#prequel tiiiiime!!!

[nitewrighter]

Smoky Tea

Now this could be a very disappointing followup to Cindy but people have expressed interest in some King and Queen focused stuff and these two have been rotting my brain since I answered that ask a while back so!! Here we are.

This is really a one-shot but it’s a little fun to dig into the Cindy-matic Universe a little further. 

-----

The fire in the fort’s captain’s quarters crackled as she poked at it. It was clear the lord of the fort had kept it as a cheap, low and long burning pile of embers to keep the room at a tolerable but not comfortable temperature, but she had heaped logs on it until it blazed, warm and cozy. The warmth was heavenly after two weeks shivering in a cell.

“I know I said ‘Do you want to get out of here,’” she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“It’s fine,” he sat a bit primly in one of the buckskin armchairs flanking the fireplace, 

“It’s just-- this room is more easily defensible than open air--and I do have an exit route if...” she trailed off.

“How high are the odds of that?” he asked, getting up from his seat and fiddling with the kettle crane, taking a pitcher of water from a small side table and filling the kettle.

“What are you doing?” she glanced over at him. They were basically shoulder to shoulder at the fire.

“I thought I’d put some tea on.”

“...tea,” she repeated.

“I could smell it. He has a stash. Smoky stuff. Hard to get in my country,” he tried to sound casual but his voice was somewhat distant. Longing. There was a moment of repulsion in her, like, ‘Jesus fucking christ we could still fucking die and he wants fucking tea.’ But there was something about the way he carried himself. It wasn’t impractical--the fear was definitely there, but there was a clear sense of, ‘Well if you’ve thrown all these logs on the fire, there’s no reason why we can’t get a little more comfortable.’

“You said these people were threatening to cut off your fingers, and now you’re making... tea,” she said as if she was trying to explain his own thought processes to him.

“If I can find it. I bet I can find it before the kettle starts whistling--” he was already walking out of the room.

“What are you?” she spoke after him.

“Sorry--we’re getting off track. You said something about an exit route?” he called from the other room.

 She drew her mouth to a thin line then. “One of my men found a hatch. Trapdoor. Leads right out. If I had looked harder I could have found him sooner--”

The kettle had a low, steady ‘whoooo’ of a whistle then, and she just heard a bright, “Found it!” from the other room, and in came the former prisoner with a tray laden with a well-used, but well-crafted and well-loved tea set. “And he had currant jam, too!” he said with a conspiratorial grin.

Her eyes crinkled with incredulity. 

“...you take your tea with jam here, right? That’s what my ambassador told me...” he trailed off. The way he looked at her triggered in a fury in her like ‘No, you do not get to fucking set up your little fucking picnic here. That’s not how this works.’ 

Her lips pulled back from her teeth from a few moments in disbelief. “You now, any prince with any survival instinct would be calling to his father to burn this hellhole down.” 

“It’s not a hellhole,” his voice was a bit distant but his eye contact is unsettlingly steady.

“You don’t know that! You don’t live here!” she snapped.

“No--I don’t--but the point of any diplomatic mission is to assume good faith so--” his mouth pinched up, “So that faith is in you, my lady. You are my rescuer. You are the representative of your country.”

“It’s hardly a country--” she muttered.

“Hardly indeed, but you saved me, so I... I ought to assume you’re the best of it.” 

The kettle was shrilly whistling then, and he briskly stepped over to it and swung it off the fire. Not breaking eye contact with her, he set the tea tray on the small table between the two buckskin chairs, took the kettle full of boiling water, and poured it into the teapot. There was a sort of ‘See? I can look after myself attitude’ of it, and she maintained an equally steely eye contact in turn, a look that said, ‘I doubt you’ve had to dig your own latrines.’

“How strong do you like your tea?” he asked, completely seriously, still maintaining that look.

“...I don’t have a particular preference,” she responded tersely.

“Very well then,” he said, as if she had resigned herself to a firing squad.

The tea steeped for about three and a half minutes of complete agonizing silence before he took the infuser out and poured them both cups, stirring a small spoonful of jam into each. He slid her tea saucer over to her. They both exchanged a steely glare before taking a sip and--

Everything melted away.

Sweetness and woodsy-floral smokiness and warmth hit her like the blast of a blunderbuss, spreading from her tongue to the roof of her mouth to the crown o her head to her throat to her chest to her whole body and she took a sharp inhale just to center herself amidst the sensation.

“Oh fuck me--that’s good,” she blurted out after a sip and a half.

He choked on his tea at the words. She snorted in turn.

“You said it first,” she said with a wry smile.

“So clearly you’re a corrupting influence,” he gave a short waggle of his eyebrows, “Miss...” his voice trailed off.

“Mynah,” she said the name like it was something small and shameful, like an extra toe or a tail--The king’s father actually had a tail, an ugly bald little thing about a thumb’s length, but he figured right then was not the best moment to bring it up.

“Like the bird,” he said instead.

“Plain, ugly things which move in flocks and blight the land,” she murmured.

“I never thought that about them,” he said quietly.

She was running her fingers through her hair. Greasy. Too long since any last decent bath. She felt his eyes on her and quickly flinched her fingers back around her cup.

“The way they move in dusk light it’s....” he trailed off.

She gave him that half-lidded, half-furrowed brow look again. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said finally, “It’s nothing any human would be able to improvise. It’s a ready reaction to every unseen shift in wind and light, but en masse, and reacting to the motion of your neighbors.” 

Her eyes crinkled at that. “...you just... had that ready?” she murmured.

“I quite enjoy bird-watching back home.”

A short huff left her nostrils before she sipped her own tea again. “...are you certain your father wasn’t trying to kill you by sending you here?”

She asked the question out of her own sense of gallows humor, but there definitely was a vein of sincerity to it, and the horrified look he gave her told her that that wasn’t a thing they worried about over in his country. “Is that a thing you have to worry about with your parents here?” he blurted out, almost exactly in time with her recognition of the fact, and she just pinched her mouth a little.

“It’s just... it’s not like you wouldn’t know how bad things have gotten--” she muttered half into her cup.

“Well there was a rough idea...” he murmured before settling his teacup in its saucer, “My father sent me here because he trusts my observation and judgment--it would hardly be appropriate to send troops in if we didn’t have a full understanding of the situation. And it’s not as if we make a habit of butting our nose into what isn’t our business! Just... some marauding bands had started making their way into our borderlands so this was first and foremost a diplomatic mission to see... what might be done about that. Collaboratively, you know.”

“Collaboratively,” she repeated.

“Well there’s a difference between helping someone and throwing fuel on a fire that really doesn’t need it,” he shrugged, “Granted, the two aren’t mutually exclusive but...” he raised his teacup in resignation, “I suppose that’s diplomacy for you.”

“...I’m sorry,” her voice came stilted and stiff to her.

He glanced up at her, breaking his lips away from the teacup.

“...you came here on a diplomatic mission, and you were chained up and bodily threatened--Is that right?”

“‘Threatened with bodily harm’ is the more legal terminology of it in my country,” he shrugged.

“And--and that is not--that is--it should not be the way of my people. And I apologize with regard to the attacks in our borderlands. I can assure you my men had no part in it, but we should be keeping our conflict within our borders.”

“Well...” he gave a resigned loll of his head, “At this point I’m not complaining.”

She snorted. “I’m complaining. A lot. Shit’s been going to shit since well before I had any idea of what’s going on and I don’t know if trying to make it better is making it worse.” 

He was giving her that slightly perplexed smile again and she broke eye contact with him, sipping her tea. 

“...what?” she said, before catching herself, “The swearing--I’m sorry--I’m used to talking to my men--”

“No just... the way you said that reminded me a bit of my father,” he itched behind his ear, “He always talked about, well, when one has power, there are a few ways one goes about it--there’s the bad way, holding onto it for its own sake, for the sake of securing one’s own comforts, punishing those you hate and all that...” he glanced down into his own teacup a bit ashamedly, “Then there’s... attempting to use power to right wrongs and whatnot, and then finding that your own power has so distorted your own perspective that you aren’t doing good at all... there are all these extremes one can go to when one has power, you understand.”

“...I think I do?” her nose scrunched up, “It’s... always been reactive for me. Not really about not thinking, but if you overthink it, you aren’t able to react properly, because circumstances are always changing--but then when everything’s reaction---” Her mouth pinched as well. “I feel stupid talking about this with you--can we talk about something else?”

“I don’t think you’ve said anything stupid,” he said--and he said it so offhandedly and unthinkingly, and yet the warmth and brightness that burned in her chest right then made her feel just as foolish. She had gotten as far as she had by not giving a shit what so many stupid men had thought, and here was mister tea-and-jam making her... think about how she... thought about things??? “I mean, back in my country everyone goes back and forth about so many specificities that by the time we actually come to consensus.. circumstances have changed. People always adapt faster than their governments, but that affects their governments, but you can hardly blame people for adapting.” 

“Well, even if it’s slow... that’s left you better off than us,” she just shrugged.

“I don’t believe that,” he shook his head.

Her mouth quirked. “Oh?”

“Well, I just don’t really think it’s as cut and dry as that,” he sipped his tea a little sullenly, “People in my country they... cocoon themselves up in wealth--and yes while we don’t have... the... er... cultural difficulties--”

“Generations of bloodshed.”

“Yes, those, I mean--a lot of the old families have grudges but it’s about silly  things like shrubbery or who married whose nephew--but that’s part of the problem! Perspective! No news isn’t always good news, you know!”

“No news usually means your messenger has been killed,” she murmured unthinkingly.

“See? Perspective,” he said with a slight ‘exactly’ wag of his finger. 

She chuckled a little. 

“Would it be possible for you to help me draft a report for my father?” he leaned forward, his eyes bright, “Then I could bring it home, and our council could...” a slight dullness of realization washed over his expression, “Debate over it... for months...” he paused.

“Well--when they hear the harrowing tale of the prince’s kidnapping, they’re sure to do something, right?” she shrugged.

“In... theory?” he set his teacup aside and pressed his chin into his hand and thought with a very grim expression for a few seconds. His eyebrows raised and he sat up in his chair. “What if--”

“I’m not coming back with you.”

“I didn’t even say--Okay yes, I was going to suggest you come back with me but hear me out--”

“Do you know what my enemies call me?” she drew herself up from her seat, folding her arms across herself, quietly pacing the floor, “Bandit Queen. Witch Queen. Bitch Queen. Wolf Queen. Wolf Bitch.”

“Four out of five of those are ‘queen!’ Though honestly, I’m quite partial to Wolf Bitch,” he said with a slight smile and she gave him a side-eye with her own wry grin.

“What I’m saying is, if I came to your court, I’d just be... an oddity,” she glanced off, “An exotic wild beast the valiant prince has brought back and tamed--”

“Oh please we both know there’s no taming you,” he muttered before she raised her eyebrows and he caught himself, “I--I mean--Well--I said earlier--you’re my rescuer. You are the most valiant representative of your people... and I bet you could thrill them with some... swashbuckling tales.”

“They aren’t that swashbuckling,” she said and she glanced at the blood streaks on the floor, “They’re mostly...” she trailed off, “I mean... my men have some really good stories...”

“Well--we can work on that on the way over. I’ll just say your hair was down and--and--flowing in the breeze when you rescued me. They’ll eat that up.”

“Hair down is highly impractical and we’re indoors,” she said flatly.

“Well, the important thing is, you rescued me, but you’d be surprised how many of the little details no one thinks matter really matter,” he shrugged. 

“That’s a slight shift from the whole... ‘power ought to serve its people’ thing you were saying earlier.”

“Well they’re serving your people, and then there’s serving your people in the context of a bunch of very rich old families and dry advisors whose priority is staying in their respective wealth-cocoons but who are thankfully susceptible to romanticism and the right narrative,” he shrugged, “Just... trust me on the hair-down thing.”

Her mouth pinched, “I... I don’t know how long I can leave my men,” she said after a few beats. 

“I--I know it’s a big ask but also...” he huffed slightly, “Just because you’re very good at treading water, doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to keep doing it... not when there can be another way. It’s... very clear your men trust you, but surely you have men you trust.” 

“A few...” she admitted, before glancing at the bloodstains again, “And I have a few less to worry about.” She looked around, “Plus, with this fort...I--I can’t go immediately, we need to establish this foothold better--”

“Obviously, I’m happy to stay as long as--” he caught himself.

“...you should still probably write home,” she said, giving him a lopsided smile.

“Right. Yes, of course,” he picked up his teacup again.

 She trailed off and snorted a little. A long warm pause passed, not with the same tension as earlier. “...what kind of tea do they have in your country?”

“Well... it’s all right,” his shoulders relaxed, “But I’m still definitely bringing the smoky stuff back with me.”

[markamaze]

AHWM Theory Tiiiiime

First of all, what a fucking masterpiece I honestly can’t put into words how much I loved the complexity of the different endings, Mark’s dancing and vocals, not to mention every single thing about it holy shit what a fucking ride. Buckle up bitches, cause I’m probably gonna ramble.

Okay, to the theory. So what I’m going to bring up first is the code that ‘Darkiplier’ (Damien) mentioned in ending 31, which, if you haven’t found out by now, acts as a password for the website linked in the description of ending 31. Now, all that you find on this is the bloopers reel, behind the scenes, photos and merch. I kind of feel there’s something more to this, but what I want to touch on first is the bloopers reel and what stood out to me when I watched it.

So, Mark is rehearsing his ‘Darkiplier’ lines (chromatic abberation and high pitched ringing to add effect), applying his eyeliner and then we walk in on him, but wait, he doesn’t talk to us like Mark, he keeps up the Darkiplier act - almost as if it’s not an act at all. He tells us ‘You’re early, now is not the time for us to meet. I’ll see you soon.’ And then his classic exit begins although not as fast as he wants as he says ‘Hurry up. Usually goes faster.’ All the while repeating ‘Now is not the time for us to meet.’ And then it ends, and we cut straight to the actual bloopers.

This is interesting to me, because we know that everything is orchestrated by Actor!Mark, he’s the so-called hero of the story whilst Damien is pinned as the villain Darkiplier - and to a certain extent, maybe Damien is playing along too, but only because he wants to get us out of the loop that is Actor!Mark’s game. So when we meet him in ending 31, he says ‘I always thought that you were trapped in his games, perpetually plunging down the rabbit holes of his stories. Helpless. Lost. I know the feeling.’ This solidifies that he knows all too well the feeling of being helpless, having to follow the script, memorise lines, play his part. So the only way he can get through to us is to play another game, his game. ‘Games were always his forte. But allow me this one moment of self-indulgence.’ He’s hidden codes, all that when collected string together as a series of letters and numbers, a password for the website for ahwm. The truth? The little sneak peak you see of Damien practicing his lines at the start of the bloopers. That’s what he meant by the truth. The truth that its all just fantasy. A game, with you as the person with the controller, choosing your fates and replaying it over and over again to find a different outcome, giving what Actor!Mark wants; a good show.

Maybe it’s a trick? I don’t know for sure, but my understanding of it is that Damien is trying to get through to us, because he knows the feeling of falling down those rabbit holes over and over again. He wants us on his side, not Actor!Mark’s. To add to that, ending 6 has us at the beginning of ahwm having no knowledge about robbing the museum in the first place. The map that originally had all the endings has been wiped clean, and Mark seems to have lost all interest in what we initially went there to steal, and then he looks at us and says ‘You wanna go on that date?’ And then it ends, suggesting that A Heist with Markiplier could be a prequel to A Date with Markiplier, in which Damien wasn’t ‘invited’ on that adventure with you and Actor!Mark (Why? Maybe Actor!Mark found out what Damien did with the codes?) So in that he decides to take matters into his own hands.

Or y’know time and the order of events doesn’t matter and we’re all just chasing our arses 😂I’m not really good at putting my theories down, my brain is already chaotic enough without this glorious piece of craftsmanship that is A Heist with Markiplier, but I do love it so much. I’d like to hear other theories from anyone who has the time to read this. Good luck with trying to understand my take on it 😂. And finally another well done to Mark and everyone that had a hand in creating such a rollercoaster of an adventure. May there be many future projects to come, every one just as awesome as the last ❤️