#so i am hesitant to call myself a historian

[allbeendonebefore]

What's the difference between a historian and a person who just enjoys history in the sense on how they consume information?

A degree in History, generally.

Not to be one of those curmudgeonly elitist academics but... there is a fair bit of academic rigour in what a capital-H Historian does vs an amateur (at least post-1977 as a benchmark anyway)

if we are talking "is Herodotus or Thucydides a historian" like, in terms of the past, that's a different question altogether and scholars are still arguing over it so there's no one size fits all answer

[vizslasaber]

FRIENDLY FIRE ──── ii.

SUMMARY | The mission continues, and with it, your growing suspicion of Krell’s authoritarian methods. But the troopers relying on you—including Rex—lead you in the right direction: one of unyielding kindness, even when it’s hard.

PAIRING | Captain Rex x female Jedi!reader

WORD COUNT | 3.7k

WARNINGS | Combat/action, mentions of injury & death, Krell being a bitch as usual, gender neutral use of the term “sir,” gratuitous use of Mando’a, and one (1) curse word. Also, a Shakespeare reference because I’m a historian & couldn’t help myself.

A/N | Yay, chapter 2! As you'll probably notice, I changed the reader's story a little bit, and I like it better now as it adds more tension to the plot. Enjoy!

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST | TAGLIST | NAVIGATION | AO3

For once, you’re glad to have woken up early. It gives you time to get in a pep talk you know will motivate the men rather than bring their morale down, as you know Krell’s speech—which he gave upon arrival—would have done.

“Alright, men,” you call briskly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as you pace back and forth in front of the battalion. “You would all do well to remember that it’s not just the safety of the Republic relying on our success—the other battalions have placed their trust in us. Generals Kenobi and Tiin will stop approximately two kilometers outside the capital city, waiting for us to get close enough to begin our initial assault.”

You glance at Rex, who’s standing beside you, and nod for him to continue.

The Captain steps forward. “We’re about elevens klick behind them right now, and fifteen klicks from the capital,” he says. “We’ve got to make good time—and it’s going to be hard, what with the enemies we’re sure to meet along the way. The native population doesn’t play around, and neither do their weapons capabilities. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” comes a unanimous shout from the rest of the troopers. They start to disperse, packing up camp faster than your eyes can follow, and you nod to yourself in satisfaction.

“Rex,” you start, then hesitate as he turns to you with a raised eyebrow. “Is it… are you alright with forgoing titles? I always seem to forget to use them.”

Rex looks almost torn—likely between protocol and what you’re asking—but eventually nods. “Of course, sir,” he says, then blanches. “I mean…”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “I just don’t want to feel bad if I slip up.” He smiles slightly, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “As I was saying—do you have a chief medical officer that I can talk to?”

“Yeah, that would be Kix,” Rex tells you, then frowns. “Is… everything alright?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You adjust one vambrace, looking out at the men, then at General Krell on the far side of camp, who’s been surveying the battalion tempestuously since you began to speak. “I just… wanted to ask him something. About battlefield medicine.”

“Are you a medic?” Rex asks, shifting his helmet to one hand.

You grimace at the clinical, militaristic term. “Something like that.”

Rex looks doubtful, but motions to a trooper with an intricately buzzed haircut who's putting supplies into a pack. "Kix—get over here!" he calls, before nodding to you and leaving as he puts on his helmet.

"General," the trooper greets with a crisp salute, and you notice that his pauldrons have the universal sign for medic painted on them in a bright, obvious red. "How can I help you?"

"Actually," you say with what you hope is a courteous smile, "I was hoping to ask you the same question. You're the battalion's CMO right?"

Kix tilts his head. "Yeah..." he says. "I'm not the only medic, though. Got a whole team of 'em. We specialize in what we do, sir, train for it our whole lives, so I don't want to be rude, but—"

"Don't worry about that," you cut in, shaking your head. "I'm not a medic—I haven't been trained in combative tactics—but I am a healer."

"So, like," Kix pauses, searching for the right word as he does so, "a Jedi doctor?"

You snort. "That's... one term for it, yes." You watch as Kix moves the weight of his medpack from one shoulder to the other. "Force healing is an ability that a Jedi is born with. Not every Jedi can become a healer—using the Force to reverse the effects of an injury is not something that can be learned."

There's a pause as Kix nods slowly. "Reversing the effects," he echoes, fascinated. "Even bacta can't do that—it just speeds up the healing process. Sounds like we could use your help."

"Yes," you say. "That's why I wanted to speak with you." You let out a sigh, remembering one of the first things your master told you as a Padawan. "But it's not all-powerful. Just like bacta can only heal what is able to be healed, Force healing cannot create a life force where there isn't one. If someone is near-death, trying to bring them back would render me unable to defend myself from exhaustion."

"Right," Kix replies. "So no resurrection."

"No resurrection," you affirm, smiling. "But I can help. And I know triage."

"Oh, that's even better!" Kix exclaims, then holds out his wrist comm. "Here—we've got a medic frequency—" he waits for you to scan his comm to yours, and when the happy little chime sounds, he pulls away. "Thank you, General."

"Of course," you say as he turns to leave. "And thank you, Kix."

The battalion falls silent and prepares to move out—but just as you’re double checking your armour, a cold, sharp presence casts a shadow over you. Turning around, you make eye contact with General Krell, who's now standing just a short ways from where you and Kix were talking—like he was listening.

“Conspiring with the soldiers, General?” Krell sneers, putting a mocking emphasis on the last word. You raise an irritated eyebrow.

“Conspiring?” you repeat, glancing at the hastily assembling troopers. “They're hardly the enemy, Master Krell. I only want us to win this campaign as quickly and smoothly as possible." Before you can reign in your impulse control, you add, "And continuing to let the troopers rest will get us there faster."

“Rest is a luxury we cannot afford!” Krell snaps, and you jump in surprise at his excessive volume. He leans forward, acrid breath forcing you to resist the urge to cough. “The other battalions are far ahead of us, and you think we have time.”

“We do,” you reply calmly, despite your quickening heartbeat. “The men are keeping a good pace, especially with this difficult terrain. Fifteen clicks isn't far, especially with the supplies we have.” You purse your lips. “Now, I suggest we set off. Talking will slow us down as well, Master—and as you so wisely pointed out, luxuries are not something we can ask for.”

You walk away, then, and feel a rush of satisfaction enveloped in a Force signature that you’re almost positive belongs to Rex. Resisting a pleased smile, you let your hands drift to where your lightsabers are clipped to your belt before moving to walk beside Rex.

“Captain,” you greet, taking notice of the way Rex’s shoulders tense just slightly. “Shall we?”

“Yes, General,” Rex replies, voice clipped. He motions for the battalion to follow, and soon the two of you, along with a still angry General Krell, are leading the troopers through the unwelcoming terrain of Umbara.

The journey is precarious and—as much as you hate to admit it—tiring. Hours pass, and soon you’re almost to the checkpoint Rex had pointed out on the map, situated just outside the city’s heavily fortified border.

You stop for a moment, leaning against the glowing trunk of a colossal tree, and fidget anxiously with the tabards of your tunic.

“Sir,” Rex says, and you turn around. “We’re ready to bring our forward platoons in. What do you suggest?”

“We should continue with Anakin’s original plan,” you say quietly. “A surgical strike on the outer defenses—we must take great care not to needlessly damage any of the city’s buildings. I'd prefer minimal collateral damage when we’re done.”

It is a plan you’ve been turning over in your head since you’d landed on the Umbaran surface. Hopefully—and assuming there were no hindrances—it would succeed. Despite being overly idealistic, and sometimes a little too impulsive, Anakin is nothing if not a strategist—when he wants to be.

“If I may,” sneers Krell from behind you, and you set your jaw. “I do not think that General Skywalker’s futile plan will be necessary.”

In spite of yourself, you clench your fists at your sides. “And why not?” you grit out, not bothering to turn around as Krell comes to stand at your side, towering over your figure.

“Captain Rex and his insolent men have already brought it up with me, and I explained this to them as well. I hold the authority here, and I am ordering all platoons to execute a full-frontal assault,” Krell continues, seemingly unfazed by your irritated expression. “We will travel along the main route to the city and force them to yield.”

“Force them to—” you cut yourself off and draw in a deep, calming breath. There is no emotion, you remind yourself vehemently. There is only peace. “Master Krell. With all due respect, we can't just storm in there with no plan. Casualties will rocket if we try something that impulsive. I just don't think—”

“Need I remind you, General Neridian,” Krell interrupts scathingly, “that you are only one week into Knighthood? We may be of equal military rank, but I am a Master, and therefore hold precedence over your commands.”

“This isn’t about me or you,” you hiss, swiveling to face Krell as your patience is finally pulled taut. Ignoring the shocked stares you know the troopers have fixed on you, you cross your arms. “It’s about this campaign. It's about our mission, and it's bigger than us. So I suggest we agree to disagree, and carry on with General Skywalker’s plan—”

Krell clicks his tongue. “Losing your temper already?" He asks, and you could swear he's taunting you, waiting to see when you'll do something mortifying like raise your voice (but then again, he's done it several times already and it's only been a day). "How unfortunate. Perhaps the Council should not have been so adamant that you face the Trials so early."

You blink and take a step back. He's right, and you know it. You're one of the youngest Padawans to face the Trials in generations, as are all your peers, thrust into a rushed end to your training at the beginning of the war. So many of your friends—Darra, Galene, Ferus, and of course, Anakin, the most tenacious of them all—seem to have risen to this unique challenge with their heads held high. But all you can seem to do is flinch away from the ugly parts, the parts that remind you of just how unprepared you are for these new and daunting responsibilities.

Unclenching your fists, you swallow the bile in your throat and try to stop your hands from trembling. “The Council,” you say, voice tight, "made their choice. And so must I make mine." You turn to Rex, who's standing just behind you and gripping his helmet with both hands. “Captain—prepare the troops. We’re going with General Skywalker’s plan.”

“I…” Rex’s knuckles have gone white with how hard he’s clutching his helmet, and he looks strangely helpless. “I’m sorry, General, but—the regs state that General Krell outranks you due to his status as a Jedi Master.” He presses his lips together and averts his gaze from yours, cheeks red with what you know is anger. “I’m afraid that General Krell’s orders do indeed… take precedence over yours.”

Beside you, Krell looks more satisfied than you’ve ever seen him. The Besalisk turns to the battalion and crosses his upper set of arms over his chest.

“Troopers!” he barks, and the soldiers stand at attention simultaneously. “Prepare to move out!” He presses a button on his wrist comm, and a holomap flickers to life. “You will take the main road straight to the capital. You will not stop and you will not turn back, regardless of the resistance you meet. We will attack them with all our troops—not some sneak attack with a few men.”

You close your eyes and clasp your hands behind your back. There is no emotion, there is peace.

It feels less like a mantra and more like a meaningless, empty chant. Peace, you think despairingly, looks to be farther than ever.

"Sir." Rex clears his throat, making you look up to see him watching Krell like one might survey a blown fuse at risk of setting fire to a building. "Sir, General Neridian is right. This is practically a suicide mission. I don't think—"

“What you think, Captain, is irrelevent. You have my orders, and you will follow them explicitly,” Krell growls, then leans forward, turning to the Captain. “Do I make myself clear, CT-7567?”

Your eyes widen in shock and you glare at Krell, crossing your own arms over your chest to mimic Krell’s stance. “It’s Rex, General,” you snap. “Captain Rex. That’s how he introduced himself, if you've forgotten?”

Many troopers turn to you, and you can tell—even under their helmets—that they’re clearly surprised at your derisive tone. You ignore them, turn on your heel, and storm away, but not before you hear Rex mutter, “Crystal, General Krell.”

The path is lit with some form of concentrated bioluminescent light, making it easier for you to see where you’re going. The clones have the advantage of night vision built into their visors, which makes it hard not to envy them. That alone, that feeling so unbecoming of a Jedi is enough to make you feel a sting of shame, not unlike the feeling that so often came with a scolding from Master Venn when you were still a Padawan.

You wonder for the millionth time if you’ve been forced into Knighthood too soon. Of course, there is nothing to do about that now—every war needs warrior, after all—just like there was nothing you could do when Master Venn told you the news just one week years ago.

She was grim when she told you, and your stomach goes cold with the memory of how she delivered the news, like she was handing you your own death sentence. Now, you know why.

And some have greatness thrust upon them, you think bitterly, remembering how often Master Venn made you read ancient poetry as a Padawan, the kind so old it's still stored on dusty books instead of firmware.

“General.”

You turn to find that Rex has fallen into step with you and smile. “Captain,” you acknowledge. “Forgive me. I was just…” you clear your throat. “Lost in thought.”

Rex—now wearing his helmet—nods and turns his gaze to the path ahead. “Thinking about the plan?”

“No,” you admit sheepishly. “Just about—” you gesture vaguely to your surroundings “—all of this. This war, this strife.” Shaking your head, you fidget with the one of the lightsaber hooks on your belt, clasping and unclasping it. “How fast I've been thrown in, and whether or not it’s necessary.”

“Hm.” You can hear the frown in Rex’s voice. “If it’s any consolation, we clones have mixed feelings about the war, too.”

You raise an eyebrow and turn to look at him. “How so?”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug and turns his head away. “Just that… well, I’d rather do without all the lives lost, but... without it, we wouldn’t exist, would we?”

Frowning, you consider this. “I suppose you’re right,” you concede. “But it is the will of the Force that you came to be. And,” you add, shooting Rex a sly smile, “the galaxy would be very different if you hadn’t, hm?”

There’s a moment of silence, during which you get the feeling that the troopers behind you are listening to your conversation. Rex seems lost for words, until he clears his throat. “Me specifically, sir?” You nod, and Rex adjusts his helmet. “I—I don’t know. I’m just one man, aren’t I?”

“That may be so, Captain, but you’ve made more of a difference than you think,” you inform him. “I think I’m correct in assuming that you’ve saved General Skywalker’s arse more times than he alone can count.”

Behind you, someone lets out a surprised laugh, then tries to cover it up as a cough. You smile at Rex and continue.

“And even without that, you’re responsible for many of the Republic’s victories in this war.” You shake your head. “The smallest insect feeding off of a single flower’s nectar has an impact on the entire garden. In the Force, we are all an entire world, a whole galaxy. Never assume that you do not make a difference.”

You feel a ripple of shock, gratitude, and something else—something you can’t quite place—flow through the Force. It’s a refreshing change from the tension and stress of the mission, and you’re just about to open your mouth to thank Rex when—

A white-hot warning flashes in the Force, and there’s a split-second warning as you scan your surroundings for the threat. Then—

“Get back!” you shout, and the troopers in your immediate vicinity immediately scramble off of the path.

They’re just in time—the sheer force of the explosion is enough to knock you off your feet and send you flying backwards. You land on something hard and feel all of the air get knocked out of you.

“Mines!” someone shouts. “Nobody on the path move!”

You freeze as you realize that the surface you landed on is, in fact, Rex—specifically, his armour. Your back is pressed to his chest plate, and you can feel his nervousness as though it is your own, but neither of you move for fear of setting off another mine.

Your cheeks burn when Rex finally leans forward, void of his helmet—it must have been knocked off it the blast. He's close enough to your ear to whisper, “Left. Slowly.”

It sends chills down your spine, but you shake them off. Drawing in a deep breath, you oblige, easing left and onto your knees, so you’re kneeling beside a disoriented-looking Rex. He looks shaken, but quickly gathers himself and cautiously stands up as he scans the area for his helmet.

“Oz is down,” you hear one of the medics say grimly. “So is Ringo.”

Rex spares you one last glance before swooping down to pick up his helmet, brushing the dirt off the visor. He moves to inspect the dead troopers. “Can you sweep ‘em?”

For a long moment, there’s silence as the medics gently move the bodies aside—you respectfully avert your eyes, feeling the sting of grief from the other troopers—and set them down on the side of the path. You hear Kix declare happily that there are no injured despite the two casualties and smile to yourself.

There’s no time to bury the dead troopers, so you settle for approaching Rex and placing a hand on his tense shoulder, over his pauldron with fading and scratched blue paint. “Nu kyr'adyc,” you murmur. “Shi taab'echaaj'la."

Not gone, merely marching far away.

Rex turns his head, and this close, you can see his wide eyes through the visor of his helmet. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then raises his hand and places it over yours. It lasts for a split-second; the next thing you know, he’s pulling away, talking quietly to Fives and Kix.

“Come on, men,” you call to the rest of the battalion. “We need to—”

Chills fly up your spine and you stiffen, just as a loud, shrieking sound engulfs the path and—BOOM! More troopers go flying into the air. There are shouts of Basic, Mando’a, and Umbaran, and the firefight begins, during which you realize—

An ambush. You draw one lightsaber to deflect an oncoming barrage of blasterfire, but it's not enough, and there's no cover afforded to the terrain.

“Shit," you mutter under your breath as you switch on your shoto saber, calling on your knowledge of Jar'Kai to deflect the bolts with both blades. You raise your voice and call over your shoulder. "We’re fully exposed! Retreat to the forest!”

“We can’t, General!” shouts a voice, and you turn to see a blue-painted helmet accented with a small red arrow: Fives. “They’re coming from all directions—” he grunts and fires another blast “—we don’t have any cover!”

You feel your blood run cold. There’s no way for you to retreat—and it’s all Krell’s fault.

“We need them to follow us!” Rex answers, standing with his back to yours as he fires his blasters rapidly. “If we can draw them out, we can see them—and if we can see them, we can hit them!”

“Good idea,” you breathe, even though you know it’s too loud for Rex to hear you. Raising your voice, you lift one lightsaber so the other troopers can see the path. “All squads, pull back now!” You close your eyes for a moment to call on the Force, then propel yourself upwards and leap through the air so you’re at the back of the group. “I’ll take the rear! Cover me—sword and shield maneuver!”

The troopers obey, and soon you find yourself at the center of a tight semicircle formed by clones, all firing mercilessly on the Umbaran soldiers. You bite your lip and shift to Soresu to parallel the blasterfire more easily, deflecting the barrage as quickly and efficiently as you possibly can.

Just behind you is an AT-RT walker, defending your flank. Beside you is a trooper with intricately painted markings on his helmet, firing a rotary cannon and shouting, “Ha-ha! Where you goin’? Get back here, you wimps!”

You grin at his sheer audacity. “Careful there, trooper,” you admonish playfully, deflecting another blaster shot.

“They’re falling back!” Fives shouts, then, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The troopers all holster their blasters while you hook your lightsaber onto your belt.

“CT-7567, do you have a malfunction in your design?” You turn around and raise your eyebrows as Krell approaches Rex, looking furious. “You’ve pulled your forces back from taking the capital city. The enemy now has control of this route. This entire operation has been compromised because of your failure!”

You feel your hands start to shake. “Master Krell,” you say, trying your best to remain calm, “I gave the order to pull back, not Rex. We were completely surrounded and couldn’t risk losing any more men.”

Krell, looking furious at worst and disgruntled at best, saying nothng. Seizing the opportunity to walk away, you turn on your heel and breathe through the anger, urging yourself to keep going, trying to find a quiet place to rest and meditate for just a few minutes.

And you do. Closing your eyes, you lean against the firm trunk of a glowing tree, wiping sweat from your brow. It’s quiet, and you can hear the steady chirping of crickets (or something else) in the phosphorescent grass.

“General Krell,” says a trooper’s voice. It’s more firmthan Rex’s—Fives, you're pretty sure. “In case you haven’t noticed, Captain Rex just saved this platoon. Surely you won’t fail to recognize that.”

Blinking in surprise, you start to return to the group, wondering if this is an argument you’ll be able to break up—but the hum of a lightsaber being drawn makes you stop in your tracks.

“ARC-5555,” Krell growls. “Stand down.”

You feel your mouth go dry and approach the other troopers. Krell is standing with his back to you, but you can clearly see the green blade of his lightsaber from where you stand, hovering next to Fives's neck. If only Esya could see this, you think, horrified.

Don’t make any sudden moves, your Master’s teachings remind you. He could strike, and then you’d be responsible for the death of yet another man.

Just after the tense conversation between Fives and Krell, the Umbarans returned, sparking yet another firefight—this one with more casualties than the last. You were forced to retreat with the platoons, exhausted and spent.

Now, you sit on the ground, leaning against a fallen tree trunk in a brief moment of rest while the troopers drive away a small squad of Umbarans. In your hand is a pocket holotransmitter, refracting a cluster of blue light in the form of Esya Venn.

“I feel your discomfort from here, young one,” the older Theelin Master is saying, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Impossible,” you scoff. “You’re all the way on Coruscant, there’s no way.” There’s a moment of silence, during which the hologram flickers. You add, “And I’m not so young anymore, you know.”

Esya smiles wanly—you notice the shadows under her normally bright eyes with a pang of sadness—and shakes her head, her long colorful hair swishing lightly.

“You're still young to me,” she says softly, gently. "And you're avoiding the subject."

“I’m fine, Master,” you sigh. “Really.”

"You must not know me as well as I thought," Esya replies primly, a hint of a smile showing through her stern expression, "if you think you can lie to me like that."

You sigh again, frowning down at the flickering hologram. "It's just..." you shake your head, staring off into the foggy distance. "I'm concerned about Master Krell's tactics. They're aggressive, nothing like what you taught me of strategy, and they don't take into account the fact that we need to strive for as little casualties as possible—on both sides."

"Hm." Esya crosses her arms. "I have heard of Master Krell's... unconventional style. Is there anything else that concerns you about him?"

"I mean—everything, really," you admit, lowering your voice. "He has a blatant disregard for life that I haven't seen in a Jedi in, well... ever. He refers to the clones by their birth numbers, not their names, and he sees the native fauna as just—objects. Nuisances." You place the holotransmitter on the ground in front of you and shift your sitting position. "I fear that, to him, no life is sacred."

"If that were the case, I do not think the Council would have granted him the rank of Master," Esya says, but she looks thoughtful, like there's something she isn't saying. "Who is the commanding officer?"

"His name is Captain Rex," you say. "He's Anakin's first-in-command. I think he's just as worried by Master Krell as I am, and..." you trail off, unsure how to voice your next thought.

"What is it?" Esya prompts, light eyebrows raised.

"There's something about him—about Rex," you say finally, reluctant. "It's like the Force is trying to tell me something. That—that he's important. But I can't figure out why." You huff, fighting back a frustrated scowl. "I wish the Force would just tell me. But the answer is so—so elusive."

"As is everything since the start of this war," Esya replies, shaking her thorned head. She fixes you with a fond expression. "But, Padawan... you must remember that the Force is not your enemy, but your ally. If you open your eyes, it will show you the way."

"Yes," you murmur, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. The sounds of talking from the group's position behind you make you frown. "I have to go. May the Force be with you, Master."

“And with you. Always,” Esya replies before cutting off the connection seconds later.

You stand, tucking the transmitter into your pocket, then make for the rest of the group and move to stand beside Captain Rex. He's observing General Krell talk to General Kenobi via comlink.

“The capital city’s too fortified,” General Kenobi is saying grimly. “We still need your battalion to help us take it.”

“Resistance from the Umbarans has been greater than anticipated,” Krell replies. “We’re holding our ground at the moment.”

You swallow, averting your gaze to your boots. Holding our ground… what does Krell think is happening? Surely he hasn’t failed to notice the heavy casualties your battalion is sustaining.

“We’ve gathered intel on an airbase to the west,” General Kenobi replies. “It is resupplying the capital’s defenses.”

Taking a step forward, you cross your arms over your chest. “Should we attempt to take control of the airbase, then?”

Turning to you, General Kenobi nods. “Yes,” he answers. “Doing so will sever the capital’s supply lines, allowing the rest of our forces to move in.”

“I’ll see to it that the airbase is placed under our control,” Krell says decisively. It sends a wave of nausea through your stomach.

“Remember, Master Krell; Knight Neridian,” Kenobi says, mouth pulling into a tight frown, “The entire invasion depends on your battalion.”

Krell nods and severs the connection, then turns to you. “Neridian, have those coordinates mapped when you’re finished here, and make sure all troops are ready to move out immediately.” He walks away, leaving you alone with Captain Rex.

You watch Krell retreat with a feeling of incessant dread. “Right, then,” you say to Rex. “What do you say the odds are that we finish this thing his way?”

“Good question, General,” Rex says, and you can hear the smile in his voice as he watches the Umbaran sky darken with more eerie purple clouds. "I guess there's only one way to find out."

NEXT CHAPTER >

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[thesecrethistori-an]

Probably too vulnerable for the internet but who cares at this point

I was thinking of a concept I learned about with my high school history teacher who sadly passed earlier this year. We didn’t see each other often, but she knew I appreciated her. We met a few times over coffee and the last time I saw her she gifted me the most thoughtful bouquet of flowers because she said it reminded me of my personality.

The feeling is more complex than “missing her”. You don’t exactly miss someone you don’t really see. But every so often, especially since I started focusing on more historical topics and approaches (I still hesitate calling myself a historian because of my International Studies background), I find myself thinking of her. Of the intellectual respect she treated us with even though we were just a bunch of silly teenagers. This is how I want to treat my students.

I still use the abbreviations she taught us. The symbols she would draw on the whiteboard. I genuinely encounter something that makes me think about her once a month. I dedicated my BA thesis to her (when she was still with us) and apparently this made her very happy during a time when teaching had become a bit harder for her. I know her last years teaching were not happy and I’m glad she knew I really valued her and the impact she had on me (academically, politically, personally). That her teaching was not the problem at all.

I also dedicated my MA thesis to her. I plan to do the same with my doctoral dissertation. I cry every time I think about her. I truly believe I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for her. She wouldn’t want me to think she’s in heaven or anywhere of sorts and I’m not going to pretend I do. She was an atheist and so am I. But I hope she knew, while she still could, that her teaching was life-changing for some of us.

[pitch---black---sky]

...Hello...

🦇 Anastasia, 19 years old (really, but no NSFW).

🦇 Photographer, gamer, virtual bus driver, Minecraft builder, historian.

🦇 Moved from @pitch--black--sky .

🦇 TAKEN by the best man of my life.

🦇 Inspired by old horror and black metal music.

🦇 Speak: Russian, Belarusian, Romanian, Polish, Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, English, French, German, Dutch, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese.

🦇 No, I won't be your "sugar baby", "bitch", "slave", etc. I'm not interested.

🦇 No, I'm not publishing myself here, and yes, this is my own desire.

🦇 Interested in: Science, ethnography, geography, transport, electricity, gothic theme, old horror.

🦇 DNI: Spammers, scammers, p*rn blogs, NSFW blogs, horny perverted men and women, "sugar daddies", "doms", n*zis, r*cists, islamophobes, russophobes, anti-semites, fake blogs, drvg shops.

...Rules...

🦇 DO NOT SPAM HERE.

🦇 Do not write "message me", "hey sweetie message me", "hey hmu", and shit like that. Those comments will be deleted, commenters will be cursed, blocked and reported. The same applies to comments with insults.

🦇 Also, I don't hesitate to curse, block and report those who who offer me a relationship. I'm already in a relationship and I love my boyfriend. The same fate awaits those who insult me because of my boyfriend or my boyfriend through me.

🦇 As I wrote in the first part of the post, I don't publish myself and / or NSFW content. So, horny men, stay away from here and don't stalk me for this type of content. Otherwise, I won't hesitate to curse you, block you, and report. (Moreover, I don't have any OnlyFans or Fansly accounts).

🦇 Also I'm hot happy to see those men who offer me to be their "sugar baby", "good girl", "bitch", "whore", etc. Those types of men make me so fucking sick. So I don't hesitate to curse, block and report all of them. The same applies to some women who call themselves "mistresses".

🦇 I'm not into sexting. Those who write me comments on the topic of sexting, they will be cursed, blocked and reported.

🦇 I am a gamer, so I post edits and my characters here. So, don't write in the comments "baby message me" and shit like that. THESE ARE GAME CHARACTERS. So, such comments will be deleted. Commenters will be cursed, blocked and reported.

[fromashesweriseuphiddenones]

Day 2

Tiber Island was exactly as Desmond recalled from the Animus, if not bigger. Sure it needed work right now but it would work. He had a look of nostalgia before he returned his attention to Ezio. Ezio looked nervous actually before he asked Desmond

"So the whole message in the vault?"

"Ezio I am from roughly five hundred years into the future. There are things I know about you, the brotherhood, and...our family that have yet to happen."

Truth was best. Ezio's face fell hearing that, guessing Desmond would be restricted in what he could tell him.

"For instance, civilian historians don't know why you and the remainder of your family dropped off the records after...well you know."

Ezio heard the way Desmond was trying to be sensitive to the deaths of his father and brothers. There was a sigh before Desmond softly revealed

"A friend of mine, who is a historian for the brotherhood, left what was written about your baby brother as is. Left him out of the war between our factions."

Ezio looked up. Modern historians didn't know Pertiucco was caught up in the cross fire so it were. And when a historian who was an assassin learned the truth didn't change the cause of death.

"So they believe..."

"That his illness finally got the better of him."

Ezio hugged Desmond thanking him in proxy to Shaun for his empathy. Desmond hugged back. Desmond also said

"You know your father was only trying to protect you. As you already know, the assassin life isn't for the faint of heart."

"I know, I just don't understand why I wasn't told."

"Actually he was going to tell you, just... Rodrigo got to him first in a matter of speaking."

Ezio broke down in tears as Desmond just let him feel all his emotions. Finally they broke the hug and Ezio chuckled saying

"We need a ruse to explain you."

"If it helps Ezio, I am 16."

Ezio paused seeing where Desmond was going. He hinted at them being related. He then said

"Oh you cleaver bastore. It can work. I know it. With my reputation."

"Sooo, I have a dad?"

"Si. Hmm Desmond would give it away too much though. You are in the right lighting darker than me, but I do see myself in you."

"My biological mother is Syrian. So I am related to Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad."

Ezio would have dropped what ever he was holding. Now it made sense why Desmond looked so familiar. Ezio took out his sword, Altaïr's famous sword and as he had done with Mario all those years ago attempted to return it to its rightful owner. Desmond hesitated before he said

"No Padre keep it. I would rather not be trapped by my legacy."

Ezio smiled before he asked

"What is a more Syrian name you could be called?"

"Malik."

So thus Malik Auditore da Maysf was born.

[3fluffies]

I just found your Districts Encyclopedia, and I am FLOORED! It is so perfect, so detailed and as someone who is enamored by lore, this is exactly what I need in my life, and will urge myself to memorize it fully. Your District 2 one is my favorite. I’m so fascinated by District 2, making a number of Tik Toks on how it’s a district that was so radically changed after the Dark Days (my friends call me the “District 2 Historian,” and I take that with great pride!). I’ve also made a few bits of lore for myself and my own canon. One related to the naming system of the district, and two funeral/death related traditions (one is actually tied to the Games itself). Could I possibly send it to you? I have it all in a massive GoogleDoc with a stupid long list of OCs right at the bottom. Sorry for the intrusion, but I just wanted to say, in short: I love your work!

Absolutely! It's no intrusion at all! I love love love discussing lore and headcanons (in case you couldn't tell from the Headcanon Encyclopedia!) As you can see from my OC Master List in the Phoenix Fire & Mockingjays series (though I think I'm going to rename it eventually - not entirely happy with that series title), I did the same for my OCs. I just decided I should post the OC list since if I needed a reference guide for so many OCs, readers of my fic definitely would! It's fun to develop them and I enjoy hearing about other people's. Bring it on and never hesitate to reach out to chat or exchange ideas.

(Can't promise I'll always be able to respond fast, though in this case, along with a busy job, I was in the process of a cross-country move, but I will respond.) Thank you so much for your comments!

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

Wow, so this got quite a few notes.

I do want to make it clear that I don't think "hobbyist" or "amateur" are pejorative terms. You love a subject and want to learn more about it in your free time? Wonderful! I encourage that!

Learning in your free time and pursuing knowledge as a hobby is something we need more of.

I am just protective of the professional title. I have slogged through four degrees worth of methods classes and gotten through grueling field exams to qualify as a PhD candidate. Yet, even I feel hesitant to call myself a historian. I feel that I will really earn that when I publish my first book.

Me: I don't really believe in gatekeeping a field where anyone can learn with enough work. The training we get in academia isn't impossible to self-teach.

Also me: The number of people calling themselves "historians" or pretending to educate about history on social media when they're just reading Wiki or telling you fun facts is way too high. The job title has meaning. You wouldn't call yourself a mathematician for knowing how to make your graphing calculator make graphs.

[gilthairpins]

Book 2 Chapter 16: It’s Hard to Let Go of the Past

Qiaohui sat on the edge of the kang for most of the day without moving. I called her several times, but there was no response. I put down the book in my hand and said, “Don’t be upset. Go get the list and I’ll take a look.” She still sat there without moving.

I stood up and pushed her and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

She looked up at me and bit her lip without saying anything. After a while she said, “Nothing.” She then stood up to get the list.

“Come back! If there is something, tell me clearly! It’s better for us to think about it together than by yourself. At least we can discuss it with each other.” I shouted.

Qiaohui stood for a bit and walked to the door, lifting the curtain to take a look. She then turned around and sat back down next to me whispering, “The Eighth Lady wants to see Miss.”

As long as I am in the Forbidden City, I will never have a peaceful day. I smiled bitterly and said, We owe her a big favor for my sister’s matter.”

“I thought so too. Besides, she has been half my master for so many years, so I can’t help but pass on her message.” Qiaohui said.

“Just meet her. But if the emperor finds out, this was all my own idea. I wanted to meet Eighth Fujin on my own.” I said. Qiaohui nodded uneasily. There was a hint of fear.

I gently held her hand to comfort her. Thinking of Yutan, my heart ached. I had secretly made up my mind that unless I died, I would never let him hurt Qiaohui again.

Qiaohui supported me and walked slowly in the imperial garden. I smiled, “It’s only a few months and the belly isn’t even visible. I can walk by myself.”

“You are pregnant now, so I will hold you up to be more stable.” She said. I couldn’t do anything with her and could only let her go.

Eighth Fujin came towards me and Qiaohui quickly greeted her. I wanted to salute her, but she turned to the side and calmly said, “Although we haven’t been in public, you are the emperor’s woman and I cannot accept your courtesy.”

“The emperor is about to confer a title on Miss!” Qiaohui’s face flushed red.

I glanced at her and smiled. I wasn’t embarrassed at all, but she felt ashamed for me. I shook her hand and motioned for her to stand aside and watch.

“What is the matter?” I asked Eighth Fujin.

She smiled faintly, “A few days ago, the emperor issued an edict to reprimand me and detained Tenth. Zhangjiakou blamed it on Ye’s instigation.”

“Isn’t it?” I asked after hesitating a moment.

She studied me and said, “This matter is indeed not entirely the intention of Tenth. Although that dog servant Xu Guogui deliberately provoked Tenth, he did confront him but didn’t stay long. It wasn’t the Master’s intention. The Master is now indifferent to these things, and doesn’t care about the ups and downs. He will do whatever the emperor orders him to do. And he can even strip him of his title and imprison him. He even advised Ninth not to go against the emperor. Now that things have come to this, what is there to argue about?”

It turned out to be her idea. I asked with a hint of anger, “Why did you do this? Don’t you know that this will anger the emperor?”

She snorted coldly. “The emperor has been testing us step by step and suppressing us. We have given in again and again, but he always pushes us further! Instead of doing this, we should see how cruel he can be and whether he would be so cruel that he would do anything.”

I stared at her and said solemnly, “If you expect to see an emperor who will be soft hearted for the sake of the judgements of historians and the evaluation of future generations, you are very wrong. If you do this just to let him bear the reputation of torturing his brothers, then the price is too high. Reputation in history books is important, but how can it compare to your own life?”

Eighth Fujin half raised her head and stared at the sky. “The emperor has completely ruined my life. The emperor Shengzu started it, and he has made it worse! All the memorials were checked and destroyed by him. The ministers in court tried to guess his intentions and found faults everywhere, impeaching him at every turn. Some of them were exaggerated, and there were those not just specious. In short, half of my life’s hard work has been useless! And I’ve never done a real thing for the Qing Dynasty.” She shook her head. “If you think I expect those historians to judge right and wrong for us, then I have read books in vain since I was a child. In the Spring and Autumn Annals, there was Dong Hu’s straightforward writing, Sima Qian’s immortal history and articles, Ban Gu and Fan Ye were slightly inferior but still acted in a straightforward manner, and Chen Shou had some private interests in Wei, but he never repeated or altered them against his conscience. But since the emperor Taizong of Tang Li Shimin ascended the throne, history has become the history of the emperor, and he can do whatever he wants.

The only official history that deals with the Xuanwu Gate Incident is the ‘National History’, ‘Emperor Gaozu Records’, and ‘Emperor Taizong Records’ edited and edited by Fang Xuanling and others. The later official history such as the New and Old Tang Books were all based on these. I read this period of history carefully back then, and even in these histories, I couldn’t find any unfavorable words to Li Shimin. I have to admire the meticulousness of Taizong and his historians.

The Xuanwu Gate Incident was actually described as Li Shimin’s repeated concessions and his brothers wanted to kill him. He had no choice but to respond. In order to discredit the other party, such a ridiculous plot was fabricated. Li Shimin went to the Hongmen Banquet in person, drank the poisoned wine of his brothers and did not die. He did vomit several buckets of blood. However, he was alive and well in front of the Xuanwu Gate two or three days later and shot his elder brother, Li Jiancheng, with a strong bow. If the historical facts are true, I can only sigh that Li Jiancheng and Li Yuanji actually left a drop of the best poison in the palace, that was enough to kill them and use street goods for such an important operation.

Or maybe Li Shimin was really the incarnation of a dragon with extraordinary talents who could survive the loss of several buckets of blood and even planned to kill his brothers.”

I was speechless when I heard all this. Eighth Fujin covered her mouth and chuckled. “If there really was an elixir for immortality, I would really wonder how our current Emperor Yongzheng would explain everything he did. How sinister and vicious we would be described as, and how we hindered his wish to serve the world and forced him to punish us.”

After a long while, I said slowly, “The flaws do not outweigh the merits. Although Taizong made mistakes in this matter, he still created the prosperous Zhenguan era. The same will be true for the emperor in the future. But since you don’t have this in mind, why do you want Tenth to stay here?”

She suppressed a smile. “He is only allowed to test our bottom line, but can’t we test to see how he intends to deal with us? If he really intends to imprison us until death, why not announce the decree early and give us a quick death? Why bother playing the cat and mouse game? If it weren’t for your calmness and detachment, I would have been driven crazy long ago. You don’t know the pain of living on the edge of a knife every day, knowing that the knife will fall sooner or later, and wondering every day when it will fall. I used to be afraid, but now, I actually feel that it is a relief if it falls early.” Cat and mouse? Life on the edge of a knife? My mind was in a mess. After a moment of silence, I asked, “You came to see me today if you don’t ask me to plead for Tenth, then what is it you want to say?”

Eighth Fujin studied me. “I’ve learned something strange from Ninth.”

My heart ached. I wonder how Ninth felt when he heard Yutan’s story. Did he have any sympathy?

She continued, “The emperor hates us so much now. Besides the hostilities over the throne for many years, another important reason is probably because of the plot against him that failed and Thirteenth was imprisoned for so many years. This forced him to be cautious for so many years, but you are smart. Have you ever thought about why we suddenly attacked him who has been on good terms with us? If it were just for the throne, why didn’t we target Third who was so low key?”

My heart tightened. Did she think that Eighth was dealing with Fourth out of love? But looking at her expression, it didn’t seem like it. Besides, the plan back then would have taken two or three years to set up. I wasn’t with Fourth at that time.

“Why?” I asked calmly.

She laughed. “This is what is so funny about this matter. I heard from Ninth that someone reminded us more than once to be careful of Fourth and mentioned a long list of names. Although we were skeptical, we decided to make a plan to deal with him just to be sure. So it seems that the emperor hates the wrong person! I can’t blame Thirteenth for all that suffering he endured for ten years. It turns out someone else was the culprit!”

My heart was falling, as if I had stepped off into empty air and fell from a thousand foot height. It was so dark that I couldn’t see the bottom. My body shook and I was about to fall. Eighth Fujin supported me and said with a grin, “Do you think that the emperor would be more sad or angry after learning this?”

I pushed her away and clung to a tree trunk next to me. She stood beside me and said, “You entered the palace from Eighth’s manor and had received the favor of our master for so many years. It’s not that easy for him to get you to sever ties with us. Oh! By the way, Ninth has asked me to tell you something. ‘If we were in ten points of pain, you must bear five points’.”

She ignored me after that and walked away.

Qiaohui ran over to me and saw my condition. She immediately half supported and asked crying, “Miss! Why do you look so pale? Were you feeling unwell? Let’s go get the doctor now!”

I shook my head and motioned for her to help me back first.

When I entered the house, I didn’t even have the strength to step over the low threshold. I stumbled and nearly fell. Qiaohui hugged me tightly, her face pale. She placed me on the couch and helped me drink a few sips of tea.

“Miss, should I ask to call the physician?”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. My internal organs were burning and despair and guilt filled my body, making it hard to breathe. I was always worried about the end for Eighth but I hadn’t expected it to be caused by me. If it weren’t for me, maybe he wouldn’t have planned on dealing with Fourth and maybe everything would be different. Thirteenth suffered many years and I was the cause. And Lu Wu also wouldn’t have suffered. She would have watched Thirteenth from a distance and not have committed suicide by jumping into the river because of the dilemma. What have I been doing all these years?

Qiaohui cried, “What did Fujin say? Miss if you are sad, just cry! Don’t scare Qiaohui! I’ll go get the imperial physician!”

“Qiaohui, please let me be quiet a moment. The imperial physician can’t cure my illness.” I said. Qiaohui suppressed her tears and sat on the couch to accompany me.

The light in the room gradually dimmed. Meixiang came in and asked what we wanted for dinner. Qiaohui lit a lamp and begged, “Miss, please eat first.” She begged several times, but when she saw that I didn’t say anything, she suddenly knelt down beside the couch and kowtowed desperately crying and begging. “Miss please! The master also didn’t say anything or move or eat. Miss, there is nothing more important than the child! Qiaohui begs!”

Meixiang saw the situation wasn’t right and left early. I propped myself up and said, “Qiaohui, it’s not that I don’t want to eat, but I really can’t eat. Let’s do this, serve the food first and I’ll try to eat.” I fell limply to the couch once finished.

Her face was full of tears and her cheeks were red. She quickly ran outside to provide instructions.

Before dinner, Thirteenth showed up. Meixiang came in and said, “Thirteenth Master has come to see auntie.”

I twitched my body suddenly and shrank into the couch. I said softly, “Just say I am asleep.”

Meixiang lowered her head and left silently.

Thirteenth lifted the curtain and came in. With a smile, he said, “I actually have to face the day when you turn me down. I hope my royal brother feels that he is the only one who loses face.”

I turned over and slept facing the wall.

Thirteenth stood still a while and asked Qiaohui, “What’s going on?”

Before she could answer, she burst into tears and cried a long while without saying a word.

“Ruoxi, if I had done anything wrong, just tell me. Isn’t there anything that we can’t talk about?” Thirteenth said.

I was trembling all over, as if my heart were being cut by a knife. I turned around and propped myself up. Qiaohui quickly brought a pillow for me to lean on. I waved to dismiss her and she bowed to Thirteenth and left.

“It’s not you who did wrong, but me!”

“What do you mean?” Thirteenth was stunned. He dragged over a stool and sat down beside the couch.

I studied his thin body carefully. His gray hair, the vicissitudes of life on his brow and eyes, the deep pain in his eyes and his body full of illness. Tears couldn’t help but fall.

“Ruoxi, what happened? You are torturing three people all at the same time. One is the person who loves you deeply, the other is your child. How can you bear it?” He said.

“Today I met Eighth Fujin.” I said.

“What did she say?” His face tightened.

I wiped my tears and said, “She gave me Ninth’s message ‘If we are deeply hurt, you must also bear five points’.”

“Does Ninth know about you and Eighth?” He asked after a moment.

I nodded. “The one who knew the most was Fourteenth, but I guess Eighth didn’t hide it from Ninth. Only Tenth who is less thoughtful was not clear on this matter, but he may have had some idea.”

He hesitated and lowered his head to ask, “How far did you and Mynah get back then? Did you… did you have any physical contact?”

I was stunned for a moment. The memories of walking hand in hand, hugging and kissing on the grassland flashed through my thoughts. My heart became colder and I said unwillingly, “Is it important?”

Thirteenth’s face turned pale and he looked up. “They dare not do anything recklessly about this matter. If they anger the emperor, the first to suffer is Eighth. Unless it is absolutely necessary, they will not use this matter to hurt the emperor. As far as I am concerned, this was Ninth’s idea. Given Eighth’s character, he would never agree to do so. I can take to Eighth first. If it’s just this matter, relax and let me handle it.”

One thing after another, I laid my head on the pillow and cried. Thirteenth, I don’t deserve your kindness! Suddenly I felt pain in my lower abdomen. My vision went dark and I collapsed on the couch. Thirteenth was shocked and quickly picked me up calling, “Ruoxi! Ruoxi! Quickly call the imperial physician!”

Qiaohui rushed in and threw herself on the bed, her face pale. She screamed, “No!” She immediately knelt and kowtowed, desperately begging, “Budda please! You have taken the Master’s child! Please take me! Qiaohui is willing to endure any hardship. She will fast and burn incense every day in the future!”

Thirteenth’s face grew pale and he kept urging people to call for the imperial physician. I opened my mouth wide, just gasping for air. After a while I cried, “The child can’t be saved!”

He lifted the blanket to see my skirt completely dyed red. His hands were shaking and he shouted, “Where is the imperial physician?”

Before he finished his words, Yinzhen and the physician rushed in, one after the other. Thirteenth stood up and made way.

Yinzhen hugged me and angrily asked Thirteenth, “What is going on? I ordered you to persuade people and this is how you do it?” He didn’t wait for Thirteenth’s response and quickly turned to the physician and ordered, “No matter what you do or want, nothing can happen [to her].”

Once completing the pulse check, the physician was shaking and he was pale. Yinzhen said slowly, “No matter the adults or child, nothing can happen to her, or you will be buried with them!”

He turned to Thirteenth, “I was in a hurry at the moment, so…”

“I understand.” He replied. He deliberately uses me instead of his brother. Yinzhen nodded slightly and said nothing more. They both stared at the imperial physician.

Doctor He ordered someone to prepare medicine with a trembling voice and immediately kowtowed to Yinzhen. “I can only try my best to keep her, sir.”

When I heard his words, the breath I held was stolen and I immediately fainted.

There was an endless green grass field and blue sky. Many beautiful bubbles floated up from nowhere. Because of the sunshine, they were colorful and dazzling. Inside each bubble lived a rainbow. In the sky and below the ground they floated and I chased after them joyfully. I flew with each jump, my body as light as those bubbles. I laughed and played with them. They were like elves, I chased them and they teased me when I stopped. Laughter filled the world.

Time seemed to stay in this moment forever, no beginning and no end. When I got tired of playing, I fell asleep, leaning against the bubbles. When I woke I would jump and fly around the bubble rainbows. It felt like my life began and would end like this.

The laughter suddenly got stuck in my throat, and the bubbles that were playing around me suddenly burst one by one. I watched in horror as all the bubbles that had been with me since my birth here were destroyed one at a time and the gorgeous rainbows left me in an instant. I shouted at them to stop, but they shattered in my hands. My hands were shaking and the warm sunlight became cold and merciless.

I felt a sharp pain in my body. I felt several big invisible hands pulling on me in different directions. I felt like I was being torn apart like the bubbles. When the last bubble was destroyed in my hand, I screamed and fell from mid-air.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

I felt someone rushing to the bedside reaching for me. There was someone inserting a needle into my body and they stopped them. “You cannot touch them, your majesty.”

The pain in my body grew worse and worse, and the figure before me grew clearer. I stared at Yinzhen. I was just in a dream, and when we met again your face was covered in dust and your hair white. We looked at each other tenderly with infinite pity and compassion.

Doctor He placed an incense burner beside my pillow. He interrupted Yinzhen, “Your majesty…”

Yinzhen quickly shut up. I stared at him for a while and then became extremely tired. My eyes gradually closed and I fell into a deep sleep with the gentle fragrance of benzoin.

Sleeping and waking, waking and sleeping. Everything seemed like a dream. When I gradually became clearheaded, the fear came back. I suddenly opened my eyes and called out for Qiaohui. Someone beside me rushed to answer.

“Here!”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Young lady is really awake!” Qiaohui said happily.

I studied her haggard face. “It’s been hard on you.”

She burst into tears before I could finish my words. She wiped away her tears and said, “Qiaohui has made a great mistake. Even death isn’t enough to make up for it. It’s just that I am worried about the young lady, otherwise I’d have gone to apologize to the mistress and the master a long time ago.”

I quickly signaled her to be quiet. Qiaohui whispered, “Meixiang and Juyun are decocting the medicine and the emperor has gone to morning court. The emperor has been staying here during this period except for court and he has been resting here.”

After a while, I asked in a daze, “Who served me when I was drowsy and wanted to drink water at night?”

“We all guarded the chamber outside. The emperor was the only one in.” She said.

“Will he investigate this matter?”

Qiaohui’s face immediately twisted into hatred and fear. She lowered her head. “I do not know.”

“You are the only person I care about and you are going to lie to me from now on? Then what is the point of keeping you around?” I said.

Qiaohui cried, “I helped Fujin pass the message that the little princess had been killed. I…”

I suppressed my grief and covered her mouth with my hand. “It is none of your business. Many things are inevitable. There is no effect without cause. You don’t understand the twists and turns, so you blamed yourself. In fact, this had nothing to do with you.”

Qiaohui wiped her tears and said, “The young lady’s condition has been unstable and the emperor has devoted all his attention to your illness. I can’t tell what he is thinking. The emperor himself never mentions the child and no one dares to say anything. I once heard Thirteenth Master advise him to vent if he feels uncomfortable, but the emperor said he was fine. Thirteenth Master asked me in private and I said I didn’t know what you and Fujin talked about that day. He only told me to not have any contact with Eighth Fujin in the future and don’t say anything else.”

“Does the emperor know I had met Eighth Fujin?”

Before Qiaohui could answer, we heard footsteps. She quickly said, “I don’t know.”

Meixiang and Juyun came in, each carrying a wooden tray. Seeing that I was awake, they were both very happy. While greeting me, they relayed, “Doctor He said that aunt will wake up today. Let us prepare food and drink! It’s a miracle doctor!”

Juyun half knelt beside the bed and served me the meal. Lifelike tender green lotus pods floating in the soup. They smelled extremely fragrant and tasted soft and sticky sweet. I couldn’t help but eat a few more mouthfuls. The three were smiling happily.

After finishing my meal and taking my medicine, I asked Qiaohui and Meixiang to wash me and clean myself up. I felt much more relaxed. As they cleaned up, Yinzhen strode in. Qiaohui and Meixiang quickly greeted him, but he ignored them and just stared at me. They looked at each other and lowered their heads, leaving quietly.

I smiled at him as he walked forward a few steps and sat on the edge of the bed. He hugged me. “It’s only a dozen years. It feels like I haven’t seen this day in my life.”

We hugged each other for a while. I said, “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to this child.”

A trace of pain flashed across his face, but when he looked up again, there was only a smile. “It’s okay. Your health is the most important.”

I stared at him. When the child grows up, would they have looked like me or him? If they were a girl, what if she took after him? But I will never see… My heart filled with sadness. I slowly said, “The child is a fairy who has fallen into the mortal world. God didn’t want our child to come to the mortal realm and experience all kinds of hardships, so he took them back. They are now in a place where colorful clouds fly, fairy birds circle and flowers bloom. They must be very happy.”

Yinzhen’s body stiffened, but his tone remained gentle. “Yes, they will be very happy.”

“Don’t blame anyone, okay? If there is anything wrong with this matter, it’s my fault.”

Yinzhen helped me up and gathered my hair. “The most important thing for you now is to take care of yourself. If you keep worrying about irrelevant people or things, I will be really angry!” His tone was gentle, but deep in his gaze, there was a hint of anger and bone chilling coldness. I was shocked.

The words “The emperor’s wrath will result in millions of corpses and thousands of miles of blood” flashed through my mind and I swallowed the words in my mouth.

I only know the general endings of Eighth, Tenth, Fourteenth, etc, but I have no idea/impressions on the ending of their wives. After all, women in ancient times were just a symbol of someone and even their own names would not be left on the family tree, but just certain surnames. Given the deep love of Eighth, how will Minghui face the final ending? The thought of dying together crossed my thoughts.

Yinzhen smiled and said, “The sun is shining brightly today. I’ll take you for a walk outside.”

I nodded and said, “I also want to go outside for a while. If I stay inside I will get sick even if I am not. But I can’t walk much. Ask someone to move two rattan chairs outside and we can sit!”

“Gao Wuyong!” Yinzhen called.

Gao Wuyong responded by pushing a carved sandlewood wheelchair in. It was covered in soft cushions and the handles specially wrapped in embroidered soft cloth.

“What an exquisite thing!” I praised it.

Yinzhen picked me up and placed me into the chair. “It’s important to make it useful. Is it comfortable? If there is something wrong, we can fix it.”

Yinzhen pushed me along the way at leisure. The lilac flowers were in full bloom and the fragrance could be smelled from afar. I laughed and said, “I’m going to miss the flower season again this year. This time last year… I was picking flowers!” I paused half way when I recalled Yutan accompanying me to pick and dry flowers. I suppressed my voice, finishing my words without changing my tone.

He pushed me to the lilac tree and said, “The flowers will bloom again after they fade. So pick them next year!”

I stood up from the chair and walked a few steps to pick a bunch of the purple lilacs and sniffed them for a while. I leaned over and wafted them under Yinzhen’s nose. He smiled. “They smell very good.”

He took a branch from my hand and twisted it around my bun a few times and tied it up. “This way I can smell it just by lowering my head.”

I raised my sleeve and sniffed it and laughed. “The smell of medicine on my body has covered the up the fragrance of the flowers.”

He leaned his head against my shoulder and said, “I only smell the fragrance of medicine and flowers, complimenting each other.”

I wanted to push him away, but failed. Instead, he hugged me tightly, kissing me along my neck and said, “You smell the best.”

Yinzhen used to like teasing me, but he had never gotten carried away in public. I tried to push him away but couldn’t, so I reached out to tickle him under his arms. “Why wont you let go? Someone’s going to see us!”

He laughed loudly and tickled me in return. “Even someone who is the most ticklish dares use this trick. Aren’t you afraid of getting burned?”

Soon I laughed myself into his arms, panting and begging, “You are the emperor! It’s not right for you to be like this!”

Seeing that I was a little short of breath, Yinzhen didn’t dare tease me any more. He hugged me and said, “The emperor is not allowed to have fun with his concubines? Besides, Gao Wuyong and the others are following. Who would dare peek?”

I didn’t hear what he said next as the first sentence kept circling in my mind. Yinzhen finally saw that I had suddenly stopped smiling and said calmly, “I have ordered people to prepare the ceremony for enthronement. When you are better, we will preform the ceremony.”

I forced a smile and said, “Weren’t you unwilling to let me be conferred with a title before? Then it was because of the child. But…. It’s not necessary now.”

He stared at me for a long while. “I was not as scared as I am now. I don’t care whether you are willing or not, I will not allow you to delay this time.”

His tone was firm with no room to maneuver. I wanted to turn around and leave, but when I saw his graying temples, my heart softened. He seemed to have aged ten years in just ten days. So I stopped talking and just leaned into his arms in silence.

[friend-crow]

Hello there what do you believe about familiar feeding and witch marks I’m only curious as to if it’s a purely spiritual thing or if there are physical elements to it because after my raven familiar had accepted me I was taking a bath and I felt a sharp stinging almost stabbing pain on my foot and looked under my pinkie toe and found what looked like a bird bite and that was definitely not there before and even though my familiar told me it was my mark I had to test it out if it was really a witch mark I had asked my familiar to feed from it and each time I felt the same stinging pain it’s been there almost a week does this mean that it really is my mark?

Hmm... I'm afraid I don't really know about witch's marks in that sort of context.

As far as I'm aware, historically a witch's mark was a third nipple or other distinguishing mark which might be employed to accuse someone of being a witch. In the classic example of the third nipple, it was believed that a witch would feed their familiar (which in that context was believed to be a physical creature -- usually an imp wearing the form of a toad or other animal) from this extra nipple as one would nurse a baby.

However, a lot of times a witch's mark was whatever you could find on a person to "prove" the accusations against them. That could be a birthmark, mole, or other physical "abnormality". Any blemish of the skin could do in a pinch -- there were (and still are) very few people who you couldn't find something to call a witch's mark on if you wanted badly enough to accuse them.

Edit: to clarify, the above beliefs regarding witch's marks come from the accusers -- any records we might have (I can't recall off-hand if witch trial records include confessions regarding witch's marks specifically) of people actually admitting to participating in these activities were taken via torture, and as such are to be regarded with a degree of skepticism. Most people will agree with whatever narrative you feed them if you torture them enough.

Note: It's late and I'm tired so I'm just kind of rambling from memory when I should be double checking and citing sources, and my memory is not great, so like it says in my pinned post, don't hesitate to fact check all of this. I am truly just some nerd with a blog.

Tagging some more experienced spirit workers who might know more about the sort of witch's mark you're referring to: @stagkingswife @windvexer

Tagging a better witch historian than myself: @breelandwalker

And just for good measure (because it's always a good idea to consider the mundane over magical first), if the wound on your foot continues to hurt and not heal, it would probably be worth seeing a doctor about it.

[antilagardelle]

My Conversion To Catholicism

Given the nature of this piece I will largely stay my usual impulse to abide by strict writing formalities. I will likewise employ a great deal more pathos than usual, albeit still less than most people, especially with respects to something as profoundly epiphanic as a conversion. That said, I reckon the best point of commencement for my story is at the beginning. I was raised Catholic from the cradle, but around the age of fourteen I fell away from the faith. Now I never became an atheist, although I did have a phase where I believed that God was evil and he created us as his guinea pigs for the mere purpose of torturing us. This belief was largely reflective of my domestic situation at the time. 

As far as God’s existence goes--a subject which I do not have time to cover in this piece beyond a cursory review of thomist apologetics--I had always felt that these arguments, to which I was exposed at an early age, were essentially irrefragable: that a belief in any cause and effect without an uncaused cause at its outset was effectively an open rebellion against arithmetic, as was any belief in motion without an unmoved mover at its outset. Over the years I debated many atheists, all of whom advanced countless counterarguments to these undeniable verities. Yet not one of these rebuttals ever proved to be substantial argumentation, but rather clever forms of intellectual obstinacy; nay, that they never once posed an argument that both delegitimized these truths, and did not in so doing, delegitimize epistemology on the whole. So I was always convinced of the existence of a sentient uncaused cause: aseitas. 

Now it occurred a couple years after I graduated high school in February of 2018 that I was quite spontaneously driven to look into the controversy of whether or not Jesus actually existed. I found that there were in fact extra-biblical references to Christ from trusted historians such as Tacitus and Josephus. And upon reading these references, and further finding that all attempts to repudiate their veracity, or even to argue that they were insignificant to prove that Jesus existed, were eristically facile. And it was upon this realization that I then knew that Jesus was a historical figure. When I was younger my stance on the story of the crucifixion would have been that the story accurately reflected the human tendency to hate that which is righteous. To hate that which is good, and love that which is evil. But as to the historicity of the texts I would have taken a neutral stance: I didn’t know. But after researching the matter, I now knew. The thing that I had been raised to believe, happened to be objectively true regardless of my having been raised to believe it. The values I was raised to believe were objectively true. And this was somewhat astounding to me. It was as if I no longer believed... I knew. 

A couple months later, when Good Friday rolled around, I watched Mel Gibson’s The Passion Of The Christ. I had watched the film before, but this was the first time I watched it knowing beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt, that the events depicted were verifiably historical. It was real. What I was watching really happened. And as such, I was so profoundly impacted by what Christ voluntarily underwent, and that through it all, he deigned not to provoke or to strike back, but instead to simply say “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.” An innocent man, who did absolutely nothing, chose to undergo this torture anyway, without complaint. I was so deeply impacted by watching all this that I cried quite profusely. And I can remember thinking to myself that I wanted to be part of that man’s church. Whoever this man was, and whatever church he instituted I wanted to follow. And how could I not? The thought was burning through my mind, that if I had lived and seen what this man did, there was no way conceivable that I could choose not to follow him. And precepts such as saving sex for marriage, and going to mass every sunday were a small price to pay in comparison to how profound it felt to be numbered among this man’s followers.   

Moreover, I recall the thought that I could not get out of my head for several months thereafter, was just how incredible the scriptures really were. In other words, the story of Christ was a story that on all accounts should have been a fairytale. I mean you’re telling me that the son of God came to earth and turned water into wine and he was crucified and the temple split down the middle and the vail rent from the top down upon his death, and the earth shook, and on the third day he rose again from the dead and is seated at the right hand of the father and he will come again to judge the living and the dead? But that’s just it... it was true. It was all real. It was as real as my own two hands. This story which on all accounts should have been the biggest fairytale of human history, just so happened to be objectively true regardless how surreal or mystical it was. Far from dismissing the scriptures from reality as some outlandish fairytale, it elevated the status of reality to that of a fairytale. This was my realization: reality was a fairytale. And it is no surprise then that the marked trait of reality is its need for fairy tales to express it. The modern idea that everything can be reduced under a “rational” system devoid of all numinous or esoteric qualities is flat out irrational. In fact anyone who impartially observes nature and the universe sees esoteric qualities all over the place: namely the Fibonacci Sequence, the fact that the moon wanes and waxes in 28 day cycles mirroring the menstrual cycle by sheer chance, the perfect transition of the four seasons(four being a symbol of wholeness). Now what’s the immediate conclusion of all these occurrences? The most immediate answer, if I am to forego relating these mystical realities to intelligent design for the sake of argument, is that the world is inherently esoteric. If your version of reality does not include ineffable, mystical, numinous doctrines, it isn’t reality at all. This was the conclusion that my conversion brought me to. And I distinctly recall thinking, “the things that are true, the things that are true, you wouldn’t believe the things that are true.”

It was not until late December of 2019 that I began to shift from a sort of vague unitarian Protestantism to Catholicism. My heart was no longer hardened. It had softened at this point in time, due largely I believe to the fact I had just moved out of my Parents’ house. My conversion to Catholicism from Protestantism was based on two principle truths that I had long known, but suppressed or ignored out of a fear of coming back to Catholicism. That fear was now removed. The two primary truths were as follows:

1. That Protestantism is merely moral relativism with a Christian flavor. As bluntly phrased as that is, it’s true. The scriptures on their own cannot adequately constitute morality without a central magisterium to interpret them. Without a magisterium, stoning gay men, raping women, and flogging would all be justified. And many Christian movements have done such things which were made excusable by the mere fact that they had no papal authority to condemn them. The magisterium mediates the meanings of the biblical passages.  Discussion about infallibility is for another occasion. 

2. That biblical canon is an unattainable standard where there is no central church to delineate between those books which are doctrinally adequate and those which are not: namely The Gospel Of Judas, The Gospel Of Thomas, The Book Of Enoch, etc... Without a central authority, the very notion of a uniform bible vanishes completely. One of the attacks on the bible made constantly by atheists, is just how various and contradictory the literature is that claims to chronicle the life of Christ, and of the individuals and events in the old testament. That these chronicles are so varied and contradictory that there can be no canon. This argument holds sway as long as one refuses to believe that there was an actual central church that went through all these varied accounts and pulled out only those that were coherent, and in line with the Church’s doctrine, and I had to accept this in order to properly defend the truth against the assault of atheists.

I have now been Catholic for over a year. I recall it started as an inkling. In late December of 2019 I felt like I was being pulled that direction, but I still didn’t consider myself Catholic for certain. I started going to mass every now and then. This eventually became every sunday. I went to confession so I could start receiving the eucharist. Month by month, week by week, day by day, I became increasingly more devoted to being Catholic. I went from saying that I thought I wanted to come back to Catholicism but was hesitant to call myself Catholic, to boldly considering myself Catholic. I hope this piece has been informative, helpful, or enlightening to fellow Catholics, as well as others of all creeds and philosophical beliefs. God bless all who chose to read this!  

[teamdoubleoh]

Q’s nephew

(Vaguely) based on this post by @needacuppa and @midrashic ‘s dialogue prompt. (technically) featuring @caffeinatedflummadiddlebutmerlin ‘s non-binary Merlin bc I like to see myself represented.

wordcount: 2312

Beware: Q is Holmes and has a fourth sibling, like in all my other fics bc I love consistency and Merlin.

TL:TR James thinks Q is married, Q thinks sleep is overrated and Mordred is very not-amused that James thinks Q is straight.

Q woke up in at 03:08 am because there was someone in his flat.

Someone other than himself, Mordred, Turing and Hawking. Q silently prayed that whoever it was could be killed quietly, so the cats wouldn’t wake.

He kept his eyes closed and listened. He could tell the someone wasn't moving, even though the door to the living room was shut. He turned his head to the bedside table, where his phone and glasses were sitting. He reached out, carefully avoiding to make any noise, put on his glasses, unlocked the phone and and logged into his security feed.

Apparently the intruder had had the decency to enter the flat trough the front door, which was a feat in itself.

Q selected the camera the monitored the door and went through the timeline. The feed was monotonous until two minutes ago, when a figure had walked up to the camera and opened the door with a key. Before entering the figure looked around, exposing their face to Q’s camera.

It was Bond. Who else would manage to steal acquire a key to his flat and show up in the middle of the night.

Q sighed and slipped out from under his comforter. He then reached under the bedside table where one of his personal guns was located and slipped it into the waistband of his pyjamas. He knew the double ohs well enough to know that taking a gun would be the best course of action.

Now armed, he opened the bedroom door. "Bond. What are you doing in my living room."

Bond was sitting on the couch, illuminated by the light of a half-moon that shone through the window. "Q! how nice to see you, what a coincidence."

"You've gotten yourself injured and the best thing you can think of is to break into my flat. Hospitals exist, you know that right?"

"Oh Q, I missed you. How did you know I was injured?"

"Posture." Q sighed.

"Ok, thats fair. You don't happen to have a bandaid or twenty lying around, do you?"  

Q sighed deeply and went to retrieve the MI6 issued medi-kit from under the bathroom sink. "Over here Bond. I don't want any stains on my couch."  

Bond stood and even in the relative darkness of the room Q could tell that it was a painful endeavour. Not a grazing shot then. Q searched the medi-kit for needle and thread. Bond sat down on the tiled floor, already pulling up his shirt over his left hip, where the bullet had dug into the flesh but had luckily been stopped by the hip bone.

Apparently the shot had been long distance, which would make the surgery relatively easy. Bond groaned when Q poured disinfectant over the wound.

"Honestly, Q. There is an intruder in your flat and you’re not even armed. What do they even teach you in basic training anymore."

Instead of answering Q pressed down a cotton swab on the bullethole and pulled out his P99 from his waistband.

"...Touché"

"Now if you'd be so kind and refrain from talking. You’re not making this any easier for either of us and I swear to god, if your noise wakes the cats or Mordred I'll-"

"Too late for that." Came a sleepy voice from the living room.

Bond was already half on his feet, trying to shield Q with his body, before Q could stop him.

"Hi. I'm Mordred." The boy, he could’t be older than 17, waved sluggish.

Bond looked hesitant but slowly sat back down again.

Q pinched the bridge of his nose with his unbloodied hand.

Bond smirked. "Didn't know you were the 'married with kids' kind of person."

"You do realise I can kill you, 007."

Bond looked stunned at the mention of his designation. he looked from Q to the kid and back to the quartermaster. "Uh, Q..."

"What."Q snapped.  

If the Quartermaster wanted to throw around his top secret designation so be it. Q knew what he was doing.

"...Nevermind."

"I don't think he wants me here. "the kid murmured turning away, obviously still half asleep. "I'll go back to bed."

Q sighed. "Now that’s is some good thinking. Bond, hold still." he picked the pair of tweezers. "This might hurt a tad."

Somehow James ended up in Q’s bed. With a very disgruntled Quartermaster in it. 007, being himself, couldn't resist commenting. "If you wanted to get me into bed, you should have just asked, Q. I mean I don't usually go for married people when off mission, but I'll make an exception for you."

"Shut up or I'll put you on the couch."

"Pray tell, if I’m annoying you so bad, why am I not already there? Should I inform the other agents that you're secretly concerned about our well being or do just like me?"

"That couch was my mothers, and she is ready to maim anyone who leaves stains on it."

"...Stains, huh? Got it. Thats the no-fun zone."

"You should know that I am also ready to maim anyone who keeps me from sleeping."

"Good night, Q"

Bond woke at 6:38 am precisely.

Someone was working in the kitchen, and since the bed was empty, save himself, it was probably Q. Or his son, apparently. Come to think of it, if Q was married and had a son, where was his wife?

The smell of toast and freshly brewed earl grey wavered into the bedroom and James decided that those were questions for another time.

The kitchen was, to Bonds surprise, well stocked and maintained.

He wouldn't have pegged Q for the cooking type but he hadn't pegged Q for the married-with-kids type either so that was that.

Q was just pouring a mug of tea when James limped in. The boy - Mordred, what a peculiar name - was sitting on a stool, nursing his own tea.

In the light of day his dark brown hair seemed to be a similar shade as Q's, while his pale blue eyes were a little unnerving, but that could be a side effect of him being a teenager. Everyone knew teenagers were dangerous creatures as they didn't need sleep and had fatal levels of cynicism, sarcasm and caffeine running through their veins.

Q handed James a mug of steaming tea, which tore him out of his staring.

"You should sit down." Q advised, pointing towards a kitchen table with three mismatched chairs. "And you should go to medical. I'm head of Q branch not a doctor." He hesitated for a second. "Well I am a doctor, just not of medicine. My point is: get that checked out, or I'll kill you."

"Aw don’t worry, I will, or it might kill me first."

"As if you wouldn't just come back from the dead to just to annoy me, hm 007?" Q smiled sweetly, something dangerous lacing his tone.

"I have before, I could do it again. Given a good enough reason." Bond eyed Q provocatively up and down.

Q just sighed and turned to take the slices of toast out of the toaster, placing them on a plate. "I assume you will join me on my way to work, seeing as your flat is on the way and you need to stop there for new clothes?"

Bond looked down at himself. He was wearing his boxer briefs and a tee shirt that definitely wasn't his. Since there was as science pun on it, he was pretty sure it was Q's.

“Yeah.... that might be a good idea.” James mused and went to find his slacks.

***

“So, what kind of a name is ‘Mordred’ anyway?” Bond asked the boy some months later.

He had broken in again and again and at some point Q had given in and made him his own key, which only made Bond come by more often.

Now he was sitting on the no-stains-allowed couch, enjoying a cup of perfectly brewed Rooibos tea he had gifted Q a few weeks prior. Mordred, currently located in the kitchen, was busy making dinner for himself and Q, who was still at Q-branch handling 009′s Washington mission.

Mordred, who rarely ever talked, much less with Bond, kept dicing onions and garlic. After half a minute of silence, just when James thought he might never get an answer, the boy opened his mouth. “It’s from the Arthurian legends. According to the popular legends Mordred was Arthur’s son.”

“You say ‘popular’ like you know better...”

“Well-” Mordred smiled ever so slightly. “-I know Arthur is my uncle.”

James grinned. “Is your mother a historian by any chance?”

Mordred shook his head and turned his attention back to the stove. “My mother is a PA. But her name is Morgause and her half sister is called Morgana - you know, like, from the Legends? -, so she thought it would be funny.”

James smiled and emptied his cup. Now that was something he could tease Q about.

Q chose that exact moment to stumble in through the door. He looked like he was dead on his feet. His tie was askew and his hair ruffled. He closed the door behind him, hung his parka on the mantle piece and placed his messenger bag on a nearby drawer, but his movements were that of someone who was kept awake only be caffeine and spite.

By the time he reached the living room his eyes where almost completely shut. He dropped down on the couch where James was still sitting, but Bond just steadied him as Q slumped against him.

“James?”

“Hello dear Quartermaster. You do know that sleep is essential for your personal health, right?”

Q only groaned and closed his eyes.

***

Four hours later Q woke to the smell of pasta and the clinking of cutlery being placed on a table. He sat up and opened his eyes, but everything was blurry. He groaned. Someone entered the living room.

“James?”

“No this is Patrick.” James answered deadpan. “Honestly Q, I thought you were supposed to be smart!”

“Firstly, You took my glasses. You should be glad I can distinguish you from Mordred right now. Secondly, why are you quoting Sponge bob at me?” Q asked in a tone that made it very clear that he was ready to murder someone or just fall asleep again at any moment.

“...Oh, yeah. I forgot about the glasses. You look adorable with out them, I have to say. Here you go--” James care fully placed Q’s glasses on his nose.

Q blinked twice and waited for his eyes to focus again. Right in front of him was James, smiling widely. Q shrunk back and tried to stand up in an effort to hide the slight blush on his cheeks.

“So. Why were you quoting sponge bob again?”

James took a step forward and held Q on his upper arms so he wouldn’t keel over. “I don’t know what Sponge bob is but that’s what Mordred sat to me when  I ran into him in the city the other day.”

Q rubbed his forehead. “Ah yes, he does that. And here I was, thinking you knew what memes were.”

“Whats a meme?”

***

Mordred cooking, James decided, was divine.

“You should become a Chef.” James mused, after finishing his third plate of Aglio olio and fourth glass of wine.

“How about I finish school first.” Mordred aswered snarkily.

Q snorted. “Aren’t you planning on becoming a pharmacist or bodyguard?”

James shook his head in confusion. “How are those two even related.”

Mordred looked at him weirdly.” They're not.”

“Then why would you? ...nevermind.”

Q rolled his eyes. “Mordred is interning with my uncle Gaius whose a Apothecary. if He’s good enough when Gaius retires he could have a change at taking, over like I did.”

“last I checked you were running Q-branch...”

“-and before me uncle Boothroyd was Q.”

James turned to Q. “Boothroyd was your uncle? That explains... so much.”

Mordred sighed. “could you leave the flirting till I'm back in my room.”

Q sat up straight. “He wasn’t flirting.”

“I was.”

“Since when?”

“Since before I broke into your flat. But sadly you’re faithful and straight and all that crap.”

Mordred let his head fall into his hands. “Here we go...” he muttered under his breath.

“And who would I be faithful to, exactly?”

“Your wife?”

“My--?” Q sputtered.

“Mordred’s mother?”

“Wait, you thought I was

straight

?”

Mordred raised his hand. “You do know I’m not actually Q’s son, right?”

James turned to Mordred. “Wait, what?”

Q looked almost gleeful as he explained. “Mordred is my sibling’s... .” Q turned to Mordred. “What do they call you?”

“Mostly ‘a baby’”

“No, no there was something else...”

“Lovechild? Morgause-spawn? Heir to the throne?”

“They really call you that?”

“I don’t have a second name, so they had to improvise when they were angry.”

Q shrugged. “Well, point stands. Mordred isn’t my son. He lives with me because he’s kind of my siblings adopted son? But he can’t live with them and their husband and apparently I can’t take care of my self or something--” the last part was muttered. “--So he lives with me.”

Mordred was staring at James wide eyed. “Wait. You thought I was Q’s son? Honestly? Q? Your Gaydar is BLOODY SHITE. YURUSENAI!”

James flinched and faced Q, who was rolling his eyes at Mordred. “Translation please?”

Q smirked at him. “He says your ability to build context about inter person relations and read peoples attractions is rather bad and that he won’t forgive you for thinking he was blood related to me.” Q paused. “I would be rather offended by that last statement if it wasn’t for the blatant sarcasm.”

James smiled dreamily. “This is why I love you.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Mordred took a sip of his water. “He said he loved you.”

[judgmentofcorruption]

Episode 3–He Dies in the Snow Field; Scene 4

Judgment of Corruption, pages 86-98

When he awoke, Gallerian looked around from where he was lying in bed with clear confusion.

“What…is this place? Where in the world am I?”

It was understandable that he would be confused.

At the end of his vision was a single plane of night sky, filled with stars.

A large full moon sat majestically in the very center, as though it was lord of the stars around it.

“Am I…outside? No—that’s not it.”

Gallerian turned on his side, and saw the ground that the bed was set upon.

There he noticed the abnormality with this space.

The starry sky was spread out on the ground as well, a place on which it had no business being.

An entire 360 degrees. Front and back, left and right, ceiling and ground—all of it was covered in stars.

Only the bed that he lay on inside it existed in contrast to the rest.

“I see. This may be the ‘afterlife’—I must have died…”

It seemed that was the answer that he was led to.

Of course, he was mistaken.

If that were the case then it would mean that I, the “bat” currently with him, would be dead as well.

I am not dead yet!

…Probably.

.

After a short time, a change occurred in this space that was only a starry night.

In a place that was only air—on the left from where Gallerian lay—a rectangular white hole opened up.

And from there a single figure appeared.

"Ah…You're awake…"

It was that white haired girl whom they had called "Shiro". Upon seeing Gallerian awake she displayed a smile that was both a little joyful, and also slightly hesitant.

"--Who are…you?" Gallerian asked, starting to sit up.

When he did, Shiro began to fidget awkwardly, casting her eyes down. "Um…uh…sorry."

"That white hair--Are you a Netsuma? What is this peculiar space? We appear to be outside but I'm not the least bit cold."

"Um…uh…sorry."

“And my body—it’s wrapped up in bandages. Did you—tend to my wound?”

"Um…uh…sorry."

"…Is 'um…uh…sorry' the only thing you can say?"

"Um…uh…sorry."

"--Wait, it's not. Objection! I clearly remember you saying ‘Ah…you’re awake…’ at the very start.”

"Um…uh…sorry."

"…"

Realizing that he wouldn’t be able to get any straightforward communication this way, Gallerian gave up and lay back down.

When he did, the same space as before immediately opened up, and a new woman appeared.

--Or to speak more accurately, not just one person. A person and an animal.

Walking beside her was a large, golden-haired cat…or rather, a tiger.

“Sorry about her. She gets extremely timid when she doesn’t have a gun in her hand.”

It was an intelligent-looking woman in a suit. When she saw her, Shiro’s expression brightened.

“Miss Hel! You’re here.”

“Bruno contacted me. …Good grief, it was such a hassle coming here in this blizzard.”

Hearing that, Gallerian once more sat up. “Hold on a second. You said ‘Bruno’ just now. That butler—Actually, before that…What the heck is a tiger doing here!? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“You seem a little riled up, Gallerian Marlon. You might not be in much pain thanks to the auto-doc’s anesthetic, but that doesn’t mean your injury has completely healed. Keep ahold of yourself a little longer.”

“Auto…doc…? I don’t know what that word you just said means.”

“I should think so. Even I don’t completely understand it…To put it more simply, it’s ‘something left behind by the old Magic Kingdom’.”

“…Can you explain all this to me step by step? I frankly have no idea what’s going on right now.”

“Yeah, of course—At least, the extent that I can tell you.” Hel walked up to Gallerian and pressed one of the stars. When she did, a metal chair suddenly appeared next to her, and she sat down in it. “First…You collapsed in a snow field after being hounded by Loki Freezis—You remember that much, don’t you?”

“Yeah… I’d…believed in Loki…Yet he betrayed me…No, I guess it was more that…us being friends had been a lie from the very beginning.”

“Seems you weren’t able to see through to his true nature. I can sympathize with how you’re feeling.”

“I was shot…But I’ve got one question on that. The bullet—It felt like it was coming from the opposite direction from where Loki was chasing me.”

“Ah, that. She shot you,” Hel said, pointing at Shiro.

“Wha!?”

“Um…uh…sorry.”

“You’re saying I was saved by the person who tried to kill me?”

“Um…uh…sorry.”

Hel explained in Shiro’s place, as she continued to stammer apologies. “You’ve got it backwards. Shiro saved you by shooting you. She—is a sniper prodigy. To the point where she can hit a spot on the body that would put someone in a state of apparent death, just barely clinging to life…Get it? If she hadn’t done that, Loki would have shot you to death.”

“B-but…The fact still remains that she shot me…That you would have that person in the same room as me—”

As he grew more agitated, Gallerian almost rolled off the bed. Hel calmly put him back.

Watching all this from a distance, the tiger said in disapproval, “Come, come…You’re too old to be losing your presence of mind like this, boy. I’m not seeing that vast greatness you’re rumored to have, Gallerian Marlon.”

“But, still—H-hang on a second! The t-t-t-tiger talked just now!”

Gallerian threw himself back, and this time he fell off the other side of the bed.

“How rude. I’m not a tiger. I might look like this, but it is undisputable fact that I am a human being, like you.”

“I doubt that! From here you look completely like a tiger!”

“Bizarre events enfold this world—You must know of them too. One of them is the abnormality that there are babies born of a completely different race from their parents.”

“Yeah, I have heard of that. Like a dark-skinned Maistian being born to an Elphe and Marlon couple—”

“Then in that case, there shouldn’t be anything strange about a tiger being born to human parents. It means that I’m one of the victims of these bizarre events.”

“Uh—uh huh…”

Gallerian still evidently didn’t get it.

“I’ve got no intention of arguing over my origins right now. –Hel, continue with your explanation.”

“Roger. –Anyway, you were saved by Shiro and brought here to ‘Lunaca Labora’ under the snow field.”

“’Lunaca Labora’?”

“It means ‘Full Moon Laboratory’ in Ancient Leviantan. –This is one of the places that my father Heaven Jaakko spent his entire life searching for.”

“Heaven Jaakko…I’ve heard that name before.” Gallerian thought for a moment. “—I remember. That’s a well-known historian. He published a thesis that led the government to delineate the existence of ‘witches’—”

“Yes. Though he died three years back. It is thanks to my father that these ridiculous ‘witch hunts’ began—Ah, let me say up front that I don’t intend to debate or apologize on the matter with you. What my father did has nothing to do with me. I’m not even a historian myself.”

“So you know about my lineage too, huh…Then is Heaven Jaakko the one who found this facility?”

“No. Someone else told me about this place.”

“And who—”

Before Gallerian could ask his question, someone else entered from the opened space.

It was a dark-skinned man.

“Bruno…Are you the head of this facility?”

But Bruno shook his head.

“No. Actually, this is the first time I myself have come here.”

“Then who—”

“They should be arriving shortly. If you have questions about this place then you should ask them. …That’s not what you want to ask me, is it Gallerian Marlon?”

“Yeah…I have a few questions…You’re Loki’s personal butler. So then, why did you plot to save me?”

Bruno did not answer right away, glancing up at the stars on the ceiling as he slowly walked around the space.

But eventually he replied quietly, “Gallerian, you—wish to have revenge on Loki Freezis, don’t you? Revenge on the man who deceived and tried to kill you.”

“Revenge…I guess…” Gallerian thought for a moment, there on the bed. “It’s true…Right now I can’t help but loathe him. –All the more because I had always thought that we were friends.”

“…If you wish to kill him…then we can help you.”

Bruno’s words were spoken with no inflection, but with clear intent of determination.

But after thinking again, Gallerian shook his head.

“We need to make Loki face consequences. But…not by killing him. If we do then it’ll be no better than what he tried to do. He needs to face judgment publicly, and atone for his crime. –I will make him. That is my duty as a judge.”

Upon hearing Gallerian’s words, the tiger raised his voice in admiration. “Not taken over by your hatred, huh? To have such morals so young—I take back what I said before. You’re not a small person, at the very least.”

“Ah…Thanks,” Gallerian replied to the tiger, still appearing a little afraid.

“Bruno. What do you think of what he just said now?” the tiger asked, turning to Bruno.

“…It’s not bad. I think it’s the kind of thinking of a ‘front man’. –Rather, if he wasn’t like that there wouldn’t be any point to inviting him in.”

“Inviting? Do you plan to take me in as one of you? I’m sorry, but I have no intention of just recklessly joining on with people whose nature I don’t even—”

Gallerian had started to retort, but then appeared to immediately realize how ill-thought-out his declaration was, his eyes darting about slightly.

…This place was the stronghold of these “people whose nature he didn’t know”. And Gallerian was right in the center of it, wounded and disabled.

“—Ah, please don’t misunderstand. It’s not that I have an issue with you guys. It is true after all that you saved my life,” he continued on a little defensively, quickly growing meek.

Bruno replied to this with a calm tone, showing neither laughter nor anger, “Before we get to who we are, I think first you ought to grasp your current situation, Gallerian.”

“…? What do you mean?”

“…To the outside world, you were killed in an accident. Loki has announced that you were ‘attacked by a ferocious animal’.”

“That doesn’t sound like too big a problem. All I have to do is head out once my wound has healed up and show everyone firsthand that I’m still very much alive. –And then go straight to charging Loki for his crimes.”

“Yes, I would hope that goes well for you. Loki has the Freezis Conglomerate on his side. Naturally it wouldn’t be good for them to have a relative of theirs charged with a crime. They will use everything in their power to protect Loki.”

“…”

“They aren’t likely to let slide a living witness like you who knows of Loki’s sins. If you brazenly show your face publicly, this time there really will be no safeguarding your life.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m warning you. We have no wish to let you die so cheaply after we went to great pains saving you. …That is the truth.”

“…Then what are you saying I should do!? Live out the rest of my life inside this bizarre space?”

“If that is what you wish, you can do that. But…there is another path. That is—”

“…Alright, enough. I can grasp the gist of what you were trying to say earlier.” Gallerian covered his face with his hand, as though fed up. “Becoming one of your allies—that’s what you mean, right?”

“I don’t really mind if you have no faith in us right now. But…we need a collaborator. Someone who isn’t behind the scenes like we are—A collaborator with the power to let their voice be known and reach out to society at large.”

“But…why me? If that’s your goal, surely there’s someone else more qualified.”

After a short pause Bruno replied to the question, “—We have someone who recommended you. As someone ‘overflowing with a sense of justice, with good breeding and social standing besides’.”

“Who is it? This person who recommended me to you.”

“They are the owner of this place that we spoke of before.”

There Hel, who had been quietly listening up to this point, suddenly butted in, “And as for that ‘owner’—apparently they’ve just now arrived.”

Right as she said those words, the space once more opened up. And as had become common, a new person walked in.

--It was hard to tell their face, covered by a large hat, but compared to everyone else there they were the shortest by a wide margin.

And they were wearing a deep red uniform of some kind.

“That uniform…Are you some sort of mail carrier?” Gallerian asked, appearing somewhat vexed in reaction. “A child runs this facility?”

But Hel replied in the negative. “This child—‘Postman’—is a courier. They’ll convey things, people—anything you want. I suppose today they’re bringing ‘her’ along.”

Postman nodded at Hel’s words.

“They don’t say much.”

“They can’t talk. Though I don’t know why.”

The hole in the space remained open. Standing before it, Postman abruptly moved to the side.

“Sorry for the wait. This is the owner of ‘Lunaca Labora’ that you’ve been asking about.”

Just as Hel said, a silhouette became visible approaching from the other side of the hole.

“That’s--!?”

Various people have appeared from this opening today.

But for Gallerian, the last one who debuted there was the most surprising of all.

“Mother…No, you’re—”

“Good to see you. Mister judge.”

“Kayo—Sudou!”

It was the person Gallerian had been heading out to meet.

She had come to see him instead.

<<prev------directory------next>>

[freshlyjuicedbeetles]

Commodore Norrington x Reader Fic! Chapter 3

Title: The Same Water

Genre: Romance, Supernatural

Rating: General Audiences thus far.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, drowning, and racism.

Summary: Commodore Norrington washes up on the shore and you must find out why.

Notes: I intentionally kept the main character ambiguous (but female) so readers can fill themselves in!

James and I got up early the next morning to head down to the marina. The sky was a dazzling pink only an island could produce.

“Here she is, Seaclusion! Don’t make fun of me. My dad named it.” James got a chuckle out of the other punny names of the neighboring boats.

We climbed aboard, and James inspected the vessel, fascinated by hundreds of years of progress.

“Here,” I said, tossing James a life vest and securing my own.

“What is this?”

“It’s a life jacket. It’ll help you stay afloat if you fall overboard.”

“Ingenious!” James said in awe as he put his on.

“Oh, and these,” I said, digging around in a compartment by the wheel. I pulled out a pair of old aviators and sunscreen. “To protect your eyes and your skin. Though you’re probably already riddled with skin cancer from living in the Caribbean unprotected for years. Keep an eye on that freckle behind your ear.”

James touched the freckle self-consciously.

“You know how to swim, don’t you?”

James rolled his eyes and scoffed, “Of course I do.” He put on the aviators and dang, he looked good. I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of interrogation with him. He had an intimidating air about him that he could turn on and off.

The engine roared to life, and the beginning cords of ‘The Real Thing’ by George Strait played on the speakers. James looked overboard to the motor and rudder underwater.

“I’m sure you have better sea legs than I do, but you might want to take a seat,” I said, gesturing the rows of seats on the front deck.

“Hold on!” I said and came up to speed, pulling out of the marina. James was pushed back in his seat by the motion, not expecting a boat to go that fast. I wanted to show him what ships were like nowadays. Even over the rushing wind, I could hear him laughing with glee.

We sailed to the other side of the island with dolphins in our wake. How lucky was I that I lived somewhere where dolphins were so accessible!

I turned down the speakers, “This is Pier 21. Our cruise ships dock here, and on the other side are the shrimp boats that supply these restaurants first.” Large pelicans lazed around the docks and boats, hoping for some fish scrap from the sailors. James wasn’t paying attention; he was gazing at the Elissa like a starved man in an oasis.

“What is this glorious creation?” James stood as we idled.

I smiled, “That’s the Elissa. A little after your time, but I’m sure you can sail her just as good as anyone else on this island.”

The Elissa was a tall ship from 1877. After many different roles in life all across the globe, she was moored in Galveston.

“Is she still functional?”

“Oh yeah, she goes on one big sail to Europe once a year. She’s mostly a teaching vessel now. And next to that is a yacht. Some restauranteur owns it and has a staff to keep it ready around the clock even though I’ve seen him use it like five times.”

“Is it common for laypeople to own such vessels?” He asked, finally pulling his eyes from the Elissa.

“Here on the island, yeah, pretty much everyone has a boat. They’re still quite common on the mainland, depending on how close you are to water. I’d say a boat is definitely attainable to the upper-middle class.”

“You mentioned a ‘cruise ship’?”

“Yeah, they’re huge ships that can hold thousands of people who sail for vacation. See that huge thing over there?”

“Is that a ship?” He asked in disbelief.

“Yep, let’s get closer.”

We were dwarfed by the cruise liner. James looked up in disbelief as we buoyed in its shadow. “Galveston is a port city for cruise liners, bananas, farm equipment…Oh, and you need to see this,” I said as we turned and sped into the open water.

“I think you’ll like this,” I said as we pulled up next to the wreckage of a rusted and splintered ship.

“I am perplexed, yes,” James answered.

“This is the Selma, and it’s totally made out of concrete, or mortar, I guess is similar.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Yep.

“Surely, she never saw the open ocean.”

“It did actually. Until it was damaged, and it was far too costly to repair due to war, and it was scuttled.”

James looked to the horizon, “Why are those ships not in the harbor?” Container ships always loomed in the distance of Galveston Island.

“Again, costs too much but also because the channel isn’t deep enough.”

“Are pirates a concern?”

“I’ve never seen a pirate in my life. I guess pirates were your version of terrorists,” I said.

James thought, then nodded, seemingly decided the word was correct.

“Unfortunately, we still have a problem with terrorism, plus pirates as you would know them. Instead of big ships, they run around on jet skis or dhows today. They’re mostly a problem in the Indian Ocean and around that area.”

“So, they’ve been cornered…”

“What? Down boy! You want to go pirate hunting? Well, unfortunately, pirates are actually looked upon favorably as of recently.”

James looked at me like I’ve grown two heads, “Especially here. I guess people like the freedom of just going wherever you want to and forget that they were actually terrorists. Not that piracy is now legal or anything.”

“And what are those machines in the distance?”

“Oil rigs. They dig oil from the earth, and we use it to power just about everything. Crews live on them for weeks at a time. Usually, there are less parked here, but the price of oil has dropped, so companies don’t need as many.”

Container ships and offline oil rigs loom in the distance of Galveston Island. It’s almost like the giant guardians that protect us.

“Do you want to try?” I asked, gesturing to the wheel.

He looked hesitant at first but quickly accepted. “The wheel is the same as it ever was, this is the accelerator, how fast you want to go, the kill switch if something goes awry…” I explained. James and I then switched places, but I stood behind him in case something happened. I could tell he was uncomfortable with the proximity to another person and a woman, but when we got up to speed, he looked like a bird who could finally fly again. I almost didn’t have it in my heart to ask him to surrender the wheel.

When we got home, there was a package at my doorstep. My heart started to thrum when I saw it was from the police department. I hurriedly tore it open when we got inside. The contents of the box smelled like mildew, salt, and brine. It was James’ uniform. I pushed it to him as I read the letter that was on top of it. It was a standard form letter saying they were closing the case due to insufficient evidence that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the uniform.

James held the uniform in his hand. “Do you have a fireplace?” He asked.

“Why?” I asked.

“It makes me ill.” He replied.

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s a mark of failure, both personal and professional. I would think it best if it was gone.”

“I have a fire pit.”

“Splendid.”

Later that night, Jericka came over, and we started the fire. James unceremoniously dropped the heap of clothes in the fire and sat down with us around it.  Jericka and I drank while James abstained.

“To new beginnings,” I said, raising my bottle of Ziegenbock. James nodded, watching the fabric burn.

“You know, there are probably costumers and historians who would have dove in there for that uniform,” Jericka said.

“So…what happened? Before you died?” I asked.

James was silent for a moment, composing his thoughts. “I can pinpoint the exact day when everything changed. An idiot pirate sailed into my port. To attempt to capture him, my men and I sailed through a hurricane. Only a handful survived, and I resigned in shame. I essentially became a pirate myself for the time, drunk, and destitute. Then, I meant Davy Jones.” James leaned forward, the fire casting shadows on his face, almost making his sharp features look hawk-like.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“I am. He is something of a grim reaper of the seas. I was stabbed by one of his crewmen. That’s all I remember.”

“You sailed into a hurricane?” Jericka asked, “And you made it all the way to Admiral?”

James scowled. “I had no choice.”

“But what’s so wrong about the uniform, or being called Admiral?”

“I didn’t earn it, nor was it through the Royal Navy. I worked for the East India Trading Company, who were no better than pirates themselves when I was an admiral. I took the post out of necessity, greed, and selfishness. I was only serving myself, not the Crown, not the people. I was no better than a pirate as well. I much rather be called commodore if you have to address me by title.”

Jericka gave a low whistle, “Then I’m sure you heard of Galveston before.” She took a drink from her bottle.

“Was it a pirate’s den?”

“Oh yeah, Jean Lafitte owned the place.”

“Lafitte? I have heard of him. I always seemed to run into a sun-drenched lunatic named Jack Sparrow.”

“He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. If Lafitte settled here, I must be in Campeche.”

I snapped my fingers. “I never thought of that! That’s like Galveston history 101!” I said to Jericka.

“Well, I know where I’m at, so that brings some more comfort,” James said.

“Okay, Commodore,” Jericka said, “Tell us about yourself.”

James looked like we just asked him to explain nuclear physics.

“Pets? Did you have any pets?” I asked.

“Well, I had a horse named Scout back in the Caribbean.  I think she tried to kill me once.” James said casually. “And there were coconut crabs all over the fort I was stationed at. They stole everything.”

“A horse? Tried to kill you? And crabs stole your stuff?” Jericka asked skeptically.

“No one believed me! Even then!” James said adamantly and gestured wildly as he told the story, “I swear this horse was calculating, and she hated me. How would a horse know to stop right below a hanging lantern so my tricorn would catch fire?”

“Maybe you should have been paying better attention…” I said gently.

James started to speak, but thought better, “Fair enough.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Jericka said excitedly, “We need to take him to Pieces of Ship! Down on Mechanic street!”

“Excuse me?” James asked, not believing his ears.

I laughed, “It’s a shop that sells parts from ships; maps, flags, wheels, bells, you name it.”

“No, Mrs. Norrington, huh?” Jericka teased as James stoked the fire. She winked at me.

“Close, but it wasn’t meant to be,” James said, looking down for a moment.

“Yeah, everything I’ve read about you never mentions anyone,” I said. I was noticing I was relieved when I found out James never married. However, by his wording and the tone of his voice, there was someone he wanted. Jealousy tingled at my nerves.

“I appreciate time for forgetting such a blunder.” He gave a small, defeated smile.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “I think you need to see a therapist.”

We burst out laughing.

By the end of the night, we were laughing incessantly. I felt like we became friends with James at that point.

[randomthunk]

Hey, I don't use Tumblr much, but I love your artwork, and is it all right if I hit you up? I'm way late to the Whouffaldi party, and it's kinda lonely out here. My friends fully don't care, and it seems like people have mostly moved on, so it's a weird time to be getting into it.

I’m still posting Whouffaldi like - what are we now, 5-6 years later? Yeah, I’m still here. You can always hit me up for this. Listen - anybody at any time can hit me up for this. I will be here. I call myself “Whouffaldi Internet Historian” for a reason.

Thank you for the artwork thing, I appreciate that. I do apologize that I’ve not been a ton of my beloved 12/Clara drawings lately, but hopefully I have built up a stockpile that you can enjoy. \e<e/

The biggest recommendation I can possibly make is to dive into and follow the Whouffaldi tag. I hesitate to tell you blogs to follow because I know myself I am very picky about blogs so yeah, I’d say go there, poke around, see what people post and enjoy yourself there.

The other Tumblr habit I’ve used since joining in 2010 is going on somebody’s blog that you find posting content, and then raid their Whouffaldi tag. Fun fact, I apparently have 4,656 posts tagged as such. There are 32,645 posts on this blog. That’s 7%. And I don’t always tag all things accordingly, nor am I a dedicated blog to one topic. Seven percent!

One last thing I’ll note is that I’ve seen a noticeable uptick in activity in the tag since everyone went on lockdown. I’m guessing it’s the stir-crazy thing going on but hey, I’ll take. I will never reject new 12/Clara content.

[darksunrising]

Sola Gratia (17/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : Heavy horror themes, body horror, violence, non consensual blood sucking.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 17/? (2314 words)

Author’s notes : Eris is back, for better or worse...

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“Professor ? Would you have a minute ?”

I snapped my head up, suddenly realizing I had been staring into the void for the better part of an hour. Popping out of the office's doorframe, Stephan Helder's familiar, disheveled head of dark blond hair of made me force a little smile. I passed my hands over my face, and invited him to come in. It was already late, but I knew he preferred to work in the school library than at home, which was understandable.

He stepped in, carefully closing the door behind me, as if doing it too loud would startle me. He put down his heavy-looking bag on the floor, and took a seat across from my desk, nervously bouncing his leg. I'd learned to know it wasn't from actual anxiety, but more of small quirk of his. It tended to unnerve me, but I did my best not to be concerned by it.

“So, what can I help you with ? Everything going fine in your classes ?”, I asked.

“Oh, yes, sure, everything's great. I mean, I'm not really here for me.”

He took a pause, staring at me. “Well, what is it then ?”, I pressed, puzzled.

“I-I was worried about you, professor, actually”, he began, avoiding my gaze by looking intensely at the leather-bound version of the Odyssey, at the end of my desk.

“Worried about me ?”, I only repeated, hoping to have a bit more information.

“Well, you haven't been responding to my e-mails in some while, and, no offense, but you look sort of tired.”

That kid would be the end of me. I leaned back into my seat. He was a bit annoying at times, but his boldness was at the very least amusing. I smiled at him, hoping it would put him a bit more at ease, as I could see he was already regretting his last sentence.

“I am tired, actually, but you'll see this when you'll try and get a doctorate”, I joked.

That seemed to make him have a couple of laughs, but he still had that crease between his thick eyebrows.

“I know you met my mother”, he told me.

Ah. He looked almost apologetic. Children seem to often have to find excuses for their parents, as they're often more conscious of the feelings of others, while adults mostly aren't. I knew that look, as I had found myself presenting it a lot.

“I have met Mary Van Helsing, yes.”

He shifted on the edge of his seat. “She told you about professor Balaur, didn't she ?”

Gods, more lies. What the hell was I supposed to tell this kid ?

“She did, although I'm... not sure what to think of it”, I prudently told him.

“I'm sorry”, he almost cut me off. “I'm- I'm the one who told her about him, I was worried and I didn't think she'd actually come to you. I know she can be... Well. You know.”

I wasn't even angry at him. I could have been, easily, especially given how on edge I was. I couldn't imagine what it would have been like. As children, we believe in monsters, hiding in the closet, or under your bed, lurking in the shadows. But at the very least, you had your parents reassure you, tell you they aren't real. That they can't hurt you. I wondered if his parents told him about all they did. Mary Van Helsing didn't seem like the sort to go soft, but I hadn't met his dad. With luck, he was a regular guy, and took care of not traumatizing his kid into anxiety disorders and paranoia. Although, on that particular count, he had been right. I wished he'd kept his worries to himself. Then again... That was an odd coincidence that he should show up exactly the semester after I met Vlad. I think he believed it was just that, a coincidence, but I was starting to suspect foul play there. Mary Van Helsing didn't seem like one to leave things to fate.

“Don't worry about that”, I tried to reassure him as best I could. “I work with medieval historians all the time, it takes a lot to scare me.”

He had a little laugh, sounding less nervous ans shaky than before.

“You should know”, he added, a bit hesitant. “My mother has her flaws, but she is rarely wrong. Professor Balaur is often around you... I can only tell you to be careful.”

I smiled, and promised him I would be. Gods, if he knew. He had a few more questions, about my class and the use of some cartography software that I knew for a fact was nightmarish to use. He then took his leave, while I remained seated in my office, without really having a reason to.

I say “my” office, even though I supposedly share it with two other doctorate students. They were rarely there, and if it was only a coincidence that we never crossed paths, they didn't seem to mind that I used half their shelves for my own stuff, and even their desks. More often than not, then, even here, I was alone. Now that I thought of it, my life since I finished my master's degree had been more nocturnal than ever. If you asked anyone who would be more likely to be a vampire between Vlad and I, I'd be the surer choice.

Realizing that I wouldn't be able to get any more work done tonight, I decided to take my leave for the day. It was close to midnight, and the last tramways ran little after that hour, so if I wanted to avoid two hours of walking, I should probably find a way to get that last one. I gathered my stuff, and slipped my laptop into my bag. Once again, at that sort of hour, no one remained on campus. The empty corridors seemed too long, too narrow, repeating my steps after me, just to spook me. You know, that feeling when you start thinking “what if someone followed me”, and the more you try to brush it off and make light of it, the more you want to walk faster, and dread looking back ?

At this point, I was practically running, when I forced myself to get a grip. I breathed in, deeply, and stopped. Standing in the middle of the main hall, only lit by pale moonlight, I controlled my breathing until my legs stopped shaking. Slowly, but deliberately, I turned back, my heart sinking into my stomach. Obviously, there was nothing to be seen.

A bit reassured, if not completely serene, I continued towards the exit, and stepped out into the cold night air. If the silence of the inside was eerie, outside, the multitude of noises the night produced were worse. A rustle of leaves, a gust of wind, howling and whistling in the crooks of the buildings. I sighed. Everything was fine. Creepy atmosphere never killed anyone, as far as I was aware of. Still, I walked as fast as I could, not wanting to linger for more than absolutely necessary.

Eris...

The voice made me stop dead in my tracks. It echoed in my mind, soft, and deep, but somewhat... Metallic. Scraping. Like rusty gears coated in honey. I wondered for a second if it might have been Vlad, playing a very questionable prank on me. He didn't seem like one to particularly enjoy practical jokes, except the occasional dramatic entrance. I elected to ignore it, and started walking again.

Eris.

This time, the voice was insisting, more firm. It still seemed to come from deep withing myself, which was... unnerving, as it left no idea as where to look for it. I stopped once again. Bracing myself, I turned, looking back. Nothing, no one.

Right behind you.

I swiftly turned around, not freezing for whatever miracle, only to gaze onto the empty campus once more. That was, until I turned back, and noticed a silhouette, over in the distance. It was tall, long. It almost looked like it... Shifted, undulated in the wind. Like something you see through great heat. It was dark, so much that I couldn't actually distinguish any particular features, except two bright dots of light, where its face would be. I didn't dare move, or blink. I was sure if I moved a muscle, or looked anywhere else, it might disappear, or move closer, like a sick game of 'Red light, Green light'.

Eris.

The voice was even more grating, dark, so low that I could feel it vibrate in my bones. I had the gun. In a pocket I quickly sewed in the lining of my coat. I knew where it was, the movement I'd have to do to take it. Yet, I was unable to move. No matter how hard I tried, no matter the tears starting to stream down my face.

I think fear doesn't begin to describe what feeling was settling all over my body, from the pit of my stomach. It stretched over my every limb, like a fungus, spreading to every cell, encasing every bone in a mycellium of primal dread. The only sound I could hear was that of my own raspy, trembling breathing, coming out choked, and leaving me craving for air. I heard the faint sound of Leah's ringtone, in my pocket. It turned off.

It didn't move, yet was closer. It wasn't a thing. It didn't feel human, it didn't feel neither here nor elsewhere. A persistence of vision, engraved into my iris. For a moment, I wanted to believe I only fell asleep at my desk, and the whole thing was just a nightmarish delirium. Leah's ringtone broke the silence again, and turned off. Again.

It was feet from me now. I could make out the vague outline of a suit, that hung weirdly on the body. The body... If you could call it that. It could have looked like a human, if you only glanced at it, from afar. I didn't have that sort of luck, however, and was very privy to its deformities. The sleeve stopped at mid-forearm. A long, thin forearm, hairless, skin white as parchment, so dry it looked like it would crumble to ash if I touched it. The hands were swollen, too long, too... they almost looked like someone gave a vague instruction as to what a hand looked like, and it grew them from that description. My eyes fell on his chest. The shirt was too small, the buttons struggling to keep it in place, even though the thing was sickly slender. What terrified me was the darkness behind the holes, stretched out between the buttons. Not as if its skin was dark in itself, but an utter and complete void.

A hand stretched out, and still, I could do nothing but silently cry as a fingernail dragged across my cheek. Even though the movement was disturbingly light, and slow, I could feel the nail dig into my skin, and blood blend into my tears.

I see why he chose you...

Its mouth did not move. To be fair, it was more of a slightly agape slit than a mouth. The details of its face were fuzzy, shifting, like something... Crawled under its skin. I felt the other hand press onto my back, tearing through my clothes like paper, and into my skin. I couldn't even scream. The hand near my face sunk into my hair, and pulled my head aside, revealing my neck. The slit opened, ripping the skin at the edges as it became larger, revealing dozens of needle-like teeth, gleaming in the absolute darkness of the mouth. The jaw unhinged itself as it opened wider, and lowered into my neck, excruciatingly slowly. I wondered if it enjoyed seeing me sobbing in terror as much as it would enjoy killing me.

I had no doubt I would die, there and then. I started to feel the little points setting against my skin, on my neck, shoulder, my chest. They sank in with no resistance.

What a waste...

I don't know if you have ever had blood sucked out of you, but I wouldn't recommend it. It's not like bleeding out, after a cut. No. You feel your veins forcefully pulse from inside your body, the blood forced to turn back as it was supposed to run the other way. It feels like maggots, running inside your body by the hundred, and the worst part is the sound. That slurping, wet sound of tongue and teeth and the gurgling of-

Everything was dark.

I found myself standing in darkness like I'd never seen before. I had been in caves, lights all out, and still nothing compared to this. I could see myself, but no shadows set anywhere on my body. It was cloaked in some sort of robe, that felt more like a shapeless, thick smoke. I felt some solid ground, though I couldn't have told what it felt like, even barefooted.

“Is anyone here ?”

My voice seemed to carry nowhere. No one answered. Was I already dead ? Was it what death was like ? Unending darkness and silence ? Nothing to feel, to touch, to hear ? The sudden presence that manifested behind me almost made me jump. It might always have been there, now that I thought of it. I didn't need to ask if I was dying. I felt at peace with it, somehow. A low humming filled the silence. Not ominous. Almost like a lullaby. I closed my eyes, not that it made any sensible difference. A small tingle ran over my limbs, and as it went up, I lost sensation to them entirely, until nothing remained, but the humming. Soft, until my mind, like an eye, finally closed.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock @thebeautyofdisorder @festering-queen @paracosmfantasy @lost-girl-inc

[luninosity]

feettootie said:MOR – I mean! thank you. If course I mean Thank You! I’d never be SO rude as to demand an end to Justin’s suffering Right Now. …nope, not me. :-)                            

~

...more, you say? Following on from the previous...

#

“We’ll leave.” Mara slid to her feet. “We don’t want to…to make him feel more than he has to. But…give me your hand.”

 Kris did. The shoved-up sleeve of his shirt caught his eye: indigo, because Justin liked purple; a deeper solid color, because he wasn’t young enough for transparent or fish-net anymore, but with little glittery bits in, under stage jewelry.

 Because he’d been performing. Because it’d been their show—

 He wanted to start shaking. He felt sick.

 Justin’s aunt touched his hand; sparks seared, flared, settled into skin. Kris had worn Justin’s demon-mark, the claiming-mark, for so long that he rarely thought about it; Justin’s fingerprints settled easily in smoke and scarlet over his forearm. Protection from anyone else, Justin had said once, and a promise: Kris could touch the mark, press his own fingers into it, and call his demon-husband to his side.

 The back of his hand glimmered in ruby sunfire, now. Mara said, “It’ll last for two days, more or less, that one. I won’t renew it unless you ask. If you need us…”

 “I’ll call you.” Kris wiggled fingers. “I promise.”

 “Good,” she said, and touched Justin’s shoulder again. “Pet? We’re going. We’ll come back if you ask.”

 Justin blinked, yawned, winced, managed the pencil-sketch of a smile. “Thank you.”

 “Oh, don’t thank us,” Mara said, “you’re going to be human for a while, and we’re very sorry,”

 “I am human.” Justin’s smile grew a fraction. “And Kris will take care of me.”

 “He’d better,” said his aunt, and all three demons vanished, because they knew a good exit line; the air tasted of smoke and hot coals and wild flowers, after.

 Night fell like wings around them: amber light, sofa-cushions, New York twinkling companionably through wide windows. Stars and lights craned their necks; Justin curled himself further under the blanket.

 Kris tucked knitted stripes more closely around him. “Are you cold, love?”

 “A little. Mostly it’s just that everything hurts…” Justin snuck a hand up; Kris took it and kept it and guarded it ferociously. “I’ve pushed myself before, but this feels worse.”

 “D’you want coffee? Tea? Our bed?” He rubbed a thumb over the back of Justin’s hand, marveling: Justin was real and alive and loved him. “Anything.”

 “You’re trying to do something,” Justin said. “To do something, make something, fix something…”

 “Please let me?”

 “It’s not fixable,” Justin said. “You heard them…”

 “They said rest. And stay calm, and quiet.” He lifted Justin’s hand, dropped a kiss there. “I’m here for all of that.”

 “You love me.”

 “I do. Married you, didn’t I?”

 This got a laugh, though small; he’d guessed it would. “Kris Starr,” Justin said. “Married. To me.”

 “To the best person I’ve ever known.” One more kiss. “You didn’t answer me about the tea. And—I know your aunts said human doctors wouldn’t help, but would it, at all? You are half human, and they don’t know everything.”

 “They don’t, but I don’t think it’d make a difference.” Justin scrunched up that nose. “I know what’s wrong—I know how I feel—and there’s not really a fix for this kind of burnout. I could maybe use some extra-strength painkillers, but that’s about it.”

 His phone buzzed again, with a mild sense of shame about interruptions. Kris planned to ignore it some more; Justin said, abruptly horrified, “My family. The news—”

 Kris said a word or two that his mother would’ve never countenanced, and snatched up the mobile. Family. Yes. Six missed calls from Justin’s parents and assorted siblings, eight texts, and three other calls, one from Justin’s best friend Anna, one from his friend and employer Willie Randolph and one from Kris’s own best friend and former bassist. “Gods, even Reggie called you—”

 “You don’t have your phone.” Justin struggled to sit up; Kris dove in for support. “The stories…”

 The stories splashed themselves across headlines and home pages and social media. Accident at Kris Starr concert. Collapsing balcony. Heroic rescue. Lots of pictures of Kris and Justin standing side by side on stage; a few less tactful snapshots of Kris cradling Justin in the wake of calamity.

 Kris scrolled hastily past those. No need to see it. Or to relive it. He was still living it. “Should I call your mum?”

 “Yes, please…”

 They did. Justin’s family answered in a riot of emotion, despite the late hour. Both Professors Moore-Bautista were not only awake but alarmed; the twins and little Isabella had evidently stayed awake, worried about their oldest brother, and even James and Stephanie joined in via shared video call. Justin’s closest sibling pushed up his glasses and asked, “What caused the collapse? Do they know?”

 James always had been an engineer at heart, just like his wife; they were working on the interdimensional gateway project out at that California lab, Kris knew. James also looked too much like Justin: younger, plus the glasses and minus the demon half, but they had the same chin and the same nose and the same unconscious head-tilt when listening. Kris’s heart couldn’t quite handle that at the moment, and tensed a little.

 “We don’t know,” Justin answered, “but someone will. Probably just age; it was an old venue…”

 “Too old,” Kris grumbled.

 “Justin…” Justin’s father had always looked exactly like Kris’s mental idea of a historian: tall and thin, all salt-and-pepper, scholarly and gentlemanly over a secret giddy heart that’d once upon a time jumped into the pit at Kris Starr concerts and loved a demon wife and raised a half-demon son. Right now his eyes brimmed over with anxiety. “The news says you’re hurt?”

 “I’m…” Justin hesitated. “Kris is fine. I’m…not physically hurt.”

 “Yes you are,” Kris said.

 Justin’s family got more worried.

 Justin sighed. “It’s just burnout, okay? Nothing hit me or anything, I just over-extended myself. I’ll be okay.”

 “That sort of psychic trauma can be—”

 “Kells,” Justin said to his stepmother, “I know. I’m going to be fine.” Affection colored his tone, clear and bright. “The aunts came over and checked on me. It’s going to be not exactly fun for a while, but they said I should be okay.”

 They’d said they thought so. Different. Not the same. Kris stared hard at his husband. Justin yawned and put his head on Kris’s shoulder. “Mostly I need to rest. We only wanted to check in. We’re all right.”

 “Don’t do anything much,” Justin’s stepmother said, “and we can send Andy and Eddie over with anything you need, or at least throw some egg rolls or soup or turon and caramel sauce through one of James’s miniature portal prototypes, there’s still one in the lab out back and I could fiddle with the coordinates—”

 “That’s where that one is,” James said, illuminated. “I thought I’d left it on campus…”

 “You left that one with your parents,” Steph said, “and also the hyperstring predictor we were working on, the one that didn’t work, and also the interdimensional camera is still in your mom’s lab, but we’ll pick it up when we’re up there for the symposium next week—”

 “Oh, right, and we can drop by and say hi to Justin and Kris too…”

 “You’re always welcome,” Justin said, “even if that was so unsubtle you might’ve been shouting it through the portal. I really will be fine, guys.”

 Every single family member narrowed eyes at him. Justin held up hands in surrender. “Check on me if you want. But I’ve got Kris. I’m totally taken care of.”

 “You are.” Kris folded an arm around him. “And you’re going to rest, after this, and let me do that.” This time Justin’s family all beamed at him. Kris did not mind. He loved Justin. That was that. Simple.

 Justin’s family got off the phone, with admonitions about resting and being comfortable. Justin yawned again, and winced, and moved a hand to rub his temple. Then winced again.

 “That hurts?” Kris took over the gentle caresses. “Everything hurts, you said. Oh—hang on, we do have some sort of painkillers, I think…want them?”

 “Oh gods yes. Please.”

 Kris practically ran. Found a half-empty bottle—old but not expired—in a kitchen cabinet. Grabbed some water and some biscuits—chocolate, which was good, Justin liked chocolate—and ran back. His demon needed energy. “Here. Also we need to do some grocery shopping.”

 “Well, you’ve been on tour.” Justin took pills obediently, sipped water, nibbled when Kris offered him food. “We didn’t expect to be home much…”

 “We are now. I’ll get anything you want. Delivered.”

 “Love you. Can there be pizza?”

 “There can definitely be pizza. And your garlic breadsticks.” He fed Justin another cookie. “Any better?”

 “Kris, I’ve only just taken them.”

 “I know. I just…”

 “I know,” Justin said. “I know. I think…I do want to try to sleep, for a while. Maybe it’ll hurt less. You should call Reggie. And maybe call Anna back for me? I would, but I’m so tired.”

 “Rest,” Kris said, heart choking his throat. “Rest, love. I’ll handle that.”

 Justin closed both eyes—browner more human eyes, less laced with mysterious spice and smoke—and settled into blankets on the sofa. Kris took a deep breath, bent forward, braced elbows on knees. Scrubbed hands over his face.

 Justin was alive. That was everything.

 The coffee table nudged his leg in sympathy. He put a hand on it.

 Justin was hurt—would continue to be hurt—would be more human. Not fixable. Only rest, and time. The shiver struck his spine and made him shudder.

 He made himself call Anna. Justin’s best friend listened with typical practicality, asked whether she should come over, not necessarily this instant but soon, and if so whether she could pick up any shopping for them. Kris nearly wept at the gesture, which earned a, “Don’t you dare, Kris Starr,” followed by, “if you cry then I’ll cry, and then I’ll have to evaporate your next cup of tea before you drink it.” Anna had minor and entirely human water-related magical affinities; Kris had sometimes wondered whether she and Justin got along so well because of the complementary elements.

 She promised to come by the next day, and to bring groceries and homemade banana bread; she audibly remembered which of them was incapacitated and unable to cook, and also promised to bring some actual meals. She also said she’d stop by Justin’s high-rise editorial office and pick up any physical manuscripts or advance copies of books or authorial contracts. Kris thanked her again, and went on to the next call he’d realized he needed to make, which involved Justin’s boss. Fortunately Wilhelmina Randolph, head of that extensive multimedia publishing empire, adored Justin; she’d known him, or at least known of him, ever since he’d been an excited underground music scene reporter writing for fanzines and punk-rock outlets and occasionally consensually falling into bed with one or more story subjects. She’d seen the news as well; she told Kris to not worry about anything, and to focus on Justin’s health.

 Kris eyed his husband. Justin was asleep now, smaller than usual under heaps of blankets, long legs strangely vulnerable. Even his hair looked wrong: so completely ordinary, soft and lovely but in a purely human way, falling in washed-out ginger waves across a pillow.

 He felt the corners and edges and harmonies of anguish tremble, an explosion of empathic rage and grief and love that did not escape. He did not let it.

 Calm. Warmth. Soothing.

 He made tea, straightforward Earl Grey, and breathed in the scent of it. Justin did not wake.

 He texted Reggie. Reg called back, which meant he was actually genuinely concerned. “Kris? Why’ve you got Justin’s phone?”

 “Mine’s still…someplace. Dressing room. England. Someone’ll bring it.” He looked at Justin and the sofa; he looked at his tea. His hand shook. He set the mug down. “He’s…he’s really hurt, Reg.”

 “Oh, gods,” Reg said. “Kris, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You want me to fly out there? To get you anything, to send you anything? Is he…how bad is it?” And his voice was the voice of the friend who’d been there when Christopher Thompson’d picked up his first guitar, and who’d stood side by side with Kris at Sarah Thompson’s funeral—she’d loved Reggie Jones like a second son—and who’d been the best man at Kris and Justin’s wedding.

 “I don’t know,” Kris whispered, and pressed a hand over his mouth; somehow a minute later he found himself sitting on the floor in the hallway, sobs rattling his chest while Reggie talked to him urgently, gently, with love.

 Eventually he ran out of tears. Justin hadn’t stirred; Kris, sitting on the hardwood planks, felt oddly lighter, if shakier. “…sorry.”

 “Nah, you needed that.” Reggie sounded surprisingly comfortable with being long-distance emotional support. “Get it out. ‘S fine. You said he’s doing okay? But he is hurt?”

 “He’s human,” Kris whispered, “and he’s in pain,” and tried to explain more while Reg listened.

 Reggie said, when he was done, “So he’ll recover. They said so.”

 “Yeah…but…what if—”

 “Kris, they said so.”

 “I just want him to not be hurt…”

 “So you’ve got painkillers, maybe some willow bark, cloves, stuff somebody with some herbal healing gifts worked on? And food. I know he needs food. I’ve seen your adorable husband eat.”

 “I’ll get him pizza…”

 “Okay. You’re gonna be okay. You know what he needs, yeah? And he’ll tell you if something’s wrong.”

 “He will.” Justin would.

 “Okay, then.”

 “Have I ever told you,” Kris said wearily, “how much I don’t deserve you?” The floor was getting extra-hard; he thought he could probably get up now. His tea was waiting patiently over on the table.

 “You have,” Reggie said, “but you can always say it again. Check in with me tomorrow, maybe?”

 “Sure.”

 “Love you both,” Reg said, and got off the phone; if Kris was any judge, his former-bassist-turned-vineyard-owner was already planning care baskets to send them.

 The thought made him smile. Reggie did care. Justin had friends; Kris and Justin had friends.

 He peeled himself off the floor, and went to sit with his husband.

  Justin slept, on and off, for the rest of the night. He did not sleep easily; he woke with small sounds of pain, and creases between eyes. Kris, heart knotting his throat, offered painkillers, tea, coffee, various foods—sweet, savory, anything Justin indicated interest in—and stayed awake. His hands seemed to help: stroking Justin’s hair, kneading Justin’s back or the nape of his neck, being present and steady. A few knots unwound in his chest when Justin smiled tiredly at him, and nibbled pizza, and murmured, “That feels good…” while nestling more into Kris’s touch.

 Trusting. Relaxed. So unguarded about placing himself into Kris’s care. Justin was a fucking miracle. But then Kris had always thought so.

 He sang to his husband, along with the backrubs and hair-petting. His own songs, love songs, ballad rock new and old. Some decades-old silly pop love ditties. Some lullabies, the one or two that he vaguely recalled in his mother’s voice. Justin turned his head, at that last, enough to nuzzle a kiss into Kris’s caressing hand.

 Justin at another point yawned and said, “I can make it to bed, I think, if you want?” Kris shrugged a shoulder and told him that anywhere was fine, the sofa was fine, not moving at all would be fine. Justin pointed out that their bed was bigger and therefore better for full-body cuddling. Kris gave in, in part because Justin did look marginally better, or at least less pale.

 In their bedroom, Justin sank down on the end of the bed, which held him up anxiously; the rainbow-striped duvet tucked itself around him. Kris, heart fluttering in his throat, touched Justin’s shirt, the edge of skinny jeans; Justin laughed briefly, an escape of air. “You just like me naked.”

 “I do. But I was thinking more about you being comfortable.”

 “I know.” Justin smothered a yawn in a hand. “I can change, I think…pajama pants…”

 “Yeah, that was the plan.” Kris found the cozy flannel ones, the type designed for New York winters, plus a long-sleeved old Phantom Fighters shirt that Justin wore a lot around the apartment on icy nights, and came back over. “Want help?”

 Justin made a not-quite-annoyed face, sighed, and held up arms. “Yeah…”

 “Love you,” Kris affirmed, with a kiss to the tip of his nose; and slid rock-show clothing off and protective warm clothing on, with care.

 He did love Justin’s naked body: slim hips, smooth skin, lean thighs, that lovely long swinging cock, that pert backside. His fingers knew the feeling of all those places, the sensations of Justin under his touch. They wanted to linger; he gazed at his own hands over Justin’s waist. Justin wasn’t generally fragile—demon magic, runner’s muscles, punk-kid boots, and writer’s cleverness abounded—and was fearless, exploratory, delighted, in bed.

 Justin was injured now, and moved as if breathing hurt. Kris curled a hand over his hip, tugged pajama pants up, and leaned in to kiss his stomach: feather-light, no demands, full of too many emotions to express.

 Justin put a hand out, touched Kris’s hair, coaxed his gaze up. Their eyes met; Justin smiled.

 In bed, twined together, Kris read to him for a while—a history of nineteen-fifties all-girl all-witch groups—and hummed a few songs for him and held tea for him to sip and some trail mix for him to nibble. Justin, drowsy and safe, draped an arm around Kris, snuggled in, and drifted in and out.

 Kris loved him. Kris loved every piercing, terrifying, potentially heartbreaking moment of life with him. Wouldn’t change a thing. Here in their bedroom, under the kindly glow of a single lamp, some wrist cuffs and the collar from their wedding-night in the drawer under the bed, he understood as much.

 He loved Justin, and Justin had the kind of heart that’d leap in to help people; Kris wouldn’t take that away. He’d never want to. Not when Justin could still feel that way, could still love the world that way, in beautiful courageous defiance of an ex-boyfriend and a past and a world still a little unsure about demonkind, though that was getting better.

 He hated Justin being hurt. But he could never ask his husband, his hero, the man who’d saved his life long before any of the night’s events, to be less than a marvel. Justin had looked at Kris Starr, cranky and petulant aging rock legend, and had seen someone worth salvaging, caring for, loving. Even before they’d been lovers. Even when Kris had insulted him and pretended they weren’t friends.

 Justin loved like that: a gift, freely given. Because he thought someone—an old rock star, a friend, a person he’d only just met, a writer he’d offered a book contract—deserved to be loved.

 Sometimes he couldn’t believe Justin had married him. Sometimes he could believe it, and then he swore on every single battle-lined bit of whatever soul he’d got left that he’d make Justin’s life as splendid and delicious and full of cherishing as his husband deserved.

 He’d stopped reading, as the sun came up. He thought Justin might be asleep; he tried not to yawn, and failed. Not as young as he used to be. Not as bouncy. But Justin needed him.

 Justin folded the arm more tightly around Kris’s waist, murmured, “You can sleep, I’m here,” and wriggled closer: all worn-out half-demon loyal fierceness, even when mostly mortal. “You should rest too. With me.”

 “You sure?” He ran a hand over Justin’s head. So human. Very human. Red and dull. “Was kinda thinking I’d stay awake, in case you needed me.”

 “I do need you,” Justin explained into Kris’s shoulder. “Right here. I’m okay…sort of…mostly, anyway…I’ll wake you if I’m not. If I’m hurting worse. I promise. Sleep with me.”

 Kris sighed.

 “Please?”

 “…all right. But you’ll wake me if you feel worse.”

 “I promise, Kris.”

 “Even a tiny bit worse. Even if you only think you might feel worse. Or you’re thirsty. Or hungry. Or—”

 “Kris.”

 “…I love you,” Kris muttered, defeated. “Love.”

 “I know.” Justin waited for Kris to flip the light off, then fit himself into elderly knightly arms. “I love you. Always. My Kris.”

 “Yeah,” Kris breathed, as Justin’s human hair kissed his chin, as light crept around curtain-edges and traced familiar bedposts and doorknobs in gold, “yours.”