#so I bring you an age-old VERY rough sketch I did one day and never finished just to spam these tags with my love

[ladswithflags]

Christmas morning

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1  -  Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it.  To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth.  But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me.  What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them.  A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen.  What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining.  Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance.  You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me?  I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such  a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee.  Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.”  (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence.  The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way.  And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty.  To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines​ @lieutenantn​ @handmaiden-of-mischief​ @thesunflowersutra​ @zemomybeloved​​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @charistory​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @apparrio​ @hb8301​ @whatawildone​

Let me know if you want to get tagged too <3

[bakugouisabitch]

nono, i care about your very specific highschool au. rant about it please.

dgslsjs omg youu 🥺

well if you insist.... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

okay, i once had a discord group which i miss sm rip where i shared some ideas from that AU so i’m basically gonna repeat them here now shsjs under the read more 👇

this AU includes both Maliks as siblings (+ Isis and Rishid ofc) and both Bakuras as siblings too. The two Yamis are the elder brothers of the non-Yamis so they also have their own name ofc. 

For Yami Malik I’d go with Amir cause the name is beautiful and fits him somehow (it means ‘prince’ or ‘chief’). This AU is literally so self-indulgent where I can finally write Amir just how I picture him in my head as the funny himbo he is, who makes some creepy jokes at times but is generally a nice guy and is just constantly stoned sdfgskh

For Yami Bakura i haven’t thought of a name yet 🙃 He’s low key the protag and I still don’t have a name for him 👏 good work, Ziggy 👏 I was thinking about something that makes his initials still be YB so a name with Y actually (Yamato maybe ?) Everyone calls him Bakura/Bakura-kun anway and they mostly call Ryou “the little Bakura”/Bakura-chan (affectionately) since he is the little brother ahsksfsj

In this AU Amir and YB are like really close friends. They are classmates in their last year together and they are known for being trouble makers. But not just like Honda and Jounouchi in the anime - they are worse than that. They have risked being expelled many times and smoke on the school’s rooftops and even hang out with older guys who sell illegal shit and such (it’d be tw for drugs ofc). OH and lots of spray painting on public places 👊 They are really best buds and bonded over same interests and music taste and same hate for the society and family and such. This fanart was a major inspiration to write these two as high school best buddies.

Also, I did a quick redraw of the typical anime boys sleeping in the classroom pose with these two. That’s them:

 (might finish it one day and post it seperately idk my motivation is swinging lately 🤷)

All their “criminal” behaviour ofc stems from a sad background/past because i’m just a sucker for angst and i keep making my boys suffer 😔 i’m sorry. Every guy in this AU has daddy issues or just family issues in general

YB is VERY overprotective over his little brother Ryou (who’s just two years younger than him, and just like Malik, starts his first high school year in Domino High School). He is literally responsible for raising him up because ever since they lost their mother and Amane (Ryou’s twin sister) at a very young age their father fell into a very deep depression and he’s constantly away “for work” and just generally neglects his two remaining sons. YB hates their father because of that so he has taken it as his own responsibility to make sure Ryou is always safe and protected and acts like the parent in their home (where there is usually just the two of them). Also, another self indulgent thing here: YB being an ass with everyone except for being an overprotective good big brother for Ryou 🥺 please! so cute!! (They ride a bike together on their way to school like this fanart)

The Ishtar’s parents are both dead. Their mother died when giving birth to the youngest one (Malik) and their father died under very tragic circumstances (still gotta think how 🤔 it definitely wasn’t Amir tho’) and they used to have a very abusive household thus why Amir HATES their dad. Contrary to Malik, who keeps saying he deserved a second chance and was a good father and wishes he could have made him proud ~ this always makes Amir and Malik fight amongst other things and this is what also bonds Amir and YB so much: the hate for their old man.

It would be a very psychological AU that deals with a lot of issues and shit and traumas the boys have to live with + adding all the typical teenage angst at that age so it’s CHAOS. and I’d also have the perfect soundtrack/playlist for it 💆‍♀️ (it would be set in the 90s)

Ofc it’d be bakumali because I can’t help myself (and maybe also Ryou x Amir as a side pairing 👀)

Since it’s Malik’s first year in domino high school he wants to be recognised as one of the “cool kids” and befriend the older boys from the class. he just hates it that his big brother (Amir) is always there as well. Compared to the Bakuras these two have much more of a turbulent kind of relationship going on as siblings, where they constantly fight and Amir says Malik “ruined” the family whenever their fights get harsher and Malik says father never loved him anyway. Isis and Rishid try to keep the family and the boys under control as young adults but it’s hard 😔

YB visits the Ishtars sometimes to hang out with Amir in his room where they listen to music, smoke weed, and play PS and such and this is when Malik “spies” on YB. he thinks his big brother’s friend looks so cool with his ripped jeans and eyeliner and black nail polish. One night YB and Amir are smoking weed in Amir’s room and playing PS when Malik would use the chance. He’d piss Amir off and tell him it’s his turn to take the trash out on purpose to make him leave his room. Ofc Amir says no but then Malik “threatens” him with “I will tell sister you smoke weed if you don’t take the trash out”. And so Amir leaves (slamming the door behind him like an unruly teenager and saying he’s gonna kill Malik) and leaves a stoned YB alone in his room. And this is when Malik uses the chance to be alone with a very confused and very stoned YB who wonders why Amir’s little brother seems to be so interested in him sdfghjkl and yea this is basically their first encounter.

Malik has basically a kind of obvious “fangirl crush” for YB but the latter is so confused why and what he even sees in him. Because for him there’s nothing “cool” in skipping school and breaking the rules, it’s just the only thing he knows. But for Malik this is the coolest shit he’s ever seen.

this little sketch i made kinda shows my idea for their relationship in this AU better sdfghjk:

Malik befriends Ryou (who is in his same class and school year) out of convenience ofc cause he wants to get closer to YB. Yes Malik is a lil bitch in this AU. And Ryou is like extremely nice and polite, he’s the weird silent kid who doesn’t have a lot of friends and lives in his own world. He falls victim to bullies a lot and YB also keeps that rough facade to make sure no one messes with him. Ryou befriends Malik and tries to answer all of the weird, intimate questions he has of his big brother...

One night I, like, imagined a scenario where Amir and YB are out spray-painting a wall behind the station with some other thugs and Malik and Ryou followed them secretly (it was all Malik’s plan) even if Ryou was totally contrary to the idea. Once they see the guys have drugs and alcohol Ryou wants to leave, but Malik says this is exactly what makes it exciting and joins them without warning. When Amir and YB see Malik they panic, wondering what he is doing here. Amir gets particularly pissed off and wants to just leave. ofc YB tells him he can’t just leave his young brother alone in a place like this with people like that. But Amir ignores him (and this will lead to one of the first big fights between the two best buddies 😔 they will punch each other. I told you it will have a lot of angst)

Anyway at the end Amir leaves and YB is decent enough to bring both Ryou and Malik home but then Malik insits on wanting to crash at their place. So YB is like “i guess??” And they spend the night together at the Bakura’s place :) YB takes the couch and leaves his bed for Malik to sleep in but Malik will have none of that ofc sgksksj

Okay sorry for boring you, I could go on forever with so many scenarios of this AU or like actually sit down and write it... and yea.. that’s it.... just angsty and misunderstood boys in a shitty society with shitty parents trying to find a sense with their lives 🥺

[kintatsujo]

LoZ AU- The Courage of Running Away Part FOURTEEN

You’ll see why this one took a while in just a second, I did that thing where I drew a whole ass scene again

Content warning for fantasy religions based loosely on Christian schisms

#AU August

#LoZ AU: The Courage of Running Away

So while Link is getting acclimated to Castle life and getting hugs from Marla and Tonbo (and also getting unofficially adopted by the royal family) Astramorus flies back to the Sky Temple with his loftwing. 

And he has a lot of time to think while he’s doing it; I don’t know how fast a loftwing flies but even so it would have taken some hours on Hera’s back and you don’t have anything to do up there but think about why you got blasted through a wall by a god-queen.  So he gets back and he’s feeling pretty fucking subdued when he hands Hera off to the Sky Temple commune’s gardener/bird caretaker, Maurice.

[Image description:  Astramorus, looking tired and still missing his hat, his hair a mess, is standing opposite a short and round mustached man with bushy eyebrows dressed in the same priestly robes, except that this man has his sleeves shortened to his elbows and is wearing thick gloves.  This man is holding Hera the loftwing by a lead, while she makes a particularly vacant happy face.  “NAYRU’S EYES, man, WHAT HAPPENED?”  Astramorus gives a very small smile, and after a pause, answers, “TURBULENCE.”  The man harrumphs skeptically, then says, “Well, LORD SERENUMBRA from the LORULEAN ORTHODOXY showed up three days ago and he’s been giving me ADVICE ON MY TOMATOES, so turbulence or OTHERWISE I’d appreciate you DISTRACTING HIM before I commit some WEEDING.”  Astramorus smiles.  “Ah,” he says in understanding.  “Yes, thank you for your PATIENCE, Maurice.”  End ID.] 

A note on Maurice, originally I was going to make him look like Gaepora OR Rauru and then Ice suggested basing him on Maurice-Belle’s-Dad and I liked that, so I blended the ideas a bit.  

I think I’ve mentioned that Lorule and Hyrule have different takes on the Hylia religion, haven’t I?

Basically since this Lorule is just the country south of Hyrule instead of a dark-mirror-universe world, Invid suggested that part of the idea might be that Lorule insists that Hyrule is wrong about which country the Golden Goddesses left the world from, and that the Triforce belongs there instead.  I kind of played with that a little further, and so now part of the thing is that their royal line is actually also descended from Hylia directly, except that at some point a sister broke off from (one or the other of) the royal family, founding the Hilda line versus the Zelda line.

And real quick here’s the Hilda of this story, which I promise is relevant:

[Image Description: Sketches of a tall, black haired woman with pale skin and blue eyes and extremely long pointed ears, dressed in a cape and dress of purple, dark blue, red and gold.  She wears a blue and green belt trimmed with gold and black gloves, and a diadem featuring a red gemstone and golden spread wings.  There is an inverted Triforce symbol on her sash.  She is also wearing black lipstick and red blush and eyeshadow.  A sketch to the side shows her making a decidedly less dignified expression with the note “All the finery and rouge is a desperate attempt to fool you into thinking Hilda is in her twenties but she’s only actually seventeen, same as Link.”  Another sketch shows her next to an old man with round glasses and priestly robes different to the Hyrulean priests, who only comes up to her chest.  She has her hands on her hips and is ranting at him.  A note reads, “Hilda TOL.”  End ID.]

Anyway the thing is that currently, the two churches are relatively peaceable with one another, they have joint gatherings to quibble about tradition and who should be allowed to have what sacred treasures and who has to bring the roast boar next time, and that is how a very young novice Astramorus ended up as friends with the man he would eventually match in equivalent rank, Lord Serenumbra.  Who gets a nice picture equivalent piece to Astra’s introduction because of symmetry: 

[Image Description: The same short priest from the picture with Hilda.  He has white loosely curly hair, circular gold glasses, a hat similar to Astramorus’s but in red, a dark red robe over a black underdress, both trimmed in gold, and is wearing a heavy golden neck piece with an inverted Triforce and golden wings framing a blue disc.  To the side are various comic panels; in the first, he has taken an extremely young Astramorus’s hand and is saying, “Let me be the first to CONGRATULATE you, my friend!”  In the second, he’s spread his arms wide while approaching Astramorus and Catena, Link’s mother.  “Let me be the first to CONGRATULATE YOU, my friends!” he’s saying, and Catena laughs, giving Astramorus a rough side hug that lifts him off his feet despite her only coming to his chest, while Astramorus gives her a gooey smile.  “TOO LATE,” she says, “I told my mum first,” and laughs.  In the last panel, Astramorus has collapsed limp into a chair at a dining room table, his hair in his eyes, his face wet with tears, propping his head on one arm as Serenumbra pats his shoulder from behind the chair.  “Let me be the first to say,” Serenumbra says, “How DEEPLY SORRY I am, my friend.”  End ID.]

This is awful but that’s currently my favorite picture of Astramorus.  

Serenumbra’s design is based on the priest and philosopher from ALttP and Link Between Worlds; the philosopher’s robes were red so I sorta priestified them.  The blue disc in the center of his neck piece represents the Moon Pearl from ALttP, which was actually red in the game but blue in some of the promotional materiel, and the blue was a nicer contrast.  The Moon Pearl was mostly important because it let Link run around in his human form in the Dark World but I always liked it because it was sort of weird and mysterious.  In Four Swords Adventures there’s actually a LOT of moon pearls and they let you make portals between the worlds.  There isn’t going to be a lot of world hopping in this AU, I just thought it was interesting context. 

Anyway here’s two old friends having a conversation, image description and a little more commentary plus some bonus poking at Astramorus at the end:

[Image Descriptions: Astramorus is entering a room with a rounded door and a coat rack on the wall.  “Seren?” he calls.  “ASTRAMORUS, are you QUITE all right?” Serenumbra answers.  He is sitting at a round table in the center of the room; there are two dining chairs, one of which he is sitting in, and opposite of him is a comfortable looking rocking chair.  “I came because I heard about your SON, have you still not found him?”  Astramorus, looking deeply pained, straightens some of his hair with one hand.  “I found him,” he says.  He settles into the rocking chair with a long creak.  Serenumbra is clearly shocked by his demeanor.  “Astra,” he says, concern clear in his face, “What HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling while looking like death warmed over.  There is a panel fading from light to dark to indicate the passage of time, then we see that Serenumbra has a hand to his mouth in thought.  “So the queen refuses to see the DANGER here,” he says.  Astramorus has folded his hands together.  “She’s right about my SON, though,” he answers.  Serenumbra is quick to defend Astramorus to himself: “Well- he’s such a SOFT BOY, you wanted him PREPARED,” he begins, but Astramorus stops him.  “I pushed him too hard, too SOON, and with too little CARE.”  Astramorus lifts his hands and grins painfully, continuing, “WHAT was I DOING, trying to teach him how to FIGHT when all I knew was an ADULT’S routine?”  He puts a hand to his chin, still smiling.  “I must be the STUPIDEST MAN ALIVE.”  “Astra,” Serenumbra begins again, and Astramorus interrupts again.  “My wife used to tell me I WORRIED too much, did I ever mention that?”  He asks.  His face turns solemn.  “It was even one of the LAST THINGS she said to me,” he says.  We get a glimpse of young Astramorus and Catena together backlit by the sun; she’s wearing a blue version of the classical Link costume with a sword strapped to her back and plate armor on her shoulders, he’s wearing his priestly robes and hat.  She’s reached up to grab his face, grinning, while he’s put his hands on hers.  “And then she died,” Astramorus says.  He sits up, animate once more.  “What else could I DO but worry?!” he demands.  “You’ve studied the legends, same as I-” he subsides again- “That mark on Link’s hand may as well be a DEATH SENTENCE.”  He puts a hand on his face.  “And I’ve so THOROUGHLY FAILED him that now I’ve put the Royal Family in danger TOO.”  Serenumbra puts a hand to his chin, thoughtfully.  “WELL, you never KNOW,” he says, “Princess HILDA is more of an age with Link, maybe the Triforce of Wisdom will arise in the LORULEAN line this time.”  Astramorus laughs.  “That doesn’t change the SITUATION, Seren,” quietly adding “But also KEEP DREAMING.”  He then puts his hand to his mouth.  “How do I even BEGIN to atone?” Astramorus asks.  “Ahh, old friend,” Serenumbra answers, soothingly.  “If only Catena were still WITH us, she’d know how to ease the boy’s burden.  Why-she’d face down GANON HIMSELF if it came to that!”  Astramorus makes an intense face, as if he’s been suddenly burdened.  Serenumbra stands and puts a hand on his shoulder.  “Get some REST, dear friend, you still look TERRIBLE,” he says with a smile.  Astramorus is wringing his hands, staring forward.  End ID.]

DUMBASS BRAINCELLS ENGAGED.

I didn’t expect “Got pegged by his wife so hard that the mere invocation of her name knocked him back to his senses after over eleven years of fucking shitty behavior towards their son” to be on the bingo card for this character when I started this project either, but this is Draft 0.5 so anything can happen XD

Astramorus is so layered now what the fuck!  

[Image Description: Serenumbra, face full of concern, asks, “Astra, what HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling like death warmed over.  Behind him are the words “HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND.”  End ID.]

[Image Description: Serenumbra, face full of concern, asks, “Astra, what HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling like death warmed over.  Behind him are the words “WELL FIRST OF ALL I FUCKING DIED.”  End ID.]

[Image Description: Serenumbra, face full of concern, asks, “Astra, what HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling like death warmed over.  Behind him are the words “...my wife made this chair.”  End ID.]

Catena got into carving as a hobby during long trips but she started making furniture while dealing with nesting urges while pregnant, so imagine this little tank of a woman assembling a rocking chair for her tol noodle husband while ranting about her weird cravings.  

[youllallriseintheink]

Sammy and Jack. “Can we stay like this forever?”

Crisis of Faith, chapter 2

Sammy didn’t dream of Jack again until his next crisis of faith, and Sammy’s faith was very difficult to break. It had begun while Sammy, now a lost one made of fluid ink, was hiding in a wall, watching as a severely ink-infected woman raved.

“Mother, why do you punish me!?” she shouted as, with all the power left in her body, she tried to force open the padlocked doors of the women’s washroom. Her veins, prominent due to age and leanness, were a pitch-black web on her skin, and her wiry muscles had wasted away to bone.

Sammy had, on Joey’s command, overseen dozens of ink infections by now, and knew that there was nothing unusual about Emma Lamont’s case of it. Every single victim he had overseen had held some kind of delusion. Some believed that they were being poisoned by the government or their enemies, or that they were developing a mental illness. A very common one, however, was that they were receiving some sort of punishment, test, or reward from an all-powerful being- either God, or from a seemingly random entity that they’d decided to treat as one.

What if... Sammy’s beliefs were no different from this madwoman, screaming at the ghost of her mother?

Sammy moved on to check on the other infection victims. Even if Bendy wasn’t to be worshipped, the thought of ascension was all that kept him going. He sacrificed people on Joey’s command because the ink had told him to. He wrote his scriptures because he believed they were meaningful. He led the lost ones to Bendy and away from the lies their voices had told them because he truly believed that his voice had been the truth, and it seemed to give them hope, too.

Sammy passed  through the prison of ink creatures as he made his way to Joey’s sanctuary, where he now slept. A Charley was repeatedly banging its head against the bars of its cage. Lost ones wept. Ink stained every surface, making the brightly-lit room feel suffocatingly dark. Sammy was glad to phase through the wall into Joey’s sanctuary, where he could lie down on the couch and rest.

All this had to be leading to something. He couldn’t take it otherwise.

---

Sammy woke to the feeling of someone softly shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to see Jack, tears in his eyes and that disarming smile on his face.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” Jack asked gently.

Sammy, with a bit of difficulty, sat up and realized that he was in a hospital room, complete with an IV in his arm. He felt very weak, but also lighter- like a burden had been taken off of him. “Awful,” he admitted.

“Well, you want some good news? The ink is gone. All of it. You still have a lot of organ damage, but it’s nothing they can’t fix in a couple weeks. In other words, it’s over, Sammy. You’re gonna be okay.”

It took Sammy a half a minute to even process that. Once he did, though, he broke into tears of relief and hugged Jack as tightly as he could.

“Thank you. God, thank you for making me come here. You saved my life.”

Jack hugged him back. “Hey, I didn’t make you do anything. I know this took a lot of courage for you. And... I’m really glad you did it. I was so scared when I found you in your sanctuary. You were so sick... I thought I’d lose you. Sammy, I think I love you. But... we can talk about that later. Right now, you need to rest.”

“I love you, too.” Easiest words Sammy had ever said.

After a little more chatting, Jack left. Sammy wandered over to the bathroom to get a look at himself in the mirror. Admittedly, he didn’t look great. He looked like a person who’d narrowly survived a life-threatening illness, because that’s what he was. His skin was still pale and sunken, and he was still pretty gaunt, but the black veins, the bruise-like purple splotches on his skin, and even the staining in his mouth and his long, blond hair- it was gone. When Sammy woke, he would have given anything to see his human face again.

---Two years later---

As often happened whenever Sammy decided to play his banjo, a small crowd had gathered around him. Today, the crowd consisted of three lost ones, Jack (of course), a moderately ink-infected woman, and one of their last healthy men. The song Sammy was playing was "I’ll fly away.” He wasn’t singing it today, but he had sang it for his followers in the past, simply replacing the word, “God’s” with “his,” since “Bendy’s,” unfortunately, was two syllables.

“You know, it’s amazing how you can remember music like that,” said David, the only non-infected person in attendance. “I'm already forgetting the words to my favourite songs since it’s been so long since we’ve been able to just turn on a radio. How do you do it?”

Sammy would have smiled if he still had a mouth. “Well, a part of it is just natural ability,” Sammy admitted. “But. I have a secret to tell you. A part of it is faith. Faith can do great things. Collective faith in Bendy is the reason that we are the largest organization in this dimension. This village was built on faith. Faith keeps us united! Faith keeps us safe! And... faith allows me to to see into the old world every night when I close my eyes. I hope that all of you one day achieve that absolute belief that something in this world is good.”

“Heh. I’m trying. But all I have are nightmares of Bendy,” a lost one complained.

“Well, keep trying. Believe in his benevolence.” With that, Sammy got up and left for bed, patting Jack on the head on the way out. If only they knew that he used to be plagued by those same nightmares.

---

Sammy’s dream came in to form. He was on a bus, sitting next to Jack. Outside their window, snow was falling gently over a pretty,  snow-covered forest. For a while Sammy just sat in peace, holding Jack’s hand and enjoying the scenery.

“Excited to see your parents again? I know I can’t wait to meet them.”

Sammy nodded. “I can’t wait.” Sammy had always wanted to introduce Jack to his parents. He remembered that there was a strong reason why he hadn’t done it while he was alive, but he couldn’t remember what it was. “My Dad is going to love you. You’re a lot like him, you know. Do you remember why we didn’t do this sooner?”

“Because I’m a man,” Jack answered, totally calm.

“Oh!” Sammy had forgotten a lot about the outside world since his transformation, but nothing so big as the existence of homophobia. It was kind of alarming that the ink was affecting his brain that much. “God. I’m so... forgetful. I’ll just have to introduce you as my musical partner or something. It’s unconventional, but they've seen me do weirder.”

“You  know, Sammy, it’s like you got new lease on life after the ink incident. I love that. But yeah, you’re forgetting things left and right!” Jack teasingly jabbed him with his elbow.

“Yeah... Hey, can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” Jack said. Sammy worried what Jack would think, but looking into those calm brown eyes, he trusted him to not to react badly. And it would be nice to have one person he didn’t have to lie to.

“This is a dream. In the real world, I never got help for my ink infection, and now me and dozens of other people are trapped a dimension full of monsters. I’m holding a large band of people together by convincing them to collectively worship one of them. And you,” Sammy took a deep breath, “you’re there, too. But you haven’t had a coherent thought in years. I keep hoping that one day, we’ll make it out, and I’ll be able to confess to you and we’ll actually build a life like this. So... I’m forgetful because that ink is affecting my mind, and I’m happy because this world is my escape. And because you’re here, of course.” Sammy couldn’t meet Jack’s eyes. He’d probably just made himself sound like a lunatic.

Jack turned Sammy’s head to look at him. “Hey. I believe you. And... that sounds really rough. I wish I could help you.”

Sammy smiled. “Thanks. But you've been helping me all along.” Sammy laid his head on Jack’s shoulder. Maybe once the bus stopped, they’d get some hot chocolate and look at some shops before seeing his parents. It would be nice.

---

Sammy was violently shaken awake by a trio of searchers. More were behind them- as though half the village had crammed itself into his bedroom.

“Bendy is here!” one of them yelled. “What do we do?”

That was a good question. Sammy reached for his axe, but then he stopped. This was, according to the gospel he’d been feeding them, their saviour. “Go out to greet him,” Sammy instructed, trying not to sound as hesitant as he felt. “Bring him offerings of bacon soup. Bring everyone, even the Boris clones- they used to be human, too.”

The crowd of lost ones dispersed. Sammy watched with bated breath from the balcony of his lost-one village home as a massive crowd- lost ones, searchers, people both infected and healthy, and their three Boris clones- gathered along the ink river. Dozens of cans of bacon soup were placed along the river bank as an offering. Bendy stood on the other side of the river. Their drawbridge lowered, but Bendy decided instead to walk on the ink’s surface like the God they treated him as. The crowd gasped and made way. Bendy took an ink-infected man in one arm, stroked his cheek, and bit his face off.

Screams filled the air. People ran in all directions. Sammy was frozen for several seconds before he took action.

“Everyone! Run for cover! We have displeased him! I repeat, run for cover!” Sammy's booming, demonic voice covered the great distance it needed to. Upon seeing the people run and Bendy chase after them, Sammy himself slammed shut his doors and windows and listened in horror to the screams.

When it was over, all he could think to tell his people was that they needed to reconsider how they were paying tribute to the ink demon. If they changed their methods just a little, then the demon would be helpful instead of violent, and they would be freed.

To Sammy’s mixed relief, they actually believed it.

---

eleven years went by. Within the first three, every single flesh-and-blood person in the sketch dimension was infected, killed, or both, and became a lost one.

Their minds were rotting. Increasing numbers of lost ones struggled to remember anything about themselves or the outside world. Wandering aimlessly or resting in ink puddles, they were helpless as zombies.

But not Sammy. Sammy remained- comparatively, at least- as sharp as a whip, and told the lost ones tales so vivid about the outside world that they could almost taste its brilliance and freedom. Sammy only wished that Jack- the real Jack- could understand any of it.

There was nothing to do about that but what Sammy had been doing all along: keep the community together. Keep the lost ones moralized and sane. Figuratively and literally dream of a  better world. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sammy didn’t want to forget a thing about the real world, but little pieces had fallen away, bit by bit. In his dreams, there were now places he couldn’t visit because he didn’t remember what they were like. His reflection in the mirror had become a human-shaped blur as he forgot his appearance. The same thing had happened to the faces of people he used to remember clear as day. One day, he would forget it all, too- just as everyone else had.

It was hard to keep hope.

One of Sammy’s dreams found him walking down a beach with Jack at his side. Sammy knew that the two of them had relocated at some point, but he didn’t know to where. His American geography was rather fuzzy at this point.

“Can I vent to you about the other world?” Sammy asked.

“Sure,” Jack said. Jack was one thing that Sammy’s memory hadn’t gone fuzzy on. Sammy still remembered every soft curve of his face, every freckle, every detail. His dark brown hair was starting to grey, but not because Sammy remembered him that way- it had been many years, and growing old together was part of the fantasy.

“Bendy came to the village again today. He killed a few lost ones and then left. People are losing faith in me and I don’t know how to get it back. And to make matters worse, a false prophet is going around saying we should worship the angel instead! She’d enslave us if we did that!" Sammy chucked a baseball-sized rock into the water, then composed himself a bit. “And you know, we’re all going to be mindless drones eventually. I’m thinking... maybe I won’t fight the false prophet. I could leave the village, hide in a vent, and spend as little time awake as possible. Ink creatures can sleep for days, you know. What do say? Can we stay like this forever? Enjoy this world until I lose my mind like all the rest?” Sammy took Jack’s hands and looked desperately into his eyes.

Jack hesitated, but by the look on his face, Sammy already knew what his answer would be. “I’m sorry. You know I have to say no. The lost ones need you.”

“But why am I the one who has to stay strong for them? I’m sick of it.”

“Because you’re the one who can. I know it isn’t fair, but you’re the reason they’ve been protecting each other. And it sounds like if you leave them now, they’ll throw themselves at Alice. Do it for them. And if you can’t bring yourself to care about them... do it for me. The real me. You still love him, right?”

“Of course...” Sammy probably would have done this sooner if he didn’t care about the well-being of his searcher friend.

Jack put a hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “I don’t know how, but you’ll get out some day. And in the meantime, I’m here.”

Sammy tried to think of some objection, but he couldn’t. He muttered a “thanks” and kept walking along the beach. Jack followed. It was, if nothing else, a beautiful night, and he might as well enjoy it.

“Jack... tell me what I look like. I don’t care that it’ll just be something you made up. Tell me anyhow.”

[thecomposerofstories]

Information on Amy.

(Be warned it's a ~little bit~ long, any other pieces of information you want to know I'll gladly answer if you ask.)

~General Information~

Fandom: Toy Story.

Name: Amy the Ragdoll.

Nickname, if any: Amy, Ames, and Doll-Face(usually by more villainous characters or used in a joking manner).

Gender: Female.

Sexuality: ??? (I mean I know the gender of who she has a crush on, but I'm unsure on what her actual sexuality should be tbh)

Age: Mentally, mid-twenties in the first story second movie, thirties to forties in the third and fourth. Physically, she doesn’t have an age, but in regards to when she was made (the 1950’s) makes her fifty to sixty.

City they currently live in: San Francisco, apparently that’s where Toy Story takes place.

Any pets: Would Rex count? He just follows her around like a nervous puppy.

Current occupation: I mean she’s practically a therapist, but she’s a toy and she only treats Rex so it probably doesn’t count lol

~Physical Appearance~

Height: 10 inches.

Body type: Stocky, but a bit gangly too, similar to Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Eye colour: Black.

Skin tone: Light.

Clothing style: Pale green/turquoise shirt with short puffed sleeves, with a denim dungaree dress with a daisy print in the centre over it. She wears yellow rain boots.

Hairstyle: No style, it’s just there. It’s messy and gets in her face easily and is made out of dark brown thin string.

~Speech/Language/Communication~

Amy speaks quietly and politely, rambles a bit if left without a reply or under pressure, very nervous in front of intimidating characters.

First language: English.

Learned languages: A bit of Spanish (Ya’ll remember Toy Story 3!)

Accent: American.

Pitch of voice: High, but soft, not quite annoying, unless she’s stressed, then it gets very pitchy and shrill.

~Behaviour/Habits~

Amy tends to just stand there when she can’t find anything to do, and will immediately try to find Rex, Hamm, Buzz or Jessie if surrounded by strangers (Though she’s not sure if it’s for their comfort or her own) Amy is very polite.

Spending habits: She doesn’t like to be made a fuss of at all, the very fact of someone giving something to her is unnerving (even if the thing never costed anything at all) and she feels compelled to give the giver something in return.

Morning routine: She gets up same time as the others, but wishes she could stay in bed a bit longer though. Before she came to Andy’s room, her sleep pattern was all over the place.

Bedtime routine: Similar to above, now she goes to bed the same time as the others, but before she just slept and got up willy-nilly.

Nervous habits: Amy will try to find Rex if she’s nervous, and she’ll pretend it’s because she’s worried for him, which is quite true, but she also just feels most safe with him. Speaking of, Amy will let Rex hold her hand and squish it whenever he or Amy is nervous, it’s calming to the both of them.

Bad habits: Not a very good exerciser, but then again, she’s spend basically half her life in a small attic, so I’ll give her a break.

Skills/talents: She’ very logical, mind-over-matter, (mostly, very good at calming others down and/or convincing them. She’s very good at spelling and knows quite a lot of words, some of which others haven’t even heard of.

Hobbies: Reading, talking (especially with Rex, Jessie or Hamm), and generally just lazing about or walking around somewhere, on her own or with a friend.

~The Past~

Amy’s first owner was a little girl called Alice. Alice loved nothing more than to read Amy stories (Mostly fairy tales), but of course, Alice grew up like all kids do, and she left Amy in the attic for someone else to have her.

Amy waited for many years, and all that time she’d never given up that someone would find her.

She thought she’s hit the jackpot when Andy and his family move into Alice’s old house, but they don’t go up into the attic to collect her. Some weeks later, though, Andy’s mother brings a set of boxes filled with junk into the attic and leaves. Woody, Buzz, Slinky, and Rex were trapped in one of the boxes (Call me a cheater but this part was actually inspired by a Toy Story comic, where those four toys get stuck in the attic that way and have to escape. It struck me odd that they never met at least one new friend there, so I made one. It was also my first story, I needed some inspiration!)

Amy, in a fit of panic, goes and hides.

But then she’s found by Rex as he and the others try to find a way out.

They then decide to let the strange, dust-covered ragdoll come back to Andy’s rom with them. (well, Rex did, anyway.)

Home town: Would Alice’s old room count? But it’s now Andy’s Room, so it won’t count will it?

Happy or sad childhood: Pretty normal to be honest, as normal a life as a toy could have anyway. And as for sadness, having spent all that time on her own for all those years, having missed out on so much, is a little sad. But Amy made sure she never became bitter over it or used it as an excuse for anything.

Earliest memory: Waking up in her toy store, with a friend of hers for company (a ragdoll Prospector, a much as she remembers) and as she gets bought by Alice’s Auntie, she says she hopes he gets picked up by a kid. (Unbeknownst to her, she would meet him again in a while to find out he never got to experience it)

Saddest memory: One, being left by Alice, yet being so happy for her and how much she’s grown up, if she could cry tears of joy for her owner, she would. Two, some (or most) of the days she spent waiting for a new owner to arrive. And three, watching Rex have a mental breakdown of anxiety.

Happiest memory: One, the time she and Alice went to the park, (Amy absolutely adores nature) Two after sliding down a drainpipe to get to Andy’s room, and three, having known she’d helped her friend out.

Significant events: Being bought, being left in an attic, being rescued from the attic, while gaining some new friends.

~Family~

The entirety of Andy’s room, whether they like it or not, they’re all in this together and are some kind of mish-mash, found family in a sense.

Siblings: I’ve been thinking of giving Amy a brother (since I based her on Raggedy Ann, a matching bootleg Raggedy Andy seems reasonable) bur I’m unsure about it, since I’ve already mapped out Amy’s entire series of stories (Around six or seven all together, so far I’m currently writing only the third) and I can only fit him in the fifth or sixth if I can.

~Relationships~

Romantically? I’d like to say she has a crush on Rex, I don’t know why I thought of it, I was contemplating it one day as I sketched a rough (and terrible) sketch of her, and I drew Rex too because he’s just so fun to draw and I wanted to make a scale for Amy’s size, and one of my friends (who had been watching me) immediately said “I ship it!” and well, the rest is history, I made the decision to ship it too.

Friends: Jessie, Hamm, Buzz, and Rex are her closet friends, but she’d like to say that all the Gang are her friends. Later on she becomes good friends with Mr. Prickle Pants, Buttercup, Trixie and Totoro, and she absolutely loves the peas and Forky.

Best friend(s): Hamm, Mr. Prickle Pants, Jessie, and Rex.

What do people like about them? Amy’s pretty easy to talk to, she’s polite and attentive and will sit in companionable silence with someone if they need it. But she won’t hesitate to give hard truths and advice if it’s needed.

What do people dislike about them? Amy is quite a doormat, if someone is rude to her or breaches anything she just lets it happen, and sometimes she’s too indecisive about her own stuff, unsure whether she’s going to offend others or not over the smallest things, which annoys others quite a bit.

~Mentality/Personal Beliefs~

Amy is a toy of logic, and though she believes others can do it if they set their minds to it, she doesn’t quite believe in herself. She believes she must follow the rules of being a toy at all times, no matter what.

Phobias: Dust. She hates it. It took a good five weeks to brush all the dust out her hair and clothes, and even so there’s still some in her pockets and places she can’t reach. And being alone, too. Now she can’t be alone for more than an hour before she starts to get antsy and nervous. And for a short time books gave her a strange tiredness, after reading them for so long and for so many years she couldn’t even stand the sight of them.

But of course, not for long, since Amy found out Andy had a copy of Red’s Dream by a Mr. William Reeves.

Optimist or pessimist: Depends on the situation really, if her mind can’t come up with a solution, then there’s no point in trying anymore. Unless someone else can think of something, that is.

Personal philosophies: “You are here to make good things happen. No person here is made for one reason only, or even only one. There’s no point in pretending to be someone you’re not just for the attention of others, no matter how cool they are. We should find are own meaning, as we’re the only ones who have control of it.

It’ll take a while, but I swear, it’ll be worth it.”

Biggest dream/wish: Amy wants nothing more than to find meaning for herself, but finds it rather hard to do so. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’ll settle for someone else’s meaning. As cheesy as it sounds, she just wants an adventure. She doesn’t necessarily want to be the hero, though, she’s just happy to go along with the ride so long as it gets her out the house for a few hours. She also, above all else, wants Rex to find meaning too, even if she never does, it would be nice to know that he had.

Greatest strength(s): Persuasion, story-telling, logic, and good grammar.

Biggest flaw: Despite being a ragdoll, Amy can’t sew because of her fingerless hands, which are just soft mittens in shape. Amy is also quite a doormat, as I said before, so if her calm persuasion and reasoning doesn’t work, she’s left to be walked all over.

Regrets: Staying in that dratted attic too long, the window was open, she could’ve just climbed out, but no, she had to stay there for some mind-rotting decades. But if she had just escaped, she would never have met her new friends. Amy just wishes she had met them a lot sooner.

Achievements: Escaped the attic, slid down a drainpipe, leapt onto the windowsill (though nearly knocking Woody and Buzz over in the process) stopped her friend from having a panic attack, and managed to remember the entire Dictionary and is able to recite it down from A to Z, and even Z to A.

Secrets: Not much, just strange feelings for one of her friends, but it’s not much of a secret, Bo knows, and Mr. Potato Head and Hamm could see it from a mile away, and the others have their suspicions.

Goals: Read the entirety of Andy’s (and later Bonnie’s) bookshelves, become more confident in herself, have her own book-worthy adventure, and figure out what those strange feelings for her friend is.

~Likes/Favourites~

Favourite colour: Even before meeting Rex, Amy’s favourite colour was always green. Every time Alice had taken her to the park, Amy adored watching the sunlight pour through the leaves with a golden-green glow.

Favourite book(s): Because it’s sentimental to her, being her owner’s favourites, she loves Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Peter Pan, and The Wizard of Oz. They all hold similar plots (a little girl in a blue dress goes to a fantasy land, has a few adventures, and then leaves said fantasy land to go home to her family and responsibilities) but it reminds Amy of her old owner Alice (who was actually named after Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) and their playtimes together.

Favourite Book Quotation(s):

“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.”

“There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. The true courage is facing danger when you are afraid.”

Favourite movie: Amy does much prefer books, since they allow her to imagine the setting and characters in her own way, but doesn’t mind movies, and isn’t picky on what they watch, though she does quite like horror films.

Favourite song: Amy likes any kind of music, new or old.

Favourite game: Amy never really cared for games, the competitiveness always bothered her and stressed her out. But she’s more than happy to watch Rex play his video games and cheer him on.

~Relationships with other characters~

~Rex~

- Hit it off pretty quickly.

- Amy helps him with his anxiety, and helps him find confidence in himself, she acts as a certain therapist to him.

- Both become very stressed without the other around.

- Rex will hold and knead at Amy’s hands sometimes; it calms him down.

- Rex will let Amy ride on his back if she’s tired or needs to see something (Because she’s so short).

- One of them can basically be talking about the most boring-est things ever, yet still the other will hang on to their every word.

~Jessie~

- Became friends pretty quickly.

- Will drag Amy along anywhere.

- Get along fairly well.

- Jessie does the talking and Amy does the planning.

- Jessie always pranks the other toys and makes Amy tag along (along with Hamm).

- Introvert/Extrovert dynamic for sure.

- Both were left in alone for years so like to find solace in each other.

~Hamm~

- Hamm begrudgingly warmed up to the timorous ragdoll.

- Surprisingly good pals.

- Have full conversations without saying anything.

- Like to sit and look out of the window together.

- Hamm makes Amy laugh when she really shouldn’t (mainly when he makes fun of the other toys, mainly Woody).

- Hamm makes fun of Amy having a crush on Rex every once in a while, though he doesn’t mean any harm.

~The Potato Heads~

- Mr. doesn’t really interact with Amy much, but finds her surprisingly tolerable, if a bit high-strung and annoying.

- Like Hamm, Mr. makes Amy laugh at the most wrong moments.

- She and Mrs. Are quite good friends, and she sometimes lets Amy take care of the aliens if she and her husband are busy.

~Woody~

- Are aquianteces.

- Don’t exactly interact much, even though the whole room practically revolves around him, in Amy’s opinion, though she would never say it to his face.

~Buzz~

- Amy thinks he’s super cool (then again, he is Buzz Lightyear, he practically invented coolness)

- Both are just as clueless as one another when it comes to social cues and interactions.

- Amy helps him with vocabulary and spelling every once in a while.

~Mr. Prickle Pants~

- Are absolute BFF’s.

- Go back and forth with book quotes to the point of driving the other toys insane.

~Bo Peep~

- Amy's not exactly sure if Bo has befriended her or not.

- (She has)

- They later become good friends.

- Amy misses their talks, Bo was one of the only toys she could talk to that could keep a secret.

[100hearteyes]

Clexa Week 2020 - Day 7 - Free Day

(thank you @butmakeitgayblog for beta'ing and cheering me on 🙌 and @dreamsaremywords for helping me avoid the pitchforks and torches)

Read it on AO3.

–

Eventide

“Your Majesty?”

A queen did not start.

A queen did not get distracted while being courted by a handsome foreign duke, either, but Clarke had never been quite like her peers, for better and for worse.

She dragged her gaze from the horizon line and met the kind eyes of Duke Finneas; a boy who meant well but could never be her equal match.

Perhaps he too meant well. Though Clarke’s heart yearned for the kind of devotion he would give, her brain craved a wicked mind like hers. Someone just as brilliant and terrible as her.

Someone else.

“You are distracted today.”

He said it kindly, amusement clear in his voice, and Clarke hated him for it. Still she bowed her head, as she should, and blushed like the besotted girl she was supposed to be.

“My apologies, Finn.” He preened at hearing the sound of his nickname, as he had asked her to call him by it countless times before. “I sent the best of my Queensguard to the border and they are expected to return today. I can barely wait to hear whatever news they bring me. And I am… naturally worried about their safety.”

He smiled softly at her. “Few would be so concerned about the lives of those who are sworn to protect them. You have a noble heart, my queen.”

The irony almost made her smile.

--

The Captain of the Queensguard knelt before her, head bowed and a fist closed upon the left breastplate of ornate, light grey armor.

“As I am sure you remember, Your Majesty, your cousin, Earl Aden, lost both his parents to the harsh bite of winter this year. He has requested to spend the next winter with you, so as to avoid further tragedy.”

Clarke nodded, thinking fondly of the boy with unruly blonde curls and a gentle smile. “I shall make arrangements in that regard. Is there anything else?”

“Your Majesty, the rest of the information I bring you,” distrustful eyes landed on Prince Finneas, “is meant for your ears only.”

Clarke did her best not to roll her eyes. The Captain of her Queensguard was extraordinarily competent, dedicated, and brave, but had a drastic tendency to be dramatic. There was no need for such showmanship, yet the Captain seemed intent on fanning out feathers and strutting back and forth like a peacock.

“If you say so, Captain,” she conceded at last. “Would you care to accompany me to the balcony?”

The Captain stood up and the two of them strolled past the thick curtains that separated the throne room from a balcony that oversaw acres upon acres of beautiful, green fields and thick forests.

Clarke walked up to the railing, resting both her hands on it. At times like this, it was soothing to feel the rough stone under her palms, scraping at the fair skin.

It grounded her.

She steeled herself as she felt the Captain sidle in next to her.

“Did you have a safe trip home?”

Clarke felt more than she saw the Captain nod next to her. She hadn’t expected any different. When she glanced at the elegant figure next to her, she found the Captain’s gaze trained on the horizon.

“What sensitive information is this that you requested a private audience?”

Green eyes finally met her own, dancing with mischief and something else tender and forbidden. “Everything was in order while we were there.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “So you wasted your queen’s precious time to tell her everything is exactly as it should be?”

The sky was painted in broad, reckless strokes of pink and purple, and the sun had started to hide behind the skyline. The moon would soon take its place on the throne with the stars as her witness.

“I would not go so far as to say it was a waste of time.” The Captain’s tone was teasing, but laced with fondness. “I gave you the chance to see the sunset, I know how much you like it.”

Clarke liked the night best. It was at night that stolen moments were a solution rather than a problem and sneaking, when the palace was cold and silent, didn’t feel so scandalous anymore. Sunsets were the promise of night. A promise that just for a few hours, she could take the crown off her head, leave the corset on the bed, and be just Clarke. The girl in love with another girl.

“Your absence was felt.”

Lexa’s lips twisted minutely. When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “Be careful, my Queen. The walls have ears.”

The Captain’s cautious words were betrayed by the tips of long fingers brushing against Clarke’s on the balcony rail.

Their hands were concealed by coats and dresses, but Lexa’s touch was featherlight nonetheless. It still gave Clarke pause; her entire body’s focus was on the points where their skin came into contact and her heart was a fist banging at the doors of her chest. It wanted out, as it always had; it yearned to flee its golden cage and tell the secrets the walls around them would have killed to hear.

“The stars have eyes, too.”

“Luckily, they haven’t mouths to tell a secret.”

Lexa’s words may have been meant to be soothing, but they awakened Clarke’s mind. They reminded her of the boy in the throne room, of long walks along the palace gardens and the crown atop her head.

“Duke Finneas of Traisson will be staying at the palace for a few weeks. He has stated his intention to court me.”

It was only because she was so attuned to Lexa’s touch that Clarke felt the sudden absence of delicate fingers against her own, so light had the pressure been to begin with. Nevertheless, it felt like a stab to her chest. The world around her dimmed, colors became duller. Clarke felt trapped in a world in tones of grey.

“He took me to the orchards. It seems to be a popular spot for courtship.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We found this… carving on a tree. Very queer.” A smile played at the edge of her lips, teasing at more carefree times. She found it mirrored in the Captain’s clever eyes. “Couples ought to be more discreet, don’t you think?”

“They ought to.”

--

“Can a queen ever marry for love?”

The bench they sat on, made of stone only, wasn’t the most comfortable to perch on. However, the way the moonlight slanted and made the orchards look like a pathway to heaven more than compensated for a stiff behind. When she turned and saw how Lexa’s features looked in the same light — cheekbones sharper, lips fuller and eyes prettier than she had ever seen them —, Clarke realized she could spend days sitting on that bench, never moving.

Lexa looked like those otherworldly spirits mythology books told tales about, so impossibly, painfully beautiful one may turn to stone just from looking into her eyes. Clarke would’ve taken that risk. She would’ve dared never moving again for just one chance to bask in the glow of Lexa’s eyes. For all of the Captain’s aloofness and penchant for speaking as few words as possible, her eyes spoke loudest than any Clarke had ever seen. Their expressiveness… The way they could never hide what Lexa was feeling… Clarke had tried to replicate them on paper countless times, only to come up short. She’d usually get the shape, the lights, and the shadows right, but— something in those eyes was simply unrepeatable.

Human hands couldn’t recreate it. Lexa had been shaped by the gods, and her eyes were the map to eternity.

And Clarke was always oh so close to unlocking the secret, to reaching the summit, but something always pushed her off a cliff and sent her hurtling back to the ground.

“Love is weakness, Your Majesty.”

Clarke was used to the impact. It didn’t hurt any less. Still, she stood, then and again, and braced herself for the climb. One day she would make it to the top.

“And civilizations are fickle. History is ephemeral. We live and die and whatever mark we leave on this world can easily be erased by war and pillage. Love is forever.”

“It lasts only as long as those who feel it.”

“No,” she countered, stubborn as ever. “It lasts longer. Love is immaterial, it lingers in the air around us, beneath our breaths and through this life and the next. Castles and parchment stay here until someone burns them. Love travels with us to the afterlife.”

Lexa stood up without a word and waited for Clarke to do the same, before taking off on a brisk pace towards the castle.

Catching up to Lexa was neither easy nor dignified, but Clarke eventually fell into step with the Captain, who took pity on her and slowed her pace to a languid stroll. Now going at an appropriate pace for a queen, Clarke took her chance to admire the trees around her, with ripe fruit hanging from thin branches and pulling them towards the ground.

No matter the heights one reached, gravity always did its bidding and pulled one back to earth. Clarke felt its effect now. She had reached for the stars once and been pulled so violently back she’d lost her footing. Then again, and again, and again. Every time, Lexa was there to catch her fall. And Clarke would swear the earth had turned upside down, it had to have, for Lexa was the very stars she had been trying to grasp.

How lucky she was, to touch the stars without having to lift her feet off the ground.

It had only been much later in life, when she’d been told to find a husband or doom her kingdom to ruin, that Clarke had realized just how cruel it all really was — the stars would always be within her reach but she would never be able to catch them.

Why love a star if you cannot have her heart?

As they neared the edge, Lexa halted, eyes locked on a tree in one of the final rows. Clarke followed her gaze and felt her lips sketch an outline of a smile.

Feeling reckless, Clarke followed a short, but uneven trail towards the tree and laid a hand on the rough bark. Her palm grazed the bumps and ridges of an age old carving and she read the words without seeing them.

L + C

Feelings cut into wood a lifetime ago, indelible as they were immutable, able to endure generations for the robustness of their canvas. Only human hands could erase them; only human words could disprove them.

Clarke felt Lexa’s presence behind her and turned around, her hand never leaving its home. They shared a secret smile, although Lexa’s was somber as her eyes swept over the entire orchard. One of many trees. As if it ever fell, it could be replaced with another. The earth it drank from and gave its strength to, however, could not.

Clarke knew the knife was coming before it embedded itself in her heart.

“If we are to be judged at the gates to heaven,” Lexa started, voice not quite trembling, though thin and weighed down by regret, “let it be because I failed my heart rather than the people I am sworn to protect, above all you.”

Clarke knew that song from heart. Lexa would’ve died before being selfish and taking something, or someone, for herself. And Clarke would’ve given her the world, yet she couldn’t afford to relinquish the political hold on her own heart.

Clarke and Lexa held the axe in their hands and little by little they were chipping away at the trunk. Human hands and human words.

Lexa turned around, ready to return to the palace. She stopped only at the sound of Clarke’s voice, scraping like sharp claws against the walls of her throat. “One day they will weigh my heart and find it heavy with sin and regret. None greater than for allowing the world to convince me to let go of you.”

--

“Duke Finneas proposed today.”

Clarke could see Lexa stiffen despite the dim light. The Captain turned on her heels and approached the window, laying a quivering hand on the parapet, back turned to her sovereign.

It was unusual for the Queen to visit her Captain’s quarters. The rumor mill surely would’ve started running the moment Clarke stepped inside Lexa’s chambers if not for the circumstances they found themselves in.

Lexa’s room was as Spartan as could be in a royal palace. Moonlight shrouded it in mystery, much as it did its owner’s expression, whose features were unreadable from ten feet away.

Words weren’t a clue, either, when spoken blankly. “Have you given him an answer?”

Clarke desperately wanted to let the ensuing silence speak for her, but she knew she owed Lexa a proper answer. She, who helped take down their tree, should swing the axe.

“I said yes.”

For a moment, Clarke thought she saw Lexa’s knees buckle and she might collapse. However, the Captain stood tall and brave, and Clarke admired her so for her stalwart asceticism.

“I see.” Lexa’s voice was brittle, no more than a murmur, and it was only the grim silence that carried it to Clarke and cut her with it.

Clarke bled, and with the pain came resolve. She took a step forward, then another, and a third. A deep breath later, she’d gathered the courage to take the leap.

“It’s my last night of freedom. We could finally—”

“No,” Lexa interrupted, turning to face her.

The Captain’s tone left no room for discussion, but Clarke had never been one to be content with the space she was assigned. She felt the need to push the walls, expand the perimeter and win back the room she had been denied.

So she stepped closer even, broaching Lexa’s personal space. “I cannot fathom a world where I don’t know the taste of your lips.”

Lexa’s eyes shone with agony, as though Clarke had struck a dagger to her gut and was twisting, and twisting, and twisting. They were mere inches asunder, so close Clarke could feel Lexa’s shallow breath on her cheek. She couldn’t remember a time there had been less than the width of her crown between them.

“You can’t say things like that, Clarke. Not when—”

Lexa reached for Clarke’s face, but froze before allowing herself to touch. Her hand hovered, fingers yearning and twitching minutely above a pale cheek. “I shan’t let you disgrace yourself for me.”

Clarke closed her eyes, sighing, mustering the courage to lean away from Lexa’s absent touch and speak the words that lingered in the back of her mind since she’d said yes.

“Then I am letting you go.”

Lexa lowered her hand as though she’d been burned, but made no other motion to draw back. She remained steadfast as Clarke watched the questions flit across her eyes, all of them going unasked.

All but one.

“Why?”

Clarke swallowed, though it did nothing to untie the knot in her throat. “I am setting you free,” she husked, resisting the ever-present urge to take Lexa’s hands in hers. “I can find another captain, someone you would recommend. Just… Please go, Lexa. Find someone else. Love someone else. Be happy.”

This time, Lexa recoiled, face twisting with resentment. She would have looked less affronted had Clarke slapped her.

For once, Clarke wished the stars would bear witness to one of their trysts and grow mouths to yell at Lexa to go and never look back — to love someone else, anyone else. Someone who would not chain her to a love story without closure.

No great epopee ever ended with a broken heart.

“I will not leave, Clarke. I shall stay and see you married and love you like the day I carved my soul into a tree.” Lexa took a step towards her, closing the rift she’d created moments ago. Clarke counted the lashes resting on the elegant bow of her cheeks, long and dark and thick like the night that hid them from prying eyes and outstretched ears. Lexa’s lips were parted and Clarke would have given her kingdom to be able to brush a finger over the bottom one; to feel the supple flesh give under her thumb. Longing green eyes danced between Clarke’s own and dropped to her lips for just a moment, before once again plunging into pools of midday sky blue. “Who I love is not my choice to make. My heart has never been my own, Clarke. I believe you’ve held it in your hands since long before we were even born into this life.”

No great tragedy ever ended with a smile.

--

Clarke was dressed in white and gold when the letter arrived.

Amongst a thousand apologies, Finneas relayed about how he had fallen in love with one of her ladies in waiting and decided to run away with her before the wedding. Clarke would have felt humiliated, if she’d cared for anything except the way her heart sang for joy.

She was free.

Clarke all but ran up stairs and down corridors, towards the hall where she knew her most faithful soldier stood waiting and suffering, withering under the weight of their most dreaded day.

There Clarke found her Captain, and something about her (perhaps the light shining in from the window and setting her hair on fire or the way her eyes widened with concern when Clarke barged through the heavy double doors; maybe it was simply that freedom made everything look twice as beautiful) almost propelled Clarke to start crying a river at the mere sight of her.

So focused was she on the object of her adoration, Clarke didn’t register everyone else filing out of the room at the flick of the Captain’s wrist. It was but a coincidence that the moment the door closed behind the last intruder, Clarke fell to her knees at Lexa’s feet, taking flummoxed hands between her own. Her fingers trembled, but she had never felt so steady.

“He’s gone. He ran away with one of my maids.”

The stricken look on Lexa’s face — the tragic, mechanized selflessness — made Clarke love her just that little bit more. “Your Highness, I am so sor—”

“Don’t you finish that sentence, Captain, for I am not.”

Clarke brought Lexa’s hands to her lips and kissed the knuckles one by one, tasting the salt of her own tears. When she looked back up, she found them mirrored in Lexa’s eyes. “What will you do now?”

The question yanked a laugh from Clarke, wet with tears and husky with bliss. She brushed a kiss to long fingers and held Lexa’s burning gaze, unfaltering.

“I swear myself to you, my love,” she whispered reverently. “My heart is your heart, my soul is your soul. My life is now yours. I needn’t a ring to speak my vows.”

“Clarke, you can't—”

“I can,” she stated, pushing to her feet, “and I will. Let the people know I’m no less of a queen without a man at my side.”

If anything, she would have been less of a queen for not being brave enough to follow her heart, Clarke decided. How could she be expected to make hard decisions for her people if she couldn’t make them for herself?

“What about the throne, Clarke? Your kingdom needs an heir, or else it will be at the mercy of its enemies,” Lexa insisted, raising mountains across the road of Clarke’s dreams. “I will not accept that.”

Clarke’s will knew no boundaries or chokeholds however, and she’d weave roads around mountains and over precipices to meet her goals. This time, with or without witnesses, and despite the slumber of all stars but one, Clarke would finally make promises she could keep.

“I plan to train Aden to be king and appoint him as my heir. He will carry on the bloodline and keep the crown from falling into the wrong hands.”

She knew Lexa had a soft spot for the young Earl and would gladly help her broaden his shoulders enough to trust upon them the burden of sovereignty. Meanwhile, Clarke would be so powerful and so ruthless none would dare question the absence of a king consort. Human hands and human words bore the power to devastate, but also to mend what was broken and etch new life into faded vows.

She looked out the window; the sun was setting, hanging new oaths on the sky and yielding up its holy perch for the moon to take. Sunsets held the promise of tonight, when a lifetime’s worth of dreams could finally become true.

Lexa’s voice pulled her focus back to the present. “If this worked… How would I fit into it?”

Clarke had always been bravest at eventide.

With hands that no longer hovered, she grabbed the back of Lexa’s neck and reeled her in for a kiss.

[sxfterhearts]

35. [4:28 pm]

➳ pairing: youngjae x reader

➳ genre/warnings: fluff, royal!au, prince!youngjae, lady!reader

➳ word count: 1,496 words

➳ summary: 35. “After you.”

➳ author's note: hello angels! i’m so so sorry for my recent absence, uni has been really busy. here is a youngjae fluff to make up for it! this is my first time writing this au so i’m excited to share this! it was a lot of fun and i got really inspired by nbtm + the wildflowers i saw on my trip :)) have a nice day and week lovelies <333

//

“After you,” Youngjae said breezily, a royal blue, satin covered arm coming up to brush a stray branch aside, clearing the path ahead for you.

“No,” You shook your head with a faux frown, refusing. “After you, Your Royal Highness.” Insistently, you rooted your leather high boots firmly onto the ground, not moving an inch.

“C'mon, Y/N!” He sighed exasperatedly, dramatically. Youngjae always harboured a burning hatred for formalities. “I know you liked our old spot at the top of the hill, but I swear you’ll love this place even better. I just want to show you a part of this kingdom that you’ve never seen before!” A glint of excitement flashed across your eyes at the mention of exploring another corner of his family’s vast lands. Sensing that you were about to cave to his request, the Prince hastily interlocked your fingers with his, guiding you through the dense forest just beyond the edge of the Royal Gardens. “Besides, as your host, I ought to bring you someplace that didn’t make you sneeze your brains out every other minute. The canola fields have triggered your allergies ever since you were a child.” Youngjae added.

“But I like the canola!”

Youngjae scrunched up his nose in distaste. “Well, I certainly don’t like explaining to your maids why their precious Lady turned into a swollen, slimy tomato by the end of our evening together and–”

“Okay, fine!” You squeezed his hand to signal your defeat. He couldn’t see your resigned, dejected look, the one that you wore every time he won an argument, but if he did, you’d bet on every single horse in your stables that he would clutch his stomach and double over in boisterous laughter. “You’ve said enough. Point taken.”

Satisfied, the Prince continued to lead you further into the forest. His pleasing, melodic whistles (charming renditions of folk songs, you supposed) were in harmony with the tunes of the lively forest. Your ears could easily pick up on the airy whispers of rustling leaves, the sweet sopranos of chirping birds and the trickling stream singing in an allegro tempo. It was shaping up to be quite an orchestra, with the one and only Youngjae taking centre stage as both lead singer and conductor.  

Throughout the far-reaching kingdom ruled by the Choi dynasty, Youngjae was known as the precious youngest son of the reigning monarchs. The boy made quite a name of himself by gracing those around him with his sunshine smile and bright personality. There were even poems and songs written about the Prince’s ability to shine his brilliant light onto his people’s lives. Many claimed that the Prince had a heart of pure gold, as he would often roam beyond the gates of the Palace, interacting with the locals by personally buying his art supplies from the markets, painting murals and paintings for the young and old, and lending a hand whenever a carriage got stuck in mud or when an old grandpa strained himself while moving large crates of vegetables. The people often muttered under their breaths about how it was such a shame that Youngjae had little chance of claiming the throne, for he was the last in line after his elder siblings. But the Youngjae you knew and grew up with had never set his sights on being King. Ever since spending that first summer in the Palace with his eleven-year-old self, you were certain that he was meant for even greater things. Youngjae loathed politics and diplomacies. He hated pretending like someone he wasn’t, just for the sake of strengthening relations and maintaining peace. All Youngjae wanted to do was to live a carefree life and practice his art.  

“We’re nearly there, My Lady,” Youngjae chirped in his best impression of a maid. “Just have to cross this tiny little stream.” The young royal came to a halt before the gushing stream, his free arm circling around your waist securely.

Your mouth went dry in an instant. The body of water a few steps ahead of you seemed like anything but a tiny little stream; it was fervently licking at the banks, swallowing and chomping up any leaf or branch or insect that stood in its way. You were deafened by the relentless roars of rapidly flowing water, causing you to shrink into his side in search of safety. Petrified, you glanced upwards at the Prince, shaking your head slowly to get your point across. You did not like this, not at all.

“I know you’re scared, Y/N, but I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me. I’ll hold onto you so tightly that we’ll be stuck together like two peas in a pod.”

“But I… I don’t…”

“You’ll never get hurt, not on my watch.” Youngjae declared resolutely. He knew; he could tell from your shallower breaths and widening pupils that you were afraid of falling in, just like you did five summers ago. You and your brother loved spending time within the Palace’s walls, but you had taken a special liking towards the koi pond right at the heart of the Royal Gardens. Each summer when you returned to the Palace from your home in the Northern Lands, the trees and the flowers and the design of the Gardens would change beyond recognition. The pond was the only thing that remained untouched, year after year.

You used to love sitting by the edges and feeding the koi fishes or testing out your paper boats with Youngjae and your brother. You could stay there for ages, from sunrise until sundown. That is, until you accidentally tripped into the pond and nearly drowned. After that, you avoided it like the plague.

“If you’re really not comfortable with this, we can turn around, no big deal.” Youngjae reminded you in the gentlest voice he could muster. The stream was barely a meter wide, with a large sturdy rock smack bang in its centre, but he knew; he could feel the hesitation radiating off your skin. He was aware of how the minutes seemed to drag into hours as you gasped for air that afternoon, your feet straining and struggling to reach the bottom. Youngjae knew that the memory still haunted you.

Your clammy hands clawed onto his back, your fingernails leaving deep imprints through his luxurious tunic. Sensing his eagerness to show you this new hideout of his, you tried your best to swallow your fears and gave him a slight nod.

“You sure? We really don’t have to.”

“I swear, Choi Youngjae,” You whispered impatiently. “If you don’t move right now, I’m going to change my mind.”

He chuckled at that, all melodious and warm. His laughter felt like a blast of sunshine on a cool spring day, which did wonders to ease your nerves. He wasted no time in holding you close to his chest, similar to how you would position yourselves when dancing side by side in the Palace’s ballroom. “It’s a lot like dancing, really.” Youngjae said, inching towards the very edge of the stream. “You just have to coordinate your steps with mine. We’ve done this before a million times. Now, right foot, oh yes, your right. Okay, ready? Take a big step and –”

Your feet moved in perfect unison. The two of you arrived on the rock in the blink of an eye. “We made it.” You breathed out in disbelief.

Youngjae simply cradled you snugly in his arms for several moments. You relished in the immeasurable amount of security you felt being with him, while he grinned smugly at the sight of you finally overcoming your fear. “I told you so,” He pressed his lips against your ear and whispered.

The rest of the journey only took another five minutes. Before you knew it, you arrived at a small yet breathtaking clearing in the forest. The ground was decorated with a plethora of wildflowers emerging amongst tall grass, specks of white and gold and pink everlastings flooding your entire vision. In the middle of the clearing sat a large rock and a fallen trunk, the ideal place to sit down, catch your breath and take in the wondrous scenery.

Which was exactly what you and Youngjae did for the rest of the late afternoon. You drank from your flask of elderflower cider while inhaling the fragrant, floral perfumes surrounding you; Youngjae chewed on the end of his sketching pencil while also crafting a rough sketch of you in his notebook, resting on the trunk. You laughed and you talked, all while sharing a loaf of buttered rosemary bread you swiped from the kitchens this morning.

Much to your pleasant surprise, you didn’t let out a single sneeze. Not even when Youngjae passed you his sketch for your inspection and placed a white flower behind your ear. This was exactly why he brought you here, he claimed.

He was right. As it turned out, you loved this place the most.

[pocketseizure]

The Queen’s Tears

As Celes and company explore an ancient castle on the shore of a subterranean lake deep under the desert, they learn that nothing about the War of the Magi was as simple as it seemed. Even after epic battles have long since been forgotten, the legacy of more intimate moments lingers on. Also on AO3 · Special thanks to @azurefishnets for the amazing prompt!

. . . . .

“And to think that this has been here for the past thousand years,” Edgar mused as he leaned on his crossbow.

Sabin took a deep breath of the cool underground air, which was pleasantly humid and carried the faint smell of running water. “Where do you suppose the light’s coming from?”

“The moss, I assume. There’s a bioluminescent strain in the South Figaro tunnel. It’s not native to the mountains, and I always wondered where it came from.”

“Do you think the lake is connected to the aquifer under the castle?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Edgar replied as he snapped the bow’s limbs closed and holstered the device. They had followed an ancient road leading through the caves winding within the bedrock, careful to stay within range of the ceramic paving stones. Who could know how all the passages were connected? Edgar’s concerns were the sand and the sky, and the people who lived in the present. Whatever this giant cavern might contain, it belonged firmly in the past.

Still, one had to wonder.

“I’ve been reading about the War of the Magi,” he said, “and hiring scholars to do the same. Some have come from as far as Doma, where knowledge of the old tongue has been preserved.”

Edgar glanced at Sabin, who nodded in acknowledgment and – Edgar hoped – approval.

“There’s a theory that all of this was once a sea,” he said, making a sweeping gesture at the vista before them – the stone cliffs, the still and luminous waters of the underground lake, and the monstrous castle rising from the far shore. “Figaro may have once stretched across an archipelago.”

“That would be a sight to see,” Sabin replied, crossing his arms. “And we might see it again in our lifetimes. I assume you’ve noticed how close the ocean has gotten in the past year.”

Edgar had noticed, and there wasn’t a night that he didn’t lose sleep as he turned the matter over in his mind. Every month the storms that swept over the inland sea carved another mile or two from the shore.

Edgar grit his teeth, torn between confessing his anxiety and passing it off as a joke, when he felt Sabin’s reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“It will be nice to have some water to go with all that sand,” he said with a grin. “If anyone can figure out how to make our castle float, it’s you. And we’ll have plenty of time to map out everything down here once we’ve taken care of our business with the Tower. I hear you’ve become quite the expert at escaping from court.”

Edgar let out the breath he’d been holding. “I learned from the best.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sabin’s laughter rolled down the stone path as he set off to rejoin the others.

. . . . . .

Relm sneezed into her hand. It was just her luck she hadn’t brought any tissues. There was a loose ball of rags in one of her back pockets, but they were all thoroughly saturated with turpentine. It was her duty as an artist to see the world, but she’d had just about enough of abandoned ruins. The magic of this place was as thick as pollen in springtime, and just as aggravating to her sinuses.

She sneezed again and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. It didn’t help.

“That’s a disgusting habit.” Setzer produced a handkerchief from the cuff of his sleeve like a magician and offered it to her.

“Don’t be a creep,” Relm countered, but she accepted the handkerchief and blew her nose properly.

“You want this back?”

“Keep it. My treat. Have some of this too.”

He placed a small glass bottle filled with clear liquid into the palm of her hand before she could object.

“This isn’t booze, is it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s tonic water mixed with mint and a drop or two of ether. I use it for hangovers, but I assume it will work for allergies.”

Relm removed the cork stopper and sniffed the bottle. Small bubbles rose from the liquid, which was pleasantly fragrant. “It’s a placebo,” Relm decided.

“Of course it’s a placebo,” Setzer agreed. “Not even magic works on hangovers. Drink it anyway.”

“Fine.” Relm tilted her head back and downed the bottle in one gulp. The concoction tasted exactly as Setzer said it would – of mint and ether. There was also a touch of citrus, perhaps to keep it fresh.

She sneezed again. “I’m going to sit down for a bit,” she said after wiping her nose. “You go on ahead.”

“I think I’ll sit with you.”

Relm scowled. “I’m not a child. It’s not like I’m going to get lost if you’re not here to watch me.”

“Who said it’s for your benefit? We’ve been walking for hours, and my back hurts. Didn’t anyone teach you to be considerate of your elders?”

Relm shrugged and took out her sketchbook. Setzer wasn’t bothering her, and she’d always liked when people watched her sketch – it was like she could see her drawing through another pair of eyes.

She had been walking with Terra and Celes as they circumnavigated the lake, but she’d allowed herself to fall behind once the path became steeper as it headed uphill toward the castle. It was a stroke of good fortune that Setzer had caught up with her at a particularly good vantage point. Relm made a rough outline of the castle before filling in the details, all the while keeping her eye out for any potential points of structural unsoundness. She was too young to die, although she had to admit that being trapped in the crumbling ruins of an ancient castle would be a suitably glamorous way to go.

Relm glanced over at Setzer, who was neither sitting nor watching her. He regarded the ruins of the castle with a cold and appraising gaze.

“Do you think it will come down on us?” she asked. If anyone would know about things crashing, it was Setzer.

“I doubt it,” he replied. “The magic is so thick in this place I can smell it. Whatever has been keeping this castle standing won’t be affected by our presence. But who can say? With our luck, there’ll be some sort of dragon waiting to meet us in the foyer.” He paused and finally looked down at her sketch. “Notice anything interesting?”

She had, in fact. At the moment she was adding it to her sketch as one of the finishing touches. “I think there might be secret passage.”

“On the lower level, leading into the rock behind the castle? I was thinking the same thing myself. How much would you like to bet that Terra leads us straight there?”

“I don’t gamble,” Relm replied primly as she stood up and closed her sketchbook. “It’s a disgusting habit.”

. . . . . .

Terra sat on a stone bench in the castle gallery, watching as Relm and Celes studied the ossified body of Odin. Neither of them appeared to have noticed that the magic of the stone was sealing the entrance to a secret passageway. She’d bring it to their attention once they finished their examination.

“So this Esper was supposed to be the queen’s knight?” Relm asked with a frown.

“Who wouldn’t want to have a bodyguard like this?” Celes slapped one of the statue’s meaty thighs. “Just look at this big boy.”

“Do you think they were, you know…?”

“They were,” Terra confirmed. They both turned to look at her.

Celes’s surprised expression softened into a smile. “That must have been so romantic, being in love with someone you saw every day but could never touch.”

“Think of the pining,” Relm agreed with a sage nod.

“Oh, but they did touch each other. They could even have had children,” Terra corrected them. “It would have been possible. I remember that was something my parents worried about, but their concern turned out to be groundless. They had me, after all.”

“Wait, hold up,” Relm objected. “You remember your parents talking about how they were worried about having children? Wouldn’t that have happened, like, before you were born? How could you remember something like that?”

Terra was confused by the question. “Doesn’t everyone have memories from before they were born?”

Relm’s eyes went wide, and Celes laughed. She crossed the room and sat down next to Terra before throwing her arms around her shoulders.

“You beautiful creature,” she said, kissing Terra’s cheek and smoothing back her hair. “Never change.”

“Is that an Esper thing?” Relm asked as she joined them, sitting down on the other side of Terra. “That’s not fair! I want to have an Esper father too. Hey Terra, do you think my dad might have been an Esper?”

Terra looked into the past. It was right there beside them, after all, spreading behind them like a rich and vibrantly colored shadow. She could see who Relm’s father was, and she could see the moment when Relm discovered his identity for herself, but she decided not to say anything. She liked to keep some ‘Esper things’ to herself, after all.

“Perhaps,” Terra offered. She paused for a moment and decided to add something a bit more human. “No matter who he was, I’m sure he loved you very much.”

. . . . . .

The dragon guarding the sealed passage leading away from the castle had been a pathetic thing, old and weak from hunger. Its tired eyes had been milky with age and neglect. Celes felt bad about killing it, but it refused to let them retreat once it had spotted them.

The chamber that housed the statue of the ancient queen was a mirror of the gallery where Odin had made his last stand. Celes held what remained of him in her hand, watching his magicite sparkle as its facets caught the light. When called, his spirit had sprung from the stone, riding a horse that had not been a horse, not with teeth like that. He wielded his sword not with grace or finesse, but with absolute power, as one of the old gods might have wielded a gale wind to cleave a mountain in twain.

Celes didn’t know what sort of wizard it would take to turn bring Odin to his knees at the height of his prowess, but she could make a guess.

She leaned back against the stone wall. The bench she sat on was oddly warm. The moss from the tunnel connecting the lower reaches of the castle to the outlying cave system had made its way inside, and patches of luminescence spread across the dips and planes of the vaulted ceiling. The queen’s statue seemed to emit a soft white radiance into the dim interior.

Celes felt rather than heard Sabin approach. Even on the marble floor, his footsteps made no sound.

“Celes?” he called out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she responded. “Is it time to leave?”

“There’s no hurry. Edgar and Setzer are arguing about something, and Relm and Terra are doing a spot of art appreciation. I just came to check up on you.”

“Thanks.” Celes moved to the side, offering Sabin a place beside her. He took it, sighing with relief as he sat down.

A few moments passed in companionable silence. “That was an impressive performance against the dragon,” Sabin said eventually. “I can’t seem to summon Espers for the life of me. Is there a trick to it?”

“No trick, just years of training.”

“I can imagine.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Or I can’t, not at all. I’ve done my fair share of training, but what you went through must have been on a different level entirely. It paid off, at least.”

“I guess it did,” Celes replied, and Sabin didn’t pursue the matter. She appreciated that about Sabin – he never judged her for anything she’d done, past or present. Not for anything she would do in the future. How rare it was to find someone who only thought the best of you.

Or perhaps it wasn’t rare at all. Perhaps Sabin was normal, and she was the anomaly.

“It was always difficult, after the injections.” The words left her mouth before she realized what she was saying. Sabin nodded to show that he was listening, but he didn’t reply with any questions or comments. Celes decided to keep talking.

“It was dangerous – extremely dangerous – before Cid perfected the process. People died from the injections, and many of those who didn’t had to be euthanized afterwards. I wasn’t supposed to watch, but sometimes I did. I was horrified by how magic transformed the trial subjects, but I was never afraid that what I saw would happen to me. It might have been because I was so young, but the injections never hurt me in the same way they hurt the adults they were tested on – first prisoners, and then soldiers.

“It was the same with Kefka, at least at first. The experiments must have caused him terrible pain, but he never showed it. You might not believe this, but he was always cool and level-headed. I couldn’t tell you why he had such a natural tolerance for the injections, I never paid much attention to the science. Kefka tried to explain it to me himself with some analogy involving blood types, but there were too many words I didn’t understand.

“Kefka was never gentle, not in the way Cid always was, but he was kind, in his own way – or he was kind to me, at least. Then something happened. That was right around the time Vector began its preparations for war, and I think it had something to do with the emperor, but who can say?

“Whatever it was, Kefka began to take injections more frequently, sometimes even daily. Eventually he started to lose control. That’s when I learned to absorb magic. Kefka taught me the technique himself. If he hadn’t, the entire lab would more than likely have been destroyed.”

Celes shook her head. “There was something Kefka wanted, and he would do whatever it took to get it, even if that meant he lost himself along the way. Maybe he meant to destroy the Empire all along, and maybe he trained me to…”

Celes couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought: Maybe he trained me to stop him. She had failed once, but she might still have a chance. It would be a mercy, she told herself.

“Do you ever miss Vector?” Sabin asked, subtly changing the subject.

“No,” Celes replied. She didn’t think she was lying. “When that tower falls, I’m going to go back. Don’t laugh at me, but I want to plant trees. Over the whole mess, so that no one will even know it’s there in another hundred years.”

“I’m not laughing.” Sabin smiled at her. “Once you’re done, feel free to come visit us in the desert. You’re not the only one with ghosts in the basement, after all. We could use some trees here too.”

Celes stood up. It might take another thousand years, but one day all of this would be buried – the terrible things that happened in Vector, whatever terrible things had happened in this castle, all of it.

“What do you think happened to the evil wizard who turned Odin to stone?” she asked as she approached the statue of the ancient queen.

“She doesn’t look so evil to me,” Sabin answered, confirming her suspicions. “The choices we have to make aren’t always so easy, even in hindsight. We do what we can.”

“He must have really loved her,” Celes murmured. Odin’s magicite began to glow and hum as she drew closer. She held it out like an offering and watched in amazement as tears pooled in the statue’s eyes. They fell onto the warm crystal like drops of light.

“We do what we can,” she agreed softly.

[sourcherrybomb]

SoKai Week 2020 - Day 1 - Paopu Surprise!

Synopsis: Sora and Kairi decide to take a breather and share a Paopu Fruit with each other. However, Sora finds himself in for an unwelcome surprise when he finally bites into one... 

Sneak Peek: Sora could only imagine the dumb look on his face. This was not going the way he imagined it. Kairi had seriously beaten him to the punch?

Tags: Romance, Comedy, All Ages, F/M

Prompt for the Day: One Heart / Paopu Fruit

Words: 1.4k

Fanart By: asgardianartist (Fiverr / Instagram)

Native to the Destiny Islands is a particularly peculiar fruit in the shape of a star. Trinkets made in its image are seen as good luck charms and are even known to people who have never stepped foot on the world. But to the residents of the Destiny Islands, the paopu fruit means so much more than just simple ‘good luck’.

If two people share one, their destinies become intertwined. They’ll remain a part of each other’s lives no matter what.

All that time ago, before their adventures and misadventures, these were the words Riku told Sora. At the time, he got flustered when his friend teased him at the idea of sharing one with Kairi. However, it’s not as though Sora had completely dismissed the idea; the day right after in their secret place, in between the space of a rough drawing of he and Kairi, Sora secretly drew a hand giving her the fruit.

It wasn’t until Sora, Donald, and Goofy defeated Ansem the Seeker of Darkness that Kairi would find out. 

Not long after the Destiny Islands were restored, Kairi found herself in the secret place. Reminiscing while looking at the myriad drawings of various quality, she stumbled upon Sora’s addition to the drawing of them. After letting a tear fall out of her eye, Kairi herself adds to the sketch her own arm extended towards Sora, paopu fruit in hand.

It’s been more than a year since those events first transpired. Sora, Kairi, and Riku are now back home on the islands before their ultimate battle. 

Sora and Kairi, bathed in the twilight of the setting sun, sit on a paopu tree while passing the time away. Riku rests himself directly on the beach below them.

Sora, noticing his friend, asks Kairi, “Hey, why’s Riku all alone?”

“He said he needed time to himself,” she notes. “Let’s let him be.”

As Sora sits distracted by his silver-haired friend staring into the sunset-lit ocean, Kairi silently strengthens her resolve. She was going to share this paopu fruit with Sora, and nothing, not even the looming thought of Riku teasing them without end after the fact. And plus, it’s not as though Sora would be against sharing it with her. There’s that drawing of them, the race he and Riku did, as well as all the things he did for her during their first adventure together. With a battle to the death at their doorstep, now would be the best time to share any thoughts or emotions that have been lingering around…

But what if Sora is just being nice?

No! Kairi thinks to herself. She knows that Sora is basically a paragon of kindness who can be a bit of a dolt sometimes… Okay, many times, but even he should be aware of what repeated acts of kindness and/or heroism do to a person!

Before Kairi goes through an entire internal debate in the span of seconds, her arm subconsciously moves towards a paopu fruit she may have secretly left there when no one was looking. Although now that she thinks about it, Riku did stop by here before heading down to the beach. He did have this smug grin on his face as he passed by the two of them...

As more and more thoughts rush through her mind, Kairi’s hand has already brought the paopu fruit in front of Sora. 

“Here!” she says. 

“Huh?” 

Sora could only imagine the dumb look on his face. This was not going the way he imagined it. Kairi had seriously beaten him to the punch? The whole reason he wanted to bring her here was so he could be the one to hand her the fruit! Now his whole plan has basically gone up into flames and can’t even bring out any words besides a simple “Huh?"

As Sora mentally reprimands himself, Kairi silently chides herself for basically shoving the fruit in his face and not coming up with a smoother way of handing it to him. 

“Tomorrow’s fight will be our toughest yet,” Kairi says as she softly smiles. “I want to be a part of your life no matter what. That’s all.”

Sora, who at this moment currently is still in panic mode due to his botched plan, can only take the paopu fruit in hand.

Wait, Sora thinks as he looks up and smiles at Kairi. I might be able to salvage this.

“Kairi, I’ll keep you safe,” he tells her.

Not to be outdone, Kairi shakes her head. “Let me keep you safe.”

Raising the fruits to each other's mouths, Sora and Kairi each take a bite from the paopu fruits. 

If only this moment could last forever, Kairi thinks as she stares into Sora’s eyes.

Oh my gosh, this tastes horrible, Sora thinks as he does his best to hide his disgust. 

The young man has never tried the fruit before today, but he expected it to taste way better than the overly saccharine mouthful he got. To Sora, it tasted like someone had used a shovel to feed him a mouthful of sugar, or maybe like drowning in Pooh’s coveted honey! As much as he wanted to swallow the fruit and get it over with, the taste was preventing him letting it pass through his mouth.

Just power through it, pretty sure the legend only says I need to take a bit out of it, not eat the whole thing, Sora continues to think to himself. Ohhhh man, I really hope Kairi doesn’t make me eat more of this.

So are we supposed to eat more of this? Kairi thinks to herself. Honestly, the legend is pretty vague. Like, are we supposed to share one or feed each other one… Legends need to be worded better. 

As she goes for another bite of the fruit, Kairi can’t help but notice Sora’s face. Is it… twitching?

“Hey Sora, you okay?” she asks. “Can’t help but notice you haven’t gone for another bite…”

Oh crud.

“Yeah, totally!” Sora says, his mouth muffled by the sickeningly sweet fruit. “Just sav-ughh… Savoring the taste!”

“Hmmm…” Kairi raises an eyebrow. “Sora, would you mind swallowing what’s in your mouth right now?”

A look of terror flashes in Sora’s eyes.

“Sorrystillchewingonthisbite,” he says in a rush. 

Covering her mouth, Kairi mischievously grins. “Oh, is that so? Well, with the way you’re talking, I think I notice room for one… more… BITE!”

Before Sora could even react, Kairi shoves her paopu fruit into his mouth faster than one could say “Sora, Donald, and Goofy.” Sora, disoriented by the vicious sneak attack, falls over and swallows the excess fruit in his mouth alongside the chewed up slop that was being kept in his cheeks. As he writhes around on the ground, not from choking, but rather the fruit’s taste, Kairi begins to laugh harder and harder until she falls from the tree they were sitting on as well.

Down on the beach, Riku and his Replica nod at each other as they silently judge Sora and Kairi making a fool of themselves, casually forgetting the small audience just a couple yards away from them.

As Sora spits out the Paopu Fruit from his mouth, Kairi somehow begins to laugh even harder at the ironically sour face on his mug.

“Oh ha ha, very funny!” Sora complains. “Next thing we know, we wouldn’t have an issue rescuing Roxas since I would’ve bitten the dust anyways!”

“And I suppose me... dying of laughter would have… woulda brought back Namine in the process as well, huh?” Kairi asks in between heavy breaths.

Soon enough, Sora stops pouting, Kairi’s breathing becomes more relaxed, and the two of them start to quietly giggle.

As the fiery sunset fades away into a cool starlit night, Riku quietly leaves the island, leaving Sora and Kairi to their own devices.

The two continued to lie on the ground, staring into the night sky, stargazing like the two would always do when they were younger. Normally, Sora would be telling Kairi stories about the stars and various constellations. However, tonight the only sounds a person could hear would be the ocean waves washing up onto the shore.

Occasionally they would turn their heads and lock eyes with each other. Both had so many things to say to one another, but it was like no amount of words in the world could be used to convey their feelings and emotions.

However, neither person saw this as a problem. Whenever Sora or Kairi had something to say, but didn’t have the words, they would just tighten their grip on the other’s hand.

---

Hello there, the name’s SourCherryBomb and this little oneshot is the start of a return to form for me. I’ve written under a different name years before, but I’ve decided to wipe the slate clean. It’s for many reasons, the main one being that I cringe when I look at my old works. That’s just growth, I guess.

Shoutout to the Sokai: Destined Oath Discord server for introducing me to the SoKai Week 2020 Event and an even louder one to @paintedwithapalette​ for being my Beta Reader! Check her out, you’ll love her fics.

Thanks for Reading!

[writer-and-artist27]

Passing Days Chapter 9 Preview

Because there’s nothing like feeling sleepy on a work evening and “simping” (is that the word for it?) for a Chinese Saber Servant because you pulled him in the gacha 24 hours ago. 

So more writing, ahoy. I’m still working on it, so it’ll probably be finished in the next day or so. Or more. We’ll see. 

Roughly inspired by the many times my mom came into my room when I was working on something, bearing a plate of fruit to snack on or a cup of coffee. I love her a lot.

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

Gao Changgong found himself in a small predicament. Now, before you ask, the “pickle” he found himself in wasn’t particularly dangerous. It wasn’t even life-threatening, nor was it horribly dire. 

It was a mere mental issue. 

He simply had no clue what to do when faced with the locked door leading to his new lord’s quarters. Unlike Yu Mei-ren, who as Akuta Hinako was awkward at best and quiet and seething at worst, Vy was gentle and understanding, no matter what situation he seemed to find her in. Unlike Gao Wei, who was far too stuffy for his own good, Vy was honest and selfless, constantly looking at what she could improve on and attempting to find the “best” way to appease others. 

In spite of those traits, nothing quite prepared him for the silence that followed a training session. 

When looking back on it, it was, in all honesty, how training was supposed to be. Chaotic, a bit messy, and overall rewarding. Fighting alongside Lord Xiang Yu and friend Yu Mei-ren was a gracious treat, even if they had never fought on a battlefield together outside of the Chinese Lostbelt up to that point. In spite of that fact, Vy had commanded them all patiently and, quite honestly, beautifully for a girl her age, minimizing damage from the opposing Divine Arms while charging their Noble Phantasms enough for a full counterattack to be completed in very little time. 

So Gao Changgong could not for the life of him understand why Vy had fallen completely silent since returning to the Wandering Sea. Aside from a few nods to Mash and Da Vinci, along with the occasional quip to Yu Mei-ren and some acknowledging nudges towards Lord Xiang Yu, she had since secluded herself in her room.

Gao Changgong also could not understand why the older veteran Servants of Chaldea had given him a simple look at his previous questioning of the situation before handing him a tray of food. 

“Bring that to Master before she falls asleep,” Archer EMIYA had ordered, a stern look on his face. “If you want answers as to why she’s quiet, it’s best that you go and find out yourself.”

“Why?” 

Even though it was an honest question, Gao Changgong still wondered why both the Lancer and Saber versions of Diarmuid turned away from view at that moment. 

Archer EMIYA at the time sighed, the lines on his forehead all the more prominent as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let it be said our Master is bad at taking care of herself, Saber.” Gao Changgong could not forget how his Class Name suddenly took prominence in the conversation. “And if you’re going to be a part of this group in saving Humanity, especially after what happened in the Synchronized Intellect Nation, then you’re going to have to do it like how we all did.”

“…On my own?”

“On your own.” EMIYA’s tone of voice made it clear that it wasn’t supposed to be questioned.  

Apparently the rest of Chaldea took after their only Master in how nothing was truly forgotten. Or forgiven. Gao Changgong couldn’t blame them. After all, he had originally opposed their goal in bringing back Proper Human History by fighting with his old friend who called herself a “Crypter.” Serving alongside them now for Proper Human History probably felt like a slap in the face. 

Thus, Gao Changgong helplessly stared at the food in his hands. It was a simple tray of warm soup — “gumbo” or something along those lines, Archer EMIYA’s more than his own — and a tall bottle of water opposing the small cup of freshly blended fruit juice. It was all enough for a modern lunch, or so the Holy Grail’s knowledge had claimed. 

Gao Changgong glanced between the dishes and the door still in front of him. The door itself was a pale white, just as much as the rest of Chaldea, the only signs of individuality there being the nameplate that adorned Vy’s name and a handmade paper sign underneath it. Looking at the paper sign closer revealed Mash’s careful handwriting with some kind of colored pencil drawing accompanying it. For such a rough and hurried sketch, the small poppy flower was rather adorable. 

“For Senpai’s rest, please knock to get permission to enter,” Gao Changgong read to himself. “Alright.” With a small nod to himself, he prepared his heart. Balancing the tray on one hand, Gao Changgong raised his other to gently rap on the door. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Gao Changgong waited. One, two, three… 

Then, to his relief, a small muffled reply came from past the door. “Yes?” 

“M-Master, it is I. The Prince of Lan Ling,” Gao Changgong started as eloquently as possible, bringing his hand back to hold the tray. “Archer EMIYA requested that I bring you food before you sleep.”

“Oh…” echoed past the door before it proceeded to abruptly slide open. Gao Changgong took a step back just in time to see his new lord come into view via her standing in the doorway. He was not expecting to see the simple yet wrinkled snowflake-patterned pajamas and mussed-up hair on Vy’s person. She was normally very neat around the other Servants, keeping her Mystic Codes ironed and clean while her hair was in a professional ponytail, away from grabbing enemies. This, on the other hand, was… 

“Master?” Gao Changgong asked, softer.

Vy slowly tilted her head at him, her glasses slowly sliding down the bridge of her nose as some locks of her now loose brown hair brushed her shoulders. “Saber?” she echoed him, blinking blearily at him. 

This was certainly going nowhere.

[fericita-s]

Beginning After The End (Part 4)

Part 1   Part 2  Part 3

This concludes this story about Thea and Hubert falling in love after the deaths of Elias, Agnarr, and Iduna. Thank you @the-spaztic-fantastic​ for being the best beta ever and saying “YES MORE” when I said I wanted to think about these two and their lives after the events of WAIL. And for her many contributions including the idea of getting Henrik back with these two for some shenanigans and many of the gift ideas. Thea deserves good things!

Elias had shaved every day at home, lathering up with a soap with a distinct scent that Thea had come to associate with him.  She missed the smell of it.  He came home from expeditions with a beard that was coarse and full.  Its roughness against her face when they kissed hello was part of the homecoming ritual, as was watching him trim and then shave it off, the time spent apart measured in how long it was.  She would cup his smooth cheek with her hand and say “There you are!” when he finished and then together they began their favorite part of his homecoming. 

Hubert kept his beard short.  This was becoming a greater challenge now that the white hairs in it were growing faster than the brown.  He would turn to Thea from his dressing table with the mirror propped up and the scissors in his hand, exasperated and possibly wistful and say “Why are the old-man hairs the ones most intent on announcing their presence?” 

She found the best way to assuage this particular fear was to kiss him on the lips while her hands scratched at his bearded cheeks. “I like it.  It makes you look distinguished.  Very reliable for knowing the best way to introduce ice cars to the national railway.” Often the scissors would be abandoned as his hand found places to caress that elicited less verbal sounds of satisfaction from her.

***

Elias had presented her with gifts throughout their courtship and marriage through the imports his family was so involved in.  He paid attention to the latest fashions that his mother and Linnea followed closely and seemed to always be giving her a new bonnet or pair of gloves or piece of jewelry or box of books.  He bought her paints and pigments for her artwork and she exclaimed over the expense, grateful he knew how important it was to her.  She hadn’t packed any of those gifts in the trunks that came to Antwerp, though she had tucked her wedding ring into a pair of woolen socks, unwilling to part from it completely and yet wanting to try living without its constant presence on her hand.

Hubert was similarly generous with gifts.  For their first Christmas together, he had given all of the children their own horses and when Thea gently pointed out that perhaps the twins and Elias were too young for a horse, he bought them ponies as well.  Vadik had also received a pocket watch that Hubert had been gifted from his own father at the age of ten and a letter Elias had written to Hubert announcing Vadik’s birth.  Sasha had gasped when he presented her with a Stradivarius violin. They hadn’t seen her for the rest of the day, the pastoral symphony from Handel’s Messiah filling the house the only evidence of her presence and a testament to her delight.

To Thea, he had given his mother’s diamond ring, resized to fit her hand.  He had shrugged at the extravagance, saying only “Antwerp is known for diamonds and I never gave you a ring when we were wed.” But she had seen how pleased he was when she wore it, how his eyes looked at her hand and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  Later, Sara had hugged her tightly and whispered how glad she was to see her brother in love.

That night when the last carol had been sung and the last candle extinguished, Hubert lit one in the bedroom to tell her of another gift.

“I saved the letters Elias wrote to me over the years.  Yours too, but it’s his I think you might like to see. We started corresponding the year we were all at the Royal Sommerhus together,” he said as he crossed the room to the tall chest of drawers.  He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers tied neatly with a piece of string. 

“I should have told you about them before, but I wasn’t sure if they would cause joy or bereavement.  But I think either way, the decision is for you to make.” He was looking at the letter on top, and even with only candlelight Thea could see that it bore the creases of having been once folded as a letter.  Hubert didn’t raise his eyes to hers as he continued speaking.

“He loved you so much Thea.  And he said that so often in these letters.  Sometime casually, sometimes in grand declarations.  And they’re yours to read whenever you want to; alone or with me nearby.”

The diamond had spun on her finger and she twisted it back around as she answered him, careful to keep her voice even so he wouldn’t hear grief in her voice and regret this gift.  “Thank you, Hubert. I’ll read them another night.”

He returned the letters to the drawer and then got back in their bed.

“Thank you for all of the gifts.  The children and I - we’re so lucky to have you.” She hoped he could hear the sincerity in her voice, how much she meant it to be true.  Thinking about Elias was still a wound but it was more of a bruise now, not the gaping wound it had been before coming to Antwerp. And one she preferred, at least for now, to prod and examine by herself.

“I love giving you good things,” he said and she knew he was trying to say something else.

***

The night before Vadik was born, Thea had been so uncomfortably pregnant that she sent Elias to Hudson’s without her.  “Bring me back krumkake if there is any.  Or skolebrod.  Or both,” she’d said as he kissed her goodbye.  He’d returned with both.

When she was so heavily pregnant that only one dress fit and none of her shoes, she felt her stomach had no room for any food.  Hubert begged her to take one more sip of soup, one more bite of bread, and when her contractions began said he would go for the midwife himself and fetch Sasha from school until Thea told him she would rather he remain close by and to perhaps send a servant instead.  

“Try not to get drunk like Elias did when I labored with Sasha.  All will be well.  There’s nothing to fear,” she had said as he left the room.

Thea had cried out once when the midwife said “There’s another!”  Hubert rushed in and saw the birth of the second while clutching Thea’s hand, his mother’s diamond leaving a mark in his palm.

***

Elias had taken the children sailing and riding and swimming and hiking, sometimes with Thea and sometimes not.  He rolled to the very edge of the bed when Sasha and then later Vadik came into their room at the sound of thunder and needed to sleep pressed against their mother. He put a steady hand behind Thea as she carried their babies, pushed the pram or nursed.

Maybe because there were two at once, or because he was older when he became a father, or just because he was a different man, but Hubert held the babies at every opportunity.  They bought a second pram shortly after they realized the need for it, but the twins, Helen and Castor, were still small enough that they fit in one, tightly swaddled and fit neatly together as the family walked through De Zoologie and exclaimed over the animals.  Hubert pushed the pram and Thea would have thought that was the way of it in Antwerp except every other pram they passed was pushed by a nursemaid in uniform.  Hubert smiled and waved to those passing and Thea thought his pride in his family, in their family, was visible to even strangers.

***

“Three babies in two years; I know it’s been rare for you to have time to yourself,” Hubert said, with his hand on the doorknob.  Thea appreciated that he didn’t list the tragedies of those years, only the happy surprises: little Elias and Helen and Castor.  Little Elias was so big now that no one ever called him “the baby,” especially since the twins were currently taking up quite a bit of energy and attention, even spread as it was among Hubert, Thea, Sara, the nursemaids, and their older siblings.

It was their first anniversary, after all, and Thea was determined to have a happy day.  She had planned a menu with the cooks that would rival a royal wedding celebration.  Hubert’s friends and colleagues, who would probably have come to their wedding had it happened with any notice, were attending an anniversary dinner.  Even Henrik was coming. He was in the country to discuss the use of ice in train transport with Hubert and had promised to bring a few surprises of his own.  Thea had raised her eyebrows at this, but Hubert had been uncharacteristically unconcerned.

They were outside of a room Thea thought might be one of the sunrooms.  The Bonfrey family estate was large and she was still learning where everything was located a year into making it home.  The children seemed to learn it perfectly after one tour from Sara on the very first night.  But Thea would sometimes open several doors before ending up where she meant to, and wasn’t helped by the way the children were constantly leaving their books and playthings scattered in different places, a trail of unhelpful breadcrumbs like those from one of Hubert’s book of German fairy tales.

“Sara and Sasha helped me set this up the way they guessed you’d like,” said Hubert, and Thea was surprised to see a red flush on his cheeks, a nervous flexing in his hands.  They’d seen each other through so much this year - the grief of a funeral for beloved friends, a hellish trip across the sea, the birth of the twins - but she hadn’t seen him act like this before.  

He opened the door and gestured for her to enter first and she did.  

“Oh Hubert!” 

The room Hubert had led her into had been a sunroom.  The floor-to-ceiling windows let in natural light that displayed the contents of the room to full effect: paints and pigments, canvases stacked high, chalks and charcoals, several easels, hog bristle brushes, even a pantograph for reducing or enlarging sketches. On the wall were shelves that were mostly empty save for a handful of books. 

“They’re photo studies. Of statues, paintings.  Some landscapes and some models,” Hubert said as she stepped forward and traced the embossed titles along the book spines.

Thea moved about the room, her hands running along shelves and then on to the paintbrushes, experimentally brushing them against her palm.  

“I thought you could use a place to be by yourself, to think and to paint or even to just sit and read. I can move the letters from Elias in here if you’d like.”

Thea turned to him and nodded.  “I would like that.  I like all of this, Hubert. So much.”

“Sasha said you’d like those the best,” he said as she examined the canvas. “ And Sara suggested we paint the room white and take out most of the furniture so you can choose how to decorate it.  We left a chair and a stool for you, and the couch for whoever wants to pose.”

Vadik suddenly ran in the room with little Elias close behind and Hubert scooped him up before he collided with the glass jars standing at the ready for mixing.

“And the best part,” he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a key, “is that you can lock it to keep out any unwelcome visitors.”

“Like who?” Vadik asked.  “Uncle Henrik? But he just got here and Aunt Sara told me to fetch you to greet him!”

Thea laughed and ruffled his hair. “No, sweet, Uncle Henrik is most welcome.  Come with me so he can exclaim over how tall you’ve grown.”  

***

The anniversary dinner party went so late into the evening that it was the early morning hours before any guests left for home.  Though Hubert gripped the table when Henrik gave a toast, it was entirely appropriate and never once mentioned Paris, for which Thea knew Hubert was extremely grateful.

When Hubert was walking the last of the guests to the door, Henrik revealed his surprise - paintings and sketches Thea had made and left in Arendelle.  She went through the neatly preserved stack and was delighted to see among them Sasha, age ten and playing her violin, Vadik as a baby sleeping in his crib, Elias in the pond by the Royal Sommerhus, teaching Sasha to swim. She had left them in Arendelle hoping to leave some evidence of her family behind in case they all sunk to the bottom of the sea. Looking at them now, she was surprised to feel only joy.

“Linnea brought them back on her last visit and asked me to deliver them to you personally,” Henrik said.  

He didn’t ask why she hadn’t brought them when she and the children moved here and she was grateful.  He reached for the portrait of Elias that she was now tracing with her hand - one of him in an Arendelle navy uniform, trying to look serious but his smile rendered fully in the watercolor. “Thea, you know he loved you.  And you know he would have wanted you to find love again.  To be cared for and to care for others. To not be closed off and grieving for the rest of your days.” He placed the painting back in the pile and squeezed her hand.  “He liked Hubert.  He would have liked this for you, even though he would never have liked to leave you so permanently.”

***

Hubert helped Thea arrange the paintings Henrik had brought from Linnea.  With each painting she felt a fragmented piece of herself realign and became part of the whole, like a dried out watercolor palette being worked over with water and blending brushes.  Hubert had his hand on the doorknob to leave, but she didn’t want him to go.

“Henrik asked again if I wanted him to pose for me.  Nude of course.”

Hubert laughed. “Again? Is this something he does often?”

“A handful of times.  I think usually it was just to bother Elias,” she said as she fiddled with the nearby paintbrushes and straightened the stack of canvases that were already in a very neat pile.  She picked up the lay figure and worked its arms and legs.  “Thankfully you’ve given me this so I can decline.”

“If you ever need a live model, I’d be happy to do it.  To spare you the sight of Henrik.” He said and took his hand off of the doorknob.  “It’s why the couch is here after all.”  

He sat down on it and then she did too.  

“Did I tell you about the time Elias offered himself for the same purpose?”

“No,” Hubert laughed.  

“I was very flustered - we weren’t yet engaged. I told him of my art classes and the sketches we would do, how both men and women had posed nude for us. I was trying to impress him with my worldliness.  And he said ‘I’d be very pleased to pose for you anytime you’d like.’” Thea glanced at Hubert who was smiling at her story, and smiled in response and in memory of her attempt to show off.

“I told him there was no need as I’d already seen more men naked than I could count, and then he said ‘Just wait until you see what I do with it.’” Thea reddened and put her hand over her mouth, laughing.  “I’m sorry; you don’t want to hear that!”

But Hubert was laughing too and reached for her hands to squeeze them in reassurance.  “You can tell me anything about him.  We can both remember him.”

“Thank you,” Thea said, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling like another piece of herself was connected and whole again.

***

She loved him. She wasn’t sure when it started. Probably long before she said it, probably when her heart didn’t know what to call it anymore.  He had been patient and allowed her to find her way to it, not demanding it of her even when he said it freely and showed her in a hundred different ways.  

“Ice liebe dich,” she said, and kissed him on one cheek and then the other.  “Je t’aime.” 

The space between their lips was so small that she could feel his words as he spoke them, warm as they fell across her lips.  

“I love you too.  So much,”  Hubert said as he gently rested his forehead against hers and put his hands on her shoulders.  He rested them lightly and she could feel them tremble.

“Ik hou van je,” she said.  She had saved that one for last.  

Hubert spoke German when he was in a nostalgic mood and French for everyday.  Flemish was his language for murmuring in her ear while in bed at night, his body surrounding hers and bringing them both pleasure.  He spoke words of affection in Flemish after moments of ecstasy that she guessed he didn’t know if she was ready to hear.  But now, she was. And she was ready to say them too.

“Is that right?” asked Hubert, and pulled back from her so she could see his face.  His was smiling and his eyes were full of such hope and tenderness she knew he meant it was all he wanted.  “You love me in three languages?”

“I love you in every language. And I’ll learn them all, too, to tell you.  You loved me back to life and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say thank you enough.”

Hubert’s smile faltered a little and his brow furrowed.  They were small tells, but she could see them.  Someone who loved him could see that he was bothered. 

“Saying ‘I love you’ is better than ‘thank you.’  As long as it’s not an obligation.  As long as you don't think you have to say it to stay here and be my beloved,” he said, speaking gently and patiently, like always. 

She answered and kept her eyes on his.  She wanted him to feel the truth in what she said.  “No, I feel free.  You’ve made me free to love again. And I love you.”

He smiled and she saw the relief he felt at her words, the joy.  He moved his hands to her waist and her cheek and pulled her towards him in language their bodies were familiar with. “Well then. Let’s love.”

[sunflower-swan]

Wolfstar chapter 6

A/N: Here’s what you need to know: I created this story for Writer’s Month 2020. Every day is a new prompt, and therefore a new chapter. This is an AU Wolfstar where Remus is a tattoo artist next door to Sirius who manages a flower shop. James and Lily are alive in this universe and own a coffee shop across the street. And to make parts of the story work with the prompts, Remus is about 10 years older than Sirius. It also takes place more or less in present time, minus Covid-19.

This is chapter 6 of a multi-chapter work. If you’d like to start from the beginning, here is chapter 1.

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. I just like to play with them.

Day 6 Prompt: Ocean

Rating: General

Word Count: 1992

Tags: original character, pining

Chapter 6

Remus

Monica, “For You I Will”

I will cross the ocean for you

I will go and bring you the moon

I will be your hero, your strength, anything you need

Remus and Sirius sat at their favorite corner booth at the Potter’s Wheel Cafe for their morning coffee ritual. Sirius was having his usual black coffee with cream and no sugar. While Remus preferred a sweeter mocha cappuccino.

“So Silas is in America then?” Remus asked. While waiting for Sirius, James and Lily had filled him in on the finer points of what transpired after the ‘You’re a wizard?!’ incident.

Sirius nodded with a small frown. “Took a long-distance portkey to New York early this morning.” He exhaled a sigh so heavy it flipped the hair that had fallen into his face. “Six...bloody...months.” He punctuated each word with a knock of his knuckles on the tabletop.

Remus felt bad for his friend. It was obvious he hadn’t gotten much sleep since they had last seen each other. His charcoal eyes usually glowed with a fire that burned through Remus' soul. Today they were a shadowy reflection rimmed in red, all spark gone out. And that was when they were open long enough for Remus to see them. Throughout most of their brief rendezvous this morning, his eyelids became heavier and heavier over his sunken eyes. 

“Maybe you should take the day off. Catch up on some sleep?” Remus suggested after Sirius’ head nodded forward for the third time.

“Hmm?”

Remus threw a couple Muggle bills down on the table. “Come on, Sirius.” He went around to the opposite side of the table and helped Sirius to his feet. “We’re going to get you home.”

Sirius acquiesced to Remus' touch, and the latter led them to the alley apparition point. Once there, Sirius attempted to shake loose of the grasp Remus had around his waist.

“I can manage, Remus,” he mumbled.

“No! No, no. You are in no state to apparate anywhere on your own. I’m impressed you didn’t splinch yourself getting here.” Remus tucked his arm into Sirius’. “Hold on to me.”

“Mmm, ok.” Sirius relaxed into his body.

Remus’ spine straightened and his breath caught at the warmth of Sirius’ body perfectly fitted against his. Restraining all his instincts, he pushed aside the inconvenient feelings, and turned with a POP.

They landed in a secluded area outside Sirius’ flat, and Remus helped him inside. He half-carried Sirius into the bedroom, walking past a faded leather jacket thrown over a chair in the corner, and unceremoniously dumped him into bed.

As he turned to leave, a photo on the nightstand caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a picture of himself with Sirius, James, Lily, and Harry, standing outside the Tattoo Lounge, about a month after he had opened.

James was holding little Harry in one arm and holding Lily’s hand with the other. Remus had his hands tucked into his pockets, and Sirius had an arm around his shoulders. Photo Remus was grinning broadly and kept casting covert looks at Sirius, whose hair was blowing around in his face.

The four of them almost immediately accepted him into their circle. Which, looking back, was a little funny considering they had thought Remus was a Muggle.

He chuckled softly to himself and set the picture back down. He had reached the doorway when he heard Sirius rustle behind him.

“Remus?”

He paused, placed a hand on the door jam and turned his head. “Yes?” 

“Did you know you smell like old books and chocolate?”

This declaration startled him. He swung around to question about this revelation, but found Sirius had started to snore.

~~~~~

Remus stopped by the Loft before returning to the Lounge to inform Sirius’ employees that he wouldn’t be in today. They seemed unaffected by the news that Sirius was ‘ill’. He didn’t see that they needed to know any details further than that.

Once he returned to the secluded solitude of his own shop, he attempted to look over his appointment schedule for the day. Despite his best efforts to focus on the task at hand, he found his mind was in another place. A very Sirius-centric place.

Old books and chocolate? Sirius said Remus smelled like old books...and chocolate. What did that mean? He had been almost asleep when he had made the statement. Did that matter?

Sirius smelled like fresh coffee and leather. Remus would be lying to himself if he said it hadn’t percolated into his subconscious over the last year and a half. Being in Sirius’ bedroom where his scent was everywhere had caused Remus’ insides to squirm.

Not that any of that mattered. Not really. Sirius was with Silas, and Sirius was his friend...nothing more.

Around mid-day, a middle-aged man wandered into the shop. The bell over the door dinged, and Remus glanced up from the magazine article he was reading.

Remus studied the man with interest. He was wearing black converse, cuffed light wash slim fit jeans, and a black tee. Remus couldn’t help but notice how well his toned body filled out the tee. The man looked around the place like he was surprised to find himself there.

“Can I help you?” Remus offered.

The man jumped. “Whoa! Didn’t see you there! Sorry!” He chuckled, placing one hand to his chest while the other ran through his salt and pepper crew cut. “Whew! Old ticker’s still working,” he added with a jovial smile, and a pat to his chest.

Remus grinned in spite of himself, and stood. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He apologized and held out his right hand. “I’m Remus, and I don’t usually make a habit of scaring my customers to death.” 

The stranger’s whiskey colored eyes sparkled. He grasped Remus’ hand in his rough and calloused one. “I’m Logan.”

A bolt of electricity shot through Remus at the handshake, and he cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“This is a tattoo parlor, right? I thought the answer to that question would be self-explanatory.” Logan ran a hand across his five o’clock shadow with a mischievous grin.

Oh, brother. Someone thinks they’re a comedian. He forgot to roll his eyes because he was lost in Logan’ sparkling, sepia-flecked ones. “Did you have anything in mind?” You tall drink of probably straight water, he added in his head.

“No,” Logan said with a shrug and a smile that showcased his gleaming straight white teeth.

Right… “Ok. Well, I have a book here of some of the pieces I’ve done.” Remus pulled the book out and laid it open on the table. “You can look through here and tell me if anything jumps out at you.”

Logan leaned over and pulled the book toward him. “You did all these?” he asked in an impressed tone. He eyed Remus up and down before turning back to flip through the pictures.

Remus felt his face flush. He felt very exposed after the ‘check-out’ Logan just gave him. Maybe not so straight after all. He attempted an air of coolness and leaned one hand on the desk to peer through the pictures with Logan. “Yep. All me.”

“Very impressive.” Logan nodded his head.

Remus grabbed his sketch book and a pencil, and hopped up to sit on the desk. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, flipping to a blank page.

Logan's eyes widened only for a moment before he straightened up and leaned his hip against the desk. “Buy a man a drink first,” he said with a sly smile.

Godric, give me strength, said one part of his brain. While the other said, A little harmless flirting never hurt anyone! Instead, he waved the sketch book and said, “I’m going to sketch you a design.”

“Buy me a drink anyway,” Logan said, and took a step closer to Remus.

His sandalwood musk, which Remus had noticed the moment he stepped through the door, was now in sharp relief and threatening to overpower his other senses. At that exact moment, someone else, who smelled like fresh coffee and leather, burst through the door.

“Remus!” yelled the new man.

Logan jumped back the distance from which he had traveled moments before. Eyes and mouth wide in shock at the interruption.

“Remus?”

Remus looked between the confused look on Sirius’ face and the startled one on Logan’s, knowing exactly what this looked like.

“Sirius.” Remus attempted nonchalance. As if a ridiculously good-looking and age-appropriate man, practically breathing down his neck, was an everyday occurrence.

Logan sighed in defeat and stole the sketchbook and pencil out of Remus’ hands. Before Remus could protest the theft, he wrote something in it, closed it, and handed it back to him. “Call me,” he said with a wink and strode out of the tattoo shop, giving Sirius a curt nod.

Remus clasped his hands together in his lap, and lifted a questioning eyebrow at Sirius.

“Is that your attempt to look innocent?” Sirius asked, joining Remus sitting on the desk.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Remus replied.

“Huh, right.” Sirius picked up the sketchbook and flipped through the pages. “And ‘no idea what I’m talking about’ just happened to leave you his number?”

Remus ripped the sketchbook out of his grasp and stood up. Sirius was grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

“Quit grinning like that,” he said. “What did you want anyway before you disrupted...nothing?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sirius fluttered the paper he was clutching in his hand. “Got a letter from Silas!” He looked down at the letter. “He says he made it to America fine. And he said he gets a personal day tomorrow, and he had a really cool idea.” Sirius' eyes sparkled. “At noon tomorrow, I go to Land’s End in Sennen, Penzance. At the same time, he goes to Montauk Lighthouse in New York. Then we can wave at each other across the ocean. Isn’t that sweet?”

As Sirius finished explaining The Plan, Remus could only nod in disbelief. “If it’s noon here, isn’t that like, 7:00 A.M. in New York?”

“Well, yeah. Anyway, want to come with me?”

“Come with you?”

“Yeah. To Land’s End tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

Sirius' face split in a grin from ear to ear. He rushed forward and clutched Remus in a rib-splitting hug. “Thank you so much! I couldn’t stand to go alone. I have to go arrange a portkey.” He released Remus and started for the door. “See you around eleven o’clock tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.” Remus waved as Sirius ran out the door. 

Why… Remus sat back down in his office chair and rubbed his hands over his face. He put his elbows on the desk. Closing his eyes, he rested his chin in his palms while his fingertips massaged his temples. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, Remus contemplated why Sirius had asked him. Why not James? Why did Remus agree so quickly and easily to accompany him?

After some time had passed, Remus stood to look for something constructive to do. The scent of coffee and leather lingered long after Sirius had left, and it made his stomach ache as he paced around the shop. He picked up items only to deposit them somewhere else a moment later. Eventually, he picked up the sketchpad. He looked down on it a long time, before slowly flipping open to the page where Logan had left his number.

Remus hadn’t noticed at the time, but the smell of sandalwood that Logan brought into the shop had disappeared the moment Sirius had appeared. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Logan was really cute. Impossibly really cute. And age appropriate. Maybe he should call him. Maybe...

Remus slammed the book shut and threw it on the desk. Then he sank to the floor and rested his head on his arms between his bent knees. Who was he kidding? He doesn’t date. He can’t date. Not in his condition. And not handsome Muggles.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7

[rufousnmacska]

Museum Day

A modern manorian au request

Part 1

Part 2

“Don’t give yourself a headache.”

Manon looked up from the microscope and rubbed her eyes, giving them a moment to adjust. The preparation work on this fossil was so delicate she needed the scope to see properly. Fossil prep was tedious and could definitely cause headaches, but she enjoyed it. Seeing something spring to life out of the rock matrix was rewarding, even if it took a long time. And the work was quiet, meditative. The only bad part was that she wasn’t getting paid. It was her day off yet she was at the museum, volunteering in this lab for the boost to her university applications.

“I’m almost done for the day,” she told Ghislaine.

Asterin had met Ghislaine a couple of years ago. Manon was still unsure how, but when her cousin found out Ghislaine was a paleontologist at the museum, she’d brought her to the next Blackbeak family dinner. It took almost a year for her to get Manon a job there, what with reduced funding and not many openings. Once she got in, Manon made sure to spread the word that she wanted to learn anything and everything. Most of her spare time was spent helping out in labs and with exhibits.

“Don’t you have to work tomorrow? Like, work work?” Ghislaine asked, standing up to stretch. She rubbed her eyes too and groaned. “I don’t know what’s worse. The scope or the computer.”

“At least I don’t need reading glasses yet, old lady,” Manon teased, trying to get a few more particles free from the ammonite.

“Oh hey,” Ghislaine said innocently. “Look at this.”

Manon turned to find Ghislaine giving her the finger and she snorted. “I’m only a few years behind you. Soon you can throw it back in my face.”

“I will. But for now, I’m leaving. Which means you are too. It’s Friday and I need a drink. What’s Asterin doing tonight? Want to have her meet us?”

Manon finished the section she was working on and cleaned up her area. “I think she’s free.” As Ghislaine texted Asterin, Manon gathered her things. She caught her reflection in a glass case and frowned. Quickly, so Ghislaine wouldn’t see, she redid her braid and told herself it was because it was falling in her face.

A few minutes later, as they walked through the main dinosaur hall, she repeated that excuse in her head. But it didn’t matter. She knew it was a lie. She knew it the moment she saw Dorian sitting in front of an exhibit at the other end of the room. The moment her heart jumped against her chest.

It had been a few weeks since that nightmare of a tour. Only, it hadn’t really been a nightmare. Another lie she told herself. She couldn’t get him out of her head. Hadn’t been able to, really, since the night they’d first met. But seeing him here, in the light of day, brought him front and center in her mind.

Since then, Dorian had been back to the museum eight times. Sometimes with his brother, sometimes on his own. Not that she was counting. The first time he’d just waved hello from afar, not coming to talk to her. And that’s how it went, her disappoint growing with each sighting. Whether she was giving a tour or not, if she saw him, he waved and went about his business. What his business here was, she didn’t know.

“Are you okay?”

Manon realized she’d stopped to stare at him.

“I’ve seen him around a lot lately,” Ghislaine said, casting an appreciative eye towards Dorian. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” she admitted, though she refused to go into detail when Ghislaine pressed her. His back was to them, so she could have easily kept walking. Instead, she said, “You go ahead. Tell Asterin I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Ghislaine very politely said nothing, but her devilish grin made Manon laugh. “Okay. Have a good night.”

She waited til her friend was out of sight and started towards Dorian. He was sitting on a bench, bent over something in his lap. As she approached, he sat up and stared at the skeleton on display in front of him.

“Deinonychus,” she said, by way of greeting. “The velociraptor in Jurassic Park was based off this guy.”

Dorian twisted slowly around, his face comically bemused. “Was nothing in that movie accurate? No feathers. Fake velociraptor. The T. rex chasing down a car. Everything I knew is a lie.”

With a heavy sigh, that didn’t cover up her laugh, Manon sat down next to him. She was surprised to find a sketchbook in his lap and a bag overflowing with art supplies on the floor next to him. He winked and said hello then went back to his drawing.

The page held different renditions of the skeleton, rough outlines of various poses and movements that he’d imagined from the skeleton. But he was working on a full color reproduction of the dinosaur as it would have looked in real life. Pulling a bright green colored pencil from the bunch he clasped in one hand, he started to add foliage around the deinonychus.

Manon watched, silent and amazed by his talent. She had seen scientists make sketches of fossils and anatomy, but she didn’t know anyone who could bring a creature to life so easily. It looked effortless. Of course she knew that it wasn’t. Even for someone born with natural artistic talent, it took plenty of time and hard work to get good and stay good.

Noticing his hand had stopped, she looked up to find him smiling at her. Oh no, she thought. I’m screwed. She almost laughed out loud. Too late, that already happened.

“So what is your favorite exhibit?” she asked, hoping the catch in her voice wasn’t that obvious.

He looked at her for a second before saying, “Currently I have four, and I can’t decide between them. Maybe, dinner in exchange for your professional opinion on which one I should choose?”

Manon glanced back to his sketchbook. It was large and worn, and it looked like he was more than half way through it. “Deal,” she said. “Only if you show me the rest of your work.”

A grin lit up his face and she couldn’t help but return it. “Oh, that was already included in the dinner,” he said, bending to stuff everything into his bag. She wondered how anything survived the process.

“So you woo women with your dinosaur drawings?” she teased.

“Only one woman,” he said, giving her a heated look that she felt deep down through her chest. Then he leaned in, conspiratorially, and said, “I think I might have a chance with her.”

Manon closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Let’s go, witchling,” he said, pulling her up. “I know a good burger place a few streets down.”

*****

The restaurant wasn’t far, and even though that placed it in the central part of the city, it had an air of seclusion Dorian liked. It didn’t hurt that Gavriel’s brother Lorcan owned it, ensuring some amount of privacy.

It hadn’t happened to him often, but just one encounter with the city’s paparazzi had been too many. Dorian learned quickly how to avoid them - he rarely ever discussed anything important with his mother. She and her friends were of the opinion that only the lower classes bothered with trashy gossip sites. Of course, he was almost positive her friends were the ones selling their secrets. His mother knew it. There was no way she couldn’t. But as long as she had money to buy things and travel wherever she wanted in luxury, she didn’t care. Her bank account was her main interest these days.

The streets were crowded and it was starting to rain, so he and Manon walked quickly to the restaurant. Lorcan wasn’t behind the bar, but Dorian knew the waiter so they got a booth in the back corner. After he took their drink orders, they sat in awkward silence.

“So when did you-”

“How did you-”

They both spoke at once, and then stopped. Dorian motioned for her to go ahead.

“How did you learn to draw so well? Are you a professional artist?”

He pulled the sketchbook he’d been using out of his bag and handed it to her. “As promised,” he said, smiling as she eagerly began flipping through the pages. “I took art classes in high school, and I’ve had a couple in college. But I’m in my final year of architecture. So, not a professional.”

Not looking up, she shrugged and said, “That’s artistic. I’d say it qualifies.”

He couldn’t help feeling a burst of pride at her expression each time she turned a page. Most of the sketches were a mess. Quick impressions of displays and objects from the museum - an assortment of skulls, artifacts, taxidermy, and sketches of the building’s architecture. Only the last few pages held more complete drawings done in color instead of pencil. But she took her time, examining every detail.

“I recognize almost everything in here,” she said, her eyes finally leaving the book to meet his. “This is amazing. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” Dorian said, feeling a slight warmth creep over his cheeks. He was used to receiving compliments. As a Havilliard, he’d learned at a young age that most of them were fake, usually given with the hope of some kind of favor in return. Manon looked and sounded so genuine, and it felt so refreshing, that he wondered when he’d last been given real praise.

When they ordered food, the waiter made the mistake of questioning Manon’s choice of medium rare for her burger, thinking she might be grossed out by any blood. The look she gave the poor guy was beyond lethal. He hoped to never be on the receiving end of that stare. or, maybe a part of him did, he thought, realizing his pulse was racing. The waiter left and she turned to see him holding back laughter.

“What? I like red meat,” she said, still annoyed. “The bloodier, the better.”

Dorian held his hands up. “I didn’t say anything. Besides, I-”

Just then, his phone started to ring. It was the ringtone he had for Hollin, otherwise, he would have ignored it. And since Hollin only texted and rarely called...

“Sorry, I should get this,” he said. “It’s my brother.”

“Sure,” she said, sensing his tension and moving to stand. “Do you want me to give you some privacy?”

As he answered, he shook his head and she sat back down. “Hollin? What do you-”

Before he could finish, Hollin started rattling on so fast, Dorian could barely understand him. “Wait, slow down. I’m not hearing you.” He heard his brother inhale and exhale a few times. Manon was watching him with concern. “Okay, now tell me what’s happening? Are you alright?”

“Uncle Perrington,” Hollin said, making an effort to get the words out. “I got home late and ... he ... he must have been drinking and-”

“Where are you now?” Dorian asked, and he saw Manon grab her things, put his book in a bag and throw on her coat.

“I'm at Terran’s. I didn’t know where else to go. His house is the closest.” Hollin's words were starting to run together again.

“Okay. Deep breaths. Are his parents home?”

“Yeah. But... I don’t want to stay here.”

“Don’t worry,” Dorian said, giving Manon a look before they both stood and headed for the exit. “I’m on my way.”

Thankfully, he was parked close by, but he still ran, Manon right beside him. He didn’t think of telling her not to. All he could think of was Hollin. And how he should have taken his brother out of that house the moment his dad died. He should have fought to get his trust fund, should have done more to keep him safe.

When they got to his car, he expected to give her a quick apology and be on his way, but she went for the passenger side door.

“You don’t need to come,” he said, hesitating before getting in. This was already bad enough. He didn’t think he could handle her seeing the ugly truth behind his rich and famous family. But she only stared at him across the roof of the car, her fierce eyes giving him an answer. If he really wanted her to stay behind, she would. But she was willing to go. No matter what.

“Okay,” he said, and they both jumped in.

*****

Manon waited in the car while Dorian went inside the house - mansion - to get his brother. Her foot was tapping involuntarily, and she couldn’t stop her hands from fidgeting.

Dorian had said little on the ride here, but she could guess enough. The death of Dorian Sr., and how the man’s brother had taken over the company, was all over the news a few months back. And a person didn’t need to stay on top of things to know Perrington Havilliard was a prick. With the family money, he’d avoided a handful of white-collar criminal convictions, some DUIs. There were rumors he’d done worse, but nothing ever stuck.

Imagining what he might do to a kid wasn’t hard. That was something she knew first hand.

Luckily, it didn’t take long for them to come outside. Dorian stopped at the door to thank a woman who must be the friend’s mom. Hollin practically ran to the car and got in the back, not thinking anything of her sitting in the front seat. She stole a glance back at him, relieved to see that despite looking shaken, he seemed unharmed. At least, physically.

“Sorry I messed up your date,” he said.

Twisting around in her seat, she frowned, “Who said this was a date?” He smiled, as she’d hoped, and she could see a little of his older brother in the expression.

“Dorian did. He talks about you all the time.”

Feeling her cheeks flush hot, she turned away from him. “Oh he does? That sounds creepy.”

Hollin sat forward, worried he was messing things up for his brother. “No, not like that. Mostly he talks about the museum. He’d never been to the natural history part until my class trip. Just the art side. I think he really liked it. Not just because of you either.”

Manon laughed and Hollin relaxed, just as Dorian got in the car. Seeing their faces, he opened his mouth to ask something but Manon gave him a little shake of her head. He examined Hollin, then her.

Her face was heating again under his gaze, so she said, “Are you hungry Hollin? We didn’t eat yet.”

“Sure,” he said. His excitement fell as he remembered. “I don’t have my bag, or homework, or anything. You’re not taking me back there are you?”

“No,” Dorian said, pulling out of the driveway. “I’ll get your things tomorrow. You can stay with me tonight.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he swore and said, “Gavriel’s parents are here this weekend. My apartment is packed. We can just get a hotel room. Then figure things out next week. Okay?”

Hollin agreed, seeming to believe the cheeriness Dorian was projecting. But she saw through it. It reminded her of Asterin. A few years older than her, Asterin had acted this way countless times after their grandmother had gone on one of her rampages. Dorian caught her staring at him and his brows dipped in concern.

“I’ve got room. You both can stay with me,” she blurted out, surprising everyone, herself included, with the offer. Hollin immediately agreed while Dorian quietly tried to turn her down. “It’s nothing fancy, but it might be better than a hotel. We can order pizza.”

That was a lie. They could afford a penthouse suite for god’s sake. And Dorian had seen her place. He knew her reasoning was bullshit. But after asking several times if she was sure, he relented.

He thanked her with what was probably the sweetest, most genuine smile she’d ever seen. Heart racing, she made herself stare straight ahead.

“Can we get pineapple?” Hollin asked. Dorian groaned loudly, and the brothers began what seemed to be a longstanding argument.

The bickering ended when she interrupted, “Yes, you can get pineapple." Dorian shot her a wounded look as Hollin celebrated in the back seat. “My house, my rules,” she said, totally forgetting what they’d done there. And what rules she’d made him follow that night. His smirk brought it all back though.

*****

Hollin had fallen asleep on Manon’s couch shortly after dinner. Dorian hadn’t asked him for many details aside from whether he was hurt. He’d managed to get out before Perrington could physically stop him, but the kid was scared. As he watched his brother sleep, Dorian’s anger, at himself as much as at their uncle, was starting to flood back.

Manon sat down at the table with a beer and handed him one.

Tonight, she’d been incredible. Not just by going with him, but letting them stay here, distracting Hollin and making him feel... normal. Like a kid. Not some fragile thing to be pitied or talked down to. It made him wonder if she’d had to deal with something like this before. The thought didn’t sit well and he pushed it from his mind.

“So, tomorrow...” she prompted.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Tomorrow, I will talk to Hollin and call a lawyer.”

“For custody? Don’t you already have one? A lawyer I mean.”

“A family lawyer,” he said. “I’ve known him most of my life, but I wouldn’t say that I trust him. And yes, for custody. I should have done it way before now.” He tore at the label on the beer bottle. “I thought it could wait. That we could wait until I graduated. But that was stupid. And selfish.”

Manon rested her chin in her hand. “You don’t have your own money.”

Dorian laughed, grim and humorless. “Nope. I have some. No more than most people though.” She arched an eyebrow. “Okay,” he said. “More than some. But not enough that I could live on my own.”

“In my defense,” she said, glancing around the apartment she lived in alone, “this building is shitty and thankfully, this neighborhood has been overlooked by the gentrification brigade.” She tipped her beer at him. “But I understand what you’re saying.”

He smiled, enjoying the easy way they could talk to each other. “My friend Chaol’s dad is a lawyer. He’s a bit of an asshole, but I think he’ll help. And I’ve got some money, but my trust fund won’t be available for another couple of years. I’m hoping to find a loophole.”

She looked across the room to where Hollin slept. “Well, for what it’s worth, I hope you do.”

Before he could think, Dorian reached across to take Manon’s hand. She didn’t pull away, but her eyes flared. He held on, long enough to say, “Thank you.” He opened his mouth to go on, but he didn’t know what more he could say. “Thank you,” he repeated.

Manon’s face softened and he let go of her hand. She bit her lip and asked, “So you never told me what your favorite exhibits are.”

“Ah,” he said, “I thought I’d gotten out of the inquisition, but I guess not.” She offered him the remaining pineapple pizza in exchange for not answering, but he passed it up.

“Well, I wasn’t lying about the pterosaurs. You could probably tell from the sketchbook. I’m not sure which of them specifically. They all scare the shit out of me. But when I’m there I can’t stop staring at them.”

“Yeah, their size is a little disconcerting,” she agreed.

“And them walking on all fours?” He cringed, took a drink and said, “I like them, but in the way someone who’s not into heights might like roller coasters. The whale exhibit was good. And I also liked the Age of Mammals hall. The irish elk actually might be my favorite. I know everyone goes for the dinosaurs, but the mammals are just as interesting.“

Manon’s lips twitched and she nodded approvingly. “And the fourth?” she asked. Dorian’s eyes widened with surprise. “You said there were four,” she added.

“I did.” He didn’t hide his pleasure that she’d remembered. “The entomology wing. The...” he paused, thinking, then said, “the lepidoptera.”

Manon laughed quietly. “After those others I would not have guessed the butterfly exhibit.”

“Would you like to know my favorite rock?”

“I’ve created a monster,” she teased, standing and putting her beer bottle in the sink.

He joined her and there was an awkward silence as they realized it was late. And Hollin was on the couch. And she had one bed.

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said, ignoring the ungentlemanly voice in his head telling him to wait and see if she offered to share. “You have to work tomorrow,” he added. “And I think it’d be better for me to stay near him.”

She gave him a little smile, and it made her whole face light up. The sight of her - so beautiful and tender - revived that voice and he was about to reconsider when she pointed into the living room. “There are extra blankets in the chest. And pillows are on the couch.”

Before he could say goodnight, she placed her hand on his chest and stood on her tiptoes. The kiss was feather light on his lips. The opposite of the kisses they’d shared that previous night. Kisses that were passionate and hungry and breathless, as if time was rushing by them. Kisses that had been perfect for the moment.

This kiss, soft and plush and chaste, was perfect too. And far more intimate than all the others.

“Goodnight,” she said, then disappeared down the hallway.

“Goodnight, witchling.”

To be continued...

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[auberginesdonthavelimbs]

Phanniemay Day 22: Memories

Word count: 3432

TW for brief discussion of a minor injury, extensive discussion of grief and of problems with memory

(This is a sequel to Grave. You don’t have to read that to understand this, but it does provide some context. part 3 here.) 

Vlad was walking with purpose. He would have preferred to be flying, of course, but he never had gotten the hang of flying inside these rotating habitats. The sudden shift in the gravity he was experiencing, and in his perception of the ground below from stationary to moving, always left him disoriented. And flying disoriented in such close quarters was just asking for trouble. So he stuck with walking, at least until the habitats got big enough that it would be a non-issue. There were already designs, of course, several of which he himself had worked on, but there were other infrastructure priorities at the moment.

The reason that Vlad was walking purposefully was that he had just had a disconcerting conversation with Daniel’s housemate, Rishid. They had come to him because they were worried about Daniel, and they hoped Vlad could help since he was also a half ghost, and Daniel’s oldest friend. That last comment surprised Vlad more than anything. He spoke with Daniel maybe a handful of times in a decade, and half of those times were work-related. Vlad had assumed Daniel hardly thought of him, let alone talked about him, let alone called him a friend. But, evidently, he did, and it was enough to convince Rishid that Vlad was the person to turn to in a crisis. Well, Vlad hoped this wasn’t a crisis, per se, but a difficult time, at least.

Honestly, Vlad wasn’t sure what, precisely, he was walking into. Rishid said they’d rather let Daniel explain, himself. All they really said was that he was upset and crying. No surprise there, Vlad thought - Daniel was an emotional man. A small, sad smile played across Vlad’s lips as he remembered that there had been a time when Daniel would seek Vlad out when he was in distress, and he would cry into his shoulder, sometimes for hours. Vlad cherished those memories, faint though they were, muddied by the intervening centuries. More than half a millennium, Vlad realized with a pang. It felt like longer. It felt like no time at all.

Vlad stopped. 7116, this was Daniel’s house. Vlad had known the address ever since Daniel had moved here, but he had never actually visited. He’d meant to bring a housewarming present, but then enough time passed that it would have been strange, and he hadn’t found another excuse to visit. Until now. His hand hovered in front of the screen for far too long.

What was he doing here? There was no way that Daniel would want to talk to him, especially right now. He didn’t even want to talk to him when everything was going well. Vlad had let himself get sentimental. Whatever Rishid thought, he and Daniel weren’t friends anymore, not really. Though it pained him to admit it, Daniel was almost certainly closer to his housemate, whom he had known less than two decades and who would be dead in another eight or nine at the most, than he was to Vlad. And, though Daniel continued to foolishly insist on spending most of his time with humans, he had other ghost friends, too, who would be more qualified to help him if his problem was somehow ghost-related.

But … Rishid’s words echoed in his mind. You’re his oldest friend. You know him better than anyone. What could Daniel have said to make them think that? You can help him. Vlad didn’t know whether that was true, but he desperately wanted it to be. He wanted to be there for Daniel. He wanted to be the reason that he stopped crying.

Vlad could feel that thing with feathers perching in his soul, and he knew he was setting himself up for disappointment and pain. He knew it would hurt to be rejected all over again, to relive all those decades of drifting apart in a single, brutal instant. But he couldn’t help himself. If there was any chance of repairing his relationship with Daniel, he had to take it. And, even if this day had no impact at all on their relationship in the long term, what kind of a friend would he be if he didn’t even try to help Daniel out of a crisis just because he was afraid of his own feelings getting hurt? Certainly not the kind of friend that Rishid thought he was, that Daniel had apparently described him as.

Vlad placed his palm on the screen beside the door, waiting the requisite moment for the AI to scan it, pull his identity from the database, and announce his presence to the occupants of the house. Then he put his hand back by his side and waited. It was up to Daniel, now, to decide how this would go.

Vlad considered turning around and walking away at least five distinct times in the minute it took Daniel to respond. The response, when it came, was not in the form that Vlad had expected. He thought Daniel would ask him what he was doing here, or how he dared to presume that this was in any way appropriate, or at least to tell him to fuck off. Instead, the only response was the door opening (well, technically it hadn’t moved, only become temporarily intangible). Vlad hesitated another moment and then stepped inside.

He was unsurprised to find that the house was extensively decorated with art and memorabilia from the past few centuries. On the wall to his right, two large picture frames hung side-by-side, one showing a book cover and the other a movie poster. They shifted simultaneously to show a different cover and poster, respectively. Vlad didn’t recognize any of the titles. To the left was a shelf covered in models, and Vlad realized after a moment that they were all projects that Daniel had worked on in some way, including the first prototype rotating space habitat and a satellite which was currently in orbit around the Sun, gathering data and making predictions about solar storms.

Most of the decorations had some connection to science or science fiction, except for one - a landscape painting that dominated the far wall. Though Vlad could not remember having seen the painting before, he knew immediately who the artist was, and why it had such a prominent position. Vlad shook his head. “When will you let go of her?” he whispered to the empty room.

He was pulled out of his momentary revery by the sound of someone upstairs blowing their nose. Vlad reminded himself as he ascended the stairs not to be so judgemental with Daniel. That was exactly what had ruined their relationship the first time. If Daniel didn’t want his advice, then he wouldn’t give it, no matter how right he was.

As he got closer, he could hear Daniel taking shuddering, gasping breaths. It was obvious that he had very recently been crying very hard, and was trying to get himself under control before Vlad walked in. Vlad was upset by the thought that Daniel might be ashamed to cry in front of him, after everything they had been through, but he reassured himself with the fact that Daniel would find it very difficult to talk about his feelings while he was sobbing uncontrollably.

There was no screen beside the bedroom door, so Vlad had little guidance on the protocol for this situation. Should he just walk in? That seemed rude. Was he supposed to knock? That seemed redundant - Daniel had certainly already sensed his presence. Vlad had hoped that Daniel might invite him in, but, evidently, he was going to need to take initiative here. He reached a hand out. It passed through the door unfettered. Vlad took another moment to gather himself before stepping through. And then Vlad was in Daniel’s bedroom, for the first time since before Daniel had stopped aging. And there he was, sitting cross-legged on his bed, eyes wet. The sense of familiarity was almost dizzying, though Vlad couldn’t place the exact time or context of the occasion he was reminded of.

Vlad had absolutely no idea what to say, or do. He stood in front of the door in silence while Daniel stared at him, his breath coming more and more regularly. Vlad noticed belatedly that the bed - indeed, the entire room - was covered in papers. Genuine, old-fashioned, wood-pulp papers, most crumpled up, all with some markings on them. Some were covered in text, some had rough sketches of people or places. It seemed that most of the crumpled papers had only a few words or strokes upon them. Vlad turned his attention back to Daniel. Though his posture seemed superficially relaxed, his right hand was gripped so tightly around the ink pen it held that his knuckles were white, and his entire right arm was shaking slightly.

Vlad took a small, cautious step forward. Daniel didn’t react. He took another step, and then another. The room wasn’t large. If he moved forward any more, his shins would be pressed against the side of the bed.

“Daniel,” he began, but he didn’t know how to continue.

“Vlad.” Daniel’s voice was even, and his face hardly moved. Whatever his feelings were about Vlad being here, he was obviously putting some effort into keeping them hidden. Or else, he was entirely unaffected. Vlad’s eyes drifted back toward the pen in the shaking hand. He could easily pick up any of the papers, or even just read some of those that were clearly visible from where he was standing. But, despite their visibility, Vlad knew intuitively that what was on them was meant to be private, and that reading them would be overstepping his bounds. So instead he gestured to the pages and asked,

“What are all of these?” Daniel looked around. By his expression, Vlad half expected him to say, ‘oh, hey, I hadn’t noticed those,’ but, thankfully, he apparently decided not to be quite that difficult.

“I’m writing … a memoir, of sorts.” Ah, that did explain things. Unsure what reaction it might provoke, Vlad started picking up papers to clear a space on the bed. He still didn’t read any of them, but he could see the pictures on several. Daniel’s childhood home. His high school. His parents. Samantha. Vlad thought of the landscape painting in the sitting room, and reminded himself, again, not to criticize or offer unwanted advice.

When he had uncovered enough of the surface area of the bed, Vlad placed the papers in his hands carefully to the side, then crawled onto the bed with as much dignity as could be expected. He sat cross-legged directly in front of Daniel, trying to mirror his posture. When he spoke, he did so carefully, keeping his tone as even as possible. Daniel would project his own emotions onto the words, and he would tell Vlad more with his reaction than he would be willing to say explicitly. Of course, Vlad already had a strong suspicion of what his reaction would be.

“You’re having trouble remembering the past, and your human family in particular.” It wasn’t a question, and Daniel didn’t answer it like one. Instead, he screwed his eyes shut against the tears that suddenly threatened to spill over. The pen in his hand snapped, and Vlad realized that the tension in Daniel’s hand and arm hadn’t been because of the force with which he was gripping the pen, but rather because he had been straining to keep himself from breaking it.

Daniel didn’t unclench his fist, and Vlad saw a drop of blood leak from between his fingers. He moved blindingly fast, grabbing Daniel’s fist and turning it intangible. The pen, along with several more drops of blood and ink, fell onto the bed. Vlad tried to uncurl Daniel’s fingers, but he met enough resistance that he was afraid of causing more damage if he forced them.

“Daniel, open your hand.” Vlad was surprised when Daniel immediately complied, though the rest of his body remained motionless. Vlad carefully touched his fingertips to the damaged skin. His hand, and then Daniel’s, glowed for a moment with a soft blue light. As Vlad channeled healing energy into it, the small wound closed over, leaving nothing but smooth skin in its place. Satisfied, Vlad drew back.

Daniel put both of his hands in his lap, twining his fingers together. After another moment, he relaxed his face, letting the tears flow freely, though he kept his eyes closed. He let out a breath that he had apparently been holding. For a minute, it was silent but for the sounds of both men breathing slowly. Daniel was the first to break the silence, his voice betraying emotion for the first time.

“I know I remember them. I know I remember them. The memories are all there, inside me. I just can’t -” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale. Vlad could tell that Daniel was trying very hard to keep his composure. He wanted to help, but he wasn’t sure what to do. He lifted his right hand, but he was too far to place it comfortingly on Daniel’s shoulder. He settled for his knee and hoped that was sufficient. Daniel’s eyes snapped open, and Vlad immediately pulled back. That had been stupid, of course the last thing Daniel would want would be -

Vlad’s train of thought was interrupted by Daniel grabbing his hand. He looked down at their hands, and then back up to Daniel’s face. He looked as surprised as Vlad felt, but he didn’t let go. Their hands slowly lowered - Vlad wasn’t sure who was directing the movement - until they were resting on the bed between the two men. Daniel took another deep breath, and he didn’t seem to be crying anymore.

“I -” He paused, apparently thinking. “I guess … I guess Rishid went and got you.” Vlad nodded. “I think I really scared them. I was kind of … freaking out.” Daniel scratched the back of his head with his free hand. It was an old, almost childish gesture that Vlad knew to mean that Daniel was embarrassed. “Uhm,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Your name may have come up.” Vlad raised an eyebrow. “I was saying, well, that you were right. That I should have listened to you, about, like, holding onto the past. It’s pointless. People die, and even memories don’t last forever.”

By the end of his little speech, Daniel’s smile had faded, and his voice had taken on a tone of resignation. He was talking exactly the way Vlad always talked about these things, and Vlad was struck by how much that pained him. He should be thrilled that Daniel was finally learning the lesson he had tried to teach him centuries ago, but Vlad found no joy in watching his old friend lose the spark of optimism that had always defined him.

“Yes,” Vlad said softly, “they do. And no, they don’t. But … Daniel, it isn’t wrong to want to remember. It’s good to take pleasure in happy memories. I’ve often reminisced about times long gone … about you.” It was Daniel’s turn to raise an eyebrow, and Vlad’s turn to laugh sheepishly. “I know, I know. But I have missed you, little badger. I’ve missed a lot of people. The reason I told you so many times to let go is that I’ve known the pain of hanging on, and the futility. But I never meant for you to completely lose touch with the past. Your past is who you are.” Daniel looked confused. How to explain …?

“How much do you imagine I remember about your mother?” Daniel obviously hadn’t been expecting that question. His eyebrows scrunched together and he shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

“Not much more than you, I’d wager. It’s been a long time for both of us. But,” he said quickly, as Daniel started to cast his face downward, “I don’t need to remember everything she ever said to me or every day we spent together. I carry her in myself, just as you do. Granted, she’s not the best example for me. There was a lot of bad blood between us for a long time. But you, you’re her son. You have her determination, her love of science, her drive for self-improvement.” Daniel smiled, and Vlad returned the expression as he continued. “You have your father’s penchant for drama, your sister’s belief in doing whatever makes you happy, no matter what other people think.” Vlad paused, thinking again of the landscape painting. He knew that bringing up Samantha was probably either the best or worst thing he could do right now. But Daniel seemed to have calmed down significantly, so he decided to risk it.

“You have your wife’s dedication to justice,” he said slowly, gauging Daniel’s reaction. He inhaled sharply, but he didn’t look angry or sad. “You have her aesthetic appreciation. You have her belief in the importance of education. … You have her heart, Daniel, and that is not something you can lose so easily. Your memories will fade, but your heart, and, in it, the hearts of everyone who has loved you, will always remain.”

Daniel glanced at the crumpled papers on the floor. “That doesn’t make it any easier. I … you’re right. I know you’re right, and I’ve thought the same thing plenty of times before. I’m proud of who I am because of the people who made me who I am. But … it still feels like I’m losing them all over again.” Vlad sighed.

“You are,” he said, squeezing Daniel’s hand in his. “And believe me, I know what you’re going through, and I know how much it hurts. I had a family, too, and they’re lost to me forever. I still feel guilty sometimes that I let go so easily, that I didn’t fight to hold on the way you have. But I had to do what was best for me; I had to look to the future, because, whether we like it or not, the future is where we’re eventually going to end up.” Daniel made a face like he had eaten something sour.

“I don’t like that. It feels selfish.” Vlad chuckled.

“And who do you suppose is benefiting from your remembrance? Do you not hold on to the memories specifically because they make you happy?” Daniel opened his mouth but closed it again after a few seconds. “Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘living well is the best revenge’? I believe the reverse is also true - living well is the best way to honor those who loved you. It would bring them no joy to see you suffering in a vain attempt to hold on to what you’ve lost, never able to move on and live your life to the fullest.” Daniel smiled wryly.

“You don’t know that, though, do you? Maybe some of them would love this.” He shook his head and his smile faded again. “But I … I do understand. Remembering the past has made me happy, and I still don’t really think your way was the best way, or at least that it would have been best for me. But, now,” he said, looking significantly at his now-healed hand, and the blood on the blanket, “it just hurts. I held on as long as I could, and I’m glad I did. And I don’t feel ready to forget them, but I guess it isn’t up to me anymore.” Vlad had to remind himself again that this was a positive development, even though Daniel was clearly in pain. He squeezed his hand again, and this time Daniel squeezed back.

“Thank you,” Daniel said emphatically. “Thank you for … for coming, for talking to me. I don’t know if you said exactly what I needed to hear, but I think it was important that I heard it from you. We don’t have all that much in common, but, on some level, you do get what I’m dealing with. And you get me.” Daniel looked as though he might start crying again, but there was the hint of a smile on his lips. “Maybe I don’t have to lose everyone from my past.” As he spoke, Daniel took Vlad’s other hand, and Vlad’s breath caught in his throat. There was that thing with feathers again, only this time it didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

“I’ve missed you, too, Vlad. I’m sorry that I wasted so much time. But,” he said with a smirk, “to be fair, we do have eternity.”

[zrtranscripts]

Season 8, Mission 3: Big Mistake

A dark and stormy night

[rain pours, thunder rolls]

JODY MARSH: I really can't decide what I like best about this storm. How dark it is, the way it's whipping the rain around us like a rain duvet, or that it's actually picking up pebbles and hurling them at us! Maybe it's that it got our friend killed because of a stupid accident in the dark! A stupid accident!

[gunshots]

SAM YAO: Well, I like how Jones, a homicidal maniac, is at large and the people who shot and killed Ellie are still chasing us! Shona, are you sure it was an accident? Can't you make them stop?

SHONA: We've no flashlight signal for this. We havnae needed one. No people ever come onto the island the way you did. Boats always land on the north, on Bas Sands.

JANINE DE LUCA: Where Jones' boat is.

SHONA: Aye, that's right. The island has perfect natural defenses. The north side has deep, strong currents that pull away any zombies walking on the seabed, so it's safe for boats. The south side is all rocks and caves. We wait there and shoot the zoms as they come up. It's like the island was built to fend off zombie attacks. [laughs]

SAM YAO: That's great, unless you happen to be coming in via zombie alley.

SHONA: They're chasing because they still think you're zombies. Believe me, they won't rest if they think they're letting a zom roam free on the island. Okay. I've no walkie-talkie. I'm not on duty tonight. Jones is on Bas Sands. We'll take the hill path and then through the ruins of Gaisgeach Village. There's an emergency call point there I can use to call the chief. But we have to hurry. This storm's barely begun.

[thunder rolls, wind whistles, rain pours]

[rain pours]

SHONA: We'll be safe as long as we keep moving. I know these paths better than anyone, better than that police chief, Duncan Macallan, anyway. The outlander.

TOM DE LUCA: You're born and bred here?

SHONA: I am, and proud of it. Ach, it's a beautiful place. When this storm's over, you'll see it. There's good grazing land in the center of the island and good arable fields to the east. Cliff paths and fishing rocks. We've everything we need. You'll be at home.

JANINE DE LUCA: As is Lachlan Jones. This storm may be dangerous. He is more so.

TOM DE LUCA: We need to know everything you do about Jones. If we understand his motivations in being here, we may be able to predict his intentions.

JODY MARSH: You said he contacted someone here wanting forgiveness. For killing your uncle, right?

SHONA: Aye. I intercepted one of Jones' messages by accident. Couldn't imagine who'd want to bring that murderer back here, so I started digging, looking at old messages and records. I still don't know who Jones was talking to, but I've narrowed it down to three. Well, four, I suppose. Everyone who's had access to the long-range comms system.

JANINE DE LUCA: And who are those people?

SHONA: My dad, but he'd never forgive Lachlan. And then there's Chief Macallan, and Joan and Derek MacLean. Morag Grounds, she knows everything about everyone, and she told me the MacLean's never did think Jones was guilty, so it makes sense if it's them. But I've not found any proof. 

That's why I was heading to the meeting point they'd arranged with Jones. Thought I could catch them in the act. What an idiot, trying to handle it on my own! Please don't tell anyone else. They'd be so angry. This is all my fault!

PAULA COHEN: All of us think it's our fault, Shona. It's only natural. But it was an accident. Tell us what you can. It might help. How did they contact Jones?

SHONA: Aye. So Mor Island is the main one in the Far Hebrides. We have the most contact with the mainland. We traded with Colonel Sage. He offered us guns, ammo, grenades.

JANINE DE LUCA: In exchange for some technology?

SHONA: Aye! There's an island to the north, Dearg Island. There's some scientists there, have been since before the zombies started. They don't allow any visitors. But we send them meat and milk and a few other things. They send us radios, walkie-talkies, parts of the wind generator.

TOM DE LUCA: And you asked them for something a bit more specialized recently. Something Colonel Sage wanted?

SHONA: Aye. A numbered project from before the apocalypse. Dearg Island sent it to us in a sealed box.

PAULA COHEN: They didn't know you had traded it to the mainland?

SHONA: No. My dad arranged it. We'd been running low on guns. Now the armory's bursting at the seams! It was when I was looking at the messages we were receiving from Sage that I... a few of us had a wee code when we were kids. A silly thing, like an island tradition. Extra letters in a typed message. Looks like typos. They spell out words. It was him. He was using that code to talk to someone else!

JODY MARSH: And he said he had the missing chapter of the Edda, that he could bring it home?

SHONA: Aye. It's been gone from the island for 400 years, nearly. Stolen long ago by the English and then lost. All we have is sketches and records of what people said about it. I'd give anything to see it, to hold it in my hands.

SAM YAO: My friend Ellie wanted the same. She was so excited to come to the place the Edda came from. She had all these theories about what we could learn about the zombies here. You'd have liked her, I think.

SHONA: Where's she lying?

JODY MARSH: Exit to the caves, near the cliffs.

SHONA: There's time for Chief Macallan to bring in her body if we tell him what's happening. The radio's at the top of this hill. Let's hurry!

[rain pours, wind whistles]

SHONA: Here we are. We'll run through these stone house frames. The radio's in the last one, nestled into the side of the hill. Nobody's lived here for ages. See how the grass has grown over the buildings?

SAM YAO: Ellie would have loved this! She studied ancient cultures. She did so much research about this place. Hey, you said you had some notes about the missing bit of the Edda. Anything about zombies?

SHONA: Zombies? Oh. You think the Wakened Warriors were zombies? I never thought of that. The Wakened Warriors were supposed to be very noble defenders of what's right. Your friend Ellie sounds wonderful. Like my uncle Callum. He loved the history of these islands.

JODY MARSH: That was your uncle who Jones murdered? He's killed so many people on the mainland now. How did he escape justice here?

SHONA: He didn't escape. He left. We ran him off, really, best we could. The chief couldn't prove what he'd done, but we all knew the truth. We shunned Jones. Wouldn't sell to him. Wouldn't even say hello when we saw him in the street. He headed for the mainland within a year. Ah, look. There. There's the radio. Just – just give me a moment. [radio crackles] Chief Macallan? This is Shona.

DUNCAN MACALLAN: Oh. Is this about the sheep?

SHONA: No, it's not about the sheep! [continues in the background]

TOM DE LUCA: You doing all right, Jane? You look exhausted.

JANINE DE LUCA: I'm fine. It's been a long march uphill. Five, you're the only one still looking fresh.

PAULA COHEN: You have to pace yourself, Janine. The whites of your eyes are inflamed. That's the nanites.

SAM YAO: She's got 25 days though, Paula. You and Veronica said 30 days in total. 5 days gone. 25 days!

PAULA COHEN: But they won't be days of good health! I'm really sorry. Janine, exertion won't help. Please, take a moment to sit down now. This is good news. If we can't catch Jones today, at least the islanders will help us find him.

SHONA: I've spoken to the chief. Patrol are going to help us. They're coming to the south. We'll head west, to the beach, and catch Jones together. Come on. We must hurry!

[waves crash on beach, seagulls caw]

JODY MARSH: Wow! The cloud's clearing from the moon and I can see all the way down the beach from this cliff path. It's beautiful! The sea is all silver in the moonlight, and the beach looks really sandy!

SHONA: The storms go like this here. We'll have a few minutes of peace, then it'll go rough again. But you'll need to watch your feet now. The path's slippy. Only way over is by stepping on the blue rock.

SAM YAO: Wow, you really know this island.

SHONA: It's in my blood. Can I ask you something?

SAM YAO: Sure. I mean, I think you've probably saved our lives.

SHONA: What do you want with Lachlan Jones? To execute him for killing those folk on the mainland?

JANINE DE LUCA: He... has something of value to me.

SHONA: Not the Edda?

JANINE DE LUCA: No. We would love to see the Edda, of course, but if the island is its rightful home, it should stay here.

SHONA: So what does he have?

JANINE DE LUCA: He... poisoned me before he left. A technological poison. It's slow-acting, and he has a control box which can reverse its effect.

SHONA: [?]. In his messages, he said he was living quietly, just wanted to be accepted back home. If I'd know any of that... well. I'd not have come out late at night to try to find him.

SAM YAO: So, you know what we're doing here. We know what you're doing here. The question is is what Jones is really doing here. I can't see him peacefully taking up Hebridean farming, somehow.

TOM DE LUCA: We'll find out soon enough. Look through my binoculars, Five. That's his boat, isn't it, at the far end of the beach? He hasn't set sail. If we hurry now, we'll reach him before he has a chance!

PAULA COHEN: The wind's picking up again. Five, do you see that? Are those nets strung between those causeways? Won't they blow away?

SHONA: Those are my dad's idea. The high winds throw up all sorts – fish and crabs, driftwood and metal we can use. The nets are elasticated. When the weight in them is heavy enough, they snap shut. We pick them up when the storm dies down.

PAULA COHEN: Clever. Reminds me of our rainwater collectors at Abel.

SHONA: My dad's a proud islander. He's always wanted us to be self-sufficient. We have a wind farm, weaving, a distillery. All of it. He never wanted to be laird, but he's very good at it.

JODY MARSH: Sounds like it.

SHONA: Just don't tell him I said so.

TOM DE LUCA: Look, down by the boat. There's a body lying face down.

JANINE DE LUCA: Everyone back, out of the line of sight. It could be a trap.

SAM YAO: Hey, can I borrow the binoculars, Tom? That is the same outfit Jones was in when he left. I'd recognize that jumpsuit anywhere. I think he's... I mean, he's either taking a long nap in the middle of a hurricane or... or he's dead.

SHONA: Plenty of people here want him dead.

JANINE DE LUCA: Did any of them know he was arriving this evening?

SHONA: Only the one who sent the message.

TOM DE LUCA: If he is dead, we need to get to his body now. If we don't get there quickly, he'll wash out to sea. Go!

[waves crash onto beach, wind whistles]

SAM YAO: Bloody hell! That storm's really coming now.

[storm warning siren blares]

SHONA: Storm warning, urgent! We've only a few minutes to get to shelter.

JANINE DE LUCA: Jones is definitely dead. Shot through the head. We must search his body. With luck, he'll have the Edda and the nanite controller in the pocket of this jumpsuit. Five, Tom, Doctor, can you help me flip him?

TOM DE LUCA: Got it. Lift and flip on three. One, two, three -

JANINE DE LUCA: That isn't Jones.

PAULA COHEN: He's wearing Jones' clothes.

SAM YAO: Hey, just a sec! No, I know him. He worked for Sage. He was on the oil rig.

JANINE DE LUCA: Yes, I've met with him on several occasions with Mr. Lynne. His name is Arnold. A composting specialist. He's roughly the same height and build as Jones, dressed in his uniform, with his name badge!

JODY MARSH: So Jones brought him here to try to fake his own death, knowing that his contact was expecting him here? Thinking the body would wash out to sea before anyone got a good look at it.

DUNCAN MACALLAN: Shona, is this them?

SHONA: Aye. Abel Township friends, this is Chief Duncan Macallan.

DUNCAN MACALLAN: We've taken your friend's body, respectfully. We... nothing like this has happened before.

SAM YAO: You're the one that shot Ellie. She bloody loved this island! She was the one who kept telling us over and over how amazing it was, and the history and the culture and everything and you shot her!

DUNCAN MACALLAN: I am so, so sorry! I thought you weren't moving like zombies, but only zombies ever come through there, and it was dark and the storm, I can't - ! There's nothing I can say. [storm warning siren blares] Please. You have to get to shelter. Is that Lachlan Jones? Is he dead?

JANINE DE LUCA: No, Chief Macallan. Unfortunately, that is not Mr. Jones. So you have a storm brewing, a murder and a homicidal man on the island whose plans are as yet unclear.

SAM YAO: And it's midnight. So we've only got 24 days left to find him.