#so i must whittle it down piece by piece

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

I have exactly one joke regardin Jellal and i'm never going to let it rest

[novelmonger]

Top five David Hodges songs

kljfg;asdkfjas;dklgjsd;fklj HOW DO I PICK ad;lkfja;sdkfjsd;kfljds;fklj

Shattered (Beauty and the Tragedy version)

Desert Lands (Beauty and the Tragedy version)

Jet Black Heart (Arrows to Athens version)

Time Machine

Ashes

[scripts4dreamers]

Leave a light on pt. 6

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Seven, Part Eight

Whatever she had been imagining, the prison of regret was ten times worse. It had taken conspicuously little power for Solas to open a door into the pocket dimension that was the prison and so their journey from the lighthouse was quick and painless. After all, the prison was designed to keep people like them in, not out.

People like them.

Amala shivered. It was cold in the prison, and unsettling, and dreary. The atmosphere made her feel as though she were being watched, as though the eyes of history itself were bearing down on her, eager to pick her to pieces and cast its judgment.

She looked up at Solas, his hand clasped in hers, warm and firm and real. She saw his anguish. His eyes were darting around, his breath was shallow and her resolve hardened.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, even though there was no one around, “we’ll get through this.”

He tore his gaze away from the hated place, his whole body relaxing when he was reminded that she was with him.

“I know we will, Vhenan,” he promised, looking back up, “The question is where to start.”

The prison was a twisting, ephemeral maze of crumbling platforms, corridors to nowhere and staircases that bent over on themselves in ways that shouldn’t have been physically possible. It looked designed to tear you down, to whittle away your stamina and hope, keeping you frustrated at all times. There was no clear start and no clear end, just endless grey. Her chest pinched. Still, trying to be brave, Amala pointed to a spot northwest of where they were standing.

“What about th-”

Before she could finish the sentence the world exploded in a flash of stark light. She felt herself be ripped forward with brutal force. It felt like space twisted and contracted around her, crushing the air from her lungs. Just when she thought she might pass out she was flung down onto the stones, where she lay in a crumpled heap, dizzy and heaving. Her head was ringing. There were spots of light flashing in her eyes and everything felt…fuzzy. She clenched her hand and felt nothing.

“Solas?” she mumbled, forcing herself slowly to her feet as her head throbbed, “Solas?”

She looked around. She was alone on a crumbling grey island.

“Solas!” She shouted, feeling her already very thin veil of composure fraying, “Solas, where are you?”

There was no reply. No sound at all, not even the echo of the wind served as a response. The panic was almost choking her now. She searched the landscape with her eyes for any hint of the familiar tall figure, but was met with endless fields of grey. Slowly, as she searched, the reality of her situation sunk in. She was in a prison built from regret, and she was alone.

“Fenhedis,” she shouted, her fists clenched with rage.

She kicked at a nearby chunk of gravel, feeling a sense of grim satisfaction when it shot into a pillar and shattered. Her head ached. She could feel bruises forming on her elbows and shoulder blades. She was sore and fed up and afraid and she was alone. She was never supposed to be alone, that wasn’t the plan.

“Since when do our plans ever actually go to plan, hey Mol?”

She spun around, a combination of shock and elation shooting through her like an arrow.

“Varric?” She called.

“Woah, no need to yell, I’m right here.”

Amala turned again, letting out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sigh when she saw her old friend Varric Tethras standing before her. He looked just how she remembered him, his long hair loose around his shoulders, Bianca strapped to his back and a look of casual roguish charm on his face. The sight of him soothed something in her and suddenly, rather than being on the verge of a panic attack, Amala was almost calm. Varric was here. Everything was going to be alright.

“Varric,” she said with relief, “I thought-”

The words died in her throat and the momentary rush of calm was swallowed by pain. Something must have shown in her face because Varric raised his arms apologetically.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Inquisitor. I didn’t ask for this either.”

“You’re dead,” she said, just to hear the words, “you’re not really here to help me because you’re dead. Solas killed you.”

“Accidentally,” Not Varric corrected, “but yeah. Sorry about that. I am here to help though. It’s why you brought me here.”

She shook her head, hating herself for the awful empty feeling that was opening in her chest. Hating the hot prick of tears in her eyes and the way her throat started to close like she was going to cry. Regret prisons. Never underestimate the cruelty of them.

“I didn’t bring you here. How can you help me?” she asked, surprising herself with how cold her voice sounded, “you’re gone. You’re not here.”

“But I was here for Rook,” he answered, “and most of the things you know about this place, you know from them. This may be a hell prison built by a tricky bastard, but it’s still the fade. It’s still going to warp itself in line with your expectations.”

Her shoulders loosened, the veneer of toughness cracking as a sliver of understanding wormed its way in.

“So, because on some level I expected you to be here…”

He spread his arms, pride sparkling in his warm eyes, “I’m here. See, I knew you’d get there.” He waved her over and started walking, “Now come on, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I’m worried that if we leave that boyfriend of yours alone for too long he’ll go back to wanting to blow up the world.”

“Solas wouldn’t-”

“Mol, I’m a figment of your imagination and memories. If I’m saying it, at least some part of you is thinking it.”

“Or thinking you would be thinking it.” she pointed out.

“Now that’s the kind of thinking we need in a place like this.” He replied, shooting her a wink.

“We should say thinking more,” she teased.

Varric sighed, “Remind me why I’ve missed your dumb ass again?”

She shrugged, feeling comforted despite herself, “Beats me.”

He let out a low, familiar chuckle and the sound made her heart hurt so badly that Amala physically stopped walking and pressed her hand to her chest. Memories of long days trekking through the Western Approach flashed before her eyes, endless games of Wicked Grace, firm pats on the back whenever things became too much, and stories traded around makeshift campfires. Varric Tethras, the consummate storyteller and showman, weeping in a backroom where he thought no one could hear him when she came back from the fade and Hawke didn’t. She remembered how he’d never blamed her, how he’d quietly thanked Andraste for her safety even as his heart was breaking, how he’d kept up a brave face, only letting his true feelings show in the darkest, coldest hours of the night.

She would never get the chance to apologise, to thank him for his kindness, to tell him she liked his new novel, to just talk to him again. An eternity without Varric Tethras stretched out before her, a yawning, gaping maw she couldn’t hope to escape. Amala knew, better than most, that grief comes in waves and right then she felt like she was staring up at a tsunami waiting to bear down on her and crush her into dust.

“Not the time, kid,” Not Varric said gently, reaching up to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze, “you and I will have our chance to hash it out later.”

“Promise?” she asked with a rueful smile.

He didn’t respond. Luckily, or unluckily, she was extremely practiced at shoving her feelings aside to focus on the larger cause. As the pair navigated the endless, barren landscape together, Amala distracted herself by sifting through the memories of her life, wondering what she might be forced to face, which of her many scars would be sliced open again. It was pointless to wonder but, as the oppressive atmosphere started to weigh on her, and it started to feel like she was wading through a thick bog, she couldn’t stop herself. If Not Varric noticed her discomfort he made no indication of it and they continued on in companionable silence.

They walked together for an indeterminate amount of time before something changed. It started with a breeze. An icy breeze that cut to the bone. Amala noticed her breath coming out as steam and, as she stopped walking and looked around, she noticed that they were no longer alone. Instead, they stood at the base of a snowy hill. It looked like a giant anthill. Hints of wooden spikes poked through the snow here and there, there was the idea of a gate, a path with towering walls of snow on either side and everywhere else, statues. Hundreds of statues. Thousands of statues all facing them with blank, unseeing eyes. Most of the forms were humanoid but some were warped and twisted with large stone shards jutting out of misshapen bodies, gruesome and familiar in a way that made her hands fly immediately to the knives on her belt.

“Are those-” Not Varric asked.

“Red templars.” she agreed.

“And that makes this place-”

“Haven.”

As soon as the words had left her lips, she knew they were true. She could make out the shape of familiar buildings beneath the snow and the path, the one they were clearly supposed to walk through, was one she had walked a thousand times, going from the gate to the Chantry. Only there was no Chantry. Not anymore. They would have to walk the path with the statues bearing down on them like gargoyles to get wherever the prison was sending them. Being so exposed made her teeth itch. Slowly, as they walked, Amala gave in to her fear, unsheathing her daggers and settling into something like a combat crouch. She would do as the prison wanted, but she would also be prepared for anything.

“You buried us,” the templar statues spoke in grating, bellowing unison, “lost in the dark, in the cold. Our bodies burned from the lyrium, devouring us from the inside.” As Amala and Not Varric forged ahead the statues turned to face them with accusing eyes, “We knew not what we were doing. Following orders. One foot in front of the other. You buried us under the mountain. We were crushed. We were suffocated. We froze to death even as we clawed our way to the light.”

Amala closed her eyes, breathing deep to steady herself against the pang of guilt in her chest, “You were doomed the moment you started ingesting the red lyrium. It is Corypheus and your Commanders that are to blame for your deaths. They sent you here to destroy this town and kill the people under my protection.”

“You started the avalanche,” they replied, thousands of voices overlapping to form a cacophony echoing against the walls of compacted snow, “we died alone, in agony and afraid because of you.”

“We died for you,” new voices echoed, “We fought for you. We believed in you. You buried us just the same.”

They were nearly halfway up the path now and her chest was tightening with the horror of it all. The wind bit into her exposed skin. The metal of her knives grew colder and colder. They were Inquisition soldiers. Those that had been too injured to make it back to the Chantry, those who had been too low when the second avalanche was triggered. Cullen had never explicitly told her, but she knew they existed. She knew what she had done to them.

Another pang of sorrow, “I never wanted anyone to die for me,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you all, but I had to make a choice. I had to do what I could to save Haven and then, when that failed, to save our people.”

“And you failed at that as well,” another familiar voice said.

She stopped dead in her tracks. There was a statue on the path before her, painfully lifelike, standing at attention, her stone eyes fixed on Amala.

“Flissa,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The beautiful, clever, friendly barkeeper. The one who had been so kind to Amala, who had always greeted her, always stood up for her, who had never let anyone call her a knife-ear. She had spent so many nights in Flissa’s tavern, traded stories with her, shared jokes over ice cold pints. There were others gathered behind her as well. Men, women and children who she had known in Haven, those who had been killed by the Templars or were too weak to survive the trip to Skyhold. Innocent people who had died all because Amala Lavellan brought war to their doorstep.

“I believed in you,” Flissa’s voice echoed, “even as the building was burning down around me, even as I heard the templars closing in. Do you know what my last words were?”

Amala instinctively took a step back, fighting the urge to cover her ears as the guilt rolled over her in waves.

“The Herald will save us,” she continued, “that’s what I said. I swore you would come for us and yet…”

“Flissa-”

“You just ran right past me. You left me to die, Herald.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You’re a failure,” the voices called in ghostly, tormenting unison, “You failed us.”

Amala shook her head, her mind twisting and stumbling over itself as she tried to formulate any sort of coherent response.

“It was chaos,” she started, “there were too many-Haven had no defenses-” she looked up at the statues that surrounded her, taking note of their faces and burning them into her mind, “It was an impossible situation. I made the best choice-the only choice-I could in the moment.”

“Who gave you the right?”

“Somebody had to make the call or every single one of us would have died,” she insisted, feeling the slightest bit of strength flow back into her, remembering the faces of all the people she did save, all the lives that weren’t lost, “I am so sorry that I couldn’t save all of you. Flissa, I-” her voice cracked, “you needed a divine herald, and all you got was me. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more, but I won’t be held responsible for Corypheus’ mistakes. He brought war to Haven. He brought death. It is him who should pay the price.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“And he did,” Flissa said, “you put an end to his scheming, to his murderous plans. You avenged Haven.”

“We are free from our suffering,” A red templar agreed, “we can be used no longer.”

“Pass,” Flissa said, “and do not allow our sacrifice to be forgotten.”

The statues didn’t move, per say. One moment they were there and the next…Amala and Not Varric were alone atop a snow covered hill with not even a footprint to mark the statues’ departure. For her part, Amala felt like someone had reached into her chest and scooped her insides out. She was left with nothing but a hollow ache and the promise that more pain was to come.

Not Varric whistled, “Damn, that was some heavy stuff. You need a minute?”

She shook her head, hastily wiping away the few stray tears that had fallen and frozen on her cheeks, “Let’s just keep moving.”

He sighed, “Whatever you say, boss.”

[astarionsilverbough]

astarion catches halsin whittling a bust of his head out of a palm-sized block of birchwood :} he doesn't recognize it :}

yo hey whoa WHOA

okay yeah let’s go

It happens about three days after they leave the Grove for the Creche.

They’re camping on the Risen Road near the river. Astarion and Gale disappear for their usual bath together - they stay in the pairs they’ve previously selected mostly out of ease, though Karlach joins Lae’zel and Halsin’s group - and Halsin, having already bathed, produces a block of wood from his pack.

It fits neatly in the frame of his hand. Three-fourths of the block have been carefully carved and coaxed away by the gentle sweeps of Halsin’s knife. He works in silence for a few minutes, losing himself so utterly in his task he hardly notices he’s not alone until Wyll is speaking.

“Good gods man,” the fighter says, peering over Halsin’s shoulder at the small piece, “you’ve captured Astarion perfectly. Karlach, look at this.”

“Oh, whoa! Halsin, that’s amazin’,”Karlach says wonderingly as she peers over Wyll’s shoulder while he peers over Halsin’s shoulder. “You’ve even captured his little, little smile lines! Oh!”

“What’s all this, then, why are we cooing over the druid?”

As it always does, Astarion's voice makes Halsin's heavy heart feel about two hundred times lighter and younger. Wyll and Karlach both step back and Halsin looks up at Astarion nears, his damp hair falling over his curiously furrowed brow.

"Oh," the vampire hums, sounding a bit... befuddled. Almost... apprehensive? "Well who's this... handsome young thing, then?"

He's being entirely genuine. He doesn't recognize himself - but Wyll and Karlach, who barely know the man, did. It does look like him, then. Halsin knows it does - he's carved Astarion's face a thousand times over the last two hundred years, after all. He could carve it in the dark.

Karlach rolls her eyes. "Oh, come off it," she says with a laugh, gently smacking the back of Astarion's shoulder. "You don't have to play coy. You're bloody gorgeous, Astarion."

Astarion's eyebrows shoot up as it occurs to Halsin that vampires... Vampires can't see their reflection. Not even in water. His chest grows almost immeasurably tight. It must show on his face, because Wyll clears his throat then and says, "we ought to get the fire going, aye? It's getting chilly out here for those of us not running on infernal engines!"

"Wh -?" Karlach manages, but then Wyll is all but frog-marching her away and Halsin's world shrinks down to Astarion and only Astarion.

A relief.

If he could keep the world this small, he would.

"Is this... Is this really me, darling?"

Astarion sounds... His voice is more vulnerable than Halsin's heard it yet. Oh, but there were no words in any language to describe what was happening within the great former archdruid as he takes in Astarion's expression; it's one of an almost awestruck grief, of curious hope and something approaching the innocence he once embodied when he was younger and unafraid.

"Yes," Halsin utters on a breath. "Yes, little star, it is."

The vampire's eyes are swelling with tears. His bottom lip quivers even as his mouth curves into a soft, wondering smile.

"Me... now?"

"That is the only you I see," Halsin says quietly. "The Astarion you have always been and will always be."

"Oh," Astarion whimpers. When Halsin offers up the carving for Astarion to hold, to memorize with fingertips and thumbs, Astarion falters for a moment before he takes it so carefully Halsin almost shatters then and there.

"Huh," the vampire breathes, gazing down at his own carefully crafted visage with tears streaming down the real article, "well. I... I look more like him, don't I? Like father."

"You look like Astraea when you smile," Halsin murmurs, clambering to his feet. He sweeps a curled finger under Astarion's chin to catch the tears beading there and thumbs over the taper of it.

"And you have her eyes," the druid says. Astarion lifts those sunset eyes to meet his and before he can protest, Halsin bows to kiss the argument off his tongue. Astarion grips the carving in one hand and slides his arms around Halsin's neck; the bigger elf catches him in the crook of his elbow and draws him close, as close as he possibly can.

It's never close enough.

"But when I look at you," Halsin says in elvish, taking a step back towards his tent, "I see Astarion. I see the way your hair curls around your ears and the way your eyes wrinkle when you laugh. The way your lips part right before you're about to be kissed."

Astarion's ears go pink. "Oh - stop," he protests weakly against Halsin's lips, squirming as Halsin lifts him effortlessly from the ground. "Enough poetry, just tell me I'm beautiful so we can move onto the exciting part."

Stepping back through the flaps of his own tent, Halsin catches Astarion in another gasping kiss and turns on his heel. Astarion doesn't flail or cry out when Halsin moves to get him down on the cot; he trusts Halsin with the same ease he always has, fingers carding nimbly through the druid's hair as he kisses over Halsin's jaw and noses at his ear.

"Beautiful," Halsin says, leaning up on his palms to look down at the vampire. Soft dusk light filters through the canvas of Halsin's tent, lighting Astarion up in shades of burnished gold. The breath punches gently out of Halsin and he shakes his head. Catching Astarion gently by the jaw, the druid bows and kisses him in the way that makes the blood run hot enough to tempt the change.

"I would invent a new word for you if I only knew how," Halsin says against Astarion's lips. "You are solar storms and hurricanes, Astarion Ancunin - you are the sea beneath a fractured sky and the first winter freeze."

Astarion trembles. "I distinctly remember telling you no more poetry" he manages, "only moments ago, even. You can't have forgotten already. I hope you haven't, or we have bigger problems than - mmhmm..."

He licks the words off Astarion's tongue. The vampire melts beneath him, tears dripping down his temples and into the snowfall of his hair.

"Astarion," Halsin breathes achingly. "Astarion."

"There it is," Astarion whispers, "your new word. Every time you say my name - every time you say my name, I know how beautiful you think I am."

A pause.

"But the carving certainly helps. Feel free to make more. Of any part of me, in fact."

Halsin grins against Astarion's teeth and gathers him close, finally skin to skin.

It's almost close enough.

"Oh, I will," the druid burrs as Astarion scrapes a heavy, needy gaze over his face, lips parted against Halsin's like he's a snake poised to swallow a mouse. Halsin slides a hand between his thighs and the elf whines.

"Good," Astarion groans.

And he does. Only once he's done some thorough research, of course.

Astarion insists.

[sister-hawk]

HEY LOOK AT WHAT I MADE!!! I whittled this elephant out of a block of basswood, and then painted it by hand, as a gift for my lovely girlfriend, @potsiefaerie 😘♥️💖🩵 When we were still getting to know each other, she mentioned that she collects white elephant figures with her mother (after they found one at a white elephant sale), and I was like, "Wait, I've done a bit of whittling before. Surely I could make one, right???" And then it became my mission all through the spring, summer, and fall. And after a bit of a mad dash to the end, I was finally able to give it to her the first time we met in person 🥰

While it was in no way easy, crafting this elephant was an absolute joy, and it really (re)awakened in me a love for the art of whittling. I had only done some very basic whittling before, close to a decade and a half ago. So with very little experience, none of which was recent, I really impressed myself with how well this thing turned out. And while I'm no stranger to painting, I've never done detail like this before. That is just natural talent babey. I have definitely found my calling in this craft.

It's roughly 2 and 3/4 inches tall, and probably around 4 and 1/2 inches long. I have absolutely no idea how many hours it took start-to-finish. But it was a lot lol.

Process:

The first step was to find reference images of elephants online, from various angles. I used those to create basic drawings of an elephant mid-stride from 5 different angles (left, right, top, front, and back). I printed and cut those out of paper to create a simple stencil to trace the shape onto the block of wood (that's what you see in the first image.

The second step was to actually cut the rough shape of it out of the wood with a coping saw. Then I divided the bottom (where the legs are) in half, and used the drawing as a guide for removing the halves of the legs that weren't needed (since it is not symmetrical in its stance.) That gave me an extremely rough and blocky elephant shape.

Next came the whittling, and that was by far the majority of the work. Months were spent slowly shaving away little bits of wood, occasionally glancing at my reference images, until finally the final shape was achieved. Then it was sanded down so as to smooth out the facets created by the carving process, and to refine the shape a little more.

I also must mention that I did drop it at one point on a cement porch and snap one of the legs off at the knee. But! A bit of wood glue and a rubber band fixed that fairly easily.

Then came the painting process. First I used a glaze to help seal the wood. Wood is a very absorbent material. I knew that, in order to ensure that this piece would last as long as possible, it needed to be sealed so that the wood did not absorb moisture from the air, which could eventually lead to cracking as it expanded and shrank. But paint itself also poses some risk in this way, and the wood really wants to soak it up. So the glaze ensured that that wouldn't happen.

Then I put down three coats of white paint (with another touch-up coat), and then sealed that with another coat of the glaze. This was to protect the white underneath when I started painting with the blue, so that if I messed it up, I would have the chance to remove the blue without totally stripping the white.

Next was the detail work with the blue paint. The designs were first drawn on using a 4h graphite in a mechanical pencil (4h is pretty hard, so it wouldn't leave much behind. That made it easier to erase mistakes and cover with the paint). I did reference a couple mandalas that I found online for the ones on the forehead and back, but all of it was painted by hand with an extremely tiny brush and an enormous amount of patience. It requires very steady hands.

And the final step was two part. First, another coat of glaze to protect the blue paint so that it would not get smeared (not after I did all that hard work!!!). And finally, four coats of varnish to completely seal everything off. My hope is this thing will still be sitting on someone's shelf at least a few generations from now, so I did everything I could to protect it as much as possible.

Materials and tools:

3x3x6in block of basswood, from some website idk lol.

Coping saw from Lowe's.

Whittling tools from Beaver Craft.

120, 220, and 400 grit sandpaper from Lowe's.

Glaze, paints, and varnish from Jo Sonja's.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

not only did her relationship with joe go from feeling like a sacred oasis to imprisonment but i actually think that going from warmth and safety to carelessness and neglect was probably taylor’s actual idea of the Bad Place. like what a cruel twist of fate for the lover girly who only ever wants to bask in companionship to be stuck in a relationship where she felt completely abandoned. so many lyrics in so many songs expressing how excluded and lonely and drained she felt and yet the fact that it once was such a loving shelter for her made it so hard to let go of. i think that was the stuff of nightmares for her.

Yeah like. Idk these days I’m feeling less inclined to rehash it too much because I think everything that could have been said about it has been. (But watch me come out with an essay about it tomorrow lmao.) Part of that is “all breakups are the same” in that… for most relationships at some point the safety of your home becomes a minefield, for whatever reason, which is why it ends. Unfortunately for Taylor that safety of the home is layered with SO many other issues (eg the retreat due to her “cancellation” and mental health and other issues) so it would have been even harder to unpack — and come to terms with — if I had to guess.

But yes, when it comes down to it, it must have been devastating to realize that the safe space of her home actually began to feel like the thing that was *causing* her pain. You’re Losing Me is such a great example of this with, “remember looking at this room? We loved it ‘cause of the light / Now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time.” Like, the home is the physical space in the song, but it’s also the metaphor. The place that once brought so much joy to both of them (light) is the place where she now feels loneliest (dark). And yeah, the idea that she felt at one point that she had finally gotten her life together, in that she managed to build this home life with someone she loved and envisioned a future with, with timelines and plans, only for it to be whittled away piece by piece? The stuff of nightmares for sure.

I mentioned this a while back but I watched “Someone Great” for the first time a few months ago kind of as a joke, thinking “surely a Netflix movie can’t have really inspired the greatness that is Death By a Thousand Cuts”” and within five minutes of the movie starting I was like “Oh I know EXACTLY why this movie triggered her so badly 🥴”. Anyway I highly recommend it for anyone who wants a glimpse into what we mean by “all breakups are the same” because it’s essentially the very sanitized version of Joever (and by that I mean, every breakdown of a LTR in one’s early 30s).

[sideprince]

What are your thoughts on Snape's parents/childhood/upbringing ?

Sorry it's taken me ages to get to this ask! I wrote a meta post about Eileen Prince recently ("recently." It sat in my drafts for about a month as I whittled away at it) but I can go off a bit on Tobias and the kind of home a young Severus might have lived in, though it'll be a bit of a messier convergence of meta and headcannon, probably.

The tl;dr of the Eileen meta post is that I think she may have come from a family with reasonable wealth and reputation, and ended up stuck with Tobias as the result of an accidental out of wedlock pregnancy that led her family to disown her. @vulnus-sanare left one of my favorite comments on that post, which I'm just going to quote in full:

"It is hard to not think that Severus may have been the outcome of an unwanted pregnancy. It is harder to believe that "love" was ever in the foundation of the Snape family. My theory is that Eileen and Tobias had a fling, it had consequences, the Princes disowned Eileen for getting impregnated by a Muggle, and Tobias was forced to marry her out ... Patriarchal honor. However, the first time Eileen and Tobias had a violent argument, Eileen threatened him with her wand for defense. He didn't sleep at home that night. The next morning, Eileen found her wand split into two unsalvageable pieces on her bedside table. Tobias was home. And there would be no more magic."

My personal take is that we see clear statements in the books that depression can sap a witch/wizard of their powers (Merope Gaunt), and also that existing powers can't be suppressed, they'll find a way to come out and with terrible consequences if bottled up for too long (Ariana Dumbledore, and basically every underage wizard). Because of this, my own interpretation is that Eileen probably lost much of her powers due to despair. We see Severus in a memory shooting down flies with his wand alone in his room as a teen, and that casual use of magic makes me think that the Ministry still had magical activity registered at that residence on Eileen's account, otherwise Severus would have had to deal with the repercussions of violating the Statute of Secrecy and, if that was the case, he certainly wouldn't have used his wand and done magic so nonchalantly. Eileen's magic would have been too weak to stand up to Tobias, but still enough to warrant the Ministry thinking there was an active witch at their house.

Nevertheless, I love the idea that Tobias split her wand! It's a striking and complex statement on what that relationship might have looked like. Tobias must have been insecure (secure people don't tend to abuse their loved ones). Eileen had power over him that he would never be able to match. Even so, every person with power has a vulnerability - for any wizard it would be that their power must be channeled through a wand to be effective. A wand which, despite the power of the witch or wizards who wields it, can easily be snapped in two. What might its core have been? Would Tobias have been surprised to find it wasn't merely a stick carved on a lathe, that there was something running through its center that he couldn't identify? I love the irony of such a mundane, muggle act stopping the power of magic in its tracks. And, after all, if Eileen had no money of her own and she and Tobias had little to live on, she wouldn't have been able to buy a new wand. Or perhaps she eventually did, but her powers remained weak (or perhaps she bought a cheaper wand she could afford, maybe even secondhand, and it never worked as well as her own had). As for her magic struggling to get out without a proper way to channel it, perhaps her wand's destruction may have been the final straw for her spirit, which broke as a result of her isolation from her family and her world, and her being tethered to such a man.

As for Tobias, I think that while he may have had a proclivity towards abuse, it didn't truly come out until sometime after Severus' birth. I think he was always working class, and possibly fought in WWII like every man of his generation, but that the crippling poverty of the family was brought on by some kind of workplace accident that left him unable to work and dependent on welfare. Eileen wouldn't have worked, having few skills and weak magic, but back in the 60s many working class families only had one breadwinner. There are signs that Severus was both poor and also neglected, particularly his ill fitting, mismatched, hand-me-down clothes that no one even attempted to sew to size for him (let alone use magic to do so). Eileen would have made sure Severus was out of the house as much as possible, if Tobias was home most of of the time, and tried to take the brunt of Tobias' anger when possible. Severus wouldn't have understood this for a long time, and would have felt rejected and isolated as a result.

As Severus grew older, got a wand, and expanded his knowledge of magic, he would have stood up to Tobias more in the weeks he was home from school. He wouldn't have trusted his father, and would have eventually realized that their power balance had shifted. I think there may be a parallel with Voldemort there, too: as Dumbledore says, all tyrants fear that one day someone will rise up against them. I think perhaps Severus felt more able to be that person and undermine Voldemort, because he had already done so with his own father. He had learnt, firsthand, that terrifying people, people who intimidate with violence and brutality, are not infallible. It makes sense for his character: throughout his school years we see Severus reject his bullies and fight back against them, even though they attack him four against one.

As for his own experience of growing up in that small house on Spinner's End, I think Severus must have been a lonely child. We see the way he feels the need to pick his moment when first meeting Lily; he doesn't have the confidence of a child who's been able to spend much time playing with others. His parents fought a lot, and if his mother tried to protect him, he would have spent a lot of time alone in his room listening to them do so. We see him as a teen shooting down flies with his wand, in a dark room, alone. I think his world at home was small and often painful. Like many children of abuse, he wouldn't even have been aware how much pain he was in, or how constant it was, it was just a part of his internal wallpaper. I don't imagine he had much of a relationship with his dad, though the need for approval from him would have been buried in him somewhere. Perhaps, as he grew older, his relationship with his mother grew more complex and there was a bond.

My own headcanon is that Tobias, a middle aged, disabled, working class man on the dole, wouldn't have survived austerity under Thatcher. I like to think that Severus, living on a teacher's salary in a prestigious school and not needing much beyond the room and board that his job provides, would have used his savings to take care of a widowed Eileen. Perhaps he visited her once or twice a year. They were never sentimental, and talked very little. They would have a cup of tea and a game of chess, or maybe even Gobstones. When Voldemort returned, Severus would have made sure that, if he should die, Eileen would be taken care of. He would not have been able to leave her a letter or any kind of explanation, for fear of it being found. She would have been proud to learn he had been appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts, though he would not have taken pride in it, knowing it was a tactical appointment, and not an earned one. She would have been prouder still, maybe, to learn of his heroism after his death.

[starswornoaths]

2. Horizon

Myrina never fully learned how to make connections with the people closest to her. Never quite learned how to open up the door to her heart all the way without them having to let themselves in.

It is well that those that love her knock anyway. Would that she could let them know her. When her daughter stumbles upon a piece of Myrina's past, she will have to settle for a half truth as an end result.

word count: 3,628

-

Myrina had lived in the Shroud long enough to know that thunderstorms posed a particular threat here—with the tree canopy so dense as to blot out the sun in most places, even the scent of rain on the wind was enough for most villages to begin to prepare for the worst case scenario. 

Local volunteer firefighters and town watchtowers would remain on high alert, ready with countermeasures should lightning strike the treeline. As ever, she would be among them, covering the older trees and thatching rooves even as the storm so often caught them in the middle of their preparations.

On one such afternoon, a particularly brutal storm swept through their little Elmvale. The trees offered little and less protection from the rain pratically pelting the firefighters in horizontal sheets as they wrestled with the howling wind. Visibility was shot: even in the shade of the canopy, the tumultuous clouds overhead made it almost dark as night.

But the day was relatively kind, for all their efforts: but a single lightning bolt struck through the canopy and burned a hole large enough to fit a chocobo through before they had managed to smother the flames but beyond that, the village suffered no lasting damage.

That hole in the canopy line became something of a fascination for Myrina’s children even into the next day, after the smoke had thinned and the skies had begun to clear.

“Bet Rhalgr sent it,” her son, Uthengentle chirped as he hopped from one puddle to the next.

They were making a game of it; from what Myrina could parse, they were avoiding anywhere that wasn’t a puddle.

“The lightning?” asked her daughter, Serella, as she jumped after him.

“Yeah! That’s like his whole thing!” Uthengentle said with a pump of his fist in the air on his next leap. “He sends stuff like that down all the time! That’s what my Pops used to say! I bet it was a message!”

At that, Serella stood still in the next puddle she landed on and turned her head toward the newly formed gap in the treeline. Gray, overcast sky peered in on the village with its cosmic indifference from through the lingering smoke trails.

“Whoa,” she whispered, eyes wide in awe.

Even later that evening, with supper sorted and everyone settled in, Myrina still caught her daughter peering out of the window in the upstairs hallway, staring out toward the burned away boughs. It took little and less to shoo her gently to bed. Thus, Myrina slept soundly, certain that her daughter’s curiosity would be sated ere long.

She didn’t see much of Serella the next morning after breakfast, though the overcast day meant the family settled inside, content in their own spaces with only the sounds of fiddling hands to fill the gentle quiet. 

Eventually, though, she heard the telltale march of little feet down the steps sometime in the late afternoon. She couldn’t help but smile at the sound: she knew it was her daughter in the way she jumped with both feet off the last step. It gave her away every time.

But there was a rustle of paper with each step, something Myrina hadn’t anticipated. Serella must have busy making something up in her room.

Sure enough, her daughter’s beautiful head of hair bounced in just above the kitchen table with her expression the very picture of seriousness and a loose sheet of paper fluttering in her grip.

“Have you seen Da?” she asked.

Myrina had in fact seen Hanvesh. He was in the den, likely reading or whittling if the lack of plucking strings was any indicator. But a small part of her felt hurt that she wasn’t asked regarding whatever little mystery their daughter got into this time.

Setting down her screwdriver and the clock she had been repairing, she said, “He might be in the den. Is there something I can help with?”

Alright, maybe a little more than a little hurt.

Her daughter demured at that, staring down at her own feet and shuffling her weight between them. 

“Pro’bly not.” she mumbled at her own socks.

A far larger part of Myrina hurt at that. She fought a wince.

“I might be, you never know!” she tried again with a shaky smile, even as the words felt awkward and too loud.

But she hadn’t known how to connect with her daughter just yet; poor Uthengentle had been easy to bond with because something horrid and unjust had happened to him, too. Serella had no such loss to grapple with, sweet and earnest and untouched by the world as she was. Myrina felt shame that that was what it took for her to connect with either of her children. She felt shame that it was all she had to connect with anyone.

But her daughter’s eyes had never clouded over in haunted memories. In fighting so hard to shelter her daughter, she had made herself a stranger. She knew not how to engage with the unmarred and the innocent, even when they were her blood.

“...Nah, it’s okay. Got to do with stars and stuff, so, uhh...I’ll go check with him. Thanks, Ma!” Serella chirped, ignorant of her mother’s struggle as she skipped out of the kitchen in search of her father.

But it was a small house, just big enough for their little family. It was impossible not to hear them in the next room as she resumed her fiddling.

“I found a new constellation!” Serella told her father.

“A new constellation? You’re certain?” she heard her husband say with the right amount of awe in his voice for a child with a new discovery.

Because he knew how to connect with their children. With anyone. With everyone. Because that was the sort of person he was. He knew all about all kinds of things because he knew just how to ask. 

Myrina didn’t know how to do that. She knew all the same things of people by silent observation, but never learned how to say things softly.

“I checked all the books in the library and all the star charts you gave me, and I didn’t see anything like this!” Serella declared with the sound of paper being smacked onto a table. “I can see it at night through that hole in the trees! Uthen thinks Rhalgr wanted us to see it!”

Myrina could picture her daughter’s face perfectly: she always got this bright gleam in her mismatched eyes when she had a mystery to solve, with a big smile that showed all her little baby teeth in an expression that dared the gods themselves to tell her she couldn’t find the answer.

Serella was her father’s daughter, after all.

The screwdriver Myrina had in her hand was far too large for the next step in repairs. She busied herself with finding one of her smaller tools in her bag.

“That’s quite the effort—well, now.” Hanvesh mused with the sound of shuffling paper.

In her mind’s eye, Myrina was sat across from her husband in the den, watching the way his brow would quirk the way it always did when something caught his attention. His head would always angle toward the opposite side as the eyebrow that arched, without fail, and she could see the way it tilted in that moment he picked up the paper and examined it.

“I don’t think I’ve seen this star pattern ‘afore in all my life, Little Acorn!” he said, though Myrina had known him long enough to tell when he was hiding something. “Say, do you mind if I keep this to take a look for myself later?”

“‘Kay!” she chirped.

That had been the end of it, apparently. Serella ran off to play, and Hanvesh followed not long after, ambling out with his cane thumping in time with him.

A bad pain day, then. Myrina set the pot on the stove and began to brew his medicinal tea for when he came in.

Except she hadn’t even finished steeping it before she heard him head straight for the kitchen.

She turned just in time to see Hanvesh join her, still holding that paper in his free hand. His expression was a queer one; it hovered somewhere between serious and playful, in that strange liminal space he occupied when he intended to butter her up for something important.

As if he needed to.

“You’ll never guess what our daughter has discovered,” Hanvesh said conversationally. 

“A new constellation, by all accounts.” Myrina answered plainly.

At that, he snorted a laugh and said, “Aye, that’s what she believes. But would you believe me if I told you you’d recognize it better than I?”

As he asked this, he revealed the drawing on the paper: less a sketch and more a series of scribbled stars, one for each light she saw through the treeline.

Far too many to be a constellation; easily over a dozen dots, all arranged in a strange pyramid.

“Says she saw these after that storm the other day. Funny, the angle from the village points north, too far out to be the Shroud—”

Ah. Myrina might have known. Little wonder why she would need “buttering up,” then.

“Not a constellation, then.” she sighed and handed the paper back.

Hanvesh did not take it from her. “It’d be good to hear it from you, you know. What it really is.”

Who you really are, he did not add.

Of course it would be. If she knew how to do that. If she knew how to be a mother and a partner and a person—

“I don’t know, meri jaan,” she said around a heavy sigh.

She hadn’t even finished the exhale before he reached for her hands, gentle and sweet, as he leaned on his good leg to press close.

“Would it be so horrible if she knew her mother, mon cœur?” he asked, not unkindly and half into her cheek before he planted a kiss there.

If anyone would understand why Myrina might insist that yes, it would be so horrible, it would be her husband. That he would ask regardless meant he didn’t intend to let this go.

That it was important enough not to. That it mattered.

“I shan’t say a word,” he promised her, and when he squeezed her hands it became clear she had hidden her panic poorly. “Ultimately, it is your story to tell, mon cher.”

There was never a time he left her side without a kiss to her forehead, and this time was no exception. Cane in hand, he began to make his way back to the study.

Hovering near the window in the den on his way, he said aloud and certainly to no one in particular, “Methinks the sky’ll clear ‘round sunset, give or take a bell or two.”

He left it at that. She hated that he had, just a little, even as she knew he had the right of it.

Hanvesh had made rabbit stew out of her catch that night for dinner, and their little ones had been eager to help her make bread. 

The conversation at the dinner table never veered toward Serella’s “constellation,” lively as ever though it was. It was nice, always, to sit and watch her family happily chatter about their day. To bask in the warmth they exuded, the warmth they folded her into. 

But her thoughts were malms away from the table in that moment. Despite not having set foot there in almost a decade, a massive gate of wrought iron and stone cast a looming shadow over her thoughts. 

Realistically, she knew she could not keep her children from knowing forever—even if she did not tell them, their school would doubtless be covering broader Eorzean maps and history any day now. Though her name would not be there, the shape of the place would be unmistakable, and then the questions would follow; chief among them, the question of the household’s secrecy surrounding it. 

Nay, better to at least try.

There was about a two-bell span in the evening, after the house had gone to sleep, that Myrina knew her daughter would often shove pillows under her blankets and sneak down to the study, where all those star charts and fairytales were within her grasp, with time uninterrupted and free. Doubtless, Serella was eager to be nose-deep in some map or other, still dedicated to her new discovery.

Myrina knew a better mother might try to reign that in, to stamp down a bad habit the moment it was found. But she had been one such child once, scurrying in the shadows of her own home, delighting in the thrill of sneaking without true fear of harm. She could find no good in denying her daughter the chance to befriend the dark.

Tonight, though, she could give her daughter something better: an answer.

As expected, her ears perked at the sound of little feet trying to cling to the sides of the stair steps to reduce their creaking. In an effort to startle her daughter the least, Myrina waited until the footsteps hit the bottom before slipping out .

And, as expected, Serella spun around with such shock that she nearly sent herself to the floor when she met her mother’s eyes from the top of the stairs.

“You’re not in trouble,” she promised her daughter around the lump in her throat, holding up her hands as if to show she was unarmed. “There’s something I wanted to show you.”

Her daughter regarded her with wide eyes, watching her as she closed the distance.

“What do you mean?” Serella asked hesitantly, her whole body already bent in the shape of cornered prey.

Hard not to wince at that, but Myrina managed.

“I heard,” she said, and produced her daughter’s crude star map, “that you found yourself a constellation?”

Serella looked at her own drawing like she was somehow in trouble.

“Well…yeah. I mean,” she said in a halting voice that snagged on her own nerves. “I can’t find it in any of the books or maps I’ve been able to check. It’s up in the sky. What else could it be?”

Before she could talk herself out of it again, Myrina asked, “Would you like to know?”

That got a look of surprise on her daughter’s face, her spine unfurling as the fear left her. 

Then, as though the two of them were conspiring, she leaned in an whispered, “Do you know, Ma?”

At that, Myrina couldn’t help but crack a smile as she motioned with her head toward the front door and said, “Something like that. C’mon— get your shoes, and I’ll show you.”

With that, she led her curious daughter out through the front door and toward the treeline.

When she stopped in front of the tree that had been struck, she peered up through the burned branches.

Had she not known what those little twinkling lights were, she might also have thought they were stars; even with this hole, the trees above hadn’t thinned so much that the sky was in unobscured view.

“This one, right?” she asked, pointing at the gap.

When Serella nodded, Myrina mirrored the gesture, knelt before her daughter, and offered an open arm.

“Here, hang on to me.” Myrina instructed.

When Serella tilted her head in clear confusion, Myrina’s smile returned as she said, “We’re going to fly for just a moment. So hang on tight.”

Gasping and gawking, her daughter scrambled, her little arms wrapping around her shoulders and squeezing. 

For as unfamiliar as she was with laying her heart bare with her children, she knew without conscious thought how to swing her daughter onto her hip, arm wrapped around her like she was a toddler all over again.

It had been a while since Myrina had properly ridden the wind…but dragons never forget how to spread their wings. They who have supped on that selfsame aether were no exception.

Just as well. Short though the trip might have been, it still required a few hops around the dense canopy branches so as to hit the bigger ones, though just before breaking through the treeline, she made sure to wind up her leap as far and as high as she possibly could.

Might as well give her daughter a good view—nay, the best view she could.

Bursting through the treeline felt almost like breaking through the surface of water—for as much as she had come to love Gridania, its dense treeline made it easy to forget the world beyond and above it. It was easy to drown in the leaves. 

Now, though, the whole world stretched out in every direction further than the eye could see. Shaded treetops stretching out as far as they eye could see.

And above that, all, the glittering canopy hung higher than any tree. The stars welcomed her and her daughter into the rest of the world in that moment. The moon fair set the world alight that they might see its splendor.

Dragoons were ever taught to land lightly and hover on the barest of points, and much like their penchant for moments of flight, it was a muscle that never truly fell out of practice.

So it was nothing for her to perch on the natural “net” of the treetops, so dense as to support their weight on one of the highest branches as she settled in and set her daughter on her lap.

For so long as she drew breath, Myrina would never forget the look on Serella’s face, staring straight up at the sky—nowhere near where her newfound “constellation” was, mind, but just staring, unblinking, at the expanse of the universe with tears rolling down her cheeks as she took in the width and breadth of the night sky for the first time in her life.

“Wow…” Serella whispered. “I’ve seen it in pictures, but…”

Her words trailed off in a sniffle, even as she did nothing to wipe her tears away.

Myrina let her process this new discovery, her head on a swivel as if she would never see the sky again and had to commit it to memory. 

With a little lean toward her daughter, she murmured, “Just ahead of us. There’s your constellation—but look closer.”

Following Myrina’s outstretched hand, Serella at last scrubbed her face of tears and looked out, out, out beyond the treeline, on the far edge of the horizon. Dozens of lights twinkled back, all concentrated in the shape of a spire.

Or more accurately, several spires.

“It’s…a building…?” Serella trailed off, squinting at the outline that encased her newly discovered stars and leaning in as though it will help her see.

Eyes widening as she straightened again, she squeaked,  “...No, it’s a castle!”

Oh, how far and near to the truth she was. The truth might well break her heart. 

Despite everything, Myrina couldn’t help but smile as she said, “Something like that. It’s where I’m from.”

Serella’s head had never whipped toward her so fast.

“You came from over there?!” she exclaimed.

“Of a certainty. It’s—”

In her mind, Ishgard was as constant as the Twelveswood itself. Two homes, alike in cruelty, tumultuous as a roiling tide; made of the same waters and always destined to crash together but never unite. 

Myrina could not tell that to her child. Not when she looked up at her with such wide, inquisitive eyes. She could not be the first one to take that away from her.

“The…castle, you called it? It sits on a mountaintop with the surrounding town. It’s called Ishgard.”

Serella repeated the name slowly, as if she were testing its authenticity.

“What’s it like, Ma?” she asked.

Just as Myrina had feared. 

Slowly, she found the words to skirt around the horrid nature of the Theocracy. Staring out at the myriad lights that flickered so far away, her tone almost carried her voice to those windowsills she had so often pressed her nose against.

“The people there—they’re warm and kind. For the most part, that is,” Myrina started slowly, because that was true enough. “But they’re…it’s…”

Swallowing, she tried again, “No one is allowed to be their truest selves, unless they are inherently cruel. No one is able to truly be friends—with one another or with those not from there. It is a place cursed with loneliness and strife.”

As she expected, Serella’s tear-glossed eyes widened in shock and hurt at this revelation. Of course her tender little heart couldn’t bear the thought of such a place.

Rather than a fresh wave of tears, she shifted in her mother’s lap to face her fully as she asked, “Then we can make friends with everyone! Then they won’t be lonely anymore! Oh, can’t we go mom? Please?”

Myrina knew that look on her daughter’s face. That bright gleam in her mismatched eyes with a big smile that showed all her little baby teeth in an expression that dared the gods themselves to tell her she couldn’t fix an entire town with love.

Her sweet, innocent little girl. May she never know the harsh truths of the world—or may she defy them upon discovery.

With that little prayer in the back of her mind, she kissed the crown on her daughter’s head and promised her, “When you’re old enough to hold a sword and draw a bow, sweetheart, we’ll go together.”

Time had a funny way of half-breaking most promises and poorly keeping the rest. Twenty and two summers later, Serella would cross the Arc of the Worthy, driven there by the harshest truths and the cruelest lies of the world and trying not to wonder what her mother might make of it all.

[sierrawitch]

Manifestation of the Spoken Word

by autumn sierra

Manifestations aren’t always the product of ritual, or even a spell. Many times witches and people outside the community akin manifestations to actions bringing about the desired outcome, whether magickal or mundane. In my case, I did nothing but use the spoken word.

We as a people vastly underestimate the power of language. Whether we see it as inherently magickal or as an amazing evolution of ancient communication, language has a very important role in each life and in many ways. For someone living in the mundanity of our world, language is a means of communication and an outlet for creativity, an escape from the outside and a retreat into the vividness of the imagination. It’s also used to further education and community.

In witchcraft, we understand that language is all these things and more. We understand that in order to speak, we need to first think about what we’re going to say, and in order to do that we must conjure thought from a void within ourselves. In conjure or manifestation work, something is created from nothing, or at least by using limited tools to achieve the desired outcome. Some use tools like herbs and crystals, coins and fire. In my case (and in the case of others I’m sure) the tools were whittled down simply to the spoken word.

For the past few weeks, among my numerous hobbies I began practicing sewing and tailoring for my own growth and benefit. My younger sister realized I was doing this, and asked me to tailor her clothes, which then turned into paid commissions completely transforming old clothing into new pieces for her wardrobe. Doing all of this by hand, I often exasperatedly cried out “if only I had a sewing machine!” or “just wait until I get a sewing machine”. I said things like this over and over, usually in frustration and with fatigue, but also in excitement of the possibility of what I could achieve without needing to stitch everything by hand.

Was it my pure intention to manifest a sewing machine? Absolutely not. I did no fancy ritual work or spell casting. Nothing was set in motion physically for me to obtain one. I even recognized that I needed to put that want on hold for lack of space! And yet, my words became the catalyst of my desire. My frustration, hope, and pride in my own work fueled those words and suddenly, I found myself waking up to a text from my aunt. She had found a sewing machine at a yard sale. It was selling for $10, when it originally retailed for $130-250. She offered to give it to me free of charge. Flabbergasted, I accepted, and within the afternoon it was in my hands.

Have I found a place for my new sewing machine? No. But I have realized the immense power of the spoken word. Not only were thoughts conjured from a void within me, but my purest desires fueled with emotion were put out into the world. They were spoken of over and over again, until they came to fruition 2 weeks later.

The power of the spoken word is not limited to your native tongue. Magick is attached to languages of ancient times, like Latin, Gaeilge, Gàidhlig, Egyptian, Greek, Chinese, Ainu, Inuktut, and many more through tradition, culture, and generations of ancestral knowledge. By incorporating ancient language into witchcraft practices, we connect with those who came before and call upon the wisdom of the living word in whichever circumstance we find ourselves in. They can be used in prayer, ritual, offering, spell work, ancestor work, deity work, and manifestation. Simply using the language imbued with history and memory to commune with the world around us is magick.

So even if you’re not trying to manifest a sewing machine, consider how the words you speak so passionately could affect your life. They say “be careful what you say” and “be careful what you wish for”. Little do they know just what can be spoken into being.

[yakool-foolio]

During pre-release, Seth was shaped up to be quite the antagonist. Since chapter 1 was heavily advertised through trailers and other promotional videos, Seth ended up getting even more spotlight than Yomi! There were interesting bits and pieces that caught the Twitter Rain Code community's attention, prompting several theories. I was one of those theorists, believing Seth to potentially be a redeemable antagonist who overly relied on Amaterasu's production of medication for what was presumed to be his illness, subservient to the corporation in order to get the medicine he needed.

However, no one's theories really turned out to have much merit. What was once a highly anticipated antagonist was actually to a 'villain of the day' that was hardly even the main focus of the chapter he appeared in. It's a shame, really. Same can be said for a lot of the other peacekeepers, but I want to focus on Seth for now. There is a good foundation to build off of for a way to improve on Seth as a character (and antagonist by extension). It all starts by subverting expectations.

In chapter 0 and throughout most of chapter 1, there's a clear pattern set that there will be a select group of suspects that will whittle down with gathered evidence until it concludes with a final deduction for the true perpetrator(s). For chapter 0, it's the detectives on the train, and for chapter 1, it's the members of the church. However, what if that pattern was already broken by making Seth the Nail Man? The player assumes that since the church members have been the main focus, that must mean one of them is the culprit. But once more evidence is used to inch closer to the truth, it turns out that the player has been aiming at the wrong target!

Seth could also have a unique motive if he were to be the real Nail Man. It could fit into his family motto of 'silence is golden,' because as the Nail Man, he'd be (eternally) silencing those who've wronged others, which could hint at his own backstory of how he was forced to keep quiet while something horrible in his family happened, so now he's 'providing justice' to those who may not be able to speak up for themselves like himself. And yet, he still falls back into the motif of silence by keeping his 'justful' murders a secret. He bribes the church to keep his own murders under lock and key, without them even knowing it was him that committed them. Seth abuses his power to do what he believes is the right thing, standing up for helpless citizens who remind him of himself. He's got good intentions, but the absolutely wrong way to carry them out.

I'm thinking about incorporating this idea into my Death Knight AU, since it's something I'd love to include and wouldn't intrude with the main plot. Spice things up a bit more, y'know?

[canonically47]

The funeral is short and small and tragic.

Fang quietly sobs in Frenchie’s arms, whose tears have painted his face in sorrow, and Roach stands next to Frenchie with pain in his eyes that were joyful mere hours ago. Jim looks down in respect, their eyes still and dead, unmoving from the grave, and Archie is next to them, trying to stay tough and unbothered but her eyes still water. Lucius and Pete bury each other in one another’s arms, hoping physical warmth will cure their aching hearts. Zheng is awkwardly standing on the side, having not known Izzy for long, but she’s holding Oluwande, who is quiet in mourning. Ed is the one who makes the grave, each move shaky and unsure. And Stede stands by him, his head lowered in respect and love for the man who finally learned to love.

“I guess that’s it, then.”

Ed’s words break the sobbing silence after much uncounted time. Some look up and some don’t. Ed just shoves the shovel away with a sigh and walks away, unable to look at the grave for any other second.

“Ed.”

Ed looks at Stede, who of course has followed him like the puppy he is. Not even his understanding glance can make this better. Not even his soft touch can comfort Ed. Not even his words-

“He didn’t die for nothing. He died for us. He died because he loved us.” There’s that smile. “Don’t you think that’s beautiful?”

Ed smiles back at him, but his eyes don’t crinkle like they should for a true smile.

“I think it’d be more beautiful if he lived for us.”

Not even his unknowledgeable words can make this better.

When they get on the ship again, it’s quiet. They don’t mind their steps and they trip and they break and they cry and they mourn and they don’t know what to do.

Lucius and Pete want to hold the wedding; but they wanted Izzy to be there. The shark Izzy whittled and gave Lucius - which he still doesn’t know if it was for him or just given to him because he had nobody else to give it to - stays in his room, staring at him like a ghost of grief.

Zheng wants to comfort Olu, Olu wants to comfort Jim; but the ultimate comfort was Izzy. Those insults and those shouts and yet that care that he gave had become the ordinary before that no-nosed bastard fired. Before Izzy trembled. Before Izzy met his unfair end.

Frenchie wants to talk to Izzy; but Izzy is dead. There was a lot went unsaid between them. A lot more Frenchie wanted to say and do. A lot of things Lucius and Pete, and Stede and Ed, did that he wanted to do. But Izzy is dead. Izzy has met his unfair end.

Fang and Roach suffer; they suffer because Izzy is dead. Fang misses him because he’s known him for so long, his absence is hard to believe. Roach hears him call Izzy’s name, and hears him sigh and then yell in frustration and anger and grief when he realizes. And Fang sees Roach frantically search for Izzy when he messes something up in the kitchen, then stops dead in his steps when he realizes.

“Izzy, can you-... Fuck.”

Ed suffers too.

“Izzy, would you come here-... Oh, God.”

Stede suffers too.

“Stede-”

“I know.”

“I never- I never got to-”

“I know, Ed.”

“Why the fuck did he apologize? Why the fuck was he such an idiot to- to let himself bleed out, to- to leave me? To-”

Ed breaks down in frantic sobs.

He is surrounded by loving family.

He must be happy and fulfilled.

He must find himself a purpose.

But when was that established?

But how can happiness come to him now?

But what is Ed without Izzy?

There is the crew and there is himself and there is Stede.

But a piece of him is missing. It died at land and not at sea, which is so fucking ironic. Which is so fitting for the broken mess he is.

He will learn how to be happy because “not moving on is worse”.

But today, he is mourning.

Today, he doesn’t know himself.

[boysbeloving]

This quote has always been my favorite but only recently did I realize how perfect it fits pre-canon (pre-Porsche) Kinn:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

— The Four Loves, C. S. Lewis

NONNIE IT IS A FINE ASS SATURDAY TO CRY OVER KINN!!!!

oh dear god...kinn....he wore his heart on his sleeve and it got ripped into pieces by wolves (fuck you tawan)

it pains me to think that kinn would have thought "this is what i get for loving someone, i'm not meant to love anyone, i put my family in danger and made a huge mistake, it's all my fault, i'll redeem myself, i'll never love again, i'll freeze my heart coz that's where the whole problem is, i'll put the reputation and protection of my family first, i'll step up, i'll do everything right now, i won't love anyone, i don't deserve it anyway"

like NOOOOO BABYBOY NOOOOOO you're so sexy hahhaa...i've made myself super sad over kinn now thanks nonnie....

have you read whittled down by another war by @rageprufrock nonnie???? it is absolutely brilliant, esp the way it is so kinn focussed and the angst is delicious....the timeline of events is slightly different and we can feel kinn's pain and hurt before he meets porsche...and even after coz these things don't go away in a day....one more thing i absolutely love about that fic is the brother dynamics....sibling relationships is my weakness (perhaps coz of real life too....it's my sister and i against the world if it comes down to it istg)

anyway, back to crying over kinn this fine saturday night

thanks for sharing the quote...it's beautiful nonnie

[catchyhuh]

breakfast facts

WARNING!!!! DO NOT EMULATE THE MADE UP EATING PATTERNS I JUST MADE UP FOR THESE MADE UP PEOPLE IT WOULD PROBABLY BE BAD FOR YOU. ESPECIALLY ZENIGATA REALLY REALLY DO NOT EMULATE ANY OF TH

lupin:

must eat as soon as he wakes up or he’s fucked. not even like fully a physical stomach thing its just mentally he Must start his day with food

kellogs commercial table. the cereal, two slices of toast, one butter, one jam, apple, like bacon and eggs n shit

scarfs it down in two seconds. as a result no one else will make his breakfast for him becuase its kind of annoying spending 2 hours cooking at 7am so the princess can inhale his perfectly crisp bacon like the poltergust 3000 

yes he complains when he has to do it himself. so every day yes. it just wasn't practical to do the whole shebang every day so he whittled it down to his toast and eggs. but you know if he could,

the king must feast. he gives himself a stomach ache damn near every day he gets his food the way he actually wants it

jigen:

eats what’s provided honestly. you could say that about every meal but he just doesn’t care too much esp with his breakfast

he’ll complain (he’s particular about waffles and pancakes needing to be a certain amount of savory to justify them existing in a MEAL meal and not just as a dessert) but not too a huge extent. honestly he’ll eat whatever

doesn't have a huge appetite early in the morning, usually balances it out with a big lunch and even BIGGER dinner. he's gotta ease into those heavy hitters man he's delicate bro

cawfee. cuppa joe. He hates it. jigen doesn’t like it despite dressing like a keurig machine gijinka and having the symphonic cadence of a coffee grinder. it just doesn’t taste good to him (it's that deceptive scent dude) that said {sleep hcs incoming soon} sometimes he needs some to jumpstart him like an old car. again, complains, but goes through with it

fujiko:

special k commercial table. the cereal. the side bowl with random dollops of peanut butter and mixed other nuts and oats (?) i guess it’s oats, the GRAPEFRUIT oh i know she’s a grapefruit bitch!! pb honey spread on an English Muffin too. like some. idk there’s a cinnamon stick involved YOU GET THE VISUAL

funny thing is she doesn’t even eat half of it. she just goes with the muffin, bowl of mini wheats, maybe two pieces of grapefruit ingested as she leaves the table. whoever passes the table next is expected to handle leftovers. breakfast leftovers. that's an insane concept now that i type it out

cawfee. she either drinks it with a thousand disgusting artificially flavored creams or she chews the beans raw. presentation vs functionality is a key aspect of ms mine's internal struggle

complex relationship with fast food coffee shop chains as a result

goemon:

another guy who loves the Big Breakfast by tom cardy but unlike lupin (who loves his beauty sleep too much to wake up early) and fujiko (who usually gets her non-lupin boytoy of the month to make it for her) goemon actually gets up asscrack of dawn early to prepare a meal fit for a king

perfectly fluffy rice. hand squeezed juice. absolutely decadent vegetables. impossibly picturesque omelette. but just normal ass sara lee bread though he doesn’t have THAT much time on his hands

funny thing is he's definitely the most normal about it. goemon just. eats his breakfast. he might raise his eyebrows in slight surprise at how good the eggs taste today or something but really its just. food. all these other weirdos either take 10 years to eat a piece of toast or just inhale their food but the guy who dresses and talks like its the 18th century wins the normal award here

has emphasized the importance of eating breakfast to others before despite easily functioning without it. wake him up at 4 say “no time for brekkie dude we gotta go steal the fire hydrant of the louvre” and he’ll be like Done no problems

zenigata: i know i mentioned it before but NOT HEALTHY BEHAVIOR DO NOT FUCKING EMULATE

haha.

he’s very bad about it VERY bad about it always getting yelled at by third parties. they go “what’d you have for breakfast” and he shrugs and they go "oh god did you even eat" "ONE BOILED EGG HAS PROTEIN IN IT!!"

its amazing the stature you can get while still being the guy who eats half a protein bar for breakfast and doesn’t actually sit down for a meal again until like 1 am. really i cannot emphasize enough don’t try this at home

HES JUST SO DAMN BUSY! but if he could he’d take anything. unlike jigen, who just doesn't wanna start a fight THAT early in the morning, zeni just loves every breakfast food! muffins eggs potatoes pancakes cereal the random ass fruit he LOVES it 

god help the hotel with a free breakfast when this guy comes in. or that is, if he didn’t sleep until 11 AM because he was up lupin-ing all night.

in conclusion: they would all love a trip to the mcdonalds breakfast menu drivethru. they all get a hashbrown. would you believe me if i said i only remembered the mcdonald’s commercials after typing that

[thlayli-ra]

Which 5 fics you've written are your favorites or most proud of?

Ooh! Thank you Anon for slipping into my askbox with a lovely little question. Must admit, this was hard! I'm proud of most of my fics so whittling it down to just five was tricky but here goes;

1. Flint and Steel - I feel like this is the best writing I've ever done. I wrote it back when I had bags of time to edit and re-read what I'd written previously so it's a better coherent story. I love the world-building, the imagery, the harsh but beautiful love story. This is probably still my best work to date and I really hope to finish the series one day and do it justice!

2. Would You Offer Your Throat To The Wolf - This one just feels... special to me. It's the most brutal, graphic and depressing fic that I've written and my first foray into pure horror but was very liberating to write. It also felt like something of an event at the time - I'd been building up towards it here on Tumblr so when I finally posted it, it kinda had its own little following. It's also a fic that has prompted so many incredible comments and feedback from readers, many of which said it inspired their own writing and that is just so cool to me!

3. When We're Alone - Of all my fics, this is probably my own little personal favourite (and one of my least popular 😂). It's a silly, little Underpunk fluff piece set in the Valetverse AU. I just loved writing a hopelessly un-domesticated Punk trying (and failing miserably) to nurse Taker back to health while he was injured. I usually write Punk as very intense and moody so having him in more of a comedy role was a lot of fun (although he's still very moody!)

4. The Moon Rises Red Tonight - My other unloved little baby! It's a close second for my personal favourite fic. It's utter self-indulgence - I wanted all four of my faves to fuck! That's it! That's the premise! But, because it's me, and I'm god-awful at writing smut, it somehow turned into a porn with plot fic, focusing in on politics, corruption, and trauma, whilst also being rather light-hearted and wholesome. And filthy too! It's a weird bag! I adore the au, I adore all the flawed characters and their self-discovery throughout and I want to draw and write more for it in the future.

5. The Chain - Sometimes, a moment sticks in your head and magic happens. That Smackdown where Drew carried a bloody Punk to the ramp and dumped his carcass for all of his hometown to see was....... [local dogs start barking]. I had to write something for it! Originally it was going to be another headcanon essay talking about a motif I'd used in several fics of Punk and AJ being connected by a chain with hooks embedded in their chests when it dawned on my to actually write a fic about it, resulting in this twisted soulmate au. To me, it's a perfect little fic, a beautiful gemstone in my collection and I'm very proud of it.

[Honourary Mention - Yes, I'm cheating here but I couldn't not mention my most popular fic The Valets of WWE. Despite it easily being my worst in terms of writing prowess, it's a huge personal achievement for me. It had a massive cast and was heavily influenced by reader requests and input so I had to think on my feet for every chapter and change things up on the fly sometimes. I also had to write for characters I didn't know very well during an era that I admittedly didn't really watch (no, I'd never seen any Legacy or Social Outcasts footage until writing this fic!!!) so that was a bit nerve-wracking. But despite the challenges, I managed to create this huge, intricate soap opera, that had so many interlinking storylines and plot threads, that had characters bouncing off each other constantly and even if it reads more like a script than narrative, I'm still very proud of it and I always look forward to returning to the valetverse for more!]

[starspaceficlets]

A Padawan Lesson

Technically a snippet from my last Trilla Lives AU update but like. I really like this part and it can work on its own.

Padawan Trilla my beloved.

———

"I thought you were meant to be sleeping."

Trilla jumped and turned to look up from where she sat. It was late at night. The sky was a dark blue with not many stars visible from light pollution. She was sitting under the great tree in the courtyard of the Jedi Grand temple. One hand held her old lightsaber, the other a small thin carving tool.

She would've only been about fourteen in this memory. Before the Clone Wars would have sent her and her Master out and away from the temple.

Cere stood over her, an amused smile on her face.

"I was! I just-"

"Couldn't sleep?"

Trilla's face flushed with embarrassment and she nodded.

Cere chuckled and sat down next to her under the tree. "It's alright. I know I was restless at your age." She sighed contently, "Still am to a degree. What are you doing?"

Trilla held up her lightsaber "I was carving on it."

"Carving?"

She handed Cere her lightsaber and showed her the wooden details of the grip. Cere's fingers traced the shallow grooves Trilla was whittling into it to look like vines.

"Impressive, it's a beautiful detail. But remember, Trilla, functionality is always more important than design." Cere reminded her, "You don't want the handle to be uncomfortable to hold."

Trilla nodded "I know Master. I won't make them too deep. But everyone customises their lightsabers to reflect them. I wanted to add something special to mine."

Cere smiled and nodded "I understand Trilla… How about this then?" She moved to sit across from her "I have a task for you."

Trilla's adjusted her position so she was kneeling in front of Cere, mirroring her position "Is this another lesson?"

"Everything in life is a lesson to learn from Padawan." Cere smiled and handed Trilla back her saber "I want you to show me your kyber crystal."

Trilla nodded and went to start dissembling the hilt.

"-with the Force." Cere added

Trilla looked up "The Force?" She repeated

Cere nodded "It's true a lightsaber reflects the Jedi using it. However, the other reason is that a lightsaber is more than just a weapon Jedi use. It is an extension of ourselves, a symbol of the bond we have with our kyber crystals. For a Jedi to utilise their lightsaber to the fullest, they must know their blade inside and out."

Trilla nodded slowly. "Okay… I think I get it. So I need to disassemble the lightsaber with the Force?"

"Exactly. Now give it a try."

Trilla nodded again more quickly and set her lightsaber hilt in front of her. She held her hands over it and closed her eyes. She extended the Force out to reach her lightsaber, letting it brush up against her saber like mist. It slowly moved over the saber, and she willed it to flow through. She wanted to feel every grove and dent in the hilt, from the aged silver switch to the wooden grooves she'd just carved. This was her saber. Her symbol that she was a Jedi. Her tool to help ensure balance in the Force.

The first attempt to separate the pieces failed. So did the second. But Cere only smiled and kept encouraging her. "You can do it Trilla. Focus."

Only on her third try did the sabre pieces separate, delicately floating above her hands. Her kyber crystal came free, illuminating their faces in a soft green light. Trilla was so excited she did it that she lost concentration on her saber.

The parts would have tumbled to the floor but a quick hand motion from Cere had them freeze in place, slowly moving to reform the hilt.

Trilla blushed in embarrassment, holding her crystal close to her chest "Sorry Master."

Cere just chuckled "Nothing to be sorry for Trilla. Remember, even in the face of change, keeping your focus is always important."

She nodded in understanding.

Her Master set her lightsaber down. "Now let's see that crystal."

Trilla beamed as she removed her hands from her chest, admiring how her crystal glowed in her hands with a soft green light. She moved her hands towards Cere to let her Master see it.

Cere smiled at the crystal "It's beautiful Trilla. I can see how it shines with the Force." She put a hand on Trilla's shoulder "Just like you. No matter how different or uniform you make your hilt look, the most unique element will always be your crystal because it's yours. Never forget that Trilla."

Pride beamed from Trilla's face as she looked up at Cere with a nod "I won't Master." Their bond through the Force sang and Trilla felt warm inside.

"Now then." Cere held up Trilla's empty hilt "Your next lesson, using the Force to put it back together."

Trilla pouted "Do I have to?" She gave a dramatic yawn, "I'm so tired now."

Her Master chuckled "Oh come now padawan. I think you can manage this. And then you can rest. Where's all that energy you had before?"

Trilla flushed "Fine~"

[your-divine-ribs]

Ice Cold Part 20

Words: 2.6k

Ice Cold Masterlist Main Masterlist

I stood in one of the shower cubicles at my workplace, eyes closed and head tipped back, letting the warm water cascade over me. It beat down on my face and flowed off, taking with it the spatters of blood which stained it and my fresh tears, washing away the horrors of the morning. It couldn't clear the images from my mind though. The bullet bursting through Simon's chest. His body crumpling lifelessly to the pavement. His cold, dead stare.

Of course I knew that his fate was already sealed that day no matter whether our meeting had taken one minute or fifteen, and his death certainly wasn't my fault, but still an uncomfortable cloak of guilt had settled itself around me and I couldn't shift it.

Simon's killer hadn't been Van. The dead man slumped in the BMW was unidentified. He'd taken out Simon with a long range rifle in one shot and then met his sudden end at the hands of another killer. The assassin... assassinated. Some would call it poetic justice.

No one had witnessed the shooting of the mystery killer, but as the crowd had gathered around the crime scene I’d heard several officers discussing how they'd seen a motorcyclist riding away from the area at high speed.

Speculation was rife, the whole agency puzzling over who would do such a thing. Why commission an assassin to carry out a hit and then a second one to kill the killer? They said it just didn't make sense. But it did... to me. I knew with certainty that Van had been there, watching over me just like he'd promised, taking matters into his own hands with keeping me safe. Once again snuffing out a life so that I could live. But I could take little comfort from this fact. Simon was still dead, and so was Scott, and I knew that they wouldn't be the only victims in this bloody war. As long as the criminal network carried on operating then the nightmare would continue and the body count would keep getting higher. Many more innocent and not so innocent lives would surely be lost along the way.

I stepped out of the shower and dried myself off, changing into clean clothes that I’d had in my locker at work, transferring the piece of paper with the details of Van's next target into the pocket of my fresh jeans.

My tears were dry now and I was starting to gain my composure, slipping back into the calm and controlled demeanour I knew that I’d need to face my colleagues at the de-briefing. It was true that this job desensitised you to the sorts of atrocities that could render others incapable of functioning, but that didn't mean that I was left completely unscathed. Every death or injury of a colleague and every grisly crime scene I witnessed whittled away at my soft edges, hardening me.

The chatter in the meeting room hushed as I pushed open the door, and I steeled myself. I kept my eyes on the floor as I made my way over to an empty seat, trying to keep my mind clear, hearing various comments from the assembled agents that were directed at me, but not looking to see who'd spoken them.

"Here she is. Cheated death yet again!"

"You were bloody lucky today Lyla! Poor Simon though..."

"Someone up there is definitely looking out for you!"

"Must be a guardian angel or something..."

"Oh... there's someone looking out for her alright, but he ain't no angel." That was Jason.

"Okay, okay... settle down everyone!" Paul raised his voice and there were a few more murmurs before the room fell silent.

Paul flicked a switch on the console on the front desk that he stood behind and the projector screen behind him flickered into life. There, displayed, bright and unforgiving was an image of Simon lying lifeless and bloodied, his unseeing eyes fixed on nothing, his lips pulled into a grimace of pain. There were gasps and shocked angry mutters all around the room. I looked down from the screen.

"I'm sure I don't need to remind each and every one of you how dangerous it is out there at the moment. Simon was a brave man. He was inside that organisation for six months, right in the heart of it. He gave his life for the job and whilst nothing can ever bring him back, if we can bring these fuckers down then at least he won't have died in vain."

"Was it McCann?" A voice piped up from the back of the room and I had to restrain myself from springing to my feet to defend him.

"Not this time," Paul answered, and he stepped over to the console again to press a key, bringing a new image on to the screen of Simon's killer, taken in the forensic pathologist's laboratory just hours before. The whole left-hand side of his face was a shattered and bloody mess where the fatal bullet had exited his skull.

"The killer is yet to be identified, but we're running prints. He's more than likely another hired gun just like the two men in Paris."

Jen spoke then, glancing over at me as she did, then back to Paul. "But who killed him? Was it another one of them? It doesn't make any sense."

I squirmed in my seat, staring straight ahead at the screen, not daring to look at Jason who was on the row in front, craning his neck to glare at me.

Paul shrugged and shook his head. "That's the big question Jen. It's got all the hallmarks of an organised hit. The only plausible explanation would be a rival gang member, but I think that's unlikely. Why would they pick off a low level target like this? Surely they'd be aiming for one of the bigger players. No... I think there's more to it. I just can't quite figure it out..."

Chatter instantly erupted, everyone turning to one another, mulling over theories. I just sat with my head slightly bowed, hoping no one could see the turmoil that flowed through me.

"Lyla..."

My head snapped up so fast I almost gave myself whiplash. Paul was looking right at me, and I took a deep breath, bracing myself.

"Would you like to share with us what you found out from Simon?"

It was a simple question. One that had a simple answer. My hand slipped into my jeans pocket under the desk, fingertips toying with the edge of the folded paper. It was all there. I’d studied it. The Ritz club, tomorrow night. The target was the nightclub owner and unfortunate scapegoat for the leak which had led to the organisation's cocaine haul being seized. The method? A rifle fired sniper-style from a derelict building situated across the road from the club. It would be the perfect opportunity for the team to ambush Van and bring him in... or kill him.

"Simon didn't get chance to tell me... about Van's next target."

What the fuck are you doing Lyla?

But I didn't listen to my conscience. Now the lies had started they flowed with the ease of breathing. It almost felt natural.

"He was literally just about to tell me when he got shot. You know Simon, he just wanted to chat. I tried to tell him that we didn't have long..."

I watched Paul's countenance crumple with frustration. He'd been pinning his hopes on me and there I was, withholding important information on an ongoing criminal investigation. Aiding and abetting a known felon. Both crimes punishable by imprisonment... and for what?

The rational part of my brain was screaming at me. Come clean Lyla, it's not too late! But I just couldn't do it. I knew Van wouldn't surrender and come quietly. I kept playing the scenario in my head, changing up small details, but each and every time the end result was the same. If the team stormed in to apprehend him the resulting hail of gunfire would be sure to lead to his death.

Jason got to his feet. "So we basically have nothing to go on?"

Paul opened his mouth to speak, looked lost for words and turned to me. "Well Lyla... do you have anything that we can use? Anything at all?”

It was now or never. I knew if I didn't act I’d have crossed a line and there was no going back. My hand went to my jeans pocket again. The paper seemed to press itself on to my fingers, begging to be drawn out into the open. This wouldn't right all the wrongs that I’d committed but it might go some way to redeeming me, a scrap of salvation.

My voice came out surprisingly steady and with conviction. "I'm sorry Paul, I tried my best, I really did."

I asked to be excused from the rest of the briefing shortly after that, walking out feeling Jason's accusing stare burning into my back. Paul let me go, assuming I was still grieving at seeing my friend and colleague gunned down in front of my eyes, and I was, but it was more than that. I needed to plan.

I took advantage of the whole team being occupied and picked up a stack of files from the incident room, then headed for Andrea's office, signing out reams of paperwork about Van's criminal history. I made for an empty meeting room at the far end of the building, locking myself in and spreading out paperwork until every inch of desk space was covered, and then I started using the floor and tacking sheets up on to the walls. When I’d finished I stepped back, admiring my handiwork, a complete timeline of Van's tragic life from his parents' death right up to the present, in all its brutal and gory detail. I pored over his wretched childhood, then the minor misdemeanours of his teenage years leading up to his spell in a young offenders institute. It was on his release from there that he got recruited into the fringes of the network he was currently embroiled in, steadily moving up the ranks as his unflinching and fearless attitude in getting the job done saw him advancing to his current position. Somewhere he finally fit in.

I mapped his timeline with my own life, my father's death and my turbulent childhood which followed until I finally realised in my mid-teens that I wanted to make something of myself. My fastidious studying and training as I entered the agency, acing every test until I graduated as an agent, finally finding my niche in life. Two lives forged by the tragedy of losing family but with starkly different outcomes.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for but I searched anyway, reading and re-reading statements and reports, expecting to find some sort of connection, but I found none. There just had to be something that I was missing...

The call came through just as I was opening up the door to my apartment that evening, and I screwed my eyes shut at the unwelcome sight of the caller ID, letting it ring out. Unfortunately my mother was persistent, and after the sixth attempt I pressed the screen to answer, flicking the call to speaker phone to enable me to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge. I suspected that I’d need something to dull my senses and I was right.

"I didn't think you were going to answer!" Came her blunt greeting.

I sighed, pouring out a large glass and flopping down on to the sofa. "I'm here mum, what do you want?"

"Is that any way to greet me?"

I shook my head and rolled my eyes for no one's benefit other than the fact that I needed to let out some frustration. "Well... let's see... the last time you called... oh no... wait... I can't actually remember when that was. So cut the bullshit. This isn't a friendly call is it?"

There was quiet and I pictured my mother on the other end of the line, pursed lips, running the string of pearls she always wore around her neck through her fingers. "I don't know why you always have to be so hostile Lyla."

There it was, it always came back to me. What had the therapists called my mother? Emotionally unavailable. She hadn't always been like that of course. She'd never really recovered from losing my father and I supposed I should have made allowances, but she'd not been there for me when I’d really needed her and that was something that I’d never gotten over.

"Look mum... I've had a rough day. I lost a friend and colleague this morning. He was shot dead in front of me. I don't really have time to listen to your..."

"You know how I feel about you doing that job," she cut in with no recognition of what I’d said. "It's no job for a young woman. How are you ever going to find yourself a nice man and settle down?"

I spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't need a nice man. I'm perfectly happy."

"You're not fooling anyone," she scoffed.

I took a huge slug of wine, wanting to unleash my anger, but I bit my tongue, restraining myself. "Have you purposefully called just to gloat about my so-called unhappiness, or was there actually a reason?"

There was silence again, and it stretched on. I nearly thought she'd hung up but then I heard a very quiet sob. My anger dissipated quickly and I grabbed the phone, holding it closer. "Mum... are you alright? What's happened?"

"Oh Lyla," she sobbed. "Someone's been in the house. They broke in when I was out shopping this afternoon."

I sat upright at this news, flicking the call off speaker phone and pressing it to my ear. "What? Have you called the police?"

There was a drawn out sob then, and I waited for her to compose herself, still shocked to hear her so emotional and shaken up despite the circumstances.

"They ransacked your father's office. The police have only just left. You should see it..."

She tailed off then into more sobs and I felt my usual indifference melting away. Since he'd died my mum hadn't touched a thing in my dad's office. It was like a shrine, sacred. Whenever I visited, which wasn't frequently these days, I almost fancied I could see him sitting there behind his desk, head bent, poring over a file.

"Calm down mum, I'll come and see you tomorrow. Did they take much?"

"That's just the thing, I don't understand it. Nothing of any value was taken, even your dad's antique gold watch was left. They just took some old files. But they made such a mess. They were obviously looking for something."

I let her words sink in, wondering why on earth someone would be interested in files dating back to nearly 15 years ago. And more importantly who?

There was so much happening right now and I didn't believe in coincidences. I prided myself on my intuition and right now my mind was whirring, trying to put together the pieces of this complex jigsaw puzzle, but it was an impossible task with so many pieces missing. I just knew that somehow, in some way, Van had to be involved. I knew then that I had to see him.

I tried to placate my mother with promises of visiting the next day, then I ended the call, tipping the remainder of the wine in my glass quickly down the sink. I needed a clear head for tomorrow.

Ideas swirled around my head, forming themselves into something coherent. By the time I’d slipped into a restless sleep that night I’d formulated a plan.