#she may mask it as righteouness or concern

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Hi, could I request a Blue Exorcist Lucifer x OC enemies to lovers fic if that’s ok? Please and thank you! I have an updated bio.

Name: Irena Elaine Starling

Name meaning: Peace, tranquillity, harmony/Bright, shining light

Gender: Female

Personality: Patient, kind, selfless, wise, righteous, optimistic, courageous, intelligent, empathetic, hard working, passionate, encouraging, steadfast, trustworthy and creative.

Species: Half angel/half human

Height: 5”

-Introvert, Healer, Protector

Describing her character: Pure, peacemaker, observant, honest, reliable, integrity, fair and reverent, Gratitude, charitable and sympathetic.

Likes: Chocolate pudding, long sleeved shirts, ornithology, art, botany, environmental science and note taking.

Dislikes: Killing, arrogance, ignorance, seafood, dishonesty, arguing, negativity and pollution.

Hobbies: Reading, crocheting, baking, crafting, word puzzles and collecting things.

Alignment: Good

Appearance: Medium-length light blue/sky blue hair tied up in a braid, light skin tone and cerulean/ultramarine eyes.

Archangel wings

Flowing, curly hair that’s usually untidy

Flaws/Weaknesses: Worrying, overworking, isolation

Strengths: Family and friends, positivity

Hi Mary! Thank you for your request! Sorry it took so long. I hope you like the fic!

Fandom: Blue Exorcist

Characters: Lucifer x OC (credit to the requester)

Word Count: 1.7k (1,721 words)

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After Lucifer and Irena meet for the first time on the battlefield, there is a strange connection between them. Is it hatred? Or something else entirely?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Across the field, their eyes met. Despite the bodies of Illuminati agents and exorcists alike swarming between them, for that split second, there was nothing between Lucifer and Irena.

There was a moment of realisation as Irena recognised the mask worn by the son of Satan and as Lucifer recognised the dazzling wings pulled in tight to the half-angel’s body. They knew each other through reputation but nothing more.

To Irena, Lucifer was the head of the Illuminati. A threat to mankind. The son of Satan.

To Lucifer, Irena was a renowned exorcist. A half-angel. His natural enemy.

As the bodies closed in between them once again, both the half-angel and the demon were pulled back into the fight, she wrapping wounds and tending to the fallen, he cutting down enemies wherever he could, both too distracted to give the other a second thought.

But later, once the battle was over and they each had a moment of peace, the piercing feeling of their shared gaze came back to them.

~

Irena shivered as she remembered the black holes of the mask. She hadn’t been able to see Lucifer’s eyes but somehow, she had known he was looking at her.

She wondered why. She hadn’t done anything to him or his followers, only tending to wounded exorcists.

The more she thought about him, the more she felt the foreign feeling of hate rise in her chest. He was an agent of war, only concerned with death. How could she not be natural enemies with someone like that when her entire life was so centred around life?

She set those thoughts aside. No good would come from thinking too hard about a person she may never see that close again. She couldn’t let herself get weighed down by grudges over glances.

~

Lucifer leant back in his chair.

He knew he should be thinking about the Illuminati’s next move but he couldn’t draw himself away from the half-angel. Her eyes had pierced through the crowd, stabbing him as effectively as a sword plunged through his heart.

He couldn’t stand people like her. So concerned with helping others that she wasn’t even defending herself in the middle of a battle.

He doubted she had the stomach to kill, even if her own life depended on it.

Never mind. He would deal with her tomorrow. While the exorcists were weakened by the fight today, the Illuminati would attack again tomorrow, bringing down their weight on their already cracking enemies.

Tomorrow, he would find the half-angel.

And he would kill her.

~

Broken and useless weapons were strewn on the ground around her, guns strewn across the floor. Irena’s hands were covered in blood, pressed firmly against a bullet wound in her patient’s stomach.

But her eyes were once again locked with the black holes in Lucifer’s mask.

He was standing over her, much closer now than the last time they had seen each other. He was splattered in dirt and grime. Bright red stood out against the white of his uniform.

Neither of them said anything nor broke eye contact.

Finally, Irena spoke.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Lucifer let his eyes leave hers and drift across the rest of her body. Her words were firm but he could see a slight tremor in her wings. Whether that was from the adrenaline of the battle or the fear of her current predicament, he couldn’t be sure.

“Are you going to kill me?”

He’d been quiet too long. “No.”

His own response surprised him. He should kill her. He knows that. But something in him is saying not to.

If Irena was surprised, she didn’t show it. “If you’re not going to kill me, I’m going to keep saving this man’s life.”

She turned her face back to her patient and continued working on patching his wound.

Lucifer stood for a moment, watching her. But the sounds of battle still raged close by, and he knew he had to leave.

~

Irena lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She could feel herself slipping closer and closer to needing to cry. It had been a trying few days. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to save everyone on the battlefield and, even though her superiors had told her they could handle it, she had made the decision to be the one to tell the families.

Heat built up behind her eyes and she could feel the sharp prickling of tear begin. But just before the first drops could leave the confines of her eyelashes, an image flashed into her mind.

Lucifer, standing over her, covered in the remnants of war and saying he wouldn’t kill her.

Her tears dissipated. What had that meant. He should have killed her. She knew that. She was an enemy, both as an exorcist and a half-angel. So why had he spared her?

As far as she knew, Lucifer was a very war-oriented demon, focused on bringing about his ideal world through whatever means necessary. If he had spared her life, that couldn’t mean good things for her.

But as much as she hated it, she couldn’t deny that being spared by someone so violent left a strange feeling in her chest. One she wasn’t quite ready to explain yet.

~

Lucifer was pacing, despite the scientist’s best efforts. He knew she should be resting, that this body was fragile, and he shouldn’t be wasting its limited time on something as frivolous as walking in circles. But it helped him think.

And right now, he needed to do a lot of that.

Why hadn’t he killed the half-angel? Irena Elaine Starling. He had looked into her through his connections and found that she was a healer. Poliet, quiet, and kind to everyone. Sympathetic and charitable. Liked to have chocolate pudding with lunch and working in the garden.

Such a weak enemy. It would have been so easy to strike her down. To make sure her wings never trembled again.

So why didn’t he kill her?

He stopped pacing and closed his eyes. In his mind, he was back on the battlefield, standing over her. Only this time, he struck.

His eyes flew open as his chest lurched. The scientist was hurrying over, pleading with him to sit down.

But what he had felt wasn’t his body giving way.

This was another feeling entirely.

~

Irena rubbed her palms against her clothes, trying to calm her nerves. She could feel her wings twitching behind her, a clear sign of her tension. She tried to stop them but ultimately had to leave them be. She was only working herself up more.

The Illuminati had called for a temporary truce. Lucifer had asked for a representative to be sent over so they could talk out a more permanent peace.

But every person the Vatican had suggested had been turned down.

In desperation, Irena’s superiors had begged her to go.

Although surprised, she knew she had a reputation for being a level-headed peacekeeper amongst the exorcists.

But this was a lot more serious than simply breaking up an argument between two coworkers. And despite her misgivings, she had not been turned away like all the others.

At that moment, the doors opened, and she left the waiting room, walking into a lavishly decorated office. Her eyes fell to the mask resting on the table. Lucifer’s mask. Before she could prepare herself, she looked up, straight into the open face of the son of Satan.

He was beautiful. She couldn’t deny it. Blond hair framing a strong but delicately boned face.

For the first time, she could see his eyes.

And they didn’t look like the eyes of a killed as she had imagined.

They were the eyes of a creator. Someone who had lofty dreams to bring about new days. Make life better for those he cared about.

“I’ve been wanting to talk.” Lucifer gestured towards the chair opposite him.

Irena sat down. He may have been her enemy, but she believed in giving everyone a fair change. She nodded at him to keep talking.

“I want to say that I have lied about the point of this meeting. I don’t know if peace is possible between our two sides but if it is, it will not be brokered today.”

Irena opened her mouth to speak but Lucifer raised and hand and she closed it again.

“I wanted to speak to you and you alone.”

Now, Irena couldn’t hold back her questions. She knew she was probably going to come off as rude but she needed to know. “Is this about the day on the battlefield?”

Lucifer seemed taken aback. “You’ve been thinking about it as well?”

Irena nodded.

Lucifer took a deep breath. “I know you’re on the enemy’s side but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about why I spared your life.  I think…” He trailed off. There was a big difference between acknowledging feelings and confessing them. Especially when confessing to an enemy.

He met Irena’s eyes and could barely stand the encouraging warmth there.

“I think I might love you.”

Irena took a sharp intake of breath and leant back in her seat. Lucifer raised his hand again, already foreseeing her response. “You don’t have to reciprocate. It will change nothing about the conflict between our sides. I just wanted to tell you. For my own peace of mind.”

There was silence as Irena considered this. Finally, she spoke.

“How would this work? Assuming I couldn’t stop thinking about you as well.”

Lucifer shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’re on opposing sides and I’m guessing you’re not eager to turn on your friends?” Irena shook her head, “I’m sure we’d work something out.”

Irena took another moment to consider this before nodding. “Alright. We’ll make it work.”

Lucifer blinked. Not much surprised him after being alive for so long. But somehow, humans still managed to take his expectations and flipped them. Then he smiled. It was a foreign feeling to him, a stretch of muscles that hadn’t been used in many years. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he smiled.

When he looked back at Irena, she was smiling as well.

Things wouldn’t be easy for them.

But for now, everything seemed right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[ear-motif]

i was blabbing in the tags of north’s post but imo, season 1 alana represented the allure of normative society to will imo and I wanna talk about it. No new revelations tho I’m honestly just solidifying my thoughts. I’m focusing on season 1 because that’s what I watched most recently so I remember the most stuff from it lol.

So Will’s attracted to Alana right out the gate; she’s beautiful, smart, and a bit snarky and sarcastic, so of course he’d like her. And, most importantly I think, she’s interested in him but doesn’t have a use for him. I don’t think Will’s felt someone wanting him for the sake of wanting him in a long time. Plus, she’s a well-respected colleague of all of his coworkers/acquaintances. She’s beautiful and popular and if he can start a relationship with her he’ll have the most solid tether to normative society he’s probably had in years, if ever*.

But she won’t be in a room alone with him. She doesn’t want to “spook” him; she probably thinks she’s letting him meet her on his own terms, but really she’s treating him like an abandoned feral dog. But Will wants that tether, that anchor, so he keeps pursuing her despite her condescending insistence that she knows his own mind better than him. Which…idk, it’s complicated. On one hand, it’s absolutely fair of her to not want to date him because she knows the relationship would suck. But she’s clearly still attracted to him and Will is crushing too hard to be friends with her so she should step back if she’s concerned for their mental well-being. But she doesn’t. She can’t. She’s too attached at this point. She caught a glimpse of Will’s mind and now she wants to save him; it’s exactly what she predicted would happen.

But what does she want to save him from?

If Will ended up with Alana, he would better integrate into normal society. She may work through his righteous bloodthirst issues or refer him to a regular therapist to help. She could teach him “coping strategies for his empathy disorder” (read: how to mask. come on its how to mask he’s autistic empathy disorder my ASS, BRYAN-). She would be the angel on his shoulder, and of course part of Will wants that.

But it’ll never be perfect. One, bc obviously he has that with Molly (a normal relationship about healthy love) and that doesn’t fulfill him, but in the narrative language of the show (or my delulu brain), because her adherence to society’s moral code, her “innocence”, is her weakness (in s1 and 2 i havent gotten to 3 yet plz no bully). She can’t see what Hannibal is doing despite her friend’s emphatic declaration that he is because he is playing the part of a well-integrated society member too well. So when talking to Will, she becomes the angel on his shoulder that tells him what society at large thinks, and society at large wants to gaslight him into thinking he did this to himself because the loss of a mentally ill autistic man is less abhorrent in the current social climate than the loss of an elite socialite and medical practitioner. For Alana, it’s naïveté; an unwillingness to look at Hannibal beneath what he presents. I think, deep down, she was scared Will was right. So she never looked.

Meanwhile, Hannibal is the devil on his shoulder, beckoning him to taste the fruit that he already knows is so sweet (murder. its the murder fruit). Hannibal could be Will’s tether to normal society, and kind of was in s1, but it soon became clear that that wasn’t gonna happen. Because when Hannibal looked into Will’s mind, he didn’t wanna guide Will out of it into the light, he wanted to jump in there with him. This is, objectively, the worse outcome for Will. But this one is fulfilling, he has a love that sets him on fire instead of providing him distant, impersonal warmth. With Molly and Alana, Will had someone who could tame his nightmares. But only by knowing your own evil can you make your nightmares dance. And for Will, knowing himself meant throwing away his last tethers to society and morality, in a way that wasn’t innocent or naïve, but antisocial and enlightened. I could say more but I’m writing dorky ass metaphors that’s a sign to Stop

*This is kind of a wobbly analysis because we don’t know what Will’s childhood or young adulthood was like, I’m assuming that he was always kind of a misfit. This is supported by canon in that Will was always the new kid at school, but I think his isolation runs deeper than that and I think most ppl here would agree. Still, maybe Will was a chad in college and then decided to love murder again who knows

[brutalmasks]

△ “do you like what you do?” @clawsextended a simple and yet deeply invasive but casual question from selina kyle.

bunny mask, upon reading the question that she was given from none other than selina, looked at the paper with the words 'do you like what you do?' on them as if she was in disbelief over what she'd read. no one had ever really asked her that before. whenever it came to her quest for retribution, people almost always seemed to oppose her because of her methods of how she was pursuing it, but asking about her personal feelings towards it was new. and on a scale of 1 to 10 as to how much bunny didn't want to answer that question — it'd be about a 6. she appeared deep in thought, before she spoke, ❝ i do not know. it is complicated, i suppose. i like the aspect of it in which i help people; for i feel as if that is what i was put here to do. and it seems a lot more of those with mortal flesh need protection than i could even fathom at the beginning, which i am happy to provide them with. but because this quest was one that i was meant to do alone, means that i sometimes feel lonely. isolated. the ones that i have even sworn that i would not hurt, look afraid of me at times. though i would never dare to hurt an innocent person. however, i know that this is mostly because i am something that they do not understand, so it is not necessarily a slight against me. it is just in humanity's nature to be wary of the otherworldly. ❞

bunny mask cleared her throat as she closed the note she'd been given by the mun, as she'd learned she should call them ( sorry, i just had to insert a little fourth wall break here LOL ) and pulled her knees up to her chest while she tried to articulate the rest of her thoughts. ❝ but at other times, i can feel the gratefulness coming off of those that i help, and it makes it feel as if it is all worth it. as well as the fact that i have contributed something good to humanity. that, i have shown i believe in their goodness, even whilst i'm ridding the world of the sickness. i am not hesitant to say that it often feels righteous when i am punishing the wicked. just, even. thus, i would say i like it part of the time and do not like it during the other half. it is kind of a noble cause to protect the innocent and avenge those who have already been hurt by the criminals of this city, is it not? not to toot my own horn, however, as they say. ❞

a noise that sounded something like a chuckle, but not quite left her lips in a reserved, sort of quiet way. ❝ so i can not say i am on one side of the argument or the other side. i am in the middle, and i know that what i am doing may be deemed as frightening or wrong to some, but this is my purpose. without it, what would i be? the road ahead may be long and perilous, as evil never seems to rest in cities such as this one, but i believe all of my work here will pay off one day. because there has to be a day where people will not have to be afraid that there will be a stranger lurking around the corner where they are walking at night, or worry about being followed by someone who wishes to do them harm, and be concerned about their children's safety... right? then i will finally be able to rest. but as of now, it appears i cannot leave this city to its own devices, as those with an absence of morality can and will mistreat others. so some being — human or otherwise — has to step in before things go too far, and nothing is left. ❞

bunny mask nodded to signal that she was done responding to the question. she both liked it and disliked it simultaneously. which i suppose was fair as everything has its ups and downs. seeking retribution for others for her is seemingly no exception.

[sithsjedi]

Damn her godfather’s ability to read her like an open book.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Only for a brief moment did the Valorum heiress allow hints of righteous indignation to flicker across her porcelain visage before she schooled her features into a far more diplomatic expression. Nevertheless, the damage was done; Chancellor Palpatine was still permitted the slightest of glimpses into his goddaughter’s inner thoughts, all of which validated the supposition woven into his subtext. His suspicions were confirmed.

Shi’al slid off of the edge of Palpatine’s desk — on which she had previously made herself comfortable — and turned to face her godfather whilst donning her carefully crafted mask of neutrality. He could see through it, of this she was certain, but she still hoped it may assist her with damage control.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ One day, although this was a fact not yet revealed, maintaining this mask to convince Palpatine of the truth within a lie would be a matter of LIFE and DEATH.

“ It is entirely possible for me to be concerned with both issues and to advocate for both involved parties, godpapa.” Shi’al responded, a hint of steel present underneath her otherwise cordial tone. “ With activism, I have come to learn that such duality is often necessary. There is nothing that I adore more than our Republic and I will do what is necessary to secure peace, but remember also that I fight on behalf of those who cannot speak up for themselves. Until the Republic gives them the due credit that they deserve — citizenship, or if this goal is too lofty for the corrupt majority in the Senate, more humane treatment — then my platform includes the Clone Army. ”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ This was another lie; for as long as she lived, Shi’al Valorum would always be concerned with the well-being of the Clone Army. Palpatine, however — as much as she loved her godfather — did not need to know that fact.

“ I desperately wish that this conflict could be solved without war, but unfortunately it seems as if though Count Dooku is hellbent on tearing this Republic apart. ” Shi’al muttered to herself, as she surveyed the chessboard positioned front and center on Palpatine’s desk. Her gaze flickered up to meet her godfather’s once more, features now marred by the presence of a frown. “ He had a point, you know, before he became a secesh traitor. Master Yoda told me about the changes he wanted to make before his fall. ” While she spoke, Shi’al moved her Queen into the perfect position to conquer Palpatine’s King. “ He was right. There is far too much corruption in the Senate. As much as it pains me to admit, the vast majority of your peers — save for perhaps yourself, Senator Organa, and Senator Amidala — have forgotten what it means to be a public servant. Checkmate. ”

@vendettavalor

@sithsjedi said: “ that’s pretty … extreme. ” — Shi’al to Sidious

⚔️ Garrus Vakarian Prompts // CLOSED ⚔️

"I agree, my dear. But while normally I would not condone such methods, these are times where, unfortunately, the most undesirable choices are likely to be the most impactful. The council has informed me that it is necessary to send all available troops out on a rotating schedule." As comforting as the words sound, the worried smile on his face does little provide any actual assurance to assuage her concern. Hands remain folded gracefully at his waist, a forced expression of neutrality masking the conflict bubbling just below the surface.

The Jedi Council say the situation on Mandalore has grown exponentially worse. The death of Satine Kryze has destabilized the planet's government to the point of collapse, and the group known as Death Watch - an infamous terrorist cell to be certain - has seized control in her absence. But from what has been reported, something isn't right. Something more is going on. Something darker.

He intends to pay the planet a visit before the Jedi have the chance.

In the interim though, the clones will be stepping in. The brunt of their army will begin a military occupation of the planet on a rotating basis, trying to deliver supplies to the civilians and detain the group and its allies until such a time arises that a more viable solution can be identified. Many are unsatisfied with this idea, thinking it will leave many key worlds - Coruscant included - vulnerable without their standing military on guard. Still, with a little encouragement from himself, the Senate has decided that neutrality is no longer an option for the people of Mandalore. And this is what compromise looks like.

There is a pause as he turns back to his desk to organize several piles of paperwork before stopping. He doesn't look at her, but he doesn't have to. He knows how she will respond.

"Could it be that your concern lies less with the security of the planet or the concerns of the Senate, and more with the clones themselves?" The subtext to his words is clear. He doesn't mean the clones as a whole, but one very specific clone.

Tech.

[hiraya-rawr]

You're His Guardian Angel (old fic)

Characters: Diluc, Albedo, Gorou

Like being granted a vision, the opportunity to have or meet your guardian angel is quite rare in the land of Teyvat. Yet, it's not completely unheard of for guardian angels to appear in front of their assigned person and introduce themselves as a sort of caretaker.

A/N: A fun drabble I thought of doing because these characters deserve to be LOVED AND PROTECTED. The concept of guardian angels is broad and not thoroughly expounded on in the work :) not super happy with how this turned out though

Contains: She/Her reader. Fluff content, comfort fic, slight angst, toxic albedo or scientist albedo? not proofread.

masterlist

Diluc

BOY you're about to find yourself working 24/7 because this pyro gentleman never seems to rest. He's running his wine empire by day and running the streets with a mask at night! Guardian angels need breaks too!!

His immediate thought when you appeared to him was to look down at the grape juice he was holding, wondering if it was drugged with some sort of hallucinogen.

When you explained that you definitely weren't a hallucination and that you're his guardian angel, Diluc would definitely find it bothersome.

He doesn't like having unfamiliar people near him, especially when said unfamiliar person has to act as his guardian.

"Aren't you a few years too late, miss guardian angel?" This man holds grudges way better than Eula, so don't blame him for being a little too rude on your first meeting.

"Ehe.. It's um, not really my decision to make when I can be of service to you..."

I like to think Diluc had been wishing for a guardian angel all this time. He's been alone for so long, he probably wanted someone who would always stay on his side. Not like his father who's dead, his brother who betrayed him, or the knights who were willing to turn a blind eye to the incident.

Since he doesn't like attracting attention, he'll get you to act as his personal maid or assistant when you accompany him out.

Although you try to help him with his darknight hero duties, he prefers to do most of the fighting. You'd only help when it seems like his safety was at risk.

You often find him working late into the night, even after doing patrols in Mondstadt. Which leads you to the situation you're in now.

"Master Diluc, I brought you tea," You said as you placed the steaming cup on his work desk.

"Thank you, (Y/n). You may leave." He's blunt and cold, with piles of paper strewn across the mahogany. You couldn't help but wonder how much longer would his work take before he decides to sleep.

"Master Diluc, maybe you should take a break." He looks up from the papers to see your expression: you're aware that he isn't fond of disturbances but surely even he should understand your concern, right?

"I'm fine," He says before looking back down. You huff stubbornly — you didn't train for years in heaven just to be pushed away so easily — you can't allow this to continue any longer!

"As your guardian angel, it's my duty to ensure your wellbeing! This includes getting enough rest," You piqued at him, putting a hand down on the table. He looks back up at you with a raised brow. "Please rest... the work can wait tomorrow."

"... All right then," He sighs, pushing away the documents, "Just for a few hours."

Overall, he may be a handful, but he's a capable and righteous handful.

Bonus: some people actually thought Elzer or Adeline was his guardian angel because of how they constantly took care of him.

Albedo

When you first appeared, his immediate thought was how interesting the concept of guardian angels were — he's definitely read all about them and to think that a homunculus like himself would be granted one as well!

His second thought was how useful you could be by his side in the lab.

Expect to frequently help out on his experiments, even if it's just writing notes down by his side.

Ever since Albedo figured out that you could sense upcoming explosions in his lab, he's been using you as a danger detector.

After finding out that your assigned person works in the middle of a dangerous blizzardy mountain, you definitely placed a lot of effort in keeping him warm not that he gets cold easily.

You're making sure there's a constant heat source since he always seems to forget about his wellbeing when he's focused on his experiments.

"Mister Albedo, dinner is ready! There's flaming bolognese and goulash," You say, looking over to the chief alchemist who was mixing an oddly colorful solution.

"Just a minute, (Y/n). I have to record the reaction of this substance when adding liquid nitro-"

"Wait wait! That's going to harm you!" It was your senses warning you to protect your assigned person. Albedo smiled at your way.

"Looks like my hypothesis was correct. This would cause a minor explosion." You stare at him with a dead expression as he scribbles down his notes. Why is your assigned person such a risk taker?

"Please.. Don't use your guardian angel as your danger detector for experiments." You cry at your assigned person who only nods, knowing that he'll make full use of your abilities.

Gorou

As a general of the resistance, I imagine how difficult it can be to keep your assigned person safe.

He's constantly out doing patrols or battling, it worries you to no end when your senses would flare up, alerting you that he's in danger.

But war is difficult. There's only so much you can do to protect him.

Gorou would feel guilty of having a guardian angel. There are so many in the resistance dying for their fight, he believes everyone deserves this kind of extra protection.

Imagine an angst scenario where he finds himself trapped in a losing battle: and as a vision holder and general, he doesn't dare abandon his fellow warriors.

But you sense the upcoming danger and you immediately appear to get him away.

"No (Y/n)! I'm not leaving them-"

"I'm sorry, Gorou, I need to prioritize your safety!"

He would eventually understand. It's your duty to look after him, you're entire physical existence is for his safety — but what about his duty as a general and a warrior?

He's frustrated at the idea of having a guardian angel in the midst of war. After all, he must place himself in danger for the sake of his people.

Gorou is usually nice to you: he understands your concern, but he also acknowledges that your presence isn't fit for war (nor do you deserve to be caught in the middle of it).

On those days, he's more dismissive and cold. He doesn't want you around or anywhere near the barracks.

"I'm sorry, (Y/n). Can you just leave? Just leave me alone for a bit."

[righteousinadversity]

Let's talk about how hubris is not Wei Wuxian's fatal flaw.

I am very, very tired of this take.

Hubris is the fatal flaw of many a hero throughout history. The hero thinks of himself better than everyone, has a high self-confidence bordering on arrogance, and finally, it leads to his downfall.

Those stories are indeed an amazing exploration of human arrogance. But MDZS is not such a story. WWX is not such a hero.

Perhaps people are misled because WWX is not a character afflicted with self-esteem issues (whatever CQL may choose to portray or popular fanon may claim). He is completely confident in his actions, assured in his competence, secure in his endurance. He does not doubt his morals, he is righteous and brilliant and competent.

This is confused with arrogance, especially because much like Gui Dao, his so-called 'arrogance' is often called the reason for his downfall. And until the very moment of revelation, MXTX gives us scenes that are out of context to give us the impression that WWX's downfall was his own fault.

I have said this before, I will say it again, I will say it a thousand times. WWX's demise was the punishment the society forced upon him for having the audacity to stand up against cruelty. For having the audacity to do the right thing when the world was drunk on power and hatred and vengeance and passivity.

Now then. About Hubris.

“Not everything was because of his cultivation path. Wei WuXian’s personality is quite immoral. One’s deeds will be paid, one way or another; what goes around always comes around.”

We have this in the prologue, which, as we all know, are rumours surrounding WWX that are systematically decried throughout the book.

A moment that WWX's apparent arrogance is shown to us is during the empathy with NMJ. His perceived arrogance is clearly shown as a mask when WWX himself says that he was joking with JC as he walks away. However, after this, he has a fight with JZX, a fight that at that particular time, seems uncalled for. JZX inquires about JYL, and WWX does not care for it. Out of context, this seems like WWX is making trouble for no reason.

But later, during Phoenix Mt. Hunt, we find out that JZX's last interaction with JYL ended with her sobbing until she almost couldn't breathe. That JYL was content to stay far, far away from him after the soup incident. WWX's anger makes far more sense, especially because JYL is described as someone who very rarely cries.

Fanon about WWX's 'hubris' is almost inseparable from his use of Gui Dao, or perhaps, more specifically, his control over it.

From the moment he comes back from the Burial Mounds, commanding resentment, LWJ confronts him about his control over it.

Lan WangJi, “Some things you cannot be able to control at all.”

Displeasure flashed across Wei WuXian’s face, “Of course, I can control it."

An important thing to realise about this moment I feel, is that when LWJ says this, WWX is just a few days out of the Burial Mounds. WWX knows he can control Gui Dao - it's not arrogance, its confidence built on the fact that had he not been able to do so, he would not have survived the Burial Mounds. LWJ is questioning his control, and WWX's anger, aside from distrust from the man he held in high regard and was so fond of, is very likely to have stemmed from his time in the Burial Mounds being very, very fresh in his mind.

Later, at two more instances, the two being Yunmeng meet and Yiling meet, LWJ expresses similar concerns, and WWX again affirms that he knows his own powers and can control it.

Now the Hubris caused WWX's downfall fanon obviously holds up two specific moments as the moments where his Hubris comes into play. JZX death and JYL being injured.

But when we think about the two instances, in fact, they are two moments that show us that WWX in fact does know his cultivation best.

First and foremost, the two instances are most notably, moments when WWX is in mortal danger, surrounded by people who want him dead, being attacked by them, and under enormous stress. In QQP, there are 300 archers. In Nightless city, 3000 cultivators wish to kill him and then slaughter the innocents he protected. Both are moments where he is vulnerable and very, very alone.

Don't for a moment forget that WWX fought in a war. Instincts like that do not disappear. Similarly, and more importantly, WWX was in a place akin to hell for 3 months, surrounded, helpless, in mortal danger.

In QQP, WWX tells JZX to stay back. I can't understand how people read that and not understand that WWX is well aware of his own control. He tells JZX to stay away. JZX, the Enormous Idiot that he is, doesn't. What he does do, is lunge at WWX. When WWX is being attacked from all sides, when he is focused on protecting himself and has already told him to stay away.

In a similar vein, WWX absolutely has no intention to hold back at Nightless City. He has been confronted with the stark reality that the Righteous Cultivation Sects would stop at nothing to kill the Wens, to see him dead. He is shot, and he himself is filled with anger and rage. However, the moment JYL appears on the battlefield, he leaves the roof, fearing for her safety. He knows that his cultivation is volatile at the time, surrounded by danger as he is.

It is enormous control he shows to calm down in those situations and calm the corpses, all at JYL's request. It is undoubtedly stemming from his concern for her, his want for her to be safe, but it shows that WWX, can, in fact, control his cultivation because he is shown doing it in a circumstance of immense pressure.

It is interesting to note that post 13 years, WWX still uses Gui Dao, and LWJ, with 13 years to grow and having understood better, never questions him on his control over it. But this is very easily forgotten about - and I absolutely blame CQL for demonizing resentful energy and actually making WWX's confidence in his cultivation seem like arrogance and pride.

Making WWX and his Hubris the scapegoat is a very easy excuse to make for the Cultivation World. But it is a severe injustice to the very strenuous circumstances he is under, as well as the trauma he has gone through.

Can WWX bear the weight of the responsibilities he takes on because of how morally upright he is? Yes. But even he buckles under the pressure when the world turns against him. This is why things are so different post his resurrection because he is not alone anymore. He has someone who stands by his side, no matter what the crowd says. He has Lan Wangji, who supports him, who stands by him, and Wei Wuxian knows Lan Wangji is there. He has a guardian, a protection he has never, ever had before.

WWX's fatal flaw is not Hubris. His demise is not the making of his Arrogance. His death was a tragedy precisely because he was punished for doing the right thing.

[writers-hes]

Only For You, Darling... (a.b.)

SYNOPSIS: Held in London, two strangers meet at a masquerade and become star-crossed lovers. 

REQUESTED: yes and yes WARNINGS: allusions and mentions of smut, unedited.... PAIRING/S: Anthony Bridgerton x Capulet!Reader; secret relationship AU, Romeo and Juliet AU WORD COUNT: 4,920

helpful links: navigation | master lists | rules and guidelines | tag list | fic recs

Nobody knew the root of your family’s rivalry with the Bridgertons. It happened so long ago that whatever it was was considered petty. Whatever it was prevented both families to ever reconcile. The Viscount never got along with your father in court. Your father would rant about how arrogant the Bridgerton viscount was and you would laugh because of how red he becomes from anger. 

Meanwhile, Daphne would laugh at her brother’s sheer annoyance with the Capulet earl. He is self-righteous and condescending to Anthony exclusively. Anthony has seen him show kindness to his peers in the club. He knew that it was probably concerned with the infamous rivalry that the Capulets and the Bridgertons had a long time ago. 

“Anthony, it seems as though the Capulets invited us for their masquerade ball,” Violet said, shuffling through the letters and the invites given to her by Cook. 

“Capulets?” Benedict asked. “Isn’t that the family…” 

“Yes, brother and we will not be in attendance,” Anthony replied. “I hear that Lady Cowper will be holding a ball the night after. Let us attend on that one instead,” 

“Oh but Penelope said that the grand ballroom of the Capulets is unlike any other!” Eloise added. “I would like to come...just so I could see what it’s like. Besides, I should also want to personally befriend their youngest daughter. Have you ever seen her?” 

“No, actually,” Violet asked. “She’s hidden away from London,” 

“Do you think they’re hiding her because she is not as attractive, Mama?” Hyacinth asked. 

“You mustn’t say things like that, Hyacinth,” Violet scolded. “Anthony, your siblings and I would like to attend the masquerade,” Violet said, a hint of authority in her voice. 

Anthony could not go against his mother’s wishes. He may be the Viscount but she is still his mother. 

Invites for the much-awaited masquerade ball have been distributed to the people of The Ton. It was no surprise to see that the ill-fated Featheringtons have received one. However, a reliable source told This Author that an invite was extended to a certain Viscount and his mother, the dowager viscountess. Speculations among the Capulets will finally be revealing their daughter, who was rumoured to be of age. She has yet to present herself to the Queen but no debut has never been this exciting. 

-Lady Whistledown Society Papers

“Is it true that the Bridgertons will be in attendance, mama?” you asked after reading today’s papers. “I thought we were never allowed to come in contact with them?” 

“I invited the Bridgertons because the dowager Viscountess has three very eligible bachelors. None of them were ever in huge scandals, except for the third one,” your mother replied. 

“Will papa get mad?” you asked. 

“They’re just men, love. Whatever it was they were squabbling about happened generations ago. I, for one, do not know what started the hostility,” she replied. “Besides, your father will never know if they’re here. It’s a masquerade and nobody was permitted to remove their masks until they are out of our gates,” 

“Will I not be allowed to remove my mask too?” 

Your mother, who was busy arranging your gowns and your jewels for the nearing social season hummed. It was true. The masquerade will be held to formally introduce you to the society. You are of age and you had to look for a husband in the Marriage Mart. Growing up, you were sheltered by your parents. They shielded you away from all of the dangers of the world. In fact, you were never allowed to step foot outside your house without a maid. You’ve never really been out to London, no matter how long you’ve lived in it. As far as everybody knows, whenever you were out, you were just another face in incognito. 

It was different for your three older brothers, Sebastian, Thomas, and Matthew. They were men, and therefore, they could do anything and everything they wanted without repercussions. Such freedom was something that you have always yearned for and you knew that the masquerade was about to be your cruel taste of it.

The ball has arrived and Anthony would rather bash his head in on one of the expensive walls of the ballroom than have another woman ask him for a dance. He will never admit it out loud but Penelope’s description of the grand ballroom did not give it justice. It was even grander than the one the Bridgertons have in Kent and more beautiful than that of Hastings’. His siblings were in attendance, except for Daphne, Hyacinth, and Gregory. Daphne was with Simon and regretted missing the grand affair. 

He saw Benedict from afar and walked to him. It was a masquerade but he knew what his brother looked like underneath the disguise. 

“Benedict, do you wish to leave?” he asked. 

“Not yet,” Benedict replied. “They haven’t introduced their daughter, you know,” 

“What is all the fuss? It’s not like we won’t see her at the court,” Anthony asked. 

“I do not know either but I am intrigued, brother,” Benedict replied. “Is it not odd? That nobody has ever seen her?”

“You sound like Lady Featherington,” Anthony teased. Benedict only laughed after elbowing his older brother to the side. 

Benedict’s curiosity was soon quenched when the footman announced your arrival with your brothers. You were dressed in a magnificent green gown unlike any other dress that London has seen so far. Your mother had it made from an in-demand bespoke modiste in Paris. 

Anthony raised his eyebrows, somehow impressed. There you were with three tall men—your brothers. He knew them from the club. As far as he knows, Lord Featherington owed them a sum of money. 

You made rounds around the room, your brothers introducing you to their friends. Benedict laughed. The way they introduced you to the young men was the same way Anthony introduced Daphne to them. 

“Bridgerton,” one of them called. It was your eldest brother, Sebastian. “I would like to introduce my younger sister to you and your brothers,” 

“Of course,” Anthony replied. “Although, I am afraid to tell you that Colin left for Greece and will not be returning in the next two weeks,” 

“That’s not a problem,” your brother told him. “This is Y/N Capulet. Y/N, this is Anthony Bridgerton,” he said pointing to him. “he is the eldest son of the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and is also the head of the Bridgerton family. Beside him is Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, the second son of the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and the brother of Viscount Bridgerton,” 

“It is a pleasure to meet both you, my lords,” you said, bowing slightly. 

“The pleasure is ours,” Benedict smiled while Anthony only nodded slightly. 

The introduction was cut short as you made rounds to everyone in the ballroom. You were tired and were on the verge of fighting your older brothers.

“Please, can we take a moment to breathe?” you asked. 

“You know there is nothing more than I love to sit down,” Sebastian replied. “But Father tasked us to do this for you,”

Thomas and Matthew groaned slightly. You were all annoyed because of how much Sebastian strictly followed your father’s rules. He was always so formal while Thomas and Matthew were more fun-loving and lighthearted. 

The introductions stopped soon and you were escorted by Matthew to your bedchamber. 

“Do you need anything else, sister?” he asked. 

“No. I would like to stay here for the rest of the night,” you lied. 

“Alright. I would just tell everybody else not to disturb you for the rest of the night?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” you replied. “Thank you,” 

“Very well,” Matthew replied, closing your door. As soon as he was out of earshot, you changed from your green gown into an older, planer one. A simple white dress with rose gold appliques. You removed your tiara and distinguishable family jewels and wore gloves instead. You changed your mask and your shoes too. You also unpinned some of your hair and arranged it into a nice bun with wisps of hair framing your face. Soon enough, you were out the door, quietly running to the side door so you could easily squeeze your way inside the grand ballroom. 

Anthony, who was bored out of his mind, saw you. He didn’t know that it was you from earlier but he saw you, a lady who was sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the richest of The Ton. You had no chaperone and had never seen you before either. He was curious to know who you were. He decided to follow you to the gardens where you sat on a swing. 

“I don’t think guests are allowed to be outside the ballroom,” he said, startling you. 

“Oh, I...wanted to take a break from the people inside,” you replied.

“You have no chaperone, do you?” he asked. 

“No. I came here alone,” you lied. Anthony walked closer until he was in front of you. 

“I am Anthony Bridgerton,” he said, lowering his mask. “The ball is quite bleak, no?” 

“It is,” you said, cautious  because he was a Bridgerton. You lowered your mask and smiled at him. You decided to tell him your nickname. “I am Y/N/N. I thought Bridgertons were feuding with the Capulets?” you asked. 

“I know. I do not wish to be here but my mother wishes for it,” he replied. “May I sit beside you?”

“Y-yes. Of course,” you stammered, high alert as the enemy sat beside you. 

“I have never seen your face before,” he commented. “Are you from outside London?” 

“I’ve lived here all my life,” you admitted. “I just haven’t been out,” 

“Oh. Well, if you could tell me more about yourself, I would love to show you around,” he said, a blush rising to your cheeks. Was Anthony Bridgerton flirting with you?

That was how you spent the night—tucked away from the eyes of the masquerade. You enjoyed his presence and as did he. You were refreshing and unlike anyone he has ever met before. You laughed at his terrible jokes and Anthony wanted nothing more than to kiss you. 

When the party seemed to thin out, Anthony abruptly stood up and offered his hand to you.

“May I kiss you?” he asked, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He felt like a moth drawn to a flame and you were about to engulf him into ashes. He stared at you, waiting for a response and you nodded. 

Oh, god! Anthony felt it. Anthony felt how your flames turned him into ashes, into dust, so willingly available to be molded into your hands. He knew that he just had to have you. 

The Ton is abuzz as another social season starts. The Queen will be naming this season’s diamond as dames from all over Europe try to look for their success in the Marriage Mart. All eyes are on the mysterious Y/N Capulet. Will she be worth the wait, dear Reader or will she be another victim from the Queen’s scrutinizing gaze?

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

“Do you think you will see your mystery woman again, Anthony?” Benedict asked. He saw his brother be totally enamored at the sight of the woman sitting beside him. 

“I hope so,” he replied. He was in a haste preparing to leave for the presentation of debutantes and dames with his family before they arrived at the royal court. Anthont was both nervous and excited to be formally acquiaintednto the woman he met at Capulet’s ball. The debutantes came by in a flash. The Queen has already named the season’s diamond and the Bridgerton man was waiting for your arrival.

“Ms. Y/N Capulet alongside her mother Y/M/N Capulet and the Earl Y/F/N Capulet,” the footman announced. Everybody looked at you and Anthony’s breath knocked out from his lungs.

“She’s a Capulet!” Eloise announced as soon as the family arrived home. “Anthony’s mystery woman is Y/N Capulet!” 

Benedict laughed at his brother’s demise while Violet grew concerned at the sight of her son.

“Eloise,” Violet warned. 

“Is it not true? The woman who turned our brother into a lovesick fool is a Capulet. The sworn enemy of the Bridgertons,” she shrugged. “It sounds too similar with Penelope’s forbidden romance novels,” 

Anthony did not know what to do. He was determined to marry this social season and the only woman who has ever caught his eyes was the only daughter of the Capulets. His plans to call on you the following morning was disrupted because you hid your identity from him. 

Anthony furrowed his eyebrows in his study. He felt like you deceived him. If you knew he was a Bridgerton, you should’ve been hostile to him from the very beginning and yet...you spent the night with him. The Viscount groaned. He has never encountered something like this before. He wanted to stay away from you and stick to his responsibilities but at the same time, he wanted to do something for himself just this once and never again.

It was a tiring day and you were resting alone in your family library. You skimmed through the spines of the lives before you and wondered if it would ever be possible to publish your own. It was the only talent that you knew you were good at. You were subpar in playing the pianoforte, dancing, and art. You didn’t like needlework either. A knock broke you out of your trance. 

“Miss,” your maid, Geraldine called, entering the room. “There is a message sent to you,” 

“Oh. Do you know from whom it is?” you asked. 

“Yes but I was told to keep it a secret and not tell anyone but you,” she replied. She handed you a piece of folded paper. “It’s from Lord Bridgerton,” she whispered before walking away to leave you alone. 

You looked down at the paper with the Bridgerton seal on it. Carefully, you opened it to reveal the viscount’s calligraphy. 

-

Y/N, 

I would like for you to meet me at the address written below tonight. I will be sending a carriage over to yours. 

-Anthony 

-

You felt your heart drum inside your chest. You knew he was mad at you for kissing him. You were a Capulet and he was a Bridgerton! It was against all odds and yet you knew you would do it all again. There was something about the brooding viscount that thrilled you. He was handsome, he was proud, and he was kind. You weren’t sure if Anthony would still treat you the same way he did during the ball but it didn’t matter. 

The sun falls into the sky and you find yourself discreetly dressing yourself to meet Anthony. You wore a cloak to shield your face from everybody. 

The carriage arrived right after your parents retired to their bedroom. The house was silent and you bribed Geraldine to lie in case somebody came for you. 

The carriage stops at an array of apartments just outside Number Five. You thanked the footman before leaving and knocked on the door of the correct lodging. The door revealed Anthony and you stepped in, removing the hood of your cloak.

“Good evening, Ms. Capulet,” he greeted once he closed the door. 

“Lord Bridgerton, good evening,” you replied. 

“Come in. I have tea and finger foods prepared in the drawing room,” he said. You nodded following him to wherever the drawing room is. You removed your cloak and gently hung it on the chair closest to you. 

“Why did you invite me here?” you asked him, sitting nervously on one of the chairs. 

“I wanted to ask you something,” he replied. “I can’t just approach you publicly without having Lady Whistledown write about us,” 

“Do you even have an idea of how much I’m risking just by being with you tonight?” you asked. 

“I do and I apologize but you haven’t left my mind since the masquerade ball. I just wanted to know why you were the way you were during the ball. You knew I was a Bridgerton,” he recalled, coughing slightly to relieve the tension of the room. 

“I do not know, to be honest,” you admitted. “I wanted to do something that wasn’t confined within the standards of being a Capulet. After the introductions, I left and changed my clothes so nobody could recognize me. Why did you follow me outside?”

“I have never seen you before,” Anthony replied. “and you were sticking like a sore thumb,”

You chuckled and Anthony thought it was the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.

“I was planning to call on you after the presentation of the debutantes but I didn’t expect for you to be a Capulet,” he admitted. 

“Would you have called on me if I wasn’t?” you asked.

“Yes,” he replied. 

“You don’t have to call on me in the morning,” you told him. “We could keep this between us,”

“What about your family? What would they say if they found out about us?” he asked. 

“We’ll cross the bridge when we get there,” you paused. “I really enjoyed spending the ball with you, my Lord and...I am enjoying the time that we have here,” 

Anthony smiled lightly. It was true. The conversation between the two of you was honest and easy. 

“Will you meet me here again?” he asked. “Tomorrow…”

“Of course,” you replied. 

“May I kiss you now?” he asked. 

“Yes,” 

Anthony walked toward you and knelt in front of you. You looked down on him and kissed him. It was hungry and passionate—even more passionate than the innocent kiss you shared the first time. Anthony pulled you in closer until he felt like his body was on fire. He knew that he couldn’t compromise you and broke away from your shared kiss. 

“As much as I would love to ravish you in this room, I would not like to compromise you,” he admitted. 

“Isn’t this a compromise, my Lord?” you asked. 

“Anthony...please, call me Anthony,” he requested. “and it turn, I would like to call you by your given name,”

“Anthony,” you said, feeling the taste of his name on the tip of your tongue. 

“Y/N,” he replied. 

You kissed him again, this time pulling him into the couch you were sitting on. You trailed your fingertips against his hair, tugging them lightly. He groaned and pulled you into his lap. One thing led to another and soon, both of you were bare—body and soul. 

Anthony was gentle and made sure that you were never comfortable as he raked his fingers against your body. He made sure that it didn’t hurt that much. He was gentle and patient and everything that you ever wanted somebody to be. 

You spent most nights in your hidden world. Anthony was always there waiting for you. In fact, you did everything together. You drank tea and champagne until you were bubbling with laughter, you read him some of your work, he told you about his childhood and his father, and you both made love in between the sheets of your own little house and your own little world. Perhaps it was the conspiracy that made it more thrilling but overtime, you realized that you loved Anthony Bridgerton. 

Dearest Reader, 

It has come to my attention that the mysterious Y/N Capulet turned down marriage offers from many eligible bachelors. Could it be true what This Author thinks? That she has a secret lover we do not know about? If it is true, Gentle Reader, This Author shall write about it. 

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

“Why is Anthony sighing like a lovesick fool?” Colin asked. 

“Have you read what Lady Whistledown wrote in today’s papers, dear brother? Y/N Capulet has a secret lover,” Eloise said.

Anthony just hummed. He has been thinking about you ever since you parted hours ago. It was something that he often did—think about you when you part and let you consume him when you’re together. 

“Something is very wrong with the brooding Anthony Bridgerton,” Benedict teased. “He has been making sure that his sleeves are in the right order for about a few minutes now,” 

“Have you met a woman? Is there a secret woman?” Francesca asked eagerly. 

“I think there is,” Colin replied, taking note of his brother’s silence. “Good god! Who is it?”

“Will it hurt all of you not to put your noses where they don’t belong?” Anthony asked. “And yes, there is a mystery woman and I do not wish to introduce her to all of you yet,” 

“Is she beautiful? Is she like a princess?” Hyacinth asked. 

“She is. You would love her, Hyacinth,” Anthony replied to his youngest sister.

“Does that mean you love her?” Francesca asked. 

Anthony paused. He did. He loves you.

—

“You have to stop turning these men away, Y/N,” your mother scolded. Bachelors calling on you everyday were thinning out and she was getting more and more concerned. 

“Mother, I have not met anyone whom I love yet,” you replied. 

“Oh, you silly girl! Love is hard to come by,” she said. “Your father and I didn’t marry for love and while I wish nothing but the best for you, you don’t have the luxury to spend years on social seasons just because you’re looking for love. Your papa wants you to be married off by the end of the season,” 

“Why? Why are we rushing?” you asked. As far as you were concerned, your father’s finances were alright. 

“Your father does not want you to be an old spinster like your Aunt Claire. He told me that if you were not going to marry this season, he will speak to the Duke Archibald so he could marry you to his son,”

“How come I have never heard of this?” you asked, your tears building up. 

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” she sighed. “We will go to Lady Danbury’s ball tonight and you will dance with bachelors there. You might meet someone you like and we will arrange a nice picnic with them.” 

There was finality in her voice and all you wanted was to flee with Anthony and hide underneath the sheets. 

-

The ball of Lady Danbury never disappoints. It was her third ball this season and while she called you out for the pre-season ball (she likes to hold the first ball of every season), you still liked her and you always loved to talk to her whenever you see each other. You just arrived at the ball and you immediately craned your neck for Anthony. He was by the refreshments table and when he saw you, he tilted his head to the side to signal you to follow him. 

“Mama, I see some of my friends,” you told her. “I will just go and visit them,” 

“Of course, dear,” she said. Your mother went and talked to Lady Cowper and Lady Trowbridge. You quickened your pace to follow Anthony to the direction he led you to. 

“Anthony,” you whispered in the empty hallway. You saw an open door and decided to peek inside it. Anthony was there pacing back and forth. 

“Oh, Y/N,” he sighed, rushing towards you. “I’ve missed you,” he said, pulling you close to kiss you. 

“I missed you too,” you chuckled after the kiss. “although, we just saw each other earlier,”

“Can I not be the man who thinks of you all day?” he asked and crimson painted your cheeks. 

“Anthony, I have something to tell you,” you said. The seriousness in your voice made Anthony stop himself from asking for another kiss. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“If I do not marry by this season, my father will marry me to the son of Duke Archibald,” you admitted. “I do not wish to marry him and my father wants me to marry this season! I have been turning my suitors away and I do not—I do not want to marry him,”

“What?” The color drained from Anthony’s face. 

You furrowed your brows at his reaction. 

“Do you not want to marry me?” you asked. “Until when are you planning to do this?” 

When Anthony heard your voice break, he snapped out from his trance and looked at you. You were on the verge of tears and your chin was slightly wobbling. 

“Hey, hey, listen to me. I don’t want to hide anymore,” he said softly, taking your arms into his. “I will marry you. Let me just sort everything out with our families,”

“You will?”

“Of course. I love you, Y/N and I know the world will not make it easy for us,” he said. “But I love you and I am willing to get through this,” 

“I love you too, Anthony,” you smiled, tears falling from your eyes. 

“Why are you crying, my love?”

“I’m just happy,” you replied. Anthony chuckled and held your face closer to his. He kissed you even more tenderly than the last and you were in heaven. Anthony has never felt this way before—not even with Sienna. You were incomparable to anybody he has ever loved. 

“Anthony!”

A voice forced you both apart. You jumped away from each other to see Lady Featherington, Lady Bridgerton, and Lady Danbury. 

“Mother!” Anthony exclaimed. Portia Featherington smirked, amused to be a witness to your secret escapades with Anthony. Lady Danbury thought that you were star-crossed lovers. Violet Bridgerton was amused more than she was worried. She has been hearing about Anthony’s mystery woman for weeks now. 

Anthony shielded you from the scrutinizing gaze of the women. He turned to you momentarily. 

“You will walk out of the room first and I will call on you first thing tomorrow, alright?” he said, holding your arms. You nodded and he sighed, kissing your forehead before allowing you to walk out of the room. You greeted the three ladies before looking for your mother who was looking for you. 

“Oh, dear! Where have you been?” she asked.

“Mama, please let us go home,” you said, rushing out the words. You felt like you were about to be sick. What would your father say if you married Anthony?

“Is something the matter, dearest?” she asked and you nodded your head frantically. 

“Alright then. Let us go,” she said, guiding you out of the ball room and into the night.  

“Mama,” you called as she dropped you off of your bedroom. “Will you come inside? I wish to speak to you about something,”

Your mother approached you and closed the door. 

“I have been compromised by Anthony Bridgerton,” you cried. “I apologize if I will cause troubles but I love him. Before Lady Bridgerton, Lady Featherington, and Lady Danbury caught hs unchaperoned in the room, we were already talking about marriage,” 

Your mother, whom you loved dearly, left in haste. 

-

“I cannot believe you, Anthony!” Violet scolded. London may be quiet at this time of the night but not the Bridgerton house. Inside their drawing room Anthony, Benedict, Colin, and Eloise were sat quietly as Violet droned on and on about Anthony’s irresponsibility. 

“Not only did you compromise Miss Y/N, you were also caught doing so by Lady Featherington! Do you know the gravity of the situation?” she asked, frustrated at the lack of empathy her firstborn was giving her. “You are going to have to marry her,” 

“So, it’s true then? Anthony’s secret is Y/N Capulet?” Eloise asked. “Will her father allow her to marry you?” 

“I do not know,” Anthony replied. “But I have every intention of marrying her. I proposed to her before you saw us unchaperoned. I was going to tell you after I settled everything with her father,” 

“How will you do that?” Benedict asked.

“I don’t know,” Anthony admitted. “Not accept her dowry? Maybe?” 

Colin chuckled. 

“All of us will be coming with you to the Capulets tomorrow to talk about your marriage with their daughter. You will let me talk and you will accept whatever her father asks from you,” Violet said. 

“I told you, mother, I have every intention of marrying her,” Anthony replied. 

Violet was happy because her son finally found a love match. The story was quite thrilling, to be quite honest. However, the marriage was under the circumstances of preserving your honor because of what her son has done. 

—

Your father has been scolding you ever since your mother told him of the possible marriage. He said that you and Anthony were both responsible for your actions and what he was saying was true. He was also raging about how, in all of London’s men, you fell in love with the descendant of your grandfather’s enemy. 

You listened to what he said, of course. Your father was right. You were both too reckless and wrapped in your own little bubble that you forgot the consequences of your actions. 

“Papa, he proposed to me before they caught us,” you said. Your father stopped. 

“When were you planning to tell me if you hadn’t been caught by them?” he asked, menace laced i. his voice. 

“He told me that he was going to make amends with you before formally asking for my hand in marriage,” 

Your father breathed. He was angry at you for your actions but he couldn’t get angry at you for finding yourself somebody who loved and cherished you in your first season. To be frank, your father didn’t have a single clue on why your families have been in such a rift for generations. As far as he could tell, Anthony was a respectable man who treasured his family. He had no dues and all of his estates were in impeccable state. He was more angry at the both of you for your recklessness and irresponsibility than he is at Anthony being a Bridgerton. 

The Bridgerton carriages were seen heading towards the Capulet estate. Dear Reader, it was a shock to this Author to see the two families ever reconcile. Perhaps, it may have something to do with a certain Viscount and a new debutante? This Author is thrilled, Gentle Reader for no social season has been as scandalous as this one.

Lady Whistledown Society Papers 

“Bridgerton family, my Lord!” the footman announced. Your family was waiting in the drawing room. Your parents were there as well as your brothers--Sebastian, Matthew, and Thomas. Their wives and your nephews and nieces were visiting a cousin to step away from the drama of London. 

You craned your neck upwards to look for Anthony while the men in your family straightened their backs to appear more domineering and intimidating--not that Anthony would be. He was never scared of anything. You watched as Anthony and his family went inside your drawing room. Anthony was tense but he offered you a small, discreet smile when he saw you. 

“Good afternoon, my Lord,” Violet Bridgerton greeted. She offered a small bow to your father. “I am Violet Bridgerton, wife of the late Edmund Bridgerton and monarch of the Bridgerton household,” 

Your father nodded and offered a similar introduction to Violet. 

“Anthony Bridgerton,” your father said. “I understand you have the intention to marry my daughter, isn’t that right?” 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, clearing his throat. Everything was so tense. Anthony’s brother’s stood behind him with blank stares, your brothers were doing the same. Violet and your mother looked nervous. You were both excited and nervous at the same time. You anticipated this day but never under these circumstances. 

“Eitherway, you will not have a choice. You compromised my daughter and you were caught unchaperoned by Lady Danbury, Lady Featherington, and your mother,” your father started. “My daughter has a dowry that I am willing to give you,” he added, stating the amount of your dowry. You were their only daughter and the dowry of Anthony’s sisters combined were yours alone.

“I would rather have the dowry be put towards another use,” Anthony said. “Perhaps an addition to the sum of her own funds,” 

Your father nodded, pleased at the reply of the Bridgerton. 

“Our families have been in an unknown rivalry for generations and perhaps, it is time we put our differences aside for the sake of your marriage and the family that you will be making with my daughter. I propose a truce between our families,” your father stated. Anthony coughed.

“Of course. Our family will gladly be accepting the armistice,” Anthony replied.

“Very well then,” your father replied. “I do not think there is anything else to say but remember this, Bridgerton, if my daughter comes back here running because you hurt her, I will throw you to the wolves and leave you be,” 

“Papa!” you exclaimed. “I don’t think your threats are necessary,”

“It’s alright. I understand. I would do the same for all of my sisters,” Anthony reassured. 

“Is it alright for me to assume that you will be living here in London?” your father asked. 

“Yes, sir,” Anthony replied. “Once we marry, we will be moving into the Bridgerton House at Grosvenor Square. My mother will move into her own household in Number Five with the rest of my siblings,” 

Your father nodded. 

“I would like to request a private moment with Anthony and my sons,” your father announced. “Your brothers may come along too, Anthony,”

You watched as the males left the drawing room into your father’s study. You looked at your mother and smiled widely. 

“I think everything is coming up roses, don’t you think so, mama?” you asked. You looked at Violet and her younger daughter. Anthony said that Daphne was with her husband while Francesca was in Bath. So this might be Eloise.

“Thank you so much for coming to our residence,” you told Violet. “I hope you enjoy our refreshments for the trip,” 

“It’s quite alright dear,” she replied. You nodded before your mama interrupted. 

“I believe we have a grand wedding to plan, Lady Bridgerton,” she started. “My sons never allowed me to plan their weddings and I have been so excited since my little girl came into society,”

“Oh, wedding planning is both a chore and an enjoyment!” Violet snickered. Violet and your mama immediately talked about how magical their weddings were, leaving you with Eloise alone.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you said, walking towards her. 

“I gathered,” she replied. “I’m Eloise. Tell me, Y/N how did you and my brother secretly meet each other without raising suspicion?” 

You felt yourself blush. 

“I wish to tell you but our secret won’t be a secret anymore, will it? Anthony said you could be Lady Whistledown herself,” you teased. Eloise laughed.

“Don’t believe what my brother says! He keeps on insisting that I am her even though I am not!”

“But I do not think Lady Whistledown would ever admit being Lady Whistledown. She is quite the character and once people find out about who she is, The Ton would just ruin her,” you explained. “Don’t you think so?” 

Eloise only hummed.

-

The next afternoon, your families were seen having a picnic at the park. You and Anthony were promenading (with a chaperone, of course). Your arms were in his and you couldn’t be any happier. 

“I can’t believe we’re getting married in a month,” you gushed, looking up at Anthony with a smile on your face. 

“Do you think I could convince your father to have it by tomorrow?” he asked. 

“I don’t think he will,” you replied. “He wants us to have a formal courtship, you know?”

“Nothing is formal and traditional about us, dearest,” Anthony said before lowering his voice. “We had our nightly rendezvous and were unchaperoned all of the time,”

You laughed. 

“I know! If it was up to me, I would marry you in the next second. We have to give it to our families to get to know each other, no?” 

“I suppose so,” he replied. “I really couldn’t wait until we are married, though. We would have such a lovely life together. I devote my life to you completely and our marriage just makes it even more tangible...more real,”

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” you teased. 

“Only for you, dear. Only for you.” 

Gentle Reader, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Viscountess Y/N Bridgerton welcomed their first child, a son named after the late Viscount Edmund Bridgerton. We have witnessed their love bloom in the previous season. What a ride it had been. This Author wishes love and peace to the Viscount and the Viscountess. 

Alas, The Ton is abuzz with the upcoming social season! This season will surely have scandals and great love stories ahead. Will we see more Bridgertons leave the nest? Will Cressida Cowper finally be successful in the Marriage Mart? We shall find out, Dear Reader but remember, whatever you do, Lady Whistledown is always watching. 

-Lady Whistledown Society Papers

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for sending in these requests! I decided to compile two requests together because I think it would make a perfect Romeo and Juliet-style AU. Let me know what you think about the new Lady Whistledown headers! Do you like them? Are they too distracting and should I switch to the old bees? Let me know what you think fo the story! I always love reading your feedback. 

Taglist: @screechingdreamercollectorsblog @pink-lemo @lana-isabelle @evelyn3000 @simran1111 @marrilly @jemimah-b99��@goldeng1rl8 @lovely-him​

[comeandreadawhile]

Au: Boba gets adopted (pt 2)

Part 1

Boba was adjusting.

Perhaps as well as could’ve been expected, having to learn to live in the stronghold of his ancestral mortal enemies as the child of the only Jedi he’d been acquainted with, but Anakin—his new ori’vod, he guessed, who had first come to the temple around Boba’s age—had also taken a while to settle in. He finally had the option to play with children his own age, who weren’t twice his size, and at least the education modules he was given were similar to the ones his dad—

Boba was trying to adjust.

Boba had clung to Kenobi as soon as the man had set down the clanking bundle he’d brought back to the ship with him, and had held fast from the moment they’d left Geonosis’ atmosphere—even as a medic was fussing over Kenobi’s leg, the redhead simply shifted Boba out of the way, half onto Anakin, who’d sat next to the pair on the flight to Coruscant. (Somewhere in the back of his mind, Boba noted how the teen’s attention was torn between him and his new caretaker, and the older girl closeby also being fussed over by a medic.)

Kenobi was certainly trying to make the transition easier. Becoming a High General in the newborn war with the Separtists, in addition to finding out his current padawan had just weeks ago lost his own parent while they were separated, had certainly given Kenobi enough to deal with without unceremoniously adopting a child. Yet he had, and here they were; two grieving, angry children and an already exhausted Master Jedi.

The Jedi bigwigs—council, Kenobi said—hadn’t taken his impromptu claiming of a child lightly.

He was clinging still when they’d arrived to the temple; an emergency meeting of council members to discuss Kenobi’s findings and their concerns of the dawning war had been called. Kenobi had made no move to separate the child from his person and did quite the opposite when the matter was immediately brought up. Boba remembered thinking that if he held on any tighter, he risked choking his new-found guardian. Kenobi simply shifted him a bit higher on his hip, a better hold, at the deep-voiced inquiry. Over Kenobi’s shoulder, Boba noticed an old Master—surely, the person must’ve been one—with a long snake’s tail instead of legs, peering at him kindly from under a thick mane of white hair.

“He’s mine,” was the explanation Kenobi had given. “I will raise him.”

The same deep voice, that had already sounded tired to Boba, now sounded tense. “You already have a padawan, Master Kenobi.”

“Then it is good that I have no intention of keeping him as a padawan,” Kenobi, replied coolly. “I’ve claimed him as a foundling under Mandalorian law.”

“We are not Mandalorians, Obi-Wan,” said a different voice, less deep than the first and oddly accented. Boba could only see a large pink ear in that direction from where he was hiding in Kenobi’s throat. “I would’ve expected this behavior from your master, but not from you.”

Boba did not need the Force to feel the righteous fury the remark inspired in his guardian. A woman—a togruta, his father once called her people—turned slowly towards the pink ear’s owner.

“Master Piell,” she spoke lowly, “that was uncalled for.” The few other people Boba could see looked similarly indignant, and he felt the tensed arms holding him relax minutely at the woman’s admonishment.

The first deep voice spoke again, “Be that as it may, Master Piell is correct in that we are not Mandalorians.”

“The bounty hunter was, and this boy is.” Kenobi responded as if the last minute hadn’t happened.

“We do not take in civilian children, Kenobi, and that doesn’t change because of your fondness for Mandalore’s people.”

“What would have had me do? Leave him on Geonosis?”

“The Republic’s foster system would’ve been alerted of the boy.”

“—and he could sit in the sand by himself, grieving, until they picked him up? You know how difficult it is for older children in that system to find homes.”

“We,” a pause fell that Boba guessed was spent sending a look to a certain Master, “are not attacking you, Master Kenobi. Even if we could adopt every orphaned child into our fold, there is also the issue of attachment.”

“Are we not honor-bound to help those in need?”

“This is not a simple matter of helping! You know that this goes against our code,” The deep voice replied sharply. Boba felt Kenobi tense again.

“You would choose to abide by our code so strictly and whole-heartedly even if it conflicts with the interests of a child?” There was a chill to Kenobi’s tone that made Boba hope to never receive it. A new voice, old and squawky, huffed.

“Both of you, enough. Argue like children, you do. A bad example, this sets.” A cushion shifted. “On this matter, what does Skywalker say?”

Kenobi shifted his feet a bit before answering, “Anakin’s recently lost his own mother; he’s struggled with his attachment to her the entire time I’ve trained him. It’s my hope they will help each other work through their grief in ways I might not be able to. He’s accepted this boy already, Master.”

The ancient voice hummed, a Boba heard the airy taps of wood against tile. “Master Koon,” the voice sounded undecided. “Helpful, your view may be.” The lilt at the end of the sentence, and the quiet sighs of some councilors gave Boba the impression there was a joke he wasn’t getting. A new voice—not unlike the horns the Cuy’val Dar blew on special occasions, noble and deep despite their hollow resonance—joined the fray.

“There is already a strong connection in place,” this Master stated. “It would most likely prove more traumatic for the boy to remove him from Master Kenobi now.” Another cushion shifted, “Besides, who better in this Order to raise a Mandalorian than Obi-Wan?”

“Matters, does it not, that coming, a war is?”

“From my understanding of their customs, certain sects of Mandalorians took their children to war about this one’s age. Am I correct?” The question must’ve been for Kenobi, because he turned his body and answered.

“Yes, Master. Their coming of age rites are performed at thirteen, but most clans start training and going to war as young as eight. I am familiar with their fighting styles and customs, enough to get this boy through his Verd’goten.” Kenobi turned back to the first, critical, deep voice. “Even if I must do so without the approval of this council. I will not go back on the vow I made.”

The voice like strong music hummed thoughtfully, “An admirable conviction, Master Obi-Wan. Your master would be proud of your morals.” The air suddenly felt warmer to Boba, and the voice sounded resolute as it continued, “A Jedi of this Order killed this boy’s father, so a Jedi of this Order will raise him in his father’s place. That is my opinion on this matter.”

The togrutan woman spoke softly, “Exceptions have been made to the code before now, surely they will again.”

“A vote, we shall have,” declared the squawky voice; in the next terrifying minute, silence filled the chamber as hands were raised or stayed, with the blood pumping loud enough in Boba’s ears he wasn’t sure whether or not they’d announced their decision and he’d missed it until the deep voice from the beginning spoke, tight and stern and tired.

“This council has ruled in favor of you keeping your foundling, Master Kenobi. Raise him as befits this order.” Two sighs of relief echoed into the chamber, and Boba saw as the man with the snake tail nodded, smiling under his beard.

“Before we begin Master Obi-Wan’s debriefing...” the voice like horns chimed in, trailing off behind the sound of linens shifting. “It has been some time since a Mandalorian youngling was within these temple walls.” The voice was closer now, and Boba startled as a hand landed on his head. Turning around in Kenobi’s hold, he met eyes—or assumed so, with the mask between them—with a being he’d never seen before. Boba’s first thought was ‘ugly’, and then immediately felt a pang of guilt for such a thought toward the one who’d spoken so in favor of keeping him and his new guardian together. The clawed, orange hand resting on his head gently ruffled his hair before retreating into the Jedi master’s sleeve.

The togruta had made her way over to them as well, peering down at Boba with wide, steel-blue eyes; she swept a gentle hand over his head much as her fellow master had done. He did his best not to scramble as Kenobi made to put him down. “We should give you a proper introduction, then, shouldn’t we?” He kept a grounding hand on Boba’s shoulder as he spoke. “Masters, this is Boba Fett. Boba, these masters are…” and Kenobi went down the line, first beginning with Masters Ti and Koon, who the. Went back to their fancy chairs, and then turning to go around the circular room. The squawking voice had apparently belonged to an odd little green creature, and then Boba met eyes with his neighbor.

He’d have liked to throw up as cold dread wrestled with hot fury in his gut.

Kenobi quieted, he and the other masters going tense and stiff at the boy’s vast and sudden emotional shift. The one Kenobi called Yoda crossed his clawed hands over his cane and spoke as if he expected Boba to bolt; Boba had half a mind to. “Quite distressed, you are. Why?”

Boba wasn’t quite sure how the words got out with how tight his throat had become. “He killed my dad.”

He’d have spat the syllables had they not been choking him. “He killed my dad with a purple lightsaber.”

Boba remembered little of what happened next—torn between running away and lunging at the jedi master’s neck as Kenobi scooped him up and practically ran out of the chamber—somehow ending up in a garden with a winded Anakin to wait out Kenobi’s debriefing. They’d talked, both of them trying to distract the other from recent losses; Anakin even taught him how to blow off steam by skipping stones in one of the larger fountains. Upon his return, Kenobi snatched Boba up and apologized profusely, not having known Mace’s connection to the boy.

They’d gone back to their quarters, Kenobi promising Anakin they’d spar the next day and discussing plans for latemeal with Boba settled back on his hip. The lull in activity only allowed the boy’s mind to wander back to the events leading to his current situation, and both jedi noticed the spike in Boba’s grief and frustration; Kenobi gave him a gentle squeeze as the first sniffle came. “Any ideas for latemeal, little one?”

“Neither of us have spent much time in the temple the last couple weeks but the commissary will be open for a while if nothing else,” Anakin chimed in, sarcasm threading the edges of his tone. Kenobi gave a small ‘tsk’ in response.

“There were plenty of shelf-stables when we left,” Kenobi pointed out. “Besides, a large loud room full of strangers is the last thing Boba needs at present.” He repeated his previous question, and Boba was more than happy to turn his thoughts to potential answers.

“Something warm...and salty, maybe?”

Kenobi nodded beside his head, “There’s a start. What else?”

They carried the conversation on until the trio reached a door set into the wall. Entering the small apartment for the first time, Boba had been struck at the differences, as well as the similarities, to the dwelling he’d been raised in. The jedi clearly weren’t material people, but compared to the sterility of Kamino’s white halls, the room awash in afternoon sun was extremely inviting despite its foreign nature. Plants, slightly wilted from their master’s absence, littered the space’s windowsills, with books in neat piles and rows within several bookcases nearby. Blankets draped over some on the furniture that Boba could see, and the glimpse of a table around a corner hinted at the location of the kitchen.

Anakin had been tasked with showing Boba around the living space while Kenobi went about the kitchen’s stock. He’d been all too happy with the excitement Boba had shown while admiring his collection of ship models, and once latemeal was well underway, Obi-wan had been relieved to pop in and find, despite recent events, his nineteen year old wasn’t too old to play starfighters.

Boba slept in Anakin’s room that night, a belly full of warm soup—it had been just what he needed—and grateful his first night in this foreign place wouldn’t be alone.

The next few days had been a flurry of activity, between the Jedi preparing themselves and their padawans for war, barely being instructed on how to lead the men they’d be assigned—who Boba tried not to think of—and bouts of quiet, where Boba tried to become more comfortable with his new home. Obi-wan, who insisted Boba call him that instead of ‘Kenobi’ his second night at the temple, had begun trying to teach him to meditate, saying it would be a good tool for when he felt stuck or frustrated. The Jedi master said they would pick up Boba’s training soon from where his dad left off.

Boba missed his dad. It certainly leant to his hatred of being alone, and despite the newness of their situation Boba couldn’t help feeling paranoid whenever Kenobi left to attend to some matter or other. What if something happens? What if they change his mind? Will someone else take me? Would someone else want me? What if Obi-wan never comes back?

Yet, each time Obi-wan would return with a tired smile and hug, asking how he and Anakin got along that day. There had a time within the first weeks, with warning of course, that Obi-wan had been gone for a couple of days, and after Boba’s anxiety at their separation came to a head the first evening, Anakin had pulled out a holocomm. He’d pulled Boba onto his leg and suddenly a blue hologram of Obi-wan, unfortunately soaked, sprung up from the device. They’d called again the next night, too. Boba had run to the door the next day when it opened, and was briefly halted. He’d used to run to the door when his dad came home from a hunt; was he forgetting his dad by showing this Jedi the same excitement?

He filed the conundrum away for later when said Jedi called his name. The man’s arms were filled with boxes, with more trailing behind him. “I’ve got some things for you,” he’d said.

To say Boba could’ve cried at what was in those boxes would’ve been inaccurate. Because he did, in heavy sobs, when he opened the first and pulled out one of his dad’s shirts. Going through the boxes with tear-filled eyes and an almost frantic determination to make sure, Boba found that everything personal from the Kamino apartment was in those boxes; his and his dad’s clothes, his dad’s books and even some that had belonged to his ba’buir, and the entirety of the armory his father kept apart from Slave I, among everything else. He tackled Obi-wan’s legs in a hug, wet hiccups making him unsure which language his stuttered thanks was given in. He’d slept in his father’s shirt that night, clutching two more like lifelines.

Boba began his education modules shortly after Obi-wan’s return, content to do them while Anakin went through his saber practice or as a distraction when Obi-wan was busy in with the council. Grief was difficult, especially so sudden a loss, but he was adjusting while working through it. He and Anakin sometimes swapped stories of Jango and Shmi, and it felt good to talk about them even if it left the boys misty-eyed afterward. Boba was trying to adjust.

Then details of Obi-wan and Anakin’s first deployment came.

[realtacuardach]

Risk and Resolve

Here’s my entry for the final round of Obiyuki Trope Madness 2021, hosted by @snowwhite-andtheknight : Roaring Rampage of Rescue. And because I thought this would be clever, I decided to include the two tropes that didn’t make it out of the semi-finals, Anguished Declaration of Love and Almost Kiss. (Hopefully it worked...) It turned out a lot longer than I intended, 😅. I hope you enjoy!

...

Shirayuki kept her polite, professional smile firmly in place until the door closed with a distinct click behind her, then allowed herself to sag against the wood with an exhale.

A warm chuckle rumbled beside her. “Rough patient, Miss?” Obi was leaning against the wall with his usual coiled grace, smirking down at her.

Her smirk was ready as his, although probably a great deal more wearied. “No more than he has been for the past...month?”

“Five weeks, four days, and ten hours,” Obi replied glibly. “But who’s counting?”

He bent towards her to grab some sachets that were about to slip from her arms to the ground, and she took the chance to shove back the hair that had curved and matted against her sweaty forehead. “It shouldn’t be too much longer though, he’s through the worst of it.”

Not much could have wrested Shirayuki from her current work at Lyrias, but there was no way of refusing the summons of yet another minor lord who had insisted emphatically that his son needed the very best of care to recover from a sword wound that had nearly killed him twice - once from the initial blood loss, and then from the intense infection that had taken root in his exposed flesh. The infection had progressed to almost shutting down several of the young man’s organs, and Shirayuki had to admit that she had had intense pity for the man.

She would have had trouble refusing someone help in such a condition in any case, and Izana’s calculatedly casual comment that it would be good to keep this particular lord appeased sealed her decision.

“So far away, surrounded by dense forest, far from the cities,” he’d mused aloud. “It can be difficult to get decent medical care; it would be a shame to force Lord Shikaku to seek it elsewhere.”

Shirayuki’s sense of politics was developing, although a bit unpolished still, but she roughly translated that to mean, “He’s got a lot of land and he’s far from the capital where I can keep an eye on him. Better to have a favor binding me to him than risk him changing alliances.”

She’d mentioned that to Obi on their journey over, and he’d snorted and grinned at her. So she assumed that he agreed.

“How much more care do you think he’ll need, Miss?”

Shirayuki clicked her tongue in thought as she turned toward the wing where she and Obi had been given rooms. “Not more than a week, I’d say. Probably less. He’s able to walk now and his temperature has been mostly normal. He needs regular bouts of rest and exercise now, but probably not an herbalist.”

Obi glided into step beside her easily, and they made their way to their bedrooms in companionable silence. They were nearly at Shirayuki’s door when Obi spoke up. “Do you think they’ll let you leave without a fight?”

It was said almost as a joke, but Shirayuki heard the knowing tone in it and flushed. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Obi raised a brow, looking unimpressed and so similar to Kiki in that moment that Shirayuki wondered if he’d been taking lessons from her. “Miss,” he stated plainly, “you’ve seen how the...invalid...has reacted to you.”

Yes, she had. She wasn’t sure when the flushes of fever had begun to be replaced by blushes as she’d leaned over young Lord Gaki to check his pulse or examine his stitches. The glaze of fever in his eyes had given way to a more speculative glimmer that lingered too long where it shouldn’t. “It’s common enough,” she replied, almost more to herself than to Obi, “for patients to develop attachment-”

Obi coughed something that sounded a lot like attraction.

Shirayuki ignored it. “Attachments to the people who nurse them back to health. I’m sure it’s harmless.”

Obi exhaled heavily through his nose. “If you say so, Miss.” He popped his shoulder and groaned appreciatively.

“And I’m sure he won’t touch me ag-”

She had meant it to be a murmur under her breath, a simple release of frustration from having to keep a professional mask plastered on her face all day around a young lord who was getting increasingly tactile. She hadn’t meant for Obi to hear her, expecting her voice to be lost in the popping of joints and creaking of leather.

She should have known better.

“He did what?”

“He touched,” she swallowed hard. Now that he knew, it was better to just get it over with. Obi was not likely to be distracted or dissuaded once he was on the track of something, “my hair. And my cheek, a little bit? But mostly my hair.”

“With your permission?” Obi gritted out in the tone of someone who already knew the answer.

“No.” Shirayuki sighed. “But it was a little thing, Obi, nothing to worry about.”

“Respectfully disagree, Miss,” he growled in response. “And Master would agree-”

He froze, a sheepish look overtaking his righteous indignation.

“It’s been almost a year,” she soothed. “You don’t need to get defensive on my behalf, Obi. You know that we both agreed that it was for the best - Zen and I are better as friends.”

Obi snorted. “He still wouldn’t like it, Miss. And what’s more, you clearly don’t.”

Shirayuki glared down at where her hands trembled and stilled them. “I can handle it.”

It looked like Obi wanted to argue the point, but then she yawned despite herself and he seemed to settle for pinching the bridge of his nose instead. “You can, but you shouldn’t have to.”

“Just a week more, if not sooner.” She smiled, hoping to reassure him.

He didn’t smile back, but his eyes softened and she took what small victory she could from that. “Just promise to tell me if he tries anything else. Please.”

“Of course!”

In the end, she didn’t have to tell him anything. Because he was there to witness everything.

…

Since the young lord’s wound had completely healed, and she was only treating its aftereffects, Shirayuki had taken to bringing Obi along with her during treatments. The man hadn’t touched her again, although he had made several attempts that she’d managed to artfully dodge. She already felt uneasy around him, and when she found the hot water bottle he’d squirreled away beneath his pillow to simulate fever, she knew it was far past time to go.

Obi had been silent as a statue behind her during the sessions where he was present, only speaking when prompted. But his presence had been enough to curtail any more...impertinences...from the young lord. Gaki had originally protested at the inclusion of another person during his treatments, but something in Obi’s expression had stuck him and he had conceded with ill grace.

When she pushed open the door for what she had insisted was the final session before she and Obi needed to return to Lyrias, she expected to find Gaki lounging in bed, sulking and flushed with indignation, as had become his custom. She had not expected for him to be out of bed and seated at his desk. She had not expected the bouquet of flowers placed in front of him. 

His father being there was also a surprise.

After the triple shock, the marriage proposal came almost as an afterthought. 

The situation was so absurd, she would have laughed if it wouldn’t have incited some sort of incident.

“I’m honored by your proposal, my lord,” Shirayuki began, having learned that nobles found sweet lies more palatable than bitter truths, “but I’m afraid I cannot accept it. I am needed back home.”

“Nonsense.” Gaki waved his hand in a way that infuriated her. “What could be more important than finding a good match?”

“My work,” Shirayuki replied, more flatly than intended. “I have responsibilities and people who need me back home. I again thank you for your proposal but must decline. I can’t marry you.”

“Why?” Gaki nearly yelped. “It is not as though you have any better prospects, now that the prince has thrown you over.”

That struck at a rawness still healing within her, even if it had been a mutual agreement between them rather than her being simply rejected. She did not mourn the lack of romance, she was herself with or without a man, but she did grieve the friendship that had once been so easy that was now in the tentative stages of repair.

She had half a mind to retort that someone like him could hardly desire a prince’s discarded plaything, but he would probably mistake her contempt for agreement.

Obi loomed closer to her then, his presence at her shoulder grounding her; warming, steadying, assuring. He picked up the conversation with a practiced courtly air. “We must take our leave, my lords. We have much to prepare for tomorrow.” He leaned down towards her, and she could see the concern glinting through his eyes. “If we may, milady.”

And maybe it was the reminder that her attachment to Zen, an attachment that had developed from a sturdy string connecting them to a ball and chain before it eventually broke down into pieces that she was still picking up, was no more. Maybe it was the relief of having Obi close by, as always. Or maybe it was how her traitorous heart skipped a beat as Obi’s breath curled over her ear as he leaned towards Lord Gaki.

Shirayuki could not pinpoint the cause, she could only hear how her breath hitched in the stifling silence.

Gaki’s eyes narrowed over his steepled fingers. “I see.”

Shirayuki’s heart stuttered. She had a feeling that the lords had indeed both seen too much.

…

The moon gleamed through her bedroom window as she awoke to the heavy pounding on her door. Years of caring for sick and injured patients had made her a light sleeper, and she slid out of bed and grabbed for her robe even before she was fully awake.

“Yes?” She croaked, pushing the door open to see a stony-faced guard.

“You are needed, Lady Shirayuki. Lord Shikaku says it’s quite urgent.”

Shirayuki frowned. This wouldn’t be the first time that his son had needed tending late at night, but that had been much earlier in his recovery. He had seemed well earlier, albeit ill-tempered.

Still, the guard’s stance brooked no argument, and Shirayuki followed in step behind him. Her sleep-dazed mind wondered where Obi was.

She was still surreptitiously blinking sleep out of her eyes as they arrived at the lord’s quarters. She found the lord and his son much as they had been earlier that day, although their smiles were distinctly less friendly.

“Yes, Lord Gaki? How can I help you?”

“Marry me.”

So much for flowery courtship, then. He’d discarded the more eloquent language of court and civility to come down to brass tacks. Typically, she preferred a more straightforward approach, but this only irritated her.

“No, I can’t.” She bit back the instinctive sorry that she didn’t mean. If he was struggling this much with simple responses, she’d stick to monosyllables from here on out. 

They would probably have to leave immediately now. She would feel more guilty about rousing Obi out of bed and getting them going far earlier than they’d planned, but she knew he was as eager to leave as she was if not more so.

Her eyes swept to the side. Where was Obi?

The lordling looked sour, and on the brink of spitting at her, when his father brandished an imperious hand to silence him. “Enough,” Lord Shikaku rumbled, “this is going nowhere.”

Shirayuki’s heart leapt at the prospect of someone in this place being sensible, but it quickly sank as the lord looked to the side and snapped his fingers.

A group of four guards came in from a side door, bearing someone between them who, despite being bound hand and foot, was giving them a hard time. They forced the figure into a kneeling position on the ground, and Shirayuki winced at the sharp crack of knees on the marble floor.

“Now, now,” Lord Shikaku crooned as he stepped closer to the kneeling figure, “is that really how you want your mistress to see you? Are you trying to make this more difficult?”

He wrenched off the hood covering the figure’s head and sneered down at him.

Obi shot him a searing glare.

…

The ill feeling Obi had been experiencing over the past week had only intensified after their supposedly final meeting with the lord and his son. Miss already knew his misgivings, and had shared she had some as well, so he hadn’t seen the point in alarming her with how strong they had become. But his instincts had been honed by years on the streets among mercenaries, on the battlefield among knights, and through navigating the tenuous, poisonous affairs of the cutthroat nobles at court. He had only ever ignored them at his peril, and it would be a fool’s move to do so now.

Still, arousing suspicion by making his own suspicion obvious would do Miss no good. So he played along with the guards when they summoned him later that evening for an impromptu meeting to discuss security measures. They had had meetings of the like before, especially when the brat noble was too busy being unconscious to harass his Miss and he’d had nothing better to do than stand around looking intimidating. 

But, given the currently icy state of affairs, the timing of the meeting was...unfortunate.

So he decided to go, but with both eyes wide open.

That they were going to a different room than they had for previous meetings was bad news. The fact that he was being almost shepherded along by the soldiers behind him was worse. But when the door was opened to reveal nothing but blackness, Obi knew he was in trouble. His eyes swept from side to side to assess what he could see, and he was able to react in time to block the attack from the soldier to his right. But that left him exposed to the blow to the back of his neck from the soldier on his left, and he stumbled into the darkness.

He was a top notch hand in a fair fight. He was even better when it came to an unfair fight, because he wasn’t afraid to fight dirty. But the lord here clearly wasn’t afraid to fight dirty either.

Even if he could see it would have been difficult- there were too many bodies, too little space, and his weapons had been yanked away from him after the first blow. He knew he wasn’t making it out of the room in one piece, so he resolved to take out as many as he could in the meantime.

They swarmed him in one great mob, which was unoriginal but effective. He kicked and swung and ducked and darted, sneering with satisfaction at the cries of pain as he connected with faces and limbs. They were cowards, just as much as their boss was a coward, and he felt no remorse.

He put up a good enough fight, but the sheer numbers on the enemy’s side eventually overcame his superior but solitary skill. The captor leading the way lit a lamp once Obi had been thoroughly trussed up, and Obi noted with grim satisfaction those sprawled on the ground who were clutching their wounds and groaning, at least until they covered his head with the hood.

These nobles are idiots, he thought to himself. Everyone here is crazy. Miss was in a relationship with one prince, she has a title granted her personally by another, and her skill is openly acknowledged by a king; so that’s three reasons to assume that someone would come looking for Miss. Or for me, he added sardonically. But we are far from the castle out here, and it would take a while for us to go for help. Besides, who knows what could happen between now and then…

He was being dragged into another room, and he could hear what sounded like his Miss. She sounded exasperated and irritated, but not fearful or in distress, which was reassuring.

He heard a snap, and his captors trotted forward like the obedient dogs they were. His knees crashed into the marble floor hard as they forced him to kneel, and he felt the reverberations lance through his legs. At least the pain was a temporary distraction from the lord’s ramblings.

Lord Shikaku flung the hood off Obi’s head with an almost theatrical flair, which would have made him roll his eyes if he wasn’t so busy glaring. Who is all the theatrical posing for? There’s no one to applaud you, you pompous-

“Let him go!”

Ah, right. That’s who you’re performing for.

Obi looked over in Miss’ direction and almost wished that he hadn’t. She looked horrified and furious and desperate. That look didn’t bode well for her, or for his ability to focus on the situation at hand. He blinked down the surge of highly distracting apprehension and glared up at the windbag.

“Please!”

Don’t try appealing to his better nature, Miss. He doesn’t have one.

“I’m sorry, Lady Shirayuki,” Shikaku leered. “But I can’t. This guard of yours took out twelve of my personal soldiers-”

-That was gratifying, he thought it had only been nine-

“-and so I can do with him as I like.”

Obi was pretty sure that legally, the lord didn’t have much of a leg to stand on with that point, given that the soldiers had ambushed him. But the man didn’t seem too interested in bothering with legal quibbles. Here, his word was law.

At least until Elder Highness finds out what he’s been up to and rips him a new one.

Izana didn’t have any patience for lords who thought they were above their station. Especially when his Miss got involved, much as the king had endeavored to keep that out of public knowledge.

Miss’ eyes swept over him briefly before returning to the lord, her gaze steely. “What do you want?”

Shikaku laughed. “I would think that is obvious. Marry my son, and your knave goes free. Refuse and, well…” He shrugged delicately.

Don’t do it, Miss. I’m not worth it.

She had to know that the lord wasn’t going to let him go regardless. If he let him go and kicked him out of the fortress, Obi would be able to go for help or storm the castle himself. And if he was free and allowed to remain, he would not hesitate to wreck everything in his path.

In the long run, this would not work out for the lord. But the damage wreaked in the short term could be devastating.

Looking up towards Miss, he could see the gears spinning and turning in her mind as she deliberated what she should do. She had to know that the situation was ridiculously, hopelessly skewed in the lord’s favor, but she also wouldn’t take the risk of putting someone in harm’s way.

Obi stared into her emerald eyes with all his strength. They’re not going to let me go, Miss. No matter what you do. Say no - it’ll buy you some more time -

“Fine.”

He wanted to sag in his bonds, but didn’t want to give the lord any satisfaction.

I’m so sorry, Miss. I’m going to make my escape, and then I’m getting you out of here.

…

Brushing her hands down the ridiculously puffy, ornate skirt of her dress, Shirayuki looked at herself in the mirror and made a moue of distaste. She looked farcical, like a tiny red cherry amidst clouds of filmy fabric.

Surprisingly, forcing a woman who did not want to get married into a wedding dress did not instantly make her change her mind. Shirayuki glared at the veil anchored to her head as though it had personally offended her, before forcing herself to focus on the real mission at hand. Rescuing Obi.

She hadn’t seen him since the ultimatum she’d been given a week ago, but she knew he was still alive. She had insisted on getting daily messages from him to ensure that the lord kept his end of their bargain, and his dry comments that hid bits of crucial information about the situation as it stood brought her the only joy she’d felt the whole week.

He’d smeared a little dirt on the second letter, which smelled faintly of iron and rock and staleness - so he was probably in the dungeons. He’d taken to nicknaming the guards who stayed with him, so she was pretty sure he was only being flanked by two guards at a time. With only two, they clearly didn’t know who they were dealing with, but she wasn’t complaining.

Sitting down at her vanity, Shirayuki began to systematically tear her veil into strips and wad them up. There are three floors to this castle, she reminded herself, and then the dungeon. I’m in the tower, because of course I am. So that’s four floors to go down. He’s sent most of the guards away to drum up local attendance for the wedding, so there’s less of them to deal with.

She started tearing the surplus skirts from the dress, and her hands fell into an almost soothing rhythm as she strengthened her resolve. Tear, wad, tie, set aside. When the bundles of cloth on her vanity were stacked nearly to the top of the mirror, she opened the vanity drawer where she had stored the mixture of opium, lard and disinfectant she had been using on the lordling, now laced with a healthy dose of arsenic. Smearing the mixture on the bolts of cloth, she grinned to herself. Really, they should have confiscated her herbs and ointments - but they had been systematically underestimating her from the start. They had thought that she would sit like a pretty doll until the lordling came to retrieve his new ornament. They thought that they could restrain Obi with just a handful of thugs. They thought that she would just cry pitifully in her hands, having been thwarted by masculine minds.

It would be almost a pleasure to show them how wrong they were.

Footsteps clicked just outside her door as she stuffed the last of her bundles into her bag. Tying the bag securely around her waist, she crept behind her closet door and listened.

The footsteps were coming closer.

“Ow!” She cried piteously. “My ankle!”

There was an oath and a frantic jangling of keys. A guard flung himself into the room, his eyes scanning the area desperately for his charge that had somehow gotten injured under his watch.

Shirayuki allowed herself a smirk as he walked past the closet, looking for her.

And then she pounced.

…

The guard outside the dungeon fell to his knees with a muffled sound, snoring before he even hit the ground. Shirayuki took a quick glimpse of the rag in her hand. Finally, she’d hit upon the perfect amount of sedative; some of the knights she’d left snoozing behind her had taken more than one bundle to subdue them, and others she’d had to check to make sure she hadn’t sent them into more permanent sleep.

She wondered if the lordling would appreciate the hallways full of unconscious knights she’d left as a wedding present. She doubted it.

Creeping through the dungeon, she could see light spilling through the bars of only one cell. She closed her hands around the next bundle of cloth and moved to peek through the bars.

Only Obi could look so unperturbed while being held by two guards who were clearly out for blood. Heaven only knew what he’d been saying to them for the past week. Only his eyes, which were clearly calculating, assessing, and planning, gave him away, and only because she knew him so well. She suspected that his guards were too oblivious to notice anything.

She bit the corner of her mouth in thought. The guard on the left appeared to be favoring his ankle. If she threw herself into his knee, that would probably be enough to give Obi the opportunity he -

“Hello, my lady.”

Her blood ran cold at the croak in her ear, and then her arms were forced behind her. She cursed herself.

Missed one.

“Looks like you have a visitor,” her captor creaked as he forced her into the cell.

For the first time, Obi looked genuinely worried and Shirayuki flinched. Guilt flooded her for a moment, along with an apology to Obi for getting them into this mess when they should have left the moment he started having suspicions. But she shoved it down for later, and began struggling in her captor’s hold.

Obi followed suit, straining to get to her, his face shuttering into a professional blankness as he pulled at his guards’ grip.

This is our only chance, she reminded herself as she twisted desperately. They’re not going to fall for it a second ti-

She heard a muffled curse behind her before a dull pain exploded at the back of her head, and then there was no more.

…

Being a damsel in distress was overrated, Obi had decided. His minders were boring, although fun to mess with, and the accommodations left something to be desired. With nothing else to do, he amused himself over the week by setting personal challenges on how quickly he could irritate Dumb and Dumber into leaving him alone. Yesterday, he’d reached a personal best of five minutes.

Besides that he’d just been busy observing. The guard shift changes stayed consistent and predictable - if he’d been sincere during any of their security meetings, he would have raised the issue a long time ago. Now, however, it worked to his advantage.

There were less guards today. Thanks to his usual shadows being gossipy old hens, he knew that the guard was lighter today since they were sending men out to draw people in for the wedding. It figured that the lordling would have so few friends that they’d have to drum up stand-ins; he wondered if news had already got back to Wistal. Elder Highness did have ears everywhere.

Which explains why they’re rushing this so much. Lord has some sense, I guess.

He craned to gauge the brightness of the light streaming through the cracks of the dungeon wall. Judging by the light, it would be about an hour before the next shift change, and the one guard with the limited vision in his left eye would be in charge. It would be the best time to get away. Then there would be only four floors between he and his Miss - they could probably get out through the window before the others figured out what happened, giving them enough of a head start to -

Two sets of hands grabbed him by the arms and hoisted him up, jarring his old shoulder injury. “Really, boys,” he dryly remarked, “if you wanted to hold me, all you had to do was ask.”

“Shut up.” Dumb growled. “You talk too much.”

“Such sweet words,” Obi sighed, batting his eyes and placing a hand to his heart, the manacles dully clanking, “you’ll turn a man’s head talking like that.”

Dumber made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. “Just come on.”

“Where?”

“Going to give your lady some encouragement,” he grunted. “She’s shown signs of not following through with the deal.”

Obi’s mind clicked into higher gear. “And you’ll carry me to my lady? How gallant of you!”

Dumber managed to look even more disgusted. “Carry you?”

“You think I can walk up there like this?” Obi tilted his head towards his bound legs. “I’m good, but not that good. I’m flattered that you think so, though.”

In all actuality, he was that good, but they didn’t need to know that.

Dumb looked skeptical, but Dumber shrugged. “Fine. Don’t try anything funny.”

“Perish the thought.”

He would probably be laughing, but he could pretty much guarantee that they wouldn’t find it funny.

The key clicked, and he could feel the manacles falling from his ankles. There. So far, so good-

All three men turned towards where there was a scuffling outside the cell door. Obi frowned, that didn’t sound like the next guard. It sounded like - 

“Looks like you have a visitor,” a new guard croaked, and Obi’s blood froze as the familiar form of his Miss was manhandled into the cell.

He let his blood run hot for a moment in rage for her before rapidly discarding Escape Plans A and B from his mind. At this rate, they would have probably have to run with Plan F, which hadn’t been nearly as planned out as he would have liked.

Miss looked apologetic for a moment and then began struggling in earnest to get loose. Her captor looked dumbfounded at the fight in his spitfire Miss, and Obi let his pride in her spur his own attempts to break free, coiling like a spring, looking for weaknesses in their grip, planning to use his leg to sweep Dumb off his feet…

But then Miss’ guard made a mistake. He grunted out a curse in exasperation, reached for his sheathed sword, and slammed the hilt into the back of her head.

She slumped to the ground in a heap, and Obi saw red.

“Should you have done that?” One of the idiots holding him said, he didn’t care which. “Lord Shikaku will be mad at you for damaging-”

Through the wind rushing through Obi’s ears, he could just make out the bastard scoffing, “Her hair will cover it, he won’t even see the bruise.”

He hadn’t thought he could have been more angry. He was wrong.

The redness engulfed everything, and he feel more than hear his own bellow of rage as he dropped all the skills he’d honed over the years in favor of pure feral, animalistic fury.

He slammed Dumber into the ground, elbowing him sharply in the nose and feeling the break with satisfaction. Dumb squawked as Obi’s legs swept underneath him, only going silent when Obi shoved him into the wall. Free of two problems, Obi turned with fire in his eyes to the worst offender, who looked like he was finally realizing what hell he had just brought upon himself.

Obi leapt onto him like a panther, not feeling or caring how his prey clawed and scraped at his arms and side. He brought his arms which they had so thoughtfully left shackled around the scum’s neck, twisted the chain around his throat, and pulled. It was gratifying to see the redness darken to purple as the bastard went slack beneath him. He almost wanted to see if it was more gratifying to see him to go pale and lifeless, but stopped himself. He had more important things to worry about.

He pulled the discarded sword from the scabbard and slammed the links of his shackles against the blade until they gave way. Placing two fingers that trembled traitorously against her throat, he nearly cried when he felt her pulse. He scooped her up, held her close, and allowed himself a moment of weakness to feel her breath against his neck. Then he shifted her over his shoulders and began running.

He would have to applaud his Miss later for how efficiently she’d disposed of all the knights, he thought as he ran past the huddled bodies lining the corridor. None showed signs of waking yet, which meant he didn’t have to waste time being sneaky and lurking in the shadows.

They remained uninterrupted all the way through the castle and even out to the stables. The stablemaster was snoring heavily, his customary bottle of liquor empty beside him, and Obi deliberated whether or not he should take his horse. It would make the trek faster, but there was a limit to how quiet one could be when a horse’s hooves were involved.

It’s a shame, he thought as he watched his horse ride off, spurred by the sharp slap he’d given its flank, I really liked that horse. But it was too recognizable to ride, and would serve them better as a wild goose chase rather than as a means of escape.

He shifted her into a more secure place on his back and started his trek into the forest.

…

Obi made his way steadily but slowly through the trees, passing every now and then to listen if anyone had followed them. He hadn’t lost the ability to step lightly through the underbrush, for all that he felt that the good life at the castle had softened him. Even so, he didn’t want to take any more chances than they already had.

He also stopped from time to time to lie Miss down and check on her, to scavenge sustenance that they would eventually need from the trees, or to unearth bundles of supplies he’d paused to squirrel away as they had traveled to the lord’s estate the month before. The memory of the streets and the constant apprehension of when an open handshake could become a knife in the back had never left him, and so he liked to be ready, even now.

Miss had sometimes looked somber when he’d done this, but she never questioned it.

The sunlight streaming through the branches faded steadily as he trekked along, finally succumbing to the silver glow of the moon above. He settled somewhat, feeling more attuned to the night than the day, and he let his muscles loosen and savored the warmth soaking into his back from where his Miss was resting.

The moon was high above them when he felt her begin to stir. He stopped to place her against a tree, using her bag to pillow her head against the trunk.

“Obi?” She groaned, her hand reaching back to her bruise and wincing.

“Good to see you, Miss.”

“How long have I been out?”

Obi clicked his tongue in thought, leaning back on his haunches. “Ten, twelve hours. I wondered if you were ever going to wake up.”

He’d meant the tone to be teasing but he failed, given that her gaze went liquid and sad and soft. His heart throbbed in a way that was not helpful when he needed to remain focused.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, Miss?” Obi smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “It’s not your fault that others find you so irresistible. Or that they don’t know the meaning of no.”

His jaw twinged in pain, and he’d realized his teeth were clenched. It never ceased to incense him how people would treat his Miss - like she was a trinket or a doll that didn’t have any feelings or dreams or desires of her own. She was more than that, so much more, so much that it made him hurt with awe, and -

The adrenaline was definitely fading, along with his focus.

“No,” Miss breathed, her fingers tracing the bruising along his wrists. “I’m sorry I got caught - I was so sure I’d done everything I could to pick the best time, but -”

“You did good, Miss,” he hastened to assure her. “I was thinking along the same lines - you just got a few hours’ lead on me. Don’t think I didn’t see your handiwork on the way out.”

She blushed, and he grinned. “That was impressive, Miss. That last guy was a surprise we both didn’t see coming.” He took a deep breath. “It’s not that much further to the main road, Miss, but we’re about to lose night cover. I don’t think we’ve been followed, but there’s a chance they’ll pick up the search in the morning.”

A look of determination spread across Miss’ face and she stood up, wobbling a little on her feet before bracing herself on the trunk. “We should get going, then.”

Obi popped his shoulders before standing up too. “Follow me, Miss.”

…

The dull pounding at the back of her neck didn’t show signs of going away soon, but Shirayuki didn’t have time to dwell on it. As they walked, she grew accustomed to how her vision would somehow double, twin Obis nearly colliding in front of her, and how the ground would occasionally tilt beneath her. She could steady herself, most of the time, and when she couldn’t, Obi would press an arm against her waist until she was ready once more. He’d asked her once if he wanted him to carry her, and saw enough in her expression to not ask again.

They were passing into a clearing as the sun rose over the trees, the light striking the river in front of them and dazzling her eyes almost painfully. She squinted and shielded her eyes, and nearly bumped into Obi, who had stopped in his tracks, tilting his head and narrowing his gaze.

She was about to ask what was the matter when he let out a low string of curses.

Then she heard it too, the sound growing louder and clearer.

Dogs.

“Of course, he’d be the kind of lord who has hunting dogs,” Obi gritted before indulging in another low oath. “Come on, Miss,” he said grimly. “We have to go.”

He scooped her up and ran along the banks of the river, craning his head in search of something. Shirayuki looked from side to side, ignoring how it made her head spin.

“What are you looking for?”

“Waterfall,” he grunted, preoccupied. “It should be right about -” He stopped, a satisfied smirk creasing his face. “There.”

Shirayuki followed his gaze to see the waterfall in question, a few hundred yards away. She held tight to his neck as he sprinted, nimbly avoiding the muddy parts of the bank. Once he got to the base of the waterfall, he splashed them both through the spray, Shirayuki only just managing to bite her lip to keep from yelping in shock from the cold water.

“Sorry, Miss,” he apologized, “but the water-”

She nodded. Will keep the dogs from following our scent. She remembered as much from his lessons.

Obi began making his way up the damp, rocky incline, shielded from view by the torrential spray of the water. Shirayuki gently pushed at his chest. “Put me down.”

Obi frowned at her as he obliged. “What?”

“It’ll be easier for you to lead the way if you don’t have to worry about dropping me.”

“I always worry about you, Miss.”

And if that didn’t just do things to her heart that she wished she had the luxury to savor, but were too distracting at the moment. She placed her hand on his elbow. “I’m fine, lead the way.”

Obi’s shoulders tensed, then released, before he started his way up the glistening rock face. They climbed higher and higher, hands and feet seeking purchase on the damp stone. The ache at the back of her neck grew, augmented by the brightness of the sun on the water, and the relentless pounding of the falls as they met the river.

Obi glanced back at her, his expression at once relieved and sympathetic. He tapped her shoulder twice, and then pointed to a wide shelf of rock jutting further out from the cliff face, although it was still shielded by the waterfall. He guided her up to the shelf before helping her ease down into a seated position leaning against the stone.

She must have looked like she was about to say something, because he placed a finger on his lips before curving his hand around his ear. Shirayuki leaned forward a little, straining to hear. With effort, she could hear the yells of men spurring the dogs on, the dogs barking and baying, the sounds of riding crops striking horseflesh.

Leaning against the rocks, she shivered despite herself, and Obi knelt beside her, craning to listen even as he dropped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. Shirayuki curled into the warmth bracing her, and felt Obi’s breath hitch as he continued to stare out beyond the water.

After what felt like eons, the sounds of the hunt faded into nothing and left the two of them with just the sound of plummeting water and the thrum of Obi’s heart beneath her fingers. More eons passed before Obi finally relaxed, smoothly sliding from kneeling to sitting without letting go of her shoulders.

They sat there together for a long time, until the sky began to darken. Obi let out a deep breath and stood up. “Come on, Miss,” he beckoned. “I think they’ve given up for now. And it’s going to get cold soon. The sooner we get to the shelter of the trees, the better it will be for you.”

Shirayuki took the proffered hand and pulled herself up. The world spun for a moment, and she grinned to hide it. “Lead the way.”

Obi gave her a reassuring smile and turned to lead the way.

What happened next happened in a blur. She couldn’t tell if it was the dizziness, her muscles still unknotting from sitting for so long, the muddiness of her boots, or the slickness of the stone.

But suddenly she was slipping, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“No!”

One moment she was canting to the side, too close to the rush of the water and the brink of oblivion. The next she felt a vice-like grip on both of her shoulders before she was flung bodily away from the edge, just missing the rock face. Gasping to regain her breath, she looked around. Obi was gone.

“Obi!” She barely managed to keep from running to look over the side of the ledge. There Obi was, holding onto the rocks that were slippery with water and blood from his scraped palms. She looked into his eyes and saw a resignation there that terrified her to her core.

She flung herself onto the floor and seized both his wrists. Obi tried to pull himself up, but the week of malnutrition and injuries was finally catching up with him, along with the fatigue and lack of sleep since their escape. His grip faltered.

Hers tightened.

Obi tried to push up with his feet but any rocks that could have helped were too far away. He looked up at her. “You have to let go!”

“No!” The fall was too far, the impact of the water could kill him.

“Miss! Now!”

She squeezed his wrists.

He exhaled. “Miss, I left a bag by those gnarled rocks, the ones that look like Lord Haruka on a bad day - so, everyday.”

Shirayuki giggled despite herself, a traitorous giggle that dissolved into a sob.

“The bag has strips of cloth in it. When it’s safe, go to the north,” he craned his neck to the side, “that way. The road should be about a half-mile away from here. Put a stake in the ground-”

“Obi!” He was talking like he was saying goodbye.

He continued over her. “Tie three strips around it, braid them. Then come back into the forest. Tie a strip to the second lowest branch of every third tree until you stop where you want to rest. The royal guard will know what to do, they should be passing by soon."

“Obi!”

“Don’t move until the ripples stop. The lord’s men should be far away now, but don’t take risks. At least no more than you’ve already taken.” He began twisting his wrists in her grip.

She held tighter. “You’re one to talk.”

Obi’s grin was barely visible through her tears. “They were all worth it, Miss.” The twisting intensified.

“Why?” She was crying in earnest now, her whole world narrowed to her white-knuckling grip and the man she was holding onto. “Why do you think it’s worth risking your life?”

“Because,” he swallowed hard, his face crumpling into a rawness she had never seen before, “I love you, Miss. I think I always have.”

Shirayuki pushed herself forward, grip resolute, and ignored the growing burn in her muscles. “You...love me?”

Obi sighed almost as if in relief, lassitude making his body limp in her grip. “More than life itself.”

Her heart was full of terror and exhilaration and anxiety and joy and a feeling like coming home. She craned her head towards his, feeling his gasps of air across her face as she moved closer.

She could feel his breath across her lips now. She leaned towards him.

And then he slipped through her fingers and was gone.

Despite every instinct screaming in protest, Shirayuki followed Obi’s instructions and waited for the ripples to stop. She probably wouldn’t have managed to do so if his body hadn’t resurfaced almost immediately after plunging beneath the water, his face mercifully turned upwards towards the sky. She clambered down the rocks until she couldn’t bear it any longer and dove into the water.

She swam quickly towards him, snagging his belt loops with her hands and pulling him along with her. Her muscles screamed for rest, but she ignored them as she inched the two of them closer to shore. 

Eventually, her feet scraped against the riverbed, and she was able to stand up and drag him onto the muddy bank. She wanted nothing more than to flop down beside him and sleep for years, but she stooped over him to check his pulse.

No pulse. No breaths.

Shirayuki almost couldn’t breathe herself.

Mechanically, she started compressions, the rhythm even and deep and punctuated with the plea please let it not be too late please let it not be too late.

She gave two breaths, wondering how the lips that had breathed out such warmth could be so cold now.

Please don’t die, she begged as she pounded his chest. Not now. Not ever. Especially not before I can tell you-

“I love you too,” she grunted with desperation and exertion before leaning down for two more breaths.

She was halfway through the compressions when he jerked to the side, water pouring from his mouth before he started coughing himself hoarse.

“Miss?” He was looking at her in wonder.

“You’re alive.” It was simultaneously the most obvious and most wonderful thing she had ever said. She would have flung herself about him, but he was clearly struggling to breathe. She settled for simply holding him close but gently.

“Miss?” He whispered hoarsely.

“I’m here. We’re safe, for now.”

He coughed. “Ribbons?”

“In a moment.” She held him tighter.

“Miss.” He sounded exasperated and tired. “The royal guard can’t find you and get you to safety if they don’t know -”

“Is that any way to talk to the woman you love?”

It felt good to tease. His tanned skin blanched, then flushed with a fury, then blanched again. He looked puzzled.

“But...you need to be safe, Mi-”

She placed a finger to his lips. “I do have a name, you know.”

He looked even more confused. She took pity on him, it had been a rough day. “Is 'Miss' really the way you want to address the woman you love?” His expression became apologetic and alarmed, which would not do. She bent down and brushed a kiss to his brow. “The woman who loves you too?”

Obi’s body went even more lax, a whirlwind of emotions blurring through his unguarded gaze before resolving into something like wonder. He reached up a shaky hand to curve around her cheek, and she placed her hand over his, rejoicing in its warmth and the pulse beating steadily through his wrist.

“Shirayuki.” It was a whisper, a promise, a pledge. It was everything.

She kissed his forehead ahead, a longer, lingering kiss. He looked awed, although the mischief she loved to see started to creep into his gaze. “You missed.”

Brushing aside the damp hair dripping into his face, she grinned. “When you’ve caught your breath.”

“You always leave me,” he coughed, “breathless, Miss.”

She tapped his nose. “Obi.”

He smirked, eyes already drooping with fatigue. “Shirayuki.”

Shirayuki curled around him, supporting his head in her lap. “Later, Obi,” she promised. “We have all the time in the world.”

Stubborn man that he was, he looked as though he wanted to continue to playfully protest, even as sleep pulled relentlessly at him. She gave him an affectionate look. “I love you.”

He melted. “I love you, too.”

And then fell asleep.

Shirayuki remained curled around him until his snores became deep and even. She left him alone only long enough to retrieve the bag and to tie the ribbons as he had instructed. But then she returned to his side, cuddling him close through the night and the morning, and she didn’t let go even when the royal guard found them.

[maxwell-grant]

Those of us who like Batman will often discuss his habit of creating contingency plans for if his colleagues go bad, and specifically what his plan is for himself going bad. Do you imagine The Shadow likewise has a contingency for if he goes bad? And any idea of what it is? (Sidenote: I'm pretty sure The Spider does, and her name is Nita Van Sloan)

I imagine it's something he wouldn't exactly have needed to concern himself with initially, as the majority of his villains tend to be predatory businessmen and spies and gang masterminds, and those really don't have anything they can do to sway his judgement. But when he started coming up against supervillains like Doctor Mocquino and Shiwan Khan, who could alter the minds of others as well as his own, I imagine he definitely would have started taking that into consideration. Especially following his encounters with Benedict Stark and his drugs that could turn even his agents into bloodthirsty murderers.

I imagine The Shadow's "contingency plan" might comprise of what he usually does when he's faced with a situation beyond his expertise or capabilities: he calls for help.

People forget this, but in the Shiwan Khan saga, it was repeteadly established that Khan's mastery of the mind was superior to The Shadow's own, and it was only through The Shadow's own training and mental fortitude that he was able to resist Khan's mind control. It was only by calling upon the aid of Marpa Tulku, also someone stronger than The Shadow in such affairs, that he was able to fully counter Khan's tricks and defeat him. Death Of Margo Lane also has that sequence above where, after The Shadow realizes that Margo's death has thrown him off way worse than he expected, he goes to Roy Tam for psychological assistance.

Thus, should The Shadow ever seriously fall so badly to the point he needs to be stopped, should he ever be corrupted that far past the point of no return, he might have worked out something with Burbank. A code word Burbank receives that immediately informs him that he's been compromised, that he needs to shut down all means of communication and cut off all the agents from potential danger, or a sign that Burbank needs to immediately mobilize people. Tip off the agents and allies, tip off law enforcement, tip off all communities with any ties to The Shadow and his agents, let people know in advance of just how bad things may have gotten and that they need to be careful and in contact with each other.

I imagine the task of actually stopping The Shadow is not one he would give to his agents, both because they lack the resources to do so and also because they are not supposed to be killers to begin with (at least, not outside of self-defense or defense of others). So I imagine Burbank would need to contact allies operating mainly outside of his network, like Myra Reldon, Vic Marquette, or even Marpa Tulku.

Should they fail, and they probably would because the story's progression necessitates them to, between the agents, the two most qualified for this task would probably be Cliff Marsland or Jericho Druke. Cliff because he's a crackshot who takes the lead in action, he's the team tough guy with the war and prison backgrounds, and he would probably be the agent least likely to hesitate to put one between The Shadow's eyes should it be necessary (but he would probably still hesitate, and it would cost him). Jericho, because he's stronger than The Shadow and not afraid to leap into gunfights even without guns, and he's got a community to look after that's lost too much at the hands of murderous masked vigilantes. He's got a righteous and protective fury behind him.

But if the story's gotten bad enough that The Shadow is actively hunting his own agents (and if he's become bad, then he would have to, because the existence of the agents is THE main thing that humanizes The Shadow and holds him accountable, if only to the audience), it's become a full-on horror story, and you know that the most qualified characters are rarely the ones who beat the monster in a horror story.

So when it comes down to it, I imagine the ones who would really be able to deal with this by the story's end would be either Margo Lane or Joe Cardona. Likely both, under a tenuous and miserable partnership. The two people that The Shadow can control the least.

Margo, because if there's any Shadow agent that could play the role of The Final Girl in this horror story we've created, it would have to be her. Because she's got the willpower to match and stand against The Shadow's own. She's not really a fighter the way Nita van Sloan is, but she will not hesitate to get her hands dirty, with or without mind powers of her own. The Shadow would absolutely hate to force this scenario on her under any circumstance, but, if this scenario's happening to begin with, then The Shadow simply isn't there anymore.

And Cardona, because he's the ideal protagonist for this scenario. He's one of those characters in The Shadow who takes on a protagonist/POV role a lot of the time, and his is markedly different from the others because of his rather unique role. You'd think he would be The Shadow's equivalent to James Gordon, and he is only in the "the only decent cop the hero can rely on" sense, but personality-wise, he's somewhat closer to Harvey Bullock. In a way, Joe Cardona is a misplaced noir protagonist.

He is, and isn't, an agent. He's worked together, and against, The Shadow. He's an ally, but their dynamic is somewhat more complicated than you'd expect. He was there with The Shadow at the end of the Shiwan Khan saga. He's clever, resourceful, tough, a decent man (certainly a lot more decent than any cop in the 1930s would likely be), and he might have the biggest kill count out of all The Shadow's allies. Several times it is Cardona who delivers the final shot, or who winds up shooting down a criminal that The Shadow needed alive for investigation.

And among The Shadow's network of allies, I imagine Cardona would be the least hesitant to gun him down, if that were necessary. I imagine he's probably the one The Shadow would rely on to do the job, if it came to that.

Maybe this is part of why The Shadow never made him an agent.

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 22/?)

In which Callum and Ezran confront some of the implications of Harrow’s death; in Katolis, a meeting of the High Council is called.

(Chapter length: 15.5k. Ao3 link)

---

Sarli and Cairon whiled away the hours with their work, waiting until such a time that a runner came from the castle. If there were any watchers in place observing them, they saw no sign of it, though that did little to ease their tension throughout the day. When finally they were called upon, they went, and did not make any particular fuss about it. It came later than anticipated; at a time ebbing closer to evening than afternoon. She wondered if there had been any difficulties that might have caused the delay.

They arrived at the castle and were taken to wait in a receiving room not far from where Sarli knew the Council hall to be. The thick stone of the castle walls blocked all trace of sound, and though she was sure the meet must already be underway, she could hear nothing. So she held silent and still, waiting in calm dignity for the inevitable summons. Cairon, for his part, held a silence and stillness that seemed very intent, as if he were trying to listen for voices through the stone. He would have had to have very good ears to manage it; the castle walls were thick indeed.

Finally, a guard came to lead them through, and the two that had been in the room stood up and followed. When they entered the Council’s grand hall, there had evidently been a great deal of talking already, and a great deal of resistance. Lord Viren was not in the monarch’s seat, but instead stood at the table’s end like a supplicant, cuffed, flanked on either side by well-armed Crownguard. She had a split second to guess that he would not take such debasement lightly, and then she saw his face.

The Lord Protector was tense with barely-leashed rage, his fists tight at his side and his frame set with a proud, furious rigidity that spoke well to his state of mind. He had encountered a challenge and a setback where he had anticipated none, and it had got the better of him.

His eyes moved and fell upon her, and tightened with obvious fury. Sarli stared back impassively.

“I call the Healer Sarli, and her apprentice, Cairon of the Acolytes of Mercy, to speak their testimony to the Council.” Opeli said, steely-eyed and intent. She did not betray any hint of satisfaction or victory, and Sarli respected that, too. One ought not celebrate a victory until it was in her hands. “By what would you be bound?” She asked of them, and Sarli answered without hesitation.

“By Mercy,” she said, and Cairon echoed ‘Mercy’ a bare second after her.

Opeli nodded, and then had them speak the vows in Mercy’s name that would bind them by honour to truth, and then without unnecessary preamble she had their testimony from them. Sarli described the circumstances under which she’d been summoned, what she’d seen of the Lord Protector’s secrecy and the conditions of his dungeon, what he’d said of his past treatment of his prisoner, and the evidence that Sarli had gleaned well from that prisoner’s health. She spoke of the amputation performed in the dark, hidden and faithless, and the insult she’d been dealt in having her patient taken from her. She spoke of the dark magic construct that had stolen into her House of Healing, and presented the ash of it that Cairon had saved in a tiny vial.

Cairon said his part, too, but by that point it was something of an afterthought. The Council adjourned briefly while a fresh party of guards, accompanied by a Councilman, ventured into the Lord Protector’s private dungeon and verified the presence of the prisoner, as well as the inhumane conditions of his keeping. They returned this confirmation to the Council-hall, and Lord Viren was asked to justify his actions.

He straightened, slowly, the rage in his eyes having banked in the interim to something colder and longer-burning. He had evidently been considering his words very carefully. “That elf is the assassin who murdered King Harrow.” He said, evenly, precisely. “And, to my belief, the leader of the party of assassins.” He was commanded to justify this claim, and elaborated at once on the differing position of the elf’s strange binding, the fact that he alone had borne the magical messenger-bird; the claim was accepted, and he went on. “This elf is the leader of a group of six – six – vile Moonshadow elves who somehow made it to the heart of the Kingdom without ever once being detected. A journey that surely must have taken them months – and they were not spotted. Does that not seem suspicious to you?”

The Council rustled. Opeli’s eyes tightened before she spoke. “Make your point, Lord Viren.”

“My point, as you put it, is that those elves constituted a security breach of the highest order,” said Lord Viren, voice coached in all the righteous, compelling concern that he could manage. “A Moonshadow assassin is unstoppable at full moon, but full moon does not account for how they travelled here undetected.”

“Moonshadow assassins are famously skilled.” Pointed out another of the Council, looking nearly interested now.

“Skilled, yes, but skilled enough to avoid all patrols and sentries along the way?” He shook his head. “The most efficient ways here from the border are heavily populated. No, Councillors; even if the assassins kept far from the road, they should have been spotted. Glimpsed, at least once. I’m sure they would have killed any scouts who did spot them, but we’ve had no missing scouts either, have we? They weren’t spotted.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if inviting the council-hall to follow him to his conclusion. “That implies knowledge of where to go to stay hidden – which routes are guarded and which are not – which paths an assassin might take to the heart of Katolis to slaughter its royal family.” The words were inflammatory, and deliberately so; many in the room stirred at the reminder. “That knowledge could only have been gained in one way.”

Sarli knew the word before it was spoken. So, judging by the sudden stillness of him, did Cairon. “Spies.” Concluded Opeli, flatly. “We know we have spies, Lord Viren. Every kingdom does. What does this have to do with your reprehensible conduct?”

The Lord Protector schooled his features into polite surprise. “You haven’t guessed, Lady Opeli?” He asked, falsely astonished. “Why, I have been trying to draw the information from the elf prisoner, of course.” He seemed satisfied as the Council erupted with mutters and rustling, eyes passing from one to the next with careful attention. “As the leader of his party, the prisoner will know how to contact the spies. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had made contact with a spy in the castle-city itself. Our king is dead!” he said, raising his voice, and casting his address around. Though shackled, he still had more than sufficient room to turn and enhance his oration. “Our heirs murdered! The Kingdom is in its hour of greatest vulnerability, and it is our duty to keep it safe. Security of information has never been more important.”

“…You claim your treatment of the prisoner was justified as means to draw information from him.” Opeli concluded, narrow-eyed, watching Lord Viren as though he were a particularly troublesome roach that had the temerity to refuse to die.

“Precisely so, Lady Opeli.” The Lord Protector agreed, voice lined with the artificial smoothness of someone who had lived too long at court.

Opeli did not appear impressed. Nor did her fellows, and Sarli could guess why. She waited for the obvious rejoinder.

It came, eventually, from the Councilman Saleer. “Lord Viren, I agree with your concerns of the security of the realm.” He said, turning a light frown to the man as he spoke. “The security of information must be one of our utmost priorities, and the potential for unearthing spies must be pursued. Your prisoner, doubtlessly, has very valuable information to give, and will likely only give it under duress. I agree that the duress is warranted.” He paused, looking almost disappointed. Sarli thought, by the look of him, that this Councilman might well have been Lord Viren’s partisan before this. Now, though? “What I question is why you did not apply to the proper channels to have it sanctioned.”

Sarli was nodding along as Lord Viren paused, his expression falling into a mask of polite indifference that seemed near-reflexive. “Pardon?” he inquired, mildly, with the look of a man who had been hoping very fervently that this topic would not arise.

Opeli took up the assault with an almost fierce cast to her eyes. “Under Law, Lord Viren, the use of exceptional measures in the questioning of prisoners of war may be granted by tribunal,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You cannot pretend you didn’t know that. There is no good reason, none, why you should have kept the prisoner in unlawful secrecy and unlawful conditions, when you could have simply requested a tribunal verdict. Do you think anyone would deny that this prisoner warrants it? It would be unanimous.” Her stare darkened to a glower. “But you didn’t even try. And I, for one, mistrust the intentions that this betrays.”

“I, as well.” Said one of the others. “It’s untrustworthy behaviour from the Lord Protector.”

“I support without reservation measures for the security of the realm,” said Saleer. “I dislike that I was not offered the opportunity to support this one. Matters of security should not be hidden from the Council. And, by reports, under your care the prisoner’s health has been declining rapidly. Such a valuable source of information should be kept more carefully.”

Opeli turned, abruptly, to Sarli. “Your verdict, Healer, on the prognosis of the prisoner.” She demanded, and Sarli blinked.

She took a moment to collect her impressions. “Under his current circumstances, without the care of a Healer…” She considered it. “If the records on his kind are correct, I would expect him to summarily expire beneath the new moon. In his current condition, and kept underground, I do not believe he would survive its privations.”

“And your recommendations for a course of treatment?” The question was quick.

“Access of a qualified Healer to his care and keeping.” She answered. “Moonlight; as much of it as possible, before the moon finishes waning. He must have a cell with an appropriately-placed window. And I strongly recommend against the use of any exceptional measures before the new moon has passed.”

“You consider it very likely that the prisoner would have died, left to Lord Viren’s care.” It wasn’t a question.

“I consider it a certainty, if he persisted in refusing access to a Healer.” Sarli said evenly. “If by some miracle the elf survived the new moon, he wouldn’t survive his infections without some moonlight to strengthen him. As it is, even should he receive a Healer’s attentions immediately, his survival is far from assured.”

Opeli nodded, sharply, and turned to Lord Viren. “Then we must charge you with endangerment of the security of the realm, Lord Protector, as well as breach of Law.” She said, and – that appeared to break through the man’s carefully-crafted exterior. He looked offended. “In risking the death of a potentially critical prisoner – a prisoner which you did not surrender to the official channels as you ought – you endanger the information security that you claim motivated you. I find your justifications poor and groundless, and call for the immediate confiscation of the prisoner, and sanctions upon your station.”

Oh, but that did not please Lord Viren. His eyes narrowed. His fists clenched, still cuffed, as though he were fighting to refrain from uttering something rash. She imagined she could almost hear the grind of his teeth.

Within minutes, Opeli’s call had the corroboration of the rest of the Council, and orders were dispersing for the appropriation and relocation of the prisoner. The soldiers who had aided the Lord Protector and not spoken up were due for trials of their own, and the Council was in agreement that Lord Viren should receive further sanction, to be determined at a later date.

“Healer, given your prior attendance to the case, I would ask that you take up the duty of the prisoner’s care.” Opeli said, which Sarli had been expecting.

“Of course.” She said, inclining her head, and did not mention that she would have been more than mildly irate to have had her patient given to the care of any other, and certainly would have made her ire the Council’s problem. “I will have the aid of my apprentice, I assume.” This was accepted without pause. Here, at least, the rights of a Healer went unquestioned.

Then she had the privilege of watching the Lord Protector escorted from the throne-room, to rest under guard in his quarters until such a time as he received his next hearing. As he passed her by, flanked by the pikes of the Crownguard, he turned eyes upon her that were venomous and graceless in defeat. “So much for the vaunted confidentiality of Healers.” He said to her, casting his voice so as to be heard, perhaps in some attempt to discredit her vows to the Council.

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Surely you’re not surprised, Lord Viren.” She said, and allowed herself a stirring of satisfaction in her gut, though it did not reach her eyes. “It was my duty.”

“Your duty?” He seethed, the guards pausing to allow the exchange.

“Yes.” She answered, and no more. If he had paid better attention, he would have known it. She owed him no explanation at all.

So, in the end, Lord Viren left the hall in disgrace, and Sarli returned with her apprentice to the mouth of the Valley of Graves.

 ---

 The snowshoes, by necessity, limited their travel speed quite a lot. Rayla seemed to be feeling more lenient than usual, or otherwise was treating them gently, because she barely hurried them or remarked on their pace at all. He asked her about it, an hour or so in, and she shrugged. “Never expected to get far today,” she said. “But we needed to get moving. For…morale, I guess, if nothing else.”

Callum thought of staying in that Mercy-forsaken cave for another day and shivered. He could understand that. It felt, in a very real way, like the place had been stained with the grief and turmoil they’d experienced there, and he was increasingly glad to have seen the back of it. “Okay, fair enough.”

The forced break in their travel had at least allowed his legs to recover a bit; this turned out to be a very good thing, because the going that day was almost entirely uphill. Rayla kept cresting the side of the mountain, looking out, and shaking her head. No safe way down to the other side yet. So they were still climbing, in a steady meandering path around the curving edge of Dorel, searching for a way forward.

The snow made everything harder. Going uphill in snowshoes meant having to stamp the snow twice or more before every step, to ensure it was packed enough to withstand weight, which meant that every step forward took three times as much effort as it ought to. And, of course, he periodically fell in. Less so as he got the hang of snowshoeing, but it was a definite setback. They were walking  almost directly into the wind that day too, with the lingering malice of the storm scouring their cheeks until his skin felt red and raw.

After only a few hours of walking, Callum’s legs were aching, he was struggling for breath, and the straps of his bag were digging painfully into his shoulders…but, weirdly, it was still vaguely satisfying. There was a sense of relief to it all, like he was leaving something terrible behind. Like, somehow, if he walked far enough, the grief wouldn’t follow.

It helped that, walking on the outwards edge of an entire mountain, the views were usually incredible. At least half the times he tripped and fell into a snowdrift were because his eyes wandered to the scenery instead of where he was putting his feet.

Rayla had said they wouldn’t go far today, and was true to her word; she was obviously looking for somewhere to camp by mid-afternoon. The snow-clouds made it hard to judge the time of day, but he thought it was only about four by the time she stopped them, setting her bags down in a thick bank of snow beside some well-frosted pine trees. “This’ll do,” she announced, giving their surrounds a critical look. “It’s sort of sheltered, at least.”

Callum eyed the prospective campsite dubiously. The trees were not particularly closely-packed, but the snow seemed only knee-deep rather than hip-deep, so he supposed she was right. There was some degree of shelter here. “Nice view through the trees, too.” He pointed out, glancing through the sparsely-placed trunks to the silhouettes of the mountains. It was clear enough now that he could almost see some actual details past the haze. There was, sort of, a drop-off a short distance away. A slope steep enough that the snow hadn’t adhered to it particularly enthusiastically, in any case. He thought he could see some sort of forest further down.

She followed his gaze, looking vaguely taken-aback, as if she hadn’t even noticed the scenery. She blinked past the branches. “I was mostly just thinking about easy firewood access,” she admitted. “And not having to clear as much snow. But I suppose it looks nice enough?” She shrugged.

Ezran let Bait down into the snow, smiling a little as the glow-toad promptly dropped out of sight, too dense to do anything but sink in immediately. “I like it better than that stupid not-cave, anyway.” He announced, and kicked out some snow before setting his own bag down in the cleared space. “Are we setting up the tent?”

“Definitely.” Rayla said, eyeing a nearby tree suspiciously. She approached it and gave it a kick, then did a circuit of the other nearby trees to do the same. He wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of it was, but she seemed more satisfied when she finished and added “It’s definitely still too cold to be a good idea to sleep outside.” Callum, who was already getting chilly now that he’d stopped walking, nodded ruefully, and bent to take his snowshoes off.

It was bizarrely, comfortingly normal to go about the camp-making process again. The snow occasioned a few extra steps, but Rayla mostly took care of that; she broke off a branch so large it seemed more like half a tree, still thick with pine needles, and used it as an improvised broom to beat aggressively at the thick snow in their vicinity. While they gathered wood for a fire, she exposed an area of frozen earth that would have been large enough for three or four tents instead of just the one. When she was done she stood back to observe it with plain satisfaction, discarding her improvised broom.

Callum inspected her handiwork. The edges of the snow, all pushed outwards, looked almost comically like some sort of perimeter wall. He half felt like he should be drafting Ez to go build a snow-fort with him. Instead: “Tent time?” he inquired, eyeing the cleared space, and she nodded.

“Tent time.” She agreed, and they all set to work.

Rayla had regained the use of her left hand since the last time they did this, and although it seemed weak enough to not be able to grip or brace things properly, it still made enough of a difference that she joined in on the tent-building with a vicious satisfaction, obviously soothed to have some measure of her capabilities back. He was glad for her, though he did spend most of the process worrying that the tent would catch on her arm wounds somehow.

After startlingly little time, they had a tent again. Right at that moment, he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I want to crawl in there and never leave.” He sighed, eyeing the open interior covetously. He hadn’t realised how fiercely he’d missed its dubious comforts until now. Sheltered or not, the alcove they’d spent the last couple nights in had been decidedly open to the elements, and the idea of being able to sleep in an enclosed space again was heartening.

“We can spend the evening warming it up. Putting hot rocks in it and stuff.” Rayla offered, and he glanced over to find her watching him with a slight smile. “Should be relatively toasty. At least for the first part of the night.”

“I’ll take it.” He said, wistful at the mere thought. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt warm.”

Ezran, who’d been slipping the egg out and resting it inside the tent, looked down at his boots. “I know what you mean. My toes have been frozen for days.” Bait inspected his own feet, croaked disagreeably, then crawled into the tent himself. Ez snickered at this, as though the toad had said something amusing that the rest of them weren’t privy to.

“Hopefully not literally.” Rayla said, finally dragging some of their wood over to arrange a fire. “Please, no frostbite. That would be so much work to deal with.”

“Seconded.” Callum put in quickly, stomach roiling a little at the thought. He’d heard stories about frostbite, and they weren’t pretty. “No one’s allowed to lose any toes.” After a moment, he went for the flint in his bag, moving over to hand it to Rayla. She murmured thanks and began casting the sparks, holding the left-hand rock very carefully indeed.

Ezran patted his feet, then stuck them close to the designated fire-area. “I think I can manage that,” he said. “So long as this fire picks up a little, anyway. My boots feel all snow-soggy.”

It all went weirdly smoothly from there. Callum wasn’t sure what he was expecting; some setback, maybe. Like the strong winds of that one other campsite, or an unwelcome thunder-clap. But nothing happened. It all just…worked. The first order of business, once they had a fire, was to start heating up some snow and pine needles for tea. The second order of business was to stash all the still-raw meat into the snow-walls around their campsite to ensure it’d stay frozen. With those more pressing matters dealt with, Rayla started hunting around for suitably-sized rocks to stash in the flames for heating. In what seemed like no time at all, they were passing pine-tea around, everyone except Callum grimacing lightly at the taste as they sipped.

And, just like that, they were sat quiet and idle around yet another campfire.

In the smooth, easy progression of the afternoon…there really hadn’t been any opening to sit and dwell on unhappy thoughts. Now though, the quiet fell for long enough to turn pensive in the air, growing heavier between one moment and the next.

“This is so…normal.” Ezran said into that quiet, after a long time. He was staring into the bubbling pot on the fire, looking conflicted. Rayla turned to watch him, eyes sombre with understanding.

Callum offered a low hum of agreement, heart sinking. It had been easier – when the travel and the campcraft had been distracting him – to keep his mind off of heavier things. But there was only so long that would work.

“It’s like nothing ever happened. Like nothing’s changed.” Ez went on, when neither of them spoke. “But…it has. It has changed. And I just…” he exhaled, lifting a hand to his face. “I don’t know. It’s hard.”

He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I know.” He said, softly. “I - it does get easier? But…”

Ezran glanced up at him, and didn’t seem especially reassured. He just looked back at the fire. “I can’t stop thinking about – about how we weren’t there.” He said, arms tightening around his front, as though he wanted to hug something but had nothing there. The egg and Bait were both in the tent, after all. “For…a lot of things. Like…” He breathed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Like the funeral. That would have been a few days ago, right?”

Callum hadn’t thought of that. It was like a stab through his heart. “I – yeah.” He agreed, miserably, after a second of thought. “Seven sunsets. We passed that at least a couple days back.”

“And those memorial flames, in Verdorn.” Ezran went on, eyes shadowed. “And the flags. That was for him, too. Right?”

He winced. Those had both been signs he’d tried, very hard, not to think about at the time. “…Yeah. I think so.”

“And we just…” Ez shook his head. “We just kept going. Didn’t even know when the funeral happened, or – anything.”

Rayla was hunching her shoulders a little now, too. “Should’ve told you sooner.” She muttered, low and guilty.

His brother sighed. “Yeah, probably.” He acknowledged, seemingly too worn to soften the words. “But it wouldn’t really have changed anything.” He thought. “Maybe we could’ve lit a flame for him, I guess, if it was before the funeral. Now we can only do that at his grave. Or – at Ashtide, maybe?”

He saw Rayla frown at the word, apparently finding it unfamiliar. “That’d be a long way away, though.” Callum said softly. “We only just had Ashtide a few months back.”

Ezran was silent for a moment. “At his grave, then.” He exhaled. “I guess by the time I get a chance, I’m probably going to be King. Or, actually, I – I guess I’m already King? I…” He buried his face in his hands. “Callum, I…don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

His gut tightened. Ez was too young to have to be worrying about something this heavy. Too young by far to be King. But… “I know.” He said, quietly, and offered an arm. Ez eyed it for a moment, then sighed, shuffling closer and letting himself be pulled in. He huddled into Callum’s side. “If it helps…you can always pick a regent. The Queen of Duren’s still using her regent, and she’s a year older than you.”

“Regents. Right.” He blinked a few times, and the words did at least seem to have surprised him out of his misery for a moment. “Forgot about that. But…who would I even pick?” He frowned suddenly, like he’d had an unpleasant thought. “Do you think they already picked one for me? Because we’re – you know, here? It’s not like they can just leave the kingdom without someone in charge…”

“They might have, yeah. A temporary one, maybe.” It was similar to what he’d been thinking earlier in the day. His arm tightened. “They could’ve crowned a Lord Protector instead, I guess, but that would be weird. There’s probably just a regent.”

“I wonder who it is.” Ezran said lowly, then huddled in closer, hunching until he seemed tiny. “Stupid,” he muttered, as if to himself, with an edge of upset rising in his voice. “Dad’s dead and I missed his funeral and I don’t even know who my regent is.” There was a self-castigation there that Callum was far more used to hearing from his own voice than his brother’s. Some King I am, it seemed to whisper.

Callum frowned. “Hey, none of that is your fault, Ez.” His voice came out a little more sharply than he’d intended. Rayla stirred a little, like she wanted to say something, but in the end she stayed quiet, watching them with sombre eyes.

“I know.” Ezran’s limbs furled tightly inwards, knees coming up to his chest. “I know it’s not. I just – it feels bad, okay? Now – it’s not just that dad’s dead, it’s – I’m supposed to be responsible for the whole kingdom too? And instead of being there, doing my job, I’m just…” He trailed off, then shook his head. Lifted a hand and gestured tiredly out at the campsite. “I’m just…here. And I don’t know who’s taking care of Katolis.” Before Callum could speak, he’d already gone on. “And that matters, you know? Because of this whole stupid war. What if whoever it is keeps fighting? My regent could be making things worse while I’m-“ he gestured violently around them, at the tent, at the fire. “-sat here, camping.” His voice went bitter on the last word.

Whatever Callum had been about to say died on his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he’d intended to say, but…

Rayla cut in, then. “You’re doing something important here, Ez.” She said, and though her voice was gentle, it was very firm too. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, since we’re mostly just…walking, and camping. But we’re taking the Dragon Prince home. And, coming from you…” She shook her head for a moment. “Do you know how much that’ll mean, for Azymondias to be returned by the King of Katolis? Not just by some human, but a king? That sort of gesture matters, Ez.”

Callum glanced at her, surprised. He’d not heard her talk about anything like that before. It rang true, though, and he could see it move Ez too. His pale eyes flicked back to the egg in the tent, expression twisted with indecision. “…Yeah.” He said, at last. “I can see how that’s important. How that’s…a big thing. But…” He went quiet for a few long moments. “But I feel like the kingdom matters too. Who’s controlling it. What if by the time we get to Xadia, there’s armies fighting again, because I wasn’t home to tell them not to?” His hands clenched in Callum’s jacket. “What if more people die?”

His gut twisted. “It’s a good point.” He admitted, after a moment. There hadn’t been all-out armed conflict with Xadia since, pretty much, Harrow had been crowned. But in the wake of a royal assassination on either side… “It’s – scary to think about. But I can’t help but think-“ he hesitated, and stopped, not sure if he should say it.

Ezran noticed, of course, and frowned up at him. “Think what?”

“…I can’t help but wonder if it’d actually make a difference. You telling them not to go to war.” He admitted finally, throat feeling tight. Ezran stared at him, confused and almost a little offended, so: “It’s not like child kings are unheard of, Ez. But – sometimes, if people think they’re not making the right decisions, and they’re not ready to rule yet…they’re forced to take a regent anyway. At least for a few years.” He hesitated again, and added, more quietly, “Or they get deposed. Or…worse.”

It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. But kings were valid targets for assassination, as far as Pentarchy standards were concerned. Ezran was King now. It wouldn’t matter that he was only a child. If people didn’t like what he was doing…then there’d be assassins. Probably a lot of them.

There were always people who didn’t like what kings and queens were doing. That went without saying. But something like this?

Ezran’s expression had gone a little stricken, like he hadn’t thought about that. Callum felt like he had to elaborate, at that point. “You’d want to stop the fighting, right?” He said, quietly. “Make peace with Xadia. But – you’d need support for something like that, Ez. You’d need at least most of your council to think you know what you’re doing. Or at least a few important people who’ll back you up.”

He’d been pretty much raised with the idea that he’d be Ezran’s most trusted royal advisor someday. He’d never thought he’d have to start this soon. If he’d known, he’d have paid better attention. But now…he couldn’t help but remember some of his lessons, and think about what they meant for his brother now.

It’s not that simple, Harrow had said, when Callum demanded to know why he couldn’t just make peace, stop the assassination. Thinking of it made frustration rise and seethe in his throat, harsh with upset, because – for all his words, Harrow had had so much more freedom than Ezran. He’d been an adult, beloved by the kingdom, with a history of both peaceful and warlike actions. He’d surely have faced opposition, and assassins, if he made unpopular decisions. All kings did. But if he’d tried, if he’d just tried – Callum was sure he’d have had the clout to see it through.

But he hadn’t. And now the weight of that responsibility was on Ezran. Ezran, who was ten years old, and untried, and didn’t have the trust and support that comes from a decade of ruling. It would be so much harder for him. It wasn’t fair.

“I – I didn’t think of that.” Ezran said, into the silence, looking shaken. “But – it’s not like I can’t try to make peace. That would just be…wrong. But you’re saying…” he swallowed. “You’re saying they might not let me.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Callum hedged, head aching a little. He’d always disliked the politics lessons. But enough of them had sunk in that he was seeing the implications here. “It kind of depends how scared of Xadia everyone is at the moment. But…yeah, I think you’d need someone backing you up to declare peace, or you could lose control of the court.”

“Like who?” He asked, a little miserable now. It was plain he didn’t want to be thinking about this. Any other time Ezran looked like that, he’d be sneaking out of lessons to steal jelly tarts. But that wasn’t an option here, and he knew it. This wasn’t a responsibility he could shirk. Not without terrible consequences.

Callum thought. “Aunt Amaya would do really well, if we could get her on our side.” He said eventually. “She’s a war hero, you know, and everyone trusts her to defend us from elves.” He saw Rayla’s expression and added “Sorry Rayla. But yeah, she’d be a good choice. If she backed you up on the peace thing, a lot more people would trust it. It would just…be hard to convince her about it. She really doesn’t like Xadia.”

Ezran’s eyes were shadowed. “I know.”

Rayla exhaled, then spoke up. “I’m not going to pretend to know anything about your human court politics,” she started, and waited till their eyes were on her. “But don’t you think, maybe, that some sort of grand gesture, like returning the Dragon Prince, might win over your – council people, or whatever?” Her voice was more than a little sardonic, like she thought they were missing the obvious option, and she was getting a bit exasperated about it.

There was a slightly startled pause. “I mean, maybe.” Callum said after a moment. “It depends. But if you told it the right way, it could make people feel a bit less like we’re going to be attacked with dragons the second Ezran lets our guard down.” He thought. “Especially if we can get some sort of diplomatic thing out of the Dragon Queen. Some sort of agreement or gesture or something.”

Ez didn’t seem convinced, though. He looked back at the egg, troubled. “You’re saying that the best idea might just be to…stick with what we’re already doing.” He said unhappily. “Go to Xadia. Give the egg back. Let whoever’s running the kingdom keep running it.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe so.”

He didn’t speak again for a while, only watched the egg with unblinking eyes. Then he looked away. “I want to just do that.” He admitted, lowly. “I want to stay with Zym, and make sure he gets home safe. But…I feel kind of like that’s running away. Like maybe I just want to do it because it’s easier than going home and being King, and not – because it’s the right choice.” He exhaled heavily. “I don’t know.”

Rayla made a face, like she understood uncomfortably well. “I get that, Ez.” She said softly. “I do. But…”

“I don’t know that I could let you go to court without someone I trust guarding you.” Callum admitted, uncomfortable. “And even then – it’s risky, Ez. It’s not safe.”

Ezran looked up, eyes uncannily pale. “No one’s safe,” he said, with a sombre gravity. “Not in this war. It’s my duty to stop that, right?”

“Yeah,” He acknowledged, gut twisting. “But you’re not going to do any good if you go home and make a mess of things and get killed because someone didn’t like the choices you make.” His heartbeat felt weird; too heavy, too hard. The thought of Ezran leaving made him feel sick. The thought of him being in danger, alone, made his skin prickle with cold horror.

“All kings have to deal with that.” Ez countered, but there was no heart in it. Just a rote objection.

“You’re not ‘all kings’, Ez.” His arm tightened around his brother’s side. “You’re ten.”

He ducked his head, ever-so-slightly, then sighed quietly. He looked away. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s kind of a moot point at the moment, anyway.” Rayla said, and their eyes turned her way. “We’re up a mountain right now, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s not like you can go back alone, Ez. And I don’t know how long it’ll be until we’re near a town again, but-“ She squinted out past the trees for a moment. “-it’s at least three mountains off, I think.”

“No settlements in this part of the Belt.” Callum supplied quietly. “There used to be a lot of towns along the Rhodane river, a long time ago, but – not anymore.” He shook his head. “If we’re travelling down that way, the first ‘town’ we find is probably going to be Greatport. And that’s all the way over on the Bay.” He was hard-pressed to call Greatport a town, really. It was one of the biggest cities in the Pentarchy.

“There you have it.” She nodded, briskly. “No point worrying about this now when going home isn’t even going to be an option for weeks. And at that point maybe we can have a poke around your ‘Great Port’ and get some news.”

“Weeks,” Ezran repeated, in a very plaintive tone. “That’s so far away. I’m going to be worrying about who my regent is for weeks?”

Callum hesitated. “I…” He stopped, considering his words. “If it helps, there really isn’t a lot of people it could be. Not many people have the kind of reputation they’d need to get appointed without your decision.”

Ez blinked, looking up at him out of the corners of his eyes. “…Like who?” He sounded wary, but a little curious too.

Callum thought. “Opeli, definitely. But she’s got a lot of jobs already, so she’d probably have to pass one of them off to do it. Aunt Amaya, same. She’d probably need to step down as General. And…” he hesitated on the last one, gut twisting a little. “And Lord Viren. He…wouldn’t need to step down from anything, I don’t think. He’s just the High Mage. There’s not a huge amount of work with that.” He exhaled. “So, if I had to guess, I’d say…probably him.”

Ezran was silent for a few long moments. “I don’t think I like that.” He said, finally.

Rayla scowled. “Isn’t he the dark mage who killed the Dragon King?” She asked, with an edge to her voice. “The one who stole the egg? And-“ She broke off there, but Callum thought he could guess what else she was thinking: if her parents weren’t cowards, it would have been Viren who killed them.

“Yeah.” Callum nodded, shortly, and remembered the phantom sensation of a dark hand stealing his breath away. He lifted his fingers to his scarf, adjusting it uncomfortably, and – wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything. Was it relevant? Did it matter? Was there any point in mentioning it?

He should have known better than to think Ezran wouldn’t notice his indecision. His brother turned a little to stare at him, frowning a little. “Callum?” He questioned, with sudden concern. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated, then looked away. “…He was there, when I went up into the tower that night.” He said, in the end, not meeting their eyes. “Lord Viren, I mean. He was guarding the royal chambers with Soren, and the other Crownguard.” And that was a thought. Had Viren even survived? Had Soren survived? The other Crownguard had died so fast… “I tried to get him to let me in, so I could tell – dad – about the egg. But…” He trailed off, throat feeling tight.

“…He didn’t let you?” Ezran guessed, unhappy, and Callum shook his head.

“No. I mean – no, he didn’t, but-“ He clenched his fists. “He made it sound like Harrow already knew. And then he said some…stuff.” Mongrel, whispered his memory. Thinking of it made him feel so…confused? Angry? Betrayed? He had no idea. Viren had never seemed to be fond of him, maybe, but he’d not expected that. “And he used dark magic on me,” he concluded, quietly. “To stop me from calling out to Harrow. It didn’t last, but-“

“What?!” He and Ezran jerked with surprise at the vehemence of Rayla’s voice, both of their eyes snapping to her at once. She’d half-risen, looking murderous, like she wanted to spring to her feet and go for someone’s throat. Her hands were twitching for her weapons.

Warily, Callum repeated it: “He used dark magic on me. Some kind of spell to take my voice away.” She made a noise that was almost a hiss, a sharp exhalation of tightly-held air. She looked furious. “It didn’t hurt,” he hastened to add, which didn’t seem to reassure her at all. “I just – couldn’t call out. Couldn’t get through. When my voice came back I…ran. And then I found you guys.”

“He used dark magic on you?” She bit out, now actually on her feet, pacing around the fire like she was searching for something to fight, hands flexing at her sides. “That’s – you never mentioned – ugh.” She stopped, brought a hand up to her face in a brief agitated motion, then whirled suddenly on Ezran. “You are not going back there!” She snapped, almost angry, with a protective fury in her eyes that he’d never seen before.

Ezran was watching her with a measure of surprise. “…We don’t know if he’s the regent, though.” He pointed out, a little soothingly, and Rayla made a disgusted sound.

“He’d still be there. You can’t live in a castle with someone who cast dark magic on your brother.”

“I’m fine, though?” Callum attempted, and she whirled on him, staring fiercely down from where she’d paused in her pacing.

“That’s not the point, Callum.” She said, tersely, hands shaking with her tension. “The point is – if he did it once, he could do it again. Maybe not just to you. Maybe to Ez, too. You’re royalty, right? Isn’t it a big deal if someone does dark magic on you?”

“…It is, yeah.” Ezran agreed, before Callum could say anything. He looked sidelong at him, brow furrowed. “It is a big deal. He could get jailed for that, right? Executed, even, if it actually hurt you. I…had no idea Viren would do something like that.”

Callum opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss. “I…” he started, uncertain. “I – get the feeling he mostly just did it because he didn’t like me.” He remembered the man’s diatribe again, throat clenching. It hurt to recall, even though he’d never been close to Viren.

The remark didn’t seem to please either of them. Ezran scowled, and Rayla made a sound like an angry snake. She knelt down, and for a second rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rested’ was the wrong word, actually. It was more like she was gripping it, fingers tense and tight. “You matter too, Callum.” She told him lowly, quietly furious. “It’s not okay that he did that to you.”

He stared at her, struck as mute as he’d been when Viren had stolen his voice. In the end Ez sighed and turned away, staring at the fire. “So, it’s not safe for me to go home.” He concluded quietly. “Not until I’ve got…court support, and – someone to make sure I’m safe. From assassins. And…maybe Viren.”

Rayla withdrew her hand, then sat down at Callum’s side as heavily as a dropped stone. “Sounds about right to me.” Her voice was still tight, her expression angry. Angry on Callum’s behalf.

Still he didn’t speak, looking away, staring at his gloved hands. Inanely, he observed that they looked weird fully-covered. He was more used to seeing them in his usual half-finger ones. What a stupid thought to be having now.

Ezran was right, was the thing. There were very, very heavy restrictions on when and how dark magic was allowed to be used. Claudia using it against Rayla that night at the castle would have been perfectly allowed and justified, but – Viren using it on him? That was illegal. That was really, really illegal. And…he was the prince. He didn’t really like to think about how important that technically made him, but – it was true. And Viren had used dark magic on him.

Could he be sure that Ezran was safe from that? That it was just a one-off, because Viren hated Callum specifically?

…No. No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t be sure of it at all.

“We’ll find out more about what’s going on in the kingdom later.” He said, finally, when he found his voice again. “But…yeah, you’re right. If – if Viren’ll do dark magic on me, we can’t be sure he wouldn’t – that he won’t…” He trailed off, and shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

All of them sat in a very glum, very heavy silence after that. Ezran probably would have been perfectly able to brood on his thoughts for the rest of the day; Rayla, apparently, was another matter. She started to look agitated only a couple of minutes into the quiet, then finally said “Right,” and stood, going for their bags.

Ez turned to look at her. “What are you doing?”

She pulled out a jar. “There’s no point sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.” She said, determinedly, and returned to the fire already struggling for the leverage to uncap the thing with her bad hand. She didn’t manage it, and Callum could see her frustration at that, flitting across her face. Instead, she switched hands, holding the jar against her chest with the left and twisting the cap off with her right. “Might as well have dinner. Some food should cheer us up a bit.”

“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced.

“Well, worst case, we’re unhappy and full.” Callum offered optimistically. “Which is probably better than unhappy and hungry.”

“Exactly.” Rayla nodded resolutely, then started pulling the cooked meat out. After some prompting, Ezran begrudgingly admitted to a preference for eating it warm, so Rayla emptied the residual pot-tea into their waterskins and stuck the meat in it with only a thin film of water in there. Callum didn’t feel quite as picky, so got started on some of his while the rest was heating. In short order, they were all chewing on rabbit or venison, and it did make him feel a little better.

Ezran seemed a little more fixed in his preoccupation, though, and was eating his food quite unenthusiastically. He didn’t look particularly cheered. Rayla was adding a second batch of meat to the pot, insisting that they all needed to stuff themselves, when Callum had an idea. He inspected their surroundings, smiled a little, then sidled up to his brother to nudge him conspiratorially.

“You know, Ez, something just occurred to me.” He said, pretend-thoughtful, and Ez looked at him suspiciously.

“What?” he asked, wary.

In a dramatic, sweeping gesture, he indicated the thick snow-banks around their cleared camp area. “Been a while since we made a snowman, don’t you think?” He asked, and saw Ezran blink; first understanding, then sceptical. “And we’ve got plenty of sticks and spare scarves and stuff.”

“Really?” Ezran seemed very unimpressed, which was as good a sign as there’d ever be that he was determined to stay miserable. Callum had no intention of letting that stand.

“What, are you too old for building snowmen now?” He pretended to swoon in horror, and saw Ez trying very hard not to let his lips twitch. So, naturally, Callum piled on the dramatism as heavily as he could manage. “Alas! My little brother is all grown up and boring!”

“Nooo,” Ezran muttered, protesting half-heartedly.

“No what?” He prompted, aware that Rayla was watching them from her periphery, hiding a smile. “No, you’re not too old for building snowmen? No, you’re not boring?”

“I’m not boring.” His brother grumbled, folding his arms. “You’re boring.”

“Oh, am I?” Determinedly, Callum poked and prodded at Ez until there was enough space in his posture to reach out and tug him encouragingly to his feet. “Then I bet you’ll make a way better snowman than me.”

“This isn’t going to work.” Ezran told him severely, but didn’t really protest being frog-marched to the snow-banks. He eyed the packed snow with a look of extremely un-Ezran-like disdain. “I’m not gonna magically cheer up because of snow.”

“Oh really?” Callum asked…directly before he lobbed a snowball at his brother’s face.

It was only a little one, assembled secretively behind his back, but it did the trick. Ezran spluttered with shock, looked briefly outraged, then responded in the only logical way: he picked up a handful of snow and threw it back.

It seemed like more of a reflex response at first, or even almost genuine annoyance, but that didn’t survive the next rounds of the impromptu snowball fight. In short order Ezran’s eyes were alight with vicious glee as he launched his projectiles, crowing triumphantly when he nailed Callum in the forehead and dislodged his hat. The next ten minutes were a mad haze of chasing and throwing and falling over in snow; eventually Callum accidentally tumbled over the snow-bank, Ezran following a second later, and they both fell with a muffled oof into the cleared camp-space.

“You done murdering each other with snow yet?” Rayla asked them, eyebrow raised, looking very amused. She’d been watching the spectacle but hadn’t made any move to join in, and suddenly, Callum thought that sorely needed correcting.

He locked eyes with Ezran, who had just finished picking himself up off the ground. Slowly, both of them reached for more snow. “That depends,” Callum said, secretively, and saw her eyes narrow with suspicion.

“On what?” She demanded, then spotted what they were doing. Her smile widened into something closer to a smirk. “…If you throw that, you’d best be prepared for the consequences.” She informed them, watching in an almost challenging way. Daring, even.

Ezran never had been good at resisting dares.

Rayla dodged the first projectile launched at her face with almost insulting ease, then rose to her feet. “You have surprisingly good aim, Ez.” She said, ominously, still wearing that smirk. “But now-“

Callum interrupted her. With a snowball.

His aim wasn’t great, so he only got her in the neck, but her astounded face more than made up for it. He had a second to admire it and guffaw before she was leaping at them, and both he and Ezran scattered, shrieking.

In a bizarre parody of the day they’d met, he and Ez ended up fleeing Rayla through and around the campsite for the next fifteen minutes, creating chaotic trenches through the deep snow. Occasionally she threw snowballs after them; other times she tackled them down. Gently, but she made a point of it: flattening them onto their fronts in the snow, chucking a snowball at the backs of their heads, and then jumping off in pursuit of whichever of them was still up.

He and Ez did get a good number of hits in, but in the end Rayla sat triumphant atop a pile of the both of them submerged in snow. Literally sat, at that; she’d deliberately set herself down on Ezran’s back, who was in turn on top of Callum, and grinned victoriously at them. “I win.” She announced. “And now, your forfeit is going back to the fire and eating.”

Callum, who was now very winded as well as very cold, said faintly “Fire sounds good.” Ezran was giggling madly on top of him, so all told, the endeavour had been a marvellous success.

Rayla graciously got up and pulled them both to their feet, then ushered them back to camp to warm up and get stuffed full of food. “Meat isn’t great for keeping fed, so we’ve got to have a lot of it.” She informed them, ushering yet more of the stuff into their hands. “We need all the energy we can get. Especially if we’re going to be having snowball fights, on top of all the walking.”

“That was pretty tiring.” Callum admitted ruefully. “Fun, though.” He thought. “We never did make that snowman.”

“We can do that after we eat and warm up.” Ezran suggested, clearly thoroughly knocked out of his glum mood. It was a very Ezran sort of thing to find any excuse for messing around in snow.

“Take your outer layers off first.” Rayla ordered, peeling her hat off tentatively. She inspected it and made a face. “Think we’ve got ourselves all wet with the snow. Better dry that off a bit.”

So they all shed a sweater, their hats, and an outer pair of gloves. Callum was left with just one thin pair of gloves over his half-finger ones now, and flexed his hands over the fire, feeling them sting as they warmed up. That was normal enough; if you warmed up really fast when you were really cold, it did hurt a bit. It was only to be expected. But then he spotted Rayla starting to wince and cradle her arm, and- “Did you hurt yourself?” he blurted, alarmed, and she looked up. “In the snowball fight – did you open anything?”

That she didn’t answer immediately wasn’t reassuring. “Pretty sure I didn’t.” She said, after a moment, and twisted to stick a hand down the collars of her arrayed sweaters and jackets and shirts. She felt around the site of the wounds experimentally, while saying “It just got numb from the cold, you know? Didn’t hurt so much. And now it’s warming up again, so…” After a careful investigation, she seemed satisfied, and withdrew her hand. “Feels fine.”

He subsided a little, and for that moment was relieved enough that she’d not re-opened her wounds that he didn’t think of the other part. But then Ezran shot her a look, set his food down, and said “You can take something for the pain now, you know.”

Rayla paused, thrown. “What?” She asked eventually, but she was plainly thinking through it herself. Callum was thinking it through too, for that matter, and cursing himself a little for not considering it earlier.

“You can’t have the willow bark because it messes with your healing. And you couldn’t have the lilium earlier because we needed to travel, and it wasn’t safe.” Ez laid it all out very matter-of-factly. “But we’re camped now. We’re not doing a fire-watch, so it’s okay if it makes you fall asleep. And there’s nothing tricky or important to do, so it’s okay if you go weird and loopy again, too.”

Callum had expected her to be reluctant about it. She hadn’t enjoyed the loss of control associated with the lilium, and wasn’t keen on the idea of fostering a dependency. But instead of objecting, she just listened to Ezran speak, exhaled with plain relief at the words, and went at once for the bags. That, more than anything, told him how much pain she must have been enduring. She didn’t even offer a token protest, just extracted the bottle and returned to the fireside to measure the tiny dose out.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she said at last, dipping her fingertip into the tiniest drop of red. Callum had seen enough blood recently that the colour left him slightly uncomfortable. “I honestly kind of forgot.”

“More like you forgot to stop ignoring how much it hurt.” Ezran amended, and she flapped a disgruntled hand at him, setting the bottle down.

“Same difference,” she claimed, and licked the lilium off of her finger. If previous experience with that dose level was anything to go by, it’d take a while to take effect for her, but Callum was just relieved she’d not made a fuss over it. She’d been in constant horrible pain for days now. She deserved a respite.

“I can do your bandages once that kicks in.” He said, deeply relieved. He was fully aware that the whole process did hurt, given the fresh lividity of the wounds. “And your hand.”

“The hand doesn’t hurt anymore.” Rayla pointed out, flexing it. “Well, not really. Still aches a bit, but it’s nothing much.”

He paused. “And the…numbness?” he asked, carefully. He’d already observed that it still seemed just as weak as earlier, but…

She grimaced and shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It’s cold, so it’s hard to say.” She said, dryly, then deliberately changed the topic. “Weren’t you two going to build a snow-elf?”

Ezran snickered at her. “Snow-man.” He corrected.

“Close enough.” Her lips twitched, and then she was prodding them all over to the snow-banks again. Apparently she had every intention of joining in from the start this time.

Callum and Ezran cooperated on the creation of the giant snowballs necessary for the endeavour, but even so, it started to feel an effort once the bases got heavy enough. “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” Callum admitted, pausing to catch his breath, one hand braced on the giant snowball that was to be his snowman’s base to stop it from going anywhere.

Rayla rolled her eyes at them, abandoning her own snow-boulders, and came to commandeer theirs. “Give that here,” she said, and proceeded to demonstrate that she was more than equal to the task of pushing snow around. Once she deemed that they were large enough, she returned with relish to her ‘snow-elf’, going at the task with an enthusiasm that surprised him a little. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes, smiling reflexively at the grin she didn’t seem to realise she was wearing, and wondered when she’d last had a chance to play around in snow. A lot less recently than them, he was sure.

In the end, after an hour or so, they each had a crude snow-person constructed at the campsite, positioned as if standing guard. Rayla had made use of a couple of large sticks to put horns on hers, and after a little packing and chipping of snow, Callum helpfully produced two pointy, icy ‘ears’ for her to attach.

“Thanks.” She said, after she got them affixed, and stood back to observe her work with satisfaction. “Suppose we can put the wet hats and scarves on these for decoration, since we’re not wearing them.”

“Won’t that mean they’ll just freeze solid?” He asked, amused, and she shrugged.

“We’d better take them off there before we go to sleep, yeah. Leave them close-ish to the fire. But for now…” She grinned, and went to fetch a scarf. He and Ez followed suit, and in the end, they had an array of snow-people that, amusingly enough, vaguely matched their party. In the encroaching sunset, they were shaded somewhat orange, braced against the darker reddish shadows of the trees.

“Mine’s a bit taller than I am,” Ez decreed, when this was pointed out, surveying their creations with interest. “But they’re pretty good. Yours is even a little bit shorter than Rayla’s, Callum.”

Callum blinked, and checked them. Ezran’s was in the middle, which made it a bit harder to judge, but… “I think you’re right.” He agreed ruefully, and after a second, arranged his snow-person so its scarf was more appropriately mimicking how he wore his own.

Rayla snickered, and said “Shame you don’t have any more of those half-finger gloves. That’d really complete the look.” He snorted, and glanced down at his hands. He’d already been reduced to just the one pair of extra gloves, and now that those were also snow-wet, he’d likely be down to just the normal half-finger ones in short order.

“I’d better make a snow-egg and snow-Bait.” Ezran decided, while Rayla was still scrutinising her snow-elf. “Or they’ll feel left out.”

“You do that.” She said generously, then stepped away. “I think I’m going to go sit and warm up a bit though. Starting to feel a bit…” She waved her hand a little, expressively, to evoke some sort of wooziness.

“Oh, it has been a while since you took the lilium.” Callum remembered, and eyed her with interest. “How’s it feeling?”

“Well, I’m cold-numb again, so still hard to say.” She said dryly. “But…better, yeah.” She glanced down at her arm, and flexed it a little. “Not so sore. Anyway, you two have fun.” With that, she adjourned to the campfire, a short enough distance from the snow-group that she glanced over at them periodically as they went back to work. She also apparently took the opportunity to carefully extract the heated rocks from the fire and take them, towel-wrapped, into the tent. She closed it up and went to find a new round of rocks to heat, and finally settled back at the fire while they put the finishing touches on their snow-group.

Progress was quick, all told. The egg was very simple to render. Bait was more or less just a lump with two rock-eyes and a grumpy face drawn on, so very easy as well. “Perfect,” Ezran declared, and then they were done. He went to retrieve the egg from the gradually-warming tent before sitting down, and Bait followed it out, going over to inspect his snowy facsimile with disgruntlement.

Rayla was pressing gingerly around the edges of her injuries when Callum and Ez finally planted themselves down beside her at the fire. She seemed to be testing the wounds, even through the various layers she wore. She caught Callum’s questioning glance as he sat down, and explained “Think I might’ve taken a bit low of a dose, honestly. It does feel better, but it’s still…” She made a face.

“Think you’ll take some more?” Callum offered, after a second. “You’re taking well under the…recommended safe dose. It’d be fine to take another little one.”

She seemed to seriously consider it, which was yet more evidence for how much pain she had to be in. She was reluctant this time, though. “Dunno.” She said, dubious. “That seems like a great way to go off my head and maybe start scratching these open too.” She nodded to her arm, and he winced.

“I think you’d probably have a harder time doing that with so many layers in the way.” Ezran eyed her, then reached out and touched his fingers to her neck; the most easily-accessible bare skin on her. He made a face even as she shooed his hand away with a glare. “Yeah, I think you should take some more. That’s…really not that much better.”

“Didn’t we talk about you empathy-ing my pain?” She demanded, irate. Callum thought uncomfortably about the discussion they’d had while Ezran was sleeping, and her observation that he was trying to manage them. He could see it a lot better now that he was on the look-out for it, and…yeah, he thought this was a pretty good example.

As if to wilfully reinforce Callum’s bad feelings on the topic, Ezran looked away, a little sulkily. “I was just checking on you.” He muttered, petulant. “It only hurts for a second when I do that.”

Rayla exhaled and seemed to be very carefully keeping her first choice of words in. “I appreciate you’re worried, Ez,” she said in the end, very precisely, “but there’s better ways to check up on me than hurting yourself, even if it is just ‘for a second’.”

“But you always deal with more pain than you need to.” Ezran persisted, glancing up at her with a stubborn and mulish glint to his eyes. “And…downplay it, if we ask. You don’t tell the truth if I ask a normal way.”

She twitched at that, looking genuinely annoyed, and Callum hastened to intercede before she said anything she might regret. This was looking like the beginnings of a potential sibling-argument again, and he was keen to interrupt before it got to the snapping and spitting stage.

“Ezran,” he opened, firmly, and both of them turned to look at him. They seemed almost surprised, like they’d forgotten he was there. That was what happened when two stubborn people got caught up butting heads, he supposed. The surprise was useful, though. It meant Ezran was listening, rather than stuck in stubborn-mode. “If Rayla doesn’t want to talk about – her pain or feelings, or whatever, then you just need to accept that, okay? That stuff’s private, and it’s kind of a jerk move to…empathy-read it on purpose when she doesn’t want to share it. So don’t do it. Alright?” Rayla shot him a grateful look for that. Ezran meanwhile had gone a little shamefaced.

“…Right.” He said, after a moment, eyes averted again. He held the egg tighter to his chest. “I – yeah, that’s kind of rude, isn’t it.” He glanced sidelong at her. “…Sorry, Rayla. I just…I get…worried. And…I don’t like it when you put up with stuff you don’t have to.”

She didn’t quite seem to know what to say to that, so Callum moved onto his second point, looking at her this time. “Yeah, and about that. Rayla-“ he hesitated for a second, then pushed on. “If you don’t want to take more lilium, because you don’t like the side effects, or whatever…I guess that’s your choice too. Just…” He exhaled, and rubbed at his temples a little. “Even if you take some right before you go to sleep, so there’s no time for you to act weird, and you can at least sleep better…I think we’d all be a bit happier.”

“It’s not like we’re going to judge you.” Ez spoke up, before Rayla found a reply. He glanced at her, still vaguely mutinous, and her eyes looked startled as they settled on his. “For acting weird when you’re on medicine. You don’t need to be embarrassed or anything.”

“He’s right, you know.” Callum said, after a moment. “You act kind of like you think we’ll judge you, or like…you need to be totally composed around us, or whatever. You don’t have to be.”

“…Easier said than done.” Rayla said finally, voice a little dry. She looked away. He could practically see her debating whether to speak or not, and then – finally – he watched her shoulders slump a little as she decided to open up. “Moonshadow elves…it’s not really just fear we’re not supposed to show. Fear’s just the worst thing. We’re supposed to be…controlled. Composed, like you said.” She shook her head. “It’s okay to be…emotional, around friends and family, I suppose. Even in public, sometimes. But you’re still supposed to be in control of yourself.” A grimace. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“…Most of the time?” Callum asked after a moment, unable to hold the question in. She glanced at him sourly.

“Full Moon.” She informed him, looking like she’d rather not think about it. “It’s…a lot more okay to be mad and emotional in public then. You’re supposed to be, even.” For a moment, she looked almost nostalgic. “We do these community dances every Full Moon, you know? Kind of like a party. Everyone’s plenty unrestrained at those. But aside from that…” He eyed her with interest, feeling the familiar thread of fascination at this latest revelation about elven culture, and wanted to question her further. It wasn’t the time, though.

“Being out of control of yourself in public is kind of like dropping your pants in public, huh.” Ezran guessed, and Rayla seemed to choke on her next breath, snorting with laughter.

“Yeah, not a bad way to put it, actually.” She agreed, with a little mirth.

“We do get that, you know.” Callum offered, after a pause. “We’re…royalty. We’ve had decorum lessons for years. How we’re supposed to act in public or whatever. It was pretty relaxed if we were at home – in the castle – but anytime there were dignitaries about, or we went out into the city?” He shook his head ruefully. “Not fun.”

“Oh, ugh, decorum lessons.” Ezran agreed with distaste. “I hate those.”

Callum very kindly did not remind his brother that he’d have to mind said lessons a lot better now that he was King. “Anyway, point is, we might not be as…” He searched for a diplomatic word. “…strict, as Moonshadow elves are. But we get the idea. And-“ He hesitated, glancing at her almost cautiously. “It’s…just us here, right? This isn’t exactly public.”

“And friends and family are fine.” Ezran added, with a stubborn set to his jaw as he looked at her. “You said.”

“I did say.” Rayla agreed, after a pronounced pause, voice a little rueful. “I know you’re not going to be weird about me being weird on pain drugs. It’s just…kind of a hard habit to break. And I don’t like being out of control of myself, even if I’m not in public. But…” She sighed, shook her head, and reached for the little bottle she’d set aside earlier. She eyed it consideringly.

“…Please don’t feel pressured into it, though?” Callum spoke, while she was still making a face at the bottle. “It feels weird to be trying to convince you to take something that’s technically the same thing as an illegal addictive drug. Even if it will stop your injuries from hurting. So, just…” he shrugged, awkward. “It’s your decision.”

She was silent for a few moments longer. Then: “I am pretty sick of being in pain all the time.” That sounded final. She opened the bottle, dipped her finger in it again, and imbibed a full drop. Still considerably lesser than the dose that fit into the little provided spoon, but considerably more than what she’d taken earlier. As she capped the bottle, she levelled a flat stare at the two of them. “If you let me pick my scabs open while I’m moonstruck, I will be annoyed.” She warned. “And if I start acting like an idiot again – well, you know what you signed up for.” He thought she still sounded a little uncomfortable at that last part.

“Well, if you just act dumb while you’re high, you’re doing better than Callum.” Ezran said, casting a mischievous glance sideways at him. “He acts dumb all the time.”

The only reasonable response to that was to hook his brother in and bestow a very firm noogie while he squawked. The hair was, as ever, quite a shield; but he had plenty of practice. Rayla looked very amused, both at Ezran’s comment and at its rightful rebuttal. “Is that so?” She asked, voice dry.

Callum shrugged, and didn’t bother to deny it. He wasn’t exactly the most serious of individuals, after all. “It’s a talent.” He claimed solemnly, and her lips twitched.

In the end, the second dose took effect noticeably faster than the first. Rayla started getting vague and smiley not fifteen minutes later, and responded to queries about her state of mind and pain levels with “nice” and “itchy” respectively. It did seem like significant lilium doses sapped pain and left a sort of irritating itchiness in its wake, because she kept lifting her hand to her arm to scratch and then lowering it with consternation. “It itches,” she complained to them, shuffling over to Callum unsteadily. “But I’m not supposed to scratch it. I think.” She frowned. “Right?”

He patted her on the forearm as she settled beside him, a smile pulling at his lips. “Right.” He agreed. “Good job remembering that. Keep it in mind, okay? No scratching.”

“Mm,” she accepted, and seemed to think about it. “I’d bleed everywhere again, wouldn’t I. That wouldn’t be fun.” She glanced down and pulled at her sleeve. “Don’t want to ruin any more clothes.”

“I’d be more concerned about the bleeding part than the stained clothes part,” Callum said dryly. “But yeah, that helps too.” He glanced at the sky, which was now very nearly completely dark. “Speaking of, I’d better get the bandages changed soon.”

“And my hand?” She offered, looking weirdly interested, and he nodded.

“And the hand.”

“Should we deal with your wrist binding again?” Ezran asked, and both of them looked over. After a moment, Callum understood the ‘we’ in question to be his brother and the dragon, whose egg was sat in his lap. “Is it getting tighter?”

“Mmhm.” Rayla agreed, indistinct, and the fingers of her right hand went to her wrist again. “Getting a bit sore again, actually. Well, it was earlier, anyway. Can’t feel that so much now.”

Ezran frowned at her and shuffled over. “You should’ve said,” he told her, almost admonishingly, and reached out to push his fingers up her sleeve to touch her binding. A second later, there was a little flicker of the bright light of the egg, and he leaned back. “There. Done.”

Callum blinked. Rayla looked startled as well, even as marsh-whacked as she was. “That seemed easier than before?” She offered, perplexed, and Ez shrugged.

“It is, yeah.” He rested a hand on the eggshell. “It’s getting easier for both of us. He’s still…all full of magic, from the storm. It’s not so hard to deal with anymore, but…he’s definitely awake now. Which does make it a lot easier to focus on stuff.”  He frowned. “I think it’s gonna make it kind of annoying to get to sleep, though. Unless he sleeps too.”

“…Maybe being connected to you while you’re sleepy will make him sleepy?” Callum suggested, a little weirded out by the idea, and his brother shrugged.

“Maybe.” A pause. “Please let it work like that. I’m so tired.”

“Bandages.” Rayla reminded him, nudging him in the side, and he jolted a little.

“Oh, right.” He shot her an evaluative glance, wondering at her impatience, then reached over to help her with her layers. She was much more sluggish than usual about facilitating the process, and even clumsy; it took a fair bit longer, and he kept catching things on her horns. Weirdly, she giggled when he unhooked her shirt from one, looking a little light-headed. “You okay?” He asked her, dubiously, and she offered a lopsided smile.

“Uhuh,” she said, then mumbled something indistinct that he thought had the word ‘horns’ in there somewhere. She seemed to find this hilarious, and started snickering under her breath, cheeks vaguely flushed, while he finished pulling the shirt away.

“If you say so.” With her upper arms finally exposed, he reached out to untie the bandages, and had his customary look at the wounds. There hadn’t been much visible progress, but he supposed there had to be a lot going on under the surface, what with how deep the gouges had gone. He winced a little in sympathy, unable to imagine how much that must be hurting. “Well, nothing’s opened.” He judged optimistically, and had another look at the shallow shoulder-stab before wrapping it all up again. “And nothing’s infected. So I guess that’s the best we can really ask for, right now.” Something occurred to him, then: “How’s the bruising?”

“Hm?” Rayla seemed confused for a moment, as if uncertain what he was talking about,

“You know, those horrible bruises around your middle?” Ezran interjected helpfully. “From the chain?”

“Oh. Those.” She blinked, then leaned forward and pulled up her undershirt without further ado. It was almost a reflexive instinct that saw Callum looking away, flushing, but then he remembered he was supposed to be checking on her and made himself look back. “Can’t really feel them at the moment.” She reported, seeming very cheered by the thought. “Maybe I’ll be able to lay down without it hurting tonight.”

He hadn’t been aware that was an issue. But now that she said it…he winced, looking at the bruises in question. A couple of days hadn’t done much for their lividity. They looked dramatically dark, and still swollen in the lines where the chain had pulled so tight around her. They must be viciously sore to sleep on. “No problems?” He asked, a little anxiously.

Rayla shrugged. “Think I passed a little blood, the first day, so I might’ve bruised a kidney or something. Been fine since then though. Just….” She waved vaguely. “You know. Tender.”

“Sleeping on hard stone probably didn’t help that.” Callum muttered, with a twist of concern in his gut, and he frowned. “Do you think we can sleep on the cloaks again today? Or is it still so cold we need to wear them?”

It took her much longer to think through that than it ought. Plainly, the lilium was well and truly in effect. Eventually, she said “Could try it. But we might get cold in the night, when the…rock-heating wears off.” She squinted backwards. “Has anyone changed the rocks yet?”

“Er. No?”

She made a vague grumbling noise, then swayed like she was trying to stand up. “I should do that…”

Callum put a hand on her arm to stall her. She looked down at it as though perplexed by the sight. “How about you tell me what to do and I do it?” He suggested, not at all convinced that she was in a state where she should be allowed to extract hot things from a fire.

Ordinarily, she’d probably have protested. Under the artificial lassitude of the lilium, however, she just blinked placidly and said “Okay.”

In a vague, disjointed sort of way, she talked him through prodding the rocks out of the fire with a large stick and then picking them carefully up with the towels salvaged from the first round of rocks in the tent. The heat seared through quickly, and his hands were starting to hurt from it by the time he got them into the tent and placed them around its corners, refastening the door-flaps as he left. “Definitely feeling warmer in there.” He claimed, cheered by the thought, as he sat back down by the fire. “Should be a much nicer sleep than the last few days.”

“That’d be nice.” Rayla mumbled, already looking vaguely drowsy, and his lips twitched at her as he shuffled back to her side.

“Let’s get your layers back on, and do your hand, and then we can all get an early night.” He suggested, and she…perked up. Visibly. She instantly shoved her hand at him, and seemed a little confused when he pointed out that the layers should probably come first, or she’d get cold.

“…I’m not cold, though?” She offered. Beside her, Ezran was watching with interest, like he’d seen something that surprised him.

“Layers first.” Callum repeated, a little amused. “You’re probably just not feeling the cold because of the lilium, or something.”

She grumbled, but accepted it; so he helped her back into her various layers and then rolled up her sleeve a little, exposing the dark ring of stiff still-healing skin around both sides of the binding. “Hand now?” She asked, a little plaintively, and he eyed her strangely.

“…Yes?” He offered, perplexed at her insistence, and bemusedly accepted the hand she thrust at him. “…Is it sore, or something?” he tried, searching for some reason she might be so insistent about it.

“Nope,” she pronounced, with obvious satisfaction, and settled in to wait. Ezran was trying to hide a smile, like he had figured it out. Whatever ‘it’ was. “Kinda numb and prickly. But doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“…Okay. Good?” Callum accepted, a bit confused, but got to work anyway. He wasn’t quite expecting the pleased hum she offered at the first press of his thumb into her palm.

“Thought so,” she said, and then – entirely devoid of any sort of self-consciousness – shuffled closer and leaned comfortably into his side. A second later, she claimed “Feels so much nicer now. Last time, it still…sort of hurt. Ached? Doesn’t anymore, though.” She huddled down a little, and let her head drop against the edge of his shoulder. Callum stared down at her, suddenly and abruptly flustered, and didn’t realise he’d frozen until she flapped her hand impatiently between his. Still, he didn’t move.

He cleared his throat, heartbeat feeling strange, but didn’t actually say anything. He suddenly found himself sitting very rigidly indeed, hyper-aware of the way she was leaning on him, and oddly transfixed by the sight of her hair falling over his shoulder.

She grumbled at him when he’d been immobile long enough, peering up at him as though to check what the delay was. He found himself looking quickly away as her eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat again, and finally found the wherewithal to keep moving his hands.

“…Were you looking forward to this?” he asked, finally, because that was suddenly the only interpretation he had for her behaviour.

He still wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but when he snuck a glance he saw her pursing her lips in thought. “Kinda, maybe.” She said, eventually, like she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not she wanted to be saying it. “It’s nice now.”

He had literally no idea how to respond to that, so…he just sort of didn’t.

“Makes sense to me.” Ezran piped up, and when Callum looked over at him, he seemed to be fighting very hard to keep his expression level. His eyes, meanwhile, were alight with a kind of mirth that made Callum intensely suspicious. “I mean, most people who have hand massages do it because it feels nice, not because they need to keep their hands healthy. Right?”

“…Right.” Rayla agreed, after a moment. “Guess so.” She glanced down at her hand, eyes half-lidded. “Still medical for me. But at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. That was…” She blinked a few times, vaguely. “Didn’t like that.”

“…I didn’t like that too much either,” Callum muttered, face feeling weirdly hot, hands over-warm on hers. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “Wasn’t fun making you be in more pain. So…” he coughed. “I’m – glad? That it’s better?”

“Mm.” Apparently done talking, she let her eyes fall closed, sighed, and settled her weight fully against him. It was…unexpectedly cosy.

There wasn’t really anything to do except keep going, so that was what he did.

Ezran kept shooting him amused, vaguely mischievous looks, so he sensed trouble brewing there. Callum was relatively certain that if Rayla wasn’t there he’d currently be receiving a lot of sibling-style mockery for something. He wasn’t entirely sure what, but he’d had a little brother for long enough to see it looming. He shot Ez a warning look, and in general tried to be less excruciatingly aware of the warmth of Rayla leaning into his side.

He held silent, tongue-tied through the whole thing, and tried to figure out why it felt so different to before. He’d leaned on her plenty yesterday, and even today, when she was comforting him. She’d leaned on him a bit the first time he’d done this, even, the first time she’d taken lilium. But…

He glanced down, flustered, and saw her head loosely propped on the edge of his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and she was tucked into his side so thoroughly that he felt sort of like an upright human mattress. It looked weirdly comfortable.

Maybe that was the difference. He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he found himself tense in a way that seemed almost directly proportional to how relaxed she was, and it was almost a relief when he could declare himself finished and put her hand down.

She didn’t appear to notice for a while. Evidently, the lilium had well and truly gotten to her, and now she was drowsy enough that it didn’t seem to register that he’d returned her hand until most of a minute later. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, looking drowsy. “Oh. Hm. You stopped?” She mumbled, sleepily.

Mutely, he nodded, and watched as she peeled her head from his shoulder.

“You’re quite comfy.” She informed him, and patted him on the arm as if to congratulate him for a job well done. Finally, apparently unable to hold it in, Ezran started snickering. Quietly, maybe, but he was definitely snickering.

Determinedly, Callum exhaled, reclaimed his voice, and ignored his brother. “You should get to bed,” he decided, pretending that nothing was unusual about this situation at all, and that Ezran wasn’t giggling at him, and that his face wasn’t still weirdly warm. “We all should, honestly.” When she didn’t seem liable to get up, he carefully took her hand and stood; she followed the pull automatically, stumbling to her feet. She blinked at him hazily, and then followed agreeably along as he led her to the tent.

The interior was surprisingly toasty by this point. He set Rayla’s cloak out for her and guided her to it, and much like the first time she’d taken lilium, her consciousness didn’t survive contact with the floor. The second she laid down she was out like a light, dropping instantly into sleep. He rather envied her that.

He went out to meet Ezran with unmistakeable wariness, and this turned out to be warranted. “Good job on being comfy, Callum.” He greeted him at once, grinning. “I bet you’re proud.”

Callum rolled his eyes, ignoring the weird unidentifiable squirming of his insides, and ushered his brother up. “I am, thank you.” He said, with great dignity. “Now, if you don’t mind, there’s two cloaks and a comfy tent with our names on them, and I’d like to get to sleep.”

Ezran followed along agreeably enough, egg in his arms and Bait at his heels, but couldn’t resist another remark. “Your face when she laid on you was amazing.” He informed, gleefully. “You went so red.”

Had he? He coughed, self-conscious, and wondered how much of this evening Rayla would remember. “Uhuh. I’m sure.” He accepted, steadfastly refusing to rise to the bait, and prodded Ezran into the tent. “Now get in there before all the warm air goes out.”

Thankfully, Ezran did calm down a bit once he was in the pleasantly-warm interior, glancing at the already-sleeping Rayla and shutting his mouth. Insistently, Callum poked him through the process of laying his cloak out, and then down onto the thing.

“Get some sleep.” He told him, voice low so as not to disturb Rayla. He wasn’t entirely convinced she could be disturbed, right now, but it only seemed polite to be careful. Finally, he laid down himself, body feeling astoundingly pleased with even the bare padding his cloak provided. He wondered how he’d feel when he next encountered an actual bed.

He listened to the sounds of Ezran rustling his way into a comfortable position, sighed, and arranged himself on his side. He spared one more glance for Rayla, soundly asleep, then closed his eyes.

It took maybe five minutes for the strange tumult of emotion to quiet. Five more for his body to remember how profoundly exhausted it was. And then, barely a second later, he was drifting off.

 ---

 Sarli was quietly satisfied when she returned home. Some part of her that had lifted its hackles from the first moment Lord Viren had questioned her vows was now soothed. There had been an itch in the back of her mind that had been insisting, every minute of every hour, you have a duty. This cannot be borne. And now it was quiet, and she had done her duty, and she was satisfied.

Cairon…Cairon was not.

He was tense and plainly distressed as he swept the room, yet again, for shadow-bugs. Upon concluding his search he settled with plain unease into his customary chair, and sat there bristling as Sarli watched him. He’d held quiet and composed all through the Council meeting, but it had dropped from him like a burdensome cloak as soon as he was past the doors.

Perhaps driven by his plain agitation, he didn’t stay seated for long. Within minutes he was up again, near-vibrating with tension, fluttering through the motion of tidying away their things with an anxiety she’d scarce ever seen from him.

“Cairon,” She said to him, finally, when he failed to put words to his discomfort. He stilled, shoulders taut, and glanced at her with troubled eyes. “You would do well to speak of what troubles you.”

He exhaled, slowly, as though forcing some of the stiffness from his frame. Then, quietly, he asked “What just happened, master?”

“The prisoner was confiscated from Lord Viren according to law.” Sarli said, watching him curiously. “He will now be interred in a proper dungeon, under proper guard, in a cell with access to moonlight.”

“I know that part.” He said, with near-impudent impatience, pacing in shallow strides to and fro from the coat-hangings, straightening and rearranging the cloaks as if he found some new issue with them every time they passed his eyes. “But what about ‘exceptional measures’?”

She tilted her head at him. “I was under the impression that you were acquainted with the Millennium War Crimes Accords.”

“I am,” he said, with the sort of fervency that betrayed a particular interest in it. “But – I didn’t realise-“

“It did not occur to you that such a prisoner would become an immediate candidate for legally sanctioned torture.” Sarli concluded, and his head dipped glumly.

“It should have, I know.” Cairon exhaled, dropping into a chair and staring into the wood-grain of the table as though it might offer him answers. “I just…didn’t think of it.”

She inclined her head, thoughtful. “We will have to solve that.” She said, after a moment, and he lifted his head to regard her warily. “It occurs to me that I have perhaps been remiss in your education on the various philosophies of Mercy at work in the kingdom. All Healers should have a thorough grounding in religious ethics.”

He eyed her. “I’m not a Healer.”

“Plainly.” Sarli said, with an amused twitch at her lips. “But that is no excuse for lesser conduct from my apprentice. I will be called on to attend our patient’s exceptional measures tribunal, for certain; I will take you with me. I imagine it will be very educational for you.”

That, at least, seemed to interest him. “I’ve never heard about how the tribunals work,” he offered, after a moment. “Based on the name, there must be some sort of…council, or panel, of three people? Officials?”

“One representative of Mercy,” said Sarli. “One representative of Prudence. And then the final representative varies case-by-case. Usually it is Justice, and it may be so this time as well. The tribunal speak for their respective positions, and hear the arguments of those permitted to attend, and then take a vote at the end. Two votes of three are necessary to permit the use of exceptional measures in the interrogation of prisoners of war.”

“Mercy for the perspective that suffering should be alleviated wherever possible,” Cairon guessed, eyes narrowed. “Prudence to decide whether the suffering is worth its price. Justice for the legal perspective?”

“You have the basics,” Sarli allowed. “But the positions are rather more complex than that. Mercy’s, especially. As a Healer’s apprentice, you have dealt entirely with…face-value mercy, shall we call it. The representative of Mercy in a tribunal hearing must balance the suffering of one against the suffering of many, and that is a more difficult thing.” She watched the flicker of understanding on her apprentice’s face with satisfaction. No dullard was he, her boy. “Yes, you begin to see, I think. But enough on this for now. It grows late, and we have had a long day.”

He watched her. “And you’re relieved that your duty is expunged.” He guessed, a little impudently, but she allowed it.

“Yes, Cairon.” She agreed, a little amused. “It has been a wearying strain, these past days, and now that the weight is from my shoulders I feel I have earned my rest.” Her eyes turned a little watchful, then. A little penetrating. “And you? Do you not feel that your duty is done?”

He tensed, just a little, then let his eyes fall as if to study the wood-grain of the table. “…I’m concerned that we may face retaliation from the Lord Protector.” He said, eventually. It wasn’t quite an answer to her question, but it rang with truth regardless. “He seemed very angry. I think that he is the sort of man to do rash things when he’s angry.”

It was an apt character assessment, she thought. However: “That may be so,” she allowed. “But I think he knows better than to strike at a target that he has been caught fouling already. It is known that he sent dark magic for us; were we to be harmed, or to disappear, he would fall under such heavy suspicion as to dethrone him. I think that we will be safe.”

“Until the dust clears, maybe.” Cairon muttered, plainly not very reassured.

Sarli shook her head at him. “Keep to your caution if you prefer it, boy. Only remember that you are my apprentice, and an Acolyte of Mercy; not a guard. Yours is not the duty of policing the Lord Protector.”

He sighed. “As you say, master.” And that was all.

In the morning, no doubt, they would be called to their patient again; but for now, Sarli’s duty was to rest. She attended to it gladly.

 ---

End chapter.

  Chapter Notes:  https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OGBo7nKVDIfWjhxGe90fwaS3lP0IfQJ3?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

  This chapter's notes cover: provisions for ‘Exceptional Measures’ within the Millennium War Crimes Accords, Ashtide, and Pentarchy politics.

  Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

  PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

  Author Notes: 

Credits: one of Sarli's lines in this chapter is taken from a book I like very much, 'Even the Wingless' by M.C.A Hogarth. The original line is as follows: "Surely you aren't surprised, Most Exalted. It was my duty. Even the wingless need the sky." It's an extremely cool moment of the book and I couldn't quite resist using it where the vibes were so right.

  Reminder: Callum and Ezran have no idea that the entire kingdom (plus literally everyone within communicating distance of Katolis) thinks they're dead. They also have no reason to guess that Viren pre-empted their dad's funeral, and would assume Harrow had his pyre on the dawn after the seventh sunset as tradition dictates.

  Anyway, that sorts that chapter. At the moment it’s looking like 24 is going to have some of my oldest, most beloved scenes in it, so I’m excited. 23 has a while yet to go, but there’s not a huge amount pencilled in for it, so hopefully shouldn’t take too long.

  I’m enjoying everyone being super sus of Cairon, by the way. Lots of fun.

[miracul0us-multishipper]

Lady Wifi (Part 2)

Marillion AU

- - -

“He can’t do that! It’s illegal! I'm a superhero, for gods sake!”

Alya was fuming. How dare they? Expulsion would go into her school record permanently, it would influence her future career forever!

“But he doesn’t know that.”, Tikki reasoned. “And it better stays that way.”

Alya was tempted to change that. But if it came down to it, being Ladybird would always rank higher than revenge on Damocles in her priorities.

“I'm going to get them for this!”, Alya swore under her breath. “The principle, Chloé and her Alter Ego Marillion!”

“Alya-“

“No! You don’t get this, you won’t have to apply for jobs with “Expulsion for Theft” written on your record!”

Tikki backed away a little and Alya immediately regretted her tone.

“I... Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”

Tikki may be an insufferable know-it-all, but she was her friend. She cared for her and only ever wanted to help.

“It's okay, Alya.”, her Kwami calmed her worries. “I know how upset you are. But think of Marillion! We can’t risk that she gets to you, and you're in a vulnerable state of mind.“

Alya paled.

“Oh my gosh... What do I do? Tikki, what do I do now?”

“Stay calm! Marillion can only akumatize people who think there is no solution to their problems. You're Ladybird! You can think of something.”

Her jaw dropped. Of course! I'm Ladybird!

“Jesus! You're right, Tikki! I can do this!”

“Awesome! Maybe we should write a letter-“

“I'm going to confront Damocles as Ladybird! And then I'll kick Chloé's butt!”

“Wait, what?”

Alya jumped up and threw her hair back, revealing the white, pearly earrings.

“Tikki, spots on!”

-

“She's not answering her phone.”, Marinette fretted, turning her own off after the fifth attempt. “This is bad...”

“Oh no!”, Nooroo zoomed around her, just as anxious as herself. “Do you think something happened to her?”

Fear twisted her guts and she shook her head.

“I can’t think like that. I can’t... I have to... think clearly now.”

No time for her worst-case scenarios, she would only scare Nooroo. No, first she had to find some clarity about Alya's disappearance from her radar.

“You're the expert when it comes to your brooch’s emotion-radar.”, she mused and turned to her little friend. “Any idea what could cause her to just... vanish?”

Nooroo stilled, thinking.

“Well... if her mood had lightened up, we would have felt it. In order to completely disappear, she either lost consciousness, entered a meditative state, came in touch with a similar magic to mine, or... hm.”

“What?”

“I remember one instance where my... wielder set a trap to upset his victim. Their pain became so great it turned completely catatonic.”

He shuddered.

“He can speak of luck it happened before he could akumatize them. A catatonic Akuma is absolutely disastrous!”

She took a step back.

“That's horrible! Do you think this happened to Alya?”

Uncertain he bit his lip.

“I’m not sure. It’s also possible that she met Ladybird. I’m not very familiar with Tikki's powers, but maybe it’s possible for her to shield people from me.”

“Ugh, that’s just what I need now!”

Nooroo ducked his head.

“S-sorry.”

“No!”, she hurried to comfort him. “Not you, honey, this isn’t your fault.”

She sighed, looking up at the door to the principals office. This is so unfair!

“We've got to help Alya.”, she decided. “And if we can’t find her personally...”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Then we'll just have to make sure her problems are gone when she returns.”

Nooroo nodded eagerly, happy she had an idea.

“What is your plan?”

“It’s... risky. But maybe we can help Alya and make sure she doesn’t suspect us to be Marillion. You know, once she realizes it’s not Chloé!”

“Good thinking, Marinette! Reveal-prevention is most effective when used early.”

“And I think I'll do it by... akumatizing myself?”

His mouth fell shut.

“Oh.”

“Is that possible?”

“Um. Well, yes.”

He didn’t look very happy.

“Nooroo?”

“Hm? Oh. It’s not dangerous, I just...”

He fidgeted.

“You'll have to take off the miraculous for that.”

That didn’t sound too dramatic. She could just... oh.

“You... You’re scared that you'll get lost, aren’t you?”

“No!”, he hurried to deny. “I trust you! You'd never be careless with the brooch.”

He didn’t look at her, scared he'd offended her somehow. She petted his forehead, a quiet assurance that he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Nooroo,” she soothed him, “it’s alright to be scared. And you can always tell me if something sits wrong with you.”

Hesitantly he looked up to her.

“It’s just... if you renounce me, I won’t know what happens with you. What if you get hurt? Or you get carried away, like Stoneheart did? Or what if Hawkmoth finds me while you're gone, and the next thing I’ll see is him and I won’t ever see you again? Or what if the brooch gets lost and the next time I’ll open my eyes, I’ll find that two thousand years have passed and you are... you are...”

He was crying now and she felt tears form in her own eyes.

“Oh, Nooroo.”, she whispered and hugged her little friend. “That won’t ever happen. I promise! I promise you won’t end up there again.”

He nuzzled his face into the fabric of her jacket.

“But how can you be sure?”, he asked, his voice so faint she almost didn’t hear him. As if he didn’t want her to hear him.

Gently she pulled back a little, so she could look at him.

“We can figure something out.”, she stated confidently and tapped her brooch. “You don’t want to be left behind? Then we'll make sure that you’re not.”

He blinked, confused, and she smiled.

“This is your power before it is mine, right? I'm just borrowing it when I transform.”

“In a way.”, he answered, his voice still wobbly. “But I can’t create akumas without a wielder. At least no stable ones.���

“Then I‘ll create the akuma. I'll detransform and take off the brooch. I take the akuma and take care of Alya. And you stay close-by, guide me like I guide my champions, and hold on to your miraculous while I’m busy. Okay?”

He leaned his head sideways.

“You... you want me to take the miraculous? All alone?”

Was that a taboo for kwamis?

“If that's alright with you!”, she hurried to add. “If you don’t feel up to it, we can deposit it in my diary case. Or put it in Dad's safe.”

Nooroo shook his head, wiping his tears away. When he spoke, his voice was soft but firm.

“It will be my honor.”, he said. “To watch over it and you. I’m sure you can find Alya.”

She smiled and petted his squishy little cheek one last time.

“Then we're ready. Nooroo, dark wings rise!”

He vanished in a blur of sparkles and her transformation washed over her. Careful that the schoolyard was indeed empty, she dashed out of the bathroom and jumped on the roof of the school, eyes darting over the nearby park.

It was spring and butterflies weren’t hard to come by. As soon as she spotted one it was already fluttering towards her, settling on her outstretched palm to be of service.

“We have to help Alya.”, she whispered and covered its wings with her other hand. “But this time I'll do it on my own. Stay close by, my akuma!”

Her fears and concern for Alya transformed into inky shadows, drawn into the the white butterfly and sparking with potential. The newly dubbed akuma took off and fluttered around her, ready to fulfill its mission.

“Dark wings fall.”, she released her transformation and caught Nooroo in cupped hands. Exhausted he took the bonbon she offered him.

“Are you completely sure?”

She nodded.

“I'm not renouncing you, Nooroo. You'll be on your own for a bit, but if anything goes wrong I need you to take control. I trust you, okay?”

He swallowed, but when he took the rosy brooch from her hands, he looked determined.

“You can count on me.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned towards the akuma and took out her phone. She had thought a lot about this, and... well, if she was going to avenge Alya, she might as well choose a form her crush would approve of. Already sketching out a design in her mind she held up her phone.

“Let's do this!”

The akuma took a dive for her and a bubbly feeling shot through her hand.

“It'll be fine, Nooroo.”, she waved him. “But this is a job for Lady Wifi!”

-

The door to the principals office flew open with a crash.

“Monsieur Damocles!”, Ladybird roared, righteous fury burning in her chest. “You have unjustly thrown out an exceptionally talented student! So now you must answer to- Monsieur Damocles?”

The principal was frozen in place like a mannequin. A pinkish Pause icon hovered in front of his chest and send a chill down her spine. Her fury fizzled out like a cheap sparkler and she dropped her dramatic pose.

“What the...”

She waved her hand in front of his face, to no avail. Before she could take a closer look at the problem, the computer on his desk flickered to life. Alya gasped.

“Marinette?!”

If someone had asked her how she'd come to this conclusion, she wouldn’t be able to answer. By all accounts, the girl on the desktop looked nothing like the Marinette she knew. She was dressed in pitch black spandex, accentuated by white stripes and a symbol resembling a Wifi icon. Her skin was ghostly pale, and pink eyes glared out of an angular butterfly mask. The soft black hair Alya had braided during countless sleepovers was out of its usual pigtails, loose and unkempt. The most striking difference however was her bearing.

Marinette tended to make herself small, to slip in the gaps between people or hang onto her friends. When she walked there was always an endearing air of hurry or absent-mindedness to her, which had caused her to bump into Alya more times than she could count.

Now, on the other hand... she was so forebodingly present. She was commanding attention, fully in control, her posture relaxed and confident.

“I'm Lady Wifi,” Not-Marinette informed her viewers with a grin, “Revealer of the Truth! For my first Exposé, your Principal would like to share a tidbit with you.”

The camera zoomed out, revealing an intimidated Damocles behind his desk - alive and moving. This had to be a recording!

“So, Monsieur Damocles”, Lady Wifi addressed her hostage, walking with a grace she hadn’t possessed before. “Is it true that you wrongly suspended a student named Alya today?”

Damocles avoided to meet the piercing glare in her glowing eyes.

“Y-yes, I have.”, he confessed, having the decency to look ashamed.

“So you were biased, unjust, totally unfair?”

He sighed.

“Yes, I was.”

Her phone came into view and Ladybird narrowed her eyes. The rest of Marinette - her clothes, her mannerism, her eyes - had changed, but the lucky charm on her phone still looked the exact same. A lavender little spiral, bought the same day that Alya had gotten her Ladybird-themed one. And if the little charm was the same, then so was her phone.

“That's were the Akuma must be!”

“There you have it!”, Wifi snarled into the camera. “He confessed his crimes! And so will everybody else who harmed Alya, before I give them the punishment they deserve.”

She raised her phone and turned towards her prey, swiping over the display of her phone. A glowing pause button shot out and froze Damocles in place before her could escape.

“Stay connected.”, Lady Wifi dismissed her audience and the screen turned black.

Ladybird let out the breath she had been holding and slumped onto the nearest chair.

“Oh no...”, she groaned and pressed her hands over her mouth. “Not you, girl!”

And it was Ladybird's own fault, too! If she'd just kept quiet about her discovery, or at least talked to Marinette beforehand. But now Chloé knew she was onto her and was targeting the people she loved!

“I'm going to fix this.”, she mumbled into her gloves. “I promise, Mari.”

Fueled by the determination to get her friend back, Ladybird stood up and reached for her Yo-Yo.

“Chat Noir, it’s me.”, she told her partner's voicemail. “Get moving, buddy. We've got a job.”

-

“You have a crush on Chloé, you have a crush on Chloé!~”, the pest that was Adrien's Kwami teased him in his most annoying sing-song. The teenager swatted him aside and pulled the bathroom door closed.

“If you don’t show some compassion for my heartache very soon, I’ll loose my tolerance for your gross Camembert.”

“Not as gross as the idea of kissing Chloé though, is it?”

Adrien groaned and raised his fist in defeat.

“Plagg, Claws out.”

This day couldn’t get any worse. His great love had turned sour, his good friend had turned evil, and his partner had left him a message. That couldn’t be a good sign. A message meant she had a plan. A plan meant she was impatient to start. Impatience meant that his hotheaded partner would barge headfirst into danger, without any backup.

“We've got a job,” she informed him for the pure drama of it. “I have no idea where Lady Wifi went, and I honestly don’t feel like fighting her at all. So here's what we'll do: instead of fighting a girl everybody likes, let’s fight a girl no sane person can stand! Oh, Chloé is Marillion, by the way, meet me at her Hotel; we're kicking butterfly butt tonight.”

The message ended and Chat Noir sighed deeply. There was no time to try and convince her of a different strategy, she was probably already there and ready to fight.

“This is the worst day ever.”, he complained to no one. But alas, the universe was not inclined to have mercy on its favorite black cat. So he sighed once more over his broken heart, kicked the door open and vanished into the night like the ninja he was always meant to be.

-

“There you are, Kitty!”, Ladybird greeted him, already brimming with excitement. “Just in time!”

She pulled him down to take cover behind a chimney and took out her Yo-Yo.

“Look!”

Zooming through a window - a feat impossible for any normal device - the display of her weapon revealed exactly what he had feared: Marillion in all her purple glory, swinging her staff at imaginary opponents. She was so obviously Chloé that he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before.

“This is horrible.”, he mourned his disillusioned crush.

“Right? Her form is so sloppy!”, Ladybird agreed far too enthusiastically, missing his point by the length of her Yo-Yo-cord. “She looks like a toddler!”

He groaned and hid his face behind his hands.

“Why couldn’t it have been literally anyone else?”

There were thousands of girls in Paris, but somehow the one behind Marillion's tragically pre-redemption-villainous mask was... Chloé. His oldest yet brattiest friend, the last person he could ever feel attracted to.

“When this is over I'm so going to give the brooch to Marinette.”, he grumbled. He didn’t even have the time to fully process what he had said - let alone imagine how amazing Marinette might look in purple - before Ladybird had grabbed his shoulders and dragged him closer.

“That,” she gasped, “is the best idea you've ever had, Kitty! We'll be a trio with the smartest little bean in Paris, ohmygosh!”

“Wait, you know her too?”

“Dude, I adore her! Let’s get this Miraculous and pay our girl a visit, yes?”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am!”, he eagerly saluted and readied his baton. “Chat Noir, reporting for duty!”

“Then here we go!”

[momentofmemory]

FICTOBER 2020 - day four

Prompt #4: “That didn’t stop you before.”

Fandom: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Characters: May Parker, Tony Stark, Peter Parker (mentioned)

Words: 1809

Author’s Note: May and Tony will get along one day, but it’s going to be a rough ride, and neither of them are going to like the journey. Set immediately post HOCO, May POV. Possibly the first in a series. 

>> eight feet and we started on the wrong one

It takes May two-and-a-half hours to drive from her apartment in Queens to the new Avengers facility in Upstate.

Spider-Man’s suit—Peter’s suit—sits hidden in a brown paper bag in the passenger’s seat, looking for all the world like one of the packed lunches Ben would make for Peter in elementary school. Peter’s old enough that he can make his own lunches now, though, so he hasn’t had one since—since.

Ben would be disappointed in her if he knew.

Peter’s still at home, both because he’s very, very grounded, and because she’s about to have a conversation she doesn’t want him anywhere near. Super hearing is apparently among her nephew’s multitude of powers, and considering he’d claimed to hear a heartbeat from across the room, she’s pretty sure there’s not building in all of New York large enough to give her the privacy she needs.

She’s going to be much, much louder than a heartbeat.

The Compound looms in the distance, and she does her best to feel as unflappable as she looks as she approaches the security entrance.

Two-and-a-half hours had felt like a lot of time when she’d pulled the address up on Maps, but all she’s conjured in terms of an attack plan is a losing battle between righteous anger and overwhelming guilt.

She pulls to a stop in front of the tall metal gates, hyper aware of all the doubtlessly lethal security that’s surrounding her. There’s a moment of silence, then a bored voice broadcasts over one of the speakers.

“This facility is for Avengers or cleared personnel only. Please present a valid ID or contact our PR representative to state your business—”

May pulls the suit out of the bag and lets it unfurl out the window, making sure the red and blue spandex is in plain view of the cameras.

She waits.

The intercom crackles back to life, and a new, much more cautious voice addresses her. “…Thank you for coming, Ms. Parker. Your security clearance has been added to the system. Please proceed to the front entrance where Mr. Hogan can assist you—”

“Stark,” May says. The knuckles on her right hand turn white against the steering wheel. “Mr. Stark will be meeting with me.”

Another long, drawn out pause. Then a third voice enters the mix, and this time, she’s able to identify the perpetually-confident speaker on the other side.

“Thanks for stopping by, May. I’d be happy to meet with you.”

May squashes down the thrill of anxiety and rage that fills her at the sound of him as the first voice takes back over. 

“Please proceed through the gate down the center lane. At the first fork in the road, turn left. This will lead you directly to the Avengers parking deck, where you will park on row E and take the south elevator to floor 7. An employee will meet you in the landing area to take you to Mr. Stark’s office.”

“Thank you,” May says, cheerfully, as if she’s given entry instructions to highly secured bases every day.

She can’t afford to appear nervous, so she aims for unconcerned—even if it makes her look a little ditzy.

Being underestimated is always an advantage.

The red lasers crossing the path blink twice before disappearing altogether, and then the heavy steel gates swing open at a belabored pace.

She pulls the suit back into the car and drives forward. In the privacy of her own thoughts, she tries not to dwell on how she’s just earned herself a one-on-one with arguably the most powerful man in the world.

(The most powerful man in the world who’s had near total access to her kid for the last two months, who offered to have him live somewhere else, who was going to tell the whole world his secret before he told her—)

Her stomach twists angrily.

(At least, she tells herself it’s anger.)

She drives into the deck and parks the car.

The suit is still lying in the passenger’s seat. May considers it, then carefully folds it back up and slips it into the bag. Then she steps out of the car and locks the door, leaving it inside.

It may have been Stark technology, but it was Parker property now.

The woman that meets her inside the building doesn’t say much, spending most of their shared time scanning her past enough security to let May know there was no way of getting in or out without their approval. She’s not sure if it’s an intimidation tactic or just the way things work here.

She adds it to the list of the many things she doesn’t know, and sits down in a chair outside of Tony Stark’s office to wait.

The conversation between her and Peter had been a very, very long one, and a very, very emotional one. She hasn’t processed any of it yet, because every time she tries, her brain stalls out on the fact that Peter’s story has enough holes in it to masquerade as one of Ben’s old socks. In fact, the only thing consistently more disturbing than all the danger he’d been in was all the times he couldn’t tell her why he was in danger to begin with.

The man at the desk hangs up the phone and waves in her direction. “Mr. Stark will see you now, Ms. Parker.”

“Mrs. Parker,” May says, because it hasn’t even been a year yet.

The secretary doesn’t seem to care either way, but the finer points of naming etiquette aren’t why May’s here anyway.

It’s time to get some answers.

Stark practically leaps out of his chair when she walks in, radiating enough charm to power a small light show, but with a clear undercurrent of nerves that belies his confidence.

“Well, if it isn’t May Parker,” he says, entirely smiles, “looking as fine as ever.”

Just like that, the anxiety she’s been masking as anger all day morphs into nothing but pure anger.

“What the hell, Stark.”

It’s not the careful or naive approach she’d originally envisioned, and his jovial expression vanishes as quickly as her goodwill had. “Now wait, I know you’re a little upset, but—”

“A little upset?”

“Okay, a lot upset,” he concedes. “That’s just ‘cause it’s a lot to take in, but if we just take a minute—”

“Stark,” May interrupts, her fists curling tight enough to dig crescent moons into her skin, “it’s not a lot to take in because I don’t have anything yet.”

Stark blinks. “You don’t—you talked to the kid, right? That’s how you got the suit?”

It’s the genuine confusion that riles May—that Stark hasn’t even considered how little he’s told Peter, and therefore, how little Peter could’ve told her.

“I talked to Peter,” she says, and Stark’s eyes narrow further, “and he said he fought Captain America. Couldn’t say why.”

It’s a low blow—most of the chatter on the Avengers’ split agrees that the falling out was mostly between its two heads—but May’s already at a disadvantage, and she can’t afford to play fair on a field that’s not level.

Stark stares at her, but May doesn’t make a move. Then he walks back behind his desk, and sits in the chair, propping his feet up. “What happened between me and Cap was personal, May.”

“I don’t care about your bro fight, Tony.” If he’s going to call her by her first name, then she should return in kind. “It’s none of my business, because I’m not involved. And Peter wasn’t, either, until you dragged him into it.”

Stark has the decency to grimace. “We hadn’t escalated anything at that point, I swear. Peter was never in danger—”

“It’d escalated to the point where you were so scared you thought recruiting a fourteen-year-old boy you’d never met was a good option.”

Stark looks away at that. “Look, maybe I rushed it a little. But Pete’s a good kid, and he was gonna get involved in bigger stuff one way or another. Did you not see that little onesie he was running around in? Before I got to him? I’m protecting him.”

(Like you didn’t.)

“Yeah?” May snaps. “So what else have you done? Did you have him sign the Accords? Is there some pencil pushing government official that knows more about my kid than I do?”

“No, he’s just a minor—”

“Oh, you care about him being a minor now,” May says. “‘Cause that didn’t stop you before.”

Tony’s eyes flash. "Listen, honey—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“—it’s real rich of you to play the concerned aunt when you didn’t bat an eye at my asking him to come along in the first place. You’re the one that let your kid fly to Germany for a scholarship you never looked twice at—”

“How dare you assume what I looked at—”

“—and you’re the one that consented to let me talk to him in the first place—”

“So you agree that asking to talk to a minor, alone, about highly confidential information was way out of line?”

“—and you’re the super involved aunt that’s decided for some reason to just ignore all your kid’s weird behavior for the past six months, including but not limited to sneaking out of the house at all hours, dropping almost all of his extracurriculars, consistently lying about his location, and—”

“His uncle died!”

Her outburst stops his tirade in its tracks, but it’s not the silver bullet she wanted, because it’s too vulnerable; too close. And she knows she’s treading dangerous ground, knows she shouldn’t continue when the balance of power is so strongly weighted against her, but now that she’s started, she can’t stop.

“His uncle died, and he thinks it was his fault,” she says. “And hell, what do I know. Maybe it really was. But that is not the kind of mindset that prepares anyone, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy, to make informed decisions about who he trusts. Maybe we got really lucky this time, and you really are that great for him. ‘Cause as you’ve so eloquently proven, I clearly wasn’t.”

May pauses, taking in a breath, while Tony shifts uncomfortably. But he doesn’t try to interrupt.

"So what happens,” she finally says, “the next time some guy comes along with a nice smile and a cool costume, and tells him it’s totally okay to lie to the people responsible for him.”

Tony watches her for a moment, and she watches him right back. He reaches over and flicks the Newton’s Cradle on his desk into motion, then sighs.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Fair enough.”

He gestures towards the chair opposite him, and this time, May accepts it.

He clears his throat. “So what do you want from me.”

“The truth,” May says, unflinchingly. “All of it.”

“Okay.”

[wegoingsofthours]

Banished ♡ Hwang Hyunjin (Part 1)

Warnings: Mentions of violence in later chapters.

Member: Hwang Hyunjin

Genre: Royalty AU, Fluff, Angst

Summary: In which an ancient feud causes the split of two kingdoms, each side being left to their own accord.

Word Count: 2.5k+

one || two

The land across from the forbidden river had always been a mystery to you. Not that it was the real name for the river, you just happened to believe the title you provided it with had been apt considering its purpose. 

The two kingdoms had been separated for as long as you could remember, both closer than ever, but distant in it’s hateful relationship. The ancient feud had baseless to you and the younger generation of villagers, however, due to the loyalty members of the kingdom had felt, the feud had still occurred, with the main purpose of it long forgotten. From what you had heard, it had originated from one kingdom having stolen property from the other, yet you hadn’t been sure whether to believe the biased narrations dictated by your father. Since that day, both kingdoms had been separated by a symbolic barrier, it’s visual location being the forest in between the two places, a river positioned in the middle as if to show that crossing over the fores could not be accidental.

The treaty declared by the two nations had been each kingdom were to remain to their individual sides. The sanction for crossing the barrier being punishable by death, considered as an act of treason. 

You couldn't help but wonder how drastically situations would change for both kingdoms, hadn't your ancestors start off this futile argument. You believed the kingdoms would come a long way if they had united, but you had known it to be only merely a desire as it could not be justified in the eyes of the rulers.

The ruler of your kingdom had been a righteous man, who had been just with the laws held in place as well as the punishments carried out. You had been fortunate to be within the village of such a king. The other king however had been a cruel man, longing for nothing but power and wealth. Or so you heard. But you classed this as likely considering the amount of people that had tried to escape from his kingdom. Not a single one of them had been victorious in doing so as the forest had been guarded by the palace men. Although the forest could be used for both parties, it had been unconventional for anyone to visit it, as it generally signified retreat.

“Sir, do you ever wonder what the other kingdom is like?” you asked the merchant who had provided you with your daily necessities, while gazing across in the direction of the forest.

“From what I’ve heard, I don’t think you should be considering going there. You are aware of the punishment for it aren’t you”

“I’m aware of it. I’m just curious” you replied, guaranteeing you would not be reckless enough to go past the boundaries.

“Curiosity can cause you a lot of trouble Miss. Especially at a place like this. And just think, you’re at an advantage to be on this side of the kingdom. The other side of the kingdom despise us”

“Your Highness. Are you willing to take on this responsibility?” one of the guards had asked, seeking assurance.

“It’s for the good of the people, I think I’m positive of it”

The prince had taken the responsibility of guarding the forest, considering that there had been a shortage of guards present to carry out this duty. Although the job role could be replaced by one of the other noblemen of the kingdom, the sense of adventure had been seen as a privilege to Hyunjin, hence why he had accepted the offer. With the vigilant eye of the king, confining his ability to visit other places, the world out of the castle walls had been a mystery to Hyunjin, excluding a few expeditions. As the prince had turned into a legal age to take on an occupational position, he had seen the offer as a perfect opportunity to do so. 

The prince had settled on the back of the raven horse, which had been chosen specifically to intimidate any trespassers. But due to Hyunjin having previously built a connection with the horse, he had seen it rather obedient as he had tamed it to follow his commands. 

“Guards, if you would do me a favour, do not reveal my identity to the people. I would rather keep my position a secret. Address me without any formalities when we step out of these boundaries”

“Of course Your Highness. But would it not be better to bring in  trained horse. I fear this one will not be capable enough to stand still for two long”

“I know she’ll be able to listen to my commands. Don’t worry too much”

The people had not known anything of Hyunjin, despite the fact that he had been the king’ son. His face had not been known by anyone as to ensure that he would not be threatened for the merciless acts carried out by his father. Although his father had known of the way in which the public had spoken about his brutal nature, he had not implemented this in his daily life, believing a King should be feared to maintain sovereignty within the village. The king had failed in brainwashing his son with his way of thinking, brushing it off with the excuse that he would realise it when he comes into power. But Hyunjin had covertly made a vow against this.

The castle gate had become unlatched, while all the guards had put on their masks. It was time to begin.

You had began your ordinary trek through the forest. You hadn’t intended on doing anything against the law of the land, you had just believed the forest had mainly been barren, making the walk easier for you considering the vast amount of people within the village. Not only had this been the reason behind your unusual pathway, you had also found the dark ambience of the forest to alleviate you of any stress you had felt throughout the day. 

You skipped down the familiar trail, contemplating on the various thoughts running wildly through your mind. Although each thought had been purposeless, you pondered over them as a way of keeping yourself occupied.

You noticed the guards standing on the side of the forest, each appearing menacing with their dark aura and attire, but you had known not to fear them as it had merely been an act to ward off people. You had known behind the masks, they had been generic people. You watched as each guard separated to their allocated positions, each horse composed in it’s movements. That had been until one of the horses had come galloping towards you at a rapid pace.

Your first instinct had been to run away, but with the delay of your flight response, you stood frozen to the spot, trepidation taking over every limb in your body, causing a numbing sensation. You had braced for the impact when the horse had only been a few feet in front of you, but had been left with nothing of the sort as the horse had come to a halt.

“Woah. Slow down” the person seated on the swift animal had said in a calming technique. The voice had been soft which had contradicted the dark presence the guards were meant to have, symbolising the man underneath had been of a soft nature. He had chanted a mantra of words to sedate the dismay the horse had felt. Upon concluding his words, he stepped down from the animal, focus directed at you out of worry.

“My apologies Miss. Did she hurt you?” the figure asked. Even though a mask was worn on his face, you could tell he had a concerned look on his face underneath. The mask had been embellished with small jewels, only covering the eyes of the guards. This guard in particular had received the mask with the jewels as the other members had a rather plain variety of them. He ran his fingers through his inky, windswept hair to tame it back to it's original state. He stood towering over you, from both the heeled boots he had worn and the fact that he had been taller in general.

“No, not at all” you reassured. You could see a soft look in his eyes, showing you that he had been genuine in his approach. You were hesitant in your words, considering you had never met with anyone from the other kingdom, unknowing of a way to approach them, or whether any form of communication was tolerated.

“Are we even meant to be communicating with each other by law” you wondered. None of the guards had been in close range to you during your strolls through the forest until today. But you had assumed that communicating with the opposite kingdom had been off limits.

“According to the law, presumably not. But I could not let anyone get hurt by my actions” he replied.

“You’re different from what they say” you disclosed, the man taken aback by your words.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean” 

“Don’t you detest my kind of people?” you questioned.

“I’m sure you’re referencing the law. I don’t believe in having ill feeling towards anyone due to some sort of distant feud. And based on this conversation, I don’t believe I have any right to feel that in any way considering you haven’t done any sort of act to allow me to have hatred towards you” he replied. You found truth in his words, as it had been the belief that you stood by.

"Sir. Have you found an intruder?" one of the guards had asked.

"No need to worry. She's not an intruder" the guard replied tentatively "I really should be going, it's just my first day and I've already caused this" he said, lips casting a smile to shield his worry.

"Don't think of it that way. I wish you luck on your duty. I figure you'll make an admirable guard" you replied with certainty

"I appreciate that. My apologies again. I'll be off then, it's been a pleasure meeting you Miss. Do you have a name I should call you by?" he asked.

You replied to his request as he mentally noted what your name had been.

"You may call me Hyunjin. I'll make sure this type of encounter doesn't happen again. But do you always stroll around this forest" he asked as even though he had been secluded most of his life, he had been aware of how rare it had been to step foot in the forest, let alone walk through it.

"For as long as I can remember, I come here almost everyday" you responded, noting the hint of astonishment in his look.

"Then I believe I shall see you again one day. But take caution when visiting this forest, you wouldn't want to be mistaken for trespassing"

"I'll make sure of that. Farewell Hyunjin" you stated. To him, the way in which you pronounced his name was of ease to him. Throughout the course of his life, not even his own father had called him by his name, and with the demise of his mother, his father grew distant enough to cut off most communications, besides a few small conversations regarding the village. Along with this, everyone had believed formalities was a crucial part of royalty, therefore adhered to these customs religiously. You, in contrary, had been clueless regarding the societal position he had held, meaning you had disregarded this custom unknowingly, making you the first person to use his generic name.

"Farewell" he replied, covering up the elation he had felt from just the mere mention of his name.

"How did it go Your Highness?" one of the palace servants asked. With the relationship Hyunjin had with them, he had considered the servant a companion and deemed him more highly in this way than he considered him to be working for the castle. Compared to the other servants within the castle, this one in particular had been close in age to Hyunjin, therefore becoming the closer to him in their relationship.

"Very well. I stumbled across a particular incident but it's no matter of concern" Hyunjin responded, as not to go into detail of the situation, mainly due to the fact it could easily be misunderstood to be an act of misconduct, which he believed wasn’t severe enough to need tending to.

“If you insist. Had there been any retreats?” 

“Not at all. I suppose that everyone fears the punishment set up so there hadn’t been a single retreat. Is there really any need for guarding the forest”

“To your father it is said to be one of the most significant tasks within the kingdom. Do you believe otherwise?”

“I just think there’s no need for too many guards to be in one area. It should be enough to be guarded by one member” 

“I fear you may be right. The issue lies in the hands of your father, since he has the most control”

That had been one of the boundaries in Hyunjin’s life. The King. It had been true that the public held extreme views regarding the King, a majority of them which had been negative, however, the views had resembled Hyunjin’s also. Throughout his life he had been told constantly he could ‘do such a thing once he became king’.  And with the contrast in views between him and his father, disputes had been a natural occurrence which the King had always won due to his reigning power. 

Trivial days went by for the both of you. The prince had still remained on guard for the forest, as you continued your regular visits to the market for essentials. After that one day, you hadn't met up with Hyunjin again, as you both had been expected to be at different points of the forest, with your kingdom differences.

"Your Highness, is there an issue?" One of the guards asked in an almost inaudible voice, as not to let anyone in surrounding areas aware of his position.

The guards seemed to notice the way in which Hyunjin would be distracted with your presence. They had memorised the times in which you would step foot in the forest, wandering through the same path each day. Each day the prince would cast his gaze in your direction, longing for the chance to talk to you as you were unaware of his position, meaning he'd be treated as a generic person. You'd been the only person outside the castle that had approached him, meaning you to be his only connection to the outside world. Although he had been through the village numerous times, he'd never had the courage to communicate with anybody, afraid he'd lose his identity.

"There's no issue" Hyunjin lied, clearly unfazed by the words of the guards.

"It's the girl isn't it"

"How did you know?" he chuckled in response as he was not inconspicuous in his actions during the encounters.

"You've been looking out for her everyday"

"Well. I guess it's no use. My father will never let me talk to a villager, let alone someone from the other kingdom. After all. Curiosity killed the cat. I'd rather the both of us remain alive"

Masterlist

[fandom-queenliness]

Day 9: Villains

@felinettenovember I feel like the real villain here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Félix stared around at the chamber—giant butterfly window, iron walkway, gloomy dark, creepy coffin—and came to the conclusion that his uncle was either crazy or Hawkmoth.

Gabriel touched a hand to the coffin—was that aunt Emile? —and said, “Félix, I have brought you here for a just and righteous reason.”

He’s both, definitely both, Félix thought to himself, warily eyeing the older man. Great, fan-freaking-tastic. His uncle is the psycho who’s been making life in Paris hell with constant akumas.

“And what reason is that, uncle?” He poured as much sarcasm into his voice as possible, hoping to mask the worry behind it. What the hell have I been dragged into?

Gabriel turned around; hands clasped behind him. “I want you to help me.”

Find a therapist? Félix was seriously concerned now. There was only one elevator, he couldn’t see Nathalie—she was definitely a part of this—and he was stuck in a room with a man with a dangerous obsession with magical jewellery.

I really hope I’m not murdered in this stupid secret basement. Oh gods he’ll probably stick me in one of those stupid coffins. What did aunt Emile see in him?

Félix tried to compose his thoughts. “Help you with what, exactly?”

Gabriel fixed him with his cold grey eyes. “I know this may come as a shock Félix, but I, Gabriel Agreste, am the so-called enemy of Paris, Hawkmoth.”

What a shocker. Félix wondered how hard Marinette would kick Gabriel when she found out. Of course, he would have to stay alive to tell her.

Gabriel continued, staring dramatically at his wife’s coffin. “I am doing this for family, for her. She has fallen into a coma, nearly dead, after using a damaged miraculous. And now the two heroes who hold the miraculous’ that could save her refuse and fight me. Is that fair?” He whirled around, searching for support. Félix tried his best to appear sympathetic.

His uncle turned again, looking to the window.

“I am fighting for the highest cause; family. But I am losing. Ladybug just brings in new heroes. My akumas make no lasting effect while she has her miraculous cure.” Gabriel sneered the words. “I am alone, with no partner, no one to help save Emile.”

“What about Mayura?” Félix couldn’t help himself from asking. Surely Nathalie was Mayura, what about her?

“The peacock miraculous is damaged.” Gabriel sighed. “I managed to restore it somewhat, to lessen it’s more undesirable effects, but the damage to Mayura has been done. She is no longer helpful… in the field.”

He turned to Félix again—does he need to turn around so much? Pick a bloody direction—and smiled, slow and dangerous.

“So that is why I am asking you to help me save your aunt and become the new wielder of the peacock.”

Oh no. “Why me? Why not Adrien?” Félix burst out, surprised and highly insulted. He was cold and anti-social, that didn’t make him a villain.

“Adrien is too soft; he would not be able to fight for our cause as effectively as you can. And wouldn’t you want to save your aunt?” Gabriel challenged, his expression was dark and dangerous.

Félix clenched his fist, ignoring the coffin behind Gabriel. Emile was dead, or close to it. She didn’t deserve to be stuck in a coffin, hidden under the city, kept alive for years while her husband neglected their son and loomed over the city like a constant shadow. He missed aunt Emile, of course, but he had grieved and moved on, like Gabriel should have.

In his mind, he saw Adrien—silly, hopefully, naïve Adrien. Always hoping his father would look his way. Gabriel had abandoned his son in a useless quest to stop the consequences of Emile’s own choice.

“She’s gone, uncle,” he said coldly. “Keeping her in this trapped state isn’t fair to her—or Adrien. I won’t help you.”

Gabriel paused, staring at Félix emotionlessly.

“Well, then I suppose Miss Dupain-Cheng will  neverachieve her dream.”

That snapped Félix into a state of freefall. Marinette, why is he bringing Marinette into this? He scrambled for a reason, but all that came up was fear.

“What do you mean?” he choked out, anxiety rising.

His uncle smirked, smug, victorious, villainous. “Either you work for me, Félix, and get me the miraculous—or I ruin whatever chance your little friend has of ever working in fashion.”

Félix’s heartbeat slowed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He won’t hurt her. “You’re only one person. She already has Audrey Bourgeois vying for her, plus a whole number of celebrities to back her up. Your threat is empty, uncle.”

“Is it?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, that smirk still in place. “But what if one of my promising new models with came forward about how Miss Dupain-Cheng has stolen designs? It’s quite damaging to a budding designer’s career. It would haunt her forever, even if the claims were never proved.”

Gabriel began to circle Félix, looking down at him like prey.

“And what if suddenly poor Adrien came forward about how… obsessive tendencies? My poor son would need to get a restraining order. Dupain Cheng would seem nothing more than a rabid fan.”

Félix couldn’t move, frozen in place as he saw the promise his uncle was laying out before him.

“Oh, and what if I spread the word among other designers about how the girl is so very jealous and conniving, and they wouldn’t want to offer her any internships, she was clumsy and late and absent and wouldn’t even make a good assistant, let alone designer.”

Gabriel laughed, low and dark behind Félix’s back. “Oh, and what if a classmate told the whole world about the horrible girl that bullied her? Slandered her? Pushed her down the stairs?”

He stopped in front of Félix, grinning from ear to ear.

“I could destroy her whole world. Her friendships, her record, her reputation, any hope of a career.” Casually, Gabriel pulled out a brooch from a pocket of his blazer. It was in the shape of a peacock fan, and Félix knew this was the miraculous that Mayura had used.

“How long would Dupain Cheng hold up under the accusations, I wonder?” He held up the miraculous to the light, ignoring the way stiff way Félix was staring at him. “A few weeks? Months? Or would she crumble before I even filed the restraining order for Adrien?

“And it wouldn’t take much to make her break, dear nephew. All I would need to do is make a few phone calls, fake a few designs, and find someone who hates Dupain-Cheng enough to ruin her life, and ask them to spin a few little lies.”

“Rossi.” Félix spat the name like poison.

“Yes, Lila Rossi.” Anger flashed through Félix at the admission of what he already knew. “So very eager to cause harm to your little friend. And such a good little bird too.” Gabriel slid his eyes from the miraculous to Félix. “She told me all about how protective you are of Dupain-Cheng.”

There was more behind his words, a deeper meaning, an assumption, insinuation. Félix couldn’t find it, too busy trying to calm his rage and fear.

He knew three things: Marinette was a bargaining chip for Gabriel. Marinette’s future was in danger. Marinette wasn’t allowed to be hurt.

This, what Gabriel promised, would devastate her. It would crush her. What his uncle promised to do was ruin any chance of the future Marinette dreamed of, ruin her friendships, her relationship with Adrien. Have her labelled for the rest of her life. Pin her under the public eye with no way to defend herself.

This would kill her. Destroy her.

And Félix couldn’t watch that. He wouldn’t.

He refused to see her hurt.

He’d rather risk his own life than her dream.

“Fine. I’ll be your stupid henchman.” Félix held out his hand, glaring up at his uncle, who held all the cards and knew it.  “I’ll work for you. But as long as you swear to not go near Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

“Of course, dear nephew,” Gabriel promised smoothly, dropping the miraculous into his hand.

“But don’t forget.” He leaned in, breath brushing Félix’s ear. “Her life depends on you.”

Félix closed his eyes. I’m sorry, Marinette.

[tlbodine]

What Zombie Movies Teach Us About COVID-19

As I write this, it is April 20, 2020, and  42,514 Americans have died of COVID-19, the disease caused by a deadly novel coronavirus first discovered in late 2019. South Korea has just  237 deaths from the disease. 

The two countries learned about the virus at roughly the same time, and had the same amount of time to respond to the disease. But the responses took wildly different paths, with vastly different outcomes -- as you can see. 

But I’m not here to talk about that, not exactly. I’m here to talk about zombies. 

Train to Busan (2016), directed by Yeon Sang-ho, tells the story of a zombie outbreak in Korea, with the action focused predominantly on the passengers of a train. It’s one of my favorite zombie movies, in large part because the flavor of its zombie narrative is so different from the types of zombie stories we see in America. It’s a fresh spin, driven by cultural influences and the director’s vision, and it’s a movie that’s been at the forefront of my mind since watching the vastly different responses of South Korea and the USA to the current pandemic. 

Train to Busan is a film concerned with the morality of classism, a theme repeated in many South Korean exports (see 2019′s Parasite for another example). Innate in that premise is a moral statement about collectivism, cooperation and kindness that runs contrary to everything American zombie fiction holds dear. 

Train to Busan’s main character, Seok Woo, is a fund manager, a white-collar businessman who operates in the financial sector. In his introduction, we see him reviewing reports of the biological leak that we the viewer already know is responsible for zombies; he advises a concerned investor not to sell his shares, as the reports could be false or the worry is premature -- and then, a moment later, hangs up the phone and sells his own shares. It's implied later that his role in financing the company may give him some moral responsibility in the disaster -- ie, he invested in a company, knew that it was harmful, and reacted not by blowing the whistle on that harm but instead by selling his ownership and thus profiting.

The film treats this as morally reprehensible. Indeed, Seok Woo's storyline is a tragedy: We will see him brought low by his flaws, struggle to overcome them, but ultimately fall short.

This is quite different from American zombie narratives, which more often than not place the hero as a working-class underdog who finds himself suddenly uniquely equipped to deal with the threat at hand. Consider police officer Rick Grimes (and, for that matter, hillbilly archer Daryl) in The Walking Dead, or retired U.N. investigator Gerry Lane in World War Z. Perhaps the best example of the type is Zombieland's Tallahassee, a quintessential "Florida Man" -- rough around the edges, crude, eccentric, socially inept but good with a gun and  a willingness to adopt the role of patriarch in the post-apocalyptic found family narrative. 

Implicit in American zombie fiction is a promise of role reversal, of a social upheaval in which established ruling classes will no longer matter and in which new lines of power can be drawn -- and that power rests squarely on a foundation of guns, violence, and a small but tightly knit family structure united against external threats both human and supernatural. 

Of course, guns can’t serve as a currency of power or survival in Train to Busan because there are no guns. South Korea has some of the world’s strictest gun laws, and nobody riding on a passenger train would have a firearm at the ready. This makes for a much more thrilling narrative thanks to the balance of power shifting heavily in the zombie horde’s favor; it also forces characters to work together for survival, relying more on wits than strength.

Like many zombie film protagaonists before him, Seok Woo is a father -- a disengaged, overworked father, but one who’s trying his best. But unlike some horror movie kids, his daughter Su-An is more than a victim-in-waiting; she’s the moral centerpiece of the story, an external conscience who serves to gently remind her father of his misplaced priorities and call him on his bullshit.

Fleshing out the rest of the cast are more unlikely heroes: a high school baseball team, a homeless man, a pair of old ladies, and a middle-aged man, Sang-hwa, traveling with his pregnant wife. Sang-hwa is an especially important character, holding up a mirror in some ways to our protagonist: he has a successful, loving marriage where the hero's has failed; he is a doting, patient father where Seok-woo is out of touch.

It is hardly coincidental that this core group of characters is comprised almost exclusively of vulnerable people. And once the zombie disaster strikes, it becomes clear that the job of the less-vulnerable is to step up and protect the most vulnerable, even within a group where no one is especially skilled, heroic, or well-trained to deal with this.

Self-sacrifice is the recurring theme of Train to Busan, delivered with a bludgeoning regularity -- but each death is valorized, the narrative making it clear through its storytelling techniques that these sacrifices are meaningful and heroic.

It’s worth noting, too, that the self-sacrifice that drives the narrative is made necessary by the selfishness of others. Sang-hwa is bitten and stays behind to hold back hordes of zombies only because another group of survivors locked them out of their car.

Those exclusionary survivors -- a group spearheaded by a rich businessman who declares himself early on to be too important to risk his life -- receive their comeuppance soon enough. Here's the clip in all its satisfying glory: 

All of which is not to say that self-sacrifice is not a trope that shows up in other zombie media as well. But I have never seen it the focus of a film with such brazen commitment before. 

In Hollywood storytelling, self-sacrifice all too often comes in two flavors. The first: The only righteous path a fatally flawed anti-hero can take. The second: A heroic cop-out, where the character sacrifices him/herself but fails to actually die thanks to unexpected circumstances -- suggesting, thematically, that willingness toward self-sacrifice is all that is required, and that good things come to those who deserve them. 

In a lot of zombie media -- and post-apocalyptic media in general -- storylines often flirt with the morality of sacrificing other people for the greater good. Heroes will grapple with the decision, and the one who pulls the trigger may ultimately succumb to guilt or plot karma (Shane and Otis in The Walking Dead, for example), but the discussion is given serious weight and consideration. 

Train to Busan makes it clear that such cold calculations aren’t just villainous, they’re cowardly and pathetic. 

Other popular zombie tropes that fail to make an appearance in the film include: 

A self-appointed leader calling the shots and telling others to get in line 

The asshole pragmatist arguing with the self-appointed leader

The untrustworthy outsider and/or villainous mole 

The weak or cowardly idiot who gets people killed by virtue of being useless and/or careless 

Utterly useless or corrupt government/military/authority 

In many zombie stories, man is the real monster, and this holds true in many ways for Train to Busan. But the focus is different. Rather than the monster being the outsider who comes for your supplies, or the stranger who you trust only to be stabbed in the back, the worst humans in Train to Busan are those who act with distrust and selfishness. 

Declaring yourself the leader, securing a perimeter, and making a difficult choice to turn away strangers at the gate in order to protect your own group is the action of heroes in a show like The Walking Dead. In Train to Busan, those same actions are villainous and ultimately lead to ruin. 

On the flipside, soft-heartedness in American zombie films is often both foolish and disastrous. Consider, for example, Hershel’s barn in Season 2 of The Walking Dead, where walkers are corralled in dangerously high numbers out of an optimistic belief that they can be cured. Just as heroic self-sacrifice becomes a recurring theme in Train to Busan, an endless cycle of trust and betrayal is the signature of The Walking Dead, and the show routinely rewards its moral centerpieces -- like Dale and Hershel -- with deaths that are treated not as valiant but as senselessly tragic. 

But let’s get back to my central thesis. What does any of this have to do with COVID-19? 

When South Korea first became aware of the threat of the novel coronavirus, its government immediately launched a response called TRUST:  “Transparency, Robust screening and quarantine, Unique but universally applicable testing, Strict control, and Treatment.” 

The heart of the program was testing, not just of obviously sick people but of those without symptoms or known exposure -- and then carefully tracing the contacts of those found to have a positive result and isolating anyone who was infected. But the price of this widespread testing goes beyond the monetary needs of dveloping and administering tests; it comes too at the cost of certain freedoms. The South Korean government is able to track down and contain its citizens through credit card records, cellphone data, security cameras and other Orwellian security devices that would make most Americans' skin crawl. Add that to a cultural norm of wearing medical masks in public and obeying social distancing as a matter of course (less casual touch and physical contact, greater personal space) and South Korea’s spread of disease has been quite slow. 

Meanwhile, in the USA, people across the country are breaking social distancing rules in order to gather in public and protest the quarantine measures that have left many without jobs and which, some say, infringe upon civil liberties. Mixed messaging about the efficacy of masks, and a long history of masks being associated with crime, have also made it hard to win Americans over to mask-wearing in public -- even though if we could get 100% of people wearing masks, the spread of disease would drop dramatically (and the economy could open sooner). 

Countless political, historical, and socioeconomcic factors are at work differentiating these two nations, and the situation is infinitely more complex than any movie. But I do think viewing the coronavirus through the zombie apocalypse lens helps to make sense of these wildly different responses to the disease. 

Time and again, America’s zombie media has hammered home certain essential lessons: 

When times get hard, you will be called on to step up and take decisive action 

Difficult decisions will need to be made, and the people who are too soft-hearted or cowardly to make those decisions will put others at risk 

The safety of your own family (or found family) is paramount, and any threat to the family must be immediately destroyed 

Survival will be a matter of strength, guns and resources 

Institutions like the military, government and police are useless at best and often corrupt or downright murderous; you can trust only in yourself

Viewed in that context, it’s hardly surprising that the United States response to the pandemic has involved hoarding supplies, buying guns, distrusting scientific authorities, and even staging protests. 

By comparison, the take-home lessons from Train to Busan are quite different: 

No one person is above or more important than anyone else 

If you have power, it is your duty to protect those who are more vulnerable

Selfishness invites trouble 

Self-sacrifice is heroic and sometimes necessary for the greater good 

All of which is not to say that there is no value in the American lessons. There are times when the values of individualism, decisive action, self-sufficiency and suspicion may well be exactly what is needed for survival. 

But during a pandemic of a disease that overwhelmingly affects the already-vulnerable -- the elderly, those with disabilities, those living in poverty -- it seems self-evident that values tied to protecting the weak and working together to protect public safety are the values that will prove most successful. 

At the end of Train to Busan, the survivors of the ordeal is not the strongest, best-prepared, or cleverest of the people on the train. They are young Su-An and  Seong-Kyeong, the film’s most vulnerable characters -- and also its kindest. In an ending reminiscent of Night of the Living Dead, they emerges the sole survivors to face the path of armed military men who at first mistake her for a zombie. But Train to Busan is, for all of its tragedy, a film devoid of cynicism. The soldiers stop just short of shooting when they hear Su-On singing and realize that she’s alive. 

In the end, it is quite literally her humanity that saves her. 

Living in a time of coronavirus means making self-sacrifices, including personal liberty and livelihood. And while none of our sacrifices are likely to be as dramatic as those made by characters in Train to Busan, they are no less heroic or necessary. 

And that is, to me, a lesson worth remembering.