take her.” He could make her a washerwoman, he supposed. His squires did not mind raising his tent, grooming his horse, or cleaning his armor, but the task of caring for his clothes struck them as unmanly

→ So first, this is one of the reasons I like Jaime. He is actually very very compassionate, and actually defends Pia. Second, does this seem to suggest he would’ve personally taken care of his clothes if he had two hands? Or just that this seems like an excuse to bring her in? Also, I love how the squires will do the cleaning but draw the line at washing clothes.

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

Jaime internally calling Ser Bonifer “Baelor Butthole” is infinitely amuthing to me.

[longneckreach]

Threat Assessment

Aspis padded along in the wake of a battle-scarred Tundra and tried not to feel sick.

He didn’t try very hard.

He’d done his best not to learn the names of any of the hired muscle Nalkh had picked up for this raid. He told himself it was just because they were so obviously here as talon fodder; no point in getting attached, when they were all meant to die anyway. 

Meatshield, his brain whispered.

He knew that wasn’t true. If he avoided talking to anyone, he could keep pretending he was better than them.

Longneck Reach was...gentle. It felt solid and secure and natural, but there was a softness in the air. Okay, it was nerve-wracking walking the gauntlet of serthii, centaurs, and longnecks to get to the main den, but that was just because he wasn’t used to it. None of them had even spared him and his “partner” more than a friendly glance.

This really was a Wind clan, he thought, stomach twisting horribly. They took hospitality seriously. And they’d believed the Tundra, simple as breathing, when she smiled and said they were travelers on their way to hunt the Icefield.

Test their defenses, Nalkh had said.

These people were all going to die. They were all going to die and it was Aspis’ fault.

He’d expected it to be over before he had time to think; the Marrow Massacre wasn’t exactly known for wasting time. But Nalkh had meant what she said, back in that tent in the Wasteland—she respected the fact that this clan had allies, and that their martial strength might be exponentially more than it appeared on the surface. She respected the fact that they knew their own terrain; and they had contacts with the Resistance, as well. The Massacre was good, and Aspis didn’t think they’d been spotted; but with harpies and serthii and longneck scouts, they couldn’t be sure.

Not unless they sent someone in to test it, at any rate. And lucky Aspis got to be the canary.

The Tundra dipped her head. “I counted at least five unguarded entrances,” she murmured, voice dripping disdain. “These people are asking for it.”

Aspis flinched. When the other two dragons cast sharp looks his way, he passed it off as a sneeze.

Nalkh didn’t want to go in blindfolded, and if the Longneck Reach dragons had been on her territory recently, they might recognize any actual members of the Massacre. Aspis and the Tundra couldn’t set off anyone’s radar, because nobody knew who the hell they were.

And she’d been right. The Reach had no idea. 

Correct that, Aspis thought miserably. Not a canary. A Judas goat.

Their guide, a silver-blue Wildclaw with a calm demeanor and bright golden eyes who didn’t deserve what was about to happen to her, stopped by the edge of the watering hole and gestured around them.

“...should be enough to not get lost, we won’t make you sit through a full tour. We try not to torture our guests,” she added with a wink. The Tundra gave a blatantly false laugh, and Aspis belatedly tried to smile. The Wildclaw placed a casual hand-paw on the hilt of her sword and continued, with a friendly, knowing look at the Tundra, “If there’s anything specific you want to see, just ask anyone and we’ll find you a guide. I was just about to visit the armory, myself, ma’am.”

The Tundra’s dark eyes snapped into focus. That was exactly the kind of reconnaissance they were supposed to be performing. 

Anxiously, Aspis tried to make a quick tactical assessment of the valley. He supposed it would be hard for large species to maneuver deep in the ravine, and...and since most of the valley was bare shale and thin grass, there’d be no point in trying to burn anything but the crops…

He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t think like this. But he had to…

Realizing the others were watching him expectantly, he jumped and said “Yes! Of course. Um, sorry. Whatever you want,” he told the Tundra, trying for the tone of a friend. “I’m up for it, you know that.”

The Wildclaw laughed quietly. “Good save,” she said as the Tundra glared at him behind her back. “But I see through you, young man. We have a few Bogsneaks here, we know what a young growing male needs and I haven’t fed you yet. Chavi!” She gave a short whistle. “Can you take our friend to the storeroom? We won’t be a minute!”

Suddenly, things did happen faster than Aspis could track. Before he fully realized what was happening, the Wildclaw had ushered his Tundra off and another, smaller Tundra had appeared at his side.

She couldn’t be more different from the two who’d just left. Neither a leonine battle veteran nor the crisp, polite officer, she was all shades of copper marbled with deep blue, with a panther’s grace and stillness as she watched him. 

“Um,” he managed. “Aspis. I’m really not hungry, actually.”

She smiled. “That’s fine. But your friend will be meeting us near the storeroom. Let’s go that way regardless, all right? No one will make you eat, or do anything you don’t want to do.”

That was...a strange way to phrase it, but Aspis nodded and followed her. They left the waterfall and the small lake behind, stepping out of the way as a Serthis working a pair of gale wolves herded a rambra flock down to the water. They walked back up the valley until Chavi flicked her ears toward a rough path carved into the canyon wall, and Aspis followed it up to the mouth of the primary den. The Wildclaw had pointed it out to them earlier, when they first arrived…

It was almost empty; just a Guardian and two Mirrors, and a single Longneck. The Guardian was the color of shale and muted goldenrod, draped in the sigil of the Beastclans. She looked like she’d been born from the cave stone itself, like she belonged here. The green Mirror lay between her paws like a kitten at the feet of a Sphinx; the Longneck sat cross-legged in a little alcove at the Guardian’s exact head height, as they spoke to one another quietly.

Immediately, Aspis’ mind whispered: Charge. He’d only met a few Guardians with a living Charge, but they all oriented toward the object of their devotion this way.

The other Mirror was dirt-brown and unassuming, her eyes as dark as the rest of her; unlike the green male she wore no armor, but her posture was tense and her eyes roamed in a perpetual threat assessment, tail-tip flicking every few seconds. A real fighter.

The Guardian looked down at Aspis as he stopped just inside the den mouth. Her voice was deep, like all her kind, but kinder than he expected.

“This is him?” she asked.

Chavi sat at his side, a soft wing gently brushing his shoulder as she confirmed it.

The Guardian gave a shallow, respectful dip of the head. “Hello, Aspis. I wanted to speak to you in private.”

Oh, gods, Aspis thought for a wild moment. They’re going to eat me.

Nobody seemed to be angry, or even stern, which was...weird, considering they’d obviously figured him out.

“My name is Adecia,” said the Guardian. She tilted her horns toward her Charge, then nodded toward the two Mirrors one at a time. “This is Jori, our clan coordinator; my mate Radec; and Ennis, one of our outriders. I want to assure you that you’re among friends here, and that you’re free to leave whenever you choose.”

“All...right?” said Aspis.

“How much do you know about Longneck Reach?” Adecia asked kindly.

Aspis had no idea what was going on. “Uh,” he said, wondering how much he could say safely. “You’re...a Wind clan? With ties to the Beastclans, obviously. Um...everyone kind of knows you support the Resistance, sorry if that’s supposed to be a secret…”

Ennis snorted, but it wasn’t an unkind sound, and Adecia gestured for him to continue.

“Um,” he said. “That’s...pretty much it.” Aside from one minor detail.

There were glances exchanged all around. This time it was the Longneck who spoke, sitting up and reaching out so that Adecia would lift her to the ground.

“The Reach was founded as a place of safety,” she said. “A haven for my tribe, in the beginning; we wanted to find a place far from the fighting, where we could live in peace. Over time, we found a lot of other dragons and Beastclan who didn’t want to live surrounded by fear and hate all the time. We wanted to create a place where we would protect one another.”

“A sanctuary,” Adecia said softly. The others, even the wary Ennis, dipped their heads in acknowledgement. “For anyone who wanted one. Including you. We’ve seen your kind of fear before, you know.”

He blinked. “You...you have?”

“More times than we can count,” rasped Adecia’s mate.

“How often does this kind of thing happen?” he asked, bewildered.

Chavi’s wing brushed his shoulder again. “Did you think you were alone?” she murmured. “There are millions who have been through this and come out the other side. We can help you, if you allow us.”

Ennis’ tail twitched violently; she curled it around her paws. “There’ll always be assholes who hurt others to feel stronger,” she said, short but fervent. “Their most powerful weapon is making you feel alone. With a pack, a clan, whatever, you always have help and you know it. It takes their power away. Not your fault. The first thing you do when you’re hunting is isolate your target.”

Aspis’ stomach was in knots. He didn’t know how these people had known, but this wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. Perhaps sensing this, Chavi took a step to the side to give him space without abandoning him.

“We’re not trying to gang up on you,” she told him. “I can sense that you’re feeling overwhelmed right now, and we’re not trying to make decisions for you. But...when you’re ready to leave, especially if it’s today, just know that we’re here to help. And know that a mate who loves you won’t treat you this way.”

Something in Aspis’ brain stuttered to a stop.

“Wh—wait, what?”

“It’s why you weren’t challenged at the border,” said Ennis. “Oliver has a special protocol when anyone enters our territory smelling like fear. We only get one chance at a first impression. That’s why I didn’t talk to you either. Liendra’s better with, you know. People.”

“Oliver’s a Tundra?” Aspis guessed, since that was the only thing they’d said so far that he could make sense of.

For some reason, this caused the Reach dragons to exchange another long series of looks.

“Close enough,” Jori decided. Okay. Weird, but, okay.

Adecia cleared her throat. “The dragon you’re with told Liendra she was your mate,” she pointed out. “We’ve...noticed things that caused us concern, aside from the fact that Frank and Oliver reported you smelling afraid.”

“I bet you did,” Aspis managed weakly.

Chavi placed a paw near his, but didn’t touch him. “I’m an Earthsenser,” she said, as kindly as she could. “I know when people are being truthful. You were lying when you said you were fine, you were lying when you said you were eager to leave in the morning.”

“You go tense when she talks to you,” Ennis added, low and dark. “She moved to touch you and you flinched.”

“And we’re not fools, Aspis,” Adecia finished. Her eyes were sad. “We can see the marks as easily as anyone. Only some of them are from fighting.”

Like daybreak, Aspis finally understood what they thought was happening. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry at how wrong they were, but at the same time, he couldn’t suppress the well of emotion that rose up at the realization.

All of this...he recognized Adecia’s name. He hadn’t known her on sight, but he’d been sent to infiltrate her clan. He knew the name of its leader.

The clan leader, her administrator, her mate, and two of her scout-sentries. Ennis was clearly a serious fighter, Chavi’s earthsense was a rare power and she moved like an advance scout; both of them wore Resistance badges...

He swallowed.

“I, uh,” he said. “Let me...get this straight, okay? One of your border guards...smelled that I was scared?”

“He’s a customs inspector,” Adecia corrected. “We don’t have border guards. But yes.”

“And so he changed to a completely different protocol, and told you,” he said, turning to Ennis. “And you ran and found someone with better people skills to guide us in, and then went and found someone with a powerful magical ability to help keep an eye on us. And then when you thought something was wrong, you went and told…” He looked back at Adecia. “You’re the clan leader!”

“I’m really only the executive officer on the Council,” she demurred.

“You’re still...and you have your mate, and I know he’s the scout captain,” though once he said it out loud Aspis realized he wasn’t supposed to know that. “And your clan coordinator, and...and both of you are obviously important to the Resistance...and you all took the time to arrange this without tipping your guests off, just because...you think my mate is hitting me?”

Adecia’s eyes softened.

“Of course.”

Heart shattering, Aspis thought in despair: Alumette would have loved this place.

She would never see it. Even if he went along with Nalkh’s raid, Ali would never have a home; the bandit queen was right, they’d never be able to leave the Marrow Massacre, not really. They’d just end up dead or captured again. And was that what Ali would want? Was he doing this for her, really, or for himself—because he couldn’t bear to lose his sister?

What would Ali want him to do, if she were here? Did it matter? And why should he care, anyway, that these people had just moved mountains because they were worried about a stranger? That shouldn’t have anything to do with it. 

Locked in a parched cell in the Wasteland, murmuring back and forth to Kpinga in the dark, he’d always insisted that the one thing the Pit couldn’t take was his identity. That he had to remember there was always a choice, that no one could turn him into a monster. It shouldn’t matter whether they were kind to him, it should matter that they were people...

He’d been willing to let them all die.

“Adecia?” he said, mouth dry, throat tight. “There’s something you need to know.”

[aria-i-adagio]

What You Take Won’t Kill You

Masterpost

Fandom: The Arcana

Chapter Rating: T with a squeeze of lime

By the time Portia’s deft hands have finished with my hair and face, I’m so dolled up that I feel as though I’m impersonating someone else - an actress standing in the middle of a stage, praying that the lines that she’s forgotten return to her.  The fabric and the cloud of expensive fragrance that surrounds me change my posture.  My back is held straighter, my steps are smoother, more confident.  Perhaps, instead of a costume, I can think of it as a kind of armor that will make it easier to suffer through the next hour.  Portia has her arm hooked in mine, and I'm not sure if it's support or to make sure I won't run away.  Probably a little bit of both.

Nadia awaits us in the room with the horrible goat painting, this time set up for a more intimate dinner.  Two sets of tableware are already laid, and Portia gives a nod towards the chair closest to the Countess's before whispering conspiratorially in my ear.  "I'll keep the booze coming.  Won't hurt."  She slips into her servant persona again, all prim and proper.

"Dema.  It seems the Palace is becoming to you."  Red eyes flicker over me, and for the first time feel that she is appreciating my appearance.  I'm still not entirely sure about what to do with her.  I don't care for the trick that she pulled with my cards - though it was admittedly quite clever.  And my sympathies certainly lay more with the Doctor than with the Countess.  But...she has resources that I might need if I'm actually going to discover what happened three years ago.  And if nothing else, I'll get another good meal out of this.  I can't cook for shit and when Asra is gone, I typically eat whatever stuff on a stick the market is serving up that day.

"My lady."  I lower my head slightly, which is all of the bow I'm going to give her.  "I can't say that I haven't enjoyed any of my stay here."

A gracious nod tells me she appreciates my gesture - minimal as it is - and suggests that no more is demanded of me.  "I am told the collection of things you brought was quite remarkable.  If there is anything else you need, let Portia or me know.  It will be taken care of." 

"I'd appreciate a little more time in the library.  Uninterrupted."  I pause, then add on.  "And my sandals did take a bit of beating while running about the city today." 

"Can do!"  Portia pipes up, and I see a brief expectant smile in the Countess’s red eyes as she’s reminded of Portia’s presence.  "I know what you can do, milady.  Pretend it's Dema's birthday."

Birthday?

An excited finger pokes my ribs.  Birthdays seem to be a good thing in the magical world of Portia.  Nadia smiles at her handmaid’s antics.  “Hmm, I can think of some other gifts for you.  And I hear the kitchen has already prepared a lovely cake.  And some . . . guests . . . since you have a penchant for fraternizing with your prey, I thought it would be nice to invite them along to share our meal. What do you say?"

When is my birthday anyway?  And fraternizing with my prey?  Does the Countess know that I spoke to Julian at the bar?  Or that he broke into my shop.  That would be . . . unfortunate, primarily for me.  Unless, of course, she had somehow caught him.  For a moment, I’m afraid that Julian will be pushed into the dining room with manacles on his wrists, but the only people who enter are the two guards, once again in their normal uniforms.  I manage not to sign in relief.

"Let them stay.  They played your game well."

“I suppose our two fierce creatures do deserve a reward.”  She indulges me with a smile.  "Take seat, please, all of you. It is time for a little something to warm your hearts and steady your nerves, even if it is just for a little while."

It seems a servant has been waiting outside already, bringing fine silver cups filled with ice and sprigs of mint and something gingery, judging by the smell.  Portia takes place to stand at her mistress's side, seeming more like a proud mother hen than a social inferior.  "Sit, please, before the ice melts."

Overly aware of my dress, I tuck it around my legs and take my seat near the head of the table.  Another servant enters and lays out two place settings at the other end, as far of the Countess as possible.  That won't do.  I get back up, walk down to the end of the table, collect the flatware and the plates and bring them back to the head of the table, setting them down across from mine, and giving the Countess a pointed look.  Let them stay does not mean to exile them to the far end of the table.

The Countess stares down her nose her me, and then a slow smile overtakes her face.  "While I understand your point, my esteemed Dema, I very much doubt you are doing them a favor."  I want to read her smile as icy, but isn't, not really.  She seems more... amused?  Indulgent is perhaps the right word.  Someone allowing the antics of a favored pet to play out before tightening the leash again.

Portia seems to be suppressing a giggle as she quickly rearranges the flatware back into the proper order as I walk back to one own place and take my seat.  The Countess's comment about not doing them a favor may have been right.  Both guards look entirely terrified as they take their places across from me.  Ah well.  Of course, in using them to make a point of the Countess, perhaps I wasn't behaving much better than she herself had.

"Have you recovered from your trials?"  Nadia asks friendly little questions, polite and amicable, but somehow so very... no, distant is not quite the right word.  Far away, maybe, or lonely, the same kind of lonely a traveling merchant has when staring into a tavern fire during a long night.  She’s simply far better in masking it with friendly chit chat.  Undoubtedly, Portia briefed her in about those two, and she manages to keep a conversation flowing, even if it's mainly her asking the questions.

Unfortunately, her polite questions turn to me.  “Tell me more about yourself, Dema.  Where are you from?”

“Umm.”  I grab my wine glass and hastily drink from it, in a bid to stall for time.  “It’s far from here.  Small town.  You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

"You might be surprised.  I have heard of an astounding amount of small places.  It is important to know such..."  For a second, her voice breaks, and she looks like she's bitten on something vile, food or memory.  A hasty sip of wine.  "But I cannot blame anyone for getting drawn in by the big city.  Of course not.  Adventure and money, whatever you prefer."

"A little of both, I suppose."  A servant whisks away the ice, replacing with some sort of fish involving chopped and highly spiced raw fish.  I push a bit of fish around my plate, trying to figure out a way to turn the conversation to a different topic.  “I moved here to work with my aunt.  She, uh, owned the shop before me.”

"So you have lived here for a while?"  One of the guards asks, glad to be out of the spotlight.  "You like it? We rarely get into town itself.  Feels like it changed a lot." 

“Oh, you know how is it,” I dissemble and wish that I had a god to pray to that no one else would ask questions about my life or past.  “Things change slowly, and you hardly notice it at all.”

Nadia inserts herself back into the conversation.  “Was your aunt a card reader as well?”

“She -”  I don’t know much about my aunt either.  Asra’s told me that the shop was once hers, and I’ve inferred some things from the contents of thereof, but I don’t know any real details.  “She mostly worked with herbs.”  I stuff my mouth with another bite of the fish, hoping for a reprieve from her questions.

“Ah, botanical magic, how pleasant.”

“Um, yes.  This fish is quite nice.”  Please let that distract her.  Or maybe she’ll just ask me about herbs and flowers.  I can answer those questions.

“The kitchen here does admirably well, but I’m afraid they haven’t quite managed to replicate the flavors I remember from my childhood.  Nonetheless, it is a wonderful dish for a summer night.”

A servant whisks my empty plate.  Nadia pushes back her chair and stands.  At the other end of the table, Bludmila and Ludovico drop their utensils in unison.  “Portia, please have the sorbet and desserts Dema and I sent to the veranda.  I think I would like to enjoy the night air a bit.  And -”  She tilts her head down to look at me.  “I would like to speak a bit more privately.”  

I follow her out onto the veranda.  Lamps sway along the railing, providing sufficient light, but no so much as to overwhelm the sense of nighttime solitude.  Nadia settles herself into a wicker chair at a small table.  As a servant places two dishes of icy sorbet topped with mint sprig, I take the seat across from hers.  She picks up the petite spoon from the dish and gently scraps a bite from the sorbet.  I decide to be polite this time and mirror her actions.  The sorbet is cherry - tart and only slightly sweet.  It complements rather than clashing with the lingering taste of the spiced swordfish.

“I fear that I may not have made the best of impressions on you, Dema.”

The mouthful of sorbet melting on my tongue conveniently keeps me from quipping about her understatement.  She continues without waiting for a response.

“I’m not unaware of the current state of disorder in the city.  My motivations with this investigation are simply to begin to restore the city’s order and perhaps its faith in my competence as a leader.  To do that, I must establish what happened three years ago and see Count Lucio’s murderer brought to justice.”

“How is it that you don’t know what happened?”

She sets her spoon down and looks over the railing.  Her lips are pressed together into a thin line as she gazes at the darkness over the garden.  As I wait for her response, a massive snowy owl lands on the railing beside her.  She smiles and reaches out, stroking the owl’s head and speaking to it.  “Ah, Chandra, it’s good to have you here, old friend.”  The owl hoots gently at her.  She turns back to me and takes a deep breath - the first sign nervousness I’ve seen from her since those first few moments in my shop.  “What I am about to tell you must remain entirely between the two of us.”

“My lady?”

“Please.  Nadia.  Too few people call me by my name these days.”  She presses a hand to her temple, ever so briefly gnaws at her thumb, and then lets her hand fall back into her lap.  “I have - almost no recollections of my time in this city.”

“Your memories are missing?”  That single sentence changes my entire impression of the Countess, but I’m not yet willing to give into the sudden surge of empathy that fills me.

“Sometimes I recall hints of the past.  Whispers.  But anytime that happens, I also experience excruciating headaches . . . blinding really.  I remember agreeing to marry Lucio.  Coming to Vesuvia during the masquerade nine years ago, but everything in between, my memories are like being lost in a fog on some lonely island.”

“That -” I allow my own spoon to clatter against the sorbet dish.  What I’m about to say is as much of a understatement as the Countess’s comment on having failed to impress me.  “Would be disconcerting.” 

“Yes.”  The Countess turns back to the owl and runs her fingers over its glossy feathers.  “Portia is the only other person aware of my . . . predicament.  But I think you will now understand why I must know what happened, and who I can trust.  My courtiers tell me that Dr. Devorak is guilty.  If he is, so be it, he will hang when I apprehend him.  Which is at least an improvement on the gladiatorial trial by combat some of my courtiers would like to see return.  But I am not entirely convinced that they are telling me the whole story, or even a true story.  I will be just as content if you find he is innocent, so long as we establish the truth.”

“Why me?”

“I came to your shop because I continually saw your sign - the snake wrapped around an apothecary’s mortar and pestle - in my dreams.  I don’t know what I expected.”  She pauses and fixes me with another appraising look.  I doubt that I am anything like what she expected.  “But I think that I can trust you.  You have little interest in telling me what I want to hear.”  She rubs both of her temples.  The muscles in her face have gone taut, probably another headache coming on.  “Perhaps you will think a little more kindly of me now?”

“If your goal is to establish the truth, I can agree to help you with that.”

“That is all I require of you.”  The Countess stands, and Portia materializes from the shadows.  “I believe I will retire for the evening.  Portia, would you see Dema back to her guest room and provide her with anything she needs?”

Portia links her arm in mine as we stroll along the veranda, taking an alternate route back to the guest room.  “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“I suppose not.”  I had made it through dinner without staining the white dress, and the conversation with the Countess had been illuminating.  Her intentions might not be as horrible as they seemed at first.  Perhaps she was more misguided than anything.  It was a vulnerable state, to be reliant on someone else to fill in information from a large chunk of time.  More vulnerable than I really liked to admit.  “So, the Countess has lost all of her memories of Vesuvia?”

“Yeah . . . I wasn’t exactly sure when I should tell you that, sorry.”  Portia let go of my arm to push open a door leading back inside.  “I wanted to earlier.  But, I’m glad that she told you.”

“So it really has been the courtiers running Vesuvia?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh?”  I elbow her side gently, finally haven’t become accustomed to her familiarity.  “Sounds like you have opinions?”

“As always.”  She looks around the hallways, reassuring herself that they’re clear before continuing.  “They’re - well, you’ll meet them soon enough.  But Valerius is the only one who seems concerned at all about the city, and he has a certain expectation about how things should go.  Then there’s Valdemar . . .”  She shivers.  “I don’t know if I even want to know what they’re up to.  Certainly wouldn’t help me sleep if I found out.”  She takes my arm again.  “But, you’ve had quite a long day, let’s get you back to bed.”

***

When I got back to my room, I undressed and curled up in bed hugging a pillow and hoping for a bit of sleep.  I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t.   I rolled back out of bed and paced the room trying to burn off the nagging wrongness - something missing - I felt deep in my bones.  Faust’s presence would be welcome, but tonight she’s nowhere to be seen.  With a sigh I settled myself on a the sofa with a glass of water from the carafe that had thoughtfully been left in the room and took Asra’s deck from my bag of belongings.  Leaning back against the plush cushions I let my mind turn for a moment.  I have questions about Nadia and Julian both.  Nadia’s motivations are a bit clearer now, but I can’t quite bring myself to trust her.  And Julian -  why did I almost immediately feel connected with him?  It couldn’t just be his past with Asra, whatever that had or hadn’t been?  

I settle on Julian as a topic of intrigue and shuffle the deck several times before cutting it and laying out the top three cards.  I pause before turning them over in quick succession.  The Moon, the Hanged Man reversed, and the Ace of Cups.  I let my fingers hover of the spread, but the cards were quiet.  Or perhaps, they were simply drowned out by my own mind howling at the moon.  The Hanged Man still seems appropriate to Julian - one so buffeted by the waves of fate that he’s simply given up and hopes to be washed up on some shore.  The Ace of Cups should feel more promising than it does, but the idea of an overflowing cup is only reassuring if you’re not the one being asked to empty yourself.  I close my eyes.  There’s only one person who might actually answer my questions about Julian.  Besides, if I wandered off to bar even if I didn’t find him, I could simply fall back on my usual strategy for coping with insomnia and existential dread: wine, music, sex - anything to deaden the roar of my mind.  

Given the way the palace gardens and the field wrapped around this city, the bar with raven signboard is actually closer than my usual haunt near the shop.  And, certainly, more interesting.  As I had suspected, business had picked right back up once the guards had left.  In fact, a fiddler had been added to the mix, along with a somewhat drunken accordion player.  I order a couple of drinks from the bar - neither Portia’s purloined champagne or the wine over dinner had been enough - then surveyed the room, quickly spotting the person I hoped to find again when I left the Palace.

“Mind if I sit here?”

A very surprised Julian looks up at me as I set my drinks down next to his.  “Not at all.  I wasn't expecting to see you again tonight.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I sit down across the table from him and throw back the double shot of harsh liquor I held in my head, chasing it with the significantly better beer.  Julian raises his eyebrows and looks vaguely impressed.  But then wine from dinner had merely been a drop in the bucket of my ever expanding alcoholism.  After all, why should I bother to keep the present clear when the past was so blurry.

He glances over my clothes, then smirks.  “Whatever are you wearing, my dear?”

“Oh.”  I hadn't really thought about coordinating when I shrugged into some combination of clothes that covered the important bits.  I was in my old canvas trousers (someone in the palace laundry had expertly mended the ripped hem) and a loose sleeveless top of my own.  A black silk robe that had been tossed across the back of the sofa was over that, just skimming the tops of my thighs.  I suppose it was intended to be a bathrobe, or a dressing gown.  It was doing well enough as an overshirt, if well enough was limited to providing one more layer against the evening chill.  I return his smirk.  “What?  You don’t think this fits with my general bohemian aesthetic.”  

Julian laughs, and I feel a warmth beginning in my belly, once that has nothing to do with the alcohol or even lust.  I've heard this laugh before - I know, I just know - and I want to keep hear it again and again.  “Don't worry about it.  I'm sure you’d look fetching in a flour sack.  You certainly do in whatever this is.”

“You’re the one wearing gloves indoors and a shirt missing most of its buttons.”

“Fair enough.”  He shrugs, eyes glassy with drink.  “You do realize that Nadia'll hang you with me if she finds out you've known where I am and haven't told her.”  He reaches across the table and strokes the side of my head that collided with the door frame the other night.  The familiarity is both unexpected and yet, it somehow feels right.  “Your head hasn't been bothering you has it?”

My head always bothers me, but not from the knock the other day.  Whatever he did to heal the concussion lasted.  “See, I’m having trouble reconciling that concern with a cold blooded murderer.”

“Even murderers are entitled to some moral complexity, my dear.”  He drinks his beer, gaze shifting from side to side and then down at his gloved hands.  He rubs his right hand across the back of the left, lips pursed in an utterly abject expression.  “If I even am a murderer.”

I lower the beer that I had almost raised to my lips back down on the table.  “If?  You don’t know.”

“I, well -”  He leans forward over the table, dropping his head into his hands.  “I don’t remember much of what happened the night Lucio died.  Everything from then - not just that night, all of the plague, really - is foggy, confused.”

More missing memories?  His, the Countess’s - mine.  If amnesia is the running theme, was I involved in the murder somehow?  And what else had been involved to disorder so many people’s minds?  There wasn’t much in the books I had access to about losing memories, but what little I had found was consistent in noting that it was extremely uncommon outside of old age or significant trauma.  Julian and Nadia both have a clear connection to the Count and his murder, but I don’t - at least, not as far as I know.  But there is an awful lot that I don’t know.  

But, more to the immediate point.  “Why are you in Vesuvia then?  Do you want to die for a murder you may not have commited?”

“Does it matter?  Look, sailing with pirates for three years gives a man a lot of time to think and all I know is that I’m guilty of something.  I have to be, to feel the way I do.” He lifts his head for a moment before dropping it back against the table, arms crossed in front of him.  “Besides, if it's my fate to hang, then there's no, um, no point in continuing to run from it.  Maybe I’ll at least get some kind of answer out of dying.”

There's something about seeing him so despondent that makes me want to wrap both my arms around him - and tightly.  I start to reach my hand across the table, then jerk it back.  I've had plenty of bleak interludes, but what I feel right now is some emotion that goes unexpectedly beyond casual empathy.  Some bizarre sense that he is important to me.  A piece of heirloom jewelry that was lost and is now found, or a rare book once read in a library and now available for redemption on a vendor’s table.  I’m not quite sure how to explain away the sentiment or just what to do with it.  But not acting isn't an option.  I slowly extend my hand until my fingers are resting on his shoulder.  “It wasn’t you.”

He raises his head, just enough to meet my eyes.  “You can’t tell me that I’m innocent.  You don’t know that.”

“No.”  I lift my fingers from his shoulder and stroke the lock of hair that’s falling over his face.  “But I know you’re not a bad man.”

“How?”

“I -”  This isn’t like the cards whispering to me.  This is something more real, something from inside of me.  The words are distant, as if they’ve been shouted through a fog and had to echo over open water before reaching me, but but unlike the cards, the words are my own, and I know they are true.  My fingers brush against his cheekbone.  “I just do.”

“You really are a little fool.”  His head tilts, leaning into my fingers.  I stroke his hair and his cheekbone, waiting for him to say something else.  The fiddler pulls a long morose note from the strings that wavers in the air.  He sits up and tosses a coin across the room to the musicians, calling for something happier, faster.  The accordionist catches it adroitly and the pair begin a quick paced tune.  

Julian takes another drink of his beer and smiles at me - it only looks half forced - before standing and bowing dramatically, one hand extended to me.  I return his smile and toss back the remains of my beer.  This may not be an answer but it is part what I was hoping for when I came - to find someone to dance with into the energy running through my body gave out.  Anyone would do, honestly, but at the moment, Julian intrigues me.  I stand up and take his hand.  Eyebrow arched in what might be surprise, he takes my hand, his grin becoming more genuine as he does.  

He is, as I suspected, a fine dancer.  And dancing him with isn’t as awkward as I would have expected, given that he’s head, shoulders, and bit of ribcage taller than I am.  I feel as if he knows the steps I’m going to take before I do.  We whirl through two songs before returning breathless to our table and signaling to the barkeep for more beers, which Julian helpfully goes to fetch.

He slides close to me on the bench, wrapping an arm companionably around my shoulders. “Why the trouble sleeping, lovely?”  

I shrug.  Honestly, I don't know.  Sometimes, I just got too agitated to sleep for days on end for absolutely no apparent reason at all.  And then the sleeplessness only snowballs on itself as the agitation takes over, tearing into my consciousness like a vulture working on a fresh carcass, until finally, my mind is so far from my body that the latter can simply crash down into bed.  But Julian looks like he knows a few things about not sleeping.  Reaching out, I run my finger along the dark circle under his uncovered eye.  “And how well do you sleep?”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”  He leans over me.  “You smell good.”  He traces the line of my now exposed collarbone.  I lean into his touch, running my tongue across my bottom lip.  But then he shakes his head, straightens up there robe tied over my shirt, and pushes my hair back from my face.  I narrow my eyes at him, pouting and disappointed.  Julian is the perfectly awful decision I’ll looking for.  And he's clearly enough interested in me.  He runs a hand along my jaw and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip.  “I’d love to, darling, really, but I don’t know you well enough to know if this is your normal, or if you simply have amazing balance while inebriated.”

“I’m never normal, per se.”

“Note that I said ‘your normal’ not just 'normal.’”

“I'm not at all sure that I even have a personalized normal.”

“Life that complicated, my dear?”

“Not really.”  My life itself is fairly banal, except for that whole not remembering more than three years thing.  I feel like a ghost.  A specter - a spectator - at the limits of life and death.  A shade captured in patterns of behavior that were set for me long ago.  Watching.  Reacting.  But every time I feel able to act on my own, something seizes me, either pulling into melancholy or dragging me up, up, up into a frenzy.  And, once again, I'm stuck in the pattern, whatever exit I glimpsed long past, and I'm once again caught barely managing to balance between life and death.  Maybe that's why I had accepted the Countess's proposal; I wanted the exterior to match a little more constant parade of up and down in my interior life, or at least, provide me with a sorry if distraction from them.  “But my mind makes up for it in sheer unpredictability.”

“You better get back to the palace; it’s nearly dawn.  Come on, I’ll walk you.”  

“That sounds like a horrible idea.”  I lean forward, resting my forehead against his shoulder one hand on his chest, the other resting on his waist.  I’m not inebriated, but I might be a little drunk.  “I don’t want you to get caught.”

“Heh.”  Under my fingers, his chest catches in a half laugh.  “Compromise.  Your shop?”

“I can work with that, I think.”  I mean, he was walking openly in the market the other morning.  The people who live and work around my shop must not be in a hurry to turn him in either.

The air outside has gotten steadily cooler over the course of the cloudless night.  I wrap the bathrobe tighter around me and retie the knot in the sash.  Julian stops and looks back at me with a concerned expression.

“Are you warm enough in that?”

“This?  I’m fine.  Silk is a surprisingly good insulator.”

“I did not know that.”  He takes my arm when I stumble over a bucket that has been tossed in the street.  “Still, you, um, you look like you might be chilly.”  He pulls me close to him, and wraps one side of his coat around me.  It’s comfortable - the same way snuggling against Asra is comfortable.  We walk in silence arm and arm, through several turns of the street.    

“Say, why did my old mask upset you so much?”

“I -” I shudder at the thought of those glassy red eyes.  “I don’t know, to be honest.”  I pull my arm free of his hand.  “I’m sure a lot of people don’t like them.  Bad memories.  And you had broken into my home as well.”

“Yeah, I really am sorry about that.  I mean, I thought I was just breaking into As - the witch’s home.”

“Why are you trying to find him?”  And for that matter, why doesn’t he want to say his name?  At some point, Asra had been someone Julian wanted to protect, rather than “the witch.”

“I need answers.  I think he has them, if I can get him to tell me something for once.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Heh,” Julian chuckles.  “How long have you . . . ?”

“Been his apprentice?  Three years.”  At least, that’s as far as I can remember being his apprentice.  I’m not quite sure that I’m ready to trust Julian with the full extent to which I’m missing my own past.  I want to.  I’m so tired of keeping that card clutched close to my chest, telling little lies to disguise it and praying that I can keep up with them, all the while feeling like I’m drifting further and further from who I actually am.

“Fascinating timing.”

“What?”

“Oh nothing.  Look, we’re at your shop.”

Speaking of people not answering questions.  Almost as bad as Asra.  I undo the wards on the door and turn back to say goodbye to Julian.  He leans down, embraces me, then kisses my cheeks: one, then the other, then the first one again.  “Sleep, my dear.” 

“You too, maybe?”

“Maybe.”  He smiles at me - a genuine smile with no hint of a smirk.  Then he’s gone.

Chapter Seven

a/n: Yes. I was and am very much into nineties era Depeche Mode, and so is Julian.  At least, this Julian.  Who also gets worried about whether he likes new bands because they’re actually good, or just because they’re trendy.

[imagine-loki]

of numbers and strange friendships

TITLE: Of Numbers and Strange Friendships CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 22/? AUTHOR: nekoamamori ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being friends with Peter Parker RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: None so far.  Also on AO3 here

Loki needen’t have worried.

At all.

Frigga came forward and hugged them both around the neck, though Loki had to bend over for her to reach. He minded oh so much.  He loved any contact from Frigga that he could get.  “Any blood brother of my son is a son of mine,” she told them and kissed each of their cheeks in turn. 

Peter blushed red as Frigga stepped back while Loki lit up in pure excitement that his beloved mother had accepted his blood brother.  Peter looked up at Loki. “Did your mom just adopt me?” he asked in a shocked whisper.

Loki chuckled.  “That she did,” he agreed and ruffled Peter’s hair affectionately, while Peter gaped at just being automatically adopted by Frigga.  Though that’s what Frigga did.  All of Thor’s friends she treated as her own children.  Of course she would do the same for Loki’s.  Especially a friend he cared for enough to claim as a brother.  “You should head to class, Arachnid.  You and Aunt May will be having dinner with us tonight,” he reminded the teen.  “Happy will pick you up, so do not be late getting home from patrol,”

Peter grinned. “Whatever you say, witch,” he teased.  Loki rolled his eyes, but didn’t complain any further in front of his mother.  He looked to Frigga and offered her a polite smile.  “It was a pleasure to meet you ma’am. We’ll see you tonight.”  Peter and Wanda both waved before they rushed off to make it to class on time.  It was a good thing Happy was driving them or they never would have made it on time.  At least not unless Loki teleported them.  Which he’d done for Wanda exactly once, since she’d been out all night on a mission and he’d taken pity on her.  

Loki turned to Frigga and offered her his arm.  “Would you care to meet the rest of the team, mother?” he asked her warmly.   

She took his arm with a bright smile.  “I would love to meet the rest of your friends, darling,” she told him warmly.  

The four of them started to head inside.  “They are more Thor’s friends than mine,” Loki warned her.  Besides Peter and Wanda, the rest of the team were pretty much all Thor’s friends.  Though Bucky and Loki had become close over shared experiences (and Loki healing Bucky’s abused mind), and the rest of the team was friendly with him, except Stark, who tolerated his presence.  Loki and Stark had agreed on a truce while Frigga was in town. 

“I am sure they are your friends as well, darling,” Frigga told Loki reassuringly, as she had his entirely life when he complained about Thor’s idiot friends and not having friends of his own.  

The team was gathered around the common room when the trio returned and they all stood to be introduced to the queen of Asgard.  Everyone was equally polite and Clint had even made pancakes for Frigga, at Loki’s request.  “This is my favorite Midgardian food,” Loki told Frigga warmly as he pushed her chair in at the dining room table.  

“Then I must try it,” she replied just as warmly.  Clint looked nervous when he placed the stack of pancakes in front of Frigga.  No one wanted to upset the kindhearted queen.  Knowing what they did of Asgardians, they didn’t want to see her upset.  She or her sons would kill them where they stood and not feel a drop of remorse.  They didn’t need to worry about the gentle, caring Frigga, though.  Once everyone was served, she took her first bite of pancakes and nearly moaned in pleasure over them, just as Loki always did.  “These are wonderful,” she told Clint approvingly and wish such open honest that Clint actually blushed as he accepted the praise.   

After breakfast, Thor and Loki took Frigga and Sif around New York to see the sights of Midgard.  Loki and Peter had been working to create an itinerary of fun things to do that Loki’s beloved mama would love.  Loki had also gotten Stark to give up Happy for the day to drive them around.  Tony had also gotten them VIP passes to anything they wanted to do.  He wanted to stay on Frigga’s good side as much as anyone else did. 

They took Frigga to museums and she loved seeing Midgard’s art and history.  They did all the touristy things with her, seeing the statue of liberty, times square, and even caught a matinee on broadway.   Loki found himself identifying a little too much with the green witch in the show who no one loved.  But Frigga adored the show and adored the ‘darling green witchling’, which warmed Loki’s heart.

The press followed them around all day and Loki and Thor kept having to apologize that they were a bit famous here and the press always wanted to know what they were up to. Frigga shook it off.  She was a queen after all and used to drawing attention when she went out.  Sif didn’t care, she was happy to spend the day on Thor’s arm.  The pair kept sneaking kisses when they thought Frigga wasn’t looking.  Frigga kept exchanging knowing looks with Loki over the pair and he chuckled at her delighted matchmaking.

“Is that why you brought Lady Sif along with you?” Loki asked her as they wandered around the zoo admiring the Midgardian animals. 

Frigga laughed. “Only partly, your father insisted that I bring a guard with me,” she explained.  Odin was overprotective of his wife.  Of course he’d made her bring a guard and Lady Sif certainly qualified.  It was just a bonus that Frigga got to do some matchmaking while she was at it. 

“Hey Loki! What’s the number today?” Peter asked as he dropped from a web next to them.  

Loki smiled over at the teen. “One.  We are having quite an enjoyable day, Arachnid,” Loki told him.  He turned to Frigga and added. “Spiderman searches the city after school most days looking for people to help,” he had told her already about Peter’s alias and why he hid his identity from the people.  

Frigga smiled warmly at the masked teen.  “It was kind of you to check up on us, darling.” Loki could sense Peter’s blush under the mask, though of course he couldn’t see it.  He couldn’t help chuckling at the easily steamrolled teen. 

“Have you eaten, yet?” Loki asked him.  Peter shook his head.  Loki huffed and rolled his eyes as he pulled a twenty from his wallet, which he pulled from the back pocket of his suit pants.  “Your metabolism is much faster than a normal human’s.  On top of that, you’re a growing boy.  Make sure you get something to eat,” he told the teen.

Peter grinned and accepted the twenty.  He never went asking for money, but he wouldn’t deny it, especially since he knew it came from Stark’s “feed Peter” fund.  Loki didn’t know or care if he had his own money on Midgard.  He was perfectly happy to use Stark’s instead.

“That was my next stop,” Peter reassured Loki.  “I’m glad you guys are having fun.  I’ll see you tonight at dinner.  Aunt May is excited to go.  She said Mr. Stark got us into the fanciest restaurant in town,” he turned to address Frigga.  “See you tonight, Mrs…” he paused, lost and confused as to what to call Frigga.  He looked to Loki for help.  “Odinson isn’t right,” he said, but didn’t know what the proper polite form of address was for Loki’s mother, especially since she didn’t want to go by royal title or address on Midgard.  

“You can just call me Frigga, darling,” Frigga tried to reassure the teen.  She wouldn’t be difficult on Loki’s friends and she really was just visiting as a mother.  This wasn’t a diplomatic mission. 

Loki chuckled. “Her proper title is ‘allmother’,” he supplied for the polite teen who would’ve died before he called an adult by their first name. “No Mrs.” He felt Peter’s relief at having a proper address that wouldn’t offend any of their sensibilities.  

He nodded to Frigga.  “Until later, Allmother,” he said before he shot a web at a building and took off.  

“He’s such a polite young man,” Frigga commented when Peter had gone.  

Loki chuckled.  “That he is.  It was months before I was addressed as anything other than ‘Mr. Loki’.  He keeps insisting his beloved aunt and uncle who raised him would have skinned him alive if he was caught being anything other than polite.  And now it is too ingrained in him to be anything otherwise.  He is unbelievably goodhearted,”

“And his question about the number today?” Frigga asked curiously as the pair moved to look at the giraffes.  Loki had been impressed the first time he had seen the giant creatures. 

Loki laughed again and explained Peter’s number system to her and how it had helped the pair bond.  He explained all about his blood brother and how the teen had gone far out of his way to befriend Loki.  Frigga absolutely adored the fond look on Loki’s face as he described his relationship with Peter and told his mother about their adventures.  She also saw how much he cared for the boy when he made sure the teen had eaten. 

“So… about that camping trip…” Frigga said with a smirk.

Loki gave her an incredulous look. He hadn’t told her about the camping trip. “Have you been spying, mother?” he accused.

She laughed.  “I couldn’t help checking up on you, my darling.  Though, I must admit that you and Thor attempting to camp with Midgardians was wonderful entertainment for sitting in front of the scrying mirror with those cinnamon candied nuts the chefs know I adore,” she teased.  

“Mother!” Loki huffed indignant and horrified.  She’d gone all day pretending to have never seen Wanda and Peter before and she’d been sitting watching them on the equivalent of Asgardian TV.  

“What did our beloved mother do, Loki?” Thor asked as he and Sif caught up with them.

“She scried on us through the entire camping trip!” Loki protested, his cheeks turning red in embarrassment at some of the things they’d done on that trip.  Including turning Flash into a goat.

Thor turned red too.  “Mother…” he protested.  The boys may have acted differently had they known their mother had been watching their actions.

Frigga laughed and cupped Loki’s cheek.  He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch as he always did.  Poor thing was always so touch-starved.  “You acted admirably, my darling.  You handled the Midgardians well, including that troublesome one who threatened your student.  I’m proud of you, my son,”

I’m proud of you

It was exactly what Loki needed to hear from Frigga and he pulled her into a hug.

“Thank you, Mother,” he told her softly enough that Thor wouldn’t be able to hear.  “Thank you,” 

[thelastpilot]

Knighted- Chapter 6

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5.

Oh snap has it been a year??? It’s been a year I’m so sorry. Hey for people who don’t know this is a DjWifi Princess!Alya and Royal Guard! Nino AU. Maybe perhaps give it a read now that I’m writing it again lol. Let me know what you think? This chapter is really simple but... its been forever and I needed to conclude the old stuff first lol.

The castle was filled with light for what would only be a handful of moments more, the very last of the sun reaching the walls of the open stone hallways before it would settle into murky twilight. Dusk looked beautiful on the tiles and the tapestries of the castle, scattering over muted servants and hurried nobles alike as the day drew to a close. Measured steps were audible amidst the sounds of a conversation between councilmembers, and though the younger of the two pretended flawlessly to absorb everything he was told, he was focused on the gorgeous failing light of the kingdom. It was much more enchanting then what was possibly the dullest conversation he could think of, but as he sensed another pause he hummed as if considering something, nodding to his elder to continue.

Adrien hated these things. He knew he was probably being childish, but he really hadn’t retained a single thing since they left the gathering hall, where most of his attention had been required. The lord that currently monopolized his attention wasn’t saying anything that he needed to hear, not a single thing was of note or use to him in the slightest. It was essentially a recap of things they had already voted on, and arguments they had already made, which Adrien had actively argued against in the meeting they just came from, but that didn’t seem to occur to the nobleman. The persuasive argument had been so contradictory and useless since the matter had already been decided that Adrien was reminded of a goat ramming its horns against a wall. The old codger was probably just sore that someone so much younger than him had the king’s ear, taking their moment alone as a chance to swing Adrien to his side. Not that it mattered, since it was already over and Adrien had already won.

‘Just take the loss and stop already…’ Adrien muttered in his head, tearing his eyes away from the view of the castle town and indulging this dusty mean man in the interest of politeness. The old lord said something and argued something and made some kind of point, and Adrien just hummed again, looking away and down the hallway a bit wistfully. How nice it might be to walk down that way. Alone, and without a lecture. But men in positions of power loved their arguments too much to be stopped just by being wrong so… he endured.

“Yes I see,” Adrien stated eventually, not sure exactly if he interrupted in a spot that made sense but he was really hoping this would end soon, “however as I stated before I think the current needs of the outer territories are more important then the cost in resources. The Fall harvest will bolster us, it’s a worthy investment and the King agrees with me if it means salvaging relations. Now if you’ll excuse me-,”

“This Kingdom is not like your own!” the noble reiterated, and Adrien internally wilted as he seemed intent on repeating himself again. “Our crop yields are different to yours, we can’t account for-,”

“Sir please, if you will,” Adrien nearly begged, taking a step away, “The matter is settled, and I have business to attend to.”

Adrien turned to leave but the lord was speaking again, and he had to make an effort not to sigh in exasperation, facing the opening looking out over the castle grounds like he might jump from it. He kept his back to him in a desperate hope that he might let him leave, but as he ranted about the territories his attention was caught by a group moving far below him.

Adrien took a step forward, leaning out to look at the procession of horses seeing as the lord didn’t really need him to engage anyways.

Marching through the inner walls of the castle grounds was the familiar formation of a royal party, heavy footed guards following along behind as three horses made there way up to one of the entrances to meet some servants who were waiting expectantly to take the reins. Adrien looked to the front, grinning to see an armored guard step down from his place on his steed and hand the lead to a servant, no doubt saying please and thank you. He could easily recognize the princess immediately behind him, already dismounting on her own as the guard bypassed her without hesitation, moving instead to help the small weary twins from their shared saddle.

They all looked together and in one piece, Nino collecting the royal daughters and sending the horses to be watered with what he was sure was an air of expertise. He couldn’t hear them or see them too clearly in detail, but he could picture it perfectly, beaming to see him doing so well. He deserved it, after how hard he worked, and Adrien again felt that same swell of pride he had when he saw Nino that morning.

He watched them until they vanished from sight, his mind already working out a way to maybe ‘accidently’ encounter Nino again to ask how it went when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and he allowed himself a small sigh.

“Yes?” he asked dully, turning to pretend to listen again, at least for a little while. Then, he’d sneak away and find the guard. Yes, how optimistic that sounded, as the aging lord continued to rant about nothing. The implication that he might ever escape was somewhat reassuring to him, and he steeled himself for another round of tiring, insufferable politics.

- 

The tail end of dusk mingled with the now lit torches of the interior staircases, filtering through the windows and illuminating the carpeted stone steps that the party very slowly made their way up. Their progress was hindered by the twins, who were subdued as they mumbled something sleepily to each other, the pair of them holding onto their older sister’s dress as she gently guided them towards their rooms.

Nino smiled when he looked back at them, staying in the lead but forced to wait every few steps for them to catch up. The poor little ones had worn themselves out before they had even left the field, so the ride home and through the town had been a weary one. Nino frowned a little when he saw how dirty the hems of their dresses were (and in honesty he wasn’t looking much better), but he hoped they might still be awake enough to explain to their mother how much fun they had had should they see her before bed. Certainly, Alya would explain at least but he also wasn’t sure he wanted the story in her hands either. She’d probably linger on the loud, clinking rabbit hunt adventure a little longer then was professionally impressive…

He caught Alya’s eye when she looked up, trading a smile as they tried to do. She held onto her sisters as they reached the landing, walking with them through one of the longer, final hallways.

“Today was fun,” Alya stated simply, and it took Nino a second to realize she was talking to him. He looked around for a moment to ensure the other guards had taken their posts, but when he saw they were alone he slowed up, walking beside her instead with one of the twins between them.

“I’m glad you had a good time.”

She hummed in response, and he realized he hadn’t left much of an opening to continue. He looked around again, careful, before saying, “I know you said you don’t get to do those a lot, so it’s nice that you were allowed to today. And I bet the little ones loved spending time with you.”

At this Alya laughed, smiling up at him as they walked shoulder to shoulder. He felt himself stand a little taller, wanting to still look impressive if he could manage it but the dirt and creek water that still lingered on his armor probably ruined that a little. Or maybe she liked it more, he wasn’t sure.

“I hardly ever got to go out like that when I was young, so I argue for It as much as I can whenever an opportunity shows itself. My parents are very protective of us, which I understand but… still. They’re kids. They should get to play in the creek, right?”

“Absolutely,” he was quick to agree, and she smiled again.

It felt weird, and a little blasphemous to walk besides a princess. He knew that if anyone saw he’d have to cover for himself quickly, making some kind of excuse for why he’d treat her so plainly. They had been in each other’s company for hours now but being back in the castle had made it difficult to feel comfortable with it, and she seemed to understand that even if she pursed her lips.

He couldn’t tell what she was thinking now, as they turned the final corner towards their rooms. The farther they got from the fields Nino noticed her stand straighter, laugh less, walk smoother. Like her whole being was pulled up and towards the castle with a sort of… inevitability to it. Or maybe he was reading into it too much… he overthought things a lot, but still. They both acted different, as they passed the company of other nobles and guards and he was forced to walk ahead, guarding them and waiting patiently as they exchanged curtsies and brief conversations. He looked on, standing stiffly as he watched Alya laugh at something someone more important than him had said.

But it didn’t sound exactly right, not mischievous or teasing or anything like he had heard just a few hours ago. Just… polite. Proper.

Appropriate, for a princess.

He walked in front of her, guiding them to their rooms without comment or any more risked glances as they passed a few people more now that the day was turning towards indoor necessities. He wanted to talk to her again, for a handful of reasons, but as they closed the final distance he realized he’d have no time to. He didn’t like that the last laugh he had heard was so… thin. But it wasn’t his business to think one way or another about such things, and he was forced to walk in silence until he formally stepped to one side of the twin’s door when they arrived. Alya gave him a nod to indicate he should wait, as she plucked the children from the hem of her dress and took them inside, vanishing from view.

Nino was left in the hall with a pair of other guards, neither of which spared him a glance as they guarded the royal chambers. He felt something like pride to be one of them, guarding the living spaces of the royal family, but it felt a little lack luster in comparison to leading them safely about their business.

Or catching rabbits, whatever they needed really.

 Nino kept an eye on the hallway, diligently aware of all movement, but letting his mind wander as he waited. He was sort of reminiscing about how a ‘guard’ almost always is someone watching a door somewhere, or maybe a wall or in some cases a person, but it’s just sort of sitting around and making sure other folks don’t sit around and look at the thing you’re looking at.

It’s a ‘hey mate this is a special door’ kind of job. And this door here was very special, because it had very important people who were vulnerable to attack, so if you were going to be watching a door then out of all the doors this door was the one to be watching. Because something might happen with this door. Anything really.

…

Pretty boring, actually, Nino eventually thought to himself. He couldn’t afford to get spoiled on interesting escort missions… this is what he had been doing for three months straight and was exactly what he was going to be asked to do as soon as he left the princesses charge for the night. His job was to be dangerous and stand in front of a door, that was about it.

Could be worse… but he was grateful for the change of pace the day had provided. Getting to feel so important for a second… standing tall like he was some kind of Knight, a real Knight. It made watching doors feel so mundane in comparison, if it could get any duller than he already thought it was.

He was still mulling over his grievances when he heard Alya’s voice just inside, heading towards the door as she commanded something of her sisters. Judging by the whines they were reluctant to listen, but he could hear her rebuttal clearly as she opened the door to leave.

“Listen to them now, you can’t sleep with that dirt all over you. You wash your feet and change for the night, and be nice about it for your maidens all right? Is that clear?”

Nino fought to keep a smile from his face as he heard the twins moan, Alya giving up and turning to face him with a slight huff.

With his back to the other guards Nino risked a sympathetic expression, quirking an eyebrow and shrugging slightly as if to say ‘What can you do?’. Alya saw this and chuckled a little but turned away to say her final goodnights.

To Nino’s surprise he got one as well, the twins leaning on their beds to be visible through the half-closed door, waving to him sleepily.

“Thank you, Sir Guard sir,” Etta called to him in a small voice, “For the rabbits and for walking us and letting us go.”

“Thank you for the bunnies Sir Guard, goodnight sir, thank you.” Ella offered as well, grinning at him before she clutched her dirty feet and frowned at a round-faced maiden who was trying to clean her.

Nino was a little stunned, but he smiled, bowing. “Goodnight princesses, it was lovely to meet you.”

He wanted to say more, but the three maidens inside were already tittering a little, asking the girls what they meant by ‘the bunnies’ as Alya closed the door and stepped away.

He straightened up, knowing now that he was soon to be dismissed as they started walking. She was only just down the hall, and he was a little sad to see the day close. However, he was under the impression that he had done a good job, and everyone seemed to like him so that was a relief.  

He walked her to her door in silence, internally fretting over the fact that he was probably always going to be ‘the farm boy’ in her mind, but also pleased that he had earned some small place there for the day, in her attention.

Where he had come from, and who he had been before… he had never once thought he would be in the presence of royalty. He had also thought very differently of what royalty might be like. So far they were regal yes, and powerful as well, but the King had been kind. The young princesses were just children, and Alya?

She was unbreakable, and sharp and interesting. He wasn’t sure what to make of her, but he thought of her jokes and her teasing when they were together on the hill and he knew it was nothing like what he expected a princess to be.

He much preferred it, actually.

 They came to her door in no time at all, Nino turning smartly to attention as he awaited her dismissal. Dusk had faded now, and it was the torches that lent them light in the muted stone hallways, her royal highness looking up to regard him.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, just standing there outside her chamber door, looking at him. Their only company were the same two guards, now a good way down the corridor nearer to the twins, and Nino seemed suddenly nervous, though he attempted not to look it.

It made her smile a little.

“Thank you for your service today,” she said simply, her smile audible in her voice. After a moment she added, “And your company. It was a nice change from the others.”

“I-uh,” he froze a little, looking her in the face and again, a little stunned by her. She had this way about her, that in his mind he was forced to admit he had been wrong, at least a little. In this way, she was very much like a princess. The absolute command of attention.

After a short moment of floundering he bowed his head, speaking earnestly. “It was an honor, your highness. Thank you for, um, indulging me, I suppose.”

When he looked up he saw some of that spark return to her eyes, the one he had lost somewhere in the castle since they arrived. Lost in all the hollow conversations and proper laughs and curtsies.

“If you looking after my little sisters for me counts as indulging then I’d spoil you rotten,” she said with a smirk. Then she seemed a little more genuine. “They haven’t had that much freedom to be kids in ages. And I got to relax a little as well so… thank you.” She smiled. “I appreciate it.”

There was a beat, and before he could think better of it, he said, “Any time, your highness.”

She frowned a little, playfully though it looked like, and turned to open her door to her chambers. He glanced briefly inside, finding it already lit and made up in preparation for her, her handmaiden likely somewhere inside waiting for her to return. She stepped inside and she dropped the frown as she turned back to look at him, an eyebrow slightly raised.

He was frying a little, trying to figure out what he had said wrong, before it occurred to him as she dismissed him, a simple ‘That will be all sir, thank you.’ The last thing he might say to her, he corrected himself.

“Goodnight, Alya.”

She had already started to turn away, but upon hearing her name she looked back at him, smiling happily again.

“Goodnight, farmboy,” she answered in return, giving him a smirk when he made a face. He had no time to reply before the heavy oak door was shut, and he was abruptly alone with her departing line in the hall.

Professionally dismissed, but remembered.

Job done then… but he lingered for a moment.

And a moment more,

Before he shook his head, smothered his smile, and returned to his business. His business as a royal guard, feeling more official and in place then he had the entire summer for all his tiresome work. He had been congratulated, beat down, fought, tested, and patient, but now…

Nino held his head high, carrying her acknowledgment with him and letting it bolster him as he passed his fellow guards, earning their glances now as he marched confidently past.  Now, he had fulfilled the higher part of his calling here, to be of service to the royal family should they call upon him, and things were different.

He’d do his dull work proudly, with a point to prove. He had nearly won over the guards through hard work and harsh reminders, with a good few enemies, but budding allies as well. He was aware, distantly, of this King’s reminder that he had his attention, and now the princess as well seemed intent to keep her eye on him. He was a farm boy with the notice of the royal house, something he had no intention of squandering-…

His mind turned to the creek.

Suddenly his thoughts were in the wildflowers again, cramped and overheating but holding perfectly still, a bit over eager to make up for his wrong doing with the twins. He slowed on the stone steps, thinking again of the creek water in his boots as the eldest princess teased him, and it felt natural enough that he could roll his eyes. She laughed and he mumbled, and the twins celebrated his excellent tracking. They were little kids, and the princess, for a moment, was just a girl.

When he came back to the moment the torch lit stairway seemed cold in comparison, and his ambitions fell by the wayside as he slowly continued on his way.

That was important too, he decided.

He had a lot to prove, and a lot he wanted to be seen as, but he had ambitions to be close to the royals for another reason now. Their approval didn’t just mean status it was… something else too. Something simple and good that seemed lost the more formal and practiced everything became.

He was new, he had been indulged only once and he had trouble articulating exactly what he wanted to do but…

He hoped they might call again, and he would have another chance. So that they’d be safe, so that he could do his job and do it well, but also, so that not all the little things got lost in the castle. Yeah.

Something like that.

[shystoryrebel]

Tarred Road

Syed and Gayatri didn't mean to fall in love. But love happens when you least expect it. It creeps up suddenly. When someone needs attention, care, conversation, laughter and maybe even intimacy. Love doesn't look at logic, or at backgrounds and least of all, religion. Gayatri was from a very conservative South Indian family that went to a temple every Saturday. Syed bought goats for his family every Eid. That said it all. Their paths would never have crossed if it hadn't been for that fateful day. That day when he walked into the coffee shop. Gayatri wondered if destiny chose our loved ones for us. Did we have any role to play at all? She looked at her watch. Syed was late. They met every Thursday at five pm to catch up. Their conversation lasted for hours. Sometimes at the cafe, sometimes in his car, sometimes in places that she could never tell her friends about. They would never understand. And yet Syed made her happy. Suddenly her phone beeped. He had sent a message. "On my way. Have something important to tell you." Gayatri stared at it and realized she had knots in her stomach. Thoughts flooded her mind. What did he want to tell her?

After waiting for hours Gayatri left for home.

Her hands went numb and cold after getting his message. ‘ Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky’. During all these moments, she knew only scotch could give some relief to her. She picked up the bottle of Scotch, from which she took two big pegs last night.

She read the label again and again on the Scotch bottle almost singingly, ‘Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky’. It was a good happenstance! Syed and Gayatri-they share a common interest, ‘Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky’.

She quickly swigged alcohol, from the bottle in her hand. She could feel the Scotch journey through her veins to the brain.

The ‘Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky’ opened her closed mental space and poked her that she was in a two bedroom flat, owned by her parents and the bottle, from which she had gulped the Scotch was the first ‘Date’ gift by Syed, whom she loved stealthily. Her mind was running fast.

“But who am I?” Gayatri asked this question. Her brain was flooded with questions about her relationships with Syed. Was she only an ordinary lover or sex toy….Who was she? She realized her love for Syed now.

She tried to be the excellent friend, Syed wanted her to be and she suppressed everything.

She was in love with him now.

She was desperate to see Syed who would be able to answer her query.

Her’s was a conservative society. If she were a boy, things would have been different for her. But entry of Syed changed everything fundamentally in her. She wanted to wear many hats with ease and believed in out-of-box free thinking. But Syed was very rigid and mysterious and he was not ready to mend his radical ways about Islam. Although Gayatri was very happy with Syed but in her heart she was always weepy and oppressed as Syed never paid much attention to her. He was always on some mysteries mission.

���Do you know Syed?” She asked to herself. When Syed was with her, he was the most remarkable person she had ever met. But heart of this man was Islam. He always pretended to be very busy. He was always very well dressed but always busy in attending the phone calls. Whenever there was a call, he used to leave her alone and attended the calls away from her.

Whenever there was no call, he would sit cross-legged on the chair, engrossed in thoughts. As he was lost in thoughts, he frequently ran his fingers through his thick-black hair. Every now and then, he pushes his chair.

Her beginning with this amazing but mysterious man came about in an exciting manner in the coffee shop.

Syed was born into an affluent family. His father ran a thriving business of carpet in Kashmir. They owned two palatial hoses and a big showroom in the main market of Srinagar. Besides a buggy, they possessed a ford and Baby Austin. Abdullahs and Muftis were their close family friends. Eminent, political and Muslim leaders, poets and other intellectuals of the state often visited their bungalow. Syed was a student at Srinagar University. Life was extremely pleasant-late night parties, drinks, romance, poetry, luxury!

And then came the terrorism in Kashmir. Months and years of deaths and bloodbath. Family business of Syed was ruined. After months and years of feeling alone and useless in Srinagar, he suddenly found a purpose of life after meeting her. She became his confident. He talked to her. She also loved her new role. And the more Syed shared his feeling and his past, the more she wanted to help, to the point that she started feeling that he might not be able to achieve his goals without her help and company.

Syed was attractive, slim, and quite tall for a south Indian Hindu girl. He generally dressed in salwar-kameej. He was nearly in his late twenties. His English was good and he didn’t have good accent. They blabbered on – the typical stuff of first meeting; what, they did, where they lived, which place they liked, what they had seen so far, where else they had been , where he was going, and so on and so for, for many hours. In the very first meeting, they didn’t seem in a hurry to leave.

She found that Syed would cure her loneliness. The first step was to start frequent conversation. Syed was expert in this art. Just make a kind and soft comment about anything and other party is in trap, “really cold today, isn’t it?” Or, “the service is very bad.” Or whatever comes to mind that can binds two persons together.

This was the scene now that she always thought about Syed. One day she was alone at her parent’s house and the bright sunshine of the winter noon had just brightened the sky. Suddenly Syed came without any information. She was amazed but very happy. He gave her a very tight hug, arm-in arm, breast to breast. Both stopped. He drew her more closer and lightly kissed her cheeks, lips and eyelids, she inhaled the sweet smell of his body, kissed her chin, loitered at her throat, then moved to her tight breasts, kissing through her skirt, the nipples of her breasts. With his lips he traced her heat, red lips, then her blushing cheeks, then felt the lids of her closed eyes, then kissed her forehead, until, finally his hands rested on her hips. In the room, Syed moved his hand from her hips to her thighs, then to her waist, slipping his hands, underneath her panty and slowly moving his hand up to the center of her thighs.

She breathed in and held him more tightly. She absorbed the feel of his body. He touched the untouched.

But all of a sudden all hell broke.

Far, in a loudspeaker a mullah was offering his prayer. Syed immediately released Gayatri.

He uttered, “ Mashalah.” as Allah had willed all this!. She could not disagree. She also muttered two “Mashalah.” under her breath.

Syed changed his clothes. Short pajama, long kurta and skull cap. He was looking very funny. After this, he sat on dry and clean floor. He offered his prayers.

She slept poorly that night. Lots of thoughts as to how things would go out once I marry a Muslim. She woke, soaked in sweat.

She shared this relationship with her friends too.

‘A Muslim as your lover?’ Pooja slapped her head. ‘What a stupid girl you are.’

My college friends Pooja, Aarti and Sita had come to my flat. Fat Pooja sat on my bed.

‘How did you surrender so easily like a whore?’ She shouted at Gayatri.

‘I can still smell the dirty stink,’ Aarti said and closed her nose tightly like a little child.

We all four of us came from religious middle class Hindu families and none of us were the ‘classy secular’ types one finds in universities and colleges.

‘Nonsense. I have taken a bath. No smell,’ Gayatri retorted back.

‘It’s all useless. His stink will remain for a long time,’ Aarti said.

‘You’re trying to kill me for my secular love?’ Gayatri argued.

‘Stop talking like that about a Muslim, Syed,’ Pooja shouted.

‘O my, protective, secular and modern lover,’ Sita said.

‘So, are you in a permanent relationship? Things seem to be swelling.’ Pooja snapped.

‘What?’ Gayatri asked.

All laughed.

‘He is just playing with you and your body.’ Aarti said.

‘Did you love him and anything happen?’ Sita asked.

Gayatri blushed and her face became red.

‘What?’ Shocked Aarti ‘Idiot, did he just do it all with you and you allowed him?’

‘Nothing much happened,’ Gayatri said in a low voice, ‘Due to his prayers, he stopped.’

‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Pooja asked. ‘Entire colony talks about you.’

‘I can’t stop at this stage,’ Gayatri said.

‘You fool don’t know? Aarti said twisting her face.

‘And he?’

‘He’s not sure.’

All kept quiet.

‘You love a Muslim now,’ Aarti said.

Gayatri remained silent. She has spoken the unspeakable.

‘You have shamed your family and shamed us all, we don’t want to talk to you,’ Shouted Sita.

‘Gone, you are so gone. You are lost forever. I can see sense of shame and guilt on your face,’ Aarti said.

‘Be careful from Muslims. They need toys for time pass or they need girls for love jihad,’ Sita said.

There was a loud and big bang on the door. The noise broke her chain of thought.

All of a sudden, a police van stopped in front of her house. Syed came out of the van, two policemen holding him handcuffed and a woman with two children followed him. Woman was his wife, Parvati alis Ayesha and two children were his sons. He was unshaven, worn out looking, very scared and had an air of desperation; it appeared that escorting policemen had gave him nothing to eat.

Six huge police officers rammed into her almost darkened flat and flashlight ablazed the flat, started going through the rooms, making her open the cupboards and boxes. They were very carefully checking every item. They apprised Gayatri with a glance about the dangerous activities of Syed. A chill went up in the spine of Gayatri.

Syed requested the escorting party to remove the handcuffs so that he can offer prayers. But the officer in-charge punched him badly fearing, Syed might flee.

Gayatri looked within and found herself as the most stupid woman of the world. Syed had other women also in his love-trap as he was a ‘love jihadi’ – there were so many other woman victims too!

Gayatri could not understand Syed. He seemed, to have been fun with women and in return he was paid handsomely by his organizations. But she became very quickly and easily too serious.

She turned and glared at Syed with intensity, never seen before. Her face was reddened. Her eyes expressed anger, possibly hate. She spat words at him. She told him very tersely not to enter in her life! “You’ve just made everything worse. I never want to see you again.” She turned away, took a few long steps towards the main door. She concluded by shouting you was as horrible as your practices.

Two long hours had elapsed. Within these two hours, she had seen more than she should have. She slammed the door shut.

Gayatri cursed herself. She meant nothing to him! Why had she fallen in love with this jihadi? Why all other women fallen in love with him? Now she knew the answer: those glowing blue eyes, his slim and tall young body that seemed seductive, drama to help, that she saw behind his false facade, his oft stated desire and faith to believe in humanity.

‘What the hell did she weave around her?’ It was a disaster. Gayatri was devastated. She was a reserved woman. She had issues opening up to people.

Knowingly or unknowingly, without thinking about the future, she was guided or rather misguided by her inner impulse; to enjoy or take a view of a wonder that became a ‘snake.’

She was walking out of his life.

‘What the hell did she do?’

The neighbours appeared, too hurry and comfortable in a fragile relationship of neighbourhood. All had their windows and doors closed like hers. All fearful of the common enemy but afraid to speak, under the grab of privacy and the dark world of fashionable and modern shades.

She heard the sound of the footsteps of Syed and escorting policemen getting fainter as she walked away inside.

The black tarred and emotionless road, loyal to its arrogance and indifferent to the brutal marching rogue pouring hate and destruction on all those come to his way; bringing destruction and then charring the souls and bodies those dare to make a direct or indirect contact in any way.

Horrified, Gayatri tried to hide behind the heavy curtains, not only from the light but from her own self. She felt as if the light and eyes could be of a wounded cobra striking with a vengeance. She was praying for the safety of herself and her family from this cobra. But not all measures can be fool proof.

‘To err is human.’

“Syed was an eclipse on her life. Solar or lunar, in Indian (Hindu,) mythology, they bear religious connotations and their occurrence are linked to inauspicious and unfavorable phase of the Universe and each living being and life on the earth.”

[ramblingsofthegoldenwitch]

Some say that erika is a polite girl. But she a really crazy person. Is it true?

Hum...

I’m not sure why you would think the two are mutually exclusive and what exactly you mean with ‘crazy’ as I get you mean she has mental problems but there’s a moltitude of them which come with various deegree of difficulties in interacting with others and in behaving in what we consider the ‘normal’ way.

Still being polite isn’t the insurance that one is mentally healthy so I fail to see the connection between the two statements.

Also a good thing we should remember is that we know very little of the TRUE Erika or PrimeErika if you prefer to judge her mental health

All we know about her is that she believed her boyfriend might have been cheating on her she exibited a behaviour that some would label borderline to paranoia (very, very likely her boyfriend was cheating on her and therefore her fear was justified and not a delusion but the way she perlustrated his house was overboard... although she didn’t stalk him so maybe it wasn’t so bad as it seemed) but we can’t really say for sure as we really have not enough elements to judge nor we’re doctors.

It could be that what too us look like her excessive checking of his house was merely dictated by circumstances (maybe she was in charge of cleaning it so for her it wasn’t that weird to check it up) and by an overabundance of observation ability from her part.

It’s speculated that PrimeErika didn’t just fell off the boat but tosses herself off of it so she could have been suicidal and therefore suffers of depression... but again it’s just a speculation. It makes sense thematically but it’s nowhere stated in canon.

In short it’s possible and actually likely that Erika wasn’t in the best psychological conditions prior to her death but there are no proofs about this and anyway nothing we can speculate exclude she was a polite girl.

Going on.

What we get to know better are:

Piece Erika from Ep 5

Piece Erika from Ep 6

Meta Erika.

You might have noticed I didn’t consider Piece Erika from Ep 5 and Piece Erika from Ep 6 as the same person and the same applies for Meta Erika.

That’s because they’re NOT the same person.

Let’s dig in the pieces first.

The pieces are nothing else but MetaErika playing a roleplay game. She doesn’t bother doing things like staying in character, she plays the game the way she finds it more functional.

When you’re roleplaying you can decide your alignment is chaotic evil and go around murdering people in the game and planning to become an evil overlord... but this doesn’t mean in real life you’re willing to do the same. It’s a game and you just pretend to be chaotic evil during the game but this doesn’t mean YOU HAVE TO BE in real life.

So, in Ep 5 Erika decides her piece will be very polite. Now... her behaviour might be a little odd to us but that’s only because she’s actually playing the role of the detective and not even being subtle at this. In detective stories we see many detectives doing the same Erika does but the story usually covers the oddities of their behaviour up so that we don’t question how everyone let them do as they please.

Umineko had fun lampshading how a detective is actually behaving in a very unnatural way so it sets her up as ‘odd’, but that’s Umineko’s narrative choice. Erika fits the detective trope perfectly. The detective is normally as intellectually intrigued as her in face of a murder, questions everyone, inspects everything (usually even more than Erika did), his authority isn’t questioned but actually he’s consulted and he deliberately eavesdrops any possible conversation even prior to the happening of a crime.

Of course this works only because a mystery asks us to suspecnd our disbelief and accept this as normal behaviour. Umineko didn’t, so it felt very odd... and Umineko had fun making it seem even odder as PieceErika is genre savvy and MetaErika even uses her to talk with the gamemaster.

So well, to other pieces, who’re not genre savvy, Erika's behaviour might look very odd and questionable but still PieceErika isn’t ‘Erika’. She’s just a character in a game which defies its own rules (like it or not Umineko is a mystery and the fact it pretends not to be in Ep 5 is rather funny) and therefore she can act as she pleases.

In Ep 6 MetaErika decides for her piece to play a completely different role.

She doesn’t bother to have it be polite and even goes to use drastic measures to avoid losing and trapping MetaBattler in a logic error by having her piece decapitating other pieces.

This Erika is definitely not police and she’s definitely mentally disturbed but she’s not the real Erika. Would the real Erika have done it? We don’t have the slightest idea. What we know is that, so far, Prime Erika was never accused of being a murderer but hey, if MetaErika decided on having her piece being a motiveless murderer for the sake of winning a game who we are to blame her? It’s just a game, no real person was killed.

So you might claim Ep 6 Piece Erika is seriously mentally disturbed (I won’t try to analyze her here) but the truth si that Ep 6 Piece Erika is fundamentally a piece who’s moving in the way that’s more useful to Meta Erika in order to win a game. She’s not real, nor her murders are real.

To Meta Erika it’s all a story. We don’t go and accuse Ryukishi of the murders happening on Rokkenjima nor we doubt his mental health for writing such a story so we shouldn’t do the same for Meta Erika.

Now... what’s the psychological state of Meta Erika? And is she a polite girl?

Well, Meta Erika went for a polite approach with Battler in the beginning, but he rejected her. She wasn’t so bad with Ange or EvaBeatrice either and she’s definitely polite with Bern and Lambda.

So I’ll say that Erika can be polite if she wants to especially with who she views as superior to her or equal.

What Erika clearly isn’t is kind.

She’s not kind, she can be polite but she doesn’t really care about who’s around her. This doesn’t stop her from being polite when she want to/have to.

What about her mental health?

Hard to say.

She’s not in a normal situation that requires normal behaviour.

She’s undoubtedly beyond bitter and overly vengeful but there’s to say there’s Bern behind her forcing her to act a certain way under threats.

Erika isn’t FULLY free to act as she wants, she’s manipulated and threatened and she’s in an environment where ‘normal’ means something very different from what ‘normal’ means in our world.

After all people (and even ships!) can fly, can use magic to appear or disappear, goats have human body, Bern can turn into a cat, mosters walk around and can eat a full island making it disappear, people can but torn into one million pieces and then being sewed back together as if nothing had happened.

All this is far from ‘normal’ and yet everyone in the story accepts it as ‘normal’ because that’s how that world work.

So... judging Erika is really hard. Personally I wouldn’t call Erika’s condition as the condition of a person who has a good mental health. She’s too jaded, too negative, too abusive and too submissive even for the world she’s in.

There’s something broken in her.

But I come from a world where ‘normal’ means something completely different and, anyway I’m no doctor and therefore not supposed to give a medical opinion... and, at the end of Umineko, Erika seems to be in perfect health while she’s with Bern and Lambda so... it becomes even more difficult to put a label on her.

So I think if you want an accurate, detailed and trustworthy psychological analysis of Erika you should probably knock to a person who’s into the medical field. My three years of psychology are nowhere near enough for this. I can only point out the problems in her behaviours I can’t really give a diagnosis.

Sorry about it.

[impracticaldemon]

Graylu Week 2017 ~ Chapter 5: Too Cold to Hold, Part II of III

fanfiction by impracticaldemon Words ~ 2550 | Also available on FFnet and AO3

Author's Note: Another story in which each chapter has more parts than expected. Welcome to Part II of "Too Cold to Hold", which is now going to be Part II of III. Part III is already partly written, however. ~Impracticaldemon

credit for cover image to Milady666 on DeviantArt [Link] & tumblr

Chapter 5—Too Cold to Hold, Part II Prompt: Fragrance (still for Graylu Day)

Lucy went out the closest door, teeth automatically clenching as the cold hit her like a solid force. She started walking around the big chalet, staying close to the wall for protection from the wind and snow, and so as not to get lost. She couldn't make out either Gray or his footprints, but that wasn't surprising under the circumstances.

She started calling once she judged that she was under their window. "Gray! Gray!" There was no answer, but the cold was increasing, which Lucy took as a sign that the snow spirits were nearby. She took a few careful steps away from the wall and then a few more, keeping the lit window directly behind her. The light had a slightly pink tinge to it which she assumed was Aries' fluffy seal on the inner window. There was suddenly a bright glitter ahead of her and a burst of magic. She stopped walking and cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Yo, Ice Princess! Get your ballgown-covered ass over here!"

"What the hell—Lucy?! Dammit."

A dark shaped loomed up out of the swirling snow and Gray was suddenly in front of her, looking oddly beleaguered. He was naked to the waist, which wasn't unusual, but his whole body was rimed in frost, turning his blue-black hair to dark-streaked gray. Even as he stepped closer to Lucy, she noticed something she'd never expected to see—he was shivering.

"You look cold," she said, then immediately felt ridiculous. They were standing in the middle of a snowstorm, after all, and he was only half-dressed.

Mind you, it was still better than blurting out her first thought, which was that he looked totally amazing—like some kind of Northern battle god facing off against the hordes of Winter itself. He carried a blood streaked sword in each hand, and it took Lucy a long moment to realize that the blood—Gray's blood—wasn't just contained within the weapons the way it usually was. She'd seen him make such weapons before, and it always made her shudder, since it looked so painful. This time, though, the weapons looked as though they were weeping gory, crimson droplets.

"Gray—what are you doing?!"

His response was a little slow in coming and sounded slightly slurred. "They can only be driven off by blood—at least, that's what I was told—doesn't kill'em but sends'em away. There's a lot of 'em though. Also, they're, um, somehow condensing the blood out of the ice, so I keep having to add more."

"So, basically, you're bleeding continuously. Great."

Lucy heard a faint buzzing noise over the wind, and then it felt as though the temperature dropped several more degrees. She huddled inside her coat, trying to come up with a quick solution. Gray took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, and then set his swords in motion. It was a little bizarre watching a man fight a cloud of snow. With his own blood.

"Did you find out why they're here? And angry?"

"Um, I don't speak snow spirit—do you? Like, I was trying to keep 'em away from the chalet, not enjoy a nice gossip." His sarcasm would have worked better if he hadn't sounded so winded.

"Hmm." Lucy considered her celestial spirits and then took out the gold key for the goat, Capricorn. Loke might be useful against angry snow spirits, but he didn't seem like the right choice right now for several reasons.

"How may I assist you, Lady Lucy," Capricorn asked a moment later. He was standing closer than usual and Lucy felt her neck crick as she struggled to look up at him. Like Aries, he had a light dusting of snow on his clothes and in his hair. She was about to ask why he had appeared almost on top of her, but then realized that he was standing between her and the knot of bitter cold that denoted Gray's assailants. Somehow, he blocked the worst of the chill.

"Oh I see," the tall celestial spirit commented, after studying the situation for a few seconds. "There are an awful lot of them, aren't there?"

"I can't see them," Lucy admitted. She suddenly felt embarrassed about the question she wanted to ask. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. "Capricorn, would it be possible to find out what they're upset over?"

Capricorn did an excellent imitation of a butler being flustered by an unexpected request—which is to say that he remained politely expressionless. "I can certainly make the attempt, at least," he told her.

In fact, the angry knot around Gray began to dissipate, and she saw him stagger slightly. She reached out for him but he shook his head at her. "I'm fine," he insisted. "And I don't want to hurt you by accident." He gave Lucy a tight, pained smile, and flexed his fingers. She suddenly realized—as she should have known—that the swords were fused with Gray's hands.

"Well, you'll look very sexy and heroic as you collapse into the snow," she told him, snapping slightly out of concern.

"Sexy's good…"

Lucy saw Gray's head turn and his stance shifted back to battle-readiness. She winced as fresh blood seeped into his ice weapons.

"I believe I have some understanding of the problem, my lady," Capricorn said at that moment. "If you could just stand still, Mr. Gray…"

"They're about to attack again," Gray told him wearily. "And honestly, I need to get this over with sooner rather than later."

"What have you found out, Capricorn?" Lucy tried to ignore the fact that she could barely feel her fingers.

"I could only get the gist of it, I'm afraid—linguistic and cultural differences being what they are between the celestial and elemental realms—but essentially I think there has been a major misunderstanding."

"Okay, what have we, or they, misunderstood?"

"They were hoping that Mr. Gray would come out to play with them like last time. Also, I believe they were impressed with the blood offering and now consider him a, er, member of the colony. As it were."

"I—wait—what?!" Gray was shaking his head. "I was taught that if you let any kind of gathering of snow spirits too close to your home, first you'd be cold and then you'd be dead."

"Yes, that is what would happen," Capricorn said gently. "You see, like most forces of nature, they don't really understand living beings. They no doubt find ice magic quite—how can I put this?—appealing. So they wanted you to leave the chalet and create more of your delicious cold."

"Delicious cold?" Lucy frowned. "Like food?"

"Not really, but close enough."

"But Lucy sensed danger or evil intent or… or whatever!" protested Gray. "Wanting to play is like, I dunno, a snowball fight or something. Not having a good time watching your new buddy die of hypothermia or bleed out or something!"

Lucy shivered, only partly from the cold. She was beginning to grasp the problem and how everything had gone wrong.

"So the snow spirits, or cold spirits, or whatever they are—they don't actually hate ice mages, they love them... literally to death." She thought for a moment and then added: "That's actually quite consistent with how most stories about the Fair Folk go—lots of tragic endings for people who forget that they just don't think the same way as humans."

Gray was staring stubbornly off into the snow, presumably towards the snow spirits. Lucy pretended not to notice that he had finally given up the weapons and was now trying to stop his cuts from bleeding. His next words dispelled the notion that he hadn't paid attention, however.

"So you're saying that the humans have had it wrong from the beginning. But why does the blood drive them off then?"

"It doesn't; or rather, it doesn't actually kill them. It's just that"—the elegant celestial spirit looked embarrassed—"well, most magical pacts used to be ratified in blood." He forestalled Lucy's next question with a slight sigh, "Including pacts with celestial spirits, of course. We've evolved since. The point is that everyone seems to understand that shedding blood is important. And Mr. Gray's theory that using blood within a magical weapon makes it more effective against spirits and magic and so forth is quite correct. So once a human starts bringing blood into something—well, either they're done playing with you or they're agreeing to something of grave significance. I suppose that somehow context determines whether it's a case of 'get lost or I'll hurt you' as opposed to 'I'm signing my life away.'" He cleared his throat. "I'm just putting a number of different theories together, you understand. Speaking with earth-bound spirits is always… challenging."

Lucy thought for a moment that Capricorn was actually going to sneer—he would have managed it well—but instead he maintained his calm expression and shrugged.

"So how did I somehow make a blood offering?" Gray demanded, coming back to immediate concerns. "I mean, I hear what you're saying in a general way about snow spirits and everything else, but as I mentioned, Lucy sensed malevolence—or just something bad—earlier, and I've never in my life been swarmed like that."

"You have found a way to fuse ice, blood and magic, Gray-san. You're fascinating to them—I think. At this point I really am just guessing. As for the ill-intent felt by Lady Lucy, I suspect that what she really sensed was the danger of you going out to meet such potentially—if accidentally—lethal playmates. She's really extremely talented."

"Don't need you to tell me that," muttered Gray. "So what do we do now? I guess you got them to hold off huh?"

"I told them that you were angry. They are—for lack of a better word—apologetic. Also, they are quite impressed that you have found a suitable wife." Gray stared speechlessly at Capricorn, and Lucy choked. The celestial spirit smiled gently at them. "They are suitably impressed with Lucy-sama's power, since she was able to summon me. They are curious how long it will take for there to be offspring."

"We're not even engaged!" Lucy and Gray spoke in unison, faces now flushed with more than cold.

"Ah. Well, they assume that Mr. Gray became angry because they inadvertently interrupted the, ah, mating ritual."

Lucy turned away with her hands over her face. Gray couldn't tell if she was laughing, crying, or just couldn't take the embarrassment any more.

"And to think I believed this would be a good place to gets away from it all!"

"Shall I tell them that the matter is resolved, Gray-san?" asked Capricorn gently. "Perhaps you could send a small token of friendship."

"Such as what?"

"I understand that your ice sculpture is quite talented."

Without another word, Gray brought his hands together, ignoring the half-healed cuts, and formed a perfect, long-stemmed ice rose. Lucy regarded it suspiciously, but he had apparently opted out of using blood to add colour.

"I see that you left the thorns on," she commented.

"It's how I was taught," Gray muttered, holding out the lovely crystalline flower to Capricorn. "Will you pass this along with my um, best wishes or whatever?"

The celestial spirit nodded. "I believe that this will be the end of the matter, at least for now."

"For now?" Lucy asked suspiciously. Gray's face echoed her question.

"Well… they are hoping to see your, er, offspring in the future." Capricorn's face was perfectly neutral. He bowed politely to Lucy. "As are the rest of us, of course." Without another word, he walked into the thickest patch of swirling snow, held up the ice rose, and then vanished.

The snow seemed to thin within moments, changing from waves of madly careening flakes to a more normal—and distinctly warmer—slow fall. The two humans let the flakes settle on and around them in silence.

"We should go in," Gray said at last. "You need to warm up and I want to help."

Lucy stared at him. "After all of that—not to mention learning that something important that you've known to be true since forever is completely wrong—all you can think about is"—she broke off, suddenly unsure how she wanted to complete that sentence.

"Well, yes," her boyfriend told her, tipping her chin up and stealing a snowy kiss. "You see"—he lifted her into his arms, since she wasn't moving—"you're pretty amazing, and I was just reminded that not only are you sexy and smart, you're a kick-ass mage." He paused halfway to the side-door to crush his mouth against Lucy's, and she found her arms winding themselves around his neck entirely of their own accord, fingers tangling in the back of his damp, snowy hair.

Time passed, and then Gray suddenly raised his head, eyes narrowing. Lucy wanted to protest, but the words died unspoken when she felt the drop in temperature and sensed that they weren't alone. The chill scent of snow under a clear night sky full of brittle, winter stars somehow overrode everything else.

Instead of setting her on her feet so that he could fight, Gray pulled her in closer to his chest. He frowned at the densest swirl of snow.

"Oy! We don't need an audience!"

The cold intensified for a moment and Lucy thought she heard or felt a rustle akin to laughter. Then the cold and the presence—presences?—withdrew, leaving behind a gloriously detailed snow sculpture of Lucy and Gray. It glistened with ice, apparently impervious to the admittedly mild wind.

"Um." Words failed Lucy. The people represented in the sculpture were noticeably short of clothes, their bodies twined together in a passionate kiss. They seemed very… happy.

"Oh gods." Gray squeezed his eyes shut. "I—I don't know what to say."

Suddenly Lucy burst out laughing and Gray looked at her in surprise. After a moment, she'd subsided to giggles. "You have pornographic snow spirits!"

"Hardly!" Gray hugged her, relieved that she wasn't upset and ready to defend his… what had Capricorn called them? His colony. "It's a trifle risqué, I grant you…"

"I think they may be doing more than kissing."

"Well, it's not really clear—and you're staring." Gray narrowly avoided a smack to the top of his head. "Besides, they live beside a, a romantic chalet. Maybe it's just what they're used to in human behaviour. Maybe they're just very open-minded. Maybe—"

"Let's go in."

[END of PART II]

A/Note: See you with Part III soon! As always, any comments, reviews, thumbs up, etc. are very much appreciated! Thank you also to those who are taking the time to check out my other stories. :)

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